The Warlord's Legacy

by Ari Marmell

  “We need her,” Kaleb continued, his voice hushed once more, “and you know it. Besides,” he added, glancing again over Jassion’s shoulder at the object of their discussion, “she’d probably just keep following us.”

  “You said the blood wouldn’t help us much,” Jassion protested, but his tone and even his posture were weakening.

  “I said not unless he was nearby. But ‘near’ is a relative thing where magic’s concerned. Suppose we manage to track him to the right city, then what? You plan to knock on doors at random? We’ve a far better chance with her than without her.”

  Jassion turned reluctantly to study his niece. She, sensing his attention, glared back defiantly.

  “If anything happens to her, Kaleb …”

  “Don’t fret, old boy. If it makes you feel any better, I’m a lot more likely to protect her than I am you.”

  Jassion snarled and went to tell his niece the “good” news. Unseen behind him, Kaleb couldn’t quite repress a secret smile. That there was more to Mellorin’s motives than she’d admitted, he was absolutely certain, as certain as he was of his own name. But he had time, plenty of time to draw out the truth.

  It might prove almost as useful as the girl herself.

  Chapter Ten

  Rahariem had fallen.

  From beyond its walls they’d come, a swarm of mercenaries both Imphallian and foreign, and if their armor, their weapons, and their war cries were all different, still they fought as a unified force.

  Alongside them had marched warriors of far more fearsome mien. Horned, cyclopean ogres ripped soldiers and horses and siege engines apart with great serrated blades and bare hands. Twisted, creeping gnomes crawled from the earth, cloaked in gloom, to murder soldier and citizen alike. The grounds surrounding Rahariem had become a swamp, made clinging mud by the shedding of so much blood. The shadow of flapping wings and the squawking of uncounted crows were an endless storm in the skies.

  Yet the horrors of battle had paled before the horrors to come.

  The courtyard of the Ducal Estate was crammed to bursting, its grasses and flowers trampled by the crush of so many feet. Rahariem’s citizens milled aimlessly, aristocrat with pauper. Whimpers of terror rose as a single breath from the throng, and frightened eyes could not settle in any safe direction. From the fences surrounding the property, from the lampposts on the streets beyond, even from the flagpoles of the great keep, rancid bodies dangled, decanting vile fluids across the ground below. Thanks to the crows and creeping vermin, most were unrecognizable, and this, gruesome though it might have been, was a blessing—for each surviving face was known and loved by someone in the crowd.

  Surrounding them—prodding with swords and spears; keeping the sheep from stampeding—were the invaders, human and otherwise. So long as the citizens held themselves in check and made no attempt to cause trouble or to escape, the soldiers left them largely unmolested. Any disruption, however, drew immediate and brutal response.

  Nobody made a nuisance of themselves twice—because nobody survived the first time.

  The keep’s massive doors swung wide, and there he stood, framed within. The black steel of his armor faded into the darkness of the hall beyond, so that the plates of bone and the terrible skull seemed to hover, phantasmal and disembodied. For a long moment, precisely calculated for maximum effect, he waited, making no move save to rake that empty gaze across the assembly, examining every face and every soul, and disapproving of what he found. Then and only then did the monster who called himself Corvis Rebaine step into full view. Despite themselves, the crowd cowered away. Several began to weep.

  “You’ve had the time I promised,” he told them, and his voice was no less hollow than the empty sockets of the helm. “It is time to choose.”

  The people of Rahariem turned to one another, tearfully begging for understanding, for forgiveness. And they chose.

  Many nobles and Guildmasters had escaped the city’s fall, abandoning their offices and estates to hide among the populace. And now that populace grabbed them, exposed them, hauling them into the open to suffer Rebaine’s judgment, for they knew what he would do to them otherwise.

  He’d told them, after all, and they need only look at the dangling bodies to know he spoke the truth.

  Most of them, aristocrats and Guildmasters both, screamed as they were dragged from amid their fellows, pleading for secrecy, for sanctuary. But some few stepped forward on their own, heads held high, unwilling to force their brethren into making such a terrible decision.

  Sir Wyrrim, respected baron and landed knight, revered as highly in Rahariem as the duke himself, was the first to come forward. He faced the crowd around him, and to each of them he offered a gentle smile.

  He felt a small hand take his own, and looking down saw his distant cousin, a young noblewoman of Rahariem. Her face was pallid with terror, a sheen of sweat across her brow, but she forced her lips into a matching smile.

  Ignoring the weeping from all sides, the flapping of the fleshy banners above, Sir Wyrrim and the Lady Irrial joined their fellow prisoners, following Rebaine’s soldiers toward whatever fate awaited in the dungeons below.

  DROWNING IN THE TIDE OF MEMORIES she had fought so long to escape, Irrial sat upon a knotty tree root and glared across the embers of the dying fire at the blanket-wrapped figure. Her bloodless lips were pressed together, her hands clasped tight about the hilt of her stolen sword. It would be so simple, the work of an instant, and so many years of unspeakable suffering would find some tiny measure of justice. No murder, this, but legitimate execution; perhaps even the putting down of a wild beast.

  “If you’re going to try to kill me,” Corvis said without opening his eyes, “could you go ahead and get it over with? Clichés to the contrary, a man can’t actually sleep with one eye open, so you’re sort of keeping me up.”

  “You’re really pushing me, Rebaine.”

  “Am I?” He sat, allowing the blankets to fall from his shoulders and finally opening his eyes. “Look, Irrial—my lady,” he corrected at her expression, “we need each other. You accepted that when we left Rahariem. You’re just making yourself miserable thinking the way you are now.”

  “I’m so sorry that my revulsion at your crimes is disturbing you.”

  Corvis sighed. “Just tell me that you’ll wait until after this is all said and done before you decide to try anything stupid, all right?”

  “Fine. But only for Rahariem and Imphallion.”

  “I don’t really care why.” He lay down once more, hauling the blanket up to his chin.

  “That’s it?” she asked after a moment, curious despite herself. “You trust me just like that?”

  “I’ve trusted you for years,” he told her. “Nothing’s changed for me, even if you think it has for you. But if it’ll make you feel better, you can swear an oath to one of the gods. That’s how I made it work last time.”

  Another pause. “Last time?”

  “Somehow, my lady, I doubt you’d be surprised to learn that I’ve had other traveling companions who wanted to kill me.”

  “Rebaine, I’d be surprised if you had any that didn’t.”

  “Funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” she insisted.

  “I know.” Corvis yawned once, loudly. “Wake me when it’s my watch. Irrial?”

  “What?”

  “It’s very simple to set up a spell to wake me if anyone comes too close. I really do trust you, but I’m not an idiot.”

  He was snoring softly before she could come up with a viable answer to that one.

  THEIR FIRST DAYS ON THE ROAD had been more than a little harrowing. Travel was a nervous affair, as they remained alert for approaching soldiers, ready to scurry into whatever cover might make itself available. Once they’d ambushed a small patrol—obtaining mounts, supplies, and a replacement weapon for Irrial—they moved a bit faster, but it was only after they’d passed beyond Cephiran-held territory, and the highways began to boast Imphalli
an travelers, that they breathed easy. Corvis felt his shoulders and back relaxing, and the next morning was the first in a week that he’d awakened without a headache crawling up the back of his neck.

  Not that they’d escaped the invasion’s shadow; far from it. Long stretches of road were packed with refugees, making their slow and sad way westward. Some rode mounts with saddlebags stuffed to bursting, others drove wagons laden with the pitiful remnants of homes and lives, and many carried only what they could hoist on their backs. Uncounted plodding feet kicked up the dirt of the highways, tromped flat the grasses alongside, all accompanied by muffled sobs, whispered reassurances, and tear-streaked prayers. Sweat perfumed the air—sweat and, somehow, the stink of despair. It turned the stomach, this stench of slowly rotting hope.

  Corvis, though it shamed him, found himself grateful for their presence. They offered plenty of cover for Irrial and him to hide, should any Cephiran scouts range this far; and they held the baroness’s attentions, so conversation—and acrimony, and accusation—remained scarce.

  ‘Well, we always knew the masses had to be good for something, right?’

  After some days, however, the bulk of the refugees turned aside. The road passed by the city of Emdimir, the informal line of demarcation between central and eastern Imphallion. Already the city was so crowded the stone walls threatened to bulge, like the distended belly of a starving man, and every moment more people arrived. The air above the city wavered with the heat, and Corvis was sure he could actually see pestilence lurking within the clouds above. But the people had, for the most part, no strength to travel farther, and Emdimir’s government hadn’t yet hardened their hearts enough to begin turning them away.

  Once past that city, Corvis and Irrial made excellent time, thanks to the horses and the highways—and a good thing it was, for the journey remained remarkably unpleasant, even without the sorrowful throng. The sun seemed utterly determined to cook them into some sort of stew, its heat letting up only for the occasional summer squall—which, in turn, summoned up mosquitoes by the bushel. After the second such shower, Corvis had scratched himself bloody and was fairly convinced that he’d prefer a dagger in a vital organ over one more bite.

  Irrial promptly offered hers, and Corvis decided to keep his future complaints to himself.

  Nor were these the only bites he had to endure. The Cephiran warhorse he’d acquired was a nasty, ill-tempered brute who still wasn’t entirely sold on his new master. The beast was more than cooperative while Corvis was riding—its training saw to that—but it constantly tugged at the reins when they walked, balked while he was trying to lead. It had bitten him thrice already, once drawing blood as he tethered it up for the night, and had even once kicked at him, a blow that would assuredly have broken bone had it landed.

  Corvis, sick to the death of the whole thing, had cuffed the horse hard across the nose. Apparently he’d gotten some of the message across, because the kicking had ceased, though the biting continued unabated. Also, he had to endure an extra-intensive glare from Irrial for a day and a half after he struck “that helpless creature.”

  For the first time in years, Corvis found himself desperately missing Rascal. He’d been such a good horse; the poor thing just, after trying so hard for so long, hadn’t proved up to being Corvis Rebaine’s horse.

  And then there was Irrial herself, who spoke with him as infrequently as feasible. The prior discussion on whether or not to murder Corvis in his sleep was perhaps the longest exchange they’d shared since Rahariem.

  ‘Have you considered cuffing her across the nose?’

  “Shut up.” Corvis actually found himself hoping, for an instant, that the voice in his head was genuine; he didn’t like the idea that such a thought came from him, crazy or not.

  But as summer entered its downward slope—not that one could tell by the stifling heat—and they drew ever nearer their destination, passing by larger towns and ever more numerous travelers, Irrial’s curiosity apparently overcame her hostility. As they made camp that evening, she moved to sit across the fire from him, rather than taking her meal to the far side of the campsite as had been her wont. He tilted his head, his expression puzzled, and maybe just a little pleased.

  “Where, exactly, are we going?” she asked him, one hand clutching a sharp stick from which hung a greasy haunch of rabbit.

  “We’re heading to Mecepheum. I told you that.”

  “Yes, but you never explained why.”

  “That,” Corvis told her, “is because you didn’t want to know. Told me to ‘do whatever needed to be done,’ and then stomped away in a huff.”

  “Corvis …”

  “It was a very nice huff, if that matters at all. Skillful. Easily one of the best I’ve seen.”

  Irrial scowled, but she looked as embarrassed as she did angry. “All right, maybe so. But now I want to know.”

  “It’s all pretty simple,” he said, pulling his own skewered rabbit from the flames and blowing on it before taking a healthy bite. “Lessh looka whawno.”

  “What?”

  Corvis swallowed and tried again. “Let’s look at what we know. We’re facing a full-on Cephiran invasion. Even if they don’t advance any farther than the eastern territories, they’ve come farther than any prior skirmish. Imphallion can’t just let that pass.”

  “Except that so far, we have,” she reminded him.

  “Exactly. Now, the Guilds and the nobility are really good at letting their differences stop them from accomplishing anything. I’ve seen it myself—decades ago, and again during the Serpent’s War—and things have just gotten worse in the past few years. So it’s possible—even after the lesson they should’ve learned from Audriss—that they’d rather argue with one another while Cephira pulls the walls down around their ears.

  “What’s not possible—or what I’d have thought to be impossible, anyway—is for them to completely ignore the situation like they have been. Even if they can’t agree on a unified response, many dukes, barons, and Guildmasters would’ve responded on their own. We should’ve seen at least a few armies by now—mobilizing near the border, if not attacking outright.”

  Irrial nodded thoughtfully. “But the only soldiers we’ve seen have been guarding the cities and estates we’ve passed along the road. So something’s keeping them not only from unifying, but from mobilizing entirely.” She frowned. “Part of it, of course, is those murders.”

  “Which we both know I didn’t commit.” Then, at her expression, “Oh, come on, Irrial! No matter how much you might distrust me now, you were there.”

  “I don’t actually know how much magic you have, Rebaine.”

  “If I could just whisk myself from city to city, do you think I’d be pounding my rear end raw on that saddle? Besides,” he added, “you pretty much knew where I was every minute, didn’t you?”

  Irrial actually wrapped her arms around herself. “Don’t remind me.”

  ‘Me, either.’

  “The point,” Corvis continued, pretending not to be stung by the revulsion in her tone, “is that my supposed reappearance is awfully convenient. Either whoever’s impersonating me is in league with Cephira, or they’re using the Cephiran invasion as a distraction from something else. In either case, while I can see the return of Corvis Rebaine causing quite a stir, I don’t know if it’s enough to keep every noble and Guild in check. So we have to find out not only who’s pretending to be me, but what else is going on in the halls of power. And that means going to, well, the halls of power.”

  “And how, pray tell, do you plan to get anyone to tell you what’s going on? Or convince them you’re not responsible for the attacks?”

  “As to the latter, I’m working on that. And as to the former …” Corvis grinned. “Let’s just say that I still have a certain amount of influence.”

  “What sort of influence?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Why, my lady, the same sort that inspires a Cephiran siege team to attack their own people
.”

  Irrial had further questions—he could see it in her face—but her rising from the campfire and walking away was sufficient indication that, for tonight, she’d heard enough.

  It was a modest celebration by any standard, attended by a scant two dozen souls—and if most had known the happy couple for less than a year, that made them ignorant, not blind. So when the groom vanished from the hall of that small wooden temple, someone was bound to notice, but for the moment he just didn’t much care.

  Outside in the courtyard, he strode through the sparse spring precipitation, feeling the water drip down the back of his fancy (albeit secondhand) doublet, watched the petals of the brightly colored flowers bend and rebound against the rain. Finding a marble bench that was likely older, and certainly sturdier, than the temple itself, he lowered himself to the stone. The accumulated rain that instantly soaked through the seat of his pants was a small price to pay for getting off his feet for a bit. Precisely what sadistic inquisitor, he wondered sourly to himself, had come up with what modern society laughably called “formal shoes”?

  “You know,” a gentle voice said from behind, “you’re supposed to get cold feet before the wedding. Fleeing afterward doesn’t really do any good.”

  He smiled and raised a hand to cover the smaller fingers on his shoulder. “I was actually just thinking about feet,” he answered. “Aren’t we supposed to be married longer than an hour before you start reading my mind?”

  Tyannon, absolutely resplendent in a borrowed gown of whites and greens—and utterly oblivious to what the rain was doing to the fine materials, or the elaborate coiffure that had taken hours to arrange just so—stepped around the bench and took a seat beside him. “What is it?” she asked, her tone far more serious.