The Conqueror's Shadow (61 page)

Some nights later, Harlif led a throng of angered citizens against the temple of Chalsene, blaming the Night-Bringer's priests and their teachings for all that had transpired. Chairs and tables were placed against the doors, wooden planks across the windows, and—in the midst of services, when the score or so of Sanvesans who revered Chalsene all prayed within—Harlif set the building to the torch. There he stood, basking in the warmth, watching the greasy smoke rise skyward, and drinking in the screams of the dying as gladly as he'd accepted the townsfolk's gratitude.

Some variants of the legend claim that Chalsene's priests pronounced
a dying curse; others that it was the Night-Bringer himself who took offense at the sheriff's actions. But whichever the case, Harlif awoke that night to a room bathed in the chill of deepest winter. Mists poured through his windows from the outside, leaving a trail of blood to soak into the boards of his floor. And as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he stared up, horrified beyond measure, into a face as pallid as death.

And that face spoke, saying “Every drop of blood I shed, every life I claim from now until the end of days, is upon your soul, not mine. For I have none left to damn.”

Harlif was found by the townsfolk, his corpse as white as snow, drained entirely of blood. Suspecting the worst, the superstitious folk turned immediately and raced to the triple grave, if only to reassure themselves that, once again, they faced a purely mortal adversary.

Two of the graves remained, the towering trees growing straight and tall. But over the third, the bole had rotted, curling in on itself like a weak old man. The grave itself, when they exhumed it, lay empty; nothing remained of the body save a few shreds of dead heart, caught in the roots of the dying tree.

The missing brother's name, so the legend says, was Mithraem.

“THERE,”
Corvis hissed, pointing at a hastily abandoned tavern. “Is that close enough?”

Rheah squinted upward, trying to judge the distance to the airborne warlord. “It'll be a near thing,” she said at last, “but I think I can make it work.”

The door was quite firmly locked, which slowed Sunder down not at all. Five pairs of feet dashed through the common room, kicking up clouds of sawdust and setting the floorboards to creaking. They pounded up the flimsy wooden stairs, shaking dust from the banister. Corvis chose a room at the far end of the corridor and barreled into it, shoulder-checking the flimsy door as he went through.

He'd chosen well. Sure enough, the window allowed an unobstructed view of the hovering Serpent, as well as the horrors beyond.

Even as Corvis and Rheah took up positions by the window, crouched beneath the sill, the others took what precautions they could. They propped the door back into place, shoving the bed and dresser across the room to barricade the entrance. It was hardly a solid defense, but it might at least slow down any attackers.

Well, anyone human. Maukra and Mimgol would rip the building apart and then set the remains on fire, but they hoped to be long finished before the Children reached this part of the city.

“Ready?” Rheah asked breathlessly, clearly not as calm and collected as she tried to appear. That was all right, though: It distracted Corvis from his own barely leashed panic.

“I suppose so. What's going to happen, exactly? Do I just talk to him? Do I have to keep staring out this window, or is it enough that I see him when the spell starts?”

Rheah grinned weakly. “The truth is, Rebaine, I can't bring him to you. This sort of communication, as you pointed out, requires proximity. What I
can
do is send
you
to
him.”

“And you don't think it'll be a little obvious, me floating out there next to Audriss? Not to mention that damn shield he's thrown around himself! If I could get through
that
, I wouldn't need to do this in the first place! I thought you—”

“You misunderstand me, Rebaine. I'm not sending all of you.”

Corvis blinked. “Huh?” he asked intelligently.

“Projection, Rebaine. I'm sending your essence into Khanda's pendant.”

The warlord actually shrank away from her. “You said
what?”

“It's the only way, Rebaine. I promise you, it's safer than it sounds. The amulet's not enchanted to hold you, so there's no danger of being trapped. You'll just pop in, have your discussion, and pop back out again.”

“You're mad! There's no way—”

“You're damn right!” Rheah shouted, leaning forward so her nose was mere inches from Corvis's own. “If you won't do this, there
is
no way! It's put-up-or-shut-up-time, Rebaine. You were the one harping
about our one and only chance to stop what's happening out there, to turn Audriss's plans around before he walks all over us. You don't get the option of backing out now, you bastard!” Rheah raised her hands and rose from her crouch, muscles tensed. Seilloah took a step back from everyone, her own fingers twitching, and Ellowaine and Espa both drew steel.

“I am going to cast a spell now, Rebaine,” the sorceress said simply. “If we remain allies, it will be the sending spell. If we're not, I fully intend to burn you down where you stand for crimes against the kingdom and the Guilds. Which will it be?”

Corvis, too, rose to his feet, his hand hovering casually by the infernal weapon at his side. “If I decided not to let you cast that spell, Rheah, do you think you'd have the chance to do so?”

“Which is it, Rebaine?” she asked again, unwavering.

No one moved. Even the dust filling the room, kicked up and swirled around by their presence, froze as the very building held its breath.

Then Corvis smiled and let his hand fall from Sunder's haft. The witch and the warriors released their tension in three explosive sighs. Rheah merely nodded. “Are you ready, then?”

“I doubt it. Let's do this before I have one of my rare fits of common sense.”

“Very well.” Rheah relaxed her arms and straightened. “I should warn you, your destination may seem odd.”

“Odd?”

“You're entering a place—well, ‘place' isn't really the right concept, but it'll do—designed and enchanted to imprison a demon lord. There is nothing in any way, shape, or form natural about it.

“You won't see the worst of it. Chances are, your mind will interpret what you see in whatever way is necessary to keep you from going stark-raving mad. Even so, it'll look like nothing you've ever seen.”

“Terrific. Can we get this over with already?”

The sorceress nodded, then glanced at the others. “This is where you earn your keep,” she told them. “It's absolutely essential you keep any-and everyone off us for the duration. Rebaine, for all practical purposes, won't be here, and I've got to monitor and make sure nothing
goes wrong.” She looked back to the warlord, wiped the sweat off her hands with a swipe across her now filthy skirts, and began to gesture.

“Wait a minute,” Corvis began, tense once more, “what do you mean ‘make sure nothing goes wrong'? I thought—”

“Relax, I'm just taking precautions. Projection rarely goes awry.”

Corvis probably would have said something to that, but Rheah began her chant. Instantly, he felt the life drain from his limbs, his arms and legs suddenly falling asleep.

The lethargy spread through his chest, his head. He could have sworn he actually heard his heartbeat slowing …

And then he was
elsewhere
.

CORVIS REBAINE
, helpless. Rheah Vhoune beside him, her attention focused on the subject of her spell. The others distracted and concerned, far too intent on the condition of their companions to properly pay attention.

There would never be a better chance.

Thinning himself to transparency on wafting currents of air, Mithraem seeped beneath the door and the pitiful barricade, steadily pooling into one shadowy corner of the room.

NATHANIEL ESPA
, former knight, former adviser to Duke Lorum, forcefully locked his legs into place to keep from pacing. He was more than a little agitated and his body, accustomed to the rigors of warfare despite his advancing age, demanded movement.

His eyes flickered constantly to the motionless, mismatched pair at the window. He took in the witch who'd stood behind him in the council chamber, and the wild-eyed woman with the hatchets.

It would be so easy. Yes, he'd die in the aftermath, but neither could stop him if he decided to end the Terror's life here and now. A single stroke of his sword and boundless suffering would be set right. It was worth the price of his own life, so much so he actually felt his hand
twitching with eagerness to see the job done. Hell, he was barely half convinced by this whole ludicrous idea that Lorum was Audriss. He'd practically raised the regent from a boy, supervised his education in all matters military and political. He
couldn't
be so blind, could he? This could all be some trick of Rebaine's, and they were standing around, letting him get away with—with whatever he was getting away with.

But Rheah, at least, believed, and Nathan had never known her to be wrong. If she trusted, did he not have to as well?

Of course, there was a first time for everything, including the infallible sorceress proving woefully fallible after all. If this was it, Nathan was determined to see the Terror of the East lying in a pool of blood, regardless of the consequences.

Nathaniel Espa continued to stare, at his friends, at his enemies, and not at the pale, long-fingered hand sliding from the darkness behind him, reaching from the depths of the shadows, stretching far longer than any human arm could have stretched, reaching …

OH
, great
was Corvis's first thought.
Just what I need. More forests
.

His second thought was,
If the only thing about this place bugging me is the fact that it is a forest, I've lost whatever grip on sanity I once had
.