The Warlord's Legacy (7 page)
Servants in crimson-and-blue livery stepped aside for the knight and his two charges to pass, bobbing their heads in quick respect to the former but glaring from beneath heavy eyelids at the latter. The Lady
Mavere, though she’d expected no warm welcome from the people of Braetlyn, felt her fingers curling into fists despite her best efforts.
Their guide shoved open a hefty wooden portal, and they were there. Before them stretched a sizable room, its stone floor draped in sea-green carpet scuffed paper-thin by years of tromping feet. An enormous fireplace—empty, during these warmer months—occupied most of the far wall, with a marble bust of a warrior’s torso mounted above. Tapestries of seascapes and legendary heroics hung from the other walls, as did wooden plaques bearing weapons in modern steel and ancient bronze.
And standing before that fireplace, looking up from an open book in a bored stance quite clearly premeditated to show his guests who was in charge, their host himself: Jassion, Baron of Braetlyn. Not yet thirty years old, his narrow face bore the lines of a man twice his age. Save for a gleaming green ring, he was clad in unrelenting black. Hair the color of newly tilled soil was matched by equally dark eyes—eyes just a touch too wide, as if the man behind them could not tear them from some horror that others could not see.
“Your guests, m’lord,” the knight announced, waiting for only the slightest nod before he vanished from the chamber. The door shut behind him with surprising softness, as though afraid to startle anyone remaining within.
“So,” Jassion said, shutting the book with a much louder snap and tossing it carelessly into a nearby chair. “Salia Mavere, in my very own home. I’m honored.” He apparently couldn’t be bothered to even
try
to make it sound genuine.
“Thank you for receiving us, my lord,” she replied with a shallow curtsy. He acknowledged with a nod barely more perceptible than that he’d given his knight.
“Do you prefer
Priestess
, Lady Mavere? Or Guildmistress?”
“Just Salia will do, Baron.”
Jassion barked out a single incredulous
ha!
“There’s nothing
just
about any of you damn Guildmasters. Or anything you’ve done.”
Salia managed, with some small effort, to keep her smile plastered to her face, to show no reaction to the baron’s childish outburst. Her companion,
however, rolled his eyes dramatically enough for the both of them.
“I’m glad,” she bulled on, determined to remain polite, “that you were able to see us without notice like this, my lord. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
Jassion shook his head and took a seat, very deliberately
not
asking his guests to do the same. “I could hardly have been elsewhere, could I, Salia? Your soldiers have been squatting on every road out of here for three years.”
“You’re not a prisoner, my lord. They’re simply meant to ensure your safety, and to accompany you should you need to travel.”
Their eyes met in jousting glares, neither under any illusions about Jassion’s internal exile. “And do all Imphallion’s nobles warrant such
protection
?” he asked.
“Only those who seem liable to attract trouble.”
Salia’s driver shook his head and slumped into a nearby chair. In response to Jassion’s furious glower, he merely offered a friendly wave.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” Jassion offered between clenched teeth. Scarcely had Salia done so, placing the box she carried at her feet, than he continued. “Shall we cut the shit, Salia? We both know damn well that I’ve had nothing to say to the Guilds since you dethroned the regent and sent me on this wonderful sojourn back home. You want something from me, and since you know that I’d sooner sit on a hot poker and then mount a horse than spit on you if you were on fire, I’m honestly at a loss as to what it might be.”
“How colorful,” the Guildmistress muttered. Then, “First, my lord Jassion, I regret to inform you that I have bad news.”
“Oh,
there’s
a surprise.”
“I fear Vantares has welcomed several of your fellow noblemen into the underworld, Jassion.”
That
brought him up short. “Who?” he asked in a startled whisper. “Among quite a few others, Duke Halmon—”
“The regent’s dead?”
Salia let that pass, even though both of them knew he’d not held that title for some time. “And Duke Edmund.”
Jassion sagged back in his chair, one hand plucking at the cushioned armrest. “I knew Edmund well,” he murmured. “We fought together during the Serpent’s War.”
“I know.” And then, her tone suggesting that she might actually have meant it, “I’m sorry.”
“Cephira?” he demanded. “I’ve heard rumors …”
“Some of which are true, I’m sure. They’ve taken several of our border towns, and if we’re not formally at war already, I imagine we will be by the time I get back to Mecepheum. But no, they’ve shown little interest in our territories beyond the borderlands so far, and anyway, this was no Cephiran assassin.”
“Then who?”
Salia glanced once at her companion, who shrugged casually, seemingly more interested in picking at something under his nails than involving himself in the conversation.
“There were several survivors among the guards,” she said hesitantly, “so most of what we know comes from them. The most helpful of them was a fellow by the name of …”
Marlo stood tall, back stiff as a spear, and tried to ignore the chafing of the hauberk across his shoulders, the sting of smoke in his eyes and chest. Many of the others were amusing themselves trying to stare down the other soldiers, but Marlo was new to the ranks of the Cartographers’ Guild’s men-at-arms, and sufficiently inexperienced—
puffed up
might have been a better term—that he took himself far too seriously for such games. The fact that he’d been chosen to stand guard over a secret summit between select Guildmasters and nobles of the realm wasn’t doing his ego any disfavors, either.
Perhaps it was his disdain for the antics of his fellow soldiers, or maybe it was just blind luck, that caused him to look away—to watch aimlessly, so far as the clinging smoke and flickering shadows would permit—down the hall from which they’d all initially arrived. And thus it was Marlo who saw him first.
The young soldier was convinced that he was imagining phantoms in the dark, for how could anyone have followed them down here? Yet the figure refused to dissipate into the shadows; in fact, it was growing quite obviously solid, remarkably fast.
Marlo was reaching for his blade, drawing in a lungful of sooty air to shout warning or challenge, when the new arrival raised a hand. Marlo swore he saw a flash of bloody crimson from the vicinity of the man’s chest.
Behind Marlo, half a dozen soldiers screamed, hands flying to their heads as though to hold their skulls atop their necks. Bone shattered, spraying blood and brains from within useless helms, and six men collapsed without ever knowing what had killed them. One of the bodies rocked back on its heels and slid to the floor, spasming muscles holding its hands aloft beside a head that simply wasn’t there anymore.
Even as his brain gibbered and his limbs trembled, Marlo was moving, for he alone had seen the danger coming. Broadsword in hand, shouting something he could never later recall, he charged the invader. What part of his mind still functioned, and had not already been overwhelmed with horror, nearly shut down when he recognized the black-and-bone armor, realized who—what—he was facing. But even through a rising tide of terror, brave Marlo knew his duty.
His blade arced downward in a blow that should have cleaved flesh, or at least broken bone, even through that terrible, infamous armor. Should have, but did not, for the warlord parried with a violent backhand that sent the sword scraping harmlessly along the black vambrace.
Marlo felt himself lifted into the air by a hand he never even saw moving. From below that gaping skull came that same red glow, gleaming from an amulet partially concealed by the armor’s cuirass. And then Marlo was soaring, briefly, until the passageway’s nearest wall ended his flight. He heard his hauberk rattle, heard more than felt the cracking of ribs. He struggled to catch his wind as he slumped to the floor, to breathe around the blood welling up behind his tongue.
Crawling forward on his belly, hand reaching for his fallen sword, Marlo watched in horror as a score of men were torn apart. A vicious axe hung at the armored warrior’s side, but the fiend hadn’t bothered even to draw it. Fists landed like catapult shot, snapping bones. Flames roared from his open palm, and men crumbled to ash before they could scream. One of the guards slid inside the invader’s reach, delivered what should have been a crippling blow to the armor’s chest. Instead the dark warrior simply batted the weapon aside, lifted the soldier in a wrestler’s hold, and slammed him down upon one of his own armored shoulders. Marlo couldn’t tell from where he lay if it had been the spines on that armor, or the brutal impact, that killed the man.
More flames, more blood, and Marlo rose on shaking legs. Struggling through the agony in his chest, sword clapped in both hands to keep it from falling, he moved to strike …
The warlord spun, empty sockets gazing into Marlo’s terrified face. A black-gauntleted fist rose, and the world went black.
“M
ARLO WAS ONE OF ONLY THREE SURVIVORS
,” Salia explained, concluding her recounting. “And the other two accounts pretty well match his. None of the soldiers actually saw what occurred within the meeting chamber itself, but between their stories and the state of the bodies, I think we can draw some firm conclusions. We—”
With an inchoate roar, Jassion was out of his chair and lunging across the room, fingers outstretched for Salia’s throat. All semblance of propriety had melted away like so much candle wax, and the veins in his reddened face bulged appallingly.
But Salia Mavere was both Guildmistress of blacksmiths and priestess of their god, her muscles shaped by a lifetime of labor at the forge. A thunderous uppercut snapped Jassion back as though he’d reached the end of a tether. His pupils visibly dilated, and his neck and chin mottled instantly with blood beneath the skin.
And then, though she didn’t particularly seem to require his aid, the
fellow who was clearly far more than Salia’s driver stood between them. Before Jassion had finished staggering, as his legs quivered through the process of deciding whether they were willing to hold him, the other man raised a hand and pushed at the air, as though dismissing some unfunny jest.
Jassion hurtled upward, his feet leaving the carpet, to slam into the wall beside the bust adorning the fireplace. And there he hung, held aloft by unseen magics. His jaw—which must already have ached abominably—fell slack. He shook his head as though to clear it, succeeding only in dislodging bits of dust and mortar that had sifted like dandruff into his hair.
Hand still held aloft, the driver aimed an incredulous gaze at his employer. “Are we
sure
this is the man we want? I’ve known mad dogs with more sense.”
“Salia,” Jassion croaked from on high, hands and feet thrashing.
“
Starving
mad dogs,” the apparent sorcerer clarified.
“Salia …”
“Starving mad dogs in heat.”
“Enough,” the priestess informed him. She turned a pleasant smile upon the floating baron. “Yes, m’lord Jassion?”
The baron took a deep, calming breath. “I’m all right. I’m calm. Kindly ask your—friend—to put me down.”
“You heard my lord,” she said sweetly.
The sorcerer shrugged and dropped his arm to his side. Then, staring down at the moaning form that now lay sprawled on the carpet, “Oh. You probably meant lower him
slowly
, didn’t you?”
Salia Mavere forced the amused smile to remain plastered across her face, even as her stomach roiled. In a way, she was almost grateful for the baron’s outburst, for it provided distraction from her own traitorous emotions.
