The Conqueror's Shadow (22 page)

Then, his hauberk clinking as he rose, he dropped a handful of copper coins on the countertop. He picked his helmet up off the stool beside him and bulled past the young soldier who stood, fidgeting, in the doorway.

“What in Kassek's name were you thinking, boy?” Garras demanded as he stepped into the street. His subordinate flinched, accustomed to hearing the war god invoked only in the heat of battle. His commander, on the other hand, was an old soldier, known to invoke Kassek for a spilled drink or a stubbed toe. “Shouting across a crowded room? Is that how we communicate these days?”

The young man stared intently at his commander's leathery, weather-beaten face, his eyes wide. “My apologies, Commander! But—”

“No discipline today, that's your problem,” Garras continued, paying little real attention to the boy he was lecturing. “In my day, we respected our commanding officers! We had something to report, we walked up to them, told them to their face. None of this screaming like a housewife and fluttering about, oh, no. We …” His eyes hardened at the youth's expression. “Anxious, are you? Have something better to do than listen to your commanding officer?”

The soldier swallowed. “As a matter of fact, I do, sir! And so do you.”

“I
beg
your pardon. Are
you
telling
me
what I should or should not be—”

“Sir! You
really
need to come see this.”

It finally sank in, and Garras nearly groaned in self-disgust. The ale must have gotten to him more than he'd realized. But what could you expect, assigned to a patrol as mind-numbingly dull as the village of Kervone?

You'd think
, Garras often griped,
there'd be some action in patrolling a town so near to Denathere. Hell, the entire city is enemy territory, now. But no …
Kervone, two days south of Denathere, was apparently far enough out of the way that the Serpent felt no need to bother with it. And that left Garras and his unit stuck guarding a town worth absolutely
nobody's time to attack. It wasn't as if he
wanted
Audriss to raid the place; he was just so
bored
.

Well, maybe it was finally time for a little excitement.

The soldiers jogged through the dusty roads of Kervone, making enough of a racket not only to wake the dead, but to send them complaining to the landlord.

They finally arrived, Garras puffing ever so slightly, at the Sleeping Vagabond, where the soldiers barracked. Rather than approach the door, however, the soldier made a beeline for the rear of the building, whistling sharply. In response to his signal, someone dropped a rope ladder to roll down the wall. The young man climbed, Garras following, cursing softly, a moment later.

He felt better once he'd reached the flat-topped roof of the inn. The man currently on watch, keeping an eye on the various roads into town, was a dark-haired, dark-complexioned giant of a man named Tuvold. Garras and Lieutenant Tuvold had served together for years. If he'd sent for the commander, Garras could be damn certain there was a valid reason.

“All right, then,” Garras barked. “What's so bloody urgent?”

“This, sir.” The soldier passed a brass spyglass, the unit's most valuable piece of equipment, to his commander. “I was making a regular sweep of the roads,” he said succinctly, his deep voice clipped, measured. “Watching for advance scouts or what have you.”

Garras nodded. “You found something?”

“Not in the way of an attacking force,” Tuvold said, “but look for yourself, sir. In that copse of trees, just west of north. No, farther over, in the other thicket. Yes, about there, sir.”

Garras scowled, one eye shut, the other pressed, squinting, against the spyglass. “I see a bit of movement, Tuvold. Maybe a lone figure and a horse, but I can't make out much more than—good gods!” He choked as the “horse” moved about, apparently seeking a spot of sunshine amid the shadows of the trees. “By Kassek, that thing's the size of a pony!”

“Bigger, sir,” Tuvold told him calmly, as though giant lizards were the sort of thing he saw twice before breakfast. “It gets better.”

“Oh? And how could this possibly get better?”

“Look at the figure standing beside it, sir.”

Garras shifted the spyglass and then started, the color draining from his face.

“A bit tall to be your average wanderer, Tuvold.”

“I'd noticed that myself, sir.”

“Ogre?”

“Can't think of anything else it could be, sir.”

Garras nodded sharply, trying, to no avail, to bring the ogre into focus through the obscuring screen of greenery. “He's not scouting,” he muttered. “He's just sitting there, like he's waiting for something.”

“Should we expect an attack, sir?” the young soldier asked, eyes wide.

“I shouldn't think so. We're a long way from ogre territory. No, he's here on his own, or with a few companions, at most.”

“Companions, sir?” Tuvold asked.

“Indeed.” With a loud pop, Garras snapped the spyglass shut and handed it back to Tuvold. “Keep an eye on our large friend there, would you?”

“Certainly, sir. Where are you going?”

“I'm going to see if any travelers have entered town in the last few hours. I'm very interested in meeting anyone who'd keep company with an ogre.”

“And if they're a threat, sir?”

Garras just smiled, and stepped to the ladder. “Assemble the men,” he ordered the younger soldier. “Have them ready to move, but don't go anywhere until I get back. I'd hate for us to gang up on an innocent traveler by mistake. Makes us look bad, and that makes the baron look bad.”

Not that they were supposed to be there at all. Kervone was weeks away from Braetlyn. But Lord Jassion refused to sit by while the regent and the Guilds argued. Garras's squad was but one of many he'd dispatched throughout the kingdom to guard against Audriss's advance.

If the regent should learn that one of his lords had assigned troops to
neighboring territories, things could grow ugly indeed. The townsfolk wouldn't say anything, as they were happy to have the extra protection. But Garras wasn't about to risk exposure by mobilizing his entire unit until he was
certain
these strangers posed a threat.

A few questions asked at the edge of town brought some interesting results. Two travelers had indeed come to Kervone, not two hours previously. A tall, lithe, grey-haired fellow, he was told, with an axe and a sword slung at his hip; and a woman, shorter, black of hair. Both were older—probably about Garras's own age, one astute merchant specified—but in excellent shape. The man led a horse, a fine animal but not large enough to have carried the both of them any great distance.

It was the third person to whom he'd described the strange pair—a young boy, no older than twelve or so—who pointed him in the right direction.

“Aye, sir, I seen 'em just a while back. Gave me a copper to show 'em to the empty house over yonder.”

“Empty?” Garras asked. The house the boy indicated was a good, solid dwelling. Nothing fancy, but a nice enough home for any man or family who'd choose to occupy it. “Why is it empty? It looks fine to me.”

“That house, sir? ‘Sbeen empty long as I can remember. Nobody wants to move in. They're afraid the old owner might come back an' want it.”

“Old owner? Who would that be, son?”

The boy glanced down at his feet, muttered something under his breath, and dashed off down the nearest side street.

Garras let him go, his eyes narrowing. “Valescienn,” he muttered, turning it over in his mind. Why did that sound familiar …?

Carefully, one hand clenched on his sword belt just beside the scabbard, Garras moved closer, ducking into a shadowed doorway as the pair of strangers stepped from the abandoned house and moved toward a small but sturdy horse tethered nearby.

“Damn! Damn it all!” That was the man.

The woman put a calming hand on his arm. “It's not as though this is a surprise. We knew he might not be here, Corvis.”

The woman froze even as the words passed her lips, and the man snapped something in response—something about his name—but Garras, the blood pounding in his ears, barely heard a word of it. He felt his chest grow tight, and he found himself gasping for breath, leaning against the doorway to hold himself upright. Any one of the details could have been coincidence, any single fact was meaningless. But added up, they could only lead to one conclusion.

He remembered now who Valescienn was.

He knew who the ogre was waiting for, remembered who used to travel in their company.

And gods help him, he knew who “Corvis” was.

His face covered in sweat, his head pounding with fear, Garras ran down the street as fast as his legs would carry him, all thoughts of stealth or caution thrown to the winds. There was no time! He needed to reach his men, to warn them, to send a message to Lord Jassion. Everyone had to know! They …

Oh, gods!

Garras attempted to skid to a halt, caught one foot behind the other, and tumbled facedown into the dusty road. He looked up, mustache caked with dirt, to see two pairs of legs—one leather-clad, the other hidden behind a shifting curtain of brown fabric—standing over him.

“Well, Seilloah,” Corvis said, his voice even, “you were right. Someone's been watching us.”

CORVIS RETREATED A STEP
as the mail-clad soldier rolled smoothly to his feet, unsheathing his blade. Though the man's jaw was clenched beneath his fox-hued mustache, and his eyes were anxious, the grip on his broadsword wavered not at all, and his stance was steady.

With a faint nod of respect, Corvis slipped Sunder from its own baldric.

“Make it quick,” Seilloah hissed from behind. “We've no time for this nonsense!”

“Tell
him
that!” he shot back.

“I know you!” the soldier shouted at him. “I know who you are, Rebaine!”

“Well, that's done it,” Seilloah muttered.

Corvis agreed. Bad enough if Audriss learned that Corvis Rebaine was raising arms against him. He didn't even want to contemplate the sheer chaos that would result should the nobles or the Guilds learn that the Terror of the East was back among them.

He lashed out with Sunder, the strike of a steel scorpion, hoping to end the duel before it began. Other than another of the Kholben Shiar, no weapon could survive the demon-forged blade.

But the soldier made no attempt to parry. Instead he leapt backward, his mail clattering, and let the weapon slip harmlessly by. He dropped then into a desperate lunge, determined to skewer this living nightmare like a pincushion.

Corvis twisted his wrists, spinning the ancient weapon. Sparks flew as Sunder's end-cap knocked the incoming blade off-track, nicking the edge. The soldier recovered swiftly, though, and for a moment the two opponents stood, once more crouched and ready, sizing each other up.

Corvis didn't doubt he could win this fight, but could he win it fast enough? Behind him, he heard Seilloah whispering, her fingers drifting in beautifully alien patterns. Apparently she had decided to speed up the process.

Not a bad idea, at that. Already, faces appeared in windows up and down the street, and figures in doorways. Unlike the soldier himself, the citizens of Kervone didn't know who they were staring at, but they knew him to be a stranger, and the other man to be a friend. Someone had surely gone for help …

“You there! Drop your weapon!”

The call came from behind the soldier, some distance down the street. Corvis cursed as he saw them, a squad of perhaps six, led by a huge man who twirled a massive ball-and-chain as if it were a toy. It was he who shouted.

“Drop the axe!” he yelled again.

“Tuvold, take care!” his commander called back, his eyes flickering over his shoulder for just an instant. “It's Cor—”

Corvis lunged, desperate to shut the man's mouth. The old soldier
saw the blow coming, and to his credit he very nearly dodged aside. Corvis followed, redirecting his attack, and felt Sunder shudder with the impact—but so awkward was the blow that it was the flat of the blade, rather than the razor-edge, that landed.

The soldier staggered abruptly, eyes wide and visibly glazing over. For a moment he stood, hesitantly raising a hand to the side of his head, just above his temple; he seemed puzzled by the blood that came away on his fingers. And then he collapsed, the impact sending a cloud of dust to swirl around Corvis's ankles.

Bellowing to shame the thunder, Tuvold redoubled his pace, his squad hot on his heels.

“We're too old for this,” Corvis muttered.

Seilloah shook her head, her own eyes fixed on the rapidly advancing soldiers. “You're never too old to run away.”

Corvis slashed Rascal's tether with a quick flick of Sunder as he hurled himself into the saddle. A quick yank lifted Seilloah behind him, and his heels dug with rib-bruising force into the horse's side. With a startled grunt, Rascal leapt forward, easily outdistancing the enraged soldiers. It wasn't a pace he could maintain long, but it would get them out of town. Once they'd gotten back to Davro and Rover, they could put a more comfortable distance between them and their pursuers.