The Warlord's Legacy (47 page)

Nor was this the worst of it. As his vision adjusted even more, Corvis saw other shapes, monstrous, writhing
things
at the edges of his light, moving unlike any natural beast of earth or air or even sea. They strode the empty reaches, the stagnant darkness, at the center of that black gulf, whispering sounds that reached the ear but which the mind fearfully refused to acknowledge. And when they moved, the nearest gnomes genuflected to
them
.

Corvis turned his eyes to the path and refused to look any longer into that abyss.

T
HEIR SLOG AROUND ONE MINUSCULE FRACTION
of that seemingly infinite cavern could have taken hours or even days; their progress through another array of twisting, monotonous corridors, even
longer. Corvis’s world had become nothing but the beating of an exhausted heart, the slow plod of aching, blistering feet. During those few moments when he could think at all, he began to contemplate the notion that he had died, that this was some horrible torment imposed in one of the darker corners of Vantares’s dominion. He even began to welcome the occasional passage through solid walls, for the burning in his chest as he struggled not to breathe was indication that he yet lived.

He only just noticed when the corridors began, ever more frequently, to slope upward, and in his present state he never quite grasped the connotations.

Not, that is, until the gnome informed him “He goes no farther, no,” at the same time Corvis felt the faintest brush of a breeze against his face, tentative and soft as a girl’s first kiss. It smelled of grass and soil. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees, whether in gratitude or simple exhaustion he could never say.

“Thank you,” he rasped, startled at how dry and gritty his voice sounded.
How long
have
we been down here
? It was only then he realized that not only had they never rested, they’d never stopped to eat or take even a mouthful of water. He looked briefly back the way they’d come, a shiver running down his spine, and wondered how much of it had been real.

“He does not want its thanks, no, its pitiful words of useless gratitude. He does not know what it said to him, why he guided it, took it below, between, the organs of the earth. But he knows that he will not do so again, never again, no. It leaves, yes, swiftly, before he changes his mind.”

Corvis nodded. Staggering, holding each other upright, he and Irrial shambled forward, following the siren song of the breeze. They climbed shallow slopes, hands outstretched as though to clutch the diaphanous scents of the world above. The sun, when they found it, was overwhelming, knives of light stabbing at their eyes, but it was the most joyful pain Corvis had ever known.

He pretended, as he wept, that the blinding glare was the sole cause of his tears.

C
ORVIS LEANED OUT
between two uneven shutters, the knuckles of one hand pressed to the windowsill, and gazed morosely over the collection of wooden shacks and winding roads that pretended to form a town. He’d no idea what the place might be called, and couldn’t be bothered to care overmuch. It’d been the first dollop of civilization they’d stumbled across after crawling back into the light from the earth’s stone womb, and it had boasted rooms for let above the combination tavern/restaurant/general store. That was enough to make it home, at least for tonight.

He felt his head sag, and pressed the thumb and forefinger of his free hand to the bridge of his nose. Much as he might have liked someone to talk to, a part of him was glad that he was alone for the moment—that there was nobody present to witness his weakness.
Or at least
, a faint chuckle in the back of his thoughts reminded him,
nobody real
. Moving from the window, he slumped hard in the nearby chair, unwilling even to expend the effort to reach the thin and lumpy mattress.

Corvis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so weary, so weighted down and oppressed by his own body—although, he admitted with a rueful grin, that might just be due to failing memory. No physical exhaustion, this, easily solved by a day or two of relaxation, a few nights’ rejuvenating slumber. Rather, he felt himself sinking, suffocating, in the mire of a mental and emotional fatigue so thick that it bordered on despair. Not since the darkest days of the Serpent’s War had he so desperately wanted the world to just go away for a while, to cease its incessant demands. He dreaded the thought of returning to Mecepheum’s morass of Guilds and Houses and politics and corruption, and in the deepest recesses of his soul, a voice—his
own
voice—beseeched him to give it all up.
Forget the mystery, forget the conspiracy, forget Imphallion. It’s not your responsibility; it never was. So what if someone has murdered in your name? It’s a name that cannot possibly be hated any more than it is already. Why continue? Why not find a home somewhere, far from the Cephiran border, and make a life from what years remain
?

He knew his answers, of course: His sense of the greater good, tarnished and frayed though it may have been, so rigid and uncompromising that it had allowed him to murder thousands that he might save
millions. His loyalty to companions who had fought and bled at his side. His concern for a family he had lost yet still loved. And, he conceded, his own pride, a towering pillar of fire that refused to be doused.

But for a brief time that evening, had anyone asked Corvis Rebaine if those reasons were sufficient, if they made the struggle worth continuing, he could not truthfully have answered
yes
.

And it was there, at the nadir of his inner pit of exhaustion and desolation, that the gods elected, in their own peculiar way, to yank him out of it.

Corvis was standing up from his chair, mind and muscle groaning with the effort, before it occurred to him that the heavy knock reverberating through the door didn’t sound like it came from Irrial’s modest fist. He straightened, frowning thoughtfully at the door. No safety there. He hadn’t thought to twist the lock as he’d staggered in—not that it really mattered, since both latch and door itself were flimsy enough for an angry rabbit to take down, given a sufficient running start. He thought about keeping silent, but that probably wouldn’t put anyone off more than a few moments.

So he stepped, not to the door, but back to the window.
You’re being paranoid, Corvis. It’s probably just the proprietor
. Still, only once he’d hefted Sunder from where it leaned against the wall below the sill did he call out, inviting whoever it was to enter.

The door drifted open with a melodramatic creak, revealing a looming shape in the flickering lanternlight of the hall beyond. And Corvis, blood pounding in his ears, old agonies coursing through his limbs, could only think to say, “I’m rather stunned that you were able to keep calm enough to refrain from kicking the damn thing in.”

“I figured there was no need to rush,” said the Baron of Braetlyn. “I’ve been looking forward to this for
such
a very long time.”