The Warlord's Legacy

by Ari Marmell

Two humans walked, with faltering steps, through the abode of gnomes.

  Bulges protruded into the ever-expanding corridor, and from those solid rocks myriad faces appeared, staring in fascinated hatred at the intruders from above. On two feet and on all fours, across floor and walls and ceiling, the creatures skittered, misshapen limbs pumping and twisting at impossible angles. Air and rock, light and dark, all the same; Corvis, watching as a face slid from a stone to glower at him, realized that these were their actual homes, that the gnomes lived not in the empty spaces beneath the earth, but inside the rocks themselves. It was, somehow, even more than their grotesque ability to move through those rocks, a disturbing reminder of their alien nature.

  They oozed through yet another solid wall, thicker than any they’d so far passed, and Corvis and Irrial froze, deaf to the impatient cajoling of their guide.

  They stood upon a ledge, frighteningly narrow, at the lip of what could only be described as a gulf of darkness. It had, so far as Corvis’s light could reach, no floor and no sides save for the one beside them. He had little doubt that were Mecepheum itself somehow transported here, it would have room to grow.

  Only the ceiling was visible, casting back reflections of that feeble illumination. Gems, or what Corvis assumed to be gems, gleamed back in every imaginable hue. Most were white or a pale yellow, but there were sporadic glints of rich red and deep green as well. Despite the steady glow of Corvis’s spell, the gems glittered, twinkling like the stars of night above.

  Gnomes crawled betwixt and between them in defiance of gravity, stopping here and there to perform what Corvis, from his limited vantage, could only describe as a twisted genuflection. In the cavern air, what he’d first taken to be the rush of a distant waterfall resolved itself into a grinding paean, a song produced by inhuman throats. A hundred identical voices wove it together, one picking up where another left off so not even the need for breath ever interrupted the unending, monotonous tone.

  Only when the gnome had actually backtracked and reached out to physically drag Irrial along did they begin walking once more, making their way around the impossible, wondrous abyss. Corvis and Irrial kept their right hands on the wall, hoping to ensure that they would not step out over the edge, for they could not tear their attentions from the false firmament above.

  At least, not at first. As they progressed, Corvis began to realize that the gems actually did match the stars of the night sky. He recognized constellations: here the Scales of Ulan; there Kirrestes the Archer, drawing back his great bow for the shot that, according to myth, passed through all seventeen heads to slay the Ryvrik hydra; farther along the winding coils of the wyrm Anolrach, whose spilled lifeblood made the oceans salty.

  Corvis wasn’t certain which was worse: the thought that the gnomes had deliberately created this mirror of night, or the possibility that the stones had naturally taken such shapes and forms. His mind shied away from the deeper implications of either option.

  Nor was this the worst of it. As his vision adjusted even more, Corvis saw other shapes, monstrous, writhing things at the edges of his light, moving unlike any natural beast of earth or air or even sea. They strode the empty reaches, the stagnant darkness, at the center of that black gulf, whispering sounds that reached the ear but which the mind fearfully refused to acknowledge. And when they moved, the nearest gnomes genuflected to them.

  Corvis turned his eyes to the path and refused to look any longer into that abyss.

  THEIR SLOG AROUND ONE MINUSCULE FRACTION of that seemingly infinite cavern could have taken hours or even days; their progress through another array of twisting, monotonous corridors, even longer. Corvis’s world had become nothing but the beating of an exhausted heart, the slow plod of aching, blistering feet. During those few moments when he could think at all, he began to contemplate the notion that he had died, that this was some horrible torment imposed in one of the darker corners of Vantares’s dominion. He even began to welcome the occasional passage through solid walls, for the burning in his chest as he struggled not to breathe was indication that he yet lived.

  He only just noticed when the corridors began, ever more frequently, to slope upward, and in his present state he never quite grasped the connotations.

  Not, that is, until the gnome informed him “He goes no farther, no,” at the same time Corvis felt the faintest brush of a breeze against his face, tentative and soft as a girl’s first kiss. It smelled of grass and soil. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees, whether in gratitude or simple exhaustion he could never say.

  “Thank you,” he rasped, startled at how dry and gritty his voice sounded. How long have we been down here? It was only then he realized that not only had they never rested, they’d never stopped to eat or take even a mouthful of water. He looked briefly back the way they’d come, a shiver running down his spine, and wondered how much of it had been real.

  “He does not want its thanks, no, its pitiful words of useless gratitude. He does not know what it said to him, why he guided it, took it below, between, the organs of the earth. But he knows that he will not do so again, never again, no. It leaves, yes, swiftly, before he changes his mind.”

  Corvis nodded. Staggering, holding each other upright, he and Irrial shambled forward, following the siren song of the breeze. They climbed shallow slopes, hands outstretched as though to clutch the diaphanous scents of the world above. The sun, when they found it, was overwhelming, knives of light stabbing at their eyes, but it was the most joyful pain Corvis had ever known.

  He pretended, as he wept, that the blinding glare was the sole cause of his tears.

  CORVIS LEANED OUT between two uneven shutters, the knuckles of one hand pressed to the windowsill, and gazed morosely over the collection of wooden shacks and winding roads that pretended to form a town. He’d no idea what the place might be called, and couldn’t be bothered to care overmuch. It’d been the first dollop of civilization they’d stumbled across after crawling back into the light from the earth’s stone womb, and it had boasted rooms for let above the combination tavern/restaurant/general store. That was enough to make it home, at least for tonight.

  He felt his head sag, and pressed the thumb and forefinger of his free hand to the bridge of his nose. Much as he might have liked someone to talk to, a part of him was glad that he was alone for the moment—that there was nobody present to witness his weakness. Or at least, a faint chuckle in the back of his thoughts reminded him, nobody real. Moving from the window, he slumped hard in the nearby chair, unwilling even to expend the effort to reach the thin and lumpy mattress.

  Corvis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so weary, so weighted down and oppressed by his own body—although, he admitted with a rueful grin, that might just be due to failing memory. No physical exhaustion, this, easily solved by a day or two of relaxation, a few nights’ rejuvenating slumber. Rather, he felt himself sinking, suffocating, in the mire of a mental and emotional fatigue so thick that it bordered on despair. Not since the darkest days of the Serpent’s War had he so desperately wanted the world to just go away for a while, to cease its incessant demands. He dreaded the thought of returning to Mecepheum’s morass of Guilds and Houses and politics and corruption, and in the deepest recesses of his soul, a voice—his own voice—beseeched him to give it all up. Forget the mystery, forget the conspiracy, forget Imphallion. It’s not your responsibility; it never was. So what if someone has murdered in your name? It’s a name that cannot possibly be hated any more than it is already. Why continue? Why not find a home somewhere, far from the Cephiran border, and make a life from what years remain?

  He knew his answers, of course: His sense of the greater good, tarnished and frayed though it may have been, so rigid and uncompromising that it had allowed him to murder thousands that he might save millions. His loyalty to companions who had fought and bled at his side. His concern for a family he had lost yet still loved. And, he conceded, his own pride, a towering pillar of fire that refused to b
e doused.

  But for a brief time that evening, had anyone asked Corvis Rebaine if those reasons were sufficient, if they made the struggle worth continuing, he could not truthfully have answered yes.

  And it was there, at the nadir of his inner pit of exhaustion and desolation, that the gods elected, in their own peculiar way, to yank him out of it.

  Corvis was standing up from his chair, mind and muscle groaning with the effort, before it occurred to him that the heavy knock reverberating through the door didn’t sound like it came from Irrial’s modest fist. He straightened, frowning thoughtfully at the door. No safety there. He hadn’t thought to twist the lock as he’d staggered in—not that it really mattered, since both latch and door itself were flimsy enough for an angry rabbit to take down, given a sufficient running start. He thought about keeping silent, but that probably wouldn’t put anyone off more than a few moments.

  So he stepped, not to the door, but back to the window. You’re being paranoid, Corvis. It’s probably just the proprietor. Still, only once he’d hefted Sunder from where it leaned against the wall below the sill did he call out, inviting whoever it was to enter.

  The door drifted open with a melodramatic creak, revealing a looming shape in the flickering lanternlight of the hall beyond. And Corvis, blood pounding in his ears, old agonies coursing through his limbs, could only think to say, “I’m rather stunned that you were able to keep calm enough to refrain from kicking the damn thing in.”

  “I figured there was no need to rush,” said the Baron of Braetlyn. “I’ve been looking forward to this for such a very long time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Are you certain?”

  The sorcerer’s glare, despite the drooping and exhausted lids that muffled it, could well have flayed the hide from an elephant at fifty paces.

  “It’s a fair question,” Jassion protested. “You’ve been running on the edge of collapse for days now. We can’t afford a mistake at this point.”

  “Oh? Used up your budget for them, have you?”

  “If you’re just going to stand there being insulting …”

  “Not at all, old boy. I can accomplish a great deal while being insulting.” Then, with a tired sigh, Kaleb rose from where he’d knelt. “Yes, Jassion, I’m quite sure. I was sure yesterday. I was sure the day before that. I was sure the day before—well, I think even you can spot the pattern, yes?”

  “Will you—?”

  “Yes. It’s not an easy spell to cast once, let alone on subsequent days like this. But yes, it was worth it, and yes, I’m sure he’s quite nearby now—the spell tells me as much—and yes, I’ll be ready. I recover quickly. Get out there and start asking around. Learn where he’s staying, if anyone’s with him. I’ll be good as new by the time you get back.”

  “I still think—”

  “Don’t. You’re not good at it. You will come back and get me, Jassion.” It was clearly an argument they’d had a time or two before. “I don’t care what sort of opportunity you think you have. I don’t care if you find him unarmored, unconscious, and nailed to a stump, you will come get me before you try anything!”

  “Fine.”

  “And don’t sulk. It’s unattractive.”

  It was the baron’s turn to glare, but his features swiftly softened. “Mellorin?”

  “She’ll be fine. The spell’s a greater strain on the focus than the caster, but she just needs a good long rest.”

  Jassion frowned. “She doesn’t have time for a ‘long’ rest.”

  “Sure she does. In fact, I’ve already cast a second enchantment to ensure that she won’t wake up for some time. Not until after we’ve done what we need to do.”

  “Oh?” Jassion’s brow furrowed. “You think that’s wise, Kaleb?”

  “I thought you’d be happy keeping her out of harm’s way.”

  “I am. I’m just surprised that you’re willing to do it. And just how do you plan to explain to her, after she’s come all this way and made it possible to find the bastard, that you decided she didn’t need to be there for the end of it?”

  “Tell me something, old boy: Do you really have any intention of trying to take Rebaine alive? Really?”

  “Well …”

  “Exactly. I’m pretty sure I can explain putting her to sleep a lot more readily than I could justify anything she’d see in the next few hours.”

  And I’ll need her loyalty when all’s said and done, he added silently.

  “Good to know your relationship is based on honesty and trust,” Jassion grumbled. But he made no further argument, saying instead, “I’m as ready as I’m going to be for this.”

  Kaleb nodded and spoke the eldritch syllables, reaching out to mold Jassion’s face like so much clay, ensuring that the baron could wander the streets and ask his questions without being recognized should Rebaine spot him. It was a temporary transformation, but given the size of the obnoxious flyspeck of a village, it should more than suffice.

  As soon as Jassion was gone, Kaleb began to pace, shedding all signs of fatigue like a sweaty tunic. His brow furrowed in contemplation, concentration, as he steeled himself, gathering magics that even Jassion had never seen, readying himself for a confrontation six hellish years in the making …

  THEY GLOWERED ACROSS THE ROOM, each at the other, two men bound by a chain of loathing that ran the breadth of Imphallion—and through the wounded heart of a woman whom each, so far as he was capable, had loved. From the open doorway and between the slats of the floorboards drifted the scents of roasting bird and beast, the dull susurrus of half-drunk laughter. Hardly appropriate heralds of the violence to come.

  Corvis felt Sunder quiver in his grasp, like a charger straining at the reins, and only then did he truly register the massive sword upon which the man in the doorway so casually leaned. It had been a dagger when Corvis saw it last, but he knew it instantly for what it was. He could feel the bloodlust, smelted into the steel and only tentatively leashed, as clearly as he could sense the smoldering rage, repressed just as feebly, emanating from its wielder.

  He wondered, briefly, how the baron had gotten hold of the vile weapon, but he’d not provide the satisfaction of asking.

  It was Jassion, instead, who broke the brittle silence. “It was a pathetic attempt at misdirection, Rebaine,” he said. “Did you really think that just entering town separately, or checking into different rooms, would be enough to keep us from spotting your accomplice?”

  “Frankly,” Corvis said with a shrug, “we were more concerned about any Cephiran operatives looking for the pair of us traveling together. I wasn’t even thinking of you.”

  It was a petty sting to the baron’s pride, but Corvis could tell from the twitch of the other man’s jaw that it landed. “Be that as it may,” Jassion growled, “in a village this size, any newcomer draws attention. We identified her easily enough.” He offered a dismissive wave, and Corvis found his eyes drawn to the green glint on Jassion’s finger.

  “I’m surprised you’re still wearing that ring, Jassion. As I recall, it got you in a bit of hot water during the Serpent’s War.”

  But if he’d hoped to rile the baron further, reminding him of the universal suspicion he’d brought upon himself with his behavior, he was doomed to disappointment. “It’s an heirloom, Rebaine. It should belong to Tyannon, really, but I understand you gave her another ring to replace it.” His lips curled in a vicious, mocking leer. “I also understand she’s not wearing it anymore. Maybe I should consider giving her mine, at that.”

  Sunder’s blade slowly rotated as the haft twisted in Corvis’s trembling fist. “I’ll do it for you. Would you like her to have it with or without the finger?”

  “Ah. Is that about enough, do you think, Rebaine?” Jassion asked, mockery squirming like weevils through his words. “Have we spent long enough nattering on like bickering fishwives?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Corvis told him. “I’m looking forward to lancing you like a boil and wa
tching you shrivel.” He shoved the room’s table aside with a juddering crash. The cramped room made for a poor arena—especially given the oversized weapons each man carried—but it was the best readily available. “What are you waiting for, Baron? Too cowardly to attack when Kaleb’s not around to hold your hand?”

  Corvis’s mention of a name he should have had no way of knowing was apparently lost upon Jassion, washed away in a flood of fury along with whatever satisfaction the baron had hoped to obtain by prolonging the confrontation. He crossed the room in a handful of steps, Talon raised high and gouging a path of splinters from the ceiling above. Nothing but murder remained in his sweating, twisted face, and Corvis could not have said whether it was the pounding of his boots, or his inhuman cry, that made the flimsy chamber tremble.

  And then he was upon Corvis, and through Corvis. Braced for an impact that never occurred, Jassion slammed hard against the windowsill, arms flailing awkwardly as he tried both to keep hold of Talon with one hand and to keep himself from toppling headfirst through the open window.

  Corvis—who had made swift use of Jassion’s grandstanding, sidling slowly from the window beneath a cloak of subtle illusion—stepped in from the side, looming behind his startled and unsteady foe. Sunder whirled once, twice, as he neared, then swept through an arc that would have left little but empty air between Jassion’s gut and his ribs.

  But for all his maddened fury and shock, Jassion had clearly lost neither his speed nor his senses. The narrow window allowed no room to parry or to dodge, but that still left one avenue of escape. Even as Sunder blurred toward him, the baron shifted his weight, letting gravity have its way. He toppled from the window, the Kholben Shiar passing inches above his twisting body, and landed with a bone-jarring thump on the packed earth of the road below.