The broad, flat plain north of the Citadel was now a killing field. Torinth Rostivan’s identity was confirmed as soon as his battle flag came into view. The flag showed a gryp, wings unfurled and fanged maw opened wide, with talons extended for the hunt.
“Tell Kestel to leave some of the wounded alive,” Piran said through clenched teeth as he deflected a strike from his opponent. “We can’t interrogate the dead.”
“You tell her,” Blaine countered, parrying a blow from the soldier he fought. The numbers were now equally matched between the four of Blaine’s soldiers and the four enemy fighters, and Hennoch’s troops were getting the worst of it.
“She’ll take it better from you,” Piran retorted.
“When have you ever known Kestel to take orders from anyone?” Blaine replied.
Rostivan’s forces outnumbered the allied warlords’ combined troops they’d brought with them to the Citadel, but to Blaine’s eye, their soldiers were better trained. Above the din, Blaine could hear Niklas shouting to rally their soldiers for an advance. The generals had made the most of their slight warning. Verner’s soldiers hooked around to the left, pushing a wedge of Rostivan’s men into the waiting swords of both Blaine’s troops and those belonging to the Solveigs.
“Poor, dumb bastards,” Piran muttered as he pulled his sword free of the soldier he had just cleaved from shoulder to hip. “Does Rostivan give them a sword and a jug of grog and tell them it makes them warriors?” His tone was flippant, but Blaine could see anger in Piran’s eyes.
Verner’s troops were farthest away, but the skill with which his front line was driving Rostivan’s soldiers into the waiting blades of the allies suggested a tightly coordinated fighting unit that was skilled in battle. Blaine caught a glimpse of Verner sprinting between battle zones, climbing onto a ruined wall to direct the battle, and bet that the warlord’s cavalier attitude toward his own safety made him popular with his men. Niklas, by comparison, was a cagey strategist and a survivor. Small teams of his soldiers attacked clusters of enemy fighters.
“Something about those two makes my skin crawl,” Piran said, and Blaine followed his gaze to where the Solveig siblings were fighting alongside a dozen of their soldiers against a line of Rostivan’s men. Rinka was as accomplished with the sword as Kestel, and Tormod’s fighting style showed that he had gained his skill in battle.
Even by Velant standards, Rinka and Tormod fought dirty, skills likely won in tavern brawls and prison fights. The Solveigs moved with feral grace and strength, cutting down their attackers mercilessly. But when three more of Rostivan’s soldiers joined the fray, the odds tilted against them.
“Piran—over here!” Blaine shouted. They had crossed half of the distance between them and the Solveigs when Blaine stopped cold, staring at what he saw.
Rinka was moving in a swift, deadly circle around Tormod, who had gone still, face impassive. Though Rinka executed her moves with the grace of a dancer, her sword strikes were lethal.
Tormod’s features grew tight with concentration. Blaine felt a surge of magic and a sudden, blinding headache that caused him to stumble. One of the corpses on the ground began to rise, then a second, and finally a third struggled to its feet and jerked toward the attackers. Rostivan’s soldiers cried out in alarm and fell back. The corpses began to tremble, limbs quaking and bodies shaking as if taken by a seizure. In the next instant, the dead soldiers exploded, spraying Rostivan’s men in gobbets of blood and drenching Rinka and Tormod in gore.
Rostivan’s soldiers ran screaming.
“He’s a necromancer,” Piran muttered.
Before Blaine could reply, a raw-throated scream cut through the air. A wild-eyed young man careened toward Blaine, broadsword raised. He was within striking distance, and the blade fell with enough power to cleave bone.
Blaine parried, blocking the swing. The force of the strike shuddered painfully down his arm. The enemy soldier’s eyes were wide with fear, and the panicked ferocity of his strikes made up for what he lacked in training.
Blaine parried again, watching for the opening he somehow knew was coming. The fighter swung high, and Blaine’s sword went low, slicing across the man’s belly and spilling his entrails in a steaming mass down his legs and onto the ground. Fear shifted to pain and disbelief as the man’s eyes widened, and he grasped at his gashed abdomen, vainly attempting to stuff the slick mass back through the bloody slit. He groaned and fell to his knees. Blaine swung once more, taking the soldier’s head from his shoulders in one clean move.
Piran was fighting off an attacker, but it was clear that the field of fighters had thinned. Bodies littered the ground, but the majority of those still standing were on their side. Rostivan’s flag was down, and his troops departed as quickly as they came, a retreat instead of a rout, giving Blaine to wonder about the intent behind the attack.
“Nothing like sealing a treaty in blood,” Kestel said, joining them. Bloody long-bladed knives dangled in her crimson hands. Her face, arms, and armor were spattered with blood.
“The Solveigs are necromancers,” Blaine said, scanning the horizon to find the twins. “Or at least, Tormod is.”
Kestel frowned. “And his power worked?”
“He animated three corpses, but before they could do more than stand, they exploded,” Blaine replied. “No way to tell whether that’s what he intended or not.”
“As long as it was effective,” Kestel said with a shrug.
“Did you leave us any prisoners to interrogate?” Piran asked, eyeing Kestel’s bloody blades.
Kestel made a show of wiping her blades clean and sheathed them with a flourish. “A few. Enough to be valuable for information, but not a chore to feed.” She gave a jerk of her head in the direction in which Rostivan’s soldiers had retreated. “Somehow, I doubt their warlord will negotiate for them.”
Piran looked to Kestel. “Who’s got the prisoners?”
“Niklas sent a team of men to collect them,” Kestel replied. “I thought you’d want to be there when he questions them. He said he’d bring them back to the Citadel and wait for us there.”
Not a bad move, Blaine thought. If the prisoners won’t talk on their own, come nightfall, the talishte can read their blood.
Rinka and Tormod were rallying their soldiers to determine their losses, and farther down the field, Verner’s second-in-command was doing the same. Behind them, Blaine heard Niklas shouting for his troops to gather.
“Rostivan had more men. The odds were with him,” Kestel said, looking out over the field of bodies.
“He had green recruits,” Blaine said, anger coloring his voice. “None of the men I fought were old enough to have mustered into the army during the Meroven War. I think it was a test to see if the alliance would hold.”
“I think there’s more to it than that, Mick,” Piran said. “I think Rostivan came looking for you. After all, he’s allied with Quintrel, isn’t he? And you mucked up Quintrel’s plans when we left Valshoa.” He looked out over the battlefield. “I think Rostivan retreated because he didn’t expect us to have reinforcements.” He shrugged. “Maybe his spies got it wrong. I don’t think he came here looking for a big battle. I think he came after you.”
They fell silent as they walked the rest of the way, alert for trouble. Blaine mulled Piran’s observation, validating it with every savaged body they stepped over. It doesn’t make sense for Quintrel to want to kill me, Blaine thought. If I die, the magic could be broken forever. So what’s he after? And how do I factor into it?
Niklas was waiting for them when they returned to the Citadel, along with Rinka and Tormod. Half a dozen men knelt on the stone landing, wrists bound, hands atop their heads. Behind them, double the number of guards held the prisoners at sword’s point.
“Verner and some of his men went after Rostivan’s troops, at least to make sure they were really leaving,” Niklas said. “I expect he’ll join us when he can.” He nodded toward the captives. “I figured you’d want to h
ear the answers,” Niklas said. His uniform was streaked with dirt and blood, and one sleeve was torn, exposing a bloody gash.
Niklas turned toward the prisoners. “Your lives have been spared—for the moment—to tell us what you know,” Niklas said. “If your information is valuable, your life will be longer. Refuse to talk, and we have no reason at all to keep you alive.” He paused. “Help us, and swear allegiance to one of the allied lords, and we’ll get you a healer and let you live. Otherwise…” He let his voice drift off, but his meaning was clear.
Niklas stopped in front of one young soldier whose eye was nearly swollen shut. “What can you tell me, soldier? Your master sent you to die. You owe him nothing.”
The soldier hesitated.
“Your commander abandoned you, ran off to save his skin. Talk to us, tell us what we want to know, and you can live.”
“Rostivan knew you were going to be at the Citadel.” The voice came from another soldier, a dark-haired young man whose face was drenched in blood from a scalp wound.
Niklas turned his attention to the captive. “How?”
“He’s got spies everywhere,” another soldier said.
“It’s McFadden he really wants.” The first soldier spoke up. “We were told what he looked like, and offered a gold piece each if we captured him.”
Blaine and Piran exchanged a glance. “Why McFadden?” Niklas asked the prisoner.
“Rostivan’s orders were to capture McFadden or wound him so he could be taken,” the soldier replied.
“His orders?” Kestel repeated. “Orders from whom?”
The soldier shrugged. “That hocus up in the mountains, I guess.”
“Vigus Quintrel. That explains it,” Piran muttered.
“How big of an army does Rostivan have?” Niklas probed. “Speak up, lads; tell me what I want to know and save your own lives.”
“Big,” the first soldier replied. “Most of the fellows are like us, got nowhere else to go. Rostivan promised we could take new land once he beat the warlords.”
Rinka and Tormod moved into view, and abruptly, the first soldier paled and shied back. “Don’t hocus me! I saw him. He made the dead rise!” the man said, staring in terror at Tormod. Tormod gave the man a chilling smile that showed his teeth.
“Where else is Rostivan planning to strike?” Niklas prodded.
“He doesn’t tell us nothin’ but where we’re to march that day,” one of the other soldiers put in.
“Where do you march?” Niklas pressed.
“Back and forth, and back again, it seems,” the soldier replied. “Sometimes, we go to a tumble of rock and he tells us to dig and see if we find anything. Says he wants anything ‘hocus-like,’ whatever that means.”
“What kind of ‘hocus things’ does Rostivan want?” Niklas asked.
The dark-haired soldier with the scalp wound seemed happy to elaborate. “Bone or stone carved with odd marks, round pieces of black stone. Things that look odd, like normal folk wouldn’t use them.”
“And did you find any of those kinds of things?”
“Here and there, not all at once,” the first soldier replied. “Whatever we found, we gave it to our captain.”
“What else can you tell me?” Niklas glanced up and down the line of desperate captives.
Eager to save their skins, the soldiers passed along bits of gossip and wild rumors, but nothing particularly useful. When they had exhausted their tales, they slumped, awaiting their fate. Niklas met Blaine’s gaze and nodded. Blaine returned the nod.
“You’ve been helpful,” Niklas said. “Lord McFadden keeps his promises. I’ll have our healers take care of you. But you must swear fealty, renouncing your previous lords, and we must be able to assure that your oath is true.”
A skinny blond man with a crooked nose looked up. “How ya gonna do that? Hocus us?”
Niklas shook his head. His expression grew sober. “Tonight, our talishte allies will join us. A talishte can read truth or lies from a man’s blood.”
The captives looked terrified at the thought, yet none seemed to think death preferable enough to volunteer to be executed instead. Niklas gave quiet instructions to the guards, who pulled the captives to their feet and led them away toward the camp where the healers were located.
Blaine turned to face Rinka and Tormod. “You never mentioned you were a necromancer,” he said tersely, meeting Tormod’s gaze.
Rinka shrugged. “You never mentioned that it was you who restored the magic,” she said. “Yet here you are, the last living Lord of the Blood.”
“Were you able to raise the dead before the Cataclysm?”
Tormod gave a knowing smile. “Before the Great Fire, like most mages, my abilities were different. What matters is what I can do now.”
In other words, our allies are keeping their secrets to themselves, Blaine thought.
Several candlemarks passed before Niklas joined Blaine, Piran, and Kestel in the command center Niklas’s men had hastily set up in one of the Citadel’s less-damaged rooms. Niklas looked worn and tired, and he still had not changed from his bloodied uniform.
“Have a drink, mate,” Piran said, passing his flask to Niklas.
Niklas dropped into a chair and took a swig. “Thanks,” he said, handing back the flask. “But I’d need about a cask more to make an impact.”
“Any sign of Rostivan?” Blaine asked. He sat on a wooden crate near the fireplace. Kestel stood close to the hearth, warming her hands.
“Verner’s men chased him for a candlemark, but there wasn’t much point beyond that,” Niklas said tiredly. “I still want to know why he’s going after Blaine in particular.”
“Like the soldier said, it’s got to have something to do with Quintrel,” Kestel said. “But that doesn’t explain why Quintrel turned on us after Blaine brought the magic back at Valshoa. Until then, Quintrel seemed like an ally, leaving us clues, helping Blaine work the ritual. Then he tried to force us to stay.”
“Odds are, he knew about the anchoring,” Blaine said. His hand brushed one temple, but that did nothing to ease the headache that still pounded. “Maybe he figured he’d just keep me in Valshoa indefinitely, and then he would control the anchor and maybe the magic itself.”
“Do you think he’s guessed what the anchoring is doing to you?” Kestel asked, watching him with concern.
“He knows.” Niklas slouched in his chair, head back, eyes shut. “And I don’t think there’s any doubt that Quintrel sent Rostivan to capture you.”
Blaine and Kestel exchanged a glance. “Why do you say that?”
Niklas sighed. “Geir caught up with me not long after sundown, when I was reviewing the troops. Seems General Dolan’s had a falling out with Quintrel and left.” He opened his eyes and looked at Blaine. “According to Geir, Dolan believes Quintrel’s gone mad, pushed ’round the bend by some kind of corrupted artifact. And since Quintrel couldn’t keep you in Valshoa, he’s bound a divi spirit and he’s got something called ‘presence-crystals’ he thought could bind the magic to new Lords of the Blood.”
“Do you think that’s possible?” Kestel asked, turning toward Niklas. She looked from Niklas to Blaine. “If the magic can be re-anchored, that could stop the drain on Mick.”
Niklas shifted in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Dolan seemed to think it can. He didn’t just leave Valshoa—he stole the crystals and the manuscripts that went with them.”
Piran let out a low whistle. “I bet old Vigus is stewed about that.”
“Murderous, I’d say,” Blaine replied.
Niklas nodded. “Geir says Dolan’s sent Nidhud our way with a ‘proposal.’ Dolan’s already worked out some type of an alliance with Nidhud and Penhallow, and as Geir understands it, eventually we need to return to a place of power to do the ritual—maybe Mirdalur.”
Piran made his opinion clear with an impressively creative string of curses. “Not that place again! We nearly died the last time.”
>
Niklas shrugged. “That was last time. Cheer up. Geir said Dolan’s also looking at the tunnels under Quillarth Castle.”
“Lovely,” Piran exploded. “We nearly died there, too. Can we find a place to try this where we haven’t all almost been killed?”
“Probably not,” Kestel replied. “Because it’s got to be a place of power, where the nodes and meridians are just right, and there aren’t too many of them. Valshoa’s out, for obvious reasons. At least Mirdalur and Quillarth Castle are solidly inside Blaine’s territory.”
“What’s the proposal? Do you know what Dolan wants in exchange for helping us?” Blaine asked. He expected to be tired after a battle, but not as bone weary as he was feeling now. His head ached, and his body felt feverish. Blaine was certain the magic had something to do with it.
“Geir didn’t have details, but I gathered Dolan wants assurances that when a ruling body is formed, the Knights—and the talishte—will have seats at the table.”
“Not an unreasonable request, given the help Penhallow and the Wraith Lord have already provided,” Blaine said. “And if the Knights are reliable allies, all the better. I’m sure Dolan wants to make sure there’s no repeat betrayal.”
Niklas nodded. “I don’t doubt it. And while I’m fine with the arrangement, I suspect there will be some who balk at bringing the talishte into the formal power structure.”
“Let them,” Blaine replied. “I’ve got enough people trying to kill me, they’ll have to stand in line.”
CHAPTER
TEN
CARENSA, I’M SO HAPPY YOU’VE COME DOWN TO the Workshop.” Vigus Quintrel’s smile was broad and, as far as Carensa could tell, genuine. “Come in, come in. Let me show you around.”
It had been quite a while since Carensa had been down to the building Quintrel claimed as his own private Workshop. Just a handful of mages were permitted inside, and invitations to guests were few.
Quintrel had chosen a building left behind by the builders of the city long ago, the Valshoans, who had died out in centuries past. The secretive Valshoan mages had sealed their doom with their insularity, refusing to leave their mountain refuge and forbidding outsiders from visiting. By the time the Knights of Esthrane had sought sanctuary, there were only a few Valshoans left, and they had permitted the Knights to stay, just as many years later, the Knights had permitted Quintrel and his band of rogue mages to hide within Valshoa’s boundaries from the Cataclysm Quintrel had predicted.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 15
