Dark Haven (49 page)

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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 419

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 420

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 421

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.”

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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.”

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“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.”

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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.”

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“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.

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“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.