“Some were,” the second prisoner replied. “Some were just bandits. If they didn’t join him, and Nagok caught them, he killed them and hung their bodies in the trees as a warning.”
“Is Nagok the only power in Meroven?” Ayers asked. “Are there other warlords?”
“There were.” The first prisoner met Niklas’s eyes, and Niklas glimpsed shadows of horrors in them. “His men went town by town, city by city. Just a few at first, more later. Anyone of account who survived the Burning Times they slaughtered. The men who fought back about being conscripted were burned alive with their families in their homes. He killed the other warlords and gave their soldiers the choice between allegiance and death.”
“Son of a bitch,” Niklas muttered.
“Indeed,” Geir said.
“Is Nagok a mage?” Ayers asked.
“He styles himself such,” the first prisoner replied. “Wears a headdress made of skulls and a breastplate made of bones. His walking stick is a leg bone, and his coat is made of men’s skins. His familiar is a black wolf nearly big as a bear, and they say he rides it in the night and can travel without being seen.”
“Is that what you’ve heard, or have you actually laid eyes on him?” Niklas asked.
“I’ve seen him,” the second man replied. “And he looks just like that. Has a cloak made out of scalps—hair of all different colors, taken from his victims.”
A thought occurred to Niklas. “Is he talishte? Is he a biter?”
The first prisoner cast a nervous glance at Geir and Ekkle. “No,” he replied. “But they say his allies are—and that his master is a dark god returned from the dead who promised him he could rule all of the Continent.”
“‘A dark god returned from the dead,’” Geir repeated cynically. “Now, who might think of himself that way?”
Niklas cursed. “Oh, it just figures.”
“Do you know the name of this ‘dark god’?” Ayers asked.
“He is the Hemlock King,” the second prisoner replied.
Geir swore. “That’s Thrane, all right. Just how long ago did the Hemlock King return from the dead and make Nagok his chosen one?”
“I don’t know,” the second prisoner admitted.
“We never heard of him before this year,” the first man said. “Doesn’t mean much, since the likes of me don’t know much of such things, but it wasn’t like we’d heard of him in tales told to frighten children.”
“Want to bet that Thrane’s been the power behind Nagok’s rise?” Geir said. “Sounds like his kind of plan. He’s probably been preparing since the Great Fire, looking for a strongman to be his figurehead. He’s been gone for seventy years, and now he saw his chance to come back and take it all.”
“So is Nagok a mage or just a general?” Niklas asked.
“He acts like a hocus, and dresses like one,” the second prisoner replied. “That’s all I know.”
“Who put the geas on you?” Dagur asked. “The curse that would kill you if I used magic on you?”
“Whenever they had rounded up a few dozen of us, they made us kneel, and Nagok and his ‘priests’ came out,” the first man said. “First, he blessed us, telling us we would be unstoppable in battle. Then, he cursed us, so that no one could use us against him. That’s all I know.”
“How far can Nagok throw his magic?” Niklas asked.
The second man shrugged, but the first prisoner thought for a moment. “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “Except that our captain told us Nagok was lord of all he could see.”
Ayers shrugged. “Might just be a turn of phrase.”
Dagur looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps not,” he countered. “Some magic is limited by the range of the senses—sight, smell, hearing. Especially for strong magic, a clear line of sight can be important.”
“Does that mean if Nagok stands on a mountain, he controls everything beneath him?” Ayers asked with alarm.
Dagur shook his head. “No. And if he could manage to be taken up into the clouds, he wouldn’t control the world,” he added. “Usually, that means line of sight on flat ground, to the horizon.”
“The birds that attacked us—was that Nagok’s doing?” Niklas pressed, knowing that time was running out for the two men.
“Aye,” the second prisoner replied. “He’s a beast caller. That’s how you know he’s buer, an Evil One. He called down the birds on you, and they serve him.”
“Does he call other animals?” Ayers asked.
The first prisoner nodded. “Wolves sometimes. Foxes. Wild dogs. Mountain cats. He can command them all.”
“Horses?” Dagur asked, frowning. “Farm animals? Pet dogs?”
The second prisoner shook his head. “Don’t think so. Never saw him do it. He can spook them, but if he could have called your horses, why didn’t he?”
“Well?” Niklas asked, turning to Dagur. “Why didn’t he?”
Dagur chewed his lip as he thought. “Horses and livestock and pet dogs have a bond with us,” he said. “They’re intelligent, and they accept us as their herd or pack. That might protect us. I’ll have to see what the manuscripts have to say about this.”
“How long can Nagok keep his hold over the animals?” Niklas asked.
“Don’t know how long he can keep it, but I ain’t never seen him hold it for long,” the first prisoner replied. “Maybe half a candlemark, or a little more. Not a full candlemark. Long enough to do some damage.”
A frightening thought occurred to Niklas. “Can he call the magicked beasts? The ranin and the mestids and the gryps?”
The second prisoner shivered. “Aye. Monsters, they are. And he calls them to him, makes them do his bidding. He’s buer, sure enough.”
“Those helmets you were wearing,” Ayers asked, “the ones that look like skulls. Why are they made that way?”
“Our captain said that Nagok’s god told him the helmets would give us strength in battle and make our enemies fall down in fear before us,” the first prisoner replied, his voice bitter. “Obviously that didn’t work.”
It was clear that both prisoners were fading fast. Just the effort of talking had taken a toll. “You’ve done a great service,” Niklas said. “Now I will keep my promise.”
Geir and Ekkle stepped forward and knelt so that they could look straight into the prisoners’ gaze, capturing them with compulsion. “Sleep,” Geir said. “Feel no pain. Your work is finished. Rest awaits.” The two prisoners slumped to the ground, eyes fluttering closed, breathing shallow.
“They may have nothing more to tell us,” Geir warned as he lifted the first prisoner’s wrist. Ekkle positioned himself next to the second man. “But we’ll see if there’s more they know.” He lifted the wrist to his mouth and carefully punctured the skin with his fangs, then fed until the prisoner took a last shuddering breath and fell still. A moment later, Ekkle finished his task.
Though Niklas had seen it done many times before, he could not avoid feeling a primal frisson of fear down his spine. Like the time I came upon a wolf feeding on the body of a dead man, Niklas thought. Or seeing the crows pick out the eyes of the corpses on the battlefield. Tomorrow, it could be me. And while he trusted Geir and the rest of Penhallow’s brood with his life, deep inside, something old and primitive whispered that he was prey.
After a few moments, Geir raised his head. “What he told you was the truth as he knew it,” he said. “I saw what he saw. Nagok’s army is sizable. On the other hand, many of the fighters appear to be conscripts like this man. So Nagok has a lot of soldiers who can’t fight well, but the sheer volume can be used to wear us down.”
Niklas swore. “That’s what Lysander did with the Tingur,” he replied.
“A cynical—but arguably effective—strategy,” Geir said with a shrug. “Something else of note. Although we’ve blamed the Meroven mages for the destruction of the Great Fire and the Cataclysm, from what this man has seen, I would say Meroven was damaged at least as badly, maybe worse. And the aftermath
has been harsher for them,” he added. “Having Blaine McFadden emerge as the unifying force has brought a much different outcome than having someone like Nagok triumph.”
It was bad enough imagining what Donderath might have been like had Blaine lost against the warlords he had fought, Niklas mused. None of those scenarios presented a kingdom in which Niklas wanted to live. By all accounts, Nagok sounded even worse than Donderath’s most nightmarish prospects.
“What I saw was very similar,” Ekkle said. “Conditions in Meroven are much worse, and that makes their people more desperate—and more willing to follow anyone who promises to improve their lot, no matter what they have to do to get that improvement.” He paused, sifting through the thoughts and images he had read. “There appears to be a large talishte element in Meroven as well. The impressions are limited, just what the man glimpsed in Nagok’s camp, but if they aren’t all Thrane’s get, then they appear to be of like mind and tactics—and at least one of them is a rogue Elder, I’m certain of it.”
“Lovely,” Niklas said drily. “Maybe we know now where Thrane spent the last seventy years.”
Geir frowned, thinking. “I suspect that Thrane went farther than Meroven, if Penhallow and the Wraith Lord lost track of him. But he was always an opportunist. I wouldn’t doubt that he saw the potential the situation in Meroven presented and positioned himself to reap the benefits.”
“You’re going to need to let Penhallow and the Wraith Lord know,” Niklas said.
Geir nodded. “Penhallow will have an inkling through the kruvgaldur. And they are already considering ways to fight both Thrane and Reese.”
“I thought Reese was locked up for fifty years,” Niklas said, eyes widening.
“He was supposed to be,” Geir replied. “Thrane managed to free him. The arrangement was designed to keep Reese from escaping on his own. It was never set up to withstand a siege by talishte rescuers.”
“I hope Penhallow has a plan,” Niklas said. “Because we’re going to have our hands full with Nagok.”
“He does,” Geir replied.
“I’ll have the mages consider how you might use limited range and limited control time to your advantage,” Dagur offered. “Perhaps if we can find a way to clear the land of wildlife ahead of the troop movement, Nagok will have no animals to coerce,” he mused. “It’s a starting point, easier said than done, but that’s the way with all strategic magic. Simple to come up with a great idea, hard to harness the power in a way to make it happen.” He met Niklas’s gaze and gave a curt nod. “We’ll get right to work on it, and to finding ways to protect the camp as well.”
Niklas looked down at the two dead prisoners. “I’ll send soldiers to fetch the bodies. We’ll bury them in the morning, as best we can. Gods above, I hate this part of soldiering.”
“We need to let Blaine know what we’re up against,” Niklas said, turning to Geir. “See if he can move troops around to give us more men, if Nagok has an army of that size. And if Thrane’s tied up in all this, then we’ll be grateful for any support Penhallow can give us, because we can’t fight crazy mages and mad talishte on our own.”
Geir nodded. “I’ll make sure both messages are received. Penhallow has been focused on the talishte impact of Thrane’s return, and the dissolution of the Elder Council. I fear that both have grave implications for our kind, which are likely to spill over into the mortal world.”
“Implications?” Niklas asked, sure that he did not want something else to worry about, but equally certain he could not ignore the threat.
“Thrane seems intent on causing as much damage as possible, in as many ways as possible,” Geir replied. “Your attention is focused on Nagok, as it should be. Penhallow and the Wraith Lord are trying to stop a talishte civil war from happening.”
“Because the Elder Council split?” Niklas asked.
“For centuries the Elder Council existed to keep such things from happening,” Geir said. “Its purpose was to provide a court to settle disputes before they caused our kind to form factions. They knew that war among talishte was likely to cause large mortal casualties, and that would prompt a backlash that could be our downfall.”
“So Thrane shows up, splits the council, and forces everyone’s hand.” Niklas rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. What does Thrane hope to gain, after everything’s been burned to the ground?”
“Vengeance,” Geir said with a shrug. “Against everyone who refused to acknowledge his ‘greatness.’ Satisfaction, in knowing that he had the power to wreak such devastation. Thrane is an old talishte. He remembers a time before mortals organized such large kingdoms, when they were scattered and vulnerable. Easier to hunt, fewer protections. I suspect he wants to turn back time, return the world to the way it used to be, the way he best understands it.”
“As if I didn’t have enough to worry about,” Niklas replied. “Gods help us.”
Geir’s expression was somber. “I have found that the gods serve best when we take matters into our own hands.”
Ayers clapped Niklas on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “It’s been a hard day. You need a little more whiskey and a good night’s sleep. I can make sure you get one of those. Let’s go.”
Niklas had feared that sleep would be a long time coming, despite how exhausted he was. Yet he dropped off almost as soon as he lay down, only to wake with a start in his darkened tent to the fearsome howling of wolves close by.
“Shit,” he muttered, lighting a lantern and dressing quickly, belting on his sword just in case. He walked out of his tent to find most of the camp stirring, soldiers turning out to see what was going on, armed and ready if the situation required a fight.
“Report!” Niklas snapped as he strode up to Dagur. Dagur was standing near the perimeter warding around the camp, staring into the dark plain beyond. The mage’s hair was mussed as if he had not bothered to smooth it when he got out of bed, and he wore his cloak over a nightshirt and boots.
“Nagok has called wolves,” Dagur replied, his attention focused out beyond the torches that lit the edge of camp. “There’s a large pack out there, maybe twenty or thirty wolves.”
“Big for a pack,” Niklas remarked.
Dagur shrugged. “Not unheard of, especially when times are hard. Unusual, yes. But it makes me wonder if you weren’t right about range. Wolves are territorial. Be interesting to see how many he can call. If it’s more than thirty, then he’s probably called more than one pack, which would mean the magic can reach a bigger area.”
“Glad we could be your experiment,” Niklas remarked acidly. “Will your wardings hold?”
Dagur shook his head. “The wardings around a camp like this are an alarm, not a wall. At best, we can weaken or delay a supernatural threat. The wolves are mortal, regardless of who or what controls them.”
Just then, Niklas heard a commotion from the corral where the horses were kept. “What now?” he muttered, leaving Dagur and heading off at a run to see what the ruckus was about.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into them, sir,” a soldier said as Niklas ran up. Wild-eyed horses kicked at the wooden fences, whinnying in fear and galloping around the enclosure, desperately looking for a way to escape. Soldiers climbed the fence into the enclosure, risking their lives to grab for bridles, trying to calm the more tractable horses.
Terrified by the howling and by the frenzied reactions of the other horses, the stallions bucked and nipped, kicking and rearing. Two soldiers went down beneath flailing hooves, barely pulled to safety by their comrades. Several soldiers dove back over the fence, unable to get close to the horses they were trying to calm.
“We’re going to have to do something, or they’ll either stampede or hurt themselves,” Niklas observed.
“It’s the wolves, sir. Spooked them good,” the soldier replied.
Kulp ran up to join them. Like Dagur, he looked as if he had just rolled from his cot, shirt untucked, clothing likely plucked from the floor. “Dagur sent me to see what I
could do.”
“I thought you said Nagok couldn’t magic the horses,” Niklas demanded.
Kulp shook his head. “They haven’t been magicked. They’re reacting to the wolves—it’s a normal reaction to an unnatural situation.”
Kulp closed his eyes and held out his arms, palms out. For a few moments, he was silent, then he began a low chant under his breath. Gradually, the frightened whinnying quieted, and the wild galloping slowed, then stopped. After another few minutes, the horses were no longer frenzied but still shuddering and trembling in place, their gaze darting about, alert for danger.
Soldiers tentatively entered the enclosure, speaking calmly and carefully to the shivering horses, approaching them with whatever treats they could find in the feed sacks. One by one, they led the horses back to the far side of the corral.
Finally, Kulp stopped his chant. “Did it work?” he asked, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.
“They’re not trying to break down the fence, if that’s what you mean,” Niklas replied. “How come you can magic them, when Nagok can’t?”
Kulp smiled. “I didn’t control them. I just blocked the sound of the wolves.”
Niklas nodded in acknowledgment and headed back to his tent. The field camp was laid out on a grid with tents, stable, essential functions like blacksmiths and healers, cooking area, and latrines, surrounded by a stockade of wooden posts that could easily be erected in just a few candlemarks and struck just as easily when it was time to move out. Supply wagons, sledges, and movable war machines like catapults were also housed within the stockade. Two tall towers flanked the main gate, each one with at least one guard day and night.
A low growl stopped Niklas in his tracks. He was in one of the camp’s ‘streets,’ the section of tents reserved for officers. Most of the men were still sleeping. The ones who had turned out to help with horses had been on night shift, and they were all at the stables. That meant the pathways around Niklas were deserted, lit only by moonlight and whatever dim torchlight spilled over from the torches on the main path.
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