“You’re out of line,” Blaine grated.
Carr’s eyes glinted. “Defending a whore’s honor? That’s precious.”
“Shut your mouth and get out of my sight.”
“You’ve brought enough trouble to us,” Carr pressed, taking another step forward. “You deserted us, left us defenseless. Why don’t you go back to where you came from and leave us alone?”
Carr might have been drunk, but his aim was true. His fist swung for Blaine’s chin and Blaine blocked it, but the force sent him back a step. Enraged, Carr came at him again, both fists flying, and Blaine ducked, catching a strike on the shoulder that was meant for the side of his head. Carr was Blaine’s height, and the demands of soldiering had made him solid. Angry and bent on fighting, Carr meant to do damage.
Blaine came up swinging. One fist caught Carr in the ribs, while the other clipped him in the jaw. Carr lashed out with one foot, a high kick that caught Blaine hard in the thigh. Carr launched at him with fists pummeling. Blaine’s lip was split, and one eye was beginning to swell where Carr had clipped him on the side of the head.
“I’ve had enough of this,” Blaine muttered as his own anger rose, canceling out any concern to avoid injuring Carr. He landed one solid blow and then another, forcing Carr to loosen his hold. He drew back his arm and punched hard, catching Carr on the side of the head and sending him sprawling.
Footsteps sounded on the loggia’s stone floor as the others came running. Niklas grabbed Carr by the arms and hauled him to his feet, and Piran circled to stand behind Blaine, laying a cautioning hand on his shoulder.
“Get him out of here,” Blaine said, his heart still pounding from the fight. “And keep a watch on him until he sobers up.”
“Oh, you’re certainly the Lord of Glenreith, all right,” Carr snarled, spitting blood. “Just like Father. Well, I’ve got this to tell you, Lord McFadden. I took Father’s thrashings, but I’ll be damned if I’ll take yours. You don’t belong here. Get out.”
Niklas tightened his grip on Carr’s arms. “That’s enough, soldier,” he said. “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.” Carr said nothing else, but the baleful look in his eyes gave Blaine to know the matter was far from settled. Niklas half-shoved and half-dragged Carr back out of the dining room.
Judith sank into one of the chairs near the fire and covered her face with her hands. Blaine dropped to one knee in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Judith,” he said, his words slightly slurred by his swollen lip. “I tried to pull my punches, but Carr meant to do damage.”
Judith raised her head and reached out a hand to gently touch the growing bruise on Blaine’s temple and his swelling eye. “I’m the one who’s sorry, Blaine. I knew Carr was angry before he left for the war. At first I thought it was just his way of dealing with everything that had happened. It was… very difficult for us after you were exiled. Mari was older, she understood, and she bore up under the hardship. But Carr… I fear he got Ian’s temper.”
“Niklas will make sure he cools down,” Blaine said. As the heat of the fight drained away, his head throbbed and he could feel every strike Carr had landed. “Before long, we’ll be gone from Glenreith, and maybe then Carr can get settled.”
Judith’s eyes were troubled, and she rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve only just had the two of you returned to me. I’m not keen to lose either of you again.”
I made a mistake coming back to Glenreith, Blaine thought, looking away. I’ve caused my family nothing but pain.
Judith seemed to guess his thoughts, because she gently turned his chin until he was looking at her. “At every turn, you’ve done what you had to do to protect us. There’s no shame in that, Blaine. Carr will come to his senses. I’m sure of it.”
Pollard and Reese aren’t through looking for me. And without finding a way to tame the magic, we can’t stop the storms. Carr doesn’t realize it, but he’s the least dangerous thing I have to worry about right now, and if he wants a piece of me, he’s going to have to stand in line to get it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“H
ow is it that you have not yet breached the walls?” Vedran Pollard sat on his horse, staring at Traher Voss’s fortress. The fortress that, despite his soldiers’ efforts, still belonged to Voss.
Major Stanwik was a man approaching his middle years, a man who had served a decorated career in the king’s army back when there was a king, and an army. Stanwik was of medium height, with a muscular build and a full head of short-cropped, wavy, dark hair. His gray eyes showed intelligence, the only thing remarkable about his otherwise ordinary face. Stanwik was extraordinary in one important way: He had the tenacity of a mastiff, and Pollard had never seen the man give up on a fight.
They had a good view of Voss’s fortress without being within range of the smuggler’s weapons. Voss had apparently chosen to spend his money on structural soundness rather than aesthetics, because there was nothing remotely good-looking about the fortress. Thick walls, strong gates, heavy iron, and towers high enough to give an observation advantage made the building an excellent fortification despite its lack of architectural embellishment. Even more like Voss, Pollard thought. The man makes it easy to take him for a fool, right before he picks your pocket, steals your horse, and plunders your supply wagon.
“The walls are very well reinforced, sir,” Stanwik replied. “I’m not entirely sure what Voss used, but they’re more resilient than anything I’ve ever come up against. Nothing the catapults have sent against the walls seems to have much of an effect. The outbuildings and all the roofs are made of stone, so there’s nothing to burn. As for the gates, we’re not sure how many sets there are, because every time the battering ram knocks down one, there’s another behind it.”
Pollard cursed under his breath. “Can you cut off his water supply? Starve him out?”
Stanwik shook his head. “Not so far, although we’ve tried. We’ve compromised the escape tunnels under the fortress, but it didn’t stop Penhallow from getting out.”
“And how did Penhallow escape, with two mortals in tow, without your men noticing?”
Stanwik flinched. “There’s an underground river beneath the fortress. It’s the source of their water, we presume. It comes out in a cave some distance away. We found three dead patrols nearby the night Penhallow escaped.”
Pollard gave a predatory smile. “If Penhallow can bring out two mortals, can you send men in?”
Stanwik’s expression gave Pollard to believe the military man would have preferred to be anywhere but where he was at the moment. “We tried that, sir. Sent in two of our best swimmers, mortals. They drowned. Stiff current, narrow passageways. No idea how Penhallow got his mortal servants out alive.” He paused. “So, we sent in talishte, since they didn’t need to breathe.”
“And?”
“They died,” Stanwik replied. “The bodies floated back to us badly cut up, with quarrels studding their chests.”
“You’ve got talishte fighters,” Pollard replied. “Have you brought them in from the air?”
Stanwik nodded. “Aye. Voss has archers with flaming arrows. We’ve lost several good men that way.”
Pollard’s next curse was creatively obscene. “What of their food supply? He can’t have an unlimited amount.”
Stanwik sighed. “True. But depending on how prepared he was, it could take months for him to run out.”
“I have no intention of keeping an army in the field for months to drive down a smuggler!” Pollard roared.
Stanwik’s expression was unchanged. Pollard noted that Stanwik’s expression never changed. It looked the same in victory or defeat, on a good day and after a rout. “That is certainly not my intent, sir. We’re working on new plans.”
“Which are?”
“We’re bringing in heavier war machines,” Stanwik said. “No walls should be able to withstand them.”
“Lord Reese will not be patient much longer,” Pollard warned. “Voss is an as
set to the opposition. It’s not enough to keep him bottled up. We need to destroy him.”
“Understood, sir.”
They rode back to the camp in silence, Pollard stewing over Voss’s continued ability to evade capture, and Stanwik quiet and unreadable as ever. It was dark when they arrived, though the camp was awash in torchlight. When Pollard reached his tent, he was pleased to find a bottle of brandy and a warm meal awaiting him. He shouldered out of his cloak and found that even with a fire in the brazier, the tent was still quite cold.
He sat down to his dinner, a large bowl of stew and a hearty hunk of bread. Pollard was hungry and cold enough to eat just about any camp ration. He reached for the bottle of brandy and poured the amber liquid into the tankard that had been set out for him. Just as he finished his dinner, a thundering crash sounded from the center of the camp. Pollard stood up so quickly he knocked over his chair. He grabbed his cloak and ran for the tent door, sword already in hand.
Another blast rocked the ground, and then another. By the time Pollard reached the outside, he could see flames shooting up from multiple points within the camp. There was another resounding boom, and a fire flared high into the sky from the strike point.
Throughout the camp, Pollard could hear running footsteps along with the shouts of commanders attempting to restore order. At least half a dozen tents were afire, and a charred circle of ground stood where other tents had been just moments before. Another explosion rocked the camp, and then more. A burning man staggered from one of the tents, his clothes and hair aflame, screaming and flailing. He lurched into Pollard’s path, twisting in agony. Pollard swung his sword, slicing the man’s head from his shoulders. The body took one more step and collapsed, while the head, hair still afire, rolled to the side.
Pollard grabbed a passing soldier by the shoulder. “Report!” he growled.
“We’re under attack from the gods!” the man cried, more terrified of the fire that was raining down on the camp than of Pollard.
Pollard tightened his grip and wrenched the man toward him. “Soldier, report!”
The young fighter looked at him with wild, dilated eyes, his face ashen with fear. “It’s the gods, I tell you. Look! It burns without being consumed.”
Pollard frowned, and his gaze followed the direction in which the panicked soldier pointed.
Flames soared into the night sky from the roofs of the buildings within Voss’s fortress. As Pollard watched, unbelieving, it did indeed appear that the massive fortress burned without looking worse for the conflagration.
“He’s dancing on the parapets, like a madman,” the soldier murmured, awestruck.
“Who is?” Pollard demanded.
“Voss. He’s surrounded by fire, but it doesn’t touch him. How can we fight a man who doesn’t burn?” The soldier’s words choked off as he stared at the horizon and suddenly looked as if he might faint. “Gods have mercy! Vessa herself is rising!”
At that, the terrified soldier dropped to his knees in supplication, babbling the words to a prayer. Pollard stood staring, openmouthed, at the spectacle he saw but could not comprehend.
A fiery figure of a woman rose into the night sky, hovering above the camp, garbed in burning robes. Men cried out in terror or prostrated themselves, begging the apparition for mercy. Pollard had long ago dismissed belief in the gods as mere myth, but even he had to admit that what appeared in the sky fit the legends’ description of Vessa, the notoriously ill-tempered goddess of fire.
Another blast rocked the camp. With a curse, Pollard took off at a run to find Stanwik. He was running toward the front of the camp, toward Voss’s fortress, and as he closed the distance, he could make out what appeared to be the figure of a man dancing against a backdrop of fire.
“No man could survive that,” he muttered to himself, but he was as much at a loss to explain the sight as the soldiers who were pointing toward the walls in panic. From the height of the fire, he doubted any mortal could remain nearby for more than a few minutes. Yet the dancing figure seemed completely untouched.
As he crossed the camp, Pollard saw a dark shape fall from the sky, but before he could make out what it was, it crashed to the ground and exploded, sending up a sheet of flame that scorched the soil and lit the surrounding tents on fire. Much of the camp was on fire, and in several places, the explosions had blown small craters into the dirt.
He caught sight of Stanwik and ran toward him. Pollard heard a whistling sound behind him and then an explosion. Flames licked his heels and caught at the hems of his pants. He found Stanwik shouting at his men, regaining order in the front lines. The whole plain was awash in firelight, from the burning tents and from the firestorm that lit the roof of Voss’s fortress. Fire shot toward the heavens, but the buildings and walls in Voss’s stronghold seemed impervious to the fire.
In the next breath, a mighty roar shook the camp. The ground beneath the camp collapsed, opening a maw into darkness. Men, horses, tents, and siege machines tumbled into a vast and rapidly spreading chasm that descended into darkness.
“Run!” he heard Stanwik shout amid the screams of men and the squeals of the terrified horses. The lip of the chasm was expanding, and the ground was collapsing at an alarming rate. Stanwik and his soldiers fled. Overhead, the figure of Vessa outshone the moon, and if the goddess was ever inclined to pity mortals, she seemed to feel none for the panicked men. Pollard stole a backward glance toward Voss’s fortress, only to see the dancing smuggler against the flames.
The collapsing ground forced the fleeing soldiers to run toward the fortress. But once the men reached solid ground, cascades of arrows rained down on them. Pollard felt an arrow slice through his upper arm, and the man next to him fell with a gasp and a gurgle, a shaft through his heart.
“We’ve got to run along the chasm’s edge!” Pollard shouted, his voice barely audible in the rout. Running along the lip of the massive sinkhole would mean dodging burning tents, but it was preferable, in Pollard’s opinion, to being cut down by a hail of arrows.
Two men behind Pollard dropped in their tracks, arrows in their backs. Another arrow barely missed Pollard, flying close enough to his head that it nicked his ear. Stanwik was a few steps ahead of him, running a gauntlet among arrows and blazing tents. The soldier nearest to Stanwik stumbled and careened toward the sinkhole. Stanwik grabbed for him, catching his arm, as the ground crumbled under the man’s feet.
In one move, Stanwik twisted, hurling the soldier toward Pollard, who had no choice except to catch the flailing man. Stanwik leaped toward solid ground and landed on his feet just outside the lip of the hole. He grinned in triumph, then cried out as two fiery arrows hit him with enough force that their tips cut through the chest of his uniform shirt, drenching him in blood.
For just an instant, Stanwik teetered on the cusp, his clothing and hair afire, his expression agonized, and then he fell backward into the darkness.
Pollard disentangled himself from the panicked soldier and gave a momentary glance toward the pit, but Stanwik was gone from view. Cursing under his breath, Pollard strode away from the flames and the maw of the sinkhole.
“Rally here, men!” he shouted, holding his sword aloft. It would be hours before he had a full report, but it was clear that the attack had killed many of the soldiers and destroyed much of their materiel.
Has Voss somehow discovered a way to use magic? Pollard wondered. Surely not. Has he managed to invoke the gods against us? Impossible. And yet…
The camp was a complete ruin, its siege machines swallowed in the maw of the pit or set aflame, its soldiers dead, missing, or running for their lives. The sky was still dominated by the fiery image of Vessa and the fiery fortress with its mad brigand owner.
Terrified, soot-streaked, and injured by fire and arrows, the sorry band of survivors regrouped along the camp’s rear perimeter with the horses and a few wagons they managed to rescue. The entire center of the camp had collapsed deep into the ground. What remained aboveground was
afire or reduced to the cindered skeletons of tents, wagons, and catapults.
“Report!” Pollard snapped.
“Three-quarters of the soldiers are dead or missing,” one of the lieutenants replied. “The tents, supplies, and war machines are a total loss. We were able to save about half the horses and a dozen wagons. Other than the sidearms the men were wearing when they ran from their tents, the majority of weapons were destroyed or disappeared into the chasm, sir.” He looked around, lost. “Where is the commander, sir?”
“Major Stanwik is dead,” Pollard replied. It stuck in Pollard’s craw to slink off in the night, routed by a mercenary like Voss, but even he saw no alternative. He cut loose a string of invective. “We can’t hold the position,” he growled. “Move the men out.” He turned back for one last look at Voss’s fortress. “But I swear by Torven and all the gods, I will make sure Traher Voss pays for this and pays dearly.”
Reign of Ash Page 14
