The Conqueror's Shadow (3 page)

“Will she be all right?”
Another voice, also familiar, though not so much as the first. Younger. Far more worried. Fear. The accompanying clanking is probably his hands—gauntleted—wringing together
.

“How would I know? What do I know about magic? I don't even know what happened to her! I—”

Slowly, mentally bracing herself against the stabbing pain she knew the light must bring, she opened her eyes. “Water,” she croaked. A strong hand slid behind her, helping her to sit, and she felt a glass pressed to her lips. It was lukewarm, made gritty by the ambient dust and dirt, but she drank deeply. With every swallow the burning pain in
her throat lessened, and the ogre inside her skull finally ceased the ceremonial dances he was performing up and down her brain.

“Are you all right?” Nathaniel asked. She realized it was he who held her up.

“I will be, given a few moments. Thank you,” she added, directing the comment at Lorum, who'd held the glass for her. The young man stepped back, smiling slightly.

“What happened?” the knight demanded.

Hesitantly, Rheah rose to her feet, leaning only lightly on her friend's shoulder. “I was detected. My little helper was killed. In a rather excessive display of power, at that.”

“Power?” Lorum asked hesitantly. “Couldn't they just have stepped on it, or squashed it?”

“I suppose they could have. Rebaine chose not to. The death of a mount is never a pleasant experience.” With a grimace, she rubbed the bridge of her nose with the thumb and index finger of her left hand. Obviously, the ogre wasn't
completely
exhausted.

“Your Grace …,” Nathaniel warned quietly. The young man frowned, but nodded.

“Rheah,” he said tentatively, “I hate to press you under the present circumstances, but—”

“But,” she interrupted, “you need to know what I learned.”

Another nod.

She sighed once, forcing herself to straighten up. “Less than I'd hoped, unfortunately. I know Rebaine has discovered a series of tunnels, a complex or catacomb of some sort, beneath the Hall of Meeting.”

“Tunnels?” Nathaniel asked. “Where do they lead? Could he move his troops through them? Is—”

An upraised hand silenced him. “Don't get ahead of me, Nathan. No, they're useless for troop movements. They're small, and they don't seem to lead much of anywhere. He's searching for something down there. Something specific.”

The young regent's eyes grew wide. “Like what?”

“I'm not certain. But it's something worth trapping his entire army in a nearly indefensible city to find.”

Lorum and Nathan exchanged bleak glances. The regent stepped away, stopping only when he reached the tent's canvas wall. Absently, his left hand dropped to the table beside him, fingers drumming on the tactical map. His eyes unfocused, as though peering into the city itself. “How close do you think he was to his goal?”

“I can't say for certain, Your Grace. But he definitely gave the impression he knew where he was going. If I had to guess, I'd say fairly close.”

“That's what I thought.” Lorum allowed himself one more endless moment to stare into space, to fully ponder the ramifications of what he knew he must do. Then, with a fortifying breath, he turned around.

“Then we can't give him any more time,” he said firmly. Nathaniel, in the mix of everything else he was feeling, found himself impressed that the young duke was growing into the role required of him. “Gather the generals and tell them to form up the men. We attack as soon as they're ready. May the gods smile on us all.”

MANY OF THE GUARDS
and the prisoners, united in their curiosity despite the loathing each felt for the other, peered intently over the edge of the pit into which Corvis Rebaine, the Terror of the East, had vanished an hour before. No sound emerged from the blackened depths; no flicker of movement could penetrate the age-old darkness.

“Maybe the gods are with us,” Jeddeg whispered softly. “Maybe the bastard's died down there.”

Tyannon kept her mouth clamped firmly shut for a change. She gazed, instead, at the exhausted, despairing faces around her—all but that of her father, who refused to meet her gaze.

The darkness beneath them splintered; a burst of flame rolled down the corridor, cracking the stone walls as it passed. A wave of heat flowed from the pit, stinking of smoke and brimstone, making the watchers' eyes water and blink. And then it passed, replaced by the sound of screaming.

But this, despite the hopes of the gathered prisoners, was not the scream of a man roasting to death in the inferno's heart. No, these were
shrieks of mindless rage, of a fury that couldn't be expressed by voice alone. Even as they watched, a second burst of fire flowed down the passage, followed by the sound of shattering stone. Immense clouds of dust poured up from the hole at the base of the pit, and the building shuddered. Guards and prisoners alike exchanged horrified glances at the realization that Rebaine was collapsing the tunnels.

Tyannon blinked, her eyes tearing again to clear the dust from beneath her lids. When she could finally see again, he stood before her, an impenetrable shadow emerging from the billowing dust. The hideous axe hung from his right hand, flecks of stone and dirt falling from the blade. In his other he held something, boxy, wrapped in mold-covered and moth-eaten red velvet. Rage radiated from him in palpable waves; prisoners and guards alike fell back in fear.

All save one: a large man, tall and broad of shoulder. His hair was a light blond, almost white, and cut close to his scalp save for a single long lock at the back. He wore a hauberk of chain, topped by a black cuirass similar in design to those worn by the rest of Rebaine's men. His square features were marred by a jagged scar running from his left ear to just beneath his nose. He, and he alone, stood his ground, undaunted by his master's fury.

“My lord?” he asked, his voice gruff, tinted slightly by an accent Tyannon could not place. “Things did not go well?”

“Well?
Well?”
Rebaine spun viciously to face his lieutenant. “Does it
look
like things have gone ‘well,' Valescienn?”

“Not as such, my lord, but—”

“A godsdamn key!” He shook the cloth-covered object in Valescienn's face, neither noticing nor caring that he would surely have broken the man's nose had he not flinched away. “All the writings in which he spoke about this, his ‘greatest accomplishment'! You'd think that just once, he'd have bothered to mention it needs a bloody
key!”

Valescienn paled. “You mean—”

“Useless.” Rebaine stepped back, arms falling limply to his sides. “It's completely useless.”

The blond man's eyes widened, then narrowed in sudden anger. “And without it? Are you suggesting we'll not be continuing on toward Mecepheum?”

“Mecepheum? Valescienn, we'll be lucky if a third of the army survives to escape the damn city! We—”

“My lord!” Another soldier dashed into the room, his face coated in sweat, skidding slightly on the rubble and detritus near the pit. “My lord, Lorum is attacking! There are tens of thousands of them! Nobles, Guild soldiers …” He croaked to a stop, gasping for breath.

A mutter passed through the soldiers, each thinking the same thing. But it was Valescienn, as usual, who possessed courage to voice it. “We can't win, my lord,” he said quietly to the back of Rebaine's helm. “This city is a death trap. It won't hold for us any better than it did when we took it.”

Rebaine's shoulders slumped, an invisible gesture in the confines of his nightmarish armor. He'd failed. He'd gambled everything on the knowledge that victory lay hidden
here
, in the ancient tunnels beneath Denathere. And he'd lost.

He would, at least, deal with it properly.

“Valescienn, tell the men to fall back. Escape by any means possible. I free them from my service. Let them go home, or find employment elsewhere.”

“My lord?” The question was incredulous, almost plaintive. “You don't wish us to regroup elsewhere?”

“There's no place to regroup, my friend, nor any purpose. Even with luck on our side, we'll not have enough men left once we've escaped to make a proper army. And I'm tired, Valescienn. I'm tired.”

“But—”

“Do it! And tell Davro his people may return to their homes as well.”

Valescienn nodded, steeling himself for his final question. “And my lord? What of you?” For they both knew the approaching army would happily have let every last man, ogre, and gnome escape unharmed, if they could get their hands on Corvis Rebaine.

“Seilloah's protections will hold for some time. That should shield me from conventional scrying techniques. Nor am I without power of my own, when those fail.”

/Hmm. Not exactly “your” power, is it?/

Rebaine ignored that, and Valescienn remained ignorant of the conversation's
third participant. “I should be able to avoid them for quite a while,” Rebaine added.

“And if Vhoune should send a hunter after you?”

“Hunting spells require someone who has seen the target, closely, within a few months or so, Valescienn. Neither Vhoune, nor anyone else in Lorum's employ, has.”

“No,” the other man said softly, “but there are those who have.” His eyes, cold as gnome's blood, swept the room. “Say the word, my lord, and they're all dead.”

Only the enclosure of the hideous helm stifled Rebaine's faint sigh. “No, Valescienn. There's been enough death today.”

“Then how do you plan to protect yourself?”

“Better, I think, to risk one than to slay them all. I know Rheah Vhoune. She's skilled, she's determined, but she is not near as ruthless as she pretends. I don't think she'll risk a hunter if she knows I've someone who would suffer the consequences alongside me.”

“A hostage, my lord?”

“I see no other alternative.” He examined the hostages, surveying his options—a sham, for Valescienn's benefit. He'd already made his choice.

/You have no idea the trouble you're courting,/
Khanda snapped inside his mind.

“Tyannon!” Rebaine barked, ignoring his unseen companion. “Come here.”

The young woman stepped forward, her face whiter than the bone on Rebaine's armor. He reached out and pulled her near, so near she choked on the scent of smoke and oiled steel.

“Tyannon, listen to me.” He spoke softly. “Whether you believe me or not, I mean you no harm. Your blood serves no purpose; you do. When that purpose is served, you will be free to leave. You have my vow.”

“You—you could just force me, my lord.”

“I could. But I cannot afford to have you fighting me right now. If you will not come willingly, I will have to choose …” The mask inclined, ever so slightly, toward little Jassion, huddled behind his sister's legs. “Someone who
cannot
fight me.”

Tyannon shut her eyes tight, fighting back sudden tears. “I will go with you, my lord.”

“Good.” Rebaine, suddenly aware of how close she was, stepped back abruptly; now was not the time for such distractions. Instead, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her along after him, ignoring the sudden wailing from her baby brother.

“Valescienn, farewell.”

“Until we meet again, my lord.” The clashing and the cries of battle in the streets began to seep into the room through cracks in the stone. “You'd better go.”

The skull-mask nodded once. Then, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “Khanda?”

/Yes, foolish one?/

“I believe it's time for us to depart.”

/You realize I could probably protect you from any hunters they sent after you. You don't need the girl./

“
‘Probably' isn't good enough right now.”

A sudden flash of blinding red light, and they were gone.