Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  Niklas met the talishte’s gaze, unafraid of being glamoured. “Something has to separate us from the other side,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s proof that war hasn’t made us all beasts.”

  The talishte nodded, and Niklas was reminded that his undead guards followed him on Geir’s orders, not their oath to him or to what remained of his army. “As time passes, that line gets harder to draw,” he replied. Something in his eyes gave Niklas the impression that the talishte knew a thing or two about that struggle.

  Niklas forced himself to watch as the talishte drank deeply. Gradually the prisoner’s breathing slowed, and his skin grew ashen. When the talishte finished, Niklas moved to the side to allow the guards to remove the body. “Hang him high,” Niklas said, hearing the utter tiredness in his own voice. “Make sure he feeds the vultures and not the wolves.”

  When they were gone, Niklas poured himself another glass of whiskey and stepped outside the tent. He needed some fresh air. The camp had quieted, and Niklas heard the bell ring midnight. The soldiers were in their tents, except for the talishte patrols. It would be another four candlemarks until the bakers awoke to start making bread and readying breakfast. This was as quiet as the camp would get.

  Niklas leaned against a barrel and took a sip of his whiskey. The night was cold, and the wind hit his face like a bracing slap. It’s come to a sorry place when draining a man of blood before hanging his corpse passes for mercy, Niklas thought. The whiskey burned down his throat, but it did nothing to ease his mood, or his worry.

  And after all that, I still don’t know for certain that Blaine is alive, or where Pollard will strike next, or whether Penhallow – and now Voss – is really on our side. He let out a long breath and watched the mist rise in the frigid air. I’m not even completely sure where the battle lines are drawn.

  A faint motion caught his eye. Niklas looked up, and his attention was drawn to the hanging tree, and the shadow of its new burden, the prisoner’s body dangling high in the air with its head snapped to one side. A few paces away stood a man. Or maybe the ghost of a man, Niklas thought.

  For what Niklas could make out, the visitor was dressed in gray, with a dark slash of color across his chest. His cloak and uniform looked military, but his silhouette when he turned showed a style of cloak not worn for a long time. The man made no move to come closer and seemed to pay the corpse no mind. In the moonlight, Niklas wasn’t entirely sure the newcomer was solid, but he felt the man’s gaze on him.

  How did he get past the talishte guards? Niklas wondered. But the weight of the man’s gaze gave him the answer. Whoever he is, he’s talishte, too. He let his hand fall to his sword, ready to sound the alarm. Is he one of Reese’s men?

  Something familiar about the uniform made him pause. I’ve seen that before, Niklas thought. He searched his memories, of the regiments he had fought with – or against – in the war, the mercenaries, the rogues. Then he remembered the tapestries. Recognition dawned, and he slowly lowered his drink, returning the shadowy visitor’s gaze. I could swear it looks like the uniform of the Knights of Esthrane, he thought, feeling a mixture of curiosity and concern. But that’s not possible – is it?

  Niklas remained staring toward the hanging tree for a few moments as the import of what he had seen sank in. A talishte warlord wants to stop Blaine from bringing back the magic. Another talishte lord is playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and what’s left of Donderath is the prize. Traher Voss is a wild card. Now, a knight from an exiled band of mage-warriors shows up – but whose side is he on? Is he alone, or are there others like him? And is his appearance a show of support, or a warning?

  Niklas drained the last of his whiskey and turned back toward his tent. Whatever we’ve just gotten ourselves mixed up in, it’s as big as the war we left behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “H

  ow can the Wraith Lord be deader than a talishte?” Connor asked as he followed Penhallow up the winding trail.

  “Mortals think that dead is dead,” Penhallow replied. “In my experience, it’s more of a range. Talishte remain the closest to what we were as mortals. There are other, less pleasant ways to remain active after death. Wraiths retain their memories, but they wander for eternity without bodies.”

  “But before he became the Wraith Lord, he was talishte?” Connor asked, torn between horror and fascination. He had grown increasingly used to that feeling and found himself daring to ask questions that would have been unthinkable a few months earlier.

  Penhallow nodded. “The Wraith Lord was one of us, which is why he is among the Elders.”

  “He’s not going to mistake me for a food offering, is he?” The thought had bothered Connor the entire trek up the barren hillside. “He’ll recognize and respect your bond, right?”

  Penhallow chuckled, but Connor thought he heard a hint of uneasiness. “You are under my protection. You are as safe as I am.”

  Connor slid a sideways glance toward Penhallow. “You’ve left some room for interpretation, I notice.”

  “You are a singularly persistent mortal,” Penhallow replied. “With a penchant for asking uncomfortable questions.”

  “I just like an idea of what I’m walking into,” Connor retorted. He was quiet for a few moments as they made their way up the rocky trail. “With everything that’s happened, the Great Fire and all, how can you be certain the Wraith Lord will still be here? He could go anywhere, couldn’t he?” Connor had been trying to wrap his thoughts around the idea of being a spirit without a body, yet something more substantial than a ghost.

  “Without a body, the Wraith Lord hasn’t wandered far from the ruins of his home in quite some time,” Penhallow said. “It’s said that he is nearly one thousand years old. Great age commands respect, and a certain amount of fear.”

  “So he’s old enough to remember before when the magic was raised at Mirdalur?” Connor said, excitement edging out fear.

  “I’m quite certain that he remembers,” Penhallow said. “Whether or not he’ll speak of what he knows remains to be seen.”

  “Do you think he might know something that would help Blaine bring back the magic?” Connor asked, doing his best to keep up with Penhallow. “More to the point – whose side is he on? Ours or Reese’s?”

  Penhallow paused. “I’m not sure that the Wraith Lord thinks of such things in the same way as mortals do… Or even as talishte do. I’m hundreds of years old, yet I am not one of the Elders. The Wraith Lord is among the eldest of our kind, but he is as different from other talishte as talishte are from mortals. What he chooses to share with us will be for his own purposes, likely to have little to do with our interests or even our benefit. He’s not our enemy, but neither is he our friend. He merely is.”

  “I feel so much better about this now,” Connor muttered under his breath. Penhallow chuckled.

  “How do you know he’ll even see us?” Connor asked.

  “I petitioned him for an audience as soon as I heard about Blaine’s quest,” Penhallow replied as they climbed to the top of the hill. “My petition has been accepted. We have been granted an audience.”

  As they reached the crest of the hill, Connor could see the ruins of an ancient fortress. Thick stone walls still stood, but the building’s roof was long gone, and the grounds were heavily overgrown. Connor could see the sky through the empty window openings, and several tall trees grew up through the center of the ruins in what would have once been the middle of the main keep.

  Even if he had not known that the ruins were the domain of an immortal wraith, something about the area warned him to run as far away as possible. His skin prickled, and he felt as jumpy as a stray dog before a storm. Connor looked to Penhallow and saw for the first time a hint of hesitation in the other’s features. Even Penhallow is wary of the Wraith Lord, Connor thought. If the Wraith Lord can frighten someone like Penhallow, then I’m not such a coward for feeling a bit terrified.

  “Have you forgotten that I can sen
se your emotions through the bond?” Penhallow said quietly. “As if I couldn’t read them in your face.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I would be more worried if we were approaching the Wraith Lord and you did not feel fear,” Penhallow replied. “Yet you were often in the presence of the king with your last master, were you not? Were you constantly in fear of Merrill, when he could have spoken a word and sent you to your death?”

  Connor let out a long breath and shook his head. “No, although I knew my place and stayed well out of the king’s way. King Merrill never spoke an unkind word to me or noticed me much at all.”

  “The comparison isn’t perfect, but it will do,” Penhallow said. “The Wraith Lord will see you as my human servant, much as Merrill understood you were Lord Garnoc’s man. Your part in this is to be a second set of eyes and ears for me. I’ll ask you for your observations and impressions later. The Wraith Lord may well want to hear what you know of Blaine McFadden and the effort to bring back the magic.”

  “And what do I tell him?” Connor asked nervously. “Do you trust him? Should I tell him the truth?”

  A cold smile hinted at Penhallow’s lips. “You must tell him the truth. He will sense a lie. But you do not need to reveal everything you know. Tell him what happened the night of the Great Fire, and in Edgeland, up to when we were attacked by Reese in Traher Voss’s keep. But say nothing about where Blaine might be or what he might be doing.” He paused. “I trust the Wraith Lord to act in a way consistent with his interests. So long as our interests coincide with his, we are allied.”

  “You never really said whether or not I’m in danger,” Connor said, narrowing his eyes a bit.

  “You are as safe as I am in the presence of the Wraith Lord,” Penhallow repeated. “It’s all I can say. That will have to suffice.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. The closer they got to the ruins of the keep, the more the land itself seemed to dissuade them from approaching. Rocks and brambles made the going difficult, causing Connor to stumble frequently. Dread haunted him from the time they reached the summit of the hill, but he was also aware of Penhallow’s light compulsion, tempering the fear. Connor felt certain that they were being watched. Penhallow moved forward undaunted, and Connor mustered all his bluff to do the same.

  “You are trespassing. State your business.” The man came out of nowhere, and his voice made Connor jump. A guard dressed all in black stepped out of the shadows with talishte speed, blocking their path.

  “We’re here at the invitation of the Wraith Lord. He’s expecting us.” Penhallow’s tone managed to convey both privilege and mild annoyance.

  It was clear that the guard had been told to expect them. The man gave a curt nod and stepped aside, then raised one hand high and made a gesture that Connor assumed was a signal to the other unseen watchers to allow them through. “Go to the old keep. The Master will find you there.”

  Connor surveyed the approach to the keep, but the night was still and quiet, and he could not see any other guards. Connor squared his shoulders and held his head high, hoping that his projected confidence would mask the mortal fear that twisted his stomach.

  They came to a stop at the battered front wall. Up close, Connor could see that the old keep’s stone walls were twice as thick as the distance from his fingertips to his shoulder, massive blocks of granite laid atop each other. The ruins’ age was unmistakable, and Connor could feel the spirits of the dead around them.

  Another black-clad figure stepped from the shadows of the doorway. “You will come with me,” the man said. Penhallow followed. Moonlight cast harsh shadows as they moved through the overgrowth. Now that he was closer, Connor could see that some of the interior walls were still standing. Beneath his feet, dirt, debris, and crumbled rock hid an old stone-mosaic floor. Connor could imagine what the building had once looked like, both keep and rough castle, the stronghold of a warlord.

  Their guide led them to the best-preserved portion of the ruins. They ascended a few steps and found the floor here intact. Three of the room’s four walls were standing, as well as a portion of its ceiling. From the large size of the area, Connor imagined it had been a gathering space, the place where a powerful noble would host his friends and hold court.

  “You have come a long way to see me.” The voice spoke from the shadowed corner. Connor glimpsed movement and saw a flash of something gray.

  Penhallow gave a low bow, and Connor did the same. “My lord,” Penhallow said, his voice grave and respectful, “thank you for granting us an audience.”

  “Your message was cryptic, but intriguing,” the Wraith Lord replied, and as Connor squinted to get a better look at the shadows, he saw a figure shrouded in mist. It had the height and proportions of a tall man, but the mist blurred the man’s features and swirled around him like a cloak.

  Once more, Penhallow dipped his head in respect. “It was too dangerous to speak plainly in my message, my lord. I came to ask what you would share with us about Mirdalur, and times before that.”

  “Mirdalur.” The Wraith Lord seemed to mull over the word. “I was at Mirdalur when the lords raised the magic. I stood among them as one of the Lords of the Blood, no longer mortal, but not yet as you see me now.” The gray figure seemed to study Penhallow for a moment before speaking again. “What do you wish to know about Mirdalur, and why?”

  “We know that magic has fallen and been raised again many times,” Penhallow said carefully. “I believe it is to the benefit of the talishte for magic to rise once more.” He paused. “If you were a Lord of the Blood, could you help to raise the magic again?”

  The Wraith Lord laughed, an unpleasant sound like the rattling of dry bones. “No. I am just a shadow of my former self, without physical form, and most certainly without blood. I dwell in the space between the living, the dead, and the undead. I cannot help you with the ritual.”

  “One living Lord of the Blood remains,” Penhallow said. “He has vowed to restore the magic.”

  “Why have you involved yourself?”

  “Because another of our kind opposes him,” Penhallow replied. “This talishte would set himself up to rule.”

  “Are we not meant to rule?” the Wraith Lord asked. “Mortals are weak, slow. We are superior in every way: strength, speed, endurance. Does not that superiority convey a mandate from the gods that we should rule?”

  Penhallow once again inclined his head in deference, then straightened to look directly at the Wraith Lord. “My lord, I would disagree,” he said in a careful voice. “We possess those strengths – that is true. Yet we are vulnerable. We must hide by day, and we can be easily destroyed when we are weakened by the sun. Mortals breed faster than we can turn our followers. You know, my lord, that when our kind has tried to rule, it has nearly destroyed us.”

  “I remember.” The Wraith Lord’s voice was low, rumbling like distant thunder. There was silence for a moment. “Who is this man, the one who would restore the magic?”

  “Blaine McFadden, lord of Glenreith,” Penhallow replied. “He is the last mortal Lord of the Blood.”

  “McFadden. Yes, there was a McFadden at Mirdalur,” the Wraith Lord mused. “So long ago.”

  “My lord, what can you tell us that might help McFadden bring back the magic?” Penhallow asked.

  Connor felt the shift in the Wraith Lord’s manner and knew that somehow, Penhallow had attracted their host’s interest. “Why have you brought a mortal with you – and one who is a medium?” The Wraith Lord’s voice was a challenge that chilled Connor to the bone. Connor mustered his courage, lifted his head, and took a step forward.

  “I serve Lord Penhallow,” Connor said. His voice shook despite his best efforts.

  “Penhallow, did you know that he was a medium?” the Wraith Lord asked.

  “Yes,” Penhallow said.

  “You trust too much, Penhallow,” the Wraith Lord said. “His ability calls to me even more than his warm blood.” He turned to Connor.
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  “You see and hear ghosts that others do not,” the Wraith Lord said. “And sometimes the ghosts try to speak through you. Do you deny it?”

  Connor flushed. “No. Sometimes I feared they would succeed.”

  “They did not have the power to possess you,” the Wraith Lord said. “But I do.” Connor shivered and took a step closer to Penhallow.

  “He is under my protection,” Penhallow warned.

  The Wraith Lord chuckled. “If I wished to take him, I would have already done so.” There was silence for a moment, and then he turned to Connor. “Tell me about McFadden,” the Wraith Lord replied. “And I will determine whether I will help you.”

  Penhallow gave Connor a nod of encouragement. Connor told his tale, beginning with the night Penhallow had sent him to find Valtyr’s map in the castle library. He recounted the night of the Great Fire, his flight on the doomed ship, the shipwreck on Edgeland, and all that had happened since then, culminating with Blaine McFadden’s return to Donderath and Pentreath Reese’s attempts to stop the magic from coming back. Connor’s heart thudded in his chest, and his palms were sweating despite the cold of the evening, but he carried on in a clear voice that grew stronger as he recounted his story. When he ended, the Wraith Lord was silent for a few moments.