by Ari Marmell
They can’t be allowed to spread rumors of dissension in the ranks … He honestly couldn’t tell if it was his own thought, or Khanda’s.
“Kill them.”
Gundrek’s scowl flipped itself into a nasty grin. The sudden terrified screams, and the wet impact of steel on flesh, drowned out the staccato ring of Corvis’s departing steps.
DAVRO AND SEILLOAH BOTH PICKED with absentminded distaste at the chunks of undercooked meat their hosts had provided. Definitely reptile, Seilloah noted, probably alligator, or perhaps a large snake. She’d have literally killed for something tastier, but when one ate among ogres, one ate whatever they’d managed to hunt.
It was the first rule of their society: Chalsene provides for those strong enough to take it. To grow or to raise one’s own food, rather than to hunt it or win it in battle, was an insult to Chalsene himself. It was why the ogres remained so war-like a people, even as their numbers dwindled and their fortunes failed. And it was why Davro, whatever happened, could never let his brethren learn what he had become. It was more than a violation of tradition; it was blasphemous.
The unlikely pair started in unison, the meal forgotten, as the heavy wooden door drifted open. In the doorway stood Corvis Rebaine, the flickering fires of the community casting him as some hellish fiend. For an instant, the past seventeen years were swept away, dust on the wind of memory. Black-clad, covered in plates and spikes of gleaming bone, there remained no trace at all of the man they’d traveled with for the past days. There couldn’t possibly be anything remotely human about this looming thing before them.
And then he stepped into the small (by ogre standards) hut, yanked the iron-banded skull helm from his head, and tossed it into the nearest corner with a resounding crash. “Get this monstrosity off me before I roast!”
Seilloah immediately stepped forward, only to recoil from the pungent aroma emanating from the armor, filling the hut with a palpable effluvium. Her eyes watered, and it was all she could do to keep from choking.
“By the gods, Corvis!”
He glowered up at her, his hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and encrusted dirt. “Don’t you dare complain to me! It was his bright idea that I wear this thing for six straight days in this hell-spawned swamp!”
Davro shrugged, unapologetic.
“Your spells helped a bit,” Corvis continued. “They may even have kept me alive, as much moisture as I’ve lost over the past few days. But they didn’t make it even remotely comfortable.”
“So I can smell,” she said, cringing. “How did you breathe in there?”
“Carefully. Would you give me a hand already?”
Between the two of them, they did indeed manage to remove Corvis’s armor, though it might have gone quicker had Seilloah used both hands, rather than keeping one cupped over her mouth and nose. Finally, though, a heap of black metal and bone lay in the corner alongside the helm.
“Watch out with those spikes,” Seilloah said, wincing as a shoulder plate dug a furrow into the wooden wall beside it. “This is a borrowed hut, remember.”
“Whatever.” With a groan, Corvis collapsed onto one of the straw-filled mattresses the ogres provided them for the night, lacking the energy even to change his underclothes.
“Two suggestions, Corvis.”
“What?”
“One, bathe. Two, burn those clothes.”
“But burn them well away from the village,” Davro added. “I didn’t bring you here to poison my tribe.”
“Oh, you’re a riot, Davro.”
“So I’ve been told. All right, what happened? We’ve been waiting for three hours, now.”
“Well …” Corvis sat up with another faint groan. “They’ve agreed to join us. They’ll need time to mobilize their warriors and make preparations, but once our army’s ready to march, they’ll be a part of it.”
“Congratulations,” Seilloah told him.
“From me, too,” Davro said, his tone neutral.
“How did you talk them into it?” the dark-haired woman asked him.
“Oh, that’s easy,” the ogre interjected. “He blackmailed them. Right?”
Corvis scowled. “Anytime you feel like giving up that particular habit, Davro, you go right ahead.”
Davro’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “No,” he decided a moment later, his voice thoughtful, “I’m not going to be doing that.”
“The agreement?” Seilloah prodded gently.
“Hmm? Oh. It seems Davro was right: The armor made an impression.”
“I was right? And he admits it? Heavens be praised.”
“Shut up, Davro. Anyway, they were astounded that the ‘great Lord Rebaine’—their words, not mine, Davro, so stop snickering—had returned. Turns out many of the older warriors, including the chief, were part of my army all those years ago.”
“Turns out?” Davro asked. “You didn’t know?”
“Come on, there were, what, over a hundred of your people in my army. I’m supposed to know them all personally?”
“Besides,” Seilloah said with a smirk, “you cyclopes all look alike to us.”
“Anyway, it also meant a lot to them that—umm …” Corvis glanced askance at Davro, his fingers drumming against his palm.
“What?” the ogre snapped suspiciously.
“Well, seems your chieftain assumed that the reason you didn’t come home all these years was that you were serving me. Your—ah, that is, your ‘undying loyalty’ to me made a large difference in his decision.”
“They’re helping you,” Davro growled, “because of my ‘undying loyalty’? To you?”
“Well, that’s part of it, but—”
“And you didn’t feel the need to correct him?”
“It’s a useful misconception, Davro. And I could hardly tell him the real reason, could I?”
“But—”
“Besides, if you think about it, it’s true in a way, right? I mean, you are loyal to me. Oaths and all.”
“You,” Davro spat, “are really pushing it.”
“You’re a big guy, Davro. You can take a little pushing.”
“So the ogres just up and joined you?” Seilloah asked skeptically. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Well—not quite that simply …”
“Oh, gods,” Davro muttered, “here it comes.”
“The chief sort of assumed that I was coming out of obscurity to retake the kingdom,” Corvis told them. “Let Audriss soften them up, and then come in and take everything while everyone’s weak and recovering.”
“And?” Seilloah asked.
Corvis exhaled slowly. “I sort of promised the ogres a quarter share of all conquered territories.”
Seilloah and Davro stared at him as though he’d sprouted an antelope. Davro’s mouth worked soundlessly, and Seilloah’s own jaw was hanging substantially closer to the floor.
“You did what?” she finally squeaked.
“I promised them—”
“I heard what you promised them! How could you do that?”
“With remarkable ease, actually.”
“Do you have any idea,” Davro asked him, “what they’ll do to you when they find out you lied to them?”
“I didn’t lie to them. I fully intend to give them one-fourth of all the lands I conquer.”
“But you’re not conquering anything!”
“Then it shouldn’t take too long to divvy it up, should it?”
“We’re dead,” Davro told them succinctly.
“Look,” Corvis said, his voice sharp, “it’s not as though they’re getting nothing from this. Over the course of the war, I’m quite certain there’ll be plenty of opportunities for looting and plunder, so they’re not going home empty-handed. I’ll just—I don’t know, I’ll make it look good. We won’t have enough men to go on once Audriss is defeated. Or I’ll mysteriously vanish. Or make them think I’m dead.”
“I’ll help with that one,” Davro said darkly. “I’ll m
ake it real convincing.”
“In any case, we’ll deal with it. What matters is, we’ve got the ogres on our side, and they count for a great deal. And they’ll come out ahead, even without conquering Imphallion, so everyone winds up happy.”
“Why not?” Seilloah asked, her tone thoughtful.
“Huh?” Davro inquired.
“I agree,” Corvis said. “Huh?”
“Why not conquer Imphallion?” A pause. “I see it’s my turn to be stared at.”
“Seilloah, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Corvis, if this works, Audriss will be dead, or at least defeated. A good-sized chunk of Imphallion will be without leadership. Most of the armies are going to be scattered, if not decimated outright. Plan this properly, you can step in and assume control with a minimum of additional conflict.”
“Seilloah’s got a point,” Davro conceded. “Not so sure I like the idea of you being in charge anymore, but from a purely tactical standpoint, it’s the perfect opportunity. Better than you had twenty years ago, certainly.”
Corvis shook his head. “Look, that’s not what I want anymore. I …”
Seilloah’s expression tightened. “Corvis, pretend we’re meeting for the first time, so many years ago. Tell me why I’m supposed to help a man with bones on his armor conquer the kingdom.”
Corvis’s back straightened, and as he spoke, his voice grew strong. “Because we live in a world gone stagnant. The so-called regent is a puppet figure, some pseudo-king the Guilds allow to occupy the throne because Imphallion is still officially a monarchy. The regent himself can’t do a damn thing without the Guilds’ say-so, and they never say so unless it’s good for business. They’re merchants, not leaders, and they have no business governing. Imphallion hasn’t accomplished anything for more generations than I can count, and a kingdom that isn’t growing is dying.”
Abruptly, Corvis opened his eyes, and he actually blushed beneath the disbelieving eyes of his companions.
“Yeah,” Davro said snidely. “Well, it’s clear you don’t believe that anymore. I’m convinced.”
“Corvis,” Seilloah told him, “you have a family now. Ultimately, you’re doing this for them. I know that. But why does it have to be one or the other? Think of the kind of life you could make for them if you were king! Think of how much safer they’d be if Imphallion had a strong leader again! Of the sort of world you could build for your children in a kingdom in ascension, rather than decline.”
“I—I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
Seilloah’s eyes narrowed in a look that Corvis recognized from days of old, and he knew he’d not heard the end of this. Apparently having decided that she’d said enough for now, however, her next move was away from her companions and toward her mattress. “Just be sure to bathe before you go to sleep. I refuse to wake up to that awful stench.”
Corvis glanced over at Davro, who merely shrugged.
“Don’t give me that,” Corvis demanded. “I’ve never in my life known you to lack an opinion on anything!”
Davro smiled flatly. “Oh, I’ve got my opinions. But you, Rebaine, don’t want to hear them.”
“Oh? Why, pray tell?”
“Because no matter what I say, it’s not going to be the answer you want.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because this question only has two answers, Rebaine. And you hate both of them.” And he, too, stomped to the other side of the hut, flopped down, and went to sleep.
Corvis, exhausted as he was, lay awake and watched the ceiling for a long, long time.
“WHERE TO NOW?” Seilloah asked as she placed a foot upon the lizard’s knee and swung herself up. Corvis—mercifully free of his armor—was already seated on Rascal’s back, eager for another day’s travel into cooler climes. After that swamp, even the blazing heat of summer in other lands seemed a relief.
“I’ve been thinking about that since we left Davro’s village,” Corvis said softly.
Davro, his mood pensive ever since his brief family reunion, glanced down sharply. “My people’s village. I live on a sheep farm. And I’d like to get back there before I die of old age, so squelch the damn preliminaries and answer the question!”
“All right. The ogres are a good start, but they’re not an army by themselves. We need soldiers. Lots of them.”
“Great,” Davro spat. “Know anyone with a few spare battalions lying around? Maybe you should blackmail a Guild.”
“Davro, if I have to hear that word one more time—”
“Gentlemen!” Seilloah barked. “Focus!”
Corvis, his face flushed, glowered at the ogre for another moment, then nodded once. “Fine. No, I don’t know of any spare battalions. We need mercenaries.”
“You have to pay mercenaries,” Davro pointed out, also forcing himself to stay calm. “Unless you have a few chests of gold hidden someplace I don’t even want to think about, we’re short on funds.”
“There are ways to get money,” Corvis said. “The problem is getting the soldiers. I’ve been away too long; I don’t know where to go to gather men quickly. We can’t exactly just start putting the word out. Audriss is sure to hear of it, and it takes too long.”
“Can’t help you there,” Davro told him.
Seilloah shook her head. “Nor I.”
“I know. But I know someone who can.”
“Valescienn?” Seilloah asked.
Corvis nodded. “I seriously doubt he’s retired. War was all he knew. And I know he’s got connections. He helped me acquire a pretty sizable chunk of my army last time.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Seilloah asked. “Where is he?”
Corvis glanced downward. “Umm, about that …”
The ogre grinned. “What the Terror of the East is too embarrassed to admit to you is that he doesn’t know. Seems the spying spell he cast on us didn’t stick to Valescienn.”
“The spell on Valescienn failed?” she asked with some surprise. Davro’s face fell when he realized she’d already known about the spell, and there was therefore no forthcoming explosion.
“It worked fine at first,” Corvis insisted.
“So when did it cut out?”
“I’m not entirely certain,” he acknowledged. “Truthfully, until I needed to find you and Davro, I hadn’t tested the links in years. Never thought I’d need them again.”
“So how are we going to do this?” she asked.
“The old-fashioned way. I know where Valescienn lives, or at least where he used to. Kervone, a small village not too far from Denathere. If he’s there, great. If not, we ask around until we find someone who can tell us where he’s gone.”
“You realize,” Seilloah told him as they guided their mounts southward, “that if he has moved on, this could take a while.”
“You have other plans?”
Davro snarled darkly, but wisely chose not to comment.
Chapter Ten
The past couple of decades had not been kind to Evislan Kade.
Oh, he’d managed to make a halfway decent living, continuing his career as a bounty hunter and occasional assassin even in the wake of his embarrassing encounter with the young fugitive Corvis Rebaine. But it hadn’t been remotely the same, not without Sunder hanging at his side. Kade was good, and always had been—but it had been the Kholben Shiar that made him great.
Now? Now, Kade was nearing the far border of middle age, reaching the point where no amount of constant practice and brutal exercises could keep his arm from slowing or his chest from aching after exertions that would, in the past, have scarcely winded him. A few more years, and he wouldn’t be able to keep working at all, and he hadn’t accumulated nearly enough coin to retire. Only the great bounty hunters ever struck it that rich, and of course, Kade wasn’t great anymore.
But all that was about to change.
It had taken him years of searching, of squeezing in what research he could between the various c
ommissions that paid for his room and board. He had delved into libraries deep in church basements, perused the private collections of a dozen nobles, purchased many a drink for village elders who might just remember a tale with the tiniest smidgen of truth behind it. There were times, many times when the quest seemed hopeless, but giving up had never been even remotely an option. Not for someone like Evislan Kade.
And finally, those tales had borne fruit. His heart hammering in his chest, Kade had wound his way into a great stone ruin, a half-buried ziggurat beyond the farthest borders of Imphallion. There, legend had it, was entombed the great Emperor Sahn Vakraad, one of the last rulers of an ancient nation that had fallen generations before the time of Imphalam the First. And there, too—those same legends claimed—was buried alongside him the blade he wielded in every battle, a blade capable of cleaving through the thickest shields or most well-forged armors.
Many a pitfall and trapped portal strove to take Kade’s life, but throughout the many winding corridors of Sahn Vakraad’s tomb, he persevered. And in the end, he had prevailed. Standing in the sepulchre of the fallen king, he hefted overhead that ancient weapon, watched it reshape itself into his familiar longsword, and heard it speak deep in the recesses of his mind, even as Sunder had done.
Evislan Kade would be great once more. He had a few good years remaining, and in those years, his name would again be whispered in taverns and throne rooms. He would once again be paid the riches he deserved and which would keep him content through his twilight years.
His inner celebration lasted just as long as it took him to stumble exhaustedly back through the upper passageways and out into the surrounding wilds. There he stopped, blinking not so much at the brightness of the sun, but at the assembled throng awaiting him—and the dozens of crossbows that aimed their deadly projectiles his way.
From the heart of that gathering stepped a man without a face, clad in a peculiar armor of stone.
“I appreciate you doing all the hard work,” the faceless man told him, “but I believe you have something I want.”
The great bounty hunter—well, the good bounty hunter—Evislan Kade had to fight down the urge to whimper.