The Conqueror's Shadow (50 page)

“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 back, 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?”

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.

“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.