CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

SENESCHAL CONNOR!”

Lieutenant Aurick, commander of the contingent of guards Traher Voss had left to guard the captured manor, ran a few steps to catch up with Connor. “Good to see you up and about again, sir,” Aurick said.

“Glad to be back,” Connor replied. It had taken him a full day to recover from his run-in with the ghost.

“Thought you’d want an update on the construction when it’s light enough to see what’s been done, since Lord Penhallow won’t be available until after dark,” Aurick added. Aurick was a sandy-haired man in his late twenties, just a few years older than Connor, but with the look of a man who has been soldiering since he could carry a sword. He had the plain, pleasant face of a farmhand, although old battles had flattened his nose and given him a nasty scar across one cheek.

“Let’s take a look,” Connor said, grabbing a cloak. Overhead, gray clouds threatened snow. Connor shivered.

“We’re nearly done repairing the break in the south wall,” Aurick said, pointing. The Great Fire had caused some of the damage, and the rest was the result of the assault Voss and Penhallow had led against Reese’s defenders.

“That’s good,” Connor said, eyeing the expanse of wall. One breach was repaired, but several more remained. “How soon do you think your men can get to the rest of the breaks?”

Aurick drew a deep breath. “We’re working day and night, sir. The problem is, the original wall was reinforced by magic, and when the Cataclysm knocked out the magic, parts of the wall collapsed.” He shook his head. “If they’d built the wall right, we wouldn’t have so much to fix.” He sighed. “A few more weeks, at least, sir—if the weather stays good.”

“How will you defend the manor in the meantime?”

Aurick pointed down beyond the walls. “My men are raising earthworks and digging a dry moat. We’ll get abatis and barricades in place as well.”

Connor nodded. “That’s more than we’ve got now. I have a bad feeling about having those gaps open.”

Aurick gave a grim chuckle. “Me too, sir. I like a sturdy wall between me and the enemy.”

“Do I need to ask Voss for more men?”

Aurick shook his head. “Commander Voss and the rest of the troops are busy at Rodestead House, sir. I’d like to think that by the time anyone could ride there and return with reinforcements, we’ll be done.”

“I hope so, Lieutenant,” Connor responded. “I don’t think any of us will sleep well until the walls are up.”

Shouting drew their attention toward the main gate. A group of robed men and women were arguing stridently with the guards, who were blocking their attempt to enter. Connor and Aurick hurried closer to the action.

“No one gets inside without permission of Lord Penhallow.” A burly guard stood toe to toe with a tall, thin man in a roughly woven robe. Connor looked at the newcomers. At least a dozen people, all dressed similarly to their spokesperson, looked as if they had been living out of doors and in rough conditions. Their hair was matted, their robes were frayed and smudged with dirt, and several wore rags wrapped around their feet instead of shoes.

“We are the Tingur,” the man said, “followers of Torven. And we have come to make offerings at the manor shrine.”

Two more guards had joined the first man, and together they presented a solid wall of brawn. Other guards were drawing close, in case reinforcements were needed.

“I don’t care if you’re Charrot, Esthrane, and Torven and all the household gods,” the guard replied. “No one gets in without permission from Lord Penhallow.”

The thin spokesperson glowered at the guard. “Don’t jest about the gods,” he warned. “We don’t need permission of a lord to make our offering—and we refuse to recognize a lord who is not among the living.”

The guard was clearly reaching the end of his patience. “You might not be among the living if you don’t leave here now. You’re not getting in, not unless Lord Penhallow says so.”

For a moment, Connor feared that the robed visitors might rush the guards. That was bound to end badly, since the guards were already worn to short tempers. The guards drew their swords, and at that, the waiting soldiers closed ranks.

The thin man raised his hands toward the sky. “Torven, consort of Charrot, lord of the Sea of Souls, bring down your curse on those who prevent offerings from being made to your name. Scourge them with fire, and flay the flesh from their bones that all may know that you are ascendant among the consorts, and your power is unmeasured.”

“Are you done yet?” the guard demanded. “You’d best be moving on. We’ve already seen fire, and all the flaying’s been on our part, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave. Now.”

The soldiers had formed shoulder-to-shoulder ranks, swords drawn, and at the guard’s challenge, they moved a step forward.

The tall man lifted his head defiantly. “We will return, and we will enter. Torven will have his sacrifice.”

“Yeah, maybe the cook will burn dinner. That’d be a burnt offering for you,” the guard said. “Now, be on your way.”

Grumbling their displeasure, the Tingur moved away from the gate. The soldiers did not disband until the wanderers were out of sight, and when the extra men went back to their duties, the lead guard ordered the heavy gates to be shut, although it was still early in the day.

“Can they get through the breaks in the wall?” Connor asked.

Aurick shook his head. “Not unless they’ve got an army with them. We’ve got barricades and soldiers at each breach point.”

“So there are more of these… Tingur?” Connor asked.

“We’ve seen small groups on the roads in the last few months,” Aurick replied. “We’ve been so busy fighting brigands and trying to repair what the Great Fire destroyed, we didn’t pay a lot of attention.”

“Ask your men to keep an eye out for more of these Tingur. I want to know what you hear,” Connor said.

Aurick grinned. “That we can easily do, sir.”

Aurick headed toward the repair crew while Connor walked back to the manor house, deep in thought. He hurried up the cracked steps to the manor house, happy to get in out of the cold. As he hung up his cloak, he sighed. I’ve put it off as long as I can. There’s no avoiding going into the dungeons today.

Connor knew where the entrance was to the levels beneath Westbain. He had made it a point to studiously avoid them, entering as rarely as he could. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. I’m a visitor, not a prisoner. His stomach tightened as he descended the stone steps. Every step deepened a feeling of despair.

A shrill cry startled him, and he drew his knife, advancing cautiously. Yet when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw that nothing had changed since his first visit. Healers, not jailers, moved among the cells.

For a moment, Connor watched the men and women who bustled through the tight corridor between cells that had been converted to sickrooms. His previous visits had not lasted longer than a few minutes, enough to assure himself that the dungeons were no longer filled with Reese’s prisoners and that everything was being handled in an orderly fashion. The resonance of the ghosts whose spirits filled the dungeons had caused him to turn around and leave, but today Connor had resolved to make a complete walk-through, regardless of discomfort.

“Seneschal Connor.” A man in his middle years with graying reddish hair moved to greet him. “We were wondering when your duties would permit you to come our way.” The man spared him a tired smile. “I’m Berus,” he said, and swept an arm to indicate the rows of cells. “And this is as close as you’ll ever want to come to the Unseen Realm.

“Come with me,” Berus said, leading the way through the narrow corridor. The stone around them was dark with moisture and mold, and a smell lingered, the odor of wounds gone bad.

“The night that Westbain fell to our forces, Lord Penhallow ordered the healers to see to the prisoners in the dungeons.” Berus shook his head. “As you can imagine—or if you’re lucky, maybe you can’t—things were very bad down here.”

“I’m actually surprised that Reese’s men left anyone alive—or sane,” Connor said.

Berus nodded soberly. “Had talishte soldiers not intervened as quickly as they did, I’m certain Reese’s men had orders to kill all the prisoners. Even so, for some, it was too late.”

Connor looked at the scarred and bandaged men who lay on pallets in the cells. Most were missing an ear or several fingers, marks of the torturer’s craft. A few sat head in hands, rocking and moaning to themselves. “What about them?” Connor asked.

Berus sighed. “Our healers and mages will try everything within their power to heal them. If that is impossible, they will make sure that their passage to the Sea of Souls is painless.”

“Were you able to learn anything?” Connor asked.

Berus gave him a skeptical glance. “Are you serious? Any information these men might have had is buried beneath so much pain that it will be amazing if they remember their names. Reese broke them physically. Talishte read their blood and glamoured them into collaborating against their will. Then when magic was restored, Reese used it to strip out any remaining information and leave the husks behind.”

Connor knew what it was like to have a talishte read his blood. He did not want to imagine how it would be to have that process done by force. He stared at the prisoners with a mixture of pity and horror.

“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” Connor said, looking at the dying prisoners and the healers laboring to ease their pain. “If I can get it for you, I will.”

Connor trudged up the stone steps from the dungeon deep in thought. He was halfway up the steps when he heard a crash overhead and the manor felt as if it rocked on its foundation. Above and below him, he heard people cry out in shock and fear. A flurry of dust rained down on him. Connor began to take the steps two at a time, bursting from the entrance to the lower floors into a crowd of servants who were huddled toward the back of the manor’s first floor.

“What’s going on?” Connor demanded. Some of the younger maids were crying. Several of the men were bleeding from gashes on their faces and chests. Everyone was covered in dust. He saw a heap of rubble partially blocking the main entrance to the manor.

“Don’t know, m’lord,” Orwin, one of the kitchen boys replied. “We heard a loud noise, and the rock in the front of the manor came tumbling down. Nearly killed Ned over there,” he said, and nodded toward where another of the kitchen boys sat against the wall while the cook tried to bandage a cut on his scalp.

Penhallow would not be awake for several candlemarks, Connor thought. Aurick’s the only one who might know more—and he’s out there.

Another crash shook the manor, shattering glass and bringing down a chunk of ceiling plaster. Connor growled a stream of curses. He turned to Orwin. “Get everyone down belowground. Go!”

He spotted two of the men who hauled supplies for the kitchen staff. “You there. Help me move the wounded.”

Connor and the other two men began sifting through the heavy plaster, throwing the rubble off two women who had been caught beneath the collapse. One of them, a scullery maid, cradled a broken arm. The other woman was heaving for breath.

“Gentle!” he admonished his helpers as the maid cried out when one of the men tried to lift her. “There are healers in the dungeon. You’ll all be safer belowground.”

“The dungeon! I’m not going down there!” The maid’s eyes widened in terror. No doubt rumors of what became of Reese’s prisoners had been whispered among the servants.

“If you stay up here, I can’t promise more of the manor won’t fall on you,” Connor replied. “Everyone else has gone below.”

“You won’t make us stay down there, will you?” The maid began to wail and fight against the man trying to help her to the steps.

Connor grabbed her by her good shoulder. “Once the fighting’s over, you can all come up again. Now, get down there!”

Connor turned back toward the manor’s entrance. Another crash made him lose his footing, but he struggled to remain standing.

We’re getting pounded by a catapult, Connor thought. But whose forces want Westbain?

He chafed at not being able to find Aurick and learn what was going on, but Connor knew his first responsibility was to get the servants to safety and secure the manor from fire. The front hall was full of rubble from where part of the ceiling had fallen, and the large windows in the great room left a hail of shattered glass on the floor.

“Get to shelter!” Connor shouted as he ran down the hallway. “Go belowground. You’re not safe up here!” Dull thuds outside gave Connor to suspect that Aurick’s men were returning fire. Connor glimpsed servants emerging from their hiding places under tables and in wardrobes, clinging to each other in twos and threes, making their way toward the steps to the lower levels. He paused in the kitchen long enough to make sure that the fires were banked. The last thing we need is a house fire, he thought.

Connor paused at the bottom of the stairs to the second floor. He had intentionally headed for the servants’ stairs since they were in the back of the manor and had only a few small windows, making them less exposed than the sweeping staircase in the front entrance. Another loud crash made the floor shake beneath his feet. He heard glass break, and winced at the sound of something fragile smashing to the floor.

Connor’s heart was thudding as he sprinted up the steps. He reached the second floor and kept low, staying to the center of the corridor, hoping that if the manor took another hit, any debris would fall before they could break through the manor walls. A gust of cold wind blasted across the hall, and he knew that at least some of the rooms had lost the glass in their windows.

Connor dove into his room and grabbed his cuirass and helmet from a trunk at the bottom of his bed. He had not expected to need his armor once they reached Westbain, and had felt uncomfortable wearing his sword at all times. Now he was glad his armor was handy and that his sword already hung from a scabbard at his belt. Connor stayed low as he strapped on his cuirass. He pulled on his helmet, and crawled over to the window, daring to look out onto the front of the manor.

From this vantage point, Connor could see that a force of approximately a hundred soldiers had brought two catapults into position on the other side of Westbain’s wall, just beyond the partially constructed earthworks and dry moat. While the barriers worked to keep the invaders at a distance, they also made it more difficult for Aurick’s soldiers to get close to the opposing side.

The soldiers Traher Voss had left behind to guard and rebuild Westbain were seasoned veterans, both from the Meroven War and from skirmishes with brigands and rival warlords. Aurick’s men numbered about the same as the invaders, and Connor could see that they had taken up positions within what remained of the manor’s walls. It was obvious that Aurick had rebuilt with an eye toward defense. Catapults that Connor did not know existed had been rolled out to respond to the attack. Soldiers manned the barricades that filled in the broken places in the defensive walls.

“I need to get out there. I’m not doing any bloody good up here,” Connor muttered, keeping low as he ran for the corridor and down the steps.

He dodged down the second-floor corridor, wondering whether the mages had gotten to safety or whether they were out with the troops. Inside the workroom, he found Alsibeth hunched over a scrying bowl while Caz helped Rolf prepare for a working with a length of rope to set a warded area and candles to mark the quarters.

“Bevin! What are you doing here?” Caz looked alarmed.

“I could ask the same. I’m trying to make sure everyone in the house gets to safety. And you’re not safe here,” Connor replied. He looked around. “Where are the rest of the mages?”

“The others volunteered to go out with Aurick’s men. We needed more tools than we could haul with us, so we stayed behind,” Rolf said.

“What can I do to help?” Connor asked.

Rolf shook his head. “You’re not a mage.”

“Maybe not, but I can still lend a hand.” He glanced out the window. “Can you tell who’s attacking us?” Connor asked. He had not been able to identify either uniforms or flags from the soldiers he had seen from the window, and he wondered if the force arrayed against them was organized enough to even have insignia.

“It appears to be Karstan Lysander,” Alsibeth replied without looking up from the shallow bowl filled with water that held her attention. “I’m trying to see whether there are reinforcements coming, but I can’t see clearly.”

“Lysander?” Connor echoed. “I thought he was staying unaligned.”

“Apparently not,” Rolf replied. “If you’re going to stay, come over here. We need a third person to triangulate the power.”

Connor went to the place Rolf pointed. He had watched enough of Blaine’s preparation at Valshoa to recognize that Rolf had set a warded area with rope and salt around their work space. “What are we doing?” Connor asked.

Rolf spared a look from his preparations. “There’s a mob out there—but we don’t think it’s a true army. All of Alsibeth’s scryings point to Lysander, and he may be recruiting and provisioning these people, but either he’s not much of a warlord, or they’re not his real forces. Take a look.”

Connor moved to the window and tried to get a better view without putting himself at risk. Before, he had only focused on the size of the force. Now, bearing Rolf’s comments in mind, Connor could see that the enemy ‘soldiers’ looked more like a riot than any kind of disciplined military force. The crowd shouted curses and jabbed their swords and torches into the air with fervor, but the longer Connor watched, the less organized the mob appeared.

“Someone’s provided them with weapons, and those catapults aren’t something angry villagers put together,” Connor said. “They’re military equipment.”

“As I said, Lysander could well be provisioning them and whipping them into a frenzy,” Rolf replied.

“Soldiers or not, those catapults are doing some real damage to the manor,” Connor noted. “We’ve got several servants with injuries.”

“But that’s all they’re doing—loading the catapult,” Rolf pointed out. “There’s no move to scale the earthworks, no split force to attack the flank—nothing I’d expect from a real military commander.”

“Then why the attack?”

“Lysander could be using mobs to find his rivals’ weaknesses,” Alsibeth said, raising her gaze from the pool of water. “It’s a cynical—and rather brilliant—move, assuming you don’t mind sacrificing large numbers of peasants in the process.”

Connor stared back at her. “You think he’s deliberately whipping up the people to riot, knowing that many of them will die, to soften up his enemies, and then his troops can sweep in behind and take the fortress with fewer casualties?”

“Exactly,” Alsibeth replied.

“The Tingur,” Connor said, remembering the rabble who had confronted Aurick. He looked to Alsibeth and Rolf. “What if Lysander has convinced the Tingur to fight for him as some kind of holy war, in Torven’s name? Penhallow and Blaine have the support of the Knights of Esthrane. That would make them the Tingur’s enemies, if they serve Torven.” In all of Donderath’s stories of their gods, Torven and Esthrane were rivals for Charrot’s attention. And while Esthrane was willing to curtail her power, Torven was prone to chaos and self-interest.

Rolf nodded soberly. “That would be a clever way to get someone else to do his dirty work. Lysander wouldn’t be the first to use a mob for his own purposes.”

Outside, Connor heard the answering thuds of Aurick’s catapults. The Great Fire and Penhallow’s previous bombardment had left the troops with no small amount of rubble to be used as ammunition. Each time the catapults would send a deadly hail of rock, wood, and debris flying toward the mob, a few people would fall, the crowd would scatter and then regroup, angrier than before.

“I hope we’re right,” Rolf said, “because if they’re not trained soldiers, that opens up some opportunities.”

“Like what?” Connor asked.

Rolf grinned. “Real soldiers will hold their positions. Let’s see how disciplined the mob really is.”

Another crash shook the manor. “If you think there’s something we can do to help, we’d better start while the manor is still standing,” Connor said.

Rolf nodded. “Very well. Step over the cord and salt—mind not to disturb them. We’re going to try some battle-mage tricks, and see if our new artifacts will help.”

Connor and Caz got into position, and Rolf closed the circle. He held up a glass pyramid. “We’ve been working with this piece for a while, and it’s been fairly stable.”

“Fairly?” Connor challenged.

Rolf ignored him. “I’m going to start with something irritating but harmless—fleas.” He grinned. “Let’s see how well the Tingur hold their places.” He looked to Connor and Caz. “The sending part of this is a little tricky—that’s why I need the two of you for me to draw energy from.”

“What do we need to do?” Connor asked.

“Relax—if you can. Be willing to open your minds to me,” Rolf instructed. “Chant with me—it will bring your energy into alignment with mine. I’ll use the pyramid to concentrate the magic and redirect it, and if everything goes as it should, every flea in the area should feel compelled to descend on our visitors.”

Connor took a deep breath as Rolf began to chant. Caz joined in a moment later, and Connor did his best to follow their lead. Outside, the pounding of the catapults continued, although the attackers seemed to need longer to regroup from the last round of bombardment from Aurick’s men.

Everyone seems to want to drain something from me, Connor thought. The mages want energy. Penhallow wants blood, and the Wraith Lord wants my body. He forced the sour thoughts away, focusing instead on taking deep, regular breaths until he felt his body relax a bit and his attention was diverted from the sounds of fighting outside.

“Keep chanting,” Rolf instructed. “I’m going to make the working now.” Connor focused on repeating the same words and cadence as Caz, trying to block out what Rolf was saying so as not to get distracted. Rolf’s chant was a counterpoint, and within the wardings, Connor could feel power building.

Connor wasn’t a mage, but he had been in the presence of strong magic many times. He knew its signature. The hair on his arms and on the back of his neck seemed to be standing on end. His skin prickled as it did when lightning was about to strike nearby. Connor felt the blood rush in his ears. As Rolf spoke the words of power, it seemed as if the air suddenly rushed out of the warded space, leaving it still and drained.

A sudden tiredness washed over Connor. Caz staggered, and Connor reached out to steady him. “I’m fine,” Caz assured him, but Connor thought the young mage looked pale.

“Your magic worked,” Alsibeth said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Let’s see how many folks stick around for the fight when they’re scratching themselves raw.”

Rolf released the warding. Caz found a chair while Connor edged up to the window. Even at a distance, he could hear cries going up from the rival force, and although he could not see exactly what was going on, the people on the other side seemed to be milling around more than before. He chuckled. “If we can run them off, it’s a damn sight better than killing them, especially if they’re not real soldiers,” he said.

“That’s my thought, but if they come back, we’ll have to step things up a notch,” Rolf replied.

They waited. As Connor watched, some of the crowd trickled away down the side streets and alleys, perhaps hoping to get away from the fleas. “It’s working,” Connor reported. “There are fewer people out there than there were a couple of minutes ago.”

“And it’s taking them longer to fire back,” Caz pointed out. “That’s a good thing.”

Aurick had taken advantage of the lull. He stepped up his bombardment, lobbing whatever he could find toward the mob, hoping, Connor was certain, to break their resolve.

“Uh-oh,” Connor said. “They’re reloading.”

From what Connor could see, about a third of the mob had disbanded, but the ones who stayed had returned to their post, regardless of the discomfort. “What in Raka are they loading up?” Connor wondered as he watched the catapult crews struggle to lift two squirming sacks of burlap into the mechanisms.

“We’ve got to stop those launches,” Alsibeth said suddenly. She looked down, intently focused on her scrying bowl. “I don’t know what’s in them, but it’s deadly. Rolf—what can you do?”

Rolf deliberated for only a moment before he snatched down what looked to Connor to be a metal-and-glass lantern from a shelf filled with a hodgepodge of artifacts and magical objects. “Get back into the circle,” Rolf commanded, his tone grim. “I’m going to see if I can channel fire and burn those bags out of the sky.”

“We haven’t vetted that piece yet,” Caz pointed out worriedly.

“No time like the present,” Rolf replied. With Connor and Caz in place, Rolf hurriedly raised the warding.

“You don’t know it will work the way it should,” Caz protested.

Rolf fixed him with a pointed glare. “Then it’ll be on my head if it doesn’t. All you two need to do is chant.”

Connor wasn’t sure what scared him more, the sight of those writhing, twisting sacks being loaded into the catapults, or Rolf’s determination to proceed into the unknown.

“There is death,” Alsibeth said, her gaze fixed on the water. “No matter what choice is made.”

Rolf began the chant. Caz and Connor took it up a moment later. Unlike the last time, the chant seemed rough and fast. Connor could feel the power welling up like a storm surge. Rolf was speaking quickly, and his low voice was like a pounding war drum. Connor could hear fear in Caz’s voice, and wondered if the others could hear the same in his. Alsibeth had left off scrying and raised her voice in the chant. Connor wondered if she feared that the power Rolf was raising might need the extra help to control.

Two catapults thudded, launching their squirming loads toward Westbain. Rolf raised the lantern, and spoke a word of command.

Fire blasted from the lantern, shattering the glass in the window, torching across the sky toward the enemy lines. The fire lanced through one of the burlap-bound sacks launched by the catapult. A nightmarish shriek echoed from the walls of the manor as the burning bundle tumbled to the ground.

“Rolf, let it go!” Connor urged.

Rolf had not moved. He held the lantern aloft, his hands like claws. His expression was resolute, and he stared unblinking toward his objective.

Alsibeth screamed. Connor chanced a look again toward the window. The stream of fire continued its blast, arcing to touch down where the catapults had sent their deadly missiles into the air. Flames burst across the flatlands, incinerating the mob that had not already dispersed. Rolf remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the lantern.

Then Connor realized that Rolf was no longer breathing.

“He’s dead.” Connor reached out to grab Caz’s arm. “Whatever that damned lantern did, it pulled the life out of him—and it’ll come for us next unless we do something!”

“Break the warding, Alsibeth,” Caz said, his eyes taking on a determined glint. “I’ll handle the lantern.”

Alsibeth shouted the words of power, and Connor felt the energy shift. He stepped backward, purposely kicking away the rope that had defined the workspace and smudging the protective line of salt.

“Stand clear!” Caz tackled Rolf, shoulder-slamming into the older, heavier man. The fiery blast went wild, and Caz screamed as it caught him on one side. Alsibeth dove for the floor. Caz brought one fist down hard against Rolf’s still-outstretched hands to dash the lantern to the floor. The lantern smashed and went dark. Caz and Rolf tumbled to the ground and lay still.

Connor ran to Caz, pulling him off of Rolf’s body. He dropped to his knees, checking Rolf for a pulse he did not expect to find. But when he rolled Caz over, Connor let out a low moan of despair. The lantern’s fire had seared one side of Caz’s body, burning away his hair, charring the skin on his face, chest, and arm. Caz groaned, a guttural sound that reminded Connor of a death rattle.

“Caz!” Alsibeth cried, crawling over to the injured mage. Alsibeth appeared unharmed, though her hair was wild and her skin was ashen.

“We’ve got to get him down to the healers,” Connor urged. “It’s too late to help Rolf.”

A feral growl rumbled down the hallway, and claws scratched against the stone floor.

Connor climbed to his feet, drawing his sword. Whatever was scratching its way down the corridor was getting closer.

“Go!” Alsibeth shouted. “I’ll stay with Caz.”

“I don’t even know what’s out there,” Connor retorted.

“Monsters,” Alsibeth said, gentling Caz’s unburned hand into her lap. “That’s what was in the last catapult assault. They restrained some of the magic beasts long enough to fire them toward us. It was the last thing I saw before the scrying went blank.”

Monsters. Connor had heard the tales that Blaine and the others told of having faced down the monsters that wild magic had unleashed across Donderath.

“Stay here. See what you can do for Caz.” Connor tightened his grip on his sword. If the beast had reached the manor house, then it had somehow gotten past the soldiers. Going to look for the monster was better than having it find them where they were.

Connor flattened himself against the wall next to the door, and chanced a look down the corridor. He could see something moving in the shadows, something the size of a large dog. He frowned. The sack that the catapult launched was much bigger than a dog. Could they have sent multiple monsters?

From outside, Connor heard men shouting and the clang of swords. A howl unlike anything Connor had ever heard before rose above the shouts, to be answered again and again.

The thing in the hallway scented the air, then raised its head and gave an answering cry that sent a shiver down Connor’s spine.

The sounds of fighting outside the manor told Connor that help was unlikely to come in time. Connor doubted Alsibeth had the strength left for a magical assault. It was still daytime, so there would be no assistance coming from Nidhud or his Knights, or from Penhallow. The Wraith Lord came and went on his own whims, not to be counted on.

I can buy us time, Connor thought. That’s worth something.

Connor pivoted out into the hallway at the same moment when the thing seemed to scent him. It rose crab-like on six spiny, jointed legs. The scratching Connor had heard was the beast’s hard carapace and its clawed feet. Its white shell gave it the look of bleached bones. The body of the thing was oval-shaped and thick. Altogether, the beast was the size of a full-grown mastiff, and when it scented Connor, he learned one more thing about it.

It was fast.

Connor saw the beast scuttling toward him, moving with a sideways, swaying motion all the more terrifying for its speed. Connor braced himself, sword held in both hands, positioning his body to keep the thing from getting to Caz and Alsibeth.

Now would have been a good time for some of Rolf’s fire, Connor thought. The thing was on him with the speed of a bounding wolf. Connor hacked at it with his sword, aiming for the joints.

His sword grated against the hard surface, and although Connor had brought down his blade with his full strength, it did not slice through the leg. Two large, faceted eyes watched him, unblinking like a spider, and the thing’s legs clicked as they lashed at him, slicing through his shirt with their sharp tips.

Connor set about himself with his sword, slashing with all his might. His blade bounced off the body of the thing, but found purchase in one of its forelegs, where the blade sliced into the joint that attached the leg to the body. One of the white, bone-like legs snapped off and fell to the floor in a jet of bluish ichor.

The beast screeched an earsplitting sound that echoed in the confines of the corridor. Connor was bleeding freely from a dozen gashes where the thing had cut him; the scent of his blood sent the creature into a frenzy. It came at him with its five clawed legs flailing, fast as whips and surprisingly strong. Like fighting a swordsman with extra arms, Connor could only parry part of each strike, and with every attack, the creature scored more deep cuts on his arms, chest, and thighs.

If its claws are poisoned, I’m a dead man, Connor thought. He grabbed a board that lay near the entrance to the mage’s room, using it as a makeshift shield. It spared him a few strikes, but it was impossible to block all of its legs at once.

Connor’s sword sliced off another of the creature’s legs. The beast shrieked and skittered backward, then launched itself at Connor once more. He angled his sword so that the tip struck the thing in its underbelly, hoping to find a weak spot. But the tip of his sword scratched down along its rigid exoskeleton without causing damage.

The beast was chattering wildly, a high-pitched, staccato noise. It reared back and its maw opened wide, a circular hole filled with rows of sharp teeth. It would take forever for that thing to eat me, Connor thought.

Despite his fear, Connor was tiring quickly. No one from downstairs had run to his aid, leaving him to assume that the soldiers were busy with their own problems, and the servants had gone to the dungeons. Perhaps the creatures got to them first.

Alsibeth slipped out of the mage’s workroom and stood behind Connor. She held a lit oil lamp in one hand. “Caz needs more help than I can give him—but I might be able to help you,” she said. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I could use a good one.” Connor’s shirt and pants were soaked with blood. One of the creature’s sharp legs had sliced across one temple, barely missing his eye and sending a rivulet of blood down the side of his face. Blood trickled down both his arms, and his hands looked as if they had been sliced by knives.

“These things, the ranin, they don’t like fire,” Alsibeth whispered.

Connor dared not take his eyes off the creature long enough to spare her an incredulous glance. “Burning down the manor isn’t an option.”

“We won’t have to,” Alsibeth replied. “Just follow my lead.”

“Watch out—it moves fast,” Connor warned.

Alsibeth gave him a canny look. “I’m counting on it.”

The next time the ranin came at him, Connor dodged so that he had his back to the door of the room Alsibeth had indicated. It was another workroom, but rarely used, so that all that was in it was a small worktable and a few chairs. On one end was a large stone fireplace as tall as Connor’s shoulders and as wide across as his outstretched arms. The fireplace was dark, although someone had left wood stacked inside should a fire be needed.

The beast sprang at Connor, and he barely kept it from getting past him to Alsibeth. “Whatever you’re doing to do, do it quickly!” he shouted.

Alsibeth grabbed the table and flipped it on its side so that it was between them and the creature.

“That won’t hold it,” Connor cautioned.

“Doesn’t have to,” Alsibeth replied. “Here’s the plan. I draw that thing toward the fireplace. You be ready behind the table, and when the ranin is in place, shove that table as hard and as fast as you can to trap it inside the fireplace. I’ll throw the lamp in with it, and with luck, that thing will go up in flame without taking the rest of us with it.”

“It’s worth a try. I’ve got nothing better.”

“Get ready,” Alsibeth said, eyeing the way the creature bobbed back and forth like a duelist sizing up an opponent. “Go!”

Alsibeth dodged toward the fireplace, and the creature swiveled to follow her motion. Connor hurled himself against the table, putting his shoulder against the edge and pushing the flat surface of the upended tabletop toward the ranin and the fireplace as fast as he could move. At the last moment, Alsibeth dodged aside, and Connor slammed the table against the creature, knocking it into the stone firebox.

Alsibeth lobbed the oil lamp over the top of the table. It hit the back of the firebox and shattered, dousing the ranin with oil and flames. Connor kept the table shoved up against the opening.

“We did it!” Alsibeth shouted as the creature squealed, hissing and popping in the flames and trying to hurl itself against the table to get free.

Connor turned toward her to reply, but no words came. Three of the creature’s razor-sharp claws protruded through the wooden tabletop, lancing deep into his chest and belly. Connor stared down at the wounds in shock, and then tumbled backward into darkness.