Lynge sighed. “That’s a fine story. And one with a happy ending. Few of those these days.” He roused himself and stood.
“I shouldn’t be keeping you from your food, or from your rest. You’ve more than earned both,” he said, stretching. “I need to see to the billeting of our soldier guests,” he said, his tone coloring to indicate that he was somewhat ambivalent about the castle’s visitors.
Connor looked toward the window. “So it’s morning already?”
Lynge gave him a glance that Connor could not read. “It’s morning, m’boy, but it’s been two full days since Penhallow brought you to me. You’ve only just awakened. I feared, for a while, you might not.”
Well, then, Connor thought, that explains why I still feel like shit.
“Come sundown, I’ll let Lord Penhallow know that you’re awake,” Lynge said. “He’s been by each night to sit with you and do what he could to help you heal. I don’t know that I would have believed, before this, that a talishte would be so concerned for a mortal servant.”
“He’s a decent fellow, if you don’t count all the times he’s nearly gotten me killed,” Connor said. He looked at the window once more, saw daylight, and felt a surge of relief.
However badly I was injured, whatever Penhallow’s done to save me, he didn’t turn me, or I couldn’t see daylight, Connor thought.
Lynge chuckled, as if guessing his thoughts. “You’re still quite mortal,” he said. “Lord Penhallow said you might need to be reassured of that. Although, after all that’s happened, I’m not sure I’d mind having a talishte’s knack for survival.”
“Penhallow’s seen kingdoms fall like this before,” Connor said quietly. “The Wraith Lord has existed for a thousand years, and he’s seen the magic destroyed several times.” He met Lynge’s gaze. “Would you wish that? Or is once enough?”
Lynge shuddered. “Point taken. Once is quite enough.” He squared his shoulders and was again the unflappable seneschal. “Now I’d best be about my duties, and best you return to healing.” He had the barest trace of a smile. “I shouldn’t care to inform your new master that I’ve kept you from your rest.”
“No,” Connor said, stifling a yawn. “We can’t have that.” He gave one last look at the food, decided that it would still be there when he awoke, and was almost asleep when Lynge pulled the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I
’ll be glad to get back to Glenreith,” Blaine said, riding between Kestel and Verran. The lyceum was two days’ ride behind them, and they had most of a day’s ride left before reaching home. Two of the horses they had reclaimed from Pollard’s routed soldiers were tethered behind one of the wagons, while Borya and Desya rode the other two. Illarion drove one of the troubadours’ wagons while Zaryae drove the other. Piran, Borya, and Desya took turns riding in front and behind the group, keeping watch.
“I’ll be glad to get back to civilization – or what’s left of it,” Kestel said. She had bound up her red hair in a tight braid against the dust from the road, but all of their cloaks were streaked with mud and dirt. A cold wind swept across what had, not long ago, been farm fields and grazing pastures. Kestel had drawn her scarf over her face, and it muffled her voice.
“I’ll be happy for a warm supper and a pint or two of ale,” Verran sighed. He shrugged. “What can I say? Give me good food, good beer, and a lock to pick, and I’m a happy man.”
“Now that we have the last two of Valtyr’s maps, do you think we’re any closer to being able to bring back the magic?” Kestel asked.
“I’ve been asking myself that over and over,” Blaine said. “Maybe.” He let out a long breath. “I wish Penhallow and Connor would show up. Maybe they’ll know what we’re missing.”
“Riders, coming from the east!” Borya shouted.
Blaine reined in his horse as the group slowed. “How many?”
“Can’t say for certain from this distance, but I’d say at least ten, maybe more,” Piran replied. “And they’ve picked up speed.”
“More of Pollard’s men?” Kestel asked, frowning.
“No way to tell,” Borya called back. “But we’d better get going if we want to stay ahead of them.”
“Damn,” Blaine said. His gaze swept the countryside around them. It was wide-open land, so there were no forests or hills to shelter them. Blaine had no intention of being pinned down in any of the barns. “Assume they’re Pollard’s men. Let’s ride!”
Illarion and Zaryae called to their horses, and their pace immediately picked up. They were heading away from the riders and passed a large crossroads, so Blaine hoped against the odds that the riders might turn off, but a glance over his shoulder told him that the riders remained behind them and had increased their speed.
“They’re gaining on us!” Piran shouted. “Faster!”
Blaine spurred his horse to a gallop as the others did the same. Illarion and Zaryae snapped the reins, and their wagon’s horses moved more quickly than they would have thought possible. Still, a rearward glance told him that the riders had also begun to gallop, and all hope that the others were merely fellow travelers faded.
“We can’t keep up this pace forever,” Verran said, holding tight to his reins and leaning forward on his horse. “What happens when they catch up?”
“Let’s keep that from happening,” Blaine said, setting his jaw and spurring on his horse.
The rough road flew beneath their hooves. The cold air stung their faces, and steam rose from the horses’ breath. Yet with every length of road they covered, the riders drew closer. They were too far from Glenreith to hope that Niklas’s soldiers might ride to the rescue. A fight wasn’t likely to end well, and yet the chances of avoiding a battle were decreasing rapidly.
“Gryps to the right!” Desya shouted and pointed to the sky.
Eight of the dark-winged monsters circled in the pale-gray winter sky to the right of the road. Piran cursed fluently, and Kestel muttered several choice imprecations under her breath. With no apparent livestock nearby to sate the gryps’ appetite, it would not be long before they turned their attention to the travelers.
Another crossroads was fast approaching. They could veer left, away from the gryps, but the riders behind them could easily ride cross-country and cut over to confront them. Ride straight and they might avoid the gryps, although that was far from guaranteed. Turning right would take them directly under the gryps.
“Turn to the right!” Blaine shouted.
“Are you mad?” Piran demanded.
“Borya, Desya, Piran, grab the lanterns and get your arrows ready!” Blaine said.
“You want to fight the gryps?” Verran asked, astonished.
Kestel laughed, and it was clear from the look on her face that she had guessed Blaine’s intent. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she quoted. “It’s mad – but it just might work.”
They veered off so sharply that the wagon’s wheels lifted from the road on one side. The gryps saw their movement and winged their way toward the horses. Blaine tightened his hold on the reins as his horse protested riding straight toward the flying monsters.
Zaryae handed down two lanterns to Borya and Desya, who each readied an arrow. Piran rode up to join them and lit an arrow from theirs. The three men galloped to the front of the group as the gryps swooped toward them.
Three fiery arrows flew through the air. One arrow caught a gryp through the wing and it shrieked, careening away. Another arrow dug into the body of a second gryp, spattering the group with the creature’s dark blood and attracting the attention of one of its fellows, which began to chase the wounded gryp for an easy kill. A third arrow pierced the wing of another gryp, which gave a maddened screech and dove for the archers. Borya had loosed the arrow but Desya was first to reload, and his second shot nearly took the gryp through its neck. Wary, the injured gryp winged away.
“Keep firing!” Blaine shouted. “Make them go after easier prey!”
> Verran had a white-knuckled grip on his reins, but he had opened the bag of rocks he kept tied to the pommel of his saddle and lobbed missile after missile with enough accuracy to clip the nearest of the beasts in the body or wing, making them pull back. Kestel and Blaine had each drawn swords, although Blaine recalled his nearly fatal fight on the bridge to the lyceum and hoped it would not come down to combat. Illarion and Zaryae each had managed to light torches, which they brandished upraised, remembering the fate that had befallen Kata.
“It’s working!” Kestel cried. “Keep it up!”
The gryps had drawn away to a higher altitude, and while they were circling, they did not dive. The riders were not far behind, but they were so intent on catching up with Blaine’s group that they did not recognize the danger until the gryps shrieked and wheeled out of their formation, winging their way toward the riders. Too late, the riders realized their peril, but without ready access to fire and armed only with swords, they were soon beset by the gryps.
Blaine and the others did not wait to watch the aftermath. Fearing the gryps might still be hungry after finishing off the riders, Blaine’s group rode hard until they could not hear the screams of the dying men or the hunting calls of the gryps. Finally, they slowed their horses.
“I really, really don’t want to do that again,” Piran said, patting his horse, which was breathing hard.
Blaine gave him a sidelong look. “I’d rather outrun them than fight them again, any day.”
“I hope there’s some whiskey at Glenreith, Mick,” Verran said, “because after all we’ve been through, I’m going to need fortification.”
“Hear, hear,” Kestel seconded.
“Let’s get back to Glenreith in one piece, and I’ll be happy to serve up a whole cask of whiskey – or whatever we’ve got in the storeroom.”
“I’d even drink some of Adger’s rotgut,” Piran grumbled. “Take the chill off and calm my nerves.”
“After the turns we’ve taken, are we even on the right road for Glenreith?” Kestel asked.
Blaine stood in his stirrups and had a look around. The Great Fire had leveled some of the barns and mills that had once been landmarks, but the lay of the land was familiar. “We didn’t go out of our way. Most of the roads in these parts led toward the mill and the town farther down the river.” He pointed toward the east. “That way.”
Cold, hungry, and more unnerved by the attack from the gryps and the riders than he wanted to let on, Blaine would be grateful to get home without further incident. He had no doubt his companions felt the same. They were wary as they rode the next few candlemarks, but to Blaine’s great relief, neither riders nor gryps harried them.
Just before sundown, they reached a point in the road from which Blaine could spot the lights of Glenreith. “Almost there,” he said. “And I’m certain Edward can find us some stew or soup to warm our bones.”
“That’s an awful lot of lights for just the manor, Mick,” Piran observed. “Your aunt having a party?”
Blaine frowned and tried to make sense of what he saw. Finally, he began to chuckle. “Don’t blame Judith. I think Niklas expanded his camp to put a perimeter around the manor wall.”
“You’ve got good taste in friends, Mick, if I do say so myself,” Verran said and grinned. “And when we get back to your place, I’ll be the first to pour Niklas a drink.”
Kestel kicked him in the shin. “It’s Mick’s whiskey you’re pouring, you lout.”
Verran grinned more broadly. “All the better!”
“Is that all?” Niklas asked sarcastically as Blaine finished recounting what had happened since they had ridden for Riker’s Ferry and then to the lyceum.
They had gathered in the main parlor at Glenreith. Dawe and Mari sat near the fire. Judith was in one of the high-backed chairs, and Edward, as always, stood behind her. Niklas had sprinted up from the camp when word came that Blaine had returned, and now he leaned against a side table.
Blaine stood near the fireplace, and Kestel was curled in a nearby chair. Piran sat cross-legged near the hearth polishing his knives. Verran worked a rope finger puzzle over and over again. Illarion and the rest of the troupe were busy getting themselves and their wagons settled into a small camp within the outer wall.
Blaine grinned. “No. We also found these.” Kestel produced the new disks they had found as well as the map and fragment, and the wood-bound manuscript.
Niklas looked askance at him. “You’re looting libraries now?”
Blaine had maneuvered a small table into the center of the parlor, and Kestel laid out the new items as Blaine gave the others a quick recap of their importance.
“So because of the map, you think this Valshoa is a real place?” Judith asked.
“Vigus Quintrel thought so,” Blaine replied. “And it’s possible that the Knights of Esthrane did, too.”
Edward frowned. “The Knights were destroyed a long time ago.”
“Not all of them.” They turned to look at Niklas. He recounted the ghostly visitor he had glimpsed a few nights before.
“I wish Penhallow would show up,” Blaine said. “I have the feeling he has pieces that would fill in the gap.”
Geir had been listening from near the door to the parlor, casually on guard. “He and Connor are on their way to meet us here.”
Kestel looked up at Blaine. “Connor has the other disk and the second map,” she said, her eyes alight with excitement. “We don’t know what else they’ve collected. With those pieces, we could have everything we need.”
“It’s also possible that at least some of the Knights of Esthrane also sought refuge in Valshoa,” Geir added.
“Yeah, but whose side are the Knights on?” Niklas asked. “The man I saw – if he wasn’t a ghost – could have been protecting us or threatening us.”
“Maybe Penhallow will know,” Geir said.
“Speaking of Penhallow,” Niklas said, “the spy we interrogated seemed to believe Penhallow had some connection with Traher Voss, the mercenary.” He grinned. “Voss is the second craziest soldier I’ve ever heard about.”
Blaine shot him a questioning look. “Who’s the craziest?”
Niklas looked over to where Piran was sitting. “He is.”
Kestel stood and sashayed over to Piran and made a show of lazily running her fingers across his bald head. “Piran, dear. If we’re really heading into battle, perhaps now is a good time to tell us what actually landed you in Velant.”
Piran leveled a glare at Niklas. “It’s not a story for proper company.”
“We’re not proper company,” Judith informed him. “Please continue.”
Blaine grinned. Even he had never heard Piran’s story, and from the look on Niklas’s face, it was going to be interesting.
Piran set his sword aside. “I was fighting with a regiment near the border of the Lesser Kingdoms. We were supposed to put down a local rebellion, but the conditions were terrible. The mountains were damn near impassable, the locals were hostile, and we ended up foraging for food because our supply line got cut.”
Piran sighed. “Our captain was a soft little fop who didn’t want to leave his tent. The only time he ever saw battle, he peed himself. He refused to give the order to fall back because he didn’t want to lose face, and meanwhile, we were hungry and the lines were closing around us.”
He grimaced. “We ended up having to fetch water from a stream, and the water gave us all dysentery.”
Kestel snickered, and Piran glared at her. “You don’t understand. Our regiment got the runs, down to the last man, worse than your worst nightmare. We couldn’t stop shitting.” He gave a contrite glance in Judith’s direction, but Judith merely nodded.
“So there we were, surrounded by hostile mountain people, cut off from reinforcements, and no one could keep their pants up because of the runs. And the bloody locals attacked,” Piran recounted.
“I don’t see how that got you court-martialed,” Kestel said.
&n
bsp; Niklas was laughing so hard he was almost doubled over. “Tell her the rest of it, Piran.” He looked at the others. “This is why he’s a legend in the king’s army.”
Piran sighed. “Our bloody fop of a captain wouldn’t give the order to attack. I didn’t want to die. So I clobbered him with the pommel of my sword, stole his cloak, hat, and horse, and led the troops out.” He cleared his throat. “The men followed, but they were all still sick as dogs. We fought the battle pantless.”
“You what?” Kestel whooped.
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