War of Shadows (50 page)

“What of his mages?” Guran asked. “Can they stand up to Tormod Solveig?”

Quintrel chuckled. “Oh, I think so. I’ve got a surprise planned for Solveig. Lysander’s mages will loose a bit of the
divi
when Tormod Solveig uses his necromancy.
Divis
walk the Unseen Realm, like the restless dead,” he said, warming to his subject.

“When Solveig opens himself to his magic, the
divi
will seize him, using the dead to drag his soul in to the Realm. Without Solveig, I don’t think the others can last the rest of the day. They’re counting on him to turn the tide.” Quintrel looked quite pleased with himself.

He paused. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish writing the plan for Lysander, then meet with Rostivan. Watch for my messenger; he’ll bring the plan to your tent,” he said to Carensa.

Guran and Carensa walked together through the army camp in silence.
There were too many people nearby who would hear anything they might have said
, Carensa thought. And as she pondered her next move, she was not yet ready to talk, or perhaps afraid to say aloud the plans forming in her mind.

Guran stopped at the entrance to Carensa’s tent. For a moment, she thought he might come in and set a warding to allow them to speak freely, but he did not.
No
, she thought,
it wouldn’t do for us to make any move that might make Vigus suspicious, not now. Too much at stake
.

Instead, Guran managed a smile and met Carensa’s gaze. “You’ve got important work to do,” he said. “That message will determine the outcome of the battle, so you’ll want to get it exactly right. You mustn’t think about who will die. What matters is that the right outcome, the best outcome, is achieved.” He nodded, but his smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I know that you’ll do this brilliantly, and we’ll all sit back and watch it happen together.”

Carensa realized she was barely breathing. She felt cold in her marrow, something that had no connection to the temperature outside. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might tear through her chest, and her mouth was dry.
He knows
, she thought.
And he is letting me know that the sacrifice is worth the outcome
.

Carensa reached out to squeeze Guran’s hand. “Thanks,” she said in a strangled voice. “I want to stand with you to watch it all play out.”

“You will,” Guran promised. “We’re the guard of last resort. It’s up to us to set it straight.” He paused. “We’ll be helping Vigus stay focused, so he’s not distracted,” he added with a meaningful glance. Carensa took his meaning immediately, that Guran and their other allies would try to divert Vigus’s attention from whatever she did, for as long as possible.

Sweet Esthrane!
Carensa thought.
It’s come down to this. The outcome of the war, in our hands
.

There were a million things she wanted to say, but instead, she swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll wait for the messenger, then,” she said. “And I’ll stand with you in the morning.” She ducked into her tent, and only then did she realize just how hard she was shaking.

Carensa paced her tent, thinking about her options. Every choice carried risks and consequences, and she knew there was only one chance.

We’re plotting treason, or at the least, massive betrayal
, she thought.
But when he accepted the
divi,
when he promised to give the magic over to those spirits, Vigus betrayed us. Vigus as the power behind the throne was bad enough. This… this would be intolerable
.

She had steeled herself to action when the messenger came to the door. To her relief, Vigus was not with him.
“
Come in,” she said to the messenger. “This is going to take a little while.”

“
Master Quintrel says speed,” the messenger said in broken Donderan.

“
It must also be correct,” Carensa said, summoning all her nerve to speak with authority. “Now, for me to put this into your language, I must hear you speak. Talk to me, and I will learn your words.”

The messenger looked at her skeptically, but at her prompting, he told her of his journey from the front lines to Quintrel’s position, of what he had seen and heard, and of his travels through the storm. Carensa listened intently, focusing her magic. She responded to his comments, at first a word or two, then short sentences, and finally, asking questions as naturally as if she had been speaking the messenger’s border dialect all her life.

The man looked at her in wary amazement. “You talk like someone from my village,” he said, a mixture of interest and fear clear in his eyes. “Yet before—”

“It’s my magic,” she said matter-of-factly, taking the folded parchment from him and sitting down at her portable writing desk. “Now I’ll translate what Master Quintrel wrote so that your captains can understand.”

If the messenger noticed her hand shaking as she took up the quill to write, Carensa hoped he would blame the cold. Carensa withdrew a clean piece of parchment and carefully smoothed it, stirred the ink, and set out the sand to blot. She forced herself to breathe, recognizing that if she succeeded, this paper would become her death warrant, and the order of execution for Guran and her allies as well as Quintrel and his
divi
.

With the messenger’s dialect still clear in her mind, Carensa forced down thoughts of anything except the translation. She could not afford to dwell on the outcome, the loss, or her own willful betrayal. What mattered was the document, that it be clear and carry the force of legitimacy, and that it run completely counter to Quintrel’s real orders.

Carensa looked up at the messenger, who stood a respectful distance from her writing table. “Did Master Quintrel review the plan with you?” she asked.

The messenger shook his head. “No, m’lady. It was sealed when I received it, and he said only that I must bring it directly to you for translation.”

Carensa nodded and looked down, fearing her relief might show in her face. She broke the wax seal on Quintrel’s document. “Very well,” she said. It was unlikely that the messenger could read his own dialect let alone standard Donderan, but Carensa positioned the parchment so that Quintrel’s plan was not visible to the man.

Quintrel’s plan called for the mercenaries to make a lightning-fast charge against the center of the Solveigs’ line while Lysander pounded away at Blaine’s troops and Rostivan hammered Niklas and Voss. It was intended to force Tormod Solveig’s hand, pushing him into expending his magic.

Carensa understood what Quintrel intended. Just as Lysander used the Tingur as expendable troops to wear down an enemy, Quintrel saw the mercenaries as equally disposable. Though Quintrel’s plan did not say so, she knew that once Tormod Solveig had spent his most dangerous magic killing the mercenaries, Quintrel would use the mages to release the
divi
and kill the weakened necromancer.

I’m betraying Quintrel
, Carensa thought,
but perhaps the mercenary should thank me. I’m likely saving his life and the lives of his companions
.

She wrote swiftly, afraid she might lose her nerve if she hesitated long enough to think. Magic supplied the translation and the words for Carensa to create false orders that would send the mercenaries in the opposite direction Quintrel intended. Once the troops were in action, there would be little Quintrel could do to stop them short of loosing his own magic against his ally’s soldiers. If he did that, Carensa had no doubt that
Lysander’s commanders, who were not under the control of the
divi
, would think it an enemy trick and fight to protect their warlord.

Quintrel ordered a rapid advance. Carensa’s translation demanded a retreat. Quintrel intended to send the mercenaries like an arrow to the heart of the Solveig defenses. Carensa sent them against Rostivan’s own rear flank. In the chaos, Rostivan’s soldiers would defend themselves against what appeared to be Lysander’s betrayal, diverting a goodly portion of Rostivan’s army to fend off the attack.

The fighting was likely to push the front half of the troops into the forefront of the battle and deliver them into the sights of Tormod and Rinka Solveig and their army. Tormod Solveig, who had not yet loosed his full power in battle, Carensa suspected, would find a perfect target in Quintrel and her fellow mages. Once the mercenaries were deployed, Guran and their few allies would throw in their lot, doing whatever they could to undermine Rostivan and Quintrel until they were captured and killed. She could only hope Tormod would be able to withstand Quintrel’s use of the
divi
.

We’ll make our stand
, Carensa thought as she blotted the ink with the sand and then carefully folded the parchment, melting wax to seal the document and pressing her ring into the wax to certify it.
And if we succeed, we’ll die
.

B
LAINE MCFADDEN REELED, NEARLY LOSING HIS
footing. His attacker’s sword grazed Blaine’s ear, landing a deep slice in his left shoulder. “You look tired,” the Lysander soldier mocked. “Stand still, and I’ll send you to your rest.”

Blaine muttered a curse and brought his sword up sharply, knocking aside the soldier’s blade and taking the man by surprise. He half lunged, half staggered forward to sink his second sword into the man’s abdomen, nearly falling with the effort.

“The next fight will kill you,” the soldier predicted as he fell, and Blaine feared he might be right.

Two days of battle against the combined forces of Lysander and Rostivan, and as yet there was no victor. Blaine’s army defeated the Tingur advance force with their magic-born monsters, but Lysander’s army was well trained and seemingly endless. Even with the Solveigs and Verner bringing their armies to bear, no one had yet punched a hole in the Lysander line.

Nightly runners brought updates from Niklas and the second front. Niklas’s half of the army and Traher Voss’s mercenaries battled Rostivan, backed by Vigus Quintrel’s mages. What Rostivan might have lacked in sheer numbers he more
than made up for in magic, and the last communiqué gave Blaine to understand Niklas was also at a stalemate.

“You need to tie up that gash,” Kestel said, looking him over with a practiced eye. “Piran and I will cover you.”

Blaine sank down to one knee, ripping a strip of fabric from his shirt to bind up the deep cut in his left arm. He felt light-headed, but he knew the injuries he had taken in battle caused only a portion of his problem. The magic was killing him.

Even though Niklas had volunteered to lead the assault against Rostivan—and therefore, Quintrel—to shield Blaine from the worst of the magic, nothing could protect him from it entirely, not even the magic-deflecting amulet Rikard had supplied.
If it weren’t for the amulet, I’d probably be flat on my back—or worse—by now
, Blaine thought. The slash on his arm was just one of the many cuts and gouges he had sustained, plus more bruises and sore muscles than he wanted to think about. All of that he took in stride. But magic was not so easily dismissed.

Lysander’s mages had kept up a near-constant barrage, requiring Blaine’s mages to counterattack. Tormod Solveig had kept a low profile, but Blaine suspected that as the battle moved into the third day, Tormod would grow impatient with finesse. Rinka Solveig had already given up on restraint, leading her army in a headlong attack that almost broke the Lysander line. Almost, but not quite.

Across the valley, Birgen Verner’s troops fought valiantly. Perhaps the son had more aptitude for warfare than the father, Blaine thought, because Birgen’s tactics were daring, unexpected, and sometimes damn-fool crazy.
In other words, exactly what we need
.

Blaine realized early in the fight that Lysander really fielded three separate armies. The first, his Tingur allies, had been
routed along with their beasts. The second group, made up of Meroven sellswords, swelled the ranks but fought without passion, as if they were counting the candlemarks until they received their pay, and were determined to live long enough to spend it. Blaine was sure that to Lysander, the mercenaries were as disposable as the Tingur, just better armed and somewhat better trained. The third group were Lysander’s own soldiers, his elite crack troops, highly skilled but small enough in number that Lysander hoarded them like gold.

“Let me through!” A wild-eyed man careened through the fighting, face pale as death. He wore the tattered uniform of one of the Solveigs’ men. “I’ve got a message for Lord McFadden.”

Piran and Kestel stepped between Blaine and the newcomer, in case the messenger was not what he appeared to be. More of Blaine’s soldiers circled them, added protection even in the midst of the battle.

“Get to the point, man. We’ve got a war going on,” Piran said.

The messenger nodded, heaving for breath. “Tormod Solveig sent me. The ghosts of Quintrel’s dead mages have betrayed their master. They were sent to him by our allies on the inside, with word that Quintrel intends to call a
divi
to use the necromancer’s power against him.”

“Can Tormod withstand that?” Kestel asked, eyes widening in surprise.

“He doesn’t know whether he can or not, but he’s asked for the help of all mages and those with magic, and he said to tell you that foreknowledge is the sharpest sword.”

Blaine and the others exchanged glances, then Blaine nodded curtly in acknowledgment. “Very well. You’ve done your duty. Now, get behind the lines. It’s suicide to try to return across the fighting.”

Traitors inside Quintrel’s organization?
Blaine thought.
That has to be Carensa. And she got word to us the only way she could—by sending the dead to warn a necromancer. But how do we use what she’s told us to block Quintrel’s strike?

The messenger had disappeared into the fray as the battle closed around them once more. Piran and Kestel battled two more of Lysander’s mercenaries, and Blaine willed himself back into the fight, lunging in with a roar. The collective use of magic was burning him up, draining his energy and his life force faster than normal. And with every bone-jarring sword strike and every weary step, Blaine felt that drain in his marrow, despite the deflecting amulet.

“Not long now,” Kestel said, with a glance at the orange gash of sunset. She saw an opening and went for it, finishing off her opponent with one strike that impaled his crotch while the dirk in her other hand slit his belly.

“I am so glad you’re on our side,” Piran said, dealing a powerful series of hammering blows that drove his enemy to his knees and then separated his head from his shoulders.

“Having fun,” Kestel said with a grin that did not reach her eyes. They were all weary. Kestel was bleeding from half a dozen deep cuts, while Piran looked to have taken even worse damage. What they needed was something to turn the tide.

Lysander’s mercenaries cursed in a language Blaine recognized as Meroven. He did not understand the words, but the intent was clear. Piran shouted obscenities back in the same language. Whatever Piran shouted brought three new mercenaries, faces red with rage, shouting and gesturing and swinging their swords to avenge their honor. Amid it all, Piran almost seemed to be enjoying himself.

“What are you saying to them?” Kestel asked, obliged to defend herself as Piran’s barbs drew attackers.

“I may have commented about their mothers, their wives, their whores, and their manly inability,” Piran replied, grinning.

Blaine was setting about himself in earnest, fighting off one particularly large man whose honor had been affronted. He apparently expected Blaine to understand the curses and imprecations he shouted, but the nuances were lost in translation.

“I’ve never actually heard anyone use that curse before,” Piran called, clashing with his opponent. “It’s forbidden by their priests. I must have really riled him.”

“If anyone could make you lose your immortal soul from irritation, it would be you,” Kestel replied, surprising her attacker with the skill and speed of her sword.

Blaine got inside his opponent’s guard, striking his sword arm and opening a gash to the bone. His second stroke took off the mercenary’s head. Within minutes, Kestel and Piran had also made short work of their attackers, and the three stood back-to-back, heaving for breath, awaiting the next attack.

“We need a sea change,” Blaine muttered. “Something to shift the balance.”

Hundreds of torches flared to life as darkness fell, and in the shadows, dark shapes came ghosting out of the twilight.

Blaine could just make out one of Lysander’s generals astride a huge black warhorse. In the blink of an eye, the man was snatched from his saddle and carried up into the night sky. Simultaneously, more
talishte
, led by Geir, descended out of the darkening skies like the warriors of the gods, snatching predetermined targets—the commanders—from among the soldiers.

One after another, the black-clad executioners casually ripped the heads from the bodies, showering the soldiers beneath in their commanders’ still-warm blood. They flung the bodies aside, dropping them into the midst of the panicking
troops, then slung the heads with deadly aim and lethal force, shouting in triumph when they knocked another officer from his horse.

Again and again they dove, plucking the officers from their horses and making a show of discarding the bodies. Cast in torchlight, bathed in blood, Geir and his fellows embodied every nightmare vision Lysander’s godsforsaken soldiers had ever dreamt. In the air, Geir’s
talishte
forces battled the
talishte
Pollard had supplied, men from Reese’s brood who were willing to fight in order to enjoy the bloody spoils.

Before Lysander’s bowmen could collect their wits enough to shoot or the remaining officers could rally their troops, a frigid wind rushed toward the enemy line. Tormod Solveig rode at the head of an army of vengeful spirits. Some rode skeletal steeds, no more than bone and rusted armor, yet armed with blade and will. Other revenants charged on foot, wielding maces, axes, and morning stars that looked quite real. Their battle cry was the moan of the wind and the answering howl of wolves in the forest.

Rinka Solveig rode just behind the specters, clad in her blood-red leather armor, bloodied up to her elbows and spattered with gore. Rinka had none of her brother’s magic, but she was fearless, and possibly crazy. She rode a massive white warhorse whose sides were streaked with blood, and the armor over the horse’s head was designed to look like a skull. Rinka carried a sword in one hand and a chain flail in the other, making good use of both.

“Foreknowledge is the sharpest sword,” Blaine repeated as a daring plan came to him. Daring, and quite likely suicidal. “Kestel, we’ve got to get to Tormod. My battle foresight might predict Quintrel’s move, and if we use our amulets right, we might be able to limit the
divi
’s power while Tormod strikes it down.”

Kestel gave him a wary look. “Or our amulets totally close down Tormod’s magic and the
divi
eats all of us.”

“You’ve got a better idea?”

Kestel shot him a feral smile. “Nope. Survival is overrated. Let’s go for it!”

Piran swore. “Since you’ve both taken leave of your senses, I’ll cover your asses while you do whatever you’re going to do.”

Together, the three of them fought their way across the battlefield toward where Tormod Solveig’s spectral forces advanced.

“What in Raka are we going to do when a
divi
shows up?” Piran asked, slashing a path through the soldiers who had the bad luck to get in his way.

“We’ll see how much juice the amulets really have,” Blaine said, fighting back a foot soldier who lunged at him. “If Kestel and I work together, then even if the amulets can’t hold back the
divi
completely, maybe we can weaken the spirit until Tormod obliterates it.”

“So you’re going to throw yourself in front of the monster, hoping your fancy necklaces keep it from killing you, until the necromancer can hurl magic at the monster over your head to destroy it, and hope you don’t die.”

“Basically. You’ve got something better?”

Piran shrugged. “I’ve got nothing. Let’s hope you’re smarter than your idea sounds.”

As Tormod Solveig’s ghostly army closed in on where Blaine and the others stood, the air in front of Solveig ripped in two, like fabric rent down the middle, exposing fathomless darkness beyond. Out of the darkness stepped a fearsome shape. This was no magicked beast, like the
gryps
and
mestids
and
ranin
. Blaine was certain that the monster in front of Solveig was a creature of the Unseen Realm. Even at a distance, power radiated from the being, dark magic as repugnant as putrefying
flesh. Powerful limbs, talons like scimitars, and a maw filled with rows of razor-sharp, pointed teeth made it clear that the creature existed to devour.

The black rip in the daylight remained open behind the monster, and it rose up to its full height, standing in front of Solveig as tall as a man astride a warhorse. As Blaine watched the creature, it seemed both here and not here, as if its presence among the living wavered. Powerful, dark magic swept out from the monster toward Tormod Solveig, and Blaine knew, somehow, that the monster strove to turn the spirits of the dead against the necromancer, and to use them to draw Solveig into the limitless darkness beyond the rift.

Blaine gasped from the powerful magic, but his amulet deflected the worst of it. Piran stood guard, but their would-be attackers had run from the ghostly army and from Rinka’s all-too-real assault.

“Go!” Blaine shouted. He and Kestel ran for the
divi
, one on each side, careful to keep a respectful distance. The
divi
’s power felt like a dark malaise, cold and stinking like an open grave. Blaine dodged closer, and the
divi
’s magic wavered, sliding aside, its strike against Tormod Solveig deflected by Blaine’s amulet.