The Warlord's Legacy (35 page)
Between the distractions of her new form and the agonies of her current condition, Seilloah could perhaps be forgiven for initially failing to discover anything of import. Yes, some of the victims had died by fire and some by blade, some by magic and some brute force, but this they already knew. And yes, she could, if asked, have provided a precise count of the slain, but she couldn’t imagine what possible value such information might have.
Dining room, kitchen, back to the living room, occasionally stopping to lick bits of dried carnage from her paws, and Seilloah grew ever more irritated. They were wasting their time; there was nothing here, nothing of use …
Nearing the front door, she froze, save for the slight twitch of her tail and the quickened flare of her nostrils. Most of the room was nothing but an empty abattoir, specific details obscured by the remnants of half a dozen lives running together in a single stain beneath the carpeting and between the floorboards. But off to one side, a single man—probably a bodyguard, perhaps a servant—had died just a few steps from the others, far enough that the scents and stains of his death weren’t mixed with the general filth.
She sniffed where he’d stood, where he’d stumbled back as he died. She saw the faint remnants of a soap-scrubbed stain, scented the edges of the blood, the bone, and the brain that had splattered themselves across the wall.
And Seilloah’s own blood ran cold, her tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, as she recognized the evidence before her.
She’d seen it last in Mecepheum, when Audriss the Serpent had wielded the power of not one demon, but
two
, against the assembled aristocracy. She’d seen it far more often in Corvis’s campaign, over two decades past, when he’d allowed Khanda to feast upon the souls the demon needed to maintain his power.
She’d watched the victims hemorrhage, from eyes and nose, ears and mouth, before the skull itself, unable to bear the pressures that consumed the soul from within, simply blew itself apart.
It was certainly a
disturbing
death to witness, and it wasn’t precisely
a secret. Many had seen it happen during the Terror’s conquest, for Corvis had wielded Khanda as a bludgeon, hoping to cow the nation into surrender. But few knew the
purpose
of that peculiar method of killing, knew enough to associate it with the demon-spawned magics the warlord wielded.
That whoever was framing Corvis now had thought to include such a means of death—regardless of what magics they actually used to imitate it—suggested at the very
least
a deliberate attention to the details of all his past crimes.
And just possibly a greater knowledge of his methods than any random murderer, however potent, should possess.
Frowning as far as her snout would permit, uncomfortable with any of the myriad directions her thoughts were taking, Seilloah bounded back through the window and toward her waiting companions.
“…
WISH
I
COULD HELP YOU
,” the guard was apologizing, though he didn’t really sound like he cared much one way or the other. “Kassek knows I’d like to see the bastard brought down. But I’m just not authorized to allow
anyone
into the duke’s quarters. His family doesn’t want people poking around in there.”
Corvis—or rather, so far as the soldier knew, Evislan Kade the bounty hunter—stood in the lee of the great keep, watching the flickering of torches dance across its dark stone wall, and could only nod his understanding. Perhaps he might sneak in under illusion, or slip Seilloah past the soldiers at the gate, but honestly, he didn’t really think he
needed
to see the second murder scene.
He was already well and truly disturbed by what they’d found at the first.
But that didn’t mean there was nothing else left to learn. “I understand,” he said affably. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to cause the grieving family any more hassle.” He offered a disingenuous grin. “People tend to forget to pay when they’re upset.”
The guard grunted something.
“I also understand,” Corvis continued, dropping to a conspiratorial
murmur, “that some of your fellow guardsmen actually
fought
the bastard outside the Guildsman’s house? I’d sure love to speak to one of them, see if he can tell me anything new. And of course, I’d be more than generous with whoever pointed me the right way.”
That brought an uncertain frown. “I don’t think,” the soldier said slowly, “that that’s the sort of stuff I ought to be blabbing, you know? I mean, giving guards’ names to strangers …”
Corvis sighed and reached into a leather pouch at his belt, muttering under his breath. Then, with a sequence of individual clanks, he methodically dropped ten gold coins into the palms of the slack-jawed fellow before him.
“Ask around for Corporal Tiviam,” the guard whispered breathlessly. “He lives in the barracks within the keep, so you wouldn’t be permitted access, but he likes to drink at the Three Sheets.”
Of course he does
. Corvis shook his head, wondering when the gods might finally have had enough entertainment at his expense.
‘
Not for a while yet, I’m sure
. I’m
certainly still laughing at you.
’
“You should have no difficulty finding him there,” the young sentinel continued. “He’s been there a
lot
since that day, and his arm’s still in a sling.”
Corvis nodded in quick thanks and strode away. He wanted to be long gone before the muttered illusion faded, and the “gold” coins transformed once more to brass.
“… might have talked his way out of it,” Borinder was saying, struggling to keep a straight face. “But then …” A chuckle forced its way through his lips, painting his face red as it passed.
“Yeah …?” Tiviam pressed, amused yet frustrated by his companion’s jocularity. The man had some great stories, but he was utterly
miserable
at telling them.
“Then,” Borinder finally managed to sputter, “he left for his shift that morning, and—and he left her a handful of coins on the nightstand!”
The rest of the squad burst into peals of laughter, Tiviam guffawing
louder than any of them. Even as he struggled for breath, wiped tears from his cheeks, he worried briefly they might be revealing their presence, but no. Nothing suspicious about a group of workmen enjoying a bit of fun after a hard day’s work, was there?
And besides, the captain of whom Borinder spoke was a splinter in the heel of everyone present, and indeed most of the guard as a whole. Not a man or woman at arms in Denathere would waste a single second in sympathy for him.
“Considerin’ where Captain Lorkin spends most o’ his nights,” Arral chimed in, “not to mention most o’ his pay, his wife’s lucky that a few coins is
all
he gave her. I’m stunned that neither o’ ‘em’s come down wit’ a good, blisterin’ case o’—”
All four glanced up, across the yard and the winding walk, as the door to the house drifted slowly open. Tiviam expected a few silk-clad folk within, perhaps guests leaving early, or one of the uniformed guards making a quick inspection of the property.
What he saw, instead, was a glimpse of hell.
Blood and flesh were strewn about the foyer, soaking into the carpet, coating the walls. He couldn’t see the faces of the dead, but then he didn’t need to, for he knew the names of everyone within.
For a span of several gasping breaths, four trained, experienced members of Denathere’s guard couldn’t move a muscle, their souls staked to the earth with coffin nails.
It isn’t possible!
Tiviam could have sworn he heard the words shouted, loud enough to echo from the rooftops; only later would he realize it was all in his mind.
We’d have
heard
something! We
must
have heard something!
As abruptly as it had been revealed, the carnage was obscured, for the hell that lay beyond that door birthed a devil of its own. It didn’t seem to step into the doorway so much as it was simply, suddenly
there:
a looming figure of naked bone and darkness filed to a jagged edge. Blood ran in rivulets from the grotesque axe in its hand, far more than should ever have clung to the blade.
Tiviam
knew;
knew how a houseful of people could be slaughtered without sound, knew how so many guards could fall before a single foe.
Knew who it was he faced.
And Tiviam, in the bravest act of his career—an act that would later win him a commendation and a medal that he left to rust on Borinder’s grave—screamed at his men to charge.
The Terror of the East emerged to meet them, and shrieks of panic erupted along the street. Passersby, their attention drawn by Tiviam’s cry, shoved and tripped over one another, desperate to flee the horror they all recognized. Some would tell later how a band of courageous civilians—Tiviam’s men were, after all, dressed in workman’s clothes—had hurled themselves at the walking nightmare, bought everyone else the time to flee. It was the only thought that kept Tiviam sane in the months to come.
Borinder, long-legged and fleet of foot, was the first to reach the Terror of the East. Tiviam couldn’t even tell precisely what happened; he knew only that he saw a blur of blades, and the jovial soldier’s sword was shattered. A second flash, equally swift, and Borinder himself lay in pieces on the lawn.
The Terror raised his hands, palms out, and a gout of liquid flame the envy of any volcano arced through the air. Nassan lacked even time to scream as half his body liquefied, sloughing from his bones. Arral, hurling himself desperately aside, proved more fortunate. Though a portion of his leg sizzled away like so much frying grease—though he would never again walk without a crutch—he would live. The gods were even kind enough to allow him to pass out, that he might dwell for a time in the realm of Shashar Dream-Singer, rather than in the agony of his own ruined flesh.
And that left Tiviam, standing alone before the man who’d inflicted crippling scars upon an entire culture. He was dead; he knew he was dead. But in that, Tiviam was wrong.
He approached in a desperate lunge, broadsword leveled to punch through armor and into the bastard’s black and putrid heart. But the Terror of the East
moved
, far faster than any man,
and the guardsman saw a haunting crimson glow emanating from beneath the warlord’s breastplate. The broadsword passed harmlessly, and the black-armored arm slammed downward, trapping Tiviam’s elbow in a grip of unyielding steel.
A twist, a barely perceptible flex, and Tiviam convulsed in agony. The sword fell to the grass as his arm flapped uselessly, the bones within broken, the elbow separated at the joint.
Empty sockets stared into frightened eyes. Tiviam trembled beneath the weight of death’s own regard, and hoped only that it would bring an end to the pain.
And then he was falling, all support gone. For the Terror of the East had simply disappeared.