“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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ROCK 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.”
“A support beam and some paneling kept you from being crushed. The sword wound you took was deep, and you were injured further by the collapse. You lost blood while we searched for you.”
“You saved my life.”
Penhallow shrugged. “You’ve served me well.”
“I think I need training with a sword if I’m to survive what Donderath’s become,” Connor said tiredly. One of the talishte pressed a wineskin into his hand, and Connor savored the wine, realizing that he was actually hungry as well as thirsty. He looked around at the ruined room. What had been a comfortable salon was now a charred wreck. On the other side of the room, two more talishte worked to clear wreckage from one of the room’s doorways. Three other vampires awaited Penhallow’s orders. None of the men were familiar to Connor.
“What now?” Connor asked.
If Penhallow felt any loss over his ruined salon, he did not show it. Connor wondered how many such hiding places Penhallow had throughout Donderath, and perhaps beyond its borders. “Your friends will head to Mirdalur eventually. We’ll meet them there, but before we do, I have a few suspicions to follow up on.”
While Penhallow’s men had cleared an exit, Connor fashioned a crutch for himself. He had no desire to be carried all the way to Mirdalur, even if the weight of a full-grown man was little burden to one of the talishte. He tested the crutch and tried to stand. Connor’s balance faltered, and he put down his left foot to steady himself, sending pain arcing up his leg. With a grimace, he experimented with the crutch until he could move with a reasonable approximation of his normal walking speed. That would still be much slower than the talishte could move, but it was a start. Exhausted, he sat down on a pile of rubble to wait. The cave-in had collapsed parts of several other escape tunnels. They were stranded until the guards could dig through enough rubble to find a tunnel in good enough shape to chance using it for their exit.
“How did you avoid being crushed yourselves?” Connor asked Penhallow.
“Quick reflexes help, although not all my men were so lucky,” Penhallow replied. He had stripped to the waist, abandoning the shreds of his silk shirt. His fine brocade pants were bloodstained and covered with dust. Dried blood and rock dust caked his pale chest, the blood a reminder of wounds that had already healed. Connor eyed the amount of blood and frowned. Just how badly were the “survivors” injured? Badly enough to kill a mortal, I’d bet. The ones that died must have been crushed beyond repair.
Connor had always figured Penhallow for being a typical noble: aloof, unwilling to do anything that smacked of physical labor unless it involved hunting or riding. Yet Penhallow bent to the task at hand alongside his bodyguards. Stripped of his finery, he had the build of an athlete or a laborer—lean-muscled and whipcord strong. What’s his story? I wonder. Was he born noble? Or could a clever man acquire both title and fortune if he had several lifetimes to work on it? Musing about Penhallow’s origins took Connor’s mind off his aching leg. After the example set by Penhallow, Connor felt chagrined not to be taking part in the excavation, but he could find no way of doing so without further injuring himself.
Instead, he picked his way around the rubble, scavenging weapons. His own sword lay in pieces. He found a serviceable replacement among the weapons of the dead and made a pile of the daggers, swords, and crossbows that were not too damaged to use. Penhallow’s talishte might be confident in their personal strength, but Reese’s men had obviously seen an advantage in matching strength with weaponry. And as the puny mortal in the room, Connor found that the pile of weapons rekindled something akin to hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE MOON WAS BRIGHT OVERHEAD WHEN Penhallow’s guards finally opened a passage to the outside. “Can you walk?” Penhallow said with a glance toward Connor.
“If you don’t expect me to run,” Connor replied. His leg throbbed, his body ached all over, and he wanted nothing so much as a few belts of whiskey to numb the pain.
“We’ll find a horse for you,” Penhallow said in a voice that did not accept argument. “It will slow us down less than having you pass out or hobble across Donderath.”
Connor chafed at feeling like a damsel in distress as he waited for one of the bodyguards to return with a horse. His pride demanded that he make a show of swinging up to the saddle without assistance. In addition to his looted sword, Connor had chosen a
crossbow with a quiver of quarrels and two lethal-looking daggers. He would not go down easily if it came to another fight.
They rode in military formation, with crossbows at the ready. Connor thought the talishte actually looked nervous, something he had not thought possible. How has Donderath changed to make the undead afraid to travel by night? he wondered.
Connor looked around. He had never thought about what the conflagration and the death of magic had done beyond the city walls. Now, even by moonlight, the damage took his breath away.
The trees that still stood looked scraggly and diseased, as if locusts had feasted on them. The rock fences that crosshatched the countryside lay in disarray, resembling more a tumble of stones than any actual barrier. Dams had broken, washing away everything downstream. The mighty aqueducts that carried water to the city were broken in multiple places, leaving behind only dry, useless stone arches. Many of the thatched-roof homes had burned. Sod houses had fared better, but even buildings made of stone stood roofless and charred.
They rode in silence for most of a candlemark. Connor possessed none of the talishte’s acute senses, but he sensed that the quiet night held more danger than he could see. In the distance, he saw the lantern light of a small village. As they grew closer, Connor realized that a high stockade surrounded the village and that the wall of close-set, pointed logs looked recently built. Ahead, there was a shadow across the road, and a few dark figures were milling about.
The group of riders slowed. At Penhallow’s signal, they lowered their weapons, but kept their swords and crossbows in hand just in case the sentries were not as peaceable.
“Ho there! What business be you about in the middle of the night?” A warning tone colored the greeting. A large tree trunk blocked most of the road. Marshland on either side kept riders from going around. The men who had created the roadblock looked equally well armed as their own party, and stood with weapons at the ready, eyeing them suspiciously.
Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) Page 39
