The Conqueror's Shadow (64 page)

The greater part of her, the part not even remotely calm, sobbed
once reflexively at what was happening to her. For a moment, Mithraem pulled away, blood-drenched teeth exposed in a mocking leer.

“It's been a long time,” he whispered in a hoarse caricature of passion, “since I've had a sorcerer. And you, if it means anything, you're one of the best I've tasted.”

For that single instant, when the blood stopped flowing, Rheah rallied her self-control. She retained enough for one last spell; she
had
to have enough!

Nothing offensive. Her body couldn't take the strain, and if this walking corruption had survived the elemental lightning bolt, nothing she could throw at it would do any better.

But there was a way. In her studies and experiments, Rheah had learned much about the human form, things most common folk didn't know, couldn't understand. And one of those obscure little facts—about the nature of the liquid pumping through her, that Mithraem now stole in his own peculiar brand of rape—might just be enough to save her.

It was a simple spell, one of her favorites, designed to ruin an enemy's weapon. But she must cast it now, exhausted, weakened nigh unto death, with greater precision than she'd ever before attempted.

Under her breath, Rheah began to chant.

Mithraem bent forward once more, his lips returning to the side of her face, as she'd known he would. And then, with the last of her rapidly failing consciousness, she spat the spell's final syllables.

Skilled as she was, it proved nearly impossible. The enchantment was intended for a sword, an axe. Her office was decorated with just such weapons. Now she cast it upon something much smaller, something completely unseen.

But she was Rheah Vhoune, Initiate of the Eighth Circle, and by all the gods she
would
make it happen! The spell's energies crept out, invisible and undetectable, insinuating themselves into the fluids passing between her and the enemy, from her flesh to his lips.

And even as it passed through those lips, the iron in her blood transformed to wood.

So fast was Mithraem drinking the life from Rheah's body that, even as his tongue detected the sudden, grainy taste of the blood, he'd taken three full swallows before he could stop.

A mouthful of strange, watery blood splattered across Rheah's face as Mithraem spat. His expression fell slack as he rose, retreating from his “helpless” victim. Desperately he hacked, coughed, trying to clear his system of the unnatural substance he'd taken in. The blood—or what had originally been blood—swept through his flesh, permeated his bones, fed life to dead and desiccated organs that belonged deep in the earth.

And then it reached his heart. There was oh so little of it, scarcely the tiniest fraction of the blood that had been transformed. But in this body that should not exist at all, it was enough.

For the first time in generations, the first time since he'd truly lived, eating and breathing as mortals eat and breathe, Mithraem screamed. It held no menace, this high-pitched shriek, nothing predatory, no great font of evil. Only fear and despair, the last hopeless cry of a dying immortal.

Seilloah rose from the bloody floor. From collar to knees, the front of her dress was drenched with blood, clammy and sticky against her skin. The tattered cloth gaped open where she'd yanked the stake from her stomach. Pink and fragile flesh, already bruising, sealed the wound like a patch upon the hull of a sinking ship. It would keep her from bleeding to death until she could do a more thorough job.

Emotionless, remorseless, the witch stepped around her flailing foe, scouring the room.
There
. Seilloah lifted Mithraem's own sword from the floor and raised it high.

Mithraem, lord and master of the Endless Legion, eldest of his kind, ceased abruptly to scream. His head, mouth agape, landed not with a percussive thump but a liquid splash. Black rot and viscous corruption splattered the room, accompanied by the fetor of a dozen corpses splayed in the summer sun. Mist poured from the decomposing sludge, barred by the permeating wood from seeking a new shell, new life. A single sob, harbinger of endless grief and childish fear, echoed throughout the room. And then the mist faded into the floor and was gone.

A heavy hand clamped down on Seilloah's shoulder from behind. With a startled shriek she spun, Mithraem's sword raised in a marginally competent grip.

“Sorry,” Corvis said.

“If we hadn't just gone through nine kinds of hell to keep you alive,” Seilloah snarled, gasping heavily, “I'd seriously consider running you through.”

With slow, drowsy movements, the warlord surveyed the room. His expression grew puzzled when he saw Nathaniel Espa lying in a heap, shifting to true concern when his gaze fell upon the crumpled forms of Ellowaine and Rheah.

“Mithraem,” Seilloah answered his unspoken question. “He's gone now. For good.”

Corvis nodded. “How are they?”

“Espa and Ellowaine are in no immediate danger, though some of those limbs may never work properly again. But Corvis, there's nothing anyone can do for Rheah. She's lost too much blood.”

Softly, the Terror of the East knelt down beside the supine form of the woman who was once his most dangerous enemy. Almost tenderly, he took her pallid hand in his own iron-clad grip.

“This … isn't exactly the way I expected … to go,” she whispered, voice so soft he could barely hear it. “It's a good thing … nothing went wrong with … the spell. I … couldn't have … helped you. Was it … worth it?”

“I spoke to Khanda,” Corvis confirmed. “He'll help. I'll save your city, Rheah. I don't know if my word means a damn to you, but I give it anyway.”

The sorceress shuddered once. “Then hadn't you better … get moving?”

“Rheah, where's the key? The real key?”

Weakly, the sorceress laughed. “Rebaine, do you think … I'm delirious? We may be on the same … side right now, but you're still … you. It's far from here, safe … safe from you, from everyone. No one will … threaten my city again. No one …”

One breath. One more.

“I really wanted … to see a Sorcerers' Guild …”

Rheah Vhoune, Initiate of the Eighth Circle, sighed one final time, and didn't breathe again.

Gently, Corvis closed her eyes. And then, with no hesitation, he reached into the pouch on Rheah's belt and removed a small scroll case, similar to the one she'd given Audriss.

“There's no way she wouldn't have kept it on her,” he replied to Seilloah's questioning look. “On the off-chance she wrested the book away from Audriss, she'd have wanted to be able to use it against us.

“Take care of Ellowaine,” he said, rising to his feet and sticking the case into his own pouch. “If I'm not back within half an hour, get her out of here, and tell Losalis to get the men the hell away from Mecepheum.”

“Corvis, I should go with you! If you need help, I—”

“Won't be able to provide it.” The Terror of the East yanked Sunder from his baldric. The blade gleamed, despite the absence of any direct light. “This is between Audriss and me now, Seilloah. If I lose, this city goes down with me. Don't be here when that happens.”

He reached out a hand, placed it gently on the shoulder of his old friend, and squeezed. Tight-lipped, Seilloah nodded once.

Corvis turned on his heel and departed.

Her face marred by pain, Seilloah surveyed the room. Her eyes fell upon the injured, supine form of the great Nathaniel Espa, and despite her agony, a feral grin slowly crept across her face.

BEHIND THE BLANK
and barren stone, the first traces of puzzlement flickered across Lorum's face. His new pets were causing untold destruction, slaying all who stood in—or anywhere near—their path, and that was good. But they were
dawdling!
They moved forward only slowly, stopping frequently to ensure that everything around them was laid waste, that no spark of life escaped their unquenchable fury.

Growing angrier by the minute, the Serpent actually shook the tome he held in his hand. The Twins should have made a beeline for the Hall of Meeting, as he'd commanded! If the council survived this little exercise, things would be substantially more difficult for him later on.

He'd wanted to make a definite impression, to cast himself into the pages of legend, but he'd also intended to have a capital city left afterward. That was looking less and less likely with every subsequent street engulfed in flames or swamped beneath rivers of diseased ichor.

His steps thoughtful, the warlord called Audriss marched across the air toward the nearest building, a wide, three-story tenement. As though the swirling eddies of smoke formed the most solid of stairs, he descended from his lofty perch to stand instead upon real stone, his formerly silent boots now crunching on the gravel. From this new vantage, he once more flipped through the book, searching for clues as to why he'd lost control.

“Oh, it's not the book, Audriss. It's just that you're an idiot.”

The Serpent actually jumped, so startled was he to hear any voice, and this voice in particular, on the rooftop. But sure enough, there he stood, encased in that ridiculous spiked armor, his hair hanging limply around his ears, Sunder grasped in battle-weary hands.

“Corvis,” the warlord purred, teeth clenched in a predatory grin that his enemy couldn't see, “how good of you to join me. Pray tell, to what particular aspect of my idiocy do you refer? You might want to make it snappy, mind. From the looks of things, this building won't be here in another, oh, five minutes.” He gestured with his free hand at the Children of Apocalypse, currently demolishing the Weavers' Guild Hall not three hundred yards distant.

“You actually thought Rheah would give in that easily, Audriss?”

The Serpent abruptly began to laugh.

“She switched keys, didn't she?” Far from the consternation Corvis hoped for, his enemy continued to chuckle, actually shaking his head. “Well, congratulate her for me, Rebaine. She's just unleashed Maukra and Mimgol on the city without the slightest measure of control. Not, I suppose, the result she intended.”

“They can be stopped,” the Terror of the East told him grimly.

“Oh, of course,” Audriss sneered. “Tell me, Rebaine, is this the part where you suggest we put aside our differences and work together for the common good? I use the book, you use the real key—I assume you have the real key, or you'd be miles away by now—to stop the monsters? Is that it?”

“Not at all. This is the part where I kill you and take the book to do with as I please.”

Audriss remained unworried. Without his precious Khanda, Corvis Rebaine was merely a two-bit, apprentice-level wizard. The only thing dangerous about him was Sunder, and even the Kholben Shiar was no threat if he couldn't get near his foe.

“Khanda,” the Serpent said casually, raising an arm to point, “get me the key and get rid of him, would you?”

A glow surrounded the silver-ringed wristband, an accumulation of power that may have been the demonic equivalent of a man taking a deep, preparatory breath. Khanda gathered his energies …

And then, accompanied by a shriek of rage and sheer, malevolent hatred from Pekatherosh that only Audriss could hear, both demons, the wristband and the pewter ring, vanished in a swirl of blood-red sparks.

“Oops,” Corvis said conversationally. “I bet that wasn't supposed to happen.” And then he leapt, Sunder raised high.

The Serpent, overwhelmed, had no chance to react. The axe slammed into his rib cage, hurling him backward, a rag doll bearing the brunt of a spoiled child's tantrum. The enchanted stone held, though it was once more split in a cobweb of cracks. They'd both learned, on their first encounter, that the Serpent's armor could withstand at least one blow from the Kholben Shiar.

Nor had Corvis forgotten it. His attack wasn't meant to kill. What it
was
supposed to do, and accomplished quite nicely, was send the warlord over the edge of the roof.

The Serpent slammed onto the cobblestones with a resonant crash. Pieces of the magic armor, already weakened by Sunder's bite, lay scattered through the street, rough fragments that crumbled swiftly into powder. Audriss lay stunned, limbs splayed around him.

Selakrian's tome, covers spread and pages crumpled beneath it, lay fetched up against a building across the street. Windows nearby erupted as Maukra's hellfire, herald of the Dragon's approach, ignited the opposite end of the structure, consuming everything within.

Bereft of any other option, Corvis leapt from the rooftop.