Gail Martin - The Sworn

Tris took a deep breath. “I’ve asked them to join us.”

The air became suddenly cold enough that those in the campaign tent could see their breath. Three glowing forms took shape in the open area circled by the chairs. The first ghost wore the armor common more than a hundred years before. His breastplate was shattered, and his death wound left a gaping hole in his chest. Next to him stood a man clad in leather and skins, with a crude, two-handed sword in a back scabbard and a necklace of bone and shells.

The third ghost carried a shield and sword of old design, and Tris knew the ghost to be one of Hadenrul’s men. All of them had the look of leaders, and Tris knew that, in their lives, they had commanded legions of men.

“Welcome, honored dead.”

The third ghost looked at the talisman that Tris wore at his throat, the amulet he had taken from Marlan the Gold’s tomb, and then to Nexus, the spelled sword Tris wore in his scabbard. The three ghosts bowed.

Tris motioned for them to rise. “Have you taken my word to the spirits of your men?”

The ghost with the shattered breastplate nodded. “We have.”

“And what is their decision?”

The man who had served Hadenrul stepped forward. “We are agreed. In life, and in death, we serve the land that bore us.” He inclined his head. “We’ve felt the call of another power, one from beyond our land, a voice we don’t know. It would command us, conscript us, force us to serve against our will, to fight those descended from our blood. We have agreed, Your Majesty, that we would rather be destroyed than fight against our countrymen. We are yours to command.”

The ghost knelt then, joined by the other two spirits. The soldier who had served Hadenrul pressed his lips against the signet ring on Tris’s hand that bore the crest of the House of Margolan, and the others followed suit. Tris gestured for them to rise.

“This is Vitya, one of the most feared of Marlan the Gold’s warlords,” Tris said, introducing the leather-clad warrior. “Estan fought in the service of King Hadenrul the Great and was rewarded by his king for being crafty and ruthless in battle.” The second ghost inclined his head in recognition. “And this is Dagen, who served my grandfather, King Larimore, with great valor.”

Tris turned his attention back to the ghosts. “When this is over, I’ll make the passage to the Lady for those who want to go to their rest. Those who want to remain, to guard your land, we welcome.”

“Will you protect us from the Hollowing?” It was Estan who asked, and his dead eyes were fearful. “Whatever calls to us wants more than our defeat. It would consume us. You’re a summoner. Can you protect us? We’re past fearing death. We don’t fear the passage to the Lady, whichever Aspect calls for us. But to be consumed, to be hollowed out, that has the power to frighten even the dead.”

Tris met Estan’s eyes. “On my crown and on my soul, I will use all my power, in life and in the Plains of Spirit, to protect you from the Hollowing. I swear it.”

Whatever else the ghost meant to say was interrupted when a runner burst into the tent.

“Your Majesty! The island beacon is lit. There are ships on the far horizon, lots of them, and the sky is red with blood.”

Tris led the way out of the crowded tent to where the entire camp stood staring at a sky gone crimson, as if a glistening curtain of blood shimmered across the dome of the night, blotting out the stars and darkening the moon.

Around him, Tris could hear commanders barking orders. Senne, Rallan, Soterius, and Trefor ran for their troops. Soldiers rushed to mobilize, and Tris caught a glimpse of vayash moru taking to the sky.

Only the ghosts remained with Tris. Estan raised his face to stare at the glittering, blood-red light. Then he turned to meet Tris’s eyes. “It begins.”