War of Shadows (49 page)

“Why are you here?” Pollard asked with as much cold disdain as he could muster. He knew that Aslanov could smell the blood from the battle and that his
talishte
senses easily read Pollard’s injuries and weariness. Yet it galled Pollard that Aslanov stood between him and his brandy, and he was too tired and miserable to have any fear left.

Aslanov looked amused at Pollard’s bravado. “We’ve come to discuss your long-overdue master,” he said. “Join us.”

Warily, Pollard followed Aslanov into the parlor. He bristled when Aslanov gestured for him to have a seat, and instead strode over to his brandy and poured himself a stiff drink. Only then did he sit down, and in his own favored chair, not the one Aslanov offered.

“I’ve just come from battle, and I’m not in a mood for company, so let’s get down to business,” Pollard snapped. After the cold day of battle and traveling, he took comfort in the fire that blazed in the fireplace, though its warmth meant nothing to the
talishte
.

Aslanov was one of five
talishte
who stood or sat in the parlor, likely the oldest of the group.
Even older than Reese
, Pollard recalled.

Another man, whom Pollard knew only as Kiril, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. A woman he did not recognize sat in one of the chairs near the fire, watching them all with a bored expression. She had dark hair swept up in a knot and a thin, finely featured face, and Pollard wondered if she had been noble before she was turned. Perched on the corner of Pollard’s desk was another stranger, a dark-haired man whose face was darkened with a hint of stubble, in his early thirties when he was turned, with the streetwise look of a pickpocket.

The fifth man Pollard recognized. Marat Garin was one of Reese’s most loyal followers, and possibly one of the first Reese had turned. Garin’s forehead was a bit too high, his eyes slightly too close together to look of Donderan blood. Garin often proved his loyalty to Reese by executing those who displeased Reese, whether mortal or
talishte
.

“We’re going to get Lord Reese,” Aslanov said as matter-of-factly as if he had proposed a trip to Castle Reach.

Pollard sipped his brandy, enjoying the feel of it burning down his throat. “Are you, now?” he said. “How’s that?”

“We believe we’ve found a weakness in the manor where he’s being held,” Garin replied. “One we can exploit.”

Pollard did not look up. He regarded the amber liquor and gave it a swirl, watching it catch the light. “Why come here? Why tell me?”

“Since Westbain has been seized by the enemy, and our resources are few, it makes sense to bring him here, now that Solsiden has been fortified,” Aslanov replied.

“So bring him,” Pollard said with a shrug.

Aslanov regarded Pollard for a moment, as if weighing how to reply. “Reese relied greatly on you,” he said. “There is assistance—and protection—you can offer, being mortal, which we cannot. We wish you to prepare.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war,” Pollard replied, taking another slug of brandy. “Against people Lord Reese regarded as his enemies. I can’t guarantee his safety—or my own—if you bring him here.”

“We will guard him,” Aslanov said. “As for your war, I’ve already called more of his brood to join in the fight. It’s nearing its conclusion. I believe that with our help, your master’s enemies will be defeated.”

“Why rescue him now, before the battle’s won?” Pollard challenged. “Why not wait until the fighting’s done so he can return with greater safety?”

Aslanov favored him with a thin-lipped smile. “Reese does not desire safety,” he said reprovingly. “He intends to claim the spoils.”

I
WANT TO MAKE A SWEEP OF IT,” VIGUS QUINTREL
said, eyeing his battle mages. “After this campaign, Rostivan will control a crescent from the Riven Mountains down to the sea,” he said. His face was alight with excitement as he gestured at the maps he had tacked up on the wall.

Carensa could see the clearly marked sections that showed the bounds of each of the warlords’ territories. To the northeast of Castle Reach, Rodestead House, Westbain, and Lundmyhre anchored the land protected by Lanyon Penhallow, Traher Voss, and Kierken Vandholt. Stretching north from there, anchored by Solsiden, were the lands of Pentreath Reese and Vedran Pollard, protected by Larska Hennoch’s troops. Lysander’s territory lay between the areas claimed by Rostivan, Verner, and the Solveigs, including the lands that had once belonged to the Arkalas, though the ambitious warlord clearly had plans to expand that.

Rostivan’s lands were in the far north, up against the foothills of the Riven Mountains, but Quintrel’s plans, if they succeeded, would give him a sickle-shaped swath that took the Solveigs’ territory in the northwest down through Verner’s
holdings and Blaine McFadden’s lands, seizing Glenreith, Quillarth Castle, and the seaport of Castle Reach.

The plan was audacious. It was also, in Carensa’s opinion, suicidal.

“Yesterday decided nothing, yet a lot of men died,” Guran pointed out. “There’s little to be done until the storms lift.”

Quintrel glowered, displeased with Guran’s observation. “Nothing?” he challenged. “We probed the enemy’s weaknesses. We learned what their mages were able—or willing—to do. Those dead men are that many fewer we have to kill to gain our objective. I would hardly call that ‘nothing.’ ”

Guran inclined his head to show deference. “I misspoke,” he said, hastily retreating. Carensa knew that Guran’s opinion had not changed a whit, yet they gained nothing by antagonizing Quintrel, especially when he was already manic.

“Rostivan performed well yesterday,” Quintrel said, beginning to pace. “Yet he lacks will. Several times, he would have drawn back had we not controlled him and pushed him to press on.”

Rostivan is a seasoned commander
, Carensa thought.
If he wanted to pull back, there was good reason. Vigus doesn’t care how many men die so long as he gets what he wants. He’s planning to make this battle his last stand
.

“What of Lysander?” Guran asked. “His troops engaged McFadden’s and the Solveigs directly.”

Quintrel’s eyes were alight with the excitement of the fight. “Lysander has proven more malleable than I thought,” he replied. “We’re very happy with him.” The
divi
orb pulsed beneath Quintrel’s shirt. Carensa was grateful that her magic did not resonate with the
divi
. Something about its appearance reminded her of a large feline predator, content to wait for the right moment to kill.

“Lysander’s Tingur proved useful,” Quintrel said. “They and their beasts exacted quite a price from McFadden’s forces. A shame they’re used up now.”

Used up
, Carensa thought with disgust.
Not ‘dead,’ just ‘used up,’ like a tool. Expendable, like all of us
.

“What next?” Guran asked. Quintrel had summoned his senior mages to regroup over dinner. Esban had gone to make sure that the other mages were at work on their tasks. Half of the mages who had left Valshoa still lived. Several of those who had died were among the most senior practitioners, pushed to the limits of their ability by Quintrel. The rest of the mages were in their tents, preparing for the next day’s battle. That left Carensa and Guran alone with Quintrel.

The
divi
was riding Quintrel hard, Carensa thought. Since the mages left Valshoa, Quintrel had grown thin and haggard. His skin now had a sallow cast, and his eyes shone with madness. Quintrel was fading, but the
divi
’s pulse grew stronger, yet Quintrel did not seem to notice.

“With McFadden tied up here, it’s safe to say he’s had no chance to use the crystals,” Quintrel said. “And if he dies here, our problem has been solved.”

“You sent Pollard to Mirdalur,” Guran said. “Do you really think he can wrest the crystals back from the Knights of Esthrane and Voss’s troops?”

Quintrel shrugged. “If not, and he dies, it’s a rival eliminated. Without Reese, Pollard and Hennoch have only a fraction of their former power. If he succeeds, and we successfully eliminate McFadden, we are free to anchor the power as we will.”

Carensa repressed a shiver. She had a growing sense that when Quintrel said ‘we,’ he did not mean the mages. She could not avoid a glance at the contentedly pulsing
divi
orb. She knew who ‘we’ really meant.

“If Pollard should by chance succeed, you’d gain both the crystals and Mirdalur’s ritual chamber,” Guran noted. “What then?”

Quintrel’s expression was ecstatic. “Then we remake the Continent to our liking,” he said, excitement clear in his voice. “If Dolan’s gone to prepare the chamber, he won’t last long. The taint in the presence-crystal will only activate in the presence of strong magic, so any attempt to work the anchoring ritual should trigger it. When the crystal activates, everyone nearby dies.”

“You expected Dolan to steal the crystals?” Guran asked skeptically.

“Foresight warned me of betrayal,” Quintrel replied. “I took precautions. The
divi
could lift the taint for those we choose to work the ritual without harm.” He shrugged. “It would have also been easy to offer the crystals to McFadden and watch him take the bait.”

“Without McFadden either as a willing partner or as a prisoner, how do you expect to make the anchoring work?” Guran probed. They had asked Quintrel the same questions directly and indirectly several times, and each time, Quintrel sidestepped the answer.

“We have everything we need,” Quintrel replied, with a smile that gave Carensa no reassurance.

“Have you chosen your twelve?” Carensa asked. “Your new Lords of the Blood?” That was the missing piece. The thought had occurred to her in the middle of the previous night, when she lay awake listening to the sounds of the army camp, wondering how she had ever landed in the midst of such insanity. Quintrel’s answer would make all the difference, because it augured the direction of Donderath’s future.

“I’ve had a change in my thinking about that,” Quintrel said.
“Anchor the magic to thirteen fragile mortals, and the cycle of destruction and chaos is set in motion all over again. Anchor magic to immortal spirits, and we never need endure anything like the Great Fire again.”

“What do you mean, ‘immortal spirits’?” Guran probed. “Ghosts? Souls?”

Quintrel shook his head impatiently. “My Guide,” he said, reaching up to stroke the
divi
crystal, “has many brothers. Twelve more spirits await my call. Their magic, combined with ours, properly anchored, would make us invincible.”

Carensa frowned. “But what of the blood?” she asked, fearing the answer even as she framed the question. “The ritual is bound to the bloodline of those who work the magic.”

“As are the spirits,” Quintrel replied, his face glowing with excitement. “The spirits join with their mortal hosts. Our blood is the catalyst, their magic binds the power.”

“Thirteen mortals who are no longer exactly mortal,” Guran repeated carefully as if he struggled to make certain he had heard correctly. “And the magic, controlled by the spirits, would pass from generation to generation?”

Quintrel nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. The spirit would pass from father to firstborn son when the father dies. Over time, the spirit would become one with its host.”

Carensa struggled to hide her horror. The mental image of a
divi
abandoning the cooling corpse of its prior host and claiming an endless series of victims gave her chills.
That’s what’s happened with Vigus
, she thought, eyeing Quintrel and noting the changes in his appearance.
If that’s how it would go for all the hosts, I don’t imagine their lives will be long
.

Carensa had searched the manuscripts for any references to the
divi
. Most of the citations were oblique, vague references that seemed to expect the reader to already know something
about the spirits, details that went unsaid but that she suspected were essential. Finally, she had found one old manuscript whose writer spoke plainly. He had written of the Genitors, the First Ones, monsters made not by the gods nor by magic, beings from the chaos that birthed the world.

Those Genitors, the
divi
, had eventually been rooted out at the cost of immense slaughter. The uprising against the spirits had cost the lives of thousands of mortals and hundreds of mages. And when the
divi
were bound, more lives were lost to work the type of forbidden spells necessary to send the
divi
to oblivion in the Unseen Realm.

Parasites
, she thought.
That’s what the
divi
were. And if the old manuscript is right, there won’t just be thirteen of them. Once they control the magic, they’ll bring their friends to feast on us
.

There had been another reason Carensa had lain awake the night before, and many other nights. Quintrel’s lack of concern for life—the lives of his followers, the mages, and the soldiers—deepened her conviction that somehow he needed to be brought to heel. She and Guran, speaking briefly and always in code, had agreed on as much. Every night, Carensa tried to imagine a way even a small number of mages might be able to act against Quintrel, and every night she fell asleep without finding an answer.

She had realized months before that Quintrel was a danger, even prior to discovering that the
divi
controlled his thoughts. A mad mage was worrisome enough, but the danger grew when Quintrel bent Lysander and Rostivan to his will. Through Lysander, Quintrel had a hold over Pollard and Hennoch, and all of the mages not allied with McFadden, now that the Arkala twins were dead. Those forces were arrayed for this battle on the northern plains.

Verner’s army had already been badly damaged. If the others
fell, there would be nothing in the way to keep Quintrel from carrying out his version of the ritual to bind the magic, and the
divi
spirits would return from their exile and find a world of potential hosts to be drained. Something had to be done. Somehow it had to be stopped. Carensa struggled to control her expression as inside she felt utterly at a loss.

“
Lysander’s mercenaries are a problem,” Quintrel said, bringing Carensa’s attention back to the conversation. “Damned border men. His messenger arrived a candlemark ago, and I can barely understand the man, with his backwoods talk.”

“
Carensa can be of help for that,” Guran said, and as Carensa startled, she saw him meet her gaze. “She can make sure your orders are translated correctly, so there’s no misunderstanding.”

Carensa felt the missing piece slip into place at Guran’s look, needing no telepathy or code to make his message clear. There was one way to damage Quintrel, one way to stop his vision. If he could be defeated in battle, despite the odds he had stacked in his favor, the
divis
would remain bound and Donderath would not face the caprice of an insane mage. But the price would be steep.

“How can I help?” she asked, managing a smile. She was grateful that Quintrel was not a telepath.

“I’ll have a messenger bring you the orders I draw up for Lysander in a candlemark, once I finish. You’ll translate them into that damned nonsense the border men speak so there’s no misunderstanding,” Quintrel said.

“What’s the plan?” Guran asked.

Quintrel smiled. With his gaunt face and his hollow eyes, the expression was far more skull-like than Carensa remembered it being only a few months before. “Verner’s troops continue to be the weak point in McFadden’s front line. The beasts
and Tingur hurt McFadden’s troops, but the Solveigs are still quite strong.

“I’ll keep Rostivan focused on Theilsson and Voss. I think our mages can break theirs with a little effort,” he said, his grin becoming a smirk. “Lysander needs to smash the Solveig line. I believe that once the Solveigs fold, McFadden and Verner won’t be able to withstand us on their own,” he added. “And every day the magic remains unstable, it drains McFadden, perhaps to the breaking point.”

“McFadden’s a fighter, and Tormod Solveig’s power is still an unknown,” Guran said. “Are we certain there’s no weakness of Lysander’s that they might exploit?”

Quintrel seemed pleased by Guran’s concern. Carensa read a darker meaning, that Guran was intentionally feeding her information. The battle was likely to be decided in the next day. What Carensa told the messenger could easily determine who won—and who lost.

“Lysander’s spent his Tingur and their beasts, which will annoy him, because he doesn’t like to use his soldiers until he’s softened up the enemy,” Quintrel remarked, and it struck Carensa that his talk of ‘spending’ lives made it seem like nothing more than coins. “He’ll have to throw his best troops in up front, so I hope they haven’t gotten soft, having the Tingur to lead the charge for them.”