The Sworn (63 page)

It was the seventh day since the army had left Shekerishet, and although the Northern Sea was not yet in sight, there was a change in the winds and a faint tang of sea water in the air. This part of Margolan was known as the Borderlands, a rocky area with hard-scrabble farms and small fishing villages. It was an area Tris had seldom visited, and what little he knew came from Jonmarc Vahanian, who was born in one of the villages that traded with the fishermen, sailors, and itinerant tinkers who sometimes passed through these parts.

Tris could swear that his sore muscles felt every league of the journey. Although it had been less than a year since he had returned from the siege of Lochlanimar, the duties of kingship made it difficult to spend as much time in the salle or in the saddle as he would have preferred. In times of peace, kings had the luxury of enjoying a ride into the countryside for the hunt, or even extended visits in the homes of the nobility. When, or if, such opportunities might come his way depended on surviving long enough for peace to come again. Tris felt a weariness that had nothing to do with sleep or the fatigue of travel. Very soon, Margolan would be fighting for its existence. Many of the soldiers around him, and no small number of the mages and
vyrkin
and
vayash moru
as well, would die in that effort. Tris remembered his conversations with both Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great. This new invader would push an already strapped kingdom to its limits. Tris could only hope that the resistance they could muster, however valiant, would be enough.

The army camped far enough back from the coast to create a defensive line. At sunset, Tris climbed one
of the low hills. In the distance, the setting sun cast an orange glow across the ocean. If all the signs were true, then before long, those rocky beaches would be red with blood. Tris sighed as the dying light shifted to a crimson hue as if it anticipated his thoughts. Along the horizon, Tris thought he could make out the faint shapes of ships, and he fervently hoped they were the make-shift navy Nisim had worked to assemble. A large ship that had the look of a privateer’s vessel was anchored out from shore, and two smaller boats were beached near camp.

“Ban told me you were up here.”

Tris turned as he recognized Jair’s voice. He wasn’t surprised to see Talwyn with him, and Tris welcomed both of them with an embrace. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Jair and Talwyn stood beside Tris, and Jair frowned as he looked out toward the sea. “Your ships?”

“I hope so. We’ll hear more about that tonight. Nisim is due with a report, and Fallon’s mages should have some new intelligence for us by then, also.”

“The attacks on the barrows have suddenly stopped,” Talwyn said. “While I’d love to think it was because of us, we really don’t know why they’ve ended, or whether they’ll start up again.” She nodded toward the ships on the horizon. “There’s no way to tell whether whoever was in league with the Black Robes got what they wanted, or gave up because they didn’t.”

“And the Dread?”

Talwyn shrugged. “They haven’t sought me out, and I don’t go looking for them unless it’s an emergency. For now, silence is probably good news.” She paused and looked at Tris as if studying his expression. “What magic do you feel?”

Tris gave a wan smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been jumpy since this afternoon, and the closer we got to the ocean, the worse it’s become. I’m tired from the ride, but I feel like I’ve had an entire pot of
kerif
. It’s a prickly kind of feeling, like when a storm’s coming.”

Talwyn nodded. “I feel the same way. I’ve tried to read the omens, without any clear results. Last night, I went to the spirit guides, but they had nothing to offer me. And yet, there’s something out there. It’s as you said back at the palace. There’s a hum, a vibration, just beyond what I can identify. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s still there.”

“And it’s growing stronger,” Tris agreed. “I keep thinking about Alyzza and the mages at Vistimar, wondering if it’s affecting them more or whether whatever they’ve been hearing is just now breaking through to the rest of us.”

“That’s a pleasant thought.”

Coalan’s head and shoulders came into view as he hiked up the path from where he stood guard below. “They’re calling for you, Tris,” he said, with a nod to Jair and Talwyn. “The meeting’s ready, and more to the point, so is supper.”

With a chuckle, Tris, Jair, and Talwyn followed Coalan down the pathway and back to camp. The sun had just set, and scores of campfires dotted the flat plain, and thousands of campaign tents, large and small, fluttered in the breeze. Beyond the tents, a newly built corral sheltered the horses and oxen. In the distance, Tris could hear the sound of axes, and he knew that Wivvers was busy directing work crews to fell the trees he needed for the catapults and trebuchets that could launch boulders and more deadly missiles into the harbor should the enemy’s fleet break past the defending ships. Tris sincerely hoped Wivvers’s machines would not be needed.

They returned to camp to find that Tris’s campaign tent had been assembled. Coalan had ransacked the officers’ tents to gather enough portable campaign chairs to offer everyone a seat. A small brazier warded off the autumn chill.

“We couldn’t manage a table just yet, but at least no one has to sit on the ground,” Coalan noted cheerily as the others filed in. Coalan handed them each a bowl of hot stew and some hard biscuits as they entered. “Cook tells me that he’ll bake some bread tomorrow, and I have his word we won’t have stew every night, like last time.”

General Senne chuckled. “Most soldiers don’t join up for the food, lad. I thought your uncle would have told you that.”

Coalan grinned. “He did. But I can still live in hope.”

Tris looked around at the group that filled the tent. Senne, Rallan, and Soterius from the generals. Trefor for the
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
. Sister Fallon and Sister Beyral. Jair and Talwyn from the Sworn. And Nisim, who wore a grim look. Two other men sat with Nisim. The first man was in his middle years and looked like he knew hard work and time spent out of doors in bad weather. His hands were calloused and broadened and his clothes were plain. He wore a heavy sweater with an elaborate knot design, and Tris guessed that he was one of the Bay Islands men Nisim had been recruiting. He’d heard that the fishermen wore sweaters knitted with patterns distinct for each family, so that when a drowned man was reclaimed from the sea, the remains could be identified. A sextant and spyglass hung from leather straps on the man’s belt, and a wicked-looking fish knife was sheathed beside them.
Not just Bay Islands, but a ship captain
, Tris guessed.

The second man had the look of a mercenary. He was better dressed than the other stranger, with a coat and breeches that looked like they had once been expensive, although they had seen wear. His clothing and jewelry were a mixture that spanned the Winter Kingdoms and beyond: a vest of Mussa silk, leatherwork on his cuirass and baldric that looked to be some of the finest Isencroft had to offer, and a jacket with Noorish weave. His rings and the pendant at his throat were gold, set with Principality gems, and the charms that hung beside them were the carved stone and amber that were famous in Eastmark. The stranger wore a selection of knives on his belt and in his baldric that would have made Jonmarc envious, Tris thought. The man seemed to notice that Tris was looking at him, and he leaned forward before Nisim could speak.

“I’m Tolya, captain of the ship
Istra’s Vengeance
, and leader of the Northern Fleet.” Tolya watched Tris as if he were daring him to respond.

Tris met his eyes. “Happy to have you here, Captain. Nisim’s told you what we’re up against?”

Tolya snorted. “More like we told Nisim. Been scoutin’ for his Sentinels for a while now. The ships of the Northern Fleet are all run by their owners, profit-minded traders, we are, with a charter since the time of King Larimore to board and raid hostile ships in the name of the king of Margolan.”

Who gets to determine “hostile”?
Tris wondered, but he kept his expression neutral. “What have you seen, Captain?”

Tolya smiled, a predator’s expression. “We’ve seen more ships, large ships, coming and going to Temnotta than ever in my memory. Big ships, carracks, and caravels.” His
unpleasant smile did not reach his eyes. “We know they’re not trading. We’d have seen them in the ports and the trade routes. Can only be one reason why they’ve got ships like that. They mean to carry men, not cargo.”

Tris nodded. “And your ships? Are they fast?”

Tolya guffawed. “They’re rigged for maneuvering. Aye, they’re fast. Fast as anything in port in Temnotta, I’d wager. Our ships are built for pursuit and boarding. They’re outfitted to ram, if need be, and we have fire throwers to set the other ships ablaze.” His eyes tightened. “If we need to, we can fight in a line abreast. We’ve got crossbows and archers, and slings that can put heavy iron through a deck or a sail, or put a nice hole at the waterline.” He chuckled. “Got more than a few water mages, too, who know how to churn the sea and call the weather. Oh, yes, m’lord, we’re fast and we’re armed.”

“Good. We’re in your debt.”

Tolya smiled. “Yes, m’lord, that you are. And when the fightin’s over, I have some business propositions to discuss with Your Majesty in light of our brave service to the crown.”

Senne cleared his throat, and Tris could see the general’s obvious distrust of the privateer. Rallan looked as if he were calculating profit and loss. Tris met Soterius’s eyes, and he knew his friend well enough to read grudging approval. “I’d like to see Margolan’s trade increase, Captain Tolya. If you and your ships can do that, I am open to waiving certain port fees and tariffs.”

“Aye, then, we have a bargain and you have a fleet.”

Nisim looked as if he had been holding his breath. Conversation lapsed as the group turned its attention to the food, and for a few moments, it was quiet. They ate
quickly, and Tris knew that as pressing as the business at hand was, they were all equally spent from the long ride. When Coalan had taken away the remains of dinner and poured brandy for all who wanted it, he moved to his post outside the door, and Tris looked at the others who had gathered.

“I’d like to hear from you and your other guest,” Tris said, looking to Nisim. “You’ve been closest to the sources.”

Nisim nodded. “We sent out spies in small boats to see if we could spot the enemy. Two weeks ago, we had reports that a large fleet was on the move coming from the direction of Temnotta, on the other side of the Northern Sea. They were still a distance away, but the spies spotted them in their scrying glasses and made visual contact.

“Last week, our spies were due to report. They didn’t. We found a couple of their boats drifting empty, but of the spies themselves, nothing.” Nisim met Tris’s eyes. “They were mages. They should have been able to leave some kind of trace, send some sort of signal. Our far speakers have listened for them, and our dream speakers have waited for them, but there’s been nothing at all.”

“You think they were captured?”

Nisim nodded. “Captured, maybe killed.”

“It’s not the first time.” They all turned to look at the man beside Nisim.

“This is Pashka. He’s the leader of the Fisher Guild out in the Bay Islands.”

Pashka looked at Tris with sea-gray eyes. His expression held no particular deference, and Tris recalled Nisim’s comment that the Bay Islands barely considered themselves to be part of Margolan. Tris wondered how long it had been, if ever, since the islanders had heard
from their king, and whether or not Pashka believed himself subject to any monarch.

“Our boats started to disappear last year,” Pashka said in a weather-roughened growl. He had an odd accent, more guttural than the hill country, flatter than the Borderlands. With a start, Tris knew where he had heard such an accent before. It reminded him of the Margolense spoken by ancient vampires, and by the ghost of King Hadenrul. It would seem that the Bay Islands had kept to themselves for a very long time. “First just one or two.” He shrugged. “Such things happen. Fishing is a dangerous business. But it was odd, because there were no storms, and the men who went missing had fished those seas all their lives. They weren’t reckless.

“Then a few more went missing, and our wives took to painting runes and sigils on our boats to protect us. Our hedge witches told us about dark omens, and our seers had dreams about the bodies of long-dead men rising from the ocean.” A pained expression crossed Pashka’s face. “My brother was one of the men who disappeared. Two of my nephews went missing along with him. I don’t believe they drowned.”

“Why not?”

“Because our rune scryers found a warning carved into one of the empty boats.” Pasha’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t carved by our folk. It was in old runes, she said, hard to read.”

“What did it say?”

For the first time, Tris saw a glint of fear in Pashka’s eyes. “It said to beware the cold north wind that raises the dead and buries the living.”

“Pleasant,” Soterius muttered.

Pashka sighed. “That’s not all, m’lord. Been bad omens all summer. You’ve heard of the Spirit Lights, I wager, the curtain of light in the sky far to the north?”

Tris and Soterius nodded.

“Well, there’ve been strange lights to the north, like nothing even the old men have ever seen. The Spirit Lights are cold colors, green and blue and white. These lights look like blood in the clouds. Puts a chill to your bones, it does, to see it. Fearsome as Nameless and the Wild Host. Got so that people stayed indoors after dark, wouldn’t look up, for fear of it.” Pashka paused, as if uncertain whether to go on, and then plowed ahead.