The Moonlight War

By S.K.S. Perry

Three caravans have vanished traversing the Cowcheanne Way. The legendary Tahsis platoon, warriors thought by most to be invincible, are dispatched to investigate and are never heard from again. Rumours of native uprisings and bandit armies grow wilder and more widespread every day, while the more devout whisper about the return of the Horde, a mythic foe from ages past.

The truce between the warring Kael-tii and Ashai nations is put to the test when a new caravan is outfitted and they are forced to travel The Way together. As an ancient evil is unleashed upon them, a group of heroes, friend and foe alike, must band together for survival.

When the true nature of their mission slowly comes to light, the growing distrust between the Kael-tii and Ashai camps threatens to tear the caravan apart. Can they set aside their differences in time to combat the menace that imperils them all, or are they doomed to join the ranks of lost souls claimed by the cursed Cowcheanne Way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.K.S. Perry
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310824296

S.K.S. Perry

S.K.S. Perry is a retired Sgt with over 34 years in the Canadian Armed Forces. He has a lovely wife, two great kids, and a house full of teddy bears that totally put lie to his tough guy image. When no one is looking he’s also a drummer in a kickass rocking cover band, and holds black belts in seven different martial arts.His plan is to one day be independently wealthy, or even dependently wealthy—he doesn’t really care whose money it is as long as they let him spend it. He has written five books to date and plans to write more—unless someone pays him enough to stop.

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The Moonlight War

By S.K.S. Perry

Copyright 2015 S.K.S. Perry

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About S.K.S. Perry

Other books by S.K.S. Perry

Connect with S.K.S. Perry

Acknowledgements

For my amazing wife, Penelope. I couldn't do this without you.

(She must be getting tired of reading these.)

To Elizabeth Glover, for the beta read, and the fact that she claims to actually like this one.

To Charlie, Jenni, and Kelly, just because.

To my son, Ryan, who always complains that I never write him into my books. Sorry buddy, you're too much like me and I'm already in here.

And to anyone else out there who's tilting at windmills.

CHAPTER ONE

Tasha eyed the stone causeway that connected the mainland to the city of Vietor. Night was fast approaching. The street lamps were lit and the watch would soon shut the city gates for the evening. He bent forward and vigorously brushed the sand from his long, matted hair, then wiped the grit from his eyes with the tattered sleeve of his robe. A month in the wastelands had left him with sand in places it had no right to be. With luck he had enough money for a room and a bath, and maybe a new pair of boots, but first he had to make the city. Maybe five minutes to cross the bridge, another five to the city gates; he could just make it if he hurried.

He was less than halfway across when he saw the soldiers make their way onto the causeway. A mounted warrior, a Daesho in red lacquered armour, led a line of spearmen spread out across the width of the crossing, arms at the ready as they advanced. A palanquin and its bearers trailed behind, a minor lord, if the only twenty or so retainers were any indication.

Tasha knew he should retreat. Just turn around and clear the bridge until after the procession had passed. The arrogant bastards meant to clear the way, allowing no one to pass until they'd made the far side.

What was one more night spent out of doors? He closed his eyes and shuddered at the thought of the thin sleeping roll slung at his hip. There was still one last bit of dried horsemeat left in his food pouch. He could make do.

Was his stubbornness worth a man's life? Not his, certainly, but one of the lord's retainers?

The Daesho, one hand always on the swords at his hip, ordered his foot soldiers into formation. I said echelon right, he called out sharply. "Your other right."

His horse closed left, prancing—a show horse, obviously—and he shouldered the dappled gray mount into the line and knocked a soldier to the ground. The soldier scrambled to his feet, narrowly avoiding the horse's hooves.

The Daesho thumbed the tsubi forward, sliding the katana a few inches from its scabbard to show steel. Move into it, or the sailors down at the government docks will have a few more pillow boys to brighten up their shore leave.

Tasha didn’t recognize the man, not personally. But he knew him, or men like him. He'd been such a man, once, back before the Ashai had stormed Namao. Before his failure, his shame. Before the Ashai had declared him Hasa ni do—the Last Man Standing.

The Daesho wouldn’t listen to reason. The Ashai had always been an arrogant people at best, and this Daesho was young and full of his own self-importance. If Tasha meant to cross now, he would have to kill the man. His own standing assured that the matter could be settled by single combat. He had that much honour left, at least.

Tasha moved forward. He reached the small island that was the halfway point. A cobblestone bridge spanned the remaining distance. He could have stepped aside onto the island, he supposed—the Daesho might even have allowed it. But it was more of a marsh really, all tall grass, swampy water, and mud.

He stood at the foot of the bridge. Wicker torches flickered wanly in wrought iron sconces mounted along the route. He stepped into the light of one so that he might be seen.

The Daesho, from his vantage point atop his horse, was the first to notice. He drew his sword, pointed it at Tasha, and commanded in a loud, booming voice, Clear the way for the Lord Myobi, as if it were a pronouncement from the heavenly O’Quorah itself.

Tasha's eyes widened at the name. Lord Myobi, here?

The lord in question remained safely behind the heavy curtain of his palanquin, not deigning to peek out and discern what impeded his progress. At this hour, the man was probably asleep and oblivious to the drama about to unfold.

A drama if the Daesho dies. A tragedy if I do.

Tasha drew his sword from the scabbard at his right shoulder, making his intention clear. He didn’t think he would need the second, matching blade over his left.

The Daesho's knuckles whitened about the hilt of his katana, and he dug his heels into his mount's sides and pushed through the line of spearmen. Once clear of his troops, the Daesho spurred his horse to a gallop. As he approached, Tasha could see that the man was young; more of a boy, really, perhaps all of fifteen years old.

Not much older than I was when I was accepted to the Araya. And with about as much sense, too.

Horse and rider wheeled about at the last possible instant; another foot or so and the horse would have trampled Tasha underfoot, show horse or no. Tasha held his ground and wished at that moment that he hadn't had to eat his own horse.

The Daesho hawked and spat at Tasha's feet. You had better be worth my honour, peasant, or I will feed your corpse to my master's dogs. Your ancestors will have to visit every rock and tree from here to Namao to pay their respects to your worthless remains.

Tasha recognized the bravado behind the youth's words. As travel worn as his clothing might be, only a fool would mistake him for a peasant. His sword alone was worth more than a peasant would earn in a year, more than the heirloom the youth waved about so blithely.

I don’t want to take your coin, boy. All I want is a warm bath, a hot meal, and a clean bed. Let me pass into the city and no one need lose face.

The fool's face reddened. I am Hiro Nayatamo, third son of Suzishi Nayatamo, grandson to the hero Kawa Hamoto, and Daesho to the Lord Myobi. He reached into his saddlebag, retrieved the talisman from the small pocket sewn there for its keeping, and flashed it before Tasha as if he were warding off a demon. I trained at the Koji School under Master Nakosi himself. Who are you, to presume to take my coin?

Tasha smiled. "I am Tasha O'Brienne, and this is my coin. He held out the silver bearing the seal of the Sinanju Omai School. Do you mind if I just call you Hiro? I'm afraid the rest is a bit much to fit on a grave marker."

The Daesho blanched, but quickly regained his composure. "Hasa ni do. Some say it is bad luck to kill one such as you. Others that your death brings great fortune."

Tasha nodded, noting that the youth had glossed over the fact that he faced an Omai master. The odds that the Daesho would prevail were laughable. As well a mouse might fret that killing and eating a tiger might give him indigestion.

I really couldn't say, Tasha said, as no one to date has tested the veracity of either statement. All those who have tried are dead now.

The boy dismounted, casually, as if he were in no hurry to kill Tasha, and was unconcerned that Tasha might kill him. Tasha almost admired him for it, but bravery was often only stupidity in disguise. Perhaps Hiro thought his armour gave him the advantage?

The Daesho was tall for an Ashai, but Tasha stood at least a head taller, a gift of his half-breed heritage. All of the O'Briennes were tall, like most of the Kael-tii race, and though he hadn't inherited their fair skin, his red hair marked him as something definitely other than Ashai, and his eyes were pale, sky blue, like his father's. A corpse's eyes, the Ashai said. No wonder he’d become Hasa ni do—one cannot kill the dead.

I have heard of you, Hiro said. I usually put little store in tea house gossip, but rumour has it that you may not have come by your title so honourably.

I've heard the same, Tasha said. If he took offence at the implication, he didn’t show it. What difference did it make now? The honour, if honour it was, was hollow. Those he might have cared to impress were gone—all dead. Why should he care what these piss ants thought of him?

Last to die, or the first to turn traitor? Hiro goaded, but to little effect.

His men arrived, halting at a respectful distance to give the combatants room. The curtain on the lord's palanquin had been drawn aside. Someone must have wakened the lord to inform him of the delay. Tasha could barely make out the reclining form of the pasty-faced noble in the litter's dim candlelight. The soldiers formed a half circle about their lord, spears at the ready. Tasha ignored them all, knowing they wouldn’t interfere.

He put his coin away. Tasha doubted the boy would have need of it. Pray it is the former. At least that death would be honourable. But to fall to a traitor—

Tasha stepped right as the boy drew his sword in a blinding uppercut that would have disemboweled him had he not moved.

He's quick, I'll give him that. Tasha stepped in close, crowding the boy. And maybe not as stupid as he'd first imagined. Had all his talk been only a distraction?

The Daesho retreated a step to make room for the reverse cut, but Tasha moved with him. He read the boy's frustration at the counter in the tightness about his eyes, and the way the muscle jumped in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. Hiro turned into him and aimed an elbow at Tasha's temple. Tasha moved to the side and the elbow missed, but he was forced to step back. Hiro followed; a bold move that, suddenly giving up the space he'd been fighting for. He spun and thrust his blade back into where Tasha's belly should have been, but Tasha angled away at the last moment and the sword slid past harmlessly. Hiro lunged forward, then spun again, bracing the spine of the katana against his palm as he drove the edge at Tasha's throat, but Tasha had already moved back half a step to safety.

He nodded to the boy in grudging respect as the soldiers pounded their spears against the ground in applause. Hiro fought better than his schooling accounted for. Given time to mature, he might actually become almost as good as he thought he was. That is if Tasha didn’t end his life here and now.

He looked past the soldiers to the city gates. They were still open. His duel with the Daesho had caught the guards' interest, enough so that they neglected their immediate duty. If he were the Watch Commander he'd have had them flogged for that. As it was, at least now he didn't have to worry about not making the city.

Tasha watched the boy in front of him take a defensive stance, waiting for him to make his move, and suddenly felt ashamed. Maybe his trek across the desert had taken more out of him than he thought. He was tired. Tired enough that he should act even more pompous than this Daesho he berated? He, an Omai master, whose order believed that one could only achieve greatness by sacrificing their lives in the protection of another. How had he come to this?

The Ashai. The Ashai had named him, and words had power. He was the Hasa ni do, and the name had changed him. It had defined him despite all that he’d been, or done. But Tasha had power of his own. The words wouldn’t define who he would become.

Hiro stood, ready, waiting, wary.

Tasha shook his head—a slow, deliberate movement. Perhaps his comfort may have been worth a man's life, but it wasn’t worth a boy's. Especially one with such potential, arrogant though he might be.

Still, talent and arrogance were a bad combination. The boy needed to be taught humility. Tasha sheathed his weapon, and smiled at the perplexed look on the Daesho's face. Forgive me, but you didn't think I actually meant to cross swords with the likes of you, did you?

Hiro narrowed his eyes, but kept his anger in check. Forgiveness is not an option. Armed or not, I'm going to kill you. As a matter of fact, if you'd like to tie your hands behind your back as well, go ahead. I'll wait.

Tasha smiled. He appreciated wit, especially in the face of death. If nothing else, the boy's jibe had assured his men would tell his tale around the ale houses should Tasha kill him. Death at the hands of the Hasa ni do would accomplish that regardless, although perhaps not in such a favorable light. And dead was dead, good tale or no.

Tasha studied the Daesho for a moment. The trouble with Koji School, he decided, was that they were overly concerned with classical form. Hiro stood in a ready stance, knees slightly bent with most of his weight on his rear leg. His feet formed a perfect L shape, and he held both elbows high, gripping the sword two-handed just in front of his right shoulder. Classic.

Tasha stepped forward almost casually and jabbed stiffened fingers into Hiro's unprotected right armpit, then drove both palms into the boy's chest plate. The Daesho staggered back, and Tasha caught the sword that fell from nerveless fingers before the blade hit the ground.

Tasha held out the sword hilt first, and offered it to Hiro. I'm sorry, perhaps you weren't ready yet?

Hiro took the sword and backed off. The soldiers applauded again, their spears beating a tattoo on the cobblestones at their feet. The Daesho's face reddened, but his eyes were wide. He was outraged, but still wary enough to be frightened. That was good.

Let me pass and no one need die here, Tasha offered again.

This time the Daesho looked to his lord, who chewed his lip for a moment, and nodded.

The Lord Myobi was an old man, grey-haired and liver spotted. A ragged scar marred his face from forehead to chin. No doubt a man who appreciated a good fight. The Daesho stepped aside as the lord beckoned for Tasha to approach with a wave of a jeweled hand, but Tasha had barely taken three steps when the old man tossed him a coin.

Tasha caught it in his left hand, and examined it. A gold piece, enough to keep him in comfort for half a year, if spent thriftily. Tasha bowed his thanks.

For a room, the lord said. He wrinkled his nose, and closed the curtain to the palanquin. And a bath, he added, his voice muffled as the bearers resumed their positions.

Tasha smiled, and pocketed the coin as the guards parted before him. He really was tired. He barely reacted to the quick scuffle of feet behind him before he felt a blinding pain at the base of his skull, and then nothing.

Setanna woke to a knock at her door, and to the sight of a man she couldn't remember. She untangled herself from her blankets, and his embrace. The pounding at her door rivaled the timpani that beat against her temples.

The panicked sound of Rowena's voice came muffled through the heavy oak paneling. Milady, you must dress, and quickly. Your uncle demands your presence in the Great Hall immediately.

Setanna pulled the covers from her bed and wrapped them about herself, taking a moment to admire the naked stranger who shivered at the sudden chill. It's a pity I can't remember him, she thought as she crossed the cold marble floor and drew the bolt. The soreness between her legs led her to believe that he might be well worth remembering.

Rowena bustled into the room, gathering up Setanna's garments. Setanna's dress—powder blue silk to match her eyes, and gold embroidered lace to compliment her hair—still lay draped over the headboard of the four-poster bed. Her undergarments lay crumpled in the middle of the floor. One shoe perched precariously on the windowsill; she was still wearing the other.

The handmaid quickly averted her eyes as she caught sight of Setanna's guest. Isn't that Lord Braden's squire?

Setanna grinned at her friend's prudishness, and reached for her clothes. Is he really? She pictured her uncle's face on hearing the report of her choice of bed partner—and he would hear of it. How did he put it again? Oh yes, Rutting beneath her station. The thought brightened her mood considerably.

Rowena frowned, and slapped at her mistress's hand. Not those, milady, they're filthy. Besides, your uncle requests you appear before him in amour.

"My uncle never requests anything. Setanna stumbled towards the wardrobe in search of her leathers and amour. What toady am I to ride escort for this day?"

Hardly a toady, milady, Rowena replied as she gathered the squire's clothing. Somehow she managed to wake the man, toss him his clothing, and rush him naked into the hallway. No time to dress, I'm afraid, she told the befuddled squire, and slammed the door. Next time, try not to get her so drunk. It really isn't necessary, after all.

Setanna buckled on the black and silver breastplate, and belted the scabbard and slim rapier about her tiny waist. Rowena, are you impugning my virtue?

Perhaps your uncle might keep you at court, had you any virtue to impugn, milady, the handmaid replied as she braided Setanna's long, golden hair.

My virtue, or lack of it, is irrelevant. I'm hardly marriageable material, after all. A widowed niece of the king, her family dead, and her without lands, royal suitors weren’t exactly storming the castle asking for Setanna's hand. Though they were more than willing to share her bed. Setanna was slight, almost child-like in figure. Apparently there were many at court that went in for that sort of thing.

She knew what they said about her, and had even read it herself in the local gossip: The Lady Setanna’s angelic face, pouting red lips and long, almost coltish legs set the pervy nobles to heavy breathing whenever they see her. Is it any wonder she is so warmly received at court—by all but her Uncle the King, of course.

Setanna fastened her riding cloak about her shoulders with her favourite brooch, the one bearing her family crest, and made for the door. Since I am already tainted, my late husband having the audacity to deflower me, she told Rowena, I might as well enjoy myself.

Rowena caught up with her in the hallway and they traversed the narrow, stone cut stairwell to the Great Hall below. Setanna winced at the bright daylight that streamed in through the stained glass windows. It felt as if someone pressed their thumbs into her eye sockets in an effort to drive her eyes through to the back of her head. Rowena was right; perhaps she’d overdone it with the wine.

Two guards in the black and gold livery of the royal house snapped smartly to attention, heavy claymores held high as Setanna and Rowena passed through the archway into the Great Hall. Setanna's booted heels echoed down the mosaic tile floor, while Rowena's slippered feet barely made a sound. Setanna wished with all her heart at that moment that some enterprising individual had invented riding slippers.

The Great Hall was brightly lit; the king had a penchant for stained glass, and it scattered the light into champagne and rose-coloured pools and played about the rows of marble columns. Burning braziers filled the air with the scent of sweet smelling lilacs, the pale smoke drifting upwards to be lost in the ceiling's heavy cross-timbers. Tapestries of Conner the Devoted, Sinn the Twice Blessed, Tulle of Red Rock, and those of other personages holy to the royal family covered the rose-coloured stone walls between the windows, while balconies for Vietor's royal houses lined both sides of the Great Hall.

Her uncle, the king, sat upon his throne, elevated above the usual riffraff by a dais with seven wide steps. Commoners and merchants who awaited his pleasure stood off to the left, while the right side of the hall was reserved for noble petitioners. At the moment, an Ashai envoy and his retinue awaited an audience.

Rowena slapped her mistress on the back and grinned as the suddenly pale woman grit her teeth. Perhaps next time you'll heed my advice when I tell you not to mix wine with ale.

Setanna tried to focus on her friend as they approached the dais. If you didn't outnumber me two to one right now, I'd put you over my knee and paddle you.

Rowena stifled a laugh. Save that for your pretty boys, she whispered as they halted at a respectful distance and went down to one knee.

The king motioned for them to stand, and Rowena steadied Setanna with a hand on her elbow so that she wobbled only slightly as the blood rushed from her head.

Her uncle was a thin man who hid his slight frame beneath layers of bulky clothing. The crown of Vietor, a plain iron crown beaten from the spear blade that had bled the life from St. Stephen the Haunted, topped a fringe of grey hair and made a dome of his bald and spotted pate. Khulain had always reminded Setanna of a crow, with his bushy brows over black eyes, the hooked nose, and cheeks so hollow that they drew one's eyes away from his thin-lipped mouth. Still, as frail as he appeared, he sat his throne like an eagle, his presence dominating the room.

It had been his wit, not the might of his sword arm that had earned him the throne nigh on thirty years ago now. His tactical genius in the field had won the men to his side; his adept political maneuvering and gift for intrigue had won the nobles. Setanna's father had been a hero, a bear of a man who drank, wenched, fought, and bled with the rank and file, but Khulain was a leader. When the time had come to choose a successor to the throne, the court's decision had been unanimous.

Truth be told, her father wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Leave policy and pomp to my brother, he would say to the men over a pint at the alehouse. Just put a sword in my hand and point me in the right direction. Khulain is Vietor, and I am his will made manifest.

Setanna couldn’t help but notice how the king's brooding presence set a sombre tone even in the brightly lit room. To all appearances he was a hard man, albeit a just ruler. To the court nobles he seemed an enigma, known for his stern discipline among the troops, ruthless conduct to all who opposed him, and great loyalty to those who earned his trust. To Setanna, he seemed—lonely.

Khulain's wife had died in childbirth, and his son with her. He’d steadfastly refused to remarry, though his death would leave the kingdom without an heir. Setanna was all the family he had.

When her father had died, killed while leading the charge against the front in the Battle of Songha Teir, it was whispered that Khulain had arranged his death. The vanguard was no place for the king's brother. The battle had gone badly, the attack a suicide run.

Setanna knew better. Even as a little girl she’d seen the love the two brothers bore one another. She watched as the king alternately raged and wept for days on end after they’d brought her father's broken body back to him. He blamed himself for his brother's death, but even Setanna had known, and her but ten years old, that while Khulain may have been king, not even the O’Quorah could have stopped her father from leading the charge. Khulain had had a shrine built to his brother, and prayed at it every day. For that alone she loved him.

If he returned her love, she was oblivious to it. He’d done his duty by her—by his brother. He’d seen her raised at court, and arranged for her to marry well. But he rarely spoke to her, and then only polite pleasantries. When her husband's lands had been overrun and he put to the sword, her uncle had given her a place in his retinue. Setanna had an affinity for the sword—that and the brooch were the only things she had of her father—and Khulain had made use of her skills. She rode escort for the important personages of the court, her family name bestowing prestige to the appointment, while her skill with the sword ensured their safety.

King Khulain looked down upon his ward from the throne. I hope We did not interrupt your slumber, Lady Setanna.

His eyes seemed a little softer around the edges, his smile almost genuine. No doubt he knew damned well what Setanna had been up to last night and what condition he would likely find her in this morning. If Setanna didn't know better, she would have sworn he was—amused.

That discomforted her even more than his anger. Anything that put her uncle in such a grand mood probably didn’t bode well for her.

She scrambled to collect her thoughts. Not at all, uncle. As always, I am at your disposal.

The king cocked an eyebrow as if he doubted the veracity of the statement, but decided to let it pass.

She ignored the titter from the court nobles that lined the curtained galleries along the terraces of the Great Hall. At this early hour most of the curtains were drawn, but here and there Setanna could see members of the various noble houses, dining on boiled eggs, cold meats, and fruit juice as servants bustled about refilling goblets. The king held court early, and the nobility had learned that they couldn’t afford the luxury of a lengthy breakfast. King Khulain had been known to summon the nobility from their beds when he required their counsel, and rather than suffer the indignity of it, many had taken to breaking their fast in the Grand Hall.

The king turned his attention to the Ashai envoy. Lord Myobi, may I present my niece, the Lady Setanna.

Setanna turned—slowly—and bowed—even more slowly—to the grizzled old Ashai who stood at the introduction. He was short, like most Ashai, maybe as tall as Setanna if you discounted the geta footwear that added several inches to his stature.

She’d heard of him, of course. The Lord Myobi, the Ashai warlord. The man who’d led the combined Kael-tii-Ashai war host against the rebel Tukat when he’d dared outfit his horde with cowardly firearms. The man who had planned the fall of Namao, and now served as its regent.

The warlord nodded in response. Had Setanna been a more proud sort she would have been insulted. The barest nod was an acknowledgement befitting a high-ranking servant, or the lowest ranking noble. Still, she supposed he could have ignored her altogether. And given what Setanna suspected was coming next, she let the insult slide.

The king addressed Lord Myobi. The Lady Setanna shall be your escort to Kildonan. I trust you will find her a more than fitting replacement for your lost Daesho—what was his name again?

Rowena stifled a gasp, and clutched at her mistress' hand for support, while Setanna fought the urge to laugh, although considering what had just happened, she really didn't have that much to laugh about.

Setanna had no idea why the Ashai lord should come to her uncle requesting an escort. It's not as if the Ashai and the Kael-tii were sword brothers, though they ruled Vietor together. Quite the contrary. It would have been more seemly had he simply recruited a new Daesho from within the Ashai rank and file. The Ashai took up the other half of the bloody city, after all. If Lord Myobi was here he must be desperate, or plotting something. But which?

No doubt her uncle was plotting as well, else why send for her? The king was many things, but petty wasn’t one of them. A request from the Ashai warlord wasn’t something to be taken lightly, she knew. A direct insult could set the city to another civil war, but an indirect one? That's something the Ashai understood. Appreciated even.

She doubted he’d assigned her as escort simply to annoy Myobi. Had she really pushed her uncle so far? Or did he simply find her—disposable, a tool in his schemes.

The Asahi treated their horses better than their women, and certainly held the animals in higher regard. That her uncle had appointed Setanna as escort would be seen as an affront to Lord Myobi, but how could he claim offense? She was, after all, the King's niece, his only living family.

For all that he has ever treated me as such. Setanna closed her eyes, the ache spreading to her temples. She’d tried to play the dutiful niece, but if her uncle had noticed he’d never made show of it, and pushed her away at every turn. In the end, she was her father’s daughter—a warrior—so she’d hit back, waging her own little war upon him. Still, he was all the family she had. That had to count for something. You loved my father so much. Couldn’t you have spared a little for his daughter?

The Lord Myobi glared up at the king through hooded brows, an act of treason in itself had the warlord been one of Khulain's vassals. His name was Hiro Nayatamo.

Setanna noted his use of the past tense.

The king nodded. A distinguished family name, if I recall.

Lord Myobi stood impassively, not deigning to comment. After a moment of awkward silence, the warlord cleared his throat. Majesty, the road to Kildonan is a perilous one. I would be remiss in allowing you to risk a member of your Royal Family simply to escort a frail old man in his travels.

Setanna was suddenly clear headed, shock driving the fog of drink from her mind. There had been no word from Kildonan for months now, not from the city itself, or from the three caravans that had traveled there since the spring roads had cleared. Scouts sent out along the route to investigate had never returned. An entire platoon had followed with the same results. The people muttered of another Songeis uprising, or a new bandit king. Some even whispered that the Horde had returned.

Nonsense. Our choice of envoy only befits the esteem we hold you in, friend, the king said.

And he said it with a straight face. Setanna studied the king as he drank from his wine goblet, and tried to catch his eye, but he was having none of it, so she turned to address the Ashai.

Lord Myobi, if you would be so kind to have your bannerman report to me as soon as possible, we can go over the preparations and be ready to leave on the morrow.

The Ashai scowled, or continued to scowl—it was the only expression Setanna had seen him wear—but nodded to a man to his left. It shall be as you request, he told her.

Setanna smiled inwardly. As she requested. Not ordered. It was going to be a long journey, if she—or anyone, for that matter—survived it.

She begged her leave of the king, who dismissed her with an absent wave of his hand. Was her uncle taking this opportunity to be rid of her? Setanna wracked her recent memory, wondering what she might have done to warrant his displeasure. She couldn't think of anything, or at least not anything worse than the myriad transgressions he’d easily forgiven her for in the past. Perhaps the effect had been cumulative. Whatever amends she might have hoped to make between the two of them, they would have to wait until after this assignment. If she, or anyone survived it.

With a heavy heart, she turned and bowed to Lord Myobi, who returned it with a touch more respect than the last time, bending at the waist ever so slightly. Or so it seemed, she thought, as she turned on her heel and strode from the hall with Rowena in tow. Perhaps he was just breaking wind.

CHAPTER TWO

Roc worked at digging up stones with the point of his rapier while he awaited the carriage. He could just see it now, kicking up dust in the distance as it rounded the far bend. He supposed he shouldn't risk dulling the blade so soon before a caper, but seriously doubted he'd need it. Well, at least not the tip. He’d no intention of running anyone through. Sure, maybe a bit of hack and slash to cow the unruly, but he didn't have it in him to kill for the spoils. As long as they didn't know that, things should work out just fine.

Horse snorted his impatience, pawing at the ground near the bole of the tree where he was tethered.

Roc glanced back at his steed from behind the cover of his own tree. Here now, quit your fussing. You don't want to give away our position with all your racket now, do you?

Horse hung his head, properly chastened, at least until he spied a tasty bit of long grass. Roc knew someday he'd have to come up with a proper name for his mount, but he'd lost three in quick succession prior to Horse. Why bother to expend mental energy only to have his steed cut out from under him a day or two later? Still, Horse had been with him two months now. Give it another week, he thought, and he'd have a go at it. Something appropriate—like Longshot.

The carriage was closer now. He could hear the clatter of horses' hooves, the squeak of the leaf springs, and the rumble of wheels over cobblestone. It was a smaller carriage—only four horses—but made of dark, expensive mahogany, with fine lace curtains covering actual glass in the doors. A lone coachman handled the reins, and no one rode escort.

Roc had laid out a small tree just past the dip in the road, on the other side of the rise where it would be difficult to see. It was twilight now, and poor visibility should hide the obstruction from view until it was too late to swerve about. The driver would have no choice but to halt the carriage as he came upon the tree suddenly. At least that was the plan.

The coach rounded the corner at a leisurely pace. The cobblestones were worn smooth, and the road in good repair, so much so that if the driver took his time one might find the ride downright bearable. Comfortable, even. The coachman must have thought so, as he appeared to have nodded off—which would explain how it was that he didn’t see a great bloody tree in the middle of the road when he topped the rise.

Roc winced as the horses braked hard at the last instant, obviously more alert—and possibly more intelligent—than their handler. The coachman was thrown forward and landed hard, face first onto the road just behind the left rear animal. Roc rushed to the coachman's side as the horses pawed nervously at the ground, and rolled the man over. The driver was unconscious, but still breathing. A nasty dumpling-sized bump marred his forehead and had already begun to purple, and he'd scraped a good deal of skin from his nose, but otherwise Roc thought he'd be all right. He turned the man onto his side; with head injuries one often had a tendency to throw up, and he didn't want the unfortunate fellow choking on his own vomit.

Roc pulled down on the wide brim of the black felt hat he wore, and pulled a bandana of the same colour up over his nose so that only his eyes were visible. He moved around to the right side of the coach and knocked on the door with the hilt of his rapier. Come on out now, let's get this over with and you can be back about your business. He heard a rustling from within, the carriage rocked on its springs, then a woman's voice: Perhaps if we ignore him he'll go away, Nigel.

A man, presumably Nigel, answered. Would that it were that simple, my dear.

The curtain was drawn aside, and Roc recognized the ruddy face of Lord Nigel Mikinnon through the engraved glass. Mikinnon was an older gentleman, portly and balding, his face jowly and his nose bulbous and veined from too much wine. He was a gentleman of the finest caliber though, and dressed impeccably in a black satin waistcoat, and a crisp, white, high-collared shirt.

Roc slashed impatiently at the air with his rapier, and Lord Mikinnon blanched, but opened the door and carefully placed one foot on the step. His legs trembled and his hands shook, and Roc was afraid the old man might slip on the carriage step and fall, and perhaps break a hip or something. He held out a hand to the gentleman, who raised an eyebrow, but took it. Roc supported him until the lord's feet were firmly on the ground.

Thank you, that's awfully decent of you, considering, Lord Mikinnon said in a thin, shaky voice, wiping at his pale and sweaty forehead with a white lace handkerchief.

Roc straightened the black bandana that covered his face. Right, down to business then. Your money or your life.

Give him the money, dear, came the woman's voice from inside the carriage.

A bemused look crossed Lord Mikinnon's face, and he shook his head and took a deep breath, the way a man does to clear his head when he can't quite believe what he's heard. It's a rhetorical question really, dear. My life isn't worth anything to him now, is it?

Roc smiled behind his mask, and said, No, I suppose not, as the old man reached into his vest pocket for the wallet he kept chained there.

Roc accepted the folded notes, stashing them into a felt bag he’d brought for just that purpose, then narrowed his eyes at the Lord when he was not more forthcoming. Lord Mikinnon reached to his belt with trembling hands and handed the heavy coin pouch over.

I'll be wanting the jewels, too, Roc said, then called into the cab. I'm afraid your presence is required milady. If you'd just step out here for a moment.

Lord Mikinnon reached for the hilt of the ornate rapier at his right hip, but Roc's hand shot out and covered the lord's hand with his own.

Roc stared hard into the old man's eyes. He could see how frightened the codger was. The mere fact that he acted to defend his lady's honour, knowing he stood no chance, only confirmed Roc's esteem for the aged noble. No need for heroics, sir. I promise you no harm will come to either of you as long as you cooperate.

Lord Mikinnon nodded, a quick bob of the head, and relaxed his grip on his sword. I have your word on it, sir?

You do. Roc released the man, who quickly pulled the rings from his fingers and tossed them into the bag as his wife stepped carefully from the coach.

Lady Mikinnon was a great deal younger than the lord, being his second wife. The lord's first wife had passed several years ago—consumption, if Roc recalled correctly—and Mikinnon had remarried only last year. His new wife was a buxom, red-haired lass in her late twenties, and the lord obviously doted on her. Her dress alone was worth a working man's monthly salary, the latest in fashion and one-of-a-kind straight off a ship from Safran. It was all cream silk and lace, and cut to display her ample