Cold Fury: King's Convicts III

by Gail Z. Martin

  Contents

  Title Page

  Part One: Dark Water

  Part Two: News from Home

  Part Three: The Hunt

  Part Four: Liberation Day

  Excerpt from Ice Forged

  More from Gail Z. Martin

  About the Author

  Cold Fury

  King’s Convicts III

  A Blaine McFadden Adventure

  by Gail Z. Martin

  ISBN: 978-1-939704-41-2

  © 2015 Gail Z. Martin. All rights reserved. This story may not be retransmitted, posted or reused in any way without the written permission of the author. Cover photo © Slava Gerj / ShutterStock.

  PART ONE: Dark Water

  “I hate the sea.” Blaine ‘Mick’ McFadden leaned forward and then pulled back hard, dragging the heavy fishing net over the side of the herring buss.

  “I don’t mind the sea. I just hate the herring.” Piran Rowse was on the other side of the net, pulling with all his might along with Blaine.

  “That, too.” Blaine was soaked despite the heavy oiled canvas topcoat and pants issued to all the fishermen. His boots were as sodden as his clothing, and he was chilled to the bone.

  “Look at the bright side,” Piran added. “It’s almost the long dark and there’ll soon be too much ice for the boats to do much fishing.”

  Blaine slid a glare in Piran’s direction. “Not helping. I hate the long dark even more than herring, if you can imagine that.”

  Piran clucked his tongue in mock amazement. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you mention that.” They both knew Blaine commented on his dislike for the arctic night on every dark day.

  The fishing boats fought choppy waters off Edgeland at the top of the world. Blaine, Piran, and the rest of the men on their small herring buss were convicts, sent north to the infamous Velant Prison for crimes real or imagined. After two and a half years, Blaine had seen all he wanted of Edgeland’s brutal winters, knowing that he was condemned to deal with them for the rest of his life.

  The lights of Skalgerston Bay, the harbor town that served the colony of Edgeland and the Velant Prison, were barely within view as the boat bobbed on the waves. It was as bright as the day would get this time of year, with the sun just at the horizon. In a few more candlemarks, the sun would sink from view. Blaine hoped they were off the water by then. The rough gray sea was formidable enough in daylight. In darkness, its vast expanse and cold depths were terrifying.

  “Keep moving!” Carson, the ship’s overseer yelled as he slapped a flail against the boat’s mast for emphasis.

  Blaine and Piran worked together to empty their net onto the boat’s deck. Half of the men on this shift manned the nets, while the others sat on crates in the middle of the deck cleaning and cutting the fish that were then salted and packed in barrels. Some of the herring would remain in Edgeland for winter provisions. Even Blaine had been hungry enough in the dead of winter to welcome a meal of herring. Most of the fish would find its way back to Donderath, the kingdom that exiled both the prisoners and their jailers.

  In good weather, the men often sang to keep a rhythm throwing and pulling the nets. The cold, damp air made voices rough and throats sore, so the crew worked in silence save for the slap of nets and the clunk of knives. Blaine let his thoughts drift as he matched Piran’s movements. They had been working on the boats for two weeks, and he had gotten past the worst of sore muscles and aching tendons from the hard work. Rough as the work aboard the herring boats was, it didn’t compare to the ruby mines where Blaine and the others usually toiled. Convicts provided cheap labor to provision Donderath with fish and gems, and the irony was not lost on Blaine that the herring they caught was going to the kingdom he and the others would never see again.

  Jaston and Hort were two of the other prisoners from Blaine’s barracks. They had been fishermen back in Donderath, sent to prison for debts they could not pay. The two men seemed to be the only ones enjoying the fishing voyage. They worked together as if they had been gathering in nets all their lives, with an economy of movement borne of long practice. When it was their turn to gib the fish, their knives flew faster than anyone’s, and Blaine noted that the two men were the only ones not complaining about the smell.

  “I figure most of the men on the ship are thinking about what they’re going to do once they earn their Tickets of Leave,” Blaine said, grabbing hold of the net.

  “I’m not worried about it,” Piran replied. “It’s all what you’re used to,” he added as they drew back to hurl their net out into the waves. “That’s what makes a place feel like home.” He grinned. “Set me down in a tavern anywhere, with the smell of good ale and pipe smoke, and I’m happy.”

  Blaine rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you leave out the part about ‘willing whores’?”

  Piran shot him a look. “Included in the word ‘tavern’ mate. It all goes together.” He paused. “How ’bout you? What will it take for Bay-town to seem like home?”

  “Nothing special,” Blaine lied. He had gone to great pains these three years in Velant to hide the fact that he was noble-born, although his family had not been especially wealthy or powerful. Glenreith, his family’s manor, had not been well-off for years, long before Blaine’s exile plunged the family into scandal. And while Blaine cherished a few good memories of his late mother, his sister, brother, and aunt, too much of his life had been marred by the violence and abuse meted out by his father, Lord Ian McFadden, the man Blaine had murdered, the reason Blaine was a convict in Velant.

  “You’re not pulling your weight!” Carson’s voice cut above the wind, and his leather flail sang through the air, catching Mason, one of the convicts, across the shoulders. Mason winced away, but since he was dragging on a net with all his might, he could not escape the beating.

  “I’m doing all I can!” Mason argued. He was a slightly built man who stood shorter than Piran, ill-suited to the hard work of the boats. Though his features suggested a man in his thirties, his build was more like that of a teenager, long and thin without the bulk of muscles. How he had been selected for herring duty, Blaine did not know, unless one of the Velant guards had it in for the man. Petty vengeance was more likely than just bad luck.

  “I’ve had enough of your malingering!” Carson railed, and brought the flail down again. This time, its knotted ends cut into Mason’s work-mate, Teodor. Teodor gave Mason a murderous look but kept his peace, unwilling to draw Carson’s attention to himself.

  “I can’t do more than I’m doing,” Mason protested. Blaine suspected he was telling the truth. Mason’s hands were raw and bloody, cut from the rough nets. He tried to remember Mason’s usual duties in the prison camp. A tailor, isn’t he? Blaine thought. Sewing uniforms for Prokief and the guards. One of the few ‘light’ duties they don’t give to the female prisoners. Mason’s long fingers and uncalloused hands looked used to fine work, not the heavy lifting of the mines or the farm. I wonder who he pissed off enough to get sent out here.

  “Pick up your pace, or I’ll throw you overboard myself,” Carson growled. For emphasis, he boxed Mason hard enough on the ear to send the man staggering into Teodor, who gave him a rough shove back to his place.

  “Don’t look at me for sympathy,” Teodor muttered when Carson was gone. “I’m doing my half and part of yours, too.”

  “I offered to gib,” Mason sulked. “I’m better suited to cutting fish than hauling them.”

  “Carson’ll gib you if you don’t watch out,” Teodor said.

  Carson strode up and down the deck with his flail at the ready, cuffing those prisoners who weren’t moving fast enough to suit him, or who merely raised his ire. “Rowse!” Carson shouted, sta
lking toward where Piran and Blaine worked their nets. “Stop lollygagging and get to work!”

  Piran and Blaine exchanged a glance, then brought their net over the side with one well-timed lurch. The full net splashed cold salt water across the deck, drenching Carson from head to toe, and just for good measure, a few of the fish Piran flung loose from the net angled dangerously near Carson’s head.

  “I can have you whipped back at the camp for that!” Carson sputtered. He rounded on Piran with his flail, but Piran turned just at that moment with a large fish in his hand that was solid enough to absorb the blow meant for Piran’s head.

  “You could, but you won’t because Mick and I here pull in twice as much fish as almost anyone other than the monger boys over there,” Piran said with a nod toward Jaston and Hort. “And we mine more than our share of rubies, too. We’re profitable. So bugger off.”

  Few prisoners could get away with Piran’s bravado, but Carson just gave Piran a vicious look and moved away. Piran’s here from a court-martial, Blaine thought. Carson and the guards are soldiers. I wonder how much they know about why Piran was sent here—and whether his reputation protects him. Piran was tight-lipped about what had landed him in Velant, but he had a hot temper and a hard fist. Few of the prisoners or guards gave him trouble more than once.

  “Try not to get us thrown in the Holes again,” Blaine muttered. “You’ve got a few weeks until you earn your Tickets of Leave.” Piran had arrived at Velant six months before Blaine, in the same shipload of convicts as their friends Dawe and Kestel. They would be earning their Tickets shortly, while Blaine still had half a year to go.

  “Prokief’s going to be glad to see the back of us,” Piran said with a grin as they emptied the last fish from their net and cast it into the gray waves. “He’s had three years to kill us if he really wanted to.”

  Prokief’s a sadistic son of a bitch, Blaine thought. Just like Father. I wouldn’t put it past him to stick shivs in our backs as we walk out of the prison gate, just for spite.

  “What’s the first thing you’re going to do as a colonist?” Piran asked, shifting the conversation.

  “Buy a new shirt that doesn’t stink,” Blaine replied, guiding the net as the boat rode the waves. “You?”

  Piran grinned wider. “Buy some time with a pretty lass, and all the beer I can drink.”

  They had played this game for years, imagining what they might do when they were finally granted their Tickets. Many prisoners did not live long enough to last the three years it took to win the qualified ‘freedom’ of moving from the prison to the colony where they were still forever exiles from their homeland.

  “We stick to our plan,” Blaine said. “Pool our coin and land, build a homestead and run it together. You, me, Dawe, Verran—and Kestel. We’ll make a good team.”

  Each prisoner who earned his Ticket got a small bag of coins and a few acres of hardscrabble, icy land in the wilds behind Skalsgerston Bay. The idea to pool resources had developed over time, along with the unlikely friendship that bound the five of them together. Verran Danning and Dawe Killick were assigned to Blaine and Piran’s barracks. Dawe had been framed for murder by a business rival, while Verran was an unapologetic thief. Like Blaine, Verran still had six more months to go.

  “Why do you think Kestel was so keen to join our homestead?” Blaine asked as they strained to pull the net back toward the boat. It was hard enough hauling in a net full of fish, but the sea was fighting them more than usual, getting rougher by the candlemark.

  Piran grunted as he wrestled the net over the rail and sent a cascade of flopping fish across the deck toward the gibbers. “You mean besides our charm and good looks?” he said, with a grin. Piran had a boxer’s squat, muscular build and he kept his head shaved even in the dead of Edgeland’s winter. His nose had been flattened enough times to give him the look of a brawler, but his wit managed to get him out of as many scrapes as his big mouth got him into.

  Blaine stood a head taller than Piran, and two and a half years of hard work in Velant’s mines had put more muscle on his frame. His dark chestnut hair framed regular features and blue eyes, and his beard protected him, at least a little, from the arctic cold. “Yeah,” Blaine said. “Besides that.”

  Rumor had it that Kestel Falke had been a courtesan in King Merrill’s court, as well as a spy and an assassin before her fall from grace. She seemed to enjoy the gossip and the protection of a dangerous reputation, so she neither confirmed nor denied the stories, and no one could gainsay her. From a few encounters Blaine had witnessed, Kestel’s fighting skills were easily good enough for her to at least be an assassin. She had helped Blaine and Piran on more than one occasion, and asked only one thing in return, for them to include her when they created their homestead.

  “Well, it might be that she values our witty conversation and good breeding,” Piran said, letting out a yell as he hauled with all his might.

  “Doubtful.”

  “Dawe says he’s a good cook,” Piran supplied. “Maybe she wants a good meal.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then maybe it’s Verran and his damn pennywhistle. No accounting for music lovers,” Piran suggested with a grin. Verran often plied the bunkhouse audience with tavern tunes and dance songs, but he was more likely to play for his supper and ale in a tavern than amuse an audience that wasn’t already well into their cups.

  “Highly unlikely,” Blaine replied. “The only thing I can come up with is that despite what the rumors say, none of us have any designs on trying to bed her.”

  Piran raised an eyebrow. “I fancy my nuts where they are, thank you, not served to me on a platter.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong—Kestel’s good looking, and I lay my bets that she plays her looks down intentionally to avoid the wrong kind of notice.” He grimaced. “Too many people go missing, someone will get wise,” he added so that only Blaine could hear.

  Blaine and Piran had met Kestel when she was in the midst of throwing a body down a well. They had given her a hand with the task, and in exchange, Kestel provided valuable information. That was nearly two years ago, and while male and female prisoners had little opportunity to mingle, the three of them had forged a profitable friendship. Still, Blaine had been surprised by Kestel’s request, not in the least because he still had no idea how she knew that he and the others had even been planning to go in together.

  “If she ever was in the courtesan business, I don’t get the impression she’s of a mind to go back to it, once we’re colonists,” Blaine observed, dumping out his side of the net. Several fish flopped toward the rail, and he slid them toward the gibbers with his boot. “She was pretty clear about that.”

  “Have you seen the likes of what comes through Skalgerston Bay?” Piran asked, giving Blaine a look that questioned his sanity. “Sailors and former convicts. Quite a come-down from lords and dukes and fancy palace balls. Makes me a bit worried about the quality of evening ladies I’ll find once we’re free men.”

  We may get out of Velant, but we’ll never be free men again, Blaine thought, and put his back into the next net full of fish. It had been almost three years since Carensa, his betrothed, had watched the convict ship sail from the docks in Castle Reach. Blaine had watched from the porthole until her figure disappeared from view.

  Carensa’s probably married by now, he thought, forcing down the pang that brought. He had released Carensa from their vows when he was taken to the dungeon for the murder of his father. Blaine had begged her to forget him and go on with her life. He doubted that would be so easy, and feared his scandal might have reduced her opportunities. I tried to save my family and ended up destroying them.

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’m sure there’ll be enough ‘company’ for both of us,” Piran joked, mistaking Blaine’s sudden quiet. “Although I get the prettiest ones.” Blaine forced a smile. Piran’s idea of a night out held little appeal for him. But there was that one girl I met, from the laundry. Selane. I’d like a ch
ance to get to know her better—

  “Move faster!” Carson’s flail cut across Blaine’s back and shoulders, painful even through his clothing. The knots on the leather strands opened bloody gashes where they tore the exposed skin on his neck and cheek.

  Blaine hunched away, knowing better than to make a reply. Even Piran settled for a deadly glare. They were moving as quickly as the rough sea permitted, and Carson likely knew that. He’s either worried that we won’t bring home enough fish and Prokief will hand him his ass, or he’s just a sadistic son of a bitch and he beats people up for fun. Or both.

  Even Jaston and Hort were not spared Carson’s insults and blows, though the two fishermen moved with the ease of long practice, hauling in nets nearly full to bursting. Carson seemed to save the worst of his spleen for Mason, who staggered under the load of the heavy net he and Teodor fought to guide over the rail.

  “Lose those fish, and I’ll have you whipped to the bone,” Carson shouted at Mason, who looked terrified out of his wits. The net slipped, spilling some of the fish back into the water, and Carson rained down a hail of blows as Mason tried and failed to get the net back under control.

  “Keep that up, and we’ll lose the whole thing,” Teodor snapped. “I can’t move this bloody net without him!”

  Carson gave Teodor a baleful look and stepped back. Blood mingled with rivulets of sea water on Mason’s face where Carson’s flail had opened a slice on his cheek. Mason dove at the net as if he intended to wrestle it aboard all by himself, channeling his anger into strength.

  Carson glared at Teodor. “You want to protect him? Fine. But if your haul is low, you’ll both go to the Holes for this. Maybe then you’ll try harder next time.” Carson strode away, paying no attention to Teodor’s murderous stare. The Holes were oubliettes sunk deep into the ice where Prokief put prisoners who resisted his authority. Many who were sent to the Holes died of exposure. Those who survived were often maimed by frostbite. It was no idle threat.