Dark Lady's Chosen (8 page)

Now. Go.
Along the Plains of Spirit, Tris sent the order to the waiting ghosts. Without the extra power of the Flow, Tris couldn’t spare the extra magic to make the ghosts visible.

Those that could show themselves in their own power winked into sight as other revenants began to wail, adding an eerie descant to the sound of the war pipes. Poltergeists assaulted the soldiers on the walls from behind, as
vayash moru
easily dodged the arrows to pick off hapless guards like large birds of prey.

Curane’s forces had watched the battle preparations from within their walls. They were ready. Catapults sent rocks and shrapnel flying back through the hail of arrows. Tris heard a rumble from the eastern end of the castle, where Fallon’s land magic tumbled the rocks from a portion of the outer wall. The battle raged on, and the magic shifted. From the west, Vira’s water magic swirled deep snow into icy spikes and hurled them toward the guards, as deadly and accurate as the arrows. More time passed, and Tris heard a sound like thunder as Beyral’s land magic focused a tremor within the walls, sending a portion of the building to the ground with a crash.

Tris felt the blood magic rising even as the Flow seemed to awaken, bucking and heaving along the paths of power. In the last battle, such an upheaval killed one of the mages and badly injured the rest. Then, Tris and the others had been drawing on the Flow’s energy, vulnerable when that power suddenly rose against them. Now, without that link, Tris felt the power surge painfully along the channels of magic, but distantly, without the power to cripple or kill.

The Flow was wilder than ever, and Tris knew why. A mighty surge of blood magic broke from all four corners of Lochlanimar at once. The fabric of the night seemed to open up like a curtain ripped top to bottom, and through that gap from the blackness of the Abyss poured a dozen creatures that were the stuff of nightmares. Tall as a man, but misshapen, with corpse-gray skin, the creatures looked about with bulbous heads hung with sharp-toothed, lantern jaws. The things hit the ground running, ripping into the front line of soldiers with long clawed arms. The pikemen held their ground against the beasts, valiantly trying to guard the longbowmen, who kept up their assault as the wail of the pipes was lost among the screams of soldiers and the howls of the beasts.

“Light the arrows!” Tris shouted, and realized that his voice was lost amid the fray.

Gathering his magic, he sent a burst of fire along the volley of arrows just sprung from their bows, turning them into flaming missiles. Down the line, the archers adjusted their aim and torch men lit the batting wrapped behind the arrowheads. Tris could hear the creaking and groaning of the trebuchets as they shifted behind him. Then, bright as comets, fiery balls launched through the air, over the heads of the archers, to land not against the castle walls but among the attacking beasts.

The line held, as the fire drove back the beasts and well-aimed flaming missiles found their mark. But even as the flames held one enemy at bay, Tris felt the Flow stir again, and a second surge of blood magic swelled and burst.

With the sound of an explosion, the newly built cairn behind the camp burst open. Rising from the rows in which their bodies had been buried, the corpses of fallen Margolan soldiers lurched to their feet. The corpses staggered forward toward the camp. Some, missing limbs, dragged themselves through the snow. A cry went up from the rear guard as the troops reacted in horror.

“Hold your positions! Remain firing!” Tris could hear Palinn, Senne and Rallan shouting down the line. At Senne’s word, two ranks of the rear guard turned, charging back into the camp.

“These are not your comrades,” Tris could hear Senne bellowing above the fray. “Those bastards are using your comrades’ bodies as weapons. Your friends are dead. Help their bodies rest in peace!”

Tris struggled against the horror of the sight to find his center.
Like the corpses from the
moat—blood magic, not true spirit magic,
he thought.
Puppets, not reanimated dead.
He set his jaw, angered by the desecration.
Strike the puppet master, and the strings will be cut.

Tris closed his eyes and sent his magic along the Plains of Spirit.
You wished to serve. Now
is the time
, he called to the spirits of the soldiers lost in battle. He drew more heavily on his own power and lent the spirits the energy to make themselves seen and solid enough to fight. The spirits of the dead men raised a battle cry as they leapt forward, cutting down their own lifeless bodies. Tris felt their emotions surge across his link with them. Unlike their mortal comrades, there was no fear. Anger surged hot at the enemy’s use of their bodies as weapons against their own side. While even the most intrepid of Tris’s mortal soldiers hesitated at the thought of hacking down the bodies of their dead brothers-in-arms, the ghost fighters lunged into combat. Their swords, given power by Tris’s magic, cut through the rotting corpses and the frozen bodies, which fell like severed marionettes.

Carried on the current of their rage, Tris turned his magic to find the source of the abomination. He could feel the Flow undulating around them like a wild sea, waves of power rising and falling like a storm. Tris drew more heavily on his own power, knowing that he could not sustain the draw for long. He found the trail of magic that led him back from the vanquished corpses, and prepared to answer it with a blast of his own.

The night around him opened once again. Before Tris could shift his magic, overwhelming force pulled him in as the sky closed behind him.

Tris fell through total darkness. He landed hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and bit back a cry of pain as his left arm snapped with the force of the fall.
Well, that answers
whether or not I’m here in body or in spirit. The question is: Where?

Before he could adjust his wardings, unbearable pain washed over him, burning along every nerve like fire. Tris stiffened and arched, fighting back a scream as he formed the counterspell. In the instant’s reprieve it afforded him, his wardings rose around him, and he climbed warily to his feet.

“Show yourselves!”

Torchlight flared around a circular chamber. Three red-robed figures stood facing him, one to the front and one at each side. Their faces were lost in shadow. At each figure’s throat glowed a fire-lit gem.

Avatars,
Tris thought.
Just like I fought in the Citadel during my training. Each a conduit for
its master’s power. I’ll bet the chamber isn’t real, either. If they’ve pulled me into the Nether
and projected themselves, they’ve got to be burning energy fast. Still, it’s three to one.
To his mage senses, the chamber stank of blood magic. Tris could feel the power of a death warding and knew it was set to his life force. No way out alive.

Tris struck first, sending a barrage of mage lightning streaking from his fingers at the opponent to his right. The lightning bounced off the mage’s shields. From his left, a wave of fire enveloped him, straining his wardings. An answering barrage of red lightning added to the onslaught, and Tris could feel the drain of dangerous magic against his wardings as the third mage sent a blast of power Tris knew was spelled to kill.

His shields held - barely.

Before he could respond, the blood magic surged again, and for an instant his shields wavered, enough that pain shot through him as if his head might burst, almost sufficient to black him out. Strong magic sent another wave of fire, and this time, it burned along his skin and caught at his clothes and hair, blistering instantly. He struggled to raise his shields as another blast of power slammed against him like a body blow, hard enough that his vision swam. Wave after wave of power hit him, driving him to his knees as blows pounded like sledgehammers.

Tris pulled hard from his life force to send more power to his wardings, snapping them back into place. The battle outside had already taken a toll on his reserves. He sent a blast of energy back along the channels of power, focusing his attention on the tormentor in front of him, the author of the pain spell. His lips moved as he chanted the counterspell, reversing the blast that had been meant for him. He added to it, so that the magic seared along the path of power in the avatar’s glowing gem, outside the Nether chamber, back to the blood mage himself. Sweating with the effort, struggling against a blinding reaction headache, Tris kept his focus until the magic felled his opponent in a blur of fear and pain.

And in that instant, Tris knew what he had to do.

Lady of the Four Faces, forgive me.

Around them, the Flow had become a storm. Not far beyond the dark walls of the place between realms where they fought, Tris could feel the Flow’s power rising and falling like an angry

sea. Whipped to gale strength by the blood magic that imprisoned him, the Flow seemed to be howling in rage.

Tris dove down through the link with the blood mage until he found the mage’s thin blue life thread. Knowing the other two opponents would counterstrike at any second, Tris spoke the words of binding that twined his own life thread with the downed mage’s and pulled hard.

He heard a piercing scream that crossed between the outside world and the Nether. There was a wrenching lurch, and Tris felt the mage’s life force pull free of the man’s body, felt the soul tear loose of its moorings, and let himself draw in the life energy that was rapidly dimming from the severed thread. Strengthened, Tris let his wardings fall. Simultaneously, he struck both left and right, concentrating his power on the amulets at the avatars’ throats.

His magic sought one goal: the life force of the mages. Tris envisioned himself grasping the glowing threads in each hand, closing his fists around them and ripping them free with all his might. The screams of the dying mages echoed in his mind as he drew their life energy to him, strengthening his own failing glow.

Still, the death warding held.

Tris took a deep breath. He focused on the glow of his own life thread, grown stronger now with the stolen energy. And then, he drew that glow into pure spirit, watching as his body fell to the ground and the thread within winked out.

The wild winds of the Flow howled around Tris. Time meant nothing. The old tales told of creation, when Nameless and Her horde rode across the winds of chaos, cleaving light from darkness. Buffeted in the storm of the Flow, Tris felt that primordial chaos close around him, as if the energies of all eight Aspects of the Lady were voices on the storm, calling him to rest or judgment. The Flow mirrored his own pain and fear.

In the darkness, the death warding fell.

The night ripped open, and the light of a starry sky was blinding. With the last of his power, Tris sent his waning spirit back to the limp and battered body that tumbled from the rift between realms. Gasping for breath, he landed hard on his broken arm. Pain flared so strongly that he thought the tormentor’s spell had followed him. He lay face down, his heart pounding, senses on full alert. Footsteps sounded near him, and his power lashed out reflexively, sending a torrent of fire in the direction of the sound.
If I’ve been pulled within
Lochlanimar, Goddess help me. I can’t hold them all off, but I can take them with me.
He mustered the power that remained within his

grasp for one final salvo.

Powerful shielding glowed brightly around him before he could strike. A voice sounded with compulsion in his mind. “Safe. Home.”

Tris fought the shielding and the voice. His blood was high for the fight; his magic reacted for survival. The shielding shattered. As he spoke the words of power, a crush of spirits enveloped him, pressing from every direction, absorbing the brunt of the magic. Charged with the power of a Summoner, the magic burned, and Tris heard the ghosts’ screams as they threw themselves as a barrier between his wild magic and those beyond the circle.

“Safe. Home.” The voice—no, voices—sounded again in his mind, with a compulsion that he no longer had the energy to fight. Wardings snapped up around him once more and the press of spirits was a cacophony within his mind. Completely spent, he knew that his life thread was flickering dangerously.
If this is a trick, if I’ve been captured, it’s over. We’ve
lost.

“Let me through the warding.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Let me in!”

“We don’t know if he’s sane.”

“Dammit, let me in!”

The voices were distant, too garbled to identify, as if he were listening through water. Tris still lay where he had fallen, acutely aware that his heartbeat was growing more erratic by the moment. He felt the wardings waver, just long enough for someone to step inside, and then they snapped back into place, but whether the wardings formed a prison or a haven, he did not know. Whoever was inside did not move closer.

“Tris?” A voice sounded at a distance. “It’s me. Coalan. You don’t have to fight anymore.

You’re safe. You’re home. The
vayash moru
have been trying to send that to you, but they can’t get through. Fallon doesn’t dare drop the shields until you give us a sign. Please, Tris.

You’re hurt bad.”

Tris let his body relax, willing the fighting energy to drain out of him. He opened his fists and turned them palm up in a gesture of surrender. As the wardings fell, Tris heard bootsteps rushing toward him. Coalan was the first to reach him, and gentled him onto his back. Fallon knelt next to him. Around them, Tris could hear the thud of the trebuchets and the zip of arrows.

“Can we get him off the field?” Tris struggled to place the voice. Trefor, one of the
vayash
moru
who had brought back Soterius from the caves, joined them.

“Not alive,” Fallon said. Already, Tris could feel Fallon’s healing magic warring with the pain.

The pain was winning. “We don’t have a choice. There isn’t time to move him. Cover us.”

“Done, m’lady.”

“Sweet Lady of Darkness,” Coalan breathed. “Where did they take him? How did he get burned like that?”