Now. Go. Along the Plains of Spirit, Tris sent the order to the waiting ghosts. Without the extra power of the Flow, Tris couldn't spare the extra magic to make the ghosts visible. Those that could show themselves in their own power winked into sight as other revenants began to wail, adding an eerie descant to the sound of the war pipes. Poltergeists assaulted the soldiers on the walls from behind, as vayash moru easily dodged the arrows to pick off hapless guards like large birds of prey.
Curane's forces had watched the battle preparations from within their walls. They were ready. Catapults sent rocks and shrapnel flying back through the hail of arrows. Tris heard a rumble from the eastern end of the castle, where Fallon's land magic tumbled the rocks from a portion of the outer wall. The battle raged on, and the magic shifted. From the west, Vira's water magic swirled deep snow into icy spikes and hurled them toward the guards, as deadly and accurate as the arrows. More time passed, and Tris heard a sound like thunder as Beyral's land magic focused a tremor within the walls, sending a portion of the building to the ground with a crash.
Tris felt the blood magic rising even as the Flow seemed to awaken, bucking and heaving along the paths of power. In the last battle, such an upheaval killed one of the mages and badly injured the rest. Then, Tris and the others had been drawing on the Flow's energy, vulnerable when that power suddenly rose against them. Now, without that link, Tris felt the power surge painfully along the channels of magic, but distantly, without the power to cripple or kill.
The Flow was wilder than ever, and Tris knew why. A mighty surge of blood magic broke from all four corners of Lochlanimar at once. The fabric of the night seemed to open up like a curtain ripped top to bottom, and through that gap from the blackness of the Abyss poured a dozen creatures that were the stuff of nightmares. Tall as a man, but misshapen, with corpse-gray skin, the creatures looked about with bulbous heads hung with sharp-toothed, lantern jaws. The things hit the ground running, ripping into the front line of soldiers with long clawed arms. The pikemen held their ground against the beasts, valiantly trying to guard the longbowmen, who kept up their assault as the wail of the pipes was lost among the screams of soldiers and the howls of the beasts.
"Light the arrows!" Tris shouted, and realized that his voice was lost amid the fray. Gathering his magic, he sent a burst of fire along the volley of arrows just sprung from their bows, turning them into flaming missiles. Down the line, the archers adjusted their aim and torch men lit the batting wrapped behind the arrowheads. Tris could hear the creaking and groaning of the trebuchets as they shifted behind him. Then, bright as comets, fiery balls launched through the air, over the heads of the archers, to land not against the castle walls but among the attacking beasts.
The line held, as the fire drove back the beasts and well-aimed flaming missiles found their mark. But even as the flames held one enemy at bay, Tris felt the Flow stir again, and a second surge of blood magic swelled and burst.
With the sound of an explosion, the newly built cairn behind the camp burst open. Rising from the rows in which their bodies had been buried, the corpses of fallen Margolan soldiers lurched to their feet. The corpses staggered forward toward the camp. Some, missing limbs, dragged themselves through the snow. A cry went up from the rear guard as the troops reacted in horror.
"Hold your positions! Remain firing!" Tris could hear Palinn, Senne and Rallan shouting down the line. At Senne's word, two ranks of the rear guard turned, charging back into the camp.
"These are not your comrades," Tris could hear Senne bellowing above the fray. "Those
bastards are using your comrades' bodies as weapons. Your friends are dead. Help their bodies rest in peace!"
Tris struggled against the horror of the sight to find his center. Like the corpses from the moat-blood magic, not true spirit magic, he thought. Puppets, not reanimated dead. He set his jaw, angered by the desecration. Strike the puppet master, and the strings will be cut. Tris closed his eyes and sent his magic along the Plains of Spirit. You wished to serve. Now is the time, he called to the spirits of the soldiers lost in battle. He drew more heavily on his own power and lent the spirits the energy to make themselves seen and solid enough to fight. The spirits of the dead men raised a battle cry as they leapt forward, cutting down their own lifeless bodies. Tris felt their emotions surge across his link with them. Unlike their mortal comrades, there was no fear. Anger surged hot at the enemy's use of their bodies as weapons against their own side. While even the most intrepid of Tris's mortal soldiers hesitated at the thought of hacking down the bodies of their dead brothers-in-arms, the ghost fighters lunged into combat. Their swords, given power by Tris's magic, cut through the rotting corpses and the frozen bodies, which fell like severed marionettes. Carried on the current of their rage, Tris turned his magic to find the source of the abomination. He could feel the Flow undulating around them like a wild sea, waves of power rising and falling like a storm. Tris drew more heavily on his own power, knowing that he could not sustain the draw for long. He found the trail of magic that led him back from the vanquished corpses, and prepared to answer it with a blast of his own. The night around him opened once again. Before Tris could shift his magic, overwhelming force pulled him in as the sky closed behind him.
Tris fell through total darkness. He landed hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and bit back a cry of pain as his left arm snapped with the force of the fall. Well, that answers whether or not I'm here in body or in spirit. The question is: Where? Before he could adjust his wardings, unbearable pain washed over him, burning along every nerve like fire. Tris stiffened and arched, fighting back a scream as he formed the counterspell. In the instant's reprieve it afforded him, his wardings rose around him, and he climbed warily to his feet. "Show yourselves!"
Torchlight flared around a circular chamber. Three red-robed figures stood facing him, one
to the front and one at each side. Their faces were lost in shadow. At each figure's throat glowed a fire-lit gem.
Avatars, Tris thought. Just like I fought in the Citadel during my training. Each a conduit for its master's power. I'll bet the chamber isn't real, either. If they've pulled me into the Nether and projected themselves, they've got to be burning energy fast. Still, it's three to one. To his mage senses, the chamber stank of blood magic. Tris could feel the power of a death warding and knew it was set to his life force. No way out alive. Tris struck first, sending a barrage of mage lightning streaking from his fingers at the opponent to his right. The lightning bounced off the mage's shields. From his left, a wave of fire enveloped him, straining his wardings. An answering barrage of red lightning added to the onslaught, and Tris could feel the drain of dangerous magic against his wardings as the third mage sent a blast of power Tris knew was spelled to kill. His shields held – barely.
Before he could respond, the blood magic surged again, and for an instant his shields wavered, enough that pain shot through him as if his head might burst, almost sufficient to black him out. Strong magic sent another wave of fire, and this time, it burned along his skin and caught at his clothes and hair, blistering instantly. He struggled to raise his shields as another blast of power slammed against him like a body blow, hard enough that his vision swam. Wave after wave of power hit him, driving him to his knees as blows pounded like sledgehammers.