Read Online The Warlord's Legacy by Ari Marmell - Free Book Online Page B

the status quo ultimately reasserted itself, as is so often its wont.
    Another week or two drifted past; Cerris was starting to lose track. The pervasive but gentle warmth of early summer was steadily building toward its typical midseason inferno, the sun’s firm hands curling into pounding fists. Each evening, the forced laborers returned to their barracks weaker, coated in thicker films of a mud consisting of dust and sweat. Listlessly they swallowed cold stew and warm water, then collapsed into exhausted slumber. Cerris began to wonder if he’d have the strength to react to Irrial’s signal if and when he spotted it.
    On the day he finally did, however, the sudden surge of excitement blew away the worst of his fatigue like a sparrow in a hurricane.
    It was nothing remarkable, just a plume of smoke rising from one ofthe many chimneys of the many houses in Rahariem’s richest quarter. Only by scampering up the hillside beside which he was digging the road could Cerris confirm that it came from the Lady Irrial’s estate. Just a typical, everyday sight for the manor, since even the reduced staff required a hefty amount of cooking in order to feed them all. Only someone as familiar with the house as Cerris could possibly have known that the chimney smoking
now
led not to any kitchen, but to the large fireplace in the parlor, a fireplace that had no business burning in the midst of the summer heat. When they first came up with this scheme, Cerris had worried that the guards billeted in the manor might ask questions, but Irrial assured him that they rarely returned before mid-evening.
    So … It was time. Finally. A repetition of his illusions kept Cerris free of the manacles and chains, earning him his freedom once the line of workers had marched back to their stifling, acrid barracks. This time, however, as he’d no intention of sneaking back, Cerris took a rather more direct approach to escaping the billet itself.
    Specifically, he set the roof on fire.
    It took time—many minutes of intense concentration and chanting eldritch syllables under his breath—but the wood above finally rewarded him with the curling smoke and dancing flame he needed. A few shouts were more than sufficient to wake the others, and their combined uproar brought the guards running. In a frantic rush the length of chain was unlatched from its post and the prisoners shuffled hurriedly outside, there to join the guards in a makeshift bucket brigade.
    Cerris, once again cloaked in an illusory uniform, was already moving toward the city, occasionally setting other makeshift structures and canvas tents alight as he went. It should be some hours before the Cephiran soldiers had the opportunity to catch their breaths, take stock, and notice a single prisoner’s absence.
    It was simplicity itself, in the raging chaos, for the fugitive to find a soldier alone and distracted, and thus to again acquire for himself a tabard and hauberk that would withstand more careful scrutiny. The same two men stood post at Irrial’s gate; it was, apparently, their regularly assigned post.
    “What’s going on out there?” the elder of them asked as Cerris approached, gesturing toward the faint glow beyond the city walls.
    “Fire,” he said curtly as he passed, scarcely giving them time to haul open the gate. “It’s under control, though. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
    Irrial and her remaining staff were waiting as he slipped through the front door. All were clad in workman’s leathers rather than their accustomed finery. The butler Rannert looked particularly put out by the whole affair, but he also hefted a short sword like a man who knew how to use it.
    “I’m glad you made it,” the baroness told Cerris warmly. Then, without waiting for a reply, “Captain Liveln.”
    “I … what?”
    “Captain Liveln. She was wearing a large mace at her side during the last meeting, one with an impressive array of etchings across the flanges.”
    Cerris