Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (44 page)

“Get your cloak,” Ifrem said, pushing Blaine back into his room and toward the peg on the wall that held his coat. “There are riots in Bay-town, and we need every man we’ve got to settle them.”

Blaine splashed cold water on his face from a basin near the door and wiped off the water with a rough towel. In the distance, he could hear muffled shouts. “It’s damn cold and the middle of the night. What in Torven’s name is important enough to fight about that it can’t wait until morning?”

Ifrem shrugged. He looked tired, and his short-trimmed beard seemed grayer than before. The Council had been meeting daily since the herring crews sailed the ghost ship
Nomad
back into port, and the decision was made for a colonist crew to steer the ship back to Donderath. “Piran didn’t say. He just stopped long enough to make a request for able-bodied men to help keep the peace.” He snorted. “Since that sure didn’t mean me, I figured he was looking for you.”

The meetings had kept Blaine in Bay-town much of the last few weeks, and while he was grateful for Ifrem’s hospitality, he missed his own bed at the homestead. He took his sword belt down from where it hung next to his cloak and belted it on, then swung his cloak across his shoulders. “All right. I’m awake. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Piran was rallying men out back near the stable. Said the trouble was down near the Green.”

Muttering curses under his breath, Blaine headed down the back stairs. The winter wind was like a slap in the face as he opened the door, driving clear any lingering sleepiness. Men were streaming toward the open area by the stable, coming between the buildings and through the alleyways. From the rolling gait of more than a few of the men, Blaine guessed that many of Ifrem’s patrons had also heeded Piran’s call to arms.

Blaine joined the crowd, standing near the back. By now a group of about fifty men were assembled, and Piran stood on top of a wooden cask to address them.

“We’ve got trouble down on the Green, and we need to put an end to it,” shouted Piran, his breath clouding in the freezing air. “Not sure what started it, but we’ve got to keep it from getting worse. You on the right,” he said to a group of men standing a bit apart from the crowd. “Form a line along the storefronts. We’ll have scarce supplies enough without any looting going on.” He looked to the others. “The rest of you, break up fights, and try not to get pulled into them. The Town Guards are already on their way, but they may need backup. Let’s go!”

Blaine could tell Piran had spotted him, and sure enough, when Piran jumped down from the cask, he made a straight line over to Blaine. “Since when are you the constable?” Blaine asked as they began to run toward the village green.

“I guess you could say the constable deputized me. He was heading toward the Green with the Guards, and told me to round up dependable men to even the odds.”

“And so you went to the Crooked House? That’s your idea of dependable men?”

Piran grinned. “I know the regulars, and I depend on them to have my back in a fight. Hence, ‘dependable.’ ”

They rounded a corner, and found that the fight had moved from the Green and was sprawling down the main street in Bay-town and spilling into its alleys. Blaine and Piran had kept the peace in the Crooked House enough nights to have experience breaking up fights, and with a glance and a shrug, they parted ways, wading into the nearest altercations to separate the brawlers.

“Hey, now! Break it up!” Blaine shouted, shouldering between two men who were trading punches. Before he’d even gotten
close, he could smell the whiskey on their breath. A punch grazed Blaine’s jaw, and he ducked, landing a blow of his own that sent the man down on his ass in the snow. Rounding on the other man just in time to block a punch meant for his nose, Blaine socked the second man in the gut, doubling him over.

“What in Raka is this about?” Blaine asked, striding over to yank the first man out of the snow. He could hear the second fighter retching in the gutter.

“It ain’t right for the ones who are taking that bleedin’ ship back home to clean us out of food when things are scarce,” the man snapped, unrepentant even though the fight had left him with a bloody gash above one eyebrow and a rapidly blackening eye.

“Who told you that?” Blaine demanded.

The man shrugged. “Heard it around town,” he said with a baleful glare.

Blaine shook him free, and stepped back from both of them. “That’s what this whole thing is about?”

Another shrug. “There’s been talk. The way I figure it, sending people away on the ship might mean fewer mouths to feed here, but what about all the food they’ll take with them? What happens if there’s naught for the ones left behind? We won’t be getting no more ships from Donderath, that’s for sure.” He wiped his split lip with the sleeve of his sweater.

Blaine sighed. This was an issue the Council itself had already debated and thought was concluded. The
Nomad
had been abandoned early enough in its journey that it was nearly completely stocked, even when the damaged grain was destroyed. Since the wheat rot had only affected a few barrels, replacing them would cause no shortage in Edgeland. Barrels of fresh water and casks of salted herring, something the colonists could easily replace, would be all that was needed to supply the
Nomad
for its journey
home. Simple enough, he thought, but probably not something the brawler and his sparring partner wanted to hear.

“All they’ll be taking from here is water and herring, and Bay-town isn’t running short of either,” Blaine replied. “Now, get out of here before the Town Guards get here and start knocking heads together.”

The two men limped off in separate directions, and with a sigh, Blaine headed into another nearby fray. He spotted Piran across the way. Piran was scuffling with a broad-shouldered man, trying to pull him off a lanky fellow Blaine recognized as one of the colonists who had successfully applied for passage on the
Nomad
. The ship had room to carry four hundred passengers and crew, and Blaine had wondered how many colonists would jump for a chance to return to Donderath. To his surprise, they barely had enough applicants to fill the ship. Apparently, he thought, he wasn’t the only colonist who had finally come to terms with Edgeland being home.

From what Blaine could see, a few hundred men and women were surging their way. Shouting and catcalling, they were in an ugly mood, and although the Town Guards were breaking up fights, the crowd showed no interest in breaking up.

Blaine grabbed a tin bucket and a ladle and scrambled atop the roof of a small shed. He began to bang the bucket with the ladle and shout until the mob quieted and everyone had turned to stare at the madman on the roof.

“You’ll not be losing anything except herring and water when the
Nomad
sails for Donderath,” Blaine shouted. His throat constricted at the freezing-cold air, and he fought the urge to cough. “If that’s what you’re fighting about, go home.”

“Fine for you to say,” shouted a young man from the front of the crowd. “You’re one of them goin’ on the boat. Takin’ all the food—what about them that’s stayin’ behind?”

Piran had walked up behind the speaker and smacked the man in the back of the head. “Didn’t you hear the man? Naught but herring and water—you think you’ll miss any of that?” The young man spun to strike back, then thought better of it as he got a look at Piran’s size and ready fist.

“Herring and water, folks,” Blaine repeated. “And a long, cold voyage back to gods only knows what. You didn’t want to be on the boat, and the passengers aren’t taking anything you can’t replace. Go home.”

There were a few shouts from the rear of the crowd, and widespread muttering, but with the combination of Blaine’s interruption and the heavy-handed tactics of the Town Guards cracking down on brawlers, the riot’s momentum had dwindled to nothing. Under the watchful eyes of the Guards, the colonists began to disperse. Piran fell in with the Guards, rooting out stragglers and encouraging the dawdlers to be on their way, herding them down the street and breaking up the crowd. Gradually, they disappeared around a corner.

Blaine tossed the bucket and ladle down to the ground and started to climb down. He had just turned to let himself down from the shed’s roof when he heard a rush of air and felt something hard and heavy slam into his right temple. He fell backward into the drifted snow, and before he could clear his head, a black-robed man came at him, brandishing a wicked-looking knife.

Blaine could feel blood streaming down the side of his face. Whatever had hit him had been hard enough to nearly knock him out, and the best he could do was to raise an arm to fend off his attacker. The knife bit down, cutting deep into his left forearm, as the black-robed man came at him. Before Blaine could reach his sword, the robed man struck again, swinging the blade toward Blaine’s chest.

Blaine kicked his attacker in the thigh and rolled. His head swam as he struggled to his feet, and his vision blurred, threatening to black him out. He managed to draw his sword, and the attacker’s knife clanged against it as Blaine blocked his swing.

The robed man moved with the sure-footed confidence of a trained fighter, and his single-minded focus left no doubt that he intended to finish Blaine. From the folds of the man’s robe, a second knife appeared, and the man came at him again, striking with both blades.

Blaine staggered backward, still struggling to keep his footing as his head pounded. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, and blocked one blade with his sword. The other blade scored a gash on his left shoulder.

Forcing himself to stay on his feet, Blaine landed several pounding strikes with his sword, but he knew the blow to his head had badly compromised his ability to fight. His attacker danced out of range of his blade, waiting for him to tire, counting on the head wound to force Blaine into a fatal error.

It was hard to think with the pounding in his head, and his vision now showed him a double figure, making it damnably difficult to anticipate the man’s next move. Piran and the Guards were long out of sight, leaving Blaine on his own. He was bleeding freely, his blood marking the snow with crimson drops, and his attacker waited with a hunter’s instinct for his quarry to make the wrong move.

The robed man sprang forward, coupling speed with momentum sufficient to knock Blaine off his feet. Blaine struck at him with his sword, but the man had gotten close enough for the tip of his blade to graze Blaine’s chest.

The attacker drew back his arm, preparing to slash the blade across Blaine’s throat, when there was a blur of motion, and the robed man was yanked free with such violence that Blaine
heard bones snap and a strangled yelp that was suddenly silenced. Blaine blinked, trying to clear his vision to make out the bulky shape in the shadows.

Grimur stood a few paces away, holding the limp form of a man by the throat. The angle of the man’s head made it plain that his spine had been broken. Blaine got to his feet, not quite sure whether he had been rescued or had just changed foes.

Before Blaine could speak, Grimur dropped the body to the ground, sank to his haunches, and grabbed one of the corpse’s arms, ripping back the clothing as if it were paper. Grimur sank his fangs into the man’s wrist, tearing into the dead flesh, and drinking deeply of the fresh blood. Blaine swayed on his feet, his sword clutched two-handed in front of him, knowing that if Grimur chose to attack him, he stood no chance at all of defending himself.

Finally, Grimur dropped the dead man’s arm. His lips were bright crimson, a stark contrast to skin as pale as the snow. Grimur seemed to be deep in thought, and Blaine wondered if he had totally forgotten his presence. After a moment, Grimur stood and regarded Blaine with a trace of amusement.

“Put the sword down, lad,” Grimur said. “I’ve no want for your blood, and if I did, that pig-sticker wouldn’t stop me.” Shaking with the effort to remain on his feet, Blaine lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it.

“Thanks,” Blaine said, his teeth chattering with cold. “But now we have no idea why he was after me.”

Grimur chuckled. “Not entirely true. It’s possible to read much from the blood, especially from a fresh kill.” He licked his lips, and the crimson stain vanished.

“Where in the gods’ name have you been?” Piran said as he came running around the corner, only to skid to a stop. His
gaze flickered between Blaine, still standing with his sword drawn, Grimur, and the corpse of the black-robed man.

“You have nothing to fear… now,” Grimur said. “But we’d best get Mick inside before he falls down. He’s lost a lot of blood,” he said. His tone was solicitous, but there was just a hint of a pause, enough for Blaine to imagine a lingering hunger.

Blaine sheathed his sword, and swayed enough that he stumbled, nearly falling. Piran got under his good arm. Together, they made their way to the back door of the Crooked House, but by that time, Blaine was weaving in and out of consciousness and Piran was nearly dragging him as dead weight.

Blaine heard Ifrem’s voice, though it seemed to come from a distance. Piran was talking loud and fast. Blaine slumped to the floor. An instant later, strong hands lifted him like a child, and Blaine stopped fighting the merciful tide of darkness.

“He’s comin’ ’round,” Piran said. Blaine groaned. The pounding in his head had lessened but not vanished altogether, and it seemed every beat of his heart echoed in his throbbing skull. His body ached and his left arm was immobilized. Just trying to move his arm caused pain, both in the shoulder and in the arm itself.

“Easy there,” Piran said. “We only just got you to stop bleeding. The healer was rather cross; I don’t fancy having to tell her you started it back up again.”

Blaine managed to open his eyes. He was in a room at the Crooked House. Ifrem stood against one wall, and Grimur sat in a chair in the corner. Piran brought Blaine a tin cup and helped him sit enough to take a sip of whiskey.

“Do you remember what happened?” Piran asked.

Blaine sank back against the mattress and closed his eyes.
His voice, when he spoke, was raw, not entirely from the whiskey. “I got clipped in the head by something, a rock, maybe. When I fell, a man in a black robe attacked me. Never said a word, but he meant to kill me. Would have, too, if Grimur hadn’t gotten him first.”