The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) (88 page)

“Typical Vos,” Adrianna said. “If you can’t work something out, give up and try a longer path.”

Lucius frowned in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

She paused for a second, leaving Lucius wondering whether he had said something she considered truly stupid.

“Remember the entrance the Pontaine men told us about? They could not breach the Old Races’ magical defences, and I would guess these Vos henchmen have fared no better.”

“So... they are trying to bypass it?” Lucius said, hazarding a guess.

“Looks like. They are digging down where they think the outpost extends underground, hoping to break into an unprotected chamber.”

“But wouldn’t the Old Races have thought of that?”

Adrianna grinned, her blurred face taking on the look of a predator. “Well, you did, so I would guess that the wizards, or whatever they had thousands of years ago, that built this place would as well.”

“Might be interesting to stay here and watch the fun and games when they start. But this does give us an opportunity.”

“That the main entrance will be relatively unguarded? I agree.”

One man moving through the labouring soldiers caught Lucius’ eye and he gasped in surprise.

“Wow, Aidy, look at that,” he said.

“Well, well,” she said. “Our old friend, the Preacher Divine. We could do a lot of people a lot of favours right now.”

“By killing him?”

She shrugged. “It is a happy thought, but not a practical one.”

“So this is some kind of holy mission for Vos, you think?”

“Oh, Lucius,” Adrianna said, a hint of wonder in her voice. “That’s it. There is no wizard here, and the Preacher Divine is no mage. Should have seen it before – long before. It’s his staff.”

“It’s a weapon?”

“Weapon, spellshield, focus of his faith. Enchanted, heavily so by the feel of it.” She extended an arm towards the Preacher Divine to help focus the silent spell of analysis she was casting. “Very powerful enchantments. If anything goes wrong tonight, don’t face him without me being there. Used offensively, that staff could near break you with one word from its wielder.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. But, really, I just want to get into the ruins, get through the entrance and find what we are looking for.”

“Over there,” Adrianna said, pointing to an area of the site where the fires had been allowed to die down to crackling embers.

“You sure?”

“I can feel it. Deep, ancient, patient. There are terrifying magics at work in this place, Lucius. Terrifying and wonderful. You must be cautious.”

Lucius could not help notice that she had warned
him
to be cautious, not the both of them. Either Adrianna was so confident in her own abilities that she thought even the spells of the Old Races could not touch her – and that was entirely possible – or she was intending to send Lucius down to face them alone. Though the thought rankled, he realised it made no difference. He had first intended to come to this place alone and, frankly, he could count himself lucky if Adrianna withdrew to watch his back for any overly-curious Vos soldier that came their way.

“This way?” he asked, pointing.

Adrianna nodded. Lucius took a deep breath and, letting it go slowly, padded quietly out of cover and headed towards the ruins.

CHAPTER TWELVE

H
EAD BOWED LOW
, the tired horse clopped dejectedly through the main gates of the Citadel, looking as miserable as Tellmore felt. Behind him, Renauld was no happier on his exhausted mount. They had both failed their baron, and they knew it. At least here in Turnitia it rained less than in the Anclas Territories and, mercifully, the grey sky today withheld its deluge.

The guards at the gate let them both through without a word and Tellmore glanced back at Renauld, feeling as sorry for the knight as he did for himself. Renauld’s cloak was gone, lost in the fighting at the camp, and a heavy dent was obvious in his helm where a savage sword swing had nearly taken the man’s life. He favoured his left arm, the result of a shallow but painful wound from a spear thrust a Vos soldier had made as Renauld had struggled to get Tellmore on his feet.

Tellmore shuddered to remember that night, the suddenness of the attack, the butchery of Renauld’s men, and the irresistible onslaught of the man he had fought a magical duel with. And lost.

By all that was holy, that opponent had been quick. While Tellmore might admit to himself in more candid moments that he might have become a little rusty in the use of battle magics, that Vos leader had been both fast and powerful with his staff. After being thrown through the air by the arcane explosion unleashed by the enchanted weapon, Tellmore had lost consciousness for a few moments. He had been roused by a desperate Renauld who shook him hard. Tellmore had been dimly aware as he came round that the knight was battling Vos soldiers. How many, he did not know, and that was when Renauld had been wounded. One of the soldiers had managed to flank him and a cruel spear thrust nearly took Renauld out of the battle altogether.

Somehow, Renauld had triumphed, and Tellmore had risen unsteadily to his feet, looking desperately about him to regain his sense of how the fight was going.

“We need to regroup at the centre,” Renauld shouted above the cacophony of sword on metal and the screams of dying men. “I have men holding there but they need support.”

He had started to drag Tellmore with him, but the wizard grasped his arm and spun him round.

“Don’t be foolish,” Tellmore had said. “We have to get out of here.”

“We can still win this fight!”

“The battle is already lost, man!”

A look of anguish came across Renauld’s face then, and while Tellmore felt his own guilt at leaving so many men behind to be slaughtered, he realised in that moment he would never know just how close the bonds between fighting men could be.

Tellmore lowered his voice and gripped Renauld by the shoulders so he could speak directly into his face.

“We’ve lost. We never had a chance. If we leave now, we might escape. If we can do that, we can bring more men back and avenge what has happened here.”

For a moment, Renauld hesitated, wracked between the choices of loyalty to his men and loyalty to his baron.

“For God’s sake, man,” Tellmore shouted again. “We have to go now!”

Muttering a curse, Renauld grabbed Tellmore and hustled him away from the main body of the fighting. From there, it had been something of a blur for Tellmore. He remembered Renauld hacking down a couple of Vos soldiers who had dismounted to start looting fallen Pontaine men before their comrades, still fighting, had a chance. From them, they had taken two horses and ridden out of the camp at the fastest gallop they could persuade the horses to make.

That had been hard, surviving that night. Now came something that Tellmore relished even less. Explaining to the baron just why he had failed.

T
HE
E
AST
H
ALL
of the Citadel was a much smaller affair than the main hall used for the larger events and celebrations. It was intimate and a great deal more luxurious. This was where the Baron de Sousse entertained those he considered his superiors, or peers that he wanted something from. Today, he wanted something from everyone who sat at the single long table that dominated the hall.

Though the table featured a full spread of wines, cheeses, breads and cold meats, few of the visitors did more than pick at the food. Nor had they paid much more than cursory attention to the finery of the hall itself, to the portraits of notables of the de Sousse family, the shields of its heroes, or even the broken lance that was the sole embellishment above the lone fireplace, the baron’s own, splintered on the shield of Francois du Gris at the Grand Tourney in Miramas last year.

No, everyone here took such things for granted, their own families having performed deeds at least equal to those of de Sousse, and often far more impressive. The father of Count Fournier, on de Sousse’s left hand, was in the royal court at Volonne. The Baron de Biot, seated at the far end of the table, had lost many family members in the war against Vos and each had covered himself in glory before falling to sword or lance. Baron Fremont, currently sipping at wine while listening to a conversation about the breeding of fine horses between Barons Rousseau and Durand, owned a huge amount of territory near the Sardenne whose riches guaranteed him a place at tables much finer than this one.

They all had two things in common with de Sousse, though. They all found themselves in the mid-strata of Pontaine nobility, rich and owners of large estates, but without strong political power. And they were all deeply ambitious for more.

Up to now, they had all been stymied in their efforts to climb the political ladder of Pontaine but de Sousse had broken the mould when he had seized Turnitia from the retreating Vos forces. Everyone seated at the table knew it had been an opportunistic move, and that de Sousse had merely been in the right place at the right time. However, he had demonstrated both the wit and will to grab the opportunity when it was dangled in front of him and that, at least, they could all respect. De Sousse could turn his chance victory into serious political force, as Turnitia was one of the main cities of the peninsula. If that were to happen, they all wanted to be a part of it.

De Sousse took a knife from the table, and banged its pommel gently on the table to attract attention. As heads turned towards him, he leaned forward in his seat to address them.

“My Lords,” he began, respectfully. “I have taken Turnitia and made this city my own – in the name of Pontaine, of course. I would now like to explore how we can share in the further good fortune I now sense is possible, by tipping the balance so Vos becomes weak, and Pontaine becomes strong.”

“The Anclas Territories are the obvious target,” said Baron Rousseau. His family had lost a lot of land when the Territories had been declared neutral after the last war with Vos, and he was hungry to reclaim them.

“Too obvious?” asked Baron Fremont.

“And in any case,” Count Fournier interrupted, “aside from farmland, there is little of true value in the Territories and no good defensive strongholds. We could march in, and be thrown out by an aggressive Vos army within a few months. There is no sense in replaying the last war.”

De Sousse nodded. “I agree. I wonder if there is a better candidate for a first strike. If we could hit hard enough and fast enough, then the Vos Empire will recoil, be forced onto the back foot. The Anclas Territories would later fall to us by default.”

There was a pause around the table, broken by de Biot. “You are suggesting invasion?”

Sitting back in his seat, de Sousse glanced at the faces before him. “It is an interesting notion, is it not?”

“Alright, de Sousse,” said Fournier. “You have called us far from our own lands to discuss this. I believe we can spend at least a little time exploring the idea.”

De Sousse smiled to himself. On a political level, the Count was the highest ranking man among them though, in truth, that was measured by degrees. However, his voice carried weight among them and if he said they would talk about war, then war they would talk about. The six pure-bred white stallions de Sousse had sent the Count as a gift a few months ago had clearly not been wasted, but he could only wonder as to how far Fournier’s favour would continue.

They talked, argued, and debated, as only the nobility could. For more than three hours, they made plan and counterplan, each trying to ensure he came out just a little ahead of the others, whether the decision was to take action or no. De Sousse found it predictable and just a little boring as, he was sure, did the others.

Options were weighed, and it became clear they all had their own reasons for taking action, just as de Sousse had supposed when he first decided who to invite to this meeting. Some wanted revenge for allies and relatives, either killed in the war or still rotting in some pit of a Vos prison. Others were more interested in the glory and honour of a campaign, and the reputation that went with both. Most were hungry for more practical advantages, such as money and land.

As the debate began to play itself out, de Sousse tapped his knife on the table once more.