Reign of Ash (33 page)

N
iklas leaned back in his chair, let his head fall backward, and closed his eyes. The need to sign documents and fill out forms had died with the king, but a captain was never truly off duty.

“Maybe I should promote myself to general,” he muttered aloud, though the tent was empty. “Field promotion. Gods know I’ve earned it, even if there’s no raise in pay.”
There’s no pay at all
, he thought.
What’s left of His Majesty’s army has become a group of squatters, looters, and thieves.
They weren’t the first army to be reduced to those conditions, he thought with a sigh. And they wouldn’t be the last.

It hadn’t been his best day. Two more cases of madness in the camp, with damage and injuries to be cleaned up.
I wonder how Carr is doing?
he thought. Losing any of his men distressed him, regardless of the cause. Over the long march home, he had come to know all of his soldiers by name, and he knew their stories.
To have survived the war, the Great Fire, the march, and then to die of madness, it’s just wrong.
Seeing Carr succumb was even harder. Not only for what Niklas knew it would mean to Blaine and his family, but because Carr had been a link to the time before the war, before Blaine’s exile, before the kingdom’s fall.

The scouting parties had returned, with fewer provisions than he had hoped, even though several
talishte
had been among the hunters.
Good thing we brought back that flour
, he thought.
Not much meat to go around tonight.

He sat up, and his gaze wandered to the half-empty bottle of whiskey. They had looted it, and several others, from the ruins of what had once been a grand home, destroyed and abandoned in the Great Fire. It was too easy to pour a drink and dull the pain.
We lost the war, saw our kingdom destroyed, our king dead, our cities burned. We’re vagabonds and drifters in a land where even magic didn’t survive. There’s not enough whiskey in the world to make me forget that.

In addition to the madness, there’d been the usual: fighting between the men, disciplinary procedures, a briefing by the morning scouts, and several candlemarks spent poring over maps, trying to figure out where Vedran Pollard had troops stationed and how best they could navigate around them.

Blaine’s been gone for nearly a week
, Niklas thought and pushed a hand back through his hair, fighting a headache as he stared at the maps.
No one’s even entirely sure where he went.
He shook his head.
When he gets back, we’re going to have a talk about riding off without backup.
He resolutely refused to consider the alternative, that perhaps Pollard or Reese had intercepted Blaine, and that he and his friends had been captured or killed.
I won’t believe they’re not coming back. Not until I’ve seen proof
, he vowed silently.
And maybe not even then.

Like most of the soldiers he knew, Niklas had no magic of his own. He’d always joked that the army was for people who had no choice about doing things the hard way. Before the Great Fire, even the small magics were enough to make a person valuable to the community, prosperous, perhaps even wealthy. Great magic usually led to an appointment at court or at least a position in a lord’s house.

Magic determined whose farms prospered, whose trades were most valued, whose healing or insight commanded respect.
Without magic, all you had was the strength in your hands and back, a more trainable sort of ox
, Niklas thought. And though his father had balked at that comparison, they both knew it in their hearts to be true. Lars Theilsson, blessed with magic that gave him a talent for turning raw materials into wealth, built his family’s farmland into a profitable estate that rivaled those of the nobility. Niklas, with none of his father’s magic, went to war.

Now, the advantage is reversed
, Niklas mused.
The people who needed magic to do everything can’t do anything at all, and those of us who had to do things the hard way have the skills it takes to survive.

He found himself staring at the glowing coals of the brazier. The small fire wasn’t enough to warm his tent, but it took away the worst of the chill. His thoughts were far away.
If Blaine returns, we’ll have to fight Pollard and Reese to help him bring back the magic. And if he doesn’t
, he thought,
we’ll still end up fighting Pollard and Reese or let them claim most of Donderath for themselves
. He sighed.
Gods, I’m tired of war.

Niklas looked up when someone rapped on the tent post outside his door. “Come in,” he said.

The soldier was one of Geir’s men, a
talishte
Geir had left behind with Niklas’s troops for support. Niklas had promptly assigned the half dozen
talishte
to night guard duty and night hunting, and their success had decreased the skepticism the other soldiers felt toward their new comrades.

“We’ve intercepted a spy, sir. On the far edge of the camp. Think he might be one of Pollard’s men. We’ve brought him to you for questioning.”

Niklas took a deep breath and let it out.
This evening has just managed to go from bad to worse.
“Bring him in.”

Two other guards entered, dragging a bound man between them. The prisoner looked to be in his late twenties, with close-cropped dark hair and dark eyes, clad in black from head to toe. A few days’ stubble darkened his face.

“Did he infiltrate the camp?” Niklas asked the guard.
Not that there’s much intelligence to be gained from it. No military plans to steal, no secret communications from the king to see. The worst he’d learn would be our numbers, and just how badly provisioned we are. And that might be enough to make a difference.

“We don’t believe so, sir. We caught him just beyond the camp perimeter. We think he was going to wait until the camp was quiet,” the soldier reported.

Niklas stood and brought a chair away from the side of his desk. He set it in the middle of the tent and motioned for the prisoner to be put there. The soldiers dumped the bound man into the seat, and the man glared at Niklas but did not say anything.

“Why were you spying on our camp?”

“I wasn’t spying,” the man said, trying to shift his position to keep from falling out of the chair. “I was traveling. Something spooked my horse, and it threw me, then ran off. That’s not a crime, is it?” he challenged.

Niklas looked at the two guards. “We didn’t find a horse or recent hoofprints, sir,” one of the guards replied. “And we confiscated his weapons when we caught him. If he’s a traveler now, he used to be a soldier, because his weapons are military issue.”

Niklas returned his attention to the prisoner. “Why did Pollard send you?”

“I don’t know anyone named Pollard.”

“What were you sent to find out?”

“I told you, I wasn’t sent,” the man snapped. “My horse ran off.”

Niklas regarded him and looked toward his guards. “Did you read his blood?”

The guard, a young man who looked to have been in his late teens when he was turned, shook his head.
For all I know, he could be old enough to be my great-great-grandfather
, Niklas thought. “No, sir. We figured you should decide that.”

Niklas began to pace in front of the prisoner’s chair. He drew out his knife and let the flat of the wicked blade slap against his palm. “What to do, what to do,” he mused aloud.

“I could give you to my men for their amusement,” Niklas said. “After what they’ve been through, they might enjoy a way to take out their frustration.” He sighed, as if considering his options. “As a general rule, I don’t hold with torturing prisoners, but I haven’t had a good day, and my men deserve a little recreation, don’t you think?”

Niklas continued pacing. “Since you don’t have any information, we lose nothing by killing you. We don’t need another mouth to feed.” He toyed with his knife. “I might even enjoy it, given how much aggravation your master put us through at Mirdalur.”

He turned away from the prisoner, but he’d glimpsed nervousness in the man’s face. “Not that your master cares what happens to you,” he went on. “I’ve known Vedran Pollard for years. He’s a son of a bitch. So it would be like him to let you die.” He chuckled. “And here you are, being oh-so-loyal. Pathetic.”

“I don’t have a master,” the prisoner argued, but Niklas could hear the fear in his voice.

“But I think, given the circumstances, that reading your blood is a better option,” Niklas continued as if he had not heard the man. He turned back and stared straight into the prisoner’s eyes. “Do you know what it means to have your blood read?”

The prisoner paled. Niklas was willing to bet that Pollard was regularly read by his own master, Pentreath Reese, and that rumors of what that entailed had been whispered among his men. The prisoner, who had been so sure of himself before, was sweating although the night was cold, and his breathing was shallow.

“I think you do know,” Niklas said with a cold smile. “So here’s what’s going to happen. My
talishte
friend here is going to rip into your arm with his fangs and drink your blood. He gets a meal, and we get everything you know. I’ll make sure he stops before you’re quite dead.”

He paused, then said, “After that, we’ll take you out to that big tree on the edge of camp and hang you. Haven’t had much cause to hang many men, but my soldiers are getting better at it. They haven’t figured out how to tie a noose so that the neck snaps right away, but the last man we hanged didn’t choke all that long before he died.” He watched the prisoner’s pupils dilate. “I imagine you’ll dance right pretty for us.”

“Wait!” the prisoner finally said. “I can be valuable.”

Niklas had turned away. “Oh?” he asked, his tone bored.

“You’re right,” the man confessed, speaking quickly. “Pollard sent me. He’s lost track of McFadden, and he wanted us to find out what your orders were.”

Niklas repressed the urge to chuckle.
Orders? I haven’t had orders from anyone in nearly a year. But if Pollard can’t find Blaine, that’s a point in our favor.
“Go on.”

“I was supposed to report on your troop strength, how many
talishte
, your weapons,” the prisoner confessed. “If possible, I was to torch your supply tent. Pollard intends to bring siege against Glenreith, and your camp is in the way.”

“Glad to know we’ve inconvenienced him,” Niklas said. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and swirled the liquid, hoping he looked nonchalant.
Gods above, I hate this part of the job.

“And? That’s all?” Niklas asked in a bored tone.

“That’s all I was supposed to do. By Torven, I swear, that’s everything.”

Niklas took a sip of the whiskey. He shrugged. “Nothing we didn’t already know.”

“There’s one more thing,” the captive said, looking as if he might swallow his tongue. “I overheard it when I was waiting for Pollard’s orders. That biter master of his, Reese, he’s powerful upset about McFadden. He’s sent men out to canvass the countryside looking for some old magic things that don’t even work anymore.”

“Like what?” Niklas asked, making an effort not to sound interested.

“Maps. Strange round pendants. Old carvings. They don’t work, because the magic is gone, but Reese, he’s fixed on getting them. Thinks McFadden’s going to beat him to some kind of treasure.”

“Very interesting.”

The prisoner looked up hopefully. “Let me go, and I’ll run away. Pollard, he’ll know that I betrayed him. Just let me go, and I’ll disappear. I won’t work for Pollard anymore.”

Niklas let out a long breath. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.” He nodded to the
talishte
guard, who stepped forward as the other guard pinned the prisoner to the chair.

The captive began to struggle. “Wait! You said if I told you what I knew, he wouldn’t bite me!”

Niklas met the prisoner’s gaze. “No, I didn’t. I told you what was going to happen. You tried to bargain.” He shook his head. “Always negotiate the terms up-front. Sorry, but we can’t trust you not to return to Pollard or be captured and tell him what you’ve observed. We don’t have the food to take prisoners, or a dungeon to keep you in.”

The prisoner eyed the
talishte
in terror. “Just hang me then. I don’t want to be eaten.” He struggled, but the second
talishte
guard kept him firmly in his chair.

Niklas turned away. “We can’t overlook the fact that you might know something else, something you don’t realize is valuable. I’ve learned not to be wasteful.”

The
talishte
took the prisoner by the chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “Don’t fight me, and you’ll feel no pain,” he promised. The captive slumped, and his eyes fluttered closed. The
talishte
guard lifted the man’s arm and sank his fangs into the soft flesh of the wrist. Niklas forced himself not to look away.
Enemy or not, the captive is a mortal. He’s someone’s son. If I can order his death, I can have the balls to bear witness.

After a few moments, the
talishte
guard let the wrist fall and stood. No blood marked his mouth or lips. Niklas cast a glance toward the prisoner, who was still breathing. “Report.”