Shadow and Flame Read online

  “It’s something when a hot bath and the safety to enjoy it is the ultimate luxury, isn’t it?” Verner mused when they regrouped. “Funny how the small things we used to take for granted loom so large these days.”

  Two guards opened tall doors into a long, high-ceiling room. Tapestries on the walls regaled battles long past. Three large fireplaces, each with openings as tall as a man, sat darkened at one end of the room. A large, long table with chairs stretched the length of the room. Battle pennants from wars fought generations ago hung overhead, as well as hunting trophies and one suit of armor that looked as if it had been a spoil of war.

  “Welcome.” Rinka Solveig met them in the doorway. It was the first time Blaine had seen her without the red leather armor she wore on the battlefield. Tonight, she wore a scarlet gown. Her blond hair was wrapped atop her head in a braid. Rinka Solveig was striking if not conventionally pretty. Her features were angular, not quite regular, but there was such a sense of character, clarity, and self-possession about her that she was memorable.

  “My brother and I welcome you to Bleak Hollow,” she said, and gestured for them to enter the great hall.

  A figure dressed in a black doublet and trews awaited them halfway into the room, and it took Blaine a moment to recognize Tormod Solveig without his armor. Tall, slender, with sharp features, crow-black hair, and dark eyes, Tormod looked younger off the battlefield, although his eyes had a world-weary glint to them. Given his apparent youth, it was hard to remember just how powerful he was as a necromancer.

  “Glad everyone is still in one piece,” Tormod said, sparing them a perfunctory smile that did not reach his eyes. Blaine got the impression that Tormod did not smile often.

  “With a few more scratches and dents,” Verner replied.

  “I understand Blaine believes he has an alternative to our situation,” Rinka said, giving Blaine an appraising look. “We’ll be most interested to hear him out.”

  Bleak Hollow’s great room looked more like a place to rally troops than the site for a state dinner. The walls were gray stone, and the room’s only embellishments were battle flags draped like tapestries along the sides of the room. A large iron chandelier hung in the middle of the common room. The only furnishings were large tables and benches, as if the room doubled as a mess hall. One of those large tables had been set with pewter chargers and goblets. Roasted venison and pheasant seasoned with onions and apples lay on large serving boards. Baskets of bread, platters of cooked carrots, parsnips, and turnips, along with tankards full of ale looked inviting.

  “Come. Eat. We have a lot to talk about,” Tormod said, gesturing for them to follow him to the table.

  “To our alliance,” Tormod said, lifting his tankard when they were seated. “And to a rebirth for Donderath.” The others murmured their agreement as they lifted their cups in a toast. Kestel had obtained a charm that would alert her to the presence of poison, and she made sure to sprinkle a few drops of the ale onto the ring charm before they drank. The stone remained dark, signifying that the ale was safe to drink.

  “So cautious,” Rinka said, noting Kestel’s movements. “Even among allies?”

  “I know how easy it is to kill,” Kestel replied nonchalantly. “There’s no truly ‘safe’ place except the grave.” She glanced toward Tormod. “And perhaps, not even there.”

  For a while, conversation lulled as they ate. The food was well seasoned, tasty, and plentiful. After the last two days of camp rations, and three days of skirmishing, Blaine found the prospect of a good meal and passable ale almost irresistible.

  “How long have you had problems with the nomads?” Blaine asked when he had eaten his fill and the others were sliding their empty plates away from them.

  Tormod set down his tankard and blotted his lips with his napkin. “There have been raids as long as there have been nomads,” he replied. “Merrill paid them little attention, and most of the trading caravans that crossed to the Lesser Kingdoms hired mercenaries to make sure they got where they were going.”

  “So you’ve had raids all along, or have they gotten worse of late?” Piran asked. It would be a mistake to count the tankards of ale Piran had consumed and guess about his sobriety. Piran could drink more than any man Blaine had ever met and still keep his wits about him and his aim true.

  “The plains weren’t hit as hard by the Great Fire and the Cataclysm because there were no noble houses there,” Rinka replied. “But they paid dearly with the storms and the beasts. And for a while, the beasts were the equals of the nomads. The trade caravans stopped traveling the routes south. Most of the local traders paid tribute for protection. And after the Cataclysm, they had no goods to sell.”

  “So now that the storms are gone and the beasts have been mostly destroyed, the nomads are back in business,” Verner summarized.

  Rinka shrugged. “After a fashion. Their raids often leave behind gold and silver. They want tools, food, livestock, and weapons. And if they can’t find those, they’ll take hostages to barter for what they can’t steal.” She paused. “If it’s true that the Lesser Kingdoms were hit as badly as Donderath, then the nomads are probably fighting for their survival.”

  “The raiders haven’t launched attacks on this level since the days of their greatest warrior, Bayard, centuries ago,” Tormod said. “He was the one who united the tribes and made them see themselves as one people. Bayard was a legend—almost a god to the Plainsmen.”

  “We need a solution to the nomad problem, because we intend to expand our control westward,” Rinka said abruptly. “Tormod has spoken with the plains dead. The old spirits know things we’ve forgotten about plants that can survive drought, that are good for eating or making into cloth, plants that don’t grow farther east. If we can learn from them, we’ll have wares to trade, maybe even with the plains towns that survived and the Lesser Kingdoms.”

  “I have no designs on the West,” Verner said. “My hands are full with my own lands, and the territory I gained after we destroyed Rostivan and Lysander. That’s plenty for me.”

  Blaine shrugged. “We have enough to do rebuilding Castle Reach and the port, as well as the heartland. And since I doubt we’ve seen the last of Hennoch and Pollard, I’ve got no desire to tie up troops where I can’t easily bring them back if they’re needed.”

  “So neither of you will oppose us extending our territory westward?” Tormod confirmed.

  Blaine frowned. “Not unless it causes you to default on your oath to our alliance,” he cautioned. “We lose all that we’ve fought to gain if we can’t keep our core territories should another threat arise—and it will, sooner or later. We’re depending on you to do your part, and if you stretch yourself too thin or get tied up in fighting on the western frontier, you’re of no use to us.”

  Tormod nodded. “Agreed. We have every intention of honoring our alliance. And you are correct to be cautious regarding Pollard. The dead do not hold him in high regard,” Tormod said.

  “And of Pentreath Reese? Have your ghosts brought you any news?” Pollard, though mortal, was liegeman to Reese, an immortal talishte vampire. Reese had been judged and sentenced to torture and exile by the Elders among the talishte.

  “Reese remains in his prison, for now,” Tormod replied. “But the ghosts fear Reese may soon be freed.”

  “Probably by Pollard,” Piran said, making the name a curse. “It figures.”

  Kestel shook her head. “Pollard can’t free Reese himself. He’s just a mortal, and Reese was imprisoned by the Elders—very powerful talishte. Someone would have to help him—which is why having his maker, Thrane, show up now is worrisome.”

  “Surely Reese had a brood of his own,” Verner said. “And they would certainly wish to aid their master.”

  “Maybe,” Blaine said, “and maybe not. From what Lanyon Penhallow has said, the talishte tend to be rather competitive. Knock off someone at the top and everyone else moves up. Maybe they don’t have the incentive—or the loyalty—to put Rees
e back on top.”

  “Then you’d best watch Thrane carefully,” Rinka said. “Pack animals must have a leader. Reese’s imprisonment leaves a void, and nature always fills the empty places.”

  “You’ve heard the news we had to share,” Tormod said. “Now I would learn your news.” He managed an awkward smile. “We get few visitors out here. News is always welcome.”

  Verner told of his efforts to rebuild his forces after the Battle of the Northern Plains. “Now we need peace long enough to plant our crops and harvest them,” he finished. “Another hungry winter, and our own people are likely to turn on us.”

  “You never said what you gained from helping to anchor the magic,” Kestel said with a disarming smile. Piran, Verner, and Tormod had been among those Blaine had chosen to be the new Lords of the Blood, who stood with him in a powerful ritual to bring the wild magic back under human control. Each of the Lords of the Blood had gained a magical benefit from the ritual, but when they had parted company to return to their respective lands, some had not yet realized what their new gift was or how to use it.

  “From what we’ve been able to tell, magic doesn’t ‘stick’ to me,” Verner replied, looking self-conscious. “Magical attacks seem to slide off me.”

  Blaine nodded. “Not a bad talent to come away with,” he said.

  Rinka turned to Blaine. “Now, you said you had a way to turn the situation with the raiders around. Let’s hear it. I’m tired of burying good soldiers.”

  Blaine looked from Rinka to Tormod to Verner. “You’ve noticed my men, Borya and Desya? The ones with the cat-slit eyes? They’re from the Western Plains, though they weren’t raiders. But they know the people, the way the Plainsmen think. And they’re certain that the attack-withdraw-wait-attack pattern is the raiders’ way of enabling both sides to size each other up—as potential allies, not enemies.”

  Rinka gave Blaine a skeptical look. “They’ve killed a lot of men for nothing if that’s true.”

  “The point is, we may be able to stop the killing—and create a valuable alliance,” Blaine said. “If you’re open to the idea.”

  “Ally with the raiders?” Tormod asked sharply. “How could we ever trust them?”

  “Solveig is right,” Verner said. “And why should they trust us?”

  “They might not trust us,” Blaine replied, “but I think we’ve got someone they will trust—implicitly.”

  The sun had set while they were dining, and Blaine hoped his guest would be punctual. Just then, one of the guards opened the door to the great hall and leaned in. “M’lord,” he said to Tormod. “There’s a talishte here who claims to have been invited by Lord McFadden.”

  “Is this your doing?” Tormod asked, looking sharply at Blaine.

  “Yes. And if you want the slaughter to end, you’ll hear what he has to say,” Blaine replied.

  It was clear that doing so went against Tormod’s grain, but he gave a stiff nod. “Send him in.”

  A moment later, a well-dressed, dark-haired man entered the great room. His clothing was simple but expensive, and he carried himself like someone accustomed to power. Shoulder-length black hair fell loose around his face, framing dark eyes and a dusky complexion. He looked like an aristocratic cousin to Borya and Desya—or to the raiders themselves. His walk and stance made it clear that he had been a man of war.

  “Peace to you all,” the stranger said in a voice that still carried a trace of a Lesser Kingdoms accent. “I am Bayard, and I’ve come to save my people.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  RINKA, TORMOD, AND VERNER STARED AT THE newcomer in stunned silence. Kestel worked to hide a triumphant smile, while Piran gave the talishte an appraising glance.

  “That’s impossible,” Rinka said, lifting her chin. “The real Bayard vanished and died centuries ago.”

  The dark-haired man smiled wryly. “Yes, I did. Five centuries ago, give or take a few years. Not long after my greatest victory, I was turned by a maker who liked to collect ‘accomplished’ fledglings. I vanished, because my work at that time was complete. My victory gave the Plainsmen control of their lands, repulsed an invasion force, and brought them together as a people. They no longer needed me, and I was weary of war.”

  Rinka looked from Bayard to Blaine. “How do we know you’re really Bayard?”

  “I have the word of Lanyon Penhallow and Kierken Vandholt, the Wraith Lord,” Blaine replied. “For the last several centuries, Bayard has been one of the Elder Council of the talishte.”

  Tormod had remained silent, staring intently at Bayard. Finally, he nodded. “Yes,” Tormod said. “I believe he is who he says he is. His spirit could not lie to me.”

  Bayard inclined his head in acknowledgment. “It is as you say, lord necromancer.”

  “When Borya and Desya told me their interpretation of what was going on, I realized that we had two different groups sending signals to each other that were being misunderstood,” Blaine said as Bayard found a seat at the table. “Geir, one of Penhallow’s top men, told me that one of the Elders was from the plains. I sent him to ask Penhallow and that Elder for assistance and advice.”

  “And here I am,” Bayard finished. His dark eyes had a wary cunning to them, and he possessed the body of a fighter, frozen in immortality at the peak of his prowess. “It has been a very long time since my people stood in real peril. And so I came.”

  “You’ve intervened before?” Rinka asked, staring at him with a combination of concern and fascination. “There are legends to that effect.”

  Bayard gave a self-deprecating half smile. “A useful fiction,” he replied. “Only once in all that time did I feel my assistance was truly needed. I discovered that the legend itself became a useful deterrent. Until now.”

  Tormod’s eyes narrowed. “We did not attack the Plainsmen,” he said. “But we have defended ourselves when attacked.”

  “In a warrior culture, the suitability of an ally in battle must be seen before an offer of alliance is extended,” Bayard replied. Though he was dressed in the Donderath aristocratic fashion with a waistcoat, shirt, and breeches, it did not take much imagination for Blaine to picture him in the loose-fitting tunic and trews of the plains horsemen.

  “I find it difficult to grasp the logic in attacking someone to see if they are suitable as an ally,” Rinka said.

  “Perhaps difficult for a Donderan to grasp, but intuitive for a Plainsman,” Bayard replied. “How better to see whether a potential ally is fierce in a fight?”

  “But the deaths—” Rinka protested.

  “Would have been avoided if we had understood the customs of the Plainsmen,” Tormod replied. He had watched Bayard with a distracted expression, but now he seemed fully focused. “I have verified what he is telling us—and who he is—with the spirits.”

  “It’s the ferocity of the fight, not the number of kills that would have mattered to the Plainsmen,” Bayard said.

  “The question is, will your kin accept a truce—and perhaps even an alliance—given how much blood has been spilled?” Piran asked.

  “Tell me what has happened since the fighting began,” Bayard said. He listened, his gaze downcast and intense, as the others told him of the battles that had transpired.

  When they finished, Bayard turned to Tormod. “What say the dead?” he asked. “Would the fallen accept an alliance with so worthy an opponent?”

  Tormod closed his eyes, concentrating. It seemed to Blaine that he could hear the whisper of distant voices, some raised, some calm, but he could not make out their words. After a time, Tormod came back to himself.

  “They acknowledge the worthiness of the warriors,” Tormod replied. “And they fear that if an agreement of some kind is not reached, too many of their kinsmen will die young.”

  Verner had been quiet thus far. Now, he leaned forward earnestly. “We need to make this alliance,” he said. “We’ve all got better things to do than fight an army that doesn’t really want to be an enemy. And if we ally with the
Plainsmen, that would strengthen the Solveigs’ hold on the border, so Blaine and I can go back to taking care of our own lands, or fighting off the real threat.”

  Blaine knew that Verner spoke from the heart. Although he was a skillful warrior, Verner had made it clear more than once that his true priority was to rebuild the lands that owed him fealty and see to the safety of his people. He cared nothing for adding territory or gaining power, and Blaine had to talk him into becoming one of the new Lords of the Blood.

  “I agree.” Piran had listened to Bayard’s story without giving much away in his expression. “Verner’s right—we’ve got bigger, badder enemies on the horizon, and we need to give them our full attention. We can’t do that if we’re fighting off the Plainsmen time and again.”

  “If there’s a chance to end the fighting without slaughter, I’m all for it.” Kestel nodded her agreement.

  Blaine turned back to Rinka and Tormod. “Well?” He asked. “You two would be most immediately impacted by an alliance. No more raids. Allies in extending your control over the Western Plains, and protection for the trade routes so the caravans will travel again. Additional troops with skilled fighters to fight against Pollard and Hennoch—and whoever else they pull into this.” He raised an eyebrow. “All you have to do is be able to trust them.”

  Rinka hesitated, then nodded. “If Bayard will agree to oversee the alliance to make sure promises are honored, then yes. We’ve lost enough soldiers already.”

  Everyone turned to Tormod. “You’ve heard the testimony of the dead,” Blaine said. “What do you say?”

  It was difficult to guess when Tormod was merely giving thought to a matter and when he was listening to the whispers of the ghosts. Even at his most decisive, Tormod seemed to be only half paying attention to the real world, and Blaine wondered if controlling his necromancy required that much constant attention. If so, Tormod Solveig was truly a man torn between the world of the living and the realm of the dead.