War of Shadows (22 page)

Dagur paused. “We’ve worked defensive magic around the manor compound as well, just in case,” he added. “I won’t claim that the magic will keep out a full army, but it should deflect interest from anyone who happens to wander by.”

“I’ll take all the help we can get,” Niklas said, though he privately doubted that the boundary would do much to keep out the troops of any warlord determined enough to march soldiers all the way to Mirdalur.

Later that evening, Niklas was among the guards who stood watch over the ceremonial chamber. He had sent Ayers above with the rest of the soldiers to secure Mirdalur’s perimeter, and come below once he was assured that preparations to defend the compound were completed.
If we’re going to guard them, I want to know what’s going on
, Niklas thought, wondering if he looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

“Think it’s safe, Cap’n?” one of the soldiers asked in a hushed voice. “I mean, us being here and not mages or
talishte
, you know.”

Niklas chuckled. “We’re soldiers. We don’t go places that are safe.”

“Guess you’re right, sir,” the man admitted. Niklas recognized him as one of the men who had trekked across most of Donderath with his soldiers after the end of the Meroven War. The young man had seen his share of combat, but magic, Niklas knew, was an altogether different threat.

“Just stay out of the way of the mages, and you’ll probably be fine,” Niklas said, though he doubted his own advice.

Dagur and Brandur were talking near the entrance to the labyrinth. Dolan and the rest of the Knights of Esthrane had taken positions around the outside of the labyrinth, and as he
looked, Niklas realized that thirteen mages were actively taking part in the ritual, one for each Lord of the Blood.

He had expected to see the other mages holding Quintrel’s presence-crystals, or wearing the obsidian disks, but those artifacts were nowhere to be seen, except for the single disk on a leather strap around Brandur’s neck.

Niklas eyed the mage who was about to do the working. Brandur was in his fourth decade, with graying dark hair and a plump, avuncular face. He looked more like a village healer than a mage from the Castle Reach University, and Niklas could picture the man raising a tankard of ale in a wayside tavern. From Brandur’s expression, it was clear the mage understood the danger of what they were about to attempt. Dolan came over to speak to Dagur and Brandur, before turning to give a nod of approval to the waiting mages and returning to his place outside the labyrinth.

The focus crystal was an orb about the length and width of a man’s hand, made of a clear mineral with a yellow cast. Brandur held the crystal in front of him like a candle, and Niklas thought he saw it pulse with a faint glow. The mage began to walk the labyrinth, pausing to touch the crystal to the obsidian disk at intervals along the path.

The glow inside the focus crystal grew brighter with each turn of the labyrinth. Brandur and the other mages began to chant softly, growing louder each time Brandur followed the convoluted path in another spiral. Near the center, Brandur stopped at one of the thirteen places where the path widened, and Niklas wondered whether it was the spot where Blaine’s long-ago ancestor had taken part as a Lord of the Blood.

The chanting grew louder, and one of the mages began to pound a rhythm on a hand drum that echoed from the
chamber’s rock walls, making it feel as if the ritual space throbbed with a heartbeat of its own. The torch flames wavered, and the air grew colder. The cold air stirred through the underground room and carried the smoke from the torches in a spiral that picked up speed until it was swirling hard enough to stir their hair and flutter the mage’s clothing.

Brandur did not seem to notice, although the unlikely wind sent strands of hair across his face and tugged at the sleeves of his robe. His chanting grew faster and louder, and he had a look of fierce concentration, gaze riveted on the focus crystal, which by now was glowing so brightly that Niklas could not look at it directly.

Dolan looked alarmed, and Niklas saw the
talishte
-mage exchange a worried glance with Nidhud, but neither moved to break the circle or halt the ritual. Niklas gestured to his soldiers to step back, until they and the healers had flattened themselves against the wall as far from the magic as they could get.
We’re spectators, and the ones who’ll clean up the mess when it’s over
, he thought,
but there’s not a thing we can do to help before that
.

Brandur’s entire form had taken on the yellow glow of the focus crystal, as if a golden light shone through skin that had become translucent. The glow became brighter, and Niklas had to squint against the light to look at Brandur. His whole body began to tremble, and then the light exploded from his chest, spraying the chamber with gore as Brandur’s flesh sizzled and hissed with the heat of the power being channeled through it.

A moment later, the charred remains collapsed to the stone floor, a pile of ash, hair, and bloody, burned cloth. The air smelled of blood and burned meat, and the soldier next to Niklas retched. Niklas swallowed hard to keep from doing the same. Next to the heap lay the focus crystal, soot-streaked and ashy, but apparently undamaged. The obsidian disk lay
nearby. The leather strap was charred, but the disk itself looked unchanged.

Dolan and the other mages stayed where they were until the drumming and chanting stopped. Nidhud spoke in a language Niklas did not understand, and walked widdershins around the labyrinth, gesturing and murmuring as he went to release the wardings. Only when he finished did Dolan and Dagur rush toward where Brandur had stood.

Niklas joined them, staring in horror at the remains. “I thought you said you had this figured out,” he snapped.

Dolan regarded him as if he were a distraction. “Obviously not. This is quite unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate!” Niklas repeated, almost choking on the word. “I’d say it’s a lot more than unfortunate.”

Dagur said a prayer of blessing over Brandur’s ashes, consigning his spirit to rest in the Sea of Souls. He sighed, and then looked up at Niklas. “Of course it is,” he said tiredly, climbing to his feet. “We will mourn him.”

“I’m sorry about your dead mage, but my concern is keeping Blaine McFadden very much alive,” Niklas retorted. “If the way the magic is anchored is killing Blaine now, burning him to a crisp isn’t the answer we were looking for.”

Dagur winced. “We know that.” He turned to Niklas with a weary expression. “When you hear us say the magic is ‘fragile,’ this is what we mean. It hasn’t come back quite right, even though it’s been restored. Sometimes, the magic isn’t as strong as it was, and other times, it comes back with more power than we ever could have imagined.”

“The artifacts were not damaged,” Dolan said, still kneeling next to the ashes. “And there was a shift in the magic, in the last moments, before the power surged.”

Dagur nodded. “I felt it. Just as poor Brandur lit up like a
torch, the magic suddenly felt more stable, ‘cleaner’ somehow, though it flooded through him as if a dam had burst.”

“Perhaps that’s something to consider.” Nidhud had slipped up behind them so silently that Niklas did not hear his approach. “Before we decide this working failed utterly, I suggest we consider whether it was a matter of intensity rather than improper technique.”

“Brandur won’t be around to hear the answer,” Niklas replied. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll let Blaine step into that labyrinth before you have it figured out.”

He might have said more, although he knew speaking his mind to a room full of mages and
talishte
was likely unwise. But before he could go on, a soldier appeared at the mouth of the entrance tunnel, and a sound like thunder boomed overhead, sending down a fine shower of dust.

“We’re under attack!” the soldier said. “General Theilsson—we need you.”

Niklas drew a deep breath and nodded. “I’ll be there,” he said. He looked to the soldiers he had brought with him. They all looked shaken by what had transpired. “Stay here,” he said. “Make sure no one gets down that tunnel.”

He turned back to Dolan and Dagur. “Blaine doesn’t have a
talishte
life span for you to figure this out,” he warned. “And if he dies before the magic gets a new anchor, your power goes with him, so you’d best get this right soon.”

Before they could answer, Niklas followed his soldiers up the tunnel, less concerned about the battle in front of him than the struggle waged by the men behind him.

“Report!” Niklas shouted as he broke out of the gloom of the tunnel and into the cold night air. At the first sign of attack,
his soldiers lit the torches that ringed Mirdalur’s courtyard. Keeping the area dark was the strategy when they hoped to go undiscovered, but now that the fight was on, mortal soldiers needed light.

“Soldiers incoming from the northwest,” the guard who had fetched him replied.

“Whose?”

“Not sure, sir. The scouts said possibly Larska Hennoch’s soldiers, by the look of them.”

Niklas swore under his breath. “If it’s Hennoch’s men, then Pollard’s behind it, even if he doesn’t have the balls to be here himself. How many men—and do they have
talishte
?”

“That’s where we’re lucky, sir. Only about twenty-five.”

That meant Niklas’s troops outnumbered the intruders, especially with the
talishte
fighters Geir had supplied. “There’ll be twice as many next time if any of these sons of bitches survive,” Niklas said. “Tell the men, ‘No quarter.’ Find them and make sure none of them make it back to report.”

“Aye, sir.” The soldier sprinted off to pass the message. Niklas drew his sword and ran toward the action. From the look of it, a patrol had happened upon the activity at Mirdalur and decided to have a closer look. He set his jaw, determined to make it their last look.

Niklas took on one of the two attackers battling Ayers. “Not exactly what I had in mind tonight,” Ayers muttered, blocking the advance of his opponent.

Niklas parried, setting the enemy soldier he battled back several paces with the force of his strikes. He was in a foul mood from the debacle in the ritual chamber, and the attack gave him someone to take it out on. His opponent’s sword skills were adequate, but lacked the edge Niklas had gained in the bloody combat on the Meroven front. Now those skills combined
with Niklas’s rage, and he slashed his way through the enemy onslaught, giving no quarter. He spotted Geir and some of the
talishte
soldiers joining the fight, and hoped that would help make quick work of the attackers.

Off to one side, he glimpsed Carr battling a soldier twice his size.
He’s supposed to be recuperating in the healers’ tent, not getting himself killed out here on the field
, Niklas thought.

His opponent took advantage of Niklas’s momentary distraction to land a gash on Niklas’s shoulder. Niklas responded with a pounding series of blows, getting inside the man’s guard more than once to open deep cuts on his chest, arm, and thigh. He swung once more, bringing his blade down with bone-splitting power across the soldier’s wrist, severing his hand. The man froze with shock and Niklas thrust forward, sinking his blade deep into the soldier’s chest.

He shook the dying man’s body loose from his blade just in time to see Carr feint in one direction, only to land a lethal strike with the short sword in his left hand as the attacker misjudged his intentions. Carr’s sword slashed across the soldier’s belly, spilling shit and guts down the front of his stained trews. One more slash, and Carr drew his blade across the man’s throat, adding a torrent of blood to the offal. The attacker slumped to the ground, and Carr stepped over his body to engage the next attacker.

Carr was holding his own, but it was clear to Niklas that Carr was not fully recovered. He was tiring, his strikes broader and off the mark, his gait almost drunken. Carr’s opponent sensed the opportunity, and came at him fast. A series of quick, tight strikes meant to distract and disarm got inside Carr’s guard more than once, opening bloody slashes down his arms.

Breathing hard, his face twisted into an angry grimace, Carr bellowed a war cry, coming after the enemy soldier in a rage of two-handed swings. The first swing cut the soldier’s sword arm
to the bone, while the second cleaved through his shoulder. Another swing caught him across the ribs, deep enough that Niklas could hear the steel skitter against bone. The soldier dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Carr struck again, taking the entire sword arm this time, and rammed his blade through the fallen man’s throat.

“Carr! That’s enough. Carr!” Niklas shouted as he closed the distance between them. Carr kept on slashing, landing blow after blow although the soldier lay dead and nearly dismembered. Carr stood over the body, bloodied to the elbows and spattered head to toe in gore, heaving for breath as the killing rage drained from him.

“Stand down, soldier. That’s an order,” Niklas snapped, pushing back his horror and focusing on the wild-eyed young man he had known all his life who now seemed a complete stranger.

Exhausted, his rage spent, Carr’s swords dangled from his hands as he stared at the blood-soaked remains.

The battle was limping to an end. The area around Mirdalur’s walls was littered with the bodies of enemy soldiers. Geir emerged from the tree line dragging two corpses by the arms. Ayers directed two of their men to work their way across the downed fighters, administering a deathblow. The night air stank of blood and sweat.

“Drop your swords, Carr,” Niklas said. Carr remained motionless, eyes wide, puffing gusts of steam as he tried to catch his breath. After a delay, the crimson-stained blades dropped from Carr’s hands, but Carr did not move.

“Do you know where you are?” Niklas asked, more concerned than ever.

“Mirdalur,” Carr replied, his voice slightly slurred.

“You don’t have to fight anymore tonight,” Niklas said,
doing his best to reassure him. “The attackers are dead. You won. We won. It’s over now.”

“I got him,” Carr said, staring at the butchered remains at his feet. “I got him.”