Tris drew a deep breath, fighting a massive reaction headache, and gathered his power around him once more. Before Scaith could regroup, Tris sent out another blast of power, this time directing his magic at the advancing lines of the reanimated Temnottan dead. He saw the image of the walking corpses clearly in his mind. Unlike his own ghostly soldiers, the Temnottans had not returned willingly. They had been violently forced back into the rotting shells of their bodies, and Tris could feel their pain, terror, and utter confusion.
In his mind, he reached out for the sickly green glow of the reanimated Temnottans’ life threads and snapped the cords, releasing the dead souls from bondage. A row of undead soldiers collapsed, and Tris sent his magic out across the ragged lines of the Temnottan walking dead, breaking the faltering threads and freeing the enslaved souls as the decomposing bodies fell to the ground midmotion.
“Brace for it,” Tris shouted only an instant before a shockwave of magic swept toward the Margolan line with the force of a storm tide. It was Scaith, and mingled with the powerful magic, Tris felt rage. Tris sent an answering salvo, drawing on his waning power. Magic met magic midfield as soldiers on both sides scrambled away in terror. As Tris’s stamina wavered, he reached out to the life forces of the dead Margolan soldiers, shielding them from Scaith’s retaliation and borrowing from the spark of their energy to hold a defensive wall of power against Scaith’s attack.
The energy burned across Tris’s skin, as if every nerve were on fire. Tris could feel Scaith trying to pull energy from his life force, but the Flow welled up to replenish him, even as the fallen Margolan soldiers offered what they could of the dim glow of their souls. Just when Tris thought his magic could hold out no longer, Scaith pulled back, departing with such suddenness that Tris reeled, nearly falling from his horse. He clung to the pommel of his saddle, his vision blurred and his breath ragged, fighting a headache that throbbed like a blade embedded in his skull. With his remaining power, Tris released the Margolan dead, too exhausted to sustain them. The live Margolan soldiers surged forward, intent on retribution.
Tris felt the tendrils of the Flow slip away and with a deep exhale, he murmured the passing-over ritual to send the souls of the Margolan dead on their way to the Lady. Exhausted and aching from the effort of his fight, Tris felt a surge of alarm as new, unfamiliar magic tingled along his senses.
Without warning, dozens of the scavenger birds that had been circling high above the battlefield plummeted at full speed, their sharp beaks and talons trained on the Temnottans. The invaders screamed at the onslaught as the birds beat at the soldiers with their wide, powerful wings and ripped at their flesh with beaks and claws.
A new flicker of powerful, wild magic surged over the battle ground, and the Temnottans found themselves pelted with a hail of dark objects that rose from the trampled ground and then rained down from the sky.
“Is that horse manure?” Fallon breathed, caught between a startled intake of breath and a strained laugh.
The unmistakable odor of a barnyard accompanied shouts and curses from the Temnottans. Undaunted, Soterius and Senne urged their men forward. Tris heard a cackle of laughter behind him and turned.
On the ridge behind the soldiers, an old, hunched woman danced with mad glee, her hands rising and falling in precise correlation to the offal that flew through the air at the Temnottan army. Farther down the ridge, a gaunt man made wide, swooping motions with his hands, orchestrating the attack of the carrion birds.
Rocks flew up from the ground, pelting the Temnottans from all sides as a third figure joined the first two. The third mage was a heavy man who held a large rock in either hand, striking them together so hard that sparks flew, and with each shower of sparks, more rocks sailed through the air.
A giddy shriek of insane glee accompanied a blast of fire. With amazing precision, the flames ignited the pants of one of the Temnottan commanders, causing him to leap from his horse and beat at his legs and then drop to the ground and roll. Another blast and then another caught soldiers and officers alike, setting their uniforms ablaze.
Tris strained to make out the figures on the ridge, when a familiar singsong voice reached him. Alyzza!
The Temnottan bugler bleated a jumbled retreat. Rocks, offal, birds, and fire pursued the Temnottans until they were running from the field to the jeers and catcalls of the Margolan army.
As the certainty of their unlikely victory became clear, Tris felt fatigue utterly overwhelm him. He would have tumbled from his horse, but he felt Fallon’s hands steadying him as he slid to the ground.
“It worked,” Fallon murmured, and Tris could feel her magic reaching out to him, doing what she could to temper the headache and fatigue. “Senne and Soterius have them on the run.” She paused. “But what you did—”
“Is forbidden,” Tris whispered, his throat dry. Fallon lifted a wineskin and splashed warm wine into his mouth. “If it matters, our dead gave their consent. The Temnottans had no say with Scaith.”
“I did my best to shield you and the troops from that last blast of power, but if Scaith strikes again while you’re down, I don’t think even all of us together can hold him off.”
Holding onto the reins in one hand and with Fallon under his shoulder on the other side, Tris began to make his way toward the rear, surrounded by a contingent of guards. He could see the looks on the soldiers’ faces as the ranks parted to let him through. Fear and horror mingled with duty and discipline as they began to grasp, possibly for the first time, the true implication of a Summoner-King.
As they reached the open ground behind the troops, Tris saw a short, robed figure running toward them. As the figure neared, she threw back her hood. Panting and breathless, Sister Rosta managed a hurried bow as Tris’s guards parted ranks to permit her access.
“Apologies, Your Majesty, that we did not give you advance notice of our arrival.”
Despite his headache, Tris managed a tired grin. “You can surprise me like that any time, Rosta.” He shot a teasing glance toward Fallon. “Why didn’t your battle mages ever think of throwing horse shit at the enemy?”
Fallon gave a good natured shrug. “We will now.” She grinned at Rosta. “And while the rocks were a nice touch, setting their pants on fire was truly inspired.”
Rosta rolled her eyes. “That was Brother Gernon. He’s a fire mage who’s gone a bit senile. He was sent to Vistimar because he kept lighting the hems of the other mages’ robes on fire just to watch them dance.”
“But the horse shit was all mine.” Tris looked around to see Alyzza stride up behind Rosta. Alyzza’s eyes were bright with madness and excitement, but her face was animated and her expression knowing and shrewd. For a moment, she was every bit the canny old sorceress who had trained him.
“It’s good to see you, Alyzza.”
Alyzza barked a harsh laugh. “All the iron and salt in the world wasn’t enough to hold back the darkness, was it? But we drove him back, aye, that we did.”
One by one, clad in threadbare robes, the mad mages of Vistimar assembled behind Sister Rosta. “The ‘hum’ they hear in their minds reached a crescendo a fortnight ago,” Rosta said apologetically. “They reacted so violently and with such a burst of magic that Vistimar is in ruins.” She sighed and spread her hands, palms up. “Alyzza was insistent that they come to fight the invaders, and the other Sisters and I thought it better to set them loose on the enemy than have them wandering around the countryside, so here we are.”
“You’re a welcome sight,” Tris replied. “We’ve lost several of our battle mages. The other side seems to have plenty to spare, so I’ll accept all the help we can get.”
“Volshe,” Alyzza spat, and for a moment, her eyes lost their mad glint. “I’d know the touch of Volshe magic even in my grave. It was from a Volshe that Lemuel learned of the Obsidian King. I’ve got an old score to settle with them.”
“We’ll find you tents,” Tris promised, filing away Alyzza’s comment for future thought and tur
ning his attention back to Sister Rosta. “And we’ll scrounge provisions. Another bad harvest has made for rather slim rations, but no one’s gone hungry yet.”
Rosta nodded wearily. “Thank you, m’lord. Even warm gruel and watered wine would be welcome. There’s less to be had inland, because of the plague. We’ll be grateful for whatever you can spare.”
Coalan came bounding up, sword ready in one hand, and took in Tris’s condition with a worried expression. “I was headed to find you to tell you that the mages were here, but I see they’ve beat me to it.”
Tris pretended not to notice the glance that traveled between Coalan and Fallon, and he assumed that they wordlessly confirmed that Tris needed nothing so much as his cot and a goblet of brandy. “Coalan,” Tris said, getting the young man’s attention. “While Fallon sees me back to my tent, I need you to get Sister Rosta and her mages set up with tents and provisions.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Coalan said, grinning at the show of formality he reserved strictly for company. He gave a bow and sheathed his sword. “If you’ll follow me back to camp, we’ll see about getting you settled in.”
When the new mages had left them, Fallon returned her attention to Tris with a critical eye. “At least we’ve got reinforcements if Scaith strikes before you’re back on your feet.”
“I did my best to make sure Scaith’s in as bad shape as I am,” Tris replied. His voice was a dry rasp, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart.
“So with both of you flat on your backs, the rest of the battle should be up to the army?”
“Goddess, I hope so.”
They reached Tris’s tent without incident, and Tris handed his horse’s reins off to a groomsman. Fallon followed Tris into his tent, giving instructions to his guards that he not be disturbed. She looked askance at Tris when he collapsed into a chair. “Here, drink this,” Fallon said after she had rummaged in Tris’s trunk for a bottle of brandy. She added powders from the pouches on her belt to help with his reaction headache and handed the mixture to Tris, who knocked it back, then gasped at the raw burn.
“What exactly did you do out there?” Fallon’s voice was a mixture of curiosity and suspended judgment. She drew up a chair and reached out to take Tris’s pulse and then touched his temples lightly with her fingertips, letting the warmth of her healing magic wash over him.
Tris was quiet for a moment, letting the brandy and the powders begin to ease the pain. Speaking quietly so as not to make his pounding headache worse, Tris told Fallon what he had done. When he was finished, Fallon sat back. From her expression, Tris knew she was thinking hard to process what he told her.
“So you reached out to the souls of the dead, and the Flow? Damn. That took a lot of energy.”
“Don’t forget the souls of the Temnottan dead. I set them free.”
“No wonder you’re so drained. I’m impressed. A year ago, lesser workings knocked you out for days at a time.”
“I guess it’s true—you gain strength from the things that don’t kill you.”
“Let’s not push that idea too far,” Fallon replied wryly. She was silent for a moment. “Do you think Scaith will try that trick again?”
Tris closed his eyes and slouched in his chair, letting his head fall back. “Goddess, I hope not. I’ll do my best in the next battle to help the dead cross over as quickly as possible so their souls can’t be violated. Scaith’s troops weren’t fighting out of their love for Temnotta or their loyalty to him. All I felt was fear.”
“How long do you think it will take him to regroup? Can you be on your feet first?”
Tris tried to sit up and groaned. “It was a strain for him—I could feel it. I had the distinct feeling that Scaith hasn’t come ashore yet, so he was casting his power over a greater distance. That cost him, and I think he’ll make sure he’s closer the next time.” Wincing as movement made his head throb, Tris staggered from his chair and dropped heavily onto his cot. “As for how quickly I can be on my feet—the sooner I sleep this off, the sooner I can get back out there.”
“We’ve got the new mages,” Fallon said, moving to stand beside Tris. She bent down and touched his temples again, blurring the pain and hastening sleep. “The sheer unpredictability of what they’ll throw at Temnotta should keep the enemy at bay until you’re ready for action again.” She shook her head. “It’s easy to forget the mage and focus only on the madness, but of the mages who I saw with Rosta today, they were all considered quite powerful in their day. Mad or not, they’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“Then let’s leave it in the hands of the madmen, at least, for a little while,” Tris murmured, as Fallon’s magic took effect and he fell into a deep, healing slumber.
Chapter Twenty-Three
You’re certain Buka is dead?”
Scian inclined her head and leveled a measured glance at Jonmarc Vahanian. “Quite certain. I put the blade through his heart myself.”
“There’s no mistake that it was Buka you killed?”
Scian shifted her whipcord-thin frame in the campaign chair, meeting Jonmarc’s eyes. “Absolutely no mistake. He’d set his eye on a specific target, a serroquette. She barely escaped from him once, and we were just steps behind them, but Buka got away from us. We watched for her, and tailed her. Our ghost blades found it easy to focus on her magic. When she left the tunnels, we followed her to an inn outside of town and waited. Buka followed her, too. When he struck, so did we. Buka is dead.”
Jonmarc frowned. “A serroquette? Aidane?”
Scian shrugged. “The same ghost whore who was with the queen at the ceremony on Haunts.”
“Why was Aidane outside of the palace—not to mention the tunnels?”
Scian looked bored. “How should I know? Lucky for us that she was; Buka knew the area he was using as a killing ground as well as the ghosts themselves did. His blood magic charms made it difficult for my ghost blades to get a fix on him. Aidane drew him out into the open for us, out of his usual hunting area. We severed the head and burned the skull, hand, and breastbone separately, then set the rest of the body on fire. The ashes were scattered over a very wide area. I used a damashqi dagger when I killed him; it was spelled to destroy the soul. He’s gone. Permanently.”
There was a rustle at the tent door, and Jonmarc looked up to see Ansu, the vayash moru mage, framed in the doorway. “Glad you could make it,” Jonmarc said, motioning for Ansu to join them. Scian regarded Ansu warily.
“I thought your ghost blades were an extinct breed,” Ansu said, regarding Scian with a look that seemed to take her measure.
“As the vayash moru know, large numbers aren’t always necessary.”
“Very true.” Ansu looked from Scian back to Jonmarc. “In my mortal days, nearly every warlord employed a handful of ghost blades among his personal retinue. They were regarded as prized weapons.”
“As were vayash moru assassins,” Scian replied in a tone that implied far more than it stated.
“Indeed. I have no desire to see those days return.”
Scian shrugged. “Peace may suit the farmer, but it’s hell on the fighter. Turn us loose on the enemy.”
Jonmarc had been quiet, letting the two dodge and parry. He looked up and glanced at Ansu. “The timing is right. It has to be connected.”
“Hmm?”
“Scian’s told me about how her ghost blades finally caught and killed Buka. That was four days ago. It matches, to the candlemark, when Imri pulled his troops back.”
“That is interesting,” Ansu agreed. “It would make sense, if Buka’s butchering was somehow feeding the invaders’ power. But what about the other time?”
Scian leaned forward. “Other time?”
Jonmarc nodded. “Not long after Sohan. We were in a pitched battle—just as we were on the night you killed Buka—and if I had to place bets, I would have said Imri’s side had the advantage. All of a sudden, it felt like the energy completely changed on the battlefield. Imri’s
troops lost their will to fight. They called back their troops when they were winning, for Crone’s sake, and the ones that didn’t hear the call milled around lost until we cut them down.”
“I hadn’t come to the battle lines yet, but I think I know the night you speak of,” said Ansu. “I, too, felt a shift in the magic, but it was blood magic, not the Flow, that waned. I’d wager that on one of the battlefronts, someone struck a deathblow to the one of the dark summoner’s sources of power, and without their blood offerings, the Volshe lost some of their power.”
“Just like with Buka,” Jonmarc murmured. “I’m grateful for anything that hands us a victory.” He looked to Scian. “If Imri is using blood magic, how does that affect your ghost blades?”
Scian grimaced. “It depends on how the power is being used. If the blood magic targets ghosts, then my assassins can’t let the spirits possess them. They lose the edge that the spirit warriors provide. On the other hand, if the blood magic is set against mortals, our ghost blades may have an advantage.”
“If you’re right, Imri and his Volshe have lost the extra power they were getting from Buka’s murders and from somewhere else, maybe the Black Robes. They’ve come too far to retreat, so that means they’ll throw everything they’ve got into the next battle.” Jonmarc leaned back in his chair, thinking. “I wish we knew how the war was going in the other kingdoms. Temnotta took a big risk when it decided to attack the entire coastline. If Margolan and Isencroft are holding their own, then it has to have taken a toll on Temnotta’s manpower and mages.” He let out a long breath. “And if Margolan and Isencroft haven’t been able to hold them off, Goddess help us.”
By the time the sun was high in the sky on the next day, Jonmarc was looking out over the lines of battle from astride his warhorse. Gethin and the Hojun priests were to his left, while Taru was to his right.
“With Gregor gone, Exeter had to cover the flank. We’ll miss his mercs on the advance,” Jonmarc commented to Taru.
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 41
