Shadow and Flame

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Because you’re here, m’lord,” Hanne replied, emphasizing that last word sarcastically.

  Burnion and one guard lay on the floor, burned and moaning. The guard thrown against the wall lay still, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Two of Blaine’s guards still stood by the doors, too far away to do more than keep onlookers out. The four men who had dragged Teron and Rav to the front had vanished along with the crowd. Dawe and Merian had gone to keep peace outside.

  That left Blaine, Kestel, and one guard at the front of the room with Hanne. Blaine kept his sword raised, but did not try to move closer. Kestel was waiting for an opening. The guard stayed where he was, unwilling to charge Hanne’s magic.

  “Looks like we’ve got a standoff,” Blaine said, giving Hanne a cold smile.

  Hanne shook his head. “Is that how it appears? I’m just considering how best to kill you.” Hanne’s appearance had changed. He no longer stood hunched, and his limp had vanished. His face lost its look of gentle befuddlement, and he looked years younger. Intelligence and intent were clear in Hanne’s eyes.

  “You were one of Quintrel’s mages,” Kestel said, “in Valshoa. That’s where I’ve seen you before.” Hanne shifted to look at her. “One of his minor ones. No one important.”

  Blaine was certain the dig was intentional.

  Hanne chuckled. “No, I wasn’t one of the ‘important’ mages in Valshoa. But look! They’re all gone and I’m still here.”

  “Quintrel’s dead. He lost. Why keep fighting for his cause?” Kestel asked. She shifted her weight, and Hanne’s hand moved defensively. Kestel held up both hands, palms up, in a placating gesture.

  “Quintrel wasn’t the only one who wanted McFadden dead,” Hanne replied.

  “You just wandered over here, hoping a village would take you in?” Blaine asked incredulously. “Seems like a thin plan.”

  Hanne seemed to enjoy the tension. “Does it matter? I’m here and so are you, and you’re going to die.”

  “Not what I had planned for today, sorry,” Blaine said, keeping a careful eye on Hanne’s every move.

  A moan sounded behind Blaine where Burnion lay. Merian appeared silhouetted in the barn door. Hanne’s back was to the door, and Merian signaled for Blaine to stay quiet. She threw a large rock against one of the barn support pillars, and dove out of sight.

  Hanne flinched toward the noise. Blaine and Kestel attacked at the same instant, closing in on Hanne from each side. Blaine came at Hanne with his sword, trusting the waning power in his amulet to deflect the worst of Hanne’s magic. At least now, there are fewer people to get hit if the magic ‘slides’ to the side, Blaine thought.

  Kestel had removed her amulet from around her neck and held it like a ligature between both hands as she threw herself at Hanne. She looped the leather strap around Hanne’s neck like a garrote and pulled hard with a knee against the mage’s back as Blaine struck with his blade.

  The null amulet in Kestel’s hands blanked out Hanne’s magic. Hanne twisted and bucked, but Kestel was stronger than she looked.

  “Careful,” she warned, “won’t take much to crush your throat now that your magic’s not working.”

  Blaine brought his blade up under Hanne’s throat. “Now we’re going to find out exactly who sent you, and why.” Blaine and the guard tied up Hanne while Kestel knotted the null amulet around the mage’s throat.

  She retrieved her throwing knife and gave Hanne a poke with it. “Wouldn’t have minded putting this between your shoulders,” she murmured in the captive mage’s ear. “Still might, when we’re through with you. Did you know Treven Lowrey? I cut him up good for trying to kill Blaine. And I didn’t lose a wink of sleep over it, either.”

  Hanne paled and watched Kestel warily. She walked away, whistling a cheery tune, casually flipping her dagger and catching it by the handle. The guard dragged one of the chairs down from the platform and bound him to it with a length of rope.

  Two soldiers from near the barn door sprinted toward Burnion and the downed guard. “Burnion’s alive,” one of the guards called out. “I’ve seen worse. A real healer could set it right. The other one is dead.”

  Merian strode up to them. “The villagers are safe. If your men can bring Burnion and your guard, we will take care of them.”

  Blaine nodded. “I’ll send a healer from Glenreith to help.”

  “Very well,” Merian replied. She looked to Hanne, and her gaze grew icy. “I want to know what this man has to say, after we took him in and gave him our trust.” She withdrew a wicked-looking hunting knife from her skirts and, in a single movement, pressed the blade against Henne’s throat. A thin stream of blood trickled down the blade where it cut gently into the skin above his larynx.

  “You brought shame on Penwich,” Merian hissed. “I’m betting you’re behind those two poor lads who did the damage. Did you magic them? Tell me!”

  Henne spat in her face. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  Merian removed the blade from Henne’s throat. The mage gave a victorious chuckle. Merian wheeled, bringing the knife down alongside the mage’s head, severing his ear.

  “One way or the other, we intend to find out why you came here and did us harm,” Merian growled. “I’ve heard it said Lord McFadden’s talishte friends can read a man’s blood, tell all his secrets when they drink from him. We can wait until dark and find out what they learn.”

  She raised the bloody knife to where Henne could see it. “Until then, I’ll whittle on you. I doubt you’ll do much magic without fingers,” she mused. “And you won’t need a tongue if the biters can read your blood. Or I could give you to Teron’s father, and Rav’s grandpap. They’re the village butchers. Ever dress a deer?” she asked idly. “You cut from here,” she said, pointing the tip of the knife to Hanne’s sternum, “to here,” she said, jabbing at his groin. “Guts fall out. Except, if you aren’t dead to start with, that won’t kill you right away. Maybe after a day or two, you’ll be more talkative.”

  “I like her,” Kestel whispered to Blaine.

  Hanne had grown ghostly pale. He glanced toward Blaine, then back to Merian, realizing that no one was coming to his aid and his alternatives were growing increasingly bleak.

  “A talishte can read your blood until the moment of death,” Blaine said laconically. “It’s still several candlemarks until dark. I could give you to the villagers and collect what’s left of you at sundown.”

  Hanne swallowed, and blood dripped from the slice across his throat and his severed ear. “What do you want to know?” he asked sullenly.

  “Why are you here?” Blaine asked.

  Hanne gave him a baleful look. “To kill you.”

  “Why?”

  “You killed Quintrel,” Hanne snarled. “You and your army killed most of the other mages who were in Valshoa.”

  “Quintrel was out-of-his-head crazy,” Kestel said. “And controlled by an evil divi spirit on top of that.”

  “Did someone send you?” Merian questioned. When Hanne did not answer, she raised the knife and moved toward his other ear.

  “All right!” Hanne replied. “Yes. I was sent. I stayed alive because I was assigned to Hennoch’s army. After the battle, Lord Pollard took any of Quintrel’s mages who survived, and his biter friends turned any mages who had hidden in his territories.” He glared at Blaine. “You’re not the first to threaten to have a talishte read my blood.”

  “Why Penwich?” Merian asked, gesturing with the knife. Hanne blanched.

  “Lord Pollard sent mages with healing and hedge-witch skills to the inns and villages in McFadden’s lands,” Hanne said. “Maybe even into Castle Reach. Said we should make ourselves useful, gain their trust, keep our ears open. If we had a chance to kill McFadden or any of his friends, we were to take it.”

  “But why Penwich?” Kestel repeated.

  “We were invited,” Hanne said with a malicious smile.

  “Who dared invite you?” Merian demanded. “Te
ll us, or by the gods, you’ll lose fingers until you do!”

  Hanne swallowed hard. “One of Lord Pollard’s spies met someone who didn’t like the man in charge of Penwich. Thought he could do things better.”

  Merian’s eyes had gone cold and hard. “Josse, that pig. Thought he’d take Burnion’s place. He’s a stupid, hateful man.” She looked at Blaine, vengeance in her gaze. “Rest assured, m’lord, this man will be punished.”

  “We’re going to have to alert our people,” Kestel said. “Folville, too. They’re going to have to find the mage-traitors.”

  Blaine shrugged. “Or, I can ask General Dolan to spare a few Knights of Esthrane for the job. Less chance that anyone gets hurt that way—except for the traitors.”

  “And the damage, you were sent to do that as well?” Merian’s eyes were flinty.

  Hanne gave a nasty smirk. “We were told to delay McFadden’s progress in any way possible. Using those two fools to do it made that easy.”

  Merian dove forward before Blaine could stop her and sank the blade deep into Hanne’s gut. “One of those ‘fools’ was my grandson,” she snarled. “They were good boys, before you got a hold of them. And they’d still be alive if it weren’t for you.”

  Hanne gasped in pain. Merian withdrew the blade, and wiped the blood on Hanne’s pants. “Don’t worry,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’ll still be alive by sundown, if the biters want your blood. But now my grandson and his friend are avenged.”

  Merian turned to Blaine and Kestel. “M’lord and m’lady. We are deeply sorry such things happened during your visit. Penwich will keep its bargain with you. Until Burnion heals, I will take his place. We will rebuild. And we will remember.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NOW!” VEDRAN POLLARD SHOUTED AS HE raised his sword.

  At Pollard’s word, his army surged forward, screaming a war cry that echoed from the stone walls of Lepstow Castle, the domain of Dag Marlief, talishte Elder Onyx. Hundreds of soldiers stormed the gates as archers fired down from the high stone walls and guards hurled rocks down on the invaders.

  Larska Hennoch was at the forefront, permitting Pollard himself to watch from a safe distance, just beyond the range of arrows. Pollard shifted in his saddle, but no matter how he moved, he could find no relief from the raw wound in his chest or the red, running sores that covered all of his skin except his face. Until Pentreath Reese was freed of his imprisonment, those wounds, mirror images of what Reese suffered from his torture, would remain. That was one of the prices to be paid for his kruvgaldur bond. One of many, Pollard thought.

  Only Nilo knew that the wounds had grown so dire that it was impossible for Pollard to do more than skirmish. Pollard had defied his wounds to fight in the Battle of the Northern Plains, but even then, he had not been at the forefront of the fighting, and he no longer possessed the stamina to hold his own in an all-out fight.

  Damn Reese! It would be bad enough to have to hang back because of age, or from an injury taken in battle. There’s no shame in that, Pollard thought bitterly. But I’m forced to be an onlooker when I could still make good use of my sword, because of wounds that aren’t even my own. All because I’m bound to Reese, body and soul. And through him, to Thrane. All to win a throne!

  Pollard had no doubts that Reese knew exactly the price his many blood readings would impose on him, and how tightly Pollard would be bound by the intrusion. While Reese picked through Pollard’s thoughts and memories at will, Pollard was denied a reciprocal arrangement. And because Reese was Thrane’s get, and Thrane had insisted on his own blood readings, Pollard was bound not once but twice to masters who exacted a dear price for whatever favors they chose to bestow.

  Nilo led the second wave of troops. As Hennoch’s soldiers returned fire with the archers, Nilo’s men readied a large, iron-bound battering ram and moved the siege machine into place in front of the castle’s heavy gates.

  The thud of the battering ram echoed from the castle walls and the nearby cliffs and shook the ground. The soldiers manning the machine sang in time to the pounding to synchronize their efforts. The low tones of the war song were almost lost with the crash of the huge metal-tipped log that smashed against the reinforced gates.

  Out of archer range, small catapults slammed load after load over the wall. The shocks of hay and bundled cornstalks would spread their flammable cargo as soon as they hit.

  “Mages, ready!” Pollard shouted. Half a dozen of his mortal mages moved to line up behind the soldiers on a ridge where they had an excellent view of the battleground.

  “Fire!” Pollard commanded.

  The mages each stood within a warded circle drawn into the dirt as they gathered their power. Balls of flame appeared over the wall, then dropped down into the dry grasses and stalks. Lepstow had no wooden roofs. Its talishte lord was too afraid of fire for that. Nor were there wooden walkways or outbuildings. Everything was made of stone or covered with tiles. But the bales of grass and stalks would burn fast and hot. So will the soldiers, Pollard thought. And talishte burn like kindling.

  Let it burn, Pollard thought, watching as flames rose against the sky. Black smoke rose into the blue sky and from inside the castle walls, as panicked shouts and the clang of a fire bell made a descant to the steady rhythm of the battering ram.

  As far as Pollard was concerned, Lepstow Castle could burn to the ground, and all its residents with it. What he sought was hidden well below the ground, deep in an oubliette far removed from flames or sunlight. Pentreath Reese lay staked and bound at the bottom of a deep pit. When the council had passed judgment, they had not thought it possible that a mortal army might breech their defenses. They were wrong.

  Onyx had not factored Thrane into his plans. Nor had he accounted for purely mortal treachery. With the rest of the allied Elders’ attention focused on helping McFadden win the Battle of the Northern Plains, it had been easy for one of Nilo’s locals to infiltrate the mortals that supplied Lepstow Castle and gain their trust. Once the traitor was in place, it was just a matter of timing for him to slip poison into the castle cistern. All Pollard had to do was wait until the poison had time to take effect.

  The poison was why Hennoch’s assault was not met by defending mortal soldiers, and why the archers on the walls were few and their aim imperfect. They and all those within the walls were already dead men. Attacking in daylight meant that Onyx and any talishte allies were shadow-bound until sundown, unable to protect themselves.

  The massive gates gave with a crash as the battering ram smashed and splintered the wood. A victory shout went up from the soldiers. By now, the grass and corn shocks were ablaze, and the archers on the walls had withdrawn, running for their lives.

  Hennoch might be serving under duress, but he was an excellent commander, and his soldiers were disciplined and skilled. Hennoch himself led the first troops to enter the castle enclosure, as the mages scryed from a distance to ensure there were no reinforcements on their way.

  When Nilo raised Pollard’s colors above the battlements, Pollard and the mages led the rearguard troops down the slope to enter Lepstow Castle as victorious invaders. Pollard forced himself to hold his head high and move with his horse as if every shift and step were not excruciating. He knew his withdrawal from fighting was a matter of gossip among the troops. Nilo had told him as much. Let them talk, Pollard said, gritting his teeth against the pain. Anything suffered is bearable, if one survives. I can suffer a lot to gain a crown.

  The smell of death was overpowering. Pollard gave a mirthless smile. Apparently, the estimates of how long it would take the poison to work were conservative.

  Bodies were stacked against the inside of the castle walls. The courtyard smelled of rot and shit, and the warm summer days made the stench even worse. Flies buzzed everywhere, barely noticing the newly dead in preference for the bloated corpses on which they already feasted.

  “The buildings are secured, m’lord,” Nilo reported.

  “Survivors?” Po
llard asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Nilo chuckled. “There won’t be. Hennoch is seeing to that now. Actually, it’s more of a mercy to finish them off. They’ve seen the others dying. They know what awaits them.”

  “So the poison was effective,” Pollard said, looking over the still bailey. Normally, a castle courtyard should have bustled with activity of servants carrying firewood or water from one building to another and children chasing chickens while stable boys exercised horses. The air should have smelled of roasting meat and baking bread, of horses and goats and cook fires, walls echoing with the voices of servants and the clatter of carts.

  Instead, smoke hung in the air and the ground in the center of the bailey was scorched black. The bailey itself was eerily silent. Pollard’s horse fidgeted, its nostrils twitching.

  Hennoch’s soldiers finished clearing the bailey, and proceeded to the keep. Lepstow Castle was old, perhaps even older than its lord. That meant that the next phase of the operation was more dangerous than storming the castle walls had been. Surviving a fight with mortals and arrows was relatively simple. Subduing an ancient, powerful talishte and his undead brood in order to get to his well-guarded prisoner was going to be much more difficult.

  “Well?” Nilo joined Pollard, sidling his horse up alongside as Pollard supervised the troops’ efforts to lock down the storage buildings, looting whatever could be easily carried as they went.

  “Now we wait for sundown,” Pollard replied. He was sure Nilo read his concern, though Pollard hid it from his expression.

  “Have I mentioned that I don’t like this part of the plan?” Nilo replied. “We’re being offered up like lambs to the slaughter.”

  Pollard gave a sharp, short laugh. “Of course we are. I never thought anything else. Did you really expect Thrane to let us have a practice run at killing an ancient, powerful talishte and his brood?” Thrane was many things, but stupid was not among them. Pollard was certain the talishte lord was well aware that mortals could storm a talishte day crypt with fire and magic in daylight, besting even strong vampires at their weakest time of the day. He was equally certain that Thrane had no intention of giving him any ideas of attempting a coup against himself and his followers.