by Ari Marmell
“You—you could just force me, my lord.”
“I could. But I cannot afford to have you fighting me right now. If you will not come willingly, I will have to choose …” The mask inclined, ever so slightly, toward little Jassion, huddled behind his sister’s legs. “Someone who cannot fight me.”
Tyannon shut her eyes tight, fighting back sudden tears. “I will go with you, my lord.”
“Good.” Rebaine, suddenly aware of how close she was, stepped back abruptly; now was not the time for such distractions. Instead, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her along after him, ignoring the sudden wailing from her baby brother.
“Valescienn, farewell.”
“Until we meet again, my lord.” The clashing and the cries of battle in the streets began to seep into the room through cracks in the stone. “You’d better go.”
The skull-mask nodded once. Then, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “Khanda?”
/Yes, foolish one?/
“I believe it’s time for us to depart.”
/You realize I could probably protect you from any hunters they sent after you. You don’t need the girl./
“‘Probably’ isn’t good enough right now.”
A sudden flash of blinding red light, and they were gone.
VALESCIENN WATCHED as his lord disappeared, ignoring the growing sounds of battle. Rebaine, for all his skill and power, had his blind spots. It was a flaw Valescienn himself did not share. Catching the eyes of the soldiers who clustered around the pit, he waved a casual hand toward the captives.
“Kill them.”
The chamber erupted in screams then, desperate people trying to flee despite the lack of any possible sanctuary. The sounds of splitting and splintering filled the room, a ghastly symphony played with swords and axes, conducted by a blond man with empty, soulless eyes. The floor grew wet and sticky with blood, and one by one, the screams fell silent.
At the back of the crowd, an old man moved. He sought no escape, for he knew that was quite impossible. And though no less terrified than all those around him, no less frantic to cling to whatever years of life might have remained to him, he knew there was something more important he must do. Heart hammering in his chest, he ducked behind the panicked crowd and lifted a sobbing young boy off the floor. As swiftly as he could, he stepped to the edge of the pit in which dozens of bodies, some still twitching, already sprawled.
“I wish there was a less unpleasant way, my boy,” he said to Jassion, his voice hushed and obscured by the clamor around him. “But you’ll live.”
Jeddeg smiled, then, despite the sudden tears cutting through the dust on his face to vanish into the prickly depths of his beard. “If—when you see your sister again, tell her I wasn’t a completely selfish bastard, yes?”
The old man let go. Jassion fell from his hands, to land with a painful thump on the uppermost corpses in the pit. He lay for a moment, stunned, until he was covered and almost crushed by the body of Jeddeg himself, the man’s head shattered from behind. He wanted to cry, to scream. Mostly he wanted his sister back. But he knew that any sound would let the bad men find him, too. And so he kept quiet, even when the blood of the men above began to coat his arms, his head, and his face, even when their weight threatened to squeeze the breath from him.
And finally the room went silent. The last sounds of the slaughter faded from the farthest corners, but not from the depths of a young child’s mind, where they echoed unending, and would until his dying day.
Chapter One
THE MOST WONDERFUL THING about it was that it was a simple, ordinary house.
Not a large structure, but roomy enough for the comfort of its inhabitants, with a bit of space to spare. The walls were solid, dependable, fitted together over many months by loving hands. The builder had used no magic in the house’s construction, though certainly he could have. But that would, in a way, have defeated the entire purpose.
Windows sparsely dotted the structure, numbered and positioned perfectly. They were sufficient to admit the bright sunshine during the day, and the glimmer of moon and stars at night; to cool the house during the warm summer months, yet not so numerous as to make it difficult to warm against winter.
The house sat on the very outskirts of town. It was near enough to be neighborly, but retained a certain modicum of privacy unachievable in the heart of the small but bustling village. Chelenshire, it was called, a rather weighty name for a community of perhaps five or six dozen souls.
Another advantage to the house’s position at the edges of Chelenshire: It kept the inhabitants away from the slow but steady traffic that passed along what was once a major trade route. The odds of a stranger recognizing the house’s inhabitants were minuscule, but even “minuscule” was a risk not worth taking.
This morning, in particular, was a sunny one. The air was warm without quite crossing the fine line into hot, the sky a bright and cloudless blue. Birds wheeled above, droves of them, rejoicing in the last of the fine weather before the blistering heat and the rare but torrential storms of summer fell heavily upon them. Squirrels, gophers, and the occasional rabbit dashed across the grass, each on its own quest for fruits, vegetables, nuts, or whatever else might volunteer itself for lunch. An entire garden’s worth of food lined up in neat rows on two separate sides of the house. Lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, onions, squash, and more tomatoes—the lady of the house was abnormally fond of tomatoes—all beckoned invitingly. But though they would occasionally stop beside the garden, perched upon hind legs, to stare longingly at the repast calling to them, none of the rampaging rodents ever set paw into the garden itself. Something about the area itself kept the animals—as well as slugs, snails, and a huge variety of harmful insects—at bay.
There may have been no trace of magic in the building of the house, but the garden was another story entirely.
With a soft grunt of pain, the man currently at work yanking weeds from the bed of squash leaned back on his heels, one hand pressed to the small of his back. He was, he reflected grimly, too old to be spending hours on end hunched over the vegetables.
Hell, he didn’t even like gardening! It was his wife’s passion, she who spent so much of her time maintaining the place day after day. For his own part, he’d have been quite content to purchase the vegetables at the market. But though the money was not an issue—he’d enough saved from past endeavors to live many years in luxury—she had pointed out that such a lifestyle in Chelenshire would attract unwanted attention. And it was to avoid notice, after all, that they’d moved to Chelenshire in the first place.
Thus the garden, and their occasional hunting trips, and her embroidery and needlework, and his days spent in town, helping old man Renfro down at the forge or advising Tolliver on matters of policy.
But the forge was silent today, as was most of Chelenshire, in observance of Godsday. And she’d asked him, as a personal favor, to help in the garden. He shook his head, bemused, waiting for the pain in his back to recede. It was many years now since he could refuse her anything.
Of course, he reconsidered as he suddenly stood in response to another back spasm, maybe it’s time to start.
He wasn’t an especially conspicuous figure, not like in his younger days. He was taller than average—taller than most of the men in the village, certainly. In his prime, he’d been mountainous, his body covered with layers of rock-solid muscle; even Xavier, Renfro’s large son, was a delicate flower compared with what this man once had been.
Middle age stole that from him, though a combination of strict exercise and natural inclination saved him from going to fat, as so many former men of war inevitably did. He was, in fact, quite wiry now, slender to the point of gaunt. His face was one of edges and angles, striking without being handsome, and the gaze of his green eyes piercing. Hair once brown had greyed; it hung just past his neck, giving him a vaguely feral demeanor. Even now he could do the work of a man half his age, but he wasn’t what he used to be.
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br /> And his back still hurt.
“Daddy, Daddy!”
The grin that blossomed across his face washed away the pain in his back. Quickly he knelt down, catching the wiggling brown-haired flurry that flung itself into his arms. Standing straight, he cradled the child to his breast, laughing.
“And a good afternoon to you, Lilander,” he said mock-seriously. “What are you running from this time?”
“Monster!” the boy shouted happily.
Gods willing, he could not help but think, this will be the worst sort of monster you ever know.
What he said, though, was, “Indeed? Is it a horrible monster?”
Lilander nodded, giggling.
“Is it nasty? Is it gross and disgusting?”
The boy was laughing loudly now, nodding even more furiously.
“Is it—Mellorin?”
“Hey!” called another voice from just beyond the garden. “I heard that!”
Both father and son were laughing now. “Come on out, Mel. I’m just teasing.”
Her own lips twisted in a disapproving moue, a brown-haired girl, just shy of her teenage years, stepped from around the corner. She wore, as they all did, a simple tunic and breeches of undyed cloth. She was, her parents had decided, far too prone to dashing and racing around to dress her in skirts.
“Well, you don’t look as though you were chasing him,” the grey-haired man commented seriously. “You don’t seem to have been running at all.”
“I don’t need to run,” she said smugly, staring up at the two of them. “I’ll catch him eventually anyway.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“I’m smarter than he is.”
Lilander stopped laughing and scowled down darkly at his older sister. “Are not!”
Mellorin sighed theatrically. Her father, fully aware that he would soon have to be stern and fatherly, restrained a grin. She was so much like her mother.
“I refuse,” she said with exaggerated dignity, “to be drawn into that kind of argument with a child.”
The man’s lip quivered, and he coughed once.
“Are not!” her brother insisted again.
Her eyes blazed suddenly. “Are too!” she shouted.
All right, that was about as far as it needed to go. “Children!” the man barked, sharply enough to get their attention but not so loud as to suggest he was angry—yet. “What have I told you about fighting?”
“I don’t know,” Lilander said instantly. “Besides, she started it.”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
Shaking his head, the children’s father gave them both another sound lecture—one he’d given hundreds of times previously, and fully expected to give hundreds of times more, possibly starting as early as lunch—and sent them both into the house. The windows weren’t quite thick enough to keep the recurring cries of “Are not!” “Are too!” from invading the garden.
“Louder than ogres,” he muttered with a trace of a smile as he turned back toward the vegetables.
“More dangerous, too,” came the reply from behind him. “They broke another window this morning. That’s why they were outside in the first place.”
She stood at the edge of the garden, leaning on a rake. She frowned at him, but he’d known her long enough to see the spark of laughter in her eyes. Her hair, a richer brown than his own had ever been, was braided in a simple tail. A few rogue strands fell across her face; she brushed them aside reflexively, unaware of the gesture.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her sincerely.
“And you’re trying to change the subject. I’m too tired to be flattered.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I’d be more than happy to look after the children today. Of course, it means I’d be forced—reluctantly, I assure you—to skip helping you out here in the garden …”
“Oh, no! No, you’re staying out here with me if I have to stake you up like one of my tomato plants. You—”
A sudden shattering drifted from the general direction of the kitchen, followed immediately by “Mellorin did it!” “Did not!” “Did too!”
Their mother shook her head, sighing. “As soon as we go deal with whatever disaster just happened in the house.”
“Ah,” he replied, “normal life. It’s what we wanted, isn’t it?”
She laughed again, even as they started moving, the garden temporarily forgotten. It was amazing, even after all these years together. “I love you, Tyannon,” he said simply.
Tyannon smiled back at him, this man who had been her husband for half her life. “I love you too, Corvis.”
Corvis Rebaine followed his wife back into the house, pondering for just a moment how much things could change in seventeen years.
THE CELEBRATION WOUND gradually down, leaving all of Denathere deliciously exhausted.
The westerly sun shed the last rays of the day upon the lingering vestiges of barely controlled chaos. Streamers of bright cloth littered the roads, as though a rainbow had shattered above the city, strewing shards carelessly about. Children, their exuberance not quite worn down by a full week of freedom and too much sugar, ran around madly, laughing happily or shouting at one another, determined to experience the absolute maximum of fun before their parents called them home for supper and bed. Even a few adults still danced in the streets, one hand clenched about a flagon of ale or mead or wine, the other clenched about the waist or wrist—or, in a few of the darker alleys, other parts—of a second like-minded citizen. Vendors shouted hoarsely to passersby, trying doggedly for one final holiday sale.
But most of the city residents, worn out from a full week of revels, were snug in their beds, beginning the painful recovery that all too often follows excessive jubilation.
At the edge of town, Guild-hired mercenaries cranked the handles of a huge wooden wheel. Chains clanked, gears rotated, wood creaked, and the gates of the city ponderously slammed shut. The sound, a solitary clap of thunder, rolled across the city. Drunk men sobered slightly at the sound, and the happiest citizens shivered briefly, for it was a palpable reminder of what they were celebrating—what they had so very nearly lost.
Outside those walls, atop the same small rise on which the regent’s tent rested so long ago, a figure stood, watching the city’s lights wink out one by one. The people of Denathere would sleep soundly this night, worn out from celebrating their liberation from the Terror of the East, safely ensconced behind their walls. And impressive walls they were, higher and thicker than those that had fallen before Rebaine’s assault, topped by guard towers equipped with catapults and ballistae. Even given Denathere’s poor position, the new walls alone made the prospect of taking the city a daunting one.
Or they would have, had their enemy not already waltzed in unchallenged, bearing food and drink and gifts for the celebration.
Cold, dead eyes narrowed as a nasty grin crept its way across his face. Even with its violent history, Denathere remained a city of naïve, complacent people.
It was astounding how little had changed in the seventeen years since he’d been betrayed and abandoned within those walls.
“Report, Valescienn.” The voice was hollow, with the faintest of echoes.
Well, Valescienn amended slightly, turning slowly around, there have been a few changes …
Valescienn himself had aged little. His hair was still a moonlight blond, his ice-blue eyes still utterly devoid of anything resembling humanity, and the same spiked ball-and-chain still hung at his side. There were a few more circles beneath those eyes, and a second scar—across the right side of his forehead—joined the one he’d sported for years. Otherwise, he showed little indication that nearly two decades had come and gone since his last visit.
The master he faced now, however, was most certainly not Corvis Rebaine.
He was shorter than the Terror of the East, for one; shorter, in fact, than many of his own soldiers, standing several inches below six feet. A flowing black tunic
covered his arms, emerging from beneath a set of bracers and cuirass that appeared, bizarre as it seemed, to be made of dark reflective stone. His black leggings and leather boots were similarly guarded by greaves of the same material. Spidery runes were etched in silver into the onyx-like substance. Numerous rings—all of silver, save for one of a simple pewter, with an emerald stone-adorned his fingers, slid on over thin lambskin gloves.
The entire ensemble was topped with a heavy black cloak, slit vertically to create a shifting effect, implying movement even where there was none. It boasted a deep hood, one that only partly hid an utterly featureless mask of stone. Even in the dim light of the rapidly fading dusk, Valescienn looked into the face of his new lord and saw only his own darkened and twisted reflection staring back at him.
“I have been watching the city for some time, my lord,” Valescienn began.
A hand waved impatiently, the rings creating a scintillating silver arc as they moved through the dying light. “Tell me of the men. Are they in place?”
“They are. I’ve been sending them into Denathere in small groups for the past week, just more celebrants come to the party.” He smiled grimly. “I imagine more than a few have forgotten themselves and become quite as drunk as the citizenry, but most should be ready for your signal.”
“They had better be. Any of our men who are found drunk within those walls are to be treated like any other citizen. Is that clear?”
Valescienn frowned. “Yes, my lord. But I wonder if …” He trailed off when it became clear his master was no longer listening. He took the time, instead, to observe the man he’d chosen to serve.
The dark-garbed figure began to pace. The silver runes upon his armor, seen through the shifting streamers of his cloak, danced and wiggled their way across his body. Valescienn averted his eyes. Rebaine had been frightening, but Lord Audriss was disturbing. Power radiated from the man like a fever, infecting all who came near with a sense of their own inherent inferiority. Valescienn had feared Rebaine in the same way he feared any man—and there weren’t many—who could best him on the field of battle. Audriss, however, scared him to the depths of his soul, made him afraid in places he hadn’t known he possessed. And that, more than any other reason, was why he served the man now.