“Are Reese’s get in any shape to fight?” Pollard challenged. “I understood that damage to the maker harmed those he brought across.”
Demian looked uncomfortable, as if Pollard had ventured into something he did not wish to discuss. Vika merely nodded. “Our lord suffers greatly,” he said. “And those of us marked by him suffer with him, until he can be freed.” His pointed look made it clear that Vika knew exactly what kind of damage Reese’s imprisonment had caused for Pollard, and likely shared it.
He’s also got the talishte stamina to bear it, Pollard thought darkly. And while my bond with Reese has made me harder to kill, it’s not the same as full talishte strength.
“What would you ask of me, to help you free Reese?” Pollard asked.
“Be ready,” Vika warned. “It would be good to weaken the mortal armies as much as possible, because if Lord Reese should succeed with his escape, it may plunge the talishte into civil war.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
WE NEVER SAID WE WERE BATTLE MAGES,” Carensa muttered. She pulled her cloak close around her. Guran and Jarle rode with her, along with three more mages, all of them handpicked to accompany the army. The rest of the mages remained at Rostivan’s Torsford headquarters to finish setting up the University.
Guran’s ability of far-sight was a classic battlefield skill and had recently been put to the test when he accompanied Rostivan to a parlay with the other warlords. Jarle could manipulate objects at a distance. Carensa’s ability to translate might be useful. Holgir, a big man with the soulful look of a poet, was a weather mage, though his skill lay more with predicting storms than causing or stopping them. Tall, skinny Dag was good with illusion. Gunvar was an enhancer, able to strengthen the magic of those around him. Carensa could not fault Rostivan’s choices, though she heartily wished she had not been among those selected.
“A copper for your thoughts,” Guran asked.
Carensa mustered up a halfhearted smile. “Trying not to think about what it is we’re supposed to do when we get to where we’re going.”
Each of the mages wore a cuirass. Carensa had two wicked-looking knives. Dag carried a sword, and looked as if he knew how to use it. Jarle and Guran both had long, curved knives. Gunvar carried a bow and a slingshot. Holgir’s ax was strapped to his saddle. Even so, Carensa hoped they were as far as possible from the actual fighting.
“Rostivan assured us that we won’t be riding into battle,” Guran said.
Jarle fixed Guran with a look. “You mean, Quintrel directed Rostivan not to take us into the fight.” Rostivan wore the amulet Quintrel had given him, one Quintrel had promised the warlord assured success in battle and personal protection. And for as long as the divi in Quintrel’s corrupted artifact found Rostivan useful, those promises were probably true, Carensa thought. In the meantime, she and the other mages were Quintrel’s spies, sent to make sure Rostivan did not try to remove the amulet or change the agreement.
“What would happen, if someone removed a charm like that?” Carensa asked, being intentionally vague in her phrasing. She glanced around to make sure none of the others were listening.
“It can’t be removed—without consequences—unless the divi lets go,” Guran replied quietly.
“What kind of consequences?”
“Dire ones.”
Carensa shivered, and returned to the original topic. “Rostivan may not intend to take us to the battle, but the fighting may bring itself to us,” Carensa replied. She paused. “Do you know anything about the Arkala twins?”
“I’ve heard a little,” Gunvar replied. “No idea whether it’s true. I heard they were traders, maybe smugglers, before the war. Supplying weapons to both sides, and making a handsome profit.”
“Stands to reason that they might become warlords,” Jarle replied. “But are they looking to expand their territory, or just hold on to their land? Because Rostivan definitely wants to own as much of northern Donderath as he can get.”
It seemed to Carensa that they had barely set up their tent when Rostivan strode through the entrance, followed by a lieutenant.
“The troops move out at daybreak. I’ll expect you to be awake before then, and ready,” Rostivan snapped. “I didn’t bring you out here for you to sit on your asses. Quintrel promised me you could help me win battles.”
“What exactly are you expecting of us?” Jarle asked.
Rostivan glowered at him. “Scrying, for one thing. I want to know where the Arkalas are before we strike. They’re like rats, always scurrying out of reach.”
Up close, Rostivan was even more imposing than what Carensa had viewed from afar. He was taller than any of the mages except for Holgir, broad-shouldered and strong. His face bore the scars of old pox, and one ear was missing a chunk, like an alley cat who had been in too many fights to count. Rostivan had a cunning look, and a hard set to his chin.
“Where do you want me to look?” Guran asked.
Rostivan glared at him. “Tell me where the Arkalas’ troops are, how far away. I want to know how many tents in his camp, how large a force, anything at all that might give us an advantage.”
Guran completed the warding and walked over to the scrying bowl. He closed his eyes, whispering his words of focus. Then he opened his eyes and leaned forward, staring intently into the still water of the bowl. No one spoke. Even Rostivan watched with cautious interest. Carensa could glimpse fleeting images in the water, but scrying was not her gift.
After a time, Guran stood and turned toward Rostivan. “There is a large encampment. I saw a field of tents, and many men on horseback.”
“Can you tell the size of their troop strength?” Rostivan interrupted impatiently.
Guran shook his head. “No, but from what I saw, our forces appear well matched.”
Rostivan frowned, obviously unhappy with the vagueness of Guran’s answer. “What else?”
“I saw what might be catapults, but I can’t be certain,” Guran replied. “It doesn’t work like a telescope.”
Rostivan’s features darkened. “Then try again. I need to know what we’re going up against.”
Guran met Rostivan’s gaze. “I can try again, but there is no guarantee that I’ll see anything more than I saw before. Magic isn’t precise.”
“You’ve given me no more than I could get from a scout,” Rostivan growled. “Quintrel promised me that you could provide me with superior information.”
Guran bent over the scrying bowl once again. This time, Gunvar stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder, enhancing the magic. The water grew darker, like spilled ink. Carensa saw fear on Gunvar’s face, and he lifted his hand from Guran’s shoulder, breaking their connection. Still, Guran stared into the bowl, entranced.
Guran suddenly straightened and began to speak in a clipped, guttural language that was not the common tongue of Donderath.
“What’s he saying?” Rostivan demanded.
Carensa let her magic flow toward Guran. “It’s a warning,” she said. “From the Arkalas. They warn us to leave now, before we die.”
Gunvar reached over and tipped the edge of the scrying bowl, breaking the connection. Guran slumped to the floor.
Rostivan’s expression hardened into determination. “I’m not going to let those upstarts get the better of us. Be ready to ride at dawn.” He swept from the tent, with the lieutenant a step behind.
Gunvar laid Guran out on the floor. “How is he?” Carensa asked.
Guran gave a low moan. “I feel like someone has been poking at my brain with a pike,” he muttered.
“We’ve got to be careful,” Jarle said. “The Arkalas have strong mages, too. And like it or not, we’re now enemy targets.”
“Are the Arkalas waiting for us?” Jarle asked as the mages climbed to their hilltop outpost overlooking the battlefield.
“They know we’re coming,” Guran said. “Their mages have been watching.”
Their equipment was simple: a lightweight foldin
g table for a workspace, and the implements and artifacts they had been willing to carry in their packs. Five soldiers made the journey with them. At the top of the hill, the soldiers gathered large stones for archers’ blinds.
Dag warded the top of the hill with sage and salt. He spoke to the winds at the four quarters, and set an illusion that made it easier to look away from the hilltop than to see it clearly.
“I’m not sure what good I can do,” Carensa fretted. “Not much chance for needing a translation up here.”
Jarle shrugged. “Count yourself lucky.”
Carensa found a place to stand near the crest of the hilltop beside a large oak tree. In the valley, the two forces arrayed against each other. The land between their hilltop and the Arkalas’ camp was fairly flat, with the Arkala camp to the north and by a wide creek to the west. Tall grass and scrub bushes covered the ground, dry and brown from the winter. The snow was gone, but the ground was frozen solid.
Dag walked over. “Learn anything?”
Carensa nodded. “Look at the camp. I don’t think the Arkalas intended to dig in and make it a permanent holding. There aren’t many buildings, no stables or large corrals.” In the distance, Carensa heard the sound of trumpets. “It’s starting.”
Jarle had moved to the edge of the warding. He looked out over the battlefield, selecting his targets. “Let’s see what I can do,” he murmured.
Jarle concentrated on a stand of trees that lined the road between the enemy camp and the battlefront. He held out one hand, palm open, his face tight with focus. He made a sudden fist, then wrested his hand to the side, and four large trees fell across the roadway just as a contingent of soldiers passed beneath them.
“Got them.”
Holgir was watching the sky. “There’s a storm coming, and it’s not changing course. We’d best be done by the time it hits.”
Guran had his scrying bowl in front of him. “No additional troops headed this way,” he reported. “That may mean Lysander isn’t going to meddle.” He paused. “Rostivan’s wearing the amulet. I can sense the divi’s power, even at this distance.” He swore under his breath. “Plenty of men will die today, but it won’t be Rostivan.”
Jarle closed his fist again and splintered a small bridge between the Arkalas’ camp and the battlefield. That would force the men and horses to ford the wide creek, leaving them vulnerable to Rostivan’s archers. Jarle’s look of triumph made Carensa think he was enjoying his role far too much.
A sudden violent stomach cramp sent Carensa to her knees. Guran and the others dropped to the ground, too, holding their arms across their bellies, rolling in pain.
Gunvar reached out to lay a hand on Dag. “Can you repel it?” he asked, his voice tight. “I can give you strength.”
Dag looked dangerously pale, his features taut with pain, but he nodded, and drew a shuddering breath. A few seconds later, the pain subsided. “I strengthened the wardings,” he said. “That should hold them out.”
Carensa gasped for breath, rolling over onto her side and trying to muster the strength to stand. “Jarle,” Carensa said, “can you tell where the Arkalas’ mages are?”
Jarle scanned the horizon. “There,” he said, pointing. “That stone building.” He smiled. “Let’s see what mischief can be made.” He stretched out his magic, concentrated, and clenched his fist. A cloud of dust rose where the building had been. “They may need to find another location,” Jarle commented.
A moment later, a burst of power sent a tremor through the hilltop. Carensa staggered to keep her footing.
“Can you hold the warding?” Carensa asked Dag.
Dag shrugged, deep in concentration. Below on the battlefield, it was difficult to figure out who might be winning.
“Time to strike back,” Jarle muttered.
“Wait!” Carensa said. She pointed to the battle below. “I think their mages are trying to distract us from the real issue. Look—the Arkalas have Rostivan’s troops at a standstill.”
Jarle set his jaw. “Let’s see if we can kick up a little dust.”
“First, the catapult,” Jarle said. The catapult’s shaft splintered, sending its load of rocks and debris down onto the soldiers at its base.
“One down,” Jarle muttered. A few moments later, the second war machine lay in ruins. Jarle staggered. Gunvar and Carensa helped him sit down.
“The farther the object, the more energy it takes,” Jarle replied. “I don’t think I’d still be able to do this if Gunvar weren’t helping.”
Carensa looked out across the battlefield. The lines of fighting surged and fell back. Bodies littered the field, which had had grown dark with blood, yet neither side had scored a decisive blow. The afternoon was far spent, and the shadows were lengthening.
“If Rostivan is to win, he must win before the night is through,” Guran said, breaking the silence. He was bent over his scrying bowl, deep in concentration. “I see the tide turning if the battle continues until morning. If that occurs, Rostivan will lose.”
Carensa stared out across the battlefield. The wind had picked up out of the south, blowing toward the enemy camp. It swept across the land, bending the grass that had not been trampled in the fighting. She turned to Jarle.
“Fire,” she said. “Can you catch the grass on fire just behind the Arkala troops?”
Jarle stared at her. “If the wind shifts, our men will burn!”
Holgir shook his head. “It won’t—not anytime soon. The storm is coming up from the south.”
“I think the storm is the key,” Carensa explained. “If it hits before Rostivan strikes a decisive blow, the Arkalas will somehow turn that to their advantage. But if we could start a fire behind their lines, the winds would carry it toward their camp. That would pull their mages off whatever they’re doing with the battle, and trap the soldiers between Rostivan’s line and the flames. The bridge is out on the creek, so they can’t go in that direction to escape. Rostivan could bottle them up.”
Jarle nodded. “It could work.”
She looked to Guran. “You can get a message to Quintrel through the crystal, can’t you?” she asked. Guran nodded. “Can you ask him to nudge Rostivan to begin moving his troops to squeeze the Arkala soldiers between the camp and the stream?”
Guran looked down at one of the artifacts on their worktable, a piece Quintrel had entrusted to him in Valshoa before coming to Torsford. It appeared to be a crystal scrying orb, nothing anyone would find unusual among mages. Unless someone looked closer, and sensed the yellow flickering light that sparked inside the orb, or felt the aura of controlled power that radiated from the small globe. In reality, it provided a way for Guran and Quintrel to communicate, even when separated by distance.
“Yes,” Guran answered, and hesitated just an instant before taking the orb in his hand. He closed his eyes and grimaced. “It’s done.”
“Let’s get to it,” Gunvar replied. “I’m cold and I’d like to go home.”
“Gunvar, can you draw from me to help Jarle?” Carensa asked.
Gunvar frowned. “Maybe.”
“Then do it,” Carensa said. “I haven’t expended as much power as the rest of you.”
Jarle stood facing the Arkala camp. Gunvar stood with a hand on Jarle’s shoulder, while Carensa clasped Gunvar’s other hand with hers. Jarle took a deep breath and stared into the twilight, focusing on a strip of land between the rear of the Arkala forces and the camp.
After a moment, Jarle cursed. “I’m tired, and I’m not strong enough right now to cast past the warding,” he said. “We’ll have to drop it for me to send the fire.”
Guran nodded his assent. “Do it. Just get the damn thing back up as quickly as you can.”
Carensa felt an odd tingle, like crossing a woolen carpet in winter. The sensation grew stronger, radiating through her body, growing more and more uncomfortable until she longed to break the contact.
Dots of flame flared to the rear of the Arkala forces. Soon a solid line of f
ire stretched behind the enemy. Men shouted in panic as the fire spread, and the rear line of soldiers tried to put out the fire before it reached the camp.
Newly energized by the enemy’s turn of luck, Rostivan’s commanders pressed forward, driving the Arkala army back against the flames. The winds remained steady, blasting the fire toward the Arkala camp.
Rostivan’s troops blocked their escape. Those who had remained in the camp made a panicked attempt to douse the flames, then fled on foot. Within minutes, the entire camp was ablaze.
On the battleground, the Arkala soldiers fought for their lives. Rostivan pressed his advantage, forcing the enemy to choose between fire and sword. Some tried and failed to leap across the flames. Others launched themselves at the Rostivan forces, nothing to lose.
No matter how the wind whipped or the flames danced, Rostivan’s troops moved in lethal discipline. Line after line of Arkala soldiers fell to their swords. Some tried to swim the creek, only to be cut down by Rostivan’s bowmen. Jarle sent waves of flame, keeping the retreating troops on the run, hemming in any escape routes. Without the warding, the wind was sharper than before, and very cold. Clouds had rolled in, blotting out the moon.
Night had fallen. Guran lit a lantern, keeping it heavily shaded. Dag and Holgir laid out several torches, but did not light them. The wall of flames sent a red glow into the night sky.
Suddenly, three dark shapes loomed on the other side of the circle—Arkala mages, come to exact their revenge. Pain staggered Carensa and she cried out as she fell to her knees. Guran collapsed, knocking his scrying bowl to the ground. Dag and the others writhed on the ground. Carensa felt as if the fire was inside her veins, burning her from the inside out. She gasped for air. It hurt too much to scream.
Jarle’s face contorted. He dragged himself onto his knees, and made a wild sweep with one arm. Guran’s bowl flew through the air, slamming against one of the Arkala mages, who staggered back a pace.
The magic wavered, just long enough for Dag to draw his sword and lurch toward the enemy mages, swinging with all his remaining might. Holgir sent his ax cartwheeling through the air. It landed, blade-deep, in the chest of one of the attackers. Gunvar grabbed the slingshot on his belt and rose to his knees. He scooped up several stones and sent them flying through the air in quick succession, dropping the second mage.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 26
