The Conquerors Shadow

by Ari Marmell

  The other man scowled. “You’re doing so well,” he said, just a bit petulantly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Because if I were making a real escape,” Corvis told him, “I wouldn’t leave without them.”

  “Very good, Lord Rebaine.”

  “So if we’re through playing our little games, shall we get moving? Someone’s bound to come along sooner or later, and I’m not exactly at my quickest right now.”

  “You’ll cooperate?” The tone was, to put it mildly, incredulous.

  “Friend, I don’t know why the Serpent’s helping me, and I’m certain I won’t like the answer. But I’m quite sure I’ll prefer it to spending any more time in this hole!”

  Of course, if his suspicions were correct, and not merely the product of fevered delusions, Audriss was the same man who was keeping him down here, beating him, torturing him. But no sense in playing that particular ace until he held a better hand to go with it.

  And so, doing his best to maintain the stumbling, shuffling pace that was all he could manage—and trying very hard not to think about what accompanied him—Corvis followed the unholy creature toward the light.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Everything’s ready, Lord Rebaine.”

  Corvis waved a black gauntlet at the guard. “All right. Prisoners first.” Without waiting to see if his orders would be followed—they always were—the Terror of the East spun, cloak flowing like a wave, and heaved his armor-clad bulk into the great stone chair.

  It was a throne, really, in all but name. It was here that the baron had formerly held his audiences with the leading citizens of Hollecere. It was clear from the great throne, the raised dais on which it sat, and the towering windows beyond that split the rays of the midday sun through stained glass that “m’lord” had clearly held aspirations higher than his station.

  Now he was dead, of course, his head stuck on a pike beside the gates of his city, and he didn’t aspire to much of anything. But his arrogance had left Rebaine the perfect site for the show that the citizens of Hollecere were forcing him to put on.

  First through the doors were a dozen of Corvis’s guards, fully armored, naked broadswords glinting evilly in gauntleted fists. Valescienn led the pack, his lips compressed into a grim line—whether because even he couldn’t stomach the thought of what was to come, or to prevent himself from grinning maniacally, Corvis couldn’t say, but for a brief moment he absolutely loathed his cold-blooded lieutenant.

  Shuffling amid the guards, clad only in rags and leg irons, their hair matted and their skin filthy from days without bathing, came more than a score of prisoners. Their steps faltered, more than even the heavy manacles could account for, and their eyes glazed, for each and every one of them had been given heavily drugged wine. It was vital, for what was to come, that they remain unfocused, their minds unable to react to any event.

  Unable to prepare.

  Corvis felt a surge of nausea and forced it down. These were some of Hollecere’s surviving military officers, community elders, priests of Kassek and Panaré and Sannos—and all were leaders in a resistance that had formed the moment the city fell to the invading armies. Their attacks had been well planned and, worse, unexpected. The Terror’s armies had grown lax, accustomed to the instant obedience they’d acquired after their prior conquests. Already, Rebaine had lost more than a hundred men, including several officers, and almost a week of time to the Hollecere underground, and he could afford no more. Not with the end so near.

  So it was time to make a statement, to remind Hollecere—indeed all of Imphallion—what it was to defy the Terror of the East.

  Another wave of his hand, and the prisoners were lined up on the dais before the throne, turned to face the room, and forced—rather easily, given their befuddled states—to their knees.

  “The others,” he ordered hollowly.

  Again the door opened. More soldiers and several ogres—including Davro, now chieftain of the tribe since Gundrek had fallen to resistance assassins—ushered in the audience Corvis required. These were several dozen more of Hollecere’s citizens; some were also priests of various gods. They, too, were necessary for this to work. They would recognize what was to come from religious tales, and would confirm for any skeptics among the populace that the Terror had indeed done what he claimed.

  Corvis gave them just a few moments to recognize the faces of those who knelt, drugged and chained, upon the dais, allowing their horrified murmurs and whispers to reach a fever pitch before rising to his feet. The room fell silent, as every sober eye stared into the impassive face of the Terror’s iron-banded skull.

  “I didn’t wish this,” Rebaine intoned, voice echoing once within his helm, a second time between the room’s stone walls. “I had hoped that the blood I was forced to shed in taking this city would be enough. Alas, Hollecere has proved me wrong, proved itself far less wise than its sister cities. The deaths of your leaders and your soldiers, displayed for you atop the gates and from the guttering streetlights, has proved insufficient deterrence.

  “Maybe you feel that your deaths are worth it, that bravery in the face of hopeless odds will somehow aid your families, or grant you a greater glory in the afterlife. But make no mistake: This is no bravery, it is stupidity. And you have forced my hand. If you don’t value your lives enough to remain obedient, to leave me and mine alone to do what must be done, then perhaps you value your souls.”

  Ignoring the sudden fearful cries from below, Corvis turned his attention inward, lowered his voice lest it be heard beyond the confines of his helm. “Khanda?”

  /Yes, O bone-headed one?/

  “The leaders are drugged—too drugged even to recognize that they’re in danger. They’re yours, Khanda. All of them.”

  /For me? Oh, Corvis, you shouldn’t have! You know, my birthday’s not for a couple of months …/

  “Gods damn you! Just do it!”

  The crowd erupted into a single, multitongued scream as the leaders of the resistance simply collapsed, their eyes and mouths leaking a hellish red luminescence before their features vanished utterly in a shower of gore.

  A raised hand was enough to silence them. “Spread your stories through Hollecere. Let everyone know that this will be the fate of any still foolish enough to rise up against me.” Corvis turned to face Davro, who stood across the room with pale, clenched fists and an unreadable expression. “Show our guests out.” He lowered himself once more into the stone-backed chair, stared across the room at nothing at all until everyone else was gone.

  /That was fun, Corvis. Can we do that again?/ The warlord ripped the iron-and-bone helm from his head and bent over the side of the chair, his entire body convulsing, yet his heaves brought nothing up. It seemed that his gut had become as hollow as his soul.

  But at least, thank all the gods, it was almost over. No more cities stood between his armies and Denathere. No matter how low he had allowed himself to fall, soon, so soon, it would finally be over …

  /WELL, old boy, I can’t say as how I’m entirely pleased to hear your voice again. But I’ll acknowledge that it’s not altogether a bad thing under the circumstances. That bitch Rheah kept poking and prodding at me for hours!/

  Corvis, breathing heavily, slumped with his back to the iron-banded door, grinned through his exhaustion. “Why, Khanda,” he whispered at the keyhole, “did you just say something nice to me?”

  /Not at all. I said something a bit less nasty than normal. It only seems nice by comparison./

  “I’ll take it.” The warlord quickly brought both hands up to his mouth, trying to muffle another fit of choking. The thing that had come to rescue him, who currently stood over the body of two very dead guards, glowered at him, then returned to watching the hall for any further interruptions.

  Corvis ran his eyes over the heavy portal on which he leaned: thick oak, banded with three separate strips of iron, possessed of a heavy black lock. Shaking his head, he painfully dragged himself back to
his feet. “Hey, you! What’s-your-name!”

  The creature again spun, lips clenched angrily. “Lord Rebaine, if you want to call the entire castle guard down on our heads, that’s your business. I can just become mist. I don’t believe you’d appreciate the consequences, however.”

  “Sorry. Any chance you could just mist yourself under the door and retrieve my stuff?”

  “No chance at all. Neither the Kholben Shiar nor your demon would make the transformation with me.”

  “Ah. Well, can you deal with the door, then?”

  A sudden kick slammed into the wood beneath the latch with roughly the force of an enraged rhino. Wood splintered, iron bent, and the door ceased, by all meaningful definitions, to be a door at all.

  “Well,” Corvis said softly as the dust and debris settled at his feet. “That was certainly—vigorous. But …” He coughed again, triggered by the floating particles that formerly constituted part of the mauled portal. “I thought you were the one who wanted us to be quieter?”

  “And how, then, would you have wished me to ‘deal with’ the door?”

  “Uh …”

  “Precisely. May I humbly suggest, Lord Rebaine, that you do whatever you came to do, so we can move on?”

  Corvis limped into the storeroom, his entire body shuddering with pain at even the simple effort of lifting his feet high enough to clear the rubble.

  The room was relatively well ordered, though some of the articles had tumbled off their shelves when the door burst. Various chests, boxes, weapons, scroll cases, books, and other curiosities cluttered the racks and cupboards, but it was Sunder that first caught Corvis’s roving eye. Though it currently wore the form of a two-handed greatsword, the style of the hilt and the needle-thin engravings that rode up and down the blade like errant travelers made the weapon unmistakable. But even as the beaten warlord stretched forth his hand to reclaim the Kholben Shiar, another, rock-hard grip slapped down on his wrist.

  “You’ll forgive my paranoia, Lord Rebaine, but I think I have to insist on carrying your weapon for the time being. Wouldn’t want you getting any unfortunate notions in your current condition.”

  “No, of course not,” Corvis said drily. “Can’t have that.”

  He was, however, fascinated to discover that Sunder didn’t shift when his “companion” lifted it from the shelf on which it lay. The Kholben Shiar always changed to fit the wielder.

  Unless, of course, the wielder possessed no soul to read.

  /Corvis! Are you going to stand around all day admiring your shaft, or are we getting out of here?/

  All right, so where … ah. Corvis just barely spotted a few tiny links of chain, jutting from a chest in a far corner. He shuffled over, ignoring the worsening pain as he forced the lid all the way open, the ribs on that side gleefully chewing away at his insides. There the pendant lay, atop a heap of bone and black steel that Corvis had grown to truly despise over the past months. His fingers weakly closed around the chain an instant before he collapsed with a muffled sob into the corner of the room.

  /You’re really not in good shape, are you?/

  “So good … of you … to notice,” the Terror gasped, choking for breath.

  /I aim to please. Umm, you are aware that your compatriot over there is a—/

  “Yes, I know.” Again using the wall as a crutch, Corvis once more struggled feebly to his feet. “We should hurry,” he said toward the figure looming in the shattered doorway. “Our luck can’t hold out much longer.”

  “You’re not healing yourself?” the other asked, with a gesture toward the dimly glowing pendant.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know,” Corvis replied. “Demons can’t heal. Hell, it’s damn near impossible even to magically heal a demon-made wound. It’s fire and water. They’re sort of at opposite ends of the karmic continuum, as it were.”

  /Has anyone ever told you that you get obnoxiously verbose when beaten into a bloody pulp?/

  “Shut up, Khanda.”

  The warlord’s companion shrugged. “Why would I know? What need have I for magical healing?”

  “Granted, but—”

  “It does, however, leave me in something of a quandary.”

  Corvis tensed, an act that in and of itself caused him no small amount of discomfort. “Oh?”

  “Yes. You see, I expected you to be rather better off before we departed. I’m not entirely certain you’re currently capable of outrunning a lethargic sloth.”

  “Well, if I got the drop on him …”

  “I’ll have to carry you, I fear.”

  “You fear! I don’t want you that close to me! I—”

  “In addition to which,” he continued, ignoring Corvis’s growing annoyance at his inability to complete a sentence, “is the fact that I don’t believe that either I, or Audriss, particularly wants you to have access to any real power at the moment. Since Khanda can’t heal you, there’s no need for you to keep hold of him.”

  “Oh no you don’t! I—”

  By which point the other had already sidled up to him and cracked him across the jaw with a closed fist.

  At full health, the Terror of the East might have reacted fast enough to stop it. As it was, he barely registered Khanda’s sudden /Oh, sh …/ before he collapsed, unconscious, once again.

  THE JOURNEY to the Serpent’s encampment was less unpleasant than Corvis’s stay in the regent’s dungeons, which was to say that it was only the second most miserable event of his life. His trio of liberators tossed his semiconscious body onto a saddle, lashed his hands to the pommel to keep him from sliding, and rode swiftly into the night. They’d acquired for him a cloak, boots, tunic, and pants, and cleaned the worst of the filth off him, but made precious little further effort to make him comfortable. Now and again he spotted Sunder and a few spurs of bone jutting from the saddlebag of one of his so-called companions, and he assumed Khanda and the other component pieces of his armor could be found within as well. They did him no good at all where they were, though, and the Terror wasn’t yet so irrational as to believe he had a chance of getting to them.

  The constant pounding of hooves on the ground, the rise and fall of the horse beneath him, sent constant javelins of pain through him. Aggravated by the perpetual stretching and abuse, his wounds refused to close, vomiting fresh crimson whenever the ride grew rough. Shards of broken bone stabbed him from within at every step. One night, Corvis dismounted to find blood soaking through his shirt where there was no wound before. Upon examination, he realized, with no small amount of disgust, that a sliver of rib had actually cut him open from within. He’d grown so inured to the pain he hadn’t even noticed it happening.

  They rode through the heart of winter. It only snowed lightly, and that was something to be grateful for, but it was a small favor at best. The cold made him lethargic, and the frigid air set his wounds to aching, throbbing in time with the steady plodding of his horse.

  They rode for perhaps a week, passing snow-coated woods and villages lying largely abandoned, maintaining a pace Corvis would have found trying at the best of times. He could no longer differentiate one injury from another, and he found himself maneuvering through the day in a daze, the road fringed with visions that had no place beyond the confines of his dreams. The trees, though sparse and scattered beside the road, suddenly grew thickly around him, looming dangerously, and he was once again riding through the ever-tightening tunnel in the forest of Theaghl-gohlatch, the sidhe cackling madly from all sides.

  “Not a pleasant place,” Tyannon said from where she walked casually beside him, clad in a light summer dress despite the frost coating the road. She didn’t leave any footprints behind her. “I’m glad I didn’t bring the children.”

  “You’re not here,” Corvis said, trying to blink her away.

  “You’re probably right,” his wife replied with a shrug that set her brown hair dancing in ways that always captivated him. “On the other hand, you’re not really here, either,” she added
, pointing to the darkening trees. “Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that here isn’t you.”

  “I know that. I think. So, since you’re sort of here, what do you want?”

  “A million gold nobles and the meaning of life.” It was an old joke, one they’d shared since before they were wed. Hearing it now cheered Corvis considerably.

  “Maybe,” not-Tyannon said seriously, “I ought to ask you that question.”

  “At this point? I just want to lie down and sleep for a month or three. I hurt, Tyannon. I hurt more than I ever thought possible.”

  “You’ll get through this, Corvis,” she told him seriously, her soulful eyes staring into his own, and the warlord found himself wanting to believe his wife truly stood before him. Gods, he hadn’t seen her in so long! “You’ll get through it, and you’ll come back to us. I love you.”

  “Will you, though?” he asked, voice cracking. “Will you love me after I kill your brother?” It was the first time he’d put his reluctant conclusion into words.

  “Jassion? Why would you kill Jassion?”

  Corvis sighed. “He’s Audriss, Tyannon. I don’t know how it happened, or why, but Jassion is Audriss.”

  “Oh.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments. Then the hallucination frowned. “If it’s true, Corvis, then you do whatever you have to do. I’ll understand.”

  “I hope you will,” he said sincerely.

  “I have to go soon,” she told him. “You’re almost there.”

  “We can’t be,” he protested. “Audriss is supposed to be at Pelapheron! We’ve only been traveling a week or so.”

  “Good-bye, Corvis. Do what you must, but remember something, sweetheart. Things change. Sometimes when you want them to, sometimes when you don’t. But things do change. Remember that. And remember, we love you.”