Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Give him a break, Dawe,” Blaine said. “For now, I’m willing to take him at his word.”

  Connor visibly relaxed. “I don’t believe Lord Penhallow means you harm,” Connor said with a glance toward the door. “He may be able to help us. Even if he offers us no other boon, his protection is quite valuable.”

  “Or at least it was,” Blaine replied, beginning to pace. “If he’s so powerful, why hide down here? Why flee on the eve of battle? We don’t know the landscape anymore. Obviously, Donderath has changed.”

  They fell silent for a few moments, and then Dawe turned to Verran. “The tools worked, huh?” Dawe asked.

  “You made him a set of thieves’ tools?” Kestel asked incredulously.

  Dawe shrugged. “Figured we’d have to forage once we got here. When Verran showed me what he had, I saw how to make him a better set. Just planning ahead, that’s all.”

  “Don’t let him kid you,” Verran said. “Dawe built me the best set of tools I’ve ever seen. He’s got real potential as a thief, I’m telling you.”

  Connor sat on the edge of the group. After a while, Kestel walked over and sat down beside him. “You don’t have to keep your distance,” she said.

  Connor shrugged. “They don’t trust me.”

  Kestel looked at Blaine and the others and turned back to Connor. “Don’t take it too hard. Blaine doesn’t like surprises. That barghest was a damnable surprise. And I think we’re all pretty shaken up over what happened to Piran.”

  “I didn’t intend to betray anyone,” Connor said, an edge of controlled anger beneath his voice.

  Kestel regarded him for a moment. “No, I don’t believe you did intend to, and I’m not convinced that leading us to Penhallow is a betrayal. If he’s as powerful as you say, we may need his help, or at least his patronage. What’s in it for him?”

  Connor was thoughtful for a moment. “While I respect Lord Penhallow’s power, I’ve never had cause to fear him. I can’t say the same of many mortals at court, men who were completely without scruples. Penhallow’s existed a long time, and he says he’s seen magic collapse before. He warned me, and got his people to safety. He didn’t seem to anticipate any gain from the upset. If anything, knowing what was likely to happen seemed to make him melancholy.”

  “Very human of him,” Kestel remarked.

  Connor shrugged. “He and Grimur and the other vampires I’ve met seem more like us than not, despite their age. Perhaps even death can’t change some things.”

  “You might be surprised.” The voice came from the doorway. Blaine and the others rose to their feet defensively as the door swung open to admit the speaker. Lanyon Penhallow was a tall man. Long brown hair fell loose to his shoulders. His face was angular, neither handsome nor unpleasant, yet striking for its confidence. He moved into the room gracefully, with an air of bridled power, reminding Blaine of a racehorse, or perhaps, more correctly, one of the large mountain cats in the forest. Everything about the man spoke of wealth, from the fine brocade of his trews to the cut of his waistcoat. Blaine met his gaze and repressed a shiver. The power that was only hinted at in Penhallow’s manner was utterly clear in his eyes.

  “Connor,” Penhallow said with a hint of a smile. “I am truly relieved to see you looking well.”

  Connor gave a slight bow. “Thank you, m’lord. It’s been an interesting journey.”

  “Indeed.” Penhallow turned his attention to Blaine. “Lord McFadden,” he said, though to the best of Blaine’s memory, he and Penhallow had never met.

  “I go by Mick these days,” Blaine replied.

  Penhallow’s thin lips twitched in amusement. “Reinventing yourself for Velant? I know something of adapting to suit the circumstances. Why have you come home?”

  Blaine did not look away. “Can’t you read my mind?”

  Penhallow’s laugh was deep and rich. “You are not afraid of much, are you, Blaine McFadden?”

  “Exile tends to reduce what you fear.”

  Penhallow’s expression sobered. “It does indeed.” He turned away, and his glance fell in turn on each of Blaine’s companions. “Geir said Connor had brought friends.” He smiled when he saw Kestel, who nodded her head in recognition.

  “Mistress Kestel I have met before,” Penhallow said. “Perhaps introductions for the rest of you are in order.” Penhallow moved slowly around the room, listening intently as each of the group made an introduction. Finally, Penhallow stopped beside Piran’s couch, and looked down at his sleeping form.

  “That’s Piran,” Connor said. “The barghest caught him by surprise. Your healer and Geir seemed to think he would be all right.”

  Penhallow frowned as if deep in thought, and then spoke. “Yes, I believe he will be. His life force is growing stronger. Fortunate that Geir caught up with you.”

  “I had a feeling that bit of luck was arranged,” Blaine said neutrally.

  Penhallow gave an offhanded shrug. “If you’re implying that I set the barghest on you to force your audience with me, the answer is, no. Did I have the sense from the kruvgaldur that Connor was in danger? Yes. I had hoped that Geir would intercept you without incident.”

  “What do you want from us?” Blaine lifted his head challengingly.

  “I would like to see you succeed,” Penhallow replied, with a gesture that bade them sit.

  Blaine shot a glance toward Connor. “What do you know about our plans?”

  Penhallow’s expression was unreadable. “As I have not had a chance for Connor to brief me, I know very little. But I have gleaned insights through my bond with him, whispers at the edge of wakefulness. You would like to see magic return as it had been. No doubt, Valtyr’s maps play a role in your plan. I sent Connor to save the last map the night Donderath fell.” He paused. “I suspect that you have learned something important to your quest. Otherwise, I don’t think you would have returned, am I correct?” Penhallow asked.

  Grudgingly, Blaine nodded. “You’re correct.”

  “Perhaps I can be of greater help if I am fully apprised.” Penhallow looked to Connor. “I need your memories.”

  Connor began to roll up the sleeve to his shirt. His face was blank as he offered his forearm to Penhallow, positioning it so that the vulnerable inside elbow with its throbbing vein was easily accessible.

  Kestel gasped as Penhallow took Connor’s arm and pressed it against his mouth. Connor stiffened but did not cry out, his eyes focused on the distance as if he were not truly present. After a moment, Penhallow raised his head. Blaine had expected to see blood on the vampire’s mouth, but Penhallow’s lips were clean, as was Connor’s arm. All that remained were two small punctures, and even from where he sat, Blaine could see that the bite was already healing.

  “Interesting,” Penhallow said, releasing Connor’s arm. Connor shook himself, as if coming out of his thoughts, and stepped away.

  “Now that I know more about your purpose, I am even more interested in supporting your cause,” Penhallow said, leaning forward a bit to meet Blaine’s gaze. “I would like to be your patron, and will offer you my protection.”

  “At what price?” Kestel’s voice was sharp. Penhallow looked at her and chuckled.

  “You’ve lost none of your fire, Kestel,” Penhallow replied.

  “I know your reputation,” Kestel replied. “It held that you were a loyal friend and an implacable enemy.”

  Penhallow gave an eloquent shrug. “That is true.”

  “So what’s in it for you?” she challenged.

  “A very businesslike attitude for a courtesan… and an assassin,” Penhallow replied.

  “Business always comes first,” Kestel answered.

  Penhallow stretched. Had he needed to breathe, Blaine guessed the other would have taken a long breath. As it was, his stretch seemed designed to delay comment, or perhaps it was just a vestige of a mortal mannerism. “I don’t like what Donderath—and the Continent—have become since the Great Fire.”

  “I though
t predators preferred the wild,” Kestel replied.

  Penhallow chuckled. “Predators prefer order. The natural order of things has been upset. The wildness that results—in the magic, in the people—is good for no one. I have seen the collapse of many kingdoms in my time. There is profit for no one but the scavengers.”

  A groan from Piran drew their attention. Piran’s eyes opened, and a look of panic crossed his face as he awoke in unfamiliar surroundings.

  “You’re safe, Piran,” Kestel said, crossing to him.

  Piran managed to sit up. His shoulder was now completely healed. “Where are we?” He glanced around the room and stopped when he saw Lanyon Penhallow. “Who’s he?”

  “Lord Penhallow gave us shelter and provided a healer for your wound,” Kestel said in an even voice that did not betray her thoughts about the matter.

  “Penhallow, the vampire?”

  “An inelegant term, but sufficient,” Penhallow said with a slight incline of his head in acknowledgment.

  “I thought you said we were safe?”

  “To the extent that anywhere is safe, you are safe here,” Penhallow replied, ignoring the tone of Piran’s question.

  “If your magic, this kruvgaldur, still works, why should you care about the rest of the magic?” Dawe asked.

  Penhallow made a gesture to take in the scope of the comfortable room. It resembled the parlor of a well-appointed manor much more than it did an underground bunker of a noble in exile. “With magic, it is possible to rebuild within a generation. Without magic…” Another shrug. “What has been lost may never be reclaimed.”

  Blaine leaned forward. “You say that you’ve seen kingdoms collapse before this. Do you know how they regained their magic?”

  “Yes—and no. I’m not a mage myself. But I have been told by mages that magic rises from different sources. Perhaps it is the gods’ way to assure that magic everywhere is not destroyed.” Penhallow paused. “What you have learned from the maps and the book that Grimur gave you is your best hope. Whether or not you have all the pieces that are required remains to be seen.”

  “That’s not very reassuring,” Blaine replied.

  Penhallow frowned, and sat up straight, suddenly alert, all conviviality gone from his manner. “Something is not right,” he murmured. He moved to the door in a blur, all pretense of mortality gone. Blaine caught a glimpse of Geir’s face at the door, but could not hear their muffled conversation.

  Abruptly, Penhallow turned back to them. “You must go.”

  “I thought you said we were safe here?” Piran challenged.

  “From mortals, yes. It isn’t mortals who attack us.” He nodded toward the sack full of weapons Verran had taken from the chest in the tunnel. “Take your weapons. Geir will get you out. He’ll stay with you, help you navigate. This is not the land you left behind. You’ll need him.”

  “Don’t we get a say in that?” Blaine remarked as Kestel and Dawe helped Piran to his feet. Piran waved off their assistance, standing on his own though he was more pale than usual. Verran handed him a sword to replace the one Piran lost to the barghest.

  “No,” Penhallow replied. “Not if you want to survive. Leave now.”

  With that, Penhallow disappeared into the corridor. Geir slipped past him into the room. “Come on,” he said, striding past them toward one of the other closed doors.

  Blaine caught him by the arm. Geir permitted his hold, but turned with an impatient expression. “Who’s out there?” Blaine demanded.

  “Vampires. Pentreath Reese’s get. Reese doesn’t hold much with helping mortals. I suggest we leave before introductions are required.” Geir shook off Blaine’s hand casually, but with enough restrained force that Blaine got the message.

  In the distance, Blaine could hear crashing and banging, and a jumble of shouts. He’d seen what one vampire could do. He had no desire to be caught between two warring vampire camps. Blaine looked back at the others, who were watching for his response. The crashes were getting closer. “We’ve got no choice. Follow him.”

  Just as they reached the opposite wall, the door to the salon splintered down the center. It smashed to the floor, torn from its hinges. A blur of motion followed, as if storm winds had found their way into the underground. Blaine caught glimpses of men fighting, moving faster than his gaze could follow.

  Blaine gripped his sword, ready to defend himself. Connor took a place next to him, his sword drawn. Piran stood ready for the attack, but Blaine doubted Piran could hold his own for long. Verran was on his knees in front of a door on the far side of the room, and Blaine guessed that he was picking the lock. Dawe fired a steady stream of quarrels at the onslaught of attackers, while Kestel lobbed whatever she could find toward the newcomers to slow their advance. After a moment, Verran rose with a triumphant grin and joined Kestel, keeping up a constant barrage of hurled projectiles.

  Geir and Penhallow were at the front of the fray. Geir fought with a broadsword in one hand and a short sword in the other, against an attacker that was equally well armed. The two parried and feinted, sizing each other up. Geir struck first, swinging hard with the broadsword. His opponent blocked the swing, slashing with the scythe-shaped dagger in his left hand and nearly scoring on Geir’s arm.

  Geir twisted away, using his momentum to strike another bone-jarring blow, and while his opponent was able to parry, it drove him back a step, enough for Geir to get inside his guard with the short sword and slice open a long gash on the other’s left arm. With a curse, Geir’s opponent sprang at Geir, driving forward with his sword. Geir evaded the strike, but the point of the blade tore into his side, and dark blood colored his tunic. Geir countered with a series of pounding blows, each one driving his attacker back, staying just out of range of the scythe blade in the man’s left hand.

  Not far from Geir, Penhallow kept two attackers at bay. He moved with a fighter’s grace, parrying a killing thrust by one opponent as he fended off a two-handed slash by the other that would have cut a mortal in two. While Geir’s face showed intent concentration, Penhallow had the look of a predator in his element: focused, remorseless, yet alive with the thrill of battle. Geir moved with cold precision and elegant reflexes. Penhallow seemed to dance, punctuating his attack with kicks and turns, a lethal combination of warrior training and reckless abandon.

  More of the talishte had joined the fight, pressing Blaine and the others closer to the far wall of the chamber. “Do we run for it?” Dawe asked. Thus far, Geir and Penhallow had been able to keep the attackers away from Blaine and his friends, but as more of the undead swarmed into the room, that seemed unlikely to remain the case.

  “I’d rather fight here, where we can see and move, than be overtaken in some damned tunnel,” Blaine replied.

  Most of the talishte battled in pairs or triads, and from the look of it, Penhallow’s forces were holding their own, though in this room, the numerical advantage went to the attackers. Just as Blaine spoke, two of the talishte split off from the two-man attacks they had been mounting against single vampires and came at Blaine and Connor in a blurred rush of motion.

  Dawe’s crossbow thudded as he loaded as quickly as the device would allow. Kestel hurled a silver candlestick at one of the vampires, striking him on the temple with enough force to fell a normal man. Verran had begun to raid the bag of weapons they had taken from the ruins of the inn, and sent a dagger wheeling through the air at the second vampire, pegging the man in the left shoulder so that the blade sank halfway into the joint.

  Their attackers slowed but did not stop. Blaine heard scuffing next to him and looked up to see Piran beside him. Piran looked drawn and pale, but he held his sword with both hands and his lips were curled in a snarl.

  “You should have stayed in Velant,” one of the attacking talishte sneered as he slashed toward Blaine. Blaine managed to parry—just barely—but the force of the undead fighter’s blow made his arm ache to the shoulder. The attacker grinned, sure of an easy kill, and brought his bla
de sideways for the next blow. Again, Blaine narrowly evaded the deadly tip, but it ripped into his jacket and sliced through his shirt, drawing blood from a shallow gash.

  The other attacker had gone for Connor. The first swing was low, nearly catching Connor in the thigh. Connor parried and lurched out of the way as the next blow was a thrust meant to fix him between the ribs. The blade slashed through his shirt, and blood flowed from a cut on his side. The vampire laughed, and Connor’s expression hardened. He ran toward the vampire instead of attempting to flee as his opponent expected, gratified when his sword scored a deep gash on the vampire’s forearm before the other knocked it loose with a force that sent Connor reeling. One of Dawe’s quarrels thudded against the wall, missing its target by a hair’s breadth.

  Blaine was tiring fast, but his attacker clearly was not. From the gleam in his opponent’s eyes, Blaine guessed that wearing him out was part of the strategy. Each of the vampire’s blows took Blaine’s full strength to deflect, yet the attacker’s speed made it difficult for Blaine to wound the vampire, and he had no idea what would be required to kill it.

  Piran ran at Blaine’s attacker, making up for waning strength with bluster and a bellowed war cry that could be heard even above the din of battle. The vampire wheeled, catching the brunt of Piran’s thrust on his blade, but he was a few seconds too late to deflect the blow completely, and the point of Piran’s sword dug deep into the vampire’s belly, a move that should have dropped a normal attacker in a steaming mess of blood and entrails.

  Annoyance glinted in the man’s eyes as he focused his attack on Piran, and Blaine struck from the side, holding his sword shoulder height, its grip in both hands, running at the vampire like a horseless jouster. Piran feinted as if striking for the man’s chest, then at the last instant took his sword down, slashing hard across the vampire’s thighs as Blaine’s attack forced the vampire to raise his weapon in response.