The Conqueror's Shadow (51 page)

“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.”

And then it was all gone: Tyannon, the woods, everything. He was once again riding his horse, his body screaming at him, on a frost-coated road with the sun dipping into the west and the first fires of a huge encampment appearing on the horizon.

Corvis, the Terror of the East, buried his mottled face in his aching hands and wept.

THE SAME TENT
, enormous enough to encompass an entire cottage and to house a large family in comfort. The same long table, spread with what might as well have been the same papers, accompanied by the same chairs, the same bed, the same iron maiden. The leader of Corvis's “rescuers” led the mangled prisoner into the tent, bowed once, and departed.

He'd been abandoned just inside the flap—what would, were the canvas dwelling a more permanent structure, have qualified as the foyer. The chairs were well beyond reach. He had nothing even to lean upon, let alone sit in. But whatever it took, however deeply Corvis dug into the dregs of his strength, he
would
stand tall. He would show no weakness here, not in front of …

“By the gods, Lord Rebaine, you look positively dreadful. I'm afraid the months since our last encounter have not been kind to you.”

“Audriss, with all due respect—which is to say, none at all—can we please cut through the crap?” The warlord's voice was strong, steady, far more so than it should have been.
No weakness
. “You and I both know that my condition comes as no surprise to you at all, seeing as you were the one who caused it.”

“I? It wasn't I who …” The flat-black mask tilted as the man within examined his adversary. “Ah, the hell with it. Whatever conclusion you've come to, you're welcome to it. I don't care.” The tendrils of his cloak floated behind him, ghostly streamers wavering in unconscious mimicry of Mithraem's mists, as he advanced on his prisoner. “Tell me, Rebaine, do you know why you're here?”

“Absolutely.”

“And why is that?”

Corvis smiled through battered lips. “Because I don't, at the moment, have the strength to run the hell away.”

The stone helm tilted. “Are you trying to be funny, Rebaine?”

“What can I say? I've been hanging around with Khanda too long. While we're at it, what are
you
doing here? From what little I overheard
during my stay in your duke's dungeons, I'd have figured you'd still be trying to take Pelapheron.”

Despite the obscuring mask, Corvis could actually
hear
the man scowl. “Yes, I'll have to admit you won that one on points, Rebaine. Very neat. You cost me more men at Pelapheron than I'd lost in the entire campaign.”