Free Warlord by Jennifer Fallon Page B

had taken a few days ago) and the road south through Izcomdar and Pentamor Provinces to Greenharbour, some eight hundred miles away on Hythria’s southern coast. There was a large inn located at the crossroads and after a brief stop for lunch and some mulled wine to warm their chilled bones, Wrayan and Kalan pushed on, taking the south road, hoping to get as far as Kelvington before dark.
    Even under ideal conditions, the journey to Greenharbour would take the better part of three weeks. With plague on the loose, refugees running from it, and the Warlords struggling to maintain control over the major cities with reduced numbers of Raiders, the highways of Hythria were in a state of anarchy. Even Wrayan’s status as the head of Krakandar’s Thieves’ Guild was unlikely to impress a band of hungry refugees looking for food.
    For that reason, they opted to stick to the major highways while they were still in Krakandar Province, riding past winter-brown fields, divided by tall green hedgerows and populated with countless woolly sheep waiting patiently for the spring shearing. Once they reached Izcomdar, they would turn off, taking the lesser-used roads in the hope of missing the worst of the marauders, which was the reason they had brought the packhorse along. Wrayan was quite certain he could live off the land if required, but he doubted it was a skill Kalan owned. They were travelling with many more supplies than he normally would have bothered with, had he been travelling alone.
    Wrayan rode in silence for much of the way, worried less about Kalan’s ability to travel in less than princely comfort than the wisdom of leaving Starros in Krakandar. He’d wanted to bring him along, certain the young man would be much safer under the protection of Princess Marla in Greenharbour than alone in Krakandar if Mahkas Damaran discovered The Bastard Fosterling was still alive. It was not meant to be, though. Starros wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted to be near Leila and his grief would not allow him to turn his back on the place where she had been so recently laid to rest.
    “What are you thinking about?” Kalan asked curiously.
    Wrayan looked at her blankly. “What?”
    “I was just wondering what you’re thinking about, Wrayan. By the expression on your face, anyone would think you’re riding to your own mother’s funeral.”
    “I was just thinking about Starros.” He straightened a little in the saddle and glanced at the rolling barley fields on either side of the road, relieved to discover the rain had stopped. The air was cold and although still overcast, a rainbow shimmered faintly on the horizon as the afternoon sun fought its way through the dark grey clouds.
    “He’ll be fine, Wrayan.”
    “I suppose.”
    “Starros was always the brightest of us and he’s not impulsive. He won’t go looking for trouble.”
    “I’m more worried about trouble finding him. Did you want to stop at Kelvington tonight or push on?”
    “I’d rather push on,” Kalan replied, leaning forward to pat her mare’s neck encouragingly. “We need to get to Greenharbour as quickly as possible and we’ve a much better chance of avoiding the plague if we stick to ourselves.”
    “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully. “It’s going to be cold tonight.”
    “Don’t you think I can handle roughing it a bit?”
    “You rode into Krakandar with a baggage train, an honour guard and half a dozen slaves, Kalan.”
    She tossed her head, offended by what he was implying. “I’ll have you know I can be every bit as rustic as you when the occasion calls for it, Wrayan Lightfinger.”
    “This isn’t about being rustic. This is about sleeping on the wet ground on a cold night, probably without a fire because every twig and log in a thirty-mile radius is soaked through. There’s nothing wrong with taking shelter in a comfortable inn when it’s on offer, you know.”
    “Is it my comfort you’re concerned about? Or your own?”
    “Mostly my