The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) (80 page)

Abruptly, his chant stopped. Tellmore took a deep breath as he studied the soldiers, reaching out with his mind’s eye to test the integrity and coverage of the spell. He could almost see it, a faint haze that enveloped each man-at-arms, subtly twisting and bending, though never yielding, as the passive magic of the chamber brushed against it.

“It is done. Please, gentleman, proceed and bring riches to all of us.”

The soldiers drew their weapons. They glanced at one another, obviously debating who should go first, until one, a close-shaven middle-aged man, sighed quietly and took a step forward. A sergeant, Tellmore guessed, leading his men by example.

The others followed him, all taking slow and very short steps towards the grey stone door, as though prolonging the short journey as much as possible. All too soon, they were right in front of the door.

Briefly glancing at his men, the sergeant gritted his teeth and held a hand out, palm open, to the door. Slowly, grimacing as he did so, he stretched out to touch the door and push it open. For a second, his hand hovered just an inch from the smooth grey surface.

From across the chamber, Tellmore’s moustache twitched as he chewed on his lower lip, caught between anticipation and fear. He saw the sergeant reach out to the door, hesitate, then push forward.

The effect was instant. A chill wind sprang up from the door itself, whipping through the chamber, tugging at Tellmore’s cloak. There was a flash of blue-white light, followed by a terrible crack, and, just for an instant, Tellmore fancied he saw the outline of a tall, thin figure standing imperiously before the men-at-arms, within the door itself.

Then the light disappeared, leaving the chamber in guttering torchlight. All four of the soldiers had disappeared, the only trace of their existence a new set of scorch marks on the cold floor before the impenetrable door.

Bowing his head, Tellmore felt a sudden shudder as the frustration built to a pitch within him. Without a word, he turned and mounted the stairs, striding past Renauld’s accusing stare without acknowledgement.

Outside, the rain persisted, but Tellmore no longer felt it. He was instead acutely aware of the murderous looks he received from every soldier he passed. They all knew what had happened. More of their friends had been killed, and at the behest of the wizard in their midst.

Forcing himself not to run back to his tent in fear, Tellmore ignored them all, focussing his attention dead ahead.

He almost dove into his tent when he reached it, and immediately raced across the enclosed space to rummage through one of his cases. After a few seconds of groping, he found what he was looking for: a small pewter mug and a bottle of Pontaine brandy. Pouring himself a judicious amount from the bottle, he drained the mug completely and then stood still, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of the drink spread through his body.

Replacing the bottle and mug back into the case, Tellmore hunched over his desk, staring at the piles of notes he had written over the past three weeks, as if they were about to give him some new answer, some new inspiration. After a few minutes, he had to admit to himself that no new information was forthcoming.

He closed his eyes and muttered the one thing he had thought he would never hear himself say.

“I don’t know what to do.”

CHAPTER SIX

I
T HAD STARTED
raining again. Alhmanic gave the dark clouded sky a baleful look.

The Anclas Territories were notorious for their bad weather. He had once heard a church scholar describe the effects of the Drakengrat Mountains on the area, as the wind swept in over Vos from the ocean but he had neglected to learn the details. However, the effect was that it always rained in the Territories, and not just a few showers here and there, but constant, wet misery interspersed with outbreaks of gales and sleet.

It gave Alhmanic pause to wonder why Pontaine had struggled so hard to fight over these lands, and why the Anointed Lord had ordered their seizure by the Empire. It was a depressing place, with tiny little settlements barely worthy of the title of town, a population who resented whoever ruled over them, precious few minerals and earth that made for poor farming.

Still, the Territories had once been the scene of tremendous glory during the war between Vos and Pontaine, and Alhmanic remembered well his own part in the struggle. He had been younger then, all those years ago, fitter physically and more ambitious, if that were possible. It was funny to think of how much potential that young man had had back then.

Starting the war as a humble but God-fearing militiaman, Alhmanic’s devotion to the cause and ability with a sword had caught the eye of the fighting clergy, and thus began his rise. By the time the Pontaine army had been beaten and the Territories claimed by Vos, Alhmanic had been at the head of a force ten thousand strong, every one of them listening intently to the man who would become the Preacher Divine as he gave sermons masquerading as battle speeches, even in the heart of the fighting. They were real fighting men, he recalled, able to march all day and fight a battle at the end of it without so much as a complaint.

He had less faith in his current charges, though they seemed capable enough of following orders. The half-company he led, less than fifty men, had at least been given horses. It seemed as though Klaus had not been as sadistic as he could have been, and had granted that mercy at least.

A pathetic sneeze caught Alhmanic’s attention and he threw a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. Traipsing behind him, on a horse that looked as ragged as its rider, was Otto, a mage of the Final Faith that Alhmanic had been able to requisition by calling in a few favours that would remain unknown to Klaus. The intention had been to grant his half-company some magical support. The result was a little more doubtful.

Otto was a young man, in his early twenties but going on sixty, Alhmanic swore. The lad might well have been as competent as Alhmanic had been assured, but he had turned out to be strictly a city mage. His back was permanently bowed as he huddled under his soaking cloak, trying in vain to stay dry.

Now it seemed as though their only mage had caught a cold.

As evening drew in, making the bleak land all the more bleak, the Vos horsemen rode at breakneck pace on Alhmanic’s orders, heedless of the wet grassland and patches of sucking mud. One of his scouting outriders had rejoined the force an hour before carrying what he doubtless considered good news. The scout had returned from Soire, a tiny village typical of so many in the Territories, with a report that the site they were looking for was close by, to the west. Unfortunately, a Pontaine force had already ridden through Soire, and had apparently set up its own camp there.

The scout’s cheerful face fell as Alhmanic let loose a stream of expletives. They had ridden within a few miles of the Pontaine position and his scouts had failed to spot them. He was furious that Pontaine was ahead of them and already in position, and nervous that he might be too late. Ordering his men to prepare for battle, he rode them hard towards the valley the scout had spoken of, trying to race the fall of night and thus avoid yet another delay.

With the sound of hooves thudding on soft ground all around him, Alhmanic finally allowed himself a grim smile. He had no idea of how advanced the plans of the Pontaine force were, nor even if they were after the same artefact. However, he was no believer in coincidence and an armed Pontaine force travelling through the Territories was justification for an attack. Whatever the reason for their presence, Alhmanic intended to rid the Territories of every Pontaine soldier he could find.

A cry went up from one of the horsemen ahead of him, and he looked up to see two men standing on top of a small hillock about half a mile away. Barking an order, Alhmanic sent three of his horsemen to ride them down. Perhaps they were just a couple of innocent travellers, shepherds, or traders, but he was not going to take the chance they were not Pontaine scouts. When he attacked their camp, he wanted complete surprise.

The three horsemen veered away from the force and goaded their horses into full gallops, covering the ground between them and the unknown men rapidly. As the distance closed, they lowered their spears as the two men started to run.

They barely made it to the summit of the hill before one was spitted on the spear of a Vos horseman, while the other was ridden down by the other two. Circling around, one of the horsemen plunged his spear into the unmoving body that lay on the ground. Alhmanic appreciated that gesture. It always counted to be thorough.

Ahead, the lead horseman, some sergeant whose name had escaped Alhmanic within minutes of them meeting in Scholten, had raised his hand to call the force to a halt. Impatiently, Alhmanic quickly trotted over to him.

“Scout returns, Preacher,” the sergeant said, pointing out a lone horseman slowly becoming visible through the gloom of evening and the ever-present rain.

It was the same man who had returned from Soire to report the presence of the Pontaine force, and Alhmanic noted his demeanour was far more subdued this time.

“What news?”

“Valley up ahead, my Lord. Filled with Pontaine soldiers. They have a camp, seem to have been there some time.”

“Have they built fortifications?”

“Aye, just a fence but it completely rings their camp, too high to jump. They seem set in for some duration, pitched up those big tents they use when they mean to stay somewhere for a while.”

“Numbers?”

“Against us, at least two to one, possibly more.”

Alhmanic was not going to blindly trust the eyes of a scout he had not handpicked himself but felt at least a little encouraged by that. The fence could be a problem though.

“Any notion of what they are doing there?”

The scout shrugged. “They seem to be building something inside the camp. Big piles of dirt everywhere, saw some stone blocks. Couldn’t see what though. Maybe some kind of fort, but in the centre of a valley is an odd place for one.”

“Think carefully, soldier,” Alhmanic said. “Do you think they are really building something... or is it possible they are digging something up?”

Caught between frowning in thought and gulping in nervousness, knowing that the wrong word to the Preacher Divine could have unfortunate consequences on his career, not to mention his life expectancy, the scout seemed almost comical.

“I had not considered that, Lord. It could be they are digging something up, yes.”

Alhmanic swore under his breath, an unwieldy diatribe that encompassed Pontaine, the Territories and the demands of the Anointed Lord.

Sighing, he calmed down a little. So, he had to assume that someone in Pontaine knew what he was after and had beaten him to it. Perhaps that was all for the better, especially if they could capture one of the officers. Alhmanic might just be able to save himself a little trouble in rooting out the artefact from whatever dungeon the Pontaine force clearly thought it was buried within.

“Sergeant, take Otto and half your men,” Alhmanic commanded. “Circle round that valley and wait for my signal – you’ll know it when you see it. Then charge. Otto?”

A sniff at his shoulder indicated the mage had joined the discussion.

“You’ll blast the fence apart, letting the horses through, understand?” He did not wait for a response, instead turning back to the sergeant. “Wipe out all resistance, but if you see a decent officer, grab him. I want at least one alive.”

The sergeant banged his fist against his chest then extended his arm in salute, then wheeled his troops as he shouted orders for the force to split.

“The rest of you,” Alhmanic shouted as he stood in his stirrups, “with me. We’ll show these Pontaine dogs that they need a damn sight more than a force twice our size to stake any claim in the Anclas Territories. Let us remind them of what happened to their men during the war!”

The horsemen raised their spears and called out in salute as they goaded their beasts into action. Alhmanic grinned as he unslung his staff, the large blue stone mounted at its tip clasped by silvered claws. Despite everything that had happened, he was going to enjoy what happened next.

With half a dozen Pontaine scouts dispatched by outriders, Alhmanic felt confident enough to dismount as he approached the brow of the hill. Looking down into the valley, he saw the Pontaine soldiers within their camp as they scuttled about, lighting lanterns to ward off the growing darkness. He could make out the perimeter fence, a crude but effective wooden construction reaching perhaps six feet high in some areas, and there were obviously many tents within its circumference. However, he could not pick out any details of the digging his scouts had reported.