The Warlord's Legacy

by Ari Marmell

  Elite. A very useful word, Corvis couldn’t help but note, for the nobility and the Guilds both. If there was anything on which the two sides could agree, after all, it was that they were certainly superior to everyone else.

  ‘Someone ought to show them otherwise, don’t you think?’

  “Most of us are,” Irrial said, adjusting her skirts across the chair. “I managed to escape with some outside help.” Very briefly, and leaving out a number of salient details—such as, just for instance, the true name of the man who’d assisted her—the baroness recounted the tale of her escape and her abortive attempt at resistance.

  “You’re a very fortunate woman,” Mavere told her finally, one powerful hand fiddling idly with the combination ensign and holy symbol hanging about her neck. “The gods were surely watching over you.”

  “Surely,” Irrial agreed. Only someone who’d known her as well as Corvis would have detected the bitterness in her tone.

  “And I can certainly understand why you fled Rahariem with all haste,” the Guildmistress continued. “But I have to admit to some puzzlement as to why you’d travel all the way here, my lady.”

  She wasn’t puzzled at all, of course, and everyone in the room knew it. She just wanted to make her guests broach the topic.

  “Why?” Irrial’s response was, perhaps, hotter than she’d intended. “Because, Mavere, I would very much like to know why you people have allowed a hostile kingdom to conquer eastern Imphallion without lifting so much as a finger in response!”

  “My lady, as you well know, there’s been a great deal of strife between the Guilds and the nobility as of late …”

  “Yes, ever since the Guilds combined their influence to illegally force my cousin to abdicate as regent.”

  Mavere’s face twitched, but she revealed no other sign of her irritation. “For the good of Imphallion. The old ways weren’t working.”

  “And we’re doing so much better now, are we?”

  The Guildmistress sighed, and there actually appeared a touch of genuine sorrow in her demeanor. “I’m afraid the nobles have proved more resistant to change than we’d hoped. They’re making demands and insisting on concessions that we cannot possibly afford, and until they cooperate, our ability to govern their lands—or field their armies—is limited.”

  “It was my understanding,” Irrial said, carefully modulating her voice, “that both sides were making unreasonable demands.”

  “Yes, well, the nobles would claim that in order to justify their intransigence, wouldn’t they?”

  Corvis wondered briefly if he’d need to put himself between them, and fast, but Irrial showed substantially more restraint than he would have in her position. She frowned but otherwise made no move at all.

  “Perhaps,” she said instead, “I can convince the assembly to put aside some of their differences, at least temporarily. I’ve come from Rahariem, I’ve seen how thoroughly Cephira’s digging in. A firsthand account might sway some votes.”

  “It might,” Mavere said, though she clearly didn’t believe it. “But I fear that there are other issues not so easily dealt with.”

  “Rebaine.” It was not a question.

  “Rebaine, yes.” Then, again with apparent sincerity, “I’m sorry about your cousin, my lady. We might have had very different ideas on how to govern Imphallion, but he was a good man. His loss diminishes us all.”

  She allowed a moment of respectful silence before continuing, “We’ve no idea what Rebaine’s up to, but with that … that creature running around and slaughtering nobles and Guildmembers alike, we’re finding it very difficult to convince anyone to give over command of their vassals. They fear being left without protection. Some of them”—she leaned forward—“those who know the truth, fear having their own soldiers turned against them.”

  “The truth?” Irrial asked, confused. Corvis felt his stomach drop to his toes.

  “It took us some time to figure it out,” Mavere said, “but when he was here last, Rebaine cast some sort of enchantment on many of us.”

  Lower than his toes, now; he was pretty sure he could actually feel his guts squishing around inside his boots.

  “You don’t say,” Irrial said darkly.

  “It was remarkably subtle. Very unlike him.”

  ‘Got you pegged, doesn’t she?’

  “Even after many of the nobles and Guildmasters began acting strangely—sometimes so much so that we had to replace them—we didn’t understand.” Her voice quivered, just once, with what might, or might not, have been fury. “But I’m a priestess as well as a smith, my lady, and I’ve studied more in my life than many scholars. I may not know magic, but I know much of magic. I finally recognized the effects for what they were, though only on a few of my colleagues. To this day, I’ve no idea how many more might be compromised.”

  Not enough, Corvis thought bitterly.

  “I told my most trusted fellow Guildmasters, of course, and I’ve reason to suspect that some nobles know as well. We’ve told few others, for fear of causing a panic. But in any case, it’s made his reappearance even that much more disruptive.”

  So why is she willing to tell us? Corvis couldn’t help but worry.

  “I see,” Irrial said. “What if I told you,” she continued slowly, “that Corvis Rebaine was not behind the recent murders. Do you think that, combined with my accounts of Rahariem, might convince the assembly to act?”

  It was all Corvis could do to keep his chair. What is she doing?

  ‘How quickly can you kill them both?’

  Mavere leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “You’d have to offer some fairly convincing proof. What in the gods’ names makes you think this?”

  “I’ve reason to know that Rebaine was, in fact, present in the occupied territories during some of the murders,” she answered evasively.

  “Do you, now? Even if that’s true, my lady, Rebaine has all sorts of mystical capabilities. For all we know, he could have transported himself across Imphallion with a snap of his fingers.”

  Irrial fidgeted, almost cast a glance at Corvis and caught herself, clearly trying to decide how much more to reveal.

  Too late, Corvis seethed.

  But Mavere seemed disinclined to allow her to continue. “No, my lady, I think that even if you know Rebaine was in the east—and I’m going to want an explanation as to how you know that—it wouldn’t convince anyone of anything. Some might even think it evidence that he’s in league with Cephira.”

  “At least let me address the assembly, Mavere. Then I can—”

  “No, Baroness, I think not. You’ve been remarkably unwilling to share the specific details of your so-called escape.”

  “So-called—” she protested, but the Guildmistress kept going.

  “You, and you alone, have fled Cephiran-held territory—and you’re sitting in my office with a servant cloaked in illusion. I told you,” she added as Irrial and Corvis glanced in shock at each other, “that I know much of magic. I cannot penetrate the illusion, but I can sense it—and I know that such spells cannot be maintained indefinitely.

  “No, Irrial, I worry that you’ve been turned, that Cephira allowed you to escape, to muddy the waters here even further. And there’s no way in hell I’m letting you anywhere near the assembly.”

  Irrial rose, leaning heavily on her cane. “That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever—”

  “If I’m wrong,” Mavere told her, pulling a lever on the underside of her desk, “you’ll have every opportunity to convince me, I promise. But I cannot risk it.”

  The door opened with a resounding crash, revealing all six guards, crossbows leveled.

  “You will both be escorted to secure quarters—pleasant ones, as befits your status, my lady—until you’re willing to tell me everything about what occurred, and to provide corroborating evidence. And until you,” she added, pointing at Corvis, “are willing to reveal your true face. A Cephiran face, I expect. Guards?”

  Corvis a
nd Irrial allowed themselves to be escorted from the chamber. With half a dozen bolts chomping at the bit to punch through flesh and bone, there was precious little else they could do.

  Chapter Eleven

  KALEB STOOD stripped to the waist and so glistening with sweat that he shone like his opponent’s blade. As he twisted on one knee, hands rising in swift parry, his skin rippled with an array of muscles startling on so slender a frame; he could have been one of Jassion’s classic marble statues made flesh. The heavy branch he wielded thrummed with the impact of his own falchion, now clasped in someone else’s hands.

  “No,” he insisted, friendly but firm. “You’re not putting enough muscle into it.”

  The young woman, whose only concession to the baking sun had been to leave her cloak folded atop a saddlebag, just stared at him as though she hadn’t heard a word.

  “Mellorin? Are you listening, or just ogling?”

  “I—!” It wasn’t much of a protest; more a squeak, really. Her face reddened with far more than the summer heat.

  “I thought,” she said after a moment to compose herself, “that the idea was to keep control. Wild swings leave you open.”

  “They do,” Kaleb acknowledged. “But you’re taking it too far. A sword’s more than just a big knife. You can’t treat them the same way.”

  “I should know this already!” she spat with sudden venom. “He should have been there to teach me!”

  “But if you already knew,” Kaleb said, his voice soothing, “this wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “This is harder than I expected,” she admitted as he approached, trying without much success to keep her gaze above shoulder level.

  “You’re doing fine, Mellorin. A falchion’s a clumsy sort of blade to be learning with, but until Baron Creepy Uncle gets back, it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Is he always like this?” she asked, ruminating over the past few days together on the road.

  “You mean rude, brooding, utterly humorless, and short-tempered as a badger with piles?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

  “He’s a challenge,” the sorcerer agreed. “And honestly, not the most entertaining traveling companion. I’ve held more stimulating conversations with spoons.”

  Mellorin giggled.

  “Good man in a fight, though. And smarter than he looks, on those rare occasions he bothers to think.”

  It was, in fact, an idea of Jassion’s that brought them here today. The five of them—Mellorin, Kaleb, and three horses—whiled away the hours in a camp half a mile from Orthessis, while the baron wandered through town on his own. Corvis, he’d recalled, had made use of a great many mercenary companies during his war against Audriss the Serpent. While rumor suggested that they’d not parted on the best of terms, Jassion reasoned that some of those mercenaries might possess knowledge that could prove useful in their search. Thus, upon leaving Abtheum, they’d made a beeline for its sister city, where Jassion’s political and military contacts might point them in the right direction.

  Kaleb felt it was something of a long shot—but then, for the time being, long shots were all they had. Besides, it allowed him the opportunity to spend some time in far more charming company.

  “Let’s work a bit on your stance,” he said, sidling around beside the warlord’s daughter. He reached out, resting an arm on hers, taking her hand in his. “You need—oh!” He retreated a pace at the shiver in her skin. “I’m sorry. You don’t like to be touched.”

  “No … it’s all right,” she told him. “You just—startled me.”

  Kaleb, moving as slowly as if he approached wild game, took her wrist once more. Behind her head he smiled, pretending not to notice that she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  JASSION SWEPT INTO CAMP some hours later, a raging tempest wrapped in mail. Clearly having kept himself pent up all the way from Orthessis, he now flew wholly out of control. Talon’s wave-edged blade sheared through branches—and even whole saplings—sending leaves spinning and splinters flying, and the curses he howled at the uncaring sky were sharper still. Mellorin stepped back, astonished, while Kaleb could only—as was so often his response to the hot-blooded baron—roll his eyes.

  Or so it was until Jassion, clearly overcome and devoid of rational thought, turned toward the first of the nervous and fidgeting horses, Kholben Shiar held high. Kaleb thrust out a hand, and just as within Castle Braetlyn, Jassion found himself graced, albeit briefly, with the miracle of flight.

  He ripped through a cluster of boughs that seemed to scrape deliberately at his exposed skin, perhaps in retribution for their slaughtered brethren, and finally slammed to a halt against a broad trunk. There he hung, spitting profanity and saliva in equal measure.

  “Have you ever considered meditation?” Kaleb asked lightly, once the tirade had finally run its course. “Or perhaps shackling yourself to something heavy?”

  “You seem to do that just fine,” Jassion groused, thumping an elbow into the tree. “Please let me down, Kaleb.”

  The sorcerer blinked, so startled he allowed Jassion to fall halfway to earth before recovering his concentration and lowering him gently the rest of the way.

  Did Jassion really say “Please”?

  The instant his feet touched soil, Jassion bowed toward his niece. “I seem,” he said softly, “to be making a habit of embarrassing myself in front of my family. I’m sorry, Mellorin.”

  “That’s—that’s all right,” she offered.

  “I’m going to assume,” Kaleb said, “that something untoward happened in Orthessis?”

  “More word of Rebaine,” Jassion spat. “He attacked Braetlyn! He butchered the castle staff, and I wasn’t even there!” His hands trembled so violently that Talon shook in his grasp, but he maintained a fingernail-grip on his temper. “There was no need, Kaleb. No reason! So many of my people … My friends …”

  “I’m sorry, Jassion,” Kaleb said with apparent sincerity. Mellorin darted forward long enough to give her startled uncle a stiff, awkward hug before withdrawing once more. Her face was blank—not lacking emotion, but rather processing so many at once that it couldn’t settle on any single expression.

  “I’m afraid I forgot to purchase you a sword,” Jassion told her. “But we’ve got to pass back through Orthessis on our way, so we can pick one out for you then.”

  “Our way?” asked Kaleb. “So you did learn something? Useful, I mean.”

  Jassion seemed to consider taking offense at that, but shrugged it off instead. “Yes. Some of my friends in the ducal militia were very helpful. It seems a great many mercenary companies are camped out—either near the Cephiran lines, or near Imphallion’s major cities—just waiting for the Guilds to come down with a sudden case of balls-and-brains, and start moving against Cephira. And it seems that a few baronies have already decided to move, Guilds be damned, and are preparing to mobilize. At either point, there’ll be a lot of demand for warriors, and the companies want to be ready.”

  “And?” the sorcerer prodded.

  “And it happens that a certain captain by the name of Losalis is camped just east of Pelapheron. If we push the horses, it shouldn’t take us too long to get there.”

  “Aren’t you glad, then?” Mellorin asked as they moved to saddle up their mounts.

  “Glad of what?”

  “That Kaleb stopped your tantrum before you filleted your horse like he was that silly fish on your tabard.”

  Kaleb could only snicker at Jassion’s expression, one that spoke as clearly as words, and far more loudly. Mellorin, it seemed to growl, could stand to take just a little less after her father.

  ON SHE RAN, AND ON, though so very many miles still lay ahead. Twigs and stones gouged raw, bloodied feet. Summer air burned in heaving lungs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so exhausted, so agonizingly weak, so desperate to lie down and sleep.

  And still she ran, through a haze of confusion and fatigue�
�and yes, she’d admit in her more honest moments of self-reflection, of fear. Only rarely did she stop, to gulp a few mouthfuls of water from stream or puddle, to chase down a morsel of prey, or to reorient herself, pausing to feel the tug of someone else’s magic that she’d made her own. Once, not so long ago, it would have been a matter of moments, simplicity itself, to sense that spell-wrought trail. But now? Now her head pounded, the blood roared in her ears, and she almost sobbed with frustration at the effort.

  But again she groped about until she felt it, and again she ran. She had to find him, to reach him.

  Corvis had to know, before it was too late. Before what time remained to her was gone.

  Before she died—again.

  PERHAPS BY MERE CHANCE, perhaps by the will of an irritated god, the summer rains had managed to miss Pelapheron entirely. The city’s surrounding fields were sparse and wilting; dry grasses crunched loudly underfoot. So far, the situation hadn’t deteriorated to the point of drought or famine, but supplies were growing scarce—and expensive. It was, frankly, not a particularly wise location for an army, no matter how small, to make camp.

  Which was, paradoxically—one might even say perversely—why Losalis had picked it. Yes, rations and equipment for his men would prove costly, but they would also be the only mercenary company here, and that meant they could name their own price once the local high-and-mighty shook off their pall of stupidity and recognized the need to act.

  Or that, at least, was the explanation Jassion’s contacts had provided him, and that he in turn had offered Kaleb and Mellorin, when they wondered aloud what the hell could have inspired the mercenary captain to roost in such wretched terrain. And from what Jassion knew of Losalis himself, he could believe it: The man who had once been Corvis Rebaine’s lieutenant was a big believer in standing out from the pack.