War of Shadows (26 page)

Guran looked down at one of the artifacts on their worktable, a piece Quintrel had entrusted to him in Valshoa before coming to Torsford. It appeared to be a crystal scrying orb, nothing anyone would find unusual among mages. Unless someone looked closer, and sensed the yellow flickering light that sparked inside the orb, or felt the aura of controlled power that radiated from the small globe. In reality, it provided a way for Guran and Quintrel to communicate, even when separated by distance.

“Yes,” Guran answered, and hesitated just an instant before taking the orb in his hand. He closed his eyes and grimaced. “It’s done.”

“Let’s get to it,” Gunvar replied. “I’m cold and I’d like to go home.”

“Gunvar, can you draw from me to help Jarle?” Carensa asked.

Gunvar frowned. “Maybe.”

“Then do it,” Carensa said. “I haven’t expended as much power as the rest of you.”

Jarle stood facing the Arkala camp. Gunvar stood with a hand on Jarle’s shoulder, while Carensa clasped Gunvar’s other hand with hers. Jarle took a deep breath and stared into the
twilight, focusing on a strip of land between the rear of the Arkala forces and the camp.

After a moment, Jarle cursed. “I’m tired, and I’m not strong enough right now to cast past the warding,” he said. “We’ll have to drop it for me to send the fire.”

Guran nodded his assent. “Do it. Just get the damn thing back up as quickly as you can.”

Carensa felt an odd tingle, like crossing a woolen carpet in winter. The sensation grew stronger, radiating through her body, growing more and more uncomfortable until she longed to break the contact.

Dots of flame flared to the rear of the Arkala forces. Soon a solid line of fire stretched behind the enemy. Men shouted in panic as the fire spread, and the rear line of soldiers tried to put out the fire before it reached the camp.

Newly energized by the enemy’s turn of luck, Rostivan’s commanders pressed forward, driving the Arkala army back against the flames. The winds remained steady, blasting the fire toward the Arkala camp.

Rostivan’s troops blocked their escape. Those who had remained in the camp made a panicked attempt to douse the flames, then fled on foot. Within minutes, the entire camp was ablaze.

On the battleground, the Arkala soldiers fought for their lives. Rostivan pressed his advantage, forcing the enemy to choose between fire and sword. Some tried and failed to leap across the flames. Others launched themselves at the Rostivan forces, nothing to lose.

No matter how the wind whipped or the flames danced, Rostivan’s troops moved in lethal discipline. Line after line of Arkala soldiers fell to their swords. Some tried to swim the creek, only to be cut down by Rostivan’s bowmen. Jarle sent
waves of flame, keeping the retreating troops on the run, hemming in any escape routes. Without the warding, the wind was sharper than before, and very cold. Clouds had rolled in, blotting out the moon.

Night had fallen. Guran lit a lantern, keeping it heavily shaded. Dag and Holgir laid out several torches, but did not light them. The wall of flames sent a red glow into the night sky.

Suddenly, three dark shapes loomed on the other side of the circle—Arkala mages, come to exact their revenge. Pain staggered Carensa and she cried out as she fell to her knees. Guran collapsed, knocking his scrying bowl to the ground. Dag and the others writhed on the ground. Carensa felt as if the fire was inside her veins, burning her from the inside out. She gasped for air. It hurt too much to scream.

Jarle’s face contorted. He dragged himself onto his knees, and made a wild sweep with one arm. Guran’s bowl flew through the air, slamming against one of the Arkala mages, who staggered back a pace.

The magic wavered, just long enough for Dag to draw his sword and lurch toward the enemy mages, swinging with all his remaining might. Holgir sent his ax cartwheeling through the air. It landed, blade-deep, in the chest of one of the attackers. Gunvar grabbed the slingshot on his belt and rose to his knees. He scooped up several stones and sent them flying through the air in quick succession, dropping the second mage.

Jarle launched himself at the mage who had cast the attack, grasping him around the shoulders, muttering a chant. The enemy mage began to buck and kick, his hands scrabbling in the dirt, as blood gushed from his mouth and nose. Jarle kept chanting. The attacker stiffened and arched, then he fell still. Jarle collapsed beside him.

Carensa had both knives in her hands. As she watched Jarle and the mage in horror, a strong hand grabbed for her from the shadows. All the anger she felt at Jarle’s death and at the bloodshed of battle welled up in her. Carensa wheeled, slashing with her knives. One of the blades struck a glancing blow to her attacker’s arm, but the other went deep into his belly.

Carensa’s attacker lurched after her, one hand pressed against the gash in his belly, a sword raised in the other. Carensa stumbled out of his way, knowing that her knives could not hold off a swordsman.

Guran struggled to his feet, lunging toward the swordsman with his long knife. He brought the blade down and across the attacker’s neck, slitting his throat. The man staggered one step farther, then collapsed.

“Where in Raka were our guards?” Dag demanded.

Carensa was covered with blood, though little of it was her own. She was certain, even before Gunvar checked, that Jarle and his opponent were dead. On the battlefield below them, Rostivan’s troops pursued the Arkala stragglers as the fires burned.

Dag and Holgir lit the torches and walked to where the other two Arkala mages lay. Holgir’s ax had neatly severed their heads. They continued down the hillside until Carensa could see four bodies sprawled on the ground.

“Offhand, I’d say our guards are dead,” Dag replied. He nudged one of the bodies with his boot.

“What killed them?” Carensa asked.

Holgir bent closer to the bodies. “Magic. Poor bastards.”

“Obviously, they decided that trying to take us out would be a greater strategic victory than anything else they were doing,” Gunvar said, stepping over one of the guards’ corpses. “Perhaps we should be flattered.”

Except that Jarle is dead
, Carensa thought.
He won’t be here for the victory celebration
.

“For all we know, we’ve spent so much blood against a small force while the real attack occurs elsewhere,” Dag said.

Guran shook his head. “Hardly likely. I’ve been scrying, remember? It would have been very difficult for a force of any size to slip by completely unnoticed.” He looked down toward the dead soldiers with chagrin. “A small group of assassins, cloaked by magic, is another matter entirely.” They were silent as they returned to the crest of the hill, staying alert for other enemies in the darkness.

Dag and Holgir dragged Jarle and the dead soldiers into a nearby trench, then stacked stones over them as a cairn. The Arkala mages they left for the crows. Guran and Carensa collected what was left of their gear. The battle was over.

“We need to get down the hill,” Holgir said, raising his head to scent the air like a hound after a fox. “Storm’s coming fast.”

To their surprise, Rostivan was at the bottom of the hill. It was impossible to guess his mood from his expression. Carensa glimpsed the leather strap that held the amulet, though the charm was hidden beneath his cuirass. Even in the torchlight, Carensa could see that Rostivan’s armor was covered with blood, and from the stiff way he held himself, she bet some of it was his own.

“You took losses today?”

Guran nodded. “We lost Jarle, the one who could move objects at a distance. Most of us were injured. Our guards were killed by enemy mages.”

Rostivan nodded. “Unfortunate.” He paused. “Your man Jarle, he sent the fire?” He did not wait for an answer. “A good tactical move. It made a difference.”

It bloody well saved your ass
, Carensa wanted to say.

“Figure out what could have gone better today, and find a way to make it work next time. I’ll send to Quintrel for a replacement,” Rostivan continued. “He’ll be heading to the city soon.” With that, he strode away.

He’ll send for a replacement
, Carensa thought as she swung up on her horse.
Like a wagon, or a sword
.

C
ONNOR WOKE SLOWLY. THE SHADOWS TRIED
to drag him back into darkness. He would have been content to float in the moonless place where he did not dream, but something was pulling him away. Caught between two powerful forces, Connor let them battle it out, too exhausted to care whether he sank or rose.

“Bevin.” A voice called to him from far away, and Connor knew that he should obey it, but it seemed too distant to lay claim on him.

Connor
. A second voice, sterner than the first, sounded inside his head. He knew this voice, too, but he could not find the energy to move toward the sound of his name.

“Bevin.” The first voice again, a command this time, instead of an invitation. “Follow my voice. You must wake.”

“You should have turned him.” The second voice, spoken aloud this time. Not to him, Connor thought, but to the first speaker.

“I swore I would not.”

“What good is your word if he dies?”

“He isn’t going to die. He’s bound to me.”

“He doesn’t have the strength to rise from the shadowland on his own, Lanyon. We must wake him.”

“It’s too soon, Kierken.”

“Better too soon than too late.”

Connor suspected that he needed to keep eavesdropping, but it took so much effort to pay attention, and he was so very tired. Bits of memories surfaced. A hallway. A fireplace. Something that looked like a white, shell-covered creature from a nightmare. And then pain, fire, and blood. So much blood.

“Wake him, Lanyon. His wounds are healed. The longer he stays in the shadows, the more they lay claim to him.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” There was a pause. “Bevin. It’s time to get back to work. Wake now. You’ve rested long enough.”

At the voice’s command, the shadows parted. Connor longed to keep the darkness enfolded around him, but it slipped away like tendrils of smoke. Smoke. Fire. The smell of something burning came back to him, along with the hiss and spit of roasting meat. “Bevin. Come back. Now.” The familiar voice had steel in it, and the order was one Connor could not disobey. Every fiber in his body felt compelled to follow that voice and do its bidding.

The last of the shadows slipped away. Connor drew a deep breath, and was surprised to find that it did not hurt to move.
It should hurt. It hurt before
.

Connor could feel his chest moving with every intake of air. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than usual. He felt smooth sheets beneath the palms of his hands, and he realized that he lay on a mattress, not the hard stone floor.

With a groan, he opened his eyes. His body felt stiff, as if it had not moved in a very long time.

“How do you feel, Bevin?” Lanyon Penhallow sat next to Connor’s bed, looking worried. The room was dimly lit by a
single lantern, and just behind Penhallow, Connor could make out the faint gray outline of Kierken Vandholt, the Wraith Lord.

“Foggy,” Connor rasped. His throat was dry and his lips were parched. “Did I die?”

Penhallow hesitated. “It was very close,” he said finally. “You lost a lot of blood. Kierken reached you too late to do more than hold tight to your spirit. By the time I awakened, you were beyond what the healers could do.”

“Did you turn me?” Memory returned with consciousness, and while Connor was unclear on what had happened right before he had nearly died, he was quite certain that he had not wanted to become
talishte
.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

“You are still mortal,” Penhallow replied, choosing his words carefully. “But you are a little less mortal than you were.”

“What in Raka does that mean?” Connor met Penhallow’s gaze. Most mortals avoided looking a
talishte
in the eyes for fear of being glamoured. Connor’s susceptibility to glamouring had waned as the
kruvgaldur
strengthened. Now he was angry enough to care little for the consequences.

“It means that he’s bound your life force to his Dark Gift,” the Wraith Lord said. His voice was a low whisper, and Connor knew that Vandholt was expending extra energy to be seen.

“You’re speaking in riddles,” Connor said, falling back against the mattress. “What you’ve said makes no sense to me.”

Other than feeling tired and weakened, Connor felt the same as before the fight with the creature.
Then again, I have no idea how it feels to be
talishte, he thought.

“I took the healing a step further than before,” Penhallow
said quietly. Connor thought he heard hesitation, something unusual for his vampire lord.

“You were within a few breaths of dying,” Penhallow continued. “I knew that you didn’t want to be turned. I would not turn you without your permission. But I didn’t believe you wanted to die, either. There was a middle ground, but it required a few compromises.”

“Like what?” Connor asked suspiciously. He reminded himself that Penhallow had always been a fair and kind master, and had—on more than one occasion—risked his own safety and nearly his existence to protect Connor. Vandholt had also saved his life and the lives of Connor’s friends. Gratitude didn’t make it easier to hear what Penhallow had to say.

“Allowing me to read your memories from your blood created the first
kruvgaldur
between us,” Penhallow replied. “Saving your life last year, when I gave you my blood, made that bond stronger. Just healing the wound itself this time wouldn’t have been enough. You needed blood.”

“And you gave me yours,” Connor said.

“Kierken possessed your body to hold on to your soul. I gave you just enough blood to strengthen you without turning you.” He looked away. “It is a fine line.”

“So I’m not quite mortal, and not quite
talishte
,” Connor summed up.

“Had you died before we finished, I’m afraid that the turning would have been complete despite my intentions,” Penhallow replied. “You did not.”

Connor was silent for a few moments, reining in his anger and trying to think through what Penhallow had said. “What does it mean, to be like this? How am I different?”

“You’ll be harder to kill, for one thing,” the Wraith Lord replied.

“Why?”

Penhallow met his gaze. “Because part of what I am sustains you. The Dark Gift sustains me, and through me, it sustains you.”

“So without you, I’ll die.”

“Yes.” Penhallow paused. “And if you are destroyed, I will be severely harmed. The bond goes both ways.”

Connor swore under his breath. “Look, I’m grateful for all both of you have done. And I’m glad I’m not dead. But I don’t know exactly how to feel about this.”

“If we hadn’t saved you, you wouldn’t be around to worry about it.” The Wraith Lord’s voice was terse.

Connor sighed. “I don’t know if you can understand. It’s been so long since either of you were mortal. I’ve been changed.”

“It means that you will age more slowly,” Penhallow replied. “You will be immune to much of what sickens most mortals. Your reflexes will not be
talishte
fast, but quicker than before. Sight, smell, hearing will be enhanced. You’ll be stronger than you used to be. The sun will not destroy you, though your skin may mind its light more than before. Yet you’re still alive. You do not need to feed on blood.”

“And my life depends on your existence.”

Penhallow nodded. “Yes. We are bound together, and that bond cannot be severed except by death.” Penhallow was being quite patient, Connor knew. And he heard in Penhallow’s voice a note of sadness and regret.

Connor let out a long breath and turned away. “I can’t say that I would have chosen differently. But it bothers me not to have had a choice.”

“I know that,” Penhallow replied. “But I can’t tell you that I’m sorry for saving your life. I value you, your service, and… I believe you have an important role yet to play in what becomes
of this kingdom. We both understand what it is to serve something bigger than ourselves, whether it’s a lord, or a commander, or a king. In service to that cause, sometimes sacrifices need to be made.”

Connor could not fault Penhallow’s logic. Even so, it stuck in his craw. A new question occurred to him.

“You said that what you did will extend my life. By how much?”

Penhallow shrugged. “
Talishte
don’t age. That’s why we appear as we were when we were turned. It’s part of the Dark Gift. You are not
talishte
, and yet the Dark Gift sustains you through me. Aging will slow dramatically for you because of our bond. It may easily add eighty to one hundred years—perhaps more—to your life span, and your body won’t be ravaged by old age. You won’t remain forever young, but your body will not reflect your true age.”

Connor drew a deep breath and let it out again. It would take a while, perhaps a long while, to sort out how he felt about what had happened, but there was no changing it. And as angry as it made him not to have had a say in the matter, Connor also knew that Penhallow, as his lord, was not required to ask him for his opinion.
I’ve been given a gift
, he told himself.
It may not be a gift I wanted, or one I would have chosen for myself, but it is still priceless. And there’s no changing it, so I might as well get used to it
.

“All right,” Connor said. “The decision’s been made. And despite everything, I’d rather not be dead. So… thank you both for saving my life. And the rest, I’ll figure it out as we go.”

“Rest now,” Penhallow said, placing his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, we’ll be going to Glenreith.”

“For the wedding?” Connor asked.

“Yes, and because I need to see Blaine. He’s been injured. Seems our ‘friend’ Lowrey betrayed him. Tried to assassinate him. Fortunately, it didn’t work. Lowrey’s dead.”

“Lowrey? But he stayed at Valshoa…”

“I don’t know the details, just what I felt through the
kruvgaldur
and what I was able to get through Geir,” Penhallow replied. “The magic is still taking its toll, draining Blaine. Our time is running out.”

Penhallow and the Wraith Lord left Connor to rest, and when he woke again, Alsibeth was watching him with concern. Connor managed a smile. “I’m glad you made it,” he said. “I was worried there for a while.”

Alsibeth chuckled. “I had a little more cause to worry about you than the other way around. And I’m glad you made it, too.”

Memories returned in a jumble. “Rolf?” he asked.

Alsibeth shook her head. “Dead.”

“And Caz?”

Alsibeth swallowed hard. “He was burned too badly. There was nothing the healers could do except end his pain. His wounds were more than Penhallow could heal without turning him. He chose to move on.”

“What about the Tingur—and those creatures?” Connor asked.

Alsibeth gave a sad smile. “Rolf didn’t die in vain, although I don’t think he intended to die at all. The artifact he used to focus fire was corrupted. We hadn’t had time to validate it before he tried to use it. It worked—better than he ever expected.”

She looked down at her hands. “Rolf meant to burn the sacks full of monsters that the Tingur catapulted toward the manor.
He hit one of them—thank the gods—or we would have more of those things running loose. Rolf didn’t expect the artifact to drain his life. He was dying—and I think he knew it. He missed the second sack, but he hit the Tingur with a wave of fire, incinerating them.”

The assault on Westbain had cost their side too many lives for Connor to feel regret. “Were there other creatures than the one we fought?”

“Three,” Alsibeth replied. “Two of them never made it into the manor. Aurick’s men fought them. Several soldiers died.”

Belatedly, Connor remembered that he was the seneschal. “What about the servants? Did they survive?”

Alsibeth nodded. “Nearly all. Most of the injuries were minor.”

“And the soldiers?” Connor’s memories were coming back a little at a time, and as Alsibeth was talking, he recalled his conversation with Aurick right before the attack.

“There were casualties,” Alsibeth replied. “But his men held the wall. Aurick asked after you, when everything was over. He sends his wishes for a quick recovery.”

Thanks to Penhallow’s ‘gift,’ Connor had no doubt that he was likely to recuperate at record speed. He made an effort to sit up, but Alsibeth laid a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him down.

“Lord Penhallow was quite explicit in his instructions. You are to rest—in bed—for the remainder of the day,” Alsibeth said archly. “He assured me that he would know if you didn’t. He said to tell you that you’ll need your strength for the trip to Glenreith.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Be careful, Connor. My dreams have been dark. I fear you have powerful enemies who haven’t yet shown themselves, beings that aren’t for mortals to meddle with.”

Then again, I’m no longer entirely mortal
, Connor thought. “I’ll take care,” he reassured the seer. “Alsibeth,” he said after a pause. “What else do your visions say? Can you see what lies ahead?”

The night of the Great Fire, Lord Garnoc had sent Connor to the Rooster and Pig to seek Alsibeth’s counsel. Castle Reach had abounded with self-proclaimed mystics and clairvoyants, but few had the power they claimed to possess. Garnoc had been certain that Alsibeth’s gift was genuine, and the warning she had given Connor to bear back to his master had been chillingly correct.