Someday, Blaine vowed he would ask Penhallow more about the kruvgaldur. If I’m to be king, I need to know exactly how beholden I am, he thought. “Pollard would be dangerous even if he were dead and cremated,” Blaine remarked. “What about Nilo Jansen—his second-in-command?”
Ayers brightened. “That’s where we had a bit of luck. Turns out Jansen had brought some of Pollard’s troops up to fight for Nagok. Our men and Geir’s talishte made mincemeat out of his soldiers. Our men caught Jansen slinking away on foot and deserting what remained of his army,” he added with disdain.
“Interrogate him, and then hang him,” Blaine ordered. “He’s caused enough trouble already.”
Ayers nodded. “General Theilsson has the hanging tree ready. The mages have already had a go at him. Didn’t get much out of him that we didn’t already know. But the talishte haven’t had their chance at him yet.” By now, he had walked with Blaine and Kestel to where their horses and the soldiers waited.
Ayers gave a wan smile as Blaine swung up to the saddle. “Charrot go with you,” he said. “Maybe soon, we can put all this fighting behind us,” he added as Blaine and the others turned and rode away.
It took three days of riding for Blaine and the others to reach Rodestead House. The fire-scarred manor belonged to Penhallow and had been badly damaged in the Great Fire. Voss had been overseeing the rebuilding, and had left a contingent of soldiers at Rodestead House when he took the bulk of his army south to Castle Reach.
Blaine had no idea what to expect. For all he knew, the fighting could have ended in the days it took to ride from the northern battlefield. But when he and the others arrived, they found the battle still raging, with two small, equally matched forces dug in and fighting to the finish.
Bodies covered acres of ground: men, horses, and beasts. Carrion birds picked at the remains, and misty wisps drifted here and there, ghosts powerful enough to make themselves seen without the help of a mage. Vultures and crows tore at the bodies, and there would be enough to gorge on for days, given the battle’s toll. Here and there, a few soldiers moved among the dead, looting the bodies and administering the deathblow to those still lingering.
“Looks like our side has been giving as good as it’s gotten,” Kestel observed. She looked as tired as Blaine felt, but she flashed him a courageous grin like a blood-splattered warrior queen. Before long, Blaine heard the clatter and shouts of battle, and as they crested a rise, saw two forces still hard at war.
Voss’s soldiers fought against a decidedly smaller army that had been pushed back to defend a copse-lined rocky hillside, the attacking army’s last redoubt.
Pollard won’t give up so long as he breathes, Blaine thought. He’s wanted the crown too badly for too long.
Blaine and his soldiers rode down toward the battle, only to be intercepted by a line of rearguard defenders.
“Halt! Identify yourselves!” the young officer shouted.
Blaine reined in his horse and signaled for his soldiers to come to a stop. “Lord Blaine McFadden and troops, come to help you finish this up so we can all go home.”
“Lord and Lady McFadden,” the officer acknowledged. “Glad to have your help.”
Reinforcements gave new vigor to the fighters as a cheer went up in greeting. Blaine and Kestel fought their way toward the front lines as Blaine tried to find Pollard amid the combatants.
“He’s not on the field,” Blaine muttered to Kestel. “I’d know him if I saw him, and he’s not here.”
“Do you think he’s ducked out on them?” Kestel asked, wiping her blade clean on a dead man’s cloak.
Blaine shook his head. “There’s nowhere for him to go.” His gaze settled on a small stone structure nearly hidden among the trees in the section most vigorously defended by Pollard’s troops. “I think he’s badly wounded, and they’re hiding him.”
“Take the copse!” Blaine shouted, pointing toward the small stand of trees. “We want what’s in that building!”
Blaine and Kestel rode into the battle, swinging their swords with renewed vigor. His troops followed him, and Voss’s soldiers sent up a cheer, heartened at the reinforcements. A young captain appeared to be the ranking enemy officer, and as Blaine and Kestel rode toward him, the captain dealt a deathblow to his opponent, and wheeled his horse to face his new challengers. His mouth twisted into an ugly snarl as he recognized Blaine.
“Throw down your weapon,” Blaine shouted. “Nagok has lost. Jansen is dead, and Hennoch has surrendered. Thrane and his get have all been destroyed. You cannot win.”
The captain’s expression was contemptuous. “We will not yield! I’ll see you in Raka!” the captain screamed, charging toward Blaine, his sword leveled like a lance. Blaine jerked his reins, managing to get out of the way of the killing strike, but the sword took his horse in the neck, spraying them with warm crimson blood. Blaine leapt from his dying horse, landing in a squat as the captain rode for him again, but before Blaine could strike, Kestel neatly removed the captain’s head from his shoulders.
Pollard’s troops seemed to sense that their final hour was at hand, because they fought like madmen, intent on dying with valor if they could no longer win the war. He was certain that they knew death awaited them, whether they fought or surrendered. Blaine’s soldiers were happy to oblige, and spurred on by the knowledge that the battle was nearly won, they attacked Pollard’s troops with abandon.
Shouts, curses, and battle cries rose in a deafening cacophony, along with the clang of steel. The final assault was a blood-drenched free-for-all, and then, as the last of Pollard’s men collapsed from their wounds, the battlefield was eerily silent. It was all over within a candlemark.
“Cover us!” Blaine ordered the soldiers closest to him. “I’m going in,” he said, jerking his head toward the windowless stone building at the center of the copse.
“I’m going with you,” Kestel said, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.
Blaine approached the small building carefully, wary of traps or magic, but with the soldiers dead, nothing blocked his way. Now that he was closer, he could see that only three of the four walls were still standing, and part of the roof was gone. That left enough light inside for him to see the building’s sole inhabitant, a gaunt man in bloodied armor sitting on the ground and leaning against a wall.
Blaine barely recognized Vedran Pollard. Pollard’s skin was ashen, and his eyes looked shadowed and sunken. Still, his gaze burned with hatred when he recognized who had found his hiding place. Blaine did not venture closer, certain that Pollard, no matter how badly injured, would not be unarmed.
“If you want the crown of Donderath, you’ll have to fight for it, boy,” Pollard grated. “Then again, you’re twice the murderer your old man ever was.”
Blaine knew Pollard was baiting him, trying to push him into an attack. Far too much was at stake to make that kind of error, though Blaine struggled to rein in his anger. “You can’t win. Thrane and Reese have been destroyed, and Reese bound you tightly enough to take you with him.”
Pollard gave a cold laugh. “Sure I can win. I can kill you, just like I drove that worthless cur of a brother of yours to slit his own wrists. With you dead, I still win.”
Pollard moved to hurl a dagger. Just as he was about to strike, a glowing form took shape between Blaine and Pollard. The ghost was unmistakably Carr McFadden, and for a moment, the steel of his blade looked almost solid, real, and deadly. Carr’s ghost passed right through Vedran Pollard, lingering just a second as he overlapped the man who murdered him, so that Pollard’s eyes widened in fear and his entire body trembled.
Now, Blaine!
Whether he heard Carr’s voice or imagined it, Blaine charged forward, and his sword took Pollard in the heart. Pollard’s body crumpled beneath the death strike, but his gaze remained unrepentant until the light vanished from his eyes. “It’s a better death than you deserved,” Blaine muttered, withdrawing his bloodied sword.
For a moment,
the battlefield was eerily silent. After the din of battle, the silence was jarring. Blaine stared down at Pollard’s bloodied corpse. It’s finally over, he thought, looking from his bloodied blade to the body at his feet.
Carr’s ghost took shape one last time, standing next to Pollard. Now that his death was avenged, the ghost no longer manifested with its wounds, and Carr gave Blaine a rakish, bittersweet smile, then raised a hand in farewell, and vanished.
“Carr’s gone,” Blaine said as Kestel came to stand beside him. “His ghost was just here. We got our vengeance together.” His throat was tight, and he stared at the empty space where Carr’s ghost had been until he was sure that his brother’s spirit was not going to reappear.
Behind him, the soldiers were cheering wildly, shouting his name over and over, and celebrating the unexpected good fortune of being alive. Blaine heard little of it, his attention still focused on the empty space where Carr had been.
“He made it up to you,” Kestel said quietly, slipping an arm around his waist. “And he’s at peace. The war is over. Now we can rebuild.”
He leaned down to kiss her, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat, as the fury of the fight turned to utter amazement that he had survived. “It’s not quite over yet,” he murmured. “There’s still one thing left to do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I WARNED YOU. LORD GARNOC’S VOICE WAS A familiar, safe haven in the darkness. You’ve gotten mixed up in things that are too big for you. Now, there’s a price to be paid.
For a moment, Garnoc’s image was as clear as if the old man stood next to Connor. He saw concern and regret in Garnoc’s eyes and something else—pity. Garnoc was a good master to me, Connor thought. Why does he look so sad?
Ghosts surrounded Connor. Pale revenants hovered around him, pressing against his skin, desperate for what little body heat Connor still retained. They pushed against his fragile shielding, shattering his defenses. Connor could neither block their wailing voices nor shut out their spectral images. He remembered that the protection of the Wraith Lord and his new gift as a Lord of the Blood meant the ghosts could not take him by force, but it did not stop the spirits from attacking him, trying to weaken his protections.
“Depart!” A man’s voice sounded with authority, and while Connor did not recognize the speaker, the ghosts scattered as an invisible wave of power rolled out from the dark silhouette at the edges of Connor’s perception. The magic swept the ghostly attackers away like an ocean wave, leaving Connor blissfully, blessedly alone except for his protector.
“I will keep them from bothering you,” the man said, and Connor knew it must be Tormod Solveig. “Rest. You have nothing to fear from them,” Solveig added. Darkness and silence washed over Connor, blotting out everything else.
“Has anything changed?” A different voice, nearby. Penhallow’s voice, and Connor’s new master sounded worried.
“He’s restless,” Zaryae replied, very close. “He moans in his sleep, and I can’t tell whether he’s in pain or trying to say something.”
“We made a bargain with the gods to keep him,” Penhallow said. “I don’t know whether he’ll thank us for it or not.”
Wake up, Connor. This time, it was Kierken Vandholt’s voice, sounding inside Connor’s mind. Your body is healed enough to sustain you. It’s time to come back.
Connor groaned and opened his eyes. He stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling, painted with a faded scene of clouds and gods. A real bed, not an army cot, supported him, with good sheets and a woolen blanket. Despite the blanket, Connor felt cold to the marrow, and he shivered.
A warm hand clasped his. “You’re safe, Bevin.” Connor slowly turned his head and saw Zaryae sitting in a chair next to his bed. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and it looked as if she had not slept in days. Wisps of dark hair struggled from her usually immaculate braid.
“How long?” he rasped, his voice dry. Zaryae helped him sit up enough to drink, and pressed a cup of water against his parched lips.
“The battle was four days ago.” Penhallow moved into Connor’s sight, standing behind Zaryae. “What do you remember?”
Connor settled back into his pillow and struggled to think. “I remember the battle against Thrane,” he said slowly. “We freed the boy,” he added.
“Eljas Hennoch,” Penhallow supplied. “He’s been through a lot, but he’ll heal. His father surrendered at Castle Reach.”
“There were so many prisoners in the dungeon,” Connor murmured. He guessed that they were still at Solsiden, where they had fought their battle against Thrane and Reese. “What about them?”
“Pollard was supplying ‘food’ for Reese, to heal him,” Penhallow replied wearily. “Reese’s damage was substantial. We think Thrane grew bold and stopped worrying about retaliation, and just began gathering mortals and bringing them here for his brood to drain.”
“Sweet Esthrane,” Connor said. He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Thrane’s dead?” It was difficult to know what was real and what had been his imagination. The dreams had been so real, he doubted that he could tell vision from truth.
“Thrane was destroyed, along with Reese and all their get, everywhere,” Penhallow confirmed. “You helped us turn the course of the war. Losing his talishte support damaged Nagok, and Blaine’s army and their allies defeated him. Pollard was routed without his talishte, and Hennoch surrendered as soon as he saw Reese’s get disintegrate.”
Relief and the satisfaction of completion washed over Connor. “So it’s over?” he asked.
“The fighting’s done,” Penhallow replied. “There’s a lot of cleanup to do before everything’s really settled.”
Connor turned back to look at Zaryae, and something he saw in her eyes told him that Penhallow had not given him a complete answer. “What else?” he asked. “I heard you say something about a ‘bargain.’ What did you mean?”
His right hand went to his abdomen, where he remembered being badly wounded. Mortally wounded, perhaps. He had believed it was his time to die as he had fallen to the ground, covered in blood, cut open like a gutted fish. And yet, as his hand felt beneath his nightshirt, the skin was unbroken, only a thin, smooth scar. A shiver went down Connor’s spine. “Did you turn me?”
Zaryae’s grip tightened on his hand. Her skin felt so warm, and Connor felt so cold. Am I talishte? Is this what it feels like to be undead?
“We didn’t turn you.” Kierken Vandholt’s spirit took shape beside Penhallow, appearing nearly solid. “And we didn’t let you die. But there was a cost for bringing you back.”
Connor swallowed hard. “Tell me,” he said, mustering his courage. He looked to Zaryae, but she bowed her head so that he could not see her tears, and she clasped his hand in both of hers.
“I bargained with Esthrane for your soul.” The Wraith Lord regarded Connor with a mixture of emotions in his expression.
“You bargained with a goddess—for me?” Connor repeated incredulously.
“It was the only way to save you without making you talishte,” Penhallow said.
“What does that mean?” Connor asked, feeling completely out of his depth. He had not spent a lot of time thinking about the high god Charrot and his consorts, Torven and Esthrane. Though he had made the ritual offerings over the years, attended the celebrations and ceremonies on holy days, it had all seemed remote from everyday life. He did not disbelieve in the gods; but he had never dwelled on the thought of their reality. Suddenly, that distinction now seemed urgent.
“When I exchanged my soul to save my king, centuries ago, Esthrane granted my prayer, but doing so meant that I wander the Unseen Realms, instead of finding my rest in the Sea of Souls,” Kierken Vandholt replied. “And thus, I became the Wraith Lord, not doomed to Raka but unable to cross into a final rest.”
“You bargained the same for me?” Connor’s voice barely rose above a whisper.
“It was the only way,” Vandholt said sadly. “We had only three choices: Turn you, lose you
, or this.”
“You didn’t want to become talishte,” Penhallow said. “We respected your wishes. But we didn’t think you wanted to die, if there was another option.” He looked to Zaryae, who had raised her head, though she was crying silently.
“What does it mean for me, while I live?” Connor asked, torn between relief that he had survived and terror of the unknown. He wracked his brain to remember all that the Wraith Lord had said about the Unseen Realms, and much that he recalled was fearsome, a place between life and death filled with fallen immortals, of which Kierken Vandholt might be the least dangerous.
“It does not change your kruvgaldur bond to Penhallow or your connection to me,” Vandholt replied. “Penhallow’s blood was still necessary to heal you, though with help from the mages—and Esthrane. You retain the benefits of that bond—a longer-than-mortal lifespan, greater resilience, and our ability to communicate with you. And you retain the extra gift you received as a Lord of the Blood, your enhanced defenses against hostile spirits,” the Wraith Lord added. “In fact, those abilities will be strengthened because of this. But you have been touched by the goddess. She granted our prayers to save you. And every blessing comes with a price.”
Vandholt hesitated. “While you live, you are also now the servant of Esthrane, as I am. She is a fair but stern mistress.”
“So I’m still mortal,” Connor said, reasoning it out. “A little stronger than before. But I’ll die eventually, and when I do—”
“Your soul will wander the Unseen Realms, as mine does, and you will continue to serve Esthrane,” Vandholt replied. “For eternity, or until she releases you.”
Connor took a deep breath, trying to process what he was hearing. “What happens to talishte when they meet the final death?” he asked, leveling his gaze at Penhallow.
“Being turned doesn’t change our souls,” Penhallow replied. “At least, I don’t believe it does. The topic has been debated. We still fear Raka and hope for the Sea of Souls. Some believe that the blood required by the Dark Gift dooms us, but I believe we can redeem ourselves by the actions we choose.”
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