War of Shadows (25 page)

Rieulf shook his head. “We’ve been watching, but there’s been no signal.”

Pollard let out a long breath. “Very well.” He looked to Piet, a mage with the ability to scan minds at a distance. “What did you learn?”

Piet’s gaze scanned the waiting soldiers around the meeting circle as each group waited for their hostages to rejoin them. “We’re beyond the range for my most accurate impressions,” he said quietly. “So I can’t tell you exactly whose thoughts I scanned, although I can separate the impressions by which group they belonged to.”

“Yes, yes—just tell me what you heard.”

Piet chuckled. “What I ‘heard’ from Rostivan’s troops was impatience, anger, annoyance at Lysander for an alliance they consider of less than equal partners.”

Pollard nodded. “What else?”

Piet considered for a moment. “Lysander’s men, on the other hand, are quite certain they are the victors of this arrangement, and some of them are already counting their spoils.” He shook his head. “Rostivan’s men are loyal because they believe him to be a competent leader with a good chance of success. With Lysander’s troops, it’s different. Perhaps he has a bit of charm magic himself. They look on him as a god, swoon at his orders, and consider themselves lucky to serve him.”

“No wonder he’s been effective drawing the Tingur to his cause,” Pollard muttered. “Let’s see how much they ‘swoon’ when the time comes to clip his wings.”

Nilo and Hennoch were nearly back by now, and Pollard wished they would hurry. His wounds from Reese made it difficult to move without wincing, and only his steel will kept him from betraying his pain. Beneath his armor, his skin burned from the tormenting rash, which grew worse with sweat and the chafing of armor. Pollard wanted nothing more than to go back to his rooms at Solsiden, drink a whiskey, and see if Kerr could do anything to ease his suffering.

“Let’s not do that again, shall we?” Nilo said, still rubbing his wrists. Pollard could see the rope burn. Hennoch looked ready
to fight, and Pollard was certain the indignity of being a hostage galled him, especially given his son’s precarious situation.

“My apologies for the inconvenience,” Pollard said with a trace of sarcasm. “We got what we wanted. Lysander believes McFadden and his allies to be the main threat. Rostivan will lead the assault on the Arkalas, and we come in behind them to take care of the stragglers, minimizing the danger to our troops.”

“They think we’re weak,” Hennoch growled. “That’s why they left the easy job to us.”

Pollard chuckled. “When it’s to our advantage, they can think what they like. Our forces are reduced from what they were, what they will be again. In the meantime, we need to conserve our strength. Let Rostivan and Lysander take the losses and clear the path. I’ll take dented pride and live soldiers if the alternative is bragging rights and a pile of corpses.”

Hennoch glowered, but did not contradict him, perhaps making a similar bargain to assure his son’s safety.

As quickly as the group convened, they scattered, though it seemed to Pollard that the ride back to Solsiden was interminable. Every movement pained Pollard as the armor rubbed against his wounds. He could hear Reese screaming in the back of his mind, and he doubted the impression was imagined. Nilo said nothing, but Pollard was sure his second suspected. Pollard was adamant that Hennoch should know nothing of his weakness, and so he forced himself to sit tall on his horse, and move as if nothing was wrong.

It won’t do for Hennoch to get any ideas
, Pollard thought.
We need him, and the only hold I have is fear
.

Several candlemarks later, when Pollard and his men had returned to Solsiden, Vedran Pollard stared into the fireplace as
he sipped his whiskey. It dulled the pain, a little. Of late, that was the best he could hope for. Kerr had treated his wounds and bandaged him, and a warm dinner was some recompense for the cold day afield.

He and Nilo had been over the events of the day during supper, and despite the fact that they both agreed it had been a coup for their side, Pollard found he could not muster a celebratory mood.

Far too much left undone, too many places where the road could fork before we reach the destination
, he thought. Age and experience had taught him to wait until a victory was firmly in hand before declaring the winner. All too often, the outlook could shift in a matter of moments.
I prefer reasonable doubt to false certainty
, he thought, taking another drink and letting the liquor burn down his throat.
Safer in the long run
.

A knock at the door startled him. “What now?” he snapped, setting aside his drink and rising. Kerr opened the door, his expression apologetic.

“M’lord Pollard, two of Lord Reese’s men to see you.”

Pollard cursed silently, aware that
talishte
hearing would pick up even a muttered expletive. He looked up as two
talishte
strode into the room.

“Vika and Demian,” Pollard said. He intentionally made eye contact, knowing that they disliked the fact that his
kruvgaldur
bond to their maker meant he could not be glamoured by them. “I’d wondered if you had gone into hiding.”

Vika looked the older of the two, though Pollard knew they were each centuries old. Vika had been the wastrel son of a minor noble three hundred years ago, before Reese selected him to be among his courtiers. Demian had been a soldier, the younger son of a prominent noble house. His turning had come on the battlefield, when Reese had brought him across as
reward for how fiercely he fought despite his wounds. Pollard knew that both men were among Reese’s inner circle within his brood, and he was equally certain their appearance here was not to inquire about his health.

“You’ve heard about the ruling?” Vika asked.

Pollard nodded. “The question is, can it be overturned?”

Uninvited, Vika and Demian moved farther into the room, and Pollard moved to stand by the fireplace, partly for warmth and in part because it encouraged the two
talishte
to keep their distance. Some of Reese’s get had made it clear that while they accepted the need for human collaborators, they considered them mere servants. Reese himself swung between treating Pollard as a valued partner and not hiding the fact that Pollard continued to exist at Reese’s sufferance. Pollard was unsure to which group his visitors belonged, and was not in the mood to take chances.

“Overturned?” Vika said. “Unlikely. The Elders aren’t in the habit of reconsidering their opinions.”

“But the Elders are not of one mind,” Demian added. “We hear that there is dissention among the lords. It’s said that the vote was very close, and several members of the council were not pleased with the outcome.”

Pollard gestured toward the two chairs that faced the fireplace, and the men sat down.

“Tell me.” Pollard leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

“The dealings of the Elders are not usually shared with mortals,” Vika replied.

Pollard scowled at him. “After serving your maker for as long as I have, I’m no longer completely mortal. And since you came to me, I assume there was a purpose. If I’m to serve my lord, I need information.”

Vika nodded. “Lord Reese has supporters among the Elders. We have heard that there is a schism among the Elders. Some would see the council disband entirely, believing it serves no purpose as the kingdom now stands.”

“Would that help or harm our cause?” Pollard asked. Court politics had been difficult enough to follow.
Talishte
politics was even more convoluted, especially when the grudges could stretch over centuries.

“Word has come to us from some of the old
talishte
that the fortress where Reese is imprisoned can be breached,” Demian said. “The Elder who serves as his jailer will not change his mind, but he cannot hope to stand against several of the other Elders if they make their move.”

“And will they?” Pollard challenged. He was tired and cold and his body ached from wounds that were not his own. He was having a bad day, and the two uninvited guests were first in line to bear the brunt of it. “From what I’ve seen of
talishte
politics, it’s every man for himself. Why would they bother?”

Vika chuckled. It was not a pleasant laugh. “Who’s to say that freeing Lord Reese would not be in the best interests of these Elders?” he asked. “Penhallow and the Wraith Lord have made enemies among some of the old ones with their support for McFadden. Their king making has stirred old anger.” He clucked his tongue. “The kind of king they would place on a throne would not align with our interests.”

Pollard swore. “Of course not. Penhallow likes giving mortals real power. He wants them to limit us. I don’t doubt that doesn’t sit well with the Elders.”

“Those with the power to attempt to free Lord Reese are biding their time,” Demian said. “The more that internal fighting weakens the mortal factions, the greater the likelihood our side will prevail.” He leveled a gaze at Pollard. “Your role in this is
to ensure that the other warlords are too weak to pose a danger to Lord Reese when he returns.”

“If you’d been paying attention, you would know that is exactly what I’ve been doing,” Pollard snapped. “I’ve set forces in motion that should set the other warlords at each other’s throats. It won’t be long.”

Vika nodded. “Very good.”

“Are Reese’s get in any shape to fight?” Pollard challenged. “I understood that damage to the maker harmed those he brought across.”

Demian looked uncomfortable, as if Pollard had ventured into something he did not wish to discuss. Vika merely nodded. “Our lord suffers greatly,” he said. “And those of us marked by him suffer with him, until he can be freed.” His pointed look made it clear that Vika knew exactly what kind of damage Reese’s imprisonment had caused for Pollard, and likely shared it.

He’s also got the
talishte
stamina to bear it
, Pollard thought darkly.
And while my bond with Reese has made me harder to kill, it’s not the same as full
talishte
strength
.

“What would you ask of me, to help you free Reese?” Pollard asked.

“Be ready,” Vika warned. “It would be good to weaken the mortal armies as much as possible, because if Lord Reese should succeed with his escape, it may plunge the
talishte
into civil war.”

W
E NEVER SAID WE WERE BATTLE MAGES,”
Carensa muttered. She pulled her cloak close around her. Guran and Jarle rode with her, along with three more mages, all of them handpicked to accompany the army. The rest of the mages remained at Rostivan’s Torsford headquarters to finish setting up the University.

Guran’s ability of far-sight was a classic battlefield skill and had recently been put to the test when he accompanied Rostivan to a parlay with the other warlords. Jarle could manipulate objects at a distance. Carensa’s ability to translate might be useful. Holgir, a big man with the soulful look of a poet, was a weather mage, though his skill lay more with predicting storms than causing or stopping them. Tall, skinny Dag was good with illusion. Gunvar was an enhancer, able to strengthen the magic of those around him. Carensa could not fault Rostivan’s choices, though she heartily wished she had not been among those selected.

“A copper for your thoughts,” Guran asked.

Carensa mustered up a halfhearted smile. “Trying not to
think about what it is we’re supposed to do when we get to where we’re going.”

Each of the mages wore a cuirass. Carensa had two wicked-looking knives. Dag carried a sword, and looked as if he knew how to use it. Jarle and Guran both had long, curved knives. Gunvar carried a bow and a slingshot. Holgir’s ax was strapped to his saddle. Even so, Carensa hoped they were as far as possible from the actual fighting.

“Rostivan assured us that we won’t be riding into battle,” Guran said.

Jarle fixed Guran with a look. “You mean, Quintrel directed Rostivan not to take us into the fight.” Rostivan wore the amulet Quintrel had given him, one Quintrel had promised the warlord assured success in battle and personal protection. And for as long as the
divi
in Quintrel’s corrupted artifact found Rostivan useful, those promises were probably true, Carensa thought. In the meantime, she and the other mages were Quintrel’s spies, sent to make sure Rostivan did not try to remove the amulet or change the agreement.

“What would happen, if someone removed a charm like that?” Carensa asked, being intentionally vague in her phrasing. She glanced around to make sure none of the others were listening.

“It can’t be removed—without consequences—unless the
divi
lets go,” Guran replied quietly.

“What kind of consequences?”

“Dire ones.”

Carensa shivered, and returned to the original topic. “Rostivan may not intend to take us to the battle, but the fighting may bring itself to us,” Carensa replied. She paused. “Do you know anything about the Arkala twins?”

“I’ve heard a little,” Gunvar replied. “No idea whether it’s true. I heard they were traders, maybe smugglers, before the war. Supplying weapons to both sides, and making a handsome profit.”

“Stands to reason that they might become warlords,” Jarle replied. “But are they looking to expand their territory, or just hold on to their land? Because Rostivan definitely wants to own as much of northern Donderath as he can get.”

It seemed to Carensa that they had barely set up their tent when Rostivan strode through the entrance, followed by a lieutenant.

“The troops move out at daybreak. I’ll expect you to be awake before then, and ready,” Rostivan snapped. “I didn’t bring you out here for you to sit on your asses. Quintrel promised me you could help me win battles.”

“What exactly are you expecting of us?” Jarle asked.

Rostivan glowered at him. “Scrying, for one thing. I want to know where the Arkalas are before we strike. They’re like rats, always scurrying out of reach.”

Up close, Rostivan was even more imposing than what Carensa had viewed from afar. He was taller than any of the mages except for Holgir, broad-shouldered and strong. His face bore the scars of old pox, and one ear was missing a chunk, like an alley cat who had been in too many fights to count. Rostivan had a cunning look, and a hard set to his chin.

“Where do you want me to look?” Guran asked.

Rostivan glared at him. “Tell me where the Arkalas’ troops are, how far away. I want to know how many tents in his camp, how large a force, anything at all that might give us an advantage.”

Guran completed the warding and walked over to the scrying bowl. He closed his eyes, whispering his words of focus.
Then he opened his eyes and leaned forward, staring intently into the still water of the bowl. No one spoke. Even Rostivan watched with cautious interest. Carensa could glimpse fleeting images in the water, but scrying was not her gift.

After a time, Guran stood and turned toward Rostivan. “There is a large encampment. I saw a field of tents, and many men on horseback.”

“Can you tell the size of their troop strength?” Rostivan interrupted impatiently.

Guran shook his head. “No, but from what I saw, our forces appear well matched.”

Rostivan frowned, obviously unhappy with the vagueness of Guran’s answer. “What else?”

“I saw what might be catapults, but I can’t be certain,” Guran replied. “It doesn’t work like a telescope.”

Rostivan’s features darkened. “Then try again. I need to know what we’re going up against.”

Guran met Rostivan’s gaze. “I can try again, but there is no guarantee that I’ll see anything more than I saw before. Magic isn’t precise.”

“You’ve given me no more than I could get from a scout,” Rostivan growled. “Quintrel promised me that you could provide me with superior information.”

Guran bent over the scrying bowl once again. This time, Gunvar stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder, enhancing the magic. The water grew darker, like spilled ink. Carensa saw fear on Gunvar’s face, and he lifted his hand from Guran’s shoulder, breaking their connection. Still, Guran stared into the bowl, entranced.

Guran suddenly straightened and began to speak in a clipped, guttural language that was not the common tongue of Donderath.

“What’s he saying?” Rostivan demanded.

Carensa let her magic flow toward Guran. “It’s a warning,” she said. “From the Arkalas. They warn us to leave now, before we die.”

Gunvar reached over and tipped the edge of the scrying bowl, breaking the connection. Guran slumped to the floor.

Rostivan’s expression hardened into determination. “I’m not going to let those upstarts get the better of us. Be ready to ride at dawn.” He swept from the tent, with the lieutenant a step behind.

Gunvar laid Guran out on the floor. “How is he?” Carensa asked.

Guran gave a low moan. “I feel like someone has been poking at my brain with a pike,” he muttered.

“We’ve got to be careful,” Jarle said. “The Arkalas have strong mages, too. And like it or not, we’re now enemy targets.”

“Are the Arkalas waiting for us?” Jarle asked as the mages climbed to their hilltop outpost overlooking the battlefield.

“They know we’re coming,” Guran said. “Their mages have been watching.”

Their equipment was simple: a lightweight folding table for a workspace, and the implements and artifacts they had been willing to carry in their packs. Five soldiers made the journey with them. At the top of the hill, the soldiers gathered large stones for archers’ blinds.

Dag warded the top of the hill with sage and salt. He spoke to the winds at the four quarters, and set an illusion that made it easier to look away from the hilltop than to see it clearly.

“I’m not sure what good I can do,” Carensa fretted. “Not much chance for needing a translation up here.”

Jarle shrugged. “Count yourself lucky.”

Carensa found a place to stand near the crest of the hilltop beside a large oak tree. In the valley, the two forces arrayed against each other. The land between their hilltop and the Arkalas’ camp was fairly flat, with the Arkala camp to the north and by a wide creek to the west. Tall grass and scrub bushes covered the ground, dry and brown from the winter. The snow was gone, but the ground was frozen solid.

Dag walked over. “Learn anything?”

Carensa nodded. “Look at the camp. I don’t think the Arkalas intended to dig in and make it a permanent holding. There aren’t many buildings, no stables or large corrals.” In the distance, Carensa heard the sound of trumpets. “It’s starting.”

Jarle had moved to the edge of the warding. He looked out over the battlefield, selecting his targets. “Let’s see what I can do,” he murmured.

Jarle concentrated on a stand of trees that lined the road between the enemy camp and the battlefront. He held out one hand, palm open, his face tight with focus. He made a sudden fist, then wrested his hand to the side, and four large trees fell across the roadway just as a contingent of soldiers passed beneath them.

“Got them.”

Holgir was watching the sky. “There’s a storm coming, and it’s not changing course. We’d best be done by the time it hits.”

Guran had his scrying bowl in front of him. “No additional troops headed this way,” he reported. “That may mean Lysander isn’t going to meddle.” He paused. “Rostivan’s wearing the amulet. I can sense the
divi
’s power, even at this distance.” He swore under his breath. “Plenty of men will die today, but it won’t be Rostivan.”

Jarle closed his fist again and splintered a small bridge
between the Arkalas’ camp and the battlefield. That would force the men and horses to ford the wide creek, leaving them vulnerable to Rostivan’s archers. Jarle’s look of triumph made Carensa think he was enjoying his role far too much.

A sudden violent stomach cramp sent Carensa to her knees. Guran and the others dropped to the ground, too, holding their arms across their bellies, rolling in pain.

Gunvar reached out to lay a hand on Dag. “Can you repel it?” he asked, his voice tight. “I can give you strength.”

Dag looked dangerously pale, his features taut with pain, but he nodded, and drew a shuddering breath. A few seconds later, the pain subsided. “I strengthened the wardings,” he said. “That should hold them out.”

Carensa gasped for breath, rolling over onto her side and trying to muster the strength to stand. “Jarle,” Carensa said, “can you tell where the Arkalas’ mages are?”

Jarle scanned the horizon. “There,” he said, pointing. “That stone building.” He smiled. “Let’s see what mischief can be made.” He stretched out his magic, concentrated, and clenched his fist. A cloud of dust rose where the building had been. “They may need to find another location,” Jarle commented.

A moment later, a burst of power sent a tremor through the hilltop. Carensa staggered to keep her footing.

“Can you hold the warding?” Carensa asked Dag.

Dag shrugged, deep in concentration. Below on the battlefield, it was difficult to figure out who might be winning.

“Time to strike back,” Jarle muttered.

“Wait!” Carensa said. She pointed to the battle below. “I think their mages are trying to distract us from the real issue. Look—the Arkalas have Rostivan’s troops at a standstill.”

Jarle set his jaw. “Let’s see if we can kick up a little dust.”

“First, the catapult,” Jarle said. The catapult’s shaft splintered, sending its load of rocks and debris down onto the soldiers at its base.

“One down,” Jarle muttered. A few moments later, the second war machine lay in ruins. Jarle staggered. Gunvar and Carensa helped him sit down.

“The farther the object, the more energy it takes,” Jarle replied. “I don’t think I’d still be able to do this if Gunvar weren’t helping.”

Carensa looked out across the battlefield. The lines of fighting surged and fell back. Bodies littered the field, which had had grown dark with blood, yet neither side had scored a decisive blow. The afternoon was far spent, and the shadows were lengthening.

“If Rostivan is to win, he must win before the night is through,” Guran said, breaking the silence. He was bent over his scrying bowl, deep in concentration. “I see the tide turning if the battle continues until morning. If that occurs, Rostivan will lose.”

Carensa stared out across the battlefield. The wind had picked up out of the south, blowing toward the enemy camp. It swept across the land, bending the grass that had not been trampled in the fighting. She turned to Jarle.

“Fire,” she said. “Can you catch the grass on fire just behind the Arkala troops?”

Jarle stared at her. “If the wind shifts, our men will burn!”

Holgir shook his head. “It won’t—not anytime soon. The storm is coming up from the south.”

“I think the storm is the key,” Carensa explained. “If it hits before Rostivan strikes a decisive blow, the Arkalas will somehow turn that to their advantage. But if we could start a fire
behind their lines, the winds would carry it toward their camp. That would pull their mages off whatever they’re doing with the battle, and trap the soldiers between Rostivan’s line and the flames. The bridge is out on the creek, so they can’t go in that direction to escape. Rostivan could bottle them up.”

Jarle nodded. “It could work.”

She looked to Guran. “You can get a message to Quintrel through the crystal, can’t you?” she asked. Guran nodded. “Can you ask him to nudge Rostivan to begin moving his troops to squeeze the Arkala soldiers between the camp and the stream?”