The Warlord's Legacy (15 page)

Or spoken to. Or looked at. It was one of the reasons he’d taken up his studies in the first place: lots and lots of blessedly peaceful solitude.

Nenavar gritted his teeth into a cage to imprison the various snarls, imprecations, and occasional pestilential spells that sought to hurl themselves from his throat at anyone who drew too near, and continued on his way.

There was, at least, no danger of becoming lost. He’d made certain he could
always
find the man he now sought before he first let him out of his sight.

The unseen path led him, after twenty minutes that weren’t doing his elderly knees any good, to a house not much larger—though certainly far nicer—than that in which he’d appeared. Two stories overlooked a modest property, complete with flower garden and a stable large enough for only a single horse. Despite his confidence in his magics, Nenavar couldn’t help but wonder if he’d come to the right place. He’d expected—well, more.

Then he spotted a quartet of burly figures loitering in the street nearby, laughable in their efforts to remain inconspicuous, and he recognized the sentries for what they were. This was, indeed, the right place.

Nenavar mumbled into his beard as he approached, tongue and cracked lips forming sounds that scarcely qualified as words. He walked right past the guards and up the path toward the house, and none made so much as a move in his direction. He wasn’t invisible, precisely; the spell simply rendered him unworthy of attention. One of the men even nodded politely in his direction before dismissing him as a random passerby and forgetting his presence entirely.

The wizard swallowed a delighted cackle, shaking his head at the feebleness of the average mind, and pushed through the entryway.

And practically toppled backward, overpowered by the scent that had lurked in ambush behind that door. Heavy smoke in the air stung his eyes, and he gagged on the metallic miasma of blood and other
humors. He gulped twice, fighting the urge to spit and clear what felt like a clinging film on his tongue and throat.

The interior of the house had been transformed into the fever dream of a demented cannibal. Corpses and bits of corpses formed a layer of carpeting. Mail rings lay scattered across the floor, and several bodiless hands still clutched weapons. So widely strewn were the remains, Nenavar couldn’t guess how many guards had actually stood post within the house.

Grimacing, he picked his way carefully through the carnage, his steps mincing as he focused on keeping the worst of the sludge from his shoes. The room’s far door revealed a dining nook, and here the scene was even worse. What had once been a woman—a serving girl, to judge by what remained of her clothes—lay facedown in the fireplace; fluids leaking through blackened skin had smothered the last burning embers. Beside her, an old cook hung from the wall, held by a torch sconce protruding all the way through muscle and bone. Around the table—some slumped forward in their chairs, others sprawled on the floor—were half a dozen more, their bodies in various stages of mangling or incineration.

And sitting in one of those chairs—
atop
a fallen corpse, the weight of his armor slowly crushing the body beneath him—was Kaleb. He had removed the skull helm that completed his disguise, and kicked his feet up on the table. He waved Nenavar over with one hand, the other clutching a chicken leg from which he was taking great, tearing mouthfuls.

“How in the gods’ names can you
eat
?” the wizard choked as he entered.

Kaleb shrugged. “It’s good. You want some?”

“I’ll pass.”

“So will the chicken, once you’ve eaten it.”

For some time, Nenavar just glared. Then, “Was all this truly necessary, Kaleb?”

“You wanted it,
Master
. You wanted horror, and fear, and panic. Well, here are the seeds. Now we just let them grow.”

The wizard sighed, but nodded. “The guards outside?”

“Didn’t hear a thing. They’ll be my witnesses. I’m planning to make
a suitably dramatic exit, make sure they all see ‘Rebaine,’ maybe even kill a few before I disappear.” Kaleb grinned. “I already got Duke Meddiras and his people in the keep. This was my second stop. Three Guildmasters and their families. They were here because one of their assistants was throwing a dinner to celebrate his daughter’s coming out next week.” He gestured with the greasy drumstick at the headless corpse of a teenage girl.

Nenavar swallowed the vomit rising in his gullet.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” Kaleb said. “You knew what you were getting us into, and you know what’s at stake.”

“I … Yes, I know. Don’t think you have to lecture
me!
”

“I don’t have to. I just like to.”

“I want you to do Braetlyn next. Say, five nights from now.”

Kaleb tossed the remains of the chicken leg to the floor, where they landed with a wet squelch, and rose, stretching. “That’s a bit fruitless, isn’t it? We sort of know Jassion’s not there.”

“I know. But I want to keep driving him, keep him too furious to think of anything else. Do his staff and servants. It’ll take a bit of time for the news to catch up to you, but sooner or later he’ll hear rumors of it in some town or other.”

“I think you’re wasting my time. He’s already committed.”

“Perhaps. But never forget, Kaleb, that your time is mine to waste.”

Nenavar spun on his heel, heading once more for the door, again muttering the incantation to keep the guards from noticing him. He didn’t particularly care to be present to witness Kaleb’s “dramatic exit.”

T
HE TUMULT THAT SHOOK
the council chambers of Mecepheum’s grand Hall of Meeting
probably
wasn’t as deafening as an earthquake’s birthing pains, but it wouldn’t have been a safe bet. Eddies of hot breath whirled, flinging angry words hither and yon, threatening to fill the room until surely either the walls, or the people within, must burst.

Above them, disapproving eyes stared down from the many carvings, paintings, and reliefs that adorned almost every inch of ceiling—an
array of symbols to be found not only here, but also in the lesser meeting halls throughout the city, duplicated over and over as a sign of Guild unity. Heroes of legend and mighty archangels made up the bulk, but some boasted the symbols, or even the stylized faces, of the divine: Ulan the Judge, Daltheos the Maker, and so many others. Only in one shadowed corner was the stone rough and pitted, vacant of embellishment. Once the terrible visages of Maukra and Mimgol, the Children of Apocalypse, had loomed within, but after the events of six years prior, those images had been chiseled away.

From the great horseshoe-shaped table at the head of the room, Salia Mavere, priestess of Verelian and current Speaker for the Blacksmiths’ Guild, could only roll her own eyes upward toward those remaining stony countenances, and wish she possessed their patience.

One of her neighbors at the table, a spindly scarecrow representing the Tanners’ Guild, leaned toward her—the acrid scent of his trade washing over her, making her tear up a bit—and shouted in her ear to be heard over the tumult. “Are you going to do something about this?”

Salia, saving her breath, just shrugged. Still gazing at the images above, she remembered similar meetings during the Serpent’s War, recalled how the sorceress Rheah Vhoune had easily silenced the screaming factions. She wished now that her own priestly studies included the
practice
of magic, rather than merely its philosophies and histories.

For minutes the shouting and arguments continued, until Salia had to acknowledge that her companion had a point. She reached behind, striking a small hammer on the hanging gong, calling the chamber to order. And then again, harder. But if any of the shrieking nobles, Guildmasters, priests, and other leading citizens heard, they didn’t seem inclined to obey.

Grinning without mirth, Salia rose, unfastened the brass circle from its hooks, and hurled it like a discus over the heads of the assembly. Startled gasps presaged the sudden press of bodies struggling to clear out as it fell, and every face in the crowd had donned an expression of anger.

But it was, for the moment, a
silent
anger, and that made all the difference.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this cannot continue. We’re all exhausted …”

This understatement was being met with a chorus of derisive snorts. Custom dictated that these meetings end by sundown, but just as they had every night for the past few weeks, they’d already progressed well into the nighttime hours.

“We’re all exhausted,” she said again, “and there’s still much work ahead of us. My tenure as Overseer ends in two nights, and I’d like to have accomplished
something
during my week with the hammer. So perhaps whoever follows me will put up with this, but I won’t any longer. The next time you choose to ignore the gong—and Erland, would you be kind enough to bring it back up here? Thank you—the next time you choose to ignore the gong, I’ll be throwing it
at
you, not
over
you, and anyone who has a problem with that is welcome to seek satisfaction.”

An array of murderous glares threatened to knock her clean over, but everyone present knew her reputation, could plainly see the large hammer hanging at her side—far larger and more brutal than the ceremonial mallet that marked her status as current assembly Overseer—and none of those glares transformed into spoken protest.

“Good. Then the issue up for vote …”
As it has been every night since before I took the damn hammer
, she added silently, though everyone heard it anyway, “… is one of military command. To wit, are we agreed to unite the various armies of Imphallion under a single command in order to—”

“No!” This from Sathan, the young and newly ascended Duke of Orthessis, dressed in mourning black for his mother, the Duchess Anneth. “We’ll not be handing any more of our power over to you!”

“Then you’ll soon not have it at all!” Caryna, Assistant Guildmaster of the Masons’ Guild, yelled back. “Cephira’s already taken most of our eastern territories!” She pointed to one of several empty chairs, ceremonially left vacant to account for those nobles and Guildmasters who could not attend, or those who had died and whose successors had not yet been named. “How long before they advance farther, Your Grace? We’ve invaders
on Imphallian soil
, and your damn mule-headedness has prevented us—”

“My mule-headedness? We—”

“It’s not mule-headedness, it’s self-preservation!” The third speaker—third shouter, really—was Bennek III, Earl of Prace. “If Rebaine’s slaughtering us one by one, I’m sure as Vantares’s deepest hell not putting all my men under someone else’s command!”

The tanner beside Salia stood, leaning over the table. “Only a unified force can stand against either Cephira
or
Rebaine! Did we learn
nothing
from the Serpent? Have we all so quickly forgotten our inability to cooperate
then
?”

“Audriss was one of us!” Duke Sathan reminded him. “He’s precisely the reason we
cannot
turn over complete command of our forces to anyone we don’t implicitly trust!”

“And do you not trust the Guilds?”

His snort was answer enough. “We
can
repulse Cephira, but we’ll do it with our own forces, not by giving them to you!”

“Cephira’s forces are too large and too disciplined. If we go in piecemeal, we’ll be slaughtered!”

“If we don’t stop Rebaine,” Bennek muttered, “Cephira won’t
need
to slaughter us.”

“Why has Rebaine returned
now
?” Salia couldn’t see who spoke; someone toward the rear of the chamber. “Perhaps he’s trying to take advantage of the Cephiran attack.”

“Do we even know he’s not
cooperating
with Cephira?” Caryna asked.

“We—”

“
Enough!
” Salia rose and struck the gong, not with her ceremonial mallet but with the brutal hammer at her waist. The chime was surprisingly quiet—primarily because the blow cracked the gong straight down the center—but it shut everyone up.

“I called for a vote,” she reminded them darkly. “And that means no debate or argument until the vote is
cast
. So … All in favor of uniting our forces, that we may repel the threats both at and within our borders?” A pause. “All opposed?”

She sighed, slumping back in her chair. She didn’t need the chamberlain’s official tally to know the vote had split exactly as it had each previous night. The bulk of the Guildmasters wanted unification, as
did a few younger nobles whose predecessors were recently slain. The majority of the aristocracy did not, at least not unless the overseer was another noble rather than a Guild appointee; a concession the Guilds—presumably fearful of losing their stranglehold over the aristocracy—were unwilling to make.

And so, for another night, what had once been the greatest nation on the continent huddled impotently, allowing the Cephiran invaders to dig in more deeply, and the murderer of nobles and Guildmasters to advance his current scheme, whatever it might be.

It was, indeed, an unpleasant, dream-like echo of the Serpent’s War.