The Warlord_s legacy cr-2

by Ari Marmell

  "I'm sure you're all faithful to Lady Irrial," he said, voice low, "but be certain. Once this begins, you'll have only a few hours before the Cephirans discover what's happened here, and they will not forgive. If anyone's loyalty isn't worth dying over-and killing over-tell me now. I'll be happy to knock you out, and you can claim you were never involved. Anyone?"

  Several of the staff failed to hold his gaze, but nobody raised a hand.

  Cerris nodded curtly and, though he carried the dead soldier's sword at his hip, claimed a dagger from the nearest servant. He looked once more at Irrial who, though her face had grown abnormally pale, nodded in return. "Do it," she told him softly.

  Knife clenched in a tight fist, Cerris slipped silently from the chamber, heading for the room in which the billeted soldiers slept.

  'Ah, murdering men in their sleep. That's the valiant soldier I remember.'

  When he returned to the others, his hands were crimson. Not one of his victims had awoken long enough to make a sound.

  Irrial shuddered, clearly uncomfortable with this side of her friend, however necessary. She and the servants gathered by the front door, ready to cross the lawn and disperse into the streets.

  "Remember," Cerris whispered, "groups of no more than two. Once you're away from the estate, do not run. Just act casually, behave as though you've every right to be where you are."

  'Easy enough for you,' the voice taunted. 'You feel like you're supposed to rightfully own everything anyway.'

  It was no more difficult murdering the two gate guards than it had been their sleeping brethren. They knew Cerris-or thought they did-and they expected to see him leaving the house. He approached casually, even offered a friendly smile, and then the younger soldier was crumpling to the earth, clutching uselessly at his slit throat. Stunned, the second man was drawing breath, grasping frantically at his sword, when Cerris drove the dagger up into his chin.

  A glance to ensure the street was empty, a wave toward the house, and Irrial and her servants came running. "You remember where to meet us?" she called in a whisper as he stepped away.

  He smiled back at her without slowing. "Just make sure you're there waiting for me."

  "I'll be there, Cerris," she whispered to his retreating silhouette. Then, with a smile far more confident than she felt, she sent her servants on their way and marched out into the street-arrogant, stubborn, faithful Rannert at her side. THE ANCESTRAL ESTATE OF DUKE HALMON seemed somehow off-kilter, standing at the far southwestern edge of the aristocratic quarter, and indeed the city entire. Haughty and unapproachable, the first duke of Rahariem had deliberately held his home aloof from the "lower folk," and while subsequent generations of the line had softened in their attitudes toward the populace-and vice versa-the notion of moving and rebuilding their home was never seriously considered.

  The property was sprawling, several times larger than the Lady Irrial's, but it was not the rolling lawns or statue-bedecked gardens that first drew the attention of passersby. The rest of Rahariem's nobles dwelt in patrician manors-large, luxurious, even imposing, but they were houses nonetheless. The ducal hall, by contrast, was a sturdy keep, dating to the days when various lords and vassal states battled for dominance. The peculiar juxtaposition of a modern and largely ceremonial iron fence surrounding the property, with the looming granite fortress beyond, gave the estate an unreal, fairy-tale feel.

  Today the fortress served as a barracks for Cephiran officers and was host to many of their strategic and governmental moots.

  Still clad as a Cephiran soldier, Cerris approached the front gate and drew himself upright. Half a dozen guards stood post, and all looked to be taking their duties rather more seriously than the men he'd murdered at the baroness's abode.

  "I've a vital message," he announced to the nearest, handing over the sealed parchment. "Captain Liveln's eyes only," he added as the man made as if to break the blot of wax.

  "From whom?" the guard demanded. "There's no seal here."

  "I imagine if he wanted that known, he'd have marked it, wouldn't he?"

  The guard swallowed a bitter retort-which apparently wasn't going down easily-and nodded once. "Deliver this to Captain Liveln," he instructed one of the others, passing the letter along. A salute, the sound of jogging feet, and then five guards stood and scrutinized Cerris with various degrees of boredom or hostility. He stared fixedly right back, fighting the urge to fidget. If he'd judged the situation wrong, if Captain Liveln didn't react as he anticipated…

  'And a great time it is to be considering that, isn't it, O master tactician?'

  Cerris clenched his teeth and continued waiting.

  Finally, after only a few eons, the messenger returned and whispered in the officer's ear. "The captain wishes to see you," he told Cerris. "Immediately." An experienced professional, he almost managed to mask his disappointment that he wouldn't be permitted to toss the new arrival out on his rear.

  Cerris advanced, refusing even to acknowledge the man, his heart racing. A hundred and one things could still go wrong, and mentally cataloging them all kept him busy, scarcely even noticing the somber stone walls and the occasional bright tapestry he passed along his way. Actually, the artwork seemed remarkably anemic; most likely, the Cephirans had already looted the bulk of it, leaving only these smatterings behind. He stopped only once, to ask directions of a passing servant, and found himself finally before one of any number of identical doors.

  A shouted "Get in here!" punched through the door before the echoes of his first knock had faded. Expression neutral, he did just that, casually but firmly shutting the door behind him.

  It was a simple enough chamber, a combination bunk and office. Cot, wardrobe, and armor stand against the wall; desk and chair in the room's center. Doubtless identical to every other officer's quarters in the building.

  'I swear, if these people ever had an original thought, they wouldn't know what to do with it. The military mind must be an amazing thing; I hope somebody actually discovers one someday.'

  Standing before the desk was a broad-featured woman, perhaps a decade younger than Cerris himself. Her dark hair was chopped short in a careless military cut, and her tunic and leggings suggested a physique that would be the envy of any warrior her age, gender notwithstanding.

  At her side hung a heavy, brutal mace. It tugged at Cerris's mind, but he had no attention to spare it. Even as he entered, a ball of wadded-up parchment struck him in the chest. It fell to his feet with a faint crinkling, blossoming open just enough for him to read the words within. Not that he needed to, since he'd written them.

  I know about the Kholben Shiar. Let's talk, and maybe your superiors needn't know about it, too.

  "You had damn well better," she growled, "have a very good explanation for this."

  "I should?" he asked. "Aren't you the one who should have handed it in when you first found it?"

  Her flinch was almost invisible, a mere tightening of the lines at the corners of eyes and lips, but it was enough to tell Cerris he'd struck home. "I don't need an enlisted man telling me what my responsibilities are!" she hissed at him.

  "Look," he said, raising his hands, palms out, "I'm not here to make trouble for you. I'm sure we can come to an, ah, equitable arrangement. You keep your toy, I keep my knowledge to myself."

  "First things first: I want to know how you even know about this."

  Here it is. "I recognized it," he lied. "There's more about it that stands out than just the carved figures." Carefully, slowly, he stepped nearer to her side. "Look here," he said, pointing at the mace's head. "Do you see that?"

  Furious, paranoid, suspicious, well trained… And still, for just that fleeting instant, her eyes left their careful appraisal of this mysterious soldier, flickering to the weapon to see whatever it was he'd indicated.

  The first swift blow, his bent knuckles against her throat, wasn't lethal. But as her hands rose of their own accord, grasping at her neck even as she gasped for air, Cerris's othe
r hand dropped swiftly to his waist, then outward. The dagger had already drunk of so much blood that night, but clearly it was not sated. Liquid warmth poured over his hand as he shoved and twisted, wiggling the blade up and around beneath Liveln's ribs until it was only the weapon itself that held her upright.

  Cerris let the body fall, carrying the dagger with it, for his hands were already reaching to claim another, far deadlier weapon. Beneath his palm rose a flush of heat like the bare skin of a passionate embrace. He felt the familiar twisting, wriggling in both his fist and his mind as the Kholben Shiar assumed the form of a heavy-bladed axe, whispering in a seductive voice as familiar as his own.

  Sunder.

  And almost inaudibly amid his torrential thoughts, that other voice. 'I'm sure you two will be very happy together.'

  His hands wiped clean on Liveln's tunic, Cerris slipped into the hall-closing the door behind him, of course-and strode casually from the fortress. The guards barely glanced at him as he passed, and if any were keen enough of sight and memory to note that he wore a different weapon than he'd had on the way in, none of them thought anything of it. AXE HANGING AT HIS SIDE, Cephiran tabard now wadded up beneath one arm, Cerris stepped through the back door of Rond and Elson's, an innocuous shop at one end of Rahariem's central bazaar. He nodded to several men as he passed, recognizing them from Irrial's household, and entered what was clearly a workroom, filled with a multitude of tools and several half-finished barrels.

  "A cooper's," he said with a smile, recalling their very first conversation. "Very nice, my lady."

  Sitting on a workbench, Irrial smiled brightly. "It seemed appropriate," she said. Then, to her other companion, "Rannert, would you mind?"

  The old butler rose and departed without casting so much as a glance Cerris's way.

  "You got it?" she asked, rising and stepping toward him.

  "I did." He held his breath as her eyes passed over the axe, but while they widened slightly, taking in the sight of the legendary weapon, they showed no recognition. Repressing a sigh of relief, he looked about once more. "This is a good place… You own it?"

  She nodded. "Rond and Elson rent from me."

  "I figured. It's a viable hiding spot, but there's still an awful lot of confusion. This might be our best chance to escape Rahariem, if we-"

  "Cerris," Irrial told him softly, reaching out to take his hand. "I'm not leaving Rahariem."

  "Um… You're not…?"

  "Do you remember what I said? I can do more good out here. It's been a month, and neither the Guilds nor the Houses have sent us any troops. We're on our own."

  "Well, so far, yes, but-"

  "There's an underground forming, Cerris. A resistance against the Cephiran occupiers!" Even in the dim light of the workshop, her eyes shone. "I've been hearing rumors for weeks, but I couldn't do anything trapped in my home. Out here, though? I have resources! Money, people… I can contribute. I can help free our home!"

  "You can get killed," Cerris protested flatly. "Irrial, there's no way a slapdash underground resistance can stand up to the Cephiran military. Gods and hells, I'm not sure the Imphallian military can stand up to the Cephiran military."

  "Maybe not, but we have to try. And I'd like you to help us."

  Cerris stumbled to the bench and sat hard, Irrial following, still holding his hand.

  Is it ever going to end? he demanded of no god in particular.

  "You're good in a crisis, Cerris. You escaped from the Cephirans, twice! And you can fight, I've seen it. I don't know where you learned how to do what you do, but you could help us. A lot."

  He raised his head, and the expression plastered across his face was pained, even haunted. His mouth moved but no sound emerged.

  "Just think about it," she asked in a near whisper. "Please."

  Cerris offered a wan smile. "I think you're crazy as a snake with hangnails, my lady. But… All right. I'll consider it."

  'You'll consider it? Really? And you call her crazy?'

  "Thank you, Cerris." She sat down beside him, her hand rising up his arm, settling gently across his shoulders. "And even though I know it was partly because you needed my help… Thank you for coming for me."

  She leaned in close, and Cerris paradoxically found himself shivering as he felt the heat of her skin. Her lips brushed his, once, twice, feather-gentle… And then hard, almost desperate. He tasted Irrial's mouth, felt her breath in his lungs, and with a final shudder he wrapped his arms about her in return.

  And if, behind closed eyes, Cerris saw a face other than hers, a face so slightly younger, gazing at him sadly across a gulf of lost years and broken promises… Well, it would never hurt her if she never knew.

  Chapter Five

  THEY TRAVELED FAR, until Braetlyn was a distant memory and even Mecepheum had fallen behind. Over half the breadth of Imphallion they journeyed, upon the saddled backs of mean, ugly, war-bred mounts from the baron's own stables. Jassion sat his horse stiffly, spine straight, resplendent in chain hauberk-with black-enameled vambraces and greaves-and, as always, the crimson-and-midnight tabard of his barony. His face was sullen, and at irregular intervals his hands reached of their own accord for the terrible sword slung across the saddle behind him, as though afraid that if he ignored it for too long, it might wander away.

  For many days, his silence had been a surly one, for Jassion had hoped-despite the discomfort he knew it would entail-to ride forth in full armor, an imposing titan of steel daring the world to deliver its worst. His companion, however, had explained quite resolutely that he did not plan to spend his mornings helping Jassion into his "iron breeches," and since the baron couldn't precisely strap himself into his armor, he'd been forced, reluctantly, to settle for mail. Since much time had passed, Kaleb was fairly certain that Jassion couldn't still be angry about so middling an issue, and thus figured that the continued silence was due largely to the fact that the noble was more or less an arrogant, discourteous ass.

  Kaleb, who wore no armor but rather a simple leather jerkin and deerskin pants beneath his cloak, took it upon himself, with a malicious relish, to fill the silence with inane chatter. From observations on the weather to the names of sundry flora and fauna, he poured unwanted speech like molten metal into the baron's unwilling ears, and took great delight in watching the fellow quietly seethe.

  As the roads grew narrow, however, dwindling into game trails-and as the sparse foliage slowly thickened, the trees towering nearer one another as if seeking comfort from some unseen fear-even the impertinent sorcerer grew serious. Kaleb and Jassion exchanged glances, each beset by a sudden wariness.

  A bend in the trail, circling a copse of particularly thick boles, and they saw it rising before them: a wall of green and brown. At that border of branches and brambles, the voices of the wildlife stopped as though the sound itself had been cut by an unseen blade. The sunlight, no matter how it squirmed, failed to wend through the gaps in the leaves, so that nothing but utter darkness regarded the new arrivals from within the foliage.

  For several moments they stared at that barrier, each lost in his own thoughts. And only then, as though made abruptly aware of where they were and what waited ahead, the horses reared. Bestial shrieks of terror rattled the trees, startling what few birds and animals had dared draw even this near the looming forest. Eyes rolled madly, and spittle dripped from iron bits.

  Even as his mount lurched, Kaleb leapt nimbly from the saddle to land on the thick soil. Jassion, weighted down by his hauberk or perhaps simply less fortunate, fell hard on his back and lay gasping. The baron's mount thundered madly back down the path, and after an instant of wrestling with the reins Kaleb dropped them, allowing his own to follow.

  Behind him, the leaves of the impassible wood hissed and rustled in a breeze that neither man could feel, as though chortling their grim amusement.

  Kaleb sidled over to Jassion and offered a helping hand, hauling the winded baron to his feet as though he weighed no more than a child's doll.


  "Horses…," the nobleman panted between gasps.

  Kaleb shrugged. "I can probably call them back once we're through here."

  "And…" Another wheeze. "If not?"

  "Then I guess, my lord, you learn the hard way that your feet are good for more than putting in your mouth or kicking the occasional servant."

  Jassion tried to glare, but his gulping breaths-which, Kaleb noted with a snicker, were all too appropriate for a man with a fish emblazoned on his chest-rather ruined the effect.

  Remarkably, Kaleb chose to remain silent until the baron had finally recovered. Then, spotting a sudden spark of panic in Jassion's expression, he pointed. "Over there. It fell when you did."

  Jassion must have been grateful indeed, for his muttered "Thank you" as he stooped to retrieve the fallen Talon actually sounded heartfelt. He looked taller when he rose, and the lingering traces of pain had faded from his breath.

  And again both men stood and scrutinized the wall of trees, like children desperate for any excuse to put off a hated chore.

  "Are you certain she's here?" Jassion asked finally.

  "What's wrong, my lord? You couldn't possibly be frightened, could you?"

  "There's precious little in the world that frightens me," Jassion said, still watching the trees. "But I'm not an idiot."

  "You-"

  "Don't." He paused. "Can't you just cast a spell to find out? Wiggle your fingers and see if she's home?"

  "Oh, certainly. Why, I've just been waiting for you to ask. Then, for my next trick, I'll gnaw on a steel ingot until I shit broadswords."

  "I'll take that as a no, then," Jassion muttered.

  "You do that."

  More staring.

  "You must understand," the baron said, "I've heard tales and ghost stories of Theaghl-gohlatch since I was a child. Normally I wouldn't believe a word of them, but then I consider who it is we're looking for. And my understanding is, very few who enter Theaghl-gohlatch ever come out again."