War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga

by Gail Z. Martin

  Somewhere in the distance, Niklas heard Rostivan’s commanders shouting for order, screaming at their soldiers to stop killing each other. Heedless, the soldiers fought with deranged fury, their bloodlust not satisfied until their opponents had been chopped to bits.

  As suddenly as it began, the fog lifted from the crazed soldiers’ eyes and they looked about themselves in utter confusion and horror, finding themselves maimed, bleeding, and soaked with the blood of their slaughtered comrades.

  “Now!” Niklas shouted, descending on the enemy in their moment of disorientation, finishing the job their madness had begun. Niklas waded into the fray with the grim determination of a butcher culling the herd. His sword swung like a reaper, splashing him with gore. He paused only long enough to wipe the blood from his eyes.

  The bewitched soldiers gave little resistance as the realization of their treason sank in. Cursing and wailing like damned men, most of the soldiers either rushed unarmed at Niklas’s soldiers or fell on their own swords.

  “Poor, sorry bastards,” Ayers muttered.

  “Pity them as much as you want, as long as they’re dead,” Niklas replied. A space had cleared in the fighting as Rostivan’s troops fell back, desperate to avoid whatever had entranced their fighters. Snow fell thick and fast, whipped by wind that had grown bitingly sharp.

  Niklas yelped in alarm. He had been shivering with cold a moment before; suddenly his skin was as hot as if he had been in the summer sun, blistering with fever. Ayers felt it, too, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Niklas was panting, eyeing the falling snow longingly, wishing he could breathe it all into him to slake the raging fever. He stumbled, vision blurring, his tongue swelling in his dry mouth.

  “Torven take my soul!” he murmured, sure that he would burst into flames. This is how we die, he thought, broiled in our own juices when our blood boils. Damn the mages!

  From what Niklas could make out, the entire front line staggered with fever. Niklas fell to his knees, expecting at any moment to hear the swish of a sword’s blade angled at his neck.

  A frigid wind swept across the bloody field, swift enough to nearly take men off their feet. Shapes rode the wind, and in his fevered haze, Niklas thought perhaps the spirits of his family had come to gather him to the Sea of Souls.

  The figures grew closer, and Niklas gasped. These revenants had not come to collect the dead. They came to reap the living. Their forms grew more distinct, and Niklas realized that they wore the battle armor of the recent and long-gone past. Some of the ghosts bore their death wounds. Others were ragged skeletons with sundered armor. Rage animated all of them.

  Primal instinct made Niklas duck as the spirits swept past, but they did not come for him. The ghost horde rushed toward Rostivan’s men like a flood, clawed hands grasping, teeth chattering, hungry for vengeance.

  “They can’t hurt us! They’re just ghosts!” one of Rostivan’s men shouted. He turned to face the spirits, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet, sword held in front of him.

  “Come and get me,” he challenged.

  They came. The gray ghosts swept over the soldier, shrouding him in their mist. The fighter began to scream, terrified shrieks that continued as his skin lost its color, fading to the gray of the dead. His screams filled the air until the breath was gone from his lungs, and the spirits dropped him behind them as they passed.

  Another soldier fell, and another. The gray tide grew dark like the storm clouds overhead, and as it darkened, the ghosts became more solid, as did the weapons they carried. Beyond harm, beyond pain, the spirits advanced. The pounding of marching feet filled the air.

  Niklas struggled to his feet and shouted for his men to fall back, giving the ghosts room to attack. A few of his soldiers, pale with fear, ran for their lives. Most retreated warily, watching the ghosts with suspicion.

  The spirits of the dead marched forward, ignoring Niklas’s soldiers altogether. Niklas saw the centuries represented in the different styles of their armor. Some looked to be the recent dead, others wore the armor of a generation or two past. Many were outfitted in clothing from centuries before, and a few might have been barbarian fighters from a time before Donderath was civilized enough for such things as uniforms.

  On and on and on the dead came. No battle cries rose from the revenant soldiers, just an uncanny silence remorseless in its purpose. The living screamed and cursed, powerless against the onslaught. Odd that when the ghosts passed me, I felt no tingle of magic in the air, Niklas thought, yet now the air feels charged with power.

  Maybe the ghosts don’t need magic, he mused. Maybe that’s Rostivan’s side, trying to muster up enough magic to lay the ghosts to rest.

  The wind had grown vicious, whipping the snow that was falling and the snow already on the ground. Against that background, the gray ghosts seemed even more fantastical. Niklas was tempted to dismiss them as yet another illusion, but the screams of dying men—men whose very solid, bleeding bodies fell at his feet—persuaded him of the spirits’ reality. Rostivan was in full retreat, yet the ghosts pursued him, moving as fast as a swift courser, easily overrunning men on foot.

  Snow masked the distance, but screams carried on the cold air. Hearing the massacre when he could not see it made the slaughter more terrifying. Niklas was surprised that anything could terrorize him anymore. The carnage mortal soldiers had worked upon each other no longer distressed him, although it haunted his dreams. The charge of the dead soldiers almost made him feel sorry for the enemy. Almost.

  “Fall back!” Niklas ordered. Until the storm cleared, fighting would be folly, at least for mortals. The ghost soldiers had Rostivan’s troops in retreat, and evening would soon fall. Though it was technically spring, the days were still short and the weather wintry.

  “Do you think the storm is mage-sent?” Ayers said, struggling out of the winds to appear near Niklas.

  Niklas shrugged. “If we believe the mages, they say no one can do much to affect the weather now, between how the magic doesn’t work right yet and the reaction from what was done before.” The storm clouds made it difficult to gauge time, since the sky seemed dark enough for sunset. Niklas guessed that it was late afternoon, still too early to count on talishte help.

  Ayers nodded. “Just wondering, that’s all. Can’t imagine we’ll see more fighting tonight, between the ghosts driving Rostivan’s men off and it soon being time for the talishte to rise.”

  “That’s my thought,” Niklas agreed. “We’ll fall back to camp and prepare for tomorrow, with double guards on duty in case the snow stops and Rostivan plans a midnight raid.”

  “Already working on it,” Ayers said with a grin. “And tonight, a hot cup of fet will taste mighty good. Damn, even cook’s stew will taste good, as long as it’s hot.”

  “I rather fancied whiskey myself,” Niklas said. His arm ached where he had taken the injury, and the rest of his body let him know it had been hard used. Real luxury would be a steaming-hot bath, but there would be nothing like that unless he survived and returned to Glenreith. The thought of it made him smile.

  “Mages have already asked to meet with us once camp is set,” Ayers reported.

  Niklas nodded. “Very good. Saves me having to round them up. What else?”

  “Trying to figure out how many we lost today,” Ayers replied. “A lot, but not as bad as it could be.”

  “We’ll regroup with the mages, and the talishte when they rise, and figure out tomorrow’s strategy. I’ll send talishte messengers to Blaine with an update and see if that changes his orders for us.” Niklas gave a feral grin. “Maybe the talishte can even pay a nighttime visit to Rostivan’s folks, following up on the ghosts.”

  Ayers chuckled. “I like the way you think.”

  Camp was hurriedly pitched, just enough to hold the line and protect soldiers from the elements. The real camp was several miles away, back where they had begun. Niklas was not about to give up the land they had fought to take in
ch by bloody inch. And he was certain that despite the storm and the ghosts, Rostivan had withdrawn only as far as he had to, with the intent to regain ground lost as soon as possible.

  Niklas’s tent when they were in the field was the same size as those of his soldiers. His only luxury was that unlike his men, Niklas had the tent to himself. A bedroll, a small brazier, and a trunk were all the goods he allowed himself for the forward camp, less to strike when circumstances required hasty action. Unlike his campaign tent, there was no table, no folding chairs, so his guests had to sit on the ground.

  There was, however, a bottle of whiskey. Niklas passed it around for his guests to pour a finger or two into their tankards to warm the blood on such a cold night.

  “What in Raka happened today?” Niklas asked. “What was magic, and what was dumb luck?”

  His three senior mages—Rikard, Leiv, and Zaryae—sat facing him. Nemus remained outside, watching the magic for any sign of an attack. Ayers was to his right, and Geir had arrived after nightfall with updates from Mirdalur and from the other front, where Blaine and his allies battled Lysander and the Tingur.

  “Rikard and one of our younger mages can move objects from a distance,” Leiv said. “So they threw some fireballs and rocks, anything to cause a problem and spook the horses.”

  “We had some large rocks thrown at us,” Niklas said, frowning.

  Rikard raised his hands, palms out, to forestall blame. “Not us, although Quintrel’s mages may have copied, or had the same idea themselves. We made sure to work our mayhem a distance from our troops.”

  “You can thank Zaryae for that,” Leiv said. “She’s got an amazing gift for far-sight.” He was a bookish fellow, more suited to copying manuscripts than serving on the front lines of a war, yet he had volunteered to accompany the troops without hesitation. He looked simultaneously frightened and amazed to be there. Straight, dark hair stuck out at angles beneath the hood of his robe, and his slightly crooked nose gave him a winsome appearance.

  “Did one of you call the ghosts?” Niklas asked.

  The three mages shook their heads. “No. But we knew they were coming.”

  “Explain,” Niklas asked. He was tired and sore and cold, and his patience was at an end.

  Zaryae frowned, pausing as she searched for words. “The dead are aware of the living,” she replied. “Not all spirits pass over to the Sea of Souls, or wander the Unseen Realm. Many remain here, for a variety of reasons. Some places are more haunted than others. This land,” she said, gesturing palm up to indicate the valley, “has seen warfare since men first came to the Continent.”

  Zaryae’s expression was sad. “The ghosts watch and listen. Magic affects them. I can’t dismiss the possibility that the Wraith Lord may also have influence. Whatever the reason, they chose sides.”

  “They drove Rostivan back,” Ayers said. “And they killed quite a few of his men. Can they do it again?”

  Zaryae looked as if she were listening to something the rest of them could not hear. Then she shook her head. “No, at least, not on the same scale. They expended nearly all of their power today. It will take them quite a while to build it back up again.”

  “It helped that one of the artifacts is a ghost portal,” Rikard said.

  “A what?” Niklas snapped.

  Rikard nodded patiently. “They aren’t common. I’d heard of them, but never seen one. It’s a rather plain-looking piece, like a lady’s hand mirror, only with the right magic it can open a door to the other side and make it easier for spirits to pass from that side into our side.”

  Niklas felt a chill down his spine. “It’s secured?” He asked. “There may be less friendly ‘things’ waiting to get through.”

  “We thought of that,” Leiv said. “And we have it sealed and guarded. That’s one of the reasons Nemus isn’t with us. He’s on watch.”

  Niklas nodded. “Very well. Go on.”

  “The ghosts aren’t pleased with Quintrel,” Zaryae said. She held up a hand to forestall protests. “I’m not a necromancer, and I can’t easily communicate with spirits. It’s more like I listen in to conversations I can’t help hearing.”

  “Why?” Ayers asked. “What’s Quintrel done?”

  Zaryae shrugged. “I’m not entirely certain, because the ghosts had no need to explain it to each other. But I gather that he has sacrificed men for magic, sent them to their deaths needlessly. Those spirits are restless and angry. The dead talk among themselves. We may find them to be valuable allies, if the opportunity arises.”

  “What of the talishte?” Niklas asked, looking at Geir.

  Geir gave a quick recount of how the battle had fared for Blaine, the Solveigs, and Verner, and caught them up on the progress at Mirdalur. “So the chamber is ready, as soon as Blaine is able to bring his new Lords of the Blood,” he finished.

  “Are Dolan and the others sure it’s safe?”

  Geir gave a short, harsh laugh. “Safe? No working of this kind is safe. But everything the mages can find leads us to believe that if Blaine brings his twelve new Lords to the chamber, magic can be solidly anchored once more.”

  Niklas sighed. “Sad when that’s the best we can get, but I imagine we’ll need to settle for it.”

  “There’s a bit more news to tell,” Rikard said. “We’ve stumbled on some things you’ll want to hear.”

  “Oh?” Niklas asked. The day had gone hard on him, and though the healers bound up his wounds and a good dinner along with a belt of whiskey took the edge off, he was exhausted.

  “Leiv is a telepath,” Rikard said, and Leiv nodded in agreement. “It’s not a flamboyant magic, or one that’s easy to use in the press of battle, but important nonetheless.”

  Niklas turned to Leiv, who seemed to shrink under scrutiny. “What did you learn?”

  “I can’t throw fire or rocks,” Leiv began nervously, “but I can throw thoughts. That’s what I do. I can rummage about in other people’s heads, plant ideas, that sort of thing. So I spent most of today trying to find and attack Rostivan and his generals,” the mage said.

  Niklas smiled. “I like what I’m hearing. Go on,” he encouraged.

  “It’s difficult to pick the right people in such a crowd,” Leiv said apologetically. “But I made enough contact to do a bit of damage. I planted the idea with some of Rostivan’s ranking men that you had dangerously powerful mages who could kill with their minds.”

  Leiv’s cheeks colored. “A bit of an exaggeration, that. But I didn’t figure it would hurt to inspire a little fear.” He chuckled. “I touched their minds later, and everything that went wrong for them they figured we had hocused for them, whether we did or not.”

  Ayers gave a sharp laugh. “I like the sound of that.”

  Leiv nodded, gaining confidence. “Rostivan himself was difficult. He moved around a lot, and he’s got unusually high shields, which makes him hard to read. But I picked up something that I think is important.” He licked his lips. “Quintrel is controlling him with magic—dark magic.”

  Niklas leaned forward, fully attentive. “Oh?”

  “Quintrel has somehow bound a divi,” Geir answered. Everyone swiveled to look at him. “Dolan told us this when he returned from Valshoa.” He paused. “It’s an ancient spirit that never should have been summoned,” he added. “Quintrel thinks he’s controlling it, but odds are, the divi is riding Quintrel.”

  “What does that have to do with Rostivan?” Niklas asked, confused.

  “Rostivan doesn’t know he’s being controlled,” Leiv put in. “Quintrel’s given him something that lets the divi ‘manage’ Rostivan’s thoughts and actions.” He met Niklas’s gaze. “That means that Quintrel is the power to be reckoned with, not Rostivan,” he said. “And from the glimmers I’ve picked up from Quintrel, you can count on him being insane.”

  Niklas exchanged a glance with Ayers. “Well now,” he said. “That’s interesting.”

  “We’re working on how to break the divi’s hold on Rostivan
,” Rikard said. “It’s possible that Quintrel has also used some of the divi’s power to put Lysander in thrall.” He shrugged. “We’ve heard rumors, of late, that conversations were had.” He shrugged. “It’s logical.”

  “Can you do it?” Ayers asked, eyes bright with interest. “Can you disrupt whatever this divi-thing is doing?”

  Rikard grimaced. “That’s the hard part. We’re working on it. Divis are old and powerful. They’re known for being slippery. We don’t have our manuscripts out here in the field, but we’re doing what we can.”

  Niklas nodded. “Make it happen. If Rostivan finds out he’s been in thrall to Quintrel, we just might see them turn on each other, and wouldn’t that be a pretty picture?”

  “There’s one more thing you need to know,” Zaryae said.

  Something in her voice gave Niklas pause. He looked toward her, and met her gaze. “What?”

  “I touched the minds of Rostivan’s mages,” Leiv said. “Just briefly.” He met Niklas’s gaze. “I picked up fear, distaste, and betrayal.”

  “Betrayal?” Niklas asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Leiv nodded. “If I’m right—and I only touched their minds for a moment—Rostivan’s mages are plotting against him. Perhaps even against Quintrel.”

  “Are you sure?” Niklas asked.

  Again, Leiv nodded. “Yes. I saw a conspiracy. Rostivan is being undermined. We need to be ready to seize the moment when it happens.”

  “And hope that whoever’s behind the plot doesn’t have something worse in mind,” Niklas added.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  WATCH YOURSELF! MORE GRYPS ARE COMING!” Blaine shouted a warning to Piran and his men as the leather-winged predators circled their soldiers. The gryps shrieked, calling and answering to each other, skirling on the air currents as they sized up their prey. With wings that were easily as far across tip-to-tip as a tall man, sharp talons, and a beak meant for rending meat, the gryps were nightmare creatures left over from the wild-magic storms.