Nightlord: Shadows (129 page)

I paused, stretching my ears and listening for the alarm. That move wasn’t something people would ignore. If anyone had been looking in the right direction, and if the moonlight was enough to see by…

Maybe the firelight from the center of the camp helped me by reducing the night vision of any observer. Then again, there were no fires at all near the cannon. I think I just got lucky.

I slithered under a canvas tarp, followed by a writhing trail of blood from the dead man.

Yes, this was amazingly like a brass cannon from the nineteenth century. I didn’t like it one bit. A screw-thread device at the back allowed for precise elevation changes. The firing mechanism was a spring-powered wheel pressed against a piece of flint—a wheellock cannon!

Someone had brought cannon technology over from some other universe. Possibly my own, but certainly one where such technology was already well-developed. The cannon themselves might actually be the product of another world, brought across into this. Unlikely as that was, it was possible.

If I had to guess, I would say that the Church of Light had tucked away various bits of information, possibly even various bits of technology. They didn’t strike me as the sort to actually
use
any of the Foreign Devil Magic, but maybe someone had finally gone through the ruins of their hidden vaults and dragged some of the plunder out into the light.

That thought gave me chills. There were Things down in the Church vaults that were on my better-left-alone list. Then again, if cannon was the worst of the things recovered…

If. These were in Byrne’s army. What did the Prince of Byrne have tucked away under his house? Another vampire fork? Another Devourer in a glass ball? Or something worse?

I’m going to have to find the Church vaults,
I thought,
and I’m going to have to carry on their work of hiding the damned things!
Firebrand chuckled at my thought.

It’d be fun to fight some of them, Boss. We could pick and choose. And some of them are bound to be things
you
can use, but mortals can’t.

You raise good points. Do you think the Church included instruction manuals and hazard labels? Or are they just random items of magical horror that we’ll have to fumble with until we discover how they work?

You love puzzles.

But I don’t love random button-pushing until something explodes. Especially when I’m holding it!

Hmm. Good point.

If I can find their version of Area 51, I’m going to pump concrete into it and hope for the best.

I sighed. Someday. Always someday. Everything has to be done and too much should have been done yesterday. Do all immortal creatures feel a time crunch?

Okay. Job at hand. Cannon.

While I’m here, what can I get away with?

The cannon are big, solid, and a pain to try and move. Do I try and find the powder and shot? They’re in a tent, that’s certain; they’ll want to keep them dry at all costs. Or do I want to just take a fast run through the important-looking tents and kill anything I can reach before running for it? Or do I want to go for a walk through the professional soldiers’ tents, sticking my head into each tent and something sharp into each man?

Well, I don’t much care for the idea of calmly sticking a sword through sleeping soldiers’ heads. It’s not that I think it’s the wrong plan; it might be the most effective thing I can do. I’d be willing to bet no one would notice me until and unless one of the sleepers screamed as I stabbed him—I can’t put a silencing spell on everyone before I stick them, and the one I’m wearing doesn’t have much of a radius of action. No, the problem with that plan is my aversion to killing people who aren’t trying to kill me. For all I know, they don’t like the idea of this war any more than I do.

I could hunt for the magazine tent and the powder. A cannon without ammunition is a poor ram, nothing more. But that would involve searching, and every tent I search will increase my chances of being noticed.

I’m really tempted to hit the wizards. My magical forces outnumber and probably out-power them by an order of magnitude or more; the only reason the enemy wizards are effective at blocking us is the range at which we operate. If the enemy lacked wizards entirely—or magicians; there might be one here—then the magical side of the fight will be pretty one-sided. But a competent commander would recognize that and might even decide to march home for reinforcements.

But the commanders… That might be best. I’ve had enough assassins and demons and armies coming after me, personally, that I’m more than a little irritated. True, that kind of thing is only to be expected, but the reverse is true, as well! They go for the jugular, I go for the jugular. It seems… fair.

I donned the tabard of my fallen guard, picked up his spear, and pretended I’d been standing there all the time. Just another guy standing guard, that’s me—hard to see, hard to make out, but a guy with a spear, standing guard in camp, doesn’t command attention.

Looking over the center of the encampment, I noted the wizards’ tents; they had spells for personal comfort. Air conditioning and sound damping, mostly, as well as bug-repelling and water-repelling spells, plus one tent with a spell specifically to keep snakes out. Can’t say I blame him; a lot of people have an aversion to snakes.

The guarded tents left me thoughtful. There were obvious alarm spells as well as guards. If I was very fast and encountered no problems, I might go through two tents before too many people were awake and hunting for the intruder. On the other hand, the alarms seemed tied to the tents; they detected physical intrusion and/or damage to the tents.

I don’t need to go through them physically, and there didn’t seem to be anything to keep me from reaching in with soul-sucking tendrils of darkness.

I gently slithered tendrils through my partners on cannon-watch. Slowly, they decided to lean on things, then sit. With them too tired to really care much about anyone outside their personal space, I stepped away, striding along with my spear over one shoulder, the very picture of a man going somewhere, but in no great hurry. I circled around a largish tent, brushing tendrils of my spirit through the cloth, into the space beyond, feeling out the flesh.

Yes, living bodies, mostly unprotected, all sleeping. As I paused and leaned on my spear, I drank the lives of the ones without protection, siphoning the vitality out of them gently, at first, to draw them deep into unconsciousness, then hard and sudden, ripping souls from the flesh and consuming them.

Mindless husks cannot command an army. At least, not well.

As I moved on to the next tent, I wondered why there were so few wards and protective devices. The forces of Vathula had dozens of the things, possibly hundreds. But here, only a dozen or so people wore any sort of protection. Did everyone else think me still in Karvalen, safely out of the way while my soldiers did my fighting? Or did they just not think I would invade their camp? Maybe some of them required activation, rather than running constantly? Or were some of them simply worn out by now?

Maybe it was all a trap?

(Why is it I get more nervous the more successful I am?)

Senses peeled, I continued on my rounds, suspicious and alert. I drained the vitality, the essence, the very souls from officer after officer, leader after leader. Some of great quality, others merely of high station, and all of them vanished from the face of the world until the day of their rebirth. Perhaps a dozen officers remained, shielded in their slumbers against the casual touch of my hungry darkness.

Could I have broken their protection and got at them, too? Maybe. But that would definitely have taken more effort than I could easily conceal. I would rather get what I could and get away cleanly.

Nothing attacked me. No spells, no subtle influences, not even the movement of stealthy ambushers preparing their stroke. At least, not that I detected. If they were good enough to sneak up on a wary vampire in the middle of the night, though, they deserved to get the jump on me.

And yet, all was quiet save for the occasional snore, the crackle of low fires, the jingle of sentries about their rounds.

Eventually, I finished my own rounds and walked off along a lane between the lesser tents. I reached the end of it, laid my spear down alongside the last tent, and started picking my way back out through the sprawled mass of the conscripts.

Bronze greeted me with a nose against my cheek and a
whuff
of hot air.

“It was surprisingly easy,” I told her. “I don’t think they were expecting me. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

She nudged me in the shoulder:
You’re just modest
.

“No, really. Their wizards must be focused entirely on keeping the cannon concealed. They didn’t even have alarms to detect undead, or my psychic tendrils, or even an alarm to go off when blood was spilled. I can’t bring myself to think they’re idiots, but then the only explanation is that they think they’re safe.”

Boss,
Firebrand put in,
are you sure it wasn’t a trap?

“No, I’m not, but I don’t see how it could be a trap. I’m not shot or skewered or on fire. If it’s a trap, I fail to see how it’s supposed to work.”

Me, too,
Firebrand admitted,
but can they really be that poorly protected? I mean, you’re a nightlord, Boss. No, strike that. You are
the
Lord of Night. You’d think they’d be a lot more concerned!

“I agree. It’s almost insulting. But what else can it be? If there’s some sort of advantage to be gained by this, it’s part of a really deep game and I don’t understand the rules.”

That’s not comforting, Boss.

“How do you think
I
feel about it?”

Good point.

“Come on. Let’s get back to camp and see if I can sneak in past our own guards. I suddenly feel paranoid.”

It’s not paranoia…

“Yes, it is, even if they are out to get you. It’s just that paranoia can be a perfectly logical and reasonable response to circumstances, thank you.”

We headed back through the countryside, trailed by horses that seemed willing to follow Bronze anywhere she led them. A pair of riders came our way, seeming quite worried about something, so I killed them and took their horses, too. Bronze dropped me off outside our own camp and I tested our defenses.

I did not get through unnoticed. I was both pleased by this and strangely concerned.

We originally planned to spend, at most, a few hours bivouacked on the road between Bildar and Kilda. Those few hours would be sufficient for Tort to determine the route of march for the Byrne forces. For some reason, they did not get moving with their usual snap and speed. They stayed camped all of yesterday and last night, actually, while we enjoyed a good rest from our hasty march.

My guess is that they had to reorganize. Maybe they had to send word back to Byrne for instructions, too.

This morning, the enemy forces started out along the road to Kilda. We moved up to the place Kelvin decided on, the village of Cerilla. We set up shop on the eastern side of the village. People from the village viewed our preparations with considerable alarm; we sent a couple of knights to warn them about the upcoming conflict. Very shortly, the village was busy with its own preparations, ranging from packing up to simply running away.

Some of the men volunteered to join us; they were very helpful with their knowledge of the local terrain. After some discussion with them, Kelvin had us relocate farther east, along the road, just outside the farmed area. If the Byrne forces continued down the road, they would come through a wide, grassy area between two stretches of woods, up a long, gentle slope, and then down a somewhat-steeper grade into the farmland around Cerilla.

Kelvin thought this was a perfect spot for us to meet them.

Byrne’s army rolled onward. Tort kept us constantly informed. They had to know where we were; at this range there was nothing either side could do to prevent basic divination. They came anyway. I think they knew they couldn’t avoid us, so they were going to go through us.

It was early that afternoon when a mounted scout came into view over that low rise. He looked at us, obviously did some counting, turned around, and headed straight back.

Tort reported on the change in the troops. Instead of a line of march, they formed up and started pulling themselves into a fighting configuration.

Kelvin did the heavy lifting. He moved the markers around on the local map, quizzed Tort about what she could see, and had an orderly relay his orders through the mini-mirrors. I watched as he laid out our battle line. I didn’t have anything to criticize; he knew what the cannon could do and what we needed to do about them.

He looked tired. No, I take that back. He wasn’t tired. He moved with energy and purpose. He seemed… weary. This war involved a lot of planning, a lot of adapting to changing circumstances, a lot of dealing with people. It wore him down, weighed heavily on him. But he held on and kept slugging, and now the end—of the major military portion, anyway—was finally in sight. Kelvin was weary, yes, but he was also cheerful.

“Sire,” he asked, “I need only know your wishes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have everything a commander could want,” he said, gesturing at the map. “I know the enemy’s strength and dispositions. I have the ground I want. I can convey orders almost instantly. I have troops that are enthusiastic, skilled, and determined—some of them are all three. You tell me that the enemy have a secret weapon upon which their confidence rests, and that we can counter it. Their original commanders are dead, leaving only their seconds and subcommanders. Much of the enemy is a militia or conscripts.” He shrugged.

“Sire, if you order me to annihilate the enemy, I will. If you want prisoners, I will get them. We await only your word.”

“Now I understand,” I agreed. “Okay. My overall objective is to break the power of Byrne’s military.”

“I remember.”

“Second to that, I’d like to have a minimum loss of life.”

“Sire,” he said, slowly, “this is a war. We are about to have a battle. You do know that men will die?”

“I get that,” I agreed, “but I don’t care for victory at any cost; I care about victory at minimum cost. If we have an all-or-nothing, fate-of-the-world battle, we’ll consider tactics that will result in certain death to achieve victory. This ain’t it. You’re confident; I trust you. Do your best to keep our guys alive.”

“Our guys? Ah! I understand, Sire. I will.”

And he did. He also went to some lengths to keep
me
alive.

Kelvin arranged about a third of our forces on the field. When I insisted on participating, he detailed three of the volunteers from the Wizards’ Corps to accompany me, along with Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar. I wondered who was going to carry the standard into the fight. Seldar set me straight on that; the standard was behind us, where it belonged, marking Our Side of the field. If anyone needed to retreat, the banner marked the direction of safety.

Well, I should have expected something like that. I was thinking that when the King goes into a fight, someone carries his personal standard. But kings don’t go into battle, I’m told.

We took our places with forty knights, front and center. Another forty or so chafed under orders to stay out of the battle and act as part of the reserves. They didn’t like it, but I put my foot down, backing the Warlord, and explained that if anything went wrong, they were our only hope. And even if things went very right, they might be vital as the unexpected hammerblow that finally broke the enemy.

Besides, the Queen was going to be with them.

(Lissette had some unladylike remarks for me. I whispered in her ear and she settled down.)

The knights in reserve didn’t seem to mind so much after that. Admittedly, they were still disappointed to not be in the thick of the fight, but there’s some pride to be had in knowing that you’re trusted to pull the King’s chestnuts out of the fire if things go wrong.

This battle wasn’t going to be fancy.

We waited while the enemy got themselves sorted out. They sent a couple of companies of infantry over the rise first, then brought them to a halt at the foot of the hill. The cannon wheeled up into view, already loaded and ready to fire; they just had to get a sight picture and take aim.

I did take a brief stab at trying to cast a spell on the cannon. At that range, the wizard on duty blocked it easily. Well, it wasn’t meant to accomplish anything, just see what sort of response it would get.

As the cannon came into view, Kelvin gave the signal. My unit charged and the infantry started their advance. Mounted archers also followed us to get into position on our flanks. Bronze was not amused to be held back to the speed of flesh-and-blood horses, but we already had that discussion. She promised to behave, and to make sure all the horses with us stayed with her.

I’m not sure how that works, but she says she can do it and I’ve seen the way horses behave around her. Maybe it has something to do with a herd mentality, or maybe she’s just a magical creature and I should learn to accept it.

The cannoneers understood the concept of volley fire. The battery commander gave a signal and they fired as one.

One of the reasons we formed up early was to let the Byrne scouts get a good look. Our idea was to let the cannoneers target us, the knights, because we would be the primary threat. If they reacted the way we expected them to, they would think they could shoot the knights, reload, and fire another volley into the advancing infantry. While their infantry screen at the foot of the hill held off anything else, the majority of their own forces could swarm over the rise and start downhill into whatever was left.

It was the obvious thing to do, and they certainly tried it. Their infantry screen crouched down at the foot of the rise, hands over their ears as the cannoneers volleyed at us.

Cannonballs and grapeshot—the cannon-scale equivalent of buckshot—rode the fire, smoke, and thunder. Iron came toward us, hit us, and dropped harmlessly to the earth.

That’s why we were trying to be targets. We were wearing enough defensive magic that their opening salvo should be wasted. For the most part, we were right. Oh, a couple of men struck by actual cannonballs were unhorsed; you don’t have a momentum change of that magnitude and completely ignore it. Several horses were struck by shot and did ignore it—I think that was Bronze; the horses weren’t trained for that—and one horse struck by a cannonball stumbled and went down. But, aside from that, they may as well have been throwing footballs at us.

We plowed into the panicked infantry at a gallop and split; roughly fifteen men diverted left and right to roll up the infantry line, slicing and hacking the whole way. The remaining ten or so continued up the hill, flowed between and around the cannon, killed everyone, and went charging down the far side into the second wave troops still gaping in shock or cringing from the explosions.

Things were busy. Bronze didn’t need to stay in low gear for this; she plowed through everything and opened a hole for everyone else to widen. I had Firebrand out and swinging; it was gleefully cauterizing any wound it made. I kept a portion of my attention on the magical environment. If something unpleasant shot our way, I wanted to see it coming, maybe even do something about it!

I needn’t have worried. Most of their magic was with the cannon, guarding them, and every wizard in that group was dead. The two wizards I noticed in the rear of the enemy, at the command post, were trying to stay out of the fight and avoid attention. I pointed them out to Bronze and Firebrand, just to make sure they were forewarned, but the spells I saw were mainly things like deflection spells, ignore-me spells, and the like. The enemy wizards wanted nothing to do with the pitched battle this was shaping up to be.

The second wave—they guys on the far side of the hill, behind the cannon—were the conscript troops, which I regretted; they really didn’t want to be there. They fought out of desperation, slinging rocks at us, throwing spears, sometimes even remembering their training and setting their long spears to hold us off.

None of it helped. Sling stones and other projectiles always missed; spears tended to. Even those who remembered their lessons and held their spears to take a charge didn’t expect a couple of tons of metal horse to go through them. That further depleted the enemy morale.

Then, following the rout of the forward infantry screen—the survivors scrambled madly back over the hill—the rest of my knights thundered down the slope and started killing. It stopped being a fight and descended into slaughter.

We broke the conscripts. They threw down their weapons and ran, scattering, and we let them. I signaled and we all turned around and headed back up to the top of the rise. Our infantry was taking its time getting there; Kelvin and I wanted them feeling fairly fresh when they arrived. The timing was the important thing. We wanted them to arrive just as or a trifle before Byrne sent in its main thrust. There was no sign of that just yet. Confusion, disorder, and panic seemed dominant.

Well, that’s my fault. You eat enough of the leaders and the rest get a little twitchy.

To encourage an attack—it would be nice if they charged up the hill to get surprised by a wave of our own infantry—we dismounted and started to limber what the guns. That is, we unhooked them from the stakes they were using as recoil spades. They weren’t going anywhere quickly; it takes a six-horse team to haul each of the things.

On the other hand, we didn’t need to actually take them anywhere, just give the impression that we were about to. The enemy commanders, whoever they were now, realized that we were about to take their precious guns.

Useless guns, but they didn’t seem to realize that. Sometimes it’s hard to change your way of thinking, especially about something you’ve regarded as immensely valuable. Those guns were ineffective against our new spell. Maybe they didn’t realize that, thinking that dozens of dead men and horses littered the field on the other side of the hill. Maybe they just didn’t want them falling into enemy hands.

A horn sounded at the command post; flags went up and waved. The veterans, professional soldiers, and any non-panicked conscripts they could grab quickly advanced on our position. Just for the amusement value, I had the guys turn all the cannon around to point at the troops. It didn’t slow them down, but it sure made a lot of people even more frightened to have their own Mysterious Magical Weapons pointed at them.

Sir Beltar and Sir Terrel had their mini-mirrors out; they signaled and called out ranges. Our archers, parked on the eastern side of the hill to flank our infantry, started to rain sharp things on the advancing enemy. Arrows sailed up over us and down into the advancing mass. They weren’t aimed, just launched into the right general area. The enemy still kept coming. The ones with shields—the professionals—raised them and started driving the conscripts ahead like sheep, hurrying them faster through the light hail of arrows.

I decided to retreat, or make it look that way. My knights held the hilltop and both lines of infantry were closing in us; the main battle would start in another minute or less.

Bronze and I raced down through our own lines, leaving six bodyguards—three knights and three wizards—swearing and cursing. We circled northward and I got Kelvin on the mini-mirror; he agreed that sending the cavalry reserve after me would be a good idea. They galloped eagerly in my direction and I grinned. Lissette wanted to be in the fight, and the timing ought to work out…

Bronze and I circled northward around the more heavily-wooded end of the rise while the reserve desperately tried to catch up. Meanwhile, opposite me, to the south, the body of Huler’s troops were already around the other end of the rise, hidden fairly well back in those trees, preparatory to a flanking attack on the enemy advance.

While Bronze and I were too far away from the enemy for a spell of unnoticeability to be useful, I could easily silence us and put that mottled camouflage over everything. We made good time through the woods, dodging trees while I stayed low and hung on.

The battle was in full swing when we came back into sight. Our side held the hilltop but was giving ground; as the enemy advanced, his coordination and organization continued to fall apart. Once they got over the rise, they couldn’t see the signals from their command outpost in the rear; the signals had to be relayed back and forth by men on the hilltop.