by Ari Marmell
“Our exchange of the Kholben Shiar,” Audriss continued, “brief as it was, required at least a modicum of shared trust. I’d hoped it would prove to you my sincerity. Are you quite certain I can’t convince you to join me?”
“Quite.”
“Ah, well. I had to try, you understand.”
/Corvis,/ Khanda shrieked, /something’s happening outside!/
“I understand completely, Audriss!” the Terror of the East shouted, lunging to his feet and vaulting the table. Sunder flashed outward in a mighty blow that should have ended the conflict then and there.
A shock ran through the weapon as it slammed into Audriss’s armor. The smaller warlord hurtled across the room to land with a deafening clatter against the iron maiden; it tottered precariously, righting itself only at the last second. But there was no rent in the armor, no sign of injury as Audriss dragged himself to his feet. A spiderweb of cracks showed on the stone breastplate, but even as Corvis watched, the runes flared briefly into incandescence. When the blinding light faded, the armor was undamaged.
“Magic,” Corvis spat bitterly.
“Well, of course magic,” Audriss shouted, steadying himself. “Stone armor is a pretty stupid idea without magic, isn’t it?”
His face grim beneath his mask, Corvis advanced. “But it’s human magic, Audriss. I doubt it can stand up to the Kholben Shiar for long.”
“No, probably not. But Lord Rebaine, you don’t have very long.”
/Corvis, the tent flap!/
The thick fog cloaking the surrounding grasses now flowed into the tent, seeping in beneath the flap. It left in its wake a trail of blood, a thin coating that painted the canvas a thick, rich crimson.
“I’m disappointed in you, Lord Rebaine,” Audriss told him. The Serpent moved farther into the tent, putting distance between himself and his contender. He had once again drawn Talon and he held the infernal weapon before him, his poise and posture bespeaking his skill with the blade.
“How’s that, Lord Audriss?” Corvis asked, backing cautiously away from both Audriss and the new arrival, who had assumed the form of a tall, gaunt figure with jet-black hair. He stopped only when his back brushed against the canvas wall.
“You attacked me, Lord Rebaine. After I was generous enough to grant you my promise of safe parley. In my own home, no less! Have you no sense of honor?”
Sunder weaving a sinister pattern in the air before him, Corvis glanced meaningfully at the formerly insubstantial figure. “And your bloodsucking friend here just happened to be in the neighborhood? I’m no more dishonorable than you, Audriss. I’m just more honest about it.”
“You’ve got nowhere to go, Rebaine,” Audriss snapped, finally losing his last tattered shreds of patience. “Even if Mithraem can’t catch you, the surrounding terrain is crawling with his people, not to mention my own guards and a handful of gnomes. Not even the great Corvis Rebaine can take on those kinds of odds.”
“Why, Audriss, I do believe you’re absolutely right.”
Despite what he thought was an obvious cue, nothing happened. Mithraem drew nearer.
“Khanda, now would be an excellent time!”
/What’s the magic word?/
His face, already red with exertion, purpled with rage and he shouted something garbled and incoherent at the pendant around his neck.
/Hmm. Close enough./
A flash of searing heat, followed by perhaps three or four heartbeats of pervasive, soul-numbing cold—and then they were in the storeroom at the Prurient Pixie. With a startled oath, Corvis tumbled into, and over, the writing desk, collapsing the furniture and toppling to the ground with a resounding crash.
Chapter Seventeen
“Are you certain about this, Corvis?”
“As certain as I’ve ever been.”
“So not really, then.”
The warlord and the witch stood amid a grove of trees, less ancient perhaps than those of Theaghl-gohlatch, but older still than Imphallion itself. They towered above, aloof giants with beards of leaves and tears of moss, oblivious to the scurrying of the tiny creatures below.
It was a place of power, Seilloah had claimed—a power that they were about to desecrate, to poison for generations to come. Around the perimeter of a rough circle, not a clearing but simply a relatively even growth of trees, thirteen men and women sat on the earth, tied securely to the unyielding boles. The begging and pleading had long since run its course, leaving nothing but frightened sobs and quickened breath to break the night’s still silence.
Criminals, most of them, and soldiers the remainder, people who had chosen a life of violence and known that their deaths might well prove the same. Corvis wasn’t self-deluded enough to think that it actually made a difference, though.
“Maybe I’m not ready,” he admitted at last, wiping the sweat from his palms on the dark leathers and woolen coat that were far more appropriate for forest travel than the black armor he’d recently had forged. “But it still needs to be done, doesn’t it?”
Seilloah only shrugged. “You know there’s no going back after this.”
“Seilloah, there was no going back a long time ago.” He knelt and began striking flint to steel over a loose heap of tinder and twigs.
“Have you chosen one?”
“I have.”
“Based on …?”
“Based on the fact that I had to choose one. We only have a few names, and any’s as good as another, I suppose.” A tiny ember sputtered, faded, sputtered once more, sending a thin plume of smoke up into the leaves. The forest began to smell of incense. “Chant,” he ordered.
And chant she did, her voice taking wing into the nighttime sky, inhuman words and unnatural sounds frightening even the bats and the owls from the air. Thirteen times she circled the fire, each time repeating syllables that should have shredded the flesh of her throat. And with each revolution, Corvis raised an iron dagger and slit the throat of one of the bound and once-more-screaming sacrifices, shaking the blade clean of blood into the faintly crackling flames.
“Now, Corvis!” Seilloah hissed, her voice scraped hoarse by the words of power. “The name, before the power fades!”
“Khanda,” Corvis growled, his own throat clenched tight. “Find me the one called Khanda.”
FORTUNATELY for what little remained of Corvis’s dignity, he regained his feet before the door slammed open and Losalis charged in, saber drawn, followed by half a dozen men.
The large warrior frowned in puzzlement as he skidded to a halt, surveying the wreckage around him. “Lord Rebaine?” he asked tentatively. “Is there a problem?”
“Does it look like there’s a problem?”
“Uh …”
“Go find Seilloah and Davro. Bring them back here. Now.”
“Right away, my lord.” And once more, Corvis was alone with a pile of tinder that was once his desk.
“Go ahead, Khanda. I’m sure you’ve got some snide comment to make about all this.”
/Hardly,/ the demon snickered. /There’s not a thing I could say that wouldn’t detract from the magic of this moment./
“I’m so glad I provide such amusement for you. I wonder if Pekatherosh is blessed enough to glean the same enjoyment from Audriss.”
Khanda’s laughter abruptly ceased. /That was really unkind, you know that?/
“What is it between the two of you, anyway?”
/A long and sordid history you don’t need to know about. This little squabble’s been going on for millennia, Corvis. You’re just the most recent lucky stiff to get dragged into it./
“Corvis?” Seilloah called as she pushed the door open before her. “Are you all right?”
The warlord merely shook his head and waited until Losalis and Davro arrived. Then he took a few steps back, selected one of the larger crates, and dragged it over where the desk had been. He sat in the chair, clasped his hands on the surface before him, and tried his damnedest to pretend he didn’t so utterly look the idiot.
“So did you see Audriss?” Davro asked without preamble, scratching idly at his horn.
“Oh, yes. And Pekatherosh.”
The ogre blinked. “Bless you.”
“Very funny. Pekatherosh is Audriss’s tame demon.”
/Now haven’t we talked about that already?/
Corvis ripped the heavy helm from his head, slamming it down onto the crate. “He’s got every advantage that I do, people. He’s got a demon. He’s got his own cadre of allies. He’s even got his own Kholben Shiar!” Meaningfully, he stared directly into Seilloah’s eyes. “And he knows why I lost at Denathere. He knows what I was after.”
The witch went paler than Audriss’s gnomes. “Corvis …”
“I know. But he can’t know where I’ve hidden it, so we’re safe for the time being.”
“Would someone be kind enough to fill in the new hire?” Losalis asked.
“Me, too,” the ogre added. “You never even told me what you were looking for at Denathere.”
“All right,” Corvis said, his voice strangely soft. “I think maybe you’d better know all of it.”
/I’m not certain this is a good idea./
“What, are you afraid someone’ll try to steal it?”
/I would./
“Yes, but you have issues.” Then, shifting his focus back toward those in the room who weren’t currently hanging from his neck, Corvis rose to his feet. “What I’m about to tell you,” he demanded, “does not leave this room. No one—not your men, your lieutenants, or the priest at your deathbed—hears a whisper of this. Other than Seilloah, I’ve never told another soul—not even my wife.” His eyes crept across Davro and Losalis both like a spreading frost; each found himself repressing a shiver.
“But what if—” Davro began cautiously.
“No. Nothing drags this out of you, ever. I’ll have your oaths, the both of you, or this conversation is over now.”
“I’ll swear to it,” the ogre said, somewhat sullenly. “You know to whom.”
Corvis nodded. “And you?” he asked the dark warrior pointedly.
“I swear,” the man said simply, “in the name of my honor, my ancestors, and the gods of my homeland, that I will never repeat what you tell me.”
“All right.” Unconsciously, his hands clasped behind his back, Corvis paced what little space the room allowed. “I assume both of you have heard the name Selakrian?”
“It rings bells,” Losalis said with a brief frown, “but I can’t quite place—”
“He was a wizard, wasn’t he?” Davro asked. “Fairly powerful?”
“Fairly?” Seilloah stood, fists clenched, glaring at the lot of them with a sudden anger almost powerful enough to overshadow her obvious fear. “Fairly powerful, Davro? Selakrian was the most powerful spellworker ever to set foot on the Maker’s world! He not only breached the secrets of the Tenth Circle, he mastered it! Selakrian, until the day he died, was the nearest thing to the gods that any mortal-born creature could hope to become.” She spun toward the warlord, her teeth grinding. “This is a horrible mistake, Corvis. It was a bad idea twenty years ago, and it’s a bad idea now. You’re going to kill us all.”
“I don’t understand,” Davro admitted. “I mean, this Selakrian lived hundreds of years ago, right? He’s got to be long dead. So what’s the danger?”
“The danger,” the witch growled, “is his legacy.”
“What I searched for,” Corvis said, “in those catacombs beneath the streets of Denathere, was Selakrian’s spellbook.
“And I found it.”
The emptiness of death itself could not have rivaled the silence that fell over the tiny storeroom.
“How—how powerful are these spells?” Davro finally whispered.
“Ungodly,” the Terror of the East said simply. “If legend is to be believed—and everything I’ve seen suggests that it should—there are spells in this book capable of wiping out whole cities or enslaving entire populations. Selakrian was reported to have summoned creatures so terrible, they make Khanda look like a kitten.”
/You just had to say it, didn’t you?/
“But you’re not that powerful,” Davro protested, more hopeful than certain. “Could you even use these spells?”
“Davro,” Seilloah explained patiently, “have you ever seen me study a spellbook?”
“Well, no. But you’re a witch, not a sorcerer.”
“Two aspects of the same thing, my friend. Most of us don’t use spellbooks. Once you’ve learned or created a spell, it’s a part of you. The only reason to create a spellbook is to pass your spells along to others. And most masters teach their pupils verbally. Few of us create spellbooks, because it’s too easy to steal them. Like Corvis is trying to do,” she added bitterly.
“The point that Seilloah is not-so-gracefully dancing around,” the warlord told them, “is that with the spells in written form, I don’t have to be an adept of the Tenth Circle to use them. Assuming one is careful enough, studies them hard enough, and has no small amount of luck, anyone with even the most rudimentary magical knowledge can cast from the book.”
“But why would Selakrian leave such a thing just lying around?” Losalis asked, horrified.
“That’s just it,” Corvis said resentfully. “He didn’t just leave it lying around. The entire damn thing is written in some unique cipher. Without the key, the book is so much deadweight.”
“Which is why you didn’t use it at Denathere,” Davro exclaimed in sudden comprehension. “You gambled your entire campaign on this stupid book, and when you couldn’t use it, everything fell apart!”
“Not tactically sound, my lord,” Losalis commented. “A good commander always leaves himself a fallback option.”
“And, of course, rehashing my old failures is of far greater importance than planning our next step of this campaign.”
/More fun, anyway./
“Shut up, Khanda.”
“Corvis!” Seilloah said sharply. “Listen!”
They paused, each unconsciously holding his breath. “I don’t hear anything,” the warlord said finally. And then it struck him. He didn’t hear anything. The taproom was silent.
As quick as Corvis was, Losalis was faster. Before the Eastern Terror took three steps toward the door, his massive lieutenant had nearly ripped the portal from its hinges and dashed out into the common room.
The chamber was in shambles. Tables and chairs were strewn about the room, many toppled and some smashed. Puddles of ale, beer, and wine skulked treacherously here and there on the floor, lurking in wait for an unwary foot. Tankards lay overturned, mugs dropped and shattered—and everywhere, twitching erratically on the dusty floorboards or flopping spasmodically across the broken tables, lay Corvis’s men. Their eyes bulged as though the pressure of a mounting storm built up within their skulls, and their tongues protruded, yellowed and swollen, several bloodied or even chewed completely through by gnashing teeth. Even as the four of them watched, one of the men jerked as though he’d been run through with a jagged blade. His teeth clacked together, and his diseased tongue flopped to the floor where it spasmed twice before falling still in a growing pool of blood.
“Urthet,” Seilloah said clinically as she surveyed the carnage.
“Excuse me?” Corvis asked, his voice hoarse. Had they lost the war already?
“Urthet. It’s a rare herb, very dangerous.” She was already moving toward the bar, grabbing a large pitcher and filling it from a cask of mild wine.
“Seilloah, this is hardly the time—” Davro started.
“Corvis, I can save some of these men. I’ll need them laid out, made comfortable. They have to be kept warm, and you need to get something between their jaws to keep any more from losing their tongues.”
“Losalis, go,” Corvis ordered at once. “Bring as many men as you need.”
“At once, my lord.”
Losalis was halfway to the door when Seilloah said, “You’ll find more in the streets.
In small doses, urthet can stay in the system for hours before it takes effect. Anyone who’s drunk here in the past twelve hours is at risk. When you’re gathering your men, make sure you bring any more victims here; if I have to go out searching for them, we’ll never get to them in time.”
The warrior nodded once and was gone. Even from within, they could hear his deep voice booming out over the town, and soldiers begin trickling in to help.
“Corvis,” Seilloah said brusquely as she crumbled several kinds of dried grasses into the pitcher, “come here.”
“The bastard was never planning to attack us,” he snarled as he approached. “This was his plan from the beginning. I’ll wager that if we were to search those woods, we’d find he never even used the lumber we heard his men cutting. It was all a bloody distraction.”
“That’s nice. Corvis, listen to me. There’s another step to this that I need you to handle personally.”
“That doesn’t bode well. What do you need?”
“The reason Audriss chose urthet, I’m sure,” she said as she stirred the rapidly thickening concoction with a convenient ladle, “is that, as far as most people know, there’s no antidote. It takes longer for some people than for others, but once you’ve taken a sufficient dose, it’s always fatal.”
Corvis felt his blood run cold. “But you can help them, right?” he asked plaintively.
“No, Corvis, I’m sitting in the midst of a tavern full of dying men stirring random leaves into bad wine because I’ve been looking for a new hobby. There is a remedy for urthet, one very few people know about. It involves, among other things, a goodly number of herbs and powders, and not a small touch of magic. But it also requires a small quantity of urthet itself.”
“Someday, you’ll have to explain to me how you can use a poison to cure a poison.”
“Someday, but not now. The problem is, as I said, urthet is pretty damn rare. I don’t have any of it.”
“So then what—”
“I need you,” Seilloah said, very slowly and succinctly, “to find anyone in this tavern beyond saving. Anyone who’s already dead. I need you to take them into one of the back rooms, and I need you to bring me back their blood. As much of it as you can.”