The Warlord's Legacy by Ari Marmell

staggered as a new dizziness washed over him, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
    “Are they gone?” he asked after he’d managed a few score paces on his own.
    “Hmm?”
    “The sidhe,” Jassion said. “Are they gone?”
    “Oh, they’re around somewhere. But I don’t believe they’ll be disturbing us any longer.” Before Jassion could ask for clarification, the sorcerer continued. “What in the name of Chalsene’s darkest orifice was with that speech, anyway? ‘I will not yield’? Really? You sounded like a drunken playwright. I could produce more stirring oratory by squeezing a goat.”
    “Kaleb—”
    “An incontinent goat.”
    “Kaleb, do you really believe I give a damn what the sidhe think of my ‘oratory’?”
    “Who the hell’s talking about the sidhe, old boy?
I
have to be seen with you, you know.”
    Jassion twisted and reached out a hand, unsteady but enough to stop Kaleb in his tracks. “
My lord,
” he snarled.
    “Um, what?”
    “That’s the second time you’ve called me ‘old boy,’ and I’ll not have it. The proper form of address is ‘my lord.’ ”
    “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. Apologies, my lord Old Boy.”
    Jassion’s eyes flashed, and his hand darted toward Talon’s hilt like a striking snake. Clutched it—and froze, without drawing the hellish steel, beneath Kaleb’s glower.
    “Be very sure,” the sorcerer said, his voice low. “You’ve seen what I can do,
old boy
. You tasted a morsel of it, back at Castle Braetlyn. Even if you
could
take me—which, just to be clear, you can’t—you’d be dooming your hunt to failure.”
    The baron was panting hard with anger, the tendons in his hands creaking with pressure against the Kholben Shiar. “I
will
have your respect!” he demanded.
    “No, you won’t,” Kaleb said. “You’ll have my assistance, and that’ll just have to do. If it makes you feel any better, it’s not you. I really don’t have much use for
any
of—well, anyone at all, actually.”
    “It doesn’t.”
    “Ah. I can’t tell you how much that bothers me. Really, I can’t.”
    Jassion took a few deep breaths and, visibly struggling, tore his hand from Talon. He swore he heard a faint wail of disappointment from deep within the blade.
    They continued without another word. The world was largely silent, its only sounds the breaking of occasional twigs beneath their boots, or a rustling leaf suggesting that, even if the sidhe would bother them no more,
someone
watched their progress through Theaghl-gohlatch.
    Kaleb’s mystical light offered little by which to judge the time. Jassion, guessing as best he could, figured that about two hours had passed between his rough awakening and the moment his companion, following gods-knew-what trail, finally led them to their destination.
    It wouldn’t have looked at all incongruous in most woodlands, that simple hut, but here in the malevolent reaches of Theaghl-gohlatch its presence was nothing shy of miraculous. No trees sprouted within a dozen feet on any side, though their branches intertwined above it, the sensuous fingers of wooden lovers. On three sides of the house, the clearing thus formed was filled with a chaotic admixture of herbs and vegetables, growing in no rows or pattern Jassion could ascertain.
    The cottage itself was built of loose stone, though where those rocks could possibly have come from wasn’t entirely clear. Ivy crawled across the walls, appearing like veins bulging from a petrified skin, beneath an overhanging roof of bark-coated shakes. The door, too, retained its coating of bark, and somewhere beyond a fire must have burned, for a thin tendril of smoke peeked from behind the rim of the chimney before dashing shyly on its way.
    Kaleb pointed at the smoke, waited for Jassion’s nod to indicate he’d seen it. “Are you well enough to pretend to be useful in there?” Obviously taking Jassion’s murderous glare as a yes, he approached the doorand kicked