CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE MAGES HAD THE SECOND BIGGEST TENT, after the healers. Four mages and an apprentice slept and worked in the tent, and it was crowded with bedrolls and folding worktables, two trunks, and a brazier large enough to heat a small cauldron. Dried herbs and berries hung from the tent poles, and a ring of salt in a shallow trench surrounded the entire tent. Niklas saw a bundle of feathers on one table and shied away instinctively after the onslaught they had faced.

I don’t think I’ll be able to see a songbird for a long time without cringing, he thought.

Two men were seated on the floor, their arms, wrists, and ankles bound securely. They looked worse for the wear, with large bruises purpling from the injuries they had taken in the fight. Niklas knew that the healers would have done as little as possible to keep them alive for questioning. No sense healing them completely if they’re just going to hang, Niklas thought, regretting the coldness of the decision even though he knew it was necessary.

The captives’ skin was ashen, their breathing shallow. They know they’re dead men. Just waiting for the sword to fall.

Geir was there, along with Ekkle, another of Penhallow’s talishte on loan to Niklas. Both talishte looked grim, and Niklas knew that reading prisoners was one of the tasks Geir disliked most. “Thanks for being here.”

Geir shrugged. “It’s war. Perhaps I should worry if my dislike of this kind of thing ever lessens.”

“Anything?” Niklas asked with a glance toward Rikard. He looked around. “I thought we had three prisoners?”

Rikard grimaced. “We did. That’s how we found out that their mage placed a geas on the men so that if they were magicked, their hearts stop.”

“Lovely,” Niklas muttered. “Does that apply to talishte?”

Geir shook his head. “What we do isn’t magic in the same sense. It’s what we are. So the odds are good that I can read them.” His glance told Niklas what he did not say aloud: They’re going to die anyway.

Niklas looked to the two battered prisoners. He guessed they felt the effect of their wounds even if Ordel had blunted their pain. A wide bandage around the abdomen trussed up a belly wound on one of the prisoners, but it was likely to sour and go bad quickly, and even the healers could not always prevent that. The other man slumped in his chair as if all the fight had gone out of him, waiting for the end.

“We can make this easy or hard,” Niklas said. “I have no desire to further your suffering. Tell us what you know of Nagok and his mages, of your army and its defenses, and you’ll go quietly in your sleep.”

“Never wanted to fight for that bloody freak in the first place,” the man with the belly wound muttered, his Meroven accent thick. “I was just getting my farm working again, after the Burning Times and the Downfall,” he said bitterly. “I even had a cow again. Got crops in the field. Wife’s expecting a baby. Then the skull helmets came,” he said, making the name a curse.

“You were conscripted?” Niklas asked.

The prisoner raised his face to meet Niklas’s gaze with a baleful expression. “Kidnapped’s the word for it. Hauled away like a criminal in front of my own wife, and her screaming and pleading. Thrown on a cart and locked in irons. What do I know of soldiering? Not much,” he said with a bitter glance at the blood seeping through his bandage. He shifted in his seat and grimaced.

“Whole wagonful of us they had, and more like us,” the prisoner said. “Fighting’s been bad all year, what with the warlords fighting among themselves after the Burning destroyed everything. We could hardly get a crop planted without it being ridden over by one army or another. Then Nagok showed up.”

“Where did he come from?” Niklas pressed. “Is that his real name? Where was he in the war?”

The prisoner shrugged. “Who knows? I’m just a farmer. But I can tell you what I’ve heard.”

“He’s buer, evil spirit,” the other prisoner spoke up. “Bad seed.”

“Tell me what you know about him,” Niklas urged. “You owe him nothing. He stole your lives from you. Tell me, and we’ll get your vengeance.”

“Nagok was a prince,” the second prisoner said, speaking the Common tongue with an equally strong Meroven accent.

“That’s a lie,” the first man argued. “The king and the princes died in the Burning Times.”

“Maybe not all,” the second man retorted. “How would we know?” He turned back to Niklas. “Nagok was sly. He was a bastard, so the crown wouldn’t have gone to him, except for the Downfall. They say he poisoned his rivals, rallied what remained of the army, and crushed anyone who opposed him.”

“Did he send the marauders, the ones who came over the border in the last few months?” Niklas asked.

“They were spies,” the first man answered. “Sent to find out how bad off Donderath was after the Burning Times. People said only our magic failed, that Donderath prospered. We heard there was food here, and that things were as they used to be, that only Meroven suffered from the Downfall.” His mouth twisted. “Those were just dreams.”

“So the marauders were sent to size us up, steal what they could carry, and report back to Nagok?” Niklas pressed.

“Some were,” the second prisoner replied. “Some were just bandits. If they didn’t join him, and Nagok caught them, he killed them and hung their bodies in the trees as a warning.”

“Is Nagok the only power in Meroven?” Ayers asked. “Are there other warlords?”

“There were.” The first prisoner met Niklas’s eyes, and Niklas glimpsed shadows of horrors in them. “His men went town by town, city by city. Just a few at first, more later. Anyone of account who survived the Burning Times they slaughtered. The men who fought back about being conscripted were burned alive with their families in their homes. He killed the other warlords and gave their soldiers the choice between allegiance and death.”

“Son of a bitch,” Niklas muttered.

“Indeed,” Geir said.

“Is Nagok a mage?” Ayers asked.

“He styles himself such,” the first prisoner replied. “Wears a headdress made of skulls and a breastplate made of bones. His walking stick is a leg bone, and his coat is made of men’s skins. His familiar is a black wolf nearly big as a bear, and they say he rides it in the night and can travel without being seen.”

“Is that what you’ve heard, or have you actually laid eyes on him?” Niklas asked.

“I’ve seen him,” the second man replied. “And he looks just like that. Has a cloak made out of scalps—hair of all different colors, taken from his victims.”

A thought occurred to Niklas. “Is he talishte? Is he a biter?”

The first prisoner cast a nervous glance at Geir and Ekkle. “No,” he replied. “But they say his allies are—and that his master is a dark god returned from the dead who promised him he could rule all of the Continent.”

“‘A dark god returned from the dead,’” Geir repeated cynically. “Now, who might think of himself that way?”

Niklas cursed. “Oh, it just figures.”

“Do you know the name of this ‘dark god’?” Ayers asked.

“He is the Hemlock King,” the second prisoner replied.

Geir swore. “That’s Thrane, all right. Just how long ago did the Hemlock King return from the dead and make Nagok his chosen one?”

“I don’t know,” the second prisoner admitted.

“We never heard of him before this year,” the first man said. “Doesn’t mean much, since the likes of me don’t know much of such things, but it wasn’t like we’d heard of him in tales told to frighten children.”

“Want to bet that Thrane’s been the power behind Nagok’s rise?” Geir said. “Sounds like his kind of plan. He’s probably been preparing since the Great Fire, looking for a strongman to be his figurehead. He’s been gone for seventy years, and now he saw his chance to come back and take it all.”

“So is Nagok a mage or just a general?” Niklas asked.

“He acts like a hocus, and dresses like one,” the second prisoner replied. “That’s all I know.”

“Who put the geas on you?” Dagur asked. “The curse that would kill you if I used magic on you?”

“Whenever they had rounded up a few dozen of us, they made us kneel, and Nagok and his ‘priests’ came out,” the first man said. “First, he blessed us, telling us we would be unstoppable in battle. Then, he cursed us, so that no one could use us against him. That’s all I know.”

“How far can Nagok throw his magic?” Niklas asked.

The second man shrugged, but the first prisoner thought for a moment. “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “Except that our captain told us Nagok was lord of all he could see.”

Ayers shrugged. “Might just be a turn of phrase.”

Dagur looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps not,” he countered. “Some magic is limited by the range of the senses—sight, smell, hearing. Especially for strong magic, a clear line of sight can be important.”

“Does that mean if Nagok stands on a mountain, he controls everything beneath him?” Ayers asked with alarm.

Dagur shook his head. “No. And if he could manage to be taken up into the clouds, he wouldn’t control the world,” he added. “Usually, that means line of sight on flat ground, to the horizon.”

“The birds that attacked us—was that Nagok’s doing?” Niklas pressed, knowing that time was running out for the two men.

“Aye,” the second prisoner replied. “He’s a beast caller. That’s how you know he’s buer, an Evil One. He called down the birds on you, and they serve him.”

“Does he call other animals?” Ayers asked.

The first prisoner nodded. “Wolves sometimes. Foxes. Wild dogs. Mountain cats. He can command them all.”

“Horses?” Dagur asked, frowning. “Farm animals? Pet dogs?”

The second prisoner shook his head. “Don’t think so. Never saw him do it. He can spook them, but if he could have called your horses, why didn’t he?”

“Well?” Niklas asked, turning to Dagur. “Why didn’t he?”

Dagur chewed his lip as he thought. “Horses and livestock and pet dogs have a bond with us,” he said. “They’re intelligent, and they accept us as their herd or pack. That might protect us. I’ll have to see what the manuscripts have to say about this.”

“How long can Nagok keep his hold over the animals?” Niklas asked.

“Don’t know how long he can keep it, but I ain’t never seen him hold it for long,” the first prisoner replied. “Maybe half a candlemark, or a little more. Not a full candlemark. Long enough to do some damage.”

A frightening thought occurred to Niklas. “Can he call the magicked beasts? The ranin and the mestids and the gryps?”

The second prisoner shivered. “Aye. Monsters, they are. And he calls them to him, makes them do his bidding. He’s buer, sure enough.”

“Those helmets you were wearing,” Ayers asked, “the ones that look like skulls. Why are they made that way?”

“Our captain said that Nagok’s god told him the helmets would give us strength in battle and make our enemies fall down in fear before us,” the first prisoner replied, his voice bitter. “Obviously that didn’t work.”

It was clear that both prisoners were fading fast. Just the effort of talking had taken a toll. “You’ve done a great service,” Niklas said. “Now I will keep my promise.”

Geir and Ekkle stepped forward and knelt so that they could look straight into the prisoners’ gaze, capturing them with compulsion. “Sleep,” Geir said. “Feel no pain. Your work is finished. Rest awaits.” The two prisoners slumped to the ground, eyes fluttering closed, breathing shallow.

“They may have nothing more to tell us,” Geir warned as he lifted the first prisoner’s wrist. Ekkle positioned himself next to the second man. “But we’ll see if there’s more they know.” He lifted the wrist to his mouth and carefully punctured the skin with his fangs, then fed until the prisoner took a last shuddering breath and fell still. A moment later, Ekkle finished his task.

Though Niklas had seen it done many times before, he could not avoid feeling a primal frisson of fear down his spine. Like the time I came upon a wolf feeding on the body of a dead man, Niklas thought. Or seeing the crows pick out the eyes of the corpses on the battlefield. Tomorrow, it could be me. And while he trusted Geir and the rest of Penhallow’s brood with his life, deep inside, something old and primitive whispered that he was prey.

After a few moments, Geir raised his head. “What he told you was the truth as he knew it,” he said. “I saw what he saw. Nagok’s army is sizable. On the other hand, many of the fighters appear to be conscripts like this man. So Nagok has a lot of soldiers who can’t fight well, but the sheer volume can be used to wear us down.”

Niklas swore. “That’s what Lysander did with the Tingur,” he replied.

“A cynical—but arguably effective—strategy,” Geir said with a shrug. “Something else of note. Although we’ve blamed the Meroven mages for the destruction of the Great Fire and the Cataclysm, from what this man has seen, I would say Meroven was damaged at least as badly, maybe worse. And the aftermath has been harsher for them,” he added. “Having Blaine McFadden emerge as the unifying force has brought a much different outcome than having someone like Nagok triumph.”

It was bad enough imagining what Donderath might have been like had Blaine lost against the warlords he had fought, Niklas mused. None of those scenarios presented a kingdom in which Niklas wanted to live. By all accounts, Nagok sounded even worse than Donderath’s most nightmarish prospects.

“What I saw was very similar,” Ekkle said. “Conditions in Meroven are much worse, and that makes their people more desperate—and more willing to follow anyone who promises to improve their lot, no matter what they have to do to get that improvement.” He paused, sifting through the thoughts and images he had read. “There appears to be a large talishte element in Meroven as well. The impressions are limited, just what the man glimpsed in Nagok’s camp, but if they aren’t all Thrane’s get, then they appear to be of like mind and tactics—and at least one of them is a rogue Elder, I’m certain of it.”

“Lovely,” Niklas said drily. “Maybe we know now where Thrane spent the last seventy years.”

Geir frowned, thinking. “I suspect that Thrane went farther than Meroven, if Penhallow and the Wraith Lord lost track of him. But he was always an opportunist. I wouldn’t doubt that he saw the potential the situation in Meroven presented and positioned himself to reap the benefits.”

“You’re going to need to let Penhallow and the Wraith Lord know,” Niklas said.

Geir nodded. “Penhallow will have an inkling through the kruvgaldur. And they are already considering ways to fight both Thrane and Reese.”

“I thought Reese was locked up for fifty years,” Niklas said, eyes widening.

“He was supposed to be,” Geir replied. “Thrane managed to free him. The arrangement was designed to keep Reese from escaping on his own. It was never set up to withstand a siege by talishte rescuers.”

“I hope Penhallow has a plan,” Niklas said. “Because we’re going to have our hands full with Nagok.”

“He does,” Geir replied.

“I’ll have the mages consider how you might use limited range and limited control time to your advantage,” Dagur offered. “Perhaps if we can find a way to clear the land of wildlife ahead of the troop movement, Nagok will have no animals to coerce,” he mused. “It’s a starting point, easier said than done, but that’s the way with all strategic magic. Simple to come up with a great idea, hard to harness the power in a way to make it happen.” He met Niklas’s gaze and gave a curt nod. “We’ll get right to work on it, and to finding ways to protect the camp as well.”

Niklas looked down at the two dead prisoners. “I’ll send soldiers to fetch the bodies. We’ll bury them in the morning, as best we can. Gods above, I hate this part of soldiering.”

“We need to let Blaine know what we’re up against,” Niklas said, turning to Geir. “See if he can move troops around to give us more men, if Nagok has an army of that size. And if Thrane’s tied up in all this, then we’ll be grateful for any support Penhallow can give us, because we can’t fight crazy mages and mad talishte on our own.”

Geir nodded. “I’ll make sure both messages are received. Penhallow has been focused on the talishte impact of Thrane’s return, and the dissolution of the Elder Council. I fear that both have grave implications for our kind, which are likely to spill over into the mortal world.”

“Implications?” Niklas asked, sure that he did not want something else to worry about, but equally certain he could not ignore the threat.

“Thrane seems intent on causing as much damage as possible, in as many ways as possible,” Geir replied. “Your attention is focused on Nagok, as it should be. Penhallow and the Wraith Lord are trying to stop a talishte civil war from happening.”

“Because the Elder Council split?” Niklas asked.

“For centuries the Elder Council existed to keep such things from happening,” Geir said. “Its purpose was to provide a court to settle disputes before they caused our kind to form factions. They knew that war among talishte was likely to cause large mortal casualties, and that would prompt a backlash that could be our downfall.”

“So Thrane shows up, splits the council, and forces everyone’s hand.” Niklas rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. What does Thrane hope to gain, after everything’s been burned to the ground?”

“Vengeance,” Geir said with a shrug. “Against everyone who refused to acknowledge his ‘greatness.’ Satisfaction, in knowing that he had the power to wreak such devastation. Thrane is an old talishte. He remembers a time before mortals organized such large kingdoms, when they were scattered and vulnerable. Easier to hunt, fewer protections. I suspect he wants to turn back time, return the world to the way it used to be, the way he best understands it.”

“As if I didn’t have enough to worry about,” Niklas replied. “Gods help us.”

Geir’s expression was somber. “I have found that the gods serve best when we take matters into our own hands.”

Ayers clapped Niklas on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “It’s been a hard day. You need a little more whiskey and a good night’s sleep. I can make sure you get one of those. Let’s go.”

Niklas had feared that sleep would be a long time coming, despite how exhausted he was. Yet he dropped off almost as soon as he lay down, only to wake with a start in his darkened tent to the fearsome howling of wolves close by.

“Shit,” he muttered, lighting a lantern and dressing quickly, belting on his sword just in case. He walked out of his tent to find most of the camp stirring, soldiers turning out to see what was going on, armed and ready if the situation required a fight.

“Report!” Niklas snapped as he strode up to Dagur. Dagur was standing near the perimeter warding around the camp, staring into the dark plain beyond. The mage’s hair was mussed as if he had not bothered to smooth it when he got out of bed, and he wore his cloak over a nightshirt and boots.

“Nagok has called wolves,” Dagur replied, his attention focused out beyond the torches that lit the edge of camp. “There’s a large pack out there, maybe twenty or thirty wolves.”

“Big for a pack,” Niklas remarked.

Dagur shrugged. “Not unheard of, especially when times are hard. Unusual, yes. But it makes me wonder if you weren’t right about range. Wolves are territorial. Be interesting to see how many he can call. If it’s more than thirty, then he’s probably called more than one pack, which would mean the magic can reach a bigger area.”

“Glad we could be your experiment,” Niklas remarked acidly. “Will your wardings hold?”

Dagur shook his head. “The wardings around a camp like this are an alarm, not a wall. At best, we can weaken or delay a supernatural threat. The wolves are mortal, regardless of who or what controls them.”

Just then, Niklas heard a commotion from the corral where the horses were kept. “What now?” he muttered, leaving Dagur and heading off at a run to see what the ruckus was about.

“Don’t know what’s gotten into them, sir,” a soldier said as Niklas ran up. Wild-eyed horses kicked at the wooden fences, whinnying in fear and galloping around the enclosure, desperately looking for a way to escape. Soldiers climbed the fence into the enclosure, risking their lives to grab for bridles, trying to calm the more tractable horses.

Terrified by the howling and by the frenzied reactions of the other horses, the stallions bucked and nipped, kicking and rearing. Two soldiers went down beneath flailing hooves, barely pulled to safety by their comrades. Several soldiers dove back over the fence, unable to get close to the horses they were trying to calm.

“We’re going to have to do something, or they’ll either stampede or hurt themselves,” Niklas observed.

“It’s the wolves, sir. Spooked them good,” the soldier replied.

Kulp ran up to join them. Like Dagur, he looked as if he had just rolled from his cot, shirt untucked, clothing likely plucked from the floor. “Dagur sent me to see what I could do.”

“I thought you said Nagok couldn’t magic the horses,” Niklas demanded.

Kulp shook his head. “They haven’t been magicked. They’re reacting to the wolves—it’s a normal reaction to an unnatural situation.”

Kulp closed his eyes and held out his arms, palms out. For a few moments, he was silent, then he began a low chant under his breath. Gradually, the frightened whinnying quieted, and the wild galloping slowed, then stopped. After another few minutes, the horses were no longer frenzied but still shuddering and trembling in place, their gaze darting about, alert for danger.

Soldiers tentatively entered the enclosure, speaking calmly and carefully to the shivering horses, approaching them with whatever treats they could find in the feed sacks. One by one, they led the horses back to the far side of the corral.

Finally, Kulp stopped his chant. “Did it work?” he asked, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

“They’re not trying to break down the fence, if that’s what you mean,” Niklas replied. “How come you can magic them, when Nagok can’t?”

Kulp smiled. “I didn’t control them. I just blocked the sound of the wolves.”

Niklas nodded in acknowledgment and headed back to his tent. The field camp was laid out on a grid with tents, stable, essential functions like blacksmiths and healers, cooking area, and latrines, surrounded by a stockade of wooden posts that could easily be erected in just a few candlemarks and struck just as easily when it was time to move out. Supply wagons, sledges, and movable war machines like catapults were also housed within the stockade. Two tall towers flanked the main gate, each one with at least one guard day and night.

A low growl stopped Niklas in his tracks. He was in one of the camp’s ‘streets,’ the section of tents reserved for officers. Most of the men were still sleeping. The ones who had turned out to help with horses had been on night shift, and they were all at the stables. That meant the pathways around Niklas were deserted, lit only by moonlight and whatever dim torchlight spilled over from the torches on the main path.

Niklas drew his sword, and pulled a knife in his left hand. The growl came from behind him, though it was difficult to place. His heart was thudding, and he had broken out in a cold sweat.

An answering growl sounded off to Niklas’s right. He crouched, watching and waiting. A full-grown male wolf lunged from the shadows, leaping into the air at chest level. Niklas swung his sword, burying the blade deep in the wolf’s shoulder, biting into its neck and throat. Before the wolf dropped to the ground, Niklas sensed more than saw the second wolf attack. He threw himself out of the way, and the wolf’s claws ripped open the shoulder of his jacket, slicing into the skin beneath. The wolf landed and turned quickly, head lowered and teeth bared.

Niklas stepped to the side, keeping both the downed wolf and its partner in view. His shoulder was bleeding, and he knew the injury would hamper his strength with his left hand. But in the few seconds he had to catch his breath, he sized up his opponent. The second wolf was a female, dark gray with yellow eyes, and it glowered at Niklas with a level of crazed intent he had only seen in a rabid dog.

“Get out of here!” he shouted, waving his arms and stomping. Without its partner to attack in tandem, there was an even chance the wolf might retreat. But the malice in the wolf’s eyes was not natural, and the predator stood its ground. It made a deep-throated growl and then sprang, covering the dozen or more feet between them in a single bound, going for Niklas’s throat.

Niklas brought his sword down with all his might, and at the same time, struck with his knife. The sword bit into the wolf’s powerful shoulders, and the knife caught it in the chest, spilling hot blood over the rough fur. Teeth sharp as razors snicked just inches shy of his throat. The wolf lashed out, snapping for his arm, and Niklas dodged away as claws raked his thigh. The female wolf dropped to the ground, covered in blood, and collapsed in the dust. Taking no chances, Niklas did not turn away until he had beheaded both wolves.

By that time, he could hear howls echoing throughout the camp and the shouts of soldiers. “Everyone up! We’re under attack!” he yelled, then staggered from the gash in his leg. “Wolves inside the fence! Swords ready!” he added. Soldiers turned out of their tents, running for their posts, swords in hand.

“I want all soldiers on the stockade! Archers, to your posts! I need slings and pikes! Move it, move it, move it!” Niklas shouted. He took stock of his injuries. The shoulder cuts were painful but not terribly deep. The gash in his thigh would need attention, but he could still move, thanks to years of practice struggling through battle injuries. Sheathing his knife, Niklas limped toward the main area of the camp.

He spotted two soldiers battling three wolves near the mess tent, and by the stable area four soldiers were keeping five more wolves from attacking the horses. Two archers and a soldier with a sling took aim from far enough away to be out of the wolves’ lunging range. The night echoed with the howls and answering cries of the packs, the grumbling snarls, and the shouts of soldiers.

Yet as Niklas watched, the wolves now seemed less sure of themselves than the two that attacked him before. The soldiers held their ground, and the wolves, snarling and aggressive just moments earlier, appeared to be at a standoff. Soldiers outnumbered the wolves, but many times in the forest, especially in winter when game was scarce, Niklas and his men had fought off packs that refused to give up until they had lost at least half their members.

The wolves bared their teeth, but they were retreating, still watching the soldiers for any movement. Then as quickly as they came, they turned and ran as arrows and rocks pelted the ground around them. An arrow caught one of the wolves in the hindquarters and it fell back with a whimper, unable to run. One of the sling-men caught another wolf in the skull with a rock, and the animal dropped to the ground, dead. The rest ran on, vaulting the eight-foot-high fence as if it were a hedge.

“They’re leaving,” the guard on the tower shouted. “Wolves are leaving.”

“Report!” Niklas shouted. He sheathed his sword and began to limp toward the small open area in the middle of the enclosure.

By now, all of his soldiers were at their posts. Several looked worse for the wear with deep cuts and gashes, shirts or pants ripped open and bloodied. Some of the soldiers were dragging the carcasses of the wolves toward the center of the camp.

“No men dead, sir,” one of Niklas’s lieutenants reported. “Several injuries—bites and cuts mostly. Looks like we killed about eight wolves, and at least twelve more got away.”

“In the morning, take the bodies outside the stockade,” Niklas ordered. “Double the guard and the patrols inside the fence for the rest of the night.” As the soldier took off to do his bidding, Niklas limped toward the healers’ tent. The large tent usually held the cots for the healers and room for half a dozen wounded, with a folding table for the medicines and potions the healers needed, plus bandages and other implements. As Niklas entered, he could see that two men sat on each cot, awaiting treatment.

“Half a candlemark,” Ordel said over his shoulder as Niklas entered.

“What?”

“That’s how long the attack lasted,” Ordel replied. “Since I couldn’t fight, I figured I’d do something useful while I waited for casualties. So I lit a notched candle when I first heard the alarm. And it was almost exactly at the half-candlemark point when the wolves ran away.”

“Limits,” Niklas said, intrigued enough by Ordel’s finding to ignore his pain a while longer. “The limit of how long Nagok can compel beasts to do his bidding.”

“Something like that,” Ordel said. He grimaced as he took in Niklas’s injuries. “Come in and have a seat before you fall down. I’ve got a full house, but we can squeeze you in,” he added with a dry smile.

“There you are!” Kulp darted into the crowded tent. “General Theilsson!”

“Talk to me while Ordel patches me up,” Niklas said, irritable from the pain and lack of sleep. “What were you able to find out?”

“We could sense the magic, but it was a distance away,” Kulp replied.

“How far?” Niklas asked, swearing under his breath as Ordel began to tear away the ripped cloth of his shirt and pants to treat his wounds.

“The source of the magic was about half a mile distant,” Kulp replied. “Give or take.”

“How many wolves?”

“Wolves are damn hard to count in the dark, sir,” Kulp answered. “Difficult not to count the same wolf twice. But the best I can figure, between thirty to fifty out there—mighty big for a normal pack.”

Very big, Niklas thought. He and his men had faced wolves many times in their travels. Most of the time, the packs had fewer than ten wolves, and that was plenty to fight off, even for trained soldiers armed for battle. Fifty wolves, hunting as a pack, could do a lot of damage.

“Ordel figures the whole thing lasted about half a candlemark,” Niklas said, then gritted his teeth as Ordel began to clean his wounds. The healer dripped an amber liquid into the gashes, and Niklas cursed, his body arching with the pain.

“Stings a bit,” Ordel observed laconically. “But you don’t know what’s in those cuts. The potion will hold off pretty much everything, even lockjaw.”

“Were the wolves rabid?” Niklas asked. After years of soldiering, he no longer feared a quick, clean death. But he had once seen a man die of rabies, first frenzied and attacking everyone within range, then drooling and paralyzed, until the man suffocated as he could not draw breath. Niklas had no desire to die that way.

Kulp shook his head. “We’re working with the healers to test the bodies before we take them outside the fence, but it doesn’t look that way.”

“I was there when the mage’s control must have been wavering,” Niklas said. Ordel covered his wounds with a poultice and then put his hand over them, using his healing magic to speed the wound’s closing. After a moment, he withdrew his hands, revealing the gashes to be nearly healed. Still, he applied more poultice and wrapped the injuries in bandages.

“We’ve got very limited familiarity with beast calling,” Kulp said. “But from what we know about control magic, we’re making some projections. First—the control is limited because maintaining control requires the mage to keep his focus. He can’t issue a command and go on about his business. He has to have the focus and the reserve of power to keep his will on the creature until the command is carried out.”

“Which means the attack can’t go on forever,” Niklas replied, trying to take his mind off his injuries. “Since the mage is trapped in the magic until the command is carried out.”

Kulp nodded. “Exactly. And that plays into the time-limit problem, which if you’re right, seems to be about half a candlemark. It’s exceedingly difficult to maintain control of a high-level working for longer than that, even for an experienced mage.”

“We need to get more information about Nagok and his army. If it’s as big as the captives say, then we’ve got to get reinforcements,” Niklas said, thinking aloud. “And it would help to know a lot more about his talishte connections.”

“We’ll have one of the mages scanning at all times, making note of when we can sense spikes and drop-offs in magic use.” Kulp shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but you might find a pattern that turns out to be important.”

“Anything you get is more than we have now,” Niklas said. “And if you and the other mages can figure out how to interrupt the beast-calling magic, that would help, too. Half a candlemark is forever when you’re fighting wolves—or magicked monsters.”

“We’re working on it,” Kulp replied.

“I’ll send word to Blaine,” Niklas said. “It will take time to send reinforcements, and I have the distinct feeling that time is running out.”