Dark Lady's Chosen (9 page)

“If he wakes up, you can ask him. Will you let me draw from you? He’s dying.”

“Yes. Yes. Take my life if you need to.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary.”

Tris faded in and out of consciousness as Fallon worked. Around him, the spirits of the dead kept vigil, and beyond them, faint but much too close, Tris could hear the soulsong of the Lady. The touch of snow against his burned and blistered skin was agonizing. His broken left arm had bent under him when he had fallen. The channels of magic felt too painful for the slightest mental touch, and the throbbing in his head pulsed with the beat of his heart.

“Stay with us.” Trefor’s voice sounded in his mind, and Tris knew that for the
vayash moru
to be able to use compulsion, his own shielding must be totally spent. The voice was an anchor in the darkness.

If I die now, my soul is forfeit,
Tris thought.
I used my power to steal from the life force of
another. Forbidden. Unforgivable.

“Stay with us.”

Finally, Fallon sighed and lifted her hands from the healing. “That’s all I can do out here.

Let’s get him behind the lines.”

Tris groaned as Trefor lifted him from the ground. The
vayash moru
moved with immortal speed and the rush of air across Tris’s skin felt like a hail of broken glass. When they reached his tent, Trefor did his best to make Tris comfortable on his cot, and stood guard until Fallon and Coalan arrived, breathless, minutes later.

“Will he live?” It was Coalan’s voice.

“If he makes it through the night, he should be all right. It’s not the injuries—although Goddess knows, they don’t help. He’s badly drained. The energy you gave me helped. I’ll need more to sustain him, and I don’t dare draw further from you.”

“Shall I ask for volunteers?”

“Send me whoever can be spared from the fight. Mind that they’re not sick or injured. I don’t know how many I’ll need.”

“Done.”

“If you have no more need of me, I should return to the lines,” Trefor said.

“Yes. Of course. Thank you.”

When they were gone, Fallon leaned close to Tris’s ear. “Don’t you dare let go, Tris. Do you hear me? Hang on. I’ll do my best to ease the pain. Just don’t let go.”

“Report!” Lord Curane struggled to his feet. Rock dust filled the air. Books and vials littered the floor, thrown from shelves by a well-aimed catapult strike. In the center of the room, the scrying ball that until moments ago had been the center of their attention was blackened and cracked, as if it had been struck by lightning.

Cadoc leaned against the wall for support. Dust made his short red hair grayish-white.

Blood streaked down one dusty arm. Dirmed also shakily regained his footing. Three bodies near the broken scrying ball did not move. Sayer, Jortham and Ruari lay still and staring on the floor. General Drostan pushed his way through the debris to lend Curane a hand.

“Report?” Cadoc questioned. “On which part? The someone-hit-our-tower-with-a-boulder part or the three-of-my-mages-are-dead part?”

“Why are they dead?”

Cadoc fixed Curane with an angry look. “They’re dead because Martris Drayke killed them. I told you that we didn’t know the limits of his power. We succeeded in pulling him into the Nether. We damaged him—badly.”

“Is he dead? You told me you were going to set death wards.”

Cadoc reached up to touch his forehead and grimaced when his fingers came away bloody.

He sat on the edge of an overturned table and daubed at the cut on his temple with the edge of his long sleeve. “We set the wards.”

“Then if you were able to return from the working, he must be dead.”

“It’s not quite so simple with a Summoner,” Dirmed replied.

“Stop talking in riddles!”

Cadoc stalked toward Curane, furious. “You didn’t feel Drayke send his power back along the magic to snuff out the souls of the mages he could reach. The only reason Dirmed and I are still alive is that we didn’t engage him at that instant. Drayke’s body collapsed. But a Summoner of his strength can enter and leave his own body at will. He ‘died’ long enough to bring down the wardings. That doesn’t mean he’s really dead.”

“If you knew that why did you give him that chance?”

Cadoc stood toe-to-toe with Curane, shaking with anger. “I know it now. I didn’t know it when we planned the strike. I wouldn’t have put my mages at risk if I’d known it, although you wouldn’t have had any such constraint.”

“My goal is to win this siege,” Curane shouted, dusting himself off. “Your mages have been a disappointment.”

Only the null magic charm that hung on a strap around Curane’s throat stopped Cadoc from answering with a burst of power. “Disappointment! My mages and apprentices have died for your siege. You wanted a plague we could use to sicken Margolan’s army. We created a pox that is doing just that—and you can see from the size of the cairn they’ve built that it’s working. We’ve struck at them with fire, sent the beasts through the Nether, and sent
ashtenerath
against them.”

“It hasn’t worked.”

“Every single strike ‘worked,’” Cadoc shot back. “But a dozen mages alone can’t break an army. And apparently, neither can your soldiers.”

“I’m amazed you’re not blaming your failure on the Flow.”

Cadoc’s face became nearly as red as his short-cropped hair. “Just because you can’t feel the Flow doesn’t make it imaginary. You can’t work magic, but you believe in its power. It’s only because of the Flow’s instability that we were able to open up the portal to the Nether to bring the beasts across and to trap Drayke. Dirmed and I won’t be able to do any kind of working for several days until we recover from the drain. We’re lucky to be alive.”

“This squabbling is pointless.” Drostan’s voice silenced both Curane and Cadoc. “We have a war to win. Martris Drayke may still be alive—but Cadoc believes he was badly hurt.

Whether he recuperates and how long that takes may be decisive. His mages must also be exhausted. Even with their supply lines, food is scarce. Whoever lasts the next few weeks is likely to be the victor. What do we have left that’s in our favor?”

Cadoc retreated with a glare. Curane shook the last of the dust from his hair and kicked at a bit of broken stone. “Cadoc and I are two of the strongest mages—and while we’re drained, we’ll recover,” Dirmed ventured. “Martris Drayke is just one man. With him down, the camp is vulnerable—none of their other mages are nearly so strong. We may not be able to strike them magically, but whatever our army can do will meet less resistance until Drayke recovers.”

Drostan nodded. “I agree. And while I’m not a mage, the instability in this Flow of yours may be a dangerous ally to count on. How long until the magic becomes too wild even for the blood mages to tame?”

Cadoc glanced from Drostan to Dirmed. “We don’t know. But we
are
sure what it looks like when the magic becomes uncontrollable. It destroys everyone and everything around it. The last time it happened was at the end of the Mage Wars. The Blasted Lands were the result.”

“Are you telling me that we could win this siege and be flattened by magic?” Curane’s voice raised a note in his anger.

“It’s possible.”

“You are here to help us avoid certain ‘possibilities’ and create others.”

Cadoc rounded on Curane. “We can’t ‘fix’ the Flow. Drayke and his mages can’t do it either, or they would have fixed it by now. Mages have tried—and died—without result. Blood magic makes the damage worse. It comes at a cost—to the mages who work it, to the victims we draw from, and from the Flow itself. It’s meant to be a last resort—not an ongoing practice.”

Drostan’s voice was a measure of strained patience. “All right then. What can you and your mages do without making the Flow any more brittle?”

Cadoc looked to Dirmed. “We can draw on our own power instead of the Flow as much as possible. Before the strike, I’m sure that’s what Drayke and his mages were doing, to keep from being hurt by the Flow. It will limit how much magic we can work at a time; without the Flow, we tire more easily. On the other hand, it should keep us from being knocked cold—or worse.”

“I just received a message by pigeon last night,” Curane replied. “The latest attempt on the new queen of Margolan failed—but barely. My man assures me he has a final plan in place—one that will end that problem permanently. He knows the consequences if he fails. I haven’t had word from Isencroft in a week or so, but Ruggs seemed to have things moving nicely there—Donelan is far too distracted fighting the divisionists to bother with Margolan.”

“Then we must plan our next strike carefully to make it the last,” Drostan said. “Our supplies are running low. Even with the deaths in the village, we can’t make the food or firewood last until Spring. We’ll cull the ranks for the worst of the lot and send them into the ginnels to pack up corpses into barrels we can launch toward the Margolan camp. That should also silence the complainers.” He glanced at Cadoc. “If you’ve been saving back an idea for a last strike, it would be a good time to get it ready. I suspect that when Drayke does recover, he’ll do the same. We both have one solid hit left, and the first one to move is likely to win.”

Cam of Cairnrach, Champion of King Donelan of Isencroft, rolled over in his makeshift cell and threw up. His captors hadn’t bothered to bind his ankles or tie his wrists. Leather John and his divisionists had counted on Cam’s broken leg to keep him in his cell. It was doing a good job, Cam thought, sprawling onto his back. The food he’d been given was putrid, and the water brackish. His survival was obviously not one of Leather John’s top concerns.

Think like Jonmarc,
Cam challenged himself.
Jonmarc wouldn’t have gotten himself
captured. Not so easily. He would have made it more expensive for them, that’s for sure.

Cam pulled himself upright, taking care not to jostle his left hand. He’d managed to bind up the stub of his severed finger with a strip of cloth from his shirt, but his hand still left a bloody mark on the floor. No matter how he moved, the pain from his wounded hand or his shattered leg was agonizing. And although only one night had passed since his capture, Cam knew that without treatment, blood poisoning was a likely outcome. Already, his hand felt warm and swollen.

The first duty of a prisoner is to escape.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Cam looked around his cell. From what he’d been able to make out by moonlight the night before, he’d been brought to an abandoned fuller’s mill at least a candlemark’s wagon ride from the palace city. The mill stank of urine and pig dung, the fuller’s tools of the trade. He’d glimpsed the heavy hammers of the fulling stocks by lantern light when his captors had interrogated him. The details were blurry; a consequence of slipping in and out of consciousness.

His “cell” looked like a storage room. The floor was littered with bits of wood and discarded rags, left behind when the mill’s owners departed. What light entered filtered through the gaps between the boards in the wall. A continual draft brought cold air from the back of the small, cramped room. It was the only fresh air, barely counterbalancing the stink from the dung pit. Unfortunately, the mills’ owners hadn’t bothered to lime their pit or dump their urine cistern. Combined, the smells were enough to sting Cam’s eyes.

Cam saw what he was looking for—a short board and a broken broom handle. Painfully dragging himself across the filthy floor, he gathered up the pieces along with a fistful of rags. Grimacing, Cam stretched out his broken leg as best he could.
See if I learned
anything after

watching Carina all my life.
Cam bit his lip to stifle a cry as he bent forward, stretching to place the wood on either side of his leg and tie it tightly with rags, as good a splint as he could manage.

From the light that slipped between the boards, Cam guessed it was mid-morning. By now, Donelan was sure to have received Leather John’s message—a “gift” of Cam’s severed ring finger, complete with the signet of the King’s Champion. Cam was equally certain that though Donelan’s vengeance would eventually catch up with the divisionists, no soldiers would be riding out to parley for his release.
If anything’s going to happen, I’ll have to make
it happen
.

Cam wriggled close enough to the wall to brace against it with his uninjured leg. He gasped as he pushed up, using his damaged hand for balance as his right hand steadied his broken leg. He turned so that the wall supported his bum leg, and slowly made his way around the room, looking for anything in the refuse he might make into a weapon. It took him nearly half a candlemark to limp around the room’s perimeter, and his search netted him a handful of rags, two blocks of wood the size of his fists, and a handful of rusted tenterhooks.

Satisfied and exhausted, Cam returned to his original place, making sure to cover his splint with his cloak. He worked until the light failed, twisting the cloth into a rope the length of his arm. Using a few of the tenterhooks, he secured the makeshift rope to each of the blocks, and hammered the hooks into the blocks as best he could by slamming them against the floor. The result was an ugly but serviceable bolo, which Cam fastened around his waist below his shirt.

For a while, Cam thought the divisionists had gone. As the light outside grew dim and the night wind picked up, Cam heard footsteps shuffle beyond the door.

“You’re sure Donelan received the package?” It was Ruggs’s voice.

“Cohnnar tied a brick to a kerchief with the ring and the finger and pitched it through the guardhouse window. Damn near got him caught. Yeah, I’d say they received it,” Leather John replied.

“Good. Did he leave enough of a trail to bring them here?”

“I s’pose. Don’t make no sense to me—why lead them to us?”

“Donelan’s patience is wearing thin. He’s sure to send a garrison after us—maybe ride out himself to make a point. Ice’s too thin on the river for them to ford it, so they’ll have to take the bridge. That’ll slow them down, make them cross in pairs. Our archers can attack from the forest at the valley’s edge, pick them off as they cross. Pritcher and Kobs weakened the bridge. All that weight, men and horses, will go right into the river. We score a victory, and Donelan looks like a