Shadow and Flame

by Gail Z. Martin

  Niklas drew his sword, and pulled a knife in his left hand. The growl came from behind him, though it was difficult to place. His heart was thudding, and he had broken out in a cold sweat.

  An answering growl sounded off to Niklas’s right. He crouched, watching and waiting. A full-grown male wolf lunged from the shadows, leaping into the air at chest level. Niklas swung his sword, burying the blade deep in the wolf’s shoulder, biting into its neck and throat. Before the wolf dropped to the ground, Niklas sensed more than saw the second wolf attack. He threw himself out of the way, and the wolf’s claws ripped open the shoulder of his jacket, slicing into the skin beneath. The wolf landed and turned quickly, head lowered and teeth bared.

  Niklas stepped to the side, keeping both the downed wolf and its partner in view. His shoulder was bleeding, and he knew the injury would hamper his strength with his left hand. But in the few seconds he had to catch his breath, he sized up his opponent. The second wolf was a female, dark gray with yellow eyes, and it glowered at Niklas with a level of crazed intent he had only seen in a rabid dog.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted, waving his arms and stomping. Without its partner to attack in tandem, there was an even chance the wolf might retreat. But the malice in the wolf’s eyes was not natural, and the predator stood its ground. It made a deep-throated growl and then sprang, covering the dozen or more feet between them in a single bound, going for Niklas’s throat.

  Niklas brought his sword down with all his might, and at the same time, struck with his knife. The sword bit into the wolf’s powerful shoulders, and the knife caught it in the chest, spilling hot blood over the rough fur. Teeth sharp as razors snicked just inches shy of his throat. The wolf lashed out, snapping for his arm, and Niklas dodged away as claws raked his thigh. The female wolf dropped to the ground, covered in blood, and collapsed in the dust. Taking no chances, Niklas did not turn away until he had beheaded both wolves.

  By that time, he could hear howls echoing throughout the camp and the shouts of soldiers. “Everyone up! We’re under attack!” he yelled, then staggered from the gash in his leg. “Wolves inside the fence! Swords ready!” he added. Soldiers turned out of their tents, running for their posts, swords in hand.

  “I want all soldiers on the stockade! Archers, to your posts! I need slings and pikes! Move it, move it, move it!” Niklas shouted. He took stock of his injuries. The shoulder cuts were painful but not terribly deep. The gash in his thigh would need attention, but he could still move, thanks to years of practice struggling through battle injuries. Sheathing his knife, Niklas limped toward the main area of the camp.

  He spotted two soldiers battling three wolves near the mess tent, and by the stable area four soldiers were keeping five more wolves from attacking the horses. Two archers and a soldier with a sling took aim from far enough away to be out of the wolves’ lunging range. The night echoed with the howls and answering cries of the packs, the grumbling snarls, and the shouts of soldiers.

  Yet as Niklas watched, the wolves now seemed less sure of themselves than the two that attacked him before. The soldiers held their ground, and the wolves, snarling and aggressive just moments earlier, appeared to be at a standoff. Soldiers outnumbered the wolves, but many times in the forest, especially in winter when game was scarce, Niklas and his men had fought off packs that refused to give up until they had lost at least half their members.

  The wolves bared their teeth, but they were retreating, still watching the soldiers for any movement. Then as quickly as they came, they turned and ran as arrows and rocks pelted the ground around them. An arrow caught one of the wolves in the hindquarters and it fell back with a whimper, unable to run. One of the sling-men caught another wolf in the skull with a rock, and the animal dropped to the ground, dead. The rest ran on, vaulting the eight-foot-high fence as if it were a hedge.

  “They’re leaving,” the guard on the tower shouted. “Wolves are leaving.”

  “Report!” Niklas shouted. He sheathed his sword and began to limp toward the small open area in the middle of the enclosure.

  By now, all of his soldiers were at their posts. Several looked worse for the wear with deep cuts and gashes, shirts or pants ripped open and bloodied. Some of the soldiers were dragging the carcasses of the wolves toward the center of the camp.

  “No men dead, sir,” one of Niklas’s lieutenants reported. “Several injuries—bites and cuts mostly. Looks like we killed about eight wolves, and at least twelve more got away.”

  “In the morning, take the bodies outside the stockade,” Niklas ordered. “Double the guard and the patrols inside the fence for the rest of the night.” As the soldier took off to do his bidding, Niklas limped toward the healers’ tent. The large tent usually held the cots for the healers and room for half a dozen wounded, with a folding table for the medicines and potions the healers needed, plus bandages and other implements. As Niklas entered, he could see that two men sat on each cot, awaiting treatment.

  “Half a candlemark,” Ordel said over his shoulder as Niklas entered.

  “What?”

  “That’s how long the attack lasted,” Ordel replied. “Since I couldn’t fight, I figured I’d do something useful while I waited for casualties. So I lit a notched candle when I first heard the alarm. And it was almost exactly at the half-candlemark point when the wolves ran away.”

  “Limits,” Niklas said, intrigued enough by Ordel’s finding to ignore his pain a while longer. “The limit of how long Nagok can compel beasts to do his bidding.”

  “Something like that,” Ordel said. He grimaced as he took in Niklas’s injuries. “Come in and have a seat before you fall down. I’ve got a full house, but we can squeeze you in,” he added with a dry smile.

  “There you are!” Kulp darted into the crowded tent. “General Theilsson!”

  “Talk to me while Ordel patches me up,” Niklas said, irritable from the pain and lack of sleep. “What were you able to find out?”

  “We could sense the magic, but it was a distance away,” Kulp replied.

  “How far?” Niklas asked, swearing under his breath as Ordel began to tear away the ripped cloth of his shirt and pants to treat his wounds.

  “The source of the magic was about half a mile distant,” Kulp replied. “Give or take.”

  “How many wolves?”

  “Wolves are damn hard to count in the dark, sir,” Kulp answered. “Difficult not to count the same wolf twice. But the best I can figure, between thirty to fifty out there—mighty big for a normal pack.”

  Very big, Niklas thought. He and his men had faced wolves many times in their travels. Most of the time, the packs had fewer than ten wolves, and that was plenty to fight off, even for trained soldiers armed for battle. Fifty wolves, hunting as a pack, could do a lot of damage.

  “Ordel figures the whole thing lasted about half a candlemark,” Niklas said, then gritted his teeth as Ordel began to clean his wounds. The healer dripped an amber liquid into the gashes, and Niklas cursed, his body arching with the pain.

  “Stings a bit,” Ordel observed laconically. “But you don’t know what’s in those cuts. The potion will hold off pretty much everything, even lockjaw.”

  “Were the wolves rabid?” Niklas asked. After years of soldiering, he no longer feared a quick, clean death. But he had once seen a man die of rabies, first frenzied and attacking everyone within range, then drooling and paralyzed, until the man suffocated as he could not draw breath. Niklas had no desire to die that way.

  Kulp shook his head. “We’re working with the healers to test the bodies before we take them outside the fence, but it doesn’t look that way.”

  “I was there when the mage’s control must have been wavering,” Niklas said. Ordel covered his wounds with a poultice and then put his hand over them, using his healing magic to speed the wound’s closing. After a moment, he withdrew his hands, revealing the gashes to be nearly healed. Still, he applied more poultice and wrapped the injuries in bandages.


  “We’ve got very limited familiarity with beast calling,” Kulp said. “But from what we know about control magic, we’re making some projections. First—the control is limited because maintaining control requires the mage to keep his focus. He can’t issue a command and go on about his business. He has to have the focus and the reserve of power to keep his will on the creature until the command is carried out.”

  “Which means the attack can’t go on forever,” Niklas replied, trying to take his mind off his injuries. “Since the mage is trapped in the magic until the command is carried out.”

  Kulp nodded. “Exactly. And that plays into the time-limit problem, which if you’re right, seems to be about half a candlemark. It’s exceedingly difficult to maintain control of a high-level working for longer than that, even for an experienced mage.”

  “We need to get more information about Nagok and his army. If it’s as big as the captives say, then we’ve got to get reinforcements,” Niklas said, thinking aloud. “And it would help to know a lot more about his talishte connections.”

  “We’ll have one of the mages scanning at all times, making note of when we can sense spikes and drop-offs in magic use.” Kulp shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but you might find a pattern that turns out to be important.”

  “Anything you get is more than we have now,” Niklas said. “And if you and the other mages can figure out how to interrupt the beast-calling magic, that would help, too. Half a candlemark is forever when you’re fighting wolves—or magicked monsters.”

  “We’re working on it,” Kulp replied.

  “I’ll send word to Blaine,” Niklas said. “It will take time to send reinforcements, and I have the distinct feeling that time is running out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WHITNEY TOOK BACK THE SHIP’S WHEEL FROM Connor at the sight of the giant sea serpent. Connor, still possessed by Remon’s spirit, stumbled and would have fallen had Zaryae not gotten one shoulder under his arm and helped him to the rail.

  Thank you for your help, the Wraith Lord said to Remon. Now you must leave him.

  Wait! Connor said. Remon—the tanoba is a creature of the deep. How do we fight it?

  Remon’s spirit regarded Connor sadly. I don’t know, he said. It doesn’t belong here. The wild-magic storms brought them, and they stayed.

  Them? Connor echoed with a note of panic. There’s more than one of those things?

  Remon nodded. Not many but a few. They appeared when the magic was broken, out of the wild places. Other things, too. But the tanoba are the biggest.

  You haven’t seen anyone fight them successfully? After all they had done to navigate the undersea mountains, Connor had no desire to be sent to the bottom by an oversized snake.

  I don’t wander the depths. I stay in the valleys of the mountains, Remon replied. There are things in the deep places that are more dangerous—even to the dead—than the tanoba. I’m sorry I can’t help you.

  Then leave him, the Wraith Lord commanded. Because I can.

  In the time it had taken to maneuver through the sunken mountains, the moon had risen and the sun had set. As soon as the sun was below the horizon, Nidhud came up on deck.

  “I’m sorry I could not be of help earlier,” he said. “I knew of your danger, but I couldn’t rise.”

  “We’ve got more trouble,” Zaryae said, pointing out beyond the bow of the ship to where the tanoba’s head and forebody was just barely visible above the waves. “And Connor’s nearly spent.”

  “I didn’t get us through the mountain pass just to get ripped apart by a big swimming snake,” Connor said, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded strained.

  You are not strong enough for a battle, the Wraith Lord warned.

  Then let’s make it a skirmish they’ll tell tales about in Raka, Connor said, gritting his teeth. “One big strike,” he said aloud to Nidhud and Zaryae.

  We will help you. The unexpected voice came from Remon. Connor could see the ghosts hovering around the ship.

  Why? Connor asked suspiciously.

  Because the monster feeds on the dead, Remon replied. It has the power to destroy even spirits. We would be well rid of him, but we’ve had no way to do it. Help us as we helped you. And in return, the spirits of the deep will guide you safely to your destination and watch over you.

  Connor relayed what Remon offered. “It’s a necrophage,” Nidhud said. “All living creatures ‘feed on death’ after a fashion, since few get nourishment from the life force itself. But a necrophage gains its sustenance from the energy of death itself. That’s why it poses a danger to the ghosts. It can actually eat them.”

  “Could it harm the Wraith Lord?” Zaryae asked.

  Nidhud looked to Connor. “What does he say?”

  Connor turned inward to Kierken Vandholt’s spirit. Can it?

  Doubtful, the Wraith Lord replied. I am not merely dead. Not only am I talishte—undead—but I am now also a creature of the Unseen Realms. I imagine things exist that can do me damage, but I don’t think the tanoba’s magic is strong enough to destroy me.

  Then can we please get on with it? Connor knew the Wraith Lord could hear his exhaustion. I can’t do this much longer. Connor felt himself growing weaker by the minute. Hosting the Wraith Lord was a strain in itself, without having also hosted Remon’s spirit. The idea of once more channeling the Wraith Lord’s magic made Connor fear for his life. Yet he knew in his heart that there was no alternative.

  Was this how Blaine felt about trying to bring back the magic at Valshoa and Mirdalur? Connor thought. Could he have been just as terrified? I never thought about it, but how could he not be afraid? This must only be a fraction of the power that he raised. I can’t turn back now.

  Zaryae’s eyes were closed, as if she listened to voices only she could hear. “If the beast feeds on death, then there is death aplenty in the sea,” she said, coming back to herself and turning toward Nidhud. “Remove it from its feeding ground, and its power is limited.”

  “We’re in the middle of the ocean!” Whitney snapped. “How are we supposed to do that?”

  Nidhud stared out at the moonlit waves. Now and again, like a phantom, the tanoba’s huge body slid through the waves. Its thick gray form arched and curved above the waves, only to disappear once more beneath the surface. From time to time, its distorted head rose, clearly visible above the water.

  Is it scenting us? Connor wondered. Does it know we’re here? It’s faster than we are, and we’ve seen what it can do to a ship. We aren’t going to be able to get past it on our own. He returned his attention to Remon. What do you propose?

  If the spirits work together, we can lead him on a chase, Remon replied. That’s how we usually get away from him. We’ll draw his attention, then you use your magic to destroy him.

  You make it sound simple, the Wraith Lord said. It is anything but.

  Got a better idea? Connor’s patience and tact had been strained to the breaking point. Because I’m all out of options.

  “I’ve only got one good blast in me before I’m down,” Connor said tersely to Nidhud. “The ghosts have offered to distract the tanoba while we prepare to strike. Maybe Zaryae’s foresight can provide some additional help. But we’ve got to do something now, before I collapse. And we’re not going to get to Edgeland unless we get past that monster.”

  Nidhud nodded. “I agree. And I can only think of one way to do it. I will use my magic to lift the tanoba out of the water. Then you,” he said with a nod to Connor, “or rather, the Wraith Lord, send a blast of fire. As we’ve seen in Donderath, fire is the only sure way to destroy the magic beasts.”

  “And if there are more of those things out there?” Zaryae said. “Few ships have sailed the open sea since the Cataclysm. We don’t know what the magic storms brewed up since anyone has traveled this way.”

  Nidhud shrugged. “If this works, then we repeat the attack. If it doesn’t, the point is moot.” Because we’ll all be at the bottom of the ocean,
Connor thought.

  “Do it,” Connor said. “But let’s get to it quickly, please.”

  Nidhud turned to Whitney. “We’re going to need to get a bit closer,” he said. “Not so close that the fire presents a danger to the ship, but my magic will be stronger the shorter the distance to its target.”

  Whitney looked at Nidhud incredulously. “You want me to steer toward that thing?”

  Nidhud nodded. “Unless you have a better idea.”

  Whitney glowered and cursed under his breath. “No, I don’t. You know I don’t. First the sea mountains, now this. I’ll do it, but I don’t have to like it.” With that, Whitney shouted orders to Trad on the lower deck. The sailors on watch were pointing at the tanoba’s silhouette in the moonlight. Whitney’s second-in-command looked at the captain as if Whitney had lost his mind. Then he nodded and turned to the men, barking orders. To his credit, the men jumped to obey despite their fear.

  “How far?” Whitney’s voice was raspy with the wet weather, and there was no mistaking his foul mood.

  “About one hundred feet or so should be good,” Nidhud said.

  “Oh, you’re not asking much, are you?” Whitney grumbled. “Close enough for that monster to do to the Nomad what it did to the pirates.”

  “Hopefully not,” Nidhud replied drily. “And we have resources they lacked.” He turned to Connor. “Ask your friends to start keeping the creature busy so we can close the distance.”

  We’re already in motion, Remon said. Good luck.

  Connor was still leaning against Zaryae, who helped him back to the railing. “Thanks,” he said, embarrassed at needing the assistance. “Does your Sight have a warning for us?”

  Zaryae shook her head. “Only that there is danger, but I sense it no matter which course we pursue. I see no way to reach Edgeland without death.”

  “Whose death?”

  Zaryae’s gaze was sorrowful. “That remains to be seen.”

  Despite its damaged sails, the Nomad closed the distance quickly, and although Connor was in no hurry for the confrontation, he knew he could not channel the Wraith Lord for long. The sea had calmed after the storm, though the night wind was cool. Still, Connor felt feverish, and he knew it was the strain of the possession.