War of Shadows (34 page)

He did not realize just how hungry he was until Kerr set the steaming trencher in front of him. It was venison stew, standard rations for an army on the move, but it smelled edible, and it was warm. Tonight, Pollard felt as if he had taken a chill to the bone. Perhaps it was the realization of just how completely he was Reese’s man. Perhaps it was the whisper of mortality, that today he had been wielding the sword, and that someday he would be the one kneeling. Intellectually, he accepted that. But viscerally, the primal urge to survive fought that knowledge with every fiber.

“Commander Jansen to see you, sir,” Kerr said. His inflection gave Pollard to know that if he did not feel well enough to receive company, Kerr would make the requisite excuses. For anyone else, Pollard might have begged off. Not for Nilo.

“Show him in.”

Nilo followed Kerr into the tent and took off his cloak, setting it to one side. He drew up the other campaign chair while Kerr poured him a drink. Nilo did not speak until Kerr left them alone.

“Gods above, Vedran. You look awful!”

From anyone else, Pollard would have taken offense. He knew that Nilo spoke the truth. “It’s the bond,” he said miserably, sipping at his second glass of whiskey.

“Did you take damage?”

Pollard made a dismissive gesture. “Minimal. You?”

Nilo shook his head. “I let the foot soldiers take the brunt of it this time. We did our best to drive the bulk of the enemy into Hennoch’s troops. Let him have the casualties. It weakens him and saves our troops.”

“Learn anything new?”

Nilo sipped his drink. “Nothing solid. I’m working on it.”

Pollard nodded, thinking as he took another drink. The liquor warmed him, and it numbed the worst of the pain. There was little a healer could do for him, and he did not dare let it get out how badly he was injured, or by what cause. Yet another indignity visited upon him by his master, he thought dourly.

“What of Reese?” Nilo asked after a long pause. “Have you heard anything more?”

Pollard drew a long breath and let it out again. “Not since the Elders sent word about his sentence. But in my dreams, I hear him. He suffers greatly.”

“And there is nothing you can do?” Nilo asked.

Pollard shrugged. “Nothing
I
can do, but there are plans in the brood to test the security of Reese’s prison.”

“Do you know details?”

Pollard shook his head. “
Talishte
are a closemouthed bunch. I was surprised to know of the plans aforetime. But I believe they’ll make their move soon.”

“You think Reese can sense it through the
kruvgaldur
?”

“I’m certain of it,” Pollard replied, draining the rest of his second glass. Only now was the rough whiskey beginning to take hold, blunting his pain and dulling his memory. Under normal circumstances, his tolerance for drink was high. In conditions like these, it would take half a bottle to give him the peace he craved, but he dared not risk the price of the aftereffects. Reluctantly, he set his empty glass aside.

“Is that a good thing?” Nilo asked.

Again, Pollard shrugged. “Reese’s
talishte
won’t remain loyal to us much longer without him present. He’s their true lord. Without them, we’re at a disadvantage.” He swore. “We’re still not recovered from the loss at Valshoa. We need more time to regain our strength. And we need Reese to buy us that time.”

Pollard shifted and winced. Nilo looked at him with concern. “Can the healers do nothing?” Nilo asked quietly.

Pollard sighed. “No, and it was a waste of a good healer. Kerr is trustworthy, but if word were to get out…” He did not need to finish his sentence. Nilo understood.

“Regardless of where his real feelings lie, Hennoch performed well for you,” Nilo reported. “He made a complete rout of the enemy, and his spies played an important role in trapping the Arkalas.”

“Good for him,” Pollard replied without emotion. “Do you think he’ll betray us?”

Nilo shrugged. “You have his son. It depends on how far he’s willing to be pushed, and how willing he is to lose his only son.”

“Fair enough.” Pollard stretched, then grimaced at the pain. “Was there anything else?”

“We’ve spotted Tingur on the move, but we don’t know where they’re going,” Nilo replied. “I’ve had men watching them, but they’re damn difficult to infiltrate. It’s certain that they’re supporting Lysander, and willing to fight for him. We still don’t know whether they’re truly a cult of Torven or just desperate rabble. But they give Lysander an edge in battle.”

“Stay on them,” Pollard instructed. “Perhaps their devotion is genuine, perhaps not, but such things are easily used by others.”

“Hennoch also reported something odd that I think you’ll want to know about,” Nilo continued. “A team of his men vanished on patrol.”

“Vanished?” Pollard said, raising an eyebrow.

Nilo nodded. “Disappeared—soldiers, gear, and horses. No trace of their bodies.”

Pollard frowned. “Where?”

Nilo met his gaze. “That’s the interesting part. Their route took them near Mirdalur.”

“Mirdalur, huh? That is interesting,” Pollard replied. “I’ll ask him about it. That bears looking into.”

Nilo nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” He stood. “I’ll let you rest,” he said. “If there’s any news to tell, I’ll bring word in the morning.”

Pollard nodded. “Much as I have reason to dread returning to Solsiden, I do miss a real bed. Sleep well. I shan’t.”

“I want to see my son.” Larska Hennoch glared at Vedran Pollard. “I’ve done yer bidding, and I’ll do more, but I want to see my boy.”

Three days had passed since their triumph over the Arkala twins. Now the rotting corpses of the twins hung in gibbets outside Solsiden’s gate, the smell mercifully dampened by the cold spring wind. Loyal though they had been, the Arkala forces could not regroup from their defeat by Rostivan quickly enough to escape the combined armies of Pollard and Hennoch. To Pollard’s knowledge, there had been no survivors.

“I’ve had good report of your troops,” Pollard said. “Commander Jansen tells me your men fought well, and held their line. You played a role in our victory. You’re to be commended.” His tone conveyed grudging approval. It would not do for Hennoch to value himself too highly in this bargain.

“All I ask is to see my boy.”

“That can be arranged.” Pollard walked to the door of his study and leaned outside, speaking a few words to the guards.

“Have a seat. These things take time.” Pollard gestured to one of the chairs by the fire. Hennoch gave him a skeptical look and then cautiously went to sit down.

Pollard poured two glasses with the rough brew that passed for whiskey these days. He carried them to the small table between the chairs by the fire, and took one for himself, motioning for Hennoch to take the other.

“A toast,” he proposed. “To victory. The Arkalas have fallen. So will the others who stand in our way.”

Hennoch raised his glass dutifully. “To the future,” he said, but his expression was unreadable.

“Tell me about the soldiers who disappeared.”

Hennoch’s eyes betrayed his surprise, although his expression was schooled to reveal nothing. “It happens,” he said offhandedly. “Men go out on patrol, or on a mission. Sometimes they don’t come back.”

Pollard nodded. “It happens. And when it does, you find out who cost you your soldiers and you make the bastard pay for it.” He paused. “So… what have you learned?”

Hennoch looked uncomfortable. “We realized they were missing right when we rallied to move on the Arkalas,” he replied. “I sent two scouts back to find out whether the men are missing or just runaways.” His tone grew harsh. “We’ll figure it out, and whoever is responsible will pay.”

“My sources tell me the missing soldiers’ route took them near Mirdalur.”

Hennoch nodded. “Aye. Old ruins.”

Pollard’s gaze was intense. “Much more than that. Mirdalur has strategic importance. I want to know whether it’s being used again, and who’s using it.”

Hennoch looked confused, but nodded. “Aye. That’s easy enough. I’ll take care of it as soon as we move camp.”

Easy enough—unless the Knights of Esthrane are behind this
, Pollard thought.

“I’ve delivered the Arkalas as we agreed,” Hennoch said, returning to their original conversation. “Now I’d like to see my son.”

Before long, two guards escorted a young man into the room. Eljas Hennoch was sixteen summers old. He resembled his father in the face, though he had yet to gain muscle. His clothes were clean, as was his hair and skin, and Pollard silently congratulated himself at having the foresight to move the prisoner to better quarters immediately upon his return. The implied threat of the guards was not lost on the elder Hennoch as the group stopped just inside the doors.

“Father!” Eljas cried, then stopped, drawing himself up and holding his head high.

“You look well,” Larska Hennoch replied. To Pollard’s eye, it seemed as if each was fighting the urge to embrace, unwilling to let their captor see just how much of a surety they were for each other.

“I am fed and warm,” Eljas replied. Although Eljas was young, it was clear to Pollard that he had been schooled in what was expected behavior for a noble hostage. He conveyed little emotion, and made no plea for his release.

For his part, Larska Hennoch eyed his son with cold appraisal, taking in the hollow of his cheeks, the color of his skin, searching for evidence of mistreatment or neglect. “As it should be,” the elder Hennoch replied. “Have you been moved to suitable quarters?”

“I do not complain,” Eljas answered. Pollard knew Eljas had been moved from the dungeons into a locked and guarded
room aboveground after Hennoch had agreed to terms. The windows were barred and the confines of the room were likely to be the young man’s world for quite some time to come, but so long as Hennoch played the faithful loyalist, Pollard had given word for Eljas to receive food and clothing befitting his station, as well as the books that were the young captive’s only request.

“He’s been the perfect houseguest,” Pollard said smoothly, and saw a twitch at the corner of Hennoch’s eye. “I gave you my word. You keep your part of the bargain and I’ll keep mine. Under the right conditions, Solsiden is a comfortable home, and I am a gracious host.” He knew that both father and son read the implied threat.

“I’ll let your mother know I’ve seen you,” Hennoch said in a gruff voice. “She prays to the gods for your safe return.”

“The gods have little to do with it these days, I fear,” Eljas replied stiffly. “Our fates lie in our own hands.”

Pollard gave a nod, and Eljas’s guards escorted him back to his confinement. Hennoch stood staring at the doors for a moment after they had closed. “He knows his duty,” he said quietly. “And so do I.”

“Then all is well,” Pollard replied. He paused. “Tell me, what new reports do you have of the Tingur? Where are they causing problems?”

Hennoch returned to his seat. He licked his lips and took a sip of his drink. “The spies tell me that they’re crazy men, people who have nothing to lose, who’ve thrown their lot in with the prophets and left what little they had.”

“Anything else?”

Hennoch savored his drink for a moment before answering. “The rumors are growing that Lysander has men among the Tingur, and that he’s using them to do his bidding.”

“The rumors are true. They’re his personal army of fanatics.” Pollard replied.

Hennoch met Pollard’s gaze, and in his eyes Pollard saw the cunning of an experienced soldier. “Not a bad idea. A mob doesn’t have to be skilled to cause damage,” he said. “Or to overrun a garrison. All it needs are enough men reckless enough to care little for their own safety.” He raised an eyebrow. “Such fervor is a weapon if one knows how to wield it.”

T
HERE WERE TWO THINGS I NEVER WANTED TO
see again after Edgeland. Herring and snow,” Piran said. Piran and Blaine waited with their troops just behind a rise before heading into battle. Snow was falling, and from the look of the clouds, it would get worse before the weather would clear. The wind whipped at Blaine’s cloak and stung his eyes.

Beyond the rise, they could hear the sound of battle. Lysander’s troops had launched their offensive against the Solveigs three days ago. Verner had brought his soldiers to support his allies, and Lysander had promptly fielded more men. The
talishte
messenger the Solveigs sent had arrived at Glenreith exhausted even for one of the undead, with the urgent summons for help. Blaine and Niklas had mustered as large a force as they dared to take and still leave Glenreith defended, and headed north at a brisk pace to join in the fight.

“Looks like you’re out of luck,” Blaine replied.

Down the line, Blaine could see Niklas standing in his stirrups, shouting the order to advance. A bugle call cut through the cold winter air, answered by the shouts of men and the
pounding of hooves as their forces started up the rise and down the slope, swords aloft.

Blaine and Piran rode with the mounted soldiers, the advance guard sent to inflict as much damage as possible to open a hole in the line for the foot soldiers. Blaine’s magic enhanced his fighting skills, and since the anchoring, he had gained foresight, a few seconds’ advance warning of where his opponent would move next. The magic, together with the practice he’d had of late, made him a much more formidable opponent.

Blaine rode into the fray, cutting a swath through the enemy soldiers. The battlefield was already littered with bodies, and the stench of corpses rose despite the cold. Blaine’s horse picked its way across the frozen dead, past heaps of offal and snow dyed a bloody black. Sprawling out over the battlefield, Blaine guessed that nearly twenty thousand men fought for their lives, though few, he wagered, had any goal loftier than to be alive come nightfall. Lysander’s soldiers attempted to make up for their lack of skill with sheer numbers, making their every gain hideously expensive.

“Where in Raka are the mages?” Piran grumbled, his voice barely carrying across the deadly landscape.

“They’re active,” Blaine replied. “I can feel it.” The bond between the restored magic and his singular blood had grown stronger. His headache and the tingle in his blood, in reaction to the magic, had begun before they were in sight of the battlefield, and by now was nearly enough to make him vomit. “Not just our mages. Someone else is using mages, too.”

The Solveigs?
Tormod was a mage, but surely if he were going to bring his power to bear, he would have already done so, and precluded the need to draw in Verner and Blaine. Perhaps the
magic was even more brittle than usual, or perhaps Tormod’s power was balky.

Across the battlefield, Niklas rallied the troops for a move deep into Lysander’s line. Behind him, the Solveigs held their own, rebounding with the reprieve from their allies. Blaine held up a hand to shade his eyes against the glare of the snow. From what little he could make out, Verner’s line looked overrun.

Shouting to Blaine’s left made him rein in his horse, alert for an attack. “Tingur,” he muttered as a tide of peasant berserkers hurtled toward them wielding scythes and sickles.

Piran turned his horse. Blaine rose in his stirrups. “Protect the rear! We can’t let them pass!”

The Tingur launched themselves into the fray fully committed. Three men ran at Blaine despite his armor and his huge warhorse. Blaine reined his horse in, and it reared, kicking with huge, heavy hooves. One hoof caved in the skull of a Tingur soldier before the man came close enough to do damage. Blaine brought his sword down hard on the shoulder of another man. The blade sank deep into tendon and bone, cleaving down to the man’s breastbone. The Tingur took a stumbling step, clutched at his bloody chest, and fell face-forward into the muddy snow.

Like the tide, the Tingur were relentless, single-minded, and unstoppable. They surged forward, shouting and cursing and calling out to Torven as they swung their scythes and waded into bloodshed.

“There’s no end of them!” Piran shouted, barely hacking down one attacker before another threw himself at his mount.

“They bleed just like the others,” Blaine called in response, slashing with his sword, sickened by the waste of life, though the fervor in the Tingurs’ eyes gave him no choice.

Four Tingur came at him at once. Skilled or not, there was
danger in numbers. Piran was pinned down by another group. Even with a good warhorse, a solitary man was at a disadvantage with lunges and thrusts coming from so many directions at once. Blaine brought his sword down, severing an attacker’s arm, and then slashed, slicing through his throat. That soldier fell aside, but another was ready to take his place, undeterred by the body he stepped over to get at his objective.

Blaine kept his huge horse in motion, signaling with the reins for the stallion to kick with his heavy iron shoes. One kick took off the top of a soldier’s skull, while a back-kick sent another man flying through the air with a blow to the gut vicious enough to burst internal organs.

Blaine’s sword clanged down on a battered scythe aiming for his horse’s ribs. The warhorse sidestepped, forcing the soldiers to back away or be trampled. The Tingur swarmed, surrounding Blaine and Piran, heedless of their own safety. As soon as Blaine cut one man down, another pressed forward to take his place.

Are they bewitched
? Blaine wondered.
How can anyone want the favor of the gods this badly?

Yet despite their recklessness, nothing about the attackers appeared coerced, and Blaine could not sense a geas on them. Blood matted his horse’s coat, covered his boots, and turned the ground black. Blaine was bloodied to the elbows, though so far, he had managed to avoid taking any serious damage himself. He thanked his magic for that, and the new precognition that had come with working the anchoring ritual.

Two of the Tingur charged Blaine at once. Blaine slashed with his sword and tried to maneuver his horse into striking range of the man on the right, knowing as soon as he did that the other man was going to go for his horse. Blaine attempted to adjust, but he couldn’t move the horse fast enough as the
man on his left darted forward, getting under Blaine’s guard and landing a deep slash down the side of Blaine’s horse. The horse shrieked and reared, and the other attacker threw himself under the massive animal, lurching forward with his blade and sinking it deep into the horse’s belly.

Blaine’s mount screamed in pain and crashed down, trampling the Tingur that had dealt the blow, but the damage was done. Blaine jumped from the saddle as the horse staggered, whining pitifully, and stumbled forward, then collapsed, blood streaming from its underbelly.

Fury raised Blaine’s resolve, coupled with the pain of the pounding in his head. Practice, skill, and battle magic took over, and the glimpse of future-sight meant his body seemed to know where to go even before the thought was fully formed in his mind, or before the attacker’s moves betrayed his intent. One soldier after another fell to his blade. Blaine forged past exhaustion, cutting a swath through the enemy ranks, though with each candlemark, he could feel the drain of strong magic being used nearby.

Piran shouted curses as he thrust and parried, keeping the onslaught at bay. He had also lost his horse, and without that advantage, the odds improved in favor of their attackers.

“I swear they spawn from the dead!” Piran shouted as another wave of wild-eyed peasants hurtled toward them. Blaine and Piran were not yet fighting back-to-back, but it wouldn’t take many more onslaughts for that to happen. Yet whenever Blaine dared glance across the battlefield, all he could see were soldiers fighting for their lives.

The wind whipped down from the high ground. Snow fell steadily, ankle-deep and rising rapidly. The snow made it difficult to see far across the battlefield, but it also slowed the Tingur’s advance on the slippery ground. The storm narrowed
Blaine’s focus, so that the assault on the Solveigs’ line or on Verner might as well be on the other side of Donderath. All that mattered was what lay in front of him, and what might emerge unexpectedly out of the storm.

Despite his heavy cloak and the exertion of battle, the wind was bitter cold. Blaine could see it taking a toll on the Tingur as well. Torven’s fanatical followers looked as if they had abandoned their farms and gone off adventuring without bothering to pack a change of clothing for the season. None of them looked to have proper boots or cloaks heavier than a woolen blanket, and some of the fighters already showed signs of frostbite.

Blaine chuckled. “It’s a warm day in Edgeland, don’t you think, Piran?” he shouted.

“Balmy,” Piran replied. “Almost picnic weather.”

Compared to what Blaine and Piran had survived in the far north, Donderath’s extreme weather was not daunting. Blaine had faced far more brutal conditions as a convict, dressed in more ragged clothing than the Tingur. That memory fortified him, though he was far from comfortable. Yet despite the blasting, icy winds and the steady snow, the Tingur did not let up on their assault.

Blaine could hear the sounds of battle through the snow-shroud that cut off their visibility. Though the roar of the wind muted the clang of swords and the shouts of soldiers, the din carried on the frigid air, reminding them that if they failed to hold the Tingur here, Lysander’s troops might well break through the Solveig line.

“Now would be a good time for the mages to do something clever,” Piran muttered.

“They’re doing something, and it’s powerful,” Blaine replied as a wave of pain nearly staggered him. “I’m just not sure what it is, or whose mages are doing it.”

Do they need a clear line of sight to work their magic?
Blaine wondered.
If so, the snow is going to make them useless. I hope no one gets inspired to send fire or lightning until they can make bloody certain whose soldiers they’re frying
.

Niklas’s voice carried despite the wind, and others relayed his shouted commands down the line. Their troops pressed the Tingur back toward the main battle lines, forcing them into the path of Lysander’s advance on the Solveig fortifications.

The slippery, wet snow and the frozen, snow-covered corpses made footing treacherous. Blaine slipped as his boots hit ice, and stumbled over bodies hidden by the snow.
At least we’re moving forward
, he thought grimly.
The Tingur are retreating
.

Adequate armor and warm clothing gave Blaine’s side a decided advantage. The Tingur stood a good chance of dying from exposure before they fell in battle. Their stubborn refusal to surrender stoked Blaine’s anger, since they stood between him and a warm fire.

An explosion shook the ground. In the distance, a column of flame flared against the gray, snow-laden sky, sending up a plume of smoke that was visible even in the storm. The fiery column was blindingly bright, widening with every second for a moment or two before it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Blaine felt the blast of magic like a physical blow. He stumbled, giving an opening to the Tingur he fought who slashed with his wide-bladed knife.

Anticipated victory shone in the Tingur’s eyes as Blaine parried a second too late, taking a gash on his forearm. Blaine swore and knocked the blade away, but not before his sleeve stained red with blood, leaving a trail of crimson on the snow.

The blast of magic rallied the Tingur. Blaine was feeling the strain of the rapid march to reach the battle and the fatigue of combat. He feared that the drain of his connection
to the magic slowed his reactions and muddied his thoughts. His sword felt heavy, and his body ached. As he had learned to do in the mines of Velant, Blaine focused his anger on keeping his body moving, one step at a time, intent on making an end of it so that he could go home.

Blaine felt a sudden surge of magic like lancing pain, and he lost his footing. His attacker saw the advantage. The Tingur swung again, and Blaine managed to deflect the blade before it bit into his shoulder, sensing where the Tingur planned to strike through his new ability. A predatory smile spread across the Tingur’s face.

“Tired, are you?” the Tingur taunted, mistaking the reason for Blaine’s sudden slump. “Just stand still, and I’ll send you to your rest.”

Sheer tenacity made Blaine rally, lashing out with unexpected speed. His blade caught the Tingur across the wrist, slicing across bone and tendon, and the harvesting knife fell from the man’s hand, giving Blaine an opening to drive his sword deep into his opponent’s chest. The Tingur stared in astonishment at the blood that flowed down his chest as Blaine yanked his sword free.

“I thought I had you,” the man gasped, hands pressed to his bloody chest as his knees buckled under him and he fell facefirst into the trampled snow.

Blaine staggered back, still off balance from the powerful magic that vibrated through his body. He could feel the burn and hum of the magic deep in his mind, and he wondered if he could have survived the fight had it not been for the few seconds of foresight.
Will the foresight remain, once we properly anchor the magic?
he wondered.
If it stays when we’ve worked the new ritual, will it get stronger? And just because the last Lords of the Bloods gained new abilities, will it work the same way when we do the ritual this time?