The Conquerors Shadow

by Ari Marmell

  And though he fought to keep it away, one specific thought kept returning, over and over again, to the forefront of his mind:

  What the hell was I thinking? I must’ve looked like a world-class idiot in this thing!

  It was a humbling realization. To look back and realize that he’d been strutting about like a peacock in some grown-up version of a children’s costume was a tremendous blow to the ego. For some minutes he could do nothing but stare in abject horror at the thing in his hands. The skull’s gaping jaw now appeared to be laughing at him, and he felt a sudden urge to join in.

  “The saddest part,” he told the helm seriously, “is that I always thought I looked so damn impressive back then. It took me almost twenty years to get the joke, and now that I have, it’s not all that funny.”

  The skull, perhaps having laughed itself out of breath, chose not to reply.

  “But the fact is,” he explained to the helm, “it always had the desired effect. People were scared of me.

  “Of course, I imagine people would be frightened of anyone who did what I did, no matter if I’d been wearing a purple kilt and a wimple. I suppose it’ll have to do.”

  His hands initially fumbled with the buckles, but the old familiarity began to seep back into his movements, washing away the rust and clumsiness of years of disuse, the fingers recalling what the mind had long forgotten. Undersuit, chain hauberk, greaves, thigh guards, cuirass, bracers, arm guards …

  And helm. Damn, that thing cut down the peripheral vision something fierce! But at least the armor was on.

  It was not quite so well as it used to fitting. Some of the straps he tightened to their limit. He’d lost a great deal of muscle mass since he’d last worn this infernal getup, and the pieces were sized for a broader man. It would do, and it fit well enough that nothing should fall off or out, but it felt wrong.

  And I’m quite sure, he noted, feeling around at the helm, that when I wore this last, my hair wasn’t long enough to stick out the bottom. I must look like I’ve got a sheepdog in here with me.

  Corvis clanked from the room as quietly as he could—which wasn’t saying much—in search of a mirror.

  Tyannon, her arms crossed, her left foot tapping steadily to an unheard drummer and one eyebrow raised in a statement far more eloquent than words could ever convey, awaited him in the hallway.

  “Umm,” Corvis explained.

  “I was quite sure,” his wife said, her voice level, “that we were being burglarized by the world’s clumsiest thief. It’s a miracle that you haven’t woken the children. May I humbly suggest that stealth is not your chief talent?”

  “I—well, that is.” Corvis sighed, the breastplate and spines rising and falling with the gesture. “It’s kind of hard to see in here.”

  Tyannon snorted, and though she tried desperately to hold her face in its stony façade, the corners of her mouth twitched.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Corvis asked, his voice suddenly suspicious.

  Her entire face spasmed as she struggled to retain her composure. “No, dear.”

  Corvis frowned darkly, forgetting that he himself had been struck by the ridiculousness of the whole thing not two minutes before. “Because I don’t think this is particularly a laughing matter.”

  Tyannon squeaked; unable for that instant to speak at all, she merely nodded in agreement.

  “This was the mark of Corvis Rebaine!” he insisted, his voice rising. “The Terror of the East! This armor brought fear and horror to an entire kingdom!”

  “Of course it did, dear.”

  Their eyes locked through the sockets in the helm. Corvis deflated like a spent bellows when Tyannon, unable to contain herself any longer, collapsed against the nearest wall in a fit of hysterical laughter.

  “Oh, the hell with it,” Corvis snapped, yanking the helm from his head and letting it fall to the floor. “This is a stupid idea anyway.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  Corvis looked askance at his wife, his pride stinging, and only then noticed the trembling of one clenched fist, the desperate tone to her laughter. The anger drained from him, leaving him spent.

  “It’s something I have to do, Tyannon,” he said quietly, sincerely, reaching out to pull her as close as the armor’s damn spines would allow.

  “I know it is,” she whispered.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere.” His voice grew hoarse, and he knew that she knew this, but it must be said now. There might be no other opportunity. “I love you more than anything, Tyannon. You, the kids—you’re everything in the world to me now.

  “But they came here, Tyannon. They came here, to our home. They attacked my little girl.” He smiled through the sudden dampness on his face. Reaching out with a hand, his grip gentle despite the steel gauntlet, he cupped his wife’s chin. “It took me longer than I expected, Tyannon, but I finally conquered the world—or at least the part that matters. I don’t know what Audriss wants, but I’ll be damned before I’ll let him take that from me. From us.”

  “I know,” she told him again, tears encroaching on her own voice. Shyly she reached up, brushing his long grey hair away from his eyes. “And I understand, I really do. I just want you to come back to us.”

  “I’m tougher than that, Tyannon, even with a few extra years on me. I won’t die that easily.”

  “It’s not that.” He felt himself falling into her deep, dark eyes. “I mean I want you to come back to me, Corvis. Not—not this.” She tapped a finger sharply on the cuirass that encased his chest. “I want the man I love, not the man he used to be. And if you go out again, in this, I don’t know who’s going to be wearing it when you walk back through that door.”

  “Tyannon, you know that’s not what I want anymore!”

  “Isn’t it?” she asked pointedly, stepping back and glaring at him, her hands on her hips. “Can you stand there and swear to me that there’s not a single part of you left that does want it?”

  And Corvis, his face flushing, looked away.

  “That’s what I thought,” she whispered, barely a breath at all.

  Before she even saw him move, though, he was again clutching her to him as tightly as he dared, his mouth pressed to hers. For mere seconds, for long centuries, they stood locked in that strange half embrace. And then Corvis straightened his arms, breaking the kiss and staring intently into his beloved’s face.

  “Yes, I still think this kingdom would be better off with me in charge, Tyannon. Someone’s got to do it, or the damn Guilds and petty nobles are going to tear it all apart. And if someone offered me Imphallion on a silver platter, I’d take it without a moment’s thought.

  “But I have my priorities straight, finally. I know that going off to wage war on everyone and everything would take me away from here, and that you probably wouldn’t be here when—if—I got back. And nothing, not even the world itself, is worth that.”

  Tyannon smiled through her tears, her face shining, at least in Corvis’s eyes, with a radiance to shame the sun itself. “Come on,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. “Let’s get you straightened up, at least. Can’t have you going off to war all disheveled. Reflects badly on me, you know.”

  Carefully hiding his own smile, Corvis bent to retrieve his discarded helm, and allowed his wife to drag him after her into the sitting room.

  Several moments and several revolutions later, Corvis was feeling just a bit dizzy, and Tyannon was intently examining the armor in the flickering lantern light, one finger thoughtfully tapping her chin. “One more time,” she ordered.

  “Again? Sweetheart, my backside hasn’t changed in the past thirty seconds, I promise. I—”

  “Turn.”

  Corvis sighed and spun slowly. “I feel like a top.”

  Tyannon examined him a moment longer and then shook her head. “The armor,” she said, trying to be tactful about it, “isn’t new anymore.”

  “I know how it feels.”

  But staring at his dim reflect
ion in the poorly lit mirror, he was forced to acknowledge her point. The armor, while still perfectly serviceable, was past its peak. The bones, magically hardened and preserved, had yellowed; the steel, even after careful polishing and scouring, bore sporadic pockmarks, remnants of the rust that attacked it during its long inactivity. The undercoat of chain would require much oil to make it fully flexible again, and the cloak sported several moth-eaten holes that would take a good bit of mending to close.

  “It suits me, really,” Corvis said wanly. “Older, a bit battered, maybe not as neat as it used to be, but hale and hardy all the same. I think it adds character, don’t you?”

  Tyannon’s eyes blazed alarmingly and Corvis, having been a wise general in most respects, decided it was time to reassess his strategy.

  “I’ll just grab a cloth and get to polishing, then.”

  “You do that.”

  THE FIRST HINTS of grey prodded gently at the eastern sky by the time the pair of them, working together, had scrubbed and polished and mended the armor back into a state that Tyannon declared passable. Corvis stood, encased head-to-toe in the armor, staring intently into the mirror. His wife, chewing thoughtfully on a knuckle, hovered off to one side.

  It was almost exactly as it once had been. Only the most observant witness would have noticed the single tiny discrepancy, the lack of the chain and pendant that dangled always from Corvis’s neck during his more violent years.

  “It looks ludicrous,” Corvis snapped.

  “True. But at least it’s clean.” Then, sensing his expression although she couldn’t see a hint of it, Tyannon added, “I think it’ll work, Corvis. It seems strange to us now. But to anyone who doesn’t know you as I do—well, you’re still the Terror of the East.”

  Corvis shrank at the quaver in her voice. “And that bothers you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Shouldn’t it? I remember the first time I saw this thing, Corvis. However you’ve changed, it’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  She smiled at him, though it was an anemic effort. “Well, we’ve been through all that. No sense in dredging it all up now, of all times. When …” She swallowed once. “When are you leaving?”

  Corvis took a long look at the sky outside the window. “Not until tomorrow, at the earliest, maybe the day after. I need to gather some supplies, go over some maps …”

  “Good,” Tyannon said softly. “Then we’ve got some time.” The children, exhausted by a hard afternoon’s work the previous day, slept soundly through the clatter of several large pieces of armor sporadically falling to the floor in the next room—and through the softer, gentler sounds that followed.

  THE BRUTAL HEAT of summer blasted the earth as though the gods would reforge it into some brand-new shape. Grass, brown and brittle, crackled noisily underfoot. A few birds, more hardy than most, circled lazily in the sky, blackened shadows against the blazing sun. Occasionally a small animal, driven by need to leave the shelter of the trees, darted across the road. A faint breeze, too weak to offer relief, whispered over the plains.

  And other than that minuscule gust, and the occasional squawk of a distant bird, the only sounds to break the tranquility were the steady clip-clop of a set of hooves, the occasional jingle of the animal’s saddlebags, and the even more occasional cursing of its rider.

  Corvis very deliberately refused to allow himself to look back, even though Chelenshire was now many hours behind him. He feared even that simple act might cost him his nerve to go on. He’d nearly changed his mind that morning, when he knelt and hugged his children goodbye, telling them Daddy needed to go away for a while, but that he’d be back as soon as he possibly could. Lilander bit his lip and sniffled. Mellorin wavered between contending in her most grown-up voice that she was old enough to help her mother take care of the place, and sobs of fear when it occurred to her that he wouldn’t be there if more of the “bad men” showed up. He’d tried to tell her that part of the reason he was leaving was to make certain that no more bad men would show up, but she didn’t seem comforted.

  To Tolliver, he’d simply explained that he thought he knew some folks back home who could help with the “Audriss problem.” He didn’t explain, and Tolliver, who considered himself a polite man, didn’t ask. He’d simply wished Corvis luck and godspeed on his journey and promised that he and the rest of the town would see to it nothing ill befell Tyannon and the kids. Corvis, who knew far better than anyone else what sort of ills might befall them, was nonetheless comforted that someone was watching after his family.

  Sunder, glinting in the sun, swung from a baldric that normally hung from Corvis’s shoulder, but for now dangled from one of Rascal’s saddlebags. A longsword, old but well kept, hung in a worn scabbard on his left hip. His armor was carefully wrapped in oilcloth and stored in the saddlebags. He wore instead a sturdy suit of traveling leathers that creaked as he moved, the stiffness not yet fully worked from them. They were solid, durable. They would stand up to any travel, any travail, and most of the elements—they’d even function as decent armor, if push well and truly came to shove.

  But they were also bloody hot, and the journey ahead of him wasn’t a short one. Even the great Corvis Rebaine couldn’t take on an entire army by himself. Before Audriss learned that a new enemy walked the land, Corvis needed to gather some allies.

  Fortunately, he had a pretty good idea where to start.

  Chapter Four

  “What do you mean, ‘I have no idea’?”

  Valescienn shrugged, no more intimidated by the growing ire in Audriss’s voice than he’d ever been by Rebaine’s. “Well, let’s see if I can put it into clearer terms, my lord. I do not know.”

  “You were his lieutenant!” Audriss all but snarled, knocking the map from the table with a gauntleted fist. “He trusted you with his entire campaign!”

  “Not entirely. We never discussed what was to happen beyond Denathere.” Again, the warrior shrugged. “He kept saying he’d tell me after. Frankly, I’m not sure he thought it mattered.”

  Audriss sighed, casually running his finger over the glowing green ring. “Ah, well. It’ll take us some time to reach Denathere. I’m sure we’ll come up with something by then.”

  “SOME TIME,” as it turned out, had been months. “Some time,” as it also turned out, hadn’t offered any insight to make the choice any easier.

  A veritable avalanche of papers and parchments covered the scarred surface of the oaken table. Reports and tactical commentary in at least four languages peered from the pile, various and sundry symbols tracing a twisted course across the table.

  On the end farthest from the door, a map lay spread across a relatively uncluttered area. Torchlight flickered over the images, the shadow of some mad giant dancing across entire nations. The room echoed with the final screams of the dying fugitives. The houses of the condemned, set to the torch at the Serpent’s command, sent a thick, woody smoke across the city, thickening the air even in this lofty chamber.

  Audriss hunched over the map, one metal-clad hand spread, palm-down, in the plains to the east of Imphallion.

  “Abtheum, I think,” the black-garbed warlord muttered softly into the smoky air around him. “Yes, definitely Abtheum.”

  /“Definitely” as in “definitely,” or “definitely” as in “I’m going to change my mind again in an hour”?/

  “I do not,” Audriss snapped indignantly, “recall asking your opinion!”

  /You rarely do. It’s never stopped me from giving it anyway, has it?/

  “Impudent creature!”

  /Indeed. I thought you’d decided last night that Orthessis was “definitely” our next objective. Now it’s Abtheum again. I humbly suggest that you come to a final decision sometime this millennium. There’s only enough food in Denathere to keep your armies fed for a generation or so./

  “It is difficult,” Audriss admitted, crossing his arms and standing straight to glare at the map, as thou
gh this entire predicament were the cartographer’s fault. “They’re both viable targets. They both lie on routes that will eventually take us to Mecepheum, and neither is defended particularly better than the other.”

  /One could always try flipping a coin./ The voice hesitated for a moment. /It’s a shame Imphalam the First couldn’t have built his capital someplace more convenient. This “march the armies across hundreds of miles to take Mecepheum” bit makes for some interesting strategizing, but it grows old rapidly./

  “Aren’t you pretty much ageless anyway?”

  /That does not, alas, make me any less prone to boredom./

  With a grunt of annoyance, Audriss spun from the table and began to pace the long chamber, stopping now and again by the window to breath deeply of the scented smoke. “It is,” he offered hopefully, “still possible we won’t need to keep up this farce anyway. Perhaps Denathere is as far as we need go. Perhaps—”

  /He’s here./

  The Serpent halted. Even as he watched, a dense white mist began to seep in beneath the door frame, leaving a thick residue of blood on the wood. Audriss idly waited as his ally’s features appeared in the pillar of mist, filled in with blood, and flushed solid.

  “I’ll admit that it’s theatrical,” the Serpent said sharply, “and perhaps even useful in any number of circumstances. But it takes a damn sight longer than it would just to open the bloody door like a normal person!”

  Mithraem, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle in his pristine white shirt, raised an eyebrow and smiled, revealing a perfectly straight set of gleaming ivory teeth. “‘Bloody door,’ is it?”

  “Bah! What have you learned?”

  Mithraem stretched languorously, a great cat in vaguely human clothing, and then strode to the nearest chair, leaving bloody prints on the floor. Unmindful of Audriss’s growing impatience, he extended his legs out comfortably before him, crossing them at the ankles, and steepled his fingers together in front of his face.