The Warlord's legacy

Chapter Twenty-one

THEY COULD NEVER COMPREHEND IT, of course, but the horses had every reason to be grateful for the sorry state of Corvis and his companions. Had they been able, the riders would likely have ridden the poor beasts to death under the twin pressures of the hastening spell-cast by Seilloah, this time, as Corvis was in no shape to invoke it-and their desperation to put distance between themselves and the manifest demon.

Instead, as they pounded across the open road, every step a jolt of sheer agony, the wind driving dust and grit into open wounds, Corvis knew they would have to stop, and stop soon. If they didn't, the ride itself might well kill them, saving Khanda the trouble.

Well, he noted bitterly, Khanda and the Cephirans.

Khanda, the Cephirans, and the agents of the Guilds.

And possibly the gnomes, if they'd found their missing brother.

And Jassion himself, for that matter.

It was all enough to make a fellow really depressed.

For long hours, Corvis didn't see the road before him, or the horse's mane waving in his face. He saw only the farmhouse, less than a mile from the village proper, in which Jassion had sworn they'd left Mellorin, and the rented loft in which he'd sworn they would find her.

They hadn't. Indeed, they'd found no sign of anyone within the house, be it Mellorin or the homeowners. Corvis would have stayed, torn apart the whole house-the whole village-with his bare hands, no matter that it took hours or even days; would have gladly consigned his life to Khanda rather than leave his little girl in the demon's clutches. When his companions had made to drag him from his search, to flee before the creature freed itself, he'd actually reached for Sunder.

It had, astoundingly, been neither Irrial nor Seilloah but Jassion who'd gotten through to him. "Rebaine, if that creature finds us, he'll slaughter us. All of us. You think it'll matter to him if Mellorin's with us? So long as he can use her, she lives! Would you be the one to change her from ally to enemy in his eyes?"

And so, though Corvis wept with frustration and burned with the need to feel the baron's neck break beneath his squeezing fingers, they had gone. On stolen horses they fled, and swiftly the old warrior learned that he would not easily lose himself in the journey, for each pain he escaped was replaced by another.

Every limb ached. His back screamed in agony where he'd struck the rubble, and each jostle of the horse's steps made it worse. His jaw pounded, the laceration on his forehead itched, his gut ached where the very tip of Talon had stuck him after transfixing Khanda. And thank Kassek and Panare both that it had just been the tip; it didn't take much for the Kholben Shiar to kill. (Corvis hadn't bothered to ask Jassion if he'd meant to stab them both, since he was pretty sure he knew the answer.)

But all that, Corvis could have managed. It was the wound to his mind and soul that threatened to lay him low. He couldn't rid himself of the memory of Khanda's foul presence in his head. He felt filthy, violated. He swore something slick and viscous clung inside him, coating his thoughts. He hurt anytime he tried to reason, and the simple act of remembering burned like an infected sore. Even picturing Mellorin, allowing himself the worry and concern that was his right as a father, was almost too painful to bear. Corvis had never been a religious man, but he prayed now beneath his breath, begging the gods to let him heal before the poison in his psyche fermented into true dementia.

At least, if nothing else, the voice that had yammered at him for years, and so much more frequently in recent weeks, seemed to have gone silent. Had it truly been a lingering remnant, now returned to the resurrected demon? Or had it been imagination, the first signs of a fracturing mind, now buried beneath a more severe insipient madness? Corvis dared not even guess, and it hurt too terribly to think about; he knew only that, as silver linings went, trading a phantom of Khanda for the real thing left much to be desired.

He twisted in the saddle, groaning and clutching his stomach, struggling to see the others. The clouds seemed to be following them from town-were they, too, fleeing Khanda's presence?-and they wept a persistent drizzle that hung in the air, forming a glutinous fog. The moon was nothing but a gleaming sliver within those clouds, selfishly hoarding its light, and were it not for the sounds of hooves and the sporadic groan of pained fatigue, Corvis might have thought himself alone.

But then, he didn't need to see, not really. He'd seen his companions well enough when they'd mounted up, and assuredly none of them had gotten better over the intervening miles.

He tried to shout, to make himself heard over the horses and the rain, and succeeded only in driving himself into a fit of hacking coughs. Fine, then. They'd just have to follow. Corvis yanked on the reins, driving his horse off the path and across a rocky, scrub-dotted plain.

Here there were insufficient trees in which to hide. But the knolls and rises of stone, while lacking both the height and the sheltering caves of those through which they'd earlier passed, boasted the occasional overhang within the bowl-shaped depressions that feebly masqueraded as valleys. Poor cover indeed, but it would keep some of the rain from their heads-and, more important, hide them from casual search. They might even risk a brief fire, if they kept it banked low.

Corvis didn't know if the others realized what he was doing, or followed him purely out of habit, but nobody hesitated or questioned the change in direction.

It was tricky, picking a course through the rocky slopes on horseback. Corvis was forced to gather what little focus he could muster and cast a spell of illumination. He kept it dull, scarcely brighter than a candle. It was feeble, but it was enough, and some moments later they tromped listlessly into a hollow between two hills.

Corvis toppled from the saddle in what couldn't even generously be called "dismounting," landing on his feet through sheer force of will. He watched as the others filed slowly into the meager light upon horses lathered in sweat and rain. Irrial remained in the best shape of them all. Though her skin was pallid, her hands lacerated, her limbs covered in bruises, she displayed no serious injuries and her shoulders remained unbowed. With as much care as she could muster, she hauled Seilloah's canine form from a broad leather saddlebag and laid her gently on the earth. The witch was trembling, whimpering in agonies that resulted only partly from recent travails. Open sores marred her matted fur, and her tongue lolled out in constant panting. Corvis didn't need her to explain that she would need a new body soon-or that she had only a few "mounts" remaining before her magics could no longer sustain her.

That thought, in turn, drew his attention to the final rider, and Corvis found his physical discomfort washed away. Jassion was teetering precariously, one foot in the stirrup as he dismounted, when the older warrior seized him by the shoulders, hauling him bodily from the horse and slamming him against the slope of the nearest hill. Dust erupted around the impact, then fell from the air as the raindrops transfigured it into mud. Corvis loomed over him, fists clenched so hard they trembled. He'd torn open the shallow wound in his belly, making his tunic and trousers run red, but he hardly seemed to notice.

"You bastard!" He lurched forward, landing with one hand on the slope, the other grasping at Jassion's neck. "You brought Mellorin into this? Does your own godsdamn family mean nothing to you?"

Jassion's own hands closed on Corvis's wrist, holding the choking fingers just inches from his throat. He snarled a response, but the words were lost in the steady drizzle and the heavy gasping of two enraged foes.

This close, and with the worst of the blood washed away by the weather, Corvis saw that the injury he'd inflicted to Jassion's face wasn't quite so bad as he'd thought. Only a small chunk of the nose had actually been ripped away. What remained would always be mangled, clearly disfigured, but with proper attention and a skilled healer, the baron would be able to breathe properly, smell the scents of the world around him, speak without impediment.

Except that Corvis didn't plan to give him the time to heal. Or, for that matter, to breathe.

There they remained, locked together by flesh and hatred-for mere seconds, for untold centuries. Until a gleaming length of steel appeared between them, a serpent's tongue flickering between their faces.

"That's enough! Both of you, back off." Startled, Corvis loosened his grip and stepped away, even as Jassion stood upright.

It took Corvis a moment to recognize the voice. Much time had passed since he'd heard Irrial speak as a baroness, but she did so now, her back and her blade held straight, her expression and her voice harder than the surrounding rock. Even battered and bedraggled in the falling rain, Corvis thought she'd never looked so imperial.

And the part of him that could still push some amount of coherent thought through the residue in his soul and the fury burning in his blood believed, without doubt, that she would use that blade if they did not heed her command.

"Irrial, what-?"

"No. You first, Rebaine. That-that thing. That was the demon you spoke of? That was Khanda?"

"It was," he said, casting a bitter glare at Jassion.

It was nearly invisible, so rigid did the baron hold himself, but his face wilted just a little. "I didn't know. I couldn't know."

"Couldn't you?" Corvis demanded. "I don't-"

Again, Irrial cut him off. "Shut it!" She shook her head, sending water spraying in all directions. Then, after a moment, "Baron Jassion?"

"My lady?" he answered reflexively.

"Why did you help us?"

Fingers curled and uncurled, a jaw shifted as teeth ground together. Jassion seemed to wrestle with his emotions more fiercely than he had with Corvis himself.

"Because…" He took a deep breath, spat the words as though they burned him. "Because I will not be responsible for setting this Khanda loose upon Imphallion. Because some things"-and his voice dropped in amazement at his own admission-"are more important even than this." His glare left no doubt as to who "this" meant.

"Good. Then you two can damn well put this aside until we've dealt with the bloody demon! Afterward, I don't care. Slaughter each other, drown in each other's blood, carve each other into fish bait-I don't care. But so help me gods, you'll do it afterward, not now!"

Corvis knew that the look he cast at Jassion was petulant, petty-as petulant and petty as the one he received in exchange. But Irrial was right, and no matter how he wanted to deny it, to feel the baron's bones break under his fists, to drive Sunder through that despised face, he knew she was right.

It was, for that matter, no more than he'd asked of her, from the instant he'd told her his real name.

Lacking the energy even to grumble under his breath, Corvis stalked away to the far side of the tiny vale.

It was only after he'd slumped down, shifted a few times trying (and failing) to find a position where the rocks didn't bite into his aching back, that he noticed the shivering hound beside him. The smell of wet dog was a slap across the face, but he figured it wiser not to comment.

"Yes?" he asked in a coarse rasp.

"You're not just going to leave it like this!" Seilloah demanded.

He would, at least, do her the courtesy of not pretending to ask what she was talking about. "Only for a time, Seilloah. Only until-"

"You said you'd kill him!"

"I will, damn it! But not now. Irrial's right. We need him. Mellorin needs him! He knows too much about what's going on for us to just throw that-"

"Corvis, he murdered me!"

He reached out to take her snout in his hand, but she jerked aside. "And if there's any way for me to make him pay for that, I will," he swore. "But Seilloah, this has to come first! This-"

"Of course it does," she spat at him. "Your concerns always come first, don't they?"

The witch was gone, limping as fast as three working legs could manage, before Corvis could draw breath to reply. NIGHTMARES BESIEGED CORVIS'S SLUMBER. Happy memories bubbled like burned stew through his brain, painful and foul. In the shadows of every image, every dream, he saw Khanda, laughing, and from his gnarled, inhuman fingers hung a limp body whose face Corvis didn't dare allow himself to see.

They slept later than they meant to the following morning, bone-deep exhaustion proving more than a match for their need to keep moving. Most of their aches and pains and wounds weren't much improved. Seilloah hadn't returned, and Corvis's own spells of healing were meager, little better than mundane poultices and herbs. But he'd found that, so long as he didn't dwell on anything in particular, the mere act of remembering didn't seem quite so agonizing as it had the previous night. He dared hope that the residue of Khanda's violation would fade with time.

Even once they'd awakened, they found themselves unable to get started immediately. The low-hanging sky was thick and grey as dirty cotton, the breeze brushed shivering skin with a thin autumn chill, and the ground had become slick mud, but at least it wasn't raining just then. Hollow stomachs demanded breakfast, fearful minds puzzled over why Khanda had not tracked them down during the night, and Corvis couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in his gut that Seilloah might never be coming back.

It was, blended with his worry for Mellorin, a bitter draught to swallow.

"Perhaps," Jassion proposed as he poked at the remnants of the dried meats that had been breakfast, "we injured him worse than we thought?" His voice, through the bandage that now ran across his face like a scarf, was wretchedly nasal. "Maybe he couldn't even find us."

"How did you find us the first time?" Irrial asked.

The baron glanced at Corvis across the charred wood that had recently been a small fire, tensing. "Mellorin."

Corvis could see Irrial and Jassion both holding their breath, and forced himself to remain motionless until he could bring his emotions back under control. "Tell me."

"For what it's worth, Rebaine, she followed us, and it was Kaleb-that is, Khanda-who decided she would come along. I thought… I believed I could protect her.

"In any event," he bulled ahead before Corvis could reply, "Khanda used her as a focus of his spells to find you."

Corvis frowned, then nodded. "Blood relation. My spells wouldn't have been strong enough to prevent that."

"No, but they interfered well enough. We had to be pretty close to pinpoint you. I don't think we've gotten far enough in one night to escape its range, but maybe, if Khanda's wounded badly enough…" He shrugged.

"So, what? You just happened to be near enough for the spell to work? When we were staying in the middle of nowhere, in a village roughly the size of a pinecone?"

"Kal-Khanda said he tracked you via the spells you'd cast on the ogre, Davro."

"Wh-Davro? Did you kill him, too?"

"No." Jassion shook his head. "Mellorin wouldn't allow it, and Khanda went along with her." It was the baron's turn to scowl. "You'd better know, Rebaine. Her relationship with 'Kaleb' has gotten, uh, complicated. As in, teenage-girl-complicated."

Corvis groaned, head actually slumping into his palms. For several moments, the others decided to let him be, though Jassion-despite his concern for Mellorin-couldn't quite repress a nasty grin at the pain in the older man's tone.

Only when he finally looked up through bloodshot eyes did Irrial ask softly, "Is it possible? Could they have found us through Davro?"

"I couldn't say," Corvis admitted. "Normally, I'd think not. Seilloah barely accomplished it, and the spell was cast directly on her. But I don't know the full extent of Khanda's power in his present form." A thought struck him. "Kaleb mentioned a 'Master Nenavar.' Does that name mean anything to you?"

Jassion's brow furrowed. "I don't believe so. Though it's fairly obvious that I know less of what's happening than I believed."

"I think," Corvis said, steeling himself with another deep breath, "that you'd better tell us everything." MECEPHEUM. No matter how he tried to avoid it, the answers always seemed to lead him back to bloody godsdamn Mecepheum! He was starting to loathe that city as virulently as he did Denathere, but the Guilds were the only answer Jassion could offer. So Mecepheum it would be.

Although the autumn air was cool and the breezes gentle, the ride was hard, the road long. Their days were a frenetic fog of anxiety, pressing the horses as hard as they dared, walking them when flesh threatened to fail beneath the strain. Their nights, save on those rare occasions when they were fortunate enough to stumble upon a convenient roadside inn, were spent tossing and turning on the hard earth. Corvis could not speak for the others, of course, but his own sleep was replete with the most hideous nightmares, growing ever worse even as his waking thoughts slowly healed from Khanda's ravages.

Each evening, he cast upon himself those spells that would alert him if someone approached too near at night, and each morning he awoke, head aching, with his wards undisturbed. Jassion had apparently, despite his burning hatred, fully accepted the need for cooperation. For the time being.

Days matured into weeks, and Khanda did not appear. Every waking moment became an exercise in paranoia, the travelers watching over their shoulders, jumping at every sound, hands dropping to weapons if a horse so much as snorted. Wounds refused to heal, thanks to the constant tension in their muscles and the pounding of horseflesh beneath them.

Even worse, Seilloah had never returned to that camp amid the rolling, rocky hills, and after hours spent in searching, they'd been forced to move on. Corvis felt as though he'd left one piece of himself behind in that hollow, and another, even larger, in the lonely farmhouse where he'd all but abandoned his daughter. He wondered, on occasion, if very much of him was left to lose.

Now, only a few days shy of their goal, they'd stopped in yet another small town, taken rooms for the night in yet another small inn. It was bustling without being too packed, laborers crowding the benches and tables, barmaids wending their way from one throng to the next. It smelled neither of food nor drink but of autumn leaves. Corvis wondered idly how they managed it, but didn't care enough to ask.

Mellorin had always loved the autumn, as a child.

Jassion sat halfway around the room, uninterested in conversation. He idly examined the blade he'd purchased in Orthessis to replace Talon, checking it for flaws that might somehow have escaped his notice during a dozen prior, similar inspections. Corvis couldn't help but remember another tavern, another common room, another sword, another conversation. He couldn't decide if it felt like yesterday or another lifetime.

Irrial, it seemed, had noticed the same similarities. "It sort of feels like we're running around in circles, doesn't it?" she asked from across the table.

"You've no idea," he told her bitterly. "He's done it to me again, Irrial."

"What are you…?"

"Khanda." Hatred dripped like venom from the name. "Another war. Another threat to my family. And Khanda lurking around its edges, hiding behind whoever started it, drawing me out. Using me for what I have, or what I know. I'm tired enough of battle-I'm bloody sick of being led into battle by the nose!" He couldn't hold his hands entirely steady as he took a slug of a drink he'd forgotten he'd ordered; foamy suds sloshed over the tankard's rim, dribbled down his fingers. "I'm tired of seeing the wrong people die."

Irrial furrowed her brow at that, and Corvis was certain some biting comment was on its way, but it never materialized. Instead, "You're really worried about her, aren't you?"

"She's my daughter," he said simply. "I'd die for her."

"I believe you would, at that." She sounded amazed, though whether it was at his assertion, or at herself for believing his assertion, Corvis couldn't guess. They sat, each drinking, each contemplating the other.

"I don't understand you, Corvis," she finally told him. "But I think I understand Tyannon a little better. There really are two different people inside that soul of yours, aren't there?"

"I'm not sure I follow." Or maybe you're just going somewhere I don't want to follow. Postponing her reply, he waved over one of the barmaids, barked an order for another flagon and more bread and cheese. It was gooey, salty stuff, that last, but after weeks of dried meats, it'd do.

Irrial waited, her face blank, until the woman had come and gone, returned with the order and gone once more. She leaned in, so she might make herself heard over the growing crowd without shouting.

"You so clearly care about Mellorin-about all your family. I know you're worried sick about Seilloah, I saw your concern for our brethren in the Rahariem resistance. I think… I think you even truly care about me, despite the last few months. I know you certainly used to."

"Well, gods be-"

"I'm not done."

A pause. "Sorry."

"I've seen all that, Corvis. I've seen that you're not just a monster. And I know that you care for the people of Imphallion as a whole-or you think you do, at any rate. You're helping them now, even if you also have personal reasons. You told me once that everything you've done, you did for them, and I think part of you really means that."

Corvis swirled his mug until it sloshed. "Um, thank you?"

"And yet," she said, her tone growing hard once more, "you have no trouble at all wading to your goal through rivers of blood. Slaughtering families, hanging body parts like bunting.

"Consorting with demons."

"It wasn't like I wanted to-"

"But you did. It doesn't matter if you wanted to-you were willing to. You know what I think, Corvis?" she asked, gesturing with an empty fork.

"I'm not certain I want to," he confessed.

"Too bad. I think that you're so disdainful of people as a whole that you forget-that you let yourself forget-that each one is a person. You talk about Imphallion like it was a single entity, because that's how you see it; it's the only way you can give a damn about it. You've added it to your list of 'worthwhile individuals,' and everyone else can hang. I think that you're so focused on those few you care about, it's never even occurred to you that everyone else is just like them. I think you're so wounded, inside, that you only have so much sympathy, and the more people you're dealing with, the thinner that sympathy is spread.

"You care about people, yes. Deeply, passionately. But only some people-because nobody else is a person to you at all. And to pretend that you do what you do for 'the people,' rather than the handful of souls that mean a damn to you, is the biggest lie you've ever told."

Corvis found himself staring into his tankard, clasping it with all ten fingers for fear that he might otherwise lash out. "And even if…" He cleared his throat, coughed twice. "If all this is true, why point it out? What difference could it possibly make?"

"Because I also think…" It was her turn to pause. Her voice had gone soft, softer than he'd heard since they left Rahariem. He wanted to look up, to see if her face had softened as well, and found he didn't dare. "Because I think Tyannon was right. I think you could be Cerris, instead of Corvis Rebaine. I'd like you to be. But I don't think you know how, and I don't think any of us are ever going to be able to show you."

By the time Corvis forced himself to raise his head, she was gone from the table. And for just an instant, as the tavern disappeared beneath the memory of a flower garden behind a dilapidated old church, he couldn't tell if it was Irrial or Tyannon who was walking away.