Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Yes.”

  The man cocked his head. “If it’s so bad, why’d you leave Edgeland? Why come back?”

  “Because it’s home,” Connor lied. How do I explain the truth? Because one of my new friends might be able to save the world? Because a vampire master is haunting my dreams? Unthinkingly, he ran one hand up his other forearm, over the small, white scars that were the traces of the messages he had borne to Penhallow. Because a man who’s been dead for centuries whispers in my mind? Madness, all of it, Connor knew. But the lie seemed to satisfy the man, who nodded, then continued.

  “Aye. I’ve been in Edgeland for nearly fifteen years, had it better than some, I wager. Lived through Velant. Earned my Ticket. Made a life for myself. But it wasn’t ever home. I’m not so young anymore. Mostly worn out. I didn’t want to be buried in the ice, if you know what I mean. Here at least, when I go, it’ll be home soil around me. That matters,” he said with a knowing expression and a nod. “You’re young now, but in time, you’ll understand what I mean.” And with that, the older man wandered back to his place by the porthole.

  Connor swayed in his hammock with the ship’s motion. In his mind’s eye, the hold filled with the desperate refugees who had crowded together in fear and shock on the night Donderath fell. The smell of smoke followed them out to sea, clinging to their hair and clothing long after they had left the coast behind them. He could see individual faces, etched in his memory though they were total strangers. All of them dead now.

  Another memory came back to him, of the addled seer on the voyage. The exiled man must return, she had said, echoing what Alsibeth, the woman who read omens and bells at the Rooster and Pig, had told him.

  What did Alsibeth and the other woman see? Gods, I wish I knew, Connor thought, running his hands back through his hair. With the rogue magic, nowhere is safe, not even Edgeland. Donderath is definitely not safe. And here I am, a companion of thieves, assassins, and murderers, and a conscript to the whims of vampires. How did I get myself into this? Maybe it would have been better if I had gone down with the Prowess.

  Connor threw himself back in his hammock and closed his eyes. In the recesses of his thoughts, he could hear Penhallow’s voice. Bring them to me, the voice whispered. You have done well. But there is more, much more to be done. Bring your friends to me. I have need of them.

  Garnoc had trusted Penhallow, or what passed for trust in the cynical and jaded climate of Donderath’s court. Penhallow had warned him the night of Donderath’s fall, entrusted him with the pendant. Penhallow made me the guardian of the pendant, even though to someone like him, I’m just another sort of servant. Grimur might know what we should do next, but Grimur didn’t come back with us. How are we supposed to find Penhallow, let alone Vigus Quintrel? Connor wondered. What are Penhallow’s real reasons? Connor could not help the suspicions that lingered in his mind. What if he has his own agenda for Blaine McFadden, the last Lord of the Blood? And what if I’m the tool to betray Blaine like I may have betrayed Garnoc?

  Since they had set sail from Edgeland, Connor’s dreams had been dark. What if whoever made the holes in my memories is waiting for me? How can I stop myself from betraying my friends if I don’t even know what happened to me?

  Connor had no answers, and the questions made his head ache. He heard the pounding of footsteps on the stairs, marking the return of the passengers who had gone on deck, and perhaps of Blaine and the others. Rather than betray their confidence or confide his fears, Connor closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I GUESS YOU REALLY DIDN’T MAKE THE WHOLE thing up,” Blaine said to Connor as they stood on the rubble-strewn street that had once been a main thoroughfare in Castle Reach. They had lagged behind, neither the first nor the last to disembark, hoping to provide some cover for themselves among the milling passengers.

  “You were hoping?”

  Blaine nodded. “Part of me definitely hoped that you were lying through your teeth.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  Blaine stood looking around at the once-familiar landscape that now bore no resemblance to the place he had left behind. A hush had fallen over the Nomad’s passengers when the ship pulled into port and the enormity of the damage became apparent. Blaine realized now that his imagination, bleak as it had been, had resisted the truth of Connor’s account.

  Much of Castle Reach’s once-thriving wharfside had burned to the ground. Few of the buildings had walls intact that were even as high as a man’s waist. Where higher remnants still stood, they bore the scars of flames, roofless and hollow. It was clear that many of the ships in harbor when the fires came had never sailed. Half-sunken hulls and masts jutted above the waters of the bay, forming a treacherous reef.

  The faces of the Nomad’s passengers twisted in pain and confusion as reality set in. Some collapsed to their knees, sobbing, holding their heads in their hands. A few of the men began to curse, kicking at chunks of rock and bits of scorched wood with all their might, as if the savagery of their wishes might undo the past. The rest wandered like ghosts in the eerie silence, pale and shaken, eyes wide with sorrow and disbelief.

  Blaine led his small group through the maze of stupefied passengers and their meager bundles of possessions, until they could talk safely without being overheard. “Let’s head for the Rooster and Pig first,” Blaine said.

  “Here’s the key Engraham sent for you,” Connor said, pressing the rough metal into Blaine’s hand.

  Blaine weighed the heavy piece of iron. “Does he really think his tavern would be secure from looters?”

  Connor shrugged. “It’s a basement with one entrance and a locked iron trapdoor. Even if the tavern burned to the ground, the room shouldn’t have been touched. As for looters, I imagine they came for his ale and whiskey, but Engraham traded all of that for our passage to Edgeland.”

  “We’ll see soon enough,” Blaine said.

  Connor gave him a quizzical look. “Do you need me to lead the way?”

  Blaine shook his head. “No. I remember it,” he replied, not needing to add that the road he recalled was far different from the charred and littered streets they now walked.

  Blaine’s hand fell to the pommel of the sword that hung at his hip. Before leaving Edgeland, they had gathered enough of the weapons looted from Prokief’s soldiers and the ghost ship to outfit themselves against highwaymen. Blaine carried an officer’s sword, and had a sharp dirk in his boot. Piran had claimed a two-handed sword, which hung in a back scabbard, as well as a collection of knives with wicked blades secured on a baldric across his chest. Dawe had unwrapped the small crossbow and held it casually in his right hand, pointed toward the ground. Verran had no visible weapons, but Blaine knew that the thief’s real skill lay in his ability to outrun any opponent and scale nearly any wall. Kestel, too, wore no apparent weapons, but her knowing smile gave Blaine to understand that she was armed to the teeth in her own way. Connor wore another “borrowed” sword, a well-balanced soldier’s broadsword that he said was a good fit in grip and heft. It’s probably best there aren’t any soldiers about, Blaine thought. We might be taken for brigands ourselves.

  Once they had gone just a block in from the wharves, the noise of their fellow passengers faded. If anything, the shadowed alleys and ginnels looked bleaker than the ravaged wharf front. While the docks had been empty of visible inhabitants, the narrow streets held a vestige of the traffic that had once made it one of the busiest ports in Donderath. But where Castle Reach’s dockside area on an average day would have teemed with people of all descriptions from ports of many kingdoms, the hard-worn inhabitants they now passed looked uniformly bedraggled and wary.

  Gone were the merchants with their carts, hawking their wares. For the first time, Blaine realized he could actually smell the sea air in Castle Reach. In the city’s glory days, food vendors had crowded cheek and jowl against each other, warring for the coins of the sailors and traders. Now the city smelled of decay,
and occasionally, when the wind shifted, Blaine caught a whiff of charred wood.

  “Stay together,” Piran growled. Piran had moved up to the front of the group, and his expression had taken on an edgy watchfulness Blaine had rarely seen in Edgeland. Out of all of them, Piran was the only one with military experience, and now that he had seen the ruination of Donderath for himself, Blaine found himself very happy to have Piran with him.

  “We’re here,” Blaine announced as they reached the spot where the Rooster and Pig used to stand.

  “Too bad the pub isn’t,” Kestel observed.

  The building that once housed the Rooster and Pig had collapsed in a heap of half-burned timbers and fire-scarred shingles. Its falling roof had blown out the glass of its small windows, leaving them vacant and staring, like the empty sockets of a skull.

  “What now?” Dawe asked. He had raised his crossbow and stood with his back to his friends, watching the street.

  “We dig,” Verran replied.

  “Maybe not,” Connor said. “Follow me.”

  Connor dodged around fallen roof timbers and the debris that littered the narrow streets and into a darkened ginnel behind the wreckage of the pub. He pushed a broken fence gate out of the way to slip between the charred outer wall of the pub and the building that stood next to it, edging sideways until he came to a spot midway between the alley behind the pub and the street in front of it. “Here,” he said, pointing down.

  Blaine looked down at the stained bricks that lined the narrow walkway. Connor kicked aside a piece of shingle and shards of broken pottery, refuse that might have predated the pub’s destruction. He bent down and began to remove bricks from their place. Connor looked up at Blaine. “Give me a hand.”

  The space was too narrow for anyone but the two men closest to the spot to remove the bricks. When Connor and Blaine had finished, they had cleared a small rectangle that was roughly the width of a man’s shoulders. Beneath the bricks was a dented metal door. Blaine fished Engraham’s key from his pocket and jiggled it in the stiff lock. The click seemed to echo from the ginnel’s walls, and both Dawe and Piran looked up, watchful for intruders. Together, Blaine and Connor wrested the heavy door open.

  “Shit,” Piran muttered. He fumbled in a pouch at his belt and pulled out flint and steel. “Anybody got something we can use as a torch?”

  “Way ahead of you,” Kestel said. She handed him a thick piece of wood wrapped with rags. “Can’t guarantee what it’ll smell like when you light it, but I’m betting it’ll burn just fine.”

  “Nice,” Piran said, taking it from her and nurturing sparks until the rags caught on fire with the distinct smell of stale beer and old urine. “I’ll go in first.” He glanced at Connor. “Where did you say this goes?”

  “Engraham told me it was an escape route for his gaming rooms, in case any of his players’ enemies came looking for them. Right under us is a holding room, where people could hide until someone came out here to let them out. There should be a passage back under the pub, and a door that opens into the cellars. What we’re looking for should be in the passageway,” Connor said.

  “Why was a barkeep with a noble father stockpiling food and weapons?” Blaine asked as Piran started down into the opening.

  Connor shrugged. “The way Engraham tells it, his ‘sources’ started to doubt that Donderath would win the war. I guess people were plenty scared that Meroven might invade. If the city came under attack—a normal attack—Engraham intended to stand his ground.”

  “And he left everything here when he fled?” Kestel asked.

  “He sent all his liquor, ale, and wine to the Prowess, and took only what he could carry, once he realized the only way out was by ship,” Connor replied.

  “It’s empty. Come on down.” Piran’s voice echoed from the cellar.

  “Someone should stand guard up here,” Dawe said. “The rest of you go. I’ll stay.”

  Blaine led the way, followed by Connor. Verran climbed nimbly down the narrow ladder, and paused to give Kestel a hand. Blaine smiled. He doubted Kestel needed any assistance from Verran, but she accepted his proffered hand graciously.

  “Even with the torch, I can hardly see anything,” Piran grumbled. “But from the cobwebs, it doesn’t seem like anyone else has been here recently.”

  The corridor widened a bit, and Blaine’s shoulders no longer brushed against both walls. Piran stopped beside an alcove that had been carved into the rock. “Hold up. There’s something here.” He passed the torch to Blaine and hunkered down to have a look at three solid-looking wooden boxes.

  “They’re painted black, so I almost missed them,” Piran said. “Locked, too.” He swore as he looked around. “You don’t happen to have a key for them, too, do you?” he said with a glance toward Blaine.

  “I don’t think we’ll need a key.” Verran’s voice carried from the back of the corridor, and he began to edge his way forward, squeezing past the rest of them. He took one look at the locks and smiled. “No wonder your friend went to the trouble of hiding them down here. Those locks wouldn’t keep any self-respecting thief out for very long.”

  Verran flexed his hands and drummed his fingers in the air, limbering them up. He reached for a small pouch on his belt and withdrew a few curiously shaped bits of metal. Verran bent to his work, sliding the thin, oddly angled tools into the lock and closing his eyes, gently jiggling the tools until he heard sounds that only he recognized. He twisted the tools once more, and the lock on the first box dropped free.

  “Haven’t lost my touch,” Verran said with satisfaction. He began to work on the second lock, which yielded with less effort than the first. The third lock secured the largest box. Verran’s lip twisted as he prodded at it.

  “Hurry up,” Piran urged. “I don’t like it down here.”

  “If I break off part of a tool in the lock, we’ll have to break the box,” Verran replied without looking up. “From what I can see, it’s solid and heavy. I don’t fancy trying to drag it out of here.”

  Minutes dragged by as they waited in silence. Blaine fidgeted, disliking the feel of the cobwebs that traced ghostly fingers across his face. In the distance, he could hear the shuffling of vermin. Verran swore under his breath, manipulating the balky lock with a jewel smith’s patience.

  Piran cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. “We don’t know where these cellars go. I can hear things back there. We need to get out of here.”

  “Scared of the dark, Pir?” Verran jibed without taking his eyes off the lock. “I thought Velant would have cured you of that.”

  Piran answered with a long and creative curse that impugned both Verran’s mother’s honor and his family tree.

  Verran clucked his tongue. “You used that one last week, Rowse. Gotta come up with some new curses if you want them to still sting a bit.”

  “I’ll sting your hide if you don’t get moving,” Piran muttered.

  Verran had just opened his mouth to respond when Piran was suddenly yanked backward into the darkness of the corridor. A feral growl rumbled from the narrow tunnel walls, and they could hear the sound of clawed feet scrabbling against the stone floor. Piran’s scream echoed, rapidly growing more distant.

  “Grab the torch,” Blaine yelled. “After him!”

  “What’s going on?” Dawe called from the street.

  “Something’s got Piran. Get down here!” Blaine shouted, drawing his sword. Without waiting, he and Connor plunged into the darkness.

  “What do you think it was?” Connor’s voice seemed loud, even though he had nearly whispered.

  “Could be anything,” Blaine replied. The torch illuminated the cellar passageway in front of them, but Blaine had no idea how many branching tunnels might connect. Castle Reach was an old city, long populated. He’d heard tell that a warren of old cellars, caverns, and aqueducts ran beneath the city, many of them long forgotten by any but thieves, vagrants, and vermin. “Piran!” Blaine shouted. “Where are you?”

&nb
sp; “Down here!” Piran’s voice was ahead of them, but in the echoes of the brick and stone corridors, it was difficult to judge how far away he might be. Piran gave a cry, and they could hear the distant clang of steel against stone.

  Blaine and Connor quickened their pace. Behind them, they heard more footsteps. “It’s us,” Dawe called softly. “We’re right behind you.”

  A battle in these narrow tunnels would not go well, Blaine thought. He’d drawn his sword in the large cellar, but the tunnel was barely wider than his shoulders, and its roof was low enough in places that his head brushed the ceiling. Fighting with swords in this space would be suicidal.

  The tunnel widened. Blaine and Connor skidded to a stop in a vaulted cellar chamber. Blaine slowly turned from left to right, letting the torchlight illuminate the dusty room. A groan sounded in front of them, in the deep shadows toward the far end of the cellar. Connor started forward, but Blaine put a hand on his arm and gave a warning shake of his head.

  Dawe came up behind him, with Kestel a step farther back. Dawe’s crossbow was at the ready, and Kestel gripped daggers in both hands. That meant Verran had stuck with his task. Just as well; combat wasn’t Verran’s strong point.

  Dawe and Kestel fanned out, one to the left and the other to the right, moving silently as spirits. Blaine and Connor chanced a few steps forward. A warning growl rumbled from the shadows, louder than before.

  “Go!” Blaine shouted, beginning to run toward the sound. As he ran, the torch illuminated the back corner of the cellar. Something had obviously made its lair here for quite a while, judging from the bones and rags that littered the filthy floor. Then Blaine caught sight of Piran’s prone body, and a glimpse of two red eyes that shone with more than the light of his torch.

  The thing behind Piran leaped forward. Blaine heard the twang of Dawe’s crossbow, felt the still air stir as the quarrel whizzed past him and thunked into the chest of the beast. It did not slow the attack. Blaine swung with his full might, while Connor braced himself, holding his sword two-handed like a pike for the thing to spit itself when it landed. Connor ducked, shielding his head even as he used his body to brace the sword in place.