The Conqueror's Shadow (31 page)

CORVIS DECIDED
to make his appearance from outside. Enshrouded in a cloak of shadows, he crept, all but invisible, from the spare storeroom and snuck from the Prurient Pixie through the back door. Only when he'd circled back to the front did he allow the spell to fade. A single mercenary, leaning up against the doorjamb as he downed his umpteenth flagon of ale, choked as that towering horror stepped from the darkness before his eyes.

Sparing the gasping, gaping soldier not so much as a second glance, Corvis lifted a black-gauntleted hand and shoved the door as hard as he could.

The noise was even worse than before. The iron-banded helm captured the ambient sound, bouncing it back and forth like the inside of a church bell. As if to make up for the excess noise, however, the helm did a passable job of filtering out the worst of the scents. The stale beer, unwashed bodies, and old vomit that were overwhelming before were merely nauseating now.

/Here's a novel idea. Why don't you keep your mind—or what passes for it—on what you're doing?/

“Why don't you do something about that noise, so I can hear myself think?” he whispered back.

/I don't think that'll be an issue./

Starting nearest the door and rippling through the room, a wave of stunned silence settled over the clientele of the Prurient Pixie. Eyes made bleary with drink suddenly went clear and sober, and the features surrounding those eyes twisted themselves into a variety of emotions, most of which bore at least some relation to fear.

Corvis crossed his arms over his chest and simply stood, waiting for the last lingering pockets of conversation to flicker and die, waiting for the oblivious few in the corners to notice him.

His eyes fell upon the lengthy brass mirror that hung behind the bar. He had lingering doubts as to the true impact of his armor—he couldn't quite shake the nagging suspicion that anyone who took two minutes to contemplate it would find the whole thing silly—but he admitted it was certainly imposing.

Over dozens of reflected heads, the iron-wrapped skull gaped back at him, its empty sockets as soulless as he remembered. The blackened steel and plates of bone were newly polished. A brand-new cloak of royal purple hung from the spines atop his shoulders, and Khanda dangled beneath his breastplate on a deceptively delicate chain. At his side hung Sunder, fully revealed for all to see; the array of figures and engravings on the blade capered madly beneath the gaze of Corvis's stunned audience.

/You can't tell me that a part of you hasn't missed this,/
Khanda taunted him.

And for once, Corvis knew that his infernal companion spoke nothing but the absolute truth.

“I think they've waited long enough,” he whispered, ignoring the comment. “You know what to do.”

/Of course./

Purposefully, inexorably, Corvis began a long, slow stride across the room. Mercenaries scrambled madly to clear the path of the nightmarish juggernaut that had just stepped from the pages of history through
the door of their tavern. Khanda swept the room with undetectable waves of power as they passed. The effects of the alcohol the men had consumed were washed completely away; Corvis wanted no doubts lingering after his arrival, and he needed these men stone-cold sober to bear witness.

Only when he'd reached the oak bar did he come to a halt, pivoting smoothly to face the sea of humanity he'd just parted. The skull turned casually, majestically, to survey the common room. Dozens of eyes gazed back at him, filled with fear—but also growing more and more expectant as the seconds staggered by, long-fettered ghosts dragging chains of heavy silence behind them.

“Are any of you here,” the Terror of the East demanded, his deep voice resonating from the farthest wall, “uncertain as to who I am?”

No one spoke.

“Good. That saves time. You have suffered recently at the hands of that sniveling creature Audriss.”

A low mutter swept the crowd, and a number of expressions grew angry. “The Serpent, he calls himself.” Corvis allowed just a trace of scorn to insinuate itself into his cold and emotionless voice. “Hah! The Worm, I call him!”

The muttering of the assembly grew louder, darker, and a few muffled shouts of agreement drifted to the front of the room.

The warlord nodded at the crowd. “Revenge is pleasant.” He paused deliberately. “Gold is better.” Another pause. “I offer both!” he shouted, his hands raised high. “You know who I am! You know what I have done, what I am capable of doing! And you have now before you the chance to be a part of what I
will
do. You men, and others like you, will be the soldiers of a new order. My order!”

It wasn't just a few of the braver men in the tavern now. The entire crowd cheered his every statement, the fear they felt for this living legend before them having been blown away by a more pressing sense of greed.

“I offer power!”

The cheering grew louder still. Corvis shouted at the top of his lungs to overcome it.

“I offer gold!”

The roar was deafening. Men shouted, boots stamped, mugs and flagons and fists beat upon tables with the rumble of a growing storm.

“I offer the head of Audriss the Serpent!”

The tavern shook with the groundswell of sound. Corvis would scarcely have been surprised to see dust drifting from the rafters, or bottles falling from the shelves.

Smiling beneath his inhuman helm, he again waited, allowing the warriors' enthusiasm to wind down. Then, just as the volume began to fade, he raised a single black-and-bone hand. The room fell into an expectant hush.

Imperiously, the warlord gestured at the storeroom in which he, Seilloah, and Davro had set up shop. “I will meet with the company commanders in there,” he declared, his voice booming. “They will line up outside that door, and I will see them one at a time. We will plan …” Here, once again, he allowed himself a notable pause. “… and perhaps we will see about distributing a bit of the promised gold!”

He spun, cape swirling dynamically about his ankles, and swept regally through the crowd that had once more burst into shouts and cheers. By the time he reached the converted storeroom, a line of company commanders was already forming.

“Abide another moment,” Corvis said as he passed the first man in line, a broad-shouldered warrior with a thick beard, a braid, and a saffron tunic. “I will summon you shortly.”

“Whatever you wish, m'lord,” he said respectfully.

Corvis stepped into the other room, slinging the door shut behind him.

“Well,” Seilloah said, “that was loud.”

His boot heels ringing on the floor, Corvis swung around the desk and collapsed into the chair. He removed his helm, grabbed a nearby rag, and dabbed at the excess moisture plastering his hair firmly to his cheeks and temples. He was clean-shaven now, and his locks had been shorn off at the chin. “This damn thing,” he complained bitterly, “is astoundingly hot.”

/
I'm
perfectly comfortable, Corvis,/
Khanda told him snidely.

“Give me a brief summary,” he said to Seilloah and Davro. “Company
commanders. I need a new lieutenant now that Valescienn's clawed his way onto my ‘Needs Killing' list. You've known these people longer than I have. I want suggestions.”

Seilloah shrugged. “I'll let Davro handle this end of it, Corvis. I can tell you which ones impressed me the most, but I think you want the opinion of a soldier on this.”

“Seems reasonable. Davro?”

The ogre frowned, his horn quivering a bit as his muscles tensed. “There's only three worth mentioning,” he said slowly. “They've sort of elected themselves spokesmen for the rest of the happy mob we've got gathered out there, and they're some of the most respected. It should be one of them.”

“I still have to meet with all of them, you know.”

“That's entirely up to you, Corvis. You wanted my recommendation, so I'm giving it to you. You can't imagine how little I care whether you take it or not.”

“My sincerest and most humble apologies, O wise ogre. Pray continue.”

Davro glowered for a solid fifteen seconds, then shrugged. “Teagan's a strong man, probably a good fighter, and his people like him. But he doesn't strike me as entirely the most dependable type.”

“All right.”

“Hmm. Ellowaine is damn good at what she does. She's about as cold as they come, except where her men are concerned, and she's efficient. But she's a little temperamental to lead an army, and anyway, I'm not certain most of the men out there would accept a woman as their commanding officer.”

Corvis nodded blandly, ignoring Seilloah's dramatic eye-roll. “And the third?”

“Losalis. Big man. Calm, collected, and, from what I understand, something of a genius when it comes to tactics. Probably the best man out there for the job, Corvis.
If
he wants it. Losalis is a little odd, and I'm not sure he's in this for the same reason as most mercenaries. He doesn't seem terribly interested in his reputation, which may just be why he's got such a damn huge one.”

“He's smart, too,” Seilloah added.

“All right. I'm not making any decisions yet, but I'll keep this all in mind.” He looked with no small amount of distaste at the heavy helm, and then took a deep breath and slid it back over his head.

/You didn't ask my opinion, Corvis./

“Noticed that, did you?” Then, after fastening the helm securely, he nodded to Seilloah. “All right, send the first one in.”

“Here you go, Sergeant.” The bag of coins clanked and cluttered weakly as it struck the scarred wooden desktop. “Tell your men they did an outstanding job, and congratulate them on surviving long enough to return home. Hopefully, it'll be years before Cephira tries anything like this again.”

Corvis Rebaine, relatively new to the rank of sergeant in Imphallion's army—and the only surviving officer of his squad-blinked once and looked meaningfully at the leather bag that sat quivering, rather like a weak pudding, on the desk.

“Sir …,” he offered hesitantly, unsure how to proceed.

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?” Colonel Nessarn leaned back in his chair, idly stroking one end of his drooping mustache.

“Well, sir, it's just that, unless that bag is full of really small emeralds and rubies, there's no way there's enough in there for me to pay my men a quarter of what they're owed.”

“No, there's not,” the older soldier agreed.

“Uh, and why is that, sir?”

“Not enough funds.” The colonel's voice was utterly flat. He might as well have been discussing such vital concerns as the phase of the moon, or which pair of socks were best on a cold morning.

“I …” Corvis actually had to work to force the words through a jaw that seemed somehow determined both to clench in anger and fall limp in surprise. “Sir, you assigned me to escort duty when the payroll arrived, remember? I
saw
the size of the chest they unloaded!”

“Are you questioning my orders, Sergeant?”

“I'm questioning your
assertion
. Sir.”

The colonel rose slowly to his feet, cheeks reddening in a growing anger behind his mustache. “The rest is for the Guild soldiers, Rebaine!”

“I see. They're to be paid while my men go without, sir?”

“They won the war for us, Sergeant. I may not be a great admirer of mercenaries, but frankly, it's far more important we keep
them
happy and content with us than it is for us to fill the grubby fists of a few conscripted peasants with coppers.”

Corvis felt his entire body trembling. “That's your final decision, sir?”

“It damn well is! You take what you've got, and you go and tell your men that they're lucky to be going home at all!”

The guards found Colonel Nessarn the next morning, the tendons in the back of his knees and ankles slit, a dagger pinning his body to the earth through his throat. The payroll chest, which had remained hidden in a false bottom in the desk, was open and held not so much as a single coin.

None of Imphallion's officers saw Corvis Rebaine again—not until years later, when he would face them from beyond their fortified walls, behind the visor of a skull-shaped helm.

But before he vanished that night, every one of Sergeant Rebaine's soldiers was paid in full.

THE DAY GREW MONOTONOUS
, each and every meeting proceeding in exactly the same way. A commander would enter, sit before the desk, his gaze drawn in morbid contemplation of the iron-banded skull and the advisers who stood—or in the case of Davro loomedw—
behind it. And each and every time, Corvis went through the exact same sequence.

“Name?

“Age?

“Size of company?

“Combat experience?”

That last one achieved some intriguing results. A great deal of them had been involved in the most recent border clashes between Imphallion and the nation of Cephira to the east that had threatened, perhaps eleven years back, to erupt into a full-scale war. What Corvis found surprising, however, was that Ellowaine had been an officer in the private army of the Merchants' Guild until she finally got bloody sick and tired of watching less-skilled warriors promoted over her simply because, as she herself put it, “they dangle in different places than I do.” Even more interesting was the fact that Teagan, as a young soldier, actually fought during the warlord's original campaign.