Byren watched Warlord Corvel as the gangplank was lowered. The sight of Corvel's fabulous manticore chitin armour reminded Byren how he had killed a manticore pride and given the chitin to his father, to be fashioned into armour. There had only been time to make a chestplate before the castle was besieged, and it hadn't helped King Rolen when Palatyne killed him under a flag of truce and confiscated the chestplate for himself.
Byren returned his attention to the warlord of Manticore Spar.
The spar's emblem, the red manticore, glistened on a field of black. Corvel was half a head shorter than Byren but thicker around the chest. The long temple plaits that hung from his helmet were iron-grey and bound with many gold circles, celebrating the enemies he had killed.
Last midwinter, when Corvel should have been swearing allegiance to King Rolen, he had been accused of slipping over the Divide to raid Rolencian villages. The warlord had denied it, claiming anyone could have planted the Manticore standard to implicate his warriors, and had eventually given his allegiance. But it had left Byren wondering about his loyalty.
Now they stood on the wharf in Feid Bay, Byren Kingsheir, his loyal Warlord Feid and Orrade, captain of his honour guard, along with their most trusted men-at-arms. Byren had thought they looked impressive in their armour, cloaks lifting in the breeze, until he got a good look a Corvel's ships.
Each must have held at least a hundred warriors. The sides bristled with oars and the deck could not be seen for shields and helmeted heads. The message was clear. Warlord Corvel would make a good ally or a very bad enemy.
What could Byren say to win this canny old warrior's support?
'Corvel must have sailed as soon as he got my message,' Feid whispered to Byren. 'That's a good sign. But he doesn't look too friendly.'
'He never does,' Orrade muttered. 'It's the eyebrow. Most people have two.'
Byren snorted and swallowed his laughter.
'Corvel gathered his warriors right away and sailed. Either he comes to aid me,' Byren whispered grimly, 'or he comes to wipe me out.'
He felt Feid shift uncomfortably. They were exposed on the wharf with a ceremonial guard. The Foenix warlord had not called his men in from their outlying farms. In the township women and children far outnumbered those who could defend themselves from seasoned warriors.
Corvel's boots thudded on the wharf as he strode towards Byren and his supporters. He came to a stop just beyond arm's length, with four of his seven sons at his back.
'This time we meet in very different circumstances, Byren Kingsheir,' Corvel said. 'This time I am not defending my name against baseless accusations.'
'It's the king's duty to protect his people.' Byren held the warlord's eyes, making no apology. 'Someone ordered the raid on that village.'
'Not me. Yet, I rebuilt it as a sign of good faith. Now, King Rolen's dead and you come crawling to me, needing my support.'
Corvel indicated the leogryf-tooth necklace which rested on Byren's chest. 'They call you Byren Leogryfslayer, say you killed the beast with your bare hands.'
'I had a knife,' Byren admitted. 'And the beastie was old.'
'But not toothless?'
'He was when I finished with him.' Byren grinned, determined not to beg Corvel to join him. This old warrior respected strength.
Corvel studied him. 'Now your cousin Cobalt sits on your father's throne, with the backing of Merofynia. Cobalt is not old and toothless.'
'Cobalt is a snake,' Byren said. 'Toothless but dangerous.'
Corvel's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 'You talk well, second son, but can you lead an army?'
Since Byren had asked himself the same question he had no easy answer. 'Only Halcyon's Fate knows. And, since the mystics master does not have the Fate, he can't glimpse the future. As I see it, you have two choices, Corvel. Break your oath to my father, give Cobalt your loyalty and let him tax your spar to line his pockets, or join me and throw him out of Rolencia.'
'Perhaps I have a third choice. Break no oath and resist Cobalt myself.'
'You cannot stand alone. If Cobalt chose, he could chase your people down the length of Manticore Spar, raiding and looting until he drove the last warrior into the sea and took your women and children for slaves. United, we can defeat him. He can't fight on five fronts. If the warlords don't unite behind me, he can pick you off one by one.'
Corvel considered this, then he held out his right hand. 'They say you can be trusted, Leogryf Slayer.'
Relieved, Byren took his hand off his sword hilt and stepped forwards to grasp the warlord's. Without warning Corvel pulled him off balance, sweeping his legs from under him. It was a wrestling move Lence had used on him many times.
Byren reacted without thinking. Even as he went down he scissored his legs, trying to catch Corvel, but the older man's sons saved him, hauling him back and steadying him.
Orrade drew Byren upright. 'Say the word.'
At his signal there would be bloodshed, a pitched battle on the wharf. Byren waited, watching the warlord's face. If Corvel had meant to kill him he could have.
The warlord eased his shoulders, threw back his head and laughed. His laughter echoed up the steep-sided bay, echoed by the cries of the gulls circling overhead.
Corvel opened his arms and Byren stepped in, ready for anything, but this time Corvel clapped him on the shoulders, leaning close.
'Your father belittled me. My men would not have respected me if I hadn't done the same to you.' And he went off into another deep belly-laugh.
Blood roaring in his ears, Byren joined him. It seemed he had passed the old warrior's test.
But now he had to strike soon. No doubt Corvel would have brought food. Even so, Feid would be making up the shortfall, supplying wine and ale. The warlord could not afford to keep this up for long.
Chapter Seventeen
As Fyn stepped off the gangplank onto the deck of the Wyvern's Whelp, Bantam nudged Jakulos, who straightened up. Both men grinned at him.
'Did you have your way with the pretty little maid?' Jakulos asked.
Fyn shrugged. 'She's not my type.'
'What, you fancy the kingsdaughter?' Bantam asked. 'Think she'll lift her skirts for a common sailor, even if he was a monk?'
Fyn's hand shot out, fixing on Bantam's throat, lifting him off his feet. Jakulos grabbed Fyn, his sheer strength breaking his hold.
'A jest, little monk. 'Twas only a jest,' Bantam rasped, massaging his throat and watching him warily.
'Come here, Agent Monk,' Captain Nefysto called, frowning from the cabin door. Fyn hurried over to him. Nefysto closed the door after them. 'Don't threaten my crew, kingson. As far as they are concerned, you're the mage's agent, a monk out for revenge.'
'He insulted the kingsdaughter,' Fyn said.
'He's an ignorant man but he's a good sailor, and loyal. Something a deposed kingson should appreciate.'
Nefysto was right. 'I'm sorry.'
'So you should be. We're risking our lives so you can play Kingdoms and we are not even your men-at- arms.'
Nefysto gestured for Fyn to enter his cabin. As the captain placed a rolled-up map on his desk, Fyn wondered how much Tyro had revealed. Obviously not Piro's true identity.
Nefysto spread out the map, holding it in place with an inkwell and several books. 'The Wyvern's Whelp will
