Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Blaine could feel blood streaming down the side of his face. Whatever had hit him had been hard enough to nearly knock him out, and the best he could do was to raise an arm to fend off his attacker. The knife bit down, cutting deep into his left forearm, as the black-robed man came at him. Before Blaine could reach his sword, the robed man struck again, swinging the blade toward Blaine’s chest.

  Blaine kicked his attacker in the thigh and rolled. His head swam as he struggled to his feet, and his vision blurred, threatening to black him out. He managed to draw his sword, and the attacker’s knife clanged against it as Blaine blocked his swing.

  The robed man moved with the sure-footed confidence of a trained fighter, and his single-minded focus left no doubt that he intended to finish Blaine. From the folds of the man’s robe, a second knife appeared, and the man came at him again, striking with both blades.

  Blaine staggered backward, still struggling to keep his footing as his head pounded. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, and blocked one blade with his sword. The other blade scored a gash on his left shoulder.

  Forcing himself to stay on his feet, Blaine landed several pounding strikes with his sword, but he knew the blow to his head had badly compromised his ability to fight. His attacker danced out of range of his blade, waiting for him to tire, counting on the head wound to force Blaine into a fatal error.

  It was hard to think with the pounding in his head, and his vision now showed him a double figure, making it damnably difficult to anticipate the man’s next move. Piran and the Guards were long out of sight, leaving Blaine on his own. He was bleeding freely, his blood marking the snow with crimson drops, and his attacker waited with a hunter’s instinct for his quarry to make the wrong move.

  The robed man sprang forward, coupling speed with momentum sufficient to knock Blaine off his feet. Blaine struck at him with his sword, but the man had gotten close enough for the tip of his blade to graze Blaine’s chest.

  The attacker drew back his arm, preparing to slash the blade across Blaine’s throat, when there was a blur of motion, and the robed man was yanked free with such violence that Blaine heard bones snap and a strangled yelp that was suddenly silenced. Blaine blinked, trying to clear his vision to make out the bulky shape in the shadows.

  Grimur stood a few paces away, holding the limp form of a man by the throat. The angle of the man’s head made it plain that his spine had been broken. Blaine got to his feet, not quite sure whether he had been rescued or had just changed foes.

  Before Blaine could speak, Grimur dropped the body to the ground, sank to his haunches, and grabbed one of the corpse’s arms, ripping back the clothing as if it were paper. Grimur sank his fangs into the man’s wrist, tearing into the dead flesh, and drinking deeply of the fresh blood. Blaine swayed on his feet, his sword clutched two-handed in front of him, knowing that if Grimur chose to attack him, he stood no chance at all of defending himself.

  Finally, Grimur dropped the dead man’s arm. His lips were bright crimson, a stark contrast to skin as pale as the snow. Grimur seemed to be deep in thought, and Blaine wondered if he had totally forgotten his presence. After a moment, Grimur stood and regarded Blaine with a trace of amusement.

  “Put the sword down, lad,” Grimur said. “I’ve no want for your blood, and if I did, that pig-sticker wouldn’t stop me.” Shaking with the effort to remain on his feet, Blaine lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it.

  “Thanks,” Blaine said, his teeth chattering with cold. “But now we have no idea why he was after me.”

  Grimur chuckled. “Not entirely true. It’s possible to read much from the blood, especially from a fresh kill.” He licked his lips, and the crimson stain vanished.

  “Where in the gods’ name have you been?” Piran said as he came running around the corner, only to skid to a stop. His gaze flickered between Blaine, still standing with his sword drawn, Grimur, and the corpse of the black-robed man.

  “You have nothing to fear… now,” Grimur said. “But we’d best get Mick inside before he falls down. He’s lost a lot of blood,” he said. His tone was solicitous, but there was just a hint of a pause, enough for Blaine to imagine a lingering hunger.

  Blaine sheathed his sword, and swayed enough that he stumbled, nearly falling. Piran got under his good arm. Together, they made their way to the back door of the Crooked House, but by that time, Blaine was weaving in and out of consciousness and Piran was nearly dragging him as dead weight.

  Blaine heard Ifrem’s voice, though it seemed to come from a distance. Piran was talking loud and fast. Blaine slumped to the floor. An instant later, strong hands lifted him like a child, and Blaine stopped fighting the merciful tide of darkness.

  “He’s comin’ ’round,” Piran said. Blaine groaned. The pounding in his head had lessened but not vanished altogether, and it seemed every beat of his heart echoed in his throbbing skull. His body ached and his left arm was immobilized. Just trying to move his arm caused pain, both in the shoulder and in the arm itself.

  “Easy there,” Piran said. “We only just got you to stop bleeding. The healer was rather cross; I don’t fancy having to tell her you started it back up again.”

  Blaine managed to open his eyes. He was in a room at the Crooked House. Ifrem stood against one wall, and Grimur sat in a chair in the corner. Piran brought Blaine a tin cup and helped him sit enough to take a sip of whiskey.

  “Do you remember what happened?” Piran asked.

  Blaine sank back against the mattress and closed his eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was raw, not entirely from the whiskey. “I got clipped in the head by something, a rock, maybe. When I fell, a man in a black robe attacked me. Never said a word, but he meant to kill me. Would have, too, if Grimur hadn’t gotten him first.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Grimur spoke. “I stopped by the homestead to work with Kestel on the maps. She was worried about you, and I said I’d come find you in town. Just as I located you, I found you at, shall we say, a disadvantage. I was happy to even the odds.”

  Blaine was unable to repress a shudder at the memory of the sound of snapping bone and the wheezing last breath of the robed attacker. “Thank you,” he managed.

  “As it happened, I was able to get a bit of information from the man before his blood cooled,” Grimur went on. “He was a paid assassin, sent from Donderath. Prokief made some use of him, but he’d been put in place here for one purpose: to kill you.”

  At that, Blaine made the effort to open his eyes again. “Why?” he rasped. Piran held the cup for him, and Blaine took another sip of the whiskey, wishing it would hurry and ease the throbbing in his head.

  Grimur shrugged. “The man didn’t know and didn’t care. He wasn’t a stranger to this kind of work. But he did wonder why anyone would pay gold to kill a convict, and why it was important enough to send him to the end of the world to do it.”

  Blaine drew a sharp breath. “Who sent him?”

  “Vedran Pollard.”

  “Blimey.” Piran’s voice showed his surprise. “Is that what it’s like, bein’ a lord? You all spend your time trying to kill each other?”

  “That’s my experience, anyhow,” Blaine muttered.

  Grimur chuckled. Blaine struggled to sit up, and Piran propped him up with pillows. His left arm and shoulder were tightly bound with bandages, and his arm was in a sling. Ifrem offered him a linen sack with ice in it, which did little to help his aching head.

  “Pollard again,” Ifrem said. “What’s Pollard got against you to be worth sending someone all the way up here?”

  Blaine knew Ifrem was thinking about the papers they had found in Prokief’s chest. He tried to shrug, and thought better of it as pain lanced through his shoulder. Piran was ready with the whiskey, and this time, Blaine tossed it back.

  “I wish I knew. There’s no way Pollard could have known about the Nomad, and without it, no way for me to ever come home.”

  “Might he be after your lands?” Gri
mur asked. “No matter what excuse nobles give, in my experience, when there’s a fight, it’s usually over land.”

  Blaine grimaced. “The exile took my title, so technically, I’m no longer lord of Glenreith.” Another possibility sent a chill down his spine. In time, the title would have passed to Carr. Unless something’s already happened to him—

  “Kings and decrees can’t change blood,” Grimur said quietly. “You remain a descendant of the original thirteen. You’re still a Lord of the Blood.”

  “And Pollard isn’t, on account of how he’s a bastard,” Piran mused. “So why would he care?”

  Grimur stirred from his seat. “Pollard himself might not. But others may. My fellow mages would have been quite interested in you, had they realized that magic was about to be snuffed out.”

  “Yeah, but Pollard isn’t a mage,” Piran countered. “Is he?”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard,” Blaine replied.

  “Mages themselves rarely have the gold to send assassins to the edge of the world,” Grimur answered. “Talishte do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BEING AT SEA ISN’T SO BAD—WITHOUT THE CHAINS or the herring,” Piran observed. He stood next to Blaine on the deck of the Nomad. Blaine let the wind blow back through his dark-chestnut hair, and brushed a stray strand out of his eyes, which were almost the color of the sea. He smiled.

  “Not so bad,” Blaine repeated. “Gods! When you can walk on deck a free man and you’re not dripping with herring blood, the sea is actually… beautiful.” He tore his gaze away from the ocean and slid a glance toward Piran. “I still can’t believe the lot of you volunteered to come with me.”

  “And miss our chance to be back at court for the winter ball?” Kestel quipped. Kestel’s voice carried above the wind. Blaine turned to see her behind him. The wind whipped her red hair into a cloud around her face, and her green eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “You masterminded the whole thing, didn’t you?”

  Kestel smiled. “It didn’t hurt that Engraham jumped at the chance to get the homestead now that he’s got his mother to take care of. They’ll take good care of it, keep the animals healthy, mind the gardens.”

  “And if we don’t come back in three years, it’s theirs to keep,” Blaine finished for her. “Honestly, Kestel, you drive a better deal than Mama Jean.”

  Kestel made a show of preening at the compliment. “Just another among my many talents,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  Blaine was quiet for a moment, his gaze drawn back to the sea. Over four hundred men and women had volunteered to return to Donderath, enough to ease the burden on the colony’s food supply. Few of the longtime colonists had chosen to go back. Most of the volunteers came from the newest convicts. Perhaps they still had hope that the people they left behind had not forgotten them, or maybe memories of Donderath were fresher in their minds. Those who had finally carved out a place for themselves on Edgeland’s ice had chosen to stay behind. Blaine would have been content to stay with them.

  Even the salt spray in the wind seemed different away from Edgeland. For one thing, it was no longer freezing cold. Could the air of freedom really be so different? he wondered. They would be back in Castle Reach very soon. In the pit of his stomach, Blaine felt a knot that mere seasickness could not explain away. Dread. Anticipation. Grief. Curiosity. The knot of emotions sat like lead in his gut.

  Kestel laid a hand on his arm. “You’ve grown quieter the longer we’re gone from Edgeland, Mick,” she said.

  “Still trying to figure out how I feel about coming back,” he said, his voice roughened by the wind and perhaps by something else. “I truly don’t know whether I would have done it if Grimur hadn’t forced my hand.”

  “I’d have liked it better if he had come with us,” Piran grumbled. “Convenient of him to stay behind.”

  “It would have been difficult for him to travel safely,” Blaine replied, shaking his head. “And perhaps, since he was as much an exile as we were, he didn’t relish running into old mages or other vampires. But I agree; it would be nice to have a true mage among us.”

  “It’s worth the whole voyage just to have day and night again,” Kestel said, pulling her shawl closer against the wind. “By Yadin’s chalice! I had almost forgotten that the normal world has sunrise and sunset every day. I think I’ll make it a point to watch both, every day, until I’m an old lady. I don’t think I’ll ever take them for granted again.”

  Blaine chuckled. “Where are Dawe and Verran? Don’t tell me Verran’s playing for coins again?”

  Kestel shrugged. “Probably. He and Dawe were scheming on how to provision our expedition and just where in Castle Reach to loot first.”

  Blaine looked at her, slightly aghast. “Loot?”

  Again, a shrug. “If Connor’s account of the Great Fire is true, the castle and the city are a ruin. By this time, I imagine anything of value’s already been stolen,” Kestel replied.

  “Maybe Dawe didn’t tell you,” Piran said, “but he’s been scribbling again. Tinkering with things, making plans for some of his new machines. He started as soon as we began talking about coming back. Whenever the ship’s been steady enough to let him draw, he’s been working out dimensions for a new-fangled crossbow contraption. Thinks we’ll need it if Donderath’s gone back to brigands and warlords.”

  “Brigands and warlords,” Blaine repeated, feeling sick. “That bad?”

  “Connor seems to think it was a possibility,” Kestel said. “Even so, he thinks we should check out what’s left of Quillarth Castle, in case any of his contacts can help us out.”

  “How about any of your contacts?” Blaine asked, meeting Kestel’s eyes.

  She gave an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps.” Kestel squinted, looking toward the horizon. “How is it that it only took us forty days to go from Donderath to Velant, but now that we’re going back, it’s been fifty days and we aren’t in port yet?”

  Piran did not take his gaze off the horizon. “The winds. The current. And we lost several days going around what might have been a magic storm.”

  Blaine shrugged. “Let’s hope our captain and the navigator remember the way home.”

  “Land, ho!” A voice from the rigging above them rang out. Sailors and passengers alike ran to the railings for a look. Blaine strained to make out the thin fringe of land barely visible on the hazy horizon.

  The deck behind them grew more crowded as the ship sailed onward. Gradually, the mirage-like distant blue at the edge of sight grew more identifiable as they neared. Kestel clung to Blaine’s arm in excitement, unconcerned as the stiff wind tangled her red curls.

  “Can you really see Donderath?” Dawe had edged up behind them. He peered over Blaine’s head toward where the sky met the water, searching for the glimpse of land.

  “You’ll have to tell me about it,” Verran grumbled. “I can’t see over everyone else.”

  “Not much to look at yet,” Dawe replied. “How long do you reckon it’ll take us to put into port?”

  “Several candlemarks, I’d imagine,” Blaine said. “I’m guessing the closer we get, the slower the captain’ll have to go, in case there are wrecks just below the surface. I’d hate to come this far and founder.”

  Blaine looked around at the excited passengers who crowded to the rails, hoping for their first sight of the home that had once exiled them. We’ve had the benefit of hearing Connor’s stories in detail, he thought. How much do the rest of these people understand that Donderath isn’t the kingdom they left behind? Blaine looked at the faces flushed with the anticipation of a homecoming most had never believed possible. It wasn’t hard to guess their thoughts. Reunions with loved ones. Pleasures long denied in Edgeland’s relative deprivation. A homecoming to places and people sorely missed. For some, perhaps, even vengeance.

  What happens when they realize the extent of the damage? That there is no home for them to go back to? Blaine winced at his own thoughts. Throughout his exile, Blain
e had kept a mental image of Glenreith as home. As much as he had hated his father, he had loved the manor and his siblings, his aunt Judith, and the retainers who were, in their own way, a part of the family. He’d nurtured an idea of what Glenreith would be like without his father’s dark moods and cruel humors.

  Grimur believes that I’m the last Lord of the Blood. What if I’m also the last of my family?

  Connor sprawled in his hammock down in the hold. He did not join the rush to the stairs or to the porthole to see out. He knew what the shores of home would look like. The image of Donderath’s burning coastline was seared forever in his memory. Bad as it had been when the castle and the port city were engulfed by flames, Connor guessed that what remained would be even worse. Gutted, blackened shells of buildings, looted by desperate survivors. A shadow of a once-thriving kingdom, now feral and lawless. He had seen Dawe’s drawings of a small, compact crossbow, even handled the prototype Dawe had secreted on board. He feared that they would need Dawe’s contraptions, and perhaps even more fearsome weapons, before they could reclaim Donderath as home.

  Though he had done his best to prepare his new friends for the harsh reality, Connor doubted they could imagine the scope of the destruction he had witnessed. The thriving, sophisticated kingdom that had banished his fellow passengers was gone. In its place would be a different, desperate place. Connor had stopped praying to the gods the night of the Great Fire. Certainly on that night, the gods had stopped listening to prayers. He could only hope that courage and stubbornness would suffice.

  “Ain’t you anxious to see home again, son?” A voice broke into Connor’s dreary thoughts. Connor looked up to see a wiry man who he guessed might be his father’s age. The man looked as if he were no stranger to hard work, with gnarled hands and sinewy arms.

  “I saw it burn,” Connor replied. “I know what it looks like.”

  The man squinted at him. “You’re one of the men they fished out of the sea, ain’t ya?”