The Warlord's Legacy (32 page)

S
UMMER WAS FINALLY PACKING UP
to depart, a guest who’d only belatedly gotten the hint, while autumn stood behind, arms crossed and foot tapping. Through most of Imphallion, the breeze assumed
just a tiny hint of the cool scents to come. Most of Imphallion, but not here. At the periphery of the great swamp, the heat lingered, conducted and spread by the oppressive humidity, transforming the world into a simmering stew. Mosquitoes flew, or perhaps swam, through that syrupy air in such quantities that inhaling squirming mouthfuls of the damn things was as great a hazard as contracting some horrible pestilence from their bites. Kaleb had prepared an herbal paste, bolstered by a touch of magic, to repel them, and the constant buzz had taken on an angry, almost frustrated tone.

Some few dozen yards from the shallowest reaches of the marsh, Mellorin sat cross-legged within the shade of scraggly, sun-blasted trees. She studiously watched the thick grasses at her feet so she needn’t look into the face of her companion.

“Mother told me, over and over,” she said to the ground, “that he’d gone to make sure the ‘bad men’ never hurt me again. She never—
neither
of them ever understood. I was only a child, Kaleb. It didn’t matter to me if there were bad guys
out there
. There were bad guys
here
—well, you know what I mean, at home—and that’s where I needed him.” Her voice shook; with pain, yes, of course, but also with a smoldering rage that threatened to set her alight from within.

He blotted the light from her vision as he knelt in the grass beside her. She said nothing, refused to look up, but a shiver ran through her skin as his hand—hot and clammy in the heat, but no less welcome—took hers. “I’m so sorry, Mellorin.”

Then she did look up at him, for something in his tone rang ever so faintly false. Not that she thought his sympathy a lie, for the softness in his face looked genuine enough. Rather, he seemed not entirely to
understand
.

Over his shoulder, way out in the swamp, a few sporadic and leafless trees formed tiny cracks crawling up from the western horizon. The marsh might have marked the edge of the world, its filthy waters leaking out through that broken sky.

Despite herself, she smiled. “You’ve never really been afraid of anything, have you?”

Kaleb shifted so he was sitting, rather than kneeling, beside her. “I—not
really,” he admitted. “Anyone with the patience and the will can learn
some
magic, but some people are just born to it more than others.”

She nodded.

“I was born to it. I’ve had more power than I’ve really known what to do with for my entire life. When you have that, it’s hard to take fear seriously.”

“You’re not even afraid of my father? Not even a little bit?”

“Hm.” Kaleb frowned thoughtfully. “I respect what he’s capable of. I acknowledge that he’s dangerous. But fear, like you’re talking about? I certainly don’t
think
so. But maybe I wouldn’t know it if I were.”

“And here,” she told him, her smile growing, “I thought you knew
everything.
”

“Not yet,” he said pompously. Then he, too, grinned.

“Kaleb,” she asked, partially out of a sudden need to say
something
, “why are you here?”

“Well, when a mommy wizard and a daddy wizard love each other
very
much—”

“Stop that,” she ordered, punching him in the arm even as she battled a case of the giggles. “I mean it,” she said, regaining control. “I’ve told you why I had to come along. And we both know why Uncle Jassion hates my father.”

“Anyone with ears who’s ever been within ten miles of Jassion knows that.”

“And maybe a few without them. But why are
you
here? And
don’t
try to tell me it’s just a job you were hired for, either.”

“Well, that’s partly what it
is,
” he answered.

“Yes.
Partly.
”

“Just because I’ve never really been afraid,” Kaleb told her seriously, “doesn’t mean I can’t be hurt. Your father’s hurt a
lot
of people.” Her face went stony, her teeth grinding, and she nodded. “He wouldn’t know me to look at me,” the sorcerer continued, “but I was one of them. Maybe, when we find him, I’ll remind him of it.”

She wanted to ask, to know, but she wouldn’t push him. Not on this, not now. Her free hand rose, seemingly of its own accord, to his face. “I’m sorry, Kaleb. I’m sorry he did that to you. I don’t know who he is, anymore. I guess I never did.”

She felt his other hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Mellorin.”

“I know, but I—”

“Shhh.” He was leaning forward, now. She felt the heat of his breath on her lips, could all but taste it on her tongue, and she was certain he must be able to hear her heart pounding. Closer, almost touching …

“Kaleb!”

Mellorin could not have jumped any faster had she been manacled to a catapult. She gawked at Jassion, who stood with arms crossed at the edge of the copse, and nearly choked as a whole battlefield of warring emotions squeezed through her chest, leaving little room for breath. Cheeks flaming, she rose and fled beyond the trees.

K
ALEB WATCHED
M
ELLORIN GO
, chewing on the inside of his lip. Languidly he stood, and the expression he directed at the newcomer was utterly bland. “What’s your problem, old boy?”

Three steps forward, and Jassion stood as close as Mellorin had been. “I’ve warned you before about hurting her. Don’t think I’m not on to you.”

“Damn,” the sorcerer said. “You’ve seen through my clever attempt to not hide anything. I haven’t tried to deceive you, Jassion. Does it look like I’ve any interest in
hurting
her?”

“There are many kinds of injury, Kaleb, and I’m not choosy. You hurt her, and I’ll—”

“Kill me, yes. Possibly by boring me to death by repeating the same threat over and over. Was there a reason you came back? Other than to embarrass me and your niece, I mean.”

“There was, actually,” the baron said, apparently having decided he’d made his point. “I’ve found one of them.”

W
HILE THE VOICE IN HER HEAD
that warned of pending danger had faded after the battle with Losalis’s men, Mellorin’s own natural talent allowed her to retain much of the instinct Kaleb’s spell had
imparted. She’d been hoping, once Jassion returned from his scouting efforts, for the opportunity to practice them. (Had anyone actually used the phrase
showing off
, she’d have been mortally insulted.) So the young woman was rather disappointed when Kaleb informed her that she and Jassion would serve primarily as a diversion.

That was, until she finally got a good look at her first ogre.

For some time they’d slunk through the edges of the marsh, following Jassion’s lead, and every step was an endeavor. So far as Mellorin could tell, the swamp had no true “bottom,” just a point at which the filthy mix of mud and water coagulated enough to support their weight. It clung to her ankles like a terrified child, seeped through the seams in her leather boots to caress her skin with sticky, lukewarm tendrils. Kaleb swore that his herbal paste would survive immersion long enough for them to finish what they were doing, but still she flinched, fearing some terrible sting or venomous fangs each time something hidden in the murk brushed against her legs.

Cypresses and other gnarled, bony trees protruded now and again from the swamp. Mellorin’s imagination transformed them into the desperate fingers of drowning giants, their bodies sunken in the muck. The stench of slow decay scratched at her lungs with dirty, ragged nails, and she struggled to remind herself that what she smelled was the natural odor of the bog, and
not
the remnants of those lost titans.

And so it went in all directions, save back the way they’d come: an endless expanse of stagnant water, creeping mildew, and the rotting, ravenous earth that lurked below. Were this
truly
the edge of the world, it couldn’t have been any more disturbing, any more oppressive.

So caught up was Mellorin in her surroundings, it required a quick “Hsst!” from Jassion before she spotted the distant figure. A sentry, no doubt, watching the borders of ogre territory.

Though little more than a distant silhouette, he showed arms and legs—or at least, portions of those legs above the waterline—blatantly corded with muscle. His proportions were just a bit skewed from human, and she could clearly make out the single horn protruding from his skull. Fearsome, certainly, but at this first glimpse he didn’t seem all
that
impressive; dangerous, but not some nightmarish legend.

Then he leaned back against a trunk of a jagged cypress that Mellorin
had thought was much farther away into the swamp, and her cheeks went pale. “My gods …”

Kaleb’s lips curved in a faint smile. “He’s a big boy, isn’t he?”

“If that tree’s anywhere near as high as … Kaleb, he’s got to be ten feet tall!”

“Probably closer to twelve,” the sorcerer said speculatively, as though he were looking to
buy
the damn ogre. “Plus the horn, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Mellorin was trying to wrap her mind around the notion of a creature twice Jassion’s height. “We wouldn’t want to forget that. Wouldn’t be polite.”

“If you two are quite through,” Jassion growled, “I’d very much like to get this done
before
he spots us skulking out here, thanks. Do you remember the plan?”

“Yes, old boy.” Kaleb sighed. “
Some
of us aren’t complete idiots.” Mellorin, for her part, rolled her eyes in perfect imitation of Kaleb’s traditional expression.

The sorcerer hunkered down in the muck, practically vanishing, while the others advanced on their target, spreading out slowly as they walked. The hilts of her sword and dagger felt somehow sticky and slippery at the same time. Mellorin chose to attribute it to the humidity of the swamp, and not to the fearful sweating of her palms.

With a deliberate calm, the creature turned toward them as they neared, its single eye darting from one to the other. Rather than move to meet them, it remained where it stood, dropping into a shallow crouch with the cypress at its back. At the ogre’s waist, positioned for a one-handed draw, hung a sword longer even than Jassion’s demon-forged flamberge, and the beast clutched a leaf-bladed spear that could have spitted a warhorse lengthwise, with plenty of room to spare.

Despite the humidity, Mellorin felt her lips go dry, her tongue swell to fill her mouth. She felt like a child wielding toy blades against a very angry parent. Her legs ached as she slogged through the mud, and she knew that any fancy footwork would accomplish little more than to drive her even deeper into the sludge. If it actually came to fighting this monster, the only question was whether she or Jassion would die first.

She could see the ogre’s leather armor, now, cut from alligator hide.
Opposite his sword hung an iron-banded horn on a leather thong, but he’d made no effort to lift it to his lips. No sense alarming the whole tribe, Mellorin assumed, when it was just a couple of humans either too stupid or suicidal to live.

That, of course, had been the entire point of this little charade, but the warlord’s daughter was beginning to question the wisdom of “the plan.”

And her own, for that matter.

Nearer still, and the beast sidled to one side, keeping its back to the tree. It could watch Mellorin’s approach from the corner of its eye, but clearly it had determined Jassion to be the greater threat. Mellorin, despite her recent “influx” of skill and the days of practice since, had to admit it was probably right, and she couldn’t keep a sigh of relief pent up in her chest as it turned its attention away.

A few more steps, and Jassion would come within range of that impossibly long spear. Mellorin felt a flutter of panic.
Kaleb, now would be a
really
good time!

She didn’t
actually
believe the sorcerer was listening in on her thoughts, but at that moment he might as well have been.

Her hair blew across her face as
something
passed with impossible speed overhead. She glimpsed nothing more than a ripple in the air itself, the faintest wisp of steam or mist, wadded into a ball like so much discarded parchment. Had she not been looking right at it, indeed
expecting
something very much like it, she’d never have known it was there.