Shadowstorm

  Without warning, a column of flame engulfed Reht, Vors, Norsim, and the men around them. The flash of searing heat and blast of explosive force blew Reht onto his back. He found himself staring up at the sky, dazed, his face charred, his armor smoking. He heard moans around him, the smell of burning flesh. The porch posts had caught fire. It would soon spread to the roof.

  “This house is favored of the Morninglord,” said a hard voice. “And those are his flames.”

  Reht looked up to see a towering bearded man in a hastily donned breastplate enameled with the rose of Lathander. Other than the armor, he wore only a nightshirt and boots. He held a large flanged mace in a two-handed grip.

  In stride, the man crushed the skull of one of Reht’s downed men. Blood spattered mace and man. The violence returned Reht to his wits. He rolled over, grabbed his sword, and pulled himself to his knees.

  The man raised his mace to kill another, but lightning from the sky slammed into his chest and drove him against the wall of the manse.

  Mennick.

  The priest of Lathander, the rose enameled on his breastplate blackened, sagged to the porch, unmoving.

  Vors climbed to his feet, his long hair and beard singed, his face blistered. He roared and drove his axe into the priest’s chest.

  “Up,” Reht said to his men, and stood. “Give them no time to organize a defense.”

  All but two of his men got to their feet. All showed burns, but were hale enough to fight. The two downed men were dead, their exposed flesh as black as seared meat. Reht put them from his mind. He felt the burned flesh on his face and hands. He would have scars, but the pain was tolerable.

  Trusting in Norsim and Dist to secure the exterior of the manse, Reht and Vors and a handful of others kicked in the double doors and entered the foyer.

  Two guards in the Corrinthal horse-and-sun, each armed with a short spear, charged from the hall beyond and lunged at them. “Die, dog!” yelled the nearer guard.

  Reht’s shield turned the taller guard’s spear point and knocked him off balance. Reht drove his blade into the guard’s abdomen and up under his ribcage. The man dropped his spear and fell to his knees, eyes wide, trying to plug the hole in his abdomen with his hands. Reht kicked him to the floor to die.

  Vors dodged the stab of the second guard and chopped downward with his axe, cutting the point from the spear and leaving the man with only a wooden haft.

  Howling with battle madness, the war priest rushed the guard, drove him backward, pinned him against the wall, and head-butted him in the face. The guard’s nose exploded blood and he sagged to the ground. Vors took his spear haft.

  Boot stomps and shouts sounded from further within the manse. “More coming,” said one of Reht’s men.

  Another explosion from outside rocked the house.

  Vors grabbed the stunned guard by his long brown hair and shook him until the pain focused the man’s eyes.

  “The Corrinthal scion,” Reht said to him.

  Vors shook him by the hair. “Lie and you die.”

  The man’s eyes flicked toward the wide, curving stairway visible in the room immediately beyond.

  “You get nothing from me,” the man said.

  Vors circled around him and strangled the man with his own spear haft.

  “Upstairs,” Reht said, bounding forward. “I lead.”

  Shouts and screams pulled Kaesa from sleep. A boom sounded and the entire house seemed to shake. Clad only in a nightdress, she jumped from her bed, heart racing, and threw open the shutters of her small, second floor bedroom. She gasped at what she saw.

  Flames from the burning barracks painted the sky orange. She could feel the heat even across the distance. Mounted men attacked the house guards as they escaped the flames through the barracks windows. Lots of mounted men.

  “Lathander preserve us,” she whispered.

  Where was Mriistin? Lemdin the house mage? What was happening?

  Her heart beat so hard against her ribs that she could not easily breathe. Shouts sounded from within the house and pulled her around. She heard the stomp of boots and shouted orders outside her door. Terror held her immobile. She fought for breath.

  Her door flew open and she screamed.

  Erthim stood in the door. Her Erthim. He held a bare blade and shield. He wore a shirt of mail but not his breastplate. Kaesa saw figures behind him but could not make out their faces. His men, she assumed.

  She ran to him. “Erthim!”

  “Kaesa,” he said, his tone relieved.

  He embraced her tightly but steered her away from the door. Wrapped in his strong arms, she allowed herself to think that all would be well.

  “What is happening, Erthim?” she asked.

  Shouts sounded from downstairs. Hostile shouts. She heard the ring of blades.

  “Is that from the foyer?”

  He held her at arm’s length and spoke urgently. “Don a cloak and boots. Gather Elden and go out the back of the manor. Do not stop no matter what you see or hear. Do not try to get a mount. The stables are too far. Go on foot and try to get to the stag woods. Hide there until this is past.”

  She shook her head. She could not leave him, the manse. She started to speak but he cut her off. “Do as I say, Kaesa. Now. Do it for Master Corrinthal. We owe that to him.”

  Someone in the foyer screamed with pain. A wild shout followed it, more animal than man. Erthim did not turn around. His hands were tight on her shoulders. Tears formed in her eyes but she nodded.

  “Take your dagger. Do not let them take you or Elden.”

  That brought her up short. “What?”

  More combat from downstairs.

  “They will … do things to him, Kaesa. He is Lord Corrinthal’s son. Nod if you understand.”

  She stared into his eyes, nodded.

  “I will come when I can.” He embraced her again, hard. “I love you, Kaesa.”

  He released her, turned, and shut her door behind him without looking back. She heard him barking orders to his men.

  She and Erthim had been courting for two months. He would have been her husband. She had not kissed him goodbye. She had not told him she loved him. She started for the door, stopped. He knew she loved him. He had to know.

  Crying, she gathered her cloak, her shoes, the dagger she kept in a small sheath near her bedside. Her tears dotted the wooden floor as she moved about. Light from the burning barracks lit the room in flickering orange. The sounds of combat grew louder outside her room. It sounded as if the attackers were on the stairs. More shouts sounded from the grounds outside.

  She kept as calm as she could. She had everything she needed. She ran through a side door, down the hall, and into the small room near hers where Elden slept when his father was away.

  She opened the door to find his shutters open and the room bathed in the light of the barracks fire. She scanned the room, saw his bed, the side table, the wooden toys carved like horses, but she did not see him.

  “Elden?” she hissed from the doorway.

  She heard a soft moan and saw the pile of furs on his bed stir. She hurried across the room and gently lifted the covers.

  He was curled up in the bed, eyes squeezed shut, arms around the tiny brown puppy he fancied from Dors’s litter. He was humming to himself, as he often did when frightened.

  “Elden,” she said softly, and touched his leg. “It’s Kaesa.”

  She felt his body release some of its tension but he did not open his eyes.

  “Fore,” he said, and Kaesa understood him to mean “fire.”

  Elden had been born dimwitted, with a body that answered his commands only awkwardly. Only those who knew him well—Kaesa, Regg, Lord Corrinthal, and Master Corrinthal—could understand all he said.

  Kaesa had long considered him a gift from Lathander. What he lacked in wits he made up for in love. He was a lesson to all of them. The thought of something happening to him …

  She sat on the bed and stroked his face with
her fingertips. She had to calm him. He stopped humming, opened his eyes, and smiled.

  “K’sa.”

  “Shh,” she said, and touched his lips. His tongue stuck slightly out of his mouth, as it always did, and she playfully poked it with her finger. He giggled. Sleep had mussed his hair.

  “It will all be fine, Elden. The men have the fire under control. No horses are hurt. And you and I are going on a trip. We will see your papa.”

  He perked up at that, brown eyes hopeful. “Papa?”

  She nodded, hating herself for lying. “Yes. But we must leave right now. We are going to play hide and find in the stag woods.” She took his hand. “Come now.”

  She tried to pull him from the bed but he resisted.

  “Bowny come,” he said, and held up the puppy for her to see.

  It looked at her in the longsuffering way of all puppies.

  She knew better than to dispute with him over the dog. He would have a tantrum.

  “Yes, Brownie can come. Let’s get you some clothes and shoes.”

  Sounds of battle carried through the walls. Elden’s eyes widened with fear and he clutched at her. She embraced him, careful of the puppy, and stroked his back.

  “It is all right, Elden.”

  She could not wait for him to calm down. Carrying him on her hip, she found his clothes, set him down, and hurriedly dressed him.

  “Elden Corrinthal!” shouted a voice from somewhere down the hall. “Show yourself, boy!”

  Elden squealed with fear. Terror gripped Kaesa. She was sweating, breathing too heavily.

  “Forget the shoes,” she said, and picked him up. She was able to carry him with ease. He was not a large boy, and fear lent her strength. The puppy nestled between them. She held her dagger in the other hand.

  “Here we go, now. You must stay very quiet.”

  “Elden Corrinthal!”

  She heard the thumps of doors being kicked open, the screams of those caught by the attackers.

  She went in the opposite direction of the sounds, picking her way through quiet halls, parlors, and finally down the rear stairs to the dining hall.

  “It will all be fine,” she whispered to Elden.

  Sobs shook him. She was crying, too. She had not noticed. “It will all be fine.”

  She hurried through the kitchen. Screams, shouts, and the light from the fire carried through the windows. Elden buried his head in her neck and whimpered. The puppy squirmed.

  She looked out a window. She saw fighting near the barracks, men moving around the stables, and a few small combats here and there on the grounds. The wind blew embers and sparks from the fire, making the sky look aflame. Battle cries sounded from everywhere. The dead littered the grounds. Men on horses moved among the carnage, shouting, killing.

  To Kaesa, it looked like an image of the Hells. She maneuvered Elden so he could not see it.

  She looked out the window to her left and saw a clear path between the village and the stables. The fire cast little light there and patches of shrubs and trees would provide cover. If she could make it to the stag woods, she knew a place she could hide. They would never find her.

  Her legs felt weak and she feared they would fail her. She was breathing but did not seem able to gulp enough air. Elden’s fingernails gouged her skin. She asked Lathander for protection and said, “Here we go. Be silent, now.”

  She cut across the kitchen and down the rough stairway that led to the large root cellar. The smell of spices and loam filled the air. She felt her way through the large, dark cellar until she reached the stairs that led outside. She climbed them, listened for a moment with her ear to the door. She heard only her heart, only her breathing. She shouldered open the door and ran. Panic lent her speed. She stumbled but did not fall.

  A surprised shout greeted her exit. Someone had spotted her. A soft scream slipped between her lips. Tears flowed down her face. Elden held her so tightly around her neck she could hardly breathe.

  “Stop, woman!” said a man’s voice.

  She did not stop, but she heard footsteps, heavy breathing, and the clink of mail behind her. Elden was crying on her shoulder. The men behind her—more than one—were closing.

  She made up her mind. She swung Elden around in mid-stride, threw them both to the ground, and brandished her blade, intending to do what Erthim had commanded. She held her blade above her head.

  “I am sorry, Elden.”

  Elden’s innocent eyes went wide and he mouthed her name.

  She hesitated.

  A hand closed on her wrist and jerked her arm almost out of its socket. She screamed.

  “I said stop, wench,” growled a man’s voice in her ear.

  She felt a pinch in her back and lost her breath. Her vision went blurry for a moment. She looked at Elden, smiled, but he stared at her with terror in his eyes. She looked down, surprised to see the bloody end of a sword’s blade sticking out of her stomach. Warm liquid filled her mouth. She tried to speak, to tell Elden that everything would be fine, but her voice failed her.

  Elden screamed and Kaesa fell.

  Reht exited the manse, bloody, tired, and pained with a few sword cuts. He would be damned to the Abyss, however, before he would stoop to asking Vors to heal him. The estate was secure. Corpses dotted the grounds. A few pigs, freed from their sties, rooted at the bodies. Reht’s men moved about in groups of two and three, searching for survivors, collecting loot. A line of men, women, and children from the village sat in the grass, hemmed in by several of Reht’s men.

  The relative quiet, after the din of combat, was marked.

  Reht had not found the boy. He did not relish explaining his failure to Forrin.

  Smoke from the burning barracks had reached the stables and panicked neighs and stomps sounded from within. He could hear several horses beating against their stalls. He turned to the man nearest him.

  “Get someone to calm those horses and get them out of the stables. All of them come with us.”

  Reht knew Saerbian horseflesh to be among the finest in Sembia. He would have at least something to show for tonight’s slaughter. To another man, he said, “Get a headcount and report back.

  Reht guessed he had lost fewer than a dozen men, but the combat had been so dispersed that he could have lost more.

  Norsim and Rolk came around the corner of the house. Norsim roughly pulled a small boy along behind him. Spotting Reht, he waved his other hand.

  “We have him, commander!”

  Reht grinned like a fool.

  “Norsim’s luck has held,” Vors said with a chuckle.

  Blood and dirt covered Norsim’s tabard. The boy stumbled along beside him, lunging from time to time for the small brown bundle that Norsim’s companion, Rolk, held in his hands. Norsim shook the boy by the arm as he approached Reht.

  “Be still!”

  The boy cowered and was still.

  “We caught him in the arms of a woman,” Norsim said. “She called him ‘Elden’ before we finished her. And he’s the face of an idiot.”

  Reht grabbed the boy by the chin and pulled his head up. Tears streaked his face. Fear filled his eyes. His eyes were too close together and his tongue stuck out slightly between his lips. His brown hair stuck out in all directions.

  “Are you an idiot, boy?”

  “Bowny back,” the boy said through his tears, and pointed at the puppy Rolk held.

  “What is your name?” Reht asked the boy. “Tell me and I will give you the dog.”

  The boy swallowed, looked from Reht to the puppy, back to Reht. “E’don.”

  That was good enough for Reht.

  “Give him the dog,” he said to Rolk.

  Rolk held it out and Eldon reached for it. Vors snatched the puppy from Rolk’s hands, grinned, and twisted off its head. He threw head and body at Eldon’s feet.

  “There he is, boy,” the war priest said, and laughed.

  Elden screamed in horror and threw himself against Norsim. He buried
his face in Norsim’s trousers and sobbed. “Papa,” he wailed. “Papa, Papa, Papa.”

  “Your papa is never coming,” Vors said, still laughing. “Never.”

  Reht lunged at Vors and punched him squarely in the face. The priest fell on his ass, blood pouring from his nose. He growled, spit blood, started to stand, but Reht put a blade at his throat.

  Behind him, the boy’s words deteriorated into incoherence, into an awful animal wail of despair.

  “Get the boy out of here!” Reht said over his shoulder. He put his foot on Vors’s chest and pressed him flat to the ground.

  “One time is all you get, priest. Do something contrary to my orders again and you’ll bleed from more than your nose.”

  Vors snarled, daubed at his nose, and grinned. He said, “This is the only time you point a blade at me and live.”

  Reht backed off a step.

  “Raise that axe when you stand. Do it. I’ll add you to the corpses.”

  Vors climbed to his feet, his hand on his axe. His eyes burned with hate but he did not raise his weapon.

  Reht had figured as much. No one who tortured a small boy could be anything more than a coward when faced with a determined man.

  “Bind the boy,” Reht said to Rolk and Norsim. “Execute anyone still alive. Take the horses and whatever foodstuffs we can carry. We ride within the hour.”

  He still had a few hours of darkness left before sunrise. He wanted the dawn to find him and his men as far from the Corrinthal estate as possible.

  CHAPTER TEN

  26 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Cale sweated shadows. The spire loomed before them. The thick chains anchoring it to the basin creaked under the strain, a sound like muted screams. The spire appeared carved from a single block of rough black stone, as if a mountain had been uprooted, pared down, and hollowed out. Undead shadows clung to its sides like bats to the roof of a cave.

  Thousands of malice-filled red eyes stared down at Cale, Riven, and Magadon as they approached. Below them, the churning sea of pitch vomited up another shadow. It streaked past them and took station on the side of the spire.