Nidhud reached for a goblet and took a sip. “Dolan is getting closer to a solution here,” he said. He gestured for Connor and Penhallow to join him at the worktable. Connor found a plate with sausage, bread, and cheese set out for him, as well as a flask with more whiskey. After the long ride, he was grateful for the refreshments, and he ate quickly.
“It’s taken us quite a while to examine the artifacts you hid in the crypts beneath Quillarth Castle,” Dagur said. “I’m glad you managed to keep them out of Reese’s hands, although some of the pieces are corrupted enough that they’re no use to anyone.”
“We had very little time,” Penhallow replied. “We gathered what we could and secured them.”
Nidhud nodded. “That’s where it’s been valuable to have mortal and talishte-mages working together. Having the talishte mages reduces the deaths and injuries when pieces are tainted, and the mortal mages give us an idea of whether or not McFadden could safely use an artifact.”
“What have you found?” Penhallow asked.
“I’ll show you,” Nidhud said, rising and gesturing for them to follow him. He led them into another, more crowded workroom. Dolan and several mages looked up as they entered.
“Glad you’re here,” Dolan said brusquely. “We’ve nearly figured this out, I believe.”
Penhallow and Connor crowded around the table, where thirteen crystal rods and obsidian disks were scattered, along with yellowed manuscripts, a piece of wood covered with carved sigils, an ornate boline knife, and a stone chalice.
“Those are presence-crystals,” Dolan said, indicating the rods. “I took them along with the manuscripts that Quintrel thought were the key to creating a new anchor. McFadden already had the thirteen obsidian disks. But we suspected something was missing, and we were right.”
“The disks and crystals will create the anchor,” Dagur said. “But what we’ve learned—from the Valshoan manuscripts and from some that we found in the crypts at the Citadel—make it clear these other artifacts are needed to create the new Lords of the Blood.” He looked to Connor. “And we’ll need your help—along with that of the Wraith Lord—to make it happen.”
“How?” Connor asked.
The Wraith Lord had been listening. He stood near the fireplace, where his ghostly form was half-hidden by the shadows. “I was among the lords at Mirdalur. But I inherited my disk from my father, and his fathers before that. Even I don’t know how the Lords of the Blood were created.”
Dolan nodded. “We realized that the Lords of the Blood were either special because of their magic, or made special because they took part in the binding ritual.” He leaned back and took a sip from his goblet. “But we did have a clue—the thirteen onyx disks.
“The disks were made for the Lords of the Blood, handed down through generations. They weren’t just artifacts to call and bind the magic,” Dolan continued. “They were the story of how magic was originally bound, split into thirteen parts, and put into code for safekeeping. And together with some of the artifacts we’ve recovered, we believe we’ve discovered how to create new Lords of the Blood.”
“Your mages deciphered them?” the Wraith Lord asked, his gaze sharp. “And are they certain of their conclusions?”
Dolan nodded. “As certain as they can be, without putting what they’ve found into practice.”
“If you’re wrong about this, Blaine McFadden dies,” Penhallow said.
“I’m well aware of that,” Dolan replied archly.
“That’s where these other pieces come in,” Dagur said excitedly. “The key was combining that sigil wood with the disks. It held the words of power and the ritual instructions for binding blood to magic.” His eyes gleamed with the discovery. “It’s blood magic, very old and strong.”
Dagur gestured toward the table. “That knife and the chalice have matching sigils,” he explained. “Words of power open the ritual and activate the chamber, drawing on the meridians.”
“The knife draws blood from each of the thirteen participants,” Dolan continued. “It’s mingled in the chalice, where it awakens the chalice’s power. Pouring the blood onto the sigils that are carved in the ritual chamber floor connects the power to the meridians.”
“And where do the Wraith Lord and I come in?” Connor asked.
“The Wraith Lord is the only one who has seen the ritual completed successfully. We’ll need you to be part of the anchoring,” Dolan answered.
Connor slept fitfully. Dagur provided a cot for him in the room shared by the mortal mages, where a small fireplace drove away Mirdalur’s persistent chill. Connor’s dreams were dark, shifting from visions of flame to memories of being buried alive. When he woke, the sun was just struggling above the horizon, barely visible behind the thick gray clouds.
“I hope you and Lord Penhallow weren’t planning to go anywhere soon,” Dagur said as Connor got dressed. “Looks like we’ve got another storm heading our way.”
Connor shook his head. “We’re here until Niklas returns, maybe longer. Penhallow and the Wraith Lord believed we were needed.”
Dagur nodded. “As usual, his instincts are good.”
“I don’t know what I can do to help. I’m a medium, not a mage.”
Dagur smiled. “You—and Penhallow—are among those McFadden wants for his thirteen.”
Connor stared at Dagur in shock. “Me? I’m just Lord Penhallow’s servant.”
Dagur seemed to be enjoying his shock. “You’re also the Wraith Lord’s host. And McFadden says he trusts you, that he’s seen you show a lot of courage.”
“Who else is to be among the thirteen?” Connor asked, still sorting out the news.
“I don’t know that he’s chosen them all,” Dagur replied. “His mates from Edgeland, and General Dolan, plus Niklas Theilsson.”
“Blaine’s married to Kestel, so that’s one bloodline,” Connor said, thinking aloud. “Piran, Dawe, and Verran he trusts with his life.”
“It wouldn’t be a surprise for him to choose his strongest allies,” Dagur added. “It seals the compact, and binds them together.”
Connor nodded. “Voss maybe, then. Perhaps one of the Solveigs, and Verner.”
Dagur shrugged. “Perhaps. But you were one of the people he was certain he wanted.”
“That’s going to take some time to get used to,” Connor replied.
Dagur moved to respond, then froze. A look of confusion turned to terror, and with a cry of pain, he fell to the floor, holding his head in his hands.
Let me in, Connor, the Wraith Lord’s voice sounded in his mind. I can protect you. We’re under attack.
Connor steeled himself and nodded. “Go,” he murmured. He felt the cold mist of the Wraith Lord’s presence envelop him, and the jarring dislocation as Kierken Vandholt’s consciousness took possession of his body.
You’re stronger, better able to withstand me, the Wraith Lord noted, and Connor knew the change was due to Penhallow’s last healing. That’s good. We have a battle to fight. I’ll tell you what I’m doing as we go. Please don’t fight me, we don’t have time.
“What about Dagur?” Connor asked. Dagur rocked back and forth on the floor, insensible, moaning in pain.
“The enemy’s using magic against the mages,” the Wraith Lord replied. “We can’t do anything about that, but we can fight, and we must protect the talishte and the ritual chamber.”
The Wraith Lord ran down the corridor and up the steps to the bare entrance room, then burst out into the wan daylight.
Voss’s mercenaries were fighting soldiers whose garb Connor recognized all too well. Hennoch, Connor thought. Damn.
The smell of smoke hung in the cold air, not the distant smell of cooking fires or the scent of the mage’s fireplace but an acrid, heavy stench of burning oil. A wall of fire rose behind the ruins of Mirdalur’s manor house. Voss’s soldiers fought a force that easily outnumbered them by half. No soldiers could be spared to extinguish the flames without dooming the others to die by the
sword. Behind the battle lines, Connor made out the shapes of wagons bearing huge casks.
The mages are down. The talishte are trapped by the daylight, and the soldiers are fighting for their lives. It’s up to us to put out the fire.
Mirdalur survived the Great Fire and the Cataclysm, Connor thought. If Hennoch’s soldiers break through the line, they’ll make sure the whole place burns. Smoke will kill the mages. Fire will destroy the talishte, the artifacts, and McFadden’s last chance to anchor the magic.
All right, then. What can we do? Connor asked the Wraith Lord.
I’ve got a plan.
It had better be good, Connor retorted in his mind.
The Wraith Lord chuckled. First, we need weapons. I’ll head down to where Dolan and the others are sleeping. We’ll take what we need.
“Stealing the weapons from a team of talishte warriors isn’t a recipe for a long life,” Connor muttered.
The Knights can’t use their weapons, because it’s daylight. The other soldiers are occupied, and the mages may die if we don’t get things put right. We’re the only ones free to stop that fire. Win this, and Dolan will forgive you.
Connor let the Wraith Lord direct him through unfamiliar corridors and stairways to the deep crypts where Penhallow and the Knights slept. Their weapons were nearby, and Connor took what the Wraith Lord wanted: a bow with a quiver of arrows, and a crossbow and quarrels.
We’ll need something from the mages’ workshop, the Wraith Lord said. Don’t stop, don’t fight me, no matter what you see. We don’t have much time.
“I’m terrible with a bow,” Connor grumbled to the Wraith Lord.
But I’m quite good with one, the Wraith Lord replied.
They reached the entrance to the mages’ rooms and Connor had to keep himself from fighting to stop in his tracks. The mages lay on the floor, some pale and still, others rocking and moaning in pain. We can’t do anything for them here, the Wraith Lord said. But if we succeed, their pain ends. We must hurry!
The Wraith Lord found the substance he wanted, a cake of white powder, and took a small burlap sack as well. Then he grabbed a bucket of pitch near the fire, and a handful of rags.
We’ll tie a bit of rag near the head of each arrow, then soak the rag in pitch, the Wraith Lord explained. We’re going to fight fire with fire. Connor watched his hands as the Wraith Lord made quick work of it.
Now we need to find the highest point we can facing the pond that’s just beyond the courtyard, the Wraith Lord advised. We’ll put the mage’s powder in the sack and tie it onto one of the quarrels. Connor watched, eyeing the arrow skeptically.
Mirdalur’s main house was a ruin. Its broken walls stood like an empty shell, with its roof and most of its flooring long gone. The Wraith Lord and Connor came up from the cellars and heard the battle unfolding around them. Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the fiery wash of oil from the wagon casks burned closer to the house and its crypts. Connor knew that if the upper portion of the manor burned, the mages and the Knights would die.
The Wraith Lord studied the stone walls until he saw what remained of a staircase. The stone supports and bits of old timbers still stuck out from one of the walls. He slung the bows across Connor’s back and started to climb.
The stone was old and covered with dirt and moss, making the footing treacherous. The Wraith Lord slipped, barely catching himself with a handhold on another stone that ripped at Connor’s skin and nails. The wall gave him cover from the fighting, but they could hear the clang of steel and the shouts of the fighters. The first empty window in the ruined wall was still far above him.
We’ll have to climb faster! the Wraith Lord advised.
“We nearly fell,” Connor muttered. “You won’t break if you hit the ground, but my body will.”
You’ve got my strength and agility, and the resilience you gained from Penhallow’s bond, the Wraith Lord reminded him. That makes you harder to kill.
Difficult, but not impossible, Connor grunted in his mind, as he stretched to grab the next handhold. The smoke was growing thicker, and Connor could hear the flames licking closer to the manor. The oil fed the fire, and the dry grass enlarged it. Heat from the flames raised a sweat on Connor’s forehead despite the cold day.
An arrow zinged past Connor’s head, narrowly missing his scalp. A second arrow sliced through the skin on his upper arm, nearly making him lose his grip. Despite the cuirass he wore to protect his torso, Connor knew that most of his body was vulnerable to a keen-eyed bowman.
They were still low enough to the ground to drop without breaking a limb, and as the smoke drifted his way, the Wraith Lord took advantage of the temporary cover to hide Connor, disappearing from the sniper’s sight.
We need to get high enough to have a clear shot into the pond, the Wraith Lord reminded Connor.
“We also need to avoid becoming a pincushion,” Connor muttered. He paused to think. Mirdalur had been slowly deteriorating for decades, helped along by the Great Fire’s devastation. Yet the buildings were made of solid rock, built to withstand assault. Wooden interiors might have disintegrated, but the walls of the fortress had been built as a stronghold for the ages.
“I have an idea,” Connor said.
The Wraith Lord read his thoughts. Let’s try it, the Wraith Lord responded.
Keeping Connor’s head down, the Wraith Lord moved from one protected vantage point to another, until he saw their objective: a narrow old bell tower that stood on the intact side of the ruined keep.
The Wraith Lord dove from cover, getting several yards closer to the bell tower before the sniper spotted him. An arrow bit into the frozen ground at his heels, and another narrowly missed him, skimming his shoulder closely enough to rip his shirt without raising blood. He ducked behind a ruined stone wall and then ran a zigzag path as fast as he could for the dark doorway at the bottom of the bell tower. He heard the twang of an arrow, and warm blood flowed down over his left ear from where the sharp tip had opened a slice in his scalp. Another arrow hit his right thigh, biting into his leg and darkening his trouser leg with blood.
Limping and swearing, the Wraith Lord moved into the darkness of the tower. Too late, they saw the shadowy form waiting there.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Connor’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the light, and in that instant, his attacker swung. The Wraith Lord reacted, executing a deadly series of parries and blows that took his opponent by surprise. The enemy soldier got in one lucky blow, opening a slash across Connor’s chest that made him gasp in pain. Connor could feel the Wraith Lord’s anger coursing through his borrowed body. Only then did the attacker realize that his opponent’s skill far outstripped his expectations. In the next instant, the enemy soldier was dying, with Connor’s blade in his heart.
Trust me, Connor, the Wraith Lord said as he eyed three long, rusted chains that hung from high in the bell tower’s rafters. The heavy bells were gone, but the chains remained, connected to the iron yoke far above. Connor wiped the blood from his face and grimaced as he put weight on his injured leg. He could feel the pain of his injuries beginning to throb as the Wraith Lord grasped the shaft of the arrow in his leg near the skin with one hand and cut off most of its length with his sword.
“If we can climb one of those chains, we’ll have a view of the pond,” Connor mused aloud. “And the bell tower is a more protected climb than the wall we tried before.”
Unless an archer follows us and shoots from below.
“Very funny,” Connor grumbled. The tower was cramped, the size of a small room at the bottom, growing narrower toward the top. He doubted that the area where the bells had been was much wider than his shoulders. The Wraith Lord sheathed his sword, adjusted his bow and quiver into the center of his back, and squared his shoulders.
Here we go, the Wraith Lord said, and took a running leap to catch the largest bell chain. Connor bit back a cry as the pain from his injured arms and chest spiked. They dropped dow
n, and fell as Connor’s injured leg gave out under him.
We can do this, Connor, the Wraith Lord encouraged. Connor gritted his teeth and felt himself dragged to his feet. He could hear the battle outside, and he knew that their ability to change its course decreased with every passing moment. Eyeing the chain as if it were an opponent, the Wraith Lord ran and jumped again, Connor stifling a cry as he caught the chain, willing the Wraith Lord and his injured body not to let go.
The Wraith Lord wrapped his legs around the chain and inched up its length, hand over hand, using Connor’s good leg to help hold him in place. The Wraith Lord shook blood out of his eyes, and Connor tried not to think of how much blood he had lost. It would not do to get light-headed at the top of the bell tower. His ragged breathing echoed in the confines of the tight space.
We draw on your new strength, the Wraith Lord encouraged him. Remember: You are no longer fully mortal.
Connor had already thought about the enhanced abilities Penhallow had promised would come from his tighter bond. Whether it was the strengthened kruvgaldur or merely that with experience and mortal fear, Connor had grown more cussedly stubborn, they kept on climbing. Connor’s arms shook with the effort, and his legs ached from gripping the chain, even with the Wraith Lord in control. As they ascended, the stone walls brushed his shoulders in the narrow passage. Connor did not think he would ever be able to straighten out his fingers again, since they had cramped into claws from holding on to the chain.
The bell chain swayed. They were nearly to the top, and he had begun counting every handhold as the Wraith Lord climbed, anything to keep his mind off the pain and his height above the ground. If the Wraith Lord’s grip gave way, he doubted that anything could save him.
“How come you can’t fly like normal talishte?” Connor muttered.
The Wraith Lord’s chuckle sounded in his mind. ‘Normal’ talishte. You never cease to amaze me, Bevin. But even among immortals, not all talents are equal. Flight was not one of mine.
Connor’s head rose above the sill of the bell tower window. In the distance, they could see the pond. Just a bit more, the Wraith Lord murmured.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 37
