The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

  The dying man swung hard with the last of his strength, a blow Jonmarc did not expect. He parried, but the attacker scored a gash on Jonmarc’s arm between his vambrace and his chain-mail shirt. As the dying Temnottan sank to his knees, his eyes showed unreasoning fury, making a final grasp for Jonmarc’s boots to pull him from his feet. Jonmarc stepped back to evade the man’s reach. Behind him, the hamstrung soldier threw a dagger, lodging it high on Jonmarc’s thigh. Despite his wound, the man was trying to drag himself closer to Jonmarc, cursing in Temnottan as he clawed his way across the ground.

  With a swing, Jonmarc severed the man’s head from his shoulders, and then let out a curse of his own at the wound in his thigh. Blood was running down his leg. He tore off a strip from his shirt to bind up the wound. His leg throbbed, but he judged that the gash wasn’t deep enough to take him out of the fight.

  Jonmarc felt a wave of sheer rage flow over him as he bound up the wound. It lasted only seconds, leaving him reeling as it receded. Where the hell did that come from? Years of battle had taught him that while anger was a part of war, fighting fueled by rage was a sure path to an early grave. He thought about the unreasoning fury he had seen in both of his attackers’ eyes, and he glanced out over the battlefield. It took only a glance to confirm his suspicions. All around him, men fought with the frenzy of ashtenerath, berserk with rage.

  To his right, one of the Principality mercs cut down his opponent with a fierce two-handed swing, not satisfied to step away until he had hacked his adversary to pieces. To his left, Jonmarc saw one of the Temnottans run through a Principality fighter and then stab the downed body a dozen times before turning to find a new foe.

  “Imri has chosen his weapon.” Ansu’s voice came from behind him, and the vayash moru’s silent approach startled Jonmarc. An instant later, Laisren joined him, looking as dour as Jonmarc had ever seen him. Laisren took hold of Jonmarc and lifted off, whisking him out of the heart of the battle to the shelter of a nearby trench.

  “How is it that Imri can bewitch the men on both sides?” Jonmarc asked, appalled. He had seen every atrocity war had to offer, yet the carnage unfolding around him was a new level of barbarism that far transcended the norm of battle.

  “Imri’s strength is to force the shift between man and beast,” replied Ansu. “He has called their beast.”

  Jonmarc turned to him. “Those men aren’t shifters. They have no beast to call.”

  “No animal form, that is true. But there is a beast within every man: the rage of madness.”

  “I felt the rage touch me, and recede,” Jonmarc said slowly, thinking through Ansu’s statement.

  Ansu nodded. “As Gabriel has no doubt told you, you have unusually high resistance against magic for a mortal. Ordinary compulsion does not work on you, nor are your thoughts easily read without your permission. Most men do not have that natural resilience.”

  Jonmarc ventured a glance above the entrenchments. The fighting was so heavy it was difficult to be certain, but in some of the clashes, it looked as if Temnottans had turned upon their own soldiers, and Principality troops skirmished with each other. “Are you telling me that bastard Imri is willing to see his own troops slaughtered just to send a killing rage through the ranks?”

  “Willing—and able,” Laisren answered. “For all we know, once we’ve weakened ourselves, he may have another assault planned to sweep in and finish the job.”

  “Could the three of us take Imri?”

  Ansu smiled, showing his long eye teeth. “That’s exactly why we came for you. It’s time to end this.”

  Jonmarc looked from Ansu to Laisren. “What about you? Can he call your beast?”

  “Imri is powerful, but he’s not a summoner. While he can animate dead bodies by calling hollowed spirits to fill them and provide a beast, we are not mere corpses. A dark summoner I would fear. Laisren and I should be immune from this.”

  “Should,” Jonmarc repeated skeptically. “Should as in, if you’re wrong, I become lunch?”

  Ansu gave a cold chuckle. “I hope not. I believe the odds are in your favor.”

  “That’s better odds than I have now. Let’s go.”

  No matter how often Jonmarc found himself lifted into the sky by a vayash moru, the experience was distinctly unsettling. Laisren’s hold across his chest was like iron bands, and while Jonmarc had no fear of being dropped, the sensation of being whisked into the air and just as suddenly plummeting back to ground left his stomach uneasy.

  “Imri’s just behind those embankments,” Laisren murmured as they touched back down in a grove, momentarily sheltered from the battle.

  “I saw. I don’t care for flying, but I envy you the reconnaissance advantage.”

  Laisren smiled broadly with a predator’s grin. “Undeath has its perquisites.”

  “So did you have a plan or do we just fight our way over there and hope he doesn’t blast us before we get to him?”

  “I’ll strike from above, while Laisren gets the two of you into position,” Ansu replied. “I’ll draw off his magic while you and Laisren attack. It will likely take all three of us to bring him down.”

  Once more, Jonmarc swallowed hard at the sickening lurch of the rapid ascent and equally fast descent. Ansu struck at Imri from the front, sending a powerful wave of magical force that nearly pushed the rogue shapeshifter to his knees. As Imri struggled to shield against Ansu’s attack, Laisren and Jonmarc touched down behind Imri, charging with swords ready as a dozen of Imri’s guards attacked.

  Open yourself to your beast, Jonmarc. Ansu’s voice sounded in Jonmarc’s mind, forcing its way through Jonmarc’s formidable resistance. Just this once, let your beast rule your sword.

  Jonmarc met Laisren’s eyes, and without words, Jonmarc knew they were of one mind. Jonmarc took a deep breath and opened himself to the magic that surged around them, letting Imri’s call to fury feed on his own anger, deadening the pain of his wounds and filling him with new vigor. A feral rage unlike anything he had ever felt flowed through every vein in his body, druglike in its intensity, driving out any thought except an overwhelming lust for blood. The pain of his wounds was overpowered by the desire to kill. His own survival meant nothing to him. All that mattered was Imri’s death.

  Too late, Imri sensed his mistake, but the magic already flowed through Jonmarc’s blood. Jonmarc attacked.

  Jonmarc let the rage consume him. Honed by more than a decade of war and fueled by rage, Jonmarc moved with exceptional speed and accuracy. Laisren had the advantage of vayash moru reflexes, but as they fought their way through the dozen guards, Jonmarc was nearly his equal. He moved with deadly efficiency, fighting with swords in both hands, scything through his attackers with no wasted movement, no hesitation, the perfect killing machine. He and Laisren finished off the last of the guards. Jonmarc stood for a moment, heaving for breath, bloodied to the elbows, as the beast inside called for more.

  Imri sent a blast of mage fire at Ansu, forcing the vayash moru to dodge and shield. He swung back toward Jonmarc and Laisren. It was the first time Jonmarc had gotten more than a glimpse of the Temnottan leader. Imri’s battle armor had a golden sheen, and the torn and bloodied tunic over his cuirass bore the crest of a half-shifted man-wolf, lethal claws at the ready. Imri struck with the strength of a vayash moru. Laisren and Jonmarc, long accustomed to each other’s fighting styles, came at him as a team. Laisren swung his long sword with enough power to cleave a mortal opponent. Imri met him with equal force, giving Jonmarc an opening to strike from the side.

  Imri howled with rage as Jonmarc’s blade connected with his hip. The blow struck just below Imri’s cuirass, and while it did not quite penetrate his long chain-mail tunic, the force was sufficient to bruise bone. Imri turned his attention to Jonmarc, landing a series of fast, brutal strikes that drove Jonmarc back several paces. A sudden gust of wind surged between Jonmarc and Imri, raising the dust in a maelstrom around the shapeshifter. Jonmarc had just enough time to catch a breath and
regain solid footing before Ansu let the dust storm drop and both Jonmarc and Laisren attacked in unison.

  Imri gave a cry of feral fury. He sent a streak of orange mage lightning crackling toward Ansu. Laisren angled his sword to pierce under Imri’s arm, just above the opening in his cuirass. His blade sank deep enough to severely wound a mortal, but it did not reach Imri’s heart. Imri cursed at the pain, though it did not slow his defense, and both Jonmarc and Laisren knew the shifter would begin to heal the second the blade was withdrawn.

  Ansu kept up a magical barrage that kept Imri’s magic occupied, breaking his concentration on the two men who circled him. Imri struck back at Ansu, his aim growing wilder as Laisren and Jonmarc harried him. An errant blast of magic sizzled past Jonmarc, blistering the skin on his cheek as he dodged aside at the last instant.

  Jonmarc was the lone mortal in the fight, and while the others could draw on their immortal strength, he knew he would be the first to weaken, despite the mage-sent fury. Imri threw a blast of fire at Ansu and a wall of flame at Laisren, clearing the way for him to pound Jonmarc with a savage series of nonstop blows that tested Jonmarc’s reflexes and jarred his bones with their brutal power. Jonmarc was between Ansu and Imri, making it difficult for the mage to strike at Imri. Imri wheeled, bringing his sword down hard enough to snap Jonmarc’s blade and, with it, his right forearm. Jonmarc parried with the sword in his left hand, and Imri’s eyes gleamed with the light of expected triumph.

  Jonmarc stepped back, opening a space between himself and Imri, sword raised in his left hand, blocking with the vambrace on his injured right arm. Imri dove forward, his sword angled for Jonmarc’s heart. There was a blur of motion between them, and the sword sank deep into flesh. Imri’s sword impaled Laisren through the belly. Laisren’s face was ashen, his body trembling with the agony of a wound that could slow but not destroy him.

  Imri’s sword was still plunged deep into Laisren’s body. Jonmarc launched himself at Imri as Laisren jerked his right arm up, sending his blade into Imri’s body, immobilizing the shifter. Jonmarc’s sword sliced through Imri’s neck, severing his head.

  Imri’s headless body fell backward as Jonmarc grabbed Laisren by the shoulders, freeing him from Imri’s bloody sword. As Imri’s body hit the ground, Ansu struck the corpse with a wall of fire hot enough to burn the body to ash within seconds. Jonmarc felt the killing rage drain from him, and the pain of his wounds made him stagger.

  Jonmarc knelt next to Laisren. Dark ichor flowed between Laisren’s hands where they were pressed against the gash that had nearly eviscerated him.

  “Ansu can get you behind the lines,” Jonmarc said, aware that the mage stood behind them, giving them cover.

  “No need,” Laisren managed between gritted teeth. “Already healing.”

  “Imri meant that strike for me,” Jonmarc said soberly. “Thank you.”

  “You fight like one of us, but you don’t heal as fast.” Already, the wound was closing, and within a few minutes, the flesh had closed. Laisren accepted Jonmarc’s hand to get to his feet.

  “Look,” Ansu said, giving a nod toward the battlefield.

  With Imri’s death, a sudden pause came over the fighting. It was as if the fighters had suddenly lost the wind from their sails and found themselves becalmed. The silence lasted for only a few heartbeats before the Principality mercs seized the advantage, setting on the befuddled Temnottan fighters with a vengeance that was born of honest anger instead of magicked fury.

  From across the battlefield, Jonmarc heard a wild battle cry and saw the standard of Exeter’s mercenary guild rise high into the air as the merc fighters attacked from behind the Temnottan army. Beset from three sides, the Temnottans fell like rabbits to the hunt. Imri’s magic was gone. Principality’s mercenaries gave no quarter and took no prisoners. Within a candlemark, the battlefield was silent, a bloody slaughter.

  “We need to get you both back to camp,” Ansu said with a glance toward Jonmarc, who cradled his broken arm close to his chest. Laisren was already recovered from his wound, showing no more than a tear through his chain mail and tunic. “I think it’s fair to say that we’ve won.”

  Jonmarc stared out over the killing ground. Though Imri’s magic was gone, the memory of unreasoning bloodlust haunted him. He had killed many times before in the heat of battle, for vengeance, for survival, and, as a Nargi fight slave, for the entertainment of his tormentors. But never before had he fought and killed in unreasoning, mindless fury. In those few moments, he had glimpsed something in himself that he had never faced before, a beast he prayed to the Dark Lady might never surface again. A chilling thought struck him, and he looked at Ansu and Laisren.

  “What if Imri didn’t care about winning? The Durim killed to strengthen their magic. All the blood they shed was just a way to gather power. What if we were just a distraction?” he said, new horror dawning with every word as he realized the implications. “How much power could a dark summoner draw from the slaughter of thousands of men?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Two days and nights of battle left the Margolan battlefield awash with blood and entrails. Tris moved by sheer will, bone weary. Esme, his battle healer, refused to leave his side. Tris knew that Esme feared he would collapse from fatigue or be felled by a backlash from the powerful magic that crackled through the air around them.

  “Tris, you’ve got to rest,” Sister Fallon urged.

  Unshaven and filthy, covered in the spattered blood and muck of battle, eyes red from lack of sleep, Tris was sure he looked more like one of the mad Vistimar mages than the king of Margolan. “I don’t dare. Every time I try, Scaith attacks.”

  “He’s trying to break you.”

  “He’s doing a damn good job of it.”

  “What I want to know,” Esme said, “is why he’s not as exhausted as you are.”

  Tris drew a long, ragged breath. “He’s drawing energy from somewhere. It’s not the Flow; I’d feel that. Right now, the Flow is all that’s keeping me on my feet. But more than once, I’ve felt a surge in his power. I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s felt different each time. But there’s a shift in the magic, and it’s favoring Scaith.”

  In the distance, Tris could see a tall man dressed in mage’s robes. His long arms swooped and arced. In a wide circle around the man, birds of prey hurtled toward the ground, striking at the Temnottan soldiers and bloodying their faces and arms before rising high into the sky, nimbly evading the enemy’s swords. Falcons, kestrels, and eagles yielded to the mad mage’s power, harrying the Temnottans so that the soldiers within one hundred yards of the mage’s position broke ranks and fell back.

  Tris looked around, but he did not see Alyzza, though he spotted Brother Gernon, the crazy fire mage. In the last battle, Gernon’s magic had been almost playful, driving off the Temnottans by setting fire to the hems of their tunics or trews. Today, Gernon was not in a playful mood. Mad or not, Gernon grasped that the Temnottans were the enemy, or perhaps Scaith’s blood magic amplified the maddening hum Gernon and the other addled mages heard in their minds. Gernon strode fearlessly across the battlefield, snapping whiplike tendrils of flames around him. Margolan troops scurried out of his way, but Gernon paid them no heed. He scythed the blue-white flames right and left, lashing the Temnottan soldiers with lightning or immolating them on the spot.

  “He’s going to get himself killed,” Tris muttered under his breath.

  “I doubt Rosta or anyone else can stop him,” Fallon replied. “He’s mad enough to be without fear, and sane enough to recognize the enemy.”

  “Do we know where the rest of the Vistimar mages are?”

  Fallon smiled. “Verant, the rock thrower, is with one of the catapults. I suggested it to Rosta, and she was quick to pair up as many of her mages as she could with the catapults or the trebuchets. It should make for some surprising attacks. Verant was able to split large rocks into smaller ones in flight and accelerate their force. Rosta told me that some
of her mages can make iron burn or blood freeze. The air mages can make the catapult missiles and the archers’ arrows travel twice as far. As long as they remember whose side they’re on, I welcome the help.”

  “Scaith’s magic has been an annoying hum that’s bothered them for months,” Tris replied. “All interest in throne or kingdom aside, I think they’re fighting to silence that damn noise.”

  Amid the smoke and confusion, Tris thought he glimpsed a pack of vyrkin. Kolja had assured him that he and the other vyrkin would harry the edges of the Temnottan forces. Tris looked skyward, hoping to catch sight of Trefor or one of his vayash moru. This war had gone hard on their numbers, but many of the undead fighters owed the allegiance of several lifetimes to Margolan and its kings and had no intention of seeing the kingdom fall to outsiders.

  “This might be a good time for reinforcements,” Tris said. His right hand closed around the talisman of Marlan the Gold that hung from a chain around his neck and brushed against Talwyn’s amulet.

  “Reinforcements?” Esme questioned, and then her gaze fell to the talisman. “You’ve expended a lot of energy. Don’t push yourself too far.”

  “If I’m right, this might save some lives. It’s worth what the magic costs.” Tris reached out his power and felt a strong tug at his magic. Tired as he was, he sent a flicker of magic toward the spirits that sought him. Through the smoke, Tris saw three ghosts. One man was dressed in leather and animal skins. He wore a necklace of shell and bone and carried a crudely forged two-handed sword. The second man wore armor of a style common in Tris’s grandfather’s reign. The third ghost carried a shield with the crest of King Hadenrul from four hundred years earlier. These were the ghostly commanders of long-dead armies who had once fought on this same battlefield: Vitya, sworn to fealty to Marlan the Gold a thousand years before; Estan, loyal to King Hadenrul even after four centuries; and Dagen, liegeman to King Larrimore, Tris’s grandfather.