CHAPTER
ELEVEN

IT’S NOT HEALING.” KERR SAID IN A WORRIED voice.

Vedran Pollard eyed his longtime valet with frustration. “Then try something else. There’s got to be a poultice to set it right.”

“Perhaps a healer—”

“No one else must know about this,” Pollard said, meeting Kerr’s gaze. “No one. Do you understand?”

Reluctantly, Kerr bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Of course, sir.”

Pollard looked down at the open wound on his chest, right over his heart. The wound had appeared a week before, in a moment of blinding pain. Pollard had taken many an injury on the battlefield, some that had taxed the abilities of healers to mend, but nothing had been so agonizing. He collapsed, and when he regained consciousness, he found the raw, red wound.

“Does it look any better—or worse?” Pollard asked. By now, Kerr was used to his tempers and moods. If he heard the hint of anxiety that colored Pollard’s voice, Kerr knew better than to show it.

“There doesn’t appear to be any change, sir,” Kerr reported. “I’m stymied as to why it refuses to heal, yet hasn’t soured.”

“Could it be magic?” Pollard wondered aloud. “The way it appeared out of nowhere, along with this damn itching.” Beneath his sleeves, his forearms were scratched raw from a persistent itch that no balm soothed. The rest of his body, except for his face, fared no better. Pollard was no stranger to poisonous plants and biting insects. Nothing he had ever encountered was as maddening as the red pinpricks that now covered his body.

“I’ve heard of nothing like it among the troops—either the wound or the rash,” Kerr replied. “Surely if it were mage-sent, they would have wanted to incapacitate the army and not just the commander.”

“Perhaps,” Pollard said. “And if it were something here in the manor, then it should have affected someone else as well.”

Kerr shook his head. “I haven’t heard of anything, sir. And if it were something catching, I would have caught it from tending you.”

Pollard let out a long sigh. “It’s worst at night. Woolen shirts are no help at all.”

“Perhaps once the weather warms, some heat and sunshine will help,” Kerr offered. He gathered the supplies he had brought, tucking them back in a canvas bag. “Shall I bring you another pot of tea? That variety is supposed to be quite good for the skin.”

Pollard nodded, and buttoned up his shirt. “It helped, a bit.”

“Very well, then,” Kerr replied. There was something desperate about his stiff formality, but it was a ritual to which they both clung, through wordless agreement. Proper etiquette was one of the last vestiges of a civilized time that was gone and might never come again.

When Kerr left him alone in the parlor at Solsiden, Pollard permitted himself the luxury of collapsing into one of the wing chairs. He had a private theory about where the wound and the rash had come from, and that it was the same source as the nightmares that had troubled his sleep every night since he had collapsed.

Word had come, in a tersely written note delivered by messenger, that Pentreath Reese had received the judgment of the Elders, to be staked through the heart and confined in an oubliette for fifty years. That was the night the wound appeared. Pollard’s right hand went to cover the raw, round ulcer. Just the circumference one might make a wooden stake, above where one might slip such a stake. Pollard was certain that the strong kruvgaldur bond he shared with Reese was responsible for both the physical marks and the terrifying dreams.

Since the wound appeared, Pollard’s dreams had verged on madness. Images came to him of people he did not know, places he had never visited, and times long before his birth. So much blood. The darkness was suffocating, and the hunger and thirst overwhelmed him. If this is what I can look forward to for the next fifty years, I may as well fall on my sword, he thought bleakly.

“There has to be some way to free him,” Pollard muttered, thinking aloud. Self-preservation, more than loyalty, added urgency. He had come to an additional realization that he would not speak aloud: If the bond is this strong, then if Reese dies, so do I.

Agitated, Pollard shifted in his chair. No position was comfortable, but some were more tolerable than others. He went to scratch his shoulder, then barely restrained himself. Even with his nails clipped short there were bloody trails across his skin where he had given in to the unrelenting itch and later came to regret it.

It’s the price to be paid for the other parts of the bond, he thought, forcing down his fears. Even Kerr and Nilo have commented that I’m aging more slowly. I’ve got the vigor of a man ten years younger. Reese told me the kruvgaldur would extend my life and strength. But with as often as he’s fed from me and as deeply, I don’t doubt that my soul is bound to him.

Kerr coughed to announce that he had returned, and set a tray with the tea on a table between the two wing chairs. He poured a cup for Pollard and set it aside. “Captain Nilo is here to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?”

Pollard straightened and reached for the tea. Tea for the skin, and whiskey for the dreams, he thought. “Send him to me.”

Kerr went to fetch Nilo, and Pollard finished his tea, then stood and poured himself a slug of whiskey.

Outside the damaged manor house’s stone walls, the wild winds blasted down from the northern plains, rattling the broken glass in the upstairs windows and slamming the splintered shutters against the masonry. Solsiden had not fared well in the Cataclysm, and the storm that battered it now was likely to increase the damage.

“Nasty storm,” Captain Nilo observed as he entered. Nilo’s cloak and his pants were sodden and his face was reddened with cold.

Another gust of wind battered the manor. Pollard sipped the glass of whiskey and stared out the window in the study. Tonight’s storm sounded as if it might rip the slate from the roof. “At least we’re not in a tent on some godsforsaken field,” he muttered.

Nilo smiled and took a sip of his own drink. “Hennoch’s sparing us some of that. Although we’ll need to go back out soon enough.”

Pollard nodded. “I know. I’m just not looking forward to it.”

Overhead, through the ruined windows on the second floor, the wind howled and sent something crashing to the floor. In the few months since Pollard had taken Solsiden for his own, the scarce resources had gone toward fortification, not toward restoring the damage the old manor had sustained since the Great Fire. Parts of the upper floors were badly damaged, but the main floor and cellars were usable, as well as the sturdiest barns and dependencies. Now the old manor served as a headquarters for Pollard’s army and a depot for crucial supplies.

“How long do you expect Hennoch to keep his word?” Nilo asked. He walked away from the fireplace and settled into one of the worn wing chairs still within the warm glow of the fire.

Pollard shrugged moodily. “For as long as we keep his son alive—or until he decides he can make do without him.”

“The storms are getting worse,” Nilo observed. “Magic caused them; now the question is, can they be stopped?”

“If so, my mages don’t know how,” Pollard said with a sigh. “Nothing they’ve done has worked, and two died in the trying.”

He paused. “I have some of Reese’s brood searching out the mages who haven’t aligned with other warlords. They’ll bring the mages across, which binds their fealty to us. If we couldn’t keep the magic from coming back, now that it’s returned, we need to be able to hold our own.”

“If the magic doesn’t function the way it did before, perhaps the weather won’t, either. This could be ‘normal’ for the foreseeable future,” Nilo replied.

Pollard shuddered. “Let’s hope not. Makes it miserable to field an army when it’s like this.”

“I have a report from the units,” Nilo said, drawing out several pieces of folded parchment from inside his jacket. “About Hennoch and Lysander.”

Pollard crossed to a small table and topped off his whiskey, then paced near the fire. “Give me the gist of it. I don’t have the patience to wade through the rest.”

Nilo unfolded the parchment and scanned down through the lines of cramped writing. “One of the reports comes from Hillard, our man inside Hennoch’s troops. He’s with the healers, so he moves freely around the camp and on occasion gets pretty close to the commander.” Nilo gave Pollard a pointed glance. “Which will come in handy if Hennoch stops cooperating.”

Pollard nodded. “Good. Go on.”

“They’ve had some problems with the Arkala twins, the brother warlords to the northwest,” Nilo replied. “The area north and east of Mirdalur is still disputed. The Arkalas want it, and so does Karstan Lysander, as well as Hennoch.”

Pollard raised an eyebrow. “My money’s on Lysander.”

Nilo shrugged. “Too soon to tell. The Arkalas have a small army, but they’re well trained and they have a knack for making lightning raids where they score their objective and then disappear.”

“Talishte?”

Again, Nilo shrugged. “Apparently not, since the raids occur in the daytime as well. From what Hillard says, Hennoch is getting annoyed at the Arkalas, because they’ve been disrupting supply lines. Hillard believes Hennoch will want to make a strike sometime soon against the Arkalas.”

“Interesting. What about those damn Tingur?”

Nilo scanned down through the missive. “Jonn believes Lysander is behind them. He says that there are a lot of small groups wandering the roads since the magic storms and the Great Fire.”

Pollard frowned. “How are the wanderers turning into Torven fanatics?”

Nilo sat back and took another sip of whiskey. “Jonn thinks Lysander is sending spies who pretend to be holy men among the wanderers and telling them that Torven will save them if they demonstrate their devotion.”

Pollard gave a humorless chuckle. “Amusing. And apparently effective.”

Nilo shrugged. “Apparently, Lysander’s men put on a good show.”

Pollard grimaced and began to pace. “Lysander’s smarter than I gave him credit for. The Tingur give him a large number of disposable soldiers to wear down his enemies.”

“Where’s Lysander himself in all this?” Pollard asked. The whiskey and the fire warmed him, but the old manor was drafty enough that the harsh winds outside leeched any heat from the building.

Nilo gave a wolfish smile. “According to Jonn, the man in Lysander’s army, Lysander has his eye on the entire north. He’s been using the Tingur to probe for weaknesses, and for good measure, he’s sent them into all the other warlords’ territories to make trouble.”

“Lovely. Be sure to tell the troops that any Tingur spotted are to be killed on sight,” Pollard replied. The cold damp of the storm had turned his voice gravelly, and the rough whiskey didn’t help. Word had already spread in the camp that the quickest way to the lord’s favor was to find and deliver a bottle of spirits or wine from before the Great Fire.

Nilo chuckled. “That’s already a standing order.” Nilo watched him for a moment. “What of Reese?” he asked.

Pollard let out a long breath. “Reese is at the bottom of an oubliette with a stake in his heart.”

Nilo’s eyes widened. “Destroyed?’

Pollard shook his head. “No. But incapacitated for fifty years.”

“Damn.” Nilo pondered for a moment. “What does that mean for us?” The look he gave Pollard made it clear that he was also wondering, What does it mean for you?

Pollard shrugged. “A little more freedom—and somewhat more danger.”

“The troops won’t need to know,” Nilo said slowly, formulating a plan as he spoke. “Reese rarely showed himself to them except in battle. We can cover that.”

Pollard nodded. “His talishte fighters will know, but they will keep that secret since it’s not to their advantage for the mortals to know their weakness.”

“Do you expect him to escape?”

Pollard began to pace once more. “I expect him to seize whatever opportunities come his way,” he replied. He eyed the whiskey, then turned away. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the entire kingdom to make things right.

“Is this an opportunity?”

Pollard shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know. As much as the Great Fire was. Which is to say, it’s up to us to find the opportunity in the middle of the flames.”

Nilo toyed with his drink for a few moments. “Reese believed he had supporters on the Elder Council.”

Pollard grimaced. “Apparently, not enough of them.”

Nilo’s fingers drummed against his glass. “Lysander appears to be planning a strike against the Solveigs and Verner. That might draw McFadden into the open.”

“Maybe. More likely he’ll send Theilsson. I’ll be interested to see how Verner and the Solveigs fare.” Pollard sat down in the other wing chair and set his glass aside. “What’s your take on their strengths?”

Nilo frowned. “I don’t know much about Verner. Whether or not he can hold on to his territory remains to be seen. The Solveigs know how to play rough. They won’t be easy to break, especially if it’s true that one of them is a necromancer.”

“Do we have a spy in their camp?” Pollard asked.

Nilo shook his head. “No. Or at least, not currently. We’ve had three spies, and they’ve all ended up dead.”

“Interesting.”

Nilo made a face. “Not the word I would have chosen. The men I sent were too good to be easily caught out. I don’t know whether they’re using mages or whether the twins have some kind of ability to truth-sense, but something’s afoot. Makes them damn difficult to infiltrate.”

Rain beat against the windows, loud enough that when the wind shifted, the noise was sharp and startling. Gusts made the embers fly and the flames dance. Pollard watched the fire for a moment.

“There are too damn many players in this game,” he muttered. “We need to reduce the number. Get a message to Lysander. Try again to get him to meet with me.”

Nilo raised an eyebrow. “Easier said than done. Certainly he’s been approached by others?”

Pollard shrugged. “Perhaps. Or not. Hennoch’s troops buy us time while we rebuild our own, but he’s a small player compared to Rostivan and Lysander—or McFadden, when you add in Voss’s soldiers.”

“We have a surety on Hennoch,” Nilo said. “His son. What do you propose we use to ‘encourage’ Lysander?”

Pollard smiled. “Talishte fighters. I’ve been in contact with Reese’s brood. Many of them want a chance to avenge our loss at Valshoa. They have no desire to see Penhallow and the Knights of Esthrane in control.”

“Maybe we’d be better off if Reese’s brood figured out how to free their master,” Nilo said with a nod toward the wounds Pollard hid beneath his shirt.

Pollard gave him a sour look. “Since they, also, suffer for his sins, I’m sure the thought has occurred to them. I’ve been told as much, though opportunity is lacking. For the moment, escape appears unlikely. But think of it—we offer Lysander what he doesn’t have, talishte fighters. Even a small number can turn the tide of a battle.” He sniffed. “Much better than the rabble Lysander attracts.”

“I’ll send the messenger,” Nilo said with a shrug. “And we’ll see what happens.”

Three days later, Pollard sat in the back room of a roadside tavern that had likely seen better days even before the Great Fire. It looked as if the building had collapsed and been cobbled back together again with odds and ends. The only thing rougher than the building itself were the men who gathered inside. One look assured Pollard that they were brigands, highwaymen, or worse. And all of them had fallen over themselves to show deference to the large man who sat across the table from Pollard.

“Your offer has some merit,” Karstan Lysander said, setting his tankard aside. Pollard knew Lysander’s reputation, and he wondered whether Lysander had heard about him, too.

“I’m assuming that eventually, Blaine McFadden’s claims will pose an inconvenience,” Pollard said. “The talishte I can bring to our arrangement would pose a sizable advantage.”

Lysander took a draw from his pipe. Pipe weed, like brandy, had become increasingly difficult to acquire since the Cataclysm. Substitutes for both were usually quite inferior. From the acrid smell, Pollard assumed that Lysander was loath to give up his pipe, regardless of the quality of the pipe weed. “An advantage, to be sure, against mortal soldiers,” Lysander said, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “But against McFadden… it would take quite a force to make a difference if the Knights of Esthrane are truly on his side.”

Pollard made a dismissive gesture. “The Knights are formidable, yes, but few in number. Penhallow, it’s said, has shied away from creating as large a brood as many other talishte.”

Lysander took another drag on his pipe. His eyes were half-closed, enjoying the smoke, but Pollard knew it would be a mistake to think Lysander’s reflexes were dulled or his attention truly diverted. From the weapons that hung from his belt to the scars that covered his hands and marred his face, Lysander’s entire appearance spoke of danger.

“You’re not talishte. Rumor has it, your talishte master has been banished—imprisoned—by his own kind. Why should his brood follow you into battle?”

“Lord Reese’s brood have no love of McFadden or Penhallow—or the Knights of Esthrane,” Pollard said. “Alone, they are too few in number to affect the course of events. But allied with a powerful army, they can help alter circumstances to their liking,” he replied.

Lysander shook a strand of greasy black hair away from his pipe. The odor of a stable clung to him as if he had not bathed in quite some time. Everything about him offended Pollard, everything, except the opportunity he presented for revenge.

“McFadden routed your army at Valshoa,” Lysander said offhandedly, as if discussing the weather. “It’s said you—and Reese—barely made it out alive.” He gave a raspy chuckle at the inappropriate word choice. “Larska Hennoch does your bidding because you have his son as a prisoner.” He paused. “What hold do you think you have over me?” There was no mistaking the danger in his voice.

“None,” Pollard replied, though he had already thought through how that might change. Insinuate Reese’s talishte into Lysander’s ranks, have them prove their merit and gain enough trust to get close to him, then bind him with the kruvgaldur to Reese—and by default, to Pollard.

“I don’t accept gifts,” Lysander said, watching the smoke from his pipe waft toward the ceiling beams. “They’re just hobbles, disguised. But your proposal has merit, and I see where you stand to benefit. Much better to trust in a man’s self-interest than in his generosity, I’ve found.”

“Do we have an understanding?” Pollard asked.

Lysander’s gaze shifted to regard him, a look of cold calculation. “Yes, we have an understanding,” Lysander replied. Something in his tone made Pollard wonder if he completely understood just what that ‘understanding’ would cost him.