“We’ve still got a sizeable force, between your men and Valjan’s,” Gethin added.
“How sizeable depends on what Imri still has to throw at us. I don’t think he’s out of tricks.”
“No, but he won’t throw the same trick twice,” Taru said dryly. “My mages have made sure of that.”
“Something feels wrong,” Jonmarc muttered. Valjan’s division had made the first assault of the day, while Jonmarc’s soldiers hung back to enable an onslaught of fresh troops later in the fight. Exeter’s mercs were intent on forcing back the flanking invaders who had gained ground at Gregor’s expense. “I don’t think Imri is throwing his full weight against us. It’s not like him to fight defensively.”
“Maybe getting rid of Buka hurt him more than we realized.” Taru followed his gaze out over the battlefield, and Jonmarc guessed from her look of concentration that she was seeing with her magic as well as with her vision.
“Much as I’d love to believe that, it’s too convenient. He’s waiting, trying to wear us down, or hoping our guard slips,” Jonmarc replied. It wasn’t magic that informed his skepticism, but rather hard-won intuition, born of more life-and-death battles than he cared to remember. And every fiber in his body told him that the fight had not yet really started.
As the light began to wane, neither side had gained ground. Despite pitched skirmishes up and down the battlefront, the line of fighting retreated and advanced like the tide, gaining precious yardage only to surrender the same ground moments later.
At the front of his division, Jonmarc watched the position of the sun. As dusk fell, he raised his arm to signal his unit to advance. On the ride behind them, he saw Ansu join Taru and the mages. Vygulf stepped up beside the Hojun priests. The vyrkin in their wolf form slipped among the ranks of the waiting soldiers, awaiting the order to charge. And although he couldn’t see them, Jonmarc knew that Scian and the ghost blades were somewhere in the fight, as were the vayash moru.
“Move out!” Jonmarc shouted, and he heard the order echoed down the line. He gripped his reins and raised his sword high, leading the advance. The moon was waning, and the night was dark as clouds blotted out the stars. Here and there, torches lit the darkness. Barrages of mage fire from both sides split the night like lightning strikes. Imri’s forces showed no sign of falling back; instead, Jonmarc noted that the rogue shapeshifters’ army seemed invigorated as darkness fell. That’s exactly what I was afraid of.
He heard shouts and the screams of men coming from his right, and he saw that Exeter’s troops were fully engaged, yet their enemy did not appear to be the Temnottan soldiers. Jonmarc rode into the thick of the fighting. Cries of horror rose from the soldiers at the front.
“What is that?” Gethin’s voice carried above the fray.
“The missing dead.”
Hundreds of walking corpses staggered over a rise to their right. Jonmarc felt his blood chill. Dressed in ragged clothing and tattered shrouds, these weren’t the fresh dead of the battlefield. They weren’t battle dead at all. Jonmarc remembered the panicked farmers and bewildered townspeople who sought a reason for why someone had snatched the bodies from their crypts. Staring at the shambling corpses, Jonmarc now knew the answer.
“Hold your ground! They’re already dead. Cut them down!” With a cry, Jonmarc spurred his horse onward, toward the ranks of the dead. Only when he reached the front did realization hit him.
These were not mindless puppets, crudely moved by distant mages. Nor were they ashtenerath, men driven to madness by magic and potions. These corpses moved with sentience and malice. Armed with famers’ scythes or the scavenged swords of the battle dead, the corpse fighters moved with purpose. Two of them fixed their eyeless stares on Jonmarc and advanced.
The night suddenly grew colder. Across the battlefield, a horrific wail split the night, the keening of the damned. Opaque shadows flitted across the sky or wound between the soldiers, stretching into shapes with dangerously long arms and gaping maws. Jonmarc brought his sword down hard on the nearest corpse fighter, swinging his blade to send the head rolling from the body. His blade glowed and tingled in his hand as it made contact, and as the corpse fighter fell, another of the black shadow shapes rose from its headless body.
Sweet Chenne. Imri might not be a summoner, but he’s enticed the hollowed spirits to possess the dead he stole from the tombs. How in the name of the Lady do we fight that?
Four of the corpse fighters advanced on Jonmarc, trying to encircle him. He cut down two with his sword. He heard a growl and the snap of teeth, and one of the vyrkin leaped past him, taking the third corpse fighter to the ground and ripping into the dead flesh of its throat, breaking its spine. Jonmarc reared his horse, and a powerful kick from the sharpened shoes on his stallion’s front hooves shattered the fourth corpse’s skull.
Men screamed as the hollowed spirits attacked with fury. In the gray fog, Jonmarc spotted Tevin, the fire mage, lobbing bursts of flame to drive back the ravening shadows. Vygulf’s ghost vyrkin joined the attack, and when they leaped at the dark shapes of the hollowed ghosts, the shadow ghosts shrieked and drew back.
To his left, Jonmarc glimpsed the Hojuns’ spirit stawars prowling across the battlefield, hunting the hollowed spirits that had suddenly gone from predator to prey. Two of the corpse fighters launched themselves at Jonmarc. As Jonmarc used his sword to cut one of the corpses from shoulder to hip, the other attacker leaped from the other side, colliding with Jonmarc with such force that he was thrown from his saddle as his panicked horse reared.
Mottled teeth snapped a breath away from his throat as Jonmarc bucked to free himself from his attacker. This close, he could smell the stench of the grave. The corpse fighter tore at him, and the exposed bone and leathery darkened flesh of its hands ripped at Jonmarc’s armor. Momentarily winded by his fall, Jonmarc twisted to throw the attacker clear, but it fought with a dimonn’s fury.
Mage lightning flared across the sky, and Jonmarc saw it glint on steel. A blade swung down as Jonmarc heaved with all his strength to tear his attacker loose and throw it into the path of the blade as he rolled clear.
Gethin’s sword pinned the corpse fighter to the ground through the ribs, and the dead form began to shudder and writhe until the opaque shadow within wrested itself free. Gethin fell back a pace, one hand going to an amulet at his throat, while Jonmarc rolled to his feet, sword raised. The hollowed spirit stretched into a tall, menacing shape with long arms that ended in sharp talons. The shadow surged forward, slashing its talons toward Gethin. The prince raised his sword, deflecting the worst of the blow, but Jonmarc heard the clatter of talons across armor and Gethin cried out, staggering backward as four gashes appeared on his right shoulder. The shadow reared back for another strike as Jonmarc rushed forward to pull Gethin from its claws. A spirit wolf raced past him, leaping into the air, plunging into the center of the dark form. The hollowed spirit gave a shrill scream. Jonmarc grabbed Gethin by his uninjured arm and pulled him to his feet, dodging away from where the shadow and the spirit wolf battled.
Gethin was ashen, and his arm was soaked in blood. “We’ve got to get you back to the Hojuns,” Jonmarc said, getting his shoulder under Gethin’s good arm.
“Leaving so soon?”
Astasia stood blocking Jonmarc’s path. Jonmarc looked up and saw a row of figures silhouetted in the dim moonlight on the high ground to the right, and in the blink of an eye, they moved with immortal speed into the battle, attacking Exeter’s troops first.
“Get out of my way.”
“Or what?”
Gethin allowed himself to slip from Jonmarc’s grip as Jonmarc drew his sword. “I don’t give a damn whether you’re Blood Council or not. If you’re not here to fight on my side, you’re the enemy.”
“Then fight.”
Astasia’s movement was swift enough to blur. Jonmarc’s parry was equally swift. More than a year of training with Laisren and Gabriel had honed his already-legendary sword skills to be fas
t enough to fight vayash moru. The war against Malesh and his rogue vayash moru had pushed Jonmarc’s skills even further. And while Astasia’s hatred for Jonmarc was clear in her eyes, he also saw that she was shrewd enough to recognize his skill.
Astasia came at him with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. He parried her sword easily and caught her dagger with his vambrace, letting the blade slide harmlessly against the leather.
Astasia drew back, scything her blades as she twirled, then let the dagger fly. It nicked his ear, sending a rivulet of blood down his neck. Astasia met his eyes and licked her lips.
Jonmarc pressed the advantage of her momentary distraction and delivered a pounding series of sword strikes that drove Astasia back a pace. He moved forward to score a hit and felt a rush of air behind him as Gethin cried out. Too late, he saw a vayash moru grab the injured prince in a vise-like hold and lift him off the ground, rising into the dark sky.
Astasia’s laugh spurred Jonmarc to fury, refocusing him on the battle at hand. She gripped her sword two-handed, parrying blows that would have shattered the bone of many mortal fighters. “Where are your vayash moru protectors, Lord Vahanian? Will your girl-queen be able to save you from Eastmark’s wrath when we deliver their prince’s corpse to the palace steps?”
Jonmarc closed his mind to her taunts, to the noise of battle around him, to Gethin’s cry of alarm. He circled Astasia warily, intent only on vengeance.
“I’d like nothing better than to drain your body to a husk and leave it as a warning.”
“Someone already tried that, and failed.”
Astasia’s gaze flickered to Jonmarc’s throat, where two healed puncture wounds remained from Malesh’s failed attempt. “Malesh only tried to kill you. I’d prefer to bring you across, force you to my bidding.”
“Good luck with that.”
Behind Astasia, a fast-moving shadow collided with the rising vayash moru that held Gethin, who was struggling to free himself. At first, Jonmarc took it for one of the hollowed spirits, until he realized it had shape and mass. He dared to spare only a glance, enough to see the newcomer’s sword glint in the faint moonlight as it swept toward Gethin’s attacker, neatly slicing head from body.
Gethin plunged toward the ground along with the body of the headless vayash moru. The severed head bounced on the hard ground, rolling under the feet of soldiers as they battled the sudden wave of enemy vayash moru. The body of the headless vayash moru crumbled as it fell, and the cold wind carried its gritty ash across the killing ground. A dark form snatched Gethin by the waist before he could strike the ground, landing softly with the shaken prince. Jonmarc recognized Laisren in the instant before Astasia charged toward him, fangs bared and snarling in rage.
“I will finish what Malesh started!” Astasia gripped her sword with both hands, driving it straight for Jonmarc’s heart. Jonmarc’s sword swung as he dodged her blow, and his sharp blade struck across the side of her face, laying bare her white skull and tearing through her throat. Undeterred, Astasia swung again with blind fury, a powerful blow that Jonmarc barely blocked, feeling the force ache through his bones as he let it carry him in its arc so that it did not shatter his arms.
The attack had put Astasia slightly off balance. Jonmarc wheeled with the force of her strike, and a dagger from a sheath on his left wrist fell into his hand. He let it fly, and it buried itself hilt-deep in Astasia’s chest.
Astasia’s sword fell from her hand as her ruined face stared in disbelief at the ichor that stained her tunic. She collapsed to her knees, and Jonmarc swung once more. His sword snapped through Astasia’s exposed spine before her eyes could register the end of her immortality. Jonmarc watched as the cold wind blew past Astasia and her body began to crumble and then collapsed into ruin.
“Get him behind the lines,” Jonmarc shouted to Laisren, who lifted Gethin despite the prince’s protests and disappeared into the night sky.
No sooner had Laisren vanished than Jonmarc looked up to see a new vayash moru, one he did not recognize, heading toward him with a deadly expression on his face. Still feeling Astasia’s final strike as an ache in his bones, Jonmarc resolutely gripped his sword with both hands, ready to fight. In his peripheral vision, he saw two more vayash moru, one from his left and one from the right. This isn’t good.
The three vayash moru charged at once. Jonmarc pivoted in a high Eastmark kick, catching one of the attackers in the chest and throwing him clear. He let the momentum of his first strike carry him as he met the second vayash moru’s sword with enough power to tear the grip from the hand of a mortal opponent. Jonmarc saw the glint of steel and knew that he could not dodge the third blade streaking toward him.
With a clang, a new blade interposed itself, knocking aside the third opponent. Jonmarc had only a glimpse of his rescuer, but it was enough to make him question his own sanity as he pounded back a defense against the first two vayash moru. Clad all in black, swords gleaming in both hands, Uri fought back the third vayash moru.
The advance of his two attackers left Jonmarc no time for greeting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a fourth attacker now circled Uri. Jonmarc and Uri were back to back, holding off the press of four of Astasia’s brood.
Jonmarc feinted to the left, then dropped and rolled to the right, coming up close enough to his attacker to thrust his sword up and into the vayash moru’s unprotected belly, slitting him open to the ribs. Ichor and entrails spilled down on the ground as Jonmarc reached his feet and evaded the worst of it, though the foul mixture spattered his armor. Seizing the advantage, Jonmarc drove his sword into the vayash moru’s chest and through his heart. The body crumbled into ash.
He could not spare a glance to see how Uri fared. Jonmarc’s remaining opponent eyed him with a feral gleam in his eyes. “I’ll take your head back to Imri to have it put on a post and raised for all to see.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
Fire and mage lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the battlefield in hues of flame. Jonmarc’s attacker rushed forward and Jonmarc braced himself for the strike, realizing an instant too late as the sword locked with his own blade that attack was merely distraction for the fangs that snapped just shy of his throat. Jonmarc managed to miss the worst of the attack, but pain flared through his body as the vayash moru grabbed him by the back of the neck in a grip strong enough that a twitch of his attacker’s fingers could break bone.
“I will be a hero for killing you.”
Jonmarc’s left hand closed around a knife slung low on his leg. As the vayash moru leaned in for the kill, Jonmarc jerked the knife blade up and jammed it into his attacker’s chest.
Cold dark ichor covered Jonmarc as the vayash moru began to tremble. The attacker eased his grip on Jonmarc’s neck, and with a few inches more room, Jonmarc twisted the blade and drove it deeper. The vayash moru’s body bucked and quivered, and then crumbled into dust, leaving Jonmarc holding a dark-stained blade coated with ash.
Jonmarc looked up in time to see Uri finish off his last opponent. What Uri’s sword work lacked in proper salle style it made up for in the blunt, efficient strokes of a street fighter. Uri disarmed his attacker, wrestled him to the ground, and then straddled him and brought his blade down through the heart and into the dirt below. In the blink of an eye, the body crumbled into nothing, and Uri straightened.
Covered with ash and ichor, his black tunic and pants ripped and bloodied, Uri looked more like a brawler than a lord of the Blood Council. Jonmarc met Uri’s gaze and saw grudging acknowledgment.
“When you were a fight slave in Nargi, I never lost a bet on you,” Uri said, as a gash on his lip rapidly healed itself. “Nice to see that you haven’t gone soft.”
“Thanks for the assist.”
Uri’s lip twitched into a bitter half-smile. “This doesn’t make us friends. Let’s just say that I dislike you less than I hated Astasia.”
Jonmarc looked out over the battlefield. The battle showed
no sign of waning. Magic crackled in the air as the mages on both sides launched and parried deadly salvos overhead. Exeter’s troops were still embroiled in combat, but to Jonmarc’s eye, their opponents appeared to be live and not the corpse fighters of a candlemark earlier. Those shambling forms had disappeared, and Jonmarc guessed that they, at least, had been defeated. Gone, too, were the deadly shadows. Vyrkin still prowled among the combatants, and he spotted a stawar spirit in a clearing surrounded by the bodies of Temnottan soldiers.
“Rafe’s brood is fighting on the queen’s side, as are my people,” Uri said quietly. “I have a feeling that Imri intends to make his final stand tonight.” Uri’s gaze was fixed far down the field of combat, where the core of the Temnottan troops were fighting fiercely.
“For once, you and I agree on something. I think it’s going to be a very long night.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Surely you can feel the power rising,” Talwyn said, turning toward Jair.
Jair shook his head. “I don’t have your magic. I can’t feel power; I’ve just got a gut feeling that something is going to happen very soon.”
Armed for battle, the Sworn’s warriors held vigil along a line of barrows that ran south of the battlefront, only half a candlemark removed from where the army of Margolan made its stand against the Temnottan invaders. In the distance, Jair could see flashes of mage lightning flare against the night sky, and the answering streaks of blue and green that lit the clouds. He could hear the pounding of the catapults and trebuchets and an unholy cacophony of death screams and war cries from the men who fought and died.
The trinnen were even more heavily armed than the other Sworn warriors, with a second, shorter stelian blade and an array of small blades on a baldric across their chests. Many of the trinnen were on horseback, but this night, Jair awaited the enemy on foot, along with Talwyn, Pevre, Emil, and Mihei.
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 42
