Shadow and Flame Page 3

  “If Bayard can broker the alliance, and if he agrees to return to lead his people—at least for a while—then I can accept the bargain,” Tormod replied. “Now, how do we go about making an offer to the people we’ve spent months trying to kill?”

  At sundown the next evening, Blaine waited nervously beneath a tent on the plains beyond Bleak Hollow. He wore an outfit more befitting a lord than a warlord, with a somber brocade waistcoat and dark pants. Kestel made sure he had his cuirass on beneath the coat, and his amulet to deflect magic. The Solveigs and Verner had deferred to him as the lead ambassador, and Blaine was still unsure whether he was being flattered or set up to take the fall.

  “If you believe we will surrender, you are mistaken.” Simon, the leader of the Plainsmen, faced Blaine beneath the large open tent erected in the middle of an open field. They were far enough from the site of the last battle that they were spared the stench of the dead, and the clouds of flies and the circling carrion birds. But Blaine was certain those deaths were as much on Simon’s mind as they were on his.

  “Not a surrender—but a truce,” Blaine countered. “An end to the bloodshed, on both sides. With honor.”

  Simon’s eyes narrowed, and in the delegation of six leaders who stood behind him, Blaine could clearly read expressions of anger and distrust. “Why should we believe you?” Simon demanded.

  “We protected the bodies of your dead from scavengers, and bring them to you unmolested,” Blaine said, pointing to the canvas-covered wagon far enough away to mask the smell. “A gesture of goodwill.”

  Simon gave a dismissive snort. “Was killing them also a gesture of goodwill?”

  Kestel stepped forward from where she stood beside Blaine. She was dressed in a black tunic and trews beneath her cuirass. Her smile and her beauty were a fascinating contradiction to her garb, as was the warmth in her voice when she spoke.

  “We believe that this battle between our people rests in a misunderstanding, Your Lordship,” Kestel said, fixing Simon with her gaze. “We did not understand your customs. We have learned more, and wish to begin anew.” Kestel’s graciousness took some of the steam out of Simon’s anger, but the men behind him continued to mutter, and Blaine knew the delegation was far from convinced.

  “We cannot raise those who have been lost to either side,” Blaine said. “But we can come to an agreement that stops the killing—and stands to the advantage of both our peoples.”

  “What offer do you make, that we should trust you?” Simon demanded.

  Blaine and his allies had spent most of the last few days learning the ways of the Plainsmen from Borya, Desya, and Bayard. The nomadic culture was rich and complex, and its nuances would require a lifetime to fully grasp, but Blaine and the others had learned enough by the time of the meeting to make an effort at diplomacy. Just in case, Borya and Desya, dressed like courtiers rather than warriors, stood nearby should translation be needed.

  “If we were to reckon bloodgild, it would pauper both sides,” Blaine said. “Instead, we offer trade, supplies, and protection—in return for the same, as well as safe passage.”

  Simon looked dubious. “Others before you have made such claims,” he said, meeting Blaine’s gaze defiantly. “Their promises ended once they got what they wanted.”

  Blaine nodded. “I know that King Merrill and his father did not keep faith with the Plainsmen. They are gone. We rule Donderath now, and it is our word we give to you.”

  Simon regarded Blaine with suspicion. Two of his advisers crowded forward and spoke to him in low tones. He listened, then dismissed them with a raise of his hand.

  “We have heard of you, Blaine McFadden, the Convict Lord,” Simon said. “We know the Ghost-Talker,” he said with a nod toward Tormod, “the Red Lady, and the Quiet Soldier,” he added with a glance in Verner’s direction. “You are admirable fighters, as the number of our casualties attest. If your word is good, you would be valuable allies.”

  Blaine inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Graciously spoken, Lord Simon. Your men are courageous in battle, and fearless against strong magic.”

  “This protection and trade, passage and supplies, you speak of,” Simon replied, “at what cost do they come to my people? We are used to being part of Donderath in name only, ignored when we are not hunted. What claims would you make on us, in exchange for these things?”

  Simon was no one’s fool, and from the little Blaine recalled of the Plainsmen’s history, the nomads had been ill-used by the kings of Donderath when they were not ignored or persecuted.

  Simon is right to doubt us. I’ve got to make some kind of connection, or even Bayard’s presence may not be enough.

  “We can offer you new breeding stock, to replace the flocks you lost with the wild-magic storms,” Blaine said. “Our first crops will be harvested this spring, with seeds to share for the villages to restore their gardens and fields, so your people can trade with them once more. The Lesser Kingdoms were hurt just as badly as Donderath and Meroven in the Cataclysm. Restoring trade will mean the need for guides and guards for the caravans. And if attackers come from the coast or from the southlands, we will pledge our soldiers to help you protect your people.”

  He met Simon’s gaze. “The truth is, Lord Simon, we need your people and your people need us. It is foolishness to pretend otherwise.”

  “If we’re to have peace, it will require intent from both sides,” Kestel said, presenting Simon the contradiction of a woman with the manner of a diplomat and the clothing of a warrior. “What do you offer Lord McFadden and the allied lords in exchange for an end to war and death? He has offered you things of great value. What do you present in return?”

  Blaine tried not to hold his breath. Bayard and the twins had emphasized that the Plainsmen valued the process of bartering, and would weigh the value of promises carefully. They had also instructed Blaine to be prepared for several rounds of offers and counteroffers. It was difficult to be patient, when Blaine was certain that equally urgent matters required his attention and his troops back east.

  I’d rather use Bayard and the ghosts of their dead to validate a decision they’ve already made rather than push them into a choice, Blaine thought.

  Blaine studied the delegation that accompanied Simon. Several of the men wore stern expressions, but whether that was part of the negotiations or because they opposed a truce, he had no way to know. Two of the men appeared to be paying close attention. Keepers of tribal law? Blaine wondered. Or men tasked with remembering what was said?

  Simon’s eyes narrowed. Surely he came prepared to bargain, Blaine thought. Then again, just because bargaining is part of their culture, it doesn’t mean he’s entirely on board with making peace. Some men just like to fight, and he’s good at it.

  “We can offer a breeding pair of our fine plains horses, the swiftest on the Continent,” Simon replied. “Plus breeding pairs of our best goats, sheep, and chickens, strong and healthy, able to endure harsh weather and thin grazing. We can also offer safe passage to your caravans and traders through our lands, and trustworthy guides across the plains to the Lesser Kingdoms.”

  Simon regarded Blaine and Kestel levelly. “Perhaps most valuable is a truce, our promise not to attack Bleak Hollow so long as your armies uphold their promises.”

  “I will take your offer back to my people,” Blaine said solemnly. “Will you present our offer to yours?” Simon nodded, and then he and his delegation withdrew to their camp.

  “This is taking forever,” Piran grumbled.

  “That’s the beauty of the Western Plains,” Borya said. “There’s no reason to hurry anywhere, because there’s never anything going on.”

  “I’ve got to admit, diplomacy has never been my strong point,” Verner said. “I’m not very patient.”

  “I can tolerate their game—up to a point,” Rinka replied. “Let’s hope their response is reasonable.”

  “The truth is, both sides have precious little to bargain with, since the Cat
aclysm,” Blaine said with a sigh. “Gold, silver, gems—none of that means much until trade begins again. We can spare only so much food and livestock, and the same is true for them. The most valuable thing both sides have to offer is a truce, safe passage, and protection, but that means the Plainsmen would be putting up with strangers in their lands again, and at least nominal governance from Donderath. They may like it the way they’ve had it, on their own without having to answer to anyone else.”

  “That won’t last,” Borya pointed out. “It never does.”

  A candlemark later, Simon returned. This time, the delegation with him looked even less happy than before. One of the men, who had been Simon’s most frequent consultant during the last round of negotiations, looked red in the face, as if he had been arguing. It was difficult to read Simon’s expression.

  “The heads of the families have heard your offering,” Simon reported. “With our war dead yet unburied and unmourned, they found your offering insufficient.” The man standing next to Simon smiled maliciously. Some of the others in the delegation looked uncomfortable, but said nothing.

  “What would make an offering ‘sufficient’ to the heads of the families?” Blaine asked, holding his temper in check.

  “To see you and yours lie bleeding in the dirt beside the graves of our sons!” the man next to Simon cried, and threw himself at Blaine, a knife ready in his hand.

  There was a blur of motion, a dark shape moving impossibly fast, and the silver streak of a knife. Kestel and Piran were seconds too slow, as was Simon, who dove after his companion with an anguished cry.

  “Is this what has become of my sons?” Bayard stood between Blaine and the would-be assassin, holding the attacker’s knife hand in a merciless grip. He repeated his comment in a language Blaine did not understand, but the words made Simon and the delegation grow pale.

  “Bayard.” Simon’s eyes widened. “Can it be?”

  “I am Bayard,” the talishte confirmed as the delegation whispered among themselves, staring at him with astonishment. “When I left the plains, I believed that my people had reached the point where they no longer needed me.” He gave a disdainful look at the man whose knife hand was crushed in his grip, then tossed the raider aside. The man landed in the dirt and remained kneeling, cradling his mangled hand. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “Bayard!” The name was taken up by the delegation like a prayer, and one by one, the men knelt in fealty. Bayard nodded to Tormod, who stepped forward, closed his eyes, and began to chant, raising his hands slowly, palms up. A cold mist began to rise around them, though the evening had been warm. The mist thickened, shapes became visible, and the members of Simon’s delegation gasped as the figures solidified enough to be recognizable.

  “Here are your dead,” Tormod said. “Ask them yourself whether they wish for more of your kin to die, or whether they would see you accept the chance for peace that has been offered to you.” After a moment’s pause, the ghosts also knelt. What the Plainsmen saw in the mist was enough to assure them that the ghosts—and Bayard—were real. Over to one side, the man who had attacked Blaine rocked back and forth on his knees, his broken hand pressed against his chest, sobbing his apology.

  “Simon.” Bayard said the name slowly, drawing out the syllables. Simon trembled, but lifted his head and faced Bayard squarely. “I will return to the Plainsmen, for a time, and lead you once more, until you have rebuilt. One thing I ask: that my people accept this alliance, and support it with full vigor. Will you help me make this happen?”

  Conflicting emotions played across Simon’s face. Shame at the unexpected attack by someone who had betrayed his trust. Fear of the spirits of the dead and their judgment. Awe at confronting a legend. “Y-yes,” Simon stammered. “Yes. I will help you.” He gave a stern glance toward his delegation. “We will help you,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “We accept the offering, and pledge to fulfill what we have offered. So I swear, so we swear, on our lives and souls.” One by one, the other men pledged themselves to the alliance.

  “Then we will rebuild together,” Bayard said, walking out to stand among the delegation, bidding them to rise.

  “Your dead are satisfied with your decision,” Tormod said as the spirits rose and formed a circle around them dozens of ghosts deep. “They will be watching to make sure you keep your word. Know that you have their blessing.” With that, Tormod murmured another quiet phrase and lowered his upturned hands. As quickly as they appeared, the ghosts vanished.

  “Then it is done,” Bayard said, turning to nod to Blaine. “You will have nothing to fear from the Plainsmen. We will be your allies in this struggle, so long as you keep your bargain.”

  “We’ll keep it,” Blaine assured him. “Count on it.”

  With that, Bayard and the Plainsmen departed, heading back to their camp. No one moved until the raiders and their long-dead leader were gone. Finally, Piran spoke. “Think they’ll actually keep their word?”

  Blaine nodded. “I think Bayard will handle it.” He turned to Rinka and Tormod. “If you’re not under threat of attack from the Plainsmen, and they’re sworn to help defend Bleak Hollow, I need to ask Tormod’s help with another threat.”

  Rinka glared at him. “Just like that, you trust that enemies have become friends?”

  “He’s correct,” Tormod replied. “The ghosts were in full accord. The Plainsmen will follow Bayard. And just to be careful, we’ll keep our forces on alert.” He turned to Blaine. “Say on.”

  “Bayard is one of the Elders who once formed the council,” Blaine replied. “Those who didn’t join Penhallow have gone rogue—and taken sides with Pollard and Thrane.” He met Tormod’s gaze. “There’s going to be a talishte civil war. There’s precious little mortals can do to help—but you’re not the average mortal.”

  “You want me to use my magic against the rogue talishte?” Tormod had gone very still, as if he had focused his entire concentration on Blaine.

  “Yes. With that help, we might be able to hold off Thrane, and help Penhallow’s forces win their war.” Blaine met his gaze levelly.

  Once again, it seemed that Tormod was listening to voices Blaine could not hear. After a moment, Tormod nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I will go with you.”

  “Tormod—” Rinka began to object.

  Tormod shook his head. “No. Blaine’s right. I’m one of the few mortals who can make a difference against Thrane. I have a responsibility to go.” A bitter smile twisted his thin lips. “We would not care to exist in a future ruled by Thrane.”

  “Before Thrane went into exile, he destroyed every necromancer he could find,” Rinka said, lifting her chin defiantly. “Or did you forget that piece of history?”

  “All the more reason this is my—our—fight,” Tormod countered. “If Thrane survives, he’ll make sure I don’t.”

  Rinka crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced, but she said nothing more. Tormod’s likely to get an earful once we get back to Bleak Hollow, Blaine thought.

  “Come on,” Blaine said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go. We got what we came for.”

  The short ride back to the fortress passed in murmured conversation, though Rinka said nothing and Tormod was quiet. When they returned to Bleak Hollow, Tormod stopped Blaine just inside the great hall. “There’s something you’ve wanted to ask since you arrived.”

  Blaine felt his cheeks color. Piran looked at him with a puzzled frown, but Kestel nodded. “Go ahead,” she urged.

  “You’re a necromancer. You speak to spirits as well as raise them,” Blaine said. “Can you speak to my brother, Carr?”

  Tormod stared at him, and for a moment, Blaine did not think the other had heard him. Then he realized that Tormod was concentrating on his magic.

  “The young man with dark hair and grievous wounds?”

  Blaine swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”

  Tormod frowned, and his gaze was distant. “He wants you to know that he did not betray you.”
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  “I know that,” Blaine said. “But why in Raka did he have to go and get his fool self killed?” Grief welled up as anger.

  “He said to tell you, ‘now you know how it feels,’” Tormod reported with a puzzled tone. Kestel caught her breath. Piran swore softly. Blaine caught the meaning immediately, and swallowed back a sob. For six years, Carr and what remained of Blaine’s family had believed him dead in the frozen northland. Since his return, Carr had been angry, going out of his way to provoke Blaine, taking defiant chances that had gotten him captured and killed.

  “Can he rest?” Blaine asked in a voice just above a whisper. “Can he cross to the Sea of Souls?”

  Tormod’s gaze lost its focus once more. “He says he’ll go when he’s ready.”

  The comment was so completely like Carr that Blaine let out a strangled laugh. “What does he mean by that?”

  “He’s not the only ghost near you,” Tormod said. “There are other, dark spirits that trouble your dreams and steal your energy.” He frowned. “It would appear that your brother is trying to protect you from them.”

  “What kind of dark spirits?” Blaine pressed. Gods know, if I’m haunted by the spirits of every man I’ve killed in battle, I’ll have no rest living or dead.

  “Two spirits who in life put their mark on you, and in their death at your hands, cursed you with their last thoughts,” Tormod said. “One of them is Commander Prokief.”

  Prokief, the sadistic commander of Velant Prison and the corrupt governor of the convict colony of Edgeland, had been killed by Blaine in the uprising that freed the outpost. Tormod would recognize Prokief, Blaine knew, since he and Rinka had also been exiled to Velant.

  “Sounds like something that stinking sack of shit would do,” Piran said. “Can you kill the bastard dead again, and make it stick?”

  “And the other?” Blaine asked, although he had a hunch about the answer.