Royal Exile Read online

  Royal Exile

  Book One of The Valisar Trilogy

  Fiona McIntosh

  For Will McIntosh, Jack McIntosh, Paige Klimentou

  and Jack Caddy…

  start walking towards your dreams today.

  Whatever the dream, no matter how daring or grand,

  somebody will eventually achieve it.

  It might as well be you.

  Bryce Courtenay

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Map

  Prologue

  King Ormond’s face was ashen. He wore the sunken, resigned…

  One

  “Could he do this?” he wondered, as yet another wail…

  Two

  “My sister’s dead,” Leo said in the bald way that…

  Three

  Corbel rode hard. He knew not just his survival but…

  Four

  Del Faren was in love. The object of this love…

  Five

  That evening, up on the battlements, standing briefly alongside his…

  Six

  Loethar felt a pulse running through his body that he…

  Seven

  Clovis sat silent and rigid, his fists clenched in his…

  Eight

  There was nowhere to run and Gavriel’s mind was racing.

  Nine

  Kirin nudged Clovis. “Look. What do you think’s going on…

  Ten

  Gavriel had no choice but to risk it. Leo needed…

  Eleven

  Kirin blinked. He had no idea where he was.

  Twelve

  Freath had stealthily moved up the stairs, well in front…

  Thirteen

  Freath knew he had only a minute or two. The…

  Fourteen

  Loethar was not sure what to make of this latest…

  Fifteen

  As the barbarians were plotting his death, the king and…

  Sixteen

  Valya was fuming. She hated Dara Negev and her constant…

  Seventeen

  Kirin and Clovis looked around. Their accommodations were sparse but…

  Eighteen

  They had stopped for a rest twice more and each…

  Nineteen

  Genrie eyed the approaching unlikely pair. One glided ahead, head…

  Twenty

  Overhead the sky had paled to a murky charcoal. Glowing…

  Twenty-One

  Kirin and Clovis had moved relatively freely throughout the palace…

  Twenty-Two

  Freath nodded as he poured wine into Loethar’s goblet. “I…

  Twenty-Three

  Kirin stabled his horse and half-walked, half-ran toward the Dole…

  Twenty-Four

  Dusk had given way to twilight by the time Stracker’s…

  Twenty-Five

  The six of them had been walking for hours in…

  Twenty-Six

  Freath found his Vested in their shared chamber, Clovis crouched…

  Twenty-Seven

  Kirin stirred. His eyelids slit open and closed immediately. He…

  Twenty-Eight

  Sergius had listened carefully to everything the bird had told…

  Twenty-Nine

  He felt himself reaching consciousness but had the presence of…

  Thirty

  Tern had returned to brief Faris on what was occurring.

  Thirty-One

  King Leonel felt elemental power swirling around him, the way…

  Epilogue

  Sergius held his raven, always marvelling at its fragile network…

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Fiona McIntosh

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Prologue

  King Ormond’s face was ashen. He wore the sunken, resigned expression of a man who knew he had but hours to live. Nevertheless, sitting on his horse, atop the mound overlooking the battlefield, his anger flared, his jaw grinding as he watched the horde from the plains make light work of his soldiers. His attention was riveted on one man: the enemy’s leader, who was easy to pick out in the fray, even from this distance. For while his warriors wore the distinctive colors of their tribe, inked all over their faces and bodies, this man’s skin was clean. His features, like his age, were indeterminate from this distance, but he fought with the speed and physical force of a man in his prime. And he led his men from the front, a sign of his bravado and courage.

  “Look at the arrogance!” Ormond said, disbelief ringing in his voice. “Are we so pathetic that he doesn’t even care to take the precaution of armor? Does he have no fear?”

  “Majesty,” one of his companions replied wearily. “I believe Loethar is driven by something more complex than a desire for victory.”

  “General Marth, what could possibly be more desirable than victory when one goes to war?” the king challenged, staring down his offsider.

  The general looked momentarily lost for words. He looked away toward the carnage, then back to his king. “Your highness, this man is not interested in simply winning. He is not looking to conscript a new army from the devastation of ours, or even to preserve much of the realm for his own needs. I sense he is only after humiliation for his enemy. He has shown the Set that his pattern is to kill everyone who carries a weapon against him. There is no mercy in his heart.”

  The king shook his head, despair now haunting his expression. “I can’t let this continue. It has gone on long enough. He’s been on the rampage for four moons now. Dregon and Vorgaven are conquered and Cremond simply capitulated.” He gave a sound of disgust. “The other realms in the Set that have been attacked have fallen no matter what reinforcements have been sent.”

  Clearly forcing himself to remain calm despite the sounds of death below, the general took a breath. “As I counselled previously, majesty, it is not that he has an inexhaustible supply of fighters but that he has used his men with great cunning and insight. There has been nothing disorganized about his attack on the Set’s realms; it has been very strategic and we have not accorded him the respect he deserved. We should have taken him seriously when his men first started appearing. We should have sent our own men to help the Dregons and Vorgavese—”

  “For Lo’s sake, man! If Penraven didn’t why would we? Brennus obviously thought Ranuld could hold Vorgaven.”

  “We’re all neighbors, highness. We are the Set. We should have combined all our resources. Penraven has the largest army, the most well equipped army, the greatest number of weapons—”

  “Yes but still he didn’t! King Brennus chose not to send his men. Why? Because he trusted Ranuld to keep his end strong against this rabble upstart.”

  General Marth looked away again, and like his king his gaze was helplessly drawn to the horde’s ruthless leader as his sword swung, hacking into one of their men’s necks. They saw the spume of blood explode and watched another life be given cheaply to the insatiable ruler of the plains tribes. The general turned back, a fresh look of fury on his face. “No, majesty. I don’t think the Valisar king trusts any of us. Forgive me, I know you consider him a friend, but King Brennus is not coming to anyone’s aid. I suspect he has seen the error of his confidence, knows the threat to Penraven is very real. In light of that we are expendable. His priority always has been, always will be, Penraven. He is saving his men for the final confrontation.”

  King Ormond’s gaze narrowed. “He sent men to Dregon, he even—”

  Marth shook his head sadly. “A token gesture, highness. We needed to combine our armies to chase this barbarian from our midst. Instead we braz
enly allowed him the chance for his early and shocking victory against Dregon and Vorgaven—his audacity to fight not only on two fronts and two borders but to take both cities. His men are not mere rabble, highness. These are warriors…trained ones. We should have crushed him the moment he took his first footsteps into the Set.”

  “We all agreed to wait and see what his intentions were.”

  “Not all of us, highness,” General Marth replied and the bitterness in his voice was tempered by sorrow. “We didn’t act fast enough. We all left it to each other.”

  “But who would have thought Cremond would not even offer the slightest resistance? Why? Do they want a tribal thug as their ruler?” Marth shook his head, seemingly unable to offer any light on the Cremond capitulation although it was a longheld belief within the rest of the Set that Cremond, rarely considering itself as close to the other realms, often tended to behave in a contrary fashion. “And then who in his right mind marches across the region, ignoring Barronel, in order to take Vorgaven at the same time as Dregon? None of it makes sense.”

  “None of it makes sense because that was his intention. Loethar constantly caught us off guard. If we’d acted with speed at the outset we likely would have cut him off before he even established a foothold. Now he’s had these four moons to put our backs to the wall, to somehow convince Penraven—in its own arrogance—to wait and see what happens. Did we really think he was going to say ‘thank you’ and go home?”

  “Brennus and I believed he’d seek terms. Granted, we’re both shocked at his victory, but we never anticipated that he’d go after the whole Set.”

  “I don’t know why, majesty. He didn’t ask permission to enter it. Why would he give us any opportunity to sit around a parley table with him? He probably can’t even speak the language!” Marth hesitated briefly. But what was there to lose in finally speaking his mind? Careful to speak without accusation, he continued. “The Valisars have always considered themselves invincible and I doubt Brennus feels any differently. Don’t you see, your highness, that Brennus has allowed us to be the fodder? The rest of the realm has borne the brunt of Loethar’s ferocity and yet I think he’s deliberately saving the biggest, the best, for last. I don’t think it’s because he’s frightened of Penraven. Quite the contrary. He has been playing games, convincing Brennus that the tribes would run out of interest—another reason why Brennus has hesitated to send the full might of the Penravian army to stand by us. I sense Loethar has deliberately made himself appear to be that yob you called him earlier, when in fact he is a long way from being a dull-headed, thick-skinned ruffian who might tire of the spoils of war and head back to the plains, sated. He has shown himself to be a shrewd adversary and now, my king, he is ready to topple our realm. I admire him.”

  Ormond sighed deeply and hung his head. “Call the retreat, general.”

  “No, King Ormond. Our men are going to die anyway. I suspect they would rather die fighting. It is more worthy to fall in the heat of battle and to a noble wound than on one’s knees pleading for one’s life. That’s what the barbarian did in Vorgaven; put people to the sword long after the battle cries had stopped echoing. I think our soldiers should go to Lo yelling their defiance.”

  The king shook his head gravely. “But you are a general and I am a sovereign. It is our role to think brave and be brave to the last…to give our lives for our land. Perhaps some of these men might escape and survive to recount Barronel’s bravery to the last. For that hope alone, we should surrender.”

  “Please, King Ormond. Let us all perish if we must, but let us fight to the last man.”

  Ormond set his chin grimly. “No. I took an oath when I was crowned that I would not knowingly allow any of my subjects to be killed if I could prevent it. I have to believe some of my people, however few, can be preserved in the chaos of retreat. Let the men run for their lives. But Lo help me, Marth, I will see the blood of the Valisars flour for this betrayal.” His voice had become a growl. “Sound the retreat!”

  Loethar’s teeth seemed to be the only part of him not drenched in the blood of his foe. But he knew that would soon change and while his limbs worked savagely, tirelessly, to deny his enemies another breath, his thoughts focused around drinking the blood of King Ormond of Barronel. For Ormond was all that stood between him and his true goal…Penraven.

  All the preparation—two anni in the making—had been undertaken for the moment that he was so close to now he could almost taste it. All the relentless training had been worth it—the toughening of his warriors, the breeding of horses, stockpiling of food and water near the main Set border…But none of that could compare to his mental preparation. He had grown up on hate, loathing, bitterness, and rage, kept under control, channelled into the groundwork that led to the surprise concerted raid on two realms at the same time.

  The overconfidence, the bursting ego of the Valisars demanded that they would never have believed for a moment they were under any serious threat. Not at the outset anyway. Which is why he’d acted as though he lacked any strategy or battle knowledge, traversing the Set covering unnecessary, almost senseless ground. He made sure his men behaved like the unruly rabble he wanted them to appear, even sending a quarter of them back to the Set’s main border, as though they were making a straggly return to their plains, no longer interested in the bloodlust.

  And gradually he had streamed them back to the main vanguard, usually under cover of darkness, running alongside wild dogs of the plains that he had had trained since puppies, killing their parents so they knew and trusted only the smell of his men. These dogs made the sharpest of scouts. They knew how to range, how to move silently and how to smell even the vaguest threat of their enemy. Many times they warned the tribes’ various leaders to change course, to return to the main army via a different route. They were a large part of why Vorgaven, for instance, had thought it was facing three thousand men, when it was actually confronted by close on five thousand.

  Time and again over the four moons Loethar had baffled his enemy, an enemy that was fueled by such self-belief, and worse, such disdain for the horde of the plains, that it had essentially crippled itself.

  Now Loethar grimaced as a man fell near his feet, the Barronel soldier’s sword slicing into Loethar’s leg before the soldier’s body fell. Fortunately, Loethar’s nimble, intelligent horse moved sideways, allowing the man to fall beneath the advancing warriors and other horses so that the body was quickly trampled until it no longer had a recognizable face. Loethar barely paid attention to the wound on his leg; it hurt but there was no time to consider the pain. His sword kept slashing a path through flesh and bone, moving him ever closer to his prize.

  He suspected word had quickly been passed around that the shirtless, armor-less fighter was the one to bring down. But Stracker was always near, his Greens more savage than any of the other tribes.

  Loethar saw one soldier’s head topple from his neck following one of Stracker’s tremendous blows. On the back swing of that same blow, another soldier had his outstretched arm hacked off just above the elbow. The soldier stared at the stump pumping blood and roared his despair, reaching down to pick up his fallen sword with the other hand.

  “He’s brave, I’ll give him that,” Loethar called to his man as Stracker rammed his weapon into the soldier’s soft belly to finish him off.

  “Got to watch out for those sly two-handers, brother,” Stracker yelled, slashing another man’s throat open with a practiced swing.

  “They’ll call the retreat soon,” Loethar called back, twisting his horse in a full circle, and killing two men in the motion.

  “No chance. Barronel plans to fight until every man falls, I reckon.”

  Loethar managed to wink. “My amazing Trilla, here, for your stallion, says it will happen before you can kill another six of the enemy.”

  Stracker smiled, his bloodstained face creasing in amusement. “Done! I’ve always liked that small, feisty horse of yours.”

  “She’s
not yours yet, brother.”

  “Oh, but she will be. One!” he called smugly as another Barronel soldier met his end. “Two,” he added, slashing across the belly of another.

  Stracker had made it to four when he and Loethar heard the unmistakeable sound of the Barronel retreat being sounded across the battlefield.

  As Stracker roared his disapproval, Loethar laughed, but he was secretly relieved. He was tired and he knew the blood soaking his body wasn’t all his enemy’s. He too had taken some punishment. He had fought hard today at the front of the vanguard and the retreating backs of the Barronel force—gravely diminished as it was—was a sweet sight.

  “Round them up,” he called to his senior tribesmen, trying to hide the weariness in his voice. “The Greens will join me in taking the surrender from General Marth. Reds and Blues, let them believe we are simply taking stock of their number. All will be killed later.”

  “And the king?” Stracker asked, drawing alongside, still obviously miffed at losing the bet.

  “King Ormond I shall be sharing a drink with later. He will, of course, go to his god before this night is out, but first, Stracker, you owe me that fine horse.”

  One

  “Could he do this?” he wondered, as yet another wail began. He knew he had no choice if the Valisars were to survive.

  Two great oak doors, carved with the family coat of arms, separated King Brennus from his wife’s groans and shrieks, but despite the sound being muffled, her agonized cries injured him nonetheless. He knew his beautiful and beloved Iselda would never have to forgive him because she would never know of his ruthlessness at what he planned for his own flesh and blood. He looked to his trusted legate and dropped his gaze, shaking his head. They were all servants to the crown—king included—and serve he must by presenting the infant corpse in order to protect the realm.