War of Shadows (47 page)

Can a
divi’s
power extend this far? We’re nowhere close to Quintrel
.

The
divi
only need be present once to do the damage
, the Wraith Lord replied.

Blaine will need the crystals to anchor the magic. If even one is corrupted—

It will not be our problem if we don’t escape the maze
. The Wraith Lord’s voice was clipped, and Connor fell silent.

Voices hummed all around them. At first, Connor took it for the worried conversation of Dagur, Nidhud, and Dolan, bending over the tainted crystal. Then he realized there were too many voices to belong to the mages. The voices echoed from all over the chamber, growing in number until the whispers and chants clamored in his head.

Can you hear them?

Only through your gift
, the Wraith Lord said.
Listen to them, Connor. They may be our salvation. What do they want?

Connor strained to hear the murmurs clearly. Some spoke in accents strange to him, choosing words Connor had seen only in old manuscripts.
Ghosts
, he thought.
It’s not enough to be possessed by one spirit. Now the dead are coming out of the rocks to have a go at it!

Yet as Connor listened, the voices grew distinct, clearer. He did not fear them trying to seize his body. With the Wraith Lord in possession, that was not likely. The ghosts were calling to him, urging him on, leading him out of the labyrinth. As he reached the center and began the return leg of the maze, the voices grew stronger, and their forms began to take shape all along the outside of the labyrinth.

Power crackled in the air. Even with the Wraith Lord’s control, he nearly stumbled, feeling as if the maze pulled life and breath from him. Live mages had joined their ghostly counterparts, and Connor realized that they were fighting to dispel the miasma projected by the tainted crystal.

Only a bit more
, the Wraith Lord said, and Connor could hear the strain in Vandholt’s voice.

If this had occurred to someone not possessed by a spirit of your strength—
Connor began.

That person would be dead
, the Wraith Lord finished.

Connor knew that the Wraith Lord’s strength was sustaining him. Breath burned in his lungs from cold and exertion. His legs cramped from straining against the invisible force that did not want them to escape the maze. Blood welled beneath his fingertips as he dug his nails into his palms, willing himself to move.

Yet with every step that wound them out of the labyrinth, Connor could breathe a little easier. Halfway out, and the air had grown a bit warmer, though it was still frigid even for a subterranean chamber. The voices of the ghosts were clearer and louder now, and the chants of the living mages seemed to cut a path for him through the force that wanted to trap him within the maze.

Step by labored step, they struggled to reach the end of the labyrinth. Just an arm’s length to go, and the vortex of power around the maze made one final surge to keep him captive. It took all of the Wraith Lord’s strength to hurl Connor across the threshold. Behind them, the ghosts closed ranks, sealing off the labyrinth’s exit.

For a moment, Connor lay panting on the cold stone. Then he realized that although he was out of the labyrinth, the power had not abated, nor had the freezing-cold air warmed. An answer impressed itself on him, spoken by ghostly whispers. Connor knew what he had to do.

Let the mages handle this
, the Wraith Lord urged.

If they could, it would be handled by now
, Connor snapped, unwilling to hesitate lest he lose his nerve.

You don’t know this will work
.

You can’t say it won’t
, Connor challenged.

Dagur, Dolan, and Nidhud looked at Connor with alarm as he approached the table where the presence-crystals lay. One
of them flared red, and the others’ glow intensified, so that the twelve pulsed together in a different rhythm from that of the crimson crystal.

“The ghosts have a plan,” Connor said, pushing past the mages.

“We’ve tried to counter it with all the different skills of magic we have among us,” Dagur replied.

“Let an immortal handle this, Connor,” Dolan said, trying to block Connor’s path.

Connor moved around him. “I have the Wraith Lord with me. And the ghosts. They’re all immortal.”

Dolan grimaced. “You can still die.”

“So can Blaine—and that’s what will happen if we can’t cleanse the thirteenth crystal,” Connor said. “Now, move out of my way.”

To his surprise, Dolan yielded, stepping back from the table. The mages drew away as the ghosts rushed forward. Dozens had become hundreds, though where they came from or how they knew to gather, Connor had no idea. Penhallow stepped up behind him.

“I will do what I can to help,” Penhallow said. “Let’s hope your ghosts are strong enough.”

If the crystal is controlled by one spirit, let’s see whether a hundred ghosts can crowd it out
, Connor thought grimly.

Afraid that the
divi
’s power would try to push him back as it had hampered him in the labyrinth, Connor made a dive for the red crystal. As his hands closed around its cool surface, he opened his mind to the ghosts.

Fill me
, he said.
Seize the stone
.

Spirits too numerous to count washed over him, entering his consciousness, streaming past the Wraith Lord, and through Connor’s skin into the pulsing crystal. Never had he felt so
much power flood his senses. Lifetimes blurred as the dead passed through his thoughts too quickly to grasp, leaving a shadow of themselves behind.

At the core of his being, Connor’s essence clung to the spirit of the Wraith Lord like a man awash in a flood tide. The
divi
was not fully present in the crystal, yet the shred of itself tainting the stone was more than mere memory or the remnant of a spell. Souls poured through Connor’s veins, seeped through his skin channeled by bone and sinew, through his hands into the glowing crystal. The
divi
howled in rage, and for a moment, Connor feared it would swell to its full power and retake the presence-crystal. Ghost after ghost crowded the stone, forcing out the
divi
’s power, and breath by breath, the crimson glare began to fade.

The rush of spirits pulled at Connor’s soul, and had the Wraith Lord not managed to anchor him, Connor was afraid he might have been hollowed, his essence drawn out from him, leaving his body an empty husk. Kierken Vandholt held on to him, like a man caught in the storm surge, clinging to Connor even when the pain grew unbearable and Connor begged for death.

Teeth pierced Connor’s arm, and as blood flowed, the
kruvgaldur
pushed to the forefront, binding Connor to his body and to his master. Joined by blood, Penhallow lent his strong, old spirit to the effort.

The
divi
shrieked in rage and pain one last time, and then was gone. Connor opened his eyes. Clutched in his hands so tightly he was not sure he could release his grip, the presence-crystal glowed with golden light. All around him, the ghosts poured from the crystal, relinquishing it now that their task was finished. Connor felt the
kruvgaldur
bond recede, though
Penhallow remained as vivid a presence in his mind as the Wraith Lord.

Strong arms encircled Connor from behind as gentle hands pried his fingers away from the cleansed crystal.

“Let go, Bevin. You did well. It’s over. You won. Let go,” Penhallow murmured over his shoulder. Dolan worked to loosen Connor’s grip, and even his
talishte
strength was tested by the hold Connor had on the stone.

“I don’t want to break any fingers,” Dolan said. “It’s safe now. The
divi
’s gone, and from the look of it, the ghosts intend to stand watch. Let me take the crystal. You need to rest.”

Slowly, Connor willed himself to let go, although his fingers were cramped into claws and the muscles in his hands and arms ached when they released. He felt as if he had clung by his fingertips to a mountaintop in a raging storm. Dolan took the crystal from him and replaced it with the others. Only then did Connor feel the toll the night’s work had taken. Even the Wraith Lord seemed spent, and Connor would have collapsed had Penhallow not caught him.

Dolan looked up as one of Voss’s guards came to the chamber entrance. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got trouble,” the soldier said. “Hennoch’s back—and he’s bringing an army. It will arrive after daybreak.”

V
EDRAN POLLARD HAD GROWN TO HATE
Mirdalur.

A year ago, I could barely find the godsforsaken place on a map. Now it haunts me at every turn
. His mood was sour as he rode to the attack. The sky had grown dark, and another nasty storm was certain. Lysander had accepted his offer of an alliance, then promptly relegated Pollard and Hennoch to the backwater, attacking Mirdalur and its handful of soldiers while Lysander and Rostivan took on McFadden and the other warlords.

The worst part of the slight was that Lysander’s judgment was sound. Pollard hated to admit it, but his troops were too battered, too worn down by a string of defeats to go against a strong, well-armed force. He knew it, and he hated it, just like he hated Mirdalur.

Traher Voss’s mercenaries tried to be inconspicuous. Pollard snorted quietly, amused at the thought. Voss’s pack of smash-nosed bruisers could no more be ‘inconspicuous’ than a bull could fly. Certainly the guards took pains to hide themselves, trying to make the ruins appear deserted. Yet anyone who
glimpsed Voss’s soldiers would have suspected that something was afoot, something that required the service of large, dangerous men with big, deadly swords.

And then there were the mages.

If it had been up to Pollard, magic would have died with the Great Fire, and Blaine McFadden along with it. That magic—and McFadden—survived were two more pieces of evidence that he had not found the favor of the gods.

Still, saddled with the reality that magic had returned, Pollard had done his best to acquire a cadre of mages, even if that meant having his
talishte
associates ambush some of those mages and turn them against their will.

Today the human mages made the first move. Pollard kept his troops out of range while the miasma of magic descended on the outbuildings around Mirdalur’s ruined tower. It was two hours after dawn, when any
talishte
should be bound to their crypt. Pollard had no desire to test his mages or his fighters against the Knights of Esthrane. He did not doubt that the Knights fully deserved their reputation. Yet the
talishte
mages had to sleep, and when they did, they were vulnerable.

Pollard watched with grim satisfaction as the mages sent their illusion against the mercenaries. The fear-and-distraction spell should have sent Voss’s mercs running in circles, shitting their pants and screaming like children.

“What in Raka is wrong with the spell?” Pollard demanded, watching from a nearby hillock. He hoped to see carnage, soldiers turning on one another in confusion and panic, an easy opening for him to lead the charge. Instead, Pollard saw Voss’s mercenaries assembling with top speed from their hiding places, seemingly unaffected by the magic.

“It’s either a powerful defensive warding or they’re all wearing some kind of null-magic charm,” the flummoxed mage
reported. “I suspect the warding,” he added. “Such charms are difficult to come by.”

“Magic that suits my purposes is difficult to come by,” Pollard roared. He had hoped to sweep in and seize the ruined manor with little opposition. Now, having lost the element of surprise, the assault would be that much more difficult.

Pollard’s vexation found release in his sword. The soldiers who swarmed from cover to repulse Hennoch’s attack looked too seasoned and too scarred to belong to McFadden. He guessed that they were Voss’s troops, mercenaries Penhallow had somehow convinced to ally with his cause.

“Mercs bleed like everyone else,” Pollard muttered under his breath as he brought his sword down in a crushing blow. The sound of snapping bone and the feel of a blade sinking deep into flesh assuaged Pollard’s anger, barely. It would take more deaths, many more, to spend his fury. But as the soldier fell away, bleeding out onto the hard-packed ground, Pollard was one death closer, he thought grimly.

That he and Hennoch were personally present for this strike was galling. It should have been the kind of maneuver delegated to an underling, to a captain or even a lieutenant. Yet rumors persisted that ‘something’ was happening at the abandoned old manor, and that meant too much was at stake if Pollard and his allies wished to halt McFadden in his tracks.

“If I’d known McFadden would be this much trouble, I’d have killed him years ago,” Pollard growled, though no one could hear him. Voicing his thoughts gave vent to some of the pain from his proxy wounds, which rubbed raw and sore beneath his armor. His injuries put him at a disadvantage, and he knew that willpower alone might not be enough to compensate for them.

Voss’s soldiers, well trained and seemingly indifferent to
death, posed a challenge. He seemed to recruit only those who were the size of a bull, and nearly as strong. Yet Pollard was certain that a vicious mood could outfight experience and training every time, and he was doing well at proving his theory to be true.

This time, Hennoch brought close to one hundred men with him, surely enough, Pollard thought, to crush a garrison. His mages and the fighters had instructions to pin down the
talishte
. The living he could deal with.

What McFadden wanted with Mirdalur, Pollard could only guess, but his guesses were troublesome enough. It was enough that McFadden was interested in Mirdalur. For that alone, Pollard was determined to deny it to him.

A smash-faced soldier ran at Pollard with a guttural cry. Pollard met his charge head-on, blocking his swing and answering with a series of blows that took the fighter back a pace. All the while, a corner of Pollard’s mind remained unperturbed, assessing the mercenary’s fighting style. Only a few strikes had been traded when Pollard saw the weak point: a tendency to reach a little too far with the swing.

Pollard intentionally took a step back as the mercenary swung again; then he thrust forward, scoring a fatal strike. He jerked the blade upward, suspending the soldier there for an instant, satisfied at the astonishment on the dying man’s face. Then Pollard lowered his blade, letting the body slide down the length of his sword, stepping over the corpse to engage the next mercenary who ran from cover.

The effort made Pollard stumble, and the new opponent saw weakness, scything his sword so close that it took a slice from Pollard’s ear and grazed his hair. One of Hennoch’s soldiers interposed himself, taking the brunt of the attack as Pollard teamed up for the fight. It galled Pollard to have to require
anyone’s assistance, yet the debilitating wounds acquired since Reese’s capture meant that Pollard had neither the strength nor the stamina he possessed before.

In the distance, Pollard could see Hennoch setting about himself with a two-handed sword. He was a useful barbarian, Pollard thought, but a savage nonetheless. Hennoch would never be more than a wealthy man’s attack dog. Lysander, on the other hand, was canny enough to be dangerous. He would bear watching when Reese returned.
If
Reese returned.

“Some fun,” Nilo shouted, holding his own against a fighter who was a head taller and a stone heavier.

“Never better,” Pollard muttered, taking the chance to bring his sword up sharply, biting into his opponent’s sword arm and severing the bone midway between wrist and elbow. On the return blow, he cut clean through the soldier’s neck, grimacing as blood spattered his cloak and drenched his arms.

“What anyone wants with this pile of shit is beyond me,” Pollard grumbled. Mirdalur had been a ruin for generations. Long before the Great Fire leveled Donderath’s grand manors and the Cataclysm laid waste to the kingdom, Mirdalur had crumbled in silence, overrun by weeds, retaken by the birds and foxes.

Once, it had been a place for kings. Pollard knew the legends. Four centuries ago, King Merrill’s ancestor and his chosen noblemen bound the wild magic to their command in a secret chamber at Mirdalur. That story had drawn Blaine McFadden when he returned from exile, and Pollard nearly had him within his grasp, only to lose his prize to an unexpected interloper. That loss still stung, and Pollard was determined not to have it repeated.

Hennoch’s troops fought well. Voss’s mercenaries battled with a ferocity Pollard had only seen in mad dogs. Already, the
courtyard was strewn with corpses, the ruined fountain in its center polluted with blood.

“Off with you!” roared a mercenary who seemed as wide as a wagon and as muscled as an ox. Despite the freezing cold, he wore only a leather cuirass over his tunic. Black hair formed a wild cloud around his blunt-nosed face, and his bare arms were covered with runes and drawings of the gods inked into the skin. The battle ax in his hands scythed dangerously from side to side, already bloodied to its hilt.

Pollard took two steps back. If he could not fight strong, he would fight dirty. A throwing knife from a hidden sheath slipped into his hand. As the lumbering giant raised his ax to attack, Pollard sent the blade flying. It sank to the hilt in the big man’s groin, felling him with a howl of agony. He kicked the ax away and stood just out of reach of the fighter’s grasping hands as the mercenary writhed in pain. Then with a sure, clean strike he sent the man’s head rolling.

The mages concentrated their initial attack on a large cistern to one side of the courtyard. Pollard had given orders for them to begin their assault there, believing that the stone shaft hid access to Mirdalur’s underground levels. Fire scoured the walls of the well, searing the dark tunnel with concentrated heat so that flames erupted from the mouth of the well, shooting up into the sky and illuminating the courtyard like a massive torch. Other mages sent tremors deep beneath the surface, in hopes of causing underground rooms and corridors to collapse.

The soldiers cried out in alarm and cursed in anger as the ground rumbled and trembled beneath their feet. A nasty grin spread across Pollard’s face as he pictured the quakes burying the sleeping
talishte
. Focusing on his anger helped him deal with the pain from the raw sore in the center of his chest and
the ceaseless itching from the rest of his skin, made worse by armor and violent movement.

One of Voss’s men came at Pollard, and he waded into the fray, feeling his rage find its way into his sword, his anger spending with every swing and slash. Battle cleansed him, purging the dark thoughts—at least for a while—and reminding him with every spray of blood what it meant to be alive. Battle made him feel vital, yet the wounds he bore for his master took their toll. Nilo ran to join the fight, and Pollard knew that his second-in-command would not have done so had Pollard been at his former strength.

The mages had expanded their fiery attack, scouring every one of the stone buildings aboveground with flame. Voss’s men, pushed from their hiding places by the mage-sent fires, took on Hennoch’s troops with an edge that smacked of personal vendetta. This was the kind of fight Pollard relished, when combatants had a stake in the action, fighting not for gold or promotion but for the chance to thrash someone who had done them wrong.

“Go tell your biter masters that your little game is over,” Pollard grated as he swung, parrying a blow hard enough to make his teeth rattle. He spun, blocking another strike, unsure just how long he could hold both men at bay, and committed himself to finding out.

“That’s rich, coming from you, with a biter master of your own,” one of the men growled. He made no pretense of technique, expecting sheer power to win the day, driving Pollard back several steps with a series of hard, fast strikes that tested Pollard’s reactions.

Pollard struck high with the sword in his right hand, intending to thrust with the large knife in his left. The mercenary blocked the high strike, but before Pollard could score a fatal
blow, the fighter swung his sword in an arc, striking the knife with such power that it numbed Pollard’s hand and sent the blade flying.

Pollard and the mercenary circled each other warily, looking for weakness. The mercenary, with his broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms, likely outweighed Pollard by a good bit. Pollard was strong, muscular for a man his age, but not as massive as his opponent, who was likely half his age.

“Tired, old man?” the fighter taunted.

“Scared, young pup?” Pollard rejoined.

Pollard had regained feeling in his left hand, and he drew a shiv out of the folds of his clothing, letting it fall into his grip out of sight. He lunged toward the fighter, ignoring his pain and mounting an attack with his full strength and fury. Skill, training, and long practice fighting while wounded drove Pollard’s movements, giving him a moment’s grace to keep up the attack with his sword while awaiting the moment for the death strike.

The mercenary’s attention was fully invested in tracking Pollard’s sword. He never spotted the flick of the wrist that sent the shiv speeding toward him, or Nilo coming up from behind to stab him through the back. The fighter looked with astonishment at the hilt-deep knife protruding from his chest, staining his filthy shirt crimson. Cursing Pollard and consigning him to the depths of Raka, the mercenary stumbled, swinging wildly with his sword, before collapsing to his knees and falling facedown in the dirt.