Connor sighed. “Yes, I’ve been there. But you’re the real expert. You lived with the people. They know you and trust you.”
“I understand why you would not want to return,” Penhallow said quietly. “And if there were another way, I would not risk your lives. But there’s a weapon secreted away on Edgeland that might be our only chance to defeat Thrane. I not only need to send a team I trust to retrieve it, but they need to know the people and the place for the best chance of success.”
“You mean, in order to have a prayer of surviving the trip,” Verran replied, arching an eyebrow.
Penhallow gave a dry chuckle. “Yes, if you want to put it that way.”
“What is it that we’re supposed to find and bring back?” Desya asked, all trace of humor gone. His golden eyes were completely serious. “What do you consider to be worth our lives?”
Penhallow nodded, as if he had expected the question. “You are certainly right to ask. And when I tell you, I believe you’ll understand why the item is so dangerous—and so important—that it has been worth Arin Grimur’s voluntary exile for decades.”
“Grimur?” Verran said, frowning. “He was the talishte-mage who lived way out on the ice, the one who had Valtyr’s notebook.”
Penhallow nodded once more. “Yes. Arin is one of mine. And he has kept a very lonely vigil over one of the most dangerous weapons in the world.”
“I thought Grimur was exiled for killing mortals, or something like that,” Verran countered.
“What kind of story would you create if you wanted your person to be left alone?” Penhallow replied.
Verran thought about that and then nodded. “I guess so. But what could possibly be so bloody important?”
“The means to kill a specific talishte and his entire bloodline,” Penhallow replied.
Everyone except Nidhud sat for a moment in stunned silence. Connor noticed that Nidhud winced at the description, but did not look surprised. Although Connor had heard the earlier debate between Penhallow and the former Elders, they had not bothered to describe the Elgin Spike’s purpose. Now he could understand why.
“Pardon my asking, but why in Raka do talishte have such a weapon for other talishte?” Verran asked, eyes wide.
“We often speak of the threat to talishte posed by mortals,” Penhallow said finally. “For an older, stronger talishte, it might take a mob of mortals to make a killing strike. But two talishte of equal strength can destroy one of us all alone.”
“Like wolves, fighting for territory,” Borya said.
Penhallow nodded. “Something like that. The only thing a top predator has to fear is another top predator.” He grimaced, as if speaking of such things bothered him deeply. It’s hardly the kind of thing a talishte talks about with mortals, Connor thought. For a good reason.
“Does it actually work? The Elgin Spike?” Zaryae asked.
“The Spike is made of obsidian, layered with powerful magic,” Penhallow replied. “It was created by mages long ago and thought lost, but then the Spike was found and presented as a way to put down the last talishte war. It passed through many hands, with dire consequences, before the talishte discovered its hiding place. At that point, the Spike was secreted away from the king’s vaults.”
He paused for a moment, staring into the blood in his glass. “By this point the Knights of Esthrane had already vanished, the Wraith Lord was a legend not seen in many years, and mortals had turned against us. I thought that the Spike was too much of a temptation, and worked with my allies to make it disappear once more. I sent Arin, who is both talishte and a mage, to guard it, for however long required.” He gave a sad smile. “Don’t feel too bad for Arin’s ‘exile.’ He’s been quite happy in Edgeland.”
“How’s he going to feel about being bothered now?” Connor asked. “As I recall, the only way we met him was because we nearly died in a blast of magic and an avalanche.”
Borya looked at him, grinning. “Really? That’s a great story. And it sounds like something that would happen, especially if Piran was there.”
“So you intend to use the Spike to destroy Thrane and Reese and all their progeny? Do you think it will still work? After magic was lost, a lot of artifacts either didn’t work or turned dangerous,” Connor asked quietly. The potential for destruction was breathtaking, and for one talishte to consider wielding such a weapon against others meant that Penhallow and the Wraith Lord saw Thrane as a truly dangerous enemy.
“We can only hope—it was made long, long ago. But we believe it’s worth the risk. Thrane is raising armies, both mortal and talishte,” Penhallow replied. “And if he wins, he’ll put Pollard on Donderath’s throne—and I wouldn’t doubt that he’s promised Nagok the throne in Meroven.”
“So you think that Thrane and a bunch of really old, really powerful talishte with big families are going to start slaughtering mortals?” Verran asked. “That’s scary.”
“Actually,” Nidhud interrupted, “you’ve got it a bit wrong. Thrane and his supporters won’t begin with the mortals. They will come after any talishte that dares to oppose them, and once we have been destroyed, there will be no one of equal strength to stop them from doing whatever they would like to the mortals.”
Verran drew in his breath. “Well. You just managed to make something that was already terrifying so much worse.”
“The Wraith Lord will go with you,” Penhallow said. “He and Nidhud, along with Grimur, can protect the Spike against most threats. Remember, they’re mages as well as talishte.”
You might have been talishte in your own body, but I draw the line at gnawing on someone’s neck for the cause, Connor warned the Wraith Lord silently.
He heard Kierken Vandholt’s deep laughter, as if from a distance. I have demanded a great deal from you, Bevin, but I have no desire to have you ‘gnaw’ on necks. I believe, should the circumstances warrant, Nidhud and Grimur will be quite capable of that.
“Blaine and I chose you because you had the best set of skills for the task,” Penhallow said.
“And we could be spared without anybody missing us too much,” Verran added.
“If we succeed, it could be the decisive strike of the conflict, ending the war before it truly begins,” Nidhud said.
“How and when?” Borya asked.
“We’ve outfitted the Nomad, the merchant ship Connor and Blaine sailed back from Edgeland, for the journey,” Penhallow said. “The Nomad is seaworthy and can take all of you and the provisions easily. I’ve already outfitted the ship for the voyage. We don’t want to take the chance that Thrane and his followers might guess our intent.”
“There is a threat, but it’s not Thrane,” Zaryae said. They turned to look at her, and Connor knew from her glazed expression and the soft, distant tone of her voice that she was seeing a possible future. “There is no time to wait. Enemies approach.”
Just then, the doors to the study opened. Dolan stepped in. “We need to rethink waiting to launch,” he said tersely. “Scouts have spotted ships on the horizon. Pirates are the best of the possibilities. If they close the harbor, you won’t be going anywhere.”
“Gather your things,” Penhallow said. “You’ll sail as soon as Voss can gather the crew.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOW COME WE JUST GET RID OF ONE PROBLEM, and ten more pop up in its place?” Niklas Theilsson muttered his question to the wind, not really expecting an answer. He sat astride his warhorse, looking out over the windswept Northern Plains. In the distance, the Riven Mountains jutted skyward.
“I could have done without coming back here, after the battle.” Ayers, Niklas’s second-in-command, put words to what Niklas had just found himself thinking.
“‘Never’ would have been too soon,” Niklas agreed. Not far from here, Niklas had commanded Blaine McFadden’s army against the forces of Pentreath Reese and Vedran Pollard in the Battle of Valshoa. Now, months and many battles later, Reese was imprisoned and what remained of Pollard’s troops had been sent running with thei
r tails between their legs. For now. Niklas had learned the hard way that no enemy should be counted out until the body was in its grave. And perhaps, not even then.
“They’re vermin, compared with what we’ve fought before.” Ayers’s voice cut through Niklas’s thoughts.
Niklas shrugged ill-humoredly. “Vermin can be dangerous, if there are enough of them and they’re cornered,” he observed. “And there are other things we should be doing, rather than hunting down a bunch of bandits and marauders.” The list of other priorities was long and exhausting: Rebuild Quillarth Castle and the city of Castle Reach. Reinforce the seawall by the main harbor in Castle Reach, and rebuild enough of the shipworks to set about repairing the seaworthy vessels that had not burned or sunk in the Cataclysm. Help the farmers and the millers and the brewers with their work so that neither the army nor the people would go hungry. Even with an army at his disposal, the tasks were endless.
“Makes you wonder how bad it is in Meroven, if they’re coming over here to raid,” Ayers remarked.
Niklas nodded. “And from what Rikard and the other mages have been able to scry, I’d say it’s every bit as bad as it is here, maybe worse.” Even here, in the sparsely populated plains, the devastation from the Cataclysm and the Great Fire was unmistakable. Farms, barns, and houses, even whole towns, abandoned and in disrepair. Manor houses, burned and left to rot. Those who survived the fire and wild-magic storms, the magicked beasts and the Madness, packed up what they could carry and gathered together in small settlements farther south.
“I thought Castle Reach had a long way to go,” Ayers said, eyeing the dilapidated, lifeless village ahead of them. “And then we come out here, and I realize how much there is to do before Donderath comes close to being where it was before.”
“One foot in front of the other,” Niklas replied. “Just like when we marched back from the war. At least now, everything’s not on fire.” Niklas had led a group of weary, wounded, and soul-sick survivors across war-torn Donderath after the Cataclysm. Their journey had taken months, foraging for food, dodging storms and magicked beasts. The devastation had been fresh, then. Walled cities and small farms still smoldering from the Great Fire. Starving livestock, feral dogs, and desperate men seemingly around every corner.
“Aye,” Ayers agreed. “We’ve come this far. Perhaps we can roundly trounce the marauders, send a few survivors home to warn off the others, and go back to what we were doing.”
Niklas gave a deep sigh. “I doubt it will be that simple.”
Ayers shot him a wicked grin. “Neither do I, but we can dream, can’t we?”
Five hundred men had ridden north with Niklas and Ayers from Castle Reach, leaving the bulk of the army to protect the city. Now, Niklas rode at the fore of a small team riding along the foothills to drive back bandit gangs.
“If there are brigands holed up in there, they’re mighty cool about it, with us sitting out here, sizing them up for the taking,” Ayers observed with a nod toward the silent village a few hundred yards away.
Niklas snorted. “What choice do they have? It’s too open to make a run for it, too far to the mountains to find cover. They’ll wait us out, hoping we’ll ride on.”
“Do you think they’re mages?” Ayers asked, eyeing the village suspiciously. If the bandits had claimed the village for their own, they had taken pains to hide their presence well. No telltale hoof marks or footprints marked the southern approach. The buildings, worse for the wear after a year exposed to the elements with no one to maintain them, were dark and silent. There was no motion except for the wind through the tall grass.
“Not according to Rikard. Unless they’ve got mages good enough to hide themselves from ours,” Niklas replied.
By now, Niklas’s men had circled the decrepit village. Even before the Cataclysm, the tiny hamlet of Irkenford had been little more than a crossroads trading town. The inn had burned in the Great Fire, along with the barns in the fields on the outskirts of the village. Two dozen sod houses with damaged thatched roofs circled a center green with a silent bell tower that had somehow escaped the flames and storms.
The village was small, but Niklas still had no desire to fight a battle through its narrow streets. Even against a smaller force, a street fight could go wrong in too many ways, especially when the enemy had time to set up defenses and claim the territory for their own.
“Let’s bring the bastards to us,” Niklas said grimly. “Do it.”
Rikard raised his hands, closed his eyes for a moment in concentration, and then made a gesture in the direction of the lifeless village. A bell rang, clanging as if a madman swung from its ropes.
“Fire!” Niklas shouted.
Archers let loose a volley of flaming arrows. The arrows stuck in the roofs, catching quickly on the dry thatch and spreading on the wind. Smoke rose from the rapidly burning buildings as the bell clanged on.
“Look there!” Ayers shouted, pointing as a figure stumbled from one of the deserted houses, barely dodging another round of arrows that drove him back inside under the burning roof.
Niklas glanced toward Rikard. Thin, prim, and fussy, the mage had once been in service of a noble house. Now, he had gained an unwanted amount of experience in battle magic, and despite his preferences for the relative safety of a workshop, he had turned out to be quite good at creating havoc under pressure.
“At least twenty of them, with horses.” Alsibeth had moved up close enough to where she could speak without shouting. Rikard had an arsenal of handy tricks he could do with his power. Alsibeth was a seer, frighteningly accurate, so her abilities were best utilized behind the lines of battle.
“Can you see what kind of weapons they’ve got?” Niklas asked, never taking his eyes from the burning village.
“Nothing unusual,” she replied.
“Here they come!” Ayers shouted.
“Let’s go get them!” Niklas shouted, standing in his stirrups as he led the charge.
Riders on horseback streamed from their hiding places, whooping and shouting fiercely. Mounted archers returned the bow-fire, sending arrows back toward Niklas’s men even as his soldiers tightened their circle around the raiders, giving them nowhere to run.
“Fire!” Niklas ordered, and another round of arrows shot toward the marauders. Three of the men fell from their mounts, arrows protruding from their chests. Still the raiders rode on, caught between their burning hiding place and the incoming soldiers.
The marauders fired volley after volley, but Rikard made another gesture, and the arrows dropped from the air and landed harmless on the ground. The riders veered away, only to be shunted back again by the tight circle of soldiers, who bided their time, in no hurry to engage with swords when magic and arrows could harry their enemy at a distance.
“Behind you!” Rikard’s shout warned Niklas an instant before an arrow zinged past his ear. He turned to see a dozen more Meroven raiders riding hard toward them from the rear, swords out and bows at the ready.
“Where in Raka did they come from?” Ayers growled.
“Somewhere we overlooked,” Niklas muttered. “Listen up!” he shouted to his soldiers. “Every other man, turn to face the rear. We’ve got trouble! The rest of you, hold the line!” Riding like storm winds, a second wave of raiders thundered toward them from behind.
Meroven had been known before the Cataclysm for having some of the finest horses on the Continent, bloodlines coveted and prized by kings and nobles. That blood showed in the fast, sleek horses the marauders rode, horses that had seen enough of battle not to shy away from the clang of steel or the battle howls of their riders. These aren’t mere brigands, Niklas thought, even before he first crossed swords with one of the wild raiders.
Twenty men rode at Niklas and his soldiers fearlessly, swords gleaming in the sun, disciplined in their attack. Half of Niklas’s men turned to fight the enemy behind them, while the others fended off the raiders trapped between them and the burning village.
“
Leave some of them alive!” Niklas shouted to his men as they rode hard after their attackers. “I want to find out what they know!”
“You won’t be alive to ask us.” One of the raiders rode straight for Niklas, veering off only when Niklas lowered his long sword and braced it like a lance. They circled again warily, and this time, Niklas took the offensive, swinging his sword hard enough to hear the snap of bone as the blade connected with the rider’s arm, slashing through flesh. He swung again, and this time, his sword took the man’s head from his shoulders, and the body toppled slowly from the horse, blood covering the corpse and its mount.
A second rider was after him by the time he had barely cleared his sword from the last man’s body. The marauder looked to be barely out of his teens, but he rode as if he were born to the saddle, and he carried the sword in his hand with practiced ease.
This rider made no grand challenge of headlong attack. Instead, he made a swipe with his blade at Niklas’s horse, a strike Niklas only barely deflected before it gutted his mount. Grinning with his near victory, the marauder turned and came at Niklas again, looking for a weak point.
The raiders wore no uniform. As with Niklas’s men, it was enough in these years after the Cataclysm to have clothes. Yet each wore a woven armband around his left arm, made of rope and fashioned with bits of stone and metal. Niklas had no idea whether it was a talisman or a symbol of the riders’ group, but it marked them as a team, as did the black kerchiefs they wore loosely tied around their necks.
Before the raider could strike again, Niklas bellowed a cry and rode straight for him, and the sudden reversal of tactics threw the marauder off, just for a second. That was all the time Niklas needed to make his charge, swinging his blade to catch his opponent in the left shoulder, severing the arm with one blow. Grievously wounded, thrown off balance, the rider scarcely got his sword raised before Niklas cleaved him shoulder to hip.
The fight had turned. Niklas dared not look behind him, but more and more of the men who had held the perimeter against the raiders in the burning village now joined the skirmish against the new arrivals. Two of the raiders tried to turn tail and ride away, but Niklas’s men easily rode them down. The marauders’ numbers were waning, and Niklas saw only minor casualties among his own men.
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