The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (63 page)

“He’s doing a damn good job of it.”

“What I want to know,” Esme said, “is why he’s not as exhausted as you are.”

Tris drew a long, ragged breath. “He’s drawing energy from somewhere. It’s not the Flow; I’d feel that. Right now, the Flow is all that’s keeping me on my feet. But
more than once, I’ve felt a surge in his power. I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s felt different each time. But there’s a shift in the magic, and it’s favoring Scaith.”

In the distance, Tris could see a tall man dressed in mage’s robes. His long arms swooped and arced. In a wide circle around the man, birds of prey hurtled toward the ground, striking at the Temnottan soldiers and bloodying their faces and arms before rising high into the sky, nimbly evading the enemy’s swords. Falcons, kestrels, and eagles yielded to the mad mage’s power, harrying the Temnottans so that the soldiers within one hundred yards of the mage’s position broke ranks and fell back.

Tris looked around, but he did not see Alyzza, though he spotted Brother Gernon, the crazy fire mage. In the last battle, Gernon’s magic had been almost playful, driving off the Temnottans by setting fire to the hems of their tunics or trews. Today, Gernon was not in a playful mood. Mad or not, Gernon grasped that the Temnottans were the enemy, or perhaps Scaith’s blood magic amplified the maddening hum Gernon and the other addled mages heard in their minds. Gernon strode fearlessly across the battlefield, snapping whiplike tendrils of flames around him. Margolan troops scurried out of his way, but Gernon paid them no heed. He scythed the blue-white flames right and left, lashing the Temnottan soldiers with lightning or immolating them on the spot.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Tris muttered under his breath.

“I doubt Rosta or anyone else can stop him,” Fallon replied. “He’s mad enough to be without fear, and sane enough to recognize the enemy.”

“Do we know where the rest of the Vistimar mages are?”

Fallon smiled. “Verant, the rock thrower, is with one of the catapults. I suggested it to Rosta, and she was quick to pair up as many of her mages as she could with the catapults or the trebuchets. It should make for some surprising attacks. Verant was able to split large rocks into smaller ones in flight and accelerate their force. Rosta told me that some of her mages can make iron burn or blood freeze. The air mages can make the catapult missiles and the archers’ arrows travel twice as far. As long as they remember whose side they’re on, I welcome the help.”

“Scaith’s magic has been an annoying hum that’s bothered them for months,” Tris replied. “All interest in throne or kingdom aside, I think they’re fighting to silence that damn noise.”

Amid the smoke and confusion, Tris thought he glimpsed a pack of
vyrkin
. Kolja had assured him that he and the other
vyrkin
would harry the edges of the Temnottan forces. Tris looked skyward, hoping to catch sight of Trefor or one of his
vayash moru
. This war had gone hard on their numbers, but many of the undead fighters owed the allegiance of several lifetimes to Margolan and its kings and had no intention of seeing the kingdom fall to outsiders.

“This might be a good time for reinforcements,” Tris said. His right hand closed around the talisman of Marlan the Gold that hung from a chain around his neck and brushed against Talwyn’s amulet.

“Reinforcements?” Esme questioned, and then her gaze fell to the talisman. “You’ve expended a lot of energy. Don’t push yourself too far.”

“If I’m right, this might save some lives. It’s worth what the magic costs.” Tris reached out his power and felt
a strong tug at his magic. Tired as he was, he sent a flicker of magic toward the spirits that sought him. Through the smoke, Tris saw three ghosts. One man was dressed in leather and animal skins. He wore a necklace of shell and bone and carried a crudely forged two-handed sword. The second man wore armor of a style common in Tris’s grandfather’s reign. The third ghost carried a shield with the crest of King Hadenrul from four hundred years earlier. These were the ghostly commanders of long-dead armies who had once fought on this same battlefield: Vitya, sworn to fealty to Marlan the Gold a thousand years before; Estan, loyal to King Hadenrul even after four centuries; and Dagen, liegeman to King Larrimore, Tris’s grandfather.

The three ghosts stood before Tris and bowed. “We have offered you our fealty,” Dagen said. “Legions of our spirits lie beneath these fields. Your men grow weary. We can fight against the living if you call to us with your power.”

“I accept your offer. If your dead will rise in spirit, we would be grateful for their help.” With his right hand, Tris touched the talisman he had taken from the tomb of Marlan the Gold. He held out his left hand to the three ghosts, who each in turn clasped his hand and bent to kiss the signet ring of the House of Margolan. As each of the ghosts touched his ring, Tris let his power flood through the connection, down into the hard ground of the battlefield, to the mass graves of long-forgotten soldiers.

Vitya was the first to kiss the ring. His soldiers lay buried beneath a millennium of soil, their bones now mostly dust. Tris’s magic touched the jumbled bones that lay together in trenches, buried long ago.

“Rise and fight. The lands of Marlan the Gold are under attack.” Tris knew that the language of these long-dead men was not the same Margolense that he spoke, but saying the words aloud enabled him to focus his power. As he had done in the crypt with Marlan, Tris sent images to accompany the words, letting the ancient dead see the battle that now unfolded above their battlefield tomb. Vitya called to them in a language Tris did not understand, but by Vitya’s tone and gestures, Tris could guess well enough at the meaning. After a millennium, Vitya was calling his fallen soldiers to arms.

The spirits responded sluggishly to Tris’s touch, but they knew the magic of Marlan’s talisman, and they rose to meet the call. Row upon row of the long-dead soldiers rose as spirits, empowered by Tris’s magic. Vitya shouted to them, raising his spectral sword over his head. Vitya’s soldiers replied in a war cry that was unmistakable in intent, and the ancient spirits swept into the fray. Tris spared a flicker of magic to make the advancing horde visible to living soldiers. They did not need his magic to fight. Fueled by vengeance long denied, the ghosts rose with a fury, sweeping across the battlefield toward the Temnottans. While their swords and daggers would pass harmlessly through their enemies, the ghosts themselves could also step through living flesh, chilling the unlucky soldiers to the bone and stopping a beating heart. A weak-willed soldier might find himself possessed, forced to turn on his own comrades. Vitya and his men would be avenged.

It took a moment for Tris to gather himself after the first working. He swayed and nearly fell. Fallon reached out a hand to steady him.

“Once is enough,” Esme said sternly. “If you raise the dead of all three, will you have the power to sustain it?”

Before Tris could answer, he heard a high-pitched, chilling wail. It came from the deepest shadows at the edges of the battlefield, but Tris felt it in his magic like a sudden winter blast. As he and Fallon looked out over the field, shadows like a thick black fog began to swirl toward the Margolan army. Tris knew that the dark fog was hollowed spirits. Darker shapes streaked through the fog, and even at this distance, Tris could feel the power of
dimonns
, called at Scaith’s command. Margolan’s fire mages sent volleys of flames at the hollowed spirits and the
dimonns
, which twisted and swirled out of the way.

“What choice do I have? Something is feeding Scaith blood magic power. Let the dead battle the dead and the
dimonns
. We don’t have enough soldiers or mages to fight both the living and the dead. I’d rather spend myself to a husk and go down fighting.” Tris saw the concern in Fallon’s eyes and knew that she was right to worry, but it did not change what he had to do. Reaching out to the Flow to steady his magic, Tris held out his hand to Estan.

Estan’s soldiers lay deep within the ground, but not so far beneath the surface as the ancient dead. These men had fallen in battle four hundred years ago, and their bones and rusting armor were still intact. “Armies of Margolan, rise and fight.”

Tris heard his voice echo through the Plains of Spirit, touching the dry bones of the dead. These spirits understood his words, even though Estan seconded the command, adding a familiar voice to the edict of a new king born generations after these soldiers’ death. By tens and then by hundreds, the spirits struggled clear of the land
that had entombed them. Estan gave a curt salute and faded from his position beside Tris, to reappear at the head of his army of revenants. Estan’s soldiers swept down the battlefield to place themselves as a gray line of defenders between the hollowed spirits and the overwhelmed Margolan troops.

This time, it took longer for Tris to rally. He waved off help from Fallon and Esme, and he drew once more on the power of the Flow.
If I keep this up, I’ll be as dead as the kings that Vitya and the others served
. Yet the howls and screams that rose from the battlefield gave Tris no choice. He took a deep breath and extended his hand to Dagen.

Dagen’s soldiers lay only a few feet beneath the battleground. The death and turmoil of the weeks of war had already roused the recently dead from their slumber. Only sixty years dead, these spirits were intact enough to have sensed the threat to their homeland, and they rose with a surge of energy and anticipation at Tris’s first call.

“Army of King Larrimore, my father’s father, rise and defend your homeland.” Dagen did not have to translate Tris’s call. The signet ring grew warm on Tris’s left hand. These spirits were not as weakened by their slumber as the ancient dead, and much to Tris’s relief, they required only his call to rise from their graves, barely needing any of his magic to make themselves visible.

Dagen wore a predator’s grin as he turned away from Tris. It didn’t matter to the ghostly general who the invaders were. To him and to his army of the dead, this battle was an opportunity for redemption, a chance to rewrite the ignominy of their long-ago defeat for the glory of king and crown. If he survived this battle, and that was looking far from certain, Tris promised himself that he would
make sure Royster chronicled the heroics of the dead as well as the living.
If I live through this, I’ll make sure Carroway writes a ballad or two about the old battles, to give the dead their due. Let’s just hope that what he writes for me is a victory song and not a requiem
.

Amid the smoke of the torches and the haze left by the burning catapult missiles, Tris saw a figure dancing toward them. The figured neared, and Tris recognized Alyzza. Alyzza’s mage robes were ripped and bloodied, filthy with the muck of the battlefield. She swayed to music only she could hear, seemingly deaf to the screams and death cries of those around her. But even at a distance, Tris could feel the wild magic that streamed in waves from Alyzza, once one of Margolan’s most powerful sorcerers.

Alyzza lifted up her hands as she sang and chanted, like a child dancing in the rain. But it was lightning, not raindrops, that fell at her command. With uncanny accuracy, streaks of lightning cracked down from the sky, striking only amid Temnottan soldiers. Men screamed and fled to the cheers and catcalls of the beleaguered Margolan army. The air around her was heavy with power, as streak after streak blazed to the ground, leaving shallow, burned holes in their wake. Alyzza threw off the power with apparent effortlessness, and the lightning struck with mad unpredictability. More than once, Tris saw Alyzza’s mage lightning send the
dimonns
and hollowed ghosts fleeing.

“ ‘What shall be done with all the dead, m’lord, when the crypts are full to bursting and the ground will hold no more?’ ” Alyzza’s singsong voice carried across the noise of battle, and Tris recognized the words from a play that was popular on Haunts.

“ ‘Consign them to the sea, and let the fish feed on their marrow,’ ” Tris replied, making an effort to remember the words to the play. A reaction headache throbbed with blinding intensity, and it was difficult to think. When Alyzza was lost in the madness, normal conversation was impossible, and only the words to a play or song she currently remembered reached her. Tris wished with his whole heart he had paid more attention to all of Carroway’s storytelling.

“ ‘What now, when blood and iron no longer serve and darkness mutes the day?’ ” Fallon asked. Tris glanced up sharply to see Fallon step forward, and he was grateful that she remembered another line from the play.

Alyzza brought down a streak of red-tinged lightning just behind the nearest Temnottan line, and the ground shuddered beneath their feet. “ ‘If iron and salt can hold the tide no longer, ’tis only the red blood of kings ’twill stem the flood.’ ”

Alyzza’s words brought the edge of a memory to Tris’s mind, but before he could grasp the full memory or its significance, a cry went up from the soldiers behind them. Tris, Fallon, and Esme turned to see what was enough to turn the men from battle. Tris caught his breath. Through the haze of smoke that hung over the battlefield, Tris made out the fast-approaching forms of beings that appeared neither human nor undead. Grotesque, misshapen forms moved with frightening speed toward the Margolan army, which now found itself caught between Scaith’s army and a new horror. Balls of blue and red light floated in the smoke and then took shape into creatures that were the stuff of legends and nightmares.

Voices shouted up and down the battle line as the
commanders rushed to redeploy their men. Tris and the mages fell back, but caught between the approaching force and Scaith’s army, there was nowhere to go.