by Ari Marmell
Grinning without mirth, Salia rose, unfastened the brass circle from its hooks, and hurled it like a discus over the heads of the assembly. Startled gasps presaged the sudden press of bodies struggling to clear out as it fell, and every face in the crowd had donned an expression of anger.
But it was, for the moment, a silent anger, and that made all the difference.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this cannot continue. We’re all exhausted …”
This understatement was being met with a chorus of derisive snorts. Custom dictated that these meetings end by sundown, but just as they had every night for the past few weeks, they’d already progressed well into the nighttime hours.
“We’re all exhausted,” she said again, “and there’s still much work ahead of us. My tenure as Overseer ends in two nights, and I’d like to have accomplished something during my week with the hammer. So perhaps whoever follows me will put up with this, but I won’t any longer. The next time you choose to ignore the gong—and Erland, would you be kind enough to bring it back up here? Thank you—the next time you choose to ignore the gong, I’ll be throwing it at you, not over you, and anyone who has a problem with that is welcome to seek satisfaction.”
An array of murderous glares threatened to knock her clean over, but everyone present knew her reputation, could plainly see the large hammer hanging at her side—far larger and more brutal than the ceremonial mallet that marked her status as current assembly Overseer—and none of those glares transformed into spoken protest.
“Good. Then the issue up for vote …” As it has been every night since before I took the damn hammer, she added silently, though everyone heard it anyway, “… is one of military command. To wit, are we agreed to unite the various armies of Imphallion under a single command in order to—”
“No!” This from Sathan, the young and newly ascended Duke of Orthessis, dressed in mourning black for his mother, the Duchess Anneth. “We’ll not be handing any more of our power over to you!”
“Then you’ll soon not have it at all!” Caryna, Assistant Guildmaster of the Masons’ Guild, yelled back. “Cephira’s already taken most of our eastern territories!” She pointed to one of several empty chairs, ceremonially left vacant to account for those nobles and Guildmasters who could not attend, or those who had died and whose successors had not yet been named. “How long before they advance farther, Your Grace? We’ve invaders on Imphallian soil, and your damn mule-headedness has prevented us—”
“My mule-headedness? We—”
“It’s not mule-headedness, it’s self-preservation!” The third speaker—third shouter, really—was Bennek III, Earl of Prace. “If Rebaine’s slaughtering us one by one, I’m sure as Vantares’s deepest hell not putting all my men under someone else’s command!”
The tanner beside Salia stood, leaning over the table. “Only a unified force can stand against either Cephira or Rebaine! Did we learn nothing from the Serpent? Have we all so quickly forgotten our inability to cooperate then?”
“Audriss was one of us!” Duke Sathan reminded him. “He’s precisely the reason we cannot turn over complete command of our forces to anyone we don’t implicitly trust!”
“And do you not trust the Guilds?”
His snort was answer enough. “We can repulse Cephira, but we’ll do it with our own forces, not by giving them to you!”
“Cephira’s forces are too large and too disciplined. If we go in piecemeal, we’ll be slaughtered!”
“If we don’t stop Rebaine,” Bennek muttered, “Cephira won’t need to slaughter us.”
“Why has Rebaine returned now?” Salia couldn’t see who spoke; someone toward the rear of the chamber. “Perhaps he’s trying to take advantage of the Cephiran attack.”
“Do we even know he’s not cooperating with Cephira?” Caryna asked.
“We—”
“Enough!” Salia rose and struck the gong, not with her ceremonial mallet but with the brutal hammer at her waist. The chime was surprisingly quiet—primarily because the blow cracked the gong straight down the center—but it shut everyone up.
“I called for a vote,” she reminded them darkly. “And that means no debate or argument until the vote is cast. So … All in favor of uniting our forces, that we may repel the threats both at and within our borders?” A pause. “All opposed?”
She sighed, slumping back in her chair. She didn’t need the chamberlain’s official tally to know the vote had split exactly as it had each previous night. The bulk of the Guildmasters wanted unification, as did a few younger nobles whose predecessors were recently slain. The majority of the aristocracy did not, at least not unless the overseer was another noble rather than a Guild appointee; a concession the Guilds—presumably fearful of losing their stranglehold over the aristocracy—were unwilling to make.
And so, for another night, what had once been the greatest nation on the continent huddled impotently, allowing the Cephiran invaders to dig in more deeply, and the murderer of nobles and Guildmasters to advance his current scheme, whatever it might be.
It was, indeed, an unpleasant, dream-like echo of the Serpent’s War.
The Guildmasters almost had enough votes to carry the necessary majority—thanks be, though she felt ashamed to admit it, to the recent spate of murders, which had claimed more nobles than Guildmasters. Almost, but not quite. And even if they had, would the nobles accede as the law required, or would the Guilds be compelled to take their armies by force? Salia shivered at the realization that the problems they faced might only be leading them to the brink of civil war.
Furrowing her brow against an incipient headache, Salia Mavere called a recess until the following day and dejectedly trudged from the assembly chamber, praying that she had the strength to see everything through, to do what must be done.
And that, in the end, it would all prove worthwhile.
BESIDE A SMALL COPSE OF TREES, abutting the slope of a rocky hill, a stone-lined pit held grey ash and bits of charcoal that were the cadaver of a cooking fire. A faint breeze wafted through the night, rustling branches and cooling the skin of the man who lay slumbering by the fire pit, twisting and muttering in the grasp of rapacious dreams.
Much as it had in the center of Nenavar’s house in Denathere, the wind picked up, lifting loose leaves skyward, clashing and swirling against the natural currents in the air. Sticks crunched into the soil as a massive weight appeared atop them, and then Corvis Rebaine, the Terror of the East, stood beside the sleeping Baron of Braetlyn, the blood of Jassion’s servants dripping from his gauntlets.
Or at least Rebaine’s armor did.
The image wavered, and then that armor—and the blood—were gone. Kaleb stood in their place, clad in his mundane cloak and leathers. A quick look around, just to ensure that nothing had disturbed the camp in his absence, and then he knelt beside his supposed ally. Without ever quite touching him, Kaleb ran a hand over Jassion’s face, removing a phantom film of magic that had kept the man in deep slumber. Jassion snored once and rolled over, unaware that anything was amiss.
Exactly how Kaleb wanted him. Suppressing a grin, he reached out and shook Jassion’s shoulder, waking him for his turn on watch.
Chapter Eight
THE ROYAL SOLDIERS of the Black Gryphon of Cephira never did learn precisely what happened on that muggy summer night. Or rather, they ascertained most of what happened, but never why.
The blush of dawn hadn’t fully covered the face of the eastern sky, and the nighttime breezes had faded into sputtering, wheezing breaths. Pre-morning dew was swiftly coalescing on the grasses, the leaves, and the eaves of Rahariem’s homes, courteously making room in the air for the new day’s coming humidity. The soldiers on night duty stifled their yawns, struggling to keep alert or maintain proper cadence, grateful that the rising sun would soon signal the end of shift and the opportunity to get breakfast, get drunk, and get to bed—probably in that order.
Until a scream of inchoate rage shattered the calm,
a rock rudely hurled through the brittle glass of silence. From atop one of the engine platforms, a Cephiran guard leapt upon a passing patrol, naked sword in hand. Maddened spittle spattered the shocked soldiers, followed immediately by the warm blood of their commanding officer. The crazed attacker was already lunging at his next target before the officer’s head fetched up against a wall, and two more men were down before the remainder had so much as pulled steel.
Drawn to the hideous shrieks and the clash of battle, soldiers from neighboring posts came running, ready to aid their brethren against any attack, stunned briefly into immobility when they realized just what form that attack had taken. The murderous warrior seemed driven by a fury not even so much “berserk” as “utterly inhuman.” Blades rebounded from mail, bruising flesh to the bone, yet he barely staggered before launching a blistering counterattack, more raw fury than training or skill. The tips of swords dug into thighs and arms protected only by leather-backed padding, and still he remained oblivious to their efforts. One soldier, already wounded, ducked under his guard and ran her broadsword across the back of his knee; only then, as tendon separated and his leg buckled, did he finally slow. Staggering in a tight circle, dragging his now useless leg, he fought on until the limp and the blood loss finally took their toll. Face paling, he wavered, his body quivering, and a Cephiran morningstar crushed the life from his skull.
And it was then that the Cephiran soldiers—panting hard, bleeding, horrified at their maddened brother—discovered that the entire affair had been only a terrible diversion. For it was then, when the tumult of battle and the groans of the dying had faded, that they heard the ominous creaking of wood and hemp from above.
All unnoticed in the tumult, the rest of the man’s squad had heaved a three-hundred-pound block of masonry from their ammunition stores into the trebuchet’s great sling. Far too late to take any action save an openmouthed gape, the troops below could only watch as the massive weapon ratcheted into position and heaved its monstrous payload.
End over end the missile tumbled, a child’s block hurled in a divine tantrum. In a perfect arc, calculated by a skilled team of operators, it sailed over the roofs of Rahariem for more than two hundred yards …
And finally plummeted to crash, in a cloud of dust and timber and debris that blotted the moon and every star from the sky, upon the city’s western gate.
Against such a massive assault—had it come from without—the thickest of the city’s walls might have held fast. Against the gates themselves, from the direction opposite that which they were braced to hold, the boulder might as well have been punching through bread crust.
Wood and stone exploded. The walls of neighboring structures cracked beneath the shrapnel, or merely from the shuddering of the earth. Panicked citizens clogged the streets, fleeing the devastation raining from above. The guards—save those at the gate itself, who formed a trail of broken bodies in the tumbling masonry’s wake—dived for cover, emerging only long minutes later when the dust began to settle and it was clear no further projectiles were inbound.
The first soldiers to reach the platform found the trebuchet’s crew lying dead, scattered near the base of the engine. All had weapons in their hands and protruding from their bodies; they appeared to have murdered one another in a savage rampage of shared insanity. Strewn around were charts of the city and its surroundings, inked by the invaders when they’d first set up their defenses. Carefully indicating angles and distances, those charts ensured that the engine crews were practically incapable of missing any attacking forces—or, as they’d just proved, any targets within Rahariem itself. Physicians and alchemists examined the corpses, their food, their water, and found no signs of drug or poison that might explain their behavior. In the end, though it satisfied no one at all, the officers of the Royal Soldiers were forced to conclude that these men had gone mad for reasons unknown, and unleashed their terrible weapon upon the city before turning on themselves and their fellow Cephirans.
That the entire sequence of events might have been orchestrated purely so a band of insurgents could depart the city via the shattered gates, during the few precious moments when the soldiers were cowering against further attack, was a notion that wouldn’t occur to anyone for quite some while.
ON THE FLOOR OF THAT same broken house, Cerris lay shaking. The remains of everything he’d eaten that day pooled across the room, congealing into a harsh, pungent sludge, and still his stomach lurched, distending his jaw in dry heaves. His head pounded as though last night’s dreams sought to batter their way free, and his entire body shivered beneath a sheen of feverish sweat.
Only once before had his body been so terribly ravaged by the casting of that ancient spell, on the day he’d arrived in Mecepheum—well disguised—to ensure the election of Duke Halmon to the regent’s throne. Then, he’d scarcely escaped the Hall of Meeting before the illness overcame him, rendering him naught but a quivering, agonized wreck for a day and a half. That time, he’d extended his mystical influence over a score of men and women, a strain that he truly believed had come close to killing him. He wasn’t remotely powerful enough a sorcerer to be fiddling with such magics, and well he knew it. Tonight, he’d needed to command only six, but forcing them to betray their nation, to slay their friends and even themselves, had taken more effort than he’d anticipated. This was only the fourth time he’d ever used the spell—and only the second time on more than a single individual—and he couldn’t help but idly wonder if a fifth attempt would finish him off entirely.
And he hoped, to the extent he was capable of hoping for anything other than for the pounding and the nausea to stop, that he’d never need find out.
Cerris was never certain how long he lay there before he finally recovered the strength to raise his head and even consider lifting himself off the floor. The sun was high enough for its light to creep through the ill-fitting doors and shutters, to transform the room into something akin to a small kiln. The stench of slowly baking vomit made his eyes water, but Cerris appreciated the heat. The sweat he shed now felt somehow cleaner than the film it was washing away.
Leaning on Sunder he rose, pleased to discover that his legs, though wobbly, were willing to support him. He’d be weak for some time, but this was the weakness of simple fatigue, no longer the sick helplessness it had been.
Again his stolen tabard served him, for so great was the throng of activity around the shattered gates that nobody noticed another soldier in their midst. Cerris lifted a chunk of rubble (a small one was all he could manage just yet), carried it through the open wall, and disappeared behind the growing heap of broken stone accumulating on the roadside. As there was no tree line this near Rahariem, he moved at a diagonal, struggling to keep the refuse pile between himself and casual observation until he’d passed some distance from the walls. He tried to maintain a steady jog, but his exhaustion—‘Are you sure it’s not your age?’ the inner voice taunted—held him to a rapid walk. He prayed that his departure had attracted no attention; at his current pace, and with the trail of perspiration he was sure he’d dripped into the grass behind him, a toddler could probably run him to ground.
But at least, as he drew nearer the copse that marked the ambush point, he felt as though he were getting his second wind.
‘Or your third, or your fourth …’
And he felt, as well, that he was likely to need it.
He sensed something wrong before he rounded the bend in the road, though he wasn’t initially certain what. From ahead echoed the clash of steel, the shouts and grunts and screams of battle. That was to be expected. He’d known the caravan might pass at any time, that the ambush might launch before he arrived. But something about the sounds—he could not, just yet, put his finger on precisely what—was off, made his hackles rise and his fingers tighten about Sunder’s haft.
And then, as he drew near, he found himself recalling the many battles and sieges of his life, and he knew. The calls from ahead were too measured, too dis
ciplined, too clear. These were the shouts of trained soldiers, not the eager, passionate cries of a diverse resistance.
Cerris dropped to his belly, worming through the dirt and twigs until he could just poke his head beyond the copse’s undergrowth. He grimaced, biting back a vicious oath at what he saw.
Four horse-drawn wagons lined the roadside, the tarps that had once covered their contents lying crumpled beside the wheels. But those tarps had apparently revealed no cargo, for the wagons now stood empty. Corpses littered the crimson-stained earth, and most were the bodies of men and women Cerris had known. The Cephiran soldiers were gathered in groups, battling the last pockets of opposition or moving to chase those who had fled. Even from his limited vantage point, the tired old warrior couldn’t help but note that there were far more soldiers than should have been assigned to a supply caravan moving across Cephiran-controlled territory.
He knew, then, what—or rather who—had lain beneath those tarps. The whole damn caravan had been a trap.
He’d worry later how they’d known, who must answer for this treachery. Now, through a haze of sudden panic, Cerris scanned the wagons, the road, the ongoing skirmishes, and yes, even the corpses, for a head of auburn hair …
There! Amid a knot of Cephirans, a trio of insurgents struggled to survive. One was old Rannert, his short sword a bolt of steel lightning as it darted in and out, keeping the soldiers on the defensive, but even from a distance Cerris could see the old man tiring, his shoulders drooping, his arms beginning to quiver. Cerris couldn’t recall the name of the second fellow, younger but wilder, whose wide slashes with a woodsman’s axe would leave him open any minute to an enemy thrust.
With them, wielding a narrow blade longer than her arm, was the Lady Irrial. And if her stance, parries, ripostes were perhaps a touch stiff—the result of formal training without hint of genuine experience—then at least that training was comprehensive, and the baroness a fast learner. For the nonce, she held her own.