The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Yes. I guess Alvior isn’t making any secret of his allegiance.” Wilym swore, and spat as if to ward off evil. “I’d love the chance to send him to the Formless One myself, if you hadn’t already claimed the honor.”

  “I was ready to kill him just from what he did to Renn,” Cam replied, his expression hardening as his hand gripped the pommel of his sword. “After today, I’ll feel no regrets at all, blood ties be damned.”

  “Once we mop up out here, I’m calling the commanders to my tent to regroup,” Wilym said. “Mages, too,” he added with a nod to their companion, who acknowledged with a half bow and then moved away into the crowd. “I want to know what our options are when Alvior and his ships return, and how to avoid this kind of… carnage.”

  “Don’t you think this is just what Alvior wanted? To return not just with force but with terror?”

  Wilym nodded. “Oh, I believe all of this was a very carefully arranged first strike. What we don’t know is how much these theatrics cost Alvior and whether the Temnottan command is willing to sacrifice their troops so blithely on every engagement.”

  “Meaning?”

  Wilym shrugged. “I’m hoping that Alvior staged this to make his point, but that his next move will be more conventional. This was an extravagant move, difficult to sustain. So the question is… does Temnotta have the resources to squander, or is Alvior betting that a good entrance will do his fighting for him by putting fear into the hearts of our soldiers?”

  “For all our sakes, I hope he’s more bluster than substance.”

  “So do I.”

  After ninth bells, a sober group gathered in Wilym’s campaign tent. The three generals assigned to the defense of Fainrun Harbor filed in, followed by their commanders. Benhem, the senior battle mage, followed, looking haggard.

  Wilym motioned toward a decanter of brandy on the table in the center of the tent. One by one, all but the mage filled their cups before they sat down. Cam was already on his second brandy, able to attest that not even the strong liquor could wash away the bitterness of the day’s fight.

  It felt more than odd to sit at Wilym’s right hand, in the place Donelan should have filled. As King’s Champion, that was Cam’s right and duty when the king was unable to preside. Even when Kiara returned to Isencroft, Cam would still take Donelan’s place at the forefront of the battle, since Kiara could not be risked. He did not relish convincing Kiara that she should stay behind the lines, and he only hoped that tales of this day would help to make the point that discretion was prudent.

  “For the record,” Cam said, clearing his throat. “I think we can call today a victory for our side, given the bravery with which our soldiers met such a terrible enemy.”

  The generals nodded, but the weariness in their eyes gave Cam to understand that they knew just how high a price such victory commanded. “If Alvior makes us fear his next move, then the victory is his.” Cam met their eyes defiantly. “We can’t let that happen. So I ask you, what can we pluck from today to give us an advantage when he returns, as he surely will, and soon.”

  Benhem, the mage, spoke first. “We learned that their Destroying Fire is not magical. I have a theory, should we have the unfortunate chance to face such an assault again. We fought back with water and wind, which were no match for this unnatural weapon. But dirt can smother a fire, and we didn’t try that tactic, since we had no land mages among us. We’ve put out a call for more land mages, and we’ll make sure that they’re spread among the regiments.”

  Wilym nodded his approval. “What of the fury of the attackers? Can we expect more of that?”

  Benhem frowned. “Such magic can’t be sustained for long. It comes at a great price, draining the mage who casts it. Its power also seemed to wane with distance, since the Temnottan mages remained on their ships in the harbor. We did counter it successfully, and if we face it again, we’ll be able to move more quickly. Spells of confusion, panic, and feeblemindedness are relatively easy to cast.”

  “Take care that you hit your target with your magic, and not our own troops,” Wilym objected.

  Benhem gave a wan smile. “That part is easier than you may think. We cast our spells to follow the trail of the other mages’ magic, striking only those who were under its pall. Our fighters felt nothing, while theirs were freed of their delusions.”

  “Well done,” Wilym said, inclining his head in acknowledgment. He turned to look at the generals. “What of the navy?”

  Edgeton, an older man with graying hair and a scar that ran across his left cheek from ear to chin, shook his head sadly. “No survivors. Neither ships nor men.”

  “Do we know how badly today went for our troops?”

  Edgeton nodded. “Our headcount is down by five hundred men, not counting the sailors lost with the ships. Given the assault, it could have been worse.”

  “Agreed,” Wilym said, nodding.

  “I believe that Alvior meant to make a statement today, more than he expected to be able to land his troops unopposed,” Cam said. “He wanted us to know that he’s backed by powerful allies, not mere Divisionists. Message delivered. Next time, I think we’ll find out just what true force Temnotta means to bring against us. They can’t stay anchored in the harbor forever. They’ll be anxious to get their troops on the ground where they can forage for their own food and water. We’ll need to be ready.”

  “We’ve got men mining the harbor with the wreckage,” Edgeton said. “And others are replacing the obstacles on the beach, this time, with stone and trenches that won’t burn. We won’t stop them, but we can make the going slow for them. We’re also replacing the artillery with new catapults and trebuchets, moving them into more protected locations with an eye toward hammering the beach and the invasion force rather than the ships.”

  “What of the mages?” Wilym asked, turning back to Benhem.

  “We can’t stop an invasion force,” the mage replied, “but we can make it costly. I have my mages working with Edgeton’s men, adding some nasty surprises to their traps. Now that we have a sense for the Temnottans’ magic, we’ll be working on counter spells and defenses.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the sheer numbers to do something sweeping and dramatic, as I’m sure you’d prefer. So we can’t take the offensive directly, although we can make targeted strikes. We’ll be ready.”

  When the group filed from the tent a candlemark later, Cam lagged behind. Wilym clapped him on the shoulder. “Your men held their positions today. They fought well. You should be proud.”

  Cam nodded wearily. “Proud—and tired. I want nothing so much as my bedroll and a good night’s sleep.”

  Wilym gave a wan smile. “I feel the same way. We both know how rare an uninterrupted night is once the battle is underway.”

  Just as Cam turned to leave, Rhistiart, Cam’s valet and squire, stopped at the tent doorway. “A messenger’s just arrived from the palace with orders to speak to no one but the two of you.”

  Rhistiart stepped aside to reveal Kellen. Kellen’s cloak was covered with dust and mud from the road, and he looked weary from the ride. Wilym waved him in, and Cam also stepped back inside, motioning for Kellen to sit. Wilym went to pour Kellen a brandy.

  “What brings you out to the front? Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the Regent?”

  Kellen nodded wearily and accepted the brandy, closing his eyes as he sipped. “It was Renate who sent me,” he said, his voice hoarse as the brandy burned down his throat. “Had a few things he thought you should know about that he didn’t want to trust to paper. And since I was headed this way, I took the liberty of bringing this along for Cam.” He reached beneath his great cloak and withdrew a sealed parchment letter, which he handed to Cam.

  Cam looked down at the seal. “It’s from Renn.”

  “First, let’s hear what Kellen rode all the way here to tell us,” Wilym said, leaning back in his chair.

  Kellen nodded. “It’s been tense in the city since the troops left. Seems like e
very day there’s something—a riot in one of the city quarters, a block of buildings catches on fire, or the guards around the palace are attacked by some fool with more anger than brains. It’s been like that for two weeks now.”

  “How’s Renate dealing with life as Regent?” Cam asked.

  Kellen grimaced. “He’s managing. He’s not a military man, and not inclined to fancy himself as such, thank the Goddess, so at least he isn’t trying to interfere with what the soldiers are doing to keep peace in the city when things get out of hand. Most of the time, he signs the paperwork that Allestyr puts in front of him and looks out from his window over the city toward whatever’s burning at the moment.”

  “That bad?” Wilym leaned forward. “Divisionists again?”

  “Hard to tell. People are afraid and angry. Our spies tell us that there’s been talk in some of the taverns that Alvior is a legitimate heir, come to take what’s rightfully his. Hard to squelch that kind of thing once it starts to make the rounds. It would help a lot if the princess were here.”

  Wilym nodded. “No word then from Antoin? There’s been more than enough time for him to reach Margolan. Dare we assume that, without news to the contrary, he reached Kiara with the message and she’s on her way to Isencroft?”

  “By the Crone, I hope you’re right,” Kellen replied. “The whole city’s a tinderbox full of rumors and lies. Even the countryside isn’t safe from the madness. Three of the magistrates from villages a day’s ride outside the city gates came to the palace to complain that someone is desecrating their burying grounds.”

  Cam frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Gruesome stuff, to hear them tell. Bodies dug up and taken away. Runes marked on the entranceways to crypts. Cairns and barrows vandalized. Animal sacrifices, too, if you can believe it.” Kellen shook his head. “Just what we need, blood magic on top of everything else.”

  “No idea who’s behind it?” Wilym tented his fingers as he spoke, deep in thought.

  Kellen shrugged. “People report seeing men in black robes, but nothing more specific than that. So far, we haven’t been able to catch them at it, so we don’t know whether they’re with the Divisionists, aiding the Temnottans, or creating a whole new threat.” He leaned forward. “But Brother Felix thinks that the desecrations just might be related to something that happened a few nights ago, at the palace.”

  Kellen paused, declining an offer by Wilym to refill his brandy. “You remember the… ceremony… we held to protect the crown until Kiara can return?”

  Cam and Wilym exchanged glances. The creation of the nenkah wasn’t something easily forgotten. “Of course,” Cam said.

  “Two nights before I left, a night terror came upon Count Renate. I have no better description. He went to bed tired but in good spirits, and roused much of the household with his screams in the middle of the night. Neither the healer, Davon, nor Brother Felix could rouse him at first. It was as if Renate was a prisoner within his own nightmare.”

  “How did you free him?” Wilym’s whole attention was fixed on Kellen.

  “It took both Davon and Felix to do it, a mix of magic and medicine. Davon sedated him with a mixture of powders and wine. When Renate was still, Felix was able to decipher the magic against him and break the spell.”

  Cam looked up, alarmed. “How was hostile magic able to affect Renate? I thought Brother Felix warded the palace.”

  Kellen sighed. “Aberponte is a very large place. And apparently, wardings must be rather specific to be effective. But Felix doesn’t believe it was actually a spell that affected Renate. He thinks magic worked elsewhere followed connections of our own making, with the unfortunate effect of troubling the Regent’s sleep.”

  “Say on,” Wilym urged, his face intent.

  “The next morning, the guards found a dead goat at the entrance to the necropolis beneath the city. The beast had obviously been sacrificed, because it hung by its back hooves, gutted and headless, with its blood used to mark runes on the stones all around the outer doors and its entrails left in carefully arranged heaps that Felix said were old magic, very dark.”

  “Did they enter the necropolis?” Cam asked.

  Kellen shook his head. “No. The outer doors carry very strong magic to protect against assault and invaders. But Felix thinks that whatever magic was done there at the gates—and similar magicks that appear to have been done in the countryside at the same time—were powerful enough to cast a shadow over the magic that binds Renate and Kiara to the crown—and to the nenkah.”

  “Is the nenkah safe?” Wilym’s voice dropped low on the strange word, as if to say it aloud invited trouble.

  “Yes. Felix went to make certain, after we were able to rouse Renate.”

  “What of Renate’s nightmares?” Cam asked, drumming his fingers on his thigh, impatient that there was no immediate action to take in order to avenge the attack.

  “They were, indeed, troubling, although they offered little useful information,” Kellen said. “When the sleeping potion Brother Felix gave Renate wore off, he was only able to recall a few images. He saw a large shadow—a woman’s shadow, he said—rising from the dead places, burying grounds, and cairns, marshes, and sickly swamps. The shadow made the ground shake and brought with it fire and flood. Everything was swept away before it, and the wretches who survived fell down on their knees and worshipped it.”

  Cam looked grim. “What else?”

  “He saw the shadow fall on Aberponte, and it made the foundations of the castle shake. He saw the sun turn from its normal course to rise in the north, and he saw a strange flag fly above the palace. He says there were other images, terrible sights, but he doesn’t remember them, or can’t put words to them.” Kellen looked from Cam to Wilym. “What do you make of it?”

  “Unfortunately, some of it sounds familiar.” Cam’s voice was tight. “When I left Dark Haven several months ago, Jonmarc Vahanian was having problems with the Durim, black-robed fanatics who wanted to revive the worship of a long-banished goddess, Shanthadura, the face of Chaos. The sacrifices you mention, and the desecration of tombs, sound like what Jonmarc encountered. The Durim work blood magic, and they especially like to use the blood of the vyrkin and vayash moru to invoke their power.”

  Kellen shuddered. “I don’t know what chills me more, that these things are happening elsewhere, or that the Black Robes would desire such an end for all of us.”

  “The other images appear all too easily read,” Wilym added. “The sun rising in the north would appear to mean a new day, one ruled by power from the north, which would seem to describe Temnotta. And an unfamiliar flag is clear enough. Whoever worked this magic would see a change of kings for Isencroft.”

  Cam shook his head to clear the headache that was beginning behind his temples. “What worries me is the way the vision melds the two: Divisionist and Durim. In Dark Haven, the Durim—the Black Robes—appeared to care nothing for mortal kings. Their fight was with the Sacred Lady, to replace her worship with that of Shanthadura. Yet Renate’s vision seems to suggest that there is a connection between the Durim and the Temnottan invasion, which is the doing of Alvior and his Divisionists.” He met Kellen’s eyes. “I would like to be wrong about that, but I don’t see how else to read the omens.”

  “While I’m glad for the warning, I’m also just as happy to leave reading omens to Brother Felix,” Wilym said, stretching. “I’m a military man, and I prefer to spend my time fighting enemies that I can see.”

  Cam looked back at Kellen. “You never said—did the nenkah appear to be affected by Renate’s nightmare?”

  Kellen met his eyes. “Our ceremony gave the nenkah breath, as the proxy of the new queen, but not movement. When Brother Felix felt it was safe to go into the necropolis and check, he found the wardings strong and undisturbed. And yet, the nenkah lay curled up on itself like a frightened child, a rag arm covering its face. No one had moved it, and yet, it moved.”

  Wilym let out a long breath. “
I don’t know whether to wish that Kiara arrives soon, to end the regency and the issue with the nenkah, or to hope that she stays far away from Isencroft until this cursed business is finished.”

  “Before I forget, let me see what the news is from Brunnfen,” Cam said, breaking the seal on the parchment. “It’s from Renn, all right,” Cam confirmed. “His writing is so small and cramped it strains my eyes.”

  Dear Cam,

  I hope this letter reaches you quickly, and finds you as safe as current circumstances permit. Captain Lange from the garrison has been true to his word, keeping troops here on watch in case Alvior tries to come back.

  Ships appeared two weeks ago at the mouth of the bay, but the snags you and Lange laid for them seemed to foil their plans. Two of the ships sailed right into the snags and ripped out their hulls. Lange’s archers made quick work of the crews when they tried to flee the ships. The other ships didn’t try to enter, and after a day or two, they sailed away. Lange torched the wrecks, as a message.

  I’m not convinced it’s the last we’ll see of Alvior’s bunch, since he seemed intent on setting up a headquarters in Brunnfen. We’ve sent patrols up and down the coast, but it’s long been a favorite for pirates for all the little inlets, and I have no doubt Alvior could use it to his advantage, if he wanted to. And while we were able to keep the large ships out of the harbor, we might not fare as well if they return with small boats. I can only hope that the enemy doesn’t share my imagination!

  Give my best to Rhosyn, when you see her next. I’ve had the chance to do some more work toward creating an alehouse and distillery in town, and I think you’ll be pleased. If we all survive this war, I’ve got just the location for a brewery and tavern that might put coin in our pockets once more. I pray to the Lady that this madness ends soon and we can focus on more pleasant prospects, such as ale. I fully expect you to keep your promise and return safely from your duties. Until then, rest assured that Brunnfen is in good hands.

  Your brother,

  Renn