The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Fishermen can’t hold off an invading fleet for long,” General Senne murmured.

  “Pashka and his people may be fishermen, but they know those waters like the inside of their own homes.” Ban Soterius was both a general and one of the king’s boyhood friends. He leaned in over the king’s shoulder. “Can Beyral make the image any sharper, Tris? I can barely see.”

  Despite the gravity of the moment, the king hid a slight smile. Soterius was one of a handful of trusted friends who still called him by his nickname. It was a fleeting reminder of the time, just over two years before, when Tris had been just a privileged second son with no aspirations to the throne, before coup and betrayal and war changed his destiny and the history of Margolan. “We can try,” Tris said, lending some of his own magic to amplify Beyral’s far-seeing.

  The image sharpened and grew slightly larger. “Look there,” Senne said, reaching out to point and only barely stopping himself before he disturbed the water and might have lost the image. “Are those actually ships?”

  Tris and Soterius bent to get a better look. “Some of them are,” Soterius said slowly, squinting to see better.

  “But look at those ships, the ones on the right,” Tris said, feeling a chill go down his spine. “They look like hulks, as if someone hauled a wreck to the surface and made it float.”

  Soterius met Tris’s eyes. “Could a summoner do that? I mean, you can call spirits back from the grave and make them solid. You have the power to raise the dead, even if Light mages don’t do such things. Can you raise ‘dead’ things like a ship hulk?”

  Tris bit his lip. “Technically, yes. The wood in the ships was living at one time, so once it’s cut, even though it’s ‘dead,’ there is a thread of connection. That’s the tricky part with summoning. If you’re sloppy about how you cast a spell, in theory, you could get not only the ghost you’re trying to summon but all the dead animals, insects, and plants in the immediate area.”

  “Are you telling me that Pashka’s men are fighting ghost ships?” Senne’s voice told Tris that the general was struggling to make yet another leap of faith to believe his king. Tris knew that while Senne’s loyalty was absolute, the general wrestled to understand his liege’s magic.

  “Afraid so.” As they watched, larger ships, carricks and caravels, entered the scene in the scrying bowl.

  “Tolya’s privateers are sailing to the rescue,” Soterius murmured. His tone told Tris that Soterius might have accepted the privateers’ help, but he didn’t fully trust their allegiance.

  “Look there!” Senne cried out, belatedly tempering his voice when he realized he had just yelled in the king’s ear. Tris and Soterius shifted their attention. “Those damn ghost ships are ramming the fishermen’s boats!”

  The image in the scrying bowl was smaller than Tris would have liked, though holding even that size of an image required a large expenditure of power. But even in miniature, Tris could see a flotilla of wrecks and hulks with broken masts and shattered sides moving with impossible speed. No wind propelled them, yet they were moving quickly, and the small boats of the fishermen scrambled nimbly to avoid being run down. The bow of one of the ghost ships plowed into a small skiff, breaking it in two. Tris could see the tiny images of men throwing themselves to the side to escape being crushed by the hulk.

  “Not just ramming,” Soterius said grimly. “Someone’s firing on Tolya’s and Pashka’s men from the ghost boats.” Just then, the image rippled again, as Tris concentrated his power to refocus the scrying on one of the ghost ships. He could hold that clarity for only a few seconds, but it was enough to show a skeletal crew aboard the boat sending very real arrows toward the fleet of defenders.

  Tris had no idea what the fishermen and privateers made of the spectral invaders, but to their credit, both groups held their positions. As they watched, the privateers replaced regular arrows with flaming missiles, gambling that even the dead might flee from flames. The battle raged for the better part of a candlemark, with Tolya’s fire missiles scuttling a dozen of the wrecks. Pashka’s fishermen used the smaller size of their crafts to their advantage, attacking near the waterline with pikes and hooked blades fastened onto poles, sinking several more of the attackers’ ships. Where the hulks exposed their crews near the waterline, Pashka and his fishermen used their hooks to yank the skeletons into the water and bash them with the pikes.

  The ghost ships pulled back, but before Senne and Soterius could exclaim in triumph, Tris saw the cause for the retreat and felt his heart thud. In the space vacated by the ghost ships, a small waterspout was beginning to form.

  “Here’s hoping that our mages are paying attention,” Tris muttered under his breath. Even as he spoke, he saw their own fleet of fishing boats and privateer vessels also pull back, and then he saw the reason why. A wild wind rose out of nowhere, whipping toward the waterspout and buffeting it until it dissipated. Margolan’s motley fleet bobbed with the winds, but they did not flee.

  “Are the attackers moving backward?” Soterius wondered aloud. They strained to see, but as they watched, the ghostly hulks began moving in reverse, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Tris pointed to a disturbance in the surface of the ocean, a growing vortex that pulled the Temnottan hulks back to their grave beneath the sea.

  “Their side raises a waterspout, and our side sinks a whirlpool,” Senne said admiringly. The ghost ships’ skeletal crews remained in their positions, either stripped of reason or no longer afraid of death. The whirlpool widened, drawing more and more of the hulks into its maw. Margolan’s “navy” of fishermen and privateers reversed course sharply, maneuvering their own ships out of danger. Even at the distance of the scrying, they could see the crews dancing in celebration aboard their vessels as the last of the ghost ships sank into the whirlpool.

  When it became clear that, for now, the battle was over, Beyral waved a hand above the image and the basin once again held only clear water. “Now by your leave, m’lord, I need to rest.” Beyral’s voice was scratchy and Tris could hear the exhaustion in her tone.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Beyral left Tris’s campaign tent.

  The three men were quiet for a moment. “If they could raise a waterspout, why didn’t their mages do something about the whirlpool?” Senne mused.

  “And for that matter, why send ghost ships when we know they’ve got a fleet hidden?” Soterius added.

  Tris considered the images they had seen in the scrying bowl. “I think both were meant to test us,” he said finally. “It wasn’t the first real shot of the war; it was a fishing expedition. They wanted to see if they could intimidate the fishermen and privateers into turning tail and running away. Maybe they wanted to inspire terror in anyone watching on shore. Perhaps they were hoping to draw out our mages and get an idea of their power to use it against us later.”

  “Their power—or yours,” Soterius said quietly. “I noticed that you didn’t rush in to use magic, even though someone on their side obviously was using summoning tricks to raise those ghost ships.”

  Tris shrugged. “Not necessarily summoning. Animating something isn’t the same thing as bringing it back to life. We saw the same kind of thing at Lochlanimar, when Curane’s mages made our dead move like puppets. They weren’t summoners. They hadn’t brought the dead back to being able to move on their own; the mages had to use their power for every step.”

  “What about the skeleton archers?” Senne was frowning as if the sudden discourse on magical instead of military tactics was straining his patience.

  “That’s what Tris is saying—they could be ‘puppets,’ too, like the corpses at Lochlanimar. Any mage who could move something from a distance could do it, right?” Soterius looked to Tris for agreement, and Tris nodded.

  “If you think about it, the archers weren’t particularly accurate. Their advantage was surprise and sheer numbers, but they didn’t seem to be doing anything to steer the boats, and when the whirlpool opened up, they didn’t look l
ike they made any attempt to get out of the way.”

  “That’s true.” Senne’s lips pursed as he thought. “Do you think it was a trap—for Tris?” He leaned forward. “Maybe we were meant to think another summoner was behind it, but perhaps they hoped that the king would use his power, risk himself to counter their magic. For all we know, there could have been something magical waiting to counterstrike.”

  A grim smile played at the corners of Tris’s mouth. This was the general that his father, King Bricen, had so valued for his cleverness in battle. Senne might not be as comfortable with magic as Soterius was, but the general knew the value of any military advantage, whether he understood how it worked or not. And right now, Tris knew that the wheels in Senne’s head were turning quickly, looking for a strategic advantage.

  “I didn’t sense another summoner’s power,” Tris said slowly, thinking back to the scrying and trying to remember what his mage senses were telling him. “Then again, we’re quite a distance from the action, but I think I’d be able to tell that kind of power signature.” He shook his head. “No, I’m certain. A mage of power, to be sure. It was a good trick, very convincing. But not a summoner’s power. I’d have felt it.”

  “Could you tell, was something waiting to pounce if you had tried to use your magic?”

  Tris paused again, replaying the events in his mind. Finally, he shook his head again. “Not unless whoever did it was very, very good at masking his power. We know there’s a dark summoner out there. But he didn’t show his hand tonight, and our ships held their own, so it didn’t seem necessary to risk more of our mages—or give away anything about my magic—if we didn’t need to.”

  “Well played, m’lord,” Senne said with a note of honest appreciation that made Tris smile. Senne was not free with his compliments, nor was he in the habit of fawning praise.

  Senne rose. “I’d best go back to the troops,” he said. “Take them some good news and have them ready in case the next salvo comes by land.”

  Tris nodded. “Have Tolya and Pashka come to my tent when they return. I want to hear about the fight firsthand. Maybe something they saw will give us a better idea of what kinds of magic we’re up against.” He paused. “And let’s make sure that they get a hero’s welcome. They deserve it for standing their ground.”

  Senne inclined his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish, m’lord.”

  Tris waved Soterius to sit. “Stay for a moment.”

  “Now that you’re done watching water boil, can I interest either of you in supper?” Coalan asked dryly from the tent doorway. Coalan was Soterius’s nephew, chosen to be Tris’s valet because of his unquestioned loyalty and longtime friendship.

  Despite the tension, Tris fought a smile. “And may I assume that you’ve already sampled tonight’s fare?”

  Coalan grinned broadly. At sixteen summers old, he was only six years younger than the king. He’d shown his mettle the previous year, in the war against Curane the Traitor, by killing an assassin meant for the king. But he was equally famous for his seemingly never-ending interest in food. “Stew again, and the war hasn’t actually started yet,” he reported, with an exaggerated sigh. “On the other hand, cook’s bread turned out to be softer than rocks, so it’s a good day.”

  “Rocks or not, dinner would be welcome. Thank you.”

  Coalan gave an exaggerated bow. “Coming right up. And I’ll make sure to include two glasses of brandy.” Only a conspiracy between Tris and Soterius kept the young man from the front lines, but after Jared the Usurper’s treachery had cost Coalan most of his family, Soterius had begged Tris to keep him as safe as possible. So while most of Coalan’s time was spent as Tris’s valet, the sword on the young man’s belt was a reminder that if anyone were to get past the bodyguards who surrounded Tris and the tent, Coalan had proven his ability to defend the king.

  When Coalan had gone, Soterius turned to Tris. “You look tired, and the real fighting hasn’t started yet. I don’t think these magic skirmishes are what’s losing you sleep. So what’s the real reason?”

  “We’re getting ready for war. I’m worried about having to leave Kiara and Cwynn behind. Do I need more reasons?”

  Soterius gave him a potent stare. “I don’t think that’s all of it.”

  Tris sighed. “I haven’t slept well the last few nights. Bad dreams. It’s been different each night. I haven’t been able to decide whether they’re warnings or just my nerves getting to me.”

  “What did you dream?”

  Tris shifted uncomfortably. “One night, I dreamed about Alyzza, dancing in her cell at Vistimar. Only this time, she wasn’t mad, and she wasn’t singing in riddles. She looked like she did when we met her in the caravan. She looked at me and said, ‘Look to the pages, Tris. There are answers in the pages.’ ”

  “Pages? Does she mean the histories Royster brought you from the Library at Westmarch?”

  Tris shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Darker possibilities had occurred to him, ones he would not speak aloud. “The thing is, I’ve read through everything countless times, and nothing jumped out at me as being significant. Maybe the circumstances just aren’t right. Maybe the meaning will be clearer later.”

  “Or maybe you just had a bad dream.”

  Tris grimaced. “Yeah. Maybe that too.”

  “Was that the only dream? You seem a little too tired to have had just one bad night.”

  “There’ve been others. I dreamed about Cwynn. He was lying on a huge pile of bones, and a current of wild magic, like the Flow, opened the ground under the pile and roared up toward the sky. I thought it was going to burn him, but it swirled around him. It was as if he were part of the magic, calling the power.”

  “But you’ve examined Cwynn and had the Sisterhood and Cheira Talwyn look at him. You said that as far as anyone can tell, he doesn’t have any magic at all.”

  “As far as anyone can tell,” Tris repeated tiredly. “He’s only a few months old. Most power doesn’t manifest until puberty. Talwyn thought he had something. She said he ‘glowed’ to her mage sight. She said she thought whatever we’re fighting might be after him.” Tris ran a hand over his face. “He’s my son. How can I protect him if I don’t know as much about him as our enemy does?”

  Coalan returned with their dinner, taking great care to lay out their bowls, bread, and drink carefully. Soterius hid a proud smile at the young man’s proficiency. As promised, two generous glasses of brandy accompanied the meal. “Who knows what we’ll have tomorrow, or whether we’ll have time to eat,” Coalan said as he finished setting out the food. “So eat hearty!”

  With that, Coalan settled down in a corner of the tent with his own meal, which Tris could not help but notice included a double portion of bread and a tankard of ale. Coalan had charmed himself into the good graces of the cook, who made sure that the young man never went hungry.

  “Anything else?” Soterius brought Tris’s thoughts back to the present. “Any other dreams?”

  Tris paused to take a few bites of food, followed by a sip of brandy. “It’s just as I told Sister Fallon: I’ve had each of those dreams several times. But there was one more. I dreamed about a burying ground, an old place where someone had been laying their dead to rest for a long time. I felt power sweep through the cairns, calling to the dead. It gave the spirits no choice; it tore them from their resting places, forced them to the surface.

  “But it wasn’t calling them just to rise. It began drawing the souls that hadn’t crossed over to the Lady into itself. I could hear them screaming, but in the dream, I was frozen. I tried to use my power to block the magic, and I couldn’t do it. I felt like I was watching at a distance, through thick glass. It didn’t just pull the spirits into itself; it shredded them, tore them to pieces. It didn’t want the souls. It wanted the energy in the souls. It consumed them, destroyed them.” This time, Tris took a longer drink from the brandy.

  “Can such a thing be done?”

  Tris drew a deep breath. �
��Yes. The Obsidian King had the power to do that. All the accounts I read suggested that he had to do it one spirit at a time. This power pulled at many spirits at once. It hollowed them and left them shattered.”

  He paused. “What’s left after Hollowing isn’t really a ghost—there isn’t enough of the original soul left for that. All that remains are random flickers of energy, but the entity is usually hostile. After the Mage Wars, my grandmother spent months wandering the countryside, releasing the spirits that the Obsidian King had hollowed. She was the last summoner of real power in Margolan.”

  “Until you.”

  “Until me. And whoever it is that seems bent on invading Margolan.”

  A commotion outside stopped conversation. Shouts, curses, and the sound of a fight nearby brought both Tris and Soterius to their feet. The guards closed ranks outside, blocking the doorway and surrounding the tent. Soterius stepped in front of Tris, drawing his sword. Coalan rose from where he was sitting, sword in hand. Tris, too, had drawn his weapon, and he stretched out his mage sense. Magic was close at hand, dark magic. Just as Tris readied a warding, he felt Sister Fallon’s power raise a protective barrier. Tris shouldered past the guards, followed by Soterius. The guards fell in behind them as Tris edged closer to the conflict.

  The golden glow of magical wardings created a dome that covered two dozen men locked in hand-to-hand combat. Three men lay dead on the ground, bleeding from grievous wounds. A crowd had formed, and several of the lieutenants were ordering the onlookers back to their tents. Sister Fallon hurried over.

  “What’s going on?” Tris did not take his eyes from the fight, which grew more deadly moment by moment. Two more men were on the ground, and their assailants kept hacking with their swords although the downed men cried out for mercy. Both Soterius and Senne shouted for the men to lay down their weapons and stop fighting, but nothing slowed the violence.