The Warlord's Legacy

by Ari Marmell

  “Corvis,” Irrial said, kneeling at his side, “keep it down.” She tilted her head toward the street. “So far, we’re just getting the occasional odd look for sitting in this filthy alley, but if you start raving …”

  Fists clenched, he rose to his feet, pausing just long enough to lift the rat from the ground—and this close, the creature looked sickly indeed—and place it on his shoulder. Lips pressed tight, he stepped from the alley, glaring at anyone who looked his way, daring them to say a word.

  “THE SPELL WAS NEVER MEANT TO WORK this way,” Seilloah explained some time later, as they sat huddled in a cramped, dusty room on the second floor of an inn so cheap that even the bedbugs were obviously slumming. On the way, they’d explained to the witch everything they knew about what was happening, what wasn’t happening, and why. Once they’d arrived, Irrial had claimed the room’s only chair, brushing aside the cobwebs before she sat, while Corvis perched on the edge of the sagging mattress. The witch herself was holding court from the center of a rickety table.

  “But I was desperate,” she continued. “I didn’t know what else to do, and I had to warn you.”

  “Thank you,” he told her, his voice rough with repressed emotion. “How long …?”

  “I don’t know, Corvis. It’s so hard … My mind keeps drifting. And these poor creatures, they can’t contain a human soul for long. This is my—I don’t know, I’ve lost count. At least my sixth or seventh body since I left Theaghl-gohlatch, and I can feel it dying. Sooner or later, one of them will die around me, and I won’t have the strength to move on.” The tip of her tail twitched, drawing patterns on the dusty tabletop. “But I’ll stay with you for as long as I have left, Corvis. And I’ll help where I can.”

  He nodded, swallowing hard. “Can you work your magics?”

  “It’s harder than it was, sometimes a lot. But yes. That’s how I found you, actually. I just traced back the spell you’d cast on me.”

  “But that spell was cast on your body. If it’s—you’re—dead, how …?”

  “I’m a better magician than you are.” Again she managed a faint smile. “Even as a rat.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” Irrial muttered. Then, “Who’s Jassion? You never gave me the chance to ask when Tyannon mentioned him.”

  “The baron of a seaside province called Braetlyn,” he told her, biting each word in two as it emerged. “He’s a cruel-minded, vicious bastard with a piss-boiling temper and a chip on his shoulder the size of hell’s own gate. Which is where I should have sent him a long bloody time ago.”

  ‘Finally! We agree on something.’

  “Corvis,” the witch said seriously, “have you horribly irritated any powerful wizards lately?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Jassion’s companion. Kaleb.”

  Irrial and Corvis exchanged glances. “We’ve heard the name,” he told her, “but I don’t know him.”

  “Well, he knows you. And he’s a bad one. Maybe even as strong as Rheah Vhoune was.”

  Corvis pursed his lips, remembering the woman who’d been one of his most potent foes before the threat of Audriss the Serpent had forced them into an uneasy alliance. “There aren’t supposed to be any sorcerers that powerful anymore. Well, not in Imphallion, anyway.”

  “Somebody should have told Kaleb that.”

  “Maybe he’s not Imphallian,” Irrial suggested, determined to contribute despite understanding only half the conversation. “Could he be Cephiran?”

  “He didn’t have a Cephiran accent,” Seilloah said thoughtfully, “but that doesn’t prove anything. Hell, he could be Tharsuuli for all I know.” She paused, snout tilting as she examined Corvis. “Could he be?” she asked. “After what happened to you up north, could the Dragon Kings have sent him?”

  Corvis shuddered. “Gods, I hope not. That’s all we need.” Then, at Irrial’s puzzled expression, “Before I came to Rahariem. It’s a long story, for some other time.”

  She frowned, but nodded. “Isn’t this all a bit academic, anyway?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we be more worried about what we’re going to do about this Kaleb? We can figure out where he’s from later.”

  “She has a point,” Seilloah squeaked. “You’re a better caster than you used to be, Corvis, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t know when I say you’re still not all that impressive. And I couldn’t match Kaleb at my best, let alone now.”

  “I see that being a rodent has done wonders for your sunny disposition,” he grumbled.

  She inhaled deeply, hesitantly, a truly peculiar image in her current form. Then, tentatively, “Pekatherosh?”

  Corvis’s face went hard. “No. Absolutely not, under no circumstances.”

  ‘For once, old boy, we are in complete agreement. You leave that pompous pustule right where he is.’

  “We may need that sort of power, Corvis.”

  “Because it worked out so well last time? No, not a chance.”

  “I don’t suppose one of you would care to let me in on this?” Irrial demanded sharply.

  “Corvis …”

  “She’s a part of all this, Seilloah. She deserves to know.” He faced the baroness. “When I was …” He cast about for a tactful description.

  “Butchering your way across Imphallion on the backs of a thousand innocents?” she interjected helpfully.

  “Um, right. The magics at my disposal weren’t limited to my own. I had an amulet, a charm if you will. It made me the equal of any true sorcerer, if not stronger.

  “It was also inhabited by a demon, who gave it its power. A truly loathsome creature called Khanda.” He braced internally when he spoke the name, ready for a withering barrage of commentary from the voice that was either his memory of the demon, or some tiny remnant sliver of Khanda himself. But for a change, he seemed to be alone in his mind.

  Irrial scowled. “Every time I think you can’t sink any lower …”

  “The point”—he bulled ahead, refusing to be sidetracked—“is that Audriss had a demon of his own, imprisoned in a ring. Pekatherosh. At the end of the Serpent’s War, I banished Khanda back to hell, but I’d gotten hold of Pekatherosh as well. I didn’t know if I’d need that sort of power again, so I entombed the ring in a cave atop Mount Molleya, in the Terrakas Mountains.”

  “And now that you do need him,” Seilloah said, “you’re not going to retrieve him?”

  “I’ve learned a lot since then,” Corvis said quietly. “About who and what I am. And I won’t have my life resting in the hands of a demon again. Not ever.”

  “That’s all very well and good,” Irrial said after a moment of silence. “I might even admit to being a little bit impressed that you really do seem to be trying to put the Terror of the East behind you.”

  Corvis smiled, startled. “Well, thank y—”

  “But it doesn’t,” she continued, the rickety chair creaking alarmingly as she leaned forward, “help us much in deciding what to do next.”

  To that, neither the former witch nor the former warlord had an answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SALIA MAVERE SAT in her office and fumed, her smoldering temper threatening to ignite the parchments scattered across the massive desk. How could things possibly have gone so wrong, so quickly? If she’d only known, only taken the proper precautions, just maybe they—

  She practically leapt from her chair (and her skin) as the door slammed open, her hand dropping to the hammer at her waist. So powerful was the blow that the brass knob gouged a small chip from the wall. Powdered stone cascaded in a gentle shower to the carpet.

  She’d heard muffled conversation in the hallway beyond, but the guards were under strict orders to admit absolutely nobody.

  Kaleb stomped through the doorway, his body rigid, radiating a violent fury held at bay by only the thinnest emotional leash. Nenavar followed a step or two behind, muttering, and Salia wondered if the older wizard’s presence was all that kep
t Kaleb in line.

  The guards in the hall still stood their posts, motionless as sculptures, staring at what must have been a particularly fascinating vista of absolutely nothing.

  “What in the name of Maukra’s searing arsehole is wrong with you?”

  She’d never seen Kaleb like this, so near losing control. Her widening eyes flickered to Nenavar, who could only shrug a silent protest.

  I’m trying!

  Kaleb checked his advance only when the desk intruded itself between them, and even then he leaned forward as though ready to leap the obstacle or casually toss it aside. “Have you totally lost what passes for your mind, Mavere? You had him, and you let him go!”

  “Kaleb, that’s enough,” the old wizard ordered, perhaps less forcefully than he’d have hoped. “You’ll show some respect!”

  “I’ll show some respect when someone earns it, Master. So far, that’s not looking likely.”

  Her own temper heating steadily, not unlike the forge over which she so loved to labor, Salia rose, matching Kaleb’s stare. “What the hell are you two doing here?” she hissed. “If anyone sees you here—”

  “Nobody will know we were here, Lady Mavere,” Nenavar protested. “Few locals even know who we are, and once I release the spell on your guards, they won’t remember a thing.”

  “Right,” Kaleb added. “It’s astonishing how weak everyone’s mind is in this building.”

  Salia very deliberately took two deep breaths, struggling for control. Then, “Sit,” she offered—or perhaps ordered—doing the same herself. First Nenavar, after closing the door, and then finally Kaleb complied.

  “If you’d had the old man—sorry, Master Nenavar—summon me immediately, I could have dealt with him,” Kaleb growled. “This could have all been over.”

  “I contacted Nenavar as soon as we learned it was Rebaine,” the Guildmistress protested, trying hard not to sound as though she was whining. Just the thought that he’d been here, right here, had been enough to give her genuine nightmares. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand not knowing … “By then, it was too late.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “All I knew, Kaleb, was that Baroness Irrial was accompanied by a servant cloaked in an illusion.”

  “And that didn’t ring any alarm bells, Mavere? Do you keep your brains in that damn hammer?”

  “Kaleb …,” Nenavar warned. “I won’t tell you again to behave yourself.”

  “Oh, good. Because frankly, I’m getting a little sick of hearing it. If I—”

  The sorcerer’s jaw continued to work, but nothing emerged save a rasping sigh. Sweat broke out across his brow, down his arms; a line of spittle dangled from the corner of his mouth. His body quivered, every muscle tensing and pulling against every other.

  “And I,” Nenavar said, rising to his feet, “am more than a little sick of your disobedience. You call me ‘Master’ as though it were a joke, Kaleb, and I tolerate it. But do not ever forget that it is true.”

  Salia watched her guests engaged in a battle of—what? Power? Will? For all her studies into the ways of magic, she didn’t really understand the dynamic, the relationship, between them. At that moment, she knew only that she regretted involving herself with either.

  Nenavar unclenched his fist and Kaleb doubled over with a pained gasp, breathing heavily. When he finally straightened, his pallid face wore a subdued expression, though he couldn’t quite keep the resentment from his voice. “My apologies,” he offered breathlessly—whether to her, to Nenavar, or both, Salia couldn’t tell.

  She decided, however, to accept it, if only to keep the fragile peace. “Of course I suspected something was wrong,” she said. “But why in Verelian’s name would I have assumed Lady Irrial would be keeping company with Corvis Rebaine? I figured that either she’d been turned and the man with her was a Cephiran spy—”

  “Lady Mavere,” Kaleb protested, “you know very well the Cephirans don’t need to spy on us.”

  “I know that General Rhykus is aware of that,” she said, again choosing to take no offense at the interruption. “But most of his officers are ignorant of the true situation, just as most of ours are. Any of them could have put something like this in motion.”

  Kaleb nodded, conceding the point.

  “Or,” she continued, “it might have been some move against the Guilds by the nobility. A House spy, a hired assassin … Those are the threats I’ve reason to anticipate here. It wasn’t until I heard the details of their escape that I realized who we were dealing with, and by the time I was able to get word to Nenavar, they were long gone.”

  “I thought,” the old wizard said, “that I heard none of the guards survived.”

  “They didn’t. But a few folk in the hall had the courage to stick their heads out of their offices to see what the fuss was about. Some of them saw the axe, and we all know its description by heart, don’t we?”

  “I could try divining for them,” Kaleb offered thoughtfully.

  Nenavar shook his head. “I tried that before coming to fetch you. They moved fast—unnaturally fast—and Rebaine has a great many defensive spells in place.” He frowned irritably. “The man’s not much of a sorcerer, but he’s made a pretty thorough study of such spells.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “It doesn’t help,” Nenavar continued, “that nobody here saw him without his illusory disguise. If they had—or if I myself knew more of this Lady Irrial, whom Lady Mavere did see clearly—I might use that familiarity as the basis for more potent divinations. But as it stands, we’ll have to continue with our search the hard way.”

  “By which you mean, I’ll have to continue with it,” Kaleb said. “Then may I ask,” he continued, far more politely than before, “precisely what I’m doing here? Jassion and Mellorin won’t be waking up anytime soon—I saw to that—but still, the longer I’m gone …”

  “You’re here,” Mavere told him neutrally, “because our witnesses also identified several of Corvis’s helpers among the aristocracy, some of whom I hadn’t realized he had under his influence. So we’re going to feather two bucks with one arrow by having ‘the Terror of the East’ do something hideous to them.”

  “Why, my dear Lady Mavere, I’m always happy to oblige.”

  She couldn’t help but recoil from his crocodilian grin, and once more cursed herself, wondering if she was irrevocably damned for consorting with the likes of these warlocks.

  Not for the first time since that horrible day, Mellorin awoke, screaming, in the dark of night. The sheets were twisted around her, soaked with sweat, and she’d thrown her pillow clear to the window.

  Almost before the echo faded, a figure filled the open doorway. To the girl’s terrified imaginings, her mother, hair and nightshift illuminated from behind, appeared an angel of the gods. From behind the folds of that thin fabric, little Lilander peered with frightened eyes.

  Tyannon swept into the room, wrapping her weeping daughter in an embrace as tight as the womb. “Oh, my baby,” she cooed, gently rocking the girl, one hand caressing her hair.

  “Mommy …” It was barely audible, amid Mellorin’s sobs. She’d not called Tyannon anything but “Mother” for several years now.

  As though scaling the highest peak, Lilander hauled himself up the side of the bed and put his head on his sister’s knee. “Don’t be sad, Mel.” He couldn’t have understood, then, why she only burst into fresh tears.

  Mellorin knew her mother was worried, knew she wanted her to speak of the dream. But how could she? She had to stifle a scream just thinking of it!

  Again she lay sprawled in the wood, head aching from that awful blow. She felt the crunch of leaves and the skittering of insects in the dirt, the sticky patch of drying blood on her scalp. Again she heard those vile men with their harsh voices and cruel laughter, debating her fate like she was nothing, like she wasn’t even there. And again she heard and understood enough, just enough, to know that those who argued for murde
ring her outright were offering the kinder option.

  She waited, the part of her that knew she was dreaming, for what was to come next. She waited for the bushes to part, for the sound of that gods-sent voice, for her father to save her. That was, after all, how it had happened.

  But in the dream, the men closed around her, filling her nose and mouth and lungs with the tang of sour sweat, and her father never came.

  SUMMER WAS FINALLY PACKING UP to depart, a guest who’d only belatedly gotten the hint, while autumn stood behind, arms crossed and foot tapping. Through most of Imphallion, the breeze assumed just a tiny hint of the cool scents to come. Most of Imphallion, but not here. At the periphery of the great swamp, the heat lingered, conducted and spread by the oppressive humidity, transforming the world into a simmering stew. Mosquitoes flew, or perhaps swam, through that syrupy air in such quantities that inhaling squirming mouthfuls of the damn things was as great a hazard as contracting some horrible pestilence from their bites. Kaleb had prepared an herbal paste, bolstered by a touch of magic, to repel them, and the constant buzz had taken on an angry, almost frustrated tone.

  Some few dozen yards from the shallowest reaches of the marsh, Mellorin sat cross-legged within the shade of scraggly, sun-blasted trees. She studiously watched the thick grasses at her feet so she needn’t look into the face of her companion.

  “Mother told me, over and over,” she said to the ground, “that he’d gone to make sure the ‘bad men’ never hurt me again. She never—neither of them ever understood. I was only a child, Kaleb. It didn’t matter to me if there were bad guys out there. There were bad guys here—well, you know what I mean, at home—and that’s where I needed him.” Her voice shook; with pain, yes, of course, but also with a smoldering rage that threatened to set her alight from within.

  He blotted the light from her vision as he knelt in the grass beside her. She said nothing, refused to look up, but a shiver ran through her skin as his hand—hot and clammy in the heat, but no less welcome—took hers. “I’m so sorry, Mellorin.”