“They can’t hear you,” Fallon said to Soterius and Senne. “Or if they can, they don’t have control over their actions.”
“Are they bewitched?” Senne’s face reflected his disgust at the carnage within the warded circle, as men Tris recognized as seasoned fighters cut down their comrades with a ruthlessness rarely seen in the midst of pitched battle. There appeared to be no sides to the conflict, no reason for the attack. Within minutes, only one man was standing, and he was badly bloodied, his belly slashed open and his hands pressed against his flesh to slow the bleeding and force his entrails back into his body. The dying man collapsed to his knees, and for an instant, a look of absolute bewilderment and horror crossed his face, as if in his final moments, awareness of what he had done finally broke through a toxic haze of blood rage.
“Bewitched isn’t exactly the right word for it.” Fallon’s belated explanation filled the awful silence as the man stared, stunned, at the massacre. “Do you remember the fear spells that Curane’s blood mages sent against us at Lochlanimar? The terrors Curane’s mages created were enough to send seasoned veterans screaming from imagined horrors.”
“This feels different,” Tris said slowly, as he extended his mage sense further. “Dark magic, perhaps even blood magic, but whoever cast this is more powerful than the mages Curane had.”
Fallon nodded. “This was a sending, but of rage, not terror. These men were going about their assigned tasks when they suddenly drew their weapons on each other and set to. Fortunately, I happened to be close when the shouting started. I threw up a minor warding at first, just to protect the onlookers and keep anyone else from joining what I thought was a brawl. As soon as one of the onlookers told me that nothing had happened to spark a fight, I guessed what had happened and cast a stronger warding.”
Soterius looked at her with horror. “What’s to keep whoever sent this from turning us all on each other? Or from casting something like this randomly, to keep the camp in chaos? Sweet Chenne, do you know what it could mean if something like this happened in the middle of a battle?”
Fallon nodded soberly. “Yes. I can imagine, and it would be bad. That’s why while I was here containing this outbreak, the rest of the mages went to strengthen the camp wardings against this particular type of attack.”
“Will it hold?” Senne had joined them. Apparently, he had not gone far from the tent before the brawl.
Fallon paused. “I believe so.”
“But you’re not certain.”
“Unfortunately, magic isn’t always predictable,” Tris said in a dry voice. “I think what Sister Fallon is saying is that to the extent we can anticipate what kind of magic caused this, she and the mages have taken precautions to keep it from happening again. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean that the sender couldn’t come up with a variation of the spell and try again.”
“Yes and no, m’lord,” Fallon said. “Yes, it’s possible for the sender to tweak the spell and try again, but now that we’ve included this in the larger camp warding, whoever did this would have to change the power signature to get another shot. We’ve made the wardings as broad as possible, trying to anticipate just this sort of thing.” She grimaced. “Obviously our imagination wasn’t as good as we thought it was.”
“Does your magic tell you anything about who did this?” Soterius looked from Tris to Fallon.
“It took a powerful mage to cast a sending this far. And no, before you ask, I can’t tell where the spell originated, but I think it was quite a distance away,” Fallon said.
“Anything else?”
Tris paused, searching for words to convey what his magic told him. “Like the ghost ships that attacked the privateers and fishermen, I don’t think this was meant as the opening salvo of the war. Whoever is out there means to test us. They’re probing our defenses, and I’m betting they were pretty sure we could shut down something like this. The question would be: How long would it take us and how far would it spread before we could stop it?” He nodded toward Fallon. “Thanks to our mages, the damage was limited.”
“Surely they know that Margolan has powerful mages, and a summoner for a king?” Senne’s eyes were hard, and Tris knew that the general would not forgive those who had squandered the lives of his soldiers.
“Maybe not,” Fallon replied. “Temnotta has been isolated, by its own choice, for a hundred years. In all that time, have we ever caught a Temnottan spy?”
Tris thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard tell.”
“If they’ve been so isolated that they haven’t even sent spies, their knowledge of anything would be badly out of date. That could mean that their information is from long before the Mage War over a generation ago. If they haven’t engaged any of the Winter Kingdoms in that time, perhaps they’re assuming their own mages are invincible.”
“That’s a bold assumption,” Soterius murmured.
Fallon shrugged. “Arrogance usually sows the seeds to its own fall.”
Tris frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If they know so little about us, why are they attacking? How did they decide to launch a war if they haven’t even been gathering intelligence?”
Soterius stood hands on hips, eyes surveying the still-warded scene of the fight. “Just because we never caught a spy doesn’t mean spies weren’t sent. And even if they didn’t send spies for many years, they could have stepped up their intelligence recently. Until we received the warning from Donelan, we weren’t watching for outside invaders. We had our hands full with Jared, and then Curane. I doubt Jared expended any resources worrying about invaders from across the sea. He was too busy slaughtering his own people and trying to kill Tris.”
“Meaning that we have had some big holes in our attention for the last couple of years.” Tris’s voice was bitter.
“It’s been a busy couple of years.”
“All the information we’ve been able to gather about Temnotta since Donelan’s warning suggests that their invasion is somehow connected to the problems in Isencroft. If that’s true, Alvior of Brunnfen managed to get the attention of someone important in Temnotta, who probably saw an opportunity. My question is, are the Temnottans seeing the same opportunity as Alvior?” Soterius looked from Tris to Senne. They nodded, following his reasoning.
“Meaning that Alvior may think he’s found a partner, while Temnotta may have their own plans for Isencroft—and everyone else.”
“Alvior and Isencroft may end up in the belly of the stawar for all his cleverness.” Senne’s tone conveyed his anger. “If this were really an Isencroft issue, Temnotta would only be threatening Isencroft. But our information suggests that Temnotta plans to attack the whole coast: Isencroft, Margolan, Principality, and Eastmark. That tells me their ambitions go far beyond helping Alvior seize the throne.”
Soterius glanced at Tris. “Either way, it’s our problem, isn’t it?”
Tris nodded. “No matter how anyone feels about it, the futures of Isencroft and Margolan are bound together for at least a generation now. We don’t dare support Isencroft with troops that cross their border. The Crofters would think we were invading. But it’s clear that we share a common enemy. Any way that we can weaken Temnotta protects our kingdom and Isencroft. We can no more afford to have Temnotta successfully invade Isencroft than we can to let them march onto our coast.”
Tris returned to his tent, followed by Coalan and the Telorhan, elite bodyguards who followed him everywhere. When Tris and Coalan were safely inside, the Telorhan guards stepped back into place, blocking the tent’s entrance. Coalan began moving the table, basin, and chairs that had been used in the scrying aside and readying the tent for night. Tris sank into a chair, deep in thought.
Kiara and Cwynn are leagues away. How can I protect them and fight a war? A series of “what ifs,” each more awful than the one before, came unbidden to his mind, and he was only able to make a halfhearted attempt to push them from consciousness. I never wanted to have to choose between duty t
o crown and responsibility for the people I love.
Coalan rearranged the lightweight, sparse campaign furnishings to set out Tris’s cot and his own bedroll, and Tris realized how tired he was. Still, worries hounded him. What if things go wrong in Isencroft? Kiara will have to go home, pregnant or not. She has a duty to her people. There’s no guarantee she’ll be able to sit out this war safe inside Shekerishet.
His dark musings were broken when Coalan pressed a brandy into his hand. “Thought it might help you sleep better,” he said with a smile.
“Thank you.” Tris lifted the glass to his lips and stopped, his attention on drawings scratched into the dirt of the tent floor. “Coalan, what are those?” he asked, pointing.
Coalan fidgeted. “It’s no secret to me that you haven’t been sleeping well, Tris. You can’t keep that from someone who sleeps in the same tent. You thrash and toss, and some nights it’s as if you’re having a fight in your sleep. I’ve tried to figure out what you say when you cry out, but it’s not in either Common or Margolense, at least nothing I’ve ever heard.”
“Who taught you the runes of protection?”
This time, Coalan blushed scarlet. “Do you know Elya? She’s one of the air mages, the pretty one with the red hair? I see her when I go up to get our meals sometimes and we talk.” He looked flustered, and Tris guessed that infatuation had helped to drive Coalan’s frequent visits to the mess area, as well as the young man’s appetite. “Anyhow, she taught me some runes for peaceful sleep, and I thought it might help. Are you angry?”
Tris smiled. “No. That was kind of you. But you know that both Fallon and I have put our own wardings in place?”
Coalan looked embarrassed. “I know. And believe me, I know nothing I scratch in the dirt could compete with the kind of magic the two of you have. But sometimes, when you can do big things, little things get overlooked, you know? Like you can have a guard at the tent flap and still get mice under the sides? I’m just keeping out the mice, so to speak.”
Coalan was one of the few people who remembered how life had been before the coup, who knew him as Tris instead of as king. He and Soterius and Coalan had gone on many a hunt with their late fathers, and they shared memories of a life now forever gone. Tris recognized the friendship behind Coalan’s effort, and it was the only bright spot in an otherwise gloomy day.
“Thank you,” Tris said. “If you can keep out those damned ‘mice,’ I’ll be very grateful.”
Coalan rallied, grinning widely. “I’ll add ‘royal mouse catcher’ to my ever-expanding title.”
By the time Tris finished his brandy and changed into his nightshirt, he was feeling very ready for sleep. So it was irritation, more than curiosity, that he felt when he heard voices at the tent flap as a would-be visitor met resistance from the king’s guards. Coalan jumped up to see what visitor dared bother the king so late into the night and spoke briefly with the guards and the newcomer. He returned in a few moments, visibly concerned, with Sister Beyral behind him.
Beyral gave a nominal bow. “I wouldn’t have come at this time if it weren’t urgent, m’lord. But I’ve read both the runes and the portents and cast over and over. Always I receive the same reply. I didn’t want to believe the bones, but then I looked up and saw a ring around the moon. Tonight, a king has died.”
Tris caught his breath, and he motioned for Beyral to enter the tent and sit down. “Do you know which kingdom?”
“I saw the ring when the moon was in the northwest sky.”
“Isencroft. Donelan. Sweet Mother and Childe,” Tris murmured, sinking into his chair.
“I’m sorry, Tris,” Beyral said quietly.
Tris looked up at her. “We have to be sure. Isencroft is too far away for me to call to Donelan’s spirit. Can you scry for me?”
Beyral nodded and brought a wide-rimmed, shallow bowl out of the bag she carried. “I’ll need to fill it with water,” she said, and Coalan ran to fetch a bucket. Tris stood back as Beyral set the scrying bowl on the table and filled it. When the water in the bowl had stilled, Beyral gathered her magic and stretched her hands out above the water’s surface, palms down and fingers spread. Beyral closed her eyes with concentration, and Tris stood, leaning closer to watch as mist began to swirl in the still water. An image formed in the mist.
Tris caught his breath as the image grew clearer. He saw Donelan lying in his bedchamber, covered in blood. His eyes were open and staring. The mist swirled, and the image faded.
Tris swallowed hard, grappling with the loss. “It’s not just that I thought well of Donelan. He was a fine king. But with Donelan dead, the crown of Isencroft passes to Kiara.” He met Beyral’s eyes. “She’ll have no choice but to return to Isencroft.”
“That thought crossed my mind. I cast the runes a second time, holding Kiara’s image in my mind. The runes seemed heavy in my hand, as if they did not want to speak. And when they did, their omen was dark. The runes spoke of chaos, and of war in the places of the dead. This war will influence succession. But there was something else, something strange. The rune for ‘son’ lay connected to the rune for ‘darkness.’ Son of darkness. It was clear that the runes went together, but I have no idea what they meant, but whatever it is, it influences the rune of fate. The fate of the war depends on the son of darkness.”
Chapter Four
Jonmarc Vahanian, Dark Haven’s brigand lord, swung into a high Eastmark kick. His opponent blocked the kick, and then pivoted, lashing out with his other foot and nearly catching Jonmarc on the jaw. Jonmarc smiled. His next move was low, taking out his opponent at the ankles. Down but not out, his opponent bucked to his feet in one fluid movement, swinging hard with his sword.
Seconds before the sword struck flesh, Jonmarc parried, driving the other man back. Their swords gleamed in the light, as the daggers they held made silver slashes, looking for an opening. Jonmarc’s opponent opened a gash on his forearm. Jonmarc’s sword slashed into the other’s shoulder. Jonmarc’s mouth was set in a hard line, all traces of a smile gone. His opponent wore a look of grim concentration. Kick. Block. Jonmarc dove and rolled, nicking the other man on the back of the right leg, a flesh wound right over the hamstring. The other man let out a string of curses in Markian, whirling seconds too late to catch Jonmarc with his sword before the other was on his feet, mounting another press.
Summoning a burst of energy, Jonmarc drew on his year of training with a vayash moru weapons master. His reflexes and responses, already honed enough to make him a legendary swordsman, showed an expertise that enabled him to hold his own against the undead. His very human opponent took another gash, this one to the shoulder.
“I yield!”
Smiling again, Jonmarc lowered his sword once his opponent dropped the weapons he held. “Not bad. Not bad at all,” he said, sheathing his weapons and walking forward to shake the other’s hand.
Jonmarc’s opponent was a young man of nineteen summers. Long black hair, shoulder length, was caught back in a mussed queue. A complex tattoo, even darker than his skin, curled down the left side of his face from his eye to his chin. Emotions played across his ebony features: pride, disappointment, vexation. He noticed that Jonmarc was looking at him, or more specifically, at his tattoo.
“Why are you staring?” Prince Gethin of Eastmark’s voice was colored with a mixture of teenage angst and royal pique.
Jonmarc shrugged. “Because the last man I saw with that marking ordered my execution.”
To Jonmarc’s surprise, Gethin made a show of spitting to the side and grinding his spittle under his heel in a gesture of contempt, a gesture accompanied by a rather vile curse in Markian. Jonmarc’s Markian was rusty, but he had to admit that he remembered the curses pretty well.
“Uncle Alcion was a traitor,” Gethin said, contempt thick on the family relationship. “He wanted to supplant my grandfather, King Radomar. Your defiance stopped him. The mark means that I’m third in line to the throne, as it did for Alcion. It relates me to my father, n
ot to that worthless traitor scum.”
“I know. But… let’s just say that Alcion made a lasting impression on me.” Jonmarc’s tone was wry, but as they stood in the salle at Lienholt Palace in Principality, the memories of that other time more than a decade before seemed very near. Shirtless for their fight, Jonmarc knew that Gethin could see the array of scars that covered his chest and back. Most people noticed four: a long scar that ran from behind one ear down under his collar, the faint parallel scars left from a Nargi fight slave collar, the puckered skin of a bad burn across his back, and twin pink bite marks on his shoulder, from a renegade vayash moru.
But there were more, many more. Raised welts covered his back, a “souvenir” from a flogging in Nargi. A thin white scar on his abdomen where he had been run through with a sword, a wound that would have been fatal without the magic of both Carina and Tris Drayke. High on his chest a discolored line of skin was the reminder of an assassin’s poisoned dagger. And just below that, the mark of the Sacred Lady was branded onto his skin, a reminder of a vow sworn to Istra, the Dark Lady. Dozens of other scars from fights too numerous to mention covered his arms, hands, chest, and back. With his shirt on, Jonmarc Vahanian was a handsome man with dark brown eyes, shoulder-length brown hair, and a wicked, lopsided grin. Shirtless, he knew that people saw only the scars.
“Some of those are because of Alcion, aren’t they?” Gethin’s voice was quiet, and in it, Jonmarc heard a mix of shame and fascination.
“Yeah. A lot of them, actually. Especially the burn on my shoulder. Too bad for Alcion, the barn he locked me in and set on fire didn’t actually kill me.” The screams of the other villagers who weren’t so lucky still haunted his dreams.
“My father regards you as a great hero,” Gethin said, and Jonmarc heard honest regard in the prince’s voice. “He saw you fight a magicked monster at King Drayke’s wedding. He told me that you fight in the Eastmark style as well as any of our best warriors. I didn’t believe him.” The young man had the grace to look rueful as he glanced down at the fresh sword cuts on his arm and chest. “I do now.”
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 6
