Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Together the three men made their way down the corridor. Ahead, part of the ceiling had collapsed, blocking the way with a tumble of plaster, wood, and stone. Protruding from the rubble were a man’s boots.

  “Do you think he’s still—” Connor began.

  Lynge shook his head and pointed to a spreading pool of blood that seeped from beneath the stones. “Doubtful.”

  They began to dig through the chunks of stone and plaster with their bare hands. Connor took cold comfort in the fact that the boots were unlike any Lord Garnoc owned.

  Lynge struggled to shift the last chunk of rock out of the way, revealing its bloodied underside. He sat back on his haunches. “Radenou,” he said quietly. “From the size of the rock that hit him, he was probably dead before he hit the ground.”

  Corrender’s rooms were next. Connor knocked at the door, and when no answer came, he tried the knob. Locked. With a glance at Geddy, Connor backed up a step, and then the two of them threw their full weight against the door. It splintered near the bolt and gave way, sending them staggering into the room.

  Corrender’s rooms were a shambles. The bed curtains had fallen to the floor, which was littered with broken glass, bits of shattered porcelain, and everything that had fallen from the room’s shelves and desks during the quake.

  A body lay in front of the room’s large window. Connor was the first to reach Lord Corrender’s side, and he felt his heart sink as he turned the body over. Corrender was dead, his green eyes wide and staring.

  “I don’t understand. The king had a bit of magic. But Corrender didn’t. There’s not a mark on him. How can he be dead?” Geddy looked down at the dead man, puzzled.

  Lynge frowned, and knelt next to the body. Lynge glanced down at Corrender’s right hand, which was clenched around something. Carefully, he reached down and pried the dead man’s fingers loose from around a small, ornate blue glass bottle. Lynge lifted the vial to his nose and took a shallow breath.

  “Poison.”

  Connor shook his head. “Why would someone try to poison Corrender?”

  Lynge met his gaze. “No one did. No one, except Lord Corrender himself.”

  “Suicide?”

  Lynge shrugged. “Apparently so. The city is on fire. The castle was under siege. Corrender didn’t see what you saw from the tower. He had no way of knowing that the Meroven army wasn’t at the gates. Corrender was a great general in his day, but that was two decades ago. He once bested Edgar of Meroven’s father in battle, and the Merovenians bear a grudge forever. Corrender may have preferred to die by his own hand than to be drawn and quartered by an invading army.”

  “Do you think that’s what awaits us? Edgar’s armies marching across Donderath?” Connor was the one to ask the question, but a look at Geddy’s ashen face made him guess the other was thinking the same thing.

  Lynge drew a deep breath and was silent for a moment. “We have no way of knowing until someone brings word from the front—assuming there’s anyone left alive.” He turned to meet Connor’s gaze. Lynge’s eyes had a look of bitter resignation.

  “If I were a betting man, I’d guess that whatever the mages sent against us—and whatever our mages countered with—may have exceeded their expectations. Perhaps all our mages could do was hold the castle itself together. Now the mages are dead and the magic is gone. That might mean magic is gone for Meroven as well, and perhaps their mages are also dead. A final strike from each side, calculated to be utterly overwhelming. Edgar’s arrogance—and Merrill’s desperation—may have doomed both sides.”

  “You think that our mages sent something like this against Meroven?”

  Lynge looked away. “Such a move was discussed, theoretically, as an option if extreme measures were called for.” He paused. “And without magic the aftermath of war will be that much more difficult for those who survive.”

  Connor stood, forcing the fear he felt into determination. “We haven’t found Garnoc. If he’s still alive, maybe he’ll know what to do.”

  They headed back down the corridor. Connor felt dread like a lead weight in his chest. They reached Garnoc’s room and he hesitated, fearing the worst. He used his key to open the door and stepped inside.

  Garnoc’s rooms were in worse shape than most of the castle they had seen so far. Much of the ceiling had collapsed, shattering the wooden table where Garnoc liked to take his dinner.

  “M’lord! Lord Garnoc?” Connor heard the panic that tinged his own voice as he made his way farther into the room. Geddy and Lynge crowded behind him.

  “Connor? Is that you?” Garnoc’s voice was weak.

  Connor jumped over a pile of rubble in his hurry to reach Garnoc, with Geddy trailing behind him. “Sweet Charrot,” Connor murmured as he came around the side of the bed.

  Garnoc lay half-buried in debris where a portion of the ceiling near the window had collapsed. It was clear from the dust on the old man’s hands and his torn and bloodied fingernails that he had been digging at the debris. A large piece of stone pinned Garnoc’s abdomen to the floor. As Connor stepped closer, he could see that Garnoc’s legs were twisted at unnatural angles and lay unmoving.

  Connor fell to his knees beside his master. “M’lord,” he murmured. “You’re hurt.”

  Garnoc was pale, and his thin lips had a bluish cast. Lynge and Geddy kept a respectful distance. Connor took Garnoc’s hand. “I’m not hurt,” Garnoc said quietly. “I’m dying.” He winced and drew a labored breath, then looked up at Connor with a lucid gaze.

  “Did you get what you were looking for?” Garnoc’s voice was a whisper, too quiet for anyone but Connor to hear.

  “Yes, m’lord,” Connor replied. “It’s safe. But we need to free you.”

  Garnoc’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I’ll be free very soon, swept along in the Sea of Souls.” He gave Connor’s hand a squeeze. “You’ve done well, m’boy. I couldn’t have asked for a better steward.”

  “I failed you. If I’d have been here, I could have protected you.”

  Garnoc wheezed a harsh laugh. “You had something more important to do.” The laugh became a strained cough. When Garnoc caught his breath, he gestured toward what remained of the ruined bed with his left hand.

  “Bring Millicent to me.”

  Reluctantly, Connor let go of Garnoc’s hand and stood, searching amid the tangle of bedclothes and the fallen plaster for the small gold-edged frame. A glint among the rubble caught his eye, and he bent down, carefully retrieving the small portrait. The frame was scratched and dented, but the portrait itself had survived with little damage. He hurried back to Garnoc and handed him the picture.

  “Ah, Millicent. I’ll be with you soon.” Garnoc turned toward Connor and met his gaze urgently. “Now, m’boy, it’s time for you to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  Garnoc squeezed his hand. “I release you from your duties.”

  “I still won’t go. We leave together.”

  Garnoc shook his head. “I go to the Vale. You must escape.” He glanced toward where the pendant hung beneath Connor’s tunic. “What you have is too valuable to risk.”

  “Escape? Donderath is burning. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “Leave the Continent. Take a ship to the Far Shores. Penhallow will find you. Go to the end of the world if you have to. Just make sure you survive—and that you keep what you’ve found safe.”

  Garnoc’s speech had cost the old man precious energy. He lay back against the rubble, breathing shallowly, Millicent’s portrait clutched against his chest. “Go, Connor. That’s my last order, as your lord, and as your friend. Go, and leave me to my rest.”

  A spasm seized Garnoc, sending a tremor through his body. He drew a labored breath, and his eyes opened wide, then his body went slack and his eyes gently closed. Connor bowed his head, weeping.

  “Your lord gave you an order.” Lynge’s voice seemed distant as Connor struggled to pull himself together.

  “Ho
w can I—”

  “You can honor your lord’s last wish by doing as he directed.”

  Connor gathered his resolve as he took a deep breath and choked back his tears. “What of Donderath? What will happen now that Merrill is dead?”

  “The king sent his heir into hiding when the war began for just such a situation,” Lynge said quietly. “We will gather the surviving nobles, establish a regent, and go on.” He paused. “There is no further service you can provide here, Bevin. Do as Garnoc ordered. He had his reasons.”

  Connor looked at Geddy, who slowly shook his head. “I’ll stay with my master. We have work to do here. Your master’s given you an order. Your work here is done.”

  Grudgingly, Connor nodded. “There’s nothing for me here, without him. Perhaps the Far Shores will be a refuge.”

  Lynge nodded. “Go quickly if you mean to find a ship. The city is sure to be in a panic.”

  Connor stood and made a slight bow. “Thank you, Lynge—and Geddy—for everything.”

  Just then, they heard someone shouting Lynge’s name from the hallway. A moment later, a servant burst into the room. The man was soot-covered and his clothing was torn and stained. “My lord Lynge. A steady stream of messengers are arriving from the manor houses. The power that struck the castle attacked elsewhere first.” The messenger looked to be on the verge of panic. “My lord, many of the noble houses are destroyed. The heir to the throne is dead.”

  Lynge turned to Connor. “Go. Now. Hurry before you lose your chance.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CONNOR MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE RUBBLE to the door of Garnoc’s room and gave one backward glance, then pushed past the messenger. He paused only long enough to gather a few essentials from his belongings in the room adjacent to Garnoc’s. His quarters had sustained serious damage, and it was clear that had he not been on Garnoc’s errand, he would be dead.

  Connor stuffed some clothing and his bag of coins into a sack, leaving the precious map safe within his tunic and the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. Grabbing his cloak, he made his way through the rubble-strewn corridors.

  A river of people filled the streets. Beyond the protection of the castle mages’ wardings, the devastation was overwhelming. The air was filled with choking black smoke as flames danced high, consuming entire blocks. Some buildings were leveled, leaving nothing but chunks of stone and snapped timbers. Survivors dug among the wreckage, calling for missing loved ones, while others sat at the edge of the street and wailed in grief.

  Smoke stung his eyes and burned his lungs as he shouldered through the crowd. Most of the people were heading up the hill, away from the wharves. Connor was unsure whether that meant that they intended to flee inland, not knowing that those areas had been attacked first, or whether all the ships had sailed.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached a bend in the road and saw that the large transport ships were still in the harbor. Struggling against the press of the crowd, Connor made his way toward the waterfront, where he could see workmen loading kegs of beer and liquor onto one of the large ships. Just as he reached the wharf road, a hand came down hard on his shoulder. Expecting a cutpurse, Connor rounded, fist back to swing.

  “Easy there!” To Connor’s amazement, Engraham, the owner of the Rooster and Pig, was behind him. Like Connor, Engraham wore his cloak although the day was warm, and carried a small sack. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He glanced up the hill toward the castle. “Actually, I wasn’t sure anyone in the castle was still alive.”

  “Not many,” Connor replied. “Lord Garnoc is dead. There’s nothing here for me. I’m taking whatever ship has room for me to wherever they’re sailing.”

  Engraham slapped him on the back. “Then we’re heading in the same direction, mate. I have a longtime business relationship with the captain of the Prowess,” he said with a nod toward one of the convict ships. “Paid my fare and more with those kegs they’re loading. Let’s see what we can do about getting you on that ship.”

  Together, they muscled their way through the panicked mob. The wharves were filled with desperate city dwellers pushing toward the ships that were obviously readying for departure. Several burly sailors blocked the mob’s path, and it was clear that they were demanding payment from those whom they permitted to pass.

  Engraham stepped in front of Connor as they reached the sailors. “I see they have you greeting passengers, Klark,” he said to the broad-chested sailor who stepped out to block his path. The man registered a look of surprise and then grinned, displaying a smile that was missing half a dozen teeth.

  “Engraham. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a ship to take me somewhere else. Know a good one?”

  Klark laughed. “No, but there’s always the Prowess. You can count on Captain Olaf to have room for his favorite tavern master.” He paused, looking at Connor. “Say now, who’s this?”

  Engraham met Klark’s gaze. “Connor’s a friend, and he’s personally drunk enough of my bitterbeer to keep a roof over my head. He’s with me.” Engraham extended a hand toward Klark, and pinched between thumb and palm, Connor glimpsed a glint of gold.

  “Right,” Klark said with a glance toward Connor. “There’s room for one more. Best get onto the ship. It’ll be cheek to jowl.”

  “Where are we heading?” Engraham asked, clapping Klark on the shoulder in thanks.

  “Anywhere,” Klark replied. “Anywhere but here.”

  Under the watchful eye of Captain Olaf’s sailors, the passengers lucky enough to gain passage aboard the Prowess made an orderly boarding. Once on board, they were herded toward the hold. Connor had only a few moments to look around. The upper decks of the Prowess were scrubbed clean, though the ship itself appeared to have weathered a few storms, judging from the worn railings and decking. The crew paid little attention to the stream of passengers, and bent their backs to the tasks of readying the ship to depart.

  “Not exactly luxury accommodations,” Engraham observed, “but then again, the usual passengers are convicts.” He looked toward a tall uniformed man who stood talking with two men in regimental coats. “That’s the captain himself, over there.”

  Connor followed Engraham’s gaze. Captain Olaf was taller than average, broad-shouldered, with a muscular build that made Connor wonder if he had worked his way up from dockhand. His brown hair was gray along the temples, and his face was tanned with permanent creases around his eyes. For an instant, those sea-gray eyes met Connor’s, then moved away. He had obviously been of no interest to the captain, but in those few seconds, Connor thought he’d seen both intelligence and cunning in the man’s eyes, a good sign if they were to navigate to a safe harbor.

  Before he could get a second look, they were being hustled down a narrow set of steps into the crowded hold. Connor gagged at the stench, a mixture of sweat, urine, and old vomit. Though the floor was relatively free of debris, the smell was strong enough that Connor guessed it had worked its way into the wood.

  Engraham laughed. “This is one time someone could feel blessed to have no sense of smell. Olaf said that they wash out the hold after each voyage, and sometimes a storm does it for them during the trip. Still, hard to get rid of what hundreds of passengers leave behind, I imagine.”

  Connor had expected lodgings worthy only of cargo and he was not obliged to upgrade his opinion. A line of small portholes ran along one side of the hull, casting a dim light into the hold. Filthy woven hammocks swung from the support posts, far too few for the number of desperate souls who would crowd into the space. Still, Connor had expected worse. No leg irons were pinned to the walls, no empty manacles littered the floor.

  Engraham seemed to guess his thoughts. “Most of Donderath’s convicts aren’t violent,” he said. “Or at least, if they killed anyone, it was more likely to be a friend or relative who had it coming, rather than a random murder. The worst of the lot get hanged. Most of the folks who get sent to Velant aboard these ships are petty thieves,
strumpets, and debtors. Hardly a dangerous group.” His eyes were shadowed, and Connor wondered if Engraham was thinking about his mother’s long-ago exile.

  “Where do you figure they’ll take us?” Connor asked.

  Engraham shrugged. “Don’t know. First port that’ll let us dock, I figure. If it were up to me, I’d try the Lesser Kingdoms before I headed across the sea for the Far Shores.”

  They watched out the portholes as the hold grew more crowded behind them. As sailors wheeled the last carts of provisions aboard—including Engraham’s kegs—the mood of the crowd on the docks grew surly. The sailors, armed with crossbows, kept the mob at bay as provisions were loaded onto the ship.

  Once the mob realized that no more passengers were getting aboard, muttering turned to jeers and shouted obscenities. Bottles and rocks flew through the air, falling far short of the ship.

  “Looks like we were lucky to get aboard,” Connor observed.

  “That we were, although there are still a few other ships left in port.”

  “Think the mob will do anything to keep us from sailing?”

  Engraham shrugged. “This is a large ship. Once Olaf opens up the sails, there’s not much the folks on shore can do.”

  By now, the hold was crowded with people. They milled about the space, murmuring to each other in quiet tones, or praying for deliverance. Connor glanced behind him. Many appeared to have brought nothing with them, while others had a small knapsack or bundle. Most were men, with only a few couples and no children. From what Connor had seen of the refugees leaving the city, families had chosen to make their escape on foot.

  Shouts outside drew Connor back to the porthole. The mob on the dock had begun to riot, and men were leaping into the water to swim toward the ship, while others commandeered any raft or battered dinghy that had not already been stolen. As they rowed out from shore, they quickly realized why their boats had been left behind by those who had already fled. Within a few lengths from shore, the decrepit boats began taking on water, rapidly sinking and leaving their would-be masters swimming for shore.