Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (51 page)

Geir looked away. “Penhallow kept his word to King Merrill. The princess was welcome among us, treated with respect, and protected. But on the morning after the magic died, when we learned for a certainty that Quillarth Castle had fallen and that the king was dead, the princess ran out into the sun.” He shuddered. “She immolated herself.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Geir stood. “We’ll rest here for the day. It’ll be dawn soon. We’ll leave after night falls.”

“And go where?” Dawe asked.

Geir moved to answer, but Blaine spoke first. “Glenreith,” he said. “My home—if anything’s left of it.”

“I thought you wanted to get to Mirdalur?” Geir said in a tone that gave Blaine to guess the
talishte
did not like surprises.

“We’re tired and wounded and we don’t have a plan,” Blaine replied. “We heal slower than you do,” he said, meeting Geir’s gaze. “And we have absolutely no idea what we’re walking into at Mirdalur. If Glenreith is standing, we’ll have shelter and maybe food, too. A base from which we can plan our next move. Perhaps Penhallow and Connor will meet us there. Even if they don’t, we have Ifrem’s map, along with that book of Grimur’s to go on.” He grimaced. “We might only get one chance to set things right—I don’t want to foul it up because we didn’t bother to get the details straight.”

“After the last few surprises we’ve had, I’d just as soon have the chance to scout the area before we go charging into Mirdalur,” Dawe said. “What if Reese’s people are already there? I’ve got no desire to walk into a trap.”

“I’m just curious to see where Mick calls home,” Verran said with a grin, raising the pitcher of wine in a mock toast and then taking a long draught. “Now that we know he’s not a common cutthroat, I’m interested to see where criminals of a better sort hail from.”

Blaine shot Verran an exasperated look. “Don’t get your hopes up. Titles may have been in the family for a long time, but not money. The manor was down-at-the-heels before I left; if it was attacked in the final assault on Donderath, it may not even be standing.” He kept his tone light, but the thought that Glenreith and his family could be gone sent a chill through him that no fire would warm. Blaine realized that Kestel was watching him and he knew that she was observant enough to guess his thoughts.

“We still need to rest here, whether you head for Mirdalur or Glenreith,” Geir said. “It’s too close to dawn for me to take you
elsewhere. Reese’s people will also have to go to ground. This place appears to be unused by mortals, but we’ll post a guard, just in case.”

“And tomorrow?” Blaine asked.

Geir’s expression revealed no hint of his thought. “Tomorrow night, we’ll head for Glenreith.”

“Wouldn’t we be safer going by day?” Dawe countered. “Reese’s men won’t be able to get to us in daylight.”

Geir turned to him. “Before the Great Fire, I would have agreed with your logic. But Donderath is a different place than the kingdom you left behind. Bursts of wild magic that come and go without warning. Brigands and highwaymen who aren’t afraid to attack armed men. Neither day nor night is safe. But by night, I go with you.”

“We’ll wait for night,” Blaine said. “It won’t hurt to get some rest, and let Piran heal. Glenreith is a three-day ride out of the city. Mirdalur is beyond that. Who knows what kind of shelter we’ll find tomorrow? Best to take some rest while we can.”

Geir volunteered to take the first watch. Blaine and the others made the best of the stone floor in the wine cellar, spreading their cloaks against the chill. Weary from the fight and numbed with wine, Blaine fell into a fitful sleep.

R
OCK AND FIRE FELL TOGETHER IN A DEADLY
rain. The air filled with smoke, making it difficult to breathe. Connor hurled himself out of the way of the largest portion of the roof as it collapsed, but bits of falling brick and stone slammed into his shoulder and thigh hard enough to make him stumble. The roar of falling stone deafened him, and the choking smoke blinded him.
Crushed or burned?
he wondered, sure that he was about to die.

He struggled to his feet, clawing at his eyes. Swords clanged and he heard fighting close at hand. His right hand gripped his sword, though his eyes were tearing so badly he could not see to defend himself. A dark shape appeared in front of him out of the haze. Connor saw a glint of firelight on steel and managed to throw himself out of the sword’s way by sheer luck. The blade sliced down, catching his left sleeve and opening a thin, bloody slice down his forearm.

Connor blinked, trying desperately to see. He heard his attacker chuckle, knew the
talishte
was playing with him. Killing one of Penhallow’s mortal spies would be quite a coup for Reese’s men. This one no doubt meant to make sport of it.

“I’m ready, you bastard. Fight like a man,” Connor snapped with bravery he did not feel. His sword skills were barely adequate at best, since he had never been expected to serve as a bodyguard. Even if he could see, he lacked the speed and skill of any of Reese’s men. Before his attacker could take him up on the challenge, he heard a sound like a crack of thunder close at hand, deafeningly loud.

“The whole damn thing is collapsing!” Connor heard a voice shout. His attacker made a sudden thrust forward, sinking his blade deep into Connor’s side. He withdrew his sword and vanished. Connor sank to his knees, clutching his gut. He heard a roar like a waterfall, glimpsed a shadow falling over him, and was struck by something large with a force that knocked him to the floor. His head slammed against the flagstones, and everything went black.

In his dream, fire and rock fell together outside the grand tower in Quillarth Castle. Connor heard the peal of the bells, watched as the green fiery ribbon of light from the sky descended, saw everything it touched burst into flame. Stones pelted him as he scrambled down the stairs from the belfry. He could hear screams echoing around him; some were his own. The wooden staircase gave way beneath him and a black shadow overtook him. The shadow engulfed him, swallowed him whole, laid him flat on his back. And then, nothing.

Connor’s eyes opened, but all he saw was darkness. He was lying facedown on a cold, hard slab. He tried to sit up, but his head slammed against wood. He attempted to reach out with his arms, only to find himself trapped in a small space barely wider than his shoulders.
Gods help me! They’ve buried me alive!

Panic choked him and his breath came in short, sharp gulps, his heart thudding so hard in his chest that his ribs ached.
Think, dammit!
He had just enough room to flex his arms, but
he could not budge what lay above him. He forced himself to lie still, breathe slowly, and gather his wits. Once the first swell of panic had passed, he realized pain throbbed the length of his left leg. The rest of his body felt bruised and battered, as if he’d been dragged behind a wagon.

I remember… Quillarth Castle… a ribbon of light. No, that’s not right. Not right, but if not the castle, then where? Cellars, tunnels, fire. Stone, falling. There was a battle—

Connor’s thoughts were interrupted by a distant scratching sound. His heart seized again.
Rats? Please, Charrot, no rats. Crush me, suffocate me, but don’t let rats eat me before I’m dead.

Despite his prayers, the scratching noise grew louder, closer. Connor struggled, but it caused excruciating pain in his leg and served only to remind him just how narrow the tomb was in which he lay. His leg was not the only source of pain. His left side throbbed, and it felt sticky. Despite his dreams of fire, Connor felt a growing coldness.

Maybe there are worse things than rats. Ghouls. I’ve heard stories of “things” that dig up the freshly dead and eat their flesh.
His head throbbed, and from how tender the skin was on one side of his skull, he guessed that a sizable chunk of falling rock had clipped him, hard. Images in his memory blurred, making them unfamiliar and unreliable.

Connor had no idea how long he had been unconscious.
Long enough for them to think me dead and bury me
, he thought. A more chilling idea occurred to him.
Maybe I’m already dead and I’ve risen as
talishte.

The scraping noise was closer, just on the other side of the wood. Connor braced himself, certain that whatever was digging him out of his grave would rip away the lid of his tomb any minute now. In desperation, his right hand felt around in
the darkness for his sword. His fingers closed around the hilt, only to discover that the blade was immobilized.

The wood above him splintered, sending bits of it falling down onto Connor’s head and shoulders. The weight lifted off of him, and Connor drank in the fresh air, then groaned at the pain in his ribs.

“Connor.” The voice was familiar, but Connor barely heard anything in his panic. Whatever had pinned his leg was suddenly removed, and hands grasped his shoulders, gently turning him over. Bloody fingers reached down toward him, and even though Connor flattened himself, he had nowhere to go.

The hands shook him gently. “Connor.”

Connor struggled with all his waning strength, grabbing at the arms that seized him, but it was like wrestling with stone. The flesh was cold, and the grip was strong enough that Connor’s blows did not make the grip weaken for a second.

“Look at me.” The voice was a command, and Connor felt a honeyed compulsion in the words that subdued his will.

Connor’s eyes opened. He saw a dark-haired man bending over him. The man’s hair was streaked with dust; blood stained his torn shirt and pale skin. His blue eyes held Connor’s attention. Connor let himself drown in their depths, abandoning his fear. And in that trance, memory returned. The barghest. Sanctuary among the undead. The attack. Flames and the chamber collapsing around him. He blinked, and knew the face that watched him with uncharacteristic anxiousness.

“Penhallow,” Connor groaned in acknowledgment.

Lanyon Penhallow’s narrow features relaxed and he favored Connor with a rare smile. “Glad to have you among the living,” he said in an offhanded tone that did not match the concern in his eyes.

“What happened?” Connor’s voice was scratchy and his throat was raw. Though the air was cooler than before his “tomb” had been opened, it smelled of blood and smoke. He could taste grit, though his mouth was too dry to spit.

“Let’s get you out of there, and we’ll have time for tales later. Lie still.” Penhallow’s voice was colored with the same compulsion that had roused him, and Connor felt himself relax, though inside, he fought a new surge of panic.

Penhallow gripped him by the shoulder, and Connor felt other hands on his legs. Caught in Penhallow’s gaze, Connor felt the pain lessen, even when his rescuers lifted him.

“Let me have a look at your side,” Penhallow said, as dispassionate as a surgeon. He ripped open what remained of Connor’s torn and bloodied shirt. Connor struggled to see, but two pairs of hands pressed him down by the shoulders, keeping him immobile. The glint of worry he saw in Penhallow’s eyes gave Connor to know that the wounds were bad.

“Hold him still,” Penhallow said to helpers Connor could not see. Penhallow’s eyes narrowed as he studied the wounds, and then he spat onto his own palm and pressed his hand against the wounds, and then moved to the deep gash on Connor’s leg. Penhallow bit into his own wrist, then mingled blood with spittal in his palm, and covered the gash with his hand.

Connor writhed as liquid fire poured through the raw gash, into the torn tissue and organs, burning through his blood. The fire felt as if it would consume him, driving back the numbing chill. Hands like steel bands anchored his shoulders and his good leg. Penhallow repeated the process twice, and each time, Connor felt as if he had swallowed hot coals.

Exhausted, Connor lay back, utterly spent. A few terse words by Penhallow sent someone scouring the wreckage for wood to use for a crutch. Penhallow leaned back, satisfied. “You’ll be
sore for a while, and you might have quite a limp for a few days, but you should heal just fine. The
kruvgaldur
has many advantages. So long as you’re close to me, you gain strength from my power. It will help you heal.”

“What happened?” Connor asked. One of Penhallow’s men, a blond vampire with a farmer’s build, helped Connor sit and pressed a cup of wine to his lips.

Penhallow shrugged. “Reese came after us. Geir was able to get McFadden and the rest of his party to safety, but using that exit triggered a trap that, unfortunately, worked a little too well. It was only supposed to collapse the tunnel entrance. But these are old chambers. It weakened the roof. After the collapse, Reese’s men set the main entrance on fire to trap us.” Neither his face nor his voice revealed any emotion. “Reese did not count on the skills of my fighters.”

“And I got caught in the cave-in,” Connor supplied.

“You got separated from Geir and the others in the fight. I said I would protect you. I failed badly. For that, you have my apology.”

Connor looked at him, frowning as more memories returned. “Just before the roof fell, I was fighting one of Reese’s men. He ran me through.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much of anything after that.”