The Conqueror's Shadow (24 page)

“We need him, Corvis. We need Khanda.”

And Corvis, suddenly as weary as he could ever recall, fell back against the nearest tree, at last admitting to himself that Seilloah was right.

Gods help them all.

“YOU'RE
WHAT
?
”

“I said,” Corvis repeated as he double-checked the heavy winter clothes they'd recently acquired, “I'm going alone.”

They were currently ensconced in a copse of trees some ten miles from their previous camp. The aroma of thick soil permeated the air, and the plants, other than those trampled by Davro's stumbling gait, bloomed brightly in the summer warmth. The weakened ogre wasn't easy to move, but all three agreed that they'd little choice. Kervone's soldiers still sought the strangers who'd assaulted their commander, to say nothing of the distinct possibility of Valescienn's sudden return.

Food was no issue: Corvis and Seilloah had waylaid a farmer driving a few cattle into town. The animals provided sustenance for Corvis and the ogre (who consumed a whole cow at one sitting), while Seilloah made herself a meal of … Well, Corvis wasn't certain
what
the meal was, but he did notice, without making any comment, the absence of the farmer's body. He'd have preferred to let the man go—he'd shed too much blood, brought back too many memories—but nobody could be permitted to report on their whereabouts.

It was also from among the trunks carried by these unfortunate folks that Corvis acquired a bundle of furs, blankets, and other cold-weather apparel. When Seilloah asked him if those were necessary for retrieving Khanda, Corvis had answered in the affirmative. That was also when he'd told them the other part of the plan.

“I'm going alone.”

“You're insane!” Seilloah shouted at him, actually waving her hands over her head. “You're going to get yourself killed!”

“Weren't you just telling me that we needed Khanda so I
wouldn't
get us killed?” he asked mildly.

“Yes, but I didn't mean for you to go traipsing off by yourself to Arhylla-knows-where to do it! You need us!”

“I do not now,” Corvis protested lamely, “nor have I ever, ‘traipsed.'”

Davro, back to his old self save for a slight pallor in the face, nodded once. “Got to agree with him here, Seilloah. I think, even at his most carefree, the best I've seen was a semi-frolic, with maybe a half skip.”

“I
do
need you, Seilloah,” he told her, briefly wondering why he'd bothered to save the ogre. “I need you to keep working while I'm gone.”

“Working on what?”

Corvis sighed. “Audriss is moving, the ogres are assembling, and we still lack an army. I need you to tell the ogres where to assemble, and I need there to be an army waiting for them when they get there.”

Seilloah and Davro stared blankly.

“I made a point of listening for any news while we were hunting for Valescienn. Rumor has it Audriss's army is continuing west. The next major cities that way are Orthessis and Abtheum, and unless he's foolish enough to take his army off-road, he's got to pass through Vorringar.”

“How the hell do you remember all this?” Davro asked sourly.

“Years spent studying every map I could find. You might recall that I made a fairly serious effort at conquering this damn kingdom?”

“You seem to be forgetting,” Seilloah interjected, “that Davro and I don't know the first thing about finding mercenaries. It's why you wanted Valescienn to begin with. And even if we managed, what would you have us pay them with? Our winning smiles?”

Davro offered his best toothy grin, replete with dangling bits of cow sinew.

“We don't have the option of doing things the traditional way anymore,” Corvis said flatly, placing one booted foot in the stirrup. “You're a witch, Seilloah. Come up with something.”

“But …”

He overrode her. “Once you've got my army, assemble at Vorringar. If you gather most of your soldiers from farther west, you should get there before Audriss does. It's, what, midsummer now. My best guess is,
he won't reach Vorringar until the frost. If I'm not back by then, Seilloah, you're in command.”

She froze, mouth agape, and then laughed at him.

“Well,” Corvis muttered, “that's certainly encouraging.” He settled Sunder more comfortably at his side and made one last check to ensure the saddlebags were secure. “Davro, if I'm not back by then, you're free to go home.”

“And if you do come back?”

“Then you're stuck with me awhile longer.”

The ogre's mouth twitched. “So you'll not be surprised if I don't wish you the best of luck.”

“Of course not. Why start now?”

“Corvis,” Seilloah tried one more time. “What if—”

“No ‘what ifs.' I'm counting on you.” Corvis put his heels to Rascal's flanks and was gone.

“Well,” Davro said philosophically, “this is interesting.”

“What do we do now?” Seilloah shouted. “I don't have the first notion of how to raise an army!”

“Seilloah,” the ogre said, his voice thoughtful, “if he doesn't come back, do you really intend to take command? Or will you up and go home?”

“Probably go home,” she admitted, seating herself upon a long-dead stump. “We don't have a chance without him. I know as much about tactics as I do hiring mercenaries.”

Davro nodded. “And no human army would take orders from me, even if I went mad and decided to stick around.”

“What are you getting at, Davro? That we should just give up?”

“Much as I'd like to, no. I took an oath, and I'll abide by it. But since neither of us intends to remain if he
doesn't
show up, then you wouldn't be opposed to a solution that only works if he
does
show up, would you? After all, if everything breaks down because he fails to appear, we won't be there to suffer for it.”

Seilloah blinked. “I'm not entirely sure I followed that. What do you have in mind?”

He told her.

“A
lot
of nasty people will be upset with us if this doesn't work,” she commented afterward.

The ogre shrugged. “Doesn't bother me. As I said, I don't intend on being there to see it.”

“Nor do I. All right, then. He wants to give us an impossible task, he gets to deal with the impossible solution. Let's move.”

The axe blade fell with a savage crunch, almost loud enough to drown out the explosive grunt emitted by the fellow wielding it. Wood split beneath steel, and then petulantly closed around it, refusing either to release the tool or to cooperatively split down the middle.

“Cerris” grunted a second time, glared furiously at the log that
should
have been firewood by now, and released the handle so he might massage his aching palms with his fingertips. The wood wasn't going to chop itself—though that'd make for a useful spell, come to think of it—but there was plenty of time yet before the autumn turned to cold, and when Corvis realized that he was seriously contemplating going to fetch Sunder to use on the stubborn lumber, he decided that it was probably time to call it a day.

As he turned back toward the house, seeking a cool mug and respite from the sun, he clearly heard from the far yard what he had initially thought were mere echoes of his own futile axe-work. Since it hadn't ceased when he did, however, he wandered his way around the corner to see what was happening. And had to stifle a laugh as Lilander—clad in what was his best outfit, beneath at least three layers of dirt—leapt and careered through the
vegetable gardens with a boisterous abandon found only in young boys or men in love. The child was armed with a good solid stick and was mercilessly engaging the weeds in close combat. (He had, thankfully, sufficient sense even at his age not to behead his mother's vegetables.)

Mellorin, her own tunic and flowing skirts spotlessly clean, was playing with her younger brother—that is, following behind him with frequent eye-rolls and remonstrations at what he was doing.

For long moments, Corvis stood beyond the corner of the little house and simply watched, a peculiar grin hovering about his lips. When the boy's constant dashing about threatened to trample a row of tomatoes, however, Corvis decided it was time to play Responsible Parent.

“It's Kingsday, isn't it?” he asked, stepping into view of the cavorting children. “Shouldn't you be in town?”

Kingsday in Chelenshire was the one day of the week when the village elders and priests gathered the children of the community for schooling in letters, history, and religious doctrine. It was, so far as the
parents
of Chelenshire were concerned, a greater day of thanks even than Godsday proper.

“Father …” Mellorin sighed, somehow drawing the word out for the span of at least four extra syllables. “Lessons were over
hours
ago.”

“Ah.” Corvis glanced up at the sun once more. “I suppose they were. So what exactly are the two of you—”

He grunted, more in surprise than pain, as a thin stick whapped him across the shin. Lilander stood beside him, his “sword” held out very seriously before him. “I'm Nafnal!” he announced proudly.

Corvis raised an eyebrow and glanced at his daughter. “Nafnal?”

Mellorin sighed, clearly vexed at the adult's inability to translate Lilander-speak. “He means ‘Nathaniel,' Father. Goodman Ostwyr taught us about the Battle of Denathere today.”

“Did he, now?” Corvis hoped the ice that had suddenly formed
in his chest wouldn't harden his words or shine through suddenly narrowed eyes.

“Yes, and now Lilander wants to be Nathaniel Espa and won't stop his stupid sword fighting!”

As if in punctuation, the boy once again made a concerted effort to slay whatever evil beast had taken the shape of his father's knee.

“And where's
your
sword?” Corvis asked her, still struggling to keep his voice steady.

“I,” she informed him loftily, “do not need a
sword
. I'm Rheah Vhoune. Everyone knows that magic's better than swords any—
eep!!”

Mellorin could only struggle, mortified beyond belief at her father's sudden display of affection, but escape was impossible. Corvis all but crushed his daughter to his chest, determined to hold her so that she wouldn't see him cry.

THROUGH MOST
of Imphallion, the leaves had begun their annual blush, greens fading into deep reds and rich golds. Sensing the earliest stirrings of the winds, animals began gathering food stores in preparation for the snows that would come in but a few short months. Some of the northernmost territories, farthest from the lands where winter slumbered throughout the year, still sweltered under the tarrying caress of summer. There, people wiped sweaty hands across sweaty brows and impatiently awaited the relief that autumn had already brought to their southern neighbors.

But here, south of Imphallion's lowest borders, many weeks beyond the reach of the regent and the Guilds, stretched lands where winter never relaxed its icy grasp, where snowless summers were a myth of foreign climes. The drifts were already knee-high, the winds mighty enough to stagger a careless traveler and sharp enough to bite through the thickest furs and cloaks. Here, at the feet of the mighty Terrakas Mountains, where even the valleys sat far above the level of distant seas, there was nothing but deadly cold.

A trade route, scarcely used but vital to a select few, wound through the mountain range. Though it rarely rose from the foothills or stretched high into the peaks themselves, it proved a hazardous, arduous path. Still, a steady if minuscule flow of traffic moved along that path. For the exhausted, frostbitten traveler, it even offered a place to rest.

The village, a feeble collection of huts scattered across a vale in the highest foothills, was called Ephrel. Home mostly to trappers and hunters, with a native population of less than thirty, it held but two claims to distinction. One, it was the highest permanent community in the Terrakas Mountains, not counting the villages of the Terrirpa clans. Two, it was the home of the tavern.