Nightlord: Shadows

by Garon Whited

  “Uh. They’re just, you know…”

  “There.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Any luck on that propaganda campaign we discussed?”

  “Sort of. I’m pretty sure a bunch of people are scared about this Byrne place, anyway.”

  “Good, good. Just remember, if anybody mentions me, vanish. I want people worried about Byrne conquering them, but I also want them wondering if Karvalen will save them.”

  “I remember. No problem.”

  “Any word on the girls I wanted you to find?”

  “Sorry. I’ve looked all around the stuff local to Byrne. There are some places in Byrne I can’t go—magical wards can keep me out, sort of. They make beds disappear.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I’m a magical creature, you know.”

  “I hadn’t noticed. But no luck on the girls?”

  “They’re either sleeping on vanished beds, or they don’t have beds,” Fred assured me.

  “Well, thanks for looking, Fred. I appreciate the help. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Already did. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” He shifted around and looked bashful. Don’t ask me how I interpreted an expression on something that hasn’t got a face. Maybe it’s just body language. “I’ve never had anybody to, you know… talk to.”

  “Glad I could help,” I assured him. “I wish I had more time to chat.”

  “Someday,” Fred assured me. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

  Later, looking at the sand table and using it as satellite map, I did some measuring. Given the rough-to-awful conditions of the roads in old Rethven, things like troop transport, logistics, and anything else that involved movement was going to be difficult. Barring a platoon of magicians casting teleportation gates, moving something like cannon was going to require teams of horses. Where could they go? Where could they not go? Come to that, if I wound up having to invade Byrne’s current holdings, what routes could I take?

  As I was poring over the map, I noticed something. Prince Rogis of Tolcaren claimed that his motivation for doing as Byrne ordered was their proximity. Actually looking at the map, on the other hand, made that seem nonsensical. Tolcaren, like Maran, was on the west side of the Quaen river; Formia straddled it at the rivermouth. All of Byrne’s holdings were on the eastern side.

  If Tolcaren was being threatened by Byrne’s proximity, it had to have resources west of the Quaen, which meant going through Bildar, and which meant threatening Hagan—A line drawn through Bildar and Tolcaren almost went through Hagan.

  Puzzled, I went up to find Tort. She was in a sitting room, occupying a chair, and deep in contemplative meditation. At least, that’s what it looked like. A moment’s examination showed a sort of psychic communication spell going; she was on the phone. I got comfortable and waited.

  It wasn’t a long wait. She opened her eyes after no more than five minutes, smiled to see me, and put a small vial into a case full of other vials. They were each labeled with a name.

  “Good afternoon, my angel,” she said, and stood up to stretch. “It is good to see you during the day. Have you come to pay me a social call, or do you have a task for me?”

  “Both, really.”

  “Good.” She came over and sat on my lap. “Perhaps you should tell me of the task before we engage in being social.”

  “Smart girl. I take it you’re a busy spymistress?”

  “It is a constant thing,” she assured me, breathing warmly into my ear. “Reports come to me at all hours.”

  “Well, there are a couple of things I need to find out, and my usual methods aren’t working.”

  “Certainly. What do you wish to know?”

  “I’d like to know where Byrne is keeping its bronze rams. I want to look at one and see how it works. I’d also like to know why Tolcaren says it’s under threat of Byrne invasion—at least, why Prince Rogis thinks that’s a credible reason for doing as Byrne says. Does Byrne have an army west of the Quaen river? I haven’t seen it. And Hagan. Is it also threatened by Byrne? I’ve asked Prince Jorgen if he’d like to have a nice, friendly treaty with Karvalen, but he’s hesitant—is it because Byrne is crawling down his throat, or because he’s afraid I will?

  “On unrelated fronts, I’d like to know more about the viksagi. I’m thinking of asking them—or offering to let them—invade from the north into Byrne-held lands. I don’t know how many of them would be willing to do so, nor how to go about asking.” I gave her a smile as she locked her fingers together behind my neck.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Too much at once?”

  “Well,” she said, thoughtfully, “some of that I can answer, but most of it is either conjecture or completely unknown to me.”

  “Really? What do you know already?”

  “Tolcaren is not concerned with any land invasion. Their concern is with sea invasion. I believe,” she stressed, “that Byrne has acquired ships that can navigate the southern waters of the Quaen. They must be smaller vessels, not the great ships of the Circle Sea—only one or two masts, at most. I further believe they may have some of those thunder-spitting rams mounted aboard such vessels. Perhaps not; they may just have a way to mount them easily.”

  “That would account for Prince Rogis’ worry about Byrne attacking him directly,” I mused. “I think he’s willing to be our ally, provided we can find a way to defend him.”

  “Most cities would,” Tort agreed. “Byrne’s rapid conquests have made it unpopular.”

  “Any chance we could spread some rumors about their terrible atrocities?” I asked. Tort smiled that I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile and I gave her the I’m-guessing-I-do-too look.

  “You’ve already started that, haven’t you?” I asked. The smile answered for her. I guess she wouldn’t be the Spymistress of Karvalen if she was stupid.

  “Okay,” I said, “tell me what else you know.”

  “Little enough, I am afraid. I do not know why Prince Jorgen is hesitant about an alliance. If I had to guess, I would say it is because he is far away, has no good line of travel between us, and Byrne is poised to move south and come directly between us. Hagan is not on the Quaen, so he cannot be threatened by ships, but if Byrne were to take Bildar, it would not be a difficult march to reach Hagan; the roads are much better on that side of the river. We would have to sail around to Maran and then march about as far north.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with my being a part-time undead?”

  “I doubt it strongly.” She shifted on my lap to snuggle against my breastplate. “I tell you again, my angel, that your most endearing failing is your inability to understand how people see you. You are much more commonly viewed as a dragonslayer, a hero, even a… a legendary, even mythic figure. Not,” she added, squeezing me, “as a blood-drinking monster that preys on the souls of men.”

  “If you say so, then it must be so,” I agreed. Normally, that would settle it. I still have some reservations about that subject, though. It’s my most endearing failing, apparently.

  “So,” I continued, “if we could assure Jorgen that we could drop a thousand troops into his army anytime he asked, he’d be happier?”

  “I doubt that. But he would be much more amenable to alliance.”

  “I see the difference. Good point. I’ll do some more thinking about that. What about the viksagi?”

  “I have no spies among them. Truthfully, I have given them no thought. Ever since the bridge at Crag Keep was broken in their last invasion—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupted. “This is the first I’ve heard of that. When was this?”

  “Ten years, perhaps as much as twelve, after old King Relven’s death,” she explained. “The viksagi marched on Crag Keep and almost took it. The commander at the time deemed it needful, and so ordered the wizard of the Keep to release the ancient spells within the supports of the bridge. The center span crumbled and fell, saving the Keep
and halting the invasion.”

  Nobody ever tells me anything. I wish I’d known about that when I was dealing with them!

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but wasn’t the whole purpose of that bridge to be a bait? I know the viksagi don’t like open water—and if I lived in a climate that cold, I wouldn’t like it, either—which is why the bridge was so tempting. Without it, won’t they just build rafts or something and cross that way?”

  “They dislike rushing water, which the Averill is. To cross, they must either go far, far west, almost to the western coast of the Circle Sea, where the canyon of the Averill widens and the river becomes more placid. Or they must try to climb the mountains and cross the great lake that feeds the Averill.” She shrugged. “They can build boats, I suppose, but only small ones. They must lower them, you see, down the sides of the Averill’s bed, then cross the water, and finally climb out. It is difficult to move more than a raiding party, and it virtually assures that if they must retreat, they must do so empty-handed.”

  “So, they would really like a new bridge, hmm?” I asked, thinking of the new bridges across two deep gorges on the road to Baret.

  “I should think so.”

  “Do you know anyone who speaks any of the viksagi dialects?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’d better be social for a bit,” I decided. “I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  Tort breathed an agreement into my ear.

  One of the peculiarities of a part-time undead metabolism is the unerring wake-up call at sunrise and sunset. I remember sitting in a computer lab, a long time ago, and looking at the clock only to wonder, “Is that AM or PM?”

  That’s not a problem, these days. No clocks, for one thing.

  Still, sunset hit me just as I was settling in for a good bout of post-coital cuddling. This is a bad thing, on the order of spending a summer day mucking out animal stalls before grabbing your significant other in a bear hug. It’s messy. It’s stinky. It’s just not good.

  I sat under the waterfall while Tort leaned on the doorframe, smiling at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Why do women do that? It makes me nervous. I’m nervous enough as it is.

  The mountain’s most recent project, four new gates to the undercity, had gone perfectly. We now have a gatehouse at each compass point, down in the main city proper. Just inside is an airlock arrangement of two pivot-doors, each big enough to pass a wagon.

  Improved traffic flow will become important, hence the new gates, but I draw the line at allowing animals into the undercity. Rain will clean the streets of the surface, but a pile of horse manure in a hallway will stay there until someone comes by to scoop it, sweep it, then mop it—and the smell will still linger.

  Under the watchful eye of the City Guard, people can go through a pivot-door and have it swung shut behind them. Once that was done, the second pivot-door, the one in front of them, would open and allow them to proceed into the undercity. It slowed down traffic, yes, but it seemed like a good security measure, especially if we were about to be involved in a major war.

  With that thought, I mentioned to Tort about getting the City Guard beefed up and ready for sneaky saboteurs. She assured me that she, T’yl, Thomen, and Kelvin were already on it. When I asked about Rendal, she sniffed. Apparently, he wasn’t part of the planning, just part of the implementation. Not really an ideas man, just an organizer.

  I refrained from pointing out how important organizers are. Ideas come to nothing without someone to make them real.

  Anyway, with the mountain’s most recent project finished, I took a moment to give it some new ones. It was delighted; I think it likes doing something besides sitting there like a rock.

  One of the changes I wanted was running water. We already have four springs coming down off the central spire for turning waterwheels. I wanted to expand on that, allowing water to run along stone channels in a network all through the city. It would form the foundation of, eventually, a system of running water for everyone.

  I also needed a bridge that I could put over the Averill river. I didn’t explain how I wanted it to work; I let the mountain decide that. I wasn’t sure exactly how it would accomplish it. It might start a new road through the Eastrange, starting from wherever the northern canal terminated. But, if there was an easier way, I was sure the mountain would find it.

  I also imprinted a vision of the New York City Hall in a playback spell and handed it to the mountain for use in Mochara. By the time it extended a layer of stone into the right area, we should have enough clear space and a lot of rock already piled up. It would also be nice to see some streets in Mochara actually paved, instead of rocky mud.

  Come to that, sewers and streets for Mochara wouldn’t be a bad deal, either. I wasn’t totally sure what the mountain did with sewage, but I had a feeling it involved some incineration and an underground connection with the sea. Don’t ask me for details; I decided I didn’t want to know that much about industrial levels of sewage. But Mochara, while it didn’t have the same incineration capabilities, certainly had a much easier connection to the ocean.

  Another thing I have to check. Can we just dump waste into the sea? Are there any mer-people who will be inconvenienced? Or will they be pleased to have free fertilizer drifting over their latest kelp farms? Nobody else is going to go down there and ask.

  Streets, though. We can do streets. At least we can manage that. Rainwater can run off into underground pipes and into the ocean. That’ll decrease the mud and the smell.

  Having spent a few minutes in my spellcasting, I then kissed Tort, headed up to the throne room, mounted Bronze, and headed west. I passed Baret without slowing; sentries waved from the top of the wall and I waved back. That was a nice feeling.

  Then I had to rein up and pause. No, it looked as though I needed to detour to Baret. I just had a feeling.

  They let me in without undue fuss. It takes a while to unbar a main gate; Bronze won’t fit through a typical person-sized door.

  Once inside, I borrowed pen and parchment from the guardsman in command, sent a note to Banler, and then hurried on to find someone. Sure enough, I found a number of people scattered all over the city. Each of them was ready to go, but not quite able to depart. People don’t usually have an off switch. I did my duty, tried to be reassuring to any loved ones in the vicinity, and departed.

  It may have cost me two hours. I guess I shouldn’t complain.

  We left by the western gate and stuck to the coast road after that. We passed through or by a number of small towns and villages, then skirted Brentwood. A few more villages went by, and then we reached the mouth of the Quaen river and the city of Formia.

  Formia occupied a good position at the rivermouth. They built bridges inside the city, forcing travelers to go through instead of around. Good for taxing and tolls, of course, but not so good for travelers. Ah, well. Bronze and I sink like rocks, and I don’t need to breathe at night. We detoured around Formia by simply going through the river. It was slow going, but the worst problem was the mud. Bronze powered through it and I experimented with spells to thicken and stiffen the mud for her.

  On the far side, I waved hands over her to remove the clinging, black silt. She felt a lot better after that. I made a note to avoid swamps, bogs, and anything else with softer footing. We can go through it, but it’s slow and unpleasant.

  We made much better time after that, sticking to the roads of Rethven. It was slightly better than cross-country, at least. And, delight of delights, all I had to do was keep going north. It’s hard to get lost when you don’t care where you are or where you’re going, just heading in a direction.

  And Bronze… well, Bronze loves to run. I got her aerodynamic air-shield up, tilted gravity a trifle so everything was more or less downhill, and we made the world roll by.

  Monday, July 19th

  We managed to thunder our way across the entirety of the old kingdom in a sing
le night, despite twisty, muddy roads. She was amazingly happy, and I was proud of her.

  Crag Keep wasn’t unoccupied, just undermanned. We got there close to sunrise, so I camped out for the transition rather than have to deal with it during the process of greeting the guards. It also gave Bronze a chance to cool down from her run. I thought it good to stay low-key and mostly mundane, if possible.

  The last time I rode up to Crag Keep, it had a thriving little town behind it. Admittedly, most of it was there to tend to the needs of a military base. Finding a whorehouse used to be easy; finding someone to teach you to read was somewhat less so.

  Now, Crag Keep was mostly surrounded by farms. There were a few small huts, but it looked as though most people lived in the castle proper. The farms were much too large for the people I saw living on the land. I wondered if the soldiers did most of the farming, or if they just helped with the planting and harvesting. At least the water-wheel was cranking water up from the river. I’m not sure how they would have managed to grow anything without it.

  Surprisingly, the keep let us in without much more than asking my name. Once in the courtyard, a stableboy tried to take Bronze; Bronze was gracious enough to permit it. He seemed a bit bemused that Bronze simply followed him without any need for reins.

  I was greeted by a subcommander, some guy who introduced himself as Leareth. He was a medium-sized man with a close-cut beard and a slightly officious air.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I returned. “My name is Halar.”

  “What city sent you?” he asked.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “What city? We need to mark you off against someone’s obligation.”

  “People still get sent up here?” I asked, surprised. “I would have thought, with the bridge gone—”

  “That doesn’t change the requirements,” Leareth interrupted. “They’re all still obligated to send men to defend the keep.”

  “I see.” I looked around. The place wasn’t falling apart, but it could use a good mason, a dozen assistants for him, some carpenters, and about three months of maintenance and repair. It also needed about eight more sentries; the two on watch weren’t enough to cover the approaches.