"I don't like it, but I don't see another option." Soterius said, leaning back in his chair.
"I agree." Senne crossed his arms. "Fm worried about sending men down into the caves. It could be a trap. Even if it isn't—there won't be much room to maneuver."
"There are men in my battalion who are miners. Caves are roomy compared to what they're used to." Tarq replied. "They've volunteered to be part of the advance troops, and I've sent a dozen of the best, plus my second in command, to go with Soterius. If we time it right, all of Curane's attention should be focused on the assault against Fochlanimar." He glanced sideways at Senne. "You do have your siege machines functional again—don't you?"
Senne's mouth pulled into a tight line. "They're quite functional. We're making a two-part strike this time. During the night, we'll send the vayash moru against the guards again. Tabok said the tunnels were spelled against vayash moru, so they couldn't help Soterius. We'll also put them around the battering ram throughout the night. Ashtenerath or corpses won't bother them. Neither will more of the 'dark sendings.' Come dawn, we'll replace them with regular soldiers—after we've softened things up a bit."
"Latt and Fallon assured me that they've already sent ill humors to cause dysentery among Curane's troops," Tris replied. "Unpleasant, but effective. It should reduce Curane's forces and slow down their response." He took a sip of brandy. "The ghosts came to me last night. They have a plan. They'll make another attack from inside, timed to support Soterius. That'll give Latt the chance to break the spells on the tower protecting the girl and her baby and let Soterius and his strike force through."
Tris's head hurt from an afternoon spent with the mages. It had taken a week after the last battle for Tris and the other mages to regain enough strength to hold their own in a fight. Gauging from Curane's silence, Tris doubted their foe's mages were in any better shape. The Flow, which had been dangerously unpredictable before, was now even less stable. If Curane's forces don't kill us, our own magic might, Tris thought.
"Between the frontal assault and the tre-buchets on the flanks, Curane won't notice us until it's too late." Soterius said. "The tunnels come up right below the keep. If we can capture the girl and her baby, Curane has no choice but to surrender."
Tabok's ghost stood behind Soterius. "Unfortunately, after the last attack, Curane's mages have spelled their war room. I can't get in. I think they suspect that the ghosts are spying for you. They've been careful not to discuss anything outside of the war room. But from what I do see, he's confident. He's got something planned, something big." He sighed. "But I have some good news. The ghosts from the crypts beneath the city terrorized enough of Curane's men that their commanders had to threaten them with scourgings to get them back to their posts." He gave a cruel smile. "There, at least, we succeeded."
"His blood mages are making amulets to dispel ghosts and hold off the vayash moru. Most are worthless trinkets. But some do carry power. He's armed his key battalions with those charms, the ones manning the gates and the upper walks. His mages are showing the strain. The more desperate his mages become, the worse the lot of the villagers trapped in the walled city. There's plague down in the ginnels. Curane ordered a quarter of the city walled off to contain it. Others say his mages caused it, to spread it to your troops and kill with fever what his arrows can't reach." Tabok looked to Tris. "Curane won't accept defeat. He's not going to give in so long as there's a man with breath to hold a sword. I'm afraid that the only way to defeat him is to destroy every living thing inside that holding."
"Can your land mage do something about the weather? If it stays this cold, we'll be lucky not to freeze in our beds." Palinn drew his cloak tighter around him despite the fire that blazed in the metal stove in the center of the tent. Outside, strong winds whipped the canvas of the tent and howled down the open spaces between the encampments.
"If she could, she would," Tris said. "There's worse weather coming—that's why we didn't want to put off the strike any longer. Snow and high winds. If this doesn't work, it could be a while before we have the opening for another strike—and it's a fool's bet on whether our side or theirs will be more miserable waiting it out."
"We'll have pairs of mages with two of the attacking forces," Tris said. "Fallon and I will cover the front. Beryal will back up Ana on the left flank—she's not completely recovered from the last attack. Vira will handle the right flank. Latt will go with the strike force. That splits us up so that the enemy can't get in a lucky shot and wipe us all out." Tris looked at Soterius.
"Get your forces into position. We'll move at second bells. They may not be expecting an attack in the middle of the night."
"We'll leave at dusk and be in position by the time you're ready."
Esme slipped inside the tent as Soterius and the generals headed for their troops. "A word with you, your majesty?" "What is it?"
"There's a fever started among the men," Esme reported. "Only a few cases so far, but it's nothing I've seen before. One of the men was fine in the morning and dead by nightfall. He was coughing up blood. We've tried to keep the sick men from going back to their battalions, but with an attack coming up, they don't want to miss the fight. I'm worried. If this attack doesn't break Curane, if we're stuck here for weeks or months, the fever could get ugly. Worse, if we take it home with us to the city." "Keep me informed. And if we didn't already have all the reasons in the world to win tonight, we've got one more now."
Soterius braced himself against the bitter wind. "I'm so happy we decided to do this before the weather got bad," he muttered. A light snow was falling, and by the look of the heavy clouds, more would fall by morning. Behind them, the sound of battle echoed in the night. A sea of torches lit the way for the army as it made its attack on Lochlanimar.
"They should be in place by now," Pryce, Tarq's second-in-command, said.
"Let's move."
The soldiers pressed through the snow. It was almost as deep as a man's knees, and Soterius knew it wouldn't be any easier on the return journey. He had sent two scouts on ahead, and their tracks were already covered by the snow. The two dozen soldiers trekked in silence. Only a half moon lit their way. When it clouded over, Latt magicked a dim blue magelight, just enough to keep them from blundering in the dark.
Ahead of them loomed the foothills, and the entrance to the tunnels. They had walked for more than a candlemark, but the torch fire of battle still glowed on the horizon. Even at this distance, they could hear the distant thud of the battering ram.
"There it is," Soterius said, pointing to the cleft in the foothills that matched Tabok's description. He surveyed the terrain. "Now where the hell is the signal?"
A lantern blinked twice.
The scouts met them on a rocky hillside. "Where's the cave entrance?" Soterius asked.
One of the scouts pointed to the ground a few paces away. What Soterius first took for a shadow was really a deep hole. "We explored as much as we dared. The path isn't so bad at first, but then it slopes down. It'll be tricky."
Soterius nodded. "Tabok didn't think we'd need them, but we've got ropes and harnesses, just in case. I'd feel better if he and a few of his ghosts were around to lead the way."
Latt stepped closer to the cave entrance. She raised her hands, palms out, and closed her eyes for a moment. "Tabok's right. I can sense magic down there. My guess is that someone's placed runes to ward away the vayash moru— and the ghosts, too. I'd better be in the front—just in case they left us any other nasty surprises."
Six of Tarq's men led the way into the caves with Latt right behind them. Their torches sent flickering shadows across the rock walls. Soterius followed, then Pryce. Pell and Tabb, two of Soterius's first recruits in the rebellion, walked behind him. The soldiers carefully made their way down the sloping cave entrance. Latt used her magic to assure that the pathway was solid, and to feel for openings in the rock around them. As the path led downward, deeper into the mountain, it grew even colder.
As the scouts reported, the path sloped steeply. Ice made it treacherous. Their torchlight glistened as it reflected from the sheets of ice that rippled down the cave walls and the crystals beneath. In places, the pathway led along the rim of chasms that even Latt's magelight could not illuminate to the bottom. I never thought I'd want a vayash moru with me as much as I do now, Soterius "It's slipping," Latt warned. "I can't hold it much longer."
With a mighty heave, the men pulled Hoyt and Pell back from the brink as the path gave way completely. "Jump!" Soterius shouted to the men stranded on the other side. It was too late. The path crumbled beneath their feet. The men pulling Hoyt and Pell scrambled as the walkway dropped into the abyss, nearly taking Pell and his rescuers with it.
Rock dust filled the air, making it difficult to breathe. Hoyt and Pell collapsed, safe on the remaining stub of the pathway.
"That was too damn close," Soterius said, wiping the grit from his face with his sleeve.
"Agreed," Latt said.
"Are you all right?" Soterius shouted to the men on the other side of the ruined pathway.
"We're all right, but we can't reach you."
"Wait for us. And keep an eye out. There were other passages that opened into that first room—we don't know where they went or what's in them."
"Yes, sir."
"Can you find any of the sigils that are keeping out the ghosts or the vayash moru?" Soterius asked Latt, helping her to her feet. "Maybe if we could remove those, we could get some reinforcements."
"I'm looking for them. Haven't come upon any yet. They must be deep in the caves. But there's something up ahead."
thought. Goddess! I'd give a lot to have a few soldiers who could see in the dark.
Twice, Latt raised a hand for the group to halt and tested the path ahead with her magic. Both times, a portion crumbled into the abyss, forcing them to slide single file, inching their way, around the collapsed sections. Soterius cursed under his breath as he scraped along the icy rock wall, glad that the darkness kept him from seeing all the way to the bottom of the chasm.
Behind him, a man screamed. Soterius turned just in time to see Pell lose his footing on"the slick rock. Too late, he scrabbled for a handhold as the pathway crumbled. Hoyt, another of Soterius's men, dived to grab Pell's wrist.
"Let me go! You can't hold me!" Pell shouted.
"Pell! Hang on!" Soterius tried to work his way back toward where Pell clung to the rock. The narrow walkway was too crowded for him to back up, and he feared adding more weight to the crumbling path.
Hoyt slid forward and grasped Pell's other wrist. "Let go! I can pull you up!"
Rocks began to fall beneath Pell's feet. Latt turned, shifting her magic. The rockslide stopped. "Pull him up. Hurry!"
The two men closest to Hoyt each grabbed one of his legs and began to pull. "Go!" Latt grated through clenched teeth. The walkway was beginning to shake, and a hail of small rocks began to cascade along the sides.
They had been walking inside the caves for at least two candlemarks. It was probably around tenth bells outside, Soterius guessed. Still long before Tris and the others would launch the main attack. Finally, the path leveled out.
Latt moved forward among Pryce's scouts. "Look, there's one of the sigils!" Latt pointed to a rune written in letters of fire on the rock wall. Its dim glow was barely visible in the haiflight. Pryce moved up behind Soterius. On the narrow landing, there was little room to spare. Behind them, a chasm opened into blackness.
In the dim glow of Latt's mage light, Soterius could see a narrow walkway with chasms on either side leading to a broad landing, and on the far wall, an .opening. "Maybe that's our way out of here," Soterius whispered to Pryce.
Latt turned toward the sigils and raised her hands, chanting as she tried to break the old magic. There was the sound of rushing air, the glint of metal in the torchlight. Latt stiffened and staggered as a thrown dagger found its mark, embedding itself hilt deep in her back. A man's scream made Soterius wheel in time to see Hoyt fall backward, flailing, into the chasm, pushed by one of Pryce's men.
Soterius gasped as the steel of a blade slipped between his ribs. Pryce jerked the blade free, and it ran red with blood. "The mage's dagger had wormroot. Don't expect any help there."
Torches fell to the rock floor as Pell and Tabb struggled with Pryce's men. One lay face down, a dagger deep in his back. On the narrow landing, it was impossible to fight with swords. Daggers drawn, the two men fought back to back, outnumbered by Pryce's soldiers.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Soterius launched himself at Pryce. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Latt stir. Soterius staggered as he tackled Pryce, taking them both close enough to the edge of the chasm that Pryce's boots knocked stones loose to tumble into the shadows. "Why?"
"I've been waiting for weeks in that miserable camp. I'll give you credit. You didn't make this easy. Tarq promised that Curane will make me a general for this." "Tarq? That lying son of the Whore—" As Soterius and Pryce struggled, Pell and Tabb hurled themselves at their attackers with a battle cry that echoed from the rock walls. Caught off guard, one of the attackers stepped too far backward and tumbled into the darkness. Two of Pryce's men closed in against Pell while the others circled Tabb. Pryce chuckled.
"Admit it. You've lost." Pryce slammed Soterius back against the rock wall so hard his head swam. "Curane's got his own men in the tunnels—they'll take care of the ones who couldn't cross the rock bridge. It's over." "Not while you're still breathing."
Pell, bleeding from a score of wounds, fought his attackers like a wild thing until a blade caught him in the throat. He staggered and fell to his knees, blood foaming in his mouth. Tabb's attackers sprang like a wolf pack, and Tabb went down.
Soterius saw Latt raise herself onto her knees. A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of her mouth and her face was tight with concentration, as if she were marshalling all of her effort to overcome the wormroot in her system. A burst of magic streamed from Latt's outstretched hands. The sigil flared, blinding them for a moment, then went dark. Latt collapsed face down on the landing and lay still.
I'm dying—and I'm taking that traitorous dimonn-spawn with me, Soterius thought grimly. Soterius mustered his failing strength to shift his grip, throttling Pryce. His battle cry was part defiance, part a howl of rage and pain. He could feel the blood running down his side beneath his shirt. Pryce tore loose and drew his sword, although the cramped quarters made a full press awkward. Soterius staggered and drew his own blade as the caverns around them filled with the sound of rushing air and ghostly wails.
"What in the name of the Crone—" Pryce shouted. The wails grew louder and the temperature dropped until their breath fogged. Streaming from the abyss and from the openings in the rocks, ghosts swarmed down on Pryce's soldiers, maws open and teeth bared. The torches guttered as Pryce's men cried out in terror, cut off from escape. As the last light flickered, the ghosts' green glow made it just possible to glimpse the horror of their attack. Pryce's eyes glinted with desperation as his men fell to the avenging spirits.
Soterius heard the swing of Pryce's sword blade and threw himself out of the way, bringing up his own blade as he fell to his knees. His sword caught Pryce in the belly, spilling a steaming mix of blood and entrails onto the rocks. Soterius struggled to reach his feet, but his body would not respond. The world around him blurred and lost focus.
Tris dozed fitfully. It was early evening, long before the attack would begin, and he knew it might be his last chance for sleep. Just catching a candlemark of rest now could make the next few days more bearable. Although he doubted he could, exhaustion won out, and he fell into a troubled rest.
Tris found himself on the Plains of Spirit, enveloped by darkness so complete that he could not see his own hands. A presence rushed at him, tackling Tris before he could fully shield. It was a creature of the spirit plains, neither ghost nor mortal nor undead, a dimonn.
A second dimonn joined them, circling for the kill. The first dimonn tightened its grip, and Tris gasped, feeling it constrict his life force. The dimonn brushed against his mind, and Tris pushed back hard to repel the images of the dark sending before they could take hold. The real danger was the dimonn's grip, gradually drawing down his life energy. He knew he must break free or die.
Tris summoned his power, fueled by the fear that pumped through his blood. He reached for the magic and it slipped from his grasp. He reached again, focusing intently. The magic fluctuated erratically. The dimonns lunged for him.
A brilliant flash of light erupted from his fingertips, making the Plains of Spirit brighter than noonday. Tris bucked at the dimonn with his body and power, throwing it clear. The second dimonn howled and streaked toward him on the Plains of Spirit, but Tris raised a wall of fire between them. Before the dimonn could strike again, Tris doubled the fire, snapping the flames like a curtain around the dark spirit until its howl became an ear-splitting scream. Hotter still the fire burned. Tris poured his fear and rage into his magic and his heart thudded in his ears. A mortal or vayash mom would have been instantly incinerated in those flames. Tris sent a final surge of power and held it until he felt the dimonn's energy wink out of existence. Where the flames had been was a scorched circle of ash. The dimonn was gone. Forced back by the flames, the second dimonn howled and disappeared.
With a rush, Tris returned to consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and he saw a dark figure above his cot. A blade glinted in the firelight. He threw himself to one side. Suddenly his attacker jerked, and blood spurted from his mouth as the point of a sword tore through his cloak from beneath his ribs. Behind the assassin stood Coalan, still holding the pommel of his short sword two-handed, his face an expression of horror and determination. With a gurgle, the attacker slid from the blade, crumpling at the foot of Tris's cot.
"Sweet Chenne." Tris stood and moved slowly toward Coalan.
"What happened?" Senne was the first to reach the tent, throwing the flap aside as soldiers rushed in behind him.
Tris placed his arm around Coalan's shoulders. "You're all right now." He pried the sword from Coalan's grip and handed it to a soldier to clean the blade. Then he guided Coalan to a chair by the fire, and returned to the trunk at the foot of his bed to pour a glass of brandy. Color returned to Coalan's face as he sipped the drink, but his hand still shook hard enough to spill the liquor.
Tris looked at Senne. "Curane's blood mages conjured dimonns. Without a spirit mage they can't actually control them, but any blood mage can invite one to parlay and bargain with it. They tried to kill me on the Plains of Spirit. I suspect they sent an assassin to make sure the job was done. Lucky for me, Coalan's a light sleeper."
Senne walked to the body and toed it over to lie face up. He reached down at snatched away the hood. "Dear Goddess."
Tarq lay dead on the floor.
"We wondered whether Curane had someone in the ranks. Now we know. What about the men he sent with Soterius?"
Tris stretched out his power along the Plains of Spirit, calling for Soterius and the men who went with him to the caves. One by one, the ghosts appeared. Pell, Latt, Tabb, Hoyt, and the rest. All but Soterius. It was obvious from their death wounds that Pell, Tabb, and Latt had died in battle. Coalan cried out as the ghosts manifested, and Senne cursed.
"What happened?" Tris asked, struggling to find his voice, overwhelmed by Tarq's betrayal.
Tris and Senne listened gravely as Pell's ghost told the tale. "What about Uncle Ban?" Coalan said..
"I saw Soterius struggling with Pryce and I saw him bring Pryce down, but then, everything went dark." Pell sighed. "We were too freshly dead for our spirits to interfere."
"I destroyed the sigil that kept the ghosts from entering the caves. It was the-last thing I did," Latt said. "The wormroot was too strong."
"If Ban's not among you, then he's not dead."
"What about Pryce and his men?" Senne asked. "They're not here."
"Not yet."
Tris reached out his hand and clenched his fist. He sent his power out along the Plains of Spirit until he found the ghosts of Pryce and his men where they fled from his call. He dragged their spirits screaming back from the nether plains, until they stood before him. Tarq's ghost was with them, as stiff and straight in death as he had been in life.
"You betrayed them," Tris accused.
Pryce's smile was ugly. "We took out our objective. Just business."
"They were your comrades. They trusted you."
"If we survived, Tarq said we'd be rich men. What did we have here except soldiers' pay?"
"Honor," Senne spat. "You had honor."
"I can't eat honor."
Tris struggled against his rage. Remember Lemuel. Remember the Obsidian King.
Pryce looked at Tris. "If Soterius isn't here yet, he will be soon. He was bleeding like a stuck pig when he went down."
The adrenalin from the assassination attempt still pounded in Tris's veins, fueling the raw emotion that found expression in his power. "Go to the dimonn," he said, unclenching his fist to let his power hurl the unrepentant ghosts back onto the Plains of Spirit. The dimonn Curane's mages had summoned still prowled the shadows of the netherworld, denied its meal. In Tris's mage sight, he saw the dimonn set itself on the ghosts, and heard it rend their souls as it fed on the last of their energy, saw their spirits wink out of existence as their cries fell silent.
When he returned to himself, Tris was shaking violently. The others were staring at him, ashen-faced.
"I don't know what just happened," Senne said, his usually imperturbable manner shaken. "But I think Ban and the others have been avenged."
Goddess help me. What did I do?
"Find me two vayash moru we can spare. Send them to the caves. Latt broke the ward-ings, so they should be able to enter. None of our men can get past where the path collapsed. If Ban's alive, I want him found."
"Immediately, sire," Senne said, bowing low and heading out the door.
Tris drew a deep breath and turned to face Pell and the remaining ghosts.
"I owed them a court martial," Tris said quietly.
Pell managed a wan smile. "I've always heard that the penalty for murdering your own officers was death—no trial required."
"Perhaps so," Tris replied. He looked at Pell. "Would you go to your rest now?"
Pell glanced around at his fallen comrades. Slowly, they shook their heads. "We came to fight this war," Pell said. "And we're going to finish it."
Soterius lay still for what seemed like forever. Low in his back where Pryce's knife had ripped through his skin below his cuirass, it felt as if his insides were on fire. I'm going to die here. Tris won't know until it's too late that Tarq betrayed us. I've failed.
The ghosts swirled around him as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Whether the growing cold was from the spirits' presence or his coming death, he didn't know. "Is there anyone else out there? Anyone?" Silence greeted him.
"Well, now I understand about the Ruune Vidaya," he mumbled to no one. Watching the vengeful ghosts shred Pryce's soldiers like starving wolves had been the worst thing he had witnessed in all of his soldiering. "At least I won't lose sleep over it." Nothing would wake him from his next sleep, nothing except the soulsong of the Lady. Soterius drew a long, painful breath. He closed his eyes. I'm ready. It's over.
"Got him."
The man's voice sounded close by, although Soterius couldn't tell whether he heard it or imagined it. Impossibly strong arms lifted him from the rock ledge. He opened his eyes, but the darkness was complete. His rescuer took one step and then lifted from the ground, and the brush of cold air against his skin told him they were moving. "Hang on," a voice whispered. "Rest." The last word sounded with compulsion, an undeniable request. Soterius resigned himself to the darkness.
For the second time, the Margolan army forced its siege machines through the snow toward the walls of Lochlanimar. The heavy battering ram creaked and groaned as vayash moru soldiers added their inhuman strength to the horses' effort. Two rows of archers with long bows kept up a constant cover of arrows to protect their approach. The vayash moru, clad with helms and chest plates, regarded the arrows of the enemy as annoyances, pulling them from their arms and legs as if they were stinging gnats. The heavily armored horses were happy to be rid of their burden just beyond Curane's archers' best firing range, leaving the burden to the vayash moru. Mortal soldiers armed with throwing axes and broadswords kept careful watch along the moat and the castle footings, alert for asheten-erath or the blood-magicked corpses from the moat.
Trebuchets on both sides sent deadly missiles into the air. Bags filled with shards -of metal and nails pulled from fence posts and old barns hurtled through the air, ready to explode with the force of impact and send shrapnel through the bodies of the soldiers behind the walls. Curane's trebuchets hurled flaming corpses, heavy rocks, and splintered glass and pottery. The bombardment was too solid for Tris and Fallon to be able to deflect every one. To his right, Tris saw a hail of broken glass reach its target, cutting down his men in a spray of blood.
Beside Tris, Fallon raised her hands, muttering to herself and raising her face to the winds. The air shifted and the wind came about, favoring the Margolan archers. Tris could feel the magic around them roiling. Even this small magic from Fallon took great skill against the balky Flow. Tris felt the blood magic swell before it struck, a wall of fire erupting down the castle walls, fire that burned men but not rock. Tris could hear the screams of soldiers and vayash moru as burning men jumped into the stinking moat or rolled in the snow to put out the flames. Tris focused his power and struck back, imagining the flames snuffed like a candle wick.
Rum kegs with burning rags stuffed in their tap holes flew through the air, hurled by Curane's forces. They exploded not far in front of the platform where Tris and Fallon stood.
Too late, Tris felt a presence focus on his power. Pain like a sheet of fire descended on both Tris and Fallon, driving them to their knees. Tris struggled against the bucking Flow to send power to his shields. He felt Fallon's shields fail completely and heard her cry out in agony, writhing in the snow.
Tris lashed out, sending all of his magic burning back along the trail the pain spell had left in the Flow. Linked to his tormentor by the pain spell, Tris felt his own magic explode along the channels of magic.
Tris focused his entire being on a single thought: burn.
With a lurch, Tris felt his magic reach its target. Tris felt his power reach the mage's life thread and wrenched the magic in his mind until it consumed the blue glow of the mage's life. Screams echoed in his mind as the fire destroyed both body and soul.
Fallon grabbed him by the shoulders. "What did you do?"
It took all his concentration to focus his eyes. "Evened the odds."
Flames streaked across the night sky like meteors. Anything at hand became fodder for the trebuchets. Tris and Fallon could barely react in time to protect their troops from the worst of the attack. The battering ram kept up its steady thudding. The walls of Lochlanimar were giving way. Crenellations broke loose and fell, crushing men with their deadly rain of stone.
"Do you hear?"
"What?"
"They've stopped launching," .Fallon said, looking up. "Do you think—"
"Shield!"
All of Curane's trebuchets fired at once, sending cauldrons filled with molten lead into the air. As the cauldrons tumbled, they sprayed the ground and the troops with gobs of burning metal that instantly stripped flesh from bones. Tris called for his magic and felt the Flow snap. Strands of blue-white power, like a flail of lightning, whipped toward them. One of the tendrils caught him by the leg, searing into his thigh. There was magic all around him, wild and dangerous. He could hear Fallon screaming but he couldn't see her. The great river of power that was the Flow glowed blindingly bright in his mage sense. Tris knew that if more of the tendrils gripped him he would die.
Dimly, Tris could hear the shouts of soldiers and the thunder of hoof beats. The real world was at the edge of his senses. Raw, wild magic engulfed him like a vortex and Tris was no longer certain whether he was still alive or whether it was his soul the white-hot river of power sought. His own magic was out of reach, further beyond his touch than ever since its awakening. The Flow surrounded him, filled him. In its surging power, Tris heard a howl of pain, as if the Flow knew it had gone mad. He could see nothing but blood, hear nothing but the screams of men and the howling of the Flow.
Tris's entire body ached and he wanted to throw up. A familiar feeling tingled through him. Wormroot?
"Take it easy. You're safe." Esme's voice. "We had to use wormroot to break the hold of the magic. We almost didn't get you clear in time. Our troops broke through part of the outer wall, but the casualties were high. Senne and Palinn ordered the men to fall back and regroup. Rest now."
He grabbed her wrist and forced himself to open his eyes. Even the candlelight was too bright. "How bad?"
"Ana is dead. Whatever happened to the magic consumed her. None of the other mages are in any better shape than you are, and some are considerably worse. Half of Curane's keep is in flames. We lost half a dozen vayash moru and one of the battering rams. As for the rest of the troops—the counts are just now coming in. We may not know the full toll until morn-ing."
"Ban?"
"Trefor found him. He's alive, but he's in bad shape."
"How long until the wormroot wears off?"
Esme looked worried. "You're in no condition—"
"I'm a Summoner and their king. My place is out there, with the soldiers. If I can touch the magic, then I can help you heal, or make the passage for the dying."
"It's going to be several candlemarks until the wormroot works its way out of your system. Why don't you sleep until then? You aren't in any better shape than most of the wounded." "I've been worse. Ask Carina."
Against Esme's advice, Tris dragged himself out of his cot as soon as the wormroot wore off. Only then did he realize that he was in his own tent, and that Soterius lay on a cot nearby. Coalan managed a faint smile in acknowledgement. Tris ignored the pounding in his head and knelt next to Soterius's cot.
"How is he?"
"Not much changed from when they brought him here." Coalan brought Tris a bowl of porridge from a pot by the fire and poured him a cup of kerif. The strong, bitter drink cleared his head.
Tris laid a hand on Soterius's arm. Carefully, he reached out to touch the magic. The power was elusive, but no longer wildly convulsing. Tris let himself stretch out, searching for the life thread he knew belonged to Soterius. The thread burned dim but steady. He could feel the remnants of Esme's healing power. Despite the dim blue glow of the life thread, Tris could feel how bad the damage was, and how much pain had been blunted by the healer's drugs.
"You don't look like you should be up," Coalan said.
"It's because of me that they're here," Tris said standing. "It's my burden to get them home again. If we can't beat Curane, we'll have the armies from Trevath and Nargi beating down our gates before summer. If Margolan falls, Isencroft falls with it, and the rest of the kingdoms will be fighting for a generation."
Tris winced as he pulled a tunic over his head and grabbed his cloak. He pulled back the tent flap. The harsh sunlight on the snow made him shield his eyes from the glare. "By the Whore," he whispered, looking out over the camp and the plains beyond it.
Bodies littered the trampled snow between the camp and Lochlanimar. The battering ram remained where it was, charred and useless. The walls of Lochlanimar were blackened and the eastern tower had partially collapsed. The walls were pockmarked from the bombardment and in many places the crenellations had fallen, leaving gaps like missing teeth along the upper walls. The air was still and cold. Tris looked out over the camp.
At the end furthest from Curane's castle, Tris saw the dead stacked on cleared ground, wrapped in whatever was at hand to shroud them. Firewood was too scarce for a pyre and the ground too hard to dig graves, and so men formed a relay line, handing along chunks of the stones hurled by the enemy's trebuchets to make a cairn. A lone piper and a drummer played a mournful tune. Clutching his cloak against the bitter wind, Tris walked through the camp. Soldiers made way for him with deference, but no one spoke.
He wasn't surprised to find Senne overseeing the cairn-building. Senne looked worn, as if he had aged since the start of the campaign. He made a perfunctory bow as Tris approached.
"How many dead?" Tris asked.
"Since we can't safely clear the field, we won't know for certain until a count is complete. If I had to guess, I'd say we lost about three hundred, and at least that number wounded in the battle at the gates. Fever's taken another two hundred. It may kill more than Curane's archers do before this is over."
Tris stepped forward and raised his hands toward the cairn. The crowd and the piper fell silent, and the drummer stopped his drumming. It hurt to reach for the magic, as if the channels of power had been seared. On the nether plain, it took all the power Tris could harness to make the spirits visible for the living.
The spirits of the dead soldiers turned toward him, a formation of gray ghosts rank upon rank. They watched his every move, as if the warmth of his living spirit might offer them comfort in the darkness. "I can't bring you back to life, but I can make your passage to the Lady," Tris said. One of the men stepped forward and struck his chest. As one, the ghosts echoed the salute.
"In life and in death, we'll follow where you lead."
Tris looked out over the faces of the dead. "You know what's at stake." In the distance, he could hear the soulsong of the Lady offering her respite, and he knew that the ghosts also heard that sweet song. "I won't bind you here, but if you wish to remain to fight, we'd welcome your help."
One by one, the spirits of the fallen soldiers knelt. To a man, they remained. "Thank you." Tris spoke the words aloud, and his voice caught. "When this is over, I'll make your passage to the Lady."
The magic wavered and threatened to slip beyond his grasp. Tris turned to face the crowd of soldiers who had assembled. Many of the soldiers were no older than he, and some were several years younger. In their faces he saw the shock and loss of battle. The same innocence that had died in his own heart was gone for them as well. In the faces of the older men, Tris saw quiet acceptance. These were the men who had lost family and entire villages to Jared, men who would not curse Death's coming if it ended memory and dreams.
"We're all that stands between Margolan and the darkness," Tris said, shouting to be heard above the wind. "If we let Curane's forces win, our children and their children will never know anything better than the yoke and the chain. On this thin line, Margolan will stand or fall, and with it, the Winter Kingdoms."
Somewhere in the ranks, one man began to clap. Others took up the beat until the entire camp rang with clapping, wave upon wave breaking the winter stillness. It echoed off the stone walls of Lochlanimar, loud enough to shake the snow from the trees.
"There's your mandate," Senne said quietly. "They know the odds, and the price. And to a man, we'll follow you to the Crone if that's what it will take to save Margolan."