Gail Martin - The Sworn

“Your Majesty!” Tris and Soterius turned to see Coalan riding toward them. The young man stood half a head taller than he had been just the year before, when he had accompanied Tris on campaign as his valet and squire. “General Senne sent me to tell you that he plans to camp for the night in another candlemark, with your approval.”

Tris nodded. “Tell him that’s fine with me. We’re nearly at the meeting point we arranged with the Sworn. Jair will have scouts watching for us.”

Coalan grinned. “Thank the Lady that we’re calling it a night. I’m about to die from hunger.” Coalan was Soterius’s nephew, and attaching his duties to the king had kept the young man out of the direct line of fire. But even behind the line, his loyalty had been valuable. At Lochlanimar, Coalan’s bravery and quick thinking had foiled an assassination attempt, and in this battle, he was officially one of the king’s personal bodyguards.

“Tell the truth; you were starving before we even broke camp this morning,” Soterius grumbled good-naturedly.

Coalan’s grin widened. “An army moves on its stomach. Don’t you know that?” He patted his belly. “I’ve got to keep my strength up to take care of our king.”

Soterius eyed the new baldric and sword that Coalan wore, as well as his cuirass. “You’re rather well armed for a squire, aren’t you?”

Coalan’s grin slipped, and Tris jumped into the conversation. “Those are my gifts,” Tris said, hurrying to avert a disagreement between Soterius and Coalan. “Just because he’s behind the lines doesn’t mean he’s safe. If he hadn’t known how to use a sword at Lochlanimar, I’d be dead now.”

The tight-lipped expression on Soterius’s face told Tris that his friend couldn’t argue with the logic, although Tris knew that Soterius desperately wanted to keep Coalan safe. “For defense of the king only, you hear me? I don’t want to have to explain to your father that you’ve gotten yourself cut up or worse, no matter how much of a hero it makes you.” Soterius gave Coalan a stern look.

Coalan barely contained his glee at winning this round of the argument. “Absolutely, Uncle Ban.” He grinned again. “If you’d like, you can put me in charge of guarding the cook wagon whenever Tris is in the field.”

Soterius rolled his eyes. “Like having the fox guard the hen house, isn’t it?”

Tris listened to them banter and he smiled with the first genuine glimmer of happiness he’d felt since leaving Shekerishet. Ban Soterius and Coalan were among a precious handful of old friends who had been close to him before Jared’s coup, before the fight for the throne, before the burdens of the crown. For just a moment, Tris remembered what it had felt like, only a little over two years ago, before his world had upended and everything he knew had been plunged into chaos. Such glimpses were fleeting, and increasingly rare, and Tris treasured them for every second that they lasted, knowing that they came too seldom.

Soterius’s voice brought him back to the business of war. “So Jair and the Sworn will meet us tonight? Does that mean the Dread will support us?”

It was late in the afternoon and the low, rolling hills cast long shadows. There were barrows not far from their chosen camp site, and the long shadows made Tris suppress a shiver. “All we’ve gotten from the Dread is a warning that they’re being courted by both sides. No promises that they’ll back one or the other, or that they’ll do anything at all. Probably best for everyone if they just stay out of it, but if the other side is trying to raise the spirits the Dread guard, then it may force a choice. The Sworn decided this was their business once someone started meddling with the Dread. So they’ll fight to keep the Nachale bound in the barrows, but they’re not signing on for more than that, at least, not yet,” Tris said.

It was the seventh day since the army had left Shekerishet, and although the Northern Sea was not yet in sight, there was a change in the winds and a faint tang of sea water in the air. This part of Margolan was known as the Borderlands, a rocky area with hard-scrabble farms and small fishing villages. It was an area Tris had seldom visited, and what little he knew came from Jonmarc Vahanian, who was born in one of the villages that traded with the fishermen, sailors, and itinerant tinkers who sometimes passed through these parts.

Tris could swear that his sore muscles felt every league of the journey. Although it had been less than a year since he had returned from the siege of Lochlanimar, the duties of kingship made it difficult to spend as much time in the salle or in the saddle as he would have preferred. In times of peace, kings had the luxury of enjoying a ride into the countryside for the hunt, or even extended visits in the homes of the nobility. When, or if, such opportunities might come his way depended on surviving long enough for peace to come again. Tris felt a weariness that had nothing to do with sleep or the fatigue of travel. Very soon, Margolan would be fighting for its existence. Many of the soldiers around him, and no small number of the mages and vyrkin and vayash moru as well, would die in that effort. Tris remembered his conversations with both Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great. This new invader would push an already strapped kingdom to its limits. Tris could only hope that the resistance they could muster, however valiant, would be enough.

The army camped far enough back from the coast to create a defensive line. At sunset, Tris climbed one of the low hills. In the distance, the setting sun cast an orange glow across the ocean. If all the signs were true, then before long, those rocky beaches would be red with blood. Tris sighed as the dying light shifted to a crimson hue as if it anticipated his thoughts. Along the horizon, Tris thought he could make out the faint shapes of ships, and he fervently hoped they were the make-shift navy Nisim had worked to assemble. A large ship that had the look of a privateer’s vessel was anchored out from shore, and two smaller boats were beached near camp.

“Ban told me you were up here.”

Tris turned as he recognized Jair’s voice. He wasn’t surprised to see Talwyn with him, and Tris welcomed both of them with an embrace. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Jair and Talwyn stood beside Tris, and Jair frowned as he looked out toward the sea. “Your ships?”

“I hope so. We’ll hear more about that tonight. Nisim is due with a report, and Fallon’s mages should have some new intelligence for us by then, also.”

“The attacks on the barrows have suddenly stopped,” Talwyn said. “While I’d love to think it was because of us, we really don’t know why they’ve ended, or whether they’ll start up again.” She nodded toward the ships on the horizon. “There’s no way to tell whether whoever was in league with the Black Robes got what they wanted, or gave up because they didn’t.”

“And the Dread?”

Talwyn shrugged. “They haven’t sought me out, and I don’t go looking for them unless it’s an emergency. For now, silence is probably good news.” She paused and looked at Tris as if studying his expression. “What magic do you feel?”

Tris gave a wan smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been jumpy since this afternoon, and the closer we got to the ocean, the worse it’s become. I’m tired from the ride, but I feel like I’ve had an entire pot of kerif. It’s a prickly kind of feeling, like when a storm’s coming.”

Talwyn nodded. “I feel the same way. I’ve tried to read the omens, without any clear results. Last night, I went to the spirit guides, but they had nothing to offer me. And yet, there’s something out there. It’s as you said back at the palace. There’s a hum, a vibration, just beyond what I can identify. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s still there.”