The Conqueror's Shadow (48 page)

Blood dripping from his axe and a truly peculiar expression marring his face, Corvis stepped over to Tyannon, who crouched against the side of the nearest house. “We're going to have to move on,” Corvis said. “I don't
think
the fellow's likely to come back, but if he does, it'll be with reinforcements.”

“I figured as much,” she told him dully. Mechanically, he reached out a hand to help her up. Equally mechanically, she accepted.

“We, uh, probably have time to get washed up first,” he offered, glancing with strange distaste at the smear her hair had left along the wall.

“I'd appreciate that.”

/Oh, just kill me./

For a few moments they walked in silence toward the inn in which they'd been staying, unseen by the villagers who still refused to open their windows, the only sounds the squelch of their feet in the mud. Until, finally, “Tyannon? Why in all the gods' names did you help
me?”

“You weren't the one with a sword to my ribs, Rebaine.”

“Well, no, but … Once I'd dropped Sunder—”

/Like a
complete
moron,/
Khanda interjected. Again, shockingly, Corvis ignored him.

“—you probably weren't in any further danger.”

Tyannon drew stiffly to a halt and stared ahead at the waiting inn, refusing to look at the man beside her. “Why
did
you drop Sunder?”

/An excellent question./

“Because I made you a promise, Tyannon. I said no harm would come to you.”

/Not
such an excellent answer./

“Maybe you had no reason to believe that promise when I made it,” Corvis continued, “but I meant it all the same.”

“That,” she said, her voice flat as parchment, “is why I helped you.” Still refusing to so much as turn and look at him, Tyannon marched ahead and vanished through the inn's front door.

THE DARKNESS HURT
.

No. No, that wasn't quite right, was it? Wasn't the dark his sanctuary, his salve? For when it was dark, he remained blessedly alone. When he was alone, the pain throbbed, oozed through him, permeated flesh and bone, but at least it didn't grow any worse. It was when the dark fled before the burning touch of torches and lanterns, when the voices echoed through the chamber, when he
wasn't
alone …
that
was the true source of his constant agony, the beginning and ending of his world.

The dark should have been his comfort. But it was not, for it was
there, in the blind silence, that he was left to imagine what new horrors would be birthed in the light.

So he suffered for more days than he cared to count. More days than he
could
count, for he'd been permitted to see no light but the flame since they'd brought him here, never felt the touch of the sun on his skin in this chamber of the deepest hell. Through it all, he saw no other people save the leering Baron Jassion of Braetlyn and the muscle-bound, empty-eyed cronies assisting him in his “work”—and, far too rarely, the healers who would mutter a few words, apply a few poultices and herbs, ease his wounds
just enough
to ensure that the prisoner wouldn't succumb before his next “session.”

When they'd dragged him down here, nearly naked, broken, and bloody, he'd already suffered perhaps two or three cracked ribs, bone bruises and at least one fracture in his left arm, a near break in his left leg, and uncountable contusions. And he'd thought—with a foolishness he'd have laughed at now if laughter hadn't made him cough up blood—that he'd been in pain.

The beating he'd taken in Rheah's room was the heights of ecstasy compared to what he'd endured since.

His face, swollen and purple from the constant beatings, resembled a malformed eggplant. It was easier, now, after so many fists had landed, to count
unbroken
ribs. His limbs were nothing but deadweight dangling from his battered body, sluggish, weak, reluctant to obey his commands. Black skin flaked from where they'd applied reddened pokers—and, in one case, the flaming end of a torch—and other patches of skin were scraped or sliced away, exposing a gaping maw of raw, bleeding flesh to the open air. Wounds festered, caked in the dirt and dust and rat excrement that made up the carpeting of his new home. The sweat and dried blood of endless days encrusted his face and his body.

Though others often lent a hand, Lord Braetlyn performed most of the work himself, delivering blows to crush flesh and crack bone. He took no small amount of perverse pleasure from the suffering he inflicted on the “great” Corvis Rebaine, a fact he announced loudly and often. It was he, Jassion bragged, who had struck the warlord down in
Rheah Vhoune's office. It was he who had stripped the Terror of his possessions and locked them away with his own hands. It was he who had inflicted more damage on Corvis Rebaine than the man had suffered his whole life through.

It was a cliché that Corvis had never more than half believed but now knew to be manifest truth: There was, indeed, a point at which death was not a threat to be avoided, but a comfortable end to suffering, a final draught of cool water to quench an agonizing thirst.

But he did
not
wish for death, though all of life seemed nothing but pain. He did not want it, would not ask for it, would fight against it with all of what little strength remained within. Even though, at times, he could scarcely remember why he fought at all.

When he could, when he remembered there was a world beyond this tiny pocket of malicious night, he saw their faces dancing about him, heard the laughter of children at play in the fields or the soft whispers of his wife breathing passionately in his ears. To surrender now, however tempting, would not merely cost him himself—it would cost him them.

And even when he could not remember, when the pain of the here and now was all he knew, he would not yield. Gods damn them all, he was Corvis Rebaine! The Terror of the East, the scourge of Imphallion, and he'd willingly be damned to an eternity far worse than this before he'd let himself succumb to scum like Jassion of Braetlyn!

There were questions, of course.

“Why have you come back?”

“Are you the power behind the Serpent?”

“How strong is your army?”

“What is your plan?”

“What the hell have you done with
my sister?”

He'd answered truthfully enough—some of the time, anyway—but the young baron didn't much care for his answers. The notion that Corvis could have emerged out of seclusion to
stop
Audriss was so diametrically opposed to everything Jassion believed that the words scarcely even registered. He'd already been judged: Everyone already knew he was indeed the man behind Audriss, and all his captors required now was that he admit it.

He'd declined to reveal the strength of his army, and his refusal had earned him many a bruise or a burn, but it was as nothing compared with the baron's reaction when Corvis answered his final question.

He could have lied. He could have told Jassion what he expected to hear, that Tyannon was long dead. He could have told Jassion that he'd let her go after a few weeks of captivity, that something else must have happened to her.

But even now, even when Tyannon would have begged him to say whatever he must to save himself, the idea of lying about her was a repudiation of everything he'd worked for. If he denied his family now, he might as well have stayed at home and let Audriss march unopposed.

So he'd told Jassion the truth, and the baron exploded. His frothing lips no longer spat anything resembling a sentient language—primal animal sounds echoed through the room, crashing against the stone walls. Corvis didn't doubt that his life would have ended then and there had not one of the baron's own men dragged his liege off the bloody pulp. There were others who wanted the opportunity to “speak” with Corvis Rebaine. And so, raving and spitting, Jassion was dragged away until he'd calmed down.

But from that point forward, Jassion stopped caring about his answers. He asked questions in a dull monotone, a formality, and reached for a gauntlet or a club or a knife even before he'd finished speaking. It was an excuse, now, and a challenge: How much agony could one man take before his body gave out?

The rag-wrapped figure lying splayed across the filth-encrusted stone flinched at the scrape of footsteps in the hall, at the flicker of torchlight under the door. Peeling himself painfully off the floor, he backed into the cell's farthest corner.

His eyes—his left eye, actually, as his right was swollen shut-twitched as the lock turned over. There were voices outside, Jassion's among them. But the other proved a mystery. It struck a dim and distant chord in Corvis's memory, but he'd not heard it recently enough to place.

“… wasting your time,” Jassion was saying angrily. “He hasn't spoken
a word of truth since we got him down here! You questioning him personally is absolutely—”

“Essential,” the other interrupted. “Strange things are happening, Lord Jassion, and I'm hearing unusual reports. Especially regarding the fall of Pelapheron. If—” The intractable lock finally clicked open, and Corvis could not help but flinch from the light.

Jassion, clad in his accustomed black armor without regard for the dungeon's chill, entered first. The man who followed was handsome, his face emphasized rather than hidden by a well-trimmed blond beard. His outfit was largely white, embellished with navy blue. Corvis may have failed to identify him by voice, but he certainly knew the man by description.

The newcomer's gaze met that of the filthy, bloodied tatterdemalion who stood as straight as his injuries would allow. Then, his voice the very embodiment of courtesy, he nodded. “Lord Rebaine.”

Though his neck ached at the effort, Corvis returned it. “Your Grace.”

Lorum smiled slightly. “You know me?”

“I know
of
you.” The prisoner coughed, a tearing hack that moistened the fist he'd raised to his mouth with a thin layer of blood. “You'll forgive me if I don't bow, and for my informal attire.”

Jassion, fists clenched tight, grew livid that Corvis had strength and spirit enough for sarcasm. He stepped forward, arms raised, but Lorum's extended hand halted him.

“When I require your assistance, Jassion, you'll be the first to know.”

Face twisted and eyes burning, Jassion reluctantly stepped back.

Lorum strode fully into the room and stood beside the caged Terror. Grimacing in disgust, he looked over the shredded, filthy rags and open wounds.

“You aren't frightened to be so near me, Lorum?” Corvis asked only half sarcastically.

“Should I be? Will the Terror of the East kill me with his bare hands? Hold me hostage for his freedom?” Lorum smiled. “At your best, Rebaine, you might possibly have done it. In your current shape, it's not even a contest. No, Rebaine, I'm not scared of you. If anything, I think you're the one who's afraid.”

Though his entire face throbbed, Corvis raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Of you?”

“Of this.” Lorum gestured around him. “This isn't a pleasant place, Rebaine, and what's happening here even less so.” He leaned in and whispered, resembling a schoolboy spreading a salacious rumor. “Between you and me, I think Jassion's getting just a bit more enjoyment from this than he should be. The man's got something against you, Rebaine. More so than rest of us, more even than his sister, I think, could account for.”

Corvis nodded slowly.

“In any case,” Lorum continued, straightening, “I thought you might prefer to speak to me. I've got much the same questions Lord Jassion does, but perhaps I can phrase them more to your liking.”

The former warlord chuckled through raw and bloody lips. “You come sauntering in here, Your Grace, show me forty-five seconds of what vaguely passes as kindness, and I open up to you? Is that the plan? Because if so, I think it's tactically unsound.”

Jassion shook visibly, struggling to hold himself in check. Lorum continued to ignore him.

“Not really, no,” Lorum said, his voice still calm. “This isn't a game, Rebaine. We're not playing ‘good guard, bad guard.'” Absently, the duke toyed with his signet ring, a purple stone set in a band of gold. “I simply thought to make it clear that, whatever personal grudge Jassion holds against you, I don't share it. Talk to me, and I will treat you in the exact manner you earn, no more no less. If you do not …”

His fist lashed out, a sledgehammer of flesh slamming into Corvis's swollen face. The prisoner's skull snapped back against the wall and he dropped, coughing loudly and bleeding from a nasty gash in his cheek where Lorum's ring had sliced his skin.

“If you do
not
choose to cooperate with me, I will again treat you in the exact manner you've earned. While I may not take the same pleasure in your pain that my young companion does, I assure you that I will be just as methodical in inflicting it. And I've learned tricks in my time to make even Jassion blanch.”