The Sworn

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Thank you, Nisim,” Tris said. He looked to General Senne and the men next to him. Trefor, leader of the contingent of vayash moru and vyrkin, sat beside Senne, next to General Rallan. “What about the troops?”

  Senne nodded. “We have men out on the beach digging trenches and laying snares. If the Temnottans get past the fleet, they won’t just stroll up the beach.” He gave a cold smile. “Wivvers has been doing what he’s best at: inventing things to cause mayhem and panic. We have a few surprises in store.” He glanced at Trefor and Rallan. “Trefor’s working with his troops. A fair number of the vayash moru served with one army or another, depending on when they lived, and for some of them, since they’ve been undead. Fewer of the vyrkin have any soldiering, but he’s getting them organized. We should have his scouts out by nightfall tomorrow, and surveillance from the vayash moru who can fly.”

  Tris turned to Fallon and Beyral. “Are the mages ready?”

  Fallon and Beyral nodded in agreement. “They’ve been on alert since we left Shekerishet, scanning the road ahead of us and the land around us. We’ve needed to rely more on charms and warding than ever before, because of that hum Talwyn was talking about, but so far, no one’s been damaged by it.”

  “And has your magic picked up anything?”

  Fallon grimaced. “Yes and no. We’ve got a good variety of mages with us: healers, seers, scryers, and dream seekers, as well as air, land, water, and fire mages. Anyone with any kind of far sight is taking shifts on watch, and Beyral has been reading the omens in a variety of ways. There’s nothing conclusive yet from any of that, but we should be in position to pick up something when it happens.” She paused. “It may be that whoever is behind this knows we’ve raised an army. Maybe they’ve backed off from using magic—as Talwyn said, the Black Robes have stopped their attacks—because they’re getting ready for something.”

  “Like a big strike?”

  Fallon nodded. “That’s what I think.” She sighed. “We knew it was going to come. I have a mage from each element on watch in shifts. This time, we have enough mages to do that, thank the Lady. It should help us respond faster and to get a warning sooner.”

  Fallon met Tris’s eyes. “What of the dead?”

  Everyone looked to Tris. “I called to them when we first made camp. I know you chose this spot for the army because it’s been a battleground before.”

  Senne nodded. “More than once, and that’s just in Margolan’s history. Given that it’s wide and flat and near the coast, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’ve been battles fought here no one remembers.”

  “You’re correct,” Talwyn said. “My magic works differently from Tris’s, but I, too, sense the Ancient Dead here. Not just the Dread and the Nachale in their barrows, but mortal dead, just as ancient, beneath us.”

  “I called them and they came,” Tris said. “They called this land home, even before Marlan the Gold claimed it, before it was Margolan. Some of them were Marlan’s troops. Some served Hadenrul, and some fought here before the bards and the scribes began their histories.”

  “Will they fight for you? Will they join us?” Senne leaned forward, his eyes alight. Senne had no magic of his own, Tris knew, but after seeing what Tris’s summoning magic was capable of doing at Lochlanimar, Senne had become passionately interested in the military advantage a true summoner could pose.

  Tris took a deep breath. “I’ve asked them to join us.”

  The air became suddenly cold enough that those in the campaign tent could see their breath. Three glowing forms took shape in the open area circled by the chairs. The first ghost wore the armor common more than a hundred years before. His breastplate was shattered, and his death wound left a gaping hole in his chest. Next to him stood a man clad in leather and skins, with a crude, two-handed sword in a back scabbard and a necklace of bone and shells.

  The third ghost carried a shield and sword of old design, and Tris knew the ghost to be one of Hadenrul’s men. All of them had the look of leaders, and Tris knew that, in their lives, they had commanded legions of men.

  “Welcome, honored dead.”

  The third ghost looked at the talisman that Tris wore at his throat, the amulet he had taken from Marlan the Gold’s tomb, and then to Nexus, the spelled sword Tris wore in his scabbard. The three ghosts bowed.

  Tris motioned for them to rise. “Have you taken my word to the spirits of your men?”

  The ghost with the shattered breastplate nodded. “We have.”

  “And what is their decision?”

  The man who had served Hadenrul stepped forward. “We are agreed. In life, and in death, we serve the land that bore us.” He inclined his head. “We’ve felt the call of another power, one from beyond our land, a voice we don’t know. It would command us, conscript us, force us to serve against our will, to fight those descended from our blood. We have agreed, Your Majesty, that we would rather be destroyed than fight against our countrymen. We are yours to command.”

  The ghost knelt then, joined by the other two spirits. The soldier who had served Hadenrul pressed his lips against the signet ring on Tris’s hand that bore the crest of the House of Margolan, and the others followed suit. Tris gestured for them to rise.

  “This is Vitya, one of the most feared of Marlan the Gold’s warlords,” Tris said, introducing the leather-clad warrior. “Estan fought in the service of King Hadenrul the Great and was rewarded by his king for being crafty and ruthless in battle.” The second ghost inclined his head in recognition. “And this is Dagen, who served my grandfather, King Larimore, with great valor.”

  Tris turned his attention back to the ghosts. “When this is over, I’ll make the passage to the Lady for those who want to go to their rest. Those who want to remain, to guard your land, we welcome.”

  “Will you protect us from the Hollowing?” It was Estan who asked, and his dead eyes were fearful. “Whatever calls to us wants more than our defeat. It would consume us. You’re a summoner. Can you protect us? We’re past fearing death. We don’t fear the passage to the Lady, whichever Aspect calls for us. But to be consumed, to be hollowed out, that has the power to frighten even the dead.”

  Tris met Estan’s eyes. “On my crown and on my soul, I will use all my power, in life and in the Plains of Spirit, to protect you from the Hollowing. I swear it.”

  Whatever else the ghost meant to say was interrupted when a runner burst into the tent.

  “Your Majesty! The island beacon is lit. There are ships on the far horizon, lots of them, and the sky is red with blood.”

  Tris led the way out of the crowded tent to where the entire camp stood staring at a sky gone crimson, as if a glistening curtain of blood shimmered across the dome of the night, blotting out the stars and darkening the moon.

  Around him, Tris could hear commanders barking orders. Senne, Rallan, Soterius, and Trefor ran for their troops. Soldiers rushed to mobilize, and Tris caught a glimpse of vayash moru taking to the sky.

  Only the ghosts remained with Tris. Estan raised his face to stare at the glittering, blood-red light. Then he turned to meet Tris’s eyes. “It begins.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone who helped make this book a reality, especially my husband, Larry, and my kids, Kyrie, Chandler, and Cody, who have to live with a writer and manage to do just fine anyhow. Thanks to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, to my editor, DongWon Song, and to all of the team at Orbit for bringing this book into being. It truly takes a village!

  extras

  meet the author

  Gail Z. Martin discovered her passion for science fiction, fantasy, and ghost stories in elementary school. The first story she wrote—at age five—was about a vampire. Her favorite TV show as a preschooler was Dark Shadows. At age fourteen she decided to become a writer. She enjoys attending science fiction/fantasy conventions, Renaissance fairs, and living history sites. She is married and has three children, a Himalayan cat, and a golden retriever. Find out more about the author at
www.chroniclesofthenecromancer.com.

  interview

  The Sworn is your first book with Orbit, but it’s not your first fantasy epic, isn’t that right?

  Yes. The Sworn is my debut with Orbit, but since 2007, I’ve written The Chronicles of the Necromancer for Solaris Books (The Summoner, The Blood King, Dark Haven, Dark Lady’s Chosen). With The Fallen Kings Cycle books, the world of the Winter Kingdoms jumps to Orbit.

  So The Sworn marks a new beginning for you?

  For me and for the Winter Kingdoms.

  Is The Sworn related to your other books? Can someone pick up this book and start here?

  I intentionally wrote The Sworn (and its sequel, The Dread, coming in 2012), to be a starting point for new readers, people who hadn’t read any of my previous books. It’s the beginning of a new adventure, and the threat faced by the characters has nothing to do with the villains in the previous four books. Having said that, I like to read a book where it feels as if the characters have their own pasts, so that it doesn’t seem like they have been sitting at home doing nothing until their “big adventure.” So the characters in The Sworn have personal histories and relationships, with the same kind of complexity you’d expect in real life. You don’t have to have read my prior books to enjoy The Sworn and The Dread—but of course, I always like it when people do!

  What should your longtime readers expect?

  For people who have read all of my prior books, The Sworn picks up about six months after the end of Dark Lady’s Chosen. Tris Drayke, Jonmarc Vahanian, and the other main characters (and some new ones) head into a brand-new adventure that’s unlike anything they’ve faced before. For longtime readers, this book should feel like a comfortable homecoming. And, of course, they’ll know the landscape and the characters very well.

  What do you enjoy most about writing epic fantasy?

  I was a history major in college, so I enjoy getting to build my own histories, cultures, and religions into a believable world. And, of course, I enjoy creating characters in that world who have problems and triumphs that make for an exciting and enjoyable adventure. My goal is to create a really fun theme park with a killer roller coaster of an adventure and then open the gate and let everyone enjoy it.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed THE SWORN

  look out for

  THE DREAD

  The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

  by Gail Z. Martin

  “I had hoped that I wouldn’t see war again in my lifetime.” King Donelan of Isencroft took a deep breath and swirled the brandy in his goblet. “I had my fill of it in my younger days. It was a bad bargain then, and it hasn’t gotten any better.”

  “It’s not by your choosing, m’lord.” Wilym, the head of the elite Veigonn guards, set aside his drink. “Temnotta’s made the first move.”

  Donelan sighed. “Spare me any words about a ‘good war.’ There is no good war. The only thing worse than war is slavery. I know we have no choice, dammit. I know Temnotta cast the die. But it’s a funny thing about war. Even when you win, you lose. There are several thousand men having a good night’s sleep tonight who won’t be breathing by war’s end. There are villages that won’t exist when the fighting’s through. I never thought a king’s reputation was earned on the battlefield. I always thought it was earned by making sure fields never saw battle. War is easy. But keeping peace for any length of time; well, that’s the tricky part.”

  Donelan downed the last of his brandy in one gulp, and for a moment, Cam thought the king might pour himself another drought. Instead, Donelan let his head rest against the chair and closed his eyes. And although Cam had been the King’s Champion for years, never had he thought Donelan looked so worn and tired. “There are no thoughts in my head fit to fall asleep with,” Donelan said, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “Tell me just one good thing before I turn in for the night. I’d rather not dream of war.”

  Cam exchanged glances with Wilym and saw that his friend shared his worry for the king. “Think on the packet you received this morning from Kiara,” Wilym said. “You told me her letter says that she and Cwynn are doing well, and that the baby has a fine appetite. The portrait she sent showed a healthy, strong boy. And they’re safe from this madness, far from the coast, in Margolan.” He chuckled. “I’ve heard it said that no one except Martris Drayke himself ever breeched the walls of the palace Shekerishet. Count that as your good thing to sleep on, Your Majesty. Kiara and Cwynn are safe.”

  Donelan seemed to relax, as if the brandy was doing its work. The king was known both for his appetite for strong drink and for his ability to seem utterly untouched by it, even when he put his drinking companions under the table. Just for tonight, Cam wished that the brandy might do its work and give Donelan a few candlemarks of untroubled sleep.

  “Aye, that’s a fine thing,” Donelan agreed, his voice a deep rumble. “A fine thing to sleep on. Thank you.”

  “The firesetter’s been to your room a candlemark ago,” Wilym replied. “The chill will be off and the fire should be banked for the night. We have a few more days before the army heads for the coast. Perhaps you should enjoy your bed while you have the chance.” He chuckled. “Even the finest cot gives a poor night’s rest once we’re in the field.”

  Donelan stretched and twisted in his chair, as if to loosen his shoulders. “I think I will,” he said, and he smiled, but Cam saw that it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks to you both for sitting with me a while. I’d best let you get some rest as well.” Donelan rose and walked across the sitting room to where a guard stood by the door to his bedchamber. He glanced over his shoulder. “Mind that you’re careful going about your business. I’ll need both of you beside me when we ride for the coast.”

  The door closed behind Donelan, and the guard resumed his place. Wilym gave his brandy one last swirl and then tipped his head back and finished the drink, even as Cam did the same. “I’m worried about him,” Cam remarked quietly.

  Wilym was silent for a moment. “Donelan drew his first blood on the battlefield when we were still sucking on our mothers’ teats. Does it surprise you that it gets tiresome after twenty-some years? By the Whore! I’m wholly sick of every campaign by the end of the first battle, and I haven’t seen as much of it as he has.”

  Cam nodded. “I’ve never met a sane man yet who enjoys battle, even if he loves soldiering. I’m just not used to seeing Donelan look so haggard. Now it seems his dreams are dark. Makes me worried—”

  A man’s scream cut off the rest of Cam’s words. Cam and Wilym jumped to their feet as the guard threw open the door to Donelan’s chamber.

  “Sweet Chenne,” the guard whispered, blanching. Cam and Wilym shouldered past him at a dead run and stopped at the foot of the king’s bed.

  Six stout pikes thrust up through the bed, spanning from one side to the other. Donelan lay impaled, with one of the spikes protruding from his chest. Blood spread down the king’s nightshirt, soaking the bedding, enough blood that Cam was sure the spike had taken Donelan through the heart.

  “Get Trygve!” Wilym shouted. He grabbed the guard by the shoulders and spun him around, shoving him out the door. “Run, dammit!” He turned back to the king. “Hang on, Donelan. Trygve will be here in a moment.”

  Donelan’s whole frame shook. His hands opened and closed convulsively, grasping at the covers. The king’s eyes were wide with pain and shock, and his mouth opened and closed, as if gasping for breath. Wilym took the king’s hand. “Hold on, please. Just hold on.”

  Cam drew his sword and made a thorough inspection of the room. The king’s private quarters were large, but by design, they offered no easy hiding place. Cam flung open the wardrobe doors, but found nothing except dress robes. The garderobe alcove was empty, with an opening too small for even a slender boy to navigate. But when Cam knelt to look under the bed, he caught his breath.

  “By the Crone!”

  “What?”

  Cam got to his feet. “Someone’s r
igged a bow contraption beneath the bed. Must have gone off once there was weight on the mattress.”

  Trygve barreled through the doorway, followed by the guard, who seemed close to panic.

  “Mother and Childe!” Trygrve swore under his breath, never breaking stride until he reached Donelan’s side. Cam and Wilym melted back along the wall, giving the healer room to work. Trygve was one of the finest battle healers in all of Isencroft, but by the set of his mouth, Cam could tell that Trygve was worried.

  “We’ve got to remove the stake, and the moment we do, he’ll start bleeding.” Trygve’s voice was clipped.

  “Tell us what to do,” Wilym said, as he and Cam stepped forward.

  “Can you retract the weapon from below? I’d rather not try to lift him.”

  Cam dropped to his knees. “I think so. It’s been bound to the frame with rope.”

  “Then on my mark, with one of you on each side, slice the ropes while I try to stanch the bleeding.” Trygve climbed up on the bed and straddled the king’s body so that his hands were best positioned above the wound. “On three: one… two… three.”

  The two swords swished through the air simultaneously, slicing the ropes and hitting the bed frame with a thunk. The stakes dropped, but did not completely retract.

  Trygve cursed. “Get on your knees. On my mark again, grab each side of that cursed thing and pull straight down.”

  This time, the apparatus gave way. Cam and Wilym rose back to their feet. Donelan gave a sharp cry, and Trygve murmured healing incantations while his hands cupped the hole in Donelan’s chest. Blue healing light glowed beneath Trygve’s hands. But from where Cam stood, Donelan’s skin looked ashen, and his body had gone still. Trygve’s tension gave Cam no reassurance.