For the second time in his brief reign, King Martris Drayke led his army to war.
Tris muffled a sigh as he reined in his restless horse. Moving an army was a monumental task, as was keeping it provisioned in the field. And while the Margolan coast was only a week’s ride north, the fact that food would be scarce again this year would make a difficult task that much harder.
“Final count is five thousand two hundred and forty-six,” Soterius said as he rode up beside Tris.
Tris nodded. “I’m afraid to ask, but how did we manage that? We barely pulled together four thousand men to fight Curane last year without leaving the palace undefended.”
Soterius shrugged. “Rumor has it that the plague hasn’t taken hold as much near the coast. I think some people signed up to outrun the fever. Most of the vayash moru and vyrkin refugees at Huntwood and Glynnmoor and Lady Eadoin’s manor also signed on. Trefor earned a field promotion; he’ll be leading them. As for the others, frankly, we weren’t as choosy on age if the recruits would swear they were between fourteen and fifty.” He grimaced. “And if they lied convincingly, we took them anyhow.”
Soterius paused, looking out over the group. “We’ve also taken more women as soldiers this time. Maybe it’s the queen’s influence, or maybe it’s the lack of better options that made so many come forward, but if they could wield a sword and provision themselves with equipment, we took them.”
“Do you think they realize what a fight this might be?”
“On one level or another, yeah, I think they do. Curane was a family feud, an internal problem. It’s a whole different game when there’s an invader headed for your coastline. That hasn’t been something Margolan’s worried about in a long time.”
Tris scanned the ranks. Most of the soldiers were on foot. Those with a horse were promoted into cavalry. Wivvers, their genius inventor, had brought along several of his killing machines, covered with tarpaulins and hauled by oxen. Wivvers’s machines had helped to turn the tide in the war against Curane at Lochlanimar, and Tris was glad to have him with them against a new enemy.
“The good news is that we’ve recruited more mages than before. Fallon’s been busy. We’re taking them all, from hedge witches to healers,” Soterius said. “Maybe it’s not surprising, but most of them already know that there’s dark magic afoot. They can feel it, even if they don’t know where it’s coming from.”
“We lost two generals last time out,” Tris said, watching the organized chaos of an army on the move. Supply wagons followed the infantry and mounted soldiers, and the wagons held everything from extra weapons to tents and bedding and food. Four blacksmiths’ wagons trudged along with them, as well as armorers and farriers. To move an army of soldiers, it took an army of civilians who would work behind the lines but often in no less danger to keep the army fed, sheltered, armed, and repaired. Tris glanced to one side and spotted the mages and healers. Most of them had horses, but they also took turns driving a wagon with their own supplies, both magical and medical. Even all of this, Tris knew, might not be enough to keep the army in true fighting shape, especially if the war dragged on.
“You’ve got Senne, Rallan, and me for starters. Trefor’s a colonel now. We were going to need to include him in our planning sessions; it’s good for him to have the rank to back it up. Senne and I put our heads together to promote talent within the ranks. We promoted Kiril and Taras to general based on how bravely they performed at Lochlanimar.” His eyes took on a haunted look. “Kiril assumed command when Palinn was killed. His men were the first through the wall, and they took heavy casualties, but they cleared the path. Taras handled the mop-up of sifting through the wreckage after the fighting stopped and he took charge of getting the army home. They’re both good men, and loyal.” Soterius paused. “We needed more generals. We don’t want you exposed the way you were the last time, against Curane.”
Tris grimaced. “That’s going to be hard to manage. If we really are coming up against a dark summoner, I can’t hide behind the ranks. I need to see what I’m fighting.”
Soterius gave him a sideways glance. “You’re still the king. Keeping you alive and as far out of harm’s way as we can is still our top priority.”
Against his will, Tris’s thoughts strayed back to Shekerishet, and to Kiara. Soterius picked up on the shift. “You’re not completely with us, Tris. Tell me what’s got you worried, and if I can fix it, that’s one thing off your mind.”
Tris gave a bitter chuckle. “I’m afraid it’s nothing you can fix. Kiara’s pregnant again. She was only a few days along when the army left; it’s only by magic that we knew so soon.” He let his voice trail off, not putting his real worry into words.
Soterius finished the thought for him. “And you’re worried, because Cwynn’s birth was so hard on her.”
Tris nodded. “That, and we don’t know what’s going to happen with Isencroft. She’s still heir to the throne there, and although the Divisionists are angry about our marriage, many Crofters see her as a hero.”
“You’re afraid something is going to happen that forces her to go back there, aren’t you?”
Tris gave him a grim smile. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Only for someone who’s been doing it since we were twelve years old.”
“Yes, I’m worried. I’m worried about Cwynn, worried about Kiara with the new pregnancy and me gone, worried about the Isencroft problem. Fallon tells me it’s the king’s business to worry. But she says that doesn’t mean I have to be better at it than anyone else,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Your Majesty!” Tris and Soterius turned to see Coalan riding toward them. The young man stood half a head taller than he had been just the year before, when he had accompanied Tris on campaign as his valet and squire. “General Senne sent me to tell you that he plans to camp for the night in another candlemark, with your approval.”
Tris nodded. “Tell him that’s fine with me. We’re nearly at the meeting point we arranged with the Sworn. Jair will have scouts watching for us.”
Coalan grinned. “Thank the Lady that we’re calling it a night. I’m about to die from hunger.” Coalan was Soterius’s nephew, and attaching his duties to the king had kept the young man out of the direct line of fire. But even behind the line, his loyalty had been valuable. At Lochlanimar, Coalan’s bravery and quick thinking had foiled an assassination attempt, and in this battle, he was officially one of the king’s personal bodyguards.
“Tell the truth; you were starving before we even broke camp this morning,” Soterius grumbled good-naturedly.
Coalan’s grin widened. “An army moves on its stomach. Don’t you know that?” He patted his belly. “I’ve got to keep my strength up to take care of our king.”
Soterius eyed the new baldric and sword that Coalan wore, as well as his cuirass. “You’re rather well armed for a squire, aren’t you?”
Coalan’s grin slipped, and Tris jumped into the conversation. “Those are my gifts,” Tris said, hurrying to avert a disagreement between Soterius and Coalan. “Just because he’s behind the lines doesn’t mean he’s safe. If he hadn’t known how to use a sword at Lochlanimar, I’d be dead now.”
The tight-lipped expression on Soterius’s face told Tris that his friend couldn’t argue with the logic, although Tris knew that Soterius desperately wanted to keep Coalan safe. “For defense of the king only, you hear me? I don’t want to have to explain to your father that you’ve gotten yourself cut up or worse, no matter how much of a hero it makes you.” Soterius gave Coalan a stern look.
Coalan barely contained his glee at winning this round of the argument. “Absolutely, Uncle Ban.” He grinned again. “If you’d like, you can put me in charge of guarding the cook wagon whenever Tris is in the field.”
Soterius rolled his eyes. “Like having the fox guard the hen house, isn’t it?”
Tris listened to them banter and he smiled with the first genuine glimmer of happiness he’d felt since leaving Shekerishet. Ban Soterius and Coalan were among a precious handful of old friends who had been close to him before Jared’s coup, before the fight for the throne, before the burdens of the crown. For just a moment, Tris remembered what it had felt like, only a little over two years ago, before his world had upended and everything he knew had been plunged into chaos. Such glimpses were fleeting, and increasingly rare, and Tris treasured them for every second that they lasted, knowing that they came too seldom.
Soterius’s voice brought him back to the business of war. “So Jair and the Sworn will meet us tonight? Does that mean the Dread will support us?”
It was late in the afternoon and the low, rolling hills cast long shadows. There were barrows not far from their chosen camp site, and the long shadows made Tris suppress a shiver. “All we’ve gotten from the Dread is a warning that they’re being courted by both sides. No promises that they’ll back one or the other, or that they’ll do anything at all. Probably best for everyone if they just stay out of it, but if the other side is trying to raise the spirits the Dread guard, then it may force a choice. The Sworn decided this was their business once someone started meddling with the Dread. So they’ll fight to keep the Nachale bound in the barrows, but they’re not signing on for more than that, at least, not yet,” Tris said.
It was the seventh day since the army had left Shekerishet, and although the Northern Sea was not yet in sight, there was a change in the winds and a faint tang of sea water in the air. This part of Margolan was known as the Borderlands, a rocky area with hard-scrabble farms and small fishing villages. It was an area Tris had seldom visited, and what little he knew came from Jonmarc Vahanian, who was born in one of the villages that traded with the fishermen, sailors, and itinerant tinkers who sometimes passed through these parts.
Tris could swear that his sore muscles felt every league of the journey. Although it had been less than a year since he had returned from the siege of Lochlanimar, the duties of kingship made it difficult to spend as much time in the salle or in the saddle as he would have preferred. In times of peace, kings had the luxury of enjoying a ride into the countryside for the hunt, or even extended visits in the homes of the nobility. When, or if, such opportunities might come his way depended on surviving long enough for peace to come again. Tris felt a weariness that had nothing to do with sleep or the fatigue of travel. Very soon, Margolan would be fighting for its existence. Many of the soldiers around him, and no small number of the mages and vyrkin and vayash moru as well, would die in that effort. Tris remembered his conversations with both Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great. This new invader would push an already strapped kingdom to its limits. Tris could only hope that the resistance they could muster, however valiant, would be enough.
The army camped far enough back from the coast to create a defensive line. At sunset, Tris climbed one of the low hills. In the distance, the setting sun cast an orange glow across the ocean. If all the signs were true, then before long, those rocky beaches would be red with blood. Tris sighed as the dying light shifted to a crimson hue as if it anticipated his thoughts. Along the horizon, Tris thought he could make out the faint shapes of ships, and he fervently hoped they were the make-shift navy Nisim had worked to assemble. A large ship that had the look of a privateer’s vessel was anchored out from shore, and two smaller boats were beached near camp.
“Ban told me you were up here.”
Tris turned as he recognized Jair’s voice. He wasn’t surprised to see Talwyn with him, and Tris welcomed both of them with an embrace. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Jair and Talwyn stood beside Tris, and Jair frowned as he looked out toward the sea. “Your ships?”
“I hope so. We’ll hear more about that tonight. Nisim is due with a report, and Fallon’s mages should have some new intelligence for us by then, also.”
“The attacks on the barrows have suddenly stopped,” Talwyn said. “While I’d love to think it was because of us, we really don’t know why they’ve ended, or whether they’ll start up again.” She nodded toward the ships on the horizon. “There’s no way to tell whether whoever was in league with the Black Robes got what they wanted, or gave up because they didn’t.”
“And the Dread?”
Talwyn shrugged. “They haven’t sought me out, and I don’t go looking for them unless it’s an emergency. For now, silence is probably good news.” She paused and looked at Tris as if studying his expression. “What magic do you feel?”
Tris gave a wan smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been jumpy since this afternoon, and the closer we got to the ocean, the worse it’s become. I’m tired from the ride, but I feel like I’ve had an entire pot of kerif. It’s a prickly kind of feeling, like when a storm’s coming.”
Talwyn nodded. “I feel the same way. I’ve tried to read the omens, without any clear results. Last night, I went to the spirit guides, but they had nothing to offer me. And yet, there’s something out there. It’s as you said back at the palace. There’s a hum, a vibration, just beyond what I can identify. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s still there.”
“And it’s growing stronger,” Tris agreed. “I keep thinking about Alyzza and the mages at Vistimar, wondering if it’s affecting them more or whether whatever they’ve been hearing is just now breaking through to the rest of us.”
“That’s a pleasant thought.”
Coalan’s head and shoulders came into view as he hiked up the path from where he stood guard below. “They’re calling for you, Tris,” he said, with a nod to Jair and Talwyn. “The meeting’s ready, and more to the point, so is supper.”
With a chuckle, Tris, Jair, and Talwyn followed Coalan down the pathway and back to camp. The sun had just set, and scores of campfires dotted the flat plain, and thousands of campaign tents, large and small, fluttered in the breeze. Beyond the tents, a newly built corral sheltered the horses and oxen. In the distance, Tris could hear the sound of axes, and he knew that Wivvers was busy directing work crews to fell the trees he needed for the catapults and trebuchets that could launch boulders and more deadly missiles into the harbor should the enemy’s fleet break past the defending ships. Tris sincerely hoped Wivvers’s machines would not be needed.
They returned to camp to find that Tris’s campaign tent had been assembled. Coalan had ransacked the officers’ tents to gather enough portable campaign chairs to offer everyone a seat. A small brazier warded off the autumn chill.
“We couldn’t manage a table just yet, but at least no one has to sit on the ground,” Coalan noted cheerily as the others filed in. Coalan handed them each a bowl of hot stew and some hard biscuits as they entered. “Cook tells me that he’ll bake some bread tomorrow, and I have his word we won’t have stew every night, like last time.”
General Senne chuckled. “Most soldiers don’t join up for the food, lad. I thought your uncle would have told you that.”
Coalan grinned. “He did. But I can still live in hope.”
Tris looked around at the group that filled the tent. Senne, Rallan, and Soterius from the generals. Trefor for the vayash moru and vyrkin. Sister Fallon and Sister Beyral. Jair and Talwyn from the Sworn. And Nisim, who wore a grim look. Two other men sat with Nisim. The first man was in his middle years and looked like he knew hard work and time spent out of doors in bad weather. His hands were calloused and broadened and his clothes were plain. He wore a heavy sweater with an elaborate knot design, and Tris guessed that he was one of the Bay Islands men Nisim had been recruiting. He’d heard that the fishermen wore sweaters knitted with patterns distinct for each family, so that when a drowned man was reclaimed from the sea, the remains could be identified. A sextant and spyglass hung from leather straps on the man’s belt, and a wicked-looking fish knife was sheathed beside them. Not just Bay Islands, but a ship captain, Tris guessed.
The second man had the look of a mercenary. He was better dressed than the other stranger, with a coat and breeches that looked like they had once been expensive, although they had seen wear. His clothing and jewelry were a mixture that spanned the Winter Kingdoms and beyond: a vest of Mussa silk, leatherwork on his cuirass and baldric that looked to be some of the finest Isencroft had to offer, and a jacket with Noorish weave. His rings and the pendant at his throat were gold, set with Principality gems, and the charms that hung beside them were the carved stone and amber that were famous in Eastmark. The stranger wore a selection of knives on his belt and in his baldric that would have made Jonmarc envious, Tris thought. The man seemed to notice that Tris was looking at him, and he leaned forward before Nisim could speak.
“I’m Tolya, captain of the ship Istra’s Vengeance, and leader of the Northern Fleet.” Tolya watched Tris as if he were daring him to respond.
Tris met his eyes. “Happy to have you here, Captain. Nisim’s told you what we’re up against?”
Tolya snorted. “More like we told Nisim. Been scoutin’ for his Sentinels for a while now. The ships of the Northern Fleet are all run by their owners, profit-minded traders, we are, with a charter since the time of King Larimore to board and raid hostile ships in the name of the king of Margolan.”
Who gets to determine “hostile”? Tris wondered, but he kept his expression neutral. “What have you seen, Captain?”
Tolya smiled, a predator’s expression. “We’ve seen more ships, large ships, coming and going to Temnotta than ever in my memory. Big ships, carracks, and caravels.” His unpleasant smile did not reach his eyes. “We know they’re not trading. We’d have seen them in the ports and the trade routes. Can only be one reason why they’ve got ships like that. They mean to carry men, not cargo.”
Tris nodded. “And your ships? Are they fast?”
Tolya guffawed. “They’re rigged for maneuvering. Aye, they’re fast. Fast as anything in port in Temnotta, I’d wager. Our ships are built for pursuit and boarding. They’re outfitted to ram, if need be, and we have fire throwers to set the other ships ablaze.” His eyes tightened. “If we need to, we can fight in a line abreast. We’ve got crossbows and archers, and slings that can put heavy iron through a deck or a sail, or put a nice hole at the waterline.” He chuckled. “Got more than a few water mages, too, who know how to churn the sea and call the weather. Oh, yes, m’lord, we’re fast and we’re armed.”
“Good. We’re in your debt.”
Tolya smiled. “Yes, m’lord, that you are. And when the fightin’s over, I have some business propositions to discuss with Your Majesty in light of our brave service to the crown.”
Senne cleared his throat, and Tris could see the general’s obvious distrust of the privateer. Rallan looked as if he were calculating profit and loss. Tris met Soterius’s eyes, and he knew his friend well enough to read grudging approval. “I’d like to see Margolan’s trade increase, Captain Tolya. If you and your ships can do that, I am open to waiving certain port fees and tariffs.”
“Aye, then, we have a bargain and you have a fleet.”
Nisim looked as if he had been holding his breath. Conversation lapsed as the group turned its attention to the food, and for a few moments, it was quiet. They ate quickly, and Tris knew that as pressing as the business at hand was, they were all equally spent from the long ride. When Coalan had taken away the remains of dinner and poured brandy for all who wanted it, he moved to his post outside the door, and Tris looked at the others who had gathered.
“I’d like to hear from you and your other guest,” Tris said, looking to Nisim. “You’ve been closest to the sources.”
Nisim nodded. “We sent out spies in small boats to see if we could spot the enemy. Two weeks ago, we had reports that a large fleet was on the move coming from the direction of Temnotta, on the other side of the Northern Sea. They were still a distance away, but the spies spotted them in their scrying glasses and made visual contact.
“Last week, our spies were due to report. They didn’t. We found a couple of their boats drifting empty, but of the spies themselves, nothing.” Nisim met Tris’s eyes. “They were mages. They should have been able to leave some kind of trace, send some sort of signal. Our far speakers have listened for them, and our dream speakers have waited for them, but there’s been nothing at all.”
“You think they were captured?”
Nisim nodded. “Captured, maybe killed.”
“It’s not the first time.” They all turned to look at the man beside Nisim.
“This is Pashka. He’s the leader of the Fisher Guild out in the Bay Islands.”
Pashka looked at Tris with sea-gray eyes. His expression held no particular deference, and Tris recalled Nisim’s comment that the Bay Islands barely considered themselves to be part of Margolan. Tris wondered how long it had been, if ever, since the islanders had heard from their king, and whether or not Pashka believed himself subject to any monarch.
“Our boats started to disappear last year,” Pashka said in a weather-roughened growl. He had an odd accent, more guttural than the hill country, flatter than the Borderlands. With a start, Tris knew where he had heard such an accent before. It reminded him of the Margolense spoken by ancient vampires, and by the ghost of King Hadenrul. It would seem that the Bay Islands had kept to themselves for a very long time. “First just one or two.” He shrugged. “Such things happen. Fishing is a dangerous business. But it was odd, because there were no storms, and the men who went missing had fished those seas all their lives. They weren’t reckless.
“Then a few more went missing, and our wives took to painting runes and sigils on our boats to protect us. Our hedge witches told us about dark omens, and our seers had dreams about the bodies of long-dead men rising from the ocean.” A pained expression crossed Pashka’s face. “My brother was one of the men who disappeared. Two of my nephews went missing along with him. I don’t believe they drowned.”
“Why not?”
“Because our rune scryers found a warning carved into one of the empty boats.” Pasha’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t carved by our folk. It was in old runes, she said, hard to read.”
“What did it say?”
For the first time, Tris saw a glint of fear in Pashka’s eyes. “It said to beware the cold north wind that raises the dead and buries the living.”
“Pleasant,” Soterius muttered.
Pashka sighed. “That’s not all, m’lord. Been bad omens all summer. You’ve heard of the Spirit Lights, I wager, the curtain of light in the sky far to the north?”
Tris and Soterius nodded.
“Well, there’ve been strange lights to the north, like nothing even the old men have ever seen. The Spirit Lights are cold colors, green and blue and white. These lights look like blood in the clouds. Puts a chill to your bones, it does, to see it. Fearsome as Nameless and the Wild Host. Got so that people stayed indoors after dark, wouldn’t look up, for fear of it.” Pashka paused, as if uncertain whether to go on, and then plowed ahead.
“Then two of our hedge witches went mad, not long after the strange lights began. One of them ran off a cliff, screaming, and drowned herself in the sea. The other set herself on fire.” He shook his head. “Our seers say that they hear voices in their heads, evil voices. They draw runes around their beds to keep the spirits out of their dreams, but they say they can hear the voices singing, screaming, all the time.” His eyes were haunted. “Our healer had to drug one of our seers to make her sleep, it got so bad. Every time she wakes up, she starts screaming again.”
Tris exchanged glances with Soterius and Fallon. “We’ve had similar problems as far inland as Vistimar.”
“Truly?” Pashka said in surprise. “Then you know I didn’t invent this tale.”
“Our mages have felt it, too,” Fallon replied. “Something dark and hungry, just at the edge of the light. Most of them won’t sleep without a lantern lit, and some have gone to sleeping in shifts, so that someone is always awake and watching.”
Pashka leaned forward. “For generations, we Islanders have been happy to be left alone. We don’t bother no one, and no one bothers us. But we know how to fight. Whoever is taking our men, our ships, as far as we’re concerned, they’ve struck the first blow. Nisim says you mean to fight them. If that’s true, we’ll fight beside you.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“Thanks to Pashka and the Bay Islanders, we have more than a hundred small boats patrolling in shifts,” Nisim added. “Their boats will be perfect for harassing the enemy fleet, since they’re small and fast. They’ve also agreed to mount a lookout on the highest hill on the island, and if they see foreign ships, they’ll light the bonfire. We’ll be able to see it from here.” Nisim took a deep breath. “We’ve been recruiting from all the coastal towns as well, from the Isencroft border to the Principality border. In addition to Tolya’s privateers and Pashka’s fishermen, there are plenty of small boats that would be perfect for hit-and-run skirmishes, and some larger ships, cargo ships, that should be able to help hold off warships, depending on the size of the Temnotta fleet.”
“Thank you, Nisim,” Tris said. He looked to General Senne and the men next to him. Trefor, leader of the contingent of vayash moru and vyrkin, sat beside Senne, next to General Rallan. “What about the troops?”
Senne nodded. “We have men out on the beach digging trenches and laying snares. If the Temnottans get past the fleet, they won’t just stroll up the beach.” He gave a cold smile. “Wivvers has been doing what he’s best at: inventing things to cause mayhem and panic. We have a few surprises in store.” He glanced at Trefor and Rallan. “Trefor’s working with his troops. A fair number of the vayash moru served with one army or another, depending on when they lived, and for some of them, since they’ve been undead. Fewer of the vyrkin have any soldiering, but he’s getting them organized. We should have his scouts out by nightfall tomorrow, and surveillance from the vayash moru who can fly.”
Tris turned to Fallon and Beyral. “Are the mages ready?”
Fallon and Beyral nodded in agreement. “They’ve been on alert since we left Shekerishet, scanning the road ahead of us and the land around us. We’ve needed to rely more on charms and warding than ever before, because of that hum Talwyn was talking about, but so far, no one’s been damaged by it.”
“And has your magic picked up anything?”
Fallon grimaced. “Yes and no. We’ve got a good variety of mages with us: healers, seers, scryers, and dream seekers, as well as air, land, water, and fire mages. Anyone with any kind of far sight is taking shifts on watch, and Beyral has been reading the omens in a variety of ways. There’s nothing conclusive yet from any of that, but we should be in position to pick up something when it happens.” She paused. “It may be that whoever is behind this knows we’ve raised an army. Maybe they’ve backed off from using magic-as Talwyn said, the Black Robes have stopped their attacks-because they’re getting ready for something.”
“Like a big strike?”
Fallon nodded. “That’s what I think.” She sighed. “We knew it was going to come. I have a mage from each element on watch in shifts. This time, we have enough mages to do that, thank the Lady. It should help us respond faster and to get a warning sooner.”
Fallon met Tris’s eyes. “What of the dead?”
Everyone looked to Tris. “I called to them when we first made camp. I know you chose this spot for the army because it’s been a battleground before.”
Senne nodded. “More than once, and that’s just in Margolan’s history. Given that it’s wide and flat and near the coast, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’ve been battles fought here no one remembers.”
“You’re correct,” Talwyn said. “My magic works differently from Tris’s, but I, too, sense the Ancient Dead here. Not just the Dread and the Nachale in their barrows, but mortal dead, just as ancient, beneath us.”
“I called them and they came,” Tris said. “They called this land home, even before Marlan the Gold claimed it, before it was Margolan. Some of them were Marlan’s troops. Some served Hadenrul, and some fought here before the bards and the scribes began their histories.”
“Will they fight for you? Will they join us?” Senne leaned forward, his eyes alight. Senne had no magic of his own, Tris knew, but after seeing what Tris’s summoning magic was capable of doing at Lochlanimar, Senne had become passionately interested in the military advantage a true summoner could pose.
Tris took a deep breath. “I’ve asked them to join us.”
The air became suddenly cold enough that those in the campaign tent could see their breath. Three glowing forms took shape in the open area circled by the chairs. The first ghost wore the armor common more than a hundred years before. His breastplate was shattered, and his death wound left a gaping hole in his chest. Next to him stood a man clad in leather and skins, with a crude, two-handed sword in a back scabbard and a necklace of bone and shells.
The third ghost carried a shield and sword of old design, and Tris knew the ghost to be one of Hadenrul’s men. All of them had the look of leaders, and Tris knew that, in their lives, they had commanded legions of men.
“Welcome, honored dead.”
The third ghost looked at the talisman that Tris wore at his throat, the amulet he had taken from Marlan the Gold’s tomb, and then to Nexus, the spelled sword Tris wore in his scabbard. The three ghosts bowed.
Tris motioned for them to rise. “Have you taken my word to the spirits of your men?”
The ghost with the shattered breastplate nodded. “We have.”
“And what is their decision?”
The man who had served Hadenrul stepped forward. “We are agreed. In life, and in death, we serve the land that bore us.” He inclined his head. “We’ve felt the call of another power, one from beyond our land, a voice we don’t know. It would command us, conscript us, force us to serve against our will, to fight those descended from our blood. We have agreed, Your Majesty, that we would rather be destroyed than fight against our countrymen. We are yours to command.”
The ghost knelt then, joined by the other two spirits. The soldier who had served Hadenrul pressed his lips against the signet ring on Tris’s hand that bore the crest of the House of Margolan, and the others followed suit. Tris gestured for them to rise.
“This is Vitya, one of the most feared of Marlan the Gold’s warlords,” Tris said, introducing the leather-clad warrior. “Estan fought in the service of King Hadenrul the Great and was rewarded by his king for being crafty and ruthless in battle.” The second ghost inclined his head in recognition. “And this is Dagen, who served my grandfather, King Larimore, with great valor.”
Tris turned his attention back to the ghosts. “When this is over, I’ll make the passage to the Lady for those who want to go to their rest. Those who want to remain, to guard your land, we welcome.”
“Will you protect us from the Hollowing?” It was Estan who asked, and his dead eyes were fearful. “Whatever calls to us wants more than our defeat. It would consume us. You’re a summoner. Can you protect us? We’re past fearing death. We don’t fear the passage to the Lady, whichever Aspect calls for us. But to be consumed, to be hollowed out, that has the power to frighten even the dead.”
Tris met Estan’s eyes. “On my crown and on my soul, I will use all my power, in life and in the Plains of Spirit, to protect you from the Hollowing. I swear it.”
Whatever else the ghost meant to say was interrupted when a runner burst into the tent.
“Your Majesty! The island beacon is lit. There are ships on the far horizon, lots of them, and the sky is red with blood.”
Tris led the way out of the crowded tent to where the entire camp stood staring at a sky gone crimson, as if a glistening curtain of blood shimmered across the dome of the night, blotting out the stars and darkening the moon.
Around him, Tris could hear commanders barking orders. Senne, Rallan, Soterius, and Trefor ran for their troops. Soldiers rushed to mobilize, and Tris caught a glimpse of vayash moru taking to the sky.
Only the ghosts remained with Tris. Estan raised his face to stare at the glittering, blood-red light. Then he turned to meet Tris’s eyes. “It begins.”