War of Shadows (48 page)

Only then did Pollard realize that another, more dangerous enemy had arisen.

Heavy fog rolled in fast, blanketing the courtyard so thickly that Pollard could not see his boots. The day’s weather had been cold, threatening snow, with no swing in temperature to
cause the mist. The fog felt sticky, yet cold enough that Pollard wondered how it had not frozen. There was no wind, yet the fog moved swiftly, as if driven by a gale. The air took on an oppressive weight, and the cold went straight to the bone. Pollard fought off a shiver, aware that fear, more than frost, had set his teeth to chattering.

Figures were rising out of the center of the fog. Pollard could not be certain, as the mist billowed and roiled, whether it was one face, eyeing them maliciously, or many. At first, the fog was like a sheet of muslin, stretched tight over a corpse’s face, rendering features hidden and distorted. Then the fog folded in on itself, and it seemed to Pollard that ranks of shadowed figures walked just hidden within the fog, blurred and insubstantial but no less real.

The fog was rising. It was up to the soldiers’ chests, like a swelling tide, and Pollard heard muttering and curses among his men. Voss’s fighters had withdrawn for the moment, making Pollard even more suspicious.

“Mages! We need light!” Pollard shouted, readying his sword should an enemy charge from the mist.

Obligingly, a glare of blindingly white light bathed the courtyard, and for a moment, Pollard and the others could see the shapes more clearly despite the fog, like figures backlit behind a scrim. Whatever walked toward them out of the mist was not human, or at least, was human no longer. Elongated arms with clawlike fingers hung at their sides, and their loose-limbed legs sauntered with the feral assurance of a big cat stalking its prey. Something about the heads was wrong, misshapen, with lantern jaws that could hold long, sharp teeth. Worse, in the glimpse they got of the fog figures, they looked distressingly solid, more so with every step they took, though it seemed to take them a while to emerge.

As if they’re coming from a long way
, Pollard thought.
As if they’ve walked here from the Unseen Realm itself
.

Something deep in Pollard’s bones screamed for him to run. He started into the fog, terrified and curious, wondering whether the mage-warrior Knights of Esthrane had woken from their daytime slumber to somehow raise the dead. A disquieting thought occurred to him.

The Wraith Lord was cursed to walk the Unseen Realm. If he could cross that void, perhaps he could open the door for others to follow him…

“Retreat!” Hennoch’s voice carried through the fog. “Fall back!”

Pollard felt a guilty rush of shame in the relief that flooded him, just for an instant, as he echoed the call. The things in the fog slowed their advance, as if giving the attackers one last chance at self-preservation.

Voss’s soldiers had no such reserve.

Roaring like wild beasts, wide-eyed as berserkers, Voss’s mercenaries came out screaming from the edges of the fog. Even they were careful not to slip among the shadow beings in the mist. Whether these were fresh soldiers or whether they had just taken new courage in the pause, Pollard did not know, but the mercenaries swept forward with savage purpose, battle axes and war hammers replacing their swords.

Pollard’s soldiers fled, with Hennoch’s men hard on their heels. Voss’s soldiers ran fast enough to cut down stragglers from the rear lines, harrying them well past the boundaries of the Mirdalur walls. Those whose mounts awaited them nearly flew into their saddles before setting their heels to the horses’ sides, while the foot soldiers ran for their lives.

Voss’s men left off their pursuit at the edge of the forest, sending them on their way with catcalls and jeers, infuriating
laughter and insults. The fog did not rest. Tendrils of heavy fog slunk around the horses’ hooves, and wound in and out of the trees. Shadows moved in the fog, allowing disquieting glimpses from time to time, as if the ghosts of Mirdalur had taken it upon themselves to form an ethereal escort, to assure that none of the soldiers would double back to resume the fight.

There was little chance of that, Pollard thought bitterly. Their fleeing soldiers nearly outpaced the horses, which were unusually jittery and ill-tempered. The retreating army soon learned to keep to the center of the forest road after wisps of the fog spooked their horses. The horses bucked and sent their riders flying, landing in the hedgerow with broken bones and snapped necks.

Maybe the Wraith Lord means to hunt us down a few at a time
, Pollard thought, aware that he gripped his reins white-knuckled. Inside, he was torn between shame at having run and resignation, aware that a seasoned soldier knows when to retreat to fight another day.

Fog made the forest miserably cold and damp, and it seemed to Pollard that the shadows were unnaturally dark for midday. It was as if the sunlight could not penetrate the branches, though Pollard had ridden this way many times in daylight and found nothing strange.

The road broadened when they emerged from the forest, and the fog hung back, its duty completed. Hennoch’s men put on a burst of speed when the bright daylight came into view, riding at a gallop or running full-out to get out of the shadows and into the cold, clear light of day.

Pollard turned as he reached the crest of a small rise, and looked back at the forest. The fog lingered, stretching along the edge of the forest and filling the road as if to block it. No natural fog moved like that, confirming the certainty of every
primal sense. Pollard did not know whether the fog could project emotions, whether it tinkered with their minds, but when he spurred his mount and rode down the other side of the rise, losing the forest to view, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders and the light, somehow, seemed brighter.

For a long time, the army rode in silence. None of the soldiers seemed disposed to the usual banter or bawdy comments, their way to celebrate a victory or take the sting from a defeat. The retreat hung heavily on all of them. Pollard brooded, steeping in self-recrimination and loathing as he rode. His wounds made it agonizing to ride or move, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. Blood tinged the hem of the shirt he wore under his cuirass, not from battle damage but from the sore, and from where his skin was rubbed raw with the lesions. Cursing under his breath, he gritted his teeth and spurred his horse to catch up to Hennoch, who was near the front of the group.

“What now?” Hennoch asked, not making eye contact as Pollard joined him.

“We regroup,” Pollard replied, having already replayed this conversation a dozen times in his mind before he rode forward.

“Against that?” Hennoch asked in disbelief. “I can lead an army against men. I can rally troops against
talishte
, though it’s a suicide cause. But something powerful called those spirits, and it was too damn much for us to handle.”

Pollard could hear the fear in Hennoch’s voice, and recognized it as his own. Yet it would not do to allow his liegeman to see that. “There’s always a way,” Pollard said, voice rough with courage he did not feel. “
Talishte
aren’t invincible and neither are mages.”

“They don’t have to be invincible,” Hennoch replied. “They only have to be stronger than we are.”

It was evening by the time they reached Solsiden, weary and defeated. Pollard did not look forward to recounting the
day’s misadventure to Lysander, and his temper flared at the expected humiliation of having been assigned an objective and failing to achieve it.

Pollard felt his spirits lift, just a bit, as they rode up to the front of the manor house. Despite everything else, he was home. His clothes were bloody from the fight and dirty from the road. Muscles and joints ached from the pounding of battle and the interminable ride, sorer than they should be from the fight alone. His proxy wounds were taking a steep toll, and it would likely be some time before he recovered enough to fight again. Worse, his battle wounds were serious enough to require the attention of a healer, and he loathed revealing his weakness. Most of all, Pollard wanted to pour himself some brandy and nurse his grievances in solitude.

Hennoch and his troops veered off before they neared the manor, returning to their camp. The mages went with them. Nilo accompanied Pollard to Solsiden, along with his personal guard.

“Was it the Wraith Lord, do you think, who summoned the fog spirits?” Nilo asked, now that they had some privacy for the first time since the battle.

Pollard shrugged ill-temperedly. “Perhaps. Who knows? I never heard that any of the Knights of Esthrane were necromancers, but then again, they’ve hardly trumpeted their abilities for all to know.”

“What will you do about Lysander?” Nilo asked, undeterred by Pollard’s foul mood. He had weathered many of Pollard’s rages, and he met them all with an unflappable equanimity that got under Pollard’s skin all the more for its affability.

Pollard let out a string of curses until his temper was spent, then sighed and shrugged. “Damned if I know, Nilo. Things went wrong today. Perhaps mages can’t be conscripted, even
if they’re bound by the
kruvgaldur
to our
talishte
. Could they have done more to push back against those… things?” He shrugged once more. “Could they? Who knows. Perhaps.”

“Then again, if it really was the Wraith Lord who pried the gates of the Unseen Realm ajar, could anyone have stood against it?” Nilo countered.

“Humph,” Pollard said, unconvinced.

Nilo raised an eyebrow. “Look at it this way. There’s no glory in leading an army into slaughter for ego’s sake.”

Pollard glowered at him. “Perhaps not,” he admitted grudgingly.

Nilo let that go, perhaps realizing there was no good reply. But after a silence, Nilo slid a glance toward Pollard. “What of the wounds?” he asked.

Pollard took his meaning immediately. Nilo was not inquiring about the damage Pollard had taken in the battle: a few gashes and bruises that would heal. Pollard knew that Nilo meant the wounds he endured from Reese’s captivity, which had grown steadily worse.

“Not good,” he admitted. The wounds that mimicked his
talishte
master’s torture wore at his body and soul. It was impossible to move, to think, to sleep without them at the forefront of his mind. The skin lesions rubbed so against his tunic that without an undershirt of fine silk his skin was covered in a bloody sheen from even mild exertion. He was certain his shirt would be stuck to the blood when he retired for bed, after the action of the fight.

Worst of all was the sore on his chest. It ached to the bone with every breath. Pollard was certain that he would succumb to Reese’s wounds long before the fifty-year imprisonment was over, even if his master did not.

“I just want sufficient brandy for the pain and a night’s rest,” Pollard said, certain Nilo could hear the weariness in his voice.

They rounded the bend, and found Solsiden bright with lights. Pollard felt his temper flare. “Who would dare—” he started, but before he could finish his sentence, he knew.
Talishte
, he thought.
For some reason, the
talishte
have come. I would know if Reese ceased to exist. So the alternative
…

“What do you want me to do?” Nilo asked quietly. He had intended to stay the night at the manor. Kerr would have been expecting both of them after the battle, and made ready with dinner and whatever healing supplies were necessary. These new, unwelcome
talishte
intruders called for a change of plans, and until he knew what they wanted, Pollard decided to keep Nilo clear of his new “guests.”

“Go back to camp,” Pollard said as they slowed their horses to a halt just beyond the manor wall. “I’ll send for you in the morning, once I know what’s going on.”

Nilo nodded. “Very well,” he said, turning his horse in the direction from which they had just come. “Good night.”

Pollard gave a curt nod in reply, but he was certain his night would be anything but good.

Warily, Pollard rode the rest of the way in silence, accompanied by his guards. At the front of the manor, he saw no horses tethered, yet footprints marked the light dusting of snow that had fallen in the last candlemark. A groom ran out to grab the reins to his horse as Pollard swung down from his saddle. An effort of will was required not to wince at the strain the movement put on his wounds.

“M’lord,” the groom said, rushing to his side. “Are you injured?”

“Not remarkably,” Pollard replied, doing his best to mask the limp from a wound to his leg. He was quite aware that he looked like he had come from battle, and under other circumstances, that might have made for a triumphant entrance.
Tonight, he wanted to wash away the taint of failure and the smell of blood before having to face an audience.

Realizing how unlikely he was to get his wish, Pollard squared his shoulders and handed off the reins without a backward glance, striding toward the house on sheer strength of will.

Kerr awaited him at the door, looking worried. “M’lord,” he said, taking in Pollard’s appearance. “Do you require a healer?”

“Later,” he replied. “Who’s here?”

Kerr looked abashed. “
Talishte
, sir. Lord Reese’s people, and they insisted that they be permitted to wait for your return.” His expression showed his disapproval. “I tried to convince them to delay until you had the opportunity to have a proper return from battle, but they can be quite obstinate.”

“We can be
very
obstinate, when we wish it.”

Pollard recognized the voice. Vasily Aslanov stood in the doorway to the parlor, looking as if he owned the place. Tall and slender, with a mane of blond hair that fell to his shoulders and sharp, ratlike features with cold, dark eyes, Aslanov was trouble. Pollard had heard Reese speak of him on several occasions with grudging admiration, a powerful
talishte
not of Reese’s get, and quite possibly one of the Elders. Pollard knew that while Aslanov and Reese had sometimes over the centuries been rivals, of late they had brokered a truce that occasionally found common rewards.