"Perhaps something was lost when the brigands attacked," Coalan suggested. "I heard that two wagons were destroyed in the fighting."
Tris shook his head. "Doubtful. But thanks for the suggestion." Coalan managed a wan smile. Ban Soterius's nephew was only six years younger than the king. He looked exhausted. Tris glanced toward the still form bundled on a cot near the fire. "How's Ban doing?"
"Sister Fallon says he's not bleeding anymore. That's something. He doesn't have much blood left to lose," Coalan said tiredly. "His fever's down, but the storm isn't helping. It's too damn cold."
"Has he come around?"
Coalan stared at the fire and sighed. "Not yet."
Tris walked over to where Soterius lay. Even without a healer's magic, Tris could see how pale and drawn his friend looked, the aftermath of narrowly escaping an assassin's attack. Tris laid his hand gently on Soterius's forehead and let his summoning magic reach out in the darkness. He did not try to draw on the wild energy of the Flow that surged around them. Instead, he drew from his own life force, a limited but stable supply. He could sense the glow of the blue-white life thread that anchored Soterius's soul. And while that glow burned more brightly than it had the day before, Tris knew that it was far from the strength it should be for Soterius to be out of danger.
"Begging your royal pardon, but you don't look much better than Uncle Ban," Coalan said.
The young man's lifelong friendship with Tris made him the perfect valet-unquestionably
loyal, refreshingly honest and a link to a shared past that could never be reclaimed.
"I know. But we've got to strike Curane again before his people regroup."
"I'm not afraid to take my place on the line," Coalan said, raising his face with a hint of defiance. "I fought before, with Uncle Ban and the troops he raised. I could help protect you when you use your magic."
Tris's smile was sad. "Ban would never forgive me," he said. "Although it may come to that, if we lose more men. Right now, you serve me best by protecting Ban and seeing that he's well tended. You've already done what my soldiers didn't-protect me from an assassin." Coalan blushed. "My honor to do so."
Tris laid a hand on his shoulder. "Then you do me another service, by letting me sleep safely." When the dreams and the visions allow, Tris added silently. Tris turned toward the door. "Right now, I need to meet with Senne and Palinn for the next attacks." "So soon?"
"We don't dare let the blood mages regroup. The damage to the Flow aids them at our expense. Although after the last battle, I'm not sure the Flow isn't a danger to all of us." Four vayash moru guards fell in step beside Tris as he emerged from his tent, leaving two mortals behind to guard his quarters. Tris looked out over the snow-covered plains, dotted with row upon row of tents and rutted by war machines. At the far edge of the camp, torches burned, and Tris could see the silhouette of the large cairn built over their fallen soldiers. He had gone to the siege with over four thousand men at arms. In less than three full months, battle and disease had killed a third of those troops, and the ranks of the injured grew with every battle.
He turned to look at the brooding outline of Lochlanimar, dark against the sunset. The outer wall was broken in many places, scorched by fire and pounded by trebuchets, catapults and magic. The tower on one corner was collapsed in a heap of rubble. Lochlanimar's defenders still posed enough of a threat that a direct assault was likely to be a disaster. Time was running out, Tris knew. For him and for Curane. And nothing's worse than an enemy with his back to the wall.
Now, the army mobilized for battle just days after tending its wounded from the last encounter. Tris scanned the ranks. Without fresh troops, victory would depend on cunning. Since Margolan's tattered army had no more soldiers to send without risking the palace and the northern roads, cleverness would have to do.
"Is everything in place?" Tris hailed General Senne, who inclined his head in deference on Tris's approach.
"Preparations are nearly complete, Your Majesty," Senne said. General Palinn hurried over, and with him, Tris recognized Sister Fallon. "The pulse strategy-you can do it?"
Senne motioned for Tris to follow him. "Here's the weapon I told you about." Tris looked down at the contraption and frowned. Mounted on a crank, a three-sided pyramid covered with hollow tubes sat at the front of a massive bow on a solid, heavy cart. Tris looked down the line at dozens of the devices.
"Wivvers is my best engineer," Senne said with pride. "The man's a genius. You really should consider giving him a title when this is all said and done. He came up with these to treble our archer fire. We'll have three ranks of longbows, each firing in sequence for a steady hail. But we don't have enough archers to maintain that fire on all sides. Each machine," Senne said, laying a hand proudly on the contraption, "can fire off three rounds of two dozen arrows. Any soldier can operate it, so long as he can aim. It's not magic," Senne said with a sly smile. "But it's close."
Behind the rows of archers, drummer-and -pipers in armor prepared to raise a war chant to strike fear into the besieged village. This night, the drumming would not end until the battle was over. Two staggered rows of trebuchets ringed Curane's fortress, salvaged from the pieces that survived the last battle. Soldiers stood ready to relay rocks and battle debris into the slings of the trebuchets to keep up a steady barrage.
"The mages are in place," Sister Fallon reported. "We have one on each side to help you in the frontal assault. The mages each have hourglasses, timed for the half-candlemark. They're instructed to pulse clockwise, then counterclockwise, then front-to-back and side-to- side. We'll strike with the element we best control-land, water or air. Or in your case-the spirits. The vayash moru are in place, ready to strike when you give the signal." "I've summoned the ghosts of our own battle dead, and ghosts from the crypts below the fortress," Tris said. "There've also been quite a few defectors from among the spirits of those killed by Curane's plague inside the walls. If the mages can strike against the wardings, the vayash moru and the ghosts will break through and cause whatever damage they can before the wardings can be raised once more."
"In theory," Fallon said, meeting Tris's eyes, "that should keep Curane's people hopping while our folks get a break."
"In theory," Tris said. "The mages know to avoid the Flow?"
Fallon nodded. "That's the tricky part. If we're pulling on our own personal reserves, none of us can last long. We might not burn up in the Flow, but we could burn out quickly and be useless for days-or dead."
Tris nodded. "Agreed. Then the pulse will have to work." Fallon nodded in farewell and moved quickly to take her place. This time, Tris opted for the bed of a horse-drawn cart rather than a platform, to keep his position easily mobile and less quickly targeted.
He looked to Senne. "Give the word."
At Senne's signal, the pipes and drums erupted in a fearsome racket, with a wild rhythm of chant and drumbeat that echoed from the walls of Lochlanimar. Torches flared into brightness, illuminating the plain. The first hail of arrows filled the night sky, blotting out the moon. In ranks among the archers, shield bearers carried large, rectangular shields, raising them to provide cover for the archers against the returning volley of arrows from the keep's defenders.
The second and third round of arrows launched, and down the line, Tris could hear the creaking of the trebuchets as they were winched back into position, and the thud of their release, each sending rocks and huge, solid balls of ice into the air, to crash a few moments later against the beleaguered walls.
Tris cleared his mind, letting his generals see to the physical needs of battle. Carefully drawing on his own power without touching the raging torrent of the Flow's power, Tris could see three warded places in the front quadrant of the castle. To counter the wardings, his magic would require surgical precision, not great blasts of power, to avoid drawing on the Flow for support. Tris took a deep breath and let his power stretch out, concentrating his effort and his magic in a focused burst against the weakest of the charms. It was badly set, and the warding shattered under the assault.