The pickpocket swallowed hard, avoiding looking at the dead aristocrat, and gave a nod. “I won’t.”
The guards showed him out. Thrane regarded the dead body at his feet and looked at Pollard. “What do you think? Have it removed, or let him stay for a bit? We hardly got to know each other.” The heart blackened and crumbled in Thrane’s hand as he spoke.
Pollard guarded his thoughts carefully. At close range, Thrane could read him through the kruvgaldur Pollard shared with Reese, Thrane’s get. But because that link was removed a generation, Pollard had discovered, he had a bit more freedom when he was out of Thrane’s immediate vicinity.
“You might as well leave him for now,” Pollard replied, “since we’ll have trouble getting the stain out of the carpet.”
One after another, men came to Thrane. Most had been called to Solsiden to swear allegiance, talishte who were either those Thrane himself had turned or, more often, those who were brought across by talishte of Thrane’s making. The body of the dead talishte, which was rapidly disintegrating into dust, was a warning that tended to cut the conversations short and assure compliance. No one else made the same mistake.
After a few candlemarks, Thrane seemed to grow bored. “I have plans to review with you,” Thrane said, standing and stretching. He walked around the black stain on the carpet and over to the desk that Pollard had once claimed as his own. Pollard was certain Thrane knew just how how much it annoyed him to have every small trapping of power confiscated, including his stock of whiskey, which Thrane could not drink.
“Can I pour you a glass of something?” Thrane asked, watching Pollard closely.
Pollard pushed down his irritation. Whiskey was an essential tool in surviving Thrane’s occupation. “If it pleases you,” Pollard replied diffidently. He had learned that Thrane enjoyed denying objects of desire. Therefore, affecting a manner of complete indifference was key.
Thrane withdrew a bottle of whiskey from the desk, pouring it into a chipped crystal glass and sliding it across the surface. “It’s been several hundred years since I could appreciate a good whiskey as it was meant to be enjoyed,” Thrane mused, leaning back in what had been Pollard’s favorite chair. “I’ve found that it doesn’t fully infuse into the blood in the same way. Pity.”
The implied threat was not lost on Pollard. He ignored it and sipped the whiskey, taking small comfort where he could.
“How may I be of service?” Pollard asked. He could not allow his pride to get in the way of the longer game he played and the ultimate prize at its end. I wouldn’t be the first man to survive humiliation and emerge with a crown, he thought. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let that fall to someone else. Quillarth Castle is worth bending my knee to win.
“I’ve called together some of the former members of the council, the ones sympathetic to our cause,” Thrane said, toying with a small, smooth onyx sphere he kept on the desk, rolling it back and forth between his fingers.
“We will convince them to join us, then they will gather their broods—their extended get—and swear their allegiance to me,” Thrane continued. The now-disbanded Elder Council had been comprised of some of the oldest talishte on the Continent. The number of people they had turned during their long existence could be large, and with the extended get, fledged by those first-turned, the numbers could be substantial.
Even with so many, Pollard thought, it’s not sufficient to overthrow mortal armies without mortal help.
“Our space here at Solsiden is limited for such a large gathering,” Pollard warned. The usable space of the ruined manor house was already fully occupied, and the only thing worse than the present situation, in Pollard’s mind, would be being overrun by dozens—perhaps hundreds—of additional talishte.
Thrane chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. “I have no desire to host them on my lands,” he said, and his casual declaration of ownership over the holdings Pollard had claimed for himself was a calculated barb. “Calling attention to our numbers would be unwise, and the number of mortals needed to slake our thirst would place too high a strain on the surrounding area. People would notice. That kind of threat would not be ignored. We are still… vulnerable.”
For all of Thrane’s arrogance, and in spite of his inhuman speed and strength, the talishte were still prisoners of their Dark Gift during daylight. Only the oldest could recover from any significant exposure to the sun, and as long as it was light outside, their strength and other abilities waned. During their enforced rest, they were relatively easy marks should substantial numbers of humans launch an effort to exterminate them. Such purges had been devastatingly effective in the past. It was wise of Thrane to remember that.
“The army continues to grow,” Pollard replied. “Our forces should equal McFadden’s soon.”
Thrane made a dismissive gesture. “ ‘Equal’ is not sufficient. He still has allies. Traher Voss’s mercenaries are a powerful fighting force. The Solveigs remain in control of their lands and their army. And with things as they are, there’s little profit tilling the land or working a trade. That leaves men to be recruited—or pressed—into service on both sides. We have work to do.”
“Agreed,” Pollard said. Talishte could not lead armies in daylight, nor could they win the allegiance of those soldiers, and they would never win the acceptance of the mortal population as kings. Those realities were why Thrane still needed Pollard and Hennoch. Pollard suspected Thrane’s frustration over that truth spurred his more spiteful efforts to humiliate both men. It was the only true power Pollard had, and he intended to use it carefully.
“Do you have orders for the mages?” Pollard asked, changing the subject.
Thrane leaned back in his chair as he thought. “How are they progressing?”
Pollard was certain that Thrane had a general idea through the talishte guards he had on every one of the mage workshops. Still, Pollard gathered that what would be read through the kruvgaldur, at least at a distance, was not complete. A small, carefully hidden, part of himself noted that with hope.
“We’ve seeded them throughout our holdings, and secured their workshops with walls and guards,” Pollard replied. “McFadden’s last effort at Mirdalur has changed the equation once more,” he added with distaste. “He found a way to broaden the anchor, spread it among thirteen Lords of the Blood once again. That stabilizes the power, though I’m told the magic is still different from how it was before the Cataclysm.”
Thrane shrugged. “The details do not concern me. What have you learned about the power of this ‘new’ magic?”
“It’s only been a few weeks,” Pollard replied. “The mages are still working with it, adjusting to what they call the ‘currents’ of the power. But they are confident that whatever anchoring was done made the power less subject to sudden fluctuation.” He paused. “That should save us a few incinerated magic users.”
“McFadden will hesitate to use the same kind of battle magic that brought the Great Fire,” Thrane said. “We cannot afford such qualms. Make sure the mages know I place a priority on any magic that can be used as an effective weapon.”
“Except for the necromancers you ordered executed,” Pollard said, his voice carefully neutral.
Thrane’s expression grew shadowed. “I will not permit a necromancer to live. I don’t care how skilled they are. That will not, cannot, be allowed!”
Again, Pollard felt a flicker of hope deep inside. Talishte were not invulnerable. Sunlight, a stake to the heart for those young in the Dark Gift, a severing of the head for those with more power, all were effective ways to destroy even the most powerful talishte. And necromancy, magic that gave the wielder control over the soul and the ability to control the dead, was one of the few things men like Thrane had reason to fear.
“As you wish, m’lord. We’ve killed two such mages so far. We will be watchful for others,” Pollard replied. He paused. “May I ask—what is your next priority?”
Thrane smiled. It was a terrifying expression, absent of
mirth, full of malice. “My next priority is to take my blood son back from the traitors who have imprisoned him. I intend to rescue Reese, and to make Lanyon Penhallow pay dearly for it.”
introducing
If you enjoyed
WAR OF SHADOWS
look out for
THE SWORN
The Fallen Kings Cycle
by Gail Z. Martin
Summoner-King Martris Drayke must attempt to meet this great threat, gathering an army from a country ravaged by civil war. Tris seeks new allies from among the living—and the dead—as an untested generation of rulers face their first battle. Meanwhile, the legendary Dread are stirring in their burrows after millennia of silence, and no one knows what hand wakes them and whom they will serve when they rise.
Now Drayke turns to the Sworn, a nomadic clan of warriors bound to protect the Dread. But even the mighty Sworn do not know what will happen when the Dread awake. All are certain, though, that war is coming to the Winter Kingdoms.
THE SWORN is the beginning of a new adventure set in the world of The Chronicles of the Necromancer.
CHAPTER ONE
“Get some rest. I’ll take this watch. Don’t worry—I’ll be happy to rouse you when your turn comes.”
Despite the amulet, Jair’s dreams were dark. The afternoon’s battle replayed itself, but in his dream, throngs of ashtenerath pursued them, undeterred until hacked to bits. He woke with a start, relieved to find the campsite peaceful. Mihei had put another log on the fire, and from the smell of the smoke, more warding leaves. Jair settled himself back into his blanket and tried to sleep once more.
As he balanced between waking and slumber, Jair saw Talwyn’s image in the distance. She smiled and beckoned for him to come closer. She was singing, and the sound of her voice cheered his heart. Finally, he stood next to her, and Talwyn welcomed him with a kiss. Then she placed a hand over the pendants at his throat. “Watch carefully, my love. The roads are filled with danger.” Her eyes widened. “Wake now. Take your sword. The shadows are moving.”
Jair jolted awake an instant before Mihei cried out in alarm. Jair and Emil were on their feet in an instant, swords in hand.
“What do you see?” Emil said, scanning the night.
Jair could just make out a trace of movement in the shadows.
“Spirits. Dimonns. Don’t know which, but whatever’s out there isn’t friendly,” Mihei replied. “I strengthened the wardings.”
Jair looked down, and where Mihei had traced a large circle around them and their horses with the cleansing elixir, a ring of stones now marked the area.
“There! Can you see?” Emil pointed into the darkness where darker shapes moved swiftly across the tall grass of the clearing.
Mihei nodded, raising his hands as he began to chant. As Jair watched, a phosphorescent mist rose in the clearing, first just ankle-high, then suffusing the night with an eerie green glow. In the glowing mist, the shapes became clearer. Disembodied shadows slipped back and forth in the mist, but their outlines looked nothing like men. Some were misshapen hulks with wide, empty maws. Others were wraiths with thin, grasping arms and impossibly long, taloned fingers that stretched toward the living men and horses within the wardings.
The horses shied and Jair feared they might bolt. Mihei spared the animals a moment of his attention, looking each of the horses in the eyes and murmuring words Jair did not catch. Immediately, the horses quieted.
The black shapes rushed toward the stone circle, and a curtain of light flared between the three men and the advancing shadows. The shadows howled and shrieked, spreading themselves across the glowing barrier until they blotted out the moonlight. Jair glanced at Mihei. The land mage’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and he was biting his lip with the effort to reinforce the strained wardings.
“Tell us what you need and we’ll do it,” Jair urged.
“Keep me awake,” Mihei said. “My guess is that someone used this forest as a killing field, and the spirits have never left. Their anger could have drawn the dimonns. The deaths in the village could also make the dimonns stronger.”
“What do they want?” Jair asked.
“Blood.”
“If they’re drawn by the wronged dead, can you appease their spirits, reduce the dimonns’ power?” Jair had drawn his stelian, even though it was clear that it would be little protection against the shadows that wailed and tore at the gossamer-thin veil of the warding.
“I’m no summoner,” Mihei replied. “I can’t help the spirits pass over to the Lady. But if we survive the night, I can find where their bodies were dumped and consecrate the ground. That should satisfy the spirits, and without them and the ashtenerath, the dimonns should leave.”
“Should,” Emil repeated doubtfully.
Mihei looked to Jair. “I need some things from my bag.” Jair listened as Mihei recited a list of powders and dried plants, and he went to gather them from the vials in Mihei’s bag as Emil stood guard, weapon at the ready.
“Mix them with my mortar and pestle,” Mihei instructed. “Then make a paste of it with some water.” Jair did as Mihei requested, dripping water into the mortar’s rough bowl until a gray, gumlike paste stuck to the pestle.
“Bring me a small wad—save the rest, we’ll need it.”
Jair rolled a coin-sized wad of the gum between thumb and forefinger and brought it to Mihei, who placed it under his tongue. “That should help. When I trained with the mages, there were all-night workings where we didn’t dare fall asleep. The muttar gum will keep me wide awake, although I’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
“Anything else we can do?” Emil asked.
Mihei nodded. “The dimonns will try to reach my mind. They’ll send visions and nightmares. If I begin to lose my focus, you have to bring me back. All our lives depend on it.”
“How should we wake you?’
Mihei shrugged. “Douse me with water. Pinch my arms. If you have to, slap me across the face. Better a few bruises than to be sucked dry by the dimonns.”
Grimly, Jair and Emil took seats next to Mihei. Jair fingered his amulets, but his connection to Talwyn was gone. Just on the other side of the coruscating light, the dimonns stretched their shadows over the domed warding, mouths full of dark teeth snapping against the barrier. Talons scratched against the ground and cries like tortured birds of prey broke the silence of the night.
A motion caught Jair’s eye. Something solid moved through the tall grass, and to his horror, the face of a young girl, no more than six or seven seasons old, pale and wide-eyed, rose above the mist. The image wavered, and as Jair ran his fingers over the amulets at his throat, the girl seemed to flicker and shift.
Emil started toward her, and Jair blocked his way. “She’s not real.”
Emil struggled against Jair, his eyes on the child. “They’ll kill her.”
“She’s not really here.”
“Let me go!” Emil broke away from Jair and stepped through the warding. Immediately, the shadows massed and the image of the girl winked out. Emil’s scream echoed in the night. With a curse, Jair dove after him, making sure to keep one foot within the warding as Mihei began to chant loudly. Jair caught the back of Emil’s great cloak and pulled with all his might. Claws tore at him, slicing into his forearm and shoulder. He twisted out of the way of snapping jaws and he pulled again. This time, he succeeded, landing hard on his back as Emil tumbled through the warding.
Emil’s skin was pale, as if in the few seconds beyond the warding he’d been nearly drained of blood. Long, deep gashes had sliced through his vambraces, down his right arm. Razor-sharp teeth left their imprint on his left thigh. Emil was trembling and jerking, groaning in pain.
Jair glanced up at Mihei, but the land mage’s full concentration was fixed on the battle beyond the warding. The ghostly child was gone. Jair had seen enough of battle to have a rudimentary idea of how to lessen Emil’s pain, and he rifled through Mihei’s bag until he found the flask of vass, mixing a few
fingers’ depth of vass in his tankard with cohash and poppy. Jair pinned Emil with the weight of his body and forced his jaws apart until he could drip the mixture between Emil’s teeth. Emil’s eyes were dilated with pain, and his blood stained the dry grass red. Little by little, Emil’s breathing slowed and the thrashing ceased. Jair slid his fingers along Emil’s wrist.
“He’s got a pulse, thank the Lady.”
“Cleanse the wounds,” Mihei said in a distracted tone. “Use the vass. It’ll sting but it’s the best we have. Dimonns don’t carry plague like the ashtenerath, but their wounds fester.”
Jair did as Mihei said, gritting his teeth as he drizzled Emil’s wounds with alcohol and Emil flinched, gasping with the pain. Jair tore strips from Emil’s ruined shirt to make bandages and bound up the wounds as best he could. When he had done all he could for Emil, Jair applied the vass to his own torn arm and shoulder, then returned to Mihei’s side.
Outside the warding, the dimonns struck with increased fury.
“They’ve tasted blood,” Mihei murmured. “They’re hungry.”
“Wonderful,” Jair said drily. “Now what?”
“Just keep me awake. It’s taking a lot out of me to keep the wardings up. You could sing.”
Jair looked sideways at him. “I can’t sing, even for Talwyn. You know that.”
Mihei managed a tired half smile. “Pain is an effective way to stay awake. It’s that or step on my foot. ”
In reply, Jair trod on Mihei’s toes. “Ouch!”
“Awake now?”
“Yes, thanks. You can save the other foot for later.”
As the candlemarks wore on, Jair paced the warded circle. For a time, he drummed on the empty water bucket with the pestle, playing a rhythm that kept both of them awake. When Mihei began to waver, Jair brought him more of the muttar gum and fanned his face. But as the stars overhead reached their zenith, Mihei was tiring. The golden glow of the warding dimmed, and the dimonns, sensing victory, massed against the shielding.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 57
