Just a fraction of what will happen when the ritual is worked, the Wraith Lord replied. But dangerous, nonetheless.
He paused each time the path widened, and in those spots, Connor could see sigils etched into the rock. They matched the marking on the wall behind that spot, and he was certain there would be corresponding marks on each Lord’s obsidian disk.
With every step that took them deeper into the labyrinth, Connor felt magic like a heavy blanket around him. No chanting or drumming sounded, no candles burned along the pathway, no ritual was enacted, and yet power was undeniable. Connor was relieved when they halted halfway into the labyrinth.
“This is the spot,” the Wraith Lord said.
“Can you feel power rising?” Dolan asked. Nidhud and Dagur had joined Dolan.
“Yes. Don’t let more mages enter; I fear it would feed the energy,” the Wraith Lord cautioned. Dolan turned toward the door and shook his head. Connor guessed that other mages had gathered, hoping to see what transpired.
“Can you sense anything about the power?” Dolan questioned. “You’re the only eyewitness we’ve got.”
“It was a long time ago,” the Wraith Lord replied.
Dolan nodded. “Yes. But please think: Does the power ‘feel’ right to you?”
The Wraith Lord held Connor completely still, every mortal sense on alert as well as the Wraith Lord’s heightened talishte senses. Connor could hear his heart beating, and his breath seemed to echo in the stone chamber. Yet as he ‘listened’ to the power, as he focused his attention on it, he realized something was off.
“No,” the Wraith Lord said. “It doesn’t. I’m getting Connor out of here right now.”
Even from a distance, Connor could see that one of the crystals pulsed more quickly than the others as it lay on the worktable. Twelve of the crystals glowed a muted golden. One throbbed a crimson color that began the shade of fresh blood and was growing deeper by the instant.
Can’t we turn back? Connor asked, doing his best to remain calm.
That’s not how the labyrinth works, the Wraith Lord replied. Moving inward winds the power up. Moving outward releases the power. Even though this isn’t the real working, power has been called and power must be dispelled. Otherwise…
The Wraith Lord did not finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. Connor understood that the outcome would not be to his liking.
On the way into the labyrinth, the path had not seemed narrow. Now that the Wraith Lord was trying to navigate it quickly and without error, Connor felt as if it had become almost heel-to-toe, though the stone had not changed. Connor gave himself over to the talishte reflexes and dexterity of the Wraith Lord. Even so, he moved with caution; faster than a mortal, but hardly at full talishte speed.
Connor felt magic tingle on his skin, raising the hair on his arms and prickling on the back of his neck. Even with the Wraith Lord’s presence, the farther into the labyrinth they went, the harder it was to walk, like trudging through hip-deep water. Connor labored to breathe, and his heart thudded in his throat. The temperature in the chamber plummeted, until Connor’s nose and fingertips were numb.
Hurry! he urged the Wraith Lord.
I am endeavoring to do so.
The area outside the labyrinth had become blurred, as if Connor were looking through fogged glass. Still, he could tell that Dolan and the other mages huddled around the presence-crystals.
One of the crystals has been corrupted, the Wraith Lord said.
Can a divi’s power extend this far? We’re nowhere close to Quintrel.
The divi only need be present once to do the damage, the Wraith Lord replied.
Blaine will need the crystals to anchor the magic. If even one is corrupted—
It will not be our problem if we don’t escape the maze. The Wraith Lord’s voice was clipped, and Connor fell silent.
Voices hummed all around them. At first, Connor took it for the worried conversation of Dagur, Nidhud, and Dolan, bending over the tainted crystal. Then he realized there were too many voices to belong to the mages. The voices echoed from all over the chamber, growing in number until the whispers and chants clamored in his head.
Can you hear them?
Only through your gift, the Wraith Lord said. Listen to them, Connor. They may be our salvation. What do they want?
Connor strained to hear the murmurs clearly. Some spoke in accents strange to him, choosing words Connor had seen only in old manuscripts. Ghosts, he thought. It’s not enough to be possessed by one spirit. Now the dead are coming out of the rocks to have a go at it!
Yet as Connor listened, the voices grew distinct, clearer. He did not fear them trying to seize his body. With the Wraith Lord in possession, that was not likely. The ghosts were calling to him, urging him on, leading him out of the labyrinth. As he reached the center and began the return leg of the maze, the voices grew stronger, and their forms began to take shape all along the outside of the labyrinth.
Power crackled in the air. Even with the Wraith Lord’s control, he nearly stumbled, feeling as if the maze pulled life and breath from him. Live mages had joined their ghostly counterparts, and Connor realized that they were fighting to dispel the miasma projected by the tainted crystal.
Only a bit more, the Wraith Lord said, and Connor could hear the strain in Vandholt’s voice.
If this had occurred to someone not possessed by a spirit of your strength—Connor began.
That person would be dead, the Wraith Lord finished.
Connor knew that the Wraith Lord’s strength was sustaining him. Breath burned in his lungs from cold and exertion. His legs cramped from straining against the invisible force that did not want them to escape the maze. Blood welled beneath his fingertips as he dug his nails into his palms, willing himself to move.
Yet with every step that wound them out of the labyrinth, Connor could breathe a little easier. Halfway out, and the air had grown a bit warmer, though it was still frigid even for a subterranean chamber. The voices of the ghosts were clearer and louder now, and the chants of the living mages seemed to cut a path for him through the force that wanted to trap him within the maze.
Step by labored step, they struggled to reach the end of the labyrinth. Just an arm’s length to go, and the vortex of power around the maze made one final surge to keep him captive. It took all of the Wraith Lord’s strength to hurl Connor across the threshold. Behind them, the ghosts closed ranks, sealing off the labyrinth’s exit.
For a moment, Connor lay panting on the cold stone. Then he realized that although he was out of the labyrinth, the power had not abated, nor had the freezing-cold air warmed. An answer impressed itself on him, spoken by ghostly whispers. Connor knew what he had to do.
Let the mages handle this, the Wraith Lord urged.
If they could, it would be handled by now, Connor snapped, unwilling to hesitate lest he lose his nerve.
You don’t know this will work.
You can’t say it won’t, Connor challenged.
Dagur, Dolan, and Nidhud looked at Connor with alarm as he approached the table where the presence-crystals lay. One of them flared red, and the others’ glow intensified, so that the twelve pulsed together in a different rhythm from that of the crimson crystal.
“The ghosts have a plan,” Connor said, pushing past the mages.
“We’ve tried to counter it with all the different skills of magic we have among us,” Dagur replied.
“Let an immortal handle this, Connor,” Dolan said, trying to block Connor’s path.
Connor moved around him. “I have the Wraith Lord with me. And the ghosts. They’re all immortal.”
Dolan grimaced. “You can still die.”
“So can Blaine—and that’s what will happen if we can’t cleanse the thirteenth crystal,” Connor said. “Now, move out of my way.”
To his surprise, Dolan yielded, stepping back from the table. The mages drew away as the ghosts rushed forward. Dozens had become hundreds, though whe
re they came from or how they knew to gather, Connor had no idea. Penhallow stepped up behind him.
“I will do what I can to help,” Penhallow said. “Let’s hope your ghosts are strong enough.”
If the crystal is controlled by one spirit, let’s see whether a hundred ghosts can crowd it out, Connor thought grimly.
Afraid that the divi’s power would try to push him back as it had hampered him in the labyrinth, Connor made a dive for the red crystal. As his hands closed around its cool surface, he opened his mind to the ghosts.
Fill me, he said. Seize the stone.
Spirits too numerous to count washed over him, entering his consciousness, streaming past the Wraith Lord, and through Connor’s skin into the pulsing crystal. Never had he felt so much power flood his senses. Lifetimes blurred as the dead passed through his thoughts too quickly to grasp, leaving a shadow of themselves behind.
At the core of his being, Connor’s essence clung to the spirit of the Wraith Lord like a man awash in a flood tide. The divi was not fully present in the crystal, yet the shred of itself tainting the stone was more than mere memory or the remnant of a spell. Souls poured through Connor’s veins, seeped through his skin channeled by bone and sinew, through his hands into the glowing crystal. The divi howled in rage, and for a moment, Connor feared it would swell to its full power and retake the presence-crystal. Ghost after ghost crowded the stone, forcing out the divi’s power, and breath by breath, the crimson glare began to fade.
The rush of spirits pulled at Connor’s soul, and had the Wraith Lord not managed to anchor him, Connor was afraid he might have been hollowed, his essence drawn out from him, leaving his body an empty husk. Kierken Vandholt held on to him, like a man caught in the storm surge, clinging to Connor even when the pain grew unbearable and Connor begged for death.
Teeth pierced Connor’s arm, and as blood flowed, the kruvgaldur pushed to the forefront, binding Connor to his body and to his master. Joined by blood, Penhallow lent his strong, old spirit to the effort.
The divi shrieked in rage and pain one last time, and then was gone. Connor opened his eyes. Clutched in his hands so tightly he was not sure he could release his grip, the presence-crystal glowed with golden light. All around him, the ghosts poured from the crystal, relinquishing it now that their task was finished. Connor felt the kruvgaldur bond recede, though Penhallow remained as vivid a presence in his mind as the Wraith Lord.
Strong arms encircled Connor from behind as gentle hands pried his fingers away from the cleansed crystal.
“Let go, Bevin. You did well. It’s over. You won. Let go,” Penhallow murmured over his shoulder. Dolan worked to loosen Connor’s grip, and even his talishte strength was tested by the hold Connor had on the stone.
“I don’t want to break any fingers,” Dolan said. “It’s safe now. The divi’s gone, and from the look of it, the ghosts intend to stand watch. Let me take the crystal. You need to rest.”
Slowly, Connor willed himself to let go, although his fingers were cramped into claws and the muscles in his hands and arms ached when they released. He felt as if he had clung by his fingertips to a mountaintop in a raging storm. Dolan took the crystal from him and replaced it with the others. Only then did Connor feel the toll the night’s work had taken. Even the Wraith Lord seemed spent, and Connor would have collapsed had Penhallow not caught him.
Dolan looked up as one of Voss’s guards came to the chamber entrance. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got trouble,” the soldier said. “Hennoch’s back—and he’s bringing an army. It will arrive after daybreak.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
VEDRAN POLLARD HAD GROWN TO HATE Mirdalur.
A year ago, I could barely find the godsforsaken place on a map. Now it haunts me at every turn. His mood was sour as he rode to the attack. The sky had grown dark, and another nasty storm was certain. Lysander had accepted his offer of an alliance, then promptly relegated Pollard and Hennoch to the backwater, attacking Mirdalur and its handful of soldiers while Lysander and Rostivan took on McFadden and the other warlords.
The worst part of the slight was that Lysander’s judgment was sound. Pollard hated to admit it, but his troops were too battered, too worn down by a string of defeats to go against a strong, well-armed force. He knew it, and he hated it, just like he hated Mirdalur.
Traher Voss’s mercenaries tried to be inconspicuous. Pollard snorted quietly, amused at the thought. Voss’s pack of smash-nosed bruisers could no more be ‘inconspicuous’ than a bull could fly. Certainly the guards took pains to hide themselves, trying to make the ruins appear deserted. Yet anyone who glimpsed Voss’s soldiers would have suspected that something was afoot, something that required the service of large, dangerous men with big, deadly swords.
And then there were the mages.
If it had been up to Pollard, magic would have died with the Great Fire, and Blaine McFadden along with it. That magic—and McFadden—survived were two more pieces of evidence that he had not found the favor of the gods.
Still, saddled with the reality that magic had returned, Pollard had done his best to acquire a cadre of mages, even if that meant having his talishte associates ambush some of those mages and turn them against their will.
Today the human mages made the first move. Pollard kept his troops out of range while the miasma of magic descended on the outbuildings around Mirdalur’s ruined tower. It was two hours after dawn, when any talishte should be bound to their crypt. Pollard had no desire to test his mages or his fighters against the Knights of Esthrane. He did not doubt that the Knights fully deserved their reputation. Yet the talishte mages had to sleep, and when they did, they were vulnerable.
Pollard watched with grim satisfaction as the mages sent their illusion against the mercenaries. The fear-and-distraction spell should have sent Voss’s mercs running in circles, shitting their pants and screaming like children.
“What in Raka is wrong with the spell?” Pollard demanded, watching from a nearby hillock. He hoped to see carnage, soldiers turning on one another in confusion and panic, an easy opening for him to lead the charge. Instead, Pollard saw Voss’s mercenaries assembling with top speed from their hiding places, seemingly unaffected by the magic.
“It’s either a powerful defensive warding or they’re all wearing some kind of null-magic charm,” the flummoxed mage reported. “I suspect the warding,” he added. “Such charms are difficult to come by.”
“Magic that suits my purposes is difficult to come by,” Pollard roared. He had hoped to sweep in and seize the ruined manor with little opposition. Now, having lost the element of surprise, the assault would be that much more difficult.
Pollard’s vexation found release in his sword. The soldiers who swarmed from cover to repulse Hennoch’s attack looked too seasoned and too scarred to belong to McFadden. He guessed that they were Voss’s troops, mercenaries Penhallow had somehow convinced to ally with his cause.
“Mercs bleed like everyone else,” Pollard muttered under his breath as he brought his sword down in a crushing blow. The sound of snapping bone and the feel of a blade sinking deep into flesh assuaged Pollard’s anger, barely. It would take more deaths, many more, to spend his fury. But as the soldier fell away, bleeding out onto the hard-packed ground, Pollard was one death closer, he thought grimly.
That he and Hennoch were personally present for this strike was galling. It should have been the kind of maneuver delegated to an underling, to a captain or even a lieutenant. Yet rumors persisted that ‘something’ was happening at the abandoned old manor, and that meant too much was at stake if Pollard and his allies wished to halt McFadden in his tracks.
“If I’d known McFadden would be this much trouble, I’d have killed him years ago,” Pollard growled, though no one could hear him. Voicing his thoughts gave vent to some of the pain from his proxy wounds, which rubbed raw and sore beneath his armor. His injuries put him at a disadvantage, and he knew that willpower alone might not be
enough to compensate for them.
Voss’s soldiers, well trained and seemingly indifferent to death, posed a challenge. He seemed to recruit only those who were the size of a bull, and nearly as strong. Yet Pollard was certain that a vicious mood could outfight experience and training every time, and he was doing well at proving his theory to be true.
This time, Hennoch brought close to one hundred men with him, surely enough, Pollard thought, to crush a garrison. His mages and the fighters had instructions to pin down the talishte. The living he could deal with.
What McFadden wanted with Mirdalur, Pollard could only guess, but his guesses were troublesome enough. It was enough that McFadden was interested in Mirdalur. For that alone, Pollard was determined to deny it to him.
A smash-faced soldier ran at Pollard with a guttural cry. Pollard met his charge head-on, blocking his swing and answering with a series of blows that took the fighter back a pace. All the while, a corner of Pollard’s mind remained unperturbed, assessing the mercenary’s fighting style. Only a few strikes had been traded when Pollard saw the weak point: a tendency to reach a little too far with the swing.
Pollard intentionally took a step back as the mercenary swung again; then he thrust forward, scoring a fatal strike. He jerked the blade upward, suspending the soldier there for an instant, satisfied at the astonishment on the dying man’s face. Then Pollard lowered his blade, letting the body slide down the length of his sword, stepping over the corpse to engage the next mercenary who ran from cover.
The effort made Pollard stumble, and the new opponent saw weakness, scything his sword so close that it took a slice from Pollard’s ear and grazed his hair. One of Hennoch’s soldiers interposed himself, taking the brunt of the attack as Pollard teamed up for the fight. It galled Pollard to have to require anyone’s assistance, yet the debilitating wounds acquired since Reese’s capture meant that Pollard had neither the strength nor the stamina he possessed before.
In the distance, Pollard could see Hennoch setting about himself with a two-handed sword. He was a useful barbarian, Pollard thought, but a savage nonetheless. Hennoch would never be more than a wealthy man’s attack dog. Lysander, on the other hand, was canny enough to be dangerous. He would bear watching when Reese returned. If Reese returned.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 47
