The Sea

by A. H. Lee

  “Pursuing a breaking flank is not normally considered a mistake,” said Roland wearily. “I gather we were too thin in front of the fort at that point?”

  “He had troops working their way around from the north the entire time,” said Daphne. “He drew us away from the fort and then struck. It’s the oldest trick imaginable.”

  “It’s a trick that will have cost him many lives,” said Roland.

  “True,” said Anton. “We did make an impact. However, I suspect that without the border lords, we were outnumbered by more than two to one when the fight started. While we’ve given a good account of ourselves, we have not yet carried the day.”

  This was an extraordinarily delicate way of saying they were losing. “Has he taken the forts?” said Roland impatiently.

  “The Northern Rim for certain,” said Daphne. “It is unclear whether he has breached the Southern Rim Fort, but I’m afraid he will do so shortly if I don’t pull everyone back to defend it.”

  Roland screwed his eyes shut. They had started the day with two unbreachable forts and a barricade wall that years of sorcery had been unable to penetrate. Now, they had lost at least one fort and, with it, the integrity of the wall.

  And what had they gotten in exchange? Nothing, Roland thought miserably. That was always the gamble.

  “They’ll be here soon.” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  Daphne and Anton went still.

  “Uncle Jessup...and Sairis. They are coming.”

  Daphne and Anton glanced at each other sidelong. Roland pounced on the look. “What?” he demanded. “Have you had news of them?”

  Daphne shook her head. “I sent a signal to our watch tower on The Sentinel. There was a break in the clouds and enough light for mirrors, so I was able to signal and get a response. They don’t see any movement on the saddle, Roland. And they’ve had some good looks through the rain.”

  Roland swallowed. “How long ago?”

  “About an hour.”

  “All kinds of things can change in an hour.”

  “I know!” Daphne’s voice broke and Roland felt guilty for pushing her. She’d never seen a battle before, and no matter how cool her mask, it must be a shock. She bore a paralyzing amount of responsibility, and she was trying to make decisions with no good options.

  But if there was ever a time when we could not afford to spare each other’s feelings, it is now.

  “Daphne, if they do not come, we cannot win,” he stated bluntly. “Hope is all we have, and I do still have it. I do not believe Uncle Jessup or Sairis would abandon us. I do not believe Marsden would. I confess I have doubts about Uncle Winthrop, but we sent him off in good hands. And no matter what else I think of him, I cannot believe he is in bed with Hastafel.”

  Daphne’s face cracked into a laugh that Roland suspected she desperately needed. The idea of his uncle making the two-backed beast with a sorcerer suddenly struck him as absurdly funny, as well. He laughed so hard that it felt like his bruised sides would split open. He looked up to see Anton shaking in his saddle, grimacing and snorting by turns. The pain in his knee was obviously making it difficult to enjoy a joke, but he was trying. Gods, I wish Sairis were here. I wish we were playing cards in the Tipsy Knave.

  “No,” said Daphne, wiping her eyes, “I do not believe Uncle Winthrop has been sending love letters across the barricade. I’m afraid the fate of our reinforcements may be bound up in something more ordinary. Like mud and broken wagons.”

  “They would still get through on foot,” said Roland. “Something must have caused more difficulty than we expected. Probably a landslide. But they will get through.”

  “Before noon?” asked Anton softly. “Because I’m not sure we’ve got longer than that.”

  Roland swallowed. “It does not take long to reach this valley once you start down the slope from the saddle. The first part of the descent begins in a cave. You come out halfway down the cliff, and then the switchbacks are steep. One comes down fast.”

  “How fast?” pressed Daphne.

  “About an hour.”

  “But that’s one man on a fresh horse, right? What about a column of men who have slept little and have been struggling through rain and mud?”

  “Maybe two hours,” allowed Roland.

  “Right.” Daphne sat back in her saddle. “So, if Uncle Jessup reached the summit immediately after The Sentinel watcher communicated with me, he would still be an hour away. And that’s if he appeared at the soonest possible moment.”

  “Yes,” admitted Roland.

  A moment of silence, punctuated only by Anton’s involuntary gasp as the physician finished the dressing on his leg and carefully placed it back in the stirrup.

  “Here is what I am thinking,” said Daphne at last. “We cannot let Hastafel have the southern fort. It is our only retreat if things go badly here, and it is Mistala’s only defense. Lamont’s too. If we are to keep Hastafel from sweeping down on every kingdom east of the Shattered Sea, we cannot lose control of the pass.”

  “Agreed,” said Roland.

  “However,” continued Daphne. “Right now, we have our backs to Mount Cairn. In order to reach the Southern Rim Fort, we’ll need to advance across the valley, and...”

  “And we may be surrounded,” finished Roland with a chill.

  Daphne nodded. “Particularly if he has already taken the Southern Rim, which I cannot rule out at this moment. But I think we must risk it.” She smiled with a look of stubborn bravery. “And by the time we reach it...Uncle Jessup will come sweeping down out of the mountains, and that will change everything.”

  * * * *

  Sairis stared at the ghosts of Mount Cairn in the mist. He saw them, not through the fog, but in it. They appeared and disappeared in shreds and streamers.

  Sairis had rarely had occasion to fear ghosts on the mortal plane. He was aware, of course, that various factors could cause a spirit to linger. He had dealt with the ghosts of several murder victims when villagers had come to the tower and offered money. But he’d never seen unquiet spirits in such numbers.

  No wonder Roland speaks with dread about this mountain. It’s haunted.

  Sairis wondered whether proximity to the Shattered Sea had anything to do with such a phenomenon. Probably. We’re basically standing in a rain of magic.

  But he couldn’t access it.

  Even without much power, however, Sairis still had one thing any ghost would like. He searched through the pockets of his coat and found that he still had his little knife. He started to prick his finger and then hesitated. These are ghosts of Mistala, and Mount Cairn is the biggest boundary stone in existence.

  Sairis found a flat rock. Then he sliced across his palm, the way the kings made their blood oath. Sairis held out his hand and looked at the ghosts as the blood dribbled onto the rock.

  They came like crows to offal, crowding around, sipping and lapping greedily. As they drank, their bodies grew more solid, took on traces of color. Sairis could hear them as though at a distance. The officer from Sairis’s dream was the first to stand up. Bright eyes flecked with green glittered savagely at Sairis.

  “More,” he hissed.

  “No,” said Sairis. “First you will guide me down the mountain.”

  “More now,” murmured another ghost, this one at least six feet tall with a pike the size of a small tree over his shoulder.

  “Necromancer,” murmured the officer as though the word tasted foul, “we will drain you and leave you like a husk.”

  “You will not,” said Sairis. “Because I can do what no one else can do for you. I can give you rest.”

  “No rest,” snarled the giant with the pike. His face contorted, his jaw opening far wider than any human jaw ought to open. “Vengeance!”

  “Vengeance!” shouted the ghosts behind him, their voices like a far-off rustle.

  “I can give you that, too,” said Sairis. He was starting to sweat, but he knew he must not lose his
nerve. Not when dealing with hungry ghosts. He was tempted to try to bind them. They’d taken his blood, and even without their names, he might be able to do it. But not all of them. I don’t have enough blood in my body. Or enough magic.

  Sairis fixed his eyes on the cavalry officer who seemed to be in charge. “Roland and Daphne Malconwy are fighting for their lives down there. I came to save them, but I need your help. I am not going to bind you or compel you. I can’t. I am asking.”

  The ghost stared at him, its expression unreadable. Then it smacked its lips once. “You...taste of...my prince...”

  Roland’s blood in my wards. Sairis had almost forgotten.

  “You have his horse,” whispered another ghost.

  “Yes,” said Sairis faintly. And then, before he thought about it, “I love him.”

  For a moment, he could hear nothing but the wind and rain in the trees, and he did not know whether he’d said a magic word or pronounced a death sentence. Then the cavalry officer grinned and his lips and teeth were red. “A necromancer asks a favor of a ghost?” he hissed.

  “I do,” said Sairis faintly.

  The officer looked around at the others, then back at Sairis. “And you will give us vengeance upon the sorcerer’s hosts?”

  “I will,” said Sairis. “My blood will only give you voices for a short time, but I will give you the blood of your enemies.”

  They flickered and twisted in the mist, whispering.

  The cavalry officer gave a mad laugh. He jumped onto his shadowy mount and started away at a trot. He didn’t say, “This way” or “Follow me.” But ghosts were like this. They forgot about human niceties.

  Sairis made a desperate scramble onto Cato’s back. The horse looked nervous, but not spooked. Sairis doubted he could see the ghosts, although he could probably sense something. The forest was very dark, with no sign of a trail, but Sairis fixed his eyes on the dead cavalry officer and moved through a mist of hungry ghosts into the dripping trees.

  Chapter 15. Drunk on Death

  Bugles brayed across the valley, calling Mistalan troops to rejoin the rest of the army beneath Mount Cairn. Roland found a new horse—there were a distressing number available—and put his equipment to rights as much as possible. Then he assisted the officers in making a count, organizing what supplies they had, and bringing physicians to the wounded. Mercifully, Hastafel’s men did not press after them, but took the opportunity to regroup and lick their own wounds.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that about a third of their troops were dead or missing, and the rain was getting worse. Daphne couldn’t tell the state of the Southern Rim Fort because they could not see the flags. Within half an hour, they could not even see the walls. Officers debated the merits of waiting until conditions improved, but Daphne kept shaking her head. “The fort is lightly manned. If our people are fighting to hold it, we must go to their aid. Without the fort, we are lost.”

  Roland could see in the men’s faces that they thought they were lost anyway. They all knew exactly how difficult it would be to retake the Rim Forts, because they’d held them for years.

  But Daphne was right. They had to keep behaving as though they had a chance.

  As soon as the army had properly regrouped, the forces of Mistala and Lamont advanced from their relatively sheltered position with their backs against the sheer face of Mount Cairn. They encountered less resistance than Roland had expected as they moved through the drenching rain. Archers shot at them, and cavalry harried their flanks, but the fierce fighting did not recommence.

  Roland didn’t like it. When at last they came within sight of the walls, it became apparent that the flagpoles had been cut down. A long, dripping sash had been flung over the battlements—black as the demon wolf.

  Roland felt as though he were moving in a dream. A cold, hard knot formed in his stomach. The men behind him expressed their despair openly. “The fort has fallen! The Rim Forts are lost!”

  Roland wanted to turn to them with words of encouragement, but he could think of nothing. He couldn’t even bear to tell them to be quiet. At least they did not get long to wallow in their despair, because Hastafel’s forces closed in from all sides and attacked.

  * * * *

  Sairis soon understood why he had not been able to locate the trail on the edge of the cliff. The way down started in a cave.

  Sairis had been walking steeply downhill in the dark for some minutes, leading Cato by the bridle, when he found that he had enough magic for a bit of light. Sairis got back into the saddle without scrambling. His body felt strangely buoyant, as though he’d drunk a pot of strong tea.

  The way was steep and narrow, but smooth enough for riding, and it was a relief to be out of the rain. He could no longer see the ghosts, although he sensed they were near.

  A little further on, and he realized that he could detect the iron inside his stomach like a discreet point of irritation. He quenched it without much thought. He noticed the traces of Marsden’s magic in the tin collar, too—not a real binding, but still annoying. He didn’t want to deal with melted tin, so he vaporized it. That’s better.

  Sairis took a little of Cato’s blood, mixed it with his own, and wrote a rune on the horse’s flank. “You’ve got a touch of faerie somewhere in your ancestry, Cato,” said Sairis to the horse. “No wonder you’re such a good destrier.” Sairis called out the faery blood until Cato’s nostrils smoked, and his eyes glowed like red coals. The horse began to run, sure-footed in spite of the steep tunnel.

  Some faint voice in Sairis’s head whispered that he’d just done something impressive and perhaps alarming, but it was drowned by other thoughts that flew like birds. Sairis leafed through his textbooks in his mind’s eye. He could see them as plainly as though they were in front of him. He could turn the pages and read every word. Spells that he’d only ever seen once returned with perfect clarity.

  He could hear the ghosts chattering now. He told them to be quiet, and they obeyed.

  Cato burst out of the tunnel all at once, and Sairis gasped in the wet, salty air. They were running down a steep switchback. Up ahead, a log half as tall as Cato lay across the trail. The horse did not slow down. Sairis watched the obstacle approach. Some part of his brain was screaming that there was a sheer drop on their right and a cliff face on their left and they needed to stop and work their way over the obstacle with care.

  They did not stop. They did not slow down. Cato reached the log. He was a big, heavy horse, bred to carry knights in armor. He was not a jumper.

  He jumped.

  The part of Sairis’s mind that was screaming seemed to lock up as they sailed over the log and landed without a stagger on the other side. Cato tossed his head and made an un-horse-like shriek.

  Sairis felt the kind of thrill he’d only ever experienced in dreams. He was practically flying, and for once in his life he feared nothing.

  The cavalry officer was suddenly beside him, almost as solid as life. “We cannot leave the mountain,” he hissed.

  “You can if I say so,” said Sairis.

  “How?”

  Sairis looked calmly through the drifting mist at the carnage below. Here was the source of the magic singing in his veins. So much death, so many crossings. I could send you into the bodies, thought Sairis. It would be easier than trying to capture the unwilling spirits of the recently slain and force them back to fight again in life. The ghosts of Mount Cairn would enter the bodies and fight willingly. It was what Sairis would have done before...

  Before his mind blossomed like a deadly flower. The bodies are broken, thought Sairis. That’s why they’re dead. I can do better.

  Cato was flying down the switchbacks, closer and closer to the valley floor. Sairis turned his eyes away from the battlefield, westward. Clouds had boxed the valley, and the blue sparkle of the sea had turned to something darker—a sheet of reflected silver over iron waves. Silver for binding demons, thought Sairis. Iron for faeries and men. I will take them all.<
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  Cato reached the end of a switchback, and instead of pushing him into the next turn, Sairis urged him over the embankment, not towards the middle of the valley, but towards the sea. Cato plunged downward, nimble as a mountain goat, sliding and leaping through the wet shale. He came down with hardly a stagger in sandy soil, and kept running until he splashed into the surf.

  Sairis cried out. He was seeing double, seeing the River, and the thousand worlds it connected. Life and death made sense. Everything made sense. It was painful and intoxicating. It was exquisite. He could turn Cato right out of the world, ride to Faerie, ride to the astral plane, speak with demons and ghosts and the queen of the Fae. He could learn everything.

  Something twinged in Sairis’s chest—not part of himself, something other, something in his wards. Roland is in trouble.

  Sairis’s eyes snapped open. Cato was practically swimming. With an effort, Sairis turned him back towards shore. I have fed you death magic, and you’re as drunk on it as I am.

  Sairis sensed the ghosts of Mount Cairn—still with him, but growing rapidly weaker as they drew further from the place of their deaths. He needed to give them a vessel and soon.

  Sairis took out his knife. The cut on his palm had already healed, but he did it again and trailed his hand in the sea. The waves lapped his blood as Cato splashed towards the beach.

  When they stood upon the sand, Sairis slid down from the horse. He took off his shoes and stood with his feet in the sand and foam. “You have taken my blood,” he said to the waves, “and now I will have a favor.” Sairis thought of everything he’d read and learned in Karkaroth’s tower, in books and through mirrors and even in dreams upon the Styx. He focused the magic that was burning through him like fire, and he created something new.

  Sairis raised the Shattered Sea.

  Chapter 16. The River and the Sea

  Roland did not join the men who locked shields around their position or the second and third lines behind them. He wanted to, but he knew his place at the last hour was by Daphne’s side. She sat her horse at the center of their beleaguered troops, looking pale and defiant, only glancing once towards the silent bulk of Mount Cairn.