Shadowstorm (23 page)

Meanwhile, he would send Abelar Corrinthal a message.

Mennick nodded at the explanation. “As you say.”

“Dispel this invisibility when I land.”

Reht descended, called out to Mennick to indicate that he was earthbound, and Mennick uttered a single word of power. A tingle in Reht’s flesh signaled the end of the invisibility spell. He heard Mennick hurriedly recast the spell on himself as Reht crept back to his men.

When he reached them, he said, “Gear up. We go as soon as all are ready. Most of them are asleep. We hit hard.”

The men snapped to it, checked straps, buckles, and weapons. They had been eager for a fight since leaving Ordulin. Reht said to Vors, “We need to get through the gate quickly. What can you do?”

“Blast it from its hinges,” Vors answered with a grin. “Leave it to me.”

Battle always excited the war priest. He thumped axe to shield, whirled, and paced through the men, growling at them to move quickly.

To the rest of the men, Reht said, “Vors will get the gate down. Dist and his men—take the eight gate guards. Zerton, Ethril, and Dant—take squads to the barracks.”

“Where on the grounds is the barracks, Reht?” Zerton asked. The heavyset warrior was one of Reht’s most reliable sergeants.

“Mennick will light it up,” Reht answered. “There will be no missing it. Thirty men inside, maybe more.”

Zerton and Dant nodded.

Ethril said, “Thirty men who will be leaping from windows while their beds burn.”

“And getting not much farther,” Zerton said, tightening a buckle on his breastplate.

“Aye, that,” many said, and others chuckled.

“House guards,” a few said with contempt.

Reht said, “Vors, me, and Norsim’s men have the house.” He fixed a hard look on Vors and Norsim, a tall, thin sergeant whose luck with dice was legendary among the men. “The Corrinthal boy is four winters in age and was born an idiot. He looks it. He comes out alive. But no one else does. Understood?”

Vors growled acquiescence. Norsim nodded.

“Mount up, men.”

Leather creaked and mail chinked as men climbed into the saddle. The horses snorted, sensing the tension of their riders. Reht donned his helm, drew his blade. His men did likewise.

“Under cover of silence,” Reht said to Vors. “Until we get close.”

“I must be able to speak aloud for the Destroyer’s power to break the gate.”

“Silence until we get close,” Reht reiterated. “Then cast your spell.”

Vors glared but did as he was ordered. The war priest held aloft his shield, adorned with the lightning bolt of Talos, and asked for the Destroyer’s blessing in the coming battle. The image of the lightning bolt flared for a moment and even Reht felt a warm surge in his gut. Vors intoned another spell and put a calloused hand roughly on Reht’s shoulder. Reht’s curse at the priest died in the magical silence, so he instead shoved Vors’s arm away. The priest grinned.

Sound could not be made within the sphere of magic that radiated from Reht for eight or nine paces. Vors fell in toward the rear of the men, outside the area of the silence, and intoned a second such spell, though Reht could not hear it. The war priest put his hand on Dist, and returned to Reht’s side.

All eyes were on Reht. He turned his mount, the silence ponderous. He put his heels into her and led his force toward the Corrinthal estate.

Signaling with his hands, he ordered the men into a five-wide column, organized by squads. He increased speed to a hard gallop. The wind stirred his cloak. The ground shook under

the horses’ hooves but the spells of silence killed the noise. The lighted gate of the Corrinthal estate lay just ahead. He and his men charged across the grass, bearing down on it.

A tiny ball of flame traced a thin orange line from a point over their heads toward the barracks, invisible behind the Corrinthal walls. It exploded into a towering plume of flame and smoke, and lit up the night.

Reht could only imagine the shouts of alarm. The light from the fire framed the gates. He saw the silhouettes of the guards leaping to their feet and looking back on the flames, pointing. They did not yet see Reht’s men approaching.

Vors made a cutting motion with, his hand and the silence spells ended. The thunder of hooves and the rush of the wind overwhelmed all sounds coming from the estate, save the bleat of an alarm horn. Vors ducked low in the saddle as they neared the gate, which was still closed.

The guards saw them, shouted, pointed. One leveled a crossbow.

“Do whatever you intend to do, priest! Now!”

Vors shouted out the words to a spell and held his shield before him. A visible wave of destructive force went forth from it. It hit the crossbowman, shattered his weapon, and rolled toward the gate, splintering wood, twisting metal, and opening the way. The men charged onward.

Vors split the head of the crossbow-armed guardsman with his axe, and Reht rode down another as he lunged from the gatehouse and slashed with his blade. The men of the company shouted battle cries and rode over the downed gates. The clang of metal and shout of combat sounded in their wake as Dist and his men, rearmost in the formation, engaged the surviving gate guards.

Reht, Vors, Norsim, and the rest of Norsim’s squad rode hard for the Corrinthal house. Shutters flew open and sleepy faces showed in the windows, shouting with surprise and alarm.

The rising flames from the burning barracks cast the estate in

livid orange light. Mennick had aimed his spell well—the front of the building was ablaze, blocking the doors. Men crawled out of windows, unarmored and unarmed, coughing. A few ducked out a back door and gathered at the rear.

“Move,” shouted Reht, and pointed at the building. “They’re assembling in the rear of the barracks.”

He need not have uttered the order. Thirty of his men were already thundering for the barracks.

“And ware crossbowmen in the village,” he shouted after them, but did not know if anyone heard.

Reht, Vors, and Norsim’s squad leaped the low stone wall before the Corrinthal manse and charged toward the doors. They swung out of their saddles and bounded up the porch for the large double doors. A wooden symbol hung above the doorway—a rising sun over a rose. Vors split it with his axe.

“You, you, and you,” Reht said, indicating Norsim and two others. “Get around back and watch the doors, windows, and cellars. No one escapes.” He looked back at the gates to see Dist cut down the last of the gate guards. “Half of Dists men are to assist. The rest to the village.”

Shouting and the noise of scattered combats sounded from all around the grounds. Norsim called for Dist while the other two men started to sprint around the porch toward the back of the house.

Without warning, a column of flame engulfed Reht, Vors, Norsim, and the men around them. The flash of searing heat and blast of explosive force blew Reht onto his back. He found himself staring up at the sky, dazed, his face charred, his armor smoking. He heard moans around him, the smell of burning flesh. The porch posts had caught fire. It would soon spread to the roof.

“This house is favored of the Morninglord,” said a hard voice. “And those are his flames.”

Reht looked up to see a towering bearded man in a hastily donned breastplate enameled with the rose of Lathander. Other

than the armor, he wore only a nightshirt and boots. He held a large flanged mace in a two-handed grip.

In stride, the man crushed the skull of one of Reht’s downed men. Blood spattered mace and man. The violence returned Reht to his wits. He rolled over, grabbed his sword, and pulled himself to his knees.

The man raised his mace to kill another, but lightning from the sky slammed into his chest and drove him against the wall of the manse.

Mennick.

The priest of Lathander, the rose enameled on his breastplate blackened, sagged to the porch, unmoving.

Vors climbed to his feet, his long hair and beard singed, his face blistered. He roared and drove his axe into the priest’s chest.

“Up,” Reht said to his men, and stood. “Give them no time to organize a defense.”

All but two of his men got to their feet. All showed burns, but were hale enough to fight. The two downed men were dead, their exposed flesh as black as seared meat. Reht put them from his mind. He felt the burned flesh on his face and hands. He would have scars, but the pain was tolerable.

Trusting in Norsim and Dist to secure the exterior of the manse, Reht and Vors and a handful of others kicked in the double doors and entered the foyer.

Two guards in the Corrinthal horse-and-sun, each armed with a short spear, charged from the hall beyond and lunged at them. “Die, dog!” yelled the nearer guard.

Reht’s shield turned the taller guard’s spear point and knocked him off balance. Reht drove his blade into the guard’s abdomen and up under his ribcage. The man dropped his spear and fell to his knees, eyes wide, trying to plug the hole in his abdomen with his hands. Reht kicked him to the floor to die.

Vors dodged the stab of the second guard and chopped downward with his axe, cutting the point from the spear and

leaving the man with only a wooden haft.

Howling with battle madness, the war priest rushed the guard, drove him backward, pinned him against the wall, and head-butted him in the face. The guard’s nose exploded blood and he sagged to the ground. Vors took his spear haft.

Boot stomps and shouts sounded from further within the manse. “More coming,” said one of Reht’s men.

Another explosion from outside rocked the house.

Vors grabbed the stunned guard by his long brown hair and shook him until the pain focused the man’s eyes.

“The Corrinthal scion,” Reht said to him.

Vors shook him by the hair. “Lie and you die.”

The man’s eyes flicked toward the wide, curving stairway visible in the room immediately beyond.

“You get nothing from me,” the man said.

Vors circled around him and strangled the man with his own spear haft.

“Upstairs,” Reht said, bounding forward. “I lead.” <§>Ś ŚŠ•

Shouts and screams pulled Kaesa from sleep. A boom sounded and the entire house seemed to shake. Clad only in a nightdress, she jumped from her bed, heart racing, and threw open the shutters of her small, second floor bedroom. She gasped at what she saw.

Flames from the burning barracks painted the sky orange. She could feel the heat even across the distance. Mounted men attacked the house guards as they escaped the flames through the barracks windows. Lots of mounted men.

“Lathander preserve us,” she whispered.

Where was Mriistin? Lemdin the house mage? What was happening?

Her heart beat so hard against her ribs that she could not easily breathe. Shouts sounded from within the house and

pulled her around. She heard the stomp of boots and shouted orders outside her door. Terror held her immobile. She fought for breath.

Her door flew open and she screamed.

Erthim stood in the door. Her Erthim. He held a bare blade and shield. He wore a shirt of mail but not his breastplate. Kaesa saw figures behind him but could not make out their faces. His men, she assumed.

She ran to him. “Erthim!”

“Kaesa,” he said, his tone relieved.

He embraced her tightly but steered her away from the door. Wrapped in his strong arms, she allowed herself to think that all would be well.

“What is happening, Erthim?” she asked.

Shouts sounded from downstairs. Hostile shouts. She heard the ring of blades.

“Is that from the foyer?”

He held her at arm’s length and spoke urgently. “Don a cloak and boots. Gather Elden and go out the back of the manor. Do not stop no matter what you see or hear. Do not try to get a mount. The stables are too far. Go on foot and try to get to the stag woods. Hide there until this is past.”

She shook her head. She could not leave him, the manse. She started to speak but he cut her off. “Do as I say, Kaesa. Now. Do it for Master Corrinthal. We owe that to him.”

Someone in the foyer screamed with pain. A wild shout followed it, more animal than man. Erthim did not turn around. His hands were tight on her shoulders. Tears formed in her eyes but she nodded.

“Take your dagger. Do not let them take you or Elden.”

That brought her up short. “What?”

More combat from downstairs.

“They will… do things to him, Kaesa. He is Lord Corrinthal’s son. Nod if you understand.”

She stared into his eyes, nodded.

“I will come when I can.” He embraced her again, hard. “I love you, Kaesa.”

He released her, turned, and shut her door behind him without looking back. She heard him barking orders to his men.

She and Erthim had been courting for two months. He would have been her husband. She had not kissed him goodbye. She had not told him she loved him. She started for the door, stopped. He knew she loved him. He had to know.

Crying, she gathered her cloak, her shoes, the dagger she kept in a small sheath near her bedside. Her tears dotted the wooden floor as she moved about. Light from the burning barracks lit the room in flickering orange. The sounds of combat grew louder outside her room. It sounded as if the attackers were on the stairs. More shouts sounded from the grounds outside.

She kept as calm as she could. She had everything she needed. She ran through a side door, down the hall, and into the small room near hers where Elden slept when his father was away.

She opened the door to find his shutters open and the room bathed in the light of the barracks fire. She scanned the room, saw his bed, the side table, the wooden toys carved like horses, but she did not see him.

“Elden?” she hissed from the doorway.

She heard a soft moan and saw the pile of furs on his bed stir. She hurried across the room and gently lifted the covers.

He was curled up in the bed, eyes squeezed shut, arms around the tiny brown puppy he fancied from Dors’s litter. He was humming to himself, as he often did when frightened.

“Elden,” she said softly, and touched his leg. “It’s Kaesa.”

She felt his body release some of its tension but he did not open his eyes.