CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

BRING THOSE HORSES AROUND!” VEDRAN POLLARD shouted above the din of battle. It felt good to swing a sword again, to be back in the thick of the fight. Battle made him feel alive, unlike the slow administrative death of overseeing Solsiden.

Soldiers reined in their mounts to comply, and the line shifted as Pollard pressed the Arkala forces for ground. Rostivan had weakened the Arkalas, and Pollard had mustered his troops quickly, so that before the weary and bloodied Arkala forces could return to their fortifications, they found an army standing in their path.

Pollard brought his sword down hard. His blade bit through the foot soldier’s leather armor and into the sinew and tendon of his shoulder. He fell to the side, his blood soaking the dry winter grass.

Pollard’s soldiers cut their way through the Arkala front line, leaving a wake of corpses and severed limbs behind them.

This is where I belong, Pollard thought, though his muscles ached with every jarring blow. All of his disappointment with Reese found its way into the honed steel blade. Insufferable talishte son of a bitch, leaves me to clean up his mess, he ranted to himself as his sword rose and fell, splattering his cloak with blood.

Reese left me to take the fall, to handle the war he started, to deal with his sorry brood. Anger coursed through Pollard’s blood, winning out over fatigue, over pain. And then his damn bond curses me to feel his wounds, Pollard’s mental tirade continued as he slashed his way through the infantry. I did not fight this hard to be some biter’s lackey!

Perhaps the best of the Arkala troops had fallen in their battle with Rostivan. That would be a charitable excuse for the poor showing the soldiers made, and the slaughter Pollard’s forces dealt out. Pollard soldiers were intent on making an example of the Arkala troops, giving no quarter.

Pollard’s body knew the rhythm of battle. His sword rose and fell, like a scythe winnowing the harvest. Being on horseback in the thick of the fight, awash in the battlefield smell of blood and offal, surrounded by the cacophony of steel on steel and men’s death cries, this was what Pollard had missed in those gray weeks at Solsiden.

“Don’t let them get past you!” he shouted, rallying his men when the line left too much room between riders.

He had brought only a portion of his army, and still they outnumbered the Arkala forces. The doomed men fought with valor. Few tried to run, and Pollard’s men rode those cowards down, trampling them with their warhorses’ heavy iron shoes. The other soldiers fought with fury. Hopeless pawns, he thought, watching as line after line of advancing troops fell to the sword.

“Bring me the Arkala twins!” Pollard thundered.

In the distance, he heard trumpets sound retreat, but for the press of soldiers already committed to battle, the reprieve sounded too late. As the men behind them ran for their lives, the men in the front lines knew they could die fighting or die fleeing. They hurled themselves at Pollard and his men, slashing wildly with their blades, tearing at the horses and their bridles with bloodied hands, their faces twisted in rage.

Pollard’s horse shied as one of the enemy soldiers dove toward it, sword upraised. Pollard reined in his mount, veering sharply, and thrust with his sword, using the soldier’s own momentum to gut him like a fish. The man’s entrails spilled onto his boots, steaming in the cold spring air, and his sword clattered from his hand as the soldier grabbed for his guts, pressing them against his slit belly, his mouth opening and closing as he fell to his knees.

Another soldier came at Pollard from the left, shouting obscenities. Pollard pivoted his horse, angling his sword to take the running man through the slit of his visor, feeling the bite as steel connected with bone. He had barely yanked his blade free as the man tumbled to the ground, jerking spasmodically.

Pollard brought his horse up onto its hind legs, then let it plunge down, heavy hooves crushing the dying man, sending a spray of gore that coated the horse’s underbelly and sent gobbets sliding down Pollard’s slick black boots.

“A gold piece and a cask of ale for anyone who brings me the Arkala twins!” Pollard shouted, his voice raw. Gold had little worth in the wreckage that was Donderath, but ale held its value. The challenge seemed to inspire the troops, who left off trampling the abandoned front line and sent their horses charging after the retreating troops.

Poor dumb bastards, Pollard thought as he watched the fleeing army. Hennoch’s troops waited just beyond the rise, poised to cut them down. Pollard smiled grimly. He had sent Hennoch and his men in a flanking maneuver two days before provoking the battle. According to his spies, three thousand Arkala troops had gone against Rostivan’s troops and Quintrel’s mages. Fifteen hundred had limped away, burned and bloodied. Pollard was ready to finish the battle.

Arkala commanders shouted orders above the chaos, but their men were too panicked to respond. Some threw down their weapons and fled. Pollard watched them run, knowing what awaited them.

After today, the Arkala brothers will no longer pose a threat.

Pollard left it to his own foot soldiers to work their way among dead and dying enemy soldiers, slitting throats and looting bodies. His horse picked its way among the corpses as if the stench of death offended it.

Some of the Arkala troops fled east. Pollard let them run. A few of Pollard’s soldiers made a sport of chasing after the terrified foot soldiers, herding them back and forth between their horses like cattle, letting them gain ground and then closing the gap. They rode up behind the terrified soldiers, jabbing them with the point of their swords before riding the hapless bastards down. The last hopes of the desperate retreat were dashed by the solid line of Hennoch’s fresh troops, armed and mounted, ready to mete out judgment.

“Bring me the twins, and it will go that much easier on the rest of you,” Pollard shouted.

Some of the Arkala troops, seeing a fresh army before them, sank to their knees in surrender. Others launched a suicide attack, unwilling to go down without a fight. In the center of the fray, still surrounded by their doomed troops, were two dark-haired soldiers fighting with a skill and intensity that set them apart. It was impossible to dismiss them as mere conscripts.

“Take them!” Pollard bellowed. “I want the Arkala twins alive!”

Pollard’s troops converged on the two men, who were battling for their lives. The Arkala loyalists rallied around their commanders, fighting in vain to hold off wave upon wave of enemies, only to fall beneath the flash of swords and axes. The Arkalas were fighting back-to-back, massively outnumbered.

Pollard signaled impatiently to one of the mages who had ridden up behind him. “Those two,” he said, pointing. “I want them.”

It would be like the willful twins to deny him his victory by cutting each other down, Pollard thought. He was not about to be denied. The mage went still, his brow furrowed in concentration, and brought his outstretched hands in a loud clap. Across the battlefield, the Arkala twins fell as if poleaxed.

“Bring them to me!” Pollard’s ragged voice carried across the distance.

Soldiers piled onto the downed warlords, binding their hands behind their back. Two guards dragged the Arkala twins roughly to their feet as the others kept the last desperate enemy soldiers at bay as their leaders were dragged away.

Pollard watched the two captives with little sense of triumph. A turn of fortune, and the roles could be reversed, he thought. At this point, nearing his fifth decade, Pollard had few illusions left. We’re all captives of one sort or another.

At sword’s point, the twins fell to their knees, defiance clear in their faces. “We do not yield to you,” the twin on the left snarled. Birth made them identical; war distinguished them. The twin who spoke had a flattened nose and a scar that cut across his left eyebrow. The other twin had lost part of an ear and had a deep cleft in his cheek that was the reminder of a long-ago sword stroke.

“It matters nothing to me whether you yield or not,” Pollard replied. “Your forces are dead or dying. And soon, you will join them in the Unseen Realm.”

“Go to Raka,” the second twin growled. “Death in battle carries no shame.”

Pollard stared at his captives, debating the question he had mulled throughout the battle. I could drag them back to Solsiden in chains, break their bodies, perhaps even have talishte turn them. Could their spirits be broken? In time, all can. But is there an advantage to it greater than slaughtering them here? Either way, they become martyrs. And either way, they’re dead.

“You’ve failed,” Pollard said, his voice as cold as the harsh wind. “Your men are dead. Those who ran like cowards met General Hennoch over the next rise. No army will survive you, no one will be left to sing your praises or venerate your name. It ends here.”

He swung his sword for the twin on the right, and the blade bit into the man’s neck, jerking as it encountered the bone and tendon. Pollard did not strike again, and the prisoner fell to one side, blood darkening his armor, body quivering, denied a quick and painless death.

The other Arkala twin paled, but his expression remained defiant. “I am not afraid to die.”

“Good,” Pollard remarked. He swung again, angling the sword so that it hit the spine at the base of the skull but did not cut through the throat. The last Arkala brother toppled slowly. His spine was severed where it would paralyze his body from the throat down, stopping his breath and stilling his heart. But it would take a bit for the realization to reach his mind, which would be the last to go. Pollard saw a range of emotions flicker in the dying man’s eyes. Rage, at being cut down. Defiance, even now. Mortal terror of the darkness that lay beyond the light vanishing from his eyes.

“Take the bodies,” Pollard ordered, cleaning his sword on the cloak of one of the dead men. “Post them in gibbets outside Solsiden. It’s cold enough, they’ll keep for quite a while, I think.” With that, he turned his back and swung up on his horse.

Back in camp, Pollard walked to his tent, cheered by his men for their victory over the Arkala forces. Pollard acknowledged their cheers with a distracted wave, intent on reaching his tent before he collapsed.

A guard parted the flaps for him, and Pollard nodded his thanks. Once the flaps dropped, hiding him from the view of outsiders, Pollard staggered. Kerr rushed to him, getting under his shoulder and helping him to his campaign chair near the brazier in the center of the tent.

“M’lord, are you injured?” Kerr’s concern was clear in his face.

Pollard gasped in pain as Kerr rushed to remove his armor. The wounds he had taken in battle did not warrant more than the requisite attention. Pollard had long grown accustomed to the sting and ache of battle damage. But as Kerr lifted his cuirass and then removed his tunic, it was plain that his chest and arms were a seeping mass of boils, with the raw wound over his chest now festering.

“Oh, m’lord,” Kerr moaned, voicing the anguish Pollard’s pride would not let him articulate.

“Whiskey,” Pollard groaned. Kerr went to the side table and filled a glass four fingers full, then returned and pressed it into Pollard’s hand. Pollard knocked it back in two gulps, gasping as the raw liquor burned down his throat.

“I can get you the healer—” Kerr began.

Pollard shook his head. “There’s no cure for this, save Reese’s escape,” he said, his voice gravelly from the damp and the whiskey. “Even magic won’t help.” Pollard had broken down and allowed one of the healers to try. But even the magic could not heal or help his sympathetic wounds from Reese.

“Let me see what I can do,” Kerr said, and he began to bustle around the tent, removing the items from the trunk at the foot of Pollard’s cot that he would need to make the poultice. Before a candlemark was gone, Kerr had applied an unguent and bound up all of the affected skin, then helped Pollard slip into a loose tunic that would neither aggravate his wounds nor reveal them to an onlooker.

“How long can this go on?” Kerr asked, pressing a fresh glass into Pollard’s hand.

“Fifty years,” Pollard replied matter-of-factly. “Or until we can find a way to free my… master.” He hated the word, but there was none other that would suffice. When the bond of thralldom was cinched so tightly that to wound one was to scar the other, it was time to forgo euphemisms.

“Eat,” Kerr chided. “To survive this, you must remain strong.”

Kerr ducked his head out of the tent for a moment and spoke a word to the soldiers, then returned. “They’ll have a hot trencher for you as quickly as a runner can retrieve it,” he said, fussing like a mother hen.

Pollard let him fuss. He was too exhausted to object, and his body was wounded more than his pride. Although he had not taken serious damage in the fight, his joints and muscles ached in ways they had not when he was a younger man. Armor had blocked the worst of the strikes, but the bruises from those blows would blossom in shades of blue and purple, aching to the bone for weeks. Even riding, something he had loved ever since he could sit a horse, now meant that he would fight stiffness in his legs for days. There’s a reason warriors die young, he thought.

He did not realize just how hungry he was until Kerr set the steaming trencher in front of him. It was venison stew, standard rations for an army on the move, but it smelled edible, and it was warm. Tonight, Pollard felt as if he had taken a chill to the bone. Perhaps it was the realization of just how completely he was Reese’s man. Perhaps it was the whisper of mortality, that today he had been wielding the sword, and that someday he would be the one kneeling. Intellectually, he accepted that. But viscerally, the primal urge to survive fought that knowledge with every fiber.

“Commander Jansen to see you, sir,” Kerr said. His inflection gave Pollard to know that if he did not feel well enough to receive company, Kerr would make the requisite excuses. For anyone else, Pollard might have begged off. Not for Nilo.

“Show him in.”

Nilo followed Kerr into the tent and took off his cloak, setting it to one side. He drew up the other campaign chair while Kerr poured him a drink. Nilo did not speak until Kerr left them alone.

“Gods above, Vedran. You look awful!”

From anyone else, Pollard would have taken offense. He knew that Nilo spoke the truth. “It’s the bond,” he said miserably, sipping at his second glass of whiskey.

“Did you take damage?”

Pollard made a dismissive gesture. “Minimal. You?”

Nilo shook his head. “I let the foot soldiers take the brunt of it this time. We did our best to drive the bulk of the enemy into Hennoch’s troops. Let him have the casualties. It weakens him and saves our troops.”

“Learn anything new?”

Nilo sipped his drink. “Nothing solid. I’m working on it.”

Pollard nodded, thinking as he took another drink. The liquor warmed him, and it numbed the worst of the pain. There was little a healer could do for him, and he did not dare let it get out how badly he was injured, or by what cause. Yet another indignity visited upon him by his master, he thought dourly.

“What of Reese?” Nilo asked after a long pause. “Have you heard anything more?”

Pollard drew a long breath and let it out again. “Not since the Elders sent word about his sentence. But in my dreams, I hear him. He suffers greatly.”

“And there is nothing you can do?” Nilo asked.

Pollard shrugged. “Nothing I can do, but there are plans in the brood to test the security of Reese’s prison.”

“Do you know details?”

Pollard shook his head. “Talishte are a closemouthed bunch. I was surprised to know of the plans aforetime. But I believe they’ll make their move soon.”

“You think Reese can sense it through the kruvgaldur?”

“I’m certain of it,” Pollard replied, draining the rest of his second glass. Only now was the rough whiskey beginning to take hold, blunting his pain and dulling his memory. Under normal circumstances, his tolerance for drink was high. In conditions like these, it would take half a bottle to give him the peace he craved, but he dared not risk the price of the aftereffects. Reluctantly, he set his empty glass aside.

“Is that a good thing?” Nilo asked.

Again, Pollard shrugged. “Reese’s talishte won’t remain loyal to us much longer without him present. He’s their true lord. Without them, we’re at a disadvantage.” He swore. “We’re still not recovered from the loss at Valshoa. We need more time to regain our strength. And we need Reese to buy us that time.”

Pollard shifted and winced. Nilo looked at him with concern. “Can the healers do nothing?” Nilo asked quietly.

Pollard sighed. “No, and it was a waste of a good healer. Kerr is trustworthy, but if word were to get out…” He did not need to finish his sentence. Nilo understood.

“Regardless of where his real feelings lie, Hennoch performed well for you,” Nilo reported. “He made a complete rout of the enemy, and his spies played an important role in trapping the Arkalas.”

“Good for him,” Pollard replied without emotion. “Do you think he’ll betray us?”

Nilo shrugged. “You have his son. It depends on how far he’s willing to be pushed, and how willing he is to lose his only son.”

“Fair enough.” Pollard stretched, then grimaced at the pain. “Was there anything else?”

“We’ve spotted Tingur on the move, but we don’t know where they’re going,” Nilo replied. “I’ve had men watching them, but they’re damn difficult to infiltrate. It’s certain that they’re supporting Lysander, and willing to fight for him. We still don’t know whether they’re truly a cult of Torven or just desperate rabble. But they give Lysander an edge in battle.”

“Stay on them,” Pollard instructed. “Perhaps their devotion is genuine, perhaps not, but such things are easily used by others.”

“Hennoch also reported something odd that I think you’ll want to know about,” Nilo continued. “A team of his men vanished on patrol.”

“Vanished?” Pollard said, raising an eyebrow.

Nilo nodded. “Disappeared—soldiers, gear, and horses. No trace of their bodies.”

Pollard frowned. “Where?”

Nilo met his gaze. “That’s the interesting part. Their route took them near Mirdalur.”

“Mirdalur, huh? That is interesting,” Pollard replied. “I’ll ask him about it. That bears looking into.”

Nilo nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” He stood. “I’ll let you rest,” he said. “If there’s any news to tell, I’ll bring word in the morning.”

Pollard nodded. “Much as I have reason to dread returning to Solsiden, I do miss a real bed. Sleep well. I shan’t.”

“I want to see my son.” Larska Hennoch glared at Vedran Pollard. “I’ve done yer bidding, and I’ll do more, but I want to see my boy.”

Three days had passed since their triumph over the Arkala twins. Now the rotting corpses of the twins hung in gibbets outside Solsiden’s gate, the smell mercifully dampened by the cold spring wind. Loyal though they had been, the Arkala forces could not regroup from their defeat by Rostivan quickly enough to escape the combined armies of Pollard and Hennoch. To Pollard’s knowledge, there had been no survivors.

“I’ve had good report of your troops,” Pollard said. “Commander Jansen tells me your men fought well, and held their line. You played a role in our victory. You’re to be commended.” His tone conveyed grudging approval. It would not do for Hennoch to value himself too highly in this bargain.

“All I ask is to see my boy.”

“That can be arranged.” Pollard walked to the door of his study and leaned outside, speaking a few words to the guards.

“Have a seat. These things take time.” Pollard gestured to one of the chairs by the fire. Hennoch gave him a skeptical look and then cautiously went to sit down.

Pollard poured two glasses with the rough brew that passed for whiskey these days. He carried them to the small table between the chairs by the fire, and took one for himself, motioning for Hennoch to take the other.

“A toast,” he proposed. “To victory. The Arkalas have fallen. So will the others who stand in our way.”

Hennoch raised his glass dutifully. “To the future,” he said, but his expression was unreadable.

“Tell me about the soldiers who disappeared.”

Hennoch’s eyes betrayed his surprise, although his expression was schooled to reveal nothing. “It happens,” he said offhandedly. “Men go out on patrol, or on a mission. Sometimes they don’t come back.”

Pollard nodded. “It happens. And when it does, you find out who cost you your soldiers and you make the bastard pay for it.” He paused. “So… what have you learned?”

Hennoch looked uncomfortable. “We realized they were missing right when we rallied to move on the Arkalas,” he replied. “I sent two scouts back to find out whether the men are missing or just runaways.” His tone grew harsh. “We’ll figure it out, and whoever is responsible will pay.”

“My sources tell me the missing soldiers’ route took them near Mirdalur.”

Hennoch nodded. “Aye. Old ruins.”

Pollard’s gaze was intense. “Much more than that. Mirdalur has strategic importance. I want to know whether it’s being used again, and who’s using it.”

Hennoch looked confused, but nodded. “Aye. That’s easy enough. I’ll take care of it as soon as we move camp.”

Easy enough—unless the Knights of Esthrane are behind this, Pollard thought.

“I’ve delivered the Arkalas as we agreed,” Hennoch said, returning to their original conversation. “Now I’d like to see my son.”

Before long, two guards escorted a young man into the room. Eljas Hennoch was sixteen summers old. He resembled his father in the face, though he had yet to gain muscle. His clothes were clean, as was his hair and skin, and Pollard silently congratulated himself at having the foresight to move the prisoner to better quarters immediately upon his return. The implied threat of the guards was not lost on the elder Hennoch as the group stopped just inside the doors.

“Father!” Eljas cried, then stopped, drawing himself up and holding his head high.

“You look well,” Larska Hennoch replied. To Pollard’s eye, it seemed as if each was fighting the urge to embrace, unwilling to let their captor see just how much of a surety they were for each other.

“I am fed and warm,” Eljas replied. Although Eljas was young, it was clear to Pollard that he had been schooled in what was expected behavior for a noble hostage. He conveyed little emotion, and made no plea for his release.

For his part, Larska Hennoch eyed his son with cold appraisal, taking in the hollow of his cheeks, the color of his skin, searching for evidence of mistreatment or neglect. “As it should be,” the elder Hennoch replied. “Have you been moved to suitable quarters?”

“I do not complain,” Eljas answered. Pollard knew Eljas had been moved from the dungeons into a locked and guarded room aboveground after Hennoch had agreed to terms. The windows were barred and the confines of the room were likely to be the young man’s world for quite some time to come, but so long as Hennoch played the faithful loyalist, Pollard had given word for Eljas to receive food and clothing befitting his station, as well as the books that were the young captive’s only request.

“He’s been the perfect houseguest,” Pollard said smoothly, and saw a twitch at the corner of Hennoch’s eye. “I gave you my word. You keep your part of the bargain and I’ll keep mine. Under the right conditions, Solsiden is a comfortable home, and I am a gracious host.” He knew that both father and son read the implied threat.

“I’ll let your mother know I’ve seen you,” Hennoch said in a gruff voice. “She prays to the gods for your safe return.”

“The gods have little to do with it these days, I fear,” Eljas replied stiffly. “Our fates lie in our own hands.”

Pollard gave a nod, and Eljas’s guards escorted him back to his confinement. Hennoch stood staring at the doors for a moment after they had closed. “He knows his duty,” he said quietly. “And so do I.”

“Then all is well,” Pollard replied. He paused. “Tell me, what new reports do you have of the Tingur? Where are they causing problems?”

Hennoch returned to his seat. He licked his lips and took a sip of his drink. “The spies tell me that they’re crazy men, people who have nothing to lose, who’ve thrown their lot in with the prophets and left what little they had.”

“Anything else?”

Hennoch savored his drink for a moment before answering. “The rumors are growing that Lysander has men among the Tingur, and that he’s using them to do his bidding.”

“The rumors are true. They’re his personal army of fanatics.” Pollard replied.

Hennoch met Pollard’s gaze, and in his eyes Pollard saw the cunning of an experienced soldier. “Not a bad idea. A mob doesn’t have to be skilled to cause damage,” he said. “Or to overrun a garrison. All it needs are enough men reckless enough to care little for their own safety.” He raised an eyebrow. “Such fervor is a weapon if one knows how to wield it.”