The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (37 page)

Gethin was among them, fighting on foot. Jonmarc did not see either of the
Hojun
priests, but in the heavy smoke, it was difficult to see more than a few feet. More of Valjan’s killing machines smoldered just this side of the flames, but the horses that drew them were gone. With a loud cry, Jonmarc rose in his stirrups and charged at the knot of beasts from its flank.

One of the beasts launched itself toward Jonmarc with an incoherent, guttural howl. The beast was solid black like a moving shadow, with long, thin arms and wicked claws. Its claws slashed at the flank of Jonmarc’s horse and caught Jonmarc on the thigh, opening a wound that poured blood down his leg. Jonmarc’s horse, terrified by the attack, reared. Jonmarc let himself fall back in the saddle, close enough to thrust his torch down the maw of the beast as it leaped up at him. He barely got his hand out of the way as the wicked teeth snapped, but the torch snapped off, leaving its burning end in the monster’s mouth. It fell away, shrieking, as the flames engulfed it.

Drawn by the downed beast and the smell of blood, the knot of beasts shifted their attention from the soldiers to Jonmarc. His wounded horse could never outrun them; Jonmarc had seen just how fast the small magicked beasts could move. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Gethin and the other soldiers had fallen back a pace or two, regrouping for another attack. He was close enough to the flame wall that Jonmarc felt its heat like a furnace, and he saw the beasts scrabbling to put more distance between themselves and the fire even as they kept their prey in sight.

“
Gredic vo!
”

A man’s voice roared above the din, and Jonmarc translated the Markian call before he had the chance to realize how out of place it was. A hunting call, a shout to let the others in the hunting party know that the hunt had begun in earnest, a sound completely out of context on a Principality battlefield. Motion caught Jonmarc’s eye, and he managed to wheel his horse barely in time to avoid both the attack of the small beasts and the swift movement of a flaming wagon bristling with scythes and blades.

Amid the smoke, Jonmarc caught sight of one of the
Hojuns
with his hand outstretched, even as the second of the killing machines rumbled down the slope, narrowly avoiding Gethin and the soldiers, headed straight toward the black-scaled monsters. Jonmarc dug his heels into his horse, wrestling the panicked beast into position where he could close off one route of escape even as Gethin and the soldiers sealed the other flank. Caught between swords and torches and the careening war wagons, the monsters were pushed back into the wall of flame. Their magicked forms caught fire with a hiss and they wailed like the
damned, twisting and shriveling in the inferno. In a moment, they were gone, and with them the war wagons that had rolled on into the curtain of fire.

The slope had grown quiet except for the sound of the flames. From what Jonmarc could make out through the dense clouds of smoke, most of the others had made it up the embankment and were out of sight, probably most of the way back to camp. The two
Hojun
priests rode toward him out of the haze, one from each side. Gethin and the handful of soldiers stayed where they were, swords and torches in hand, watching the flames as if they expected new horrors to burst forth at any second.

“Thank you,” Jonmarc said in Markian to the
Hojuns
, who nodded.

“What did you think you were doing?” Jonmarc said, turning toward Gethin as the prince left the other soldiers and strode up to him. Gethin’s dark skin was covered with ash, making it plain where sweat streaked down his temples. His arms were marked with gashes and burns, as were Jonmarc’s.

“Fighting a war, as I was trained to do,” Gethin replied in Markian, and Jonmarc guessed that in the heat of battle, the prince did not even realize that he had abandoned Common for his native language.

“Your wound needs tending.” One of the
Hojun
had drawn up alongside Jonmarc even as the adrenaline of the battle began to fade and Jonmarc became aware of the pain in his thigh and a light-headedness that had nothing to do with the smoke.

“Damned beasts have rot on their claws,” Jonmarc replied. He gripped the pommel of his saddle as a wave of vertigo washed over him. “Can you keep it from festering?”

The
Hojun
priests exchanged glances, and the second priest rode up next to the first. They began to chant in the harsh, guttural tones of their language, but although Jonmarc spoke Markian well, he could not follow what they said. An orange glow moved from the downturned palm of the
Hojun
to Jonmarc’s injured leg. His leg tingled from hip to ankle, the familiar residue of strong healing magic, and as the
Hojun
continued to chant, Jonmarc felt the vertigo recede as the flesh around the gash knit into wholeness. The
Hojun
moved his hand to do the same for the horse’s injured flank.

The barest of smiles touched the
Hojun
’s face. “Your leg should be fine now,” he said in heavily accented Common.

“Thank you,” Jonmarc replied. Weariness had replaced the heat of battle, and he knew, with a glance toward the camp, that his night was far from over.

G
ethin trudged alongside Jonmarc as they made their way back to camp.

“Why don’t you have one of the healers tend you?” Jonmarc asked. A quick appraisal of Gethin’s injuries gave Jonmarc the impression that the collection of burns and gashes were painful but probably not life threatening. Mostly, he hoped to deflect the prince before heading into a debriefing with the other generals.

Gethin gave him a withering glare. “The
Hojun
knew that without their help, you might have lost the leg. If they weren’t worried about me, you shouldn’t be. There are men with much more serious wounds who need their help.”

Jonmarc’s expression did not change, but his estimation of the Eastmark prince rose. “Do your
Hojun
allow you river rum… for the pain?”

A tired grin spread across Gethin’s face. “Eastmark is hardly Nargi. I’d welcome some rum if you have it.”

Jonmarc took a flask from his belt and handed it to Gethin. Despite the prince’s protestations that his wounds were minor, the way he knocked back a generous swig
of the potent rum gave Jonmarc to know the truth. “You don’t have to come with me to the meeting, you know. You’ve made your point.”

“Which would be?”

Jonmarc sighed and rolled his eyes. “This obviously wasn’t your first real fight. I get that. For what it’s worth, it took Tris Drayke quite a while to get sword skills like yours. I’m… satisfied.”

Gethin chuckled and gave Jonmarc a sidelong glance. “Just… satisfied. Certainly not… impressed.”

Jonmarc’s eyebrows rose. “Dispel a forest full of murderous ghosts single-handedly, and I’ll be impressed. Until then, you’ll have to settle for what you get.”

Gethin fell into step beside him despite Jonmarc’s offer to let the prince leave. Jonmarc was bone weary, both parched and hungry, and he knew Gethin had to be equally uncomfortable. To Gethin’s credit, the prince made no complaint.

Jonmarc headed across the camp toward Valjan’s tent, guessing where the generals would congregate.

“Jonmarc! Thank the Whore you made it back!” Valjan came striding out of the haze of smoke that hung over the camp. Soot-streaked, his armor cut and bloodied, Valjan looked like he, too, had been in the thick of the battle.

“I was just heading to your tent. Figured Exeter and Gregor would do the same. We need to regroup—assuming we have the men.”

Valjan’s expression was sober. “Aye, we have the men. It was bad, but not that bad, thank the Lady. I had my valet run to bring brandy and whatever food is at hand. I dare say we’re all barely standing at this point, and I, for one, would like a drink.”

“How bad?”

Valjan let out a deep breath and looked out over the camp. “Don’t know yet. I’ve sent for a count, but that will take some time. My guess… we lost at least two or three thousand men, out of the ten thousand we deployed.”

“What about the merc ships? After the Temnottans sent their ships afire, we couldn’t see what became of ours.”

Valjan’s jaw tightened. “Nothing, yet. I asked Laisren to scout it out, and to let us know the casualties among the
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
as well.” He gave a brisk nod toward his tent. “Go in and make yourselves at home. I need to find Exeter… and Gregor.”

“That will be a treat,” Jonmarc muttered.

Jonmarc and Gethin had just gotten themselves settled in Valjan’s tent when others began to join them. First Exeter, who looked as war-weary as Jonmarc felt, and then Valjan, followed by Gregor. Of the four commanders, Gregor looked as if he had taken the worst of it. One eye was purple, nearly swollen shut. His left shoulder was bound in rags, evidence of a recent healing. Something about the tightness of Gregor’s mouth and the way he held himself as if in pain convinced Jonmarc that, perhaps, Gregor had earned his healing.

Behind Gregor came Valjan’s squire, who was doing his best to juggle food and a bottle of brandy. “Begging your pardon, but it was the best I could find on short notice,” the young man said as he set the bundle down in the center of the tent among the men and handed the bottle to Valjan.

For a few moments, the group made a meal on the hard bread, dry cheese, and sausage. When they had finished,
and the bottle of brandy had been passed, Jonmarc sat forward.

“How bad was it?” Jonmarc looked from face to face.

“Still counting the dead, but I’d say my command is down one-third, not counting the wounded that can be patched well enough to fight again soon,” Exeter grumbled.

“We’ve lost several hundred men as well,” Gregor added, but the venom in his voice did not seem to be directed at Jonmarc; instead, the Temnottans appeared to be the intended recipients. “Crone take their souls! What whore-spawned commander hides behind beasts and shifters to do his blood work for him?”

“His name is Imri.” The voice came from the entrance to Valjan’s tent. A slim
vayash moru
in a dark purple robe stood in the doorway. One look at his eyes gave Jonmarc to know that this newcomer was among the eldest of the Old Ones.

“This is Ansu,” Valjan said, as the man entered the tent. “He arrived just before the battle.”

To Jonmarc’s surprise, Ansu stopped in front of him and inclined his head in greeting. “Hail, Lord of Dark Haven. Lord Gabriel found me and asked for my help in this matter. He also sent this for you.” Ansu reached inside his robe to withdraw a folded parchment. At a glance, Jonmarc recognized Gabriel’s precise handwriting and the wax seal with his crest.

The others watched in silence as Ansu took a seat on the other side of Gethin. “What do you know of the Temnotta commander—and how do you know it?” Jonmarc asked. He fingered the parchment, debating whether or not to open it, and then slipped it into the pouch on his belt to read later.

Ansu gave a cold smile that bared his eye teeth. “Four hundred years ago, I fought the Temnottans, as did Gabriel. I’m an air mage, not quite the gift with spirits as a full summoner, but possessed of magic that is tolerably close in some respects. In that war long ago, the Temnottan mages, the Volshe, were a formidable foe. It appears that, despite the passage of time, some things do not change.”

“How do you know the name of their commander?” It was Gregor who asked, his expression skeptical to the point of hostility.

“In the last few months, two
vayash moru
mages from Temnotta have sought sanctuary in my lands, far to the north, on the border with Eastmark. It was… unusual… for it to happen once, let alone twice, considering that after the war, Temnotta did not consider me to be… welcoming.”

“Maybe they were spies, or sent to spread false information,” Gregor grumbled.

If Ansu noted Gregor’s insolence, he did not show it. “I doubt it. Both men expected me to kill them, and they preferred death by my hand than being part of the Volshe’s schemes in Temnotta.”

“Which were?” Exeter’s voice was a growl.

“The Volshe have returned to the ways that were forbidden after the Long War four centuries ago. Then, as now, they conspired to use their magic to tamper with shifters to create a perfect living killing machine.” Ansu’s eyes glinted, a hint to just how strongly he felt about the subject. “That was after they tried—and failed—to magically alter
vayash moru
toward the same ends.”

“And this Imri? Where does he come in?” Valjan pressed.

“Imri is a powerful shifter, but more than that, he’s also
a mage. And his specialty is bending other shifters to his will,” Ansu said. “Imri’s ‘gift’ won him the jealousy of the Volshe and the attention of the Temnotta king, especially after the king began to harbor expansionary plans.”

“If you knew Temnotta was up to something, why didn’t you say something before now?” Jonmarc’s temper was clear in his tone.

“The mages didn’t know what the king was planning, only that he suddenly took an unusual interest in magic, and in a type of magic better suited to offense than defense,” Ansu replied. “Neither of the two were senior enough among the Volshe to be privy to strategy meetings. There was nothing to do but watch and listen.”

“What does this get us that we didn’t have before?” Exeter’s mood sounded every bit as dark as Jonmarc’s.