The Warlord's Legacy

  The other looked at the hand, made no move to take it. “One of us has to,” he said with a faint sneer.

  Jassion ground his teeth. “And what am I to call you, my new companion?”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’ll be inspired to come up with a great many things to call me.

  “But for now, Kaleb will do.”

  Chapter Four

  THE CEPHIRANS WORKED THEMSELVES into a right frenzy upon discovering the two murdered guards, but after a few days of scampering, anthill-like activity, they’d discovered precisely nothing. The bodies were found nowhere near the workers’ barracks, and since none of the prisoners had escaped or apparently even freed himself from his shackles, obviously none of them could be the culprit. The soldiers fiercely questioned everyone and doubled patrols in and around the city for more than a week, and stricter curfews made things even more unpleasant for Rahariem’s citizens, but the status quo ultimately reasserted itself, as is so often its wont.

  Another week or two drifted past; Cerris was starting to lose track. The pervasive but gentle warmth of early summer was steadily building toward its typical midseason inferno, the sun’s firm hands curling into pounding fists. Each evening, the forced laborers returned to their barracks weaker, coated in thicker films of a mud consisting of dust and sweat. Listlessly they swallowed cold stew and warm water, then collapsed into exhausted slumber. Cerris began to wonder if he’d have the strength to react to Irrial’s signal if and when he spotted it.

  On the day he finally did, however, the sudden surge of excitement blew away the worst of his fatigue like a sparrow in a hurricane.

  It was nothing remarkable, just a plume of smoke rising from one of the many chimneys of the many houses in Rahariem’s richest quarter. Only by scampering up the hillside beside which he was digging the road could Cerris confirm that it came from the Lady Irrial’s estate. Just a typical, everyday sight for the manor, since even the reduced staff required a hefty amount of cooking in order to feed them all. Only someone as familiar with the house as Cerris could possibly have known that the chimney smoking now led not to any kitchen, but to the large fireplace in the parlor, a fireplace that had no business burning in the midst of the summer heat. When they first came up with this scheme, Cerris had worried that the guards billeted in the manor might ask questions, but Irrial assured him that they rarely returned before mid-evening.

  So … It was time. Finally. A repetition of his illusions kept Cerris free of the manacles and chains, earning him his freedom once the line of workers had marched back to their stifling, acrid barracks. This time, however, as he’d no intention of sneaking back, Cerris took a rather more direct approach to escaping the billet itself.

  Specifically, he set the roof on fire.

  It took time—many minutes of intense concentration and chanting eldritch syllables under his breath—but the wood above finally rewarded him with the curling smoke and dancing flame he needed. A few shouts were more than sufficient to wake the others, and their combined uproar brought the guards running. In a frantic rush the length of chain was unlatched from its post and the prisoners shuffled hurriedly outside, there to join the guards in a makeshift bucket brigade.

  Cerris, once again cloaked in an illusory uniform, was already moving toward the city, occasionally setting other makeshift structures and canvas tents alight as he went. It should be some hours before the Cephiran soldiers had the opportunity to catch their breaths, take stock, and notice a single prisoner’s absence.

  It was simplicity itself, in the raging chaos, for the fugitive to find a soldier alone and distracted, and thus to again acquire for himself a tabard and hauberk that would withstand more careful scrutiny. The same two men stood post at Irrial’s gate; it was, apparently, their regularly assigned post.

  “What’s going on out there?” the elder of them asked as Cerris approached, gesturing toward the faint glow beyond the city walls.

  “Fire,” he said curtly as he passed, scarcely giving them time to haul open the gate. “It’s under control, though. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  Irrial and her remaining staff were waiting as he slipped through the front door. All were clad in workman’s leathers rather than their accustomed finery. The butler Rannert looked particularly put out by the whole affair, but he also hefted a short sword like a man who knew how to use it.

  “I’m glad you made it,” the baroness told Cerris warmly. Then, without waiting for a reply, “Captain Liveln.”

  “I … what?”

  “Captain Liveln. She was wearing a large mace at her side during the last meeting, one with an impressive array of etchings across the flanges.”

  Cerris smiled coldly. “Is she staying with the others?”

  “So far as I know. You never did tell me how you’re planning to reach her.”

  “I thought I’d get her to invite me in, actually. Might I borrow a quill, an inkpot, and some parchment?”

  Irrial frowned, but gestured at Rannert. Expression unchanging save for a fluttering eyelid, he delivered the requested items. Cerris took only a moment to scribble a note, and several more to work a taper from a nearby candelabrum. The wax he dripped upon the folded parchment would never pass as any sort of formal seal, but it would suffice to reveal if anyone opened the missive. Cerris stuck the letter through his belt and, even as the baroness drew breath to speak, twisted his neck to stare briefly at every man and woman assembled in the chamber.

  “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 se
emed 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 other 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 t
here’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.”