The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (35 page)

“I fear we don’t have that long,” Talwyn said. She stepped away from him and drew her
stelian
from its sheath. In the moonlight, Tris saw a wave of black-robed fighters swarming across the plain and over the barrow as the
Telorhan
guards rose to block their path.

Willing himself to move, Tris sheathed Nexus and drew his battle sword. He heard the cries of Sworn warriors rise to shout down the chants of the Black Robes. Magic crackled in the air as the Sworn answered the assault of the Durim.

The Durim outnumbered the Sworn warriors and the
Telorhan
at the barrow. Tris hoped reinforcements from the camp were on their way. The Durim’s swords could not hold against the large, flat
stelians
of the Sworn, but what the Durim lacked in weapons, they made up for in sheer fury, and Tris wondered as he countered the assault whether Konost had sent the attackers out of vengeance.

Dozens of the Black Robes ran from the shadows. Some emerged swinging their swords in a mad frenzy, while others sent bolts of red fire streaming toward the Sworn fighters. Tris reached for his magic and winced. The channels of power felt raw from his battle in the Underrealm, despite the Dread’s healing. Tris reached beyond his own magic, not to the Flow, but to the old dead who lay buried in the ground around the barrow.

These were the bones of the Sworn, and of other ancient fighters interred in the shadow of the great cairns. Tris called on their spirits, and they yielded to him willingly, opening the flicker of their remaining energy to let him draw on them, fortifying him. Behind him, Tris could
hear Talwyn chanting her spells, and mist rose from the cold autumn night, shaping itself into the form of the Spirit Guides.

One of the Durim sent a blast of red fire toward Tris, and he held out his palm, throwing up a shield of blue-white light, absorbing the blast. Seizing the moment as the attacking Durim regrouped for another attack, the misty figure of a huge wolf leaped for the Durim’s throat. The sound of snapping teeth and the death scream of the Durim told Tris that the magic of the Spirit Guides was real, though the form of the wolf dissipated on the wind.

Tris heard Talwyn cry out. He turned to see the silver blade of a knife protruding from Talwyn’s right shoulder. Her sword arm fell, numbed by the blow, and the Durim closed on her.

Rage fueled Tris as he wheeled to attack Konost’s servants. He brought his sword down on the Durim nearest to Talwyn with enough force to cleave the man from shoulder to hip. He heard a battle cry from the left, and at the edge of his vision he saw that Jair had joined him. Fighting back to back with Talwyn protected between them, Tris and Jair swung their heavy swords with deadly accuracy. Across the field leading to the barrow, Tris saw Sworn warriors striking down the Durim, until the ground was littered with severed limbs and bloody black-robed bodies.

The battle was over even before reinforcements from the camp reached them. The last of the Durim fell to Jair’s blade, and there was fury in Jair’s face as he shoved his blade nearly hilt deep into the Black Robe’s chest. Jair snarled a curse as he shook the Durim’s body free of his
stelian
, and his blade whistled in the night air, neatly removing the head from the crumpled form.

For a moment, the battlefield was still, its silence deafening after the frenzy of battle. Warily, Tris and Jair surveyed the horizon, alert for a new attack. When no new foes appeared, Tris and Jair lowered their swords, and Jair knelt next to Talwyn. Emil and the other Sworn warriors along with the
Telorhan
guards formed a protective circle around them.

“We’ll get you back to camp. Pevre can heal you.”

“Not so bad,” Talwyn murmured. Tris could see the pain in her face, but his magic told him she was in no real danger from her wound. “Pull out the knife. I can heal it.”

Jair hesitated, and Tris met his gaze. “It’s all right. I can help.” Tris laid a hand on Talwyn’s shoulder and used his magic to lend her power as she turned her own energy inward for healing.

Talwyn opened her eyes and looked up at Tris with a smile. “Thank you.” Her smile faded. “Your journey—was it successful?”

Despite the healing the Dread had provided, Tris could feel exhaustion wash over him. A dull reaction headache throbbed in the back of his head, and he ached from the exertion of battle. “I made it out alive, and I retrieved Cwynn’s soul. The Dread promised to see Cwynn’s essence back safely across the Nether. As for the rest of what I saw… it makes an amazing story, but I don’t think anyone will believe me.” He paused. “I felt the power you sent to me—yours and the Sworn. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without your help.” He drew a deep breath.

“You were right about the Dread. It mattered to them that I counted as one of the Sworn. When they healed me, they told me they would honor their vow to ‘my’ people.”

Talwyn looked thoughtful. “That could certainly mean
the Sworn, but it was Marlan the Gold who saw the Dread go into the barrows, wasn’t it? If so, the Dread may also mean that whatever vow they made to Marlan, they recognize you as his legitimate heir and see the vow as still binding.”

“Either way, I hope this means they’re now on our side.”

Talwyn hugged him and gave him a warm smile. He stood and then helped her to her feet. “It’s too late for you to ride back to your army tonight. We’ll clean up here and go back to our camp. There will be plenty of food from the Sohan feast, and I, for one, am starving!”

Tris and Jair watched as Talwyn moved away from them among the Sworn warriors and began directing them to secure the battlefield.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that we were attacked when you were in the Underrealm?” Jair asked.

Tris grimaced. “It’s awfully convenient. I really hate to think of the alternative: that someone, somewhere is watching us closely enough to know our every move.”

“I don’t like it either,” Jair said with a sigh. “But I’m beginning to think it’s likely—and if it’s true, it’s going to make the battle even harder to win.”

A
mazing how still it can be just before the battle starts.”

Jonmarc glanced at Gethin. They stood near the Principality coast, looking out over a wide bay. Across the bay, a fleet of ships flying the Temnottan flag waited just out of reach of the catapults and trebuchets that defended the coastline.

“I hate waiting,” Jonmarc muttered. “Let’s get started and be done with it.” He gave a nod toward the
Hojun
priest on the other side of the prince.

“It’s time your priest buddy took you back to camp. I want you out of the line of fire when this blows open.”

Gethin met his gaze levelly. “We’ve been through this already. I’m staying—and I’m fighting.”

“No, you’re not. I don’t have time to watch over your royal ass.”

“You’ve seen me fight. This isn’t the first time I’ve been to battle.”

Jonmarc took a deep breath and tried for patience. “I’ve seen you in the salle. That’s not the same as on a
battlefield. I have only your word that you’ve ever been in actual combat.”

Gethin’s lip quirked with annoyance. “In Eastmark, the word of a prince carries some weight.”

“Then go back to Eastmark and see if your word carries weight with your daddy. This is Principality, and I don’t much care to have visiting nobles on the battlefield.”

“I’m staying right here. What would it say about Eastmark’s intent to ally with Principality if I were to turn tail and run at a time when every soldier is needed to protect the kingdom?”

Jonmarc glowered at him. His real focus was on the coastline. Though the ships were far out in the bay, every fiber in his body warned him on sheer gut instinct that the strike would come at any moment.

“They would say that you were smart enough to do what you’re told and stay safe.”

“Your princess might prefer that I die honorably in battle. It would solve one problem.”

Jonmarc did steal a look back at Gethin at that, and saw a weary half smile on the prince’s face. “Not really,” Jonmarc replied. “I only just got your father to repeal the royal death warrant your grandfather placed on my head. I have no desire to have another one proclaimed because you got your fool self killed. Sending Eastmark’s royal assassins against the Champion of the Queen of Principality just might qualify as a ‘diplomatic incident.’ ”

To his surprise, Gethin chuckled and made a side comment to the
Hojun
priest nearest him. The priest, whom Jonmarc had not seen show any expression other than somber reflection, actually cracked a smile. “I understand what the queen sees in you—and why my father warned
me that I might have more trouble winning your trust than that of the queen.”

“Don’t bet on that,” Jonmarc replied, returning his attention to the coastline. “Berry’s tough to impress.”

To Jonmarc’s left, the third of Principality’s army headed by General Gregor stretched along the wide flat shoreline nearly to the horizon. To his right, General Valjan, newly called back to duty from his brief retirement, headed up a second third of the army.

“Do you think those things will really work?” Gethin nodded toward the array of nasty-looking contraptions Valjan called his “pride and joy.” Valjan’s “pride” was a small fleet of carriages with lethal modifications. Drawn behind armored horses, the low-slung war vehicles brandished wickedly long scythe blades that whirled and sliced through the air around them with every turn of the wagons’ wheels.

“I think they’re as likely to chop up our men as the enemy, but Valjan’s thrilled with his ‘killing machines.’ I plan to stay the hell out of their way.”

Behind Jonmarc was the final third of Principality’s fighting forces. Exeter, the head of the Mercenary Guild, had agreed with Valjan to place his forces under joint command with Jonmarc. The
vayash moru
also fell under Jonmarc’s command, along with the mages, to his consternation. Gethin and the
Hojun
priests insisted on being part of his unit as well.

“So the question is—can our merc navy do some damage before Temnotta has a chance to land troops?” Jonmarc didn’t expect an answer. That question had been debated long into the night among the generals, to no satisfactory conclusion. Now, as they waited for someone to
make the first move, the chill Jonmarc felt was not a product of the crisp autumn air.

“What about the
vayash moru
? Aren’t you the Lord of Dark Haven?”

Jonmarc gave a tight chuckle. “Yes, I’m the Lord of Dark Haven, but that doesn’t mean I hold any power over the
vayash moru
. Of the Blood Council, four members are on our side. The other, Astasia, has disappeared along with her brood. She might have gone elsewhere to sit out the war, or she may have made a deal with Temnotta. We won’t know which choice they’ve made unless her brood attacks.”

“Can the rest of the Blood Council send more
vayash moru
?”

Jonmarc shrugged. “Gabriel and Riqua have their broods defending Dark Haven and hunting the Durim. Most of the
vayash moru
we have with us are from Rafe’s brood, along with Laisren, who came with me. Uri is supposed to be on our side, but we might be best served if his brood just stays away.”

“There! It’s started!” Gethin pointed to the horizon, where Jonmarc had already seen a flash of fire that could not be mistaken for sunset.

“Let’s hope our captains have a few tricks up their sleeves,” Jonmarc muttered.

From beyond the bay, a new line of ships, Principality’s merc navy, seemed to appear out of nowhere. Jonmarc smiled. If the Temnottans had expected to bottle up the kingdom’s navy in the bay, they were sadly mistaken. The merc captains had already taken their considerable fleet out to sea several days before. A complicated communication relay between the mercenaries’ fleet mages
and Hant’s spies and watchers let the captains know when to return.

The calm waters of the bay began to buck and heave. Huge waves tossed large ships up and down, and in the light breeze, it was magic, not wind, that would make navigation possible. As quickly as one wave would swell, the sea would suddenly quiet, testimony to a battle of magical power for control.

Lights flared against the sky as the merc ships traded magical volleys with the Temnottan navy. Flames streaked from the merc ships toward the sails of the invaders as the fire mages added their power to the fray. In answer, sudden explosions rocked half a dozen of the merc ships as the fire mages of the Temnottans returned the volley.

For a candlemark, the ships pounded each other. As the setting sun gave way to night, only the moonlight and the occasional flare of flames gave a hint to what was happening beyond the shoreline.

“There go the
vayash moru
,” Jonmarc said as dark shapes raced through the night sky toward the invaders’ ships. “Let’s hope the Temnottans aren’t looking up.”

“Let’s also hope their fire mages are the first to die, or your men could have problems,” Gethin commented.

Vayash moru
attackers dropped onto the decks of the Temnottan ships, while others slipped silently across the water to levitate up along the sides. Even at a distance, Jonmarc could hear screams as the
vayash moru
fighters began their slaughter.

“What are they doing?” Gethin pointed toward the ships, where dark shapes flitted among the rigging and the sails, only to drop large objects back to the deck.