Caz grinned. “Only if there are two of them.”
Connor looked at the pieces that littered the table. “Reese killed a lot of people to get these pieces,” he said. “Is it all worthless?”
“Not necessarily.” The voice came from behind Connor. Rolf looked better suited to loading cargo on wagons or pitching hay. He was a little taller than Connor, but broad through the chest, with strong arms and a thick neck.
“Meaning?” Connor replied. He took a long drink from his cup of fet and grimaced at the bitter taste.
“We’re still trying to figure it all out,” Rolf replied. “The magic didn’t come back exactly the way it was before, so all these objects are dangerous unknowns.”
Caz nodded vigorously. “Very dangerous. The problem is, even Alsibeth can’t always tell what’s going to happen, with the way the magic is now. Mages have died just trying to use the simplest objects for the most basic workings.”
Connor frowned. “Why bother with the objects at all?”
“Good focusing objects help a mage concentrate his or her power,” Alsibeth replied. “A well-crafted magical item can make a mediocre mage strong and a strong mage exceptional.”
Connor caught Caz’s gaze. “Try not to burn anything down, please?”
“We’ll do our best,” Alsibeth promised. Caz nodded, but Rolf did not look certain of success.
After his conversation with the mages, Connor headed for the first floor, to check on the kitchen staff and then see what he could make of the records that remained from Reese’s exchequer.
A woman’s scream echoed from the stone walls. It came from the hallway toward the deserted east wing. Connor started toward the sound at a run. The scream sounded again. He had only gone a short way down the hall before he realized that the corridor had grown icy cold. Connor slowed, growing wary.
He threw open the double doors to a suite of rooms. The suite’s fine wall coverings hung in tatters. The room had been stripped of its furnishings, and its draperies hung faded and torn against the windows. An oil painting over the mantel showed a pretty young girl with a world-weary expression.
Connor caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of his eye. Two spirits, one male and one female, faced off against each other in the middle of the room. It was obvious that they were arguing. The woman’s ghost raised her chin defiantly, and the man’s jaw was set. Connor could not hear their words, though it was obvious that they were screaming at each other.
The man’s hand lashed out, striking the woman on the jaw. She fell against a writing table, sending quills and other instruments scattering. One hand scrabbled behind her, and her fist closed on a small knife. With a howl of rage she launched herself at the man and plunged the knife deep into his chest. He threw her out of his way, and she lost her footing. Her head hit hard against a table, and she dropped to the floor.
The scene vanished, leaving Connor alone in the room.
I don’t want to know how often this show repeats, Connor thought, escaping to the corridor. He was shaking. The scene had seemed so real, the spirits so lifelike, that Connor could not help feeling guilty for not taking action. There’s nothing I could do to change what happened, he thought. It took place a long time ago.
Connor looked around himself. He was in a shabby section of corridor. At the end of the hallway, chunks of rock littered the floor where parts of the ceiling had fallen, and rough wooden beams barricaded the walkway where Westbain’s other wing had collapsed.
The winter wind whistled through cracks in the barricade. Something wordless cautioned him not to turn his back. Connor stared into the shadowed end of the corridor, and the hair on the back of his neck began to rise. The air grew heavy, and the temperature plummeted as the shadows began to roil.
An ink-black wave of darkness swept toward him, fast as breakers in a storm. The darkness was opaque, blotting out everything behind it. Connor ran toward the lights and safety of the main house.
Connor felt a low rumble, and heard something growling. He sensed that the blackness was hard on his heels. Suddenly, the darkness rushed over him, sweeping him into it like the tug of a powerful undertow. The shadows had weight and strength, and Connor thought that he might be crushed in its press.
Let me in! A man’s voice sounded in Connor’s mind.
Get out of my head, Connor snapped.
I can make this painful, or easy, the voice replied. But I have waited too long without a body to let you go.
I’m using this body. You can’t have it.
The voice gave a harsh laugh. I wasn’t asking permission, the voice replied. I just wanted to know how much I was going to need to hurt you.
The spirit thrust itself into Connor’s mind with a force that made him gasp. Pinpoints of light flashed in his vision. A specter formed in front of him, a large man with heavy-lidded eyes and a face with jowls like a bulldog’s. His lips formed a perpetual pout, and the set of his mouth was harsh. The man’s eyes had held a flat, dead glare, and glinted with casual cruelty.
I see we’ll have to do this the hard way. The spirit forced itself against Connor’s shape as if it were squeezing into a too-tight suit of armor. The man’s ghost shoved and twisted, taking pleasure in the pain he caused in his rough entry. Connor bit back a scream.
I warned you.
Connor felt a tide of anger well up inside him, fed by his anger at Reese, and the long-unspent fury at the mages who had sent the Cataclysm and destroyed Connor’s world.
Get… out… of… my… head! The words summoned up every bit of energy in Connor’s being, calling to every strand of untested power, rage made all the more potent for its long suppression.
Connor felt that rage well up inside him as his magic flared in his mind. Rage and magic melded with sheer willpower in one massive push, throwing the intruder out of his mind, casting the spirit free of his body.
The effort left Connor gasping on his hands and knees, but he lifted his head defiantly, expecting the spirit to try once more, doubting that he had the strength to fight him off again.
The large man’s spirit took visible shape once more, its fleshy features twisted in an expression of fury. I will destroy you, the spirit vowed. I will crush every memory. Nothing of you will remain.
The ghost began to rush toward Connor. But just as it gathered speed, a blast of wind roared through the corridor, sudden and violent enough to make Connor throw up his arms to protect himself. A glowing specter stood between Connor and the ghost, a broad-shouldered man in full armor, holding a glowing sword in each hand. Power rippled from the apparition, and fury.
This was Kierken Vandholt, the Wraith Lord, and he was very, very angry.
You tried to take something that does not belong to you, the Wraith Lord thundered.
The fat man’s ghost dared not rise. M’lord, I beg you—
Silence! the Wraith Lord roared. I have no interest in your defense. I felt what harm you worked against my servant. His pain was mine. And now, my vengeance shall be his.
The ghost’s image waxed and waned, and Connor wondered if the spirit was trying to flee. If so, the Wraith Lord possessed the power to keep him from doing so. By now, the fat man’s ghost was on his knees, sobbing and pleading, promising to make amends and bargaining with offers of hidden treasures.
The Wraith Lord did not slow his advance, and Connor was grateful that he could not see Vandholt’s face.
Mercy, my lord, I beg of you, the corpulent man pleaded.
I will show you the mercy you showed my servant, the Wraith Lord said in a cold voice. He lunged forward, and one of his glowing blades skewered the ghost through the belly. With his other hand, he plunged the second blade down through the apparition’s head and into his chest.
It would serve you well if I left you like this for eternity, the Wraith Lord said in a low rumble. I have read your spirit, and this is not the first time you have forced yourself into a mortal’s consciousness. But it will be the last.
The fat man’s mouth worked silently, his eyes wide with pain and utter terror. If Connor had ever questioned the stories that Kierken Vandholt walked the Unseen Realm with the permission of Esthrane herself, this ability to punish the incorporeal dead removed all doubt.
You threatened to snuff out every glimmer that remained of my servant’s self, the Wraith Lord said. You intended to steal his body and destroy his soul. You do not have that power. But I do.
The fat man’s ghost made a strangled bleat, and winked out of sight, drawing the darkness with him like a shroud.
The Wraith Lord stared at the empty space where the ghost had vanished for a moment, then turned toward Connor. Dimly, Connor was aware of a rustle behind him and hushed voices that fell silent with one look from the Wraith Lord. Kierken Vandholt strode over to where Connor knelt. Vandholt’s expression changed, softening to one of concern.
Are you damaged?
Connor shook his head, still at a loss for words. He managed to climb to his feet. “Thank you. If he had come at me a second time, I don’t think I could have fought him back.”
I felt the intrusion and your pain, the Wraith Lord said. The bond between us goes both ways, a kruvgaldur of spirit if not blood. He paused. That you were able to throw him off at all is quite unusual. I have met very few mediums who could muster that kind of power, even with their lives at stake. He chuckled. You continue to surprise me, Bevin.
“Thank you,” Connor repeated. “I didn’t think you could help. I’m far away from your lands.”
Kierken Vandholt inclined his head in acknowledgment. You are most welcome. I am not bound to my lands, but I choose to stay close since it gives me comfort. I could not allow you to be destroyed. I have cost you a great deal. But I also watch over those under my protection. He frowned. Be wary, Bevin. Westbain is a dangerous place.
With that, the Wraith Lord’s image disappeared.
Connor heard a gasp behind him and turned to find Alsibeth and Caz staring at him with a mixture of fear and incredulity.
“We heard you cry out,” Alsibeth said, recovering her voice. “Something kept us from reaching you. We could hear you, but everything was dark. Then…” She struggled for words. “Was that the Wraith Lord?”
Connor nodded. The adrenaline that had sustained him in his life-or-death battle was draining fast, leaving him completely spent. “We have an… understanding,” he said.
Alsibeth chuckled. “You are a man of surprises, Bevin Connor. The night of the Great Fire, the omens told me that you would play an important role in what was to unfold. I had no idea what that meant.”
“Believe me, neither did I,” Connor muttered.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
SENESCHAL CONNOR!”
Lieutenant Aurick, commander of the contingent of guards Traher Voss had left to guard the captured manor, ran a few steps to catch up with Connor. “Good to see you up and about again, sir,” Aurick said.
“Glad to be back,” Connor replied. It had taken him a full day to recover from his run-in with the ghost.
“Thought you’d want an update on the construction when it’s light enough to see what’s been done, since Lord Penhallow won’t be available until after dark,” Aurick added. Aurick was a sandy-haired man in his late twenties, just a few years older than Connor, but with the look of a man who has been soldiering since he could carry a sword. He had the plain, pleasant face of a farmhand, although old battles had flattened his nose and given him a nasty scar across one cheek.
“Let’s take a look,” Connor said, grabbing a cloak. Overhead, gray clouds threatened snow. Connor shivered.
“We’re nearly done repairing the break in the south wall,” Aurick said, pointing. The Great Fire had caused some of the damage, and the rest was the result of the assault Voss and Penhallow had led against Reese’s defenders.
“That’s good,” Connor said, eyeing the expanse of wall. One breach was repaired, but several more remained. “How soon do you think your men can get to the rest of the breaks?”
Aurick drew a deep breath. “We’re working day and night, sir. The problem is, the original wall was reinforced by magic, and when the Cataclysm knocked out the magic, parts of the wall collapsed.” He shook his head. “If they’d built the wall right, we wouldn’t have so much to fix.” He sighed. “A few more weeks, at least, sir—if the weather stays good.”
“How will you defend the manor in the meantime?”
Aurick pointed down beyond the walls. “My men are raising earthworks and digging a dry moat. We’ll get abatis and barricades in place as well.”
Connor nodded. “That’s more than we’ve got now. I have a bad feeling about having those gaps open.”
Aurick gave a grim chuckle. “Me too, sir. I like a sturdy wall between me and the enemy.”
“Do I need to ask Voss for more men?”
Aurick shook his head. “Commander Voss and the rest of the troops are busy at Rodestead House, sir. I’d like to think that by the time anyone could ride there and return with reinforcements, we’ll be done.”
“I hope so, Lieutenant,” Connor responded. “I don’t think any of us will sleep well until the walls are up.”
Shouting drew their attention toward the main gate. A group of robed men and women were arguing stridently with the guards, who were blocking their attempt to enter. Connor and Aurick hurried closer to the action.
“No one gets inside without permission of Lord Penhallow.” A burly guard stood toe to toe with a tall, thin man in a roughly woven robe. Connor looked at the newcomers. At least a dozen people, all dressed similarly to their spokesperson, looked as if they had been living out of doors and in rough conditions. Their hair was matted, their robes were frayed and smudged with dirt, and several wore rags wrapped around their feet instead of shoes.
“We are the Tingur,” the man said, “followers of Torven. And we have come to make offerings at the manor shrine.”
Two more guards had joined the first man, and together they presented a solid wall of brawn. Other guards were drawing close, in case reinforcements were needed.
“I don’t care if you’re Charrot, Esthrane, and Torven and all the household gods,” the guard replied. “No one gets in without permission from Lord Penhallow.”
The thin spokesperson glowered at the guard. “Don’t jest about the gods,” he warned. “We don’t need permission of a lord to make our offering—and we refuse to recognize a lord who is not among the living.”
The guard was clearly reaching the end of his patience. “You might not be among the living if you don’t leave here now. You’re not getting in, not unless Lord Penhallow says so.”
For a moment, Connor feared that the robed visitors might rush the guards. That was bound to end badly, since the guards were already worn to short tempers. The guards drew their swords, and at that, the waiting soldiers closed ranks.
The thin man raised his hands toward the sky. “Torven, consort of Charrot, lord of the Sea of Souls, bring down your curse on those who prevent offerings from being made to your name. Scourge them with fire, and flay the flesh from their bones that all may know that you are ascendant among the consorts, and your power is unmeasured.”
“Are you done yet?” the guard demanded. “You’d best be moving on. We’ve already seen fire, and all the flaying’s been on our part, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave. Now.”
The soldiers had formed shoulder-to-shoulder ranks, swords drawn, and at the guard’s challenge, they moved a step forward.
The tall man lifted his head defiantly. “We will return, and we will enter. Torven will have his sacrifice.”
“Yeah, maybe the cook will burn dinner. That’d be a burnt offering for you,” the guard said. “Now, be on your way.”
Grumbling their displeasure, the Tingur moved away from the gate. The soldiers did not disband until the wanderers were out of sight, and when the extra men went back to their duties, the lead guard or
dered the heavy gates to be shut, although it was still early in the day.
“Can they get through the breaks in the wall?” Connor asked.
Aurick shook his head. “Not unless they’ve got an army with them. We’ve got barricades and soldiers at each breach point.”
“So there are more of these… Tingur?” Connor asked.
“We’ve seen small groups on the roads in the last few months,” Aurick replied. “We’ve been so busy fighting brigands and trying to repair what the Great Fire destroyed, we didn’t pay a lot of attention.”
“Ask your men to keep an eye out for more of these Tingur. I want to know what you hear,” Connor said.
Aurick grinned. “That we can easily do, sir.”
Aurick headed toward the repair crew while Connor walked back to the manor house, deep in thought. He hurried up the cracked steps to the manor house, happy to get in out of the cold. As he hung up his cloak, he sighed. I’ve put it off as long as I can. There’s no avoiding going into the dungeons today.
Connor knew where the entrance was to the levels beneath Westbain. He had made it a point to studiously avoid them, entering as rarely as he could. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. I’m a visitor, not a prisoner. His stomach tightened as he descended the stone steps. Every step deepened a feeling of despair.
A shrill cry startled him, and he drew his knife, advancing cautiously. Yet when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw that nothing had changed since his first visit. Healers, not jailers, moved among the cells.
For a moment, Connor watched the men and women who bustled through the tight corridor between cells that had been converted to sickrooms. His previous visits had not lasted longer than a few minutes, enough to assure himself that the dungeons were no longer filled with Reese’s prisoners and that everything was being handled in an orderly fashion. The resonance of the ghosts whose spirits filled the dungeons had caused him to turn around and leave, but today Connor had resolved to make a complete walk-through, regardless of discomfort.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 19
