War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga

by Gail Z. Martin

  “If he wishes for death so badly, let him activate the piece once more,” Quintrel said diffidently. “Do it.”

  The talishte made a gesture, and the prisoner stared at the cursed artifact as if looking into the maw of Raka itself. Then against his will, the mage began to call the armor to him, and in the middle of the call, Carensa sensed that the mage gave up resisting, realizing that he was about to gain the death he coveted.

  Carensa saw understanding dawn on the mage as he stared at the gauntlet and vambrace, realizing that it had gained power by consuming his flesh and that he could command it, but only at the cost of his skin and sinew.

  “Come,” he ordered the cursed armor, and the vambrace skittered over to him, using its metallic fingers to move it across the floor. The mage held out his blackened arm. “Fit,” he said, and the armor backed itself onto his arm, adjusting itself to the lack of flesh and muscle, becoming a metal hand and arm.

  “How long can the piece remain like that?” Guran asked, curious despite his revulsion. “That level of magic has to take a toll.”

  “That would be good to know,” Quintrel mused, as if the question had not already occurred to him. “A warrior might be willing to forfeit an arm for a better replacement. But I wonder how hard a bargain the piece drives?”

  Within fifteen minutes, the captive had begun to go gray in the face. Another ten minutes, and his breathing became ragged. Gradually, his face grew gaunt, and as Carensa stared in sickened fascination, she realized that little by little, the mage was growing thinner.

  “It’s consuming him,” she murmured.

  Guran nodded. “It’s meant for onetime use, I wager. A desperation weapon, when the warrior knows he’ll die one way or the other and just wants to take the enemy down with him.”

  “Can he release it? Would that change anything?” Carensa asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The dying mage heard her, locked his gaze with hers, and she saw that he had no desire to release his spell when death and freedom were quite literally within his grasp.

  “Probably not,” Guran replied. “Even if he wanted to.”

  Carensa had seen bodies charred by flames after the Great Fire. In the tombs and caves where she and Quintrel had hidden as he took her to refuge in Valshoa, she had looked on the mummified corpses of the long dead. The mage in the warded circle reminded her of those corpses as his cheeks hollowed and his skin wrinkled over shrunken limbs. His eyes were sunken, and the flesh of his face pulled tight and thin over bone.

  With a final moan, the mage fell back, and the skin withered like leaves in a fire until all that remained was blackened bone, and the gauntlet and vambrace clattered to the stone, empty and sated.

  Quintrel released the warding, and used the wooden tongs to remove the deadly armor. “A pity,” he said. “The curse limits its usefulness.” He set the piece to the side. “I’ll inform Rostivan not to waste his best men on it.”

  At Quintrel’s nod, the same talishte guard removed the mage’s skeleton, and stepped back with the other undead soldiers. Quintrel returned to the table of artifacts, and returned with an amulet of brass on a braided leather strap. He gestured toward the next mage to become a victim of the artifacts, and once again a talishte guard removed the blindfold, glamoured the mage, and released his bonds.

  “I suspect that I know what this artifact does,” Quintrel said. “Just not its limits.” He shook his head as the talishte began to herd the captive toward the warded circle.

  “No need for that, not this time. But I would like two of you to hold him, one on each arm,” Quintrel said. He dangled the amulet in front of the lead talishte. “Take this and fasten it around his neck,” he instructed.

  He clucked his tongue when the talishte hung back. “You’re undead. This particular amulet has no power over you.” The talishte gave him a skeptical look, then took the piece by its leather straps and fastened it around the prisoner’s neck. Despite the compulsion, the captive mage looked terrified, having heard if not seen what happened to his former companions.

  “Hold his arms out,” Quintrel ordered. “And hold him tightly.” The two talishte soldiers each took a wrist and stretched the mage’s arms out, holding him open and vulnerable.

  Quintrel looked to the lead guard again. “Run him through.”

  The talishte raised an eyebrow, then drew his sword. Carensa gasped as the soldier plunged his blade deep into the mage’s belly, tearing through skin and organs, ripping through to the other side.

  “Vigus, no!” Carensa cried out despite herself as the mage sagged in the hold of his captors, blood streaming from the wound.

  “Watch,” Quintrel said.

  Carensa felt bile rise in her throat as she stared at the mortally wounded mage. The brass amulet glowed amber, and as Carensa watched, the flow of blood stopped and the skin began to knit itself back together.

  “Again, in two places this time,” Quintrel ordered, and the soldier sprang forward, driving his sword through the man’s naval and out through his spine, then withdrawing his bloody blade and sliding it cleanly through the ribs and heart.

  The mage’s body jerked in spasms. He screamed in pain, his legs useless beneath him, his ragged clothing sodden with blood. Once more, a heartbeat later, the amulet glowed again, stronger now, bathing the man’s body in its amber light. Strength returned to his legs, and as Carensa listened with her magic, beneath the rapidly healing skin, the ravaged heart returned to its steady beat.

  “You’ve proven your point, Vigus,” Guran growled.

  Quintrel regarded him with disappointment. “It’s not enough to know a weapon’s strengths and capabilities,” he said archly. “One must also know its point of failure.”

  “Cleave him shoulder to hip,” Quintrel ordered. Carensa turned to hide her face against Guran’s chest, and Guran wrapped his arms around her, shielding her from having to watch as the talishte brought his sword down with undead strength and the terrified mage screamed in panic. Carensa winced as the cry was cut short, struggling not to launch herself at Quintrel in a futile gesture of fury.

  This time, it took the amulet longer. “He’s healing,” Guran murmured. “It’s like it never happened.”

  Carensa drew a ragged breath and let it out again, calling on all her limited magic to sustain her and strengthen her. She gently shook off Guran’s protective embrace with a nod of thanks, and turned to see the captive mage begin to breathe again, regaining his footing, still held in the iron grip of the two impassive talishte guards.

  “Interesting,” Quintrel mused. “Take off his head.”

  The talishte hesitated. “Even we cannot withstand such a blow,” he warned Quintrel.

  Quintrel shrugged. “The Dark Gift is just one type of magic. Let’s see what the talisman can do.”

  “As you wish.” The talishte strode forward, and the mage attempted to stand to his full height, awaiting and accepting his executioner. With one clean stroke, the talishte swung his sword in a silver blur, and the captive’s head fell backward as his body sagged forward, blood spurting from the severed artery, spraying his blood-soaked captors with gore.

  “Quickly,” Quintrel ordered. “Lay him down and put the head back into place.”

  The talishte did as they were ordered, arranging the headless body on the floor and laying the severed skull atop the ruined neck. The amulet hung in place, blood-soaked and dull, its amber glow gone. They waited for several minutes, but the amulet appeared to be as dead as the mage himself.

  “Well,” Quintrel said with a shrug. “At least we know its limits.”

  Carensa glanced toward the table and then to the one remaining mage. As if he guessed her thoughts, Quintrel chuckled. “There’s no need to test the other artifacts,” he said. “Several of them have no magic at all now, whether or not they had power previously. The others hold a trifling amount, not worth the risk of using for what little benefit they might present.”

  “What do you mean to do with him?” G
uran asked, with a nod toward the last captive mage. The man had curled into a fetal position, sobbing quietly, trembling so hard Carensa could see the shaking from where she stood.

  “Don’t worry,” Quintrel assured Guran. “He has a purpose.” At his nod, the talishte soldiers hauled the last mage to his feet.

  “Bring him here,” Quintrel instructed them when they had removed the blindfold and glamoured the captive. Under the talishtes’ compulsion, the prisoner walked on his own to where Quintrel stood next to the large divi orb.

  “Kneel,” Quintrel ordered, and the man fell to his knees, so that his head was on level with the sphere with its monstrous, withered hand.

  “Open your eyes wide,” Quintrel instructed the prisoner. “And behold.”

  “What are you doing, Vigus?” Carensa asked, afraid of the answer.

  “Giving him his freedom,” Quintrel replied as if the answer were obvious.

  The large orb flared, and so did the smaller sphere on its strap at Quintrel’s throat. Carensa saw their light reflected in her master’s eyes, or perhaps, shining through them from inside, where the divi’s rot had taken hold. The kneeling prisoner’s body went rigid, bathed in a foxfire glow, and hoarse screams tore from the man’s throat.

  Quintrel stepped back, and Carensa saw that the light shone on the prisoner’s whole form, which had begun to shimmer and waver. The screaming stopped. The captive’s body grew less solid, flattening as if it were a drawing on parchment, stretching and narrowing so that soon it was a pulsating column of light.

  The divi orb surrounding the withered hand receded, and the light streamed in, absorbed by the severed bone and withered skin, feeding the divi with the mage’s death. Satisfied, the crystal swelled to encase the hand once more in its solid orb, and the light winked out and the captive mage was gone.

  Guran took Carensa’s hand, lending her his strength and support. She could feel the stiffness in his muscles, and knew he reined in the same deadly anger she strained to control.

  Not yet, but soon. Carensa was not sure whether the thought was her own or whether Guran was able to send his thoughts to her through their clasped hands, but she nodded her understanding.

  Once and for all, Carensa vowed. For these deaths and all the others, no matter the cost, I will find a way to stop Vigus and make him pay.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  DAMN THE MAGIC!” NIKLAS MUTTERED.

  Midday, and the battle was taking its toll. Bodies covered the valley so that it was hard to step without putting a foot onto a corpse. Blood made the ground sticky in some places and slippery in others, and the whole thing smelled like an abattoir.

  Bodies hung on angled pikes, a macabre forest of bitter fruit. Not a candlemark before, Niklas had seen dozens of his men charge ahead at full speed, believing they were ambushing a feckless group of stragglers. They ran at full speed, swords raised, a victory cry on their lips. Magic hid the truth. Only when the sharp stakes ripped into their chests and savaged their bellies did the illusion waver and fail. By then, dead eyes no longer saw, dying soldiers were past caring.

  “Be glad magic comes with limitations,” Ayers said, sounding just as weary.

  “It didn’t seem very ‘limited’ when they were gigging themselves like frogs,” Niklas muttered.

  The battlefront was shifting. Several candlemarks’ hard fighting drove Rostivan’s soldiers back, and Niklas’s mages were making a counterstrike of their own. Rikard was able to make blazing fireballs appear out of nowhere, and he harried the enemy troops for as long as he could, scattering their formations and lighting unlucky soldiers on fire.

  “I hate battle magic,” Niklas growled. “Saw too damn much of it on the Meroven front.”

  “We all did,” Ayers said as they moved with the rest of the unit, re-forming for the next strike. “It’s sloppy. The mages can’t send a plague of boils or some such unless the two sides are separated, which means they can’t do much in a pitched fight. Using magic drains mages so badly they’re not good for long, and with the way the magic is now, even a strong mage can’t do what he used to.”

  Niklas grimaced. “Be thankful for that last bit. We’ve seen what mages can do.” He was thinking of the green ribbon of flame that descended the night of the Great Fire, magic that worked too well for the battle mages on both sides, and left a shattered, cindered Continent in its wake.

  Niklas heard the thud of distant catapults. “Incoming!” a voice shouted.

  Dozens of white, stone-like lumpy balls rained down on them from the enemy catapults. “What in Raka—” Niklas muttered.

  The ‘stones’ unfurled crab-like legs tipped in lethal claws, moving with infernal speed. Niklas and Ayers slashed with their swords, finding the beasts’ carapaces as hard as any cuirass.

  “Where in the Sea of Souls did the ranin come from?” Ayers yelped.

  “Nowhere good,” Niklas said grimly, swinging two-handed at the creatures. “They’re fast sons of bitches.”

  The ranin scuttled toward him, waving its dangerously sharp claws. Niklas jumped out of the way, but a claw tore at his pant leg, and he did not want to think what it would have done to soft flesh.

  “I can’t even find the eyes on those damn things!” Ayers said, slashing with his full might as two of the beasts came at him at once. Niklas was holding three at bay. Down the line, dozens of the miserable creatures had popped through, sent by Rostivan’s mages.

  “What in Raka are our mages doing?” Niklas demanded.

  “That, I think.” Ayers nodded in to his left, since he dared not stop fighting.

  Dead men jerked down from the pikes that killed them. Staggering like drunkards, a line of corpses shambled their way toward their last mortal task. Eyes unseeing, stumbling on their own entrails, the fallen soldiers slashed their swords at anything that moved in front of them.

  “We don’t have a necromancer,” Niklas said, wide-eyed.

  Ayers shook his head. “Don’t need one. Didn’t bring the dead back to life, just moved their bodies.” He gave a jaded chuckle. “Puts on a good show, doesn’t it?”

  “Enough of a godsdamned show right here,” Niklas muttered, bringing his sword down hard to snap the leg from one of the crab creatures. The ranin reared up on its other legs, slashing with a long foreleg, and gave an earsplitting shriek.

  All around Niklas, soldiers battled the shelled monsters with any weapon available. Niklas and Ayers kept hacking away with their broadswords, crippling the beasts to slow them down, then smashing their hard bodies with rocks.

  The crab-things burst apart, spraying a sticky ichor that burned like lye and stank like shit. Niklas swore as the foul liquid sprayed him, giving the dead ranin a kick for good measure.

  “We’re in for some weather,” Ayers said with a warning glance at the sky.

  “Figures,” Niklas said darkly, and just then, snow began to fall.

  Behind them, rank upon rank of soldiers fought down the last of the crab-things, or dispatched the dying enemy soldiers with a mercy strike.

  “Re-form!” Niklas bellowed, trying to shout above the wind. “Ready!” Voices carried his commands down the line, and footsteps pounded as soldiers got into position. “Charge!”

  Niklas and Ayers led the way, flanked by a sea of soldiers. Rostivan’s troops, gathering their nerve after the assault by the dead, closed ranks, angry and ready for vengeance.

  More catapult thuds echoed, and rocks pelted Niklas’s soldiers like rain. Tiny pebbles and stones the size of a man’s fist fell out of the sky. Men fell in their tracks, struck in the head, and did not rise. Niklas winced as a rock clipped him on the shoulder; hard enough he was certain he would bruise. Dodging the falling stones slowed their advance, buying Rostivan’s forces a few precious minutes.

  Niklas looked up to see one of Rostivan’s commanders blocking his way. Ayers skidded to a halt, facing a challenger of his own.

  “Cut off the head, and the beast dies,” Niklas�
�s opponent said with a nasty smile. “What becomes of your army if I cut off your head?”

  “Too bad you won’t find out,” Niklas muttered, lunging at the man before the other could strike. The exchange of a few sword blows made it clear the two were evenly matched in strength and skill.

  Niklas blocked a series of savage strikes meant to maim. Shouting his anger and cursing the wind, Niklas gave as good as he got, taking cold satisfaction in the blood his sword raised on his attacker’s arm.

  The enemy commander returned the favor, coming at him fast, with hard strikes that nearly knocked Niklas’s sword out of his hand. A few paces away, Ayers was holding his own with difficulty, struggling against an opponent who seemed to be enjoying every bone-jarring swing.

  Murderous focus glinted in his enemy’s eyes as Niklas dodged and parried, trying to get inside the man’s guard. An instant too late, he moved to block a swing and took a deep gash on his upper arm, sending a rush of blood down to soak his hand.

  Niklas drew back a step, ready to make a run at the officer, when his opponent froze, eyes glazed. As Niklas and Ayers watched in consternation, their attackers suddenly turned on each other with lethal frenzy, oblivious to the two men they had just been about to kill. They swung at each other like mad men as blood sprayed into the air, carried on the merciless wind, tingeing the snow crimson. The man Niklas had been fighting gave a roar and brought the blade down so hard he cut through the other soldier’s shoulder, sending the severed arm flying into the fouled snow. The maimed man scythed low, his blade connecting so hard with the officer’s thigh he hit bone.

  The same thing happened all around Niklas and Ayers: Enemy soldiers on the edge of victory suddenly attacked soldiers on their own side with mad-dog ferocity. Niklas had no magic of his own, but he had soldiered long enough to know it when he saw it. He and Ayers backed away from the fight.