The Warlord’s Price
Cynthia Carole
Published by Purple Sword Publications, LLC at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.
THE WARLORD’S PRICE
Copyright © 2009 Cynthia Carole. All rights reserved worldwide.
ISBN 978-1-936165-15-5
Cover Art Designed By Anastasia Rabiyah
Edited By Traci Markou
For my husband.
Chapter One
Sanji peeked through the stone filigree, her gaze resting on the man standing in the center of her brother’s court. A ray of sunlight penetrated the tiny windows near the rafters of the great hall and fell upon the tall stranger’s chopped, black hair and lit his strange gold-brown eyes as if they glowed. Behind her, her brother’s wife Alja whispered with the ladies of the hareem, their muffled giggles as annoying as the sickly sweet blend of perfume wafting through the air. Sanji wrinkled her nose. So this is the man that my brother lives in terror of—this barbarian from the mountains.
Compared to her brother, who wore a golden tunic set with river-pearls and emeralds, the man dressed plainly in a dust-covered robe and loose trousers. The curved saber at his waist bore no ornament or precious stones—it was not worn to impress.
Sanji frowned, watching the barbarian stalk toward her brother’s dais. He radiated masculinity, dominating the wide chamber as if he were the ruler and not the petitioner. Though a petition was hardly what she’d call his mission—he had come to make demands. Her heart raced faster as she pressed close enough for the cold of the stone filigree to penetrate her silk blouse. Her nipples tightened, but she told herself that it was the chill of the lattice and not the man she stared at.
“Warlord Raj-Kumar. I welcome you,” her brother announced. His lip curled in disdain, but the sweat on his brow gave away his nervousness. “I am wondering why you threaten my princedom,” he continued. “Andish did not ride against you last winter. We live in peace with our neighbors…”
The lattice was close enough that Sanji could see the mud clinging to Raj-Kumar’s boots, and the single drop of sweat running down her brother’s temple. The warriors on Abishak’s right openly sneered at Kumar, fingering the hilts of their swords. Mal-Jor, her future husband, crossed his arms, frowning in fury. He had argued last spring for her brother’s army to join with the other princes on their excursion into the mountains, but she wondered what he thought now. Now that the other princes are dead and their armies vanquished. Did he still think the southerners had no ability to fight? That the mountains were ripe for plundering?
Her eyes moved from Mal-Jor to Raj-Kumar. No man in the Great Hall could compare to him. His hard, stern face was not handsome in a traditional sense, but he riveted her attention anyway. He dominated the great chamber, despite his lack of jewels or glitter, and his smoldering gold eyes stared right through her brother. “Prince Abishak of Andish. I have been given proof that you helped supply the attack against my people. While no soldiers of Andish rode to war, you aided my enemies. I have come to collect a war debt from you.”
His voice was articulate and deep, the accent smooth and strange to her ears. Sanji sucked in a breath, loud enough to be heard in the greater court. A blue-robed minister turned to frown at her but so did Raj-Kumar. Even through the lattice, he met her eyes and blinked in surprise. She stepped back, her heart pounding. He couldn’t have seen me, could he? Even if he did, all he could have seen was a patterned shadow through the filigree.
“Show this proof,” her brother demanded, fingers tapping on his golden throne.
The Warlord gestured, and two of his dark-clad servants strode forward. They wore the Sindi covering over their mouths, strips of cloth that hid half their faces so only their eyes glared like chips of jet. They dropped a large pile of sackcloth on the floor, flaxen bags used to store grain and each marked with the crossed spears of Andish. “These were found by the hundreds in the wagons of our enemies. Do you deny the mark of your house, Prince Abishak?”
Her brother squirmed. Everyone in the court knew he had given supplies to his neighbors. How could he deny it? She wanted to plead with him to just pay Raj-Kumar. Her brother had given more than grain, a hundredweight of arrows had been delivered as well—arrows used to kill Kumar’s villagers. She prayed her brother would do the right thing.
Abishak waved one hand as if shooing a fly. His lips curled. “So, I traded food to my neighbors. How am I to know that they would take my grain with them on their adventuring? I deny this proof. Do you have more?”
Raj-Kumar stared at Abishak. He shook his head in disgust. “The Princes of Baraht have far too much pride. It will be your downfall.”
“This audience is over,” Abishak said in a bored tone. His own foolishness seemed to give him boundless courage. A condescending smile stretched his lips. “May the wind be at your back, Raj-Kumar.”
Kumor’s gold eyes flared with anger, but he whirled on his heel to march from the room, boots loud in the absolute silence. One nod to each of his men, and they fell in behind him, leaving the pile of empty sacks behind. Sanji chewed her lip, wondering how he would respond to her brother’s stupidity. The brass plated doors closed loudly behind the Warlord, and her brother’s court broke into conversations. Behind her, Alja and her attendants blathered about how brave and noble Abishak had been to face down the barbarian. “And did you see his clothes? Andish herdsmen dress better!” Alja announced to the giggling agreement of her female court.
Sanji glared at the perfumed and pampered ladies in their gleaming rainbow of silks, their arms heavily decorated with gold bangles, and exotic khol darkening their eyes. The wealth they displayed abruptly seemed obscene to her. “Better to judge a man by his deeds than the cut of his robe. Raj-Kumar beat back two Baraht princes and their men—do you know how he did it?”
Alja waved a bejeweled hand, the rings covering her fingers glittering. “I don’t bother to know things like that, Sanji. So, he’s clever and vicious. The same could be said for Abishak’s favorite fighting dog, yet I would not elevate the animal to sit at our table.”
“And you’d be a fool to kick that dog and then turn your back on him,” Sanji replied.
Her brother’s wife smiled with painted red lips. “Oh, dear. Does Mal Jor know that you have a preference for barbarians? Perhaps you would stop delaying your wedding if he slung you across his shoulder or beat you with a reed.”