Shapers of Darkness: Book Four of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by David B. Coe

  She climbed onto Zetya’s back.

  “Where would you be going in the middle of the night, Minister?”

  Fetnalla eyed him again. Would she have to kill this one, too? “Away from here,” she said. “I’ve served this duke since before you were Fated, and in return he accuses me of treason and banishes me from his court. Do you really believe I have any desire to remain in his company?”

  The man blinked, clearly unprepared for such a candid response.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Without another word for him, she turned her mount and began to ride off into the wood.

  “Where are your guards?” the man called to her.

  Fetnalla reined Zetya to a halt and faced him again. “I believe they’re with your duke,” she said, calm as a planting morning.

  The man glanced toward the tent.

  Fearing that he might try to stop her, Fetnalla kicked at Zetya’s flanks and quickly steered her into the forest. Riding due east, she put some distance between herself and the camp, all the while listening for some indication that the duke and his men had been found. She didn’t have to wait long. The first shouts echoed through the trees after only a few moments; it seemed the sentry had gone immediately to find her guards. She knew how fast word of the duke’s death would spread through the camp, and while there would be some confusion at first, some uncertainty as to who would lead them and what they should do next, she also knew that it wouldn’t take long before Traefan took command and ordered the men to scour the Great Forest for her.

  Spurring Zetya to a full gallop, she angled northward, away from the river and deeper into the wood. A few of them would ride after her, but most would be on foot. If she could survive the night, and keep riding until morning, she’d be safe. The Weaver had spoken of battles far to the north, so that was where she would go.

  Evanthya, she knew, was forever lost to her. In all likelihood, they would never see each other again, and if they did, Fetnalla would have no choice but to kill her. She wept as she rode, knowing that she was being foolish, that the Weaver would not approve. She had chosen, guided by fear rather than love, driven by the exigencies of her cause rather than by the longing in her heart. Now she would live and die by that choice.

  Chapter

  Twenty-three

  Dantrielle, Aneira

  hat they both survived until nightfall was, in Evanthya’s mind, nothing short of miraculous. They fought as if possessed, the duke wielding his sword as the first minister imagined he must have as a far younger man. She had overheard the soldiers speaking in hushed voices of how clumsily he had fought when the siege began, and of how often one or the other of their brethren had been forced to rescue him. And of course, she had seen for herself the wound inflicted on his side by the Solkaran invader.

  On this day, however, she saw no sign of the awkward old duke Tebeo himself claimed to have become. Perhaps it was the imminent threat to his castle and family. Perhaps his outrage at all that Numar had done since the siege began finally boiled over into battle lust. Whatever the explanation, Tebeo acquitted himself valiantly. Moreover, his men, seeing how the duke fought, redoubled their efforts on his behalf, driving many of the men of Solkara and Rassor out of the castle and slaughtering those who dared to remain.

  For her part, Evanthya benefited from Eandi fears of her people, and their ignorance of Qirsi powers. Her magics—gleaning, mists and winds, language of beasts—did her little good in close combat with larger, stronger warriors. But because the men she fought couldn’t be certain that she wouldn’t set them ablaze or shatter their bones with shaping power, they approached her warily. Tebeo, who knew precisely what powers she possessed, and who insisted that they remain back-to-back, made certain that she was always facing away from the fiercest fighting. When she was forced into combat, she fought competently. She had learned the rudiments of swordplay long ago—the duke had required this of all his ministers—and what she lacked in strength she made up for in quickness and skill. Nevertheless, she didn’t kill a single man, and when forced to parry some of the heavier blows, she nearly fell to the ground. Fortunately, several of Dantrielle’s men had positioned themselves around her and the duke, and on those occasions when her life was truly in danger, at least one of them managed to come to her aid.

  Dark smoke hung over the castle, stinging Evanthya’s eyes and throat. It had shown no sign at all of abating, leading her to believe that the fires still burned in the Great Forest. This was confirmed for her late in the day when one of Dantrielle’s captains descended from the castle ramparts to give the duke a report on the fighting atop the walls.

  “They keep coming with their ladders, my lord,” the man said, as a Qirsi healer mended a gash on his arm. “But they’ve yet to take any part of the wall.”

  Tebeo leaned against a stone archway, enjoying a brief respite from the fighting. His face was scarlet and sweat dripped from his cheeks and chin. “Good work, Captain. Please convey my thanks to the men under your command.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Have you any sense of how the battle goes beyond our walls?”

  “No, my lord. None. We can’t see for the smoke and the trees. We hear things occasionally—they’re still fighting—but it’s hard to say who’s got the advantage.”

  The duke nodded, grim-faced. “Very well, Captain. Return to your men. We’ll do our best to hold the gates and ports here.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man bowed and hurried back to the nearest tower.

  Gabrys stood nearby, bleeding from a dozen cuts on his arms, face, and neck, but still looking fresher than Tebeo. “The fires were a desperate measure, my lord. Numar couldn’t have attacked us so fiercely and still inflicted many casualties on the armies of Kett and Tounstrel. He simply hasn’t enough men.”

  “You sound very confident, armsmaster.”

  “I remain convinced that the walls will hold, and that our allies will win through.”

  Tebeo straightened and examined his blade. “I’d like very much to share your certainty.”

  The master of arms stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t?”

  “I know that I should,” the duke, his voice dropping as well, “that it’s important that I do, not only for myself, but also for the men.” He took a long breath. “I’ll feel better when Orvinti arrives.”

  “We can prevail without Orvinti if we have to.”

  “We shouldn’t have to.”

  Gabrys gave a sad, small smile. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You don’t think he’ll come.”

  “It’s not that, my lord,” the master of arms said, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Then what? Come now, Gabrys, this is no time to be timid.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. But I fear that you’re staking all on the actions of your allies. You’re convinced that if they arrive, the siege will be broken, and I sense that you believe their failure to do so dooms us to defeat.”

  Tebeo opened his mouth, faltered, then frowned. “That’s not entirely true,” he said, an admission in the words. “But I understand why you might think it is.”

  “You said a moment ago that we could prevail without Orvinti,” Evanthya said, drawing the master of arms’s gaze. “How?”

  “By continuing to fight as we have been. It may not seem like it, but we’ve had a good day. The regent has sent raiding party after raiding party, and we’ve yet to cede any part of the castle. Yes, we’ve suffered losses, but Rassor and Solkara have lost as many men as we have, perhaps more.”

  The duke appeared troubled and Evanthya thought she understood why. The master of arms spoke this way with some frequency, measuring Dantrielle’s losses against those of the enemy. He was a warrior, no doubt a good one. But Tebeo was not. The loss of life on both sides appalled him. More to the point, he recognized that this war was but a prelude to a much more significant and dangerous conflict. The casualties that
Gabrys counted so blithely left them weakened and more deeply divided than ever, just as the leaders of the Qirsi movement wanted.

  “You may well be right, armsmaster,” the duke said. “But still, I’d like to know what’s become of the dukes of Tounstrel and Kett. Can we send out—”

  “Look to the skies!”

  The three of them spun toward the north wall in time to see another of the great flaming stones crash down the ramparts.

  “Damn!” the duke said through clenched teeth.

  “I thought the hurling arms had been burned,” Gabrys said, sounding more alarmed than he had in some time.

  Tebeo nodded, still staring up at the wall. “As did I.”

  “I’m afraid that may be your answer, my lord. If the Solkarans have managed to repair the arms—”

  “Look to the skies!”

  Two more burning spheres plummeted toward the castle, one of them hitting the same wall, not far from where the first had landed. The second soared over the wall and landed in the ward, making the ground tremble and splattering flaming pitch in all directions.

  Shouts went up from the north and west gates, and an instant later soldiers of Solkara and Rassor swarmed into the castle courtyard.

  “Archers!” Gabrys roared, raising his blade and rushing toward the attackers.

  Arrows whistled from the walls. Many of the enemy raised shields to guard themselves, but a good number fell anyway, only to be replaced by dozens more storming through the gate.

  “What’s happened to our defenses?” the duke demanded, readying his sword as well.

  “Look to the skies!”

  Tebeo looked up once more, his expression more desperate than grim. “He’d kill his own men just to strike harder at me.”

  Two more boulders smashed down on the ramparts. At the same time, more of Dantrielle’s men rushed into the ward from the tower stairways, apparently sent from the walls to meet this newest threat.

  “Come with me, First Minister,” the duke said, sounding weary as he strode toward the combat. “We’ll do this the same way: back-to-back, you facing toward the inner half of the ward.”

  “Are you certain you’re fit to fight, my lord?”

  He glanced at her, a hint of anger in his eyes. “What choice do I have?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  She followed him, wondering how their luck could possibly hold through another fight. Already her arms and shoulders ached from the previous battle and she felt certain that the duke was no better off than she. Still, he didn’t hesitate to throw himself into the fray. Evanthya actually had to run to keep up with him, and before she knew it they were surrounded by Solkaran soldiers.

  Once more the duke wielded his blade like a man who had been waging war all his life, his steel seeming to dance in the torchlight. The two of them were quickly joined by the master of arms and several of his men and together they formed a phalanx that withstood wave after wave of enemy attacks. Before long, however, Tebeo’s breathing began to grow labored, his parries less sure. Evanthya was guarded on both sides by the duke’s men; she barely had to fight at all, and when she did, it was only to keep a single man from striking at the duke from behind. But she could do nothing to bolster Tebeo’s strength or drive back the men of Solkara and Rassor. She had never envied the powers of other Qirsi, not even Fetnalla, who was a shaper and a healer. But on this night, caught in the tumult of battle, she would have given all that she possessed to break a blade with magic or set afire the flesh and hair of Dantrielle’s attackers.

  She lost all sense of time, measuring the passage of the night in screams and the ringing of swords, in the thunder of the flaming stones that crashed down on the ramparts, and in the ever-growing number of dead strewn about the wards of Castle Dantrielle. The minister had little experience with warfare, and immersed in this frenzy she had little sense of what was happening elsewhere in the fortress. But there could be no denying the inexorable retreat of the duke and his men. They gave ground grudgingly, exacting from their foes a dear cost in blood for every backward step. But fall back they did.

  It seemed to Evanthya that the regent had to have sent through Dantrielle’s gates all of his soldiers save for those few who continued to man the hurling arms. And indeed, in the midst of the fighting, as she glanced over her shoulder to check on Tebeo and the others, she thought she caught sight of Numar himself commanding his men from near the north barbican.

  “They’re driving us toward the lower ward, my lord,” Gabrys said a short while later, his voice strained and tight.

  “I know,” the duke called back. “If they take the upper ward, we lose the armory, not to mention a good deal of our stores, and the cloister, where I’ve left my family. If you’ve an idea for stopping them, this would be a fine time to tell me about it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, my lord.”

  “Can we order the archers to aim at Numar?”

  “Most of your archers remain on the walls, my lord. And the regent is keeping himself shielded at the back of the barbican.”

  “First Minister, is there anything—?”

  Before Tebeo could finish, an arrow buried itself in the throat of the man next to him. A instant later, arrows were pelting down on Dantrielle’s men. Evanthya raised her shield just in time to stop two darts from striking her in the head.

  “To the towers!” Tebeo cried as his men scattered like panicked mice.

  Evanthya followed him to the nearest of the tower entrances, peering warily up at the ramparts as she ran. Fighting continued on three of the walls, but one of them was now held by the regent’s men. And unlike Dantrielle’s archers, who still struggled to keep the Solkarans from climbing onto the ramparts, Numar’s men were free to loose their arrows at the soldiers fighting below them in the wards.

  “Your castle is falling, Tebeo!” came a voice from the north gate, echoing across the courtyard. “Surrender now, and I’ll spare the lives of your warriors. Fight on and you doom them as well as yourself.”

  “I’ll die before I surrender to you, Numar! And the men of Dantrielle will gladly give their lives rather than give in to Solkaran tyranny!” The duke stared across at the regent, his expression belying his brave words. “Do we have any hope of stopping them, armsmaster?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Only if our men can retake the west wall, my lord.”

  “Damn. And we can do nothing to help them?”

  “No, my lord. Not without ceding the wards to the regent and his men.”

  “Then, perhaps I should surrender.”

  “No, my lord!” Evanthya said, before Gabrys could speak. “You can’t!”

  “I don’t want to either, First Minister, but if it means saving the lives of my men—”

  “You don’t know that he’ll keep his word! Think of the things he’s done already! Do you really believe this is a man capable of showing mercy to any who have stood against him?”

  “No, I don’t. But he has other battles to wage, and he needs soldiers. He can’t afford to kill my men if he doesn’t have to.” Tebeo looked at Gabrys, who was listening intently to their exchange. “Isn’t that so, armsmaster?”

  “It is, my lord. But still, I agree with the first minister. You shouldn’t surrender. Not yet, not while we still have some hope of defeating him.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to end this folly and spare my army?”

  “I can’t speak for all of the men, my lord. I’ve no doubt that there are some out there—a few—who at this moment would trade your life for theirs. But as a warrior, I can tell you that I would rather die for a cause, even a futile one, than live knowing that my friends and my duke had died for nothing.”

  Tebeo nodded. “All right. Then what in Ean’s name do we do now?”

  Gabrys surveyed the ward, shaking his head slowly. Once more Numar was shouting orders from the shelter of the barbican, marshaling his men, who now moved about the courtyard with relative freedom. “We need to divert our
archers from the ramparts,” he said at last. “Some of them at least. We need to counter their advantage.”

  “Won’t your captains on the wall realize that?”

  “Their orders are to hold the walls at all cost. They’ve already lost one. They won’t spare a single man if it means endangering the others.”

  “Unless we tell them to.”

  “Yes, my lord. But I’m not certain that we should. If we lose the walls, none of the rest matters.”

  “I can help, my lord.”

  Both men turned to Evanthya.

  “What do you suggest, First Minister?”

  “A mist, my lord. It wouldn’t have helped before, when we were just fighting hand-to-hand. It might have made matters worse. But now, with the archers above us, it may be our only hope.”

  “Can you make it hover above us?” Gabrys asked. “So that we can see who we’re fighting here on the ground?”

  “I believe so.”

  He looked at Tebeo. “In that case I think it a fine idea.”

  “Agreed,” the duke said. “Weave your mist, Evanthya. Quickly.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The minister closed her eyes, reaching for her magic. She was weary from her battles, but no more so than the men who would be raising their swords beneath the mist she was conjuring. She ignored her fatigue, losing herself in the flow of power.

  Opening her eyes once more, she saw tendrils of pale grey fog rising from the grass before her like thin, ghostly limbs. The mist gathered slowly at first, but then began to build, until it blanketed the ward.

  Almost immediately, a wind rose from the north, threatening to sweep away all she had done. Pronjed jal Drenthe, Numar’s archminister.

  “What’s happening?” the duke demanded.

  But already Evanthya had summoned a wind of her own, at the same time drawing forth even more mist. Pronjed’s gale strengthened, but she matched it. He was stronger than she; probably she would fail before he did. She didn’t care. At last she was fighting a battle with a weapon she had mastered, on terrain that felt familiar, even comfortable.