The Conquerors Shadow

by Ari Marmell

  “You aren’t frightened to be so near me, Lorum?” Corvis asked only half sarcastically.

  “Should I be? Will the Terror of the East kill me with his bare hands? Hold me hostage for his freedom?” Lorum smiled. “At your best, Rebaine, you might possibly have done it. In your current shape, it’s not even a contest. No, Rebaine, I’m not scared of you. If anything, I think you’re the one who’s afraid.”

  Though his entire face throbbed, Corvis raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Of you?”

  “Of this.” Lorum gestured around him. “This isn’t a pleasant place, Rebaine, and what’s happening here even less so.” He leaned in and whispered, resembling a schoolboy spreading a salacious rumor. “Between you and me, I think Jassion’s getting just a bit more enjoyment from this than he should be. The man’s got something against you, Rebaine. More so than rest of us, more even than his sister, I think, could account for.”

  Corvis nodded slowly.

  “In any case,” Lorum continued, straightening, “I thought you might prefer to speak to me. I’ve got much the same questions Lord Jassion does, but perhaps I can phrase them more to your liking.”

  The former warlord chuckled through raw and bloody lips. “You come sauntering in here, Your Grace, show me forty-five seconds of what vaguely passes as kindness, and I open up to you? Is that the plan? Because if so, I think it’s tactically unsound.”

  Jassion shook visibly, struggling to hold himself in check. Lorum continued to ignore him.

  “Not really, no,” Lorum said, his voice still calm. “This isn’t a game, Rebaine. We’re not playing ‘good guard, bad guard.’” Absently, the duke toyed with his signet ring, a purple stone set in a band of gold. “I simply thought to make it clear that, whatever personal grudge Jassion holds against you, I don’t share it. Talk to me, and I will treat you in the exact manner you earn, no more no less. If you do not …”

  His fist lashed out, a sledgehammer of flesh slamming into Corvis’s swollen face. The prisoner’s skull snapped back against the wall and he dropped, coughing loudly and bleeding from a nasty gash in his cheek where Lorum’s ring had sliced his skin.

  “If you do not choose to cooperate with me, I will again treat you in the exact manner you’ve earned. While I may not take the same pleasure in your pain that my young companion does, I assure you that I will be just as methodical in inflicting it. And I’ve learned tricks in my time to make even Jassion blanch.”

  Jassion grinned maniacally as Corvis struggled to regain his feet.

  “Give him a few minutes to think it over,” Lorum ordered. “And I mean make him think.” The regent turned away. “Not too hard, though,” he admonished. “I want him able to ponder the wisdom and generosity of my offer.” He stepped from the room, idly wiping the blood from his signet with a handkerchief.

  His jaw twisted wolfishly, Jassion reached down and helped the struggling prisoner to his feet. When Corvis glanced at him, puzzled, from beneath swollen lids, the baron shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to start with you already on the floor,” he explained. “You’d have nowhere to fall.”

  As Jassion began punching—fists blasting the breath from Corvis’s lungs, bruising his stomach, pounding his face—a portion of the prisoner’s mind simply stepped back into the corner, where the rain of blows was something to be observed rather than felt, and watched the proceedings with clinical detachment.

  He noted for the first time that the reason Jassion’s lefts hurt more than his rights was due to his own signet ring, similar to the one that had opened Corvis’s cheek. It was green, rather than the royal purple of the regent’s own, and the band was a dull pewter rather than gold.

  He knew that ring. He’d seen it before …

  At last, through a haze of agony, in a mind dulled by countless days of torment and deprivation, he finally made the connection. And everything fit into place with a resounding click.

  “That,” that same, distant sliver of his consciousness observed in a voice so calm it infuriated the rest of him, “would at least explain his excessive animosity, wouldn’t it?”

  Oh, it certainly would. Corvis’s hands twitched, as though prepared to leap, of their own accord, for the throat of the man before them—and then he chose the path of least resistance and passed out.

  /AUDRISS … oh, Audriss … rise and shine, time to get up. The barbarians are at the gates! Selakrian’s back from the dead, and he wants a word with you about a book. The Dragon Kings are knocking on the door. Wake—/

  “I’m awake, you infernal nuisance! Damn you, I’m awake!”

  /Infernal … Oh, I get it. It was a joke. Forsooth, ’tis to laugh./

  Audriss groaned, rolling over and blearily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He cast an irritated glance at the nearest window and grew even angrier at the sight that greeted him.

  “It’s the middle of the night, you cretin!”

  /My, but you’re cranky. No wonder you haven’t gotten married yet./

  “Pekatherosh—”

  /Oh, relax. Someone’s trying to contact you./

  “What? Valescienn? I gave him strict instructions—”

  /Not Valescienn. Mithraem./

  Mithraem? That was a surprise, and one, Audriss felt by the sudden churning in his gut, that probably did not bode well. He allowed himself one last moment to shake the dregs of sleep from his skull before replying. His first act was to erect a shield of silence around the room. It wouldn’t do to have a passing guard or late-night wanderer overhear his end of the conversation. Then, another moment of concentration …

  “What is it, Mithraem?” he asked once he felt the other’s mind. “I left strict orders with Valescienn that I was to be disturbed only in case of dire—”

  “Emergency?” Mithraem’s silk-smooth voice replied from empty air. “I’m certain your lieutenant would be only too happy to accept any reprimand you’d care to give him. Why don’t I just dig him up and let you talk with him?”

  “Dig him up?” Audriss asked softly.

  “Rebaine’s army hit us from behind while we were assaulting Pelapheron’s walls,” Mithraem said succinctly. “The Legion disengaged from inside the walls and drove them off, but not before they’d wreaked considerable damage.”

  Audriss’s left hand came down on the bedside table, actually cracking the wood. “Define considerable, Mithraem!”

  “Between Rebaine’s people and the defenders, we’ve lost over four thousand head. Including Valescienn. I doubt Rebaine’s army lost more than three or four hundred, and Pelapheron still stands.”

  The end table hurtled across the room, smashing into a bookcase with a crash that sent books tumbling to the carpet and would, had Audriss not deployed his spell, have alerted the entire floor to his tantrum. Even before the furniture came to rest, the warlord was on his feet, pacing angrily and cursing obscenely in three languages.

  It wasn’t so much the loss of Valescienn that disturbed him. The man was an able second and quite useful, but hardly essential to the Serpent’s plans. Nor was it the loss of men, though he’d feel their absence well enough when the time came. What disturbed him above and beyond all else was a pair of facts that stuck in his craw and left a hideous taste in his mouth.

  One, Pelapheron was the first city to successfully stand against the armies of the Serpent. True, he could try again and probably take it easily, but they’d fought off his first real effort, and the news of that victory would spread like a plague across Imphallion. This defeat struck Audriss’s reputation for invincibility a devastating blow.

  And two, even locked up and battered in the depths of the dungeons, Corvis Rebaine was still causing him untold problems, and he was no closer to getting what he needed than he’d been weeks ago. Especially since it would give too much away to just come right out and ask.

  “All right,” he said, finally calming himself. “The first thing we need to—”

  “So sorry for interrupting you,” Mithraem said, his tone suggesting nothi
ng of the sort, “but there’s more.”

  “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “A few hours ago, shortly after the battle, we were approached by a messenger from Rebaine’s camp.”

  Audriss snorted. “This should prove interesting. What did they want?”

  “They want to make a trade. Apparently, Valescienn told Davro—before the ogre drove a large stick through his face—that Rebaine was a prisoner. I imagine they think we have him.”

  Audriss nodded thoughtfully. “Do they now? And what are they offering in exchange?”

  “Something about a book.”

  The warlord froze in midstep. “A book?”

  “A book. They claim you’ve been looking for this book, and they’re willing to give it to you in exchange for Rebaine. Alive, of course.” Mithraem paused. “You haven’t been keeping things from me, have you?”

  “It’s a spellbook,” Audriss rattled off instantly. “Nothing special, as such things go, but one I’ve wanted for some time. Rebaine acquired it somewhere, which is one of the reasons I met with him. I didn’t mention it because it’s not worth mentioning. Personal obsession, nothing more.”

  Silence fell, and Audriss found himself fidgeting. Mithraem was an invaluable ally, but if he should discover what his “partner” truly sought, he could become a far deadlier adversary than even Rebaine himself.

  “As you say,” Mithraem offered blandly. “So what do we do about it?”

  The warlord resumed his pacing, less angry now, face clenched in contemplation. “I’ve an idea,” he said slowly, “but I need to work out some of the details. I’ll get back to you shortly.”

  “I wait with bells on.”

  “That would be a sight, wouldn’t it?” Audriss stumbled slightly as the connection was severed. And then, when he was absolutely certain Mithraem’s presence was well and truly gone, he began to laugh outrageously.

  /I fear that, for the first time in our working relationship, I seem to have missed the joke./

  “My dear Pekatherosh, it’s absolutely perfect!” the Serpent cackled.

  /Enlighten me, mirthful one./

  “Don’t you see? Davro and Seilloah want to trade Selakrian’s spellbook for Rebaine!”

  /Yes, I eavesdropped that much, thank you. But the Rebaine situation isn’t exactly a simple one, and you already know where the damn book is!/

  Audriss scowled. “Pekatherosh, I’ve known since the beginning where the book is. But I still need Rebaine to tell me himself. If I were to come up with that particular bit of knowledge on my own, he—and others—would start wondering how I knew, and I can’t have them figuring it out just yet. Without the key, it’s as useless to me as it was to him. Let it stay where it is until we need it.”

  /Ah. But if it’s traded to you in exchange for him …/

  “Then he need never know about my foreknowledge. You know, you’re quite clever for a piece of jewelry.”

  /You’re too kind. So what do you have in mind?/

  “Corvis Rebaine is going to make a miraculous escape from the dungeons of Mecepheum,” Audriss said slowly, working through the scheme as he went. His pacing feet set up a monotonous thump, thump, thump, on the hard floor beneath the carpet. “Of course, he’ll be aided the entire way by agents of his ‘ally,’ Audriss. That ought to mortar a few thoughts into the heads of the rest of these idiots.” A leer curled across his face. “And once we’re clearly part of a team, with Selakrian’s spellbook in our hands, Rheah Vhoune will have no choice but to act against us. Facing the combined power of the Serpent and the Terror of the East, she’ll realize she needs the book herself to stop us. How she reacts will tell me if she truly has the key, and where.” His laughter resumed, softer than before.

  “Tell me, Pekatherosh. Have you ever served a god?”

  “WHAT? Huh …”

  “Quiet, Lord Rebaine! We’re here to help.”

  Squinting through his one good eye, his entire world muffled in a shroud of agony and exhaustion, Corvis peered at a blurry figure. He was, as best the battered warlord could determine, human and light-skinned. Probably. One eye swollen shut, the other refusing to focus, it was nothing short of a miracle he could see at all.

  His splintered ribs screaming at him, digging viciously into flesh, Corvis used the wall to prop himself into a sitting position. His tattered rags left a dark stain smeared across the stones in a profane shadow of a rainbow.

  “Easy, my lord, easy,” the voice admonished. “You’re in bad shape, Lord Rebaine, and we’ve got a way to go.”

  “Go?” It was happening too quickly, whatever “it” was. Corvis’s head was spinning and screeching at him like a crow in a tornado.

  He leaned toward the floor, tried to push himself up, collapsed with a muffled gurgle of pain as the broken bones of his left arm ground together and refused to support him. His face, puffy and swollen, barely even registered the pain as it bounced off the floor.

  Pressure on his shoulders and his upper arms, the blood-encrusted stone falling away from his bleary gaze. It took him a moment to realize he was being lifted, powerfully but gently, to his feet. He stumbled, his legs refusing to lock, his weight sagging against the other’s grip. Then, with a defiant effort, he forced his knees to cease their shaking, demanded his abused and aching muscles to quit slacking and get back to work. It took a moment, and if someone had flipped through a book too swiftly the breeze would be enough to send him tumbling, but he stood, finally, on his own.

  “Where …,” he gasped, and immediately fell into a spasm of choking. His liberator waited for the fit to pass, reacting only with a sideways glance as Corvis hawked up a mouthful of semi-congealed blood and spat it vigorously onto the floor.

  “Out,” the other said softly, peering suspiciously out into the hallway beyond the door. Corvis, even with his blurred vision, could see the lock had not been picked, but wrenched open by main strength. Even in his prime and at full health, he would have been hard-pressed to duplicate such a feat.

  “How many?” the warlord wheezed. His vision was clearing slightly, though his head throbbed in time to his wildly beating heart. His entire body threatened to dissolve into a wave of pure agony and flow out from beneath him.

  “I see none at the moment. But these dungeons are not well patrolled, as they are believed secure—”

  “No.” Another brief cough. “I meant how many …” A wheezing breath, panting.

  “How many men do I have?” the other asked, finally understanding.

  “Yes …”

  “Myself and two others, Lord Rebaine.”

  The Terror started, one eye wide. “Three? Three of you infiltrated …” Corvis’s legs chose that moment to collapse, noodle-like, beneath him. Only his rescuer’s astounding reflexes saved him from tumbling again to the floor.

  “We will be enough, Lord Rebaine.” Carefully, maintaining his grip until the warlord could once more stand under his own power, he propped his charge up beside the nearest wall. Nodding gratefully, Corvis leaned on it with his good—or, more accurately, less bad—arm.

  “A larger force would be detected,” the man continued. Corvis could now make out further details. The fellow wore black, of course, for an operation of this sort. A leaf-bladed short sword hung at his waist, but he otherwise appeared unarmed. He was, as the warlord noted, quite fair of skin, and his hair was crow-feather black. “Stealth is essential if we are to win free of this place before your absence is discovered. My companions are currently keeping a watch along our intended route. There is an old sally port not far from the dungeon. It will mean a quick run across an open garden, I fear, but I think we can manage you for that long if—”

  “My weapons,” Corvis rasped, shaking his head. “Need … Sunder and Khanda.”

  The dark-haired man shook his head. “Too risky, Lord Rebaine. We need—”

  “Not … asking you.” He took a tottering step from the wall, and remained standing. Dust and cobwebs coated his arm, his bac
k, the side of his face, but he wasn’t leaning now. “This will go a lot faster,” he said, forcing himself to speak clearly, “if you just accept it. Do you know where they keep the confiscated equipment?”

  The other man glared, then shook his head with a sigh. “I believe we know the general vicinity,” he said discouragingly, “but not the exact location. The best we can do is get you into the proper hall.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Can you call upon your demon at that distance?”

  “I don’t know,” Corvis said, a strange, enigmatic half smile stretching his cracked lips. He winced as one of them split under the pressure and began, again, to bleed. “I can speak to him without direct contact, but it’s difficult. In my condition, I’m not sure I can reach him.” He shrugged, then gasped in pain as bones that weren’t hanging exactly as they should moved in unison with his shoulders. “On the other hand,” he said, face pale where it wasn’t mottled by bruising, “we don’t seem to have any other options.”

  “Of course we do. We can move straight toward the exit—as we should have been doing for the past five minutes, instead of arguing—and get out of here. No weapon is worth—”

  “Oh, spare me the act,” Corvis growled. “If I’d wanted a show, I’d have bloody well paid for a ticket.”

  “What? My lord, you’re delirious. I—”

  “Why does Audriss want me free?”

  To his credit, a brief blink was the only sign of the fellow’s shock.

  “How did you know?” he asked simply.

  None of my people but Seilloah, Davro, and Losalis know what Khanda is, he could have said.

  But he did not. Instead, he said simply, “We don’t employ your kind.”

  “My kind?”

  “Come on, now. Pale skin, black hair … Yes, some humans fit that description. But it was enough to make me wonder, and there are signs, if you know what to look for.” Corvis smiled again, though it hurt more than he would admit. “And if you really didn’t want me to retrieve my stuff, you wouldn’t have given me the option. You’d have just carried me. So not only does Audriss want me out of here, he wants me out of here fully armed. Why would that be, I wonder?”