The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (55 page)

The battleground had not shifted far from the opening salvos of the war. Margolan’s army dug into positions to hold the invaders as close to the shoreline as possible, while the Temnottans brought wave after wave of ships bearing fresh troops. Neither side had been able to gather their
dead, and the press of battle pushed back and forth across a field of war strewn with the corpses of both armies. Out beyond the bay, Pashka’s fishermen and Tolya’s privateers did what they could to harry the Temnottans, picking off straggling ships and launching nighttime attacks that nipped at the invaders’ heels. But while the armies appeared to be evenly matched once on land, it was clear that Margolan’s ragtag maritime presence was no match for the power of the Temnottan navy.

“I’ll keep the wardings. Go find Scaith!” Fallon raised her arms and began to chant, and Tris did his best to block out the banging of battle drums, the din of the pipers, and the howling maelstrom of war.

Tris felt the shift in magic even before he heard the cries of alarm from the battlefield. As he stretched out his mage sense, he could feel a massive tide of dark magic pouring across the killing grounds, touching the bloated corpses of the Temnottan dead and forcing their souls back into their rotting bodies.

“If they mobilize all their dead, they’ve got us seriously outnumbered,” Fallon shouted.

It is forbidden for a Light mage to compel a soul to return to a dead body, on peril of his soul
, Tris thought in horror.

But not if we go willingly
. In a breath, Tris was surrounded by the Margolan battle dead, rank upon rank, fully fifteen hundred soldiers strong. A young man stepped forward, and by his insignia, Tris knew him for one of Soterius’s captains.
We swore our lives to you. We will rally in death. Send us, and spare the living
.

Tris gathered his power. Once, by accident, he had sent a soul back to reanimate its corpse, and Alyzza had
warned him of the consequences of such gray magic.
What does my soul matter when Margolan hangs in the balance?
Tris marshaled his magic and sent it forth in one powerful, rippling blast. The magic swept past the living like an unexpected wind, but it touched each of the fallen Margolan soldiers. Tris felt the magic stir in their cold, stiffened forms, felt the dead flesh tremble as magic coursed through their sinews, and as the tide of his power receded, it left in its wake not shambling puppets but corpses possessing the mind and will of their original soul, bent on taking their vengeance.

“What have you done?” Fallon breathed.

Tris drew back, staggered from the massive drain of power. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of terror as soldiers saw their fallen comrades rally to their feet, and above the din, he heard Senne and Soterius shouting for order, heard the bugles signal an advance.

Tris drew a deep breath, fighting a massive reaction headache, and gathered his power around him once more. Before Scaith could regroup, Tris sent out another blast of power, this time directing his magic at the advancing lines of the reanimated Temnottan dead. He saw the image of the walking corpses clearly in his mind. Unlike his own ghostly soldiers, the Temnottans had not returned willingly. They had been violently forced back into the rotting shells of their bodies, and Tris could feel their pain, terror, and utter confusion.

In his mind, he reached out for the sickly green glow of the reanimated Temnottans’ life threads and snapped the cords, releasing the dead souls from bondage. A row of undead soldiers collapsed, and Tris sent his magic out across the ragged lines of the Temnottan walking dead, breaking
the faltering threads and freeing the enslaved souls as the decomposing bodies fell to the ground midmotion.

“Brace for it,” Tris shouted only an instant before a shockwave of magic swept toward the Margolan line with the force of a storm tide. It was Scaith, and mingled with the powerful magic, Tris felt rage. Tris sent an answering salvo, drawing on his waning power. Magic met magic midfield as soldiers on both sides scrambled away in terror. As Tris’s stamina wavered, he reached out to the life forces of the dead Margolan soldiers, shielding them from Scaith’s retaliation and borrowing from the spark of their energy to hold a defensive wall of power against Scaith’s attack.

The energy burned across Tris’s skin, as if every nerve were on fire. Tris could feel Scaith trying to pull energy from his life force, but the Flow welled up to replenish him, even as the fallen Margolan soldiers offered what they could of the dim glow of their souls. Just when Tris thought his magic could hold out no longer, Scaith pulled back, departing with such suddenness that Tris reeled, nearly falling from his horse. He clung to the pommel of his saddle, his vision blurred and his breath ragged, fighting a headache that throbbed like a blade embedded in his skull. With his remaining power, Tris released the Margolan dead, too exhausted to sustain them. The live Margolan soldiers surged forward, intent on retribution.

Tris felt the tendrils of the Flow slip away and with a deep exhale, he murmured the passing-over ritual to send the souls of the Margolan dead on their way to the Lady. Exhausted and aching from the effort of his fight, Tris felt a surge of alarm as new, unfamiliar magic tingled along his senses.

Without warning, dozens of the scavenger birds that had been circling high above the battlefield plummeted at full speed, their sharp beaks and talons trained on the Temnottans. The invaders screamed at the onslaught as the birds beat at the soldiers with their wide, powerful wings and ripped at their flesh with beaks and claws.

A new flicker of powerful, wild magic surged over the battle ground, and the Temnottans found themselves pelted with a hail of dark objects that rose from the trampled ground and then rained down from the sky.

“Is that
horse manure
?” Fallon breathed, caught between a startled intake of breath and a strained laugh.

The unmistakable odor of a barnyard accompanied shouts and curses from the Temnottans. Undaunted, Soterius and Senne urged their men forward. Tris heard a cackle of laughter behind him and turned.

On the ridge behind the soldiers, an old, hunched woman danced with mad glee, her hands rising and falling in precise correlation to the offal that flew through the air at the Temnottan army. Farther down the ridge, a gaunt man made wide, swooping motions with his hands, orchestrating the attack of the carrion birds.

Rocks flew up from the ground, pelting the Temnottans from all sides as a third figure joined the first two. The third mage was a heavy man who held a large rock in either hand, striking them together so hard that sparks flew, and with each shower of sparks, more rocks sailed through the air.

A giddy shriek of insane glee accompanied a blast of fire. With amazing precision, the flames ignited the pants of one of the Temnottan commanders, causing him to leap from his horse and beat at his legs and then drop to the
ground and roll. Another blast and then another caught soldiers and officers alike, setting their uniforms ablaze.

Tris strained to make out the figures on the ridge, when a familiar singsong voice reached him.
Alyzza!

The Temnottan bugler bleated a jumbled retreat. Rocks, offal, birds, and fire pursued the Temnottans until they were running from the field to the jeers and catcalls of the Margolan army.

As the certainty of their unlikely victory became clear, Tris felt fatigue utterly overwhelm him. He would have tumbled from his horse, but he felt Fallon’s hands steadying him as he slid to the ground.

“It worked,” Fallon murmured, and Tris could feel her magic reaching out to him, doing what she could to temper the headache and fatigue. “Senne and Soterius have them on the run.” She paused. “But what you did—”

“Is forbidden,” Tris whispered, his throat dry. Fallon lifted a wineskin and splashed warm wine into his mouth. “If it matters, our dead gave their consent. The Temnottans had no say with Scaith.”

“I did my best to shield you and the troops from that last blast of power, but if Scaith strikes again while you’re down, I don’t think even all of us together can hold him off.”

Holding onto the reins in one hand and with Fallon under his shoulder on the other side, Tris began to make his way toward the rear, surrounded by a contingent of guards. He could see the looks on the soldiers’ faces as the ranks parted to let him through. Fear and horror mingled with duty and discipline as they began to grasp, possibly for the first time, the true implication of a Summoner-King.

As they reached the open ground behind the troops,
Tris saw a short, robed figure running toward them. As the figure neared, she threw back her hood. Panting and breathless, Sister Rosta managed a hurried bow as Tris’s guards parted ranks to permit her access.

“Apologies, Your Majesty, that we did not give you advance notice of our arrival.”

Despite his headache, Tris managed a tired grin. “You can surprise me like that any time, Rosta.” He shot a teasing glance toward Fallon. “Why didn’t your battle mages ever think of throwing horse shit at the enemy?”

Fallon gave a good natured shrug. “We will now.” She grinned at Rosta. “And while the rocks were a nice touch, setting their pants on fire was truly inspired.”

Rosta rolled her eyes. “That was Brother Gernon. He’s a fire mage who’s gone a bit senile. He was sent to Vistimar because he kept lighting the hems of the other mages’ robes on fire just to watch them dance.”

“But the horse shit was all mine.” Tris looked around to see Alyzza stride up behind Rosta. Alyzza’s eyes were bright with madness and excitement, but her face was animated and her expression knowing and shrewd. For a moment, she was every bit the canny old sorceress who had trained him.

“It’s good to see you, Alyzza.”

Alyzza barked a harsh laugh. “All the iron and salt in the world wasn’t enough to hold back the darkness, was it? But we drove him back, aye, that we did.”

One by one, clad in threadbare robes, the mad mages of Vistimar assembled behind Sister Rosta. “The ‘hum’ they hear in their minds reached a crescendo a fortnight ago,” Rosta said apologetically. “They reacted so violently and with such a burst of magic that Vistimar is in
ruins.” She sighed and spread her hands, palms up. “Alyzza was insistent that they come to fight the invaders, and the other Sisters and I thought it better to set them loose on the enemy than have them wandering around the countryside, so here we are.”

“You’re a welcome sight,” Tris replied. “We’ve lost several of our battle mages. The other side seems to have plenty to spare, so I’ll accept all the help we can get.”

“Volshe,” Alyzza spat, and for a moment, her eyes lost their mad glint. “I’d know the touch of Volshe magic even in my grave. It was from a Volshe that Lemuel learned of the Obsidian King. I’ve got an old score to settle with them.”

“We’ll find you tents,” Tris promised, filing away Alyzza’s comment for future thought and turning his attention back to Sister Rosta. “And we’ll scrounge provisions. Another bad harvest has made for rather slim rations, but no one’s gone hungry yet.”

Rosta nodded wearily. “Thank you, m’lord. Even warm gruel and watered wine would be welcome. There’s less to be had inland, because of the plague. We’ll be grateful for whatever you can spare.”

Coalan came bounding up, sword ready in one hand, and took in Tris’s condition with a worried expression. “I was headed to find you to tell you that the mages were here, but I see they’ve beat me to it.”

Tris pretended not to notice the glance that traveled between Coalan and Fallon, and he assumed that they wordlessly confirmed that Tris needed nothing so much as his cot and a goblet of brandy. “Coalan,” Tris said, getting the young man’s attention. “While Fallon sees me back to my tent, I need you to get Sister Rosta and her mages set up with tents and provisions.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Coalan said, grinning at the show of formality he reserved strictly for company. He gave a bow and sheathed his sword. “If you’ll follow me back to camp, we’ll see about getting you settled in.”

When the new mages had left them, Fallon returned her attention to Tris with a critical eye. “At least we’ve got reinforcements if Scaith strikes before you’re back on your feet.”

“I did my best to make sure Scaith’s in as bad shape as I am,” Tris replied. His voice was a dry rasp, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart.

“So with both of you flat on your backs, the rest of the battle should be up to the army?”

“Goddess, I hope so.”

They reached Tris’s tent without incident, and Tris handed his horse’s reins off to a groomsman. Fallon followed Tris into his tent, giving instructions to his guards that he not be disturbed. She looked askance at Tris when he collapsed into a chair. “Here, drink this,” Fallon said after she had rummaged in Tris’s trunk for a bottle of brandy. She added powders from the pouches on her belt to help with his reaction headache and handed the mixture to Tris, who knocked it back, then gasped at the raw burn.

“What exactly did you do out there?” Fallon’s voice was a mixture of curiosity and suspended judgment. She drew up a chair and reached out to take Tris’s pulse and then touched his temples lightly with her fingertips, letting the warmth of her healing magic wash over him.

Tris was quiet for a moment, letting the brandy and the powders begin to ease the pain. Speaking quietly so as not to make his pounding headache worse, Tris told Fallon what he had done. When he was finished, Fallon sat back.
From her expression, Tris knew she was thinking hard to process what he told her.