The shield around King Barthel and his mantics fell. The mantics attacked the humans floating in the Veil. They zipped aside. All but the pale leader, who streaked toward the small man. Passed through him. Carried his shimmering likeness away.
His body fell.
Charlon ignored her surprise. Sent out two gowzals. In the form of flaming green orbs. Against two of King Barthel’s illusions of himself. Hoping to strike the real man. Both illusions vanished. And her gowzals fell into puddles of black mud in the snow. Leaving only two likenesses of the king.
Which one was real?
Charlon used her remaining gowzal to shield herself from an attack from the last mantic. The woman. Where were Charlon’s other two shadir? She looked for them, waiting for them to return. Prayed to King Trevn’s god they would. A foolish notion. But the god who made such magic must be mighty. And Charlon needed help.
She held the shield. Waiting. Where were those birds? One fluttered toward her. Losing feathers from each flap of its wings. It would not last much longer. She waited for the second. Wanting to give the first as much strength as she could.
There! The second was on the ground. Hopping this way. Charlon sent both out. Sent them to bring down King Barthel and his last illusion with fire.
She held the shield. Watched her attack unfold. Both kings vanished. Gowzals fell to mud. Confused, she tried to remember when King Barthel had cast his spell. He’d created three illusions. Not four. She was certain. Yet four illusions had fallen. And the king was not here.
Trevn
Trevn fought his way through a cluster of Puru, enraged by the message he’d received from Onika. He reached for Charlon’s mind, eager to have her version of the story.
“What happened with Rogedoth, Chieftess?” he voiced.
“He tricked me!” Charlon said. “Conjured illusions of himself. Sneaked away somehow. I sent Masi to find him. He has ridden back to his camp. Is packing to leave.”
The coward.
“Miss Onika,” Trevn voiced. “I need a Veil warrior to lead me and my men through this melee to some horses—some safe horses.”
“Right away, Your Highness.”
“Rogedoth is trying to run,” Trevn yelled to Cadoc. “We must stop him.”
Onika came through, and Kempe led the way, voicing Trevn directions. Soon he and his guards were mounted and riding away from the battle. They recruited any mounted Armanian as they went, and by the time they were riding hard for Rogedoth’s camp, they had rounded up another twenty-one soldiers to assist.
With Kempe’s help, they wove quickly to the center of Rogedoth’s camp. They found his tent being folded by a group of enemy soldiers. Rogedoth was sitting in a wagon, nestled beneath a pile of furs, while Natod, Tace Edekk’s mantic servant, supervised the packing of a second wagon with supplies. Trevn counted maybe twenty-five enemy soldiers.
“Arrest these men!” Trevn yelled, dismounting.
Fights broke out all around. Trevn walked to Rogedoth’s wagon, drew his sword, and held his shield ready. “Running away, are you? You need to answer for your crimes.”
“I committed no crimes,” he said.
Truth.
“You dare mock the man who holds your life in his hands?” Trevn asked. “Come out of that wagon this instant.”
Nietz scaled the wagon’s side and jumped into the bed. He set the point of his sword to Rogedoth’s back. “That was an order from your king. I suggest you obey it.” He leaned into the blade.
Rogedoth scrambled forward. “Patience, man! I’m going.” He pushed to his feet and took careful steps to the end of the wagon. Trevn tried to connect with his mind, but it was shielded. Rogedoth jumped to the ground, hand resting on the wagon bed, thick eyebrows furrowed. He pulled a sword from under a pile of furs and swung it at Trevn.
Good. Trevn wanted to fight him. He parried and countered with short, fast jabs that drove Rogedoth back. Either the man knew little about swordplay, or he was decades out of practice. Trevn should feel elated that the match would end quickly, but the calm expression on Rogedoth’s face and the triumphant glint in the man’s eyes bothered him. What had he to be triumphant about? He had lost everything.
The fighting around them had died down. Trevn’s men had subdued the enemy, and his guards gathered close, all ready and willing to rush in and subdue Rogedoth the moment Trevn asked, yet stilled by some unspoken agreement not to intervene until then. To allow their king this moment to defeat his enemy.
Trevn slashed his blade across Rogedoth’s chest, slicing a gash through the front of his leather jerkin. He knocked his shield against the Pretender’s face, and the man stumbled back from the blow. Trevn came at him again, thrust his sword at Rogedoth’s middle. The man twisted, and the blade glanced off his leathers but managed to cut through the side and into a bit of skin.
Rogedoth howled and hacked his sword down like a club. Trevn caught the blow with his shield, but the blade sank into the battered wood and stuck, splitting a crack through to the center. Trevn dropped the shield, which still held Rogedoth’s blade.
Rogedoth stepped on the wood and wrenched his sword free, leaving himself open long enough for Trevn to stab his thigh. The Pretender cried out and staggered a few steps to the left, a look of surprise on his face. He lunged back toward Trevn, who caught the blade with his cross guard. A flick of his wrist, and Rogedoth was disarmed.
“Surrender?” Trevn asked.
“I can’t!” Rogedoth snarled through clenched teeth.
What did that mean? “Then we fight on,” Trevn said.
Rogedoth was favoring his right leg, so Trevn employed one of Nietz’s brawling tactics. He swung the flat of his blade against the wound in Rogedoth’s leg, stepped on his right foot, and shouldered into him.
Rogedoth wailed and fell on his side, hands cradling his injured leg. Trevn used his boot to roll him to his back, then set the tip of his blade against the man’s heart.
“Do you surrender now?” he asked again.
“Trevn!”
Mielle? Trevn glanced up, shocked to see his wife here of all places. Barthel Rogedoth held a dagger to her throat. Stunned, Trevn looked back to the man on the ground. There were two? Had he been fighting the real one? Or someone else?
“Mahgayn bay zōt adamah!” Mielle cried, hands outstretched. The Rogedoth beside her lowered his dagger and stood watching as a sheen of green light shot toward Trevn.
“That’s not Mielle!” Trevn yelled. He threw himself to the ground, hoping to dodge the magic, but the light wrapped over him like a sheet of frosty glass. He couldn’t see clearly through it but could hear the muted yells of his men, saw flashes of brighter light, silhouettes running.
Trevn had fallen into Rogedoth’s trap.
He reached a gloved finger toward the light. The moment he touched it, a shock ran up his arm and he jerked back. A form appeared on his left and leaned over him. He could just make out Mielle’s face, distorted by the green light. “Do you surrender, Your Highness?” she asked.
“Never!” Trevn said, then closed his eyes and entered the Veil.
Grayson
Grayson had worked hard since coming to the battlefield. He had banished shadir and carried dozens of compelled soldiers to Duke Canden for help. But what the king wanted him to do . . . He wasn’t certain about that. Shadir had always flocked to him, seemed to like him for some reason. But could the king be right? Could Grayson really command them?
He caught sight of three shadir circling a dying man and popped closer, then winced at the sight of a Puru man whose stomach had been ripped open. He kept his gaze on the shadir. “Leave this man alone,” he said.
The shadir stopped moving—all three. They stared at Grayson, eyes bulging.
“I want to talk to the shadir,” Grayson said. “Find your friends, and bring them to me.”
To Grayson’s surprise, they flitted away. He watched them, quickly losing sight of all but the red, who had swooped over to a clus
ter of shadir who were feeding off a dying horse. See? They hadn’t obeyed him.
The clank of swords pulled his gaze toward two Puru men who were fighting each other. One must still be compelled. Grayson drifted closer, watching the fight until he figured out which had no self-control. He popped behind the man, grabbed him around the waist, and carried him to Duke Canden. A long line of Puru were fleeing up the river from where the duke had positioned himself on the north edge of the battle.
“Here’s another for you, sir.” Grayson released the Puru man beside two others.
His quarry scrambled about in the snow, panicked by his strange ride through the air.
“He’ll have to wait his turn,” the duke said.
Before Grayson could comment, Rosârah Zeroah voiced him. “Sir Keshton has been wounded and needs medical care. Would you carry him to the fort?”
“Coming.” Grayson popped to Sir Keshton, who was bleeding badly from a wound to his shoulder. Before he could even touch the man, Hinckdan Faluk voiced him.
“Master Grayson,” the duke said. “Princess Saria and her men have reached the central border house. She would like to enter, as they have some wounded, but there’s no one at the gate. Has the fort been taken?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Grayson replied.
“Can you get word to someone inside to let us enter?”
“Yes. Give me a moment.”
Grayson carried Sir Keshton to the physician inside the fort, then flitted through the building until he saw someone he knew: King Trevn’s onesent, walking down the hall.
Grayson popped beside him and entered the physical realm, which made his shoulder and ear burns sting. “Master Hawley? Princess Saria is outside the gates with some wounded. Will you see that someone lets her in?”
The onesent glanced at Grayson. “Princess Saria at the gate?”
“Yes, sir,” Grayson said.
“I’ll see that it’s opened right away, Master Grayson.” And he hurried off.
Grayson jumped to Hinckdan Faluk and found the man in the Veil, hovering beside the princess outside the gate.
“Master Hawley is coming to let you in,” he voiced.
Hinckdan turned his attention to Grayson and gasped, his eyes roving all around. “Woes!” he said. “The shadir!”
Grayson glanced behind him, shocked to see a thick cluster of shadir all staring at him—maybe a hundred.
They had obeyed his order. Somewhat.
He thought over the prophecies that were supposed to be about him, wondering how he might go about achieving what they’d foretold. Should he banish them now? They’d be angry that he’d tricked them. But why should he care? Shadir were the worst tricksters of all.
He flew into the sky. The shadir followed. From here he was able to get a good look at the battlefield. It was an awful sight, all those dead bodies, the bloody snow. But there were still a lot of shadir flying around—many more than were in the group behind him.
Grayson turned on the creatures. “This isn’t everyone,” he said. “Look down there!” He gestured to the battlefield. “See them? I want to talk to every shadir—all at once. Find the others and bring them back.” Then, to see how far he could push it, he said, “Don’t make me ask you again.”
Like a sudden windstorm, the shadir soared past Grayson in a gust that spun him around. He couldn’t believe how quickly they had listened. Perhaps the king was right. Perhaps he did have power over them.
Oli
The first Puru compulsion to break had been the most difficult, but once Oli had found the right memory, things had moved much more quickly. The vast majority of the Puru had been compelled by Lady Zenobia at the same time, standing on a beach. Every so often Oli came upon a man who didn’t have that memory. When this happened, he moved on to someone else. With no time to waste, he was much more effective focusing on the Puru with that same memory. Once the battle ended, he could take his time with the survivors. Grayson had been helping by carrying the compelled enemy here. Puru, giant, and Kinsman alike, no one was too heavy for Grayson to transport through the Veil.
Oli worked tirelessly, despite the niggling that pressed against his mind, as if he’d forgotten something important. Eudora’s death. Or his journey to the Lowerworld. Maybe both. He couldn’t think about Lady Brisa killing his sister without losing control, so he thought instead about how Zeroah had saved him and how he’d sworn allegiance to Arman. He was a free man at last. The entire experience felt like a dream, yet so did his current reality.
How he had come to this place was truly miraculous.
To the south the battle still raged, both in the physical realm and in the Veil. Armania’s blue banners waved high over the melee in dozens of places—higher even than the heads of the giants—displaying King Trevn’s insignia. There were far fewer of Rogedoth’s red.
They were winning this fight.
The Veil warriors were working to banish shadir to the Lowerworld, but there were still so many. Normally such a thing would have set Oli on edge to the point of distraction. No more. He floated among the shadir, unafraid for the first time in his life.
Grayson appeared on the ground below with a Puru soldier. “Here’s another, Your Grace!” he voiced.
Before Oli could answer, Grayson vanished. The Puru man looked around, completely bewildered. He couldn’t see Oli. All he knew was that one moment he’d been in the battle, and now he was standing on the outskirts.
Oli got right to work. The moment he freed the Puru’s mind, the man set off at a run toward the forest. There were no more compelled waiting, so Oli scanned the battlefield and moved to a Puru man, who stood worrying his hands on the staff of his poleaxe, staring into the melee as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to enter. Oli found his mind easily and sought out the island memory. Yes, there it was. He focused on that moment and changed it. A sudden lightness in the man told Oli he’d succeeded. The Puru’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the battlefield, and he turned and ran upriver, following the path the previous Puru had taken moments before.
As Oli swooped toward yet another Puru soldier, a flash of orange fire sailed past, startling him. He turned his head, searching the crowd for the mantic who had attacked him. His eyes locked with a woman on horseback. Lady Zenobia, Sir Kamran’s mother.
“Your Pretender is losing this battle, lady,” Oli said to her mind. Then he jumped through the Veil and exited ten paces behind her.
“I think not, Your Grace!” she yelled. Her head turned slightly, tipped up, side to side. She didn’t know where he’d gone.
“By the lay of the battlefield, lady, it seems quite obvious.”
“It matters not which side has more casualties,” Zenobia yelled. “As long as your king dies, we shall win.”
“Your Grace!” Danek Faluk voiced him. “If you will continue to distract Lady Zenobia, I think I can storm her.”
“Gladly.” Oli moved back in front of Zenobia’s horse. “My king has Arman on his side, lady,” he voiced her. “He won’t die.”
“You are a traitor to us all, Oli Agoros,” Zenobia said. “You shamed your family. You betrayed Sâr Janek and Sir Kamran.”
“Your son was the traitor,” Oli said.
“You are a disgrace to the Lahavôtesh.”
“Thank you,” Oli said, drifting slowly away. “I’ve tried to turn my life around. It’s heartening to know that people have noticed.”
“Puroh!” Zenobia cried. Fire shot out from her fingertips.
Oli vanished, appearing behind her, where he’d just been, and caught sight of a blur shooting toward her from the side. Danek passed alone into Zenobia’s right, but he exited on her left, soaring away with another person, the two of them struggling.
A person who didn’t look at all like Lady Zenobia.
It had all happened quite fast, so perhaps Oli hadn’t seen correctly. He concentrated on Danek and chased after him. Sure enough, Danek was locked in a fight of sorts with the soul
of a man, who was screaming and swinging fists.
Oli recognized him at once. “Mahat Wallington?”
The former merchant met Oli’s gaze. “What did he do to me? Put me back in my body!”
“That was your body?” Oli looked back across the field to what appeared to be the collapsed body of Lady Zenobia. “I thought you were a malleant.”
“I learned enough to be a decoy. Now put me back!”
“You’ll have to find your own way.” Danek shoved Mahat and turned him at the same time. The man spun slowly away, yelling obscenities, clueless how to stop himself.
“That was well done, don’t you think?” Danek asked.
“Yes,” Oli said, “but for one thing. Where is the real Lady Zenobia?”
“You know her better than me, Your Grace,” Danek said. “Lead me to her, and we will finish her together.”
Oli could free Puru minds later. Stopping Lady Zenobia was more important at present. He concentrated on King Echad’s oldest concubine and appeared in a somewhat deserted military camp. He did not see Zenobia, but Barthel Rogedoth stood beside a collapsed tent with Rosârah Mielle, whose arm was outstretched as she held Rosâr Trevn to the ground with a sheet of green light.
Trevn
Trevn hovered in the Veil, looking down on his body trapped under the magical light barrier. No one seemed to have realized he’d left himself empty.
Many of Trevn’s soldiers, who moments before had subdued Rogedoth’s men, surrendered without reason. Compelled, no doubt, but by whom? The Rogedoth he’d fought lay on the ground, bleeding from the wounds Trevn had inflicted. He appeared to be dead, yet strangely no one seemed to care. The second Rogedoth was circling the wagon, speaking in a soft voice to a shadir in the form of a golden bird. And the mantic—the one who looked like Mielle—was still standing over Trevn’s body, hand stretched toward the magical barrier holding him down, and arguing with Natod, Tace Edekk’s serving man. Trevn’s first instinct was to try to storm someone, though it would be wiser to assign the task to those more practiced.
Warriors of the Veil Page 17