The Warlord's Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page A

that prevented the air within from growing too stale. More than once, Cerris stumbled, and though reflexes born of a violent life kept him upright and silent, he still cursed his own clumsiness.
    ‘
Getting decrepit, old boy. Slow and clumsy. Even just a few years ago, you’d never have …
’
    Then he was at the door, the time for bemoaning over, and Cerris gleefully shoved that voice back into its burrow in the depths of his mind. He knew that the door boasted no lock, but was held shut by a heavy wooden bar in an iron bracket. More than secure enough, since even if a prisoner could slip his chain, he had no tools at hand with which to lift that bar.
    Except, of course, for the manacle that was
supposed
to be linking Cerris to the others.
    For long moments, he listened, struggling to judge the number of guards by the occasional shifting of mail or bored sigh. Possibly only the one, he decided eventually, certainly no more than two. He contemplated a spell to cast his sight out beyond the door, but even after several years of practice, he found clairvoyance disorienting and difficult. He might learn what he needed to know, only to find himself in no shape to take advantage of it.
    Ah, well. He’d faced worse odds, in his day.
    ‘
Yeah, but you always had help facing those odds, didn’t you, “Cerris”? You never were worth half a damn on your own.
’
    He frowned briefly, pressing his lips tight, forcing himself not to respond. It had been
years
since he’d banished the vile thing that had once shared his thoughts, yet
still
he swore he heard that mocking, malevolent voice in his head. And all the more often, these past few months. He must finally be losing his mind.
    ‘
Not that you ever had much of one to lose …
’
    “Shut up!” he hissed, even though he knew, he
knew
he was berating himself. He forced himself to relax with a steadying breath, then opened the manacle and began working the rod—a length of ironnearly six inches long, and almost as thick around as his thumb—through the gap in the door.
    And thank the gods the Cephirans had been in such a hurry to throw this place together! It was tight going, but the narrow rod indeed fit. Cerris slid it upward, slowly, wary of allowing it to screech or grate against the wood. Inch by inch, carefully, carefully …
    The rod touched the bar with the faintest of thumps. Cerris held his breath, waiting to see if the guard—guards?—had heard. Only when a full minute had passed was he confident enough to continue.
    Here we go. All I have to do is lift a heavy wooden bar, with no leverage to speak of, toss it aside, throw the door open, and take out a guard or two before they have time to react. Nothing to it
.
    He allowed himself another moment to bask, almost to revel, in the insanity of what he was attempting. Then Cerris whispered a few more words of magic, one spell to alleviate a modicum of his exhaustion, another to cast an illusory pall of silence that might grant a few precious seconds. Then, squeezing both hands around the tiny length of metal, he tensed his back, his arms, his legs, and heaved with everything he had.
    For a few terrifying, pounding heartbeats, he
knew
he’d failed. The bar had to weigh close to a hundred pounds, and trying to raise it with a few inches of iron felt very much like trying to lift a house by the doorknob. His hands ached where the metal bit into flesh, sweat masked his face, and a gasp escaped his lungs and lips despite his best efforts toward silence.
    And then, praise be to the ever-fickle Panaré Luck-Bringer, his problem was solved for him. Something of his struggle—a breath, a twitch, a shiver in the wood—passed through both the door and his phantom shroud of silence. Uncertain of what (if anything) he’d actually heard, unwilling to look the fool in front of his comrades, and thoroughly convinced that the prisoners remained securely chained within, the soldier standing beyond did not signal for help. He did