Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Dorin snorted. “Assuming that Meroven is in any better shape than Donderath. For all we know, our mages gave them the same pounding we got. Odds are, no one from the Continent is going to think about Velant or Edgeland for a long, long time.”

  Connor remembered what Lynge had told him the night of the battle. “A friend of mine in the castle was pretty convinced that we hit them as hard as they hit us. It’s possible that the four major kingdoms are in ruins—and the Lesser Kingdoms aren’t in good shape, either.”

  “Which would make Edgeland not just a colony, but an independent land,” Engraham said quietly. “The question is—how happy will the prison’s commander be to see shiploads of people he doesn’t control?”

  Despite Dorin’s assurance that their journey was near its end, Connor slept poorly. Over a month at sea in the crowded, noisy hold had taken its toll. Fever and flux had killed a score of passengers, whose bodies had been consigned to the sea. As rations became sparse, seasickness was less of an issue. All but the fattest of those who had come aboard now looked as if they were scarecrows, with their clothing hanging off gaunt frames.

  Once they had broken away from the Vellanaj blockade, the Prowess settled into a schedule. The passengers had two opportunities a day to come on deck when the weather permitted. The farther north they sailed, the more turbulent the sea became. It had grown cold enough that even the crowded hold was uncomfortably chilly.

  Connor pulled his cloak around him and shivered. Engraham looked up from nursing a cup of watered grog. “Look at the bright side. At least the cold makes the stench bearable.”

  Connor grimaced. “After this, I’ll probably never be able to smell anything again.”

  “That might be a blessing,” Engraham agreed. “Then again, I imagine that the folks on the Vanguard would prefer the smell of their ship to being tossed into the ocean.”

  Connor shivered. Two weeks after leaving port, the four convict ships had been caught in a terrible storm. He’d heard curses and shouted orders from the captain to the sailors on deck, and below, in the hold, men prayed desperately for Yadin to save them. Those aboard the Vanguard had not won the favor of the gods. The ship had taken a wave badly and its main mast snapped. Another wave rolled the ship, and it sank before anyone from the other ships dared respond.

  “Or the ones aboard the King’s Revenge,” Connor replied. Late one night, the ships had sailed into a stretch of icebergs. The Prowess had slowed to a near stop and Connor had watched from the porthole as the sailors had used poles to push the smallest ice out of the way as the ship carefully maneuvered around the huge, sharp-edged chunks. The King’s Revenge had not been so lucky. It had been out in front, moving at a good speed, before the icebergs were sighted. Unable to stop, it had plowed into an iceberg. Jagged edges hidden by the rough seas had torn through the ship’s hull. The remaining two ships had taken on the refugees and crew who could be pulled from the water, as well as any stray barrels of provisions, but the ship sank before a boarding party could retrieve its supplies.

  Engraham was quiet for a few moments. “I hate to say it, but we might do better in Edgeland with fewer new arrivals,” he said quietly. “After all, they’ve got no reason to welcome us. Times are hard through the winter. Why should they welcome more mouths to feed?”

  “It’s also more hands to fish and work the land,” Connor replied.

  A piercing cry made Connor jump. Everyone in the hold turned to the center of the room, where Benna, the seer, sat bolt upright from where she had been sleeping, with a look of terror on her face.

  “The ship will sink. I saw it in my dreams. We’re going to die. Cold, the water is so cold,” she said, shuddering and wrapping her thin arms around herself, rubbing her skin to warm it.

  “Ignore her,” one of the men nearby said with a dismissive gesture. “She was never right. She told me my wife would come back to me, and instead she drowned.”

  His companion elbowed him. “And if you drown, too, perhaps she’ll come back to you in the Sea of Souls.”

  A look of horror crossed the first man’s face, and he moved farther away from Benna. “Crazy old woman,” he said.

  “How can she tell us anything since the magic’s gone?” Another man gave Benna a shove. It sent the thin woman sprawling, but she collected herself with quiet dignity.

  “Dreams speak, magic or not,” Benna replied, though the men had turned away from her. “I saw this ship break into pieces and sink beneath the waves. I saw bodies on the water, many bodies. They floated to the feet of the exiled man, and he gathered them in.”

  Connor flinched, remembering Alsibeth’s prediction. The exiled man will return. He forced himself to look away. Not like there’s a shortage of exiled men, he thought, with all the ships Merrill sent to Velant. None of the men he exiled returned, I wager, or are likely to do so now.

  Her prediction made, Benna seemed to shut out the throng around her and began to lay out her cards again. Whatever caused her dreams, she appeared in no hurry to try to sleep again.

  Connor felt equally restless, though he could claim none of Benna’s dubious clairvoyance. The refugees filled the hold, packed tightly enough that it was impossible to avoid being jostled. Nor were the odds favorable that any but the shortest passengers would be able to stretch out full length for long without being tripped over or cursed for taking up more than their share of space. Connor, Dorin, and Engraham had laid claim to enough deck among the three of them that one at a time could sleep fairly comfortably while the other two kept watch. Dorin, for his part, had proven to be pleasant company, ready with a joke. Between him and Engraham, there appeared to be no end of anecdotes and tall tales, and their banter helped to pass the long hours.

  Dorin stood and walked over to the nearest porthole. Even from where Connor sat, he could guess that it was a gray day. Dorin squinted, standing on tiptoe to see out. He looked thoughtful when he returned.

  “Well?” Connor asked. “Any idea of how soon we’ll get to Edgeland?”

  Dorin shrugged. “Hard to tell without the stars. I wager we’re close—no more than a day, if that. But I don’t like the look of the clouds. I’d say we’re in for a storm tonight. It’s a bad time for it.”

  Engraham leaned in. “Why? We’ve had our share of storms since we got on this tub.”

  Dorin’s mouth was a thin line, his lips pressed tightly together. “It’s being so close to Edgeland that makes it dangerous. There are shoals off the coast. In a storm, it’ll be hard to steer a ship like this through the channels, or see the shoals. They shift about with the tides.”

  “Captain Olaf’s been making the Velant run for years. I’m sure he’s seen his share of bad weather before,” Engraham said reassuringly. “Why would it be any different now?”

  Dorin looked up to meet his gaze. “Because there’s no magic.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Connor asked, frowning.

  Dorin looked at Connor as if he were a dim child. “Sailors use magic every bit as much as those of us on land. Maybe more so. Olaf and his sailors depend on it. Wouldn’t doubt that there were protection spells on the ship itself before the magic died, to keep away the sea worms and the barnacles and keep the seams tight.”

  “It’s possible to navigate without magic,” Connor argued.

  Dorin nodded. “Aye, that it is. But few men who make the sea their livelihood do so without magic of their own or mages aboard. They might know how to do all those same tasks without magic—or maybe it’s been so long since they’ve needed it, they’ve forgotten.”

  “Do you think Olaf can handle it?” Engraham asked.

  Dorin shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. But I’d wager that the shoals won’t be where they were the last time he came to Velant.”

  “Why not?” Connor couldn’t help being drawn into the conversation.

  “The commander at the Velant prison would have had his own mages,” Dorin replied. “A good mage can set a binding on shoa
ls and dunes and other things that move with the winds and waves, to keep them in their place. Just like I warrant that the mages had a protection spell on their harbor’s seawall to keep high tides contained. Without magic—”

  “We’re left with dead reckoning and sheer luck,” Engraham finished.

  “Aye, that’s the gist of it,” Dorin replied. The man’s face twitched, and he looked away, reflexively putting an arm across his abdomen.

  “What’s the matter?” Connor started toward Dorin, but Dorin shook his head.

  “Nothing,” Dorin replied. His grimace told Connor that Dorin was lying.

  “Are you sick?” Engraham moved to help Dorin, but Dorin waved him away.

  “Nothing that can be helped,” he said, and his features tightened in pain. “I suspect that the food was spoiled enough that it didn’t agree with me. I’ll be fine.”

  Everything about Dorin’s voice and manner made Connor doubt that, but he held his peace.

  “I’ll be fine,” Dorin repeated. “Just need to rest.” Gingerly, Dorin eased himself down onto the rough planking of the hold’s deck, pulling his cloak around him. Connor and Engraham exchanged skeptical looks, but said nothing.

  The hold was lit by several lanterns that hung from hooks set into the heavy crossbeams overhead. Days had grown shorter the farther north they traveled, something Engraham called the “long dark.” Now that Connor thought about it, the lanterns had stayed lit all day. As if the cold and darkness triggered an urge to hibernate, the passengers in the hold had grown quieter these last few days, huddling in their cloaks and talking in hushed voices. Even the games of chance drew no loud outbursts, though at the beginning of their trip, dice and cards had sparked many a tussle. Perhaps the refugees had already lost everything of value worth fighting over, but Connor thought it more likely that, consciously or not, they felt the darkness and cold closing in around them.

  Engraham withdrew a well-worn pack of cards from a pouch at his belt. Without asking, he dealt a hand for himself and Connor. Connor sighed and picked up the cards, sparing a glance in Dorin’s direction. To Connor’s eye, Dorin looked unusually pale. Now that he watched carefully, he could see that Dorin’s breath seemed shallow. Dorin groaned and drew his knees up, then relaxed in his sleep.

  “Wind’s picking up. Hear it?” Engraham drew a card from his hand and laid it down.

  Connor paused, listening. Outside, he could hear the wind howling past the ship. Before long, the sound of rain lashing the hull and waves slapping against the ship drowned out the wind. The Prowess was a large, stable ship, but it didn’t take long for it to seem as if it were merely a cork on the choppy sea.

  Connor tried to focus on the card game. Engraham’s expression gave no hint to his mood, but Connor noticed that the other gripped his cards more tightly than necessary. Around them, hushed voices prayed to Yadin for deliverance, or chanted prayers to their household gods to watch over them.

  Dorin moaned in his sleep. Connor glanced at him with concern, and saw that Dorin’s face now looked flushed with fever.

  “Do you think he’s all right?” Connor asked.

  Engraham shrugged. “Let’s hope we make landfall soon. There’s got to be a healer in Skalgerston Bay.”

  By the time Connor and Engraham had played another hand of cards, it was impossible to ignore the sound of the storm outside. Refugees crowded to the portholes, but saw only blackness and drops of rain sliding down the glass.

  Dorin had pulled himself into the fetal position and lay moaning in pain. Connor laid aside his cards and knelt beside him. “Gods, his skin is hot.”

  Engraham took a rag and held it under a stream of water that dripped down from the grate to the deck above until the cloth was soaked. He wrung out the cloth and brought it over, bending down to put it across Dorin’s forehead. “It’s seawater, cold as ice.”

  Dorin opened his eyes. “Whiskey,” he murmured.

  “What hurts? How bad is the pain?” Connor asked. He looked around, but no one looked likely to come forward as a healer. Once or twice, he had helped a healer nurse Lord Garnoc back from stomach ailments, but Dorin’s problems appeared to be much more severe than anything Garnoc had suffered.

  “It’s in my belly,” Dorin said, panting with the pain. “Been aching for several days now. Thought I needed to take a good shit. But it’s something else. Something’s wrong.”

  Connor reached out tentatively to poke Dorin gently in the abdomen. It was a gentle press, barely depressing the skin, but Dorin stiffened and cried out. “Can’t stand no pressure there. Had to take off my belt because it pressed too hard. Oh gods, I think I’m dying.”

  From the look on Engraham’s face, it was clear that he thought Dorin’s prediction might be true. Engraham reached into a pouch inside his shirt and withdrew a small bottle. He took out the stopper. “Open your mouth,” he said to Dorin. Dorin complied, and Engraham jostled a few drops of a dark liquid onto Dorin’s tongue.

  “What is that—poison? Oh gods, you’re trying to kill me.”

  “It’s laudanum, you fool,” Engraham said quietly. “Bitter as Raka, but it should do something for the pain. I don’t have much, but it doesn’t take a lot.”

  Within minutes, Dorin’s features had relaxed, and his body was no longer rigid with pain. When it appeared that he had fallen asleep, Engraham motioned for Connor to move a few paces away to talk. With the pitching sea and the crowded hold, that was a challenge. “What do you think is wrong?” Connor asked.

  “I’m no healer, but I’ve seen my share of bar fights,” Engraham replied. “He acts like someone who’s been punched hard in the gut, hard enough to break something inside. When that happens, it goes bad quickly, and it’s an awful way to die. They take fever, and then the sickness goes to the blood. The chirurgeons can’t do much unless there’s a full healer available.”

  “He hasn’t been in a bar fight,” Connor argued.

  Engraham shrugged. “I’ve heard tell that something can break inside without being hit. Different cause, but same outcome.”

  “So he’s going to die?”

  “Unless we get to Edgeland soon and their healers still have magic, it’s likely.” Engraham grimaced. “Then again, with this storm, our odds might not be much better.”

  He nodded toward the rivulets of water that were pouring down through the grating from the upper deck. “Remember what we talked about, the way ships used magic? I’ve been keeping an eye out, especially when we’re allowed on deck. The Prowess is an older ship. It’s seen a lot of wear. Transporting convicts made a captain and crew decent money, but not like ships that transported goods from the Far Shores.”

  “Not as long a voyage, either,” Connor noted.

  “Agreed—and a cargo of prisoners doesn’t draw pirates like a hold full of spices or gold might. But the point is, Captain Olaf didn’t have a lot of money to spend on the ship. Wouldn’t be surprised if he cut a few corners, now and again, with something mages could patch. But with the magic gone—”

  “So are the patches.”

  Engraham nodded. “We’ve weathered several storms, and each one put strain on the ship. Be ready, because if the ship runs into trouble, we might have to get out quickly.”

  And go where? Connor thought. The idea of setting out the ship’s dinghy at night with no hope of dawn did not appeal to him. As if he could read Connor’s mind, Engraham gave a mirthless smile. “Don’t worry, in water this cold we’ll barely have time to worry about it. There are worse ways to go. At least we didn’t burn.”

  “What about Dorin?”

  Engraham looked back to where Dorin slept restlessly. “Pray to Charrot that we don’t have to worry about it.”

  They took their seats beside Dorin. Connor listened to the wooden timbers creak as the Prowess lumbered through the storm. Above them, through the grating, they heard the angry shouts of the sailors on deck and heard running footsteps as men hurried to follow orders. Below them, Connor swore he co
uld hear the ballast shift when the ship moved sharply.

  A sound like thunder and a man’s scream on the other side of the bulkhead brought Connor and Engraham to their feet. “What in the name of Torven was that?”

  From the other compartment, they heard shouts and then a dull rumble that made the deck vibrate beneath their boots. “I’m pretty sure the hold next to us is for cargo,” Engraham replied. “We’ve eaten through the food and drunk the grog, but I don’t know what other cargo our good captain was carrying when we set sail. By the sound of it, the cargo shifted and some poor sap got hit by whatever moved.”

  They sat back down. Connor cast a nervous glance toward Dorin. The laudanum had done its work. Dorin’s face was no longer creased with pain, though his breath was shallow and his fever had not broken. He’s probably not even conscious, Connor thought. The rest of us are dying a thousand times over, waiting for something to happen. If it does, Dorin won’t even know. For him, it might be a mercy.

  Connor had faced what seemed like certain death in the bell tower the night Donderath fell. He and Geddy had gotten out unhurt except for a few bruises and scrapes. He had escaped the firestorm in Castle Reach without singeing a hair. Perhaps I tempted the gods by getting aboard a ship. Or maybe it’s Yadin that doesn’t care for me. Did I show poor faith in Esthrane and her land gods by taking to the sea? Sweet Vessa—if I’ve given offense, I promise to make it right. I don’t want to drown.

  At the memory of Vessa’s name, Connor remembered the mural in King Merrill’s library. Stealing the map seemed like a lifetime ago. Throughout everything, the map remained sealed in its wooden box under his shirt, along with the obsidian pendant. Neither item had stirred since that first night. Restless, Connor tried to remember all the names of his household gods, the deities of garden and hearth, of wells and trees to whom his mother had regularly made offerings and given thanks, but their memory eluded him.

  Did the gods perish with the magic? And if they didn’t, without magic are they still gods? Connor had a moment of fear that perhaps the gods would hear his musings and strike him down, and an equal fear that perhaps there was no one left to hear his prayers and perhaps never had been. Is it worse to be abandoned by the gods, or to think that there never were gods to begin with? He listened to the prayers and chants of his fellow passengers with a stab of jealousy.