Shadowstorm (22 page)

Abelar and Regg shared a look.

“Mask?” Abelar asked his father. “You are certain?”

Endren nodded. “Strange, not so? That servants of Mask should save the father of a servant of Lathander.”

“Stranger than you know,” Abelar answered. He looked past his father to the men. “You are not the first servants of Mask I have met in recent days. Are you Shadovar?”

Shadows swirled and the tallest of the men suddenly stood beside him. He had covered ten paces without taking a step. Swiftdawn neighed nervously and backed away a step. Regg cursed in surprise.

Endren said, “This is Nayan. Nayan, this is Abelar, my son.”

Nayan gave a half-bow, his gray eyes unreadable. He gestured at his six companions and spoke in accented common.

“We are not Shadovar, but hail from Telflammar. These are Shadem, Vyrhas, Erynd, Dynd, and Dahtem.”

“Such names,” Regg said. “And no weapons or armor.”

Nayan’s gaze never left Abelar’s face. “Mask speaks to few servants in these days. Name him whom you saw.”

Abelar did not care for Nayan’s tone but bore it. The man had saved his father.

“Erevis Cale. He named himself a priest of Mask.”

Nayan’s eyes widened. The shadows around his five companions deepened, roiled. “Where and when did you see him?”

Regg said, “And who are you to demand—”

Abelar held up a hand and Regg fell silent. “Who is Erevis Cale to you?” Abelar asked.

Nayan studied Abelar’s face. “He is the Right Hand of the Shadowlord, and we are his instruments.”

Abelar heard no lie in Nayan’s words. He told of his meeting with Erevis Cale and Selgaunt’s Hulorn.

Nayan’s face showed nothing, but his tone suggested disappointment. “That was too long ago, Abelar Corrinthal. We have

seen him in the interim. He and the Left Hand led us in the rescue of Endren Corrinthal.”

“The Left Hand?”

Nayan nodded. “Drasek Riven.”

Abelar put a hand on Nayan’s shoulder. The man’s muscles felt carved from stone. “Then I have him to thank as well as you.”

Nayan accepted Abelar’s gratitude with a nod of his head. He said, “The Left and Right departed Yhaunn for Selgaunt after rescuing your father. We have not seen either of them since and cannot locate them.”

That did not bode well for Selgaunt, Abelar thought, but did not say. Instead, he said, “I hope they are safe and stay in the light.”

Nayan smiled slightly. “If they are safe, they do not owe it to the light.”

Regg laughed aloud. Even Abelar smiled.

Regg said, “We have heard a rumor that the Shadovar serve the Hulorn of Selgaunt. Perhaps the rumors have mistaken your lord for a Shadovar?”

“None would make that mistake,” Nayan answered.

“We will solve this mystery together, Nayan,” Abelar said. “Come. You and your men are welcome in our company. We ride northwest for Saerb.”

“And there’s battle upon our arrival,” Regg added.

Endren gave a start and looked pointedly at Abelar, a question in his eyes.

Nayan bowed his head. “Gratitude, Abelar Corrinthal, but we serve only the hands of Mask and they are not among your number. We will await their return or summons at our temple.”

Abelar said, “Erevis Cale is an … ally of mine. He would have you with us, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Nayan answered. “If so, he surely will tell us upon his return.”

“Nayan…” Endren began, but Abelar held up a hand to halt his father’s words.

“He is his own master,” Abelar said to Endren, then to Nayan, “I am disappointed. I need every fighting man I can get. But so be it. You may take horses, if you wish.”

“And weapons,” Regg added.

Nayan smiled. “We have no need for either.” He bowed to Endren, to Abelar, to Regg, and walked back to his men. The man moved with clockwork precision. Abelar began to understand how the shadowmen must fight. He had heard of men who killed as efficiently with their hands and knees as with steel.

“Farewell, Nayan,” Abelar said.

“Safe travels, men of shadow,” Endren called.

Nayan inclined his head, the shadows around them deepened, and they were gone in a breath.

The men and women of the Company burst out in discussion.

“The Right Hand of Mask,” Abelar said, mostly to himself. “What else is this Erevis Cale?”

Regg clapped him on the shoulder. “I do not know, but he saved your father. I find myself liking him more and more.”

Endren studied Abelar’s battle-torn clothing. “We have tales to share, it seems. Events have moved quickly, yes? You spoke of battle in Saerb?”

Abelar nodded. “Forrin leads an army there.”

Endren s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed so much his gray brows touched.

“Malkur Forrin the Butcher?”

“Aye. The overmistress has named him to head her armies.” Endren cursed and shook his head. “She is ever more a fool. How far away from Saerb are we?” Iwo days. “How far from Saerb is Forrin?”

“We do not know. I have no men to spare as spies, Father.” Endren cursed again, then looked up sharply, bushy eyebrows raised in a question. “Where is Elden, Abelar?”

Abelar held his father’s gaze though he wanted to bow his

head in shame. “Fairhaven. I left him there. I did not think—” He shook his head and looked away. He could say no more.

Endren closed his eyes, inhaled, squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You left him to serve me. I am sorry. But you were right to leave him behind, Abelar. He is a child. If you had brought him to Ordulin, you would not have escaped after my arrest, and neither would he.”

Abelar nodded, bolstered by his father’s words. He knew he had done the only thing he could, but it helped to hear another say it.

Endren looked past them and called, “A mount and steel. Now.”

Regg smiled at Abelar and repeated the call. “Trewe, a horse, a blade, and mail for Lord Corrinthal!”

While they waited for the mount and gear, Abelar hurriedly briefed his father on their situation—the battle of two days earlier, the number of cavalry they expected in Forrin’s force. After he’d finished, Endren looked Abelar in the face. “You have carried our name well.” He nodded at Abelar’s holy symbol. “And his name, as well.”

Abelar inclined his head, surprised at the praise. His father seldom offered it. “Thank you, my lord.”

Trewe brought forth a white mare and Endren took the reins. For the first time, Abelar noticed that his father’s shield hand was severed at the wrist. “Your hand!”

Regg, too, looked surprised. “Morning light,” he oathed.

Endren eyed the stump and nodded. “I said we had tales to share. This was the price of slipping my chains.” He held up his sword hand. “But this one still holds a hilt well. And I can outride either of you, even with no hands.”

Abelar smiled.

“We know it to be so,” Regg said. Roen approached with a suit of mail and a blade. “Help me with the armor,” Endren said. Regg helped Endren into the armor and the elder Corrinthal belted on scabbard and sword.

“I thought we’d not meet again, Endren,” Regg said. “I am pleased to have been wrong.”

Endren adjusted the mail and put a hand on Regg’s shoulder. “I thought similarly. You have watched over my son in my absence. I am grateful.”

Regg shook his head. “It is he who watches over me. Over all of us. And it is no mere man that watches over him, my lord.” “So you say,” Endren said. “Enough,” Abelar said, embarrassed.

Endren’s eyes went to Regg’s holy symbol, to Abelar’s. Abelar knew his father worshiped many gods, and did not credit Lathander above the others.

Endren asked Regg, “Your father is still in Saerb?”

Regg nodded.

“I have not seen Torar in many years,” Endren said.

“He is in ill health,” Regg said, and Abelar heard the concern in his friend’s voice. Torar would not be able to flee easily when war came to him.

Endren said, “Then for Elden and Torar’s sakes, let us hope the Morninglord continues to watch over my son. If he does, I will build him a new temple myself. Hear you that, Abelar?”

Abelar smiled, nodded. “I hear it.”

“Let us ride,” Endren said, and swung into the saddle.

ŚŠŚŚŠŚŚŠŚŚŠ• ŚŠŚ

For two nights and a day of hard riding, Reht avoided the roads and traveled only between sunset and dawn. He did not want word to reach Saerb that his force was moving through the countryside. He presumed Lorgan would take the same precautions, though his course took him farther south of Saerb.

During the daylight hours, Mennick cast an illusion that stayed until after sunset, and made any available copse of trees appear as a large and overgrown woods. Reht and his force of

seventy hid within the illusion—unaffected by it, since they knew its origin and presence—and waited for night. From time to time, a horseman or donkey-drawn wagon would move past in the distance, but nothing to indicate that Saerb or its nobility expected an attack.

Shortly after each sunset, Mennick touched each of the men with a wooden wand tipped with a fleck of chrysoberyl that granted them the ability to see like cats in the darkness. They traveled quietly but quickly and covered much ground.

The breath of horses and men formed clouds in the chill night air. The moon hung low in the sky, lighting the tips of the distant Thunder Peaks. Stars lit the clear sky.

Stands of pine and larch dotted the increasingly hilly, rocky terrain. Reht moved the force back onto the road for fear that traveling the rough land at night would lame a horse. He had only a handful of spare mounts.

The sparsely inhabited Sembian northlands featured only an occasional hamlet built around this or that noble’s country estate. Reht and his men skirted them easily. The area seemed almost sleepy. An army would soon wake it up. “The hunting must be good here, eh?” he said to Mennick and Vors, who rode beside him.

Mennick agreed. “Boar, I’d guess, given the scrub in these lowlands.”

Vors said absently, “What does a dying man see in his last moments? When my axe splits his head, is his focus sharpened in that instant before death? Or does he perceive only dully what has happened?”

“What?” Mennick asked, his tone puzzled. “We were discussing hunting.”

Vors grinned. “So was I.”

Reht stared contempt at the war priest for a moment before looking to Mennick. “Stags aplenty to go with your boars, I’d wager. There. Look.”

He pointed to a small woods not far from the road. With his

catlike vision, he saw a trio of deer—two does and a fawn—that had ventured out of the trees to forage in the grass.

“No stag, though,” Mennick said.

“He’s around,” Reht answered.

Late in the second night, still half a league east of Saerb, with dawn a few hours away, they reached what Reht thought to be the Corrinthal estate, ranch, and pasture. He halted the men about a bowshot away, dismounted, and crept forward through the scrub and trees with Mennick. The smell of fires filled the air.

A wall of stacked timber enclosed the expansive grounds of the large estate. Grain fields surrounded it on two sides and extended into the darkness. A rill ran alongside and under the western wall. A wooden gate and gatehouse in the north-facing wall provided the only obvious ingress. Two glowballs hanging from the corners of the gatehouse provided light.

“Can you see the heraldry over the gate?” Mennick asked him.

Reht had an archer’s eye, and with Mennick’s spell allowing him to see in dim light, he made out the insignia set into the gate—a white horse running under a blazing sun, the Corrinthal symbol.

“I see it. This is it. I need a tactical look, Mennick.” “Aye.”

The wizard quietly intoned the words to a spell and touched himself, then Reht. Reht knew to expect the flying spell to make his body feel lighter. When it did, he willed himself to rise, and his feet left the earth.

“Hold a moment,” Mennick said, and put a hand on Reht’s arm. The wizard incanted a second spell and vanished from Reht’s sight.

“That’s for both of us,” Mennick said, though Reht needed no explanation. He had experienced the invisibility spell often enough. They could see themselves, but not each other.

“Let us have a look,” Mennick said, his voice coming from above.

Reht willed himself into the air, rose to a height of a spear

cast, and looked down on the Corrinthal estate.

Within the walls, Reht noted a large stable and four large barns, a horse run and training area, several livestock pens, a score or so small buildings clustered along the western walls—probably the village where farmhands and other laborers lived—and a large wooden building that he assumed to be a barracks for the house guard. In the center of the compound stood the two-story, sprawling rustic Corrinthal manse.

Mud-packed timber made up the bulk of the manse, and a wooden porch wrapped around three sides of it. A low stone wall with a wrought iron gate separated the manse from the rest of the grounds.

Glowballs beamed at the entrance to the stables, and on the porch of the manse. A few torches burned in the cluster of buildings at the western end of the compound. Light trickled out of three shuttered windows of the manse.

“That barracks can house thirty men,” Reht said.

“Easily,” said Mennick. “I would put it at forty.”

Reht pointed at the cluster of buildings along the southern wall, though Mennick could not see him.

“There will be some men in the village who will fight.” Aye.

“I see eight guards at the gate.”

“No others, though,” Mennick said. “They’ll have dogs. If we use stealth, we will have to move quickly.”

Reht considered the compound and made his decision. Stealth was not his best approach. He had a sleeping compound. Except for the guards, the fighting men within would not be armed or armored. He needed to hit hard and fast.

“We go at it hard. I will lead the men through the gates. Stay here and burn the barracks as we approach, then support as you can. If the boy is in the manse, I will find him. When I’ve got him out, burn the manse, too.”

Mennick sounded unhappy. “The smoke will be seen.”

Reht knew. “Forrin is a day and a half behind us. By the time

anyone investigates and learns what has occurred, it will be too late to anticipate an attack.”