The Unwilling Warlord Read Free Page A

to panic; visions of death by slow torture flickered through his mind.
    The sailor sighed. “I’m afraid you are, whether you like it or not.”
    “Why?” Sterren asked, letting a trace of panic into his voice in hopes of inducing pity. “What do these people want with me?”
    The man shrugged. “Don’t ask me. They hired me in Akalla to get them to Ethshar and find you, so I got them to Ethshar and found you. It’s none of my business what they want you for.”
    “It’s my business, though!” Sterren pointed out. He tried to struggle; the soldiers gave no sign they had even noticed. He subsided, and demanded, “You can ask, at least, can’t you?”
    “I can ask Lady Kalira,” the sailor admitted. “Those two don’t speak Trader’s Tongue, and for all I know they’re the ones who want you.” He seemed appallingly disinterested.
    “Ask her!” Sterren shrieked.
    The sailor turned and said something.
    The tall woman did not answer him, but stepped forward and spoke directly to Sterren, saying very slowly and distinctly, “O’ri Sterren, Enne Karnai t’Semma.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Sterren asked. He was about to say something further when he realized that the two barbarians had released his arms. He looked up at them, and saw that their huge flat faces were broken into broad grins. One stuck out an immense paw and shook Sterren’s hand vigorously, clasping it hard enough to sting. Utterly confused, Sterren asked the sailor, “What did she say?”
    “Don’t ask me; that was Semmat, not Trader’s Tongue. I don’t speak Semmat.”
    Lady Kalira saw Sterren’s continued incomprehension and said, “Od’na ya Semmat?” When he still looked blank, she said, “Et’sharitic is bad.” Her pronunciation was horrendous.
    Sterren stared for a moment, then turned to the sailor and demanded, “Is she telling me my native tongue isn’t fit for her to speak? Is this some sort of barbarian ritual thing?” He was even more thoroughly confused than be­fore.
    “No, no, no,” the sailor said. “She’s just saying she can’t speak it very well. I don’t think she knows more than a dozen words, to be honest, and I taught her half of those on the way here.”
    The Semman aristocrat apparently gave up on direct communication with her captive, and gave the interpreter a long message to relay. He interrupted her twice, requesting clarifications — at least that was what Sterren judged to be happening, since each interruption was followed by a care­ful repetition of an earlier phrase.
    Finally, the sailor turned to Sterren and explained, “She says she was sent by her king, Phenvel the Third, to find the heir of your grandmother’s brother, the Eighth Warlord, who died four months ago. She consulted a magician — I’m not clear on what sort — and that led her to you. She is to bring you back to Semma to receive your title and inheritance and to fulfill your hereditary duties as the new warlord — you’re Enne Karnai, the Ninth Warlord.”
    “That’s silly,” Sterren replied. He relaxed somewhat. If the story were true, then his worries about vengeance were groundless, and he saw no reason for the woman to bother lying.
    “That’s what she said,” the sailor replied with a shrug.
    “What if I won’t go?” he asked. While it might be nice to have an inheritance waiting for him, that bit about “hereditary duties” didn’t sound good, and he wanted nothing to do with wars or warlords. Wars were dangerous. Besides, who would want to live among barbarians? Particularly among barbarians who apparently didn’t speak Eth­sharitic.
    The idea was ludicrous.
    The interpreter relayed his question, and Lady Kalira’s face fell. She spoke an authoritative sentence; the sailor hesitantly translated it as, “She says that failure to perform one’s duty to one’s country is treason, and treason is punishable by immediate summary execution.”
    “Execution?” The inheritance suddenly