War of Shadows (19 page)

Connor looked around himself. He was in a shabby section of corridor. At the end of the hallway, chunks of rock littered the floor where parts of the ceiling had fallen, and rough wooden beams barricaded the walkway where Westbain’s other wing had collapsed.

The winter wind whistled through cracks in the barricade. Something wordless cautioned him not to turn his back. Connor stared into the shadowed end of the corridor, and the hair on the back of his neck began to rise. The air grew heavy, and the temperature plummeted as the shadows began to roil.

An ink-black wave of darkness swept toward him, fast as breakers in a storm. The darkness was opaque, blotting out everything behind it. Connor ran toward the lights and safety of the main house.

Connor felt a low rumble, and heard something growling.
He sensed that the blackness was hard on his heels. Suddenly, the darkness rushed over him, sweeping him into it like the tug of a powerful undertow. The shadows had weight and strength, and Connor thought that he might be crushed in its press.

Let me in!
A man’s voice sounded in Connor’s mind.

Get out of my head
, Connor snapped.

I can make this painful, or easy
, the voice replied.
But I have waited too long without a body to let you go
.

I’m using this body. You can’t have it
.

The voice gave a harsh laugh.
I wasn’t asking permission
, the voice replied.
I just wanted to know how much I was going to need to hurt you
.

The spirit thrust itself into Connor’s mind with a force that made him gasp. Pinpoints of light flashed in his vision. A specter formed in front of him, a large man with heavy-lidded eyes and a face with jowls like a bulldog’s. His lips formed a perpetual pout, and the set of his mouth was harsh. The man’s eyes had held a flat, dead glare, and glinted with casual cruelty.

I see we’ll have to do this the hard way
. The spirit forced itself against Connor’s shape as if it were squeezing into a too-tight suit of armor. The man’s ghost shoved and twisted, taking pleasure in the pain he caused in his rough entry. Connor bit back a scream.

I warned you
.

Connor felt a tide of anger well up inside him, fed by his anger at Reese, and the long-unspent fury at the mages who had sent the Cataclysm and destroyed Connor’s world.

Get… out… of… my… head!
The words summoned up every bit of energy in Connor’s being, calling to every strand of untested power, rage made all the more potent for its long suppression.

Connor felt that rage well up inside him as his magic flared in his mind. Rage and magic melded with sheer willpower in
one massive push, throwing the intruder out of his mind, casting the spirit free of his body.

The effort left Connor gasping on his hands and knees, but he lifted his head defiantly, expecting the spirit to try once more, doubting that he had the strength to fight him off again.

The large man’s spirit took visible shape once more, its fleshy features twisted in an expression of fury.
I will destroy you
, the spirit vowed.
I will crush every memory. Nothing of you will remain
.

The ghost began to rush toward Connor. But just as it gathered speed, a blast of wind roared through the corridor, sudden and violent enough to make Connor throw up his arms to protect himself. A glowing specter stood between Connor and the ghost, a broad-shouldered man in full armor, holding a glowing sword in each hand. Power rippled from the apparition, and fury.

This was Kierken Vandholt, the Wraith Lord, and he was very, very angry.

You tried to take something that does not belong to you
, the Wraith Lord thundered.

The fat man’s ghost dared not rise.
M’lord, I beg you—

Silence!
the Wraith Lord roared.
I have no interest in your defense. I felt what harm you worked against my servant. His pain was mine. And now, my vengeance shall be his
.

The ghost’s image waxed and waned, and Connor wondered if the spirit was trying to flee. If so, the Wraith Lord possessed the power to keep him from doing so. By now, the fat man’s ghost was on his knees, sobbing and pleading, promising to make amends and bargaining with offers of hidden treasures.

The Wraith Lord did not slow his advance, and Connor was grateful that he could not see Vandholt’s face.

Mercy, my lord, I beg of you
, the corpulent man pleaded.

I will show you the mercy you showed my servant
, the Wraith Lord said in a cold voice. He lunged forward, and one of his glowing blades skewered the ghost through the belly. With his other hand, he plunged the second blade down through the apparition’s head and into his chest.

It would serve you well if I left you like this for eternity
, the Wraith Lord said in a low rumble.
I have read your spirit, and this is not the first time you have forced yourself into a mortal’s consciousness. But it will be the last
.

The fat man’s mouth worked silently, his eyes wide with pain and utter terror. If Connor had ever questioned the stories that Kierken Vandholt walked the Unseen Realm with the permission of Esthrane herself, this ability to punish the incorporeal dead removed all doubt.

You threatened to snuff out every glimmer that remained of my servant’s self
, the Wraith Lord said.
You intended to steal his body and destroy his soul. You do not have that power. But I do
.

The fat man’s ghost made a strangled bleat, and winked out of sight, drawing the darkness with him like a shroud.

The Wraith Lord stared at the empty space where the ghost had vanished for a moment, then turned toward Connor. Dimly, Connor was aware of a rustle behind him and hushed voices that fell silent with one look from the Wraith Lord. Kierken Vandholt strode over to where Connor knelt. Vandholt’s expression changed, softening to one of concern.

Are you damaged?

Connor shook his head, still at a loss for words. He managed to climb to his feet. “Thank you. If he had come at me a second time, I don’t think I could have fought him back.”

I felt the intrusion and your pain
, the Wraith Lord said.
The bond between us goes both ways, a
kruvgaldur
of spirit if not blood
. He paused.
That you were able to throw him off at all is
quite unusual. I have met very few mediums who could muster that kind of power, even with their lives at stake
. He chuckled.
You continue to surprise me, Bevin
.

“Thank you,” Connor repeated. “I didn’t think you could help. I’m far away from your lands.”

Kierken Vandholt inclined his head in acknowledgment.
You are most welcome. I am not bound to my lands, but I choose to stay close since it gives me comfort. I could not allow you to be destroyed. I have cost you a great deal. But I also watch over those under my protection
. He frowned.
Be wary, Bevin. Westbain is a dangerous place
.

With that, the Wraith Lord’s image disappeared.

Connor heard a gasp behind him and turned to find Alsibeth and Caz staring at him with a mixture of fear and incredulity.

“We heard you cry out,” Alsibeth said, recovering her voice. “Something kept us from reaching you. We could hear you, but everything was dark. Then…” She struggled for words. “Was that the Wraith Lord?”

Connor nodded. The adrenaline that had sustained him in his life-or-death battle was draining fast, leaving him completely spent. “We have an… understanding,” he said.

Alsibeth chuckled. “You are a man of surprises, Bevin Connor. The night of the Great Fire, the omens told me that you would play an important role in what was to unfold. I had no idea what that meant.”

“Believe me, neither did I,” Connor muttered.

S
ENESCHAL CONNOR!”

Lieutenant Aurick, commander of the contingent of guards Traher Voss had left to guard the captured manor, ran a few steps to catch up with Connor. “Good to see you up and about again, sir,” Aurick said.

“Glad to be back,” Connor replied. It had taken him a full day to recover from his run-in with the ghost.

“Thought you’d want an update on the construction when it’s light enough to see what’s been done, since Lord Penhallow won’t be available until after dark,” Aurick added. Aurick was a sandy-haired man in his late twenties, just a few years older than Connor, but with the look of a man who has been soldiering since he could carry a sword. He had the plain, pleasant face of a farmhand, although old battles had flattened his nose and given him a nasty scar across one cheek.

“Let’s take a look,” Connor said, grabbing a cloak. Overhead, gray clouds threatened snow. Connor shivered.

“We’re nearly done repairing the break in the south wall,” Aurick said, pointing. The Great Fire had caused some of the
damage, and the rest was the result of the assault Voss and Penhallow had led against Reese’s defenders.

“That’s good,” Connor said, eyeing the expanse of wall. One breach was repaired, but several more remained. “How soon do you think your men can get to the rest of the breaks?”

Aurick drew a deep breath. “We’re working day and night, sir. The problem is, the original wall was reinforced by magic, and when the Cataclysm knocked out the magic, parts of the wall collapsed.” He shook his head. “If they’d built the wall right, we wouldn’t have so much to fix.” He sighed. “A few more weeks, at least, sir—if the weather stays good.”

“How will you defend the manor in the meantime?”

Aurick pointed down beyond the walls. “My men are raising earthworks and digging a dry moat. We’ll get abatis and barricades in place as well.”

Connor nodded. “That’s more than we’ve got now. I have a bad feeling about having those gaps open.”

Aurick gave a grim chuckle. “Me too, sir. I like a sturdy wall between me and the enemy.”

“Do I need to ask Voss for more men?”

Aurick shook his head. “Commander Voss and the rest of the troops are busy at Rodestead House, sir. I’d like to think that by the time anyone could ride there and return with reinforcements, we’ll be done.”

“I hope so, Lieutenant,” Connor responded. “I don’t think any of us will sleep well until the walls are up.”

Shouting drew their attention toward the main gate. A group of robed men and women were arguing stridently with the guards, who were blocking their attempt to enter. Connor and Aurick hurried closer to the action.

“No one gets inside without permission of Lord Penhallow.”
A burly guard stood toe to toe with a tall, thin man in a roughly woven robe. Connor looked at the newcomers. At least a dozen people, all dressed similarly to their spokesperson, looked as if they had been living out of doors and in rough conditions. Their hair was matted, their robes were frayed and smudged with dirt, and several wore rags wrapped around their feet instead of shoes.

“We are the Tingur,” the man said, “followers of Torven. And we have come to make offerings at the manor shrine.”

Two more guards had joined the first man, and together they presented a solid wall of brawn. Other guards were drawing close, in case reinforcements were needed.

“I don’t care if you’re Charrot, Esthrane, and Torven and all the household gods,” the guard replied. “No one gets in without permission from Lord Penhallow.”

The thin spokesperson glowered at the guard. “Don’t jest about the gods,” he warned. “We don’t need permission of a lord to make our offering—and we refuse to recognize a lord who is not among the living.”

The guard was clearly reaching the end of his patience. “
You
might not be among the living if you don’t leave here
now
. You’re not getting in, not unless Lord Penhallow says so.”

For a moment, Connor feared that the robed visitors might rush the guards. That was bound to end badly, since the guards were already worn to short tempers. The guards drew their swords, and at that, the waiting soldiers closed ranks.

The thin man raised his hands toward the sky. “Torven, consort of Charrot, lord of the Sea of Souls, bring down your curse on those who prevent offerings from being made to your name. Scourge them with fire, and flay the flesh from their bones that all may know that you are ascendant among the consorts, and your power is unmeasured.”

“Are you done yet?” the guard demanded. “You’d best be moving on. We’ve already seen fire, and all the flaying’s been on our part, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave. Now.”

The soldiers had formed shoulder-to-shoulder ranks, swords drawn, and at the guard’s challenge, they moved a step forward.

The tall man lifted his head defiantly. “We will return, and we will enter. Torven will have his sacrifice.”

“Yeah, maybe the cook will burn dinner. That’d be a burnt offering for you,” the guard said. “Now, be on your way.”

Grumbling their displeasure, the Tingur moved away from the gate. The soldiers did not disband until the wanderers were out of sight, and when the extra men went back to their duties, the lead guard ordered the heavy gates to be shut, although it was still early in the day.

“Can they get through the breaks in the wall?” Connor asked.

Aurick shook his head. “Not unless they’ve got an army with them. We’ve got barricades and soldiers at each breach point.”

“So there are more of these… Tingur?” Connor asked.

“We’ve seen small groups on the roads in the last few months,” Aurick replied. “We’ve been so busy fighting brigands and trying to repair what the Great Fire destroyed, we didn’t pay a lot of attention.”

“Ask your men to keep an eye out for more of these Tingur. I want to know what you hear,” Connor said.

Aurick grinned. “That we can easily do, sir.”

Aurick headed toward the repair crew while Connor walked back to the manor house, deep in thought. He hurried up the cracked steps to the manor house, happy to get in out of the cold. As he hung up his cloak, he sighed.
I’ve put it off as long as I can. There’s no avoiding going into the dungeons today
.

Connor knew where the entrance was to the levels beneath Westbain. He had made it a point to studiously avoid them, entering as rarely as he could. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
I’m a visitor, not a prisoner
. His stomach tightened as he descended the stone steps. Every step deepened a feeling of despair.

A shrill cry startled him, and he drew his knife, advancing cautiously. Yet when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw that nothing had changed since his first visit. Healers, not jailers, moved among the cells.

For a moment, Connor watched the men and women who bustled through the tight corridor between cells that had been converted to sickrooms. His previous visits had not lasted longer than a few minutes, enough to assure himself that the dungeons were no longer filled with Reese’s prisoners and that everything was being handled in an orderly fashion. The resonance of the ghosts whose spirits filled the dungeons had caused him to turn around and leave, but today Connor had resolved to make a complete walk-through, regardless of discomfort.

“Seneschal Connor.” A man in his middle years with graying reddish hair moved to greet him. “We were wondering when your duties would permit you to come our way.” The man spared him a tired smile. “I’m Berus,” he said, and swept an arm to indicate the rows of cells. “And this is as close as you’ll ever want to come to the Unseen Realm.

“Come with me,” Berus said, leading the way through the narrow corridor. The stone around them was dark with moisture and mold, and a smell lingered, the odor of wounds gone bad.

“The night that Westbain fell to our forces, Lord Penhallow ordered the healers to see to the prisoners in the dungeons.”
Berus shook his head. “As you can imagine—or if you’re lucky, maybe you can’t—things were very bad down here.”

“I’m actually surprised that Reese’s men left anyone alive—or sane,” Connor said.

Berus nodded soberly. “Had
talishte
soldiers not intervened as quickly as they did, I’m certain Reese’s men had orders to kill all the prisoners. Even so, for some, it was too late.”

Connor looked at the scarred and bandaged men who lay on pallets in the cells. Most were missing an ear or several fingers, marks of the torturer’s craft. A few sat head in hands, rocking and moaning to themselves. “What about them?” Connor asked.

Berus sighed. “Our healers and mages will try everything within their power to heal them. If that is impossible, they will make sure that their passage to the Sea of Souls is painless.”

“Were you able to learn anything?” Connor asked.

Berus gave him a skeptical glance. “Are you serious? Any information these men might have had is buried beneath so much pain that it will be amazing if they remember their names. Reese broke them physically.
Talishte
read their blood and glamoured them into collaborating against their will. Then when magic was restored, Reese used it to strip out any remaining information and leave the husks behind.”

Connor knew what it was like to have a
talishte
read his blood. He did not want to imagine how it would be to have that process done by force. He stared at the prisoners with a mixture of pity and horror.

“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” Connor said, looking at the dying prisoners and the healers laboring to ease their pain. “If I can get it for you, I will.”

Connor trudged up the stone steps from the dungeon deep
in thought. He was halfway up the steps when he heard a crash overhead and the manor felt as if it rocked on its foundation. Above and below him, he heard people cry out in shock and fear. A flurry of dust rained down on him. Connor began to take the steps two at a time, bursting from the entrance to the lower floors into a crowd of servants who were huddled toward the back of the manor’s first floor.

“What’s going on?” Connor demanded. Some of the younger maids were crying. Several of the men were bleeding from gashes on their faces and chests. Everyone was covered in dust. He saw a heap of rubble partially blocking the main entrance to the manor.

“Don’t know, m’lord,” Orwin, one of the kitchen boys replied. “We heard a loud noise, and the rock in the front of the manor came tumbling down. Nearly killed Ned over there,” he said, and nodded toward where another of the kitchen boys sat against the wall while the cook tried to bandage a cut on his scalp.

Penhallow would not be awake for several candlemarks, Connor thought.
Aurick’s the only one who might know more—and he’s out there
.

Another crash shook the manor, shattering glass and bringing down a chunk of ceiling plaster. Connor growled a stream of curses. He turned to Orwin. “Get everyone down belowground. Go!”

He spotted two of the men who hauled supplies for the kitchen staff. “You there. Help me move the wounded.”

Connor and the other two men began sifting through the heavy plaster, throwing the rubble off two women who had been caught beneath the collapse. One of them, a scullery maid, cradled a broken arm. The other woman was heaving for breath.

“Gentle!” he admonished his helpers as the maid cried out
when one of the men tried to lift her. “There are healers in the dungeon. You’ll all be safer belowground.”

“The dungeon! I’m not going down there!” The maid’s eyes widened in terror. No doubt rumors of what became of Reese’s prisoners had been whispered among the servants.

“If you stay up here, I can’t promise more of the manor won’t fall on you,” Connor replied. “Everyone else has gone below.”

“You won’t make us stay down there, will you?” The maid began to wail and fight against the man trying to help her to the steps.

Connor grabbed her by her good shoulder. “Once the fighting’s over, you can all come up again. Now, get down there!”

Connor turned back toward the manor’s entrance. Another crash made him lose his footing, but he struggled to remain standing.

We’re getting pounded by a catapult
, Connor thought.
But whose forces want Westbain?

He chafed at not being able to find Aurick and learn what was going on, but Connor knew his first responsibility was to get the servants to safety and secure the manor from fire. The front hall was full of rubble from where part of the ceiling had fallen, and the large windows in the great room left a hail of shattered glass on the floor.

“Get to shelter!” Connor shouted as he ran down the hallway. “Go belowground. You’re not safe up here!” Dull thuds outside gave Connor to suspect that Aurick’s men were returning fire. Connor glimpsed servants emerging from their hiding places under tables and in wardrobes, clinging to each other in twos and threes, making their way toward the steps to the lower levels. He paused in the kitchen long enough to make sure that the fires were banked.
The last thing we need is a house fire
, he thought.