CHAPTER THIRTY

I SAW WHAT REESE LEFT BEHIND WHEN WE LIBERATED Westbain,” Connor said to Tormod Solveig as they regarded Solsiden. “I don’t want to think about what we’re going to find with Thrane in charge.”

Connor and Tormod rode at the fore of a contingent of the Solveig army, hundreds of men strong. It was just after noon, and the sun was high in the sky, meaning that even a talishte of Thrane’s age and power should be drowsy and besotted, if he was awake at all. It was their best chance to clear away the mortal protectors and use Tormod’s magic without jeopardizing their talishte allies.

“You’re sure that your magic can coexist with the Wraith Lord possessing me?” Connor asked. “He’s still talishte.”

Tormod chuckled. “In his case, the lack of his own physical body makes the difference. The Wraith Lord is a talishte spirit. During the day, I have power over talishte because they become corpses. He doesn’t become a corpse because he doesn’t have a body of his own. And remember—once the sun sets, my magic has no hold on the talishte because they’re animated by the Dark Gift. At that point, I’m no more than a swordsman for your cause.”

“I’ve bumped up against a mage’s limits before,” Connor replied. “That’s always where things go wrong.”

“Let’s hope that’s not the case today,” Tormod replied. He turned to his soldiers. “Archers—in position!”

Solsiden’s defenders had a double line of archers on the wall walkway, partially hidden behind the crenellations. Tormod’s bowmen also formed a double line, protected by their long shields and their helmets, as the rest of the soldiers hung back out of bow range.

“Fire!” Tormod shouted. Bowstrings twanged, as a hail of arrows sang through the air. Some of the arrows struck the guards near the gate, and despite their armor, they felled two of the soldiers while the others scrambled to adjust their shields. Thrane’s archers returned fire, and soon the ground around Tormod’s bowmen bristled with arrows, while more of the missiles bounced off the long shields that protected the soldiers’ bodies. With each volley, Tormod’s archers moved a few steps closer.

Connor and the other soldiers closed ranks around Tormod, protecting him as he sent his magic toward Solsiden, reaching out to the dead and undead within its walls. Connor’s magic as a medium jangled at the brush of Tormod’s power, similar yet very different. Tormod’s eyes were shut in concentration, and he lifted his hands, palms up, gathering and directing his power.

Connor stared nervously at the manor. Tormod’s power slipped past the walls and heavy gate, bypassing the archers and the soldiers inside the stronghold, seeping deep beneath the ground into the day crypts of Thrane’s talishte. For several moments, nothing seemed to happen. And then, shouts sounded inside the walls, followed by screams.

“Look!” one of the soldiers cried out, pointing as plumes of dark smoke began to rise from inside the walled courtyard. First a few, then more and more plumes rose until the air over Solsiden was dark with the smoke, and the air smelled like a funeral pyre. The archers on the wall kept up their defense, but their aim became erratic as more cries and shouts rose from within. As the chaos distracted the wall’s defenders, Tormod’s archers more often found their targets, dropping so many of the enemy bowmen that only a handful remained to protect the gate.

Another shriek rent the air, and abruptly the archers on the wall turned toward the inside of the courtyard, firing at an unseen enemy that suddenly claimed their full attention. Whatever was happening inside drew a panicked reaction from those within the walls. Connor shifted in his saddle, increasingly uncomfortable with the power that tingled across his skin, and sidestepped his horse to move a little farther away, disturbed by the effect Tormod’s necromancy was having on him. I’m alive, but I’m fighting the urge to run away, Connor thought. I’m so jittery I can barely stand it. No wonder talishte don’t like necromancers, even if the magic isn’t directed against them.

What you feel is a faint shadow of how a necromancer’s power feels to a talishte, the Wraith Lord said. He has no power over my spirit, but when I possessed a body, I met more than one necromancer, and each time, barely survived the encounter.

Throughout it all, Tormod’s expression was taut with concentration. He gave a twist of one hand, a push of his other hand, and suddenly, the gates of Solsiden opened. Standing in the doorway were dozens of rotting, animated corpses, some bristling with arrows.

“Expect there to be armed mortals inside!” Tormod shouted to his troops. “Charge!” His soldiers surged forward. Tormod was fearsome in his black armor, riding at the fore of a tide of soldiers who descended on their enemy wailing and shrieking, a move calculated to strike terror into the enemy soldiers.

Connor, possessed by the Wraith Lord’s spirit, rode with the vanguard. Connor felt his own mortal fear mix with the heady exultation of the Wraith Lord’s love of the fight. As always when the Wraith Lord took command of his body, Connor marveled at the grace and expertise that was not his own, the moves of an expert warrior honed over a millennium of existence. Connor’s own abilities as a soldier were much improved, but he knew he could not hope to mimic the Wraith Lord’s skill, even if he had several centuries to practice.

Before the Cataclysm, Solsiden had belonged to Lord Arvo. Parts of the manor had been destroyed in the Great Fire, and Connor could see where its protective wall had been rebuilt in places. Two towers stood on either side of the massive wood-and-iron door that barred the entrance. Connor had wondered whether Thrane’s mortal soldiers would surrender, anxious for the opportunity to break from their oppressive talishte lords. But the soldiers’ fear of their talishte masters outweighed everything else, even when an army of the dead rose from their graves.

The walking corpses parted at Tormod’s command, allowing his soldiers to ride into the enclosed courtyard, where it looked as if a battle had already been fought. Much of the hard-packed ground was scorched and blackened, covered with piles of ash that drifted in the breeze. The courtyard smelled of putrid meat and decay. The dead men formed ranks between Tormod’s army and the frightened soldiers who defended Solsiden’s manor house.

Connor could not stomach more than a glance at the dead men Tormod had called from their graves. These were not talishte, but the hastily buried victims of Reese’s hunger and Thrane’s excesses. Bloated and decomposing, skin blackened and sloughing off, they were the stuff of nightmares. Long fingernails protruded from shriveled, bony fingers. Empty, sunken eye sockets stared everywhere and nowhere, while the skin of the lips had pulled back to reveal the teeth in horrifying rictus. Some of the bodies were more recent dead, their death wounds still visible as bloody puncture marks on their arms and necks. Several of the corpses had their throats slit, as if Thrane and his brood were in such a hurry for the blood that they could not be patient enough to merely bite their victims.

Despite the horrors, Thrane’s soldiers rallied, in between where the corpses stood at slack attention and the manor house itself. Ashen and wide-eyed with terror, they remained at their posts, weapons ready though Tormod’s better armed forces outnumbered them.

“Throw down your weapons and surrender,” Tormod ordered. “Surrender now, and we won’t kill you.”

“We can’t let you pass!” A young officer stood on the front steps of the manor, sword in hand, terrified but resolute. “Leave us. You have no business here.”

Tormod spoke a word of power and the walking corpses moved forward faster than Connor would have believed possible. They climbed the steps after their quarry, advancing without fear. The soldiers cried out in terror, setting about themselves with their swords, but the dead vanguard never slowed, even as swords slashed away limbs and blades opened gashes in decomposing flesh. Relentlessly, the corpse army crushed the soldiers beneath their feet or against the walls, pressing forward until the manor house defenders were destroyed.

Before Tormod had the chance to move toward the house, more soldiers streamed from the barracks in the rear of the courtyard. With a glance to assure himself that the corpses had been successful, Tormod turned to face the new foe. Several dozen soldiers attacked on foot, rallying with a battle cry.

Tormod Solveig rode at the helm of his army like an avenging god, setting about himself with his sword and clearing a bloody path for his men to follow. Connor gave himself over to the Wraith Lord’s skill as Kierken Vandholt’s spirit animated his body. Together, Connor and Tormod led the way to the gates, leaving a wake of corpses behind them, bloodying themselves, shoulders to thighs, in the spattered gore of their enemies. Thrane’s soldiers fought well, but either Tormod’s magic had badly unnerved them or they realized there was no escape. The battle was fierce but short, and in the end, the courtyard lay littered with fresh bodies, and the hard-packed dirt ran with blood.

“What of the talishte?” Connor asked. “How about Thrane?”

Tormod nodded toward the ashes that now covered the ground in the courtyard. “My magic called the lesser talishte to their deaths in the sun,” he said. “Two dozen are dead. They were of middling power, neither Elders nor new fledges. I suspect Thrane sent the rest after the allied Elders.”

“And Thrane?”

Tormod shook his head. “I can’t sense Thrane or any powerful talishte. But I do sense strong magic blocking my power, a place deep beneath Solsiden that I can’t reach.” He shrugged. “It would be like Thrane to ward a stronghold. He had a fear of necromancers, and he sent assassins against me more than once, although Rinka and I overcame them fairly easily.” The hard glint in Tormod’s eyes made Connor sure that it had been anything but ‘easy.’

“Find the mortal servants and take them prisoner,” Tormod shouted to his soldiers. “Offer them the chance to surrender, but if they fight you, kill them. I want the boy, Eljas Hennoch, taken alive.”

Connor, guided by the Wraith Lord, led one section of the troops into the manor house’s upper floors, while Tormod rallied another third to descend into the cellars. The rest of the soldiers remained in the courtyard, on guard should more of Thrane’s men appear from a hidden redoubt.

Connor suspected that the servants had watched the courtyard battle from the windows, because they offered no resistance, sinking to their knees with their hands raised in surrender at the sight of the soldiers. Connor led the way going door to door, weapons ready, finding only a few dozen terrified servants, who prostrated themselves and begged for their lives.

“Round them up,” Connor ordered. “Collect them all in one or two rooms. Check them for weapons. Don’t let anyone out until Commander Solveig or I give the order.” He left a dozen soldiers to round up the servants on the first floor, and took the rest up the wide stairway to the second floor.

The second floor was in worse shape, with the damage from the Cataclysm rendering one wing uninhabitable. Most of the rooms were empty, although a few frightened servants, cowering in alcoves, threw themselves on the soldiers’ mercy. One soldier remained guarding a door at the end of the hallway. When he saw the well-armed invaders heading his way, he threw down his sword and raised his hands in surrender.

“Where’s Eljas Hennoch?” Connor demanded, though he was quite sure he could guess.

“In there,” the soldier replied, kneeling as the soldiers grew closer. “Please don’t kill me! I didn’t hurt him. I don’t know anything!”

“Take his weapons and tie his hands,” Connor ordered with a glance toward two of his men. “We’ll let General Solveig decide what to do with him.” He looked at the captured soldier. “Give me your keys to the door.”

“Please don’t take my keys!” the man begged. “Lord Thrane promised to do terrible things if I fail my duty. Please, kill me and then take the keys.”

Connor looked at the frightened man with pity. “We’ve come to kill Lord Thrane,” he said. “Now, give me the keys.”

Sobbing with terror, the soldier removed the keys from his belt and tossed them on the floor at Connor’s feet. “Take him away,” Connor ordered, and the remaining soldiers closed around him as Connor turned toward the locked door.

“Stand back!” he shouted through the door. “We mean you no harm. Stand away from the door.” Connor turned the key in the lock and opened the door, sword at the ready.

“Did my father send you?” A young man stood against the far wall of the room. Bars covered the windows, though the rest of the room was the comfortable bedroom of a middling nobleman. A stack of books lay on a writing table, along with a lyre and a pennywhistle.

“Eljas Hennoch?” Connor asked. The prisoner carefully kept both hands in view and made no move toward the soldiers, giving them no opportunity to mistake his motives.

“I’m Eljas,” the young man replied. Although he was pale and slender, he appeared to be clean and adequately fed.

“We serve Lord Penhallow, allied with Lord McFadden,” Connor said. “Our forces have come to destroy Thrane and his get. We bear you no ill will. If you’ll come peaceably, we’ll get you to safety.”

Eljas did not move. “Is my father dead?”

The young man had a quiet courage that impressed Connor, and maintained his dignity despite his reduced status. “I don’t know,” Connor answered honestly. “His troops are at Castle Reach, and I have no word of how the battle goes.”

Eljas inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He glanced toward the window, noting the afternoon light, which was far spent. “You’ll want to be gone before sunset,” he observed.

Despite Eljas’s self-possession, Connor saw fear and resignation in the young man’s eyes. “Have Thrane or Reese bound you to them? Read your blood?” he asked.

Eljas shook his head. “No, though they’ve threatened time and again.” Moving slowly, so as not to cause alarm, he carefully pushed up both sleeves and held his unmarked forearms out for inspection, then drew open the neck of his shirt to show the smooth, unscarred skin of his neck.

Connor nodded, relieved. There’s no telling what the Spike will do to those tightly bound by the kruvgaldur to Thrane and his get. At least Eljas is spared that much.

“Bind his wrists as a precaution,” Connor ordered the soldiers, “until one of our talishte can assure us that he’s not bound to Thrane. He’s to be treated cordially unless he causes trouble,” he added with a warning glance toward Eljas. “Place him with the servants until I call for him.”

Eljas made a shallow bow. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and dared to meet Connor’s gaze. “My father had no love of Lord Thrane and no interest in his schemes. I was his surety. He was a pawn in this as surely as I was. I doubt that will spare his life, but it needed to be said.”

Connor nodded. “Understood, though I can make no promises or guarantees.”

“Then I trust you all the more for your honesty,” Eljas replied, holding out his wrists to be bound. Two soldiers led him away, and Connor watched him go before turning back to the remaining soldiers.

“Let’s clear what’s left of the upstairs, and then get back to the courtyard. There’s work to do,” Connor ordered.

Several candlemarks later, Connor and Tormod waited in the darkness with Penhallow, Dolan, Grimur, three of the Knights of Esthrane, and a dozen talishte soldiers, as well as Elek, a scout. “Looks like Thrane’s Elders took the bait,” Elek reported. “We did what you said—told our extended broods that the allied Elders were moving half their get to a new safe house. The rest stayed behind and waited. The traitor got word to Thrane, because his talishte hit us right where you figured they would.”

“Is the fight still on?” Penhallow asked.

Elek nodded. “Unequally matched, to my eye. With Onyx destroyed, there are only three Elders left with us, now that Gray went to handle the Plainsmen and the Wraith Lord is with you.” Even with Sapphire and Jade destroyed, that left five of the rogue Elders who sided with Thrane.

“And are all of the rogue Elders in the fight?” Connor asked the question, but it was the Wraith Lord who sought the answer.

“Our scouts have confirmed that Aubergine is here,” Elek replied. “He and his brood left Meroven last night.” He smirked. “That’s how we found the traitor in Carlisle’s extended brood. He had a lover among Aubergine’s get. Carlisle has disposed of him.”

Penhallow nodded. “The Knights of Esthrane and the ‘loyal’ get—they struck from the rear as planned?”

“Yes,” Elek said. “But the battle is fierce. I wouldn’t like to wager money on the outcome.”

Just your existence, Connor thought.

Such is ever the case, the Wraith Lord responded silently. As you well know by now.

“I came to tell you that we’ve spotted Amber, Emerald, and Saffron fighting our Elders with their broods,” Elek reported. “With luck, that means only Red remains with Thrane tonight.”

“One Elder and a talishte of Thrane’s age will be challenging enough,” Penhallow replied, “since Thrane is sure to have Reese’s men as well. Maybe Reese himself, if he’s healed sufficiently.” Pentreath Reese might not have been old enough or powerful enough to have been one of the Elders, but he was still strong enough to pose a significant threat.

“None of the talishte I destroyed were of any significant age,” Tormod said, and if it made him nervous to be a necromancer among ancient talishte warriors, he did not show it. “That tells me Thrane and Reese, along with their favorites and your rogue Elder, are likely in his hidden room.”

Elek nodded. “I’d say so.” He glanced at the small team headed for Solsiden. “I wish you good hunting,” he said, though he sounded skeptical.

“You also,” Penhallow replied. With that, Elek disappeared into the night, headed back to the fight.

“It changes nothing,” the Wraith Lord said.

“True, but confirmation is always helpful,” Dolan concurred. “Although I have never fully trusted scouts’ reports.” He gave a grim smile. “I know from experience how easily appearances can be staged to mislead.”

“Agreed,” Grimur replied. “Is McFadden in position to take advantage of the shift if we win?”

“Blaine had a thorough briefing ahead of time,” Penhallow said. “He was part of the planning process, and he had tactics in place to capitalize on any opportunities we create for him. This is really a two-pronged attack in the same battle: us against the talishte, and Blaine against the mortals.”

Talishte warriors, a necromancer—and me, Connor thought. I must be out of my mind.

And us, the Wraith Lord corrected, emphasizing the plural. Don’t forget—most of our group are mages as well. Neither Thrane nor Reese have magic. We are a formidable enemy.

We have no idea how many talishte Thrane and Reese can field against us, Connor fretted.

You’ve heard the reports, the Wraith Lord replied. Thrane seems to have spread himself thin. He’s overconfident. That’s exactly where we want him—and why we must win on our first try. If he becomes wary, he’ll be much more difficult to destroy.

Connor had his own opinions about how to define an ‘easy’ kill and he was sure the night’s work was not what he had in mind, but he held his tongue. No doubt the Wraith Lord was privy to his thoughts. None of us believe this will be easy, Bevin, the Wraith Lord said. Only that it may be less difficult. It’s a slight distinction, but an important one nonetheless.

Securing Solsiden had been the first step. Penhallow had brought a dozen of his most trusted talishte fighters with them, men of whose loyalty he was certain, and three of the Knights of Esthrane came under Dolan’s command.

Mortals think talishte are invincible, Connor thought. Here I am, surrounded by some of the oldest, most powerful talishte, and I wish that were true.

Beneath Solsiden were cellars, dungeons, and catacombs, and according to Grimur, therein lay a weakness—and the route to find Thrane.

“I knew Lord Arvo, at King Merrill’s court,” Connor mused as they followed Grimur. Before the Cataclysm, Solsiden had been Lord Arvo’s manor. “He was on the War Council. I’m sure he took no notice of me. He and my former master, Lord Garnoc, frequently disagreed.”

“Arvo was a pompous ass,” Penhallow replied. “He was part of the anti-talishte faction of lords, and put pressure on Merrill to keep us banned from court.” Connor suspected that Pollard knew that, and may have found a perverse satisfaction claiming Arvo’s family manor for his talishte lords.

“This is the place.” Arin Grimur had led them out into the middle of a deserted pasture. Tall grasses, as high as Connor’s thighs, bent in waves in the summer wind.

“Are you certain?” Dolan asked, peering around them in the darkness. Penhallow and Dolan had specifically chosen the dark of the moon to make their move, and out here, far from the manor or the welcoming lights of a village, the darkness enveloped them.

“I’m certain.” Grimur nodded determinedly. “The last Lord Arvo might have disliked talishte, but the man who was lord a century ago had talishte protectors and retainers. Back then, he used the passages beneath the manor for day crypts, and the talishte had a way in and out that led here, so that they could leave to feed without using the formal entrances and exits.”

“Don’t you think Pollard or Reese would have bricked a passageway like that up, if it didn’t collapse in the Cataclysm?” Connor asked.

Grimur shook his head. “They didn’t find it. I made sure of that before I led us here. The passage exists—and it leads into the cellars. Where we come out, exactly, I’m not certain, but there’s a door and it works. I didn’t dare go farther. The entrance is just damn difficult to see in the dark—which was the whole point of putting it out here.” He looked from Penhallow to Dolan. “I’m sure this is the redoubt Tormod sensed.”

Tormod nodded. “I can feel the magic from here,” he said. “Whoever layered the protections did well. It’s very strong. And the wardings were specifically charged against necromancy.” He gave a wan smile. “But other magic will be just as deadly.”

Dolan turned to Connor. “Here,” he said, passing an object wrapped in tattered canvas to Connor, who knew even before he touched it that he held the Elgin Spike. “We believe that the Wraith Lord will be the best one to use this,” he said gravely. “The rest of us will fight to create the opportunity for you to do what must be done.”

The entire mission rests on me, Connor thought, feeling sick to his stomach, but he nodded bravely.

On us, Bevin, the Wraith Lord reminded him. You are not alone in this.

In a few moments, Grimur located the entrance, a hidden, sloping hole that led beneath the meadow and deep into the hillside. Penhallow stationed two of his men to secure the entrance behind them, and headed belowground. The others navigated the dark, cramped passageways easily, but Connor stumbled and bumped against the rough rock walls.

Give control to me, Bevin, the Wraith Lord said. I can see what you cannot. With a sigh, Connor allowed the Wraith Lord’s presence to come to the fore, as it did in battle, while his own consciousness retreated to watch from a distance.

Gradually, Connor’s eyes adjusted. Trusting the Wraith Lord to guide him, they moved steadily through the twisting passageway, which appeared to be partly natural and partly dug by hand. No one spoke.

Thrane and Reese have to know through the kruvgaldur that their get have been destroyed, Connor thought. Surely they felt the necromancy, even if their wardings protected them. They’re going to be ready for us, and very, very angry.

Grimur had been in Solsiden years ago, long before it was damaged in the Great Fire. He had drawn the floor plan as he remembered it, providing a map of the rooms most likely to be where Thrane and his entourage could be found.

Before long, the cold, damp passageway ended at an old wooden door. An iron lock secured the entrance. Tormod stopped a distance from the doorway. “We’ve reached the wardings.”

In other words, it’s too late to turn back now.

Dolan took the lead with Connor, Tormod, and Grimur right behind. Two of the talishte fighters were next, then Penhallow and the rest of the fighters. Dolan gave a warning nod. Connor tensed, ready to react.

Cold, brilliant light flared, blindingly bright as the mages concentrated their power against the wardings. Connor retreated to the far corner of his mind, giving himself completely over to the Wraith Lord. Words in languages Connor did not know drifted through his consciousness. Fearsome power tingled through his veins and found expression in the magic the Wraith Lord loosed against Thrane’s defenses. Penhallow and the other talishte backed up, away from the rippling force that pounded at the shielding. Though Connor did not pretend to understand the arcane energies being harnessed, he could feel the texture of the magic shift, ebbing and flowing, changing direction, probing for weakness. They’re not just trying to batter the warding down by force, he thought. They’re adjusting the magic, switching approaches, changing tactics.

The wardings yielded with a silent explosion of light and brilliant colors, and while there was no sound, the magic reverberated in Connor’s mind with enough force to make him reel. Thrane’s magical protections fell, and the battle was on.

A dozen talishte fighters came at them before the last glow of magic had faded from the air. Feral and snarling, Thrane’s talishte defenders launched themselves at full force against the invaders, while Thrane and Reese themselves were nowhere to be seen.

For as often as the Wraith Lord had taken control of his body during battle, it always amazed Connor that he could move with the silent assurance of one of the talishte, and fight nearly with their speed if not their strength. While Tormod was neither talishte himself nor possessed by a talishte spirit, he used his magic to enhance his fighting speed, making it an almost even fight against undead attackers. Connor noted that Tormod, more than the talishte-mages, relied on his magic to increase the damage of his blows or repel an attack. Gauging from the number of enemy fighters that fell to Tormod’s blade, his strategy was effective.

The Wraith Lord moved forward steadily, with a preternatural confidence Connor himself did not fully feel. After a thousand years, I’ve learned that I’ve already faced most dangers there are to face, the Wraith Lord assured him silently. There isn’t as much left to fear.

I’m a good bit shy of that age, Connor retorted. And I find the world filled with new and horrifying things nearly every day.

The tunnel opened into a set of rooms likely dug as an emergency shelter, repurposed by the talishte into a redoubt of day crypts. Now, it was a crowded battleground, made all the more dangerous by the cramped conditions. The battle was joined; there was nowhere for either side to run, no chance for withdrawal. Connor felt his stomach clench with fear. He was painfully aware of the magical artifact he carried beneath his jacket, and the fact that he—and the Wraith Lord—were the key to the success of the night’s work, and the war itself.

Strike Thrane through the heart with the Elgin Spike, and all his get crumble to dust along with him. It sounds easy when you say it. Not so simple to do.

Thrane’s talishte fought like men with nothing to lose, and perhaps their fear of their maker outweighed any survival instinct they possessed. Not new fledges, but not his eldest get by any means, the Wraith Lord judged as he cut his way through the attackers. So either Thrane has his best fighters still with him or he’s sent all his senior brood to fight the allied Elders. Either way, they’ll be dust by the time we’re done.

Connor desperately hoped the Wraith Lord’s optimism proved true, but he could not help hearing the echoes of the more ominous warnings from Garnoc and Zaryae. Perhaps they will all prove true in some way I can’t yet grasp, Connor thought. No matter what, all I can do is hold on, and pray to Esthrane that we make it to dawn.

Black ichor splattered their armor and trickled down the walls as they cut their way through Thrane’s defenders. Talishte corpses crumbled into dust as the fighters struck them down, but the frenzy of battle sent the particles flying, coating them all with the ashes of the dead. The defenders were no match for the skill and magic of Penhallow’s invaders. When the last of the talishte guards fell, the double doors at the end of the hallway stood undefended. Two of Penhallow’s talishte fell back to hold the entranceway, while the others advanced.

With a burst of speed, Dolan, Penhallow, and Grimur led the attack. Dolan’s magic blasted the wooden doors open, splintering them and propelling wooden shards across the room. Grimur followed with a torrent of fire that caught two of the talishte unprepared. A dark-haired man with the look of a pickpocket and a slender man with close-set eyes screamed and flailed as the flames took to them like dry kindling. Their skin drew tight and peeled away, then bones charred, and in seconds, the two talishte were nothing more than bits of charred scraps.

Thrane and Reese were fast enough to get out of the path of the fire, moving in a blur of motion. A thin blond man stepped to the fore and thrust out his right hand, sending an answering sweep of flame billowing toward the attackers. Dolan, Tormod, and Grimur barely raised protective shields in time. The Wraith Lord grabbed Penhallow and pulled him into the protective field that deflected the flames inches in front of Connor’s face. Behind them, the other talishte scrambled out of the way of the blast as the Knights stepped forward to block the fire with their wardings. It was too crowded for the rest of Penhallow’s fighters to move into the room, so they secured the doorway, making certain no one could enter or leave.

The instant the fire stopped, Dolan and Grimur countered, focusing their magic on the blond mage. Dolan struck with a brilliant shaft of yellow light lancing toward the mage, while Grimur made a slashing motion with his hands, meaning to take the man off his feet.

Thrane did not wait to see how the mage battle fared. He struck with a feral cry, going for Penhallow as Reese ran for Connor. Two more talishte, a stocky man with a fighter’s build and a fine-featured, dark-haired woman, launched themselves at Tormod and the two Knights behind Connor.

Just behind where the two talishte had been incinerated, heavy tapestries burned, flames lapping against the thick stone walls. Smoke filled the air and stung Connor’s eyes.

Sonders and Marat Garin are the two who caught fire, the Wraith Lord told Connor as he parried Reese’s brutal sword swing. Vasily Aslanov is the mage—the Red Elder. The other two are Kiril and Elise.

If Reese expected Connor to be the easy kill, he was sorely disappointed. The Wraith Lord moved with the skill and practice of a millennium, comfortable in his borrowed body. Reese’s blows were powerful and artless, hoping to win by battering his opponent into submission. The Wraith Lord struck with equal power, knocking aside Reese’s blade and going on the offensive.

Penhallow and Thrane circled each other warily, swords ready, looking for a weakness to exploit. Thrane moved first, feinting to the left and then thrusting to center, intent on running Penhallow through. Penhallow anticipated the move and met Thrane’s sword with a parry that might well have broken a mortal’s arm.

Behind them, Kiril and Elise battled Tormod and two of the Knights, and from what Connor glimpsed, while they were well matched in battle skill, Tormod and the Knights held an advantage with magic. Dolan and Grimur remained locked in a battle of magic with Aslanov, and while to Connor’s eye it appeared that the three men were trading nothing more than grunts and angry expressions, the movements of their hands and the tingle of energy that flowed around them suggested that strong magic was expended and contained in a deadly, silent contest of wills.

Reese swung again, but the Wraith Lord met the blow with enough power that he rocked Reese back on his heels. Kierken Vandholt’s spirit inhabited Connor’s form with a larger-than-life vitality and a lust for battle that was wholly alien to Connor’s own deliberate personality. Dangerous as it was for both the Wraith Lord and Connor to share a body, even in the direst of circumstances, Connor could not escape the feeling that the Wraith Lord savored every moment of embodiment, every wince of pain and surge of victory. Connor, on the other hand, had grown used to the feeling of clinging to the reins of a bolting stallion, catching glimpses of wonder amidst terror.

The fire spread from the tapestries to a wooden bookshelf. We don’t have too long before the whole room goes up, or the air runs out. How many times have I nearly been burned or buried alive? Connor thought.

The action around him kept him from pondering the question. Kiril had gained the upper hand against one of the Knights, though both men were bleeding from deep gashes that would have killed a mortal, and Tormod’s left shoulder was bloodied. Blood streaked Elise’s face and stained her shirt. She appeared to be losing her battle, though an expression of grim determination suggested that she would not yield easily.

With a cry of victory, Aslanov made a ripping motion with his hands, and the air around him flared with streaks of white-hot energy. Dolan stumbled back, already working a counterspell. Wild-eyed and teeth bared, Aslanov went for the kill. A bolt of raw power surged from Aslanov’s right hand, catching Grimur full in the chest as the Edgeland mage formulated his own counterspell. The killing magic rushed into Grimur through a gaping wound in his chest, so that his body glowed from inside, a fearsome light that set his bones in silhouette against his skin, as if he had been filled by the sun itself. Light burst from Grimur’s eyes and mouth, tore loose from his fingertips, and held him for a few seconds lifted off the floor, transfixed.

In the next instant, Dolan loosed his magic with a howl of anger, stirring a maelstrom around Aslanov, a contained vortex that swept up the dagger-sharp splinters from the ruined doors and hurled them at gale force into Aslanov’s body like lethal quills. Grimur’s corpse fell to the floor, then withered and collapsed into dust. Enraged, Dolan’s shouts grew louder and faster, defying Aslanov’s attempts to break free. Aslanov was bleeding from dozens of wounds all over his body. One long shard buried itself deep into Aslanov’s left eye, while another tore into his throat, opening an artery. Dolan tightened the circumference of the vortex to just slightly more than the width of Aslanov’s shoulders.

The whirling shards tore at Aslanov from every direction, opening long gashes in his flesh, ripping at his scalp and clothing, embedding themselves like hundreds of shivs in his body. With one final, triumphant shout, Dolan wrested his right hand in a half circle, and a long, thin shard impaled itself in Aslanov’s heart.

The rogue Elder’s body stiffened and jerked as dark blood spilled from the mortal wound. Aslanov’s eyes went wide with the certainty that the last death was upon him. The vortex vanished, wooden bits falling to the floor with a clatter. Aslanov’s body bucked again, fighting the inevitable. Then his gaze fixed on Dolan and he gasped a single word. Dolan fell as if poleaxed, immobile, and Aslanov began to crumble like a charred rod, until nothing but dust remained.

Elise screamed and fell to one knee as her assailant’s blade slashed down through her shoulder, severing her right arm. Tormod lunged forward, slipping his blade between her ribs to take her through the heart. In the same instant, Kiril swung a mighty blow, slicing through his opponent’s neck. As the body fell to one side, Kiril ducked and picked up the bloody head, throwing it with talishte strength to catch Tormod squarely between the shoulders. With a roar, the other two Knights of Esthrane rounded on Kiril, crossing swords so quickly and with so much power it sounded like the peal of bells.

Mortal fear drew Connor’s full focus back to his quarry. Reese and Thrane fought with the fury of mad dogs. Though Connor had gained endurance, hosting the Wraith Lord’s spirit for a prolonged fight at talishte intensity was rapidly draining his energy. Drawing on his kruvgaldur bond with Penhallow would do him no good, since Penhallow was locked in desperate combat.

We can’t come this far, just to fail!

We haven’t failed yet, the Wraith Lord answered in a grim voice. Connor and Penhallow were fighting back to back as the flames leapt from bookcase to sofa, and from there to other old tapestries.

Thanks to the Wraith Lord’s skill, Connor was relatively undamaged, though he had taken gashes on his left forearm and his right thigh. Reese had taken a dozen wounds as well, and his shirt and pants were sodden with blood. Penhallow looked worse, as did Thrane. Both were bleeding from gashes deep enough to expose bone. A slice across Penhallow’s cheek had almost taken his eye, covering his face and neck with blood. Thrane had lost an ear, and a gash laid bare his ribs.

A look passed between Penhallow and the Wraith Lord, something Connor did not understand but Kierken Vandholt grasped immediately. “Kierken, do you remember?” Penhallow said.

“Yes.” No sooner had the Wraith Lord spoken than he and Penhallow pivoted. Caught by surprise, Reese was unprepared for Penhallow’s sudden attack, a flurry of lethal sword blows that forced Reese away from Thrane, requiring Reese’s full attention to avoid being cut to ribbons.

The Wraith Lord dove forward, Elgin Spike in one hand, sword in the other. He knocked Thrane’s sword arm wide, giving him the opening he needed to sink the Spike deep into Thrane’s heart.

Connor gasped as fire lanced across his belly. A bloodied dagger was clutched in Thrane’s left fist, and a vengeful grin spread across Thrane’s face.

The Elgin Spike flared, blindingly bright, and Thrane howled in agony, eyes wide and staring, mouth open in an anguished cry. His skin sloughed from his body like a snake shedding its old coils, revealing naked muscle. Sinew and ligaments twisted free from bone, snapping loose like frayed cables. All the while, Thrane’s eyes bulged and his skinless face contorted in agony.

Finally, stripped of skin and muscle, Thrane was a living skeleton, and then with a final burst, the Elgin Spike shattered his rib cage, splintering bone. The shards of what had been Thrane caught fire, burning with unholy light, leaving only ashes to flutter to the ground, along with the spike.

Reese screamed, a high-pitched wail of terror as the curse of the Elgin Spike spread to all of Thrane’s get. Like his maker, Reese trembled and jerked convulsively as his body unwound to its basic components, his eyes open and aware, mouth twisted in a scream. And then, like Thrane before him, Reese’s bones shattered, burning to cinders.

Solsiden was suddenly silent as the victors stared in stunned horror at their vanquished foes. Connor groaned, dropping his sword, and sank to his knees, both hands clutching his bloodied belly. “Thrane—all his get—destroyed?” Connor gasped.

Penhallow’s eyes widened. “Kierken! What have you done?” He rushed to catch Connor as Connor sagged to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. “Dolan, Tormod! Help me!”

Strong hands grasped Connor’s shoulders and laid him on his back. Penhallow’s face was all that Connor could see, and fear was clear in his eyes. “Hang on, Bevin,” Penhallow urged. Dolan staggered to his feet and stumbled to where Penhallow knelt next to Connor. Even with the Wraith Lord possessing his body and Tormod’s necromancy clinging to his spirit, Connor’s breath came in short, sharp breaths bright with pain.

“Kierken, Tormod! Don’t you dare let go of him!” Penhallow muttered.

Dolan fell to his knees beside Connor and pried Connor’s hands away from his ruined belly. “Sweet Esthrane,” he murmured.

“Save him!” Penhallow ordered.

“Not that easy—”

Stay with me, Bevin. It would be most inconvenient to lose you now, the Wraith Lord’s voice sounded with compulsion, though even he sounded worried.

Dolan was chanting, while Tormod recited words of power under his breath that encircled Connor’s soul with glowing, golden bands of light. Penhallow offered his bloodied wrist pressed against Connor’s mouth, starting a trickle of cold dark blood down Connor’s throat. Garnoc’s warning echoed in his mind. The room seemed distant, the conversations far removed. Zaryae’s voice sounded in his mind.

Don’t let the darkness take you, Bevin Connor, she urged. Connor wanted with all his heart to reply, but his body seemed far beyond his control.

I’m sorry, Connor thought as light and sound slipped away. I’ve done all that I can do.