The Warlord's Legacy (25 page)

Corvis and Irrial allowed themselves to be escorted from the chamber. With half a dozen bolts chomping at the bit to punch through flesh and bone, there was precious little else they could do.

K
ALEB STOOD
stripped to the waist and so glistening with sweat that he shone like his opponent’s blade. As he twisted on one knee, hands rising in swift parry, his skin rippled with an array of muscles startling on so slender a frame; he could have been one of Jassion’s classic marble statues made flesh. The heavy branch he wielded thrummed with the impact of his own falchion, now clasped in someone else’s hands.

“No,” he insisted, friendly but firm. “You’re not putting enough muscle into it.”

The young woman, whose only concession to the baking sun had been to leave her cloak folded atop a saddlebag, just stared at him as though she hadn’t heard a word.

“Mellorin? Are you listening, or just ogling?”

“I—!” It wasn’t much of a protest; more a squeak, really. Her face reddened with far more than the summer heat.

“I thought,” she said after a moment to compose herself, “that the idea was to keep control. Wild swings leave you open.”

“They do,” Kaleb acknowledged. “But you’re taking it too far. A sword’s more than just a big knife. You can’t treat them the same way.”

“I should know this already!” she spat with sudden venom. “
He
should have been there to teach me!”

“But if you already knew,” Kaleb said, his voice soothing, “this wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “This is harder than I expected,” she admitted as he approached, trying without much success to keep her gaze above shoulder level.

“You’re doing fine, Mellorin. A falchion’s a clumsy sort of blade to be learning with, but until Baron Creepy Uncle gets back, it’s all we’ve got.”

“Is he always like this?” she asked, ruminating over the past few days together on the road.

“You mean rude, brooding, utterly humorless, and short-tempered as a badger with piles?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“He’s a challenge,” the sorcerer agreed. “And honestly, not the most entertaining traveling companion. I’ve held more stimulating conversations with spoons.”

Mellorin giggled.

“Good man in a fight, though. And smarter than he looks, on those rare occasions he bothers to think.”

It was, in fact, an idea of Jassion’s that brought them here today. The five of them—Mellorin, Kaleb, and three horses—whiled away the hours in a camp half a mile from Orthessis, while the baron wandered through town on his own. Corvis, he’d recalled, had made use of a great many mercenary companies during his war against Audriss the Serpent. While rumor suggested that they’d not parted on the best of terms, Jassion reasoned that some of those mercenaries might possess knowledge that could prove useful in their search. Thus, upon leaving Abtheum, they’d made a beeline for its sister city, where Jassion’s political and military contacts might point them in the right direction.

Kaleb felt it was something of a long shot—but then, for the time being, long shots were all they had. Besides, it allowed him the opportunity to spend some time in far more charming company.

“Let’s work a bit on your stance,” he said, sidling around beside the warlord’s daughter. He reached out, resting an arm on hers, taking her hand in his. “You need—oh!” He retreated a pace at the shiver in her skin. “I’m sorry. You don’t like to be touched.”

“No … it’s all right,” she told him. “You just—startled me.”

Kaleb, moving as slowly as if he approached wild game, took her wrist once more. Behind her head he smiled, pretending not to notice that she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

J
ASSION SWEPT INTO CAMP
some hours later, a raging tempest wrapped in mail. Clearly having kept himself pent up all the way from Orthessis, he now flew wholly out of control. Talon’s wave-edged blade sheared through branches—and even whole saplings—sending leaves spinning and splinters flying, and the curses he howled at the uncaring sky were sharper still. Mellorin stepped back, astonished, while Kaleb could only—as was so often his response to the hot-blooded baron—roll his eyes.

Or so it was until Jassion, clearly overcome and devoid of rational thought, turned toward the first of the nervous and fidgeting horses, Kholben Shiar held high. Kaleb thrust out a hand, and just as within Castle Braetlyn, Jassion found himself graced, albeit briefly, with the miracle of flight.

He ripped through a cluster of boughs that seemed to scrape deliberately at his exposed skin, perhaps in retribution for their slaughtered brethren, and finally slammed to a halt against a broad trunk. There he hung, spitting profanity and saliva in equal measure.

“Have you ever considered meditation?” Kaleb asked lightly, once the tirade had finally run its course. “Or perhaps shackling yourself to something heavy?”

“You seem to do that just fine,” Jassion groused, thumping an elbow into the tree. “Please let me down, Kaleb.”

The sorcerer blinked, so startled he allowed Jassion to fall halfway to earth before recovering his concentration and lowering him gently the rest of the way.

Did Jassion really say “Please”
?

The instant his feet touched soil, Jassion bowed toward his niece. “I seem,” he said softly, “to be making a habit of embarrassing myself in front of my family. I’m sorry, Mellorin.”

“That’s—that’s all right,” she offered.

“I’m going to assume,” Kaleb said, “that something untoward happened in Orthessis?”

“More word of Rebaine,” Jassion spat. “He attacked Braetlyn! He butchered the castle staff, and I wasn’t even there!” His hands trembled so violently that Talon shook in his grasp, but he maintained a fingernail-grip on his temper. “There was no
need
, Kaleb. No reason! So many of my people … My friends …”

“I’m sorry, Jassion,” Kaleb said with apparent sincerity. Mellorin darted forward long enough to give her startled uncle a stiff, awkward hug before withdrawing once more. Her face was blank—not
lacking
emotion, but rather processing so many at once that it couldn’t settle on any single expression.

“I’m afraid I forgot to purchase you a sword,” Jassion told her. “But we’ve got to pass back through Orthessis on our way, so we can pick one out for you then.”

“Our way?” asked Kaleb. “So you
did
learn something? Useful, I mean.”

Jassion seemed to consider taking offense at that, but shrugged it off instead. “Yes. Some of my friends in the ducal militia were very helpful. It seems a great many mercenary companies are camped out—either near the Cephiran lines, or near Imphallion’s major cities—just waiting for the Guilds to come down with a sudden case of balls-and-brains, and start moving against Cephira. And it seems that a few baronies have already decided to move, Guilds be damned, and are preparing to mobilize. At either point, there’ll be a lot of demand for warriors, and the companies want to be ready.”

“And?” the sorcerer prodded.

“And it happens that a certain captain by the name of Losalis is camped just east of Pelapheron. If we push the horses, it shouldn’t take us too long to get there.”

“Aren’t you glad, then?” Mellorin asked as they moved to saddle up their mounts.

“Glad of what?”

“That Kaleb stopped your tantrum before you filleted your horse like he was that silly fish on your tabard.”

Kaleb could only snicker at Jassion’s expression, one that spoke as clearly as words, and far more loudly.
Mellorin
, it seemed to growl,
could stand to take just a little less after her father
.

O
N SHE RAN, AND ON
, though so very many miles still lay ahead. Twigs and stones gouged raw, bloodied feet. Summer air burned in heaving lungs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so exhausted, so agonizingly
weak
, so desperate to lie down and sleep.

And still she ran, through a haze of confusion and fatigue—and yes, she’d admit in her more honest moments of self-reflection, of fear. Only rarely did she stop, to gulp a few mouthfuls of water from stream or puddle, to chase down a morsel of prey, or to reorient herself, pausing to feel the tug of someone else’s magic that she’d made her own. Once, not so long ago, it would have been a matter of moments, simplicity itself, to sense that spell-wrought trail. But now? Now her head pounded, the blood roared in her ears, and she almost sobbed with frustration at the effort.

But again she groped about until she felt it, and again she ran. She
had
to find him, to reach him.

Corvis had to know, before it was too late. Before what time remained to her was gone.

Before she died—again.

P
ERHAPS BY MERE CHANCE
, perhaps by the will of an irritated god, the summer rains had managed to miss Pelapheron entirely. The city’s surrounding fields were sparse and wilting; dry grasses crunched loudly underfoot. So far, the situation hadn’t deteriorated to the point of drought or famine, but supplies were growing scarce—and expensive. It was, frankly, not a particularly wise location for an army, no matter how small, to make camp.

Which was, paradoxically—one might even say perversely—why Losalis had picked it. Yes, rations and equipment for his men would
prove costly, but they would also be the only mercenary company here, and that meant they could name their own price once the local high-and-mighty shook off their pall of stupidity and recognized the need to act.

Or that, at least, was the explanation Jassion’s contacts had provided him, and that he in turn had offered Kaleb and Mellorin, when they wondered aloud what the hell could have inspired the mercenary captain to roost in such wretched terrain. And from what Jassion knew of Losalis himself, he could believe it: The man who had once been Corvis Rebaine’s lieutenant was a big believer in standing out from the pack.

Unfortunately, as the trio of travelers had just learned, Losalis only wanted certain
kinds
of attention.

“I told you,” Jassion growled, struggling to keep his voice in check, “this is important.”

“And I tol’ you,” said one of several gruff, dirty, but very heavily armed men who blocked the meandering deer trail on which they’d been riding, “the captain don’t want to see nobody ’cept potential employers.”

“How do you know we’re not?” Mellorin asked from atop her palfrey, less in challenge than honest curiosity.

“ ’Cuz anyone makin’ a serious offer’d know enough to bring a whole heap o’ coin as down payment. And you three ain’t got the bags to carry it. ‘Nless”—he leered up at her—“they’re thinkin’ o’ offerin’ you. You’re a bit skinny, but—”

Kaleb opened his mouth and advanced, but Mellorin was faster. She dropped gracefully from her horse, hand flying to the hilt of her new blade.

The mercenary looked down at the gleaming metal, the stiff and unmarred leather of the scabbard, and snorted. “Ain’t that cute? Baby’s first sword. You named it yet, sweetheart?”

“I have.” Her face was pale, but her voice and her hand remained steady. “Eunuch-Maker.”