The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Aye,” Ellias said. “We received your message, Lady Deel. Anticipating that Cesla would be targeting the towns beyond the forest with the strongest ironworkers guilds, King Rymark shifted our forces.”

  “And that’s when we entered into battle proper,” Rymark said. He paused to look around the tent, though they had been alone and were still. “We must find a way to turn this tide, Lady Deel.”

  “Are your losses so great, then?” she asked.

  “Not taken as a whole, no.” Rymark shook his head. “But the enemy doesn’t just kill, my lady. They take a casualty, sometimes two, and they deliver the bodies to the next outpost or camp.” He licked his lips. “Lady Deel, an army is made of men and women who can face death with courage despite the fear that works to undermine them. The bodies—”

  She held up a hand. “I understand, Your Majesty. Most men talk of evil without ever encountering the depth of its reality.” A region on the map struck her as odd, and she put her finger on it. “Why is this marked?”

  Rymark glanced at the king of Moorclaire. “The casualties there are half what they have been at any other outpost,” he said. “I thought it was nothing, but Ellias tells me the difference is . . .” He searched for the right word.

  “Significant,” King Ellias said.

  “That’s it.” Rymark nodded. “I’ve asked for a report, but the increased skirmishes have disrupted communications.” He looked at her and Fess. “The outpost is close enough that I have considered going myself.”

  “Ridiculous notion,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean no disrespect, Your Majesty, but it’s two days away, and you command the armies of the north. You can’t be spared for this. Fess and I will go.”

  “Your argument is sound,” Ellias said. “But can the two of you be spared, Toria Deel?”

  “The Vigil has never been an instrument of war, Your Majesty. We have always exerted our influence through more personal engagements.” She glanced outside. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

  Rymark nodded with a glance at Wag. “I’ll have quarters arranged for you and your companions inside the compound.”

  Screams jolted Toria awake, and she jerked from slumber to wakefulness without transition. Quick as she might have been, Fess stood over her, weapons in hand. The beat of her heart rocked her back and forth like a pendulum. Outside the tent, the glow of light lit the compound. White light.

  “Come,” she said as she jerked on her boots. She fumbled in the gloom for her weapon. “Wag!”

  Thrusting aside the flap, she burst out of their shared tent to chaos. Men and women raced to the walls, climbing makeshift scaffolding. Soldiers crowded the towers at each corner of the camp, filling broad platforms at the top, most armed with short bows. In the center of each platform a brazier of solas powder burned, banishing the darkness in white-hot balls of sunlight, while on either side of the flame, men or women aimed mirrors out into the darkness.

  Massive guards came charging out of the tent next to hers, hemming in the king of Owmead. Rymark screamed orders to a series of runners who dashed up and just as quickly dashed away. Over the din of screaming, she heard thumps against timbered walls of the compound.

  “Your Majesty! King Rymark!” She screamed, but the king of Owmead ignored her calls, issuing commands for light and torches.

  Toria threaded her way through his guard, clutching. “What can we do?”

  He turned to her, his gaze desperate before it landed on the sentinel. “We’ve got men camped outside the gate. We’ll lose them all.”

  She jerked a nod, breaking into a run. “Wag, Fess, with me.” She raced across the compound, willing her legs to go faster. The gates were fashioned from huge logs. On the far side men and women beat at them, begging admittance against the sound of slaughter.

  “Open them!” Toria yelled at the soldiers. “By order of King Rymark.”

  As the men worked to throw the massive beams, she knelt, put her hands on Wag’s thick ruff and sank into the delve.

  Hunt! she ordered. But only those with the scent of the forest on them, and you must live! A flood of impressions came across the link, the smell of blood, its taste, salty and hot on her tongue, the crunch of bone.

  Wag raced through the opening, and a mix of screams filled the night air as men and women in the colors of Moorclaire flooded through, frantic to escape. A veiled man wearing the clothes of a merchant came leaping out of the darkness toward the gates. Just before he reached the opening, hundreds of pounds of fur and muscle hit him from the side and powerful jaws snapped his neck. The gates closed.

  “We have to get back to Rymark.” Fess took her hand and ran, half pulling her back to the king, who stood gazing at the northwest tower, a stream of sulfurous language spilling from him.

  “Protect her!” he ordered his guards, pointing, but none of the guards moved to obey.

  She followed the line of his point, saw a woman standing on the tower, light from the burning solas powder framing her like a halo. A soldier at her side followed her prompts, aiming his mirror into the darkness.

  “Who is she?” Toria asked.

  “Timbriend,” Rymark said. “The best mathematical mind in her generation.”

  She stepped to the king. “What is she doing?”

  King Ellias came lumbering out of the darkness with his personal guard. “She’s counting,” he said “working to calculate the number involved in the attack.”

  An arrow streaked out of the darkness to take the soldier working with Timbriend in the chest, and he crumpled. A heartbeat later, an arm, pasty with the pallor of a maggot, appeared over the edge of the wall. Fear etched her face, but she stepped in to take the mirror, turning its focus on the attacker. A diminishing roar of frustration accompanied his fall.

  Rymark’s head swiveled, searching for his captains. Another shaft came arcing toward the light, its passage close enough to make Timbriend flinch. Still, she worked the mirror, counting.

  More attackers with veils covering their eyes appeared atop the wall. A pair of arrows struck one in the leg and arm. With a snarl, he yanked them free and moved toward the light adjacent to Timbriend’s. The soldiers defending the brazier went down beneath strokes Toria never saw. A moment later the attackers pushed the burning fire from the platform, its light winking out as the flaming powder drifted to the ground.

  Around the perimeter of the wall, hands appeared, grappling for the top. Rymark’s soldiers fired volleys, but the attackers shrugged off their wounds. On the north wall, a pair of men in ragged clothes turned to attack the soldiers defending Timbriend’s light.

  Fess burst from Toria’s side at a run, his feet blurring into motion, hardly touching the ground. King Rymark watched him depart, his expression inscrutable, but Ellias turned to her, frowning. “He holds two gifts. That’s forbidden.”

  “Not for Aer,” she said. “The gift of domere came to him freely after he received the physical one.”

  She turned to see Rymark screaming at his runners. “Light the circles! However you have to do it, get them lit!”

  Fess gathered and launched himself into space with a leap that carried him halfway up Timbriend’s platform. He clutched at the ladder, swinging his body around so that his feet found purchase. They’d hardly touched the rough wood before they were moving again, taking the rungs two at a time. The soldiers had gathered around Timbriend, forming a tight wedge with their swords toward the attackers as if they wielded pikes.

  The attackers closed the distance, dodging clumsy thrusts from the crowded soldiers. Timbriend’s defenders collapsed in a wave. Only the press of bodies kept them from the brazier, but they were advancing. Timbriend and her light were mere feet away.

  Fess gained the top of the platform behind her as the last four defenders closed ranks. A soldier went down, taken through the chest. Another died from a slash to the throat, crimson staining the air. Fess charged past Timbriend as the last of the soldiers on the tower died. Steel clas
hed with a ring, and Fess lunged, cutting through the veils that shielded them from the light with sword strokes Toria never saw. With a cry of agony the attackers covered their unprotected eyes. Moments later their bodies hit the ground beneath the tower.

  A man’s scream of warning and death sounded behind Toria, and she wheeled to see a wave of attackers dropping from the parapet of the south wall. Their heads lifted, seeking, scenting through the thin cloth of their veils. Then as one they charged.

  Toward her.

  Soldiers veered in to meet the new attack and died. On open ground, the attackers moved with fluid grace, leaving dead in their wake. Fess jumped from the tower, rolled, and came for Toria, racing faster than a hound.

  Rymark’s personal guard formed up around him and began a retreat toward the north towers. Ellias’s guards pulled him south.

  Horror brought bile to Toria’s throat and she fought to pull her sword. Fess reached her side and pulled her toward the east, away from Rymark and Ellias. The attackers split into two groups without slowing, targeting the kings.

  Toria stood in a circle of calm, the swords and daggers of the enemy leaving a trail of blood as they strove to reach the kings. Screams filled the air—of men dying, of Rymark calling orders. Drowned by the cacophony, the king of Owmead’s voice was lost. Fess moved to join the fight, stopped, then retreated to stand by her once more.

  More attackers gained the wall. Rymark, surrounded by his guard, caught her gaze and screamed, pointing. The cords of his neck stood in stark relief as he tried to make himself heard. His hand stabbed the air, pointing to the towers. She grabbed Fess. “What is he saying?”

  He watched the king, followed his motion. “Fire the circles.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he means.” Attackers, taking grievous wounds, fell at last, but more were gaining the walls.

  Intuition exploded through her. “The towers,” she yelled. “The men on the towers had fire and naptha. Rymark would have planned for this. Go.”

  Still, they stood in calm as the camp mustered to protect the kings. Bodies covered the ground, preventing retreat or advance.

  “I can’t leave you,” Fess yelled.

  She drew breath to argue, surrendered. “Then I’ll go with you.” And she started at a run toward the northeast tower where Timbriend still stood. Fess caught Toria’s arm in a grip that brought flares of red to her vision. He shifted his grip, his arm around her waist and raced up the ladders three rungs at a time.

  In seconds they gained the top. “There are too many,” Timbriend said. Her eyes stared, unblinking, into the compound below, and she wavered on her feet.

  Fess grabbed a bow and set fire to arrows that arced, flaming, into the night sky to land beyond the fort. The glow of fire leapt, and by its light Toria could see concentric rings of wood surrounding the camp flare into life. The cries of attackers beyond the wall scaled upward, turning into shrieks of hatred and pain.

  Deprived of reinforcements, the tide of the attack inside the camp turned. Outside, attackers, disoriented and trapped by the rings of fire, fell to a rain of arrows as more of Rymark’s soldiers gained the parapet.

  Even after the last scream died away, Toria remained atop the tower with Fess and Timbriend as she completed her count. Then they descended the ladder, with Fess leading, his face and clothes covered in spatters of blood.

  Rymark issued orders, and the gates were opened. “See to the wounded,” he ordered a captain, “and organize a detail to bury the dead.” His dark brows hooded his eyes in the firelight, promising retribution. “Have the men separate the attackers from ours and count the bodies.”

  Wag, covered with blood and panting, came trotting up to her. She put her hands on him. Well done, Wag.

  Thank you, Mistress. His tongue lolled to one side, but thankfully, he didn’t lick her. The forest men outside the second fire got away. An undercurrent of sorrow accompanied this.

  How many escaped? Within his mind rose the image of a great pack, easily fifty or more. She rose, slipping her gloves back on. “Thank you, Wag.”

  Rymark and Ellias, still tightly ringed by their personal guard stood waiting for her. Toria bowed her respect. “The rings of fire were well conceived,” she said. “What made you think to do it?”

  He nodded in acknowledgment. “The art of war is to adapt, Lady Deel. When Lord Fess put forth his idea to ring the forest twice to keep people from entering, it occurred to me to use something similar for our defense. We put oil-soaked wood in two perimeters outside the camp, far enough away to keep from endangering ourselves.”

  Toria nodded. “But within bowshot.”

  “Well, Timbriend?” Ellias asked.

  Her face held the pallor of death, but she bore no sign of injury. Her hands shook as she pulled a charcoal writing stick and parchment from her cloak. Rymark closed the distance, his expression thunderous. “What possessed you to ascend the tower during the attack? My men could have counted for you.”

  She shook her head. “It had to be accurate. Even so, I have no estimate for how many escaped.”

  “At least fifty,” Toria said. She didn’t attempt to explain her insight.

  Timbriend sighed. “I’ll have to revise my calculations.”

  She looked at Ellias. “The numbers are wrong. There shouldn’t have been so many. I need to get to my tent.” Timbriend took a step, but the trembling in her hands shifted to her legs, betraying her. When she pitched forward, Fess caught her and helped her find her balance, and Rymark ordered two of his men to help her away.

  “What did she mean there were too many?” Toria said to Ellias before he could leave.

  Ellias, big enough to match his guards, grew somber. “Timbriend is one of the brightest minds in Moorclaire. She has only to show mastery of the tenth part of the mathematicum to be considered a master.”

  “The tenth part of the mathematicum?” Fess asked. “What is that?”

  Toria bit her lip in frustration, not wanting to divert Ellias from her question. “A student wishing to attain master must explore a new field for the applications of the mathematicum.”

  “Exactly,” Ellias said. “Timbriend chose to apply the mathematicum to the exercise of warfare in a new way. Even I have a difficult time understanding much of what she attempts.”

  “What did she mean, there were too many?” Toria pressed.

  The king’s lungs filled like a bellows before he answered. “The answer is at once both obvious and unknown. She meant the number of attackers sent against us shouldn’t have been possible, but I’m afraid we will have to leave deeper interpretations for dawn.” Rejoining his guards, he left.

  Chapter 27

  Toria came to with a start, jolting upright on her cot before she realized quiet still filled the camp.

  “We’ve been summoned,” Fess said.

  The lamp in his hand brought tears to her eyes, and she scrubbed at them in an effort to see. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “They’ve only changed the guard once, so no more than four hours. Here.”

  She nodded, bit a piece of the chiccor root he offered, and stood, still fully clothed and booted. Wag lifted his head, blinking. “Stay here,” she commanded.

  They emerged from their tent into the cool of morning, but it wasn’t the weather that made her shiver. Bodies still littered the ground, and members of Ellias’s retinue moved to each, looking for whatever information they might use. She could have told them what they would find, of course. Bas-solas had taught her. Those who had come from the forest would show horrible bruising, the effect of mindlessly pushing their muscles past the breaking point. Instead, she searched the faces of the dead, looking for those she might know.

  They passed through a cluster of guards and into Rymark’s tent, where the kings of Owmead and Moorclaire waited for them along with Timbriend, all of them a study in fatigue. Dark circles wreathed their eyes, and Rymark’s rod-straight posture had left him, his back curved beneath the burden of c
ommand.

  “Where’s Prince Maenelic?” Toria asked.

  Ellias shook his head. When he spoke his voice rumbled with anger. “The prince was outside the gates seeing to my men when the attack came. He took a couple of nasty strokes during the fight. The healers are seeing to him.”

  “I’ll send my personal surgeon,” Rymark said. “The prince has been instrumental in the cooperation of Aille’s forces.” He turned to her. “When I returned to my tent, I used my scrying stone to call the other monarchs and warn them.” He nodded to Toria and Fess. “Doubtless you noticed that the attackers focused their assault on Ellias and me. I thought it best to warn the rest, though none of them were attacked.”

  He went on. “Cesla knows what Ellias and I look like, Toria Deel, but he also knows your visage—and probably you, Lord Fess. Why would he choose to focus his attack on us?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but it seems axiomatic that he will strike at his biggest threat. Queen Chora died as we left Edring. We heard the bells as they swept north from Cynestol.” She turned to Timbriend. “You said last night that there were too many attackers. Why?”

  Timbriend took a deep breath and pointed at the map. “I was able to estimate the number that came against us.” She looked up. “It was a concentrated force of well over two hundred, Lady Deel. The vast majority of the attackers never made it inside the walls. Such a force entering the Darkwater would have drawn the attention of the patrols. The fact that never took place meant that the force was gathered inside the Darkwater and then sent under cover of night to attack us here.”

  Rymark pointed at his map. Splotches of red marked their encampment now. “There’s an outpost directly north of here. They were untouched last night. The implications of that are why I asked you here, Lady Deel.”

  She pulled her gloves. In hundreds upon hundreds of square miles of farmland, the enemy had found them and attacked. “You think you have a traitor in your midst.”

  He nodded. “It’s a possibility I must acknowledge. We have to assume they know where we are and how we defeated them last night. If there is a traitor among us, I must know. Lady Deel, I want you to delve each of us. Once you have determined that we are free from the forest’s influence, I will show you where I intend to move the camp, but no one outside this room will know before being delved.”