"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
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 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 mortaclass="underline" 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 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 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.