War of Shadows (44 page)

“Fall back!” Niklas ordered. Until the storm cleared, fighting would be folly, at least for mortals. The ghost soldiers had Rostivan’s troops in retreat, and evening would soon fall. Though it was technically spring, the days were still short and the weather wintry.

“Do you think the storm is mage-sent?” Ayers said, struggling out of the winds to appear near Niklas.

Niklas shrugged. “If we believe the mages, they say no one can do much to affect the weather now, between how the magic doesn’t work right yet and the reaction from what was done before.” The storm clouds made it difficult to gauge time, since the sky seemed dark enough for sunset. Niklas guessed that it was late afternoon, still too early to count on
talishte
help.

Ayers nodded. “Just wondering, that’s all. Can’t imagine we’ll see more fighting tonight, between the ghosts driving Rostivan’s men off and it soon being time for the
talishte
to rise.”

“That’s my thought,” Niklas agreed. “We’ll fall back to camp and prepare for tomorrow, with double guards on duty in case the snow stops and Rostivan plans a midnight raid.”

“Already working on it,” Ayers said with a grin. “And tonight, a hot cup of
fet
will taste mighty good. Damn, even cook’s stew will taste good, as long as it’s hot.”

“I rather fancied whiskey myself,” Niklas said. His arm ached where he had taken the injury, and the rest of his body let him know it had been hard used. Real luxury would be a steaming-hot bath, but there would be nothing like that unless he survived and returned to Glenreith. The thought of it made him smile.

“Mages have already asked to meet with us once camp is set,” Ayers reported.

Niklas nodded. “Very good. Saves me having to round them up. What else?”

“Trying to figure out how many we lost today,” Ayers replied. “A lot, but not as bad as it could be.”

“We’ll regroup with the mages, and the
talishte
when they rise, and figure out tomorrow’s strategy. I’ll send
talishte
messengers to Blaine with an update and see if that changes his orders for us.” Niklas gave a feral grin. “Maybe the
talishte
can even pay a nighttime visit to Rostivan’s folks, following up on the ghosts.”

Ayers chuckled. “I like the way you think.”

Camp was hurriedly pitched, just enough to hold the line and protect soldiers from the elements. The real camp was several miles away, back where they had begun. Niklas was not about to give up the land they had fought to take inch by bloody inch. And he was certain that despite the storm and the ghosts, Rostivan had withdrawn only as far as he had to, with the intent to regain ground lost as soon as possible.

Niklas’s tent when they were in the field was the same size as those of his soldiers. His only luxury was that unlike his men, Niklas had the tent to himself. A bedroll, a small brazier, and a trunk were all the goods he allowed himself for the forward camp, less to strike when circumstances required hasty action. Unlike his campaign tent, there was no table, no folding chairs, so his guests had to sit on the ground.

There was, however, a bottle of whiskey. Niklas passed it around for his guests to pour a finger or two into their tankards to warm the blood on such a cold night.

“What in Raka happened today?” Niklas asked. “What was magic, and what was dumb luck?”

His three senior mages—Rikard, Leiv, and Zaryae—sat facing him. Nemus remained outside, watching the magic for any
sign of an attack. Ayers was to his right, and Geir had arrived after nightfall with updates from Mirdalur and from the other front, where Blaine and his allies battled Lysander and the Tingur.

“Rikard and one of our younger mages can move objects from a distance,” Leiv said. “So they threw some fireballs and rocks, anything to cause a problem and spook the horses.”

“We had some large rocks thrown at us,” Niklas said, frowning.

Rikard raised his hands, palms out, to forestall blame. “Not us, although Quintrel’s mages may have copied, or had the same idea themselves. We made sure to work our mayhem a distance from our troops.”

“You can thank Zaryae for that,” Leiv said. “She’s got an amazing gift for far-sight.” He was a bookish fellow, more suited to copying manuscripts than serving on the front lines of a war, yet he had volunteered to accompany the troops without hesitation. He looked simultaneously frightened and amazed to be there. Straight, dark hair stuck out at angles beneath the hood of his robe, and his slightly crooked nose gave him a winsome appearance.

“Did one of you call the ghosts?” Niklas asked.

The three mages shook their heads. “No. But we knew they were coming.”

“Explain,” Niklas asked. He was tired and sore and cold, and his patience was at an end.

Zaryae frowned, pausing as she searched for words. “The dead are aware of the living,” she replied. “Not all spirits pass over to the Sea of Souls, or wander the Unseen Realm. Many remain here, for a variety of reasons. Some places are more haunted than others. This land,” she said, gesturing palm up to indicate the valley, “has seen warfare since men first came to the Continent.”

Zaryae’s expression was sad. “The ghosts watch and listen. Magic affects them. I can’t dismiss the possibility that the Wraith Lord may also have influence. Whatever the reason, they chose sides.”

“They drove Rostivan back,” Ayers said. “And they killed quite a few of his men. Can they do it again?”

Zaryae looked as if she were listening to something the rest of them could not hear. Then she shook her head. “No, at least, not on the same scale. They expended nearly all of their power today. It will take them quite a while to build it back up again.”

“It helped that one of the artifacts is a ghost portal,” Rikard said.

“A what?” Niklas snapped.

Rikard nodded patiently. “They aren’t common. I’d heard of them, but never seen one. It’s a rather plain-looking piece, like a lady’s hand mirror, only with the right magic it can open a door to the other side and make it easier for spirits to pass from that side into our side.”

Niklas felt a chill down his spine. “It’s secured?” He asked. “There may be less friendly ‘things’ waiting to get through.”

“We thought of that,” Leiv said. “And we have it sealed and guarded. That’s one of the reasons Nemus isn’t with us. He’s on watch.”

Niklas nodded. “Very well. Go on.”

“The ghosts aren’t pleased with Quintrel,” Zaryae said. She held up a hand to forestall protests. “I’m not a necromancer, and I can’t easily communicate with spirits. It’s more like I listen in to conversations I can’t help hearing.”

“Why?” Ayers asked. “What’s Quintrel done?”

Zaryae shrugged. “I’m not entirely certain, because the ghosts had no need to explain it to each other. But I gather that he has sacrificed men for magic, sent them to their deaths
needlessly. Those spirits are restless and angry. The dead talk among themselves. We may find them to be valuable allies, if the opportunity arises.”

“What of the
talishte
?” Niklas asked, looking at Geir.

Geir gave a quick recount of how the battle had fared for Blaine, the Solveigs, and Verner, and caught them up on the progress at Mirdalur. “So the chamber is ready, as soon as Blaine is able to bring his new Lords of the Blood,” he finished.

“Are Dolan and the others sure it’s safe?”

Geir gave a short, harsh laugh. “Safe? No working of this kind is safe. But everything the mages can find leads us to believe that if Blaine brings his twelve new Lords to the chamber, magic can be solidly anchored once more.”

Niklas sighed. “Sad when that’s the best we can get, but I imagine we’ll need to settle for it.”

“There’s a bit more news to tell,” Rikard said. “We’ve stumbled on some things you’ll want to hear.”

“Oh?” Niklas asked. The day had gone hard on him, and though the healers bound up his wounds and a good dinner along with a belt of whiskey took the edge off, he was exhausted.

“Leiv is a telepath,” Rikard said, and Leiv nodded in agreement. “It’s not a flamboyant magic, or one that’s easy to use in the press of battle, but important nonetheless.”

Niklas turned to Leiv, who seemed to shrink under scrutiny. “What did you learn?”

“I can’t throw fire or rocks,” Leiv began nervously, “but I can throw thoughts. That’s what I do. I can rummage about in other people’s heads, plant ideas, that sort of thing. So I spent most of today trying to find and attack Rostivan and his generals,” the mage said.

Niklas smiled. “I like what I’m hearing. Go on,” he encouraged.

“It’s difficult to pick the right people in such a crowd,” Leiv
said apologetically. “But I made enough contact to do a bit of damage. I planted the idea with some of Rostivan’s ranking men that you had dangerously powerful mages who could kill with their minds.”

Leiv’s cheeks colored. “A bit of an exaggeration, that. But I didn’t figure it would hurt to inspire a little fear.” He chuckled. “I touched their minds later, and everything that went wrong for them they figured we had hocused for them, whether we did or not.”

Ayers gave a sharp laugh. “I like the sound of that.”

Leiv nodded, gaining confidence. “Rostivan himself was difficult. He moved around a lot, and he’s got unusually high shields, which makes him hard to read. But I picked up something that I think is important.” He licked his lips. “Quintrel is controlling him with magic—dark magic.”

Niklas leaned forward, fully attentive. “Oh?”

“Quintrel has somehow bound a
divi
,” Geir answered. Everyone swiveled to look at him. “Dolan told us this when he returned from Valshoa.” He paused. “It’s an ancient spirit that never should have been summoned,” he added. “Quintrel thinks he’s controlling it, but odds are, the
divi
is riding Quintrel.”

“What does that have to do with Rostivan?” Niklas asked, confused.

“Rostivan doesn’t know he’s being controlled,” Leiv put in. “Quintrel’s given him something that lets the
divi
‘manage’ Rostivan’s thoughts and actions.” He met Niklas’s gaze. “That means that Quintrel is the power to be reckoned with, not Rostivan,” he said. “And from the glimmers I’ve picked up from Quintrel, you can count on him being insane.”

Niklas exchanged a glance with Ayers. “Well now,” he said. “That’s interesting.”

“We’re working on how to break the
divi
’s hold on Rostivan,”
Rikard said. “It’s possible that Quintrel has also used some of the
divi
’s power to put Lysander in thrall.” He shrugged. “We’ve heard rumors, of late, that conversations were had.” He shrugged. “It’s logical.”

“Can you do it?” Ayers asked, eyes bright with interest. “Can you disrupt whatever this
divi
-thing is doing?”

Rikard grimaced. “That’s the hard part. We’re working on it.
Divis
are old and powerful. They’re known for being slippery. We don’t have our manuscripts out here in the field, but we’re doing what we can.”

Niklas nodded. “Make it happen. If Rostivan finds out he’s been in thrall to Quintrel, we just might see them turn on each other, and wouldn’t that be a pretty picture?”

“There’s one more thing you need to know,” Zaryae said.

Something in her voice gave Niklas pause. He looked toward her, and met her gaze. “What?”

“I touched the minds of Rostivan’s mages,” Leiv said. “Just briefly.” He met Niklas’s gaze. “I picked up fear, distaste, and betrayal.”

“Betrayal?” Niklas asked, raising an eyebrow.

Leiv nodded. “If I’m right—and I only touched their minds for a moment—Rostivan’s mages are plotting against him. Perhaps even against Quintrel.”

“Are you sure?” Niklas asked.

Again, Leiv nodded. “Yes. I saw a conspiracy. Rostivan is being undermined. We need to be ready to seize the moment when it happens.”

“And hope that whoever’s behind the plot doesn’t have something worse in mind,” Niklas added.

W
ATCH YOURSELF! MORE
GRYPS
ARE COMING!”
Blaine shouted a warning to Piran and his men as the leather-winged predators circled their soldiers. The
gryps
shrieked, calling and answering to each other, skirling on the air currents as they sized up their prey. With wings that were easily as far across tip-to-tip as a tall man, sharp talons, and a beak meant for rending meat, the
gryps
were nightmare creatures left over from the wild-magic storms.

Blaine vowed that once he and his men had eliminated the
gryps
, he would happily slaughter the Tingur without a bit of remorse, just for having driven the vicious creatures at him and his troops.

He and Niklas had agreed before the battle that Niklas would lead one-half of the army against Rostivan and Quintrel, trying to shield Blaine from the worst of the effects of magic. Traher Voss’s soldiers added much-needed reinforcements. Blaine led the other half of his army, backed up by the armies of the Solveigs and Birgen Verner. So here they were, arrayed on a wide-open plain halfway between Glenreith and
the Solveigs’ holdings, facing down the largest army since King Merrill’s soldiers went to Meroven.

“Watch out for the claws—they’re poisoned!” Piran called out to the soldiers around them. Behind the front line, archers were readying their arrows. Thanks to Verran’s spying, Blaine had known in advance that the Tingur had managed to collect and use the creatures in their attacks. And because of Blaine’s previous run-ins with the beasts from the magic storms, he and his troops knew how to fight the things.

True to her word, Kestel rode with them. Since she was wearing the same dun-colored tunic and trews as the other soldiers, with her red hair bound up beneath a helm and her figure flattened by a hard leather cuirass, no one would be likely to give her a second look among the thousands of soldiers. That would be a mistake. Two bandoliers crossed her chest, each arrayed with dozens of dirks, throwing knives, and wicked circular blades. She wore two swords, and both a staff and a bow were lashed to her saddle along with a quiver filled with arrows and a covered bucket filled with pitch.

“We need those flaming arrows
now
!” Blaine shouted, fighting back the assault. Blaine could only guess how the Tingur managed to trap the
gryps
or tie heavy stone weights to their taloned feet, but he figured magic played a role. The weights were light enough that the
gryps
could still fly, and heavy enough to keep them near the ground where they could be ‘herded’ toward an enemy. From the bright glow coming from the Tingur line, Blaine bet the beasts had been prodded toward their objective with fire.

“Well then, we’re about to start prodding back,” he muttered.

One of the
gryps
dove at Blaine, grabbing for his shoulder with its sharp talons. He barely evaded a nasty slice, and
slashed with his sword, scoring a deep cut on the leathery talons. Foul-smelling ichor dripped from the wound. Steel glinted in the air, and one of Kestel’s knives buried itself hilt-deep in the
gryp
’s side, forcing the creature to draw back and limiting the use of one wing.

Blaine and Piran each carried lances with torch-like tips soaked in resin and burning brightly. They spurred their frightened horses onward, charging at the
gryps
with their flaming pikes. Normally, the
gryps
would have arced high into the sky to evade them, but slowed and anchored by the heavy stone weights, the winged predators had limited mobility.

“I guess the Tingur found a disposable front line of their own,” Piran muttered. Hobbled as the
gryps
were by the weights, killing them was easier than in the wild, though hardly without danger. But Piran was right: The only purpose for using the magicked beasts in battle was to wear down the enemy before the Tingur advanced, just as Lysander used the Tingur to protect his ‘real’ soldiers.

Blaine stabbed at the
gryp
with his lance, taking grim satisfaction at the way the beast screeched at the flames. The
gryp
flapped its wings madly. One of the foot soldiers dove for the heavy stone, anchoring the
gryp
further with his own weight.

“Get him, sir! I’ll hold him!” the soldier shouted, ducking to avoid the thing’s talons.

Lance in his left hand, anchored against his body, Blaine charged again, sword ready. Unable to fly, terrorized by the flames, the
gryp
tried and failed to snatch at the lance. Kestel sank two blades deep into the
gryp
’s body, one at the joint of its left wing and another in its belly.

Blaine stabbed the lance deep into the
gryp
’s gut, following through with a sword strike that tore its wing from top to bottom like a ruined sail. Pushed backward by the momentum of
Blaine’s horse, the
gryp
flailed, and the soldier beneath it threw the rope-wrapped stone, managing to tangle the
gryp
’s talons in its own ballast. The creature fell heavily to the ground as the lance’s fire burned it inside. The thing gave one last, earsplitting shriek and collapsed. Blaine made sure of its death by bringing his horse’s hooves down on its body, crunching bone.

“One down,” he muttered, though at least a half dozen more still filled the sky.

A foot soldier to the left of Blaine screamed as a
gryp
raked him with its talons, opening bloody gashes from shoulder to thigh. Another of the soldiers battled back one
gryp
only to have a second snatch him up with its razor-sharp claws, tearing into him with its beak.

Down the line,
gryps
flew at the soldiers with talons out and beaks jabbing. The heavy stone weights added to the
gryps’
deadly arsenal, since the panicked beasts gyred and swooped awkwardly, trailing the swinging stones as they went. The weight-stones toppled two hapless soldiers who could not scramble out of the way quickly enough, sending them sprawling in a spray of blood as the heavy stones connected with skull and bone.

“We’re losing men, and the real fighting hasn’t even started yet,” Blaine grumbled.

“I think that’s the point,” Piran responded.

Three flaming arrows soared into the air, over the injured soldier’s head. Two of the arrows ripped through the skin of the
gryp
’s wings, but the beast managed to twist enough to evade the third arrow. Volley after volley of flaming arrows filled the sky as the
gryps
beat their wings furiously to get away.

Crowing a victory cry, Piran copied what Blaine had done, charging at the
gryp
with his lance while a soldier secured the anchor. The battle cry echoed down the line as horsemen
leveled their flaming lances and rode for the
gryps
as foot soldiers in twos and threes ran to tackle the stone weights. The
gryps
shrieked and screamed, beating the air with their wings, but between the fiery pikes and the flaming arrows, the battle had turned. Blaine shook the ichor and soot from his vambraces and turned to survey the fighting. Kestel had slipped down from her horse, and was calmly retrieving as many of her blades from the fallen
gryps
as she could find, cleaning off the ichor on the dry grass.

“What in the name of Torven are those things?” a soldier near Blaine shouted in alarm. Beetle-like creatures the size of wild pigs skittered across the dry grass. Some of the beasts stopped long enough to rip flesh from the dying
gryps
, but the others, alerted to the presence of fresh prey by the soldiers’ movements, swarmed toward the advancing line. There were too many to count, but Blaine guessed that there had to be at least fifty of the things, and untrammeled by stone weights, the creatures moved much faster than the
gryps
had done.

“They’re
mestids
,” Blaine shouted. “And they hate fire as much as the
gryps
.”

“We’ve got more coming,” Piran yelled, pointing to the strip of land between their forces and the Tingur. “And there’s something else—are those
ranin
?”

“That’s sure what they look like,” Blaine said, refreshing the pitch and batting on his torch and lighting it afire. Kestel had swung up onto her horse once more, and was readying her bow with pitch-tipped arrows.

Pale, crab-like creatures scuttled among the
mestids
. If the
mestids
were the size of wild hogs, then the
ranin
were mastiff-sized, with oval bodies and bone-like carapaces. Six jointed legs clicked with every movement, tipped in sharp claws that looked as lethal as the
gryps’
talons. The
ranin
clattered their
way toward the soldiers nearly as fast as a trotting horse, slashing at the slower
mestids
with their jointed legs.

“There are too many of them, coming too fast,” one of the soldiers near Blaine shouted. Blaine looked down the line at the soldiers grimly braced for the onslaught, and a desperate idea formed.

“Light the grass!” Blaine shouted. “We want a line of fire! Do it!” Blaine used his flaming lance to catch the dry grass of the battlefield on fire, then he braced his lance like a pike behind the flames. Smoke rose in the cold air as the burning line spread down the front lines, and the archers shot one volley after another to rain fire down on the beasts. The clicking of the
ranin
’s carapaces and the clatter of the
mestids’
snapping claws and jointed legs filled the air.

The winter grasses caught quickly, and the fire spread rapidly. Confronted with a wall of flame, the
mestids
and
ranin
clattered to a halt, squawking and hissing. A gust of wind angled the flames toward them, and the creatures retreated, only to come into better range of the archers.

Piran sheathed his sword and grabbed the crossbow from his saddle. Down the line, Blaine spotted Borya and Desya doing the same, standing in their stirrups, taking aim.

The crossbow thudded, and a burning quarrel streaked through the air, catching one of the
mestids
at the jointed place where its front leg met its body. The arrow went deep, engulfing the
mestid
in fire. The insect-like creature screeched and scuttled backward, causing the other
mestids
and
ranin
to draw back from the flames. Already, its body was beginning to split with the heat, and an awful smell filled the air as the
mestid
exploded.

Another quarrel struck a
ranin
. The razor-sharp tip split the carapace and embedded itself deeply. Six legs flailed in vain as
flames hissed, engulfing it in fire. Crossbows were able to pierce the heavy exoskeletons, and for every
mestid
or
ranin
that was felled by the quarrels, two or three abandoned their attack to gorge themselves on the smoking remains of the creatures as soon as the flames were extinguished.

Scrambling up the dead bodies of its comrades, one of the
ranin
launched itself at Blaine, managing to get its body briefly airborne to avoid the flames. Kestel lobbed one of her circular knives, a blade with sharp teeth like a saw blade, and it ripped easily through the
ranin
’s shell, spraying the ground with ichor as the beast fell, its legs clawing and spasming.

The bowmen quickly realized that regular arrows could not penetrate the beasts’ natural armor, so they shot wave after wave of flaming arrows into the dry grass among the attackers, until the swath of land was engulfed in fire and the bitter, acrid smell of their burning flesh and shells filled the air with a choking haze of smoke.

Halted by the fire, panicked by the stench, the
mestids
and
ranin
ran. Flaming arrows pursued them until they were beyond archers’ range, sending the creatures back in a deadly wave toward the Tingur who had loosed them.

Blaine took grim satisfaction in hearing the screams and shouts of the Tingur as the tide of enraged creatures swarmed toward them. To the left, Blaine could see that the Solveig army had begun to hem in the Tingur, while Verner’s forces flanked them on the other side. As the fire burned out near Blaine’s front line, his troops advanced, and his archers continued shooting their fire-tipped arrows just behind the
mestids
and
ranin
, forcing them to overrun the Tingur. With nowhere to run, the Tingur had no choice except to battle their own monsters, aware that once the beasts had taken their toll, soldiers awaited to finish the job. Unprepared, without ready access to
fiery arrows or flaming pikes, the panic-stricken beasts caught up with the front line of Tingur as the rest fled for their lives.

“Lysander’s biding his time,” Blaine said as Piran rode up beside him. Piran’s clothing was torn and soot-streaked, and Blaine guessed he looked much the same.

Piran nodded. “This was just the warm-up. Too bad we can’t use the same tactic and have the Tingur turn on Lysander’s troops.”

“Something’s happening. Look,” Blaine said and pointed.