Shadow and Flame

by Gail Z. Martin

  “So he expects us to wait here, like targets for the archer, as the sun goes down?” Nilo’s eyes flickered with anger.

  “Yes.”

  “To prove our loyalty?” Nilo demanded.

  Pollard shrugged. “Partly. Thrane loves fealty. Mostly because he loves the idea of us squirming out here, watching the sun go down, knowing that there will be a gap between when Onyx and his followers awake and when Thrane and his brood can get here. And he will find it delicious that we are in fear of our lives for every second of it.”

  “Are you sure he’ll show up?”

  Pollard let out a long breath. “I am sure of nothing with Thrane. However, I’ve found self-interest to be a relatively reliable motivation, even for Thrane. He needs a mortal army, for exactly the kind of things we did today. So I doubt he’ll allow Onyx to kill us.” He paused. “At least, not all of us.”

  Nilo gave Pollard a murderous look, but said nothing.

  “Go see to the mages,” Pollard ordered. “They’re our only real defense once it gets dark. Make sure they’ve got their wards in place and whatever other hocus they can muster up. I’ll stay on the soldiers here to make certain we bottle up those talishte and keep them that way until Thrane gets here.”

  Nilo nodded. “I’m on it,” he said, and spurred his horse to ride toward where the mages gathered near the keep.

  Pollard turned his attention toward one of Nilo’s commanders who oversaw searching and looting the bailey. “Captain Elsworth!” Pollard shouted. “A word with you.”

  Elsworth was a seasoned soldier in his early thirties, a veteran of many battles. He was spattered with mud and blood from the fight outside the gates, and seemed to be struggling to rein in a foul mood.

  “M’lord?”

  “Do you know what happens at sundown?” Pollard asked, making the painful effort to sit up in his saddle and look disdainfully at the captain.

  “Yes, sir. The biters wake up.”

  Pollard nodded soberly. “Yes, they do. And what’s to hold them in the keep rather than tearing out our throats?”

  Elsworth swallowed hard. “Not much, sir, if you pardon my saying so.”

  Smart man, Pollard thought. “No, there isn’t much,” Pollard replied coolly. “The mages are sealing the keep, but there are probably tunnels all over this fortification and trapdoors in every building. And if you miss even one of those secret doors, there will be a bloodbath.”

  Elsworth nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “Talishte are cunning,” Pollard said sharply. “The doors may be well hidden. They could be halfway down a cistern, or under heavy crates. You’ll have to seal the entrances with the materials we brought. Ash and rowan wood boards to close up doorways, covered with the mixture of buckthorn, dog roses, and juniper you have in the crocks. Make sure you have men watching every entrance you find, and that they have aspen and linden arrows. Choose your best archers: Nothing except a direct shot to the heart will kill these biters,” Pollard instructed. And for the oldest, even a stake in the heart won’t be enough. “Old talishte can withstand your arrows, so take off the head if it comes to that.”

  Elsworth swallowed again. Surely he knows he’s being sent on a suicide mission, Pollard thought. But the captain straightened and gave a nod.

  “It will be done, m’lord.” Elsworth walked away with the manner of a man just sentenced to the gallows.

  Silently, Pollard cursed Thrane and his brood, as well as Thrane’s sadistic sense of humor. Yet if they could succeed at freeing Reese, and if Reese could be cured of his wounds, then Pollard stood a good chance that his own torment would end. I inherited Reese’s wounds through the kruvgaldur, Pollard thought. Let’s hope I stand to inherit the healing as well.

  Tension rippled through the troops as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Hennoch and his soldiers encircled the keep. They had blocked the door with a removable barrier of ash and rowan, painted with the plant mixture the mages assured them would make it impossible for talishte to touch the wood.

  Pollard could think of at least half a dozen ways such protections might be foiled, but it was the best alternative available. Thrane and his people, when they came, would need to make a quick entrance into the keep. Mortals could easily drag the barricades away from the doors, instead of having to rip out spikes driven into the stone. If the mages are wrong about the talishte not being able to touch the wood-and-plant mixture, then it doesn’t matter whether we lean the boards against the doorway or nail them tight. The talishte will pass through them like a knife through butter.

  Thrane had provided no help when Pollard had consulted him regarding how best to contain Onyx until the talishte reinforcements could appear. “Figure it out,” he said. Of course he wasn’t going to give me any suggestions of ways to keep a talishte bottled up. Doesn’t want me to use it against him, even if the kruvgaldur would allow it, Pollard fumed. I bet he knows ways mortals have done it before. That’s why the biters are so afraid.

  Rising up against Thrane and the rogue Elders was not a possibility, even with an army at his disposal. The kruvgaldur bond was too strong. Thrane would sense treachery long before Pollard could make good on his scheme, and given the nature of the bond, killing either Reese or Thrane might well destroy Pollard and Hennoch as well. He’s got us, Pollard thought bitterly. He knows it. And he has us out here, twisting in the wind, to make damn sure that we know it as well. Thrane was powerful enough to keep his thoughts hidden from Pollard despite their bond. He seemed to enjoy keeping Pollard off guard and painfully aware of the one-way nature of their mental communication.

  Just a breath after the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Thrane appeared in the bailey. With him were twenty-five black-clad talishte. Pollard recognized some of them: Garin. Aslanov. Kiril. Sonders. Some, Pollard had never seen before. He wondered which of them might be among the renegade Elders. And then he wondered whether even together, they would be any match for Onyx and the obstacles that awaited them in the tunnels beneath Lepstow Castle.

  “You’re here.” Thrane’s voice thrummed with power and eagerness for the hunt.

  “You ordered it so,” Pollard replied, not bothering to look at Thrane as he addressed him.

  “The poison worked?”

  “You knew it would.” Outright insolence or rebellion would not be tolerated, but Pollard reminded himself of who he was, or at least who he had been, by making at least a token effort at disdain from time to time.

  Thrane’s chuckle was cold and terrifying. “And did you wonder how I knew?” he asked in a dangerously smooth tone. “Of course you did. Best not to ask, of course. But here’s something else you might want to know,” he baited. “Those painted boards of yours wouldn’t even slow down a talishte of Onyx’s strength if he wanted to get out.”

  Pollard had suspected as much, although it was just as likely that Thrane was toying with him to get a reaction. He had already accepted the idea that he and the others faced down a nest of ancient talishte with nothing more than useless talismans. Thrane could rip out my throat or drain my blood anytime he wants, Pollard thought with the indifference that came with constant mortal fear. If this is how he wants to squander my life, then that’s what will happen.

  “You knew that, and let us believe otherwise.” Pollard’s voice was hard and flat.

  Thrane grinned. “Mortals need their lucky amulets,” he replied. “I’ll admit that a newly turned talishte might find your barricades daunting, but not for long. But really, what harm did it cause? Your men felt they controlled the situation. It kept them busy, so they didn’t have time to feel their fear. Not the first useless military gesture to pacify troops on the eve of battle.”

  Deep inside, in the part of his mind Pollard tried hard to hide away from the kruvgaldur, he seethed at Thrane’s casual cruelty. I am not expendable, that hidden part of himself raged. It was the nugget of self that he hung on to, buried as deeply inside himself as he could hide it, in case someday, when he gained Donderat
h’s crown, he might be his own master once again.

  “What would you have us do now?” Pollard asked, maintaining an edge to his voice so it did not sound servile.

  “Hold your ground,” Thrane replied. “For however long it takes. I’m not surprised Onyx didn’t attack. Once he comes out of his keep, he’s vulnerable to mortal weapons. In there, in close quarters, he owns the darkness and the territory.” He gave a terrifying grin. “Or at least, he believes he does.”

  With that, Thrane and the other talishte stalked toward the keep of Lepstow Castle.

  Pollard and his army waited. No bell rang from the castle’s tower, nor did the peal of bells from a nearby village tell the candlemark. It was difficult to gauge how long Thrane and his allies had been inside the keep, but by Pollard’s rough estimation, several candlemarks passed.

  Soldiers waited nervously in their ranks. The men were tired from the fight. They were hungry, too, since Hennoch and Nilo had made it painfully clear that the water and foodstuffs were poisoned. If any of the soldiers had doubted that before they broke down the gates, the stench of rotting corpses had made the point terrifyingly clear.

  Nilo dispatched a handful of soldiers to move among the ranks, handing out dried meat and offering water from buckets drawn from barrels the army had brought with them. The scant rations would hardly constitute a meal, but they might stop soldiers from fainting of hunger.

  Now and again, a shriek or screech would echo from somewhere in the complex. Then, silence. That the sounds seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once made them all the more terrifying. Most of these men had seen talishte in battle, at Valshoa, or on the Northern Plains, or at Mirdalur. These soldiers had witnessed comrades torn apart, heads ripped away, throats savaged. They had seen commanders snatched from their horses by an enemy that moved with inhuman speed and strength. Now, they stood nearly defenseless inside the keep—the lair—of one of the most powerful of the talishte. No wonder they’re terrified, Pollard thought. Any sane man would be.

  “Someone’s coming!” The soldier who shouted the alert could not quite keep a quiver of fear from his voice.

  Black-garbed men emerged from the keep’s main door, waving, as had been prearranged, a blood-red kerchief as a signal. One of the talishte Pollard did not know came out first. Of course, Thrane wouldn’t risk leading the way in case one of the soldiers panicked and shot him full of arrows, Pollard thought. Thrane followed, then two more talishte carrying what appeared to be a corpse in a shroud. Garin and the more senior talishte brought up the rear.

  The undead fighters looked worse for the wear. Their clothing was shredded, torn nearly from their bodies. Deep bruises and oozing gashes might be gone by morning, but even at a distance, Pollard could see that the injuries were severe enough to have crippled or killed mortal fighters.

  Hennoch’s soldiers parted to let Thrane and his entourage pass. Nilo’s command did the same. Pollard counted heads. Five of the twenty-five did not come back. Even Garin and Aslanov, two of the oldest talishte, were limping and bleeding. Thrane looked as if he had been in a tavern brawl. His usually immaculate clothing was covered with dirt and ichor, and from the amount of blood on one side of his head, it appeared that a handful of his carefully groomed hair had been yanked out by the roots. A sword slash across the chest gave disturbing glimpses of bone beneath the blood and tissue. Yet despite the injuries, Thrane strode up to Pollard with as much vigor as he had shown on his way in.

  We both know something about making a good appearance in front of the troops. Never show weakness to an underling, Pollard thought. There was a degree of satisfaction in knowing that at least for an evening, Thrane might share in his suffering.

  “We have him,” Thrane announced as he approached Pollard. “Reese was not destroyed.”

  Pollard nodded. “Good to hear. What about Onyx?”

  Thrane bared his bloodstained teeth. “Gone. Onyx and all his brood have been eliminated. There are no talishte left inside the keep.”

  “And your Elders?” Pollard asked, curious to see how they had fared.

  Thrane shrugged. “Sapphire and Jade were destroyed, so were three of the others. The rest of those who came with me survived.”

  “How would you have us leave the castle grounds?” Pollard asked, keeping his voice neutral.

  Thrane stared at the darkened, empty keep. “Burn everything. That will send a message to Penhallow and his traitor talishte. Tell your men not to dally. Once Penhallow realizes what we’ve done, there will be retaliation. When you return to Solsiden, come to the cellar. Reese will want a full report.”

  With that, Thrane walked briskly away for a few paces, then vanished in a blur of movement. His last comment sent a chill down Pollard’s back.

  “They get to Reese?” Nilo asked, approaching Pollard once he was certain Thrane was gone.

  Pollard nodded. “Yes. And once again, we’ve been left in the lurch. Thrane wants our men to burn the place before we leave—knowing that Penhallow and the Knights of Esthrane might be on us any moment.”

  “While he and the other talishte are back at Solsiden by now,” Nilo finished.

  “Yes.”

  Nilo cursed creatively under his breath. “Well then, let’s send all but half a dozen men back to camp, and see that we’re well on our way before the others torch the castle.” He met Pollard’s gaze. “You know it’s a symbolic gesture, setting it afire? I’ve been through most of the outbuildings and barns. Nothing’s built with wood. I’d guess the keep is the same way. All a fire is going to do is call attention to us—the wrong sort of attention.”

  Pollard nodded. “Then rig it. Hold back one or two of the mages. Have the men set burning candles or oil lamps where there’s anything that will burn. Get well clear, and have the mages tip them over. Or just wait for the candles to burn down and light the rest of it.”

  Nilo’s reply was a slow grin. “I do like how you think. We can do that. And with luck, we’ll be most of the way back before the flames go up.”

  “Don’t trust to luck,” Pollard advised, setting his heels to his horse. “It hasn’t been on our side of late.”

  “Get out of the way, mortal.” Marat Garin pushed past Vedran Pollard as he entered the small, dimly lit cellar room.

  “Have a care,” Pollard snapped. “I’m not your get.”

  “Watch what you say, or you could be.”

  “I doubt Reese would approve. He doesn’t share well,” Pollard replied. He stood against the wall in one of Solsiden’s basement rooms as three talishte crowded around a still figure. The room had been prepared weeks before, changed from a storage area into a secure sickroom. Pollard held the only lantern, since he alone needed help to see in the dark. The room had a bed, washstand, and trunk. After centuries, Pentreath Reese’s world had come down to this small space.

  Pollard watched as the talishte carefully removed the cloth wrappings from the shrunken body on the bed. Before his capture and imprisonment, Pentreath Reese had been a tall man, powerful even without his talishte strength. Now, after months of starvation, imprisoned at the bottom of an oubliette, tortured with magical bonds, Reese looked like a shriveled corpse.

  Thin skin pulled tightly over his skull. His eyes were sunken and closed. Blackened lips had drawn back, revealing his sharp teeth. The rest of him appeared to be mere bones beneath the rags that were left of his clothing. And in the center of his chest, a hole where Reese’s foes had driven a thick wooden stake. Talishte as old as Reese could survive a stake to the heart, but it immobilized them while leaving consciousness intact. And so Reese had lain aware and unable to move, wrapped in rope made from plants that burned his skin, sprinkled with leaves that caused his skin to itch and blister, condemned to starve for fifty years as a punishment by the talishte Elders for his crimes.

  And they say Hemming Lorens survived such a fate for more than seventy-five years, Pollard thought. No wonder he went mad.

  “My lord requires food,”
Garin said, eyeing Pollard. “Bring it.”

  Pollard seethed at Garin’s tone, but he kept his face impassive and leaned out of the room, barking an order to one of his talishte soldiers. “We’ve been gathering food for Reese since your plans were made,” he replied impassively, turning back toward the others. “And if he requires more, it can easily be obtained.”

  Pollard stepped back as a talishte guard led a dazed young man into the room. He could see the hunger with which Garin and the others regarded the man, who had been captured only the night before on a lonely roadway not far from Solsiden. The captive should have been terrified out of his mind. Instead, he appeared drugged, or more likely, glamoured to make for easier feeding.

  Garin pushed the man to his knees beside the bed and took his wrist, feeling for a pulse and allowing the blood to throb beneath his fingers for a moment, as if savoring the smell of a delicious meal. The prisoner watched, utterly oblivious to the danger of his situation. Glamouring a victim was a generous act, a kindness unexpected of Thrane’s brood, which enjoyed the terror and suffering as much as the blood itself.

  Then again, Reese couldn’t feed from a struggling donor, Pollard thought. It’s practicality, not kindness. That makes perfect sense. Once he’s stronger, Reese will probably prefer his food wide awake and screaming.

  Long practice meant that Pollard could watch Reese sink his fangs deep into the man’s arm and draw out the lifeblood without wincing. He had seen far worse on battlefields, and in the years he had been Reese’s collaborator, he had watched Reese feed under far more horrific circumstances. Usually, Pollard felt only a profound sense of relief that this night, this time, it was not his blood being taken, not his life forfeit.