War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga

by Gail Z. Martin

  “At the moment, the bulk of my forces are keeping the Solveigs and Verner busy,” Lysander snapped.

  “Send your rabble against them,” Pollard replied, referring to the Tingur. “Just like you’ve sent them against Westbain and Castle Reach. Your forces are the largest.”

  “And stretched the thinnest,” Lysander replied. “It’s time the two of you start holding up your part of this alliance.”

  “And what do we get out of it?” Rostivan demanded. “Will we share in the Arkalas’ land? I doubt they have much else of value.”

  Lysander rounded on Rostivan. “You get to live, without my soldiers hounding you night and day,” he growled. “Our truce means you don’t have to watch your back every moment. And it means that when the time is right to bring down McFadden and Penhallow, as well as the Solveigs and Verner, we all benefit from the spoils.”

  Rostivan glowered. It was clear he was used to giving orders, not taking them. His fists balled at his sides, and his face flushed with anger. Lysander regarded him coolly, as if daring Rostivan to make a move.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Pollard intervened. “The Arkalas are hardly a prize worth fighting over. They’re a mere annoyance, a thorn in the foot.” Diplomacy came hard to Pollard, but years at court meant he could manage a truce, especially when his eye was on a prize. Right now, Rostivan and Lysander both had larger forces than his men and Hennoch’s combined, and if anyone could break Blaine McFadden, it would be these two warlords. Until Reese managed an escape, keeping Lysander and Rostivan focused on McFadden’s threat was Pollard’s best chance of success, and he had no intention of seeing it slip away in a pissing contest.

  “So why don’t your men attack?” Rostivan demanded.

  Pollard shrugged. “We will. But I suggest that an even better solution would be to team up against them,” he said, allowing his lips to curve in a devious smile.“You’ve made an alliance with mages,” Pollard said with a glance toward Rostivan. “Try them out against a quarry where the stakes are low. It might be wise. Vigus Quintrel was never known to be dependable. Best to know early on if you’ve been sold a pig in a poke.”

  He saw anger glimmer in Rostivan’s eyes at the suggestion that he might have been unwise. Just as quickly, the anger subsided—suspiciously quickly, Pollard thought, for a man with as high an opinion of himself as Rostivan was said to have.

  “I don’t see what Quintrel has to do with this,” Rostivan countered.

  Pollard sighed. “Word has it you’ve made a bargain with Quintrel and his rogue mages. Sure, he has a reputation, but have you actually seen what they can do in battle?”

  Rostivan sneered. “Enough to kick your ass and fry your biter master at Valshoa.”

  Pollard had expected the insult. “Actually, Quintrel was locked away with McFadden trying to bring back the magic. He had almost nothing to do with the battle itself. Lord Reese was injured by the Knights of Esthrane, and fire bombs sent by McFadden’s allies.” He raised an eyebrow. “So really, no one actually knows whether Quintrel can deliver on his promises or not.”

  Again, Rostivan’s temper looked about to get the best of him, when he took a deep breath and regained control. Moderation was not something for which Torinth Rostivan was known, and two such incidents with sufficient and deliberate provocation made Pollard suspicious.

  Pollard nearly missed the glimmer of light. He caught a glimpse at the edge of his vision, something beneath Rostivan’s tunic that sparked with light for just a second, then fell dark again. Lysander did not seem to notice. Pollard might have dismissed it had he not thought Rostivan’s behavior to be suspicious.

  There’s something off about him, Pollard thought. And I know something about being controlled by my master. I wonder if dear old Rostivan has a geas on him. It would be like Quintrel, from what I’ve heard. And the dumb bastard doesn’t even suspect.

  The thought of Rostivan being played for a fool lightened Pollard’s mood despite the biting wind and dropping temperatures.

  “So how about it?” Pollard challenged. “Why not put your mages to the test, and my soldiers will sweep up the scraps?” He had annoyed Rostivan enough, so giving him a sop did not bother Pollard. Not if he got what he wanted. And right now, from the look on Lysander’s face, Pollard could see that he was gaining points for getting Rostivan to deliver results Lysander desired.

  “Suits me,” Rostivan replied, and Pollard guessed that meant it suited Quintrel as well. Rostivan looked at Lysander as if attacking the Arkalas was his own idea. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my army alone is enough to destroy the Arkalas, but if there’s anything left, Pollard and Hennoch are welcome to handle the cleanup. I think you’ll see just what a valuable ally I’ve made in Quintrel and his mages.”

  For an instant, Pollard’s pride burned, but rationality quickly won out. Lysander is the tool, not the craftsman, Pollard reminded himself. Rostivan even more so. They’ll keep McFadden hemmed in while we wait out Reese’s fortunes and rebuild my army. If we’re lucky, by the time my troops are back up to full force, Lysander and Rostivan will have done all the hard jobs. Then all that remains is getting rid of them.

  Lysander looked at Rostivan. “You brought your soldiers against McFadden, the Solveigs, and Verner at the Citadel of the Knights of Esthrane. What did you learn?”

  Rostivan shrugged. “Together, they’re formidable. That’s one of the reasons I was open to this alliance. Tormod Solveig is a necromancer, although how great his power is, I’m not sure.”

  Lysander raised an eyebrow. “We knew he was a mage. But he’s been tight-lipped about the type of magic.” He looked to Pollard. “Can a necromancer harm your talishte? If so, their use to me is limited.”

  Pollard shook his head. “Talishte are not dead, they’re undead. The magic of the Dark Gift animates them. The Solveigs have far more to fear from talishte soldiers than the other way around.”

  Lysander regarded Pollard skeptically. “We shall see,” he said. “What of McFadden?”

  Pollard shrugged. “His army is growing, and Niklas Theilsson is an able general. With the backing of Voss and Penhallow, they pose a serious threat. With the additional support of the Solveigs and Verner—and the Wraith Lord’s meddling—he’s your most dangerous adversary.”

  To focus Lysander and Rostivan on eliminating McFadden, Pollard could set aside his pride, at least for a while. Long enough to get what he wanted. With luck, they’ll not only destroy McFadden and his allies, they’ll destroy each other at the same time, leaving the field open for us.

  “We’re agreed, then,” Lysander said. “The bulk of my forces will move north, toward the Solveigs. The Tingur will continue to harry McFadden’s allies where they can. Their destructiveness is unpredictable, but damaging enough that the enemy has no choice except to divert resources to protect themselves.”

  Rostivan nodded. “I’ll lead the attack against the Arkalas, then join forces with you against Verner and McFadden.”

  “We’ll finish up with whatever you leave behind of the Arkalas, and watch your flank,” Pollard said. “And my offer of talishte fighters remains open. You can be certain McFadden will have talishte among his troops.”

  Lysander thought for a moment, then gave a nod. “Very well. Send me no more than a dozen, and make sure they understand not to feed from my troops.”

  Pollard regarded him coolly. “They’re not dogs. Your troops have nothing to fear.”

  Lysander shrugged. “Perhaps not, if your master can so easily be taken prisoner and held against his will.”

  Pollard bristled, then brought his temper under control. I need Lysander. For now. Later, the ‘dogs’ can feed at will, once we have what we want.

  “I’d like my men back, unharmed,” Pollard said, since the meeting was clearly at an end.

  “All the hostages will be returned before anyone leaves the area,” Lysander said. “Have your soldiers send the hostages into the center area, so that everyone may see all six men alive
and well.” He gave a curt nod. “We each have our orders. Let’s get to it.”

  Despite his vow to keep his pride and his temper in check, Pollard was fuming as he walked back to his men. Lysander is just as much rabble as his Tingur, Pollard thought, striding across the dry grass. When the reckoning comes, it will be very sweet.

  His return was the signal for the two hostages to be released. Pollard watched them walk toward the center of the field, and kept an eye on Nilo and Hennoch, assuring himself that they were both unharmed.

  “Any signal from the mages?” Pollard asked. Not all of his mages were talishte, and he had brought two of his far-seers along with the personal guard, dressed as soldiers, to keep watch and alert him to the threat of ambush.

  Rieulf shook his head. “We’ve been watching, but there’s been no signal.”

  Pollard let out a long breath. “Very well.” He looked to Piet, a mage with the ability to scan minds at a distance. “What did you learn?”

  Piet’s gaze scanned the waiting soldiers around the meeting circle as each group waited for their hostages to rejoin them. “We’re beyond the range for my most accurate impressions,” he said quietly. “So I can’t tell you exactly whose thoughts I scanned, although I can separate the impressions by which group they belonged to.”

  “Yes, yes—just tell me what you heard.”

  Piet chuckled. “What I ‘heard’ from Rostivan’s troops was impatience, anger, annoyance at Lysander for an alliance they consider of less than equal partners.”

  Pollard nodded. “What else?”

  Piet considered for a moment. “Lysander’s men, on the other hand, are quite certain they are the victors of this arrangement, and some of them are already counting their spoils.” He shook his head. “Rostivan’s men are loyal because they believe him to be a competent leader with a good chance of success. With Lysander’s troops, it’s different. Perhaps he has a bit of charm magic himself. They look on him as a god, swoon at his orders, and consider themselves lucky to serve him.”

  “No wonder he’s been effective drawing the Tingur to his cause,” Pollard muttered. “Let’s see how much they ‘swoon’ when the time comes to clip his wings.”

  Nilo and Hennoch were nearly back by now, and Pollard wished they would hurry. His wounds from Reese made it difficult to move without wincing, and only his steel will kept him from betraying his pain. Beneath his armor, his skin burned from the tormenting rash, which grew worse with sweat and the chafing of armor. Pollard wanted nothing more than to go back to his rooms at Solsiden, drink a whiskey, and see if Kerr could do anything to ease his suffering.

  “Let’s not do that again, shall we?” Nilo said, still rubbing his wrists. Pollard could see the rope burn. Hennoch looked ready to fight, and Pollard was certain the indignity of being a hostage galled him, especially given his son’s precarious situation.

  “My apologies for the inconvenience,” Pollard said with a trace of sarcasm. “We got what we wanted. Lysander believes McFadden and his allies to be the main threat. Rostivan will lead the assault on the Arkalas, and we come in behind them to take care of the stragglers, minimizing the danger to our troops.”

  “They think we’re weak,” Hennoch growled. “That’s why they left the easy job to us.”

  Pollard chuckled. “When it’s to our advantage, they can think what they like. Our forces are reduced from what they were, what they will be again. In the meantime, we need to conserve our strength. Let Rostivan and Lysander take the losses and clear the path. I’ll take dented pride and live soldiers if the alternative is bragging rights and a pile of corpses.”

  Hennoch glowered, but did not contradict him, perhaps making a similar bargain to assure his son’s safety.

  As quickly as the group convened, they scattered, though it seemed to Pollard that the ride back to Solsiden was interminable. Every movement pained Pollard as the armor rubbed against his wounds. He could hear Reese screaming in the back of his mind, and he doubted the impression was imagined. Nilo said nothing, but Pollard was sure his second suspected. Pollard was adamant that Hennoch should know nothing of his weakness, and so he forced himself to sit tall on his horse, and move as if nothing was wrong.

  It won’t do for Hennoch to get any ideas, Pollard thought. We need him, and the only hold I have is fear.

  Several candlemarks later, when Pollard and his men had returned to Solsiden, Vedran Pollard stared into the fireplace as he sipped his whiskey. It dulled the pain, a little. Of late, that was the best he could hope for. Kerr had treated his wounds and bandaged him, and a warm dinner was some recompense for the cold day afield.

  He and Nilo had been over the events of the day during supper, and despite the fact that they both agreed it had been a coup for their side, Pollard found he could not muster a celebratory mood.

  Far too much left undone, too many places where the road could fork before we reach the destination, he thought. Age and experience had taught him to wait until a victory was firmly in hand before declaring the winner. All too often, the outlook could shift in a matter of moments. I prefer reasonable doubt to false certainty, he thought, taking another drink and letting the liquor burn down his throat. Safer in the long run.

  A knock at the door startled him. “What now?” he snapped, setting aside his drink and rising. Kerr opened the door, his expression apologetic.

  “M’lord Pollard, two of Lord Reese’s men to see you.”

  Pollard cursed silently, aware that talishte hearing would pick up even a muttered expletive. He looked up as two talishte strode into the room.

  “Vika and Demian,” Pollard said. He intentionally made eye contact, knowing that they disliked the fact that his kruvgaldur bond to their maker meant he could not be glamoured by them. “I’d wondered if you had gone into hiding.”

  Vika looked the older of the two, though Pollard knew they were each centuries old. Vika had been the wastrel son of a minor noble three hundred years ago, before Reese selected him to be among his courtiers. Demian had been a soldier, the younger son of a prominent noble house. His turning had come on the battlefield, when Reese had brought him across as reward for how fiercely he fought despite his wounds. Pollard knew that both men were among Reese’s inner circle within his brood, and he was equally certain their appearance here was not to inquire about his health.

  “You’ve heard about the ruling?” Vika asked.

  Pollard nodded. “The question is, can it be overturned?”

  Uninvited, Vika and Demian moved farther into the room, and Pollard moved to stand by the fireplace, partly for warmth and in part because it encouraged the two talishte to keep their distance. Some of Reese’s get had made it clear that while they accepted the need for human collaborators, they considered them mere servants. Reese himself swung between treating Pollard as a valued partner and not hiding the fact that Pollard continued to exist at Reese’s sufferance. Pollard was unsure to which group his visitors belonged, and was not in the mood to take chances.

  “Overturned?” Vika said. “Unlikely. The Elders aren’t in the habit of reconsidering their opinions.”

  “But the Elders are not of one mind,” Demian added. “We hear that there is dissention among the lords. It’s said that the vote was very close, and several members of the council were not pleased with the outcome.”

  Pollard gestured toward the two chairs that faced the fireplace, and the men sat down.

  “Tell me.” Pollard leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

  “The dealings of the Elders are not usually shared with mortals,” Vika replied.

  Pollard scowled at him. “After serving your maker for as long as I have, I’m no longer completely mortal. And since you came to me, I assume there was a purpose. If I’m to serve my lord, I need information.”

  Vika nodded. “Lord Reese has supporters among the Elders. We have heard that there is a schism among the Elders. Some would see the council disband entirely, believing it serves no purpose as the k
ingdom now stands.”

  “Would that help or harm our cause?” Pollard asked. Court politics had been difficult enough to follow. Talishte politics was even more convoluted, especially when the grudges could stretch over centuries.

  “Word has come to us from some of the old talishte that the fortress where Reese is imprisoned can be breached,” Demian said. “The Elder who serves as his jailer will not change his mind, but he cannot hope to stand against several of the other Elders if they make their move.”

  “And will they?” Pollard challenged. He was tired and cold and his body ached from wounds that were not his own. He was having a bad day, and the two uninvited guests were first in line to bear the brunt of it. “From what I’ve seen of talishte politics, it’s every man for himself. Why would they bother?”

  Vika chuckled. It was not a pleasant laugh. “Who’s to say that freeing Lord Reese would not be in the best interests of these Elders?” he asked. “Penhallow and the Wraith Lord have made enemies among some of the old ones with their support for McFadden. Their king making has stirred old anger.” He clucked his tongue. “The kind of king they would place on a throne would not align with our interests.”

  Pollard swore. “Of course not. Penhallow likes giving mortals real power. He wants them to limit us. I don’t doubt that doesn’t sit well with the Elders.”

  “Those with the power to attempt to free Lord Reese are biding their time,” Demian said. “The more that internal fighting weakens the mortal factions, the greater the likelihood our side will prevail.” He leveled a gaze at Pollard. “Your role in this is to ensure that the other warlords are too weak to pose a danger to Lord Reese when he returns.”

  “If you’d been paying attention, you would know that is exactly what I’ve been doing,” Pollard snapped. “I’ve set forces in motion that should set the other warlords at each other’s throats. It won’t be long.”

  Vika nodded. “Very good.”