Grimur had been in Solsiden years ago, long before it was damaged in the Great Fire. He had drawn the floor plan as he remembered it, providing a map of the rooms most likely to be where Thrane and his entourage could be found.
Before long, the cold, damp passageway ended at an old wooden door. An iron lock secured the entrance. Tormod stopped a distance from the doorway. “We’ve reached the wardings.”
In other words, it’s too late to turn back now.
Dolan took the lead with Connor, Tormod, and Grimur right behind. Two of the talishte fighters were next, then Penhallow and the rest of the fighters. Dolan gave a warning nod. Connor tensed, ready to react.
Cold, brilliant light flared, blindingly bright as the mages concentrated their power against the wardings. Connor retreated to the far corner of his mind, giving himself completely over to the Wraith Lord. Words in languages Connor did not know drifted through his consciousness. Fearsome power tingled through his veins and found expression in the magic the Wraith Lord loosed against Thrane’s defenses. Penhallow and the other talishte backed up, away from the rippling force that pounded at the shielding. Though Connor did not pretend to understand the arcane energies being harnessed, he could feel the texture of the magic shift, ebbing and flowing, changing direction, probing for weakness. They’re not just trying to batter the warding down by force, he thought. They’re adjusting the magic, switching approaches, changing tactics.
The wardings yielded with a silent explosion of light and brilliant colors, and while there was no sound, the magic reverberated in Connor’s mind with enough force to make him reel. Thrane’s magical protections fell, and the battle was on.
A dozen talishte fighters came at them before the last glow of magic had faded from the air. Feral and snarling, Thrane’s talishte defenders launched themselves at full force against the invaders, while Thrane and Reese themselves were nowhere to be seen.
For as often as the Wraith Lord had taken control of his body during battle, it always amazed Connor that he could move with the silent assurance of one of the talishte, and fight nearly with their speed if not their strength. While Tormod was neither talishte himself nor possessed by a talishte spirit, he used his magic to enhance his fighting speed, making it an almost even fight against undead attackers. Connor noted that Tormod, more than the talishte-mages, relied on his magic to increase the damage of his blows or repel an attack. Gauging from the number of enemy fighters that fell to Tormod’s blade, his strategy was effective.
The Wraith Lord moved forward steadily, with a preternatural confidence Connor himself did not fully feel. After a thousand years, I’ve learned that I’ve already faced most dangers there are to face, the Wraith Lord assured him silently. There isn’t as much left to fear.
I’m a good bit shy of that age, Connor retorted. And I find the world filled with new and horrifying things nearly every day.
The tunnel opened into a set of rooms likely dug as an emergency shelter, repurposed by the talishte into a redoubt of day crypts. Now, it was a crowded battleground, made all the more dangerous by the cramped conditions. The battle was joined; there was nowhere for either side to run, no chance for withdrawal. Connor felt his stomach clench with fear. He was painfully aware of the magical artifact he carried beneath his jacket, and the fact that he—and the Wraith Lord—were the key to the success of the night’s work, and the war itself.
Strike Thrane through the heart with the Elgin Spike, and all his get crumble to dust along with him. It sounds easy when you say it. Not so simple to do.
Thrane’s talishte fought like men with nothing to lose, and perhaps their fear of their maker outweighed any survival instinct they possessed. Not new fledges, but not his eldest get by any means, the Wraith Lord judged as he cut his way through the attackers. So either Thrane has his best fighters still with him or he’s sent all his senior brood to fight the allied Elders. Either way, they’ll be dust by the time we’re done.
Connor desperately hoped the Wraith Lord’s optimism proved true, but he could not help hearing the echoes of the more ominous warnings from Garnoc and Zaryae. Perhaps they will all prove true in some way I can’t yet grasp, Connor thought. No matter what, all I can do is hold on, and pray to Esthrane that we make it to dawn.
Black ichor splattered their armor and trickled down the walls as they cut their way through Thrane’s defenders. Talishte corpses crumbled into dust as the fighters struck them down, but the frenzy of battle sent the particles flying, coating them all with the ashes of the dead. The defenders were no match for the skill and magic of Penhallow’s invaders. When the last of the talishte guards fell, the double doors at the end of the hallway stood undefended. Two of Penhallow’s talishte fell back to hold the entranceway, while the others advanced.
With a burst of speed, Dolan, Penhallow, and Grimur led the attack. Dolan’s magic blasted the wooden doors open, splintering them and propelling wooden shards across the room. Grimur followed with a torrent of fire that caught two of the talishte unprepared. A dark-haired man with the look of a pickpocket and a slender man with close-set eyes screamed and flailed as the flames took to them like dry kindling. Their skin drew tight and peeled away, then bones charred, and in seconds, the two talishte were nothing more than bits of charred scraps.
Thrane and Reese were fast enough to get out of the path of the fire, moving in a blur of motion. A thin blond man stepped to the fore and thrust out his right hand, sending an answering sweep of flame billowing toward the attackers. Dolan, Tormod, and Grimur barely raised protective shields in time. The Wraith Lord grabbed Penhallow and pulled him into the protective field that deflected the flames inches in front of Connor’s face. Behind them, the other talishte scrambled out of the way of the blast as the Knights stepped forward to block the fire with their wardings. It was too crowded for the rest of Penhallow’s fighters to move into the room, so they secured the doorway, making certain no one could enter or leave.
The instant the fire stopped, Dolan and Grimur countered, focusing their magic on the blond mage. Dolan struck with a brilliant shaft of yellow light lancing toward the mage, while Grimur made a slashing motion with his hands, meaning to take the man off his feet.
Thrane did not wait to see how the mage battle fared. He struck with a feral cry, going for Penhallow as Reese ran for Connor. Two more talishte, a stocky man with a fighter’s build and a fine-featured, dark-haired woman, launched themselves at Tormod and the two Knights behind Connor.
Just behind where the two talishte had been incinerated, heavy tapestries burned, flames lapping against the thick stone walls. Smoke filled the air and stung Connor’s eyes.
Sonders and Marat Garin are the two who caught fire, the Wraith Lord told Connor as he parried Reese’s brutal sword swing. Vasily Aslanov is the mage—the Red Elder. The other two are Kiril and Elise.
If Reese expected Connor to be the easy kill, he was sorely disappointed. The Wraith Lord moved with the skill and practice of a millennium, comfortable in his borrowed body. Reese’s blows were powerful and artless, hoping to win by battering his opponent into submission. The Wraith Lord struck with equal power, knocking aside Reese’s blade and going on the offensive.
Penhallow and Thrane circled each other warily, swords ready, looking for a weakness to exploit. Thrane moved first, feinting to the left and then thrusting to center, intent on running Penhallow through. Penhallow anticipated the move and met Thrane’s sword with a parry that might well have broken a mortal’s arm.
Behind them, Kiril and Elise battled Tormod and two of the Knights, and from what Connor glimpsed, while they were well matched in battle skill, Tormod and the Knights held an advantage with magic. Dolan and Grimur remained locked in a battle of magic with Aslanov, and while to Connor’s eye it appeared that the three men were trading nothing more than grunts and angry expressions, the movements of their hands and the tingle of energy that flowed around them suggested that strong magic was expended and contained in a deadly,
silent contest of wills.
Reese swung again, but the Wraith Lord met the blow with enough power that he rocked Reese back on his heels. Kierken Vandholt’s spirit inhabited Connor’s form with a larger-than-life vitality and a lust for battle that was wholly alien to Connor’s own deliberate personality. Dangerous as it was for both the Wraith Lord and Connor to share a body, even in the direst of circumstances, Connor could not escape the feeling that the Wraith Lord savored every moment of embodiment, every wince of pain and surge of victory. Connor, on the other hand, had grown used to the feeling of clinging to the reins of a bolting stallion, catching glimpses of wonder amidst terror.
The fire spread from the tapestries to a wooden bookshelf. We don’t have too long before the whole room goes up, or the air runs out. How many times have I nearly been burned or buried alive? Connor thought.
The action around him kept him from pondering the question. Kiril had gained the upper hand against one of the Knights, though both men were bleeding from deep gashes that would have killed a mortal, and Tormod’s left shoulder was bloodied. Blood streaked Elise’s face and stained her shirt. She appeared to be losing her battle, though an expression of grim determination suggested that she would not yield easily.
With a cry of victory, Aslanov made a ripping motion with his hands, and the air around him flared with streaks of white-hot energy. Dolan stumbled back, already working a counterspell. Wild-eyed and teeth bared, Aslanov went for the kill. A bolt of raw power surged from Aslanov’s right hand, catching Grimur full in the chest as the Edgeland mage formulated his own counterspell. The killing magic rushed into Grimur through a gaping wound in his chest, so that his body glowed from inside, a fearsome light that set his bones in silhouette against his skin, as if he had been filled by the sun itself. Light burst from Grimur’s eyes and mouth, tore loose from his fingertips, and held him for a few seconds lifted off the floor, transfixed.
In the next instant, Dolan loosed his magic with a howl of anger, stirring a maelstrom around Aslanov, a contained vortex that swept up the dagger-sharp splinters from the ruined doors and hurled them at gale force into Aslanov’s body like lethal quills. Grimur’s corpse fell to the floor, then withered and collapsed into dust. Enraged, Dolan’s shouts grew louder and faster, defying Aslanov’s attempts to break free. Aslanov was bleeding from dozens of wounds all over his body. One long shard buried itself deep into Aslanov’s left eye, while another tore into his throat, opening an artery. Dolan tightened the circumference of the vortex to just slightly more than the width of Aslanov’s shoulders.
The whirling shards tore at Aslanov from every direction, opening long gashes in his flesh, ripping at his scalp and clothing, embedding themselves like hundreds of shivs in his body. With one final, triumphant shout, Dolan wrested his right hand in a half circle, and a long, thin shard impaled itself in Aslanov’s heart.
The rogue Elder’s body stiffened and jerked as dark blood spilled from the mortal wound. Aslanov’s eyes went wide with the certainty that the last death was upon him. The vortex vanished, wooden bits falling to the floor with a clatter. Aslanov’s body bucked again, fighting the inevitable. Then his gaze fixed on Dolan and he gasped a single word. Dolan fell as if poleaxed, immobile, and Aslanov began to crumble like a charred rod, until nothing but dust remained.
Elise screamed and fell to one knee as her assailant’s blade slashed down through her shoulder, severing her right arm. Tormod lunged forward, slipping his blade between her ribs to take her through the heart. In the same instant, Kiril swung a mighty blow, slicing through his opponent’s neck. As the body fell to one side, Kiril ducked and picked up the bloody head, throwing it with talishte strength to catch Tormod squarely between the shoulders. With a roar, the other two Knights of Esthrane rounded on Kiril, crossing swords so quickly and with so much power it sounded like the peal of bells.
Mortal fear drew Connor’s full focus back to his quarry. Reese and Thrane fought with the fury of mad dogs. Though Connor had gained endurance, hosting the Wraith Lord’s spirit for a prolonged fight at talishte intensity was rapidly draining his energy. Drawing on his kruvgaldur bond with Penhallow would do him no good, since Penhallow was locked in desperate combat.
We can’t come this far, just to fail!
We haven’t failed yet, the Wraith Lord answered in a grim voice. Connor and Penhallow were fighting back to back as the flames leapt from bookcase to sofa, and from there to other old tapestries.
Thanks to the Wraith Lord’s skill, Connor was relatively undamaged, though he had taken gashes on his left forearm and his right thigh. Reese had taken a dozen wounds as well, and his shirt and pants were sodden with blood. Penhallow looked worse, as did Thrane. Both were bleeding from gashes deep enough to expose bone. A slice across Penhallow’s cheek had almost taken his eye, covering his face and neck with blood. Thrane had lost an ear, and a gash laid bare his ribs.
A look passed between Penhallow and the Wraith Lord, something Connor did not understand but Kierken Vandholt grasped immediately. “Kierken, do you remember?” Penhallow said.
“Yes.” No sooner had the Wraith Lord spoken than he and Penhallow pivoted. Caught by surprise, Reese was unprepared for Penhallow’s sudden attack, a flurry of lethal sword blows that forced Reese away from Thrane, requiring Reese’s full attention to avoid being cut to ribbons.
The Wraith Lord dove forward, Elgin Spike in one hand, sword in the other. He knocked Thrane’s sword arm wide, giving him the opening he needed to sink the Spike deep into Thrane’s heart.
Connor gasped as fire lanced across his belly. A bloodied dagger was clutched in Thrane’s left fist, and a vengeful grin spread across Thrane’s face.
The Elgin Spike flared, blindingly bright, and Thrane howled in agony, eyes wide and staring, mouth open in an anguished cry. His skin sloughed from his body like a snake shedding its old coils, revealing naked muscle. Sinew and ligaments twisted free from bone, snapping loose like frayed cables. All the while, Thrane’s eyes bulged and his skinless face contorted in agony.
Finally, stripped of skin and muscle, Thrane was a living skeleton, and then with a final burst, the Elgin Spike shattered his rib cage, splintering bone. The shards of what had been Thrane caught fire, burning with unholy light, leaving only ashes to flutter to the ground, along with the spike.
Reese screamed, a high-pitched wail of terror as the curse of the Elgin Spike spread to all of Thrane’s get. Like his maker, Reese trembled and jerked convulsively as his body unwound to its basic components, his eyes open and aware, mouth twisted in a scream. And then, like Thrane before him, Reese’s bones shattered, burning to cinders.
Solsiden was suddenly silent as the victors stared in stunned horror at their vanquished foes. Connor groaned, dropping his sword, and sank to his knees, both hands clutching his bloodied belly. “Thrane—all his get—destroyed?” Connor gasped.
Penhallow’s eyes widened. “Kierken! What have you done?” He rushed to catch Connor as Connor sagged to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. “Dolan, Tormod! Help me!”
Strong hands grasped Connor’s shoulders and laid him on his back. Penhallow’s face was all that Connor could see, and fear was clear in his eyes. “Hang on, Bevin,” Penhallow urged. Dolan staggered to his feet and stumbled to where Penhallow knelt next to Connor. Even with the Wraith Lord possessing his body and Tormod’s necromancy clinging to his spirit, Connor’s breath came in short, sharp breaths bright with pain.
“Kierken, Tormod! Don’t you dare let go of him!” Penhallow muttered.
Dolan fell to his knees beside Connor and pried Connor’s hands away from his ruined belly. “Sweet Esthrane,” he murmured.
“Save him!” Penhallow ordered.
“Not that easy—”
Stay with me, Bevin. It would be most inconvenient to lose you now, the Wraith Lord’s voice sounded with compulsion, though even he sounded worried.
Dolan was chanting, while Tormod recited words of power under his breath
that encircled Connor’s soul with glowing, golden bands of light. Penhallow offered his bloodied wrist pressed against Connor’s mouth, starting a trickle of cold dark blood down Connor’s throat. Garnoc’s warning echoed in his mind. The room seemed distant, the conversations far removed. Zaryae’s voice sounded in his mind.
Don’t let the darkness take you, Bevin Connor, she urged. Connor wanted with all his heart to reply, but his body seemed far beyond his control.
I’m sorry, Connor thought as light and sound slipped away. I’ve done all that I can do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CAN’T THEY TAKE A HINT?” PIRAN GRUMBLED. “How many times do we have to whip Hennoch’s ass before he stops trying to invade our territory?”
“Apparently more times than we’ve already done,” Traher Voss replied.
“You’re thinking like a defender, not a thief,” Folville added with a raised eyebrow, testimony to how often he had been on the other side of the equation. “If the prize is rich enough, a determined raider isn’t going to be easily turned away.”
“More to the point, if you have Thrane as your lord, self-preservation means picking the possible win over the certain loss,” Piran muttered.
The small group was gathered in a stout stone building near the city wall that Folville had appropriated for his base for the battle on this side of the city. Betta and Captain Hemmington were there, as well as Captain Larson. Voss and Piran left guards outside the room and around the building, just in case. Bogdan, Voss’s senior mage, was also in attendance, as was Doru, the representative for the soldiers who had returned from Edgeland. Most of those soldiers had gone with Blaine McFadden toward the northern battles to join Niklas Theilsson, and a quarter of the new force had remained in Castle Reach to help rebuild and ward off attackers.
“How many?” Voss always struck Folville as a man who had places to be and things to do, someone who preferred conversation pared back to the fewest number of words possible.
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