“That would certainly be to our credit,” Nilo chuckled. “It would eliminate the only other real competition for control of Donderath—or its throne. And the other chance?”
“Voss’s men have gone south to Castle Reach,” Pollard replied. “To fight the Cross-Sea threat. From things Thrane has said, I suspect he had a hand in that, too. Their assault leaves fewer men to guard Westbain or Rodestead House. While McFadden would be the prize, attacking Penhallow’s territories would strike a blow at Thrane’s enemies, for which he would note our value.”
“I’ll take my army to fight Theilsson,” Nilo said. “Hennoch’s troops are better suited to strike-and-flee attacks at Castle Reach from inland.”
“I’ll take soldiers to attack Rodestead House,” Pollard added. “Westbain, too, if the opportunity presents itself. Voss has soldiers at Rodestead, and Penhallow’s still using Westbain as his base. An attack should distract him, pull off some of his people.” Pollard and Nilo both knew the truth: that Pollard was not yet recovered enough to do more than skirmish. His wounds healed far slower than Reese’s. Though it was possible to heal and strengthen through the kruvgaldur, Reese was more inclined to tap Pollard’s energy to restore his own faltering reserves, just as he was more likely to use the bond to spy on Pollard’s movements than to feed his servant any information.
Nilo nodded. “Sounds good.”
Pollard gave a grunt. “Send mages with both armies,” Pollard said. “As many as you can pry loose. I’ll take some with me, too. You’ll need them. Theilsson travels with battle mages—he’d be a fool not to if he’s going up against Nagok. And it’s reasonable to expect that there are mages in residence at Mirdalur, whether they’re working on artifacts or merely holding the territory for McFadden. Those mages could be diverted to the front lines within a day.”
“Doesn’t sound like it will be a quick win,” Nilo observed.
“Would you rather go up against the Wraith Lord at Lundmyhre?” Pollard asked, raising an eyebrow archly.
“Point taken,” Nilo replied.
Pollard knew that Nilo was aware of Pollard’s near obsession with the Wraith Lord and his mortal servant, Bevin Connor. Connor was the only other person whom Pollard had ever known to be bound by more than a superficial kruvgaldur link to an ancient, powerful talishte. The differences in their situations had not escaped his notice, increasing his bitterness about how Reese chose to use the hold he had over Pollard, and how Thrane exploited that bond for his own purposes.
“What do you make of the Cross-Sea pirates?” Nilo asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.
Pollard shrugged. “Not much, given that our scouts have said little. If Thrane’s really involved, then they’re more of a threat to McFadden and his allies than to us. All the same, it wouldn’t hurt to get a few more of our men into Folville’s territory, so that we get better information.”
Nilo snorted. “Folville keeps his inner circle small. They’re people he’s known for a long time, and they’re insanely loyal. Newcomers don’t get close to him. That’s been the problem—every time we send men to Castle Reach, they disappear.”
“Send better men.” Pollard was silent for a moment. “Eliminating Folville would be a noteworthy accomplishment,” Pollard mused. “He’s canny and shrewd, but still an easier target than Voss. McFadden depends on him and his street gang to help hold the city. Folville’s whole operation depends on him—kill him, and they’re just a bunch of riffraff. I doubt any of his lieutenants could rally them.”
“Do you really think we could occupy Castle Reach? McFadden’s got a sizable number of soldiers at Quillarth Castle,” Nilo countered.
Pollard shrugged. “Occupying it isn’t the goal. Leaving it burning and in chaos would be a plum. McFadden would have to conquer it all over again from Folville’s rival gangs, with the Cross-Sea raiders chomping on his heels. He’d have to divide his troops, and his focus.” He gave a cold smile. “Light enough fires, and he can’t put all of them out.”
“It’s a good plan,” Nilo said. “But first, you and Hennoch have to survive your meeting with Nagok.”
Pollard nodded. “Thrane, no doubt, wants both sides to properly intimidate each other. And spy on each other, so he can see which one of us provides the more sensational betrayal of the other. It’s his idea of a game.” He and Hennoch had been commanded by Thrane to meet with Nagok. It would require several days’ journey from where Pollard was based at Solsiden to Nagok’s camp farther north, at the Meroven border. In Pollard’s estimation, it was like leaving the viper’s lair to venture into the bear’s den. “I guess it’s time to meet the monster,” Pollard muttered.
Nagok had claimed a corridor of land at the Meroven border for his incursions, an area within the lands defended by Pollard’s troops, which Pollard considered to belong to Donderath. Nagok’s men also streamed through the mountain passes of the western ridges of the Riven Mountains, stretching down into Donderath like the grasping fingers of a reaching hand. And that is exactly what Nagok is, a clutching, grabbing hand with very long fingers indeed, Pollard thought. I’ll be damned if he’ll enlarge Meroven at Donderath’s expense. I haven’t worked this hard to gain the crown of a shrunken kingdom. As far as I’m concerned, that’s my land he’s taking. And I intend to get it back from him, one way or another.
“Are you sure he’s not setting you and Hennoch up to be eliminated?”
The thought had occurred to Pollard. “I’m sure of nothing. But if that’s his plan, I have no intention of cooperating.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NAGOK HAD PITCHED HIS FORWARD CAMP JUST inside the Donderath border, an assertive claim to the lands of Meroven’s perennial adversary. The stockade was sturdy, made of wooden posts carved into a point at the top, painted black. Ropes tied with human skulls and bones hung down from the fence, a terrifying warning to all who approached. Towering wooden totems of animals stood on either side of the gate, carved with the snarling faces of predators ready to strike. Wolves, eagles, panthers, and bears, badgers, and hawks were all depicted as their prey might see them, just before the fatal strike. Beaks wide, maws open, teeth bared, and claws unsheathed, the creatures had been carved with uncanny realism, enough to make Pollard shudder as he passed.
Perched on platforms above the fence like gargoyles were a few terrifying additions that had not been among the animals in the totems. A life-sized carving of a beetle-like creature squatted with its insect eyes trained on the gate, and Pollard recognized it as a mestid, one of the magicked beasts brought by the wild-magic storms. Next to it was something that looked like a huge crab, big as a large dog, a ranin. And beside the ranin was a nightmarish winged creature with fierce talons and a sword-sharp beak, something Pollard knew from bitter experience was a gryp. All of the monstrous creatures glared down at those who dared ride through the gates, looming sentinels and reminders of Nagok’s power.
Even the wooden gates bore large carved pictures that hung down over the boards, testifying to Nagok’s power as a beast caller. In one of the scenes, it showed a cowled and cloaked man on a rise, arms outstretched, and from his feet raced snarling beasts—real and imaginary—toward a common enemy. In the second scene, the triumphant predator beasts carried home bodies and severed limbs to gift their master, while the land around them lay piled high with corpses.
Nagok likes to make a strong first impression, Pollard thought cynically. Is he mad, or just very clever?
The interior of the stockade was as theatrical as its exterior. Guards walked along the perimeter, each with a steel helmet forged in the shape of a menacing animal head. The soldiers were clad in black, wearing cloaks trimmed in wolf fur. Around their necks hung bone talismans, some with the skulls of raptors, others with the long, sharp teeth of predatory animals.
In the center of the camp was a semicircle of carved wooden heads on steel spikes, but as Pollard neared the heads, he realized they were the scowling faces of watchful gods, not trophies of vanq
uished foes. A small fire burned in the middle of the semicircle, and Pollard saw that offerings had been laid beneath each of the heads, and that the animals depicted matched those in the totems by the gates.
Are they gods? Pollard wondered, eyeing the fire-lit carvings. Or are we to think Nagok is a god?
Nagok’s campaign tent was large and black, with red flags streaming in the wind. It hunkered on the hill like a hungry beast, an association Pollard was certain was completely intentional. As with the outer gates, ropes tied with skulls and bones both human and animal were festooned from the tent poles. Pelts from wolves, foxes, panthers, and other predators hung from the sides of the tent, tufted with feathers from eagles, hawks, and owls, kestrels, and falcons. A garland of teeth and talons hung over the tent flap, and all who entered were obliged to bend beneath it to enter.
They say this Nagok is a beast caller, that he can force wild animals to do his bidding, Pollard thought. Yet he decorates with their skins and skulls. I doubt he treats his human allies with more loyalty. What stinking shit pile has Thrane gotten us into?
Two guards stood outside the entrance to the tent, each holding the chains that restrained large, snarling, muscular dogs that snapped their teeth as Pollard and Hennoch approached.
“Lord Thrane sent us,” Pollard said to the guard on his left, a tall man with a powerful build who wore a wolf-skin cape and a metal helmet in the shape of a wolf skull. “We’re here at Nagok’s request.”
The guard said nothing, but nodded his assent. Then he and his companion each took a step back so that the vicious dogs no longer blocked the entrance. Still, they did not retreat farther than absolutely necessary, making it a test of wills for Pollard and Hennoch to pass between the lunging, growling guard dogs that fell short of their legs and cloaks by scant inches.
Pollard had expected a strategy meeting with a general. He found himself in the receiving tent of a self-styled king, or perhaps the shrine of a dark god. There were no tables set with maps with which to plan campaigns and discuss the movement of troops. Instead, torches lit the far end of the rectangular tent, one on either side of a raised, throne-like chair of heavy, carved wood. One arm of the chair was carved in the likeness of a bear, its mouth wide open and teeth bared. The other arm of the chair was a carving of a dire wolf, a creature long gone from Donderath but present in its legends and nightmares.
“Come closer. You’re expected.” The voice was deep and resonant, and Pollard had the feeling he had somehow ended up in an elaborately produced stage play. Guards in their steel-skull helmets stood in a silent line against the shadowed walls of the tent. Pelts and hides covered the floor. The air smelled of musk and incense. And at the far end, on his carved ‘throne,’ sat Nagok.
Though Pollard took care to keep his hand well away from his sword, his mind calculated how long it would take him to draw his weapon as he and Hennoch walked toward Nagok. It wouldn’t matter, Pollard thought. Even if we could defend ourselves against him—which we probably couldn’t—the guards would be on us in a trice, and they’d loose the dogs, for good measure. Not for the first time, he wondered if he and Hennoch had been sent for Nagok to dispose of, a gift from their fickle talishte master and his maker. Then again, it’s like Thrane to play both ends against each other. He’ll use us as his spies, and read our blood when we return. We’re his tools. I know that, but does Nagok?
“So you are Vedran Pollard and Larska Hennoch. Interesting.” Nagok did not elaborate, but Pollard suspected that whatever about them Nagok found of note was likely not positive.
Pollard studied Nagok, sizing up this new competitor. He guessed Nagok was in his early thirties, broad-shouldered and average height, with long, dark hair that fell loose to his shoulders. Muscled arms showed beneath his skin cape over a coat that appeared to be made of patched-together human scalps. Nagok wore a breastplate made from human arm bones lashed together with leather strands. Next to his throne sat his steel skull helmet, more menacing than anything Pollard had glimpsed among the guards.
Nagok’s features were not handsome, but determination showed in the set of his jaw and the glint of his eyes. A scar cut across his nose and cheek, and the nose was misshapen, broken more than once. Despite all that, an undeniable aura of charisma and power radiated from Nagok, and it was clear from his expression that he was well aware of the effect he had on those around him.
Magic? Pollard wondered. Or just the natural charm of a potions seller?
“Thrane speaks of you,” Nagok said, lounging in his throne, making it clear he had no intention of rising to greet them. “Some good. Some not.”
“I’ve heard the same of you,” Pollard replied without inflection. I know his kind, Pollard thought. Young and cocky, sure old dogs like us have nothing to offer. It always comes as such a surprise when the ‘old dogs’ whip their asses.
“Your reputations precede you,” Nagok said lazily. “And rumors of your ambitions.”
“As with you.” And so we dance, Pollard thought. A game of what is said and what is implied. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Meroven. I’ve heard the Devastation went harder on Meroven than the Cataclysm hit Donderath.”
“True,” Nagok replied. “But I’ve restored order, and consolidated power. Meroven is under control.” He smirked. “You can hardly say the same of Donderath.”
Pollard shrugged. “Less damage from the Cataclysm left more contenders to power. We’ve eliminated all but one of the threats.” Two, if I count Nagok—which I do. “We have enemies to fight. Tell us why we’ve come, and let’s get down to it. Our troops are waiting for us.”
Nagok rose languorously, like one of the great predatory cats. He moved gracefully, light on his feet like an acrobat or a well-trained swordsman. Yet as he walked closer, Pollard got the answer to the question he most wondered. He’s breathing. He’s mortal.
“Thrane’s attention has been with his blood-son, as is proper,” Nagok said. “He is my patron, and master, as he is yours,” he added. “And since we are his trusted commanders, he asked me to impart the plan to destroy Blaine McFadden and his armies.”
Do tell, Pollard thought. This should be interesting. And it raises a question: Has Thrane bound Nagok as his human servant? Likely. While technically, I belong to Reese, and through him to Thrane. Is there a way to turn that to my advantage?
“First of all, speak nothing of the details to the talishte at Solsiden,” Nagok warned. “Thrane does not trust any that are not his brood or that of Reese. He does not believe that all of the rogue Elders truly support our ascendancy.”
Of course they don’t. They’re not going to step aside and let Thrane grab all the spoils. Just because they opposed Penhallow and the Wraith Lord doesn’t mean they’re loyal to Thrane. Talishte are, first and always, loyal to themselves, Pollard thought.
“If he doubts their loyalty, I’m surprised they still exist,” Pollard replied.
Nagok’s smile was chilling. “Thrane conserves his resources,” he said. “While the talishte lords may not be united in wanting to see Thrane ascendant, they are of one mind to wish to see Penhallow fall. It will require their broods to make that happen, and to Thrane’s mind, destroying Penhallow and crippling the Wraith Lord is worth the alliance.
“In fact, that’s why your master sent you,” Nagok said in a confidential tone. “Because there’s a large battle commencing, and he wanted you well away from Solsiden.”
“What about my men?” Pollard demanded, worried that Nilo and his troops were going to be caught up in one of Thrane’s schemes. Just like Thrane to tell Nagok something he ‘neglected’ to tell me, to give Nagok the upper hand.
“Don’t worry—there’s no place for mortals when talishte war among themselves,” Nagok replied. “Thrane has no need of your army in this.” He leaned forward. “Would you like to see what’s happening? What your master knew but did not deign to tell you?” The hint of a smile touched the edges of his thin lips.
Pollard
hesitated. Nagok did not share information without a price. He felt as if he were in one of the old creation myths, offered a dark secret by a darker god. It was no revelation that Thrane and his talishte kept their own counsel, particularly on matters relating to their own kind. Pollard had long ago acknowledged that he was brought into situations only when Thrane or Reese decided he could be useful. That limited knowledge might hinder Pollard’s ability to strategize with the big view in mind did not seem to be of concern to them.
Still, the chance was too good to pass up. “How is it you can show this to me?” Pollard asked, curious but cautious. Once you’ve shown curiosity, you’ve taken the bait. And he knows it.
Nagok smiled, and Pollard felt a shiver go down his spine. “Follow me.” He sauntered over to a rectangular object draped with black cloth, and pulled the covering away. Beneath it was a mirror, but one unlike anything Pollard had seen gracing the walls of manors or palaces.
The surface was not silver, and it did not reflect the scene in front of it. Instead, it was glossy obsidian, yet as Pollard stared into the mirror, the gleaming surface shifted like oil on water, with patterns that swirled and moved of their own accord. Pollard had no magic of his own, but he had been around strong magic enough to know its signature, and to understand that the prickling feeling on the back of his neck and the hair that rose on his arms was a primal warning that he was in the presence of power.
“Not much to see right now, is there?” Nagok said offhandedly. He went to a side table and selected a glass ball about the size of a large apple. Nagok lifted the ball with one hand, spoke a few murmured words, and passed his other hand over the orb. The glass ball sprang to life with an inner glow, and just as suddenly, the image of the inside of Nagok’s tent appeared in the dark reflective surface of his mirror.
Shadow and Flame Page 46