Dark Haven (50 page)

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.

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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?”

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“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, 429

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.”

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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.

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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.

He wasn’t surprised to find Senne overseeing the cairn‐building. Senne looked worn, as if he had aged since the start of the campaign. He made a perfunctory bow as Tris approached.

“How many dead?” Tris asked.

“Since we can’t safely clear the field, we won’t know for certain until a count is complete. If I had to guess, I’d say we lost about three hundred, and at least that number wounded in the battle at the gates. Fever’s taken another two hundred. It may kill more than Curane’s archers do before this is over.”

Tris stepped forward and raised his hands toward the cairn. The crowd and the piper fell silent, and the drummer stopped his drumming. It hurt to reach for the magic, as if the channels of power had been seared. On the nether plain, it took all the power Tris could harness to make the spirits visible for the living.

The spirits of the dead soldiers turned toward him, a formation of gray ghosts rank upon rank.

They watched his every move, as if the warmth of his living spirit might offer them comfort in 432

the darkness. “I can’t bring you back to life, but I can make your passage to the Lady,” Tris said.

One of the men stepped forward and struck his chest. As one, the ghosts echoed the salute.

“In life and in death, we’ll follow where you lead.”

Tris looked out over the faces of the dead. “You know what’s at stake.” In the distance, he could hear the soulsong of the Lady offering her respite, and he knew that the ghosts also heard that sweet song. “I won’t bind you here, but if you wish to remain to fight, we’d welcome your help.”

One by one, the spirits of the fallen soldiers knelt. To a man, they remained. “Thank you.” Tris spoke the words aloud, and his voice caught. “When this is over, I’ll make your passage to the Lady.”

The magic wavered and threatened to slip beyond his grasp. Tris turned to face the crowd of soldiers who had assembled. Many of the soldiers were no older than he, and some were several years younger. In their faces he saw the shock and loss of battle. The same innocence that had died in his own heart was gone for them as well. In the faces of the older men, Tris saw quiet acceptance. These were the men who had lost family and entire villages to Jared, men who would not curse Death’s coming if it ended memory and dreams.

“We’re all that stands between Margolan and the darkness,” Tris said, shouting to be heard above the wind. “If we let Curane’s forces win, our children and their children will never know anything better than the yoke and the chain. On this thin line, Margolan will stand or fall, and with it, the Winter Kingdoms.”

Somewhere in the ranks, one man began to clap. Others took up the beat until the entire camp rang with clapping, wave upon wave

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breaking the winter stillness. It echoed off the stone walls of Lochlanimar, loud enough to shake the snow from the trees.

“There’s your mandate,” Senne said quietly. “They know the odds, and the price. And to a man, we’ll follow you to the Crone if that’s what it will take to save Margolan.”

CHAPTER TWENTY‐SEVEN

“What in the name of the Crone happened out there?” Curane thundered.

Cadoc looked up. The air mage was badly bruised, and one eye was swollen shut. Beside him, Dirmed, a fire mage, was in worse shape. One arm was badly burned, and his hair was singed from his head on one side of his scalp. “The magic went wild,” Cadoc said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that that damned energy river is going mad,” Dirmed said. The right side of his face was peeling from a burn. “It threw our power back on us. The Flow’s unstable. All the magic’s making it worse.”

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“And Finten?”

Dirmed shrugged. “Finten was unlucky. We think he struck close to Martris Drayke. Our guess is that, Drayke latched onto the power and used it as a channel for his own magic. Finten was standing next to me when he caught on fire. It wasn’t pretty.”

“A dozen mages, and the best you can do is make some people down in the ginnels sick,” Curane replied.

Cadoc glared. “Blood magic is slow and costly. Every time we do a blood working, one of us is half dead for at least two days. And each time we experiment with another nasty little pox, the Flow gets further out of reach. It’s starting to break apart.”

“How can a river of energy break apart?” Curane flicked his hand dismissively. “Can the wind break apart? Can the sea split itself down the middle? I’m tired of excuses.”

“I’ve found that magic is the answer to every problem—for people who aren’t mages,” Cadoc said. He took a step toward Curane, fury in his eyes. “I’ve lost three apprentices conjuring up poxes for you. We’ve had to lock down half the ginnels because of it. At least a quarter of the villagers are dead. No one’s been in or out of midquarters since we locked the yetts, but from the smell, it’s a good bet they’re dead. I don’t know how many Margolan men the plagues are killing, but they’ve probably murdered more of our own people than the enemy.”

“There’s only so much lime we can dump from the walkways,” Dirmed said. “And no way to keep the rats and the vultures from spreading what’s on the other side of the gates. If the Margolan army does break through the wall, they’ll likely find a city of the dead.”

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Curane smiled. “Let them. Plague’s cheaper than soldiers. Your magic protects us.”

“For now,” Cadoc said. “But if the Flow fails us, the magic dies with it—and so do we.”

“This’ll be over before that happens.” Curane replied.

“Is that why you sent the girl and her baby away? Because you’re sure victory is imminent?”

Dirmed asked.

“I sent them away because the girl needs a stern hand and I know of no one more suited to the task than Lady Monteith. Lady Montei‐th can turn that slip of a girl into the mother of a king and show her the proper way to raise a prince. When the boy is older, Lord Monteith can introduce him to the Trevath court. It’s about time King Nikolaj realized that I’ve presented him with an outstanding opportunity.”

“The fact remains that we’re as hard pressed inside the walls as the Margolan army is outside,”

General Drostan said. “It’s true that with fewer villagers our firewood and supplies have lasted longer, but the villagers who are still alive are getting desperate. They fear the plague more than the army outside. I don’t have the guards to put down an insurrection and fight a siege.”

“Then take hostages. Separate out the essential workers and guarantee their compliance by taking their families as surety. You’re a military man, Drostan. You can figure this out.”