Read Online The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two by Gail Z. Martin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gail Z. Martin
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at a distance, through thick glass. It didn’t just pull the spirits into itself; it shredded them, tore them to pieces. It didn’t want the souls. It wanted the energy in the souls. It consumed them, destroyed them.” This time, Tris took a longer drink from the brandy.
“Can such a thing be done?”
Tris drew a deep breath. “Yes. The Obsidian King had the power to do that. All the accounts I read suggested that he had to do it one spirit at a time. This power pulled at many spirits at once. It hollowed them and left them shattered.”
He paused. “What’s left after Hollowing isn’t really a ghost—there isn’t enough of the original soul left for that. All that remains are random flickers of energy, but the entity is usually hostile. After the Mage Wars, my grandmother spent months wandering the countryside, releasing the spirits that the Obsidian King had hollowed. She was the last summoner of real power in Margolan.”
“Until you.”
“Until me. And whoever it is that seems bent on invading Margolan.”
A commotion outside stopped conversation. Shouts, curses, and the sound of a fight nearby brought both Tris and Soterius to their feet. The guards closed ranks outside, blocking the doorway and surrounding the tent. Soterius stepped in front of Tris, drawing his sword. Coalan rose from where he was sitting, sword in hand. Tris, too, had drawn his weapon, and he stretched out his mage sense. Magic was close at hand, dark magic. Just as Tris readied a warding, he felt Sister Fallon’s power raise a protective barrier. Tris shouldered past the guards, followed by Soterius. The guards fell in behind them as Tris edged closer to the conflict.
The golden glow of magical wardings created a dome that covered two dozen men locked in hand-to-hand combat. Three men lay dead on the ground, bleeding from grievous wounds. A crowd had formed, and several of the lieutenants were ordering the onlookers back to their tents. Sister Fallon hurried over.
“What’s going on?” Tris did not take his eyes from the fight, which grew more deadly moment by moment. Two more men were on the ground, and their assailants kept hacking with their swords although the downed men cried out for mercy. Both Soterius and Senne shouted for the men to lay down their weapons and stop fighting, but nothing slowed the violence.
“They can’t hear you,” Fallon said to Soterius and Senne. “Or if they can, they don’t have control over their actions.”
“Are they bewitched?” Senne’s face reflected his disgust at the carnage within the warded circle, as men Tris recognized as seasoned fighters cut down their comrades with a ruthlessness rarely seen in the midst of pitchedbattle. There appeared to be no sides to the conflict, no reason for the attack. Within minutes, only one man was standing, and he was badly bloodied, his belly slashed open and his hands pressed against his flesh to slow the bleeding and force his entrails back into his body. The dying man collapsed to his knees, and for an instant, a look of absolute bewilderment and horror crossed his face, as if in his final moments, awareness of what he had done finally broke through a toxic haze of blood rage.
“Bewitched isn’t exactly the right word for it.” Fallon’s belated explanation filled the awful silence as the man stared, stunned, at the massacre. “Do you remember the fear spells that Curane’s blood mages sent against us at Lochlanimar? The terrors Curane’s mages created were enough to send seasoned veterans screaming from imagined horrors.”
“This feels different,” Tris said slowly, as he extended his mage sense further. “Dark magic, perhaps even blood magic, but whoever cast this is more powerful than the mages Curane had.”
Fallon nodded. “This was a sending, but of rage, not terror. These men were going about their assigned tasks when they suddenly drew their weapons on each other and set to. Fortunately, I happened to be close when
“Can such a thing be done?”
Tris drew a deep breath. “Yes. The Obsidian King had the power to do that. All the accounts I read suggested that he had to do it one spirit at a time. This power pulled at many spirits at once. It hollowed them and left them shattered.”
He paused. “What’s left after Hollowing isn’t really a ghost—there isn’t enough of the original soul left for that. All that remains are random flickers of energy, but the entity is usually hostile. After the Mage Wars, my grandmother spent months wandering the countryside, releasing the spirits that the Obsidian King had hollowed. She was the last summoner of real power in Margolan.”
“Until you.”
“Until me. And whoever it is that seems bent on invading Margolan.”
A commotion outside stopped conversation. Shouts, curses, and the sound of a fight nearby brought both Tris and Soterius to their feet. The guards closed ranks outside, blocking the doorway and surrounding the tent. Soterius stepped in front of Tris, drawing his sword. Coalan rose from where he was sitting, sword in hand. Tris, too, had drawn his weapon, and he stretched out his mage sense. Magic was close at hand, dark magic. Just as Tris readied a warding, he felt Sister Fallon’s power raise a protective barrier. Tris shouldered past the guards, followed by Soterius. The guards fell in behind them as Tris edged closer to the conflict.
The golden glow of magical wardings created a dome that covered two dozen men locked in hand-to-hand combat. Three men lay dead on the ground, bleeding from grievous wounds. A crowd had formed, and several of the lieutenants were ordering the onlookers back to their tents. Sister Fallon hurried over.
“What’s going on?” Tris did not take his eyes from the fight, which grew more deadly moment by moment. Two more men were on the ground, and their assailants kept hacking with their swords although the downed men cried out for mercy. Both Soterius and Senne shouted for the men to lay down their weapons and stop fighting, but nothing slowed the violence.
“They can’t hear you,” Fallon said to Soterius and Senne. “Or if they can, they don’t have control over their actions.”
“Are they bewitched?” Senne’s face reflected his disgust at the carnage within the warded circle, as men Tris recognized as seasoned fighters cut down their comrades with a ruthlessness rarely seen in the midst of pitchedbattle. There appeared to be no sides to the conflict, no reason for the attack. Within minutes, only one man was standing, and he was badly bloodied, his belly slashed open and his hands pressed against his flesh to slow the bleeding and force his entrails back into his body. The dying man collapsed to his knees, and for an instant, a look of absolute bewilderment and horror crossed his face, as if in his final moments, awareness of what he had done finally broke through a toxic haze of blood rage.
“Bewitched isn’t exactly the right word for it.” Fallon’s belated explanation filled the awful silence as the man stared, stunned, at the massacre. “Do you remember the fear spells that Curane’s blood mages sent against us at Lochlanimar? The terrors Curane’s mages created were enough to send seasoned veterans screaming from imagined horrors.”
“This feels different,” Tris said slowly, as he extended his mage sense further. “Dark magic, perhaps even blood magic, but whoever cast this is more powerful than the mages Curane had.”
Fallon nodded. “This was a sending, but of rage, not terror. These men were going about their assigned tasks when they suddenly drew their weapons on each other and set to. Fortunately, I happened to be close when
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