The Warlord_s legacy cr-2

by Ari Marmell

  "Perfect." Cerris grunted, falling back in his chair. "That's all we need, isn't it?"

  'Ah, if only,' that inner voice taunted, 'there was someone in charge who knew what he was doing…'

  "Indeed. It almost makes one long for the days of Audriss the Serpent. At least then we understood the threat we faced."

  "Not really," Cerris muttered under his breath.

  "But surely, Cerris, you've not come to me merely seeking gossip and rumor." Yarrick chewed thoughtfully on the bristles overhanging his lip. "You've your own contacts among Rahariem's merchants and vendors, you could have learned this much on your own."

  "Not as quickly. But you're right, there is something else I need." It was Cerris's turn to glance nervously around the room, as though he could somehow spot any prying ears that had so far gone unnoticed. "As part of the Cephiran puppet government-um, no offense…"

  "None taken. It's an apt enough description."

  "Then you must have some insight into their schedules. Specifically, you'd know when their next major supply caravan is due."

  Yarrick's expression soured, as though he'd just discovered lemon juice in his mustache. "That's a dangerous question, Cerris. You're not preparing to cause any trouble, are you?"

  "I'm trying to avoid trouble," Cerris lied. "Frankly, my friend, I'm planning to get the hell out of here-sooner rather than later-and I want to make sure I don't run into a few hundred Cephiran soldiers on the road. A few sentries or a single patrol, I can avoid, but a caravan…" He left it hanging, concluding the sentence with a sickly grin and a shrug.

  "All right," Yarrick said after a few more moments of mustache chewing. "But if anything goes awry, you didn't hear this from me." "… FIVE DAYS FROM NOW," Cerris explained to the crowded, smelly workshop that evening. Irrial stood beside him, pressing close, while the others sat on scattered benches or empty barrels. "It's not coming from Cephira, but from some of the outlying Imphallian villages that they've already taken. Consolidating supplies, that sort of thing. There's no certainty as to what time they'll arrive, but I imagine it'll be early in the day. They'll probably make close camp the night before."

  "We're not going to have a lot of options." It was Andevar who spoke, rising and striding toward the front of the room. Ludicrously squat and thickly bearded, he looked rather as though the gods had stuck a lion's head atop an enormous link of sausage and called it life. But he was also the former bodyguard of a local aristocrat who hadn't survived the Cephiran siege. Andevar possessed considerable tactical acumen, and had taken his failure to protect his lord as a personal affront. When Irrial had introduced Cerris to the various leaders of the burgeoning resistance, he'd not been at all surprised to find Andevar among them.

  He stopped before Cerris and Irrial, gestured at the parchment map they'd unrolled atop a barrel. "Land's too flat, and the Cephies have cut down too many of the nearby trees. Nowhere to hide there."

  "But ambush is our only option," Irrial protested, bolstered by nods and grunts of agreement from the assembly. "We can't possibly take the caravan by main force."

  "I think maybe we could," Andevar said thoughtfully, "but even if we did, the losses wouldn't be worth it. No, I agree, it's got to be ambush, and that means it's got to be pretty far out from the city. Here?" he suggested, landing a finger on a tree-bedecked bend in the road toward the very edge of the map, two miles from Rahariem proper.

  Cerris cocked his head. "It's not optimal, but I agree it may be our only choice."

  "We'll need to figure out how to get our people out of the city and down the highway without being spotted," Irrial pointed out.

  Everyone glanced about, hoping someone else would offer a suggestion.

  "Look," Cerris said finally, "we've got the schedule, and we've got a few days to figure it out. It's late. Let's call it a night, and work out the details tomorrow."

  "All right," Andevar said. "But we should assemble at the alternative site. We've used this one three nights in a row, and it's making me nervous."

  With a rumble of slowly receding conversation, the room emptied by ones and twos, the rebels doing their best to move inconspicuously out into the streets, until only Cerris, Irrial, and Rannert remained-and the latter only briefly, for he soon departed to ensure the various doors and windows were latched.

  With a dull groan, more of exasperation than exhaustion, Cerris collapsed to the nearest bench. Irrial stepped behind him, running her fingers through his hair. "Thank you again," she told him softly.

  "Don't thank me until we've survived this insanity, Irrial. I still think we should be on the road to, oh, anywhere."

  "Maybe," she said, hands dropping to his shoulders. "But you stayed with me, and that's what counts." She leaned in, kissed the top of his head. "And look at what we've already accomplished. They wouldn't have had the weapons to even consider something this major without my resources, and without you…"

  'Oh, yeah, she's provided just enough weapons for these morons to run out and get themselves neatly diced into small, fleshy cubes. You've done wonders for your cause. Again.'

  "Shut up!" Cerris hissed under his breath. Then, at Irrial's puzzled blinking, "Ah, sorry. Not you. Just… Talking to myself. Considering options."

  Poor, very poor. Pathetic, even. But what else could he offer her? Oh, that? I'm just talking to a creature who shared my head for so long that his voice seems to have stayed around even though the bastard's long since gone to hell. Literally. Somehow, he didn't think that'd go over very well. At best, she'd think him haunted; at worst (and most likely), a lunatic.

  Cerris himself wasn't entirely sure which of the two options he preferred. But so long as it-the voice, his apparent madness, whatever it was-caused him no tribulations other than the occasional bout of self-loathing and the need to tell himself to shut up, he could endure.

  'Really? Guess I'll have to try harder, then.'

  Irrial blinked one last time, then sat on the bench beside him. "You know, you never did mention how you found out when the caravan's due."

  "Yarrick."

  "What?"

  Cerris chuckled. "Relax, m'lady. I didn't tell him anything about our plans. He thinks I'm just trying to escape without being caught." He paused. "If this works out, though, we might consider bringing him in. He's got resources and connections you don't, and he's got no reason to love Cephira. They may have left him his office and his Guild, but they're pulling his strings and he knows it."

  "Gods, must we? The man's dull as lettuce, Cerris."

  "He really, really is. I understand that sheep count him when they're lying awake at night." He smiled at Irrial's laughter. "But if he can be useful…"

  "Oh, all right. If this first operation works out, we'll talk about it." She gave him a smoldering look from beneath her lashes. "But if he starts putting me to sleep, I'm making it your responsibility to figure out new ways to keep me awake."

  "Well." Cerris rose to his feet, double-checked to ensure the door was securely bolted, and turned her way once more. "I'd better start practicing, then, hadn't I?" ASSUMING ALL WENT even remotely to plan, getting back into the city wouldn't be an issue. In addition to all the supplies they could carry, the resistance would find themselves in possession of a whole mess of Cephiran tabards and armor. And since the city's main gates remained open during the day-to allow the labor gangs passage-the rebels need simply hide in the wilderness overnight and then return, by ones and twos, in the same disguise that had served Cerris so well.

  No, as Irrial had rightly pointed out, it would be getting out through Rahariem's heavily manned western gates that would prove difficult. Suggestion became discussion became argument, and days flew by within the beats of nervously pounding hearts. Only two nights remained before the caravan's scheduled arrival, now, and still every strategy they developed offered more risk than reward.

  "I'm starting to think it would be a damn sight easier," Andevar barked in frustration, pacing irritably before the assembled in
surgents, "for us to just attack the fucking walls directly."

  And following on the heels of that comment, a plan crept fully formed into the forefront of Cerris's mind. For several long moments, as the others continued their fruitless debate, he examined it in horrified disbelief. Yet over the past days, he had spent much time walking the streets, idly examining Rahariem's defenses, seeking inspiration-and despite himself, he had to concede that it might actually work.

  'Wow. You really have gone insane, haven't you?'

  Every face in the room lit up with elated anticipation when Cerris announced that he had an idea-expressions that swiftly grew hostile when he refused to tell them what it was.

  "Look, it's better you don't know," he explained-lamely, he admitted-trying to quell the rising chorus. "It's something I need to handle on my own."

  "Cerris, you can't ask us to…"

  "… could you possibly do by yourself that we couldn't…"

  "… not staking my life on a plan you won't even…"

  "… bloody idiot if you think I'm going to trust…"

  And on, and on, until the individual words lost all meaning, the voices coalescing into a meaningless, angry rumble. But Cerris stood, arms crossed, unrelenting-and struggling fiercely to ignore that wretched voice, needling him, reminding him 'There was a time they wouldn't have questioned you. They wouldn't have dared. Gods, you've grown soft in your old age. Or maybe it's old in your soft age. But soft and old, regardless.'

  Finally, the verbal floodwaters subsided enough that he might make himself heard over the din. Perhaps "Everyone shut the hell up!" wasn't the most politic way he might have made his case, but it bought a moment of astonished silence.

  'That's a little more like it. Still needs work, though.'

  "Perhaps," he said more quietly, "I'll be able to explain later. I can't now. It was you," he said, meeting Andevar's glare, "who chose the supply caravan as our target. And you"-now directing a somewhat gentler expression toward Irrial-"who begged for my help. Well, I've helped, and I'll continue to help, but I'll do it my way. I remind you that we no longer have the time for debate. I need you…" His gaze swept every man and woman present before ending, once more, on the baroness. "… to trust me," he finished gently.

  Nobody left the meeting happy that night, and the new suspicion in Irrial's eyes sunk painfully into his gut like a steel-shod hoof, but at the last they had agreed. What else, ultimately, could they do? CERRIS SLIPPED FROM THE HIDDEN chamber several hours before dusk. Despite the mask of confidence he'd worn to reassure his allies, he knew damn well his plan was fraught with hazards. It was not these that caused him to chew nervously at his lips and cheeks, however, or to wipe a constant sheen of sweat from his palms. No, instead it was the thought of the magics he must invoke…

  An intricate, ancient spell whose prior use had cost him everything he treasured, and delivered precious little of what it promised.

  Streets and alleys, homes and storefronts, citizens and soldiers passed by all unnoticed, for Cerris's attentions were turned inward. He'd long since committed the incantations and tendon-contorting gestures to memory. He hadn't dared keep the original writings on his person, for this was the last surviving spell of the Archmage Selakrian, a page torn from his ancient tome before the spellbook perished in flame. To keep such a terrible prize was to invite the attention, if not the enmity, of Imphallion's small but potent community of sorcerers.

  But even with his iron will and a mind as sharp as the Kholben Shiar, he had difficulty retaining such arcane formulae, for this was a complex spell indeed, well beyond Cerris's normal proficiency. He had cast the invocation several times before-most recently a few years back, on a particularly stubborn Rahariem merchant-and he recited it over and over on his walk, lips moving and twisting until they were numb, but still he remained only half convinced that he'd properly recalled it.

  Evening's advance scouts were peering over the horizon, perhaps hoping to see where the sun would hide himself tonight. A cool breeze wrestled with the lingering heat of the day when Cerris neared his destination, many blocks from the western gates. Swiftly he ducked into a nearby alley, changing into the Cephiran hauberk and tabard he'd kept from his escape. By now his combination of military walk and sporadic illusions came naturally, and nobody offered him a second glance-in most cases, not even a first one-as he strode boldly toward the nearest cluster of Cephiran defenses.

  For many minutes he wandered, head high and shoulders straight, as if he knew precisely where he was going, but constantly watching, cataloging, timing. It took only a short while to track the movements of various servants and low-ranking soldiers who brought missives and water to those who manned the gates, those who patrolled atop the walls…

  And those who crewed the Cephiran siege engines.

  It took an even shorter while for Cerris to corner one of the servants alone and to take his place, disposing of the body down a nearby cistern.

  Lugging a sloshing bucket, Cerris climbed the narrow stone steps toward the nearest of half a dozen platforms the Cephirans had erected along the ramparts. Drawn upward as if hooked by some divine fisherman, his gaze rose, taking in the awesome power of the wooden monstrosity above. Dozens of feet high, equipped with a counterweight heavier than many houses, it seemed to exude a living malevolence. Cerris had seen more than one trebuchet in action, and held nearly as much awe for their power as he did for the magics of the Kholben Shiar, but he hadn't the slightest notion of how to operate it.

  That was all right, though. Operating the infernal machine wasn't his job.

  Over the following hour, Cerris acquired the tiniest piece of each member of the trebuchet's crew. From the first, a rag with which he'd blotted the worst of the evening's sweat from his face; from the second, a dollop of spittle collected after he hawked something up onto the floor; a few strands of hair from the third, when Cerris brushed a nonexistent wasp from his shoulder; and so forth.

  And then he was gone, back down the stairs and out into the streets, as casually and unobtrusively as he had come.

  Privacy was actually harder to come by than anything else he'd required, but he finally found a home, broken and abandoned during the Cephiran siege and never reoccupied. He scrambled over piles of rubble, cringing from walls that rained dust and seemed to be waiting only for the right time to crumble inward and squash him into a delectable pate, but he found two of the inner chambers standing, and that was one more than he needed.

  Pushing aside bits of broken brick, he cleared a spot to sit that was, if not comfortable, at least not actively painful, and lowered himself to the floor. First he laid Sunder beside him, in easy reach. Next he carefully spread out the various bits and dollops and goo before him, placing each just so, this far from the others, that far from him. And for the next several hours, his voice steady but low, mouthing impossible syllables until his tongue felt like taffy and his throat as though he'd been gargling eggshells, Cerris struggled to invoke what just might have been the most potent spell in Imphallion.

  Chapter Seven

  A SIZABLE PROPORTION of the nation's citizenry firmly believed that Duke Meddiras, the middle-aged governor of Denathere, was paranoid. The so-called Jewel of Imphallion, Denathere was second in importance only to Mecepheum itself. Yes, it was geographically and conceptually the heart of Imphallion, where the major highways that were the veins carrying Imphallion's lifeblood converged. And yes, more than half the Guilds kept their greatest halls and highest offices within its borders.

  But surely Meddiras-or "Mad-diras," as some called him-went rather to extremes. Since he'd assumed the title of duke almost six years ago, he'd tripled the size of the city's standing militias. From the old city walls, new layers of stone had been layered upward and outward, until most of Denathere was surrounded by a rampart larger than that of Mecepheum, or of border cities under far greater risk of siege. What few stretches of the outer wall had not yet been sufficiently reinforced were bandaged in great woode
n scaffolds, swarming with both paid laborers and petty criminals sentenced to indentured servitude. Meddiras had even attempted to institute more thorough entry requirements, demanding that the guards search every visitor and every wagon from top to bottom. He'd relented only when the merchants had threatened everything shy of open revolt. Men and women in hauberks or breastplates marched atop the walls in groups of five or more, and various engines-from small ballistae to great catapults as large as Cephira's trebuchets-lurked every few hundred feet, eager to hurl death upon any foe who might dare approach.

  Yes, nearly everyone thought Duke Meddiras paranoid-but nearly everyone, even those most inconvenienced by Denathere's slow transformation into a military city-also had to admit that the man had his reasons.

  Twenty-three years ago, the city had fallen to the armies of the Terror of the East, at the end of his fearsome campaign. And here, almost seven years ago, Denathere had fallen once more to the forces of Audriss the Serpent, at the start of his own.

  Meddiras, who inherited the dukedom when his aunt perished at the hands of the Serpent's soldiers, would sooner have ripped out his own fingernails with his teeth than allow history to record him as the third duke in a row to see Denathere conquered.

  And that paranoia had saved his life once already. For Duke Meddiras, and several of Denathere's Guildmasters, had some weeks ago been invited to Mecepheum, to participate in a meeting of great import, a dialogue between the nobility and the Guilds to discuss some means of reconciliation.

  Or so the message had stated. Meddiras and Denathere's Guildmasters, in a show of unprecedented unity, had refused to leave their city while the murderous dawn of war threatened from beyond the eastern horizon. They had dispatched emissaries in their stead-emissaries who, like everyone else present in that meeting chamber, were now purported dead at the hands of Corvis Rebaine.

  That rumor, unconfirmed though it might be, sent Meddiras and his court into a frenzy, and his captains and military advisers ran themselves ragged following his assorted orders. The gates to Denathere were now so choked with guards that it was challenging even to drive a cart through them, and those gates shut firmly more than an hour before dusk no matter how many travelers sought admittance. Every noble manor and keep, every governmental office and Guild hall, was surrounded by vassal soldiers and hired mercenaries, and the street patrols were redoubled yet again. It looked very much as though Denathere had been flooded by a pounding rain of swords and armor.