Shadowstorm

by Paul S. Kemp

  Abelar said, “Erevis Cale is an … ally of mine. He would have you with us, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” Nayan answered. “If so, he surely will tell us upon his return.”

  “Nayan …” Endren began, but Abelar held up a hand to halt his father’s words.

  “He is his own master,” Abelar said to Endren, then to Nayan, “I am disappointed. I need every fighting man I can get. But so be it. You may take horses, if you wish.”

  “And weapons,” Regg added.

  Nayan smiled. “We have no need for either.” He bowed to Endren, to Abelar, to Regg, and walked back to his men. The man moved with clockwork precision. Abelar began to understand how the shadowmen must fight. He had heard of men who killed as efficiently with their hands and knees as with steel.

  “Farewell, Nayan,” Abelar said.

  “Safe travels, men of shadow,” Endren called.

  Nayan inclined his head, the shadows around them deepened, and they were gone in a breath.

  The men and women of the Company burst out in discussion.

  “The Right Hand of Mask,” Abelar said, mostly to himself. “What else is this Erevis Cale?”

  Regg clapped him on the shoulder. “I do not know, but he saved your father. I find myself liking him more and more.”

  Endren studied Abelar’s battle-torn clothing. “We have tales to share, it seems. Events have moved quickly, yes? You spoke of battle in Saerb?”

  Abelar nodded. “Forrin leads an army there.”

  Endren’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed so much his gray brows touched.

  “Malkur Forrin the Butcher?”

  “Aye. The overmistress has named him to head her armies.”

  Endren cursed and shook his head. “She is ever more a fool. How far away from Saerb are we?”

  “Two days.”

  “How far from Saerb is Forrin?”

  “We do not know. I have no men to spare as spies, Father.”

  Endren cursed again, then looked up sharply, bushy eyebrows raised in a question. “Where is Elden, Abelar?”

  Abelar held his father’s gaze though he wanted to bow his head in shame. “Fairhaven. I left him there. I did not think—” He shook his head and looked away. He could say no more.

  Endren closed his eyes, inhaled, squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You left him to serve me. I am sorry. But you were right to leave him behind, Abelar. He is a child. If you had brought him to Ordulin, you would not have escaped after my arrest, and neither would he.”

  Abelar nodded, bolstered by his father’s words. He knew he had done the only thing he could, but it helped to hear another say it.

  Endren looked past them and called, “A mount and steel. Now.”

  Regg smiled at Abelar and repeated the call. “Trewe, a horse, a blade, and mail for Lord Corrinthal!”

  While they waited for the mount and gear, Abelar hurriedly briefed his father on their situation—the battle of two days earlier, the number of cavalry they expected in Forrin’s force. After he’d finished, Endren looked Abelar in the face. “You have carried our name well.” He nodded at Abelar’s holy symbol. “And his name, as well.”

  Abelar inclined his head, surprised at the praise. His father seldom offered it. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Trewe brought forth a white mare and Endren took the reins. For the first time, Abelar noticed that his father’s shield hand was severed at the wrist. “Your hand!”

  Regg, too, looked surprised. “Morning light,” he oathed.

  Endren eyed the stump and nodded. “I said we had tales to share. This was the price of slipping my chains.” He held up his sword hand. “But this one still holds a hilt well. And I can outride either of you, even with no hands.”

  Abelar smiled.

  “We know it to be so,” Regg said.

  Roen approached with a suit of mail and a blade.

  “Help me with the armor,” Endren said.

  Regg helped Endren into the armor and the elder Corrinthal belted on scabbard and sword.

  “I thought we’d not meet again, Endren,” Regg said. “I am pleased to have been wrong.”

  Endren adjusted the mail and put a hand on Regg’s shoulder. “I thought similarly. You have watched over my son in my absence. I am grateful.”

  Regg shook his head. “It is he who watches over me. Over all of us. And it is no mere man that watches over him, my lord.”

  “So you say,” Endren said.

  “Enough,” Abelar said, embarrassed.

  Endren’s eyes went to Regg’s holy symbol, to Abelar’s. Abelar knew his father worshiped many gods, and did not credit Lathander above the others.

  Endren asked Regg, “Your father is still in Saerb?”

  Regg nodded.

  “I have not seen Torar in many years,” Endren said.

  “He is in ill health,” Regg said, and Abelar heard the concern in his friend’s voice. Torar would not be able to flee easily when war came to him.

  Endren said, “Then for Elden and Torar’s sakes, let us hope the Morninglord continues to watch over my son. If he does, I will build him a new temple myself. Hear you that, Abelar?”

  Abelar smiled, nodded. “I hear it.”

  “Let us ride,” Endren said, and swung into the saddle.

  For two nights and a day of hard riding, Reht avoided the roads and traveled only between sunset and dawn. He did not want word to reach Saerb that his force was moving through the countryside. He presumed Lorgan would take the same precautions, though his course took him farther south of Saerb.

  During the daylight hours, Mennick cast an illusion that stayed until after sunset, and made any available copse of trees appear as a large and overgrown woods. Reht and his force of seventy hid within the illusion—unaffected by it, since they knew its origin and presence—and waited for night. From time to time, a horseman or donkey-drawn wagon would move past in the distance, but nothing to indicate that Saerb or its nobility expected an attack.

  Shortly after each sunset, Mennick touched each of the men with a wooden wand tipped with a fleck of chrysoberyl that granted them the ability to see like cats in the darkness. They traveled quietly but quickly and covered much ground.

  The breath of horses and men formed clouds in the chill night air. The moon hung low in the sky, lighting the tips of the distant Thunder Peaks. Stars lit the clear sky.

  Stands of pine and larch dotted the increasingly hilly, rocky terrain. Reht moved the force back onto the road for fear that traveling the rough land at night would lame a horse. He had only a handful of spare mounts.

  The sparsely inhabited Sembian northlands featured only an occasional hamlet built around this or that noble’s country estate. Reht and his men skirted them easily. The area seemed almost sleepy. An army would soon wake it up. “The hunting must be good here, eh?” he said to Mennick and Vors, who rode beside him.

  Mennick agreed. “Boar, I’d guess, given the scrub in these lowlands.”

  Vors said absently, “What does a dying man see in his last moments? When my axe splits his head, is his focus sharpened in that instant before death? Or does he perceive only dully what has happened?”

  “What?” Mennick asked, his tone puzzled. “We were discussing hunting.”

  Vors grinned. “So was I.”

  Reht stared contempt at the war priest for a moment before looking to Mennick. “Stags aplenty to go with your boars, I’d wager. There. Look.”

  He pointed to a small woods not far from the road. With his catlike vision, he saw a trio of deer—two does and a fawn—that had ventured out of the trees to forage in the grass.

  “No stag, though,” Mennick said.

  “He’s around,” Reht answered.

  Late in the second night, still half a league east of Saerb, with dawn a few hours away, they reached what Reht thought to be the Corrinthal estate, ranch, and pasture. He halted the men about a bowshot away, dismounted, and crept forward through the scrub and trees with Men
nick. The smell of fires filled the air.

  A wall of stacked timber enclosed the expansive grounds of the large estate. Grain fields surrounded it on two sides and extended into the darkness. A rill ran alongside and under the western wall. A wooden gate and gatehouse in the north-facing wall provided the only obvious ingress. Two glowballs hanging from the corners of the gatehouse provided light.

  “Can you see the heraldry over the gate?” Mennick asked him.

  Reht had an archer’s eye, and with Mennick’s spell allowing him to see in dim light, he made out the insignia set into the gate—a white horse running under a blazing sun, the Corrinthal symbol.

  “I see it. This is it. I need a tactical look, Mennick.”

  “Aye.”

  The wizard quietly intoned the words to a spell and touched himself, then Reht. Reht knew to expect the flying spell to make his body feel lighter. When it did, he willed himself to rise, and his feet left the earth.

  “Hold a moment,” Mennick said, and put a hand on Reht’s arm. The wizard incanted a second spell and vanished from Reht’s sight.

  “That’s for both of us,” Mennick said, though Reht needed no explanation. He had experienced the invisibility spell often enough. They could see themselves, but not each other.

  “Let us have a look,” Mennick said, his voice coming from above.

  Reht willed himself into the air, rose to a height of a spear cast, and looked down on the Corrinthal estate.

  Within the walls, Reht noted a large stable and four large barns, a horse run and training area, several livestock pens, a score or so small buildings clustered along the western walls—probably the village where farmhands and other laborers lived—and a large wooden building that he assumed to be a barracks for the house guard. In the center of the compound stood the two-story, sprawling rustic Corrinthal manse.

  Mud-packed timber made up the bulk of the manse, and a wooden porch wrapped around three sides of it. A low stone wall with a wrought iron gate separated the manse from the rest of the grounds.

  Glowballs beamed at the entrance to the stables, and on the porch of the manse. A few torches burned in the cluster of buildings at the western end of the compound. Light trickled out of three shuttered windows of the manse.

  “That barracks can house thirty men,” Reht said.

  “Easily,” said Mennick. “I would put it at forty.”

  Reht pointed at the cluster of buildings along the southern wall, though Mennick could not see him.

  “There will be some men in the village who will fight.”

  “Aye.”

  “I see eight guards at the gate.”

  “No others, though,” Mennick said. “They’ll have dogs. If we use stealth, we will have to move quickly.”

  Reht considered the compound and made his decision. Stealth was not his best approach. He had a sleeping compound. Except for the guards, the fighting men within would not be armed or armored. He needed to hit hard and fast.

  “We go at it hard. I will lead the men through the gates. Stay here and burn the barracks as we approach, then support as you can. If the boy is in the manse, I will find him. When I’ve got him out, burn the manse, too.”

  Mennick sounded unhappy. “The smoke will be seen.”

  Reht knew. “Forrin is a day and a half behind us. By the time anyone investigates and learns what has occurred, it will be too late to anticipate an attack.”

  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 Dist’s 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.