"Don't you dare-" Jassion began hotly, but Kaleb was already kneeling at Mellorin's side.
"Your mother thinks no such thing," he told her gently, almost putting a hand on hers, recoiling at the last moment as he recalled her earlier words. "She was trying to protect you. And I think you know that, Mellorin."
She sniffed once, cleared her throat, offered the sorcerer a shallow shrug. "It doesn't matter. I have to know who he was. I have to ask him why."
"All right," he said, standing, smiling softly. "You can join us."
Even as Mellorin's face broke into an astonished smile, Kaleb could actually hear Jassion stiffening up behind him.
"Kaleb?" The baron's mouth barely moved, so tightly was his jaw clenched. "Can I speak with you over by the horses for a moment?"
The sorcerer frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't think so. Mellorin's not a child, Jassion, no matter how much you treat her like one. The least you can do is respect her enough to say whatever you have to say to her face."
Mellorin actually beamed.
Jassion reached out, snagging the clasp of Kaleb's cloak-looking very much like he'd prefer it had been the man's throat beneath his fingers-and dragged him across the campsite. His niece glared after them but remained where she was, apparently deciding not to press the issue.
"Do that again," Kaleb said, knocking the baron's hand aside, "and we're going to have a disagreement."
"Did we not just discuss this?" Jassion demanded, so near that Kaleb felt the spittle on which those words rode. "Did you not understand me this afternoon?"
"We're not kidnapping anyone. She wants to join us, old boy. And she can take care of herself. You saw that."
"Pfft. She's a brawler, Kaleb, nothing more. You said as much."
"But she's good. We can teach her. Besides, I don't think even Rebaine would hurt his own daughter."
"I'm not so sure. Besides, there are other dangers-"
"And anything we can't teach her to handle, we can protect her from. I have several wards I can cast over her, just for an added bit of protection. Would you permit that, Mellorin?" he called so that she could hear. "Let me cast some defensive spells over you as we travel, to mollify your uncle?"
She blinked, then shrugged. "If that's what it takes."
"We need her," Kaleb continued, his voice hushed once more, "and you know it. Besides," he added, glancing again over Jassion's shoulder at the object of their discussion, "she'd probably just keep following us."
"You said the blood wouldn't help us much," Jassion protested, but his tone and even his posture were weakening.
"I said not unless he was nearby. But 'near' is a relative thing where magic's concerned. Suppose we manage to track him to the right city, then what? You plan to knock on doors at random? We've a far better chance with her than without her."
Jassion turned reluctantly to study his niece. She, sensing his attention, glared back defiantly.
"If anything happens to her, Kaleb…"
"Don't fret, old boy. If it makes you feel any better, I'm a lot more likely to protect her than I am you."
Jassion snarled and went to tell his niece the "good" news. Unseen behind him, Kaleb couldn't quite repress a secret smile. That there was more to Mellorin's motives than she'd admitted, he was absolutely certain, as certain as he was of his own name. But he had time, plenty of time to draw out the truth.
It might prove almost as useful as the girl herself.
Chapter Ten
Rahariem had fallen.
From beyond its walls they'd come, a swarm of mercenaries both Imphallian and foreign, and if their armor, their weapons, and their war cries were all different, still they fought as a unified force.
Alongside them had marched warriors of far more fearsome mien. Horned, cyclopean ogres ripped soldiers and horses and siege engines apart with great serrated blades and bare hands. Twisted, creeping gnomes crawled from the earth, cloaked in gloom, to murder soldier and citizen alike. The grounds surrounding Rahariem had become a swamp, made clinging mud by the shedding of so much blood. The shadow of flapping wings and the squawking of uncounted crows were an endless storm in the skies.
Yet the horrors of battle had paled before the horrors to come.
The courtyard of the Ducal Estate was crammed to bursting, its grasses and flowers trampled by the crush of so many feet. Rahariem's citizens milled aimlessly, aristocrat with pauper. Whimpers of terror rose as a single breath from the throng, and frightened eyes could not settle in any safe direction. From the fences surrounding the property, from the lampposts on the streets beyond, even from the flagpoles of the great keep, rancid bodies dangled, decanting vile fluids across the ground below. Thanks to the crows and creeping vermin, most were unrecognizable, and this, gruesome though it might have been, was a blessing-for each surviving face was known and loved by someone in the crowd.
Surrounding them-prodding with swords and spears; keeping the sheep from stampeding-were the invaders, human and otherwise. So long as the citizens held themselves in check and made no attempt to cause trouble or to escape, the soldiers left them largely unmolested. Any disruption, however, drew immediate and brutal response.
Nobody made a nuisance of themselves twice-because nobody survived the first time.
The keep's massive doors swung wide, and there he stood, framed within. The black steel of his armor faded into the darkness of the hall beyond, so that the plates of bone and the terrible skull seemed to hover, phantasmal and disembodied. For a long moment, precisely calculated for maximum effect, he waited, making no move save to rake that empty gaze across the assembly, examining every face and every soul, and disapproving of what he found. Then and only then did the monster who called himself Corvis Rebaine step into full view. Despite themselves, the crowd cowered away. Several began to weep.
"You've had the time I promised," he told them, and his voice was no less hollow than the empty sockets of the helm. "It is time to choose."
The people of Rahariem turned to one another, tearfully begging for understanding, for forgiveness. And they chose.
Many nobles and Guildmasters had escaped the city's fall, abandoning their offices and estates to hide among the populace. And now that populace grabbed them, exposed them, hauling them into the open to suffer Rebaine's judgment, for they knew what he would do to them otherwise.
He'd told them, after all, and they need only look at the dangling bodies to know he spoke the truth.
Most of them, aristocrats and Guildmasters both, screamed as they were dragged from amid their fellows, pleading for secrecy, for sanctuary. But some few stepped forward on their own, heads held high, unwilling to force their brethren into making such a terrible decision.
Sir Wyrrim, respected baron and landed knight, revered as highly in Rahariem as the duke himself, was the first to come forward. He faced the crowd around him, and to each of them he offered a gentle smile.
He felt a small hand take his own, and looking down saw his distant cousin, a young noblewoman of Rahariem. Her face was pallid with terror, a sheen of sweat across her brow, but she forced her lips into a matching smile.
Ignoring the weeping from all sides, the flapping of the fleshy banners above, Sir Wyrrim and the Lady Irrial joined their fellow prisoners, following Rebaine's soldiers toward whatever fate awaited in the dungeons below. DROWNING IN THE TIDE OF MEMORIES she had fought so long to escape, Irrial sat upon a knotty tree root and glared across the embers of the dying fire at the blanket-wrapped figure. Her bloodless lips were pressed together, her hands clasped tight about the hilt of her stolen sword. It would be so simple, the work of an instant, and so many years of unspeakable suffering would find some tiny measure of justice. No murder, this, but legitimate execution; perhaps even the putting down of a wild beast.