Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit)

by Gail Z. Martin

  The camp was already in motion. Soldiers grabbed their bows and pikes and ran for the camp's perimeter. Tris could hear Soterius and the generals shouting to gain order. Tris and Fallon ran for the wagons in the center of the camp and climbed to where they had a clear

  view of the action. In the open ground between the camp and the dark forest rim, a hazy green light glowed, like low-hanging smoke. From within the shadows of the trees, the sound of groans carried on the night air.

  A shadow grew at the edge of the forest, spreading rapidly across the plain toward the camp. Fallon raised her hands, and a burst of fire streamed from her fingertips, illuminating the night. It dispelled all but the growing dark­ness racing at them from the forest's edge.

  Tris stretched out his power toward the dark­ness. Magic that normally came quickly to his command now seemed a struggle, as if the power were being pulled away. Tris doubled his effort, and felt the magic yield to his com­mand. On the Plains of Spirit, he sensed the energy of the land around him. Darkness clus­tered in some places just as clearly as good fortune was drawn to others. Within the forest lay a bog, thinly covered with snow. Bogs were filled with decay, where dark energies fed dark­er creatures that shrank from the light. Still further beneath the parts of the bog, Tris could feel the Flow, damaged and tainted, its shat­tered energy feeding the malevolence.

  Bogwaithe. Neither ghost nor vayash moru, a bogwaithe was old, tainted power.

  "Show yourself!" The image that formed in his mind was of a washer woman hunched over her tub. She turned and straightened. A cadaverous face was pale beneath her ragged cowl, eyeless and evil. Without warning, the hag stretched to twice the height of a tall man, a dark, cold presence with arms much longer than any living being. The bog lights began to coalesce, gathering around them until the crossroads was bathed in an eerie green glow. Tris felt the shadow lengthen toward him as the long arms stretched out.

  On the front line, archers sent a wave of flaming arrows toward the fast-moving shad­ow. The arrows flew toward their target, then winked out suddenly, swallowed whole by blackness. A line of men bearing torches advanced shoulder to shoulder. The darkness consumed them. Their screams filled the cold night.

  "Fall back!" Tris heard General Tarq order. "Leave this to the mages!"

  Around them, men broke ranks and ran from the darkness. Mages sent balls of flame lobbing into the shadows. The darkness drew back, but did not yield.

  Tris stretched out on the Plains of Spirit, gathering his power. He extended his senses, feeling for the bogwaithe's soul. The bogwait-he was a creature of the Plains of Spirits, a sentient being neither dead nor alive, but soul­less. Some of the things on the Plains of Spirit had never been mortal. They were dark beings that envied the warmth of human life and the spark of human souls. Tris felt the brush of its long, shadowed arms seeking his life force. On

  the Plains of Spirit, he saw the being behind the shadows; a pallid thing, partially decomposed, surrounded by the green glow of the bog lights.

  Tris raised his hands and magic streamed from his fingers, sending a force toward the bogwaithe that hurled boulders through the air. The bogwaitbe was undeterred. It was near enough now that Tris could feel its hunger and sense the danger in the shadows that searched for the spark of his soul.

  "Cover me!" Tris shouted to Fallon.

  Tris willed himself fully into the Plains of Spirit, feeling the ties to his mortal form sunder as his body fell to the ground. Pure spirit, Tris moved fluidly on the nether plain. Tris glided toward the darkness that was the bogwaitbe. And in the bogwaithe's realm, Tris knew its weakness.

  Before the bogwaithe could withdraw from the mortal world, Tris summoned his magic. Drawing on his own life force, Tris called both flame and power, drowning the bogwaitbe in a brilliant, fiery flare. The bogwaitbe screamed. The ear-splitting wail seared through Tris as he concentrated all of his power to keep the bog­waitbe pinned in light and fire. His life force was flickering. If he did not return quickly to his body, he would die. The damaged Flow made it difficult for him to focus his power, as if the magic itself were splintering.

  Just as his control began to buckle, the bog-waithe's wail reached a crescendo and then fell

  silent. On the Plains of Spirit, the bogwaithe disappeared; in the mortal world, Tris saw the darkness vanish. With the last of his power, Tris willed himself back to his body just as Fal­lon dropped to her knees beside him, a look of panic on her face.

  "He's not breathing!" she shouted.

  Tris's spirit returned abruptly to his body, and he lurched. His back arched and he gasped, des­perate for breath. His heart pounded as blood surged through a body that had been freshly dead. Shock and recoil of powerful magic over­whelmed Tris, and unconsciousness took him.

  "He's coming around."

  Tris heard Esme's voice, faint arid distant. Blood pounded in his ears, and his head felt as if it might split open from the pain. His body felt leaden, and he doubted he could find the strength to move. It took an effort of will just to open his eyes.

  Tris was lying in the back of the healer's wagon. Esme knelt next to him, Soterius oppo­site. "What the hell did you do?"

  "I couldn't fight the bogwaithe in the mortal world. I had to fight it on the Plains of Spirit."

  "You almost didn't make it back in time." Esme's voice was stern. "Another minute and your body might not have responded."

  "Where are we?"

  "We've pitched camp for the night," Soterius answered.

  "How did you kill it?" Esme leaned over Tris, putting a warm cloth on his head to dull the throbbing ache.

  "I had to destroy it where it came from, on the Plains of Spirit. Magic didn't work against it here, but it was vulnerable there." Esme held him up so that he could sip water from a cup. "Most of the time, I can be in both realms at once. But not this time."

  "The siege is pointless if you die. Try to keep that in mind next time." Soterius looked both angry and relieved.

  "I promise." Tris could feel Esme's medicines begin to work, dulling the headache and draw­ing him toward sleep. "Where's Fallon?"

  Esme felt for the pulse in his neck, counted silently, and seemed satisfied. "She's out with the mages, on watch in case something else comes out of the forest."

  "Speaking of which, I'd better let the troops know you're all right before they panic," Soterius said. "You looked pretty bad when we carried you in here."

  "Rest," Esme commanded as Soterius slipped out of the wagon. Tris heard cheering outside as Soterius shared the news of his recovery with the soldiers.

  "When Fallon returns, send her to me," Tris murmured. "There's something wrong with the magic here... something that called the bog­waitbe. Those woods have never been haunted before."

  "I'll tell her—after you get some sleep."

  Tris meant to say something in return, but the potions did their work and sleep took him.

  Tris's dreams were restless. Old dreams returned, of Kait trapped in the Soulcatcher orb. The battle with Arontala, the final con­frontation with the Obsidian King, when Kiara lay dying in his arms and all seemed lost. Then, new images, just as terrifying. Tris sensed Kiara's presence on the Plains of Spirit and felt a terror intent on consuming both her life force and the spark that was the child she carried. As if he watched from behind a pane of glass, Tris could see everything but was powerless to help. In his dream, the darkness overtook Kiara, and he heard her cry out as it leeched away her soul and the soul of their child.

  Tris awoke, shaking and sweating. Esme was next to him.

  "Dreams again?"

  "Old ones—and something new. Kiara was in danger. Something from the nether plain wanted her—and the baby. It overtook her—"

  Esme laid a hand on his arm. "It's just a dream, Tris," she said. Her blue eyes were wor­ried. "Most fathers-to-be get bad dreams. Even the ones who aren't Summoners."

  Tris used the techniques Taru had taught him to distance himself from the dream, but it rem
ained on the edge of his thoughts. "I'm afraid for her, Esme."

  "Kiara's the most resourceful woman I've ever met. She has Mikhail and Harrtuck and

  all the others watching over her. You're going to have to trust them to take care of her."

  Soterius poked his head into the wagon. "I don't know what you're doing in there, but you've called every ghost within a league. Half of them want to come with us to fight, and the other half are annoyed that you disturbed them."

  Tris sighed. "We're going to need all the help we can get. Accept the ghosts who want to fight, and send the others back with my apolo­gies."

  Esme looked at him sternly. "It'll be daylight in just a few hours. You have to ride. And you're going to have to look ready to fight, even if you aren't. Enough talk. Back to sleep with you."

  Tris had no desire to argue. He lay down on the cot and pulled his cloak around him, pray­ing that this time, his sleep would be dreamless.

  After six days' ride through snow and wind and sleet, the Margolan army reached the Southern Plains. Lochlanimar loomed against the foothills of the Tabinar Mountains, high on a hill. The oldest parts of the fortress were more than a thousand years old. Its foundation was even older, built atop ruins. A thick wall encircled the main house and dependencies, as well as the oldest part of the town. Made of the same gray stone as the exposed cliffside of the mountains, it had withstood raids from the wild fighters of the Southlands and the nomadic tribes from the West. Lochlanimar would not be easy to defeat. All their planning would be sorely tested.

  Tris looked out over the encampment. Thou­sands of tents, lean-tos and campfires filled the flat plain. Come nightfall, the ghosts and vayash moru soldiers would also join them. He sat warily on horseback, in full armor beneath the flag of Margolan as Soterius and General Palinn rode out to make the first contact with Curane.

  "Lord Curane!" Soterius shouted. Palinn rode beside, him, and behind them were sever­al hundred men at arms, just a fraction of the full encamped force. "In the name of Martris Drayke, king of Margolan, open your gates. Surrender now, and you'll receive a fair trial."

  For a few moments, there was silence. Then a hail of flaming arrows streamed from the crenelations. Rowdy cheers and cries rose from Curane's soldiers. Soterius, Palinn, and their escort fell back, unsurprised by the attack.

  "Well, the die is cast," Palinn said.

  "I don't think anyone is surprised. And now we wait. Are your men ready? Everything we know about Curane says he'll strike hard before we can get the siege engines in place. He's had time to prepare. He won't wait for us to make the first move," Tris said. Palinn nodded. "Senne agrees. As usual, Tarq

  and Rallan think otherwise. We three have overruled them—again."

  Tris muttered a curse. "Neither of them were father's favorites, but we have so few profes­sional military men, I don't have much of a choice. Tarq grew up near here. He knows the lay of the land. And Rallan—well, I'd rather have both of them here where I can keep an eye on them."

  "Agreed."

  Soterius spoke to two of the soldiers, and they ran off toward the encampment. "We should have the catapults, trebuchets and bat­tering rams ready soon. We'll begin felling trees this afternoon to make more," Soterius said. He looked out over the plain. "We'll build them out there, where Curane's folks can watch and worry, but far enough back that there's nothing they can do about it."

  An unpleasant smile crossed Palinn's fea­tures. "A siege is as much a mental war as a show of power. Building the machines will give our men something to take their minds off the boredom. We'll drill the soldiers every day, make a real show of it. We've positioned the encampment so that it will be difficult for Curane's men to get a good count of our num­ber. And we've pitched double the number of tents—one man per tent instead of two—so that we look even more formidable." Palinn chuckled mirthlessly. "That's not counting the ghosts and the vayash moru. Curane may have the will for a long siege, but we'll see how quickly the will of his people breaks."

  Tris looked sideways at Palinn. "I'm glad you're on our side."

  At nightfall, Tris welcomed six mages led by Sister Fallon. Three mortal guards and three vayash moru stood sentry around the tent. Inside, Coalan had hot tea and sausages ready for them.

  "Let me introduce my companions," Fallon said. "I'm a healer, hut I also have some skill with land magic. Latt," she said, indicating a thin woman in her middle years with sharp fea­tures and brown hair cut short and tucked beneath a knitted cap, "is a full land mage. You'll find her talents useful. Vira is a water mage." Vira was a plump woman with a broad, plain face. Graying hair made a curly fringe around her features. Sharp intelligence gleamed from Vira's wide-set, light blue eyes.

  "Ana is an air mage. She can't speak with spirits like a Summoner, but the winds obey her—quite a weapon when the temperatures are like this." Ana was younger than Fallon, perhaps in her third decade. A long braid of yellow hair was tucked beneath the cowl of her heavy woolen robe. "And Beyral is a water mage, but her real power is in sigils and runes. She's a seer. And she's very skilled in casting spells to work at a distance." Beyral had the features of an Eastmark native, with dark skin

  and eyes that were almost black, flecked with gold. Raven hair in a complex braid wound around her head. Tris knew that the braiding was its own kind of magic, amplifying her power.

  "What happened last night—the rift in the Flow called the bogwaithe here, didn't it?"

  Fallon nodded. "We land mages are especial­ly attuned to the patterns of the Flow, but the disruption has gotten bad enough that even hedge witches know something is wrong. For years, the Flow changed slowly. Things would stay the same and then, one day, there would be a shift. The magic would be a little harder to reach, a little wilder. Since you destroyed the Soulcatcher orb, those changes come faster.

  "Shekerishet doesn't lie on the direct line of the Flow. Lochlanimar is older. It was a place of power before it was a fortress. Like Dark Haven, Lochlanimar grew from shrines built to a power people could sense but couldn't see. Curane's blood mages taint the Flow, making the damage even worse."

  "It seemed like the magic was splintering... as if the Flow itself was coming apart, wound­ed."

  Sister Fallon looked up at him sharply. "Wounded? Yes, a Summoner might see it that way. We Sisters have debated for years as to whether the Flow is mere energy or whether it has some kind of sentience. I've often felt a... presence... in the energies when I do a working. And while I'm nowhere near powerful enough to touch the Flow itself, I've always believed that it is sentient."

  "If it's capable of some kind of feeling... and it's wounded, growing sicker—"

  "Our ability to work magic is at risk," Fallon finished for him. "The blood mages draw power from chaos. As the Flow splinters, their power grows. If you expect to beat Curane, we must move quickly."

  "What of Sister Taru? And Landis?" Tris asked. "What have you heard from Principaliyy?”

  Fallon exchanged glances among her fellow mages. "We hear nothing from the Sisterhood. To join your strike against Curane, we broke our vows. Landis cares nothing about kings and kingdoms—she thinks only of preserving the libraries and keeping the secrets of our power. And so we came. We're no longer Sis­ters. We are rogue."

  Tris's eyes widened as he understood the import of her words. "Fallon, I—"

  Fallon shook her head. "Beyral cast runes to divine the future. The Winter Kingdoms are at a tipping point. What Jared put in motion has not yet run its course. Before all is ended, old ways will be swept away, and old certainties will be broken. We can't see the future clearly. But Beyral is convinced that your kingship— and perhaps that of your son—must be preserved for disaster to be averted."

  "Son?"

  Fallon smiled. "You didn't know?"

  Tris shook his head, struggling through the rush of feelings. "It was too soon. Cerise couldn't tell. She said the energies hadn't sort­ed themselves out yet to choose a self." Just as quickly, the memory
of his dream returned, and of the darkness that hunted Kiara and the child within. A son. And if the energies on the Plains of Spirit know of him, then it's likely he'll be a Summoner. Something knows. And something wants him.

  Tris realized that Beyral's eyes had a far-away look, and the gold flecks flickered. "Your son's power will be without equal. But he will dwell on the Plains of Spirit, and his way will be through shadow." Abruptly, Beyral fell silent.

  "I've never been able to decide whether my Sight is a blessing or a curse." Beyral's smile was sad. "The visions are never clear. Try to outwit the future, and you can bring it about. Run from it, and you can stumble into it. You can't know. "

  More was at stake than securing the succes­sion against Jared's bastard, Tris knew. Is the true danger to the kingdom here, with Curane, or is it back at Shekerishet, something unseen, looking for Kiara? Will I bring about the future Beyral saw by staying here and fighting, or do I cause it to change by leaving Kiara alone at Shekerishet? There's no way to know. But Margolan's future, maybe even the future of the Winter Kingdoms, depends on my guess­ing right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  What do you hear from your spy, Cam?" Donelan stretched and set his empty brandy glass aside.

  It was late, and at this hour, Aberponte was quiet. Outside the mullioned windows, snow was falling hard. The chill permeated the room, despite the thick walls and tapestries. Donelan slouched in a chair near the fire. Tice, Donelan's seneschal, paced quietly.

  "Bits and pieces. We've been at this for a month now, and I still don't have a full picture. It's going to take a while to stitch it together. What worries me most is the idea that we're not just up against one group. The more my spy tells me, the more I'm convinced that there's another power in this. Someone—this 'lord'—is putting money behind the division-ists," Cam said.

  "This complicates things." Donelan swirled the dark brandy in the bottle and poured another glass. "And it makes no sense."

  "Kev's story is consistent. Someone spending Trevath gold—not exactly common in these parts—is feeding ideas to the divisionists. This Ruggs is bad news. And it doesn't sound like he's working alone—he's telling them that he speaks for a powerful group—led by this 'lord'—who wants Kiara out of Margolan for his own reasons."