Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Was it just those who were present that night who gained the ability to control magic?” Again, Lowrey broke in, too engrossed in Audun’s tale to heed Penhallow’s warning. “Did the magic come to others?”

  Audun nodded. “Gradually, certain abilities became enhanced. Within a few generations, small magics were widespread, like being able to slow milk from spoiling or keep pests out of the grain. Powerful magic remained rare, and coveted. After that night at Mirdalur, the wild magic storms that often laid waste to the countryside grew scarce. The monsters were eventually destroyed. And the madness that the wild magic caused no longer gripped our people. Until the Great Fire, when the magic slipped from our grasp.”

  “What of the disks?” Penhallow asked intently. “Did your maker say more of them?”

  Audun grew quiet as he searched his thoughts. “Sverre told me that he heard the king speak to the Lords of the Blood and charge them to guard their disks well. He told them that their disks helped to bind the magic.”

  “Did Sverre believe the disks themselves held power?”

  Audun nodded again. “Yes, he did.” His expression grew sullen. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “You’ve been very gracious,” Penhallow said smoothly. “I have one more question, and then we’ll trouble you no more.” He held out the map once again. “Take another look at this. Many of the places of power are familiar: Quillarth Castle, Mirdalur, the original fortresses of the Lords of the Blood.” He looked at Audun intently. “One of those places of power is also the tower of the Knights of Esthrane. The Knights had both mortal and talishte members, but all were mages. Do they still exist?”

  Audun handed back the map with a snap of his wrist. His dark eyes had grown cold, and his expression was grim. “You overstep, Lanyon, and meddle in things that are none of your business.” He cast a dark glance toward Connor and Lowrey. “Certainly not for mortals to know.”

  Audun’s voice sounded a warning that chilled Connor, but Penhallow appeared unfazed by their host’s sudden change of mood. He took back the map and rolled it up, slipping it back into its wooden box, then handed both the box and disk back to Connor. “You’ve been most helpful, Audun,” Penhallow said, as if nothing had happened. “I’m grateful.”

  “What do you have planned for Reese?” Audun asked. His eyes held a predatory glint, and his expression took on a sudden hunger.

  “As always, I plan to be a thorn in his side,” Penhallow replied, standing. Connor and Lowrey got to their feet as well, a mite too quickly to look unhurried. “Talishte like you and me function quite well amidst magic. Helps to maintain a balance of power. Without magic, there’s a void, and Reese would like to fill it.” Penhallow gave a casual shrug, as if the two vampires were not discussing anything more momentous than the weather. “I prefer to see Reese reined in.”

  “Leave the Knights to the legends, Lanyon. Let the dead stay buried.” There was no mistaking the warning in Audun’s tone.

  Penhallow’s smile made his sharp teeth plain. “Except that the dead don’t stay buried, do they, Audun? We don’t even stay dead.” With that, Penhallow ushered Connor and Lowrey from the house and into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  O

  nce again, McFadden eluded you. How difficult can it be to catch one criminal – with a private army at your disposal?” Pentreath Reese did not raise his voice. Volume would not have magnified the anger, the barely harnessed power, the implied threat.

  Vedran Pollard kept what he hoped was a suitably neutral expression. Now that he was in his early fifties his dark hair had thinned, and what remained as a short-cropped fringe was sprinkled with gray. Pollard had been a military man in his youth, and it showed in his bearing. Tall, hawk-faced, with sharp gray eyes and angular, uncompromising features, he was accustomed to intimidating others to get what he wanted. He had set aside his cloak and wore a black coat and pants with the cut of a military uniform, though the jacket bore no insignia of any kingdom’s troops. These were the uniforms of Reese’s private army, the army Pollard commanded. And while at the moment the ‘army’ numbered no more than a few hundred, Pollard knew that Reese intended to build it into a mighty military machine.

  A glint of satisfaction in Reese’s eyes told him that the talishte had seen the flinch Pollard had tried not to display and been satisfied that the threat was delivered and understood.

  “The man is annoyingly lucky,” Pollard replied. “But all luck runs out eventually.”

  Reese stood near the fireplace, holding a goblet casually in one hand. He was dressed as if he had just come in from the hunt, with high leather boots and a well-fitted waistcoat. Reese looked to be in his late fourth decade, though Pollard knew that he was hundreds of years old. Reese was not of unusual height, nor uncommonly handsome. But he had a sense of presence that commanded the room. He was an imposing figure, even before one factored in his talishte speed, strength, and fighting skills.

  “I expected better from you, Vedran,” Reese said. “Your man failed me in Edgeland. McFadden lived to return. Once again, your traps failed at Mirdalur. You’ve failed to take Glenreith either by force or by diplomacy. You had better become useful to me soon, Vedran. Very soon.”

  Reese paused. “McFadden is an unwelcome distraction. I’d like to be done with him and move on.” He gave Pollard an evaluating look. “I want your full report of just how you intend to bring him to me.”

  Pollard fought down mortal fear and cursed himself for his weakness. He knew Reese could spot the smallest nuances of his stance, the most minor changes in his facial expression. That level of observation had long ago earned talishte the reputation for being able to read minds.

  Pollard removed the jacket of his uniform, moving deliberately to mask the way his hands shook. Slowly he turned up the cuff of his left sleeve, until his arm was exposed above the elbow. With more bravado than he felt, he thrust his bare arm forward. “See for yourself. The plan is solid.”

  Reese set aside his goblet and moved toward him at a leisurely pace Pollard knew was calculated to increase his own uneasiness. Pollard resisted the urge to brace himself, to close his eyes and stiffen, knowing it would make what was to come even worse, and that it would increase Reese’s satisfaction immensely.

  Reese lifted Pollard’s arm, and in one brutal blur of motion, he buried his fangs in the vein that throbbed in the hollow of his elbow. Pollard set his jaw, willing himself not to cry out. Reese increased the pressure of the bite, forcing the fangs deeper into Pollard’s arm.

  With every mouthful of blood that Reese drew, he also took in Pollard’s memories, his thoughts, his fears. Pollard knew that the process could be relatively painless. When Reese did not intend to make a point or inflict punishment, Pollard had experienced the bloodletting with minor injury and minimal pain. Today, Reese was angry, allowing his fangs to tear rather than puncture, taking more blood than Pollard guessed was necessary, until his head swam.

  Show me everything, Reese voice said in Pollard’s mind. He knew better than to resist. He had tried that once, early in his partnership with the vampire lord. Reese had broken through his mental barriers with sheer psychic force, then ransacked his thoughts like a thief rummaging through a chest of drawers. Reese had made certain that Pollard knew he had gained access to every hidden secret, every unpunished transgression, every mortifying memory. They all belonged to Reese now, to be wielded like weapons.

  Reese clamped down harder, and Pollard could not stifle a groan. Through the blood bond, he felt Reese’s satisfaction at the acknowledgement. Pollard tried to remain completely still, tried to keep his mind totally blank, tried to vacate his body until the ‘reporting’ was complete.

  Pollard’s breathing was fast and shallow, and his heart was thudding. He had seen what happened to the people Reese deemed no longer useful. More than once, Pollard had seen men drained beyond the ability to be revived, left as empty husks. Worse, he knew something of just how Reese could bend the blood
bond, the kruvgaldur, to his will.

  In the cells below Reese’s fortress at Westbain were other wretches who had displeased the talishte lord. They were fed upon regularly by Reese’s vampire guards, but their real punishment was within their own skulls: the tampered, heightened memories Reese had left them of their greatest fear, their most crippling pain, compulsive thoughts that drove them mad.

  Reese tore his mouth free, leaving a deep gash in Pollard’s arm. His mouth was bloody, something else Pollard knew was for show. He had seen Reese take blood for reporting or for feeding with not a drop spilled. Reese spat into his palm and pressed a bit of the spittle against Pollard’s savaged skin. The skin began to close over rapidly, but Pollard was a veteran of such things and he knew that while Reese had provided enough of his spit to close the wound, it was not sufficient to quicken the deep healing. He’d intended Pollard to be left with a painful injury that would take time to heal and produce a wicked bruise as a memento. All the better to make his point.

  “Your report is complete,” Reese said, licking his lips as his fangs retracted. “Understand this: I want McFadden stopped before he can make another attempt at bringing back the magic. Bring him to me. I want to know what he knows.”

  “We’ve got spies all over Donderath with instructions to kill him on sight,” Pollard replied. “It’s going to be hard to get the message out to them that there’s been a change of plans.” It took all of Pollard’s strength not to let the vertigo claim him. The loss of blood, the imposition of Reese’s will, and then the sudden removal of his presence swirled Pollard’s thoughts and blurred his vision.

  Reese shrugged. “That’s your problem. Make it happen.”

  “I understand,” Pollard replied, his voice as steady as he could make it.

  “I’ll have your horse ready at daybreak. Go back to your men and this time, get it right.”

  “I understand,” Pollard repeated. He knew Reese could feel how weak he was right now, how close to losing consciousness, and wondered if Reese intended to humiliate him by keeping him standing in the warm parlor until his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground.

  “Leave me,” Reese commanded.

  Pollard forced down the impulse to run, made himself cross the short distance to the door slowly to preserve the shred of dignity he retained. He made his way up the stairs, trying to cling to the balustrade without looking as it were the only thing holding him upright. He reached his room, shut the door behind him, and fell to his knees as his vision went gray.

  Damn, damn, damn, damn! Pollard thought. The vertigo was winning, so he eased himself down onto his back, nursing his injured arm. He lay staring at the ceiling. Before the Great Fire, the ceiling had been a work of art, plastered with an elaborate design of cornices and embellishments.

  Now, the fine old ceiling was cracked the width of the room, with bare spots where a number of the geometric three-dimensional plaster shapes had fallen. Reese’s home sustained less damage than many of the other manor houses. But the telltale signs were all around: a fire-damaged wing and burned dependencies. Scorch marks on the stone, new repairs, or places where repairs had not been done at all. Cracks that ran through the thick stone walls, a testimony to the sheer power of the magical strike. Pollard’s own manor had fared much worse.

  Precious good your own title is doing you, Lord Pollard, his own voice mocked in his mind. Who holds the reins – and who wears the bit?

  Pollard’s right hand dug his fingers into the thick pile of the carpet in frustration, and he murmured a litany of curses. After a few moments, the worst of the vertigo passed. Pride more than prudence forced him to his feet. He staggered and dropped heavily into a chair near the fireplace. It did not surprise him to find a bottle of fine brandy and a crystal glass waiting for him, as well as a selection of cheeses and a platter of roasted venison, still warm from the kitchen. Such was the nature of fealty to Pentreath Reese, a dizzying swing between generosity and fear.

  Pollard stripped off his shirt and threw it to the ground. It was spattered with blood, and he had no intention of wearing it when he went to meet with his men. Thus far, the humiliations Reese chose to deliver had been private, and Pollard intended to keep it that way as long as possible. Knowing Reese, there would be a fresh shirt hanging in the wardrobe, perhaps with an entirely new cloak and pants as well. Generous. And terrifying at the same time, Pollard thought.

  Pollard distracted himself by focusing on his dinner. Though Reese had no need to eat, he maintained a kitchen staff that was the equal of that of any of the great houses. It was whispered that Reese’s title had been purchased, not earned, and that his wealth had been extorted over the centuries. Perhaps. If so, Reese had learned how to handle himself with as true an aristocratic mien as any of the lords of Donderath. Now, with the kingdom in ruins, the provenance of a man’s title mattered little. Except, perhaps, in the case of Blaine McFadden.

  Pollard finished the venison and washed it down with half of the brandy before his nerves felt steady enough for him to sleep and the ache in his arm had dulled. He wondered, as he climbed into the high four-poster bed, whether Reese had tampered with his dreams, but his sleep, when it came, was untroubled.

  The next morning, Pollard’s mood was sour as he rode back to his encampment. He dismounted and thrust the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, then strode toward his tent. Inside, he allowed himself a deep breath, trying to put the horrors of the previous night behind him. The canvas tent was a mark of both rank and privilege. It was twice as large as the officers’ tents, big enough for a table and chairs for strategy meetings and a few portable luxuries: throw rugs, a small silver set for serving fet, pewter drinking goblets, and a brassbound trunk with a selection of what brandy and spirits could still be found.

  A pot of water boiled on a small brazier in the center of the room. The brazier took the chill off the tent, although with the days growing shorter and solstice not far off, the harshest days of winter were yet to come, and the most comfortable tent would not afford the warmth of a real house.

  “Welcome back, Lord Pollard,” Kerr said, bustling through the tent flap. He bent immediately to take the steaming kettle from the brazier, pouring it over the dark syrup in the silver pot to make the strong, bitter drink that would clear Pollard’s head and revive him.

  “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing but the usual drills and the incessant archery practice,” Kerr replied, unflappable despite Pollard’s moods. “I’ve set out a bit of sausage and dried fruit in case your lordship did not have a chance to eat before you left Lord Reese’s fortress.” Without a word, Kerr helped Pollard out of his cloak, not needing to be told to be gentle with Pollard’s wounded left arm.

  Under any circumstances, Kerr would have been frighteningly efficient. But without ever acknowledging what he knew or letting on to how he came by the knowledge, Kerr understood that visits to Reese took a toll on Pollard. Kerr made it a point to have food ready, a hot pot of fet waiting, and a box of bandages and ointment discreetly set out on Pollard’s cot. Pollard suspected that his valet had discerned the nature of Pollard’s fealty to Reese one of the times Kerr had bandaged him after a battle and could not help but have seen the scars of old puncture marks on Pollard’s skin.

  “Thank you, Kerr.”

  Kerr handed Pollard a cup of the steaming, strong mixture, and Pollard let the vapors rouse him for a moment before he lifted the cup to his lips. “Per your instructions, m’lord, I’ve notified your commanders to meet with you at tenth bells. Is there anything else you require?”

  “That will be all,” Pollard said, his voice flat, a mixture of distraction and exhaustion. Meeting with Reese always had that effect on him, just another reminder of who really held the power. Pollard downed the rest of his cup of fet as Kerr left the tent, then poured a second cup to steady his nerves before sitting down on his cot beside the box of bandages.

  He set his cup aside, eased himself gingerly out of his unif
orm jacket, and rolled up his sleeve. Although the skin was already healed, the middle of his arm, from a handsbreadth above his elbow to the same distance below the joint, was swollen and purpled. He winced as his fingers brushed the wound, and the arm hurt when bent. Pollard dug in the box for some of the powders the healer had supplied to dull the pain without dulling his wits, and he added an ample dosage to his already-bitter fet.

  Pollard had just finished the food Kerr had set out for him and drained the last of the pot of fet when the others arrived. Each man paused in the door of the tent to make a shallow bow before entering, then took his place at the small portable table.

  “Reconnaissance report,” Pollard snapped.

  Captain Anton, a dark-haired man in his early thirties, looked up as if he had been expecting the command. “We’ve increased the watch on all roads leading from Glenreith toward Castle Reach and the eastern cities,” Anton reported.

  “Why not on all roads, Captain?”

  Anton grimaced. “There’s nothing to the west of Glenreith except farmland, least not for quite a ways out. We’ve only got so many men, m’lord. They’re stretched thin as it is.”