War of Shadows (10 page)

Folville was waiting in the doorway. “Come on!” he screamed above the wind. Kestel appeared next to him, and the two of them reached to take the woman from Blaine. Blaine felt the wind drag him backward, ripping at his clothing. He grasped the door frame with both hands, pulling himself toward the opening, but his strength was no match for the power of the wind.

Folville grabbed one arm and Kestel grabbed the other, yanking Blaine toward them with their full might. The three of them collapsed against the far wall of the stairwell, near where the injured woman lay on the landing. Folville picked her up and headed down the steps. Kestel followed, then Blaine, who was limping where a large chunk of tile had struck him in the leg.

“Let’s hope that your engineers did better with the lower floors,” Blaine muttered as they edged their way into the crowd on the third floor.

The buzz of conversation stopped as they entered. The injured woman’s two children cried out in greeting and rushed toward her, breaking loose from the arms of an old woman who had been holding them. Folville spoke quietly to one of his guards who stepped up to take the woman from Folville’s arms.

“Find a healer—we’ve got to have at least a hedge witch in this crowd,” Folville instructed.

He turned toward where Blaine and Kestel stood. Then without a word, Folville went down on one knee in front of Blaine. The room fell silent.

“I never got the chance to swear fealty to you like I said I would,” Folville said. “And to tell you the truth, until tonight, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. You could have gotten killed saving that woman,” he said. “That convinced me.” He bowed his head and awaited Blaine’s response.

Blaine hoped he did not look as uncomfortable as he felt. “As Lord of Glenreith and Lord of Castle Reach, I accept your fealty, William Folville. Swear to me your loyalty and your sword.”

“I swear, m’lord,” Folville replied.

“And I swear to you, William Folville, that you will have my protection and aid. May the gods hear our pledges and hold us to our words,” Blaine finished.

Someone in the room began to cheer. Another person joined in, and then another until the whole room was cheering. Folville looked up at Blaine, who nodded his permission to stand. Together, they looked out over the room of people, who stared at them expectantly.

“Lord Blaine McFadden has sent his troops to protect us and his provisions to feed us,” Folville said, shouting above the wind that still roared with the fury of the storm outside. “Castle Reach has not been forgotten. Storm or no storm, Castle Reach will survive,” Folville said. “I have sworn my allegiance,” he continued. “Now swear yours. This is your lord.”

To Blaine’s amazement, one by one, the room’s occupants knelt, leaving Blaine, Kestel, and Folville standing. Even Folville’s strongmen and Hemmington’s guards knelt. Blaine sincerely hoped that his discomfort was not clear in his face.

I never rehearsed this part
, he thought. He drew a deep breath and found his voice.

“I accept your allegiance,” he said, looking out at the crowd. “But what I need is your help. The city’s barely begun to rebuild and now the storms will set it back. This storm is bad—it’s likely there will be others. Folville will need your help to rebuild, and to resist those who will try to keep the city—and Donderath—on its knees.” He paused. “Please rise—and help Castle Reach rise again.”

The sound of cheers followed them to the second floor. Folville announced his new-sworn fealty and asked for the same show of loyalty that the group on the floor above had made.

“You handled that nicely,” Kestel murmured, giving his hand a squeeze.

“It’s not something I trained for in Velant,” Blaine replied.

She met his gaze. “I’d argue that the man Velant made you is better suited to rule than you might have been before.”

Hemmington strode toward them. “We’ve distributed rations for supper, and some of the men used buckets to gather rainwater for drinking.” He nodded toward the opposite corner. “We’ve set up more buckets for latrines on each floor.” He grimaced. “It’s not going to be pleasant, but there’s no helping it. We’ll just send the slop out the window and let it wash away with the floodwater.”

“I’ll see what General Theilsson can spare for troops to lend a hand with the cleanup and rebuilding,” Blaine replied. “But we’re getting hit with the storms everywhere, and there aren’t enough troops to assign to the building crews and still have a fighting force for defense.”

Hemmington’s expression told Blaine that he understood. “We’ll have to manage,” he said. “That’s the army way. Never enough men or resources to do what has to be done, and somehow, it gets done anyway.”

The storm outside continued its fury, but as the first light of dawn filtered through the shutters, Blaine realized that the winds were not as wild as they had been the night before. Floodwaters filled the first floor, but did not rise to the top of the steps. Hemmington cautiously opened one of the shutters on the city side of the building just after sunrise. Blaine, Kestel, and Folville crowded around him.

The street below ran with filthy water higher than the windows of the first floor. The current swept bits of wood, animal carcasses, tree limbs, and flotsam, along with more than a few corpses.

Blaine looked out across the city toward the sea. Many of the buildings had lost their roofs. Some of the buildings collapsed under the pounding of the wind. Before the Great Fire, the Plaza of the Kings had boasted a large statue of King Merrill and several of his ancestors. Those statues still stood when Blaine and the others had taken refuge the night before.

Now floodwaters swept as high as the huge carvings’ heads. One statue, a monument to King Hougen, used to have an arm upraised, holding a torch. The torch had snapped off, leaving only the broken stub of a marble arm. In the center of the plaza, all but the finial on top of the fountain was covered by swirling floodwaters.

“It’s going to take a while for those waters to recede,” Kestel murmured.

Blaine nodded. “And you realize, Niklas and Piran have absolutely no idea what’s become of us. By now they’re probably worried and angry.”

Kestel chuckled. “Niklas, yes. Piran probably holed up in the castle with a bottle of spirits and a deck of cards. By now, he’s probably won the crown jewels.”

Kestel was quiet for a moment. “It’s not the city we left,” she murmured, staring out over the broken buildings. Floodwaters ran down to join the angry gray ocean, which seemed to be trying to swallow Castle Reach whole.

“No, it isn’t,” Blaine agreed. “But now we have the chance to remake it to our liking. If we survive.”

V
EDRAN POLLARD STOOD NEAR THE FIREPLACE
, holding a goblet casually in one hand. He was dressed as if he had just come in from the hunt, with high leather boots and a well-fitted waistcoat. Pollard was in his late fourth decade, but his hair had gone white when he was still a young man. Hawk-faced, with sharp gray eyes and angular, uncompromising features, Pollard’s silver, close-trimmed beard added to his aristocratic bearing.

“Welcome,” Pollard said, moving away from where he stood near the fire. The guard closed the door and faded back into the shadows along the wall. Other bodyguards, dressed in black, waited in silence.

Pollard chuckled. “Do come in.” He moved to pour amber liquid from a decanter into a goblet and held it out. “Brandy?”

Larska Hennoch regarded the drink suspiciously, then seemed to decide that Pollard had better things to do than poison him, and accepted the glass. “If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just set up a meeting,” Hennoch said. “Kidnapping my son wasn’t necessary.”

Pollard looked at his guest for a moment without speaking.
Hennoch had the physique of a boxer and carried himself like an alley brawler. He wore a patch over one eye, lost no doubt to the wound that caused a long, jagged scar from his hairline down to his chin on the right side of his face. When he arrived, Hennoch wore an impressive array of weapons, all of which Pollard’s men had impounded. Even without his weapons, Hennoch looked the part of a notorious highwayman.

“I wanted to make sure I had your full attention,” Pollard replied. “What happens to your son is entirely up to you. Cooperate, and he’s merely come for fostering in the household of Lord Reese. Prove difficult, and you’ll find his ransom very dear indeed.”

Hennoch glared at Pollard. “I’m listening.”

“You’ve set yourself up as a warlord,” Pollard said, moving around the room as he spoke. “I would like to propose a deal.”

Hennoch’s lip curled. “Why me?”

Pollard shrugged. “You control the smuggling network and the thieves’ guild in a twenty-league area. No goods or people move through your territory without you knowing about it and charging for the privilege. You’ve killed your rivals or forced them into fealty. And you’ve collected a sizable fighting force who owe allegiance to you. You’re the kind of man Lord Reese likes to deal with.”

“So why isn’t he here?”

Pollard sipped his brandy. “Lord Reese has other matters to which he must attend. He has left this matter to me.”
If Hennoch was gauging how difficult it might be for him to get the jump on Pollard, he might be surprised at the outcome
, Pollard thought. More than one dead man had mistaken youth for skill. The presence of
talishte
bodyguards, standing motionless in the shadows of the room, might also temper Hennoch’s actions, even if the life of his son did not.

“This venture will amass a good bit of money—something that’s more difficult to come by now,” Pollard continued.

“True enough,” Hennoch replied. “What is it you want from me?”

“Ally with Lord Reese and me, and we’ll cut you in for a generous percentage of the spoils,” Pollard said.

“I already get all the spoils,” Hennoch shot back. “You want me to hand over my money and kiss your ring? For what?”

Pollard pressed on a panel in the wall that swung open at his touch. It was about a foot square, and inside was a large brass horn, like an ear trumpet. “Beneath this manor house are a maze of cells,” he said offhandedly. “They’re used to store—and interrogate—prisoners. This speaking tube connects directly to one of those rooms. It permits us to hear exactly what is going on far beneath us.”

A scream sounded from the bell of the trumpet, followed by the sound of a young man’s voice begging for mercy. Hennoch blanched, and launched himself at Pollard, only to be easily restrained by two of the
talishte
bodyguards.

“That’s my son!” Hennoch snarled.

Pollard nodded, his expression unchanged. “Yes, it is. And the comfort of his stay here is entirely up to you.”

The two bodyguards still gripped Hennoch by the shoulders, immobilizing him. Hatred glinted in Hennoch’s eyes. “So if I don’t agree, you’ll kill my son?”

Pollard met his gaze. “Eventually. He’s a strong young man. I’m sure the guards here would enjoy a meal or two from his blood. He might find a way to serve as a blood source for a while, or for the amusement of the jailers,” he said with ennui, purposely turning his back on Hennoch. “Or perhaps he could be brought across to serve Lord Reese in immortality.”

Hennoch let out a string of obscenities, then sagged in his captor’s hold. “All right,” he agreed sullenly. “I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt my son.”

“Fulfill your part of the bargain, and he’ll earn rewards—better food, better treatment, perhaps even a room aboveground,” Pollard replied. “Cheat us, or fail to fulfill your obligations, and he suffers for it.”

“I understand.”

Pollard turned to look at his visitor, and regarded the hatred in Hennoch’s eyes with satisfaction. “Very good. We have an understanding.” He paused, and swirled the brandy in his glass. “There is one more condition.”

“Which is?”

“You and your troops will be at my disposal and that of Lord Reese. You will muster when we call for you, and fight with full effort when we need your assistance.” Pollard’s eyes narrowed. “Your men will not act in any way to undermine our interests, and you will provide no support or protection of any kind to Blaine McFadden.”

Hennoch let out a long breath, and Pollard could not tell whether the man was relieved by a less burdensome requirement than he had expected, or surprised at the scope of the demand. “All right,” Hennoch replied. “We’re your men.” He met Pollard’s gaze. “Aside from your cut of the profits, and fighting when you call for us, the rest of our business goes on as it was?”

Pollard spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. “Of course. We have no plans to interfere in your territory—unless we have reason to believe you are not keeping to your side of the bargain.” He glanced toward the silent speaking tube, and Hennoch flinched.

“I’ll keep my side of it. Make sure you keep yours. I want my son safe,” Hennoch agreed in a rough voice. He gave Pollard a baleful look.

A thin smile touched Pollard’s lips. “You have my word.”

A candlemark later, long after Hennoch had been escorted from the manor house, Pollard was seated at the desk in the parlor he had claimed as his office. He had taken the ruins of Lord Arvo’s manor at Solsiden for his headquarters. The Battle of Valshoa had forced Pollard to flee Reese’s manor at Westbain. But Lord Arvo, unlike Reese, had been a Lord of the Blood, and the mage strike by enemy mages that killed most of Donderath’s nobility had severely damaged much of the once-great home.

Half of the old mansion survived, as well as an underground maze of cells and storage areas, enough to set up a functional camp. Any luxuries that could be stolen or scavenged had gone into making the parlor and meeting room as impressive as possible, suitable to the aspirations Lord Reese held for the future.

Pollard sat at his desk with his cloak around him, since the fire struggled to heat the damaged room. Broken windows were difficult to replace, but boarding up every cracked pane blocked out light, so the rooms were drafty, even at night when the heavy draperies were closed.
It was as bad as being on campaign
, Pollard thought,
only without any hope of it getting better once the army came home
.

A light knock at the door made Pollard raise his head. Kerr, his assistant, stuck his head into the room. “Shall I bring your dinner and a pot of tea now, sir?” Unflappable, organized even amid the chaos of postwar Donderath, Kerr kept Pollard’s world functioning smoothly. The last several months had
sprinkled gray in Kerr’s dark hair, and lean times had given Kerr, who had always been slender, a more gaunt appearance, but his brown eyes held the same shrewdness as always.

“If there’s food and tea to be had, I’m ready for it,” Pollard replied, and leaned back in his chair.

Kerr chuckled. “It’s not as good as the best we’ve had in times past, and not as bad as the worst we’ve eaten to make do. Cabbage and leek stew with a few stray bits of venison if you’re lucky, some cheese, and a hard roll from the flour the men found at the mill.”

“I’m so damn cold I don’t care what’s in the bowl so long as it’s warm,” Pollard replied.

“I’ll bring it right away,” Kerr said. “And Captain Nilo asked me to let you know he’ll come by as you requested after sixth bells.”

“Show him in when he gets here,” Pollard said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Kerr inclined his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish, sir.”

Pollard let out a long breath after Kerr left the room and sat staring at the closed door for a few moments, lost in thought. Bending Hennoch to Reese’s will was a small but necessary victory. It would take more than that, much more, to achieve their goals, especially after the rout at the Valshoan foothills.

Kerr brought the stew along with a pot of steaming tea, and hungry as he was, Pollard ate slowly to savor the warmth as it thawed his numbed fingers and brought heat to his extremities.
Is that what taking blood does for Reese?
Pollard wondered.
Does it warm him like soup warms a mortal, or is there more to it than just sustenance?
He was as unlikely to get an answer to his musing as he was to ask the question.

When the bowl was empty and the pot of tea finished, Kerr returned to clean away the dishes. “Captain Nilo is waiting
outside,” he said as he gathered the napkin and dishes onto a tray and replaced them with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

“Show him in,” Pollard replied. He removed the stopper from the bottle and poured a generous amount into each glass. Before the war, Pollard had prided himself on having brandy that rivaled the king’s for quality. Now he was grateful to get the awful rotgut that his men distilled whenever they could scrape together something to ferment.
Calling it ‘brandy’ was an undeserved compliment
, Pollard thought, but it reminded him of better days.

Captain Nilo entered after a brisk knock, and strode across the room. He was ten years Pollard’s junior, with dark hair and wary blue eyes. Nilo was also Pollard’s best strategist, and his only confidant.

“I take it Hennoch agreed to terms?” Nilo said in greeting.

Pollard nodded and gestured for Nilo to sit in one of the two chairs near the fire. Pollard took the glasses of brandy and came around the desk, offering one to Nilo and taking the other for himself as he settled into the remaining chair. It was only a bit warmer this close to the fire, not enough for Pollard to immediately set aside his cloak.

“He’s with us, for now at least,” Pollard replied. “Though we’ll need to make sure we have spies among his men. He wasn’t quite as upset about his son as I expected. There may come a point where he decides to sacrifice the boy to achieve other goals. I want him to know we’re watching.”

“Done.” Nilo took a sip of the brandy and tried not to make a face at the taste. “What have you heard from Reese?”

Pollard stared at the fire without answering for a moment. “Very little. I don’t know where he’s gone to ground. He was badly damaged, even for a
talishte
. There’s no way to tell how long
it will take him to recover.” He paused. “So here we are, licking our wounds, trying to recover enough strength to own a piece of the new Donderath.” His frustration was clear in his voice.

In the Battle of Valshoa, Blaine McFadden’s forces had their own
talishte
fighters, both the Knights of Esthrane and volunteers from Lanyon Penhallow’s brood. Reese had held his own, only to be badly burned when one of the catapults lobbed a flaming pitcher of oil that exploded close to him. A younger
talishte
would have been immolated, but Reese’s age enabled him to survive, though he was severely injured. Since then Reese had gone into hiding to heal.

“What can you sense through the
kruvgaldur
?” Nilo asked, with a glance toward where Pollard’s long sleeves covered the many scars on his forearms made by Reese’s fangs. Few outside Pollard’s inner circle knew for sure that part of Pollard’s fealty to Reese demanded that he offer up his blood to be read by the
talishte
lord, though many had heard rumors that
talishte
could read memories from the blood of a living person. That was enough to spark rumors and speculation among the troops. Reese could see Pollard’s memories in his blood, providing an efficient way to make a detailed report and an effective means to reinforce the chain of command. The blood taking also created a bond between
talishte
and mortal, the
kruvgaldur
, which could allow for a level of telepathic connection.

“Not much,” Pollard replied. “It’s been months since he’s taken blood, and the bond weakens over time.”

“Does it weaken for him, too?” Nilo asked. “If so, that means you may have a bit more freedom than usual.”

Pollard shrugged. “No way to know. I suspect we would each sense if the other died. I’ve felt a light touch in my dreams, but nothing coherent.”