Dark Haven (32 page)

“Everything will be in place, m’lord,” Drostan said. “Our scouts expect the’ army within two days. We’ll strike them hard their first night, before they’re ready to respond. We’ll see how long Drayke’s army can stand its ground.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

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The Margolan army moved with greater speed than Tris had imagined. It would take a week to reach the Southern Plains where Curane’s holdings were located. His horse nickered and snuffled. Surrounded by bodyguards and soldiers, Tris was better sheltered from the wind than the men who rode on the outer edge of the formation. They took turns, moving from the outer edge to the inner ranks as the cold wind buffeted them.

Tris could see the mixture of excitement and apprehension in the Coalan’s face. Going to war had not been part of Soterius’s plan to keep his nephew safe.

Tris sighed. Going to war hadn’t been part of his own plans, either. Soterius gave him a sideways glance.

“Skrivven for your thoughts.”

Tris managed a smile. “I was thinking that at least now we can make a fire when we camp.”

“And this time, we know where the Mar‐golan army is.”

Most of the soldiers now under colors were the deserters, stragglers, and rebels Soterius had gathered to remove Jared from the throne. Pell, Tabb, and Andras, three of Soterius’s first converts to the rebellion, were now captains with their own commands. Tris’s generals, Senne, Palinn, Tarq, and Rallan, rode with their troops.

All day, the troops had marched across snow‐covered hills and deep valleys, criss‐crossed by half‐frozen streams. At the edge of the forest, they made camp for the night. The’ further south they traveled, the more Tris’s gut told him something was not quite right. Since he had come into his power, he had grown accustomed to the continual presence of his magic, deep in a corner of his mind. The closer they got to Curane’s holdings, the more his magic felt brittle and fragile or pushed nearly out of reach. It’s the Flow, Tris thought. It’s getting worse. Now, only a 275

day’s march from their target, the sense of discomfort had become physical, giving him a headache and draining his energy.

Setting up camp for the night made Tris’s caravan experience pale in comparison. The sheer number of tents and wagons necessary to move a small city of soldiers seemed almost beyond reckoning. Barely a year ago, he, Carroway, and Soterius had been the ones rigging the tents.

Now, soldiers scurried to set camp, and Coalan watched over Tris’s tent personally. Supper fires were lit, and Tris found that the prospect of a hot meal, even if it were to be beans and salt pork, was the highlight of the day.

“The supplies we’ve brought with us will only last a little over a month once we reach Curane’s holdings,” Soterius said as they stood near a fire, watching the preparations around them. “I’ve organized foraging parties, but I’m expecting that Curane’s stripped the land, knowing that we’d come. Goddess knows, there aren’t many villages in this area, and the scouts I sent to see what the villagers could spare came back with little. It’s a lean year.”

“That’ll make the supply line back to Shek‐erishet all the more important.”

“Fielding this army is going to be a strain. Sparing the troops to keep the supply line open will cost us men who won’t be available to fight. Keeping the army afield will just make the spring’s harvest worse unless we can get them home to their farms by planting time. Thank heavens the winter crops are still in the fields.” He chuckled. “We may have our fill of turnips and potatoes, but it’s better than noth‐ing.”

Tris looked out over the barely organized chaos of the camp. In Bricen’s day, Margolan’s army had been one of the strongest in the Winter Kingdoms. Now, there were fewer than ten thousand men under colors, and some of those had to be left behind to keep the peace throughout the kingdom and secure the castle. Most of the troops were mortal: only three score at best were vayash moru. The majority were volunteers from the ruined farms and villages Jared’s troops left in their wake, men and women who had welcomed the opportunity to even 276

the score. While Curane’s forces were likely to be even fewer, they were seasoned fighters, drawn from the old army ranks, secure within strong fortifications. It would not be an easy fight.

“Father always said that going to war took such a toll on your own people you barely needed an enemy,” Tris said, watching the glow of the camp fires. “I’m beginning to understand what he meant.”

“Wake up sire! We’re being attacked!”

Tris scrambled to buckle his breastplate before he ducked from the tent. Sister Fallon, one of the mages, was running toward him. “Good. You’re up. We need you.”

The camp was already in motion. Soldiers grabbed their bows and pikes and ran for the camp’s perimeter. Tris could hear Soterius and the generals shouting to gain order. Tris and Fallon ran for the wagons in the center of the camp and climbed to where they had a clear view of the action. In the open ground between the camp and the dark forest rim, a hazy green light glowed, like low‐hanging smoke. From within the shadows of the trees, the sound of groans carried on the night air.

A shadow grew at the edge of the forest, spreading rapidly across the plain toward the camp.

Fallon raised her hands, and a burst of fire streamed from her fingertips, illuminating the night.

It dispelled all but the growing darkness racing at them from the forest’s edge.

Tris stretched out his power toward the darkness. Magic that normally came quickly to his command now seemed a struggle, as if the power were being pulled away. Tris doubled his effort, and felt the magic yield to his command. On the Plains of Spirit, he sensed the energy of the land around him. Darkness clustered in some places just as clearly as good fortune was drawn to others. Within the forest lay a bog, thinly covered with snow. Bogs were filled with decay, where dark energies fed darker creatures that shrank from the light. Still further beneath 277

the parts of the bog, Tris could feel the Flow, damaged and tainted, its shattered energy feeding the malevolence.

Bogwaithe. Neither ghost nor vayash moru, a bogwaithe was old, tainted power.

“Show yourself!” The image that formed in his mind was of a washer woman hunched over her tub. She turned and straightened. A cadaverous face was pale beneath her ragged cowl, eyeless and evil. Without warning, the hag stretched to twice the height of a tall man, a dark, cold presence with arms much longer than any living being. The bog lights began to coalesce, gathering around them until the crossroads was bathed in an eerie green glow. Tris felt the shadow lengthen toward him as the long arms stretched out.

On the front line, archers sent a wave of flaming arrows toward the fast‐moving shadow. The arrows flew toward their target, then winked out suddenly, swallowed whole by blackness. A line of men bearing torches advanced shoulder to shoulder. The darkness consumed them. Their screams filled the cold night.

“Fall back!” Tris heard General Tarq order. “Leave this to the mages!”

Around them, men broke ranks and ran from the darkness. Mages sent balls of flame lobbing into the shadows. The darkness drew back, but did not yield.

Tris stretched out on the Plains of Spirit, gathering his power. He extended his senses, feeling for the bogwaithe’s soul. The bogwait‐he was a creature of the Plains of Spirits, a sentient being neither dead nor alive, but soulless. Some of the things on the Plains of Spirit had never been mortal. They were dark beings that envied the warmth of human life and the spark of human souls. Tris felt the brush of its long, shadowed arms seeking his life force. On the Plains of Spirit, he saw the being behind the shadows; a pallid thing, partially decomposed, surrounded by the green glow of the bog lights.

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Tris raised his hands and magic streamed from his fingers, sending a force toward the bogwaithe that hurled boulders through the air. The bogwaitbe was undeterred. It was near enough now that Tris could feel its hunger and sense the danger in the shadows that searched for the spark of his soul.

“Cover me!” Tris shouted to Fallon.

Tris willed himself fully into the Plains of Spirit, feeling the ties to his mortal form sunder as his body fell to the ground. Pure spirit, Tris moved fluidly on the nether plain. Tris glided toward the darkness that was the bogwaitbe. And in the bogwaithe’s realm, Tris knew its weakness.

Before the bogwaithe could withdraw from the mortal world, Tris summoned his magic. Drawing on his own life force, Tris called both flame and power, drowning the bogwaitbe in a brilliant, fiery flare. The bogwaitbe screamed. The ear‐splitting wail seared through Tris as he concentrated all of his power to keep the bogwaitbe pinned in light and fire. His life force was flickering. If he did not return quickly to his body, he would die. The damaged Flow made it difficult for him to focus his power, as if the magic itself were splintering.

Just as his control began to buckle, the bog‐waithe’s wail reached a crescendo and then fell silent. On the Plains of Spirit, the bogwaithe disappeared; in the mortal world, Tris saw the darkness vanish. With the last of his power, Tris willed himself back to his body just as Fallon dropped to her knees beside him, a look of panic on her face.

“He’s not breathing!” she shouted.

Tris’s spirit returned abruptly to his body, and he lurched. His back arched and he gasped, desperate for breath. His heart pounded as blood surged through a body that had been freshly 279

dead. Shock and recoil of powerful magic overwhelmed Tris, and unconsciousness took him.

“He’s coming around.”

Tris heard Esme’s voice, faint arid distant. Blood pounded in his ears, and his head felt as if it might split open from the pain. His body felt leaden, and he doubted he could find the strength to move. It took an effort of will just to open his eyes.

Tris was lying in the back of the healer’s wagon. Esme knelt next to him, Soterius opposite.

“What the hell did you do?”

“I couldn’t fight the bogwaithe in the mortal world. I had to fight it on the Plains of Spirit.”

“You almost didn’t make it back in time.” Esme’s voice was stern. “Another minute and your body might not have responded.”

“Where are we?”

“We’ve pitched camp for the night,” Soterius answered.

“How did you kill it?” Esme leaned over Tris, putting a warm cloth on his head to dull the throbbing ache.

“I had to destroy it where it came from, on the Plains of Spirit. Magic didn’t work against it here, 280

but it was vulnerable there.” Esme held him up so that he could sip water from a cup. “Most of the time, I can be in both realms at once. But not this time.”

“The siege is pointless if you die. Try to keep that in mind next time.” Soterius looked both angry and relieved.

“I promise.” Tris could feel Esme’s medicines begin to work, dulling the headache and drawing him toward sleep. “Where’s Fallon?”

Esme felt for the pulse in his neck, counted silently, and seemed satisfied. “She’s out with the mages, on watch in case something else comes out of the forest.”

“Speaking of which, I’d better let the troops know you’re all right before they panic,” Soterius said. “You looked pretty bad when we carried you in here.”

“Rest,” Esme commanded as Soterius slipped out of the wagon. Tris heard cheering outside as Soterius shared the news of his recovery with the soldiers.

“When Fallon returns, send her to me,” Tris murmured. “There’s something wrong with the magic here… something that called the bogwaitbe. Those woods have never been haunted before.”

“I’ll tell her—after you get some sleep.”

Tris meant to say something in return, but the potions did their work and sleep took him.

Tris’s dreams were restless. Old dreams returned, of Kait trapped in the Soulcatcher orb. The battle with Arontala, the final confrontation with the Obsidian King, when Kiara lay dying in his 281

arms and all seemed lost. Then, new images, just as terrifying. Tris sensed Kiara’s presence on the Plains of Spirit and felt a terror intent on consuming both her life force and the spark that was the child she carried. As if he watched from behind a pane of glass, Tris could see everything but was powerless to help. In his dream, the darkness overtook Kiara, and he heard her cry out as it leeched away her soul and the soul of their child.

Tris awoke, shaking and sweating. Esme was next to him.

“Dreams again?”

“Old ones—and something new. Kiara was in danger. Something from the nether plain wanted her—and the baby. It overtook her—”

Esme laid a hand on his arm. “It’s just a dream, Tris,” she said. Her blue eyes were worried.

“Most fathers‐to‐be get bad dreams. Even the ones who aren’t Summoners.”

Tris used the techniques Taru had taught him to distance himself from the dream, but it remained on the edge of his thoughts. “I’m afraid for her, Esme.”

“Kiara’s the most resourceful woman I’ve ever met. She has Mikhail and Harrtuck and all the others watching over her. You’re going to have to trust them to take care of her.”

Soterius poked his head into the wagon. “I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but you’ve called every ghost within a league. Half of them want to come with us to fight, and the other half are annoyed that you disturbed them.”

Tris sighed. “We’re going to need all the help we can get. Accept the ghosts who want to fight, 282

and send the others back with my apologies.”

Esme looked at him sternly. “It’ll be daylight in just a few hours. You have to ride. And you’re going to have to look ready to fight, even if you aren’t. Enough talk. Back to sleep with you.”

Tris had no desire to argue. He lay down on the cot and pulled his cloak around him, praying that this time, his sleep would be dreamless.

After six days’ ride through snow and wind and sleet, the Margolan army reached the Southern Plains. Lochlanimar loomed against the foothills of the Tabinar Mountains, high on a hill. The oldest parts of the fortress were more than a thousand years old. Its foundation was even older, built atop ruins. A thick wall encircled the main house and dependencies, as well as the oldest part of the town. Made of the same gray stone as the exposed cliffside of the mountains, it had withstood raids from the wild fighters of the Southlands and the nomadic tribes from the West.