War of Shadows (13 page)

“I petition the Elders for Reese’s final death,” the Wraith Lord said, looking from one Elder to the next as if to challenge a reply. “Punish him as he deserves.”

“Is that all?” Saffron mocked. “You presume that your cause to bring back the magic puts you in the right, and that Reese is clearly wrong. I disagree. We are immortals. We do not require the convenience of magic. Magic enables the survival of the weak. Let hardship cull the herds, so that only the strongest blood survives.”

“You romanticize misery,” Emerald replied. “Immortality doesn’t make privation less unpleasant. Hardship means that there’s less blood to go around. Soon our people are fighting among themselves for territory to have sufficient prey for them and their broods to survive.” He shook his head. “I do not want to see a return of those days.”

“The last time the magic died, it took more than a generation to bring it back,” Sapphire said. “It was a struggle to feed ourselves and our broods,” he added. “I have no desire for that to happen again.”

“This is not about magic. It is forbidden for a
talishte
to strike against an Elder, yet Reese has sent his men against me.
I claim my right as Elder to bring charges against him,” the Wraith Lord said. “I call for your judgment.”

“Shall we hear the defendant’s side?” Emerald interrupted. “Since we took Lord Reese prisoner at the Wraith Lord’s behest?”

Three
talishte
guards brought Pentreath Reese from the shadows outside the stone circle. Reese’s wrists were bound. Despite the rapid rate at which
talishte
healed, Reese still showed evidence of the damage done in the Battle of Valshoa. Even after several months of healing, Reese’s skin was puckered and discolored from the fire that had nearly destroyed him. One side of his face was nearly burned away, along with most of his right ear. His hair had grown back in patches here and there in the scar tissue. Reese walked with a new limp, and held one arm as if it were painful to move.

He’s had several months to heal, and he’s
talishte, Connor thought.
If he looks this bad now, I’m glad I didn’t see what he looked like right after the battle
.

“Elders. I appeal to you,” Reese said. He shot a glare in the direction of Penhallow and the Wraith Lord. “I’ve done nothing that warrants this imposition on your time.” His body might have tested the limits of endurance, but it was obvious that hardship had not dimmed his will.

“Speak your case,” Emerald said.

Reese squared his shoulders. “Without magic,
talishte
would not be subservient to mortals. Magic enables mortals to amplify their strength. It upsets the natural order. I had no hand in the destruction of magic. But when that destruction came, I saw the opportunity for our kind to regain their rightful place in the order of things.”

Reese looked from one masked face to another. “We are the top predator. And to the victor goes the spoils.” He looked
toward Penhallow. “Yet Penhallow and the Wraith Lord would deny us our victory. They act against our kind, allying with mortals to give those mortals magic once more, magic they will use to hunt us and destroy us.”

“Had we convened before the Battle of Valshoa, your plea would have had merit,” Sapphire-mask replied. “But magic has been restored. Your aggression toward mortals could bring retribution on all of us. You brought assassins against Lord Penhallow, and armed men against the Wraith Lord. How do you plead?”

“My lords,” Reese said, spreading his hands in supplication. “What I did was out of desperation, in an attempt to protect all
talishte
. I identified a threat to the
talishte
, and I acted on it, with the intent to protect our kind,” Reese said, raising his head. “I will not apologize for that.”

“And in the matter of allowing troops under your control to attack the Wraith Lord, one of the Elders?”

Reese struck a conciliatory note. “My lords,” he said, “I had no way to verify that the Wraith Lord was in possession of his mortal servant. We suspected such claims were a ruse by Penhallow to force our troops to retreat.”

“Then let us vote,” Saffron said. “End the conjecture.”

The Wraith Lord turned to the assembly of Elders. “We have been convened here to determine whether or not the Elders shall levy punishment upon Pentreath Reese for attacks against Lanyon Penhallow and the Wraith Lord. How say you?”

“I must remind the Elders that a vote of condemnation demands the final death,” Saffron said. “There is precedent, in times of extreme unrest, to show forbearance.” He paused. “I vote for punishment, but not death.”

“I believe Pentreath Reese deserves the final death for his actions,” the Wraith Lord said, facing Reese. “Guilty. Death.”

“This is nonsense.” Saffron replied. “Release Reese and end this farce.”

“Punishment.” Ruby and Brown spoke at the same time.

“I see a larger issue,” said Amber. “Our numbers are few. If we
talishte
are going to survive, we cannot pass final judgment on one another for matters that, in a century or two, will seem trivial. I vote for censure, with imprisonment, even torture, but not death.”

“I see nothing wrong with Lord Reese’s actions.” Aubergine’s voice was sharp. “I vote to absolve Lord Reese of all charges.”

“Death,” said Silver.

“Death,” added Gold.

“Death,” Gray voted.

“Censure without death.” Jade sounded bored with the proceedings.

“Death,” Onyx replied.

“It appears we have a tie.” The Wraith Lord looked to Emerald. “How do you vote?”

Emerald looked at Penhallow in silence for a moment. “I agree that Reese’s actions were… unwise. But these are unstable and dangerous times, and the old ways may need to be reexamined.” He paused. “In normal circumstances, the attacks would warrant death,” Emerald said, leveling a stern gaze at Reese, who had the good grace to look abashed.

“Yet we do not live in normal circumstances,” the Elder continued. “Our numbers are few, and many of our kind were destroyed in the Great Fire. We cannot replenish those numbers quickly. For that reason alone I am loath to destroy one of our older
talishte
. It is with hesitation that I vote… censure with punishment but not death.” Emerald paused. “But should Reese repeat any of these crimes against the Elders, he shall receive final death without trial.”

In less than the blink of an eye, Onyx withdrew a stake from the folds of his cloak and drove it into Reese’s heart. Reese’s eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he made no sound as he crumpled to the ground.

“Lord Reese—you are under censure by the Elders for attacks on Penhallow and Kierken Vandholt,” Onyx said. “Such actions, if repeated, will result in the final death. The Elders have spoken.”

“Let him have the punishment given to Hemming Lorens,” Onyx ordered. “Let him be bound with rope made from rowan-wood fibers. Let masterwort be burned and the ashes sprinkled on his skin and all around him. Make a tincture of moonflower and allow it to seep into his clothing and bonds. And when he is immobilized, place him in the oubliette beneath my manor. For his crimes, he shall starve there for fifty years. This is the word of the Elders.”

As quickly as they had assembled, the Elders vanished and took Reese with them, leaving the Wraith Lord, Penhallow, and Connor standing inside the stone circle.

“Will the black-masked Elder carry out the sentence?” Connor asked, still shaking.

Vandholt nodded. “Onyx is trustworthy,” he replied. “Imprisoning Reese at his own manor makes me more certain the punishment will be carried out.”

“You’re immortal, ancient, and powerful. Why bother with the masks?” Connor’s fear made him impudent.

“Because we are not indestructible,” Vandholt replied. “Even I can be destroyed.” He paused. “We Elders rule on the affairs of the
talishte
, beings who, after many centuries of existence, often believe themselves beholden to no one. Those whom we rule against have supporters who may take vengeance in the name of their master.”

“So the Elders are afraid?” Connor asked incredulously. He realized what he said aloud and blanched, aware of the company he kept. “I’m sorry—it’s just that it’s difficult to think of beings like the Elders feeling fear, with all their power.”

Penhallow met his gaze. “The night of the Great Fire, do you believe King Merrill was afraid? And the other lords of the realm, did they feel fear?”

Connor felt his face redden. “Of course. They were men. Powerful, but still men.”

“And so are we,” the Wraith Lord said. “Men… and a few women… who have great power, yet we have no real desire to go to the Sea of Souls while existence is still within our grasp.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor said. “I spoke rashly.”

“You spoke honestly,” the Wraith Lord replied. “Yet it is good for you to remember the discretion you learned at court. Not many among our kind will answer you as candidly—or without offense taken—as Lanyon and I.”

“Setting Connor’s question aside,” Penhallow said, “what repercussions do you foresee?”

Kierken Vandholt turned to face Penhallow. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps war. We’ll see what kind of loyalty Pentreath Reese commands from his followers—and his master.”

T
HANKS FOR MEETING US.” VERRAN DANNING
stood in the shadow of a large oak. Borya and Desya were just a pace behind him, bodyguards as well as companions in espionage.

“I don’t know why I’ve got to freeze my nuts off in the woods,” Niklas muttered.

“Because it won’t do for people to see you with us if you want us to be your spies, now will it?” Verran asked.

“What have you got for me?” Niklas asked.

“Lysander is definitely moving his forces for an attack,” Borya said, his Flatlands accent clear in his voice. “From everything we’ve seen, I’d place my money on a strike against Glenreith or maybe one of the northern warlords, such as Verner or the Solveigs.”

“He’s recruiting—maybe a better word is ‘conscripting’—soldiers from the pubs and taverns,” Verran added. “More than once we’ve seen Lysander’s men come into a pub, strike up a conversation with a young, able-bodied fellow, and then they leave together—and the young man isn’t seen again.”

Desya leaned closer. “And that’s not all. Not long after Lysander’s army comes through, several robed ‘priests’ of Torven show up, and get the townsfolk and farmers all stirred up. Next thing you know, most of the layabouts who didn’t have aught to do follow them off to petition the gods, or some such nonsense.” He pushed an errant lock of black hair out of his eyes and grinned. “Don’t think it leaves much doubt that Lysander is also recruiting the Tingur.”

Nearly two months had passed since Verran, Desya, and Borya had proposed their daring scheme and won grudging approval from Blaine and Niklas. Verran Danning, master thief and sometime musician, was one of Blaine’s comrades from Velant. He was the first to admit that combat wasn’t his strong point, but stealing—either provisions or information—was. Borya and Desya were brothers, cousins to Zaryae and onetime acrobats in a traveling group of performers that had helped Blaine on his quest to restore the magic. They had proposed creating a new caravan of erstwhile minstrels and performers to travel among the farms and towns, eyes and ears for Blaine and Niklas.

“Admit it, Niklas,” Verran said with a grin. “Our little ruse is paying off.” Verran was slightly built, with dirty-blond hair that stuck out at angles like a scarecrow, and pale-blue eyes that were alight with relish for the game.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Niklas grumbled. “If you get caught, you’ll see that it’s not a lark.”

“Oh, we’re quite well aware of that,” Borya replied, his expression growing serious. The twins’ eyes had the unnerving yellow irises of a cat, an unfortunate effect of being caught in the wild-magic storms. “We’ve dealt with our share of brigands on the road.”

He smirked, and let his hand fall to the grip of the long knife in a sheath on his belt. “We consider ridding Donderath of those blackguards to be a bonus. We take care of ourselves.”

Even if Verran was not much of a fighter, Borya and Desya were experienced with swords. Geir had assigned several
talishte
fighters who were also musicians to accompany the spies, and Niklas had likewise found soldiers who could pass for performers for additional backup. The arrangement had paid off handsomely with valuable information.

“What else?” Niklas asked, rubbing his gloved hands up and down his arms over his cloak to warm himself.

Verran and the others exchanged a wary glance. Niklas caught the look, and frowned. “What?”

“It’s Carr,” Verran said. “That bloke’s going to get himself killed. He steers clear of us, but we’ve caught sight of him one place and another, always where he’s got no business being.”

“Like where?”

“In one town, he showed up to one of the gatherings where Lysander’s ‘priests’ were calling for the faithful to take up arms,” Borya said. “Kept to the back, faded away before they left, but I thought I saw him shadowing them afterward.”

Niklas swore under his breath. “Anything else?”

Desya nodded. “Aye. Turned up in a wayside tavern a few weeks ago, playing the sot.” At Niklas’s raised eyebrow, he shook his head. “Oh, he wasn’t really drunk. Guess he wanted people to think so to get them to talk in front of him.” He grimaced. “Worked a little too well. A couple of men tried to relieve him of his coins.”

“Almost relieved him of his life with the thrashing he took,” Verran added, “but he fought his way out without needing our help.” He shook his head worriedly. “Damn fool. Is he trying to impress Mick, or spite him?”

Niklas sighed. “I don’t know. He wasn’t this reckless as a soldier. Maybe it’s from his bout with the Madness, or maybe it’s in his blood—Ian was known for his temper.”
Or maybe he still has a touch of the Madness
, Niklas thought to himself, recalling how it had affected Carr. Few who had been struck had survived, and most who lived through it did not escape undamaged. Fortunately, now that the magic had been anchored again, the outbreaks had all but ceased.

“I don’t want to be the one to tell Mick his brother’s dead,” Verran said with a pointed look. “Carr’s going to push his luck too far.”

“Agreed, but there’s nothing any of us can do about it, short of locking him up at Glenreith, which isn’t going to happen,” Niklas said. He pulled a small bag of coins from inside his cloak. “Good work,” he added. “This should cover your provisions for a while.”

Verran tucked the bag into his shirt and grinned. “I’ll take your coin, mate, but we earn our way. The twins put on a good show with all their damn-fool twists and flips, and the other musicians and I usually earn drinks and dinner for our table at the pub. The magic may not be perfect, but I’ve got some of the gift back.”

“Mind you don’t get too well-known,” Niklas cautioned. “You wouldn’t want anyone to take too much interest in you.”

Verran chuckled. “No danger of that,” he said. “And we take pains to look appropriately shabby. Just your average down-on-our-luck vagabonds,” he said with a smile.

“Keep an eye out for Lysander’s supply lines,” Niklas said. “Especially if he’s going to come after us, I want to know how we can cut the bastard off and starve him out.”

“Will do,” Borya said. “From what we’ve seen, once his priests recruit the Tingur, they go back to what’s left of their
farms and villages and turn over anything they can get their hands on to Lysander.”

“Clever son of a bitch,” Niklas said. “Watch yourselves—mages say there are more storms coming, and bad ones, too.”

Desya nodded. “No surprise there. We’ve ridden out the last few in barns and cellars. Do you think that once the magic has time to settle, it’ll get better?”

Niklas shrugged. “No way to tell. Zaryae and the mages are convinced it’s payback for the king’s meddling with the weather before the Great Fire.” His breath fogged with the cold, and the air was bone-chillingly damp, on the cusp between rain and sleet.

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Verran assured him. “Good luck with Lysander.” With that, he and the twins headed back to the caravan, and Niklas saddled up for the ride back to the camp.

Ayers was waiting for him in his tent. “News?” his second-in-command asked.

Niklas peeled off his damp cloak, standing near the small brazier that took the worst of the chill off inside his tent. He rubbed his hands to warm them as he related what he had learned.

Ayers nodded. “One of our
talishte
brought an update from Castle Reach. Folville says the Tingur seem intent on storming the gates at Quillarth Castle, even though they’re hardly armed to breach the walls,” he said. “His bet was it was a ruse to draw you off while Lysander is busy elsewhere.”

Niklas nodded. “As we figured. We left enough soldiers at the castle that I’m not worried. With the walls rebuilt, they can hold out against quite a bit, and I doubt the Tingur have siege engines handy.”

Ayers grimaced. “Let’s hope not.” He paused. “Oh, there was
one more bit of news, passed through several hands from our man at Solsiden.”

“Oh?”

“According to him, Pollard approached Lysander for an alliance.”

Niklas raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting. Any idea why?”

Ayers shook his head. “I suspect it’s because Pollard needs muscle. No word on Lysander’s response, but he seems the type to play both ends against the middle.”

Niklas sighed. “And we’ll find out soon enough just how good a gamesman he is.”

By tenth bells, the army camp was quiet. Fires were banked for the night, lanterns were out except for the kitchen tent, where cooks and bakers prepared for the next morning. Three soldiers walked the perimeter on patrol as usual. Which was exactly what Niklas was counting on.

Inside the tents, the night was far from ‘usual.’ Soldiers sat fully clothed, armored and armed, ready for action, silent in the darkness. Niklas’s small contingent of mages had constructed a passive warding, a protection that would only flare into power if the camp’s boundaries were trespassed by hostile magic.

“It’s been a candlemark,” Ayers murmured. “What if the Tingur decide to strike another night?”

Niklas shook his head. “They’ll come. The scouts agreed with Verran. The Tingur are close. And a division of Lysander’s army isn’t far behind.”

“Let’s hope it’s only a division.”

“Intruders!” A man’s shout and the clang of swords were all the signal the waiting soldiers needed.

“Go!” Niklas’s voice carried on the night air, echoed by commanders down the line. All of the patrols were locked in battle, and while their attackers outnumbered them at first, those odds were rapidly shifting. Soldiers streamed from the tents, jumped from tarpaulin-covered wagons, and ran to battle from their hiding places throughout the camp.

“It’s about time we had a good honest fight,” Niklas muttered. The night was crisp and clear, though moonless. Then again, given the number of torches their Tingur opponents were wielding, the soldiers hardly needed moonlight to find their enemy.

“Go home!” Niklas shouted at the three shabbily dressed men who began to close on him when he joined the fray at the edge of camp. “Leave now, and we won’t follow you. Save yourselves.”

The only reply was a guttural war cry as the men began to run, holding their scythes and axes aloft.

The Tingur with the scythe swung wildly, like a drunkard reaping wheat. Niklas sidestepped the man’s first assault, then thrust with his sword, easily getting under the man’s arm, sinking his blade between the ribs before the scythe blade could come close to him. He kicked the man’s weapon hand, knocking the scythe out of reach, then brought his boot down hard, assuring that even if the sword strike was not fatal, that Tingur would not be taking up arms until his bone had healed.

“Behind you, Captain!”

Niklas pivoted, just in time to block a swing from a bearded man with a brush-cutting blade who barreled toward him, rage and terror in his eyes. The blade struck Niklas’s sword, sending a shudder down his arm, and he saw surprise in his attacker’s eyes.

“You should have stayed home,” Niklas muttered, drawing a
short sword with his left hand and dealing a series of blows that sent the Tingur back several steps, as the man began to realize that the attack might not be the rout he had expected.

Blow after blow hammered the bearded man’s blade, quickly enough that he could barely parry. Niklas knew that hand-to-hand, his burly attacker had the advantage. With blades, all Niklas had to do was await the opportunity.

“Run while you can,” Niklas advised, continuing his onslaught. Down the line, out of the corner of his eye, he could see his men advancing step by bloody step.

“Not while you breathe,” the Tingur responded. Niklas had scored a deep slice on the man’s forearm, and another to his shoulder, cutting through his thin cloak.
He’s got strength, but not speed
, Niklas thought.
Just wait for the opening
.

The bearded man was tiring. His swings grew more erratic, wider. Niklas saw his chance as the attacker overextended, giving Niklas the opportunity he needed. His first strike took off the attacker’s arm at the shoulder; the second swing took his head.

Blood-spattered and angry, Niklas stepped over the corpse, ready for the next attacker. One glance told him that the Tingur’s numbers had dramatically decreased. No doubt some had fled for their lives. Judging from the corpses that littered the ground, too many of them had tried to stand their ground, and died for their foolhardiness.

Intuition prickled at the back of Niklas’s mind. “Close ranks!” he shouted to his men, and the soldiers rallied, filling the gaps in their line.

Only several dozen of the Tingur still remained. Bloodied and outnumbered, their sharpened farm tools no match for swords, their fates were sealed. From the looks on their faces, they knew it. In better times, Niklas would have called
for their surrender and sent them back to their villages roped together like convicts, counting on shame to keep them out of the next battle. But their villages were gone, and supplies were scarce, too precious to waste feeding prisoners. He wondered if the Tingur’s attack would bring them accolades from Torven, because their sacrifice brought their mortal master no gain.