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. 'MARLO 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.
She didn't fear much, the mistress of the Blacksmiths' Guild. But she knew terror every time she thought of that black-armored bastard-not for what she knew he'd done, but for what he might have done.
And she feared, too, what might happen if the other Guildmasters ever came to share her suspicions. They could take away everything I've worked for…
Jassion rose shakily to his feet, brushing dust from his chest-and, not incidentally, drawing his guest's attention back to what was, rather than what might be. Then, each word strained through clenched teeth, 'My sincerest apologies, Salia. That was inexcusable of me. I fear that you've touched on a rather sensitive topic.'
You've no idea. Still, she could only raise an eyebrow at that, impressed at Jassion's apparent penchant for understatement. She knew, as did anyone in power in Imphallion, that a young Jassion had been present at the Denathere massacre, when Corvis Rebaine, called the Terror of the East, had ended his campaign in a basement full of corpses. The young baron had watched the warlord disappear with Jassion's older sister, Tyannon, and survived only by lying hidden amid the tangled bodies.
She knew, too, that when Rebaine had resurfaced during the Serpent's War, Jassion had been present at his interrogation. And she knew, though only a few others did, that Rebaine had claimed that not only had he not slain his hostage, he had eventually married her. At her instigation. According to the guards who were present, it had not been a revelation Jassion took particularly well.
So when she said, 'I understand,' she meant it. 'I'll forgive the outburst, Baron Jassion. This time.'
He nodded curtly. 'But I did tell you!' he erupted, only barely holding himself in check. 'From the day the Serpent died, I warned you that allowing Rebaine to depart in peace was a mistake! We should have hunted him down and killed him when we had the chance!'
'It was a mistake,' Salia agreed softly. 'One I would very much like you to help us rectify.' She couldn't help but smile at the stunned disbelief that fell like a veil over his face. 'Would you like to reconsider working with us? Or shall I fetch you your hot poker and call for a horse?'
'You want me to hunt Corvis Rebaine for you?' He seemed to be having real trouble grasping it.
'I do. The Guilds do.'
'Why?'
She leaned forward. 'Because he couldn't have resurfaced at a more inopportune time. I don't need to tell you that the Houses and the Guilds are barely speaking to one another, let alone cooperating. Cephira's invaded our borders. We cannot afford an internal war on top of all this, Jassion. Our attentions must remain focused on Cephira, and on trying to keep the government running.
'We cannot spare any of our own military forces to pursue Rebaine, not if we wish to check this invasion. In fact, we'll be taking most of your soldiers with us when we return to Mecepheum, to join with the massed armies of the other Houses. And I think I'll neither surprise nor offend you when I say that the other Guildmasters aren't willing to put you in the field. You frighten them, for some reason.'
'Imagine that,' he muttered. Then, 'So I'm to hunt down Corvis Rebaine on my own? No men at all?'
'Those few soldiers we aren't holding in reserve to deal with Cephira will be needed elsewhere. There's no way we can keep the rumors of Rebaine's return from spreading; might as well try to cage the wind. We'll need troops to keep the peace.
'Besides, any large force accompanying you would be impossible to keep secret, and I doubt a tiny handful of soldiers would be of much use against your quarry.'
Jassion couldn't help but smile, then flinched at the pain in his bruised face. 'I'm flattered you think so highly of my abilities, Salia, but-'
'I said you'd be without soldiers, Jassion, not without help.' She reached down, lifted the box she'd brought with her. Only an observer far closer than the baron would have noted how her flesh shrank from the touch of the wood. Drawing a key from within her belt, she popped open the lid so Jassion might see. IT WAS A DRAMATIC GESTURE for something so unimpressive. 'A dagger?' Jassion scoffed, his disdain rising like bile in the back of his throat. 'I'll need a bit more than… than…' And then he heard it. His voice failed him as he shuddered at the
