The wind rattled through the tiles on the roof and battered the warehouse with its full strength. Harried mothers tried to soothe squalling, frightened children. Men passed the time playing cards or dice. The crowded room smelled of wet wool and unwashed bodies. Fear was tangible, even on the faces of the soldiers.
One of the soldiers climbed up the stairs to make a report. “No one is going anywhere. The entire first floor is flooded almost to the ceiling. The street’s just as bad, maybe worse with the current. There’s nowhere to go.”
Kestel slipped through the crowd, talking to a mother with small children in one corner or speaking quietly with a group of men huddled along the wall. Folville and Blaine did the same, trying to keep the frightened people as calm as possible. All around them, the old building creaked louder as it strained against the storm.
Huddled in the large room, mothers held their children near. Blaine could hear voices chanting prayers, while others sang softly to themselves, rocking back and forth to blot out the sound of the storm.
A crash overhead brought the room to a standstill. One loud crack after another sounded, followed by something that sounded like a hail of heavy stones rattling down the building’s roof.
“We’re losing the tiles,” Blaine said to Folville. “Just how well did your engineers reinforce this building?”
Folville paled. “We fortified it for a ground assault. We weren’t expecting the danger to come from the sky.”
Another crash sounded overhead, and another.
“So they just replaced the roof. They didn’t do anything to make it strong enough to withstand an attack,” Blaine said pointedly.
“No. They didn’t.”
Water dripped from the ceiling. As the crowd tried to move away from the water, it quickly became apparent that new leaks were everywhere.
“We’ve got to start moving people down below,” Blaine said to Folville, eyeing the water stains on the ceiling. “We’re going to lose the whole roof if these winds keep up.”
“I think you might be right,” Folville said nervously.
“We’re going to get you down below, where you can stay dry,” Blaine shouted above the murmur of voices. “It will be crowded, but you won’t be wet.”
The murmur grew to a loud buzz as everyone spoke at once. Folville put two fingers to his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle. “Quiet down!” he shouted.
“The stairs are narrow, so line up,” Blaine yelled. “Bring your things. Let’s move.” Kestel and the guards roused the fearful and hesitant. At the doorway, Blaine and Folville barked at the group to keep moving in single file. The line moved slowly. Blaine eyed the roof and listened to the wind outside.
A strong gust of wind slammed against the warehouse, making the building shudder. Overhead, Blaine heard a deafening crack and saw the far corner of the ceiling begin to ripple.
“Get down the stairs now! The roof is going!” Blaine shouted.
Kestel and the guards shouted at the laggards, dragging those too terrified to move. More of the tiles peeled away, opening holes to the storm. The temperature plunged as the cold wind swept in, driving the rain with it.
“Go, go, go!” Blaine shouted.
The terrified stragglers surged forward, and Blaine heard the guards below yelling for people to move faster or be trampled. A huge gust howled across the broken tiles, stripping them away.
“Move!” Blaine shouted.
Kestel grabbed an old woman by the arm and dragged her toward the stairs. The guard scooped a pregnant woman into his arms and headed for the door. Blaine went after a woman with two small children. The little girl tried to pull out of her grasp, shrieking in fear, and the boy had lost a shoe and was hobbling, crying to go back for it.
Pieces of heavy tile fell from the ceiling, crashing against the floor and sending shards into the air. The guard dropped to his knees as one of the tiles caught him across the back. Folville went after the downed man, dragging him toward the exit.
“You’ve got to move!” Blaine shouted above the wind. He slung one child under each arm, expecting the mother to be just a step behind him. With every passing moment, more of the roof tore away, and he feared that if the wind stripped off their remaining shelter, he and the others might be swept away.
A section of tile smashed to the floor between Blaine and the young mother. She crumpled, bleeding where the tile had struck her in the head. Kestel and Folville ran toward him from the stairwell. “Take them! I’ll get her!” Blaine yelled, thrusting the screaming, panicked children into their arms.
More of the roof fell with every moment. Blaine grabbed a discarded door that lay propped against the wall, holding it overhead like a shield. Tiles slammed down on him as he dodged toward where the woman lay. Shards of tile pelted him, slicing through his pants below his cloak.
Blaine slung the woman over one shoulder, shielding both of them with the door. The wind whipped through the room, pelting them with sleet. Blaine struggled to keep his footing against the gusts. Just as they neared the stairs, the rest of the roof gave way with a groan and a thunderous crack. Broken tile and timbers showered down, and the full gale force of the winds ripped through the exposed room.
Folville was waiting in the doorway. “Come on!” he screamed above the wind. Kestel appeared next to him, and the two of them reached to take the woman from Blaine. Blaine felt the wind drag him backward, ripping at his clothing. He grasped the door frame with both hands, pulling himself toward the opening, but his strength was no match for the power of the wind.
Folville grabbed one arm and Kestel grabbed the other, yanking Blaine toward them with their full might. The three of them collapsed against the far wall of the stairwell, near where the injured woman lay on the landing. Folville picked her up and headed down the steps. Kestel followed, then Blaine, who was limping where a large chunk of tile had struck him in the leg.
“Let’s hope that your engineers did better with the lower floors,” Blaine muttered as they edged their way into the crowd on the third floor.
The buzz of conversation stopped as they entered. The injured woman’s two children cried out in greeting and rushed toward her, breaking loose from the arms of an old woman who had been holding them. Folville spoke quietly to one of his guards who stepped up to take the woman from Folville’s arms.
“Find a healer—we’ve got to have at least a hedge witch in this crowd,” Folville instructed.
He turned toward where Blaine and Kestel stood. Then without a word, Folville went down on one knee in front of Blaine. The room fell silent.
“I never got the chance to swear fealty to you like I said I would,” Folville said. “And to tell you the truth, until tonight, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. You could have gotten killed saving that woman,” he said. “That convinced me.” He bowed his head and awaited Blaine’s response.
Blaine hoped he did not look as uncomfortable as he felt. “As Lord of Glenreith and Lord of Castle Reach, I accept your fealty, William Folville. Swear to me your loyalty and your sword.”
“I swear, m’lord,” Folville replied.
“And I swear to you, William Folville, that you will have my protection and aid. May the gods hear our pledges and hold us to our words,” Blaine finished.
Someone in the room began to cheer. Another person joined in, and then another until the whole room was cheering. Folville looked up at Blaine, who nodded his permission to stand. Together, they looked out over the room of people, who stared at them expectantly.
“Lord Blaine McFadden has sent his troops to protect us and his provisions to feed us,” Folville said, shouting above the wind that still roared with the fury of the storm outside. “Castle Reach has not been forgotten. Storm or no storm, Castle Reach will survive,” Folville said. “I have sworn my allegiance,” he continued. “Now swear yours. This is your lord.”
To Blaine’s amazement, one by one, the room’s occupants knelt, leaving Blaine, Kestel, and Folville standing. Even
Folville’s strongmen and Hemmington’s guards knelt. Blaine sincerely hoped that his discomfort was not clear in his face.
I never rehearsed this part, he thought. He drew a deep breath and found his voice.
“I accept your allegiance,” he said, looking out at the crowd. “But what I need is your help. The city’s barely begun to rebuild and now the storms will set it back. This storm is bad—it’s likely there will be others. Folville will need your help to rebuild, and to resist those who will try to keep the city—and Donderath—on its knees.” He paused. “Please rise—and help Castle Reach rise again.”
The sound of cheers followed them to the second floor. Folville announced his new-sworn fealty and asked for the same show of loyalty that the group on the floor above had made.
“You handled that nicely,” Kestel murmured, giving his hand a squeeze.
“It’s not something I trained for in Velant,” Blaine replied.
She met his gaze. “I’d argue that the man Velant made you is better suited to rule than you might have been before.”
Hemmington strode toward them. “We’ve distributed rations for supper, and some of the men used buckets to gather rainwater for drinking.” He nodded toward the opposite corner. “We’ve set up more buckets for latrines on each floor.” He grimaced. “It’s not going to be pleasant, but there’s no helping it. We’ll just send the slop out the window and let it wash away with the floodwater.”
“I’ll see what General Theilsson can spare for troops to lend a hand with the cleanup and rebuilding,” Blaine replied. “But we’re getting hit with the storms everywhere, and there aren’t enough troops to assign to the building crews and still have a fighting force for defense.”
Hemmington’s expression told Blaine that he understood. “We’ll have to manage,” he said. “That’s the army way. Never enough men or resources to do what has to be done, and somehow, it gets done anyway.”
The storm outside continued its fury, but as the first light of dawn filtered through the shutters, Blaine realized that the winds were not as wild as they had been the night before. Floodwaters filled the first floor, but did not rise to the top of the steps. Hemmington cautiously opened one of the shutters on the city side of the building just after sunrise. Blaine, Kestel, and Folville crowded around him.
The street below ran with filthy water higher than the windows of the first floor. The current swept bits of wood, animal carcasses, tree limbs, and flotsam, along with more than a few corpses.
Blaine looked out across the city toward the sea. Many of the buildings had lost their roofs. Some of the buildings collapsed under the pounding of the wind. Before the Great Fire, the Plaza of the Kings had boasted a large statue of King Merrill and several of his ancestors. Those statues still stood when Blaine and the others had taken refuge the night before.
Now floodwaters swept as high as the huge carvings’ heads. One statue, a monument to King Hougen, used to have an arm upraised, holding a torch. The torch had snapped off, leaving only the broken stub of a marble arm. In the center of the plaza, all but the finial on top of the fountain was covered by swirling floodwaters.
“It’s going to take a while for those waters to recede,” Kestel murmured.
Blaine nodded. “And you realize, Niklas and Piran have absolutely no idea what’s become of us. By now they’re probably worried and angry.”
Kestel chuckled. “Niklas, yes. Piran probably holed up in the castle with a bottle of spirits and a deck of cards. By now, he’s probably won the crown jewels.”
Kestel was quiet for a moment. “It’s not the city we left,” she murmured, staring out over the broken buildings. Floodwaters ran down to join the angry gray ocean, which seemed to be trying to swallow Castle Reach whole.
“No, it isn’t,” Blaine agreed. “But now we have the chance to remake it to our liking. If we survive.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
VEDRAN POLLARD 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. Pollard was in his late fourth decade, but his hair had gone white when he was still a young man. Hawk-faced, with sharp gray eyes and angular, uncompromising features, Pollard’s silver, close-trimmed beard added to his aristocratic bearing.
“Welcome,” Pollard said, moving away from where he stood near the fire. The guard closed the door and faded back into the shadows along the wall. Other bodyguards, dressed in black, waited in silence.
Pollard chuckled. “Do come in.” He moved to pour amber liquid from a decanter into a goblet and held it out. “Brandy?”
Larska Hennoch regarded the drink suspiciously, then seemed to decide that Pollard had better things to do than poison him, and accepted the glass. “If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just set up a meeting,” Hennoch said. “Kidnapping my son wasn’t necessary.”
Pollard looked at his guest for a moment without speaking. Hennoch had the physique of a boxer and carried himself like an alley brawler. He wore a patch over one eye, lost no doubt to the wound that caused a long, jagged scar from his hairline down to his chin on the right side of his face. When he arrived, Hennoch wore an impressive array of weapons, all of which Pollard’s men had impounded. Even without his weapons, Hennoch looked the part of a notorious highwayman.
“I wanted to make sure I had your full attention,” Pollard replied. “What happens to your son is entirely up to you. Cooperate, and he’s merely come for fostering in the household of Lord Reese. Prove difficult, and you’ll find his ransom very dear indeed.”
Hennoch glared at Pollard. “I’m listening.”
“You’ve set yourself up as a warlord,” Pollard said, moving around the room as he spoke. “I would like to propose a deal.”
Hennoch’s lip curled. “Why me?”
Pollard shrugged. “You control the smuggling network and the thieves’ guild in a twenty-league area. No goods or people move through your territory without you knowing about it and charging for the privilege. You’ve killed your rivals or forced them into fealty. And you’ve collected a sizable fighting force who owe allegiance to you. You’re the kind of man Lord Reese likes to deal with.”
“So why isn’t he here?”
Pollard sipped his brandy. “Lord Reese has other matters to which he must attend. He has left this matter to me.” If Hennoch was gauging how difficult it might be for him to get the jump on Pollard, he might be surprised at the outcome, Pollard thought. More than one dead man had mistaken youth for skill. The presence of talishte bodyguards, standing motionless in the shadows of the room, might also temper Hennoch’s actions, even if the life of his son did not.
“This venture will amass a good bit of money—something that’s more difficult to come by now,” Pollard continued.
“True enough,” Hennoch replied. “What is it you want from me?”
“Ally with Lord Reese and me, and we’ll cut you in for a generous percentage of the spoils,” Pollard said.
“I already get all the spoils,” Hennoch shot back. “You want me to hand over my money and kiss your ring? For what?”
Pollard pressed on a panel in the wall that swung open at his touch. It was about a foot square, and inside was a large brass horn, like an ear trumpet. “Beneath this manor house are a maze of cells,” he said offhandedly. “They’re used to store—and interrogate—prisoners. This speaking tube connects directly to one of those rooms. It permits us to hear exactly what is going on far beneath us.”
A scream sounded from the bell of the trumpet, followed by the sound of a young man’s voice begging for mercy. Hennoch blanched, and launched himself at Pollard, only to be easily restrained by two of the talishte bodyguards.
“That’s my son!” Hennoch snarled.
Pollard nodded, his expression unchanged. “Yes, it is. And the comfort of his stay here is entirely up to you.”
The two bodyguards still gripped Hennoch b
y the shoulders, immobilizing him. Hatred glinted in Hennoch’s eyes. “So if I don’t agree, you’ll kill my son?”
Pollard met his gaze. “Eventually. He’s a strong young man. I’m sure the guards here would enjoy a meal or two from his blood. He might find a way to serve as a blood source for a while, or for the amusement of the jailers,” he said with ennui, purposely turning his back on Hennoch. “Or perhaps he could be brought across to serve Lord Reese in immortality.”
Hennoch let out a string of obscenities, then sagged in his captor’s hold. “All right,” he agreed sullenly. “I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt my son.”
“Fulfill your part of the bargain, and he’ll earn rewards—better food, better treatment, perhaps even a room aboveground,” Pollard replied. “Cheat us, or fail to fulfill your obligations, and he suffers for it.”
“I understand.”
Pollard turned to look at his visitor, and regarded the hatred in Hennoch’s eyes with satisfaction. “Very good. We have an understanding.” He paused, and swirled the brandy in his glass. “There is one more condition.”
“Which is?”
“You and your troops will be at my disposal and that of Lord Reese. You will muster when we call for you, and fight with full effort when we need your assistance.” Pollard’s eyes narrowed. “Your men will not act in any way to undermine our interests, and you will provide no support or protection of any kind to Blaine McFadden.”
Hennoch let out a long breath, and Pollard could not tell whether the man was relieved by a less burdensome requirement than he had expected, or surprised at the scope of the demand. “All right,” Hennoch replied. “We’re your men.” He met Pollard’s gaze. “Aside from your cut of the profits, and fighting when you call for us, the rest of our business goes on as it was?”
Pollard spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. “Of course. We have no plans to interfere in your territory—unless we have reason to believe you are not keeping to your side of the bargain.” He glanced toward the silent speaking tube, and Hennoch flinched.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 9