War of Shadows (14 page)

Niklas caught a glimpse of motion in the shadows behind the handful of Tingur still on their feet. “Reinforcements coming in!” Niklas shouted as a wave of newcomers ran for their line.

These men were not Tingur. Though they lacked the uniform of a proper army, the fact that they were real soldiers was clear in their every movement.
The rumors were right
, Niklas thought, with a mixture of anger and revulsion.
Lysander sends in his greenest troops, the Tingur, to wear out the enemy before his real soldiers attack. Bastard
.

Then the attack came, and there wasn’t time to think at all.

“You’re in our way.” The soldier stood a head taller than Niklas, with a scarred, shaved head and a smashed nose.

“We’ll fix that for you,” Niklas said between gritted teeth. He launched himself at the man, landing a slash to his forearm.
He’s used to people turning tail at his size. He’s come to the wrong place
.

All of Niklas’s fury over the slaughtered Tingur and his annoyance at having a good night’s sleep ruined found expression in his sword. His first strike drew blood. His second tested the speed of his attacker’s reflexes, and the third told Niklas all he needed to know about the man’s reach.

Niklas dropped back, then feinted left. His attacker was a breath too slow to deflect the slice Niklas’s sword tip put in his shoulder, but he returned a pounding series of parries that
scored cuts on Niklas’s arm and nearly got inside his defense. Niklas felt the warm blood seeping through his torn shirt, running down his forearm.

“I’m going to have your head,” the burly man gloated. “Put it on my pike as a trophy. And I always take a finger from kills, to remember them.” He grinned. “Got fifty so far. Room for more.”

“Fifty was just another day in the Meroven War,” Niklas muttered. He moved right, but the bald man was faster than Niklas expected, and he scored a deep jab to Niklas’s side.

“I take the fingers off before the head, so they’re alive when I do it,” the man added. His reach was just a bit longer than Niklas’s, and Niklas barely evaded the swing that went for his neck.

The cold night air smelled of blood and offal. The torches of the Tingur guttered in the dirt, or lay smoking and extinguished beside their corpses. New torches, borne by both sides, cast the trampled field in shades of flame. They stank of oil and soot, sending a haze of smoke across the battlefield.

The bald man was broad-shouldered and muscular, with powerful arms. Niklas watched his attacker strike, and as he evaded the blow, he dodged left and behind. He had just a second’s grace, but he gambled that his attacker’s powerful swing came at a price.

Niklas dove forward, sword angled just under the enemy soldier’s shoulder blade, betting that the man was too muscle-bound to be able to parry in that direction. The tip of his blade sank deep, driven farther by the attacker’s own momentum as he tried and failed to swing at Niklas in a spot he could not reach.

Niklas’s second blade slid into the soldier’s side, below the
ribs, and Niklas gave it a twist for good measure. Warm blood poured from the wound over Niklas’s hand, but his own blood had soaked his shirt and trews, growing sticky in the cold.

The bald man stumbled, then sank to his knees, and Niklas barely got his blades clear before the soldier pulled him along with him. Wary, Niklas swung again, taking off the soldier’s sword hand at the wrist.

“No trophies this time,” Niklas said, staggering back a pace. He caught his balance, then lunged, watching as his sword sent the bald head tumbling into the dirt. The body swayed for a moment, headless, then collapsed in a widening pool of blood.

Despite the cold, sweat ran down Niklas’s back. In the darkness, it was impossible to guess how many men Lysander had sent against them, but he hoped that the spies were right that it was just a portion of Lysander’s troops, and not his entire army.

Where is Lysander?
Niklas wondered, pressing a hand against his side to staunch the bleeding.
Or couldn’t he be bothered to come to his own battle?

Then he saw him. Karstan Lysander looked just as Niklas’s spies had described him: a big man with a thick neck and coarse, fleshy features. He was astride a warhorse, back from the line of battle, watching from an outcropping that was safely removed from the bloodshed.

Getting his men to do the bloody work for him
, Niklas thought. Anger boiled over, and he took a running step in Lysander’s direction, but the pain in his side made him stagger. His hand was still pressed over the wound in his side, slick with blood, and Niklas knew he would not be the one to give Lysander chase.
Not today
.

The battle had turned as Niklas fought the bald man. No Tingur remained to be seen on the field, and as Niklas managed to stand, he realized that his men had turned back the
assault. A horn blared near Lysander, a call for retreat, not a trumpet call of victory.

All around him, Niklas’s men surged like a wave behind the retreating soldiers, hard on their heels, giving chase until Niklas heard Ayers shout for the trumpeters to signal a halt. Bloodied, injured, but triumphant, Niklas’s soldiers jeered obscenities at the remnant that withdrew.

Yet as Niklas looked around, the cost of winning had been dear. Dozens of his own men lay dead among the bodies of the Tingur and Lysander’s soldiers. Blaine’s army had held their own against the invaders, but with the Tingur to strike the first blows, Lysander had exacted a heavy price.

He doesn’t need to win
, Niklas realized.
Damn him. All he needs to do is strike, damage, and retreat enough times, and wait for us to weaken. While he sits at a distance, watching it play out
.

“Captain!”

Niklas managed a tight-lipped grimace in acknowledgment. No matter that Blaine had given Niklas the title of general. For the men who had served with him in the war and followed him across a continent to come home, Niklas would always be ‘captain.’

“Good work,” Niklas said as Ayers and two other soldiers caught up with him. “We ran them off.”

“You’re hurt,” Ayers said.

“Nothing Ordel can’t patch up,” Niklas replied. He took a step toward Ayers, and stumbled. One of the soldiers got under his uninjured arm to steady him.

“Go find Ordel, tell him to come to the Captain’s tent,” Ayers ordered the second soldier. He turned his attention back to Niklas. “Can you walk?”

“If we don’t take the long way home,” Niklas said, although he was beginning to feel light-headed, and the edges of his
vision were blurring black. He was about to say more, but everything went dark.

“You’re lucky.”

Niklas heard Ordel’s voice before he opened his eyes. The pain in his side was nearly gone, though Niklas felt weak, and every muscle ached. “I don’t feel lucky.”

“If you weren’t lucky, you wouldn’t be feeling anything. You’d be dead,” Ordel reproved him archly. “If you’d lost a little more blood, I guess we could have had you turned
talishte
, but I’m not sure there would have been enough left for a decent meal.”

Niklas repressed a shiver. “Don’t even think about it.” He paused. “How many men are down?” He looked at the healer, who was sitting in a chair in Niklas’s tent next to his cot.

“Enough that I’d prefer not to fight another battle in the next couple of days if there’s a choice,” Ordel replied. “After that, they’ll be fine. If it’s any consolation, we took more of theirs than they got of ours.”

“That’s something.”

Ordel nodded toward a small side table beside the cot. “Brought you some food. Eat a little at a time, and promise me you won’t try to get out of bed until I come back to check the dressing on that wound.” He glared at Niklas. “If his sword had gone a bit to one side or the other, I might not have been able to fix you up. Remember that.”

“I’ll try,” Niklas muttered.

“This came for you, but I thought you should be conscious before I gave it to you,” Ordel said, passing a sealed parchment envelope to Niklas.

Niklas frowned, looking at the handwriting. “It’s from Blaine.”

Ordel sighed. “I know that. The
talishte
who delivered it said as much. What’s inside?”

Niklas broke the seal and quickly scanned down over the crowded, angular script. He looked up, sure Ordel could read the concern in his face. “We’re to bring the soldiers and meet up with Blaine at the Citadel of the Knights of Esthrane,” he said, glancing at the paper one more time to reassure himself of what he had read.

“What do the Knights need McFadden for?” Ordel asked.

Niklas shook his head. “Not the Knights. Blaine picked the Citadel because it’s neutral territory. He’s called Verner and the Solveig twins for a summit. And he wants us there to back him up.”

I
T’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE THE CITADEL OF THE
Knights of Esthrane was considered ‘neutral territory,’ ” Piran said as he reined in his horse. Beside him, Blaine eyed the old structure. Deserted a century ago when King Merrill’s grandfather declared the Knights to be traitors, the Citadel was in good condition compared to many structures of similar age after the Great Fire.

The Citadel’s large tower had been spared in the Great Fire because the building was not home to one of the nobility. Since then, it had endured the magic storms. Here and there, Blaine could see scorch marks, and cracks in the massive stone where a direct strike had hit the tower. Yet the tower’s base looked undamaged beyond the neglect of years.

A week had passed since the flood in Castle Reach. Blaine’s time had been taken up with negotiations to bring the warlords together, while Niklas and his men had battled Lysander to a standstill. Now, Blaine eyed the skies warily, afraid to trust in the mages’ prediction that they had a few clear days before more storms came their way.

Since Nidhud and the Knights of Esthrane had returned
from exile, none of the other warlords could claim the Citadel as their own. The Knights had gone to ground for the daylight hours, but come nightfall, they would return. Blaine suspected that knowledge that the Knights supported him encouraged the other warlords to consider cooperation.

“At least they came,” Niklas replied. He had left Ayers in charge of mopping up after the Lysander skirmish, and brought several dozen soldiers to the Citadel for the summit. “And we’ve got a balance of power. Equal forces.”

“How sure are we no one is bending the rules?” Kestel asked, surveying the area warily.

Niklas gave a grim smile. “Dagur and the mages are watching the area. Or, more precisely, they’re scanning the area behind us to make sure we don’t get blindsided. If any large force moves anywhere near this place, he’ll signal us. More importantly, he’ll signal the mages, who stand ready with the rest of the troops.” And come nightfall, Blaine knew that Nidhud would be waiting with a contingent of the Knights of Esthrane, as would Geir and several of the
talishte
from Penhallow’s brood, just in case.

“Do we know whether the other warlords have mages, too?” Piran asked. “This could go very wrong very quickly.”

“No one of power other than Tormod Solveig,” Niklas replied. “At least, according to Dagur.” He paused. “Rumor has it Solveig’s a mage, but beyond that, we don’t know much about him.”

“And I can tell you that no one’s calling on the magic nearby. If they were, I’d feel it. Enough talking. Let’s go in.” Blaine swung down from his horse. He removed his sword belt and scabbard, and handed them over to Niklas. “Keep it handy, just in case.”

Grumbling to himself, Piran did the same, as did Kestel, although Blaine was certain Kestel had not given up all her weapons. Then again, he thought, Piran probably had some
extras handy as well. That thought cheered him as they walked toward the Citadel.

Niklas’s men had set up the meeting place: a bare table and three sturdy chairs for the warlords, with room for the bodyguards. By design, the meeting area was austere. Fewer decorations meant no place to hide assassins.

The flat area next to the tower might once have been a gathering place or a garden. Now it was open on three sides, dotted here and there with fallen stones and rubble. Niklas’s men had chopped back the overgrown vegetation.

Blaine ascended the dozen stone steps that led to the meeting place. He was glad to reach the high ground before the other warlords, using the few moments of lead time to assess his ‘guests.’

To his right, Sindre Verner moved up the stairs. He was not a tall man, but he looked as if he had done hard labor, with powerful arms and sturdy shoulders, and he walked like a man who had spent a lifetime in the army. Like Blaine, he had a cloak against the spring chill and wore a leather cuirass and vambraces. It was what Blaine would have expected from a soldier. The two bodyguards behind Verner were large men, but they held themselves like soldiers, shoulders squared, back straight, eyes forward.

That fit what Blaine knew of Verner. According to Niklas, Verner had been a major in the king’s army during the Meroven War, a man of reasonable honor, though reputed to favor whiskey too much on occasion. Verner’s broad features and florid coloring seemed to back up the story. Still, Niklas said Verner had a reputation of demanding nothing from his men that he did not require of himself. That boded well, Blaine thought.

To his left, Rinka and Tormod Solveig walked up the steps with stately grace. The two shared a resemblance that made it
clear they were brother and sister. Crow-black hair and eyes and pale skin might have given Blaine to wonder if they were
talishte
, had it not been full sunlight. Both Rinka and Tormod were dressed in leather armor that had definitely seen use.

Unlike the serviceable pieces Blaine and Verner wore, the Solveigs’ armor looked to have been custom-made to provide excellent defense while making an indelible impression. Rinka’s leather had been dyed red, so that at first glance, it appeared she was already awash in blood. Tormod’s leather armor was black, tooled with runes.

Their two bodyguards were dressed in worn leather armor, mismatched pieces that had likely been assembled from multiple owners. The bodyguards moved with a lightness that suggested they might be as equally skilled at thieving as fighting.

While Verner was an unknown in Blaine’s experience, Blaine knew the Solveigs by reputation from Velant. The brother and sister had been exiled for running brothels and gaming houses in the three largest cities west of Castle Reach. As Blaine recalled, King Merrill’s soldiers were happy to look the other way in return for generous bribes.

The Solveigs’ success ended when the king sent a regiment to demand long-overdue taxes. In Edgeland, it was rumored they ran a profitable prostitution and gambling racket and bribed guards well enough to get away with it. They had returned to Donderath on the same ship as Blaine. Clearly, the Solveigs saw a profit to be made.

Verner gave Blaine and his friends a long, scrutinizing look. “I knew your father when he served in King Merrill’s army. I always said he deserved to be murdered; I just didn’t expect his son would be the one to do it.”

Blaine shrugged. “I had my reasons.”

Verner nodded. “I’m sure you did.”

Rinka’s gaze was on Kestel. “I don’t remember anything about bringing our own assassins with us,” she said. Her voice had a raw quality to it, as if she favored whiskey, or had once nearly been garroted.

“Congratulations on running such a successful business in Edgeland,” Kestel replied.

Rinka shrugged. “Actually, it was easier in Edgeland. The guards always had money for women and liquor. Here, no one has money for much.”

Blaine broke the impasse and pulled out his chair to take a seat, prompting the others to do the same. It was clear that just showing up to the meeting had expended this group’s reservoir of trust.

“I want to propose an alliance,” Blaine said. “My army controls from Glenreith south to Castle Reach, including Quillarth Castle and the seaport. The Solveigs control the area to the north and west of Glenreith, to the Pelaran River.” He looked to Verner. “Verner controls an arc of land from just beyond Glenreith and Mirdalur, west to the Solveigs’. Allied, we would control a crescent through the heart of Donderath, including the two most valuable trade routes and the key roads between the coast and the river.”

“We already control those areas,” Rinka replied. “What do we gain from an alliance?”

“Safe passage, for one thing,” Blaine replied. “Together, we can encourage merchants and caravans to move freely through our territories, without fear of being stopped at the borders from one holding to the next.

“Our mages have also confirmed that the severe storms happening now are because King Merrill’s mages used magic to control the weather before the Great Fire,” Blaine continued. “They’re likely to continue until the natural currents stabilize,
which means we’re in for a rough ride. Our chances for surviving are much better working together.”

“Strength in numbers,” Verner added. He leaned forward, looking to Blaine and then to the Solveigs. “We’re not the only warlords to consider alliance. I have heard that Torinth Rostivan has made alliances in the far north, between his lands and the Riven Mountains.”

Blaine and Kestel exchanged glances.
Valshoa is in the Riven Mountains
, Blaine thought.
That confirms what Lowrey said and it means Quintrel really is preparing for a return to civilization. Interesting
.

“Larska Hennoch’s been in talks with Lord Pollard. Together, their army controls from east of the Arkala twins and Lysander to the foothills of the Riven Mountains,” Rinka said, leaning back in her chair and affecting boredom. Blaine was quite certain that despite her appearance, she was actively engaged in sizing up the opportunities.

“Pollard and Reese were weakened at the Battle of Valshoa,” Blaine said. “We beat them back, and shattered their army. Lord Penhallow controls Westbain now, and the territory from there to Rodestead House and north to Lundmyhre. Counting Traher Voss’s land, that extends their hold down to the coast.”

Verner made a sign of warding at the last name. “I want nothing to do with Lundmyhre,” he said. “The place is cursed.”

“I already have an understanding with both Lord Penhallow and the Wraith Lord. Those lands are in friendly hands,” Blaine replied.

That bit of news got a wary look from Verner and a raised eyebrow from Rinka.

“Your proposed alliance sounds wonderful,” Rinka said in a tone that conveyed deep skepticism. “What does it cost us?”

“We agree to allow free passage for trade between our
sovereign areas,” Blaine said, rolling out a map he had brought showing the proposed boundaries of the alliance, “so we gain from increased trade, and agree to forfeit some passage fees.”

Tormod leaned over to whisper to Rinka, who nodded. “Worth considering,” she replied. “What else?”

“There is an agreement for mutual protection,” Blaine said, meeting first Verner’s gaze and then Rinka’s, followed by Tormod’s. “If Torinth Rostivan has allied with Vigus Quintrel and his mages, we all face a significant threat from the north. And if Hennoch is allied with Lord Pollard and Pentreath Reese, then once Reese recoups his losses, be assured they will look to expand their territory.” He paused. “And I think we have all seen Lysander’s tactics. He’s aggressive, and he doesn’t care how many people he has to kill to get what he wants.”

“What do you propose?” Verner asked. Now that the topic turned to military matters, he seemed in his element.

“First, that none of us will ally with Rostivan, Lysander, Hennoch, Pollard, or Reese,” Blaine said. “We are allied
against
them.”

“And?” Rinka prodded.

“I’m confident that Penhallow and the Wraith Lord can hold their area without our help. But if Hennoch and Rostivan want trade routes, we’ve cut them off from the river and from the coast. Eventually, they’ll want to change that,” Blaine replied. “And Lysander seems to be out to grab as much territory as he can get. In the short run, I would expect them to make a push to test our strengths while things are still in flux. This alliance will help us hold our borders.”

“We’ve got a lot of rebuilding to do, crops to plant and harvest if we want to eat,” Verner said. “We can’t afford to have our men fighting continually.”

“Verner’s land and my land buffer McFadden’s territory
from Rostivan and the west,” Rinka said. “Why will McFadden care if we get attacked on our borders?”

“I’ll care because if you fall, I have one less ally when the attacks come my way,” Blaine said with a pointed glance toward Rinka. “If Hennoch, Rostivan, and Reese ally—even without Lysander—they could crush any of us individually. But we are allied, and have the support of Penhallow, Voss, and the Wraith Lord, we can hold back the attack.”

“What of their lands? Rostivan, Lysander, Reese, the Arkalas, and Hennoch. Do we hope to capture them?” Rinka was watching both Blaine and Verner closely, as if weighing an internal judgment.

“I have no desire to expand my territory,” Verner replied.

Blaine met Rinka’s gaze. “If you want more land, take as much as you can west of the river. I want to see Castle Reach prosper and make sure my people can go about their business.”

“There is one more thing,” Blaine said. “It concerns magic.”

Rinka’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Tormod straightened. Verner shifted in his chair. “What about magic?” Rinka demanded.

“You’re the one who brought the magic back, aren’t you?” Verner asked, drumming his fingers on the table. “It’s fixed.”

“No.” Everyone turned to look at Tormod. “Not like it was.”

Tormod glared at Blaine. “The magic isn’t right. It’s… broken, unpredictable. We’ve lost two of our mages when they tried to use the power. One of them went mad. The other”—he paused and took a deep breath—“the other burned to death. The fire came from inside him. From magic.”