Reign of Ash (7 page)

Geir lifted the first man in his arms as if the soldier were a child. “I’ll take this one out where the others are, and I’ll lift the compulsion on your brother. Give him a moment or two to rouse. And be careful if you cut his bonds: he may wake fighting.”

“One more thing we have in common,” Blaine murmured, thinking of how many times Piran and Dawe had complained back in Edgeland that Blaine often woke from dark dreams thrashing and struggling.

Geir disappeared among the trees and Blaine was glad for the privacy, though now that the reunion awaited, he found himself at a total loss for words. With a sigh, Blaine knelt next to Carr, who was beginning to stir. Drawing his knife, he cut the bonds on Carr’s wrists and ankles, took Carr’s sword and the long knife that hung from his belt, then stood back. He sheathed his knife but stood ready for an attack should Carr suddenly launch himself at his ‘captor.’

Carr struggled awake as the
talishte
’s compulsion cleared from his head. His eyes blinked and he stood up quickly, defensive and reaching for his missing weapons.

“You’re safe,” Blaine said quietly.

Carr’s eyes were wild with fear and rage. But as he fixed on Blaine’s features, Carr sat back down with a thud and the blood drained from his face. “Oh gods above, I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“You’re not dead.”

“Blaine? You can’t be Blaine. My brother’s dead, gone to Velant. People don’t come back from Velant.”

“I did.”

Carr reached again for his weapons, and this time he met Blaine’s gaze with suspicion. “Why take my blades, brother?” There was no mistaking the skepticism and mistrust in the last word, and Blaine winced.

“I’ve awakened a time or two fighting my way out of nightmares. My mates objected to getting slugged for no fault of their own,” Blaine said with a shrug. “Your weapons are here for you.”

“Why did you come back?” Now that he was fully awake, Carr studied his brother with a dark glare.

“Long story better told when we’re somewhere else,” Blaine replied. He toed the weapons closer to Carr and stepped back. “Niklas will want to know you’re safe.”

“Does he know about you?” Carr moved for his weapons without taking his eyes off Blaine, still alert for deception.

“He knows. And before you ask, the
talishte
who captured you are on our side. They meant no harm. They thought Niklas had captured my friends and me.”

Carr snatched his weapons and moved backward, out of reach. “‘Our side’? I don’t know whose side you’re on yet.”

“There isn’t time —”

Carr’s expression twisted with anger. “I was on patrol and got attacked by a pack of bloodsuckers. Now I wake up and my dead brother is back, talking to me like I’m still a child. For all I know, those damned biters got inside my head and you’re not even real.”

Blaine extended his right hand. “I’m real enough, Carr. But we need to get out of here.”

Carr sprang from where he crouched, landing a fist to the side of Blaine’s jaw hard enough that Blaine staggered back a step. Blood started from his lip. Unwilling to harm Carr, Blaine fell into a defensive stance but did not draw his sword. Carr stepped back, flexing and clenching the fingers of his right hand at the pain of the blow.

“You’re solid. Doesn’t mean you’re real.”

“By Torven’s horns! What was that for? I’m your brother for the gods’ sake.”

“The brother who left us to starve? Dammit, Blaine, I know why you killed Father. I know he dishonored Mari. Gods above, I was sick enough of his beatings. But without Father, and without you, Aunt Judith and Mari and I had nothing left. The scandal meant that almost no one would trade with us, sell to us, buy our surplus crops. We were outcasts, unwelcome at court, and even the village peasants spit when we crossed their paths!” Carr was shouting now, and while his face was red with anger, tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. “We lost everything!”

“So did I.” Despite himself, Blaine’s temper rose. “The king took my title, my claim to the land, and the sentence took Carensa from me,” he returned. “My betrothed married another man, bore his child. I spent three years in Velant, starving and freezing, under the commander’s boot. Three more years starving and freezing as a colonist, in the mines or on the boats. I would have preferred that Merrill execute me. But I went to Velant knowing that at least I had stopped Father from beating you and raping Mari, and that was enough.”

“And after six years you show up out of nowhere and want it all back?” Carr challenged.

“Keep the godsdamned title, if that’s what matters to you,” Blaine snapped. “But Glenreith is still my home. Aunt Judith welcomed us. That’s where we’re going, if I can ever get your stubborn ass out of this forest before we’re attacked again.”

“‘Us’? You brought a bunch of convicts back with you? How wonderful. Did Judith tell you we sold the silver to pay for food, so there’s naught left to steal?”

Blaine’s fists clenched at his sides, and it took all his will to keep himself from landing a punch. “There are bigger things at stake than your hurt feelings,” Blaine grated. “By Charrot! Grow up.”

Carr fixed him with a baleful look. “Oh, I grew up, Blaine. I grew up working like a man in the fields when I was naught but a slip of a boy. I grew up hearing Judith sob herself to sleep because we had no food and no money to buy any. I grew up seeing my sister marry beneath her station because no one wanted the taint of the McFadden name. And I grew up with every kill I made in the name of king and country on the front lines.”

“Carr —”

“Damn you! I mourned you at first, and then I learned to hate you for what you cost us. So now you’re back. To Raka with you! We learned to get by without your help. Go back to Edgeland. We don’t need you. I can’t imagine why in the name of the gods you came here.”

“Because I may be the only one who can restore the magic.” Blaine met Carr’s angry gaze as the other took in the words. Disbelief gave way to an angry smirk.

“Have you figured the cost, dear brother? I’ve been saved once by you, and the price was too damn high.” With that, Carr strode for the edge of the forest, shoving his way past Blaine and disappearing into the darkness.

“I
t’s hard to believe that only half a year has gone past since…” Connor’s voice drifted off to nothing, but the others did not need him to finish the sentence to know where his thoughts strayed.

Castle Reach, once the bustling palace city of the kingdom of Donderath, was now a ruin. Much of the city had burned in the Great Fire on the night that Donderath fell, when a ribbon of fire, called down by the battle mages of Meroven, laid waste both to Quillarth Castle and to the city around it.

Trapped at the top of the castle’s bell tower, Connor had watched the city fall. In the rubble of the castle and the Fire that consumed the city, Connor had lost all he had: his master, his king, and his home. All that had remained was duty, and his dying master’s charge to safeguard the disk and the map that Connor had found hidden in the royal library. A map Penhallow had hoped might change the course of the war, found too late to stop the carnage.

“For once I did not see such things happen with my own eyes,” Penhallow replied. “I have seen so many things come to ruin in my time.” There was an edge of sorrow in his voice.

Connor felt for the wooden map box that he kept in a pouch beneath his cloak, and the obsidian disk on a leather strap under his shirt. He did not want to think about how many times the vampire had seen kings and kingdoms come to ruin.

“I don’t know how you manage it,” Connor said quietly. “Once was more than enough for me.”

Penhallow did not reply, and Connor wondered if such things were beyond words, even for one of the immortals.

Before the Great Fire, the king’s census had numbered more than eighty thousand people in the environs of Castle Reach. Thriving, noisy, bustling with life, the palace city had teemed with merchants, sailors, criminals, soldiers, wanderers, scholars, and all manner of travelers. The air had smelled of cooking meat and the press of unwashed bodies, of cart horses and torch smoke, and on occasion, of the flowers, incense, and perfumes offered by merchants in the crowded market. A forest of ships’ masts once filled the wharf front, and the shouts of stevedores and the clatter of the cargo they moved mingled with the salt air. The din of wagon wheels and the shouts of street vendors had echoed from the walls along the narrow, winding streets, and raucous music spilled out of the dark doorways of the innumerable taverns, public houses, and brothels that met the every need of Castle Reach’s residents and visitors. Now…

When the magic failed, so did the protective spells that held back the sea. The wharves and the street nearest the seawall were now buried beneath the tide. Many of the buildings that had not burned, collapsed when the small magics used to patch and support them disappeared. The war with Meroven had never brought an invading army to Castle Reach, yet the city looked as if it had been besieged, overrun, and cruelly conquered.

The streets were quiet, but not empty. Though the night was cold, ragged forms huddled in the shadows of the burned and ruined buildings or shuffled along the scorched cobblestones. The air still smelled of salt spray, but the ships that once filled the wharves were long gone, fleeing the city’s devastation or burned to the waterline where they sat at anchor. Connor had managed to get a place on one of the last ships to leave the city in the aftermath of the fall, and he had watched the skyline burn as the ship set sail, course unknown.

That ship had taken him eventually to the northernmost site in the world, Edgeland, a place so harsh and unforgiving that it was colonized by force with exiles and criminals. There he had met Blaine McFadden and discovered that the map and disk he carried might yet play a role in bringing back the shattered magic.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself,” Treven Lowrey said. Connor stole a glance at Lowrey, whose expression of shock and dismay so clearly mirrored Connor’s own feelings.

“I watched from the castle tower as the Fire fell,” Connor replied in a voice just above a whisper. “And I still can’t believe it.”

“Stay sharp,” Penhallow murmured. “We’re being followed.”

Connor rested his hand on his sword. Lowrey gripped the walking stick he had cut in the forest, a stout stave at least six feet in length and almost as thick as a man’s wrist. Penhallow did not reach for his weapon, and Connor knew why. Unless they faced other
talishte
in battle, Penhallow’s speed, strength, and fangs presented a formidable array of weapons.

Moving through the alleyways, Connor could feel unseen eyes watching them. Here and there, groups of men huddled around small fires, talking in low tones. The lower floors of the least-damaged buildings had been reclaimed, and lamplight spilled from the glassless windows, along with the unmistakable smell of rough-brewed whiskey and cooked fish.

“Lookin’ for company, are you?” a woman’s voice called from a doorway. Clad in tattered, tawdry finery, the woman swaggered toward them. She looked as raw as the whiskey on her breath, and her thin face was gaunt and wan.

“We have no need of your services,” Penhallow said quietly, but Connor felt the tingle of the
talishte
’s compulsion.

The woman returned to her place with a dazed look, and Connor had no doubt that within a moment, she would not recall their passing.

“If you can send her away, why not get rid of whoever’s following us?” Connor whispered.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Penhallow said, and despite the situation, he managed a terse chuckle. “I wish it did. I can only compel one person at a time. Keep your eyes open. Our ‘friends’ are getting closer.” Walking single file, Penhallow led the way as they moved through the small crowd outside the reclaimed tavern, doing their best to pass unnoticed.

They turned a corner and found four men with drawn swords standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking their path. Connor heard footsteps behind them, and three more armed men appeared from the shadows, cutting off their exit.

“We’ll be having your coins, and anything else we take a liking to, like that fine coat of yours,” the tallest of the men said, and with his sword point he indicated Lowrey’s cloak.

“Not tonight.” Penhallow had barely spoken before he moved as a blur, going for the two men on his right. Connor drew his sword and went after the men on the left. He hoped that the surprise of Penhallow’s attack might make up for his own lack of sword skills.

That left Lowrey to face the rear. Robbed of his magic by the Great Fire, Lowrey glowered at the men and lifted his long staff. He bellowed a cry as he ran at the man in the center of the line, swinging his staff so wildly that the other two were forced to jump aside or be bludgeoned. “Take my cloak will you, blackguards?” he challenged.

Connor found himself facing two well-armed opponents. He struck first at the man on the left, managing to bloody his shoulder before the second man attacked and scored a gash on Connor’s forearm. Connor parried, acutely aware that his time as Lord Garnoc’s assistant had never included any serious training at arms. His opponents, eyeing an easy kill, closed in on him, one from the left and one from the right.

The man on his right feinted, but Connor caught the flicker of movement on his left in time to parry the second man’s strike, a blow that reverberated down Connor’s arm from wrist to shoulder. Knowing that the man on his right would strike in earnest, Connor pivoted more by instinct than by sight, rounding on his attacker, his sword leveled at the man’s chest. The brigand’s momentum drove him into Connor’s sword, even as his own sword slashed deep into Connor’s shoulder.

Penhallow easily evaded the swords of his quarry. He lifted the man on the far right in one hand and hurled him down the alleyway as if he were a child’s ball. Striking before the second man could run, Penhallow’s arm lashed out and his hand caught the man by the throat, crushing his windpipe and snapping his neck before the startled thief could raise his sword.

As the second crumpled body fell to the bloodstained cobblestones, the remaining thieves fled for their lives. Penhallow went to Connor’s aid as Connor freed his sword from the dead brigand. Connor turned to see Lowrey standing over the fallen form of one of the thieves who had been downed and bloodied by Lowrey’s frenzied attack. What the mage lacked in skill he made up for in bluster, and this time luck was on his side.

“And don’t come back!” Lowrey shouted after the fleeing bandits, shaking his staff in the air after them.

“You’re wounded,” Penhallow said as Connor swayed on his feet, as much from the nervous energy of the fight as from the blood that soaked his shirt at the shoulder and forearm.

“I’ll be all right,” Connor assured him, but he stumbled and would have fallen if Penhallow had not gotten under his good shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist.

“You’ll need attention, but we’ve got to get away from here,” Penhallow said, his undead strength effortlessly supporting Connor’s weight. Without turning, he addressed Lowrey. “Treven! For the gods’ sake, stop looting the dead and get moving!”

“We’ve got more need of his copper and silver than he does,” Lowrey muttered, but he got to his feet and followed, staff raised should further trouble come their way.

“Did you see that, Lanyon? I took the blackguard down with my stave in two strokes. Never had a chance to lay a hand on me,” Lowrey said.

“Good for you,” Connor muttered, ashamed that he needed Penhallow’s support yet feeling the world around him begin to spin.

They walked for a few blocks, then turned again, and the road in front of them broadened as the boulevard neared the castle. Once, the homes along this wide avenue had been those of prosperous merchants and sea captains. Farther up the hill, when the road broadened yet again, were the city homes of the nobility. Unlike the crowded tenements of the twisting, narrow streets at the heart of the city, these homes had been sprawling and grand, walled to keep out inquisitive looks from passersby, secured with ornate wrought-iron gates, and defended by household guards.

Though the tenements that remained standing were still occupied, despite their squalor, it appeared that the nobles and merchants had fled their homes when the Fire rained down. Gates hung askew, leaving what remained within open to looters and squatters.

“This will do,” Penhallow said, veering into one of the gateways.

“What if there’s someone hiding in there?” Connor asked, though in truth, he was so light-headed he feared he would soon collapse.

Penhallow strode toward the ruined home as if he were its owner. “If someone were here, I’d know it, mortal or
talishte
. We’re safe – for now.”

The courtyard had once been beautiful, Connor guessed. A broken fountain sat in the center of the garden, filled now with leaves and debris. Where the magic tendrils of power had struck during the Great Fire, part of the outer wall was blackened and reduced to rubble. The house itself appeared to be intact, though a tree from the walled yard had fallen over, crashing into the roof. The shutters on the downstairs windows had been pulled aside, and all of the windows were shattered.

They entered through the main door, which sagged on its hinges. The darkness smelled of mold, decay, and urine.

“Close the shutters, Treven,” Penhallow commanded. “Then light a lantern.”

Penhallow’s voice left no room for argument. While it was too dark to see Lowrey’s expression, Connor could only imagine the scholar opening his mouth to retort and then shutting it again to do as he was bid. Penhallow found a tattered mattress and eased Connor onto it. Outside, Connor heard the clatter of the shutters and Lowrey swearing as he struggled to find the latches, followed by the click of flint on steel as he tried to light his lantern in the moonlit courtyard. Finally, Lowrey strode back into the house, carrying a small, shuttered lantern. He opened the shutters, and light flooded the room.

Intricate mosaics covered one wall, while frescoes decorated two more. A tapestry hung against the fourth wall, though it had seen better days, dirtied and soot-streaked from the Fire, stained by whatever goings-on had occurred after the home’s owners had fled. Connor tried to focus on the details to keep himself from passing out. A broken ale cask, filthy blankets, and an old, torn shoe gave him to guess that squatters had laid claim to the house in the aftermath of the city’s fall.

“Let’s see those gashes,” Penhallow said in a voice that would have brooked no denial, had Connor felt well enough to protest. He pulled open the remnants of Connor’s torn shirt to reveal the deep, bloody cuts.

“Not as bad as the last time,” Penhallow muttered.

“I almost died the last time,” Connor argued, his voice weak.

“As I said.” Penhallow spat into his palm and laid his hand over the worst of Connor’s injuries. Connor cried out and writhed as the energy began to heal his wound.

“I still don’t know why your magic works and mine doesn’t,” Lowrey murmured, coming to stand behind Penhallow but facing away, watching the door with his staff at the ready.

“Your magic – the
hasithara
– is external, and its binding to be usable by humans was artificial. The
kruvgaldur
is part of what I am,” Penhallow replied without taking his eyes off Connor. “The power that sustains the immortals is as much a force of nature as the storms and floods – or the wild, untamed magic that you mages call
visithara
.”