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

by Gail Z. Martin

  "What in the name of the Crone—" Pryce shouted. The wails grew louder and the tem­perature dropped until their breath fogged. Streaming from the abyss and from the open­ings in the rocks, ghosts swarmed down on

  Pryce's soldiers, maws open and teeth bared. The torches guttered as Pryce's men cried out in terror, cut off from escape. As the last light flickered, the ghosts' green glow made it just possible to glimpse the horror of their attack. Pryce's eyes glinted with desperation as his men fell to the avenging spirits.

  Soterius heard the swing of Pryce's sword blade and threw himself out of the way, bring­ing up his own blade as he fell to his knees. His sword caught Pryce in the belly, spilling a steaming mix of blood and entrails onto the rocks. Soterius struggled to reach his feet, but his body would not respond. The world around him blurred and lost focus.

  Tris dozed fitfully. It was early evening, long before the attack would begin, and he knew it might be his last chance for sleep. Just catching a candlemark of rest now could make the next few days more bearable. Although he doubted he could, exhaustion won out, and he fell into a troubled rest.

  Tris found himself on the Plains of Spirit, enveloped by darkness so complete that he could not see his own hands. A presence rushed at him, tackling Tris before he could fully shield. It was a creature of the spirit plains, neither ghost nor mortal nor undead, a dimonn.

  A second dimonn joined them, circling for the kill. The first dimonn tightened its grip, and Tris gasped, feeling it constrict his life force. The dimonn brushed against his mind, and Tris pushed back hard to repel the images of the dark sending before they could take hold. The real danger was the dimonn's grip, gradually drawing down his life energy. He knew he must break free or die.

  Tris summoned his power, fueled by the fear that pumped through his blood. He reached for the magic and it slipped from his grasp. He reached again, focusing intently. The magic fluc­tuated erratically. The dimonns lunged for him.

  A brilliant flash of light erupted from his fin­gertips, making the Plains of Spirit brighter than noonday. Tris bucked at the dimonn with his body and power, throwing it clear. The sec­ond dimonn howled and streaked toward him on the Plains of Spirit, but Tris raised a wall of fire between them. Before the dimonn could strike again, Tris doubled the fire, snapping the flames like a curtain around the dark spirit until its howl became an ear-splitting scream. Hotter still the fire burned. Tris poured his fear and rage into his magic and his heart thudded in his ears. A mortal or vayash mom would have been instantly incinerated in those flames. Tris sent a final surge of power and held it until he felt the dimonn's energy wink out of exis­tence. Where the flames had been was a scorched circle of ash. The dimonn was gone. Forced back by the flames, the second dimonn howled and disappeared.

  With a rush, Tris returned to consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and he saw a dark fig­ure above his cot. A blade glinted in the firelight. He threw himself to one side. Sud­denly his attacker jerked, and blood spurted from his mouth as the point of a sword tore through his cloak from beneath his ribs. Behind the assassin stood Coalan, still holding the pommel of his short sword two-handed, his face an expression of horror and determina­tion. With a gurgle, the attacker slid from the blade, crumpling at the foot of Tris's cot.

  "Sweet Chenne." Tris stood and moved slowly toward Coalan.

  "What happened?" Senne was the first to reach the tent, throwing the flap aside as sol­diers rushed in behind him.

  Tris placed his arm around Coalan's shoul­ders. "You're all right now." He pried the sword from Coalan's grip and handed it to a soldier to clean the blade. Then he guided Coalan to a chair by the fire, and returned to the trunk at the foot of his bed to pour a glass of brandy. Color returned to Coalan's face as he sipped the drink, but his hand still shook hard enough to spill the liquor.

  Tris looked at Senne. "Curane's blood mages conjured dimonns. Without a spirit mage they can't actually control them, but any blood mage can invite one to parlay and bargain with it. They tried to kill me on the Plains of Spirit. I suspect they sent an assassin to make sure the job was done. Lucky for me, Coalan's a light sleeper."

  Senne walked to the body and toed it over to lie face up. He reached down at snatched away the hood. "Dear Goddess."

  Tarq lay dead on the floor.

  "We wondered whether Curane had some­one in the ranks. Now we know. What about the men he sent with Soterius?"

  Tris stretched out his power along the Plains of Spirit, calling for Soterius and the men who went with him to the caves. One by one, the ghosts appeared. Pell, Latt, Tabb, Hoyt, and the rest. All but Soterius. It was obvious from their death wounds that Pell, Tabb, and Latt had died in battle. Coalan cried out as the ghosts manifested, and Senne cursed.

  "What happened?" Tris asked, struggling to find his voice, overwhelmed by Tarq's betrayal

  Tris and Senne listened gravely as Pell's ghost told the tale. "What about Uncle Ban?" Coalan said..

  "I saw Soterius struggling with Pryce and I saw him bring Pryce down, but then, every­thing went dark." Pell sighed. "We were too freshly dead for our spirits to interfere."

  "I destroyed the sigil that kept the ghosts from entering the caves. It was the-last thing I did," Latt said. "The wormroot was too strong."

  "If Ban's not among you, then he's not dead."

  "What about Pryce and his men?" Senne asked. "They're not here."

  "Not yet."

  Tris reached out his hand and clenched his fist. He sent his power out along the Plains of Spirit until he found the ghosts of Pryce and his men where they fled from his call. He dragged their spirits screaming back from the nether plains, until they stood before him. Tarq's ghost was with them, as stiff and straight in death as he had been in life.

  "You betrayed them," Tris accused.

  Pryce's smile was ugly. "We took out our objective. Just business."

  "They were your comrades. They trusted you."

  "If we survived, Tarq said we'd be rich men. What did we have here except soldiers' pay?"

  "Honor," Senne spat. "You had honor."

  "I can't eat honor."

  Tris struggled against his rage. Remember Lemuel. Remember the Obsidian King.

  Pryce looked at Tris. "If Soterius isn't here yet, he will be soon. He was bleeding like a stuck pig when he went down."

  The adrenalin from the assassination attempt still pounded in Tris's veins, fueling the raw emotion that found expression in his power. "Go to the dimonn," he said, unclenching his fist to let his power hurl the unrepentant ghosts back onto the Plains of Spirit. The dimonn Curane's mages had summoned still prowled the shadows of the netherworld, denied its meal. In Tris's mage sight, he saw the dimonn set itself on the ghosts, and heard it rend their souls as it fed on the last of their energy, saw their spirits wink out of existence as their cries fell silent.

  When he returned to himself, Tris was shak­ing violently. The others were staring at him, ashen-faced.

  "I don't know what just happened," Senne said, his usually imperturbable manner shaken. "But I think Ban and the others have been avenged."

  Goddess help me. What did I do?

  "Find me two vayash moru we can spare. Send them to the caves. Latt broke the ward-ings, so they should be able to enter. None of our men can get past where the path collapsed. If Ban's alive, I want him found."

  "Immediately, sire," Senne said, bowing low and heading out the door.

  Tris drew a deep breath and turned to face Pell and the remaining ghosts.

  "I owed them a court martial," Tris said qui­etly.

  Pell managed a wan smile. "I've always heard that the penalty for murdering your own officers was death—no trial required."

  "Perhaps so," Tris replied. He looked at Pell. "Would you go to your rest now?"

  Pell glanced around at his fallen comrades. Slowly, they shook their heads. "We came to

  fight this war," Pell said. "And we're going to finish it."

  Soterius lay
still for what seemed like for­ever. Low in his back where Pryce's knife had ripped through his skin below his cuirass, it felt as if his insides were on fire. I'm going to die here. Tris won't know until it's too late that Tarq betrayed us. I've failed.

  The ghosts swirled around him as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Whether the growing cold was from the spirits' presence or his coming death, he didn't know. "Is there anyone else out there? Anyone?" Silence greet­ed him.

  "Well, now I understand about the Ruune Vidaya," he mumbled to no one. Watching the vengeful ghosts shred Pryce's soldiers like starving wolves had been the worst thing he had witnessed in all of his soldiering. "At least I won't lose sleep over it." Nothing would wake him from his next sleep, nothing except the soulsong of the Lady. Soterius drew a long, painful breath. He closed his eyes. I'm ready. It's over.

  "Got him."

  The man's voice sounded close by, although Soterius couldn't tell whether he heard it or imagined it. Impossibly strong arms lifted him from the rock ledge. He opened his eyes, but the darkness was complete. His rescuer took one step and then lifted from the ground, and

  the brush of cold air against his skin told him they were moving. "Hang on," a voice whis­pered. "Rest." The last word sounded with compulsion, an undeniable request. Soterius resigned himself to the darkness.

  For the second time, the Margolan army forced its siege machines through the snow toward the walls of Lochlanimar. The heavy battering ram creaked and groaned as vayash moru soldiers added their inhuman strength to the horses' effort. Two rows of archers with long bows kept up a constant cover of arrows to protect their approach. The vayash moru, clad with helms and chest plates, regarded the arrows of the enemy as annoyances, pulling them from their arms and legs as if they were stinging gnats. The heavily armored horses were happy to be rid of their burden just beyond Curane's archers' best firing range, leaving the burden to the vayash moru. Mortal soldiers armed with throwing axes and broadswords kept careful watch along the moat and the castle footings, alert for asheten-erath or the blood-magicked corpses from the moat.

  Trebuchets on both sides sent deadly missiles into the air. Bags filled with shards -of metal and nails pulled from fence posts and old barns hur­tled through the air, ready to explode with the force of impact and send shrapnel through the bodies of the soldiers behind the walls. Curane's trebuchets hurled flaming corpses, heavy rocks, and splintered glass and pottery. The bombard­ment was too solid for Tris and Fallon to be able to deflect every one. To his right, Tris saw a hail of broken glass reach its target, cutting down his men in a spray of blood.

  Beside Tris, Fallon raised her hands, mutter­ing to herself and raising her face to the winds. The air shifted and the wind came about, favoring the Margolan archers. Tris could feel the magic around them roiling. Even this small magic from Fallon took great skill against the balky Flow. Tris felt the blood magic swell before it struck, a wall of fire erupting down the castle walls, fire that burned men but not rock. Tris could hear the screams of soldiers and vayash moru as burning men jumped into the stinking moat or rolled in the snow to put out the flames. Tris focused his power and struck back, imagining the flames snuffed like a candle wick.

  Rum kegs with burning rags stuffed in their tap holes flew through the air, hurled by Curane's forces. They exploded not far in front of the platform where Tris and Fallon stood.

  Too late, Tris felt a presence focus on his power. Pain like a sheet of fire descended on both Tris and Fallon, driving them to their knees. Tris struggled against the bucking Flow to send power to his shields. He felt Fallon's shields fail completely and heard her cry out in agony, writhing in the snow.

  Tris lashed out, sending all of his magic burn­ing back along the trail the pain spell had left in the Flow. Linked to his tormentor by the pain spell, Tris felt his own magic explode along the channels of magic.

  Tris focused his entire being on a single thought: burn.

  With a lurch, Tris felt his magic reach its tar­get. Tris felt his power reach the mage's life thread and wrenched the magic in his mind until it consumed the blue glow of the mage's life. Screams echoed in his mind as the fire destroyed both body and soul.

  Fallon grabbed him by the shoulders. "What did you do?"

  It took all his concentration to focus his eyes. "Evened the odds."

  Flames streaked across the night sky like mete­ors. Anything at hand became fodder for the trebuchets. Tris and Fallon could barely react in time to protect their troops from the worst of the attack. The battering ram kept up its steady thudding. The walls of Lochlanimar were giving way. Crenellations broke loose and fell, crush­ing men with their deadly rain of stone.

  "Do you hear?"

  "What?"

  "They've stopped launching," .Fallon said, looking up. "Do you think—"

  "Shield!"

  All of Curane's trebuchets fired at once, sending cauldrons filled with molten lead into

  the air. As the cauldrons tumbled, they sprayed the ground and the troops with gobs of burning metal that instantly stripped flesh from bones. Tris called for his magic and felt the Flow snap. Strands of blue-white power, like a flail of lightning, whipped toward them. One of the tendrils caught him by the leg, sear­ing into his thigh. There was magic all around him, wild and dangerous. He could hear Fal­lon screaming but he couldn't see her. The great river of power that was the Flow glowed blindingly bright in his mage sense. Tris knew that if more of the tendrils gripped him he would die.

  Dimly, Tris could hear the shouts of soldiers and the thunder of hoof beats. The real world was at the edge of his senses. Raw, wild magic engulfed him like a vortex and Tris was no longer certain whether he was still alive or whether it was his soul the white-hot river of power sought. His own magic was out of reach, further beyond his touch than ever since its awakening. The Flow surrounded him, filled him. In its surging power, Tris heard a howl of pain, as if the Flow knew it had gone mad. He could see nothing but blood, hear nothing but the screams of men and the howl­ing of the Flow.

  Tris's entire body ached and he wanted to throw up. A familiar feeling tingled through him. Wormroot?

  "Take it easy. You're safe." Esme's voice. "We had to use wormroot to break the hold of the magic. We almost didn't get you clear in time. Our troops broke through part of the outer wall, but the casualties were high. Senne and Palinn ordered the men to fall back and regroup. Rest now."

  He grabbed her wrist and forced himself to open his eyes. Even the candlelight was too bright. "How bad?"

  "Ana is dead. Whatever happened to the magic consumed her. None of the other mages are in any better shape than you are, and some are considerably worse. Half of Curane's keep is in flames. We lost half a dozen vayash moru and one of the battering rams. As for the rest of the troops—the counts are just now coming in. We may not know the full toll until morn-ing."

  "Ban?"

  "Trefor found him. He's alive, but he's in bad shape."

  "How long until the wormroot wears off?"

  Esme looked worried. "You're in no condi­tion—"

  "I'm a Summoner and their king. My place is out there, with the soldiers. If I can touch the magic, then I can help you heal, or make the passage for the dying."

  "It's going to be several candlemarks until the wormroot works its way out of your sys­tem. Why don't you sleep until then? You

  aren't in any better shape than most of the wounded." "I've been worse. Ask Carina."

  Against Esme's advice, Tris dragged himself out of his cot as soon as the wormroot wore off. Only then did he realize that he was in his own tent, and that Soterius lay on a cot near­by. Coalan managed a faint smile in acknowledgement. Tris ignored the pounding in his head and knelt next to Soterius's cot.

  "How is he?"

  "Not much changed from when they brought him here." Coalan brought Tris a bowl of por­ridge from a pot by the fire and poured him a cup of kerif. The strong, bitter drink cleared his head.

  Tris laid
a hand on Soterius's arm. Carefully, he reached out to touch the magic. The power was elusive, but no longer wildly convulsing. Tris let himself stretch out, searching for the life thread he knew belonged to Soterius. The thread burned dim but steady. He could feel the remnants of Esme's healing power. Despite the dim blue glow of the life thread, Tris could feel how bad the damage was, and how much pain had been blunted by the healer's drugs.

  "You don't look like you should be up," Coalan said.

  "It's because of me that they're here," Tris said standing. "It's my burden to get them home again. If we can't beat Curane, we'll have the armies from Trevath and Nargi beating down our gates before summer. If Margolan falls, Isencroft falls with it, and the rest of the kingdoms will be fighting for a generation."

  Tris winced as he pulled a tunic over his head and grabbed his cloak. He pulled back the tent flap. The harsh sunlight on the snow made him shield his eyes from the glare. "By the Whore," he whispered, looking out over the camp and the plains beyond it.

  Bodies littered the trampled snow between the camp and Lochlanimar. The battering ram remained where it was, charred and useless. The walls of Lochlanimar were blackened and the eastern tower had partially collapsed. The walls were pockmarked from the bombard­ment and in many places the crenellations had fallen, leaving gaps like missing teeth along the upper walls. The air was still and cold. Tris looked out over the camp.

  At the end furthest from Curane's castle, Tris saw the dead stacked on cleared ground, wrapped in whatever was at hand to shroud them. Firewood was too scarce for a pyre and the ground too hard to dig graves, and so men formed a relay line, handing along chunks of the stones hurled by the enemy's trebuchets to make a cairn. A lone piper and a drummer played a mournful tune. Clutching his cloak against the bitter wind, Tris walked through the camp. Soldiers made way for him with def­erence, but no one spoke.