Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Piran’s sword bit deep across the vampire’s flesh. The pain of it forced the vampire to flinch, just enough for Blaine’s wild thrust to slide along the vampire’s parry, slip free of the defending blade, and stab, point first, into the vampire’s neck. Carried by his own momentum, Blaine’s sword skewered deeper, severing the throat and slicing through the neck muscles until the head lolled back, held only by the spine, which gleamed white against the blood. The vampire staggered, falling to its knees, blood washing down its thighs from the gashes that cut to the bone. Piran sprang forward and grasped the dangling head, then gave a vicious twist that snapped the spine and broke the head away from the body.

  Only then, as the vampire fell forward and lay still, did Blaine have the chance to glimpse Connor’s battle. Blood flowed from multiple gashes on Connor’s shoulder, chest, and forearms. By sheer luck, Connor had managed to land a few nicks on his opponent, but it was clear that Connor was rapidly tiring. Before Blaine or Piran could move, they heard a wild shriek and saw the glint of silver in the torchlight. Kestel gripped the base of a heavy silver candelabra in both hands and came at Connor’s attacker swinging with her full might. Bone crunched as the blow landed on the vampire’s ribs and spine. Before the vampire could turn to face this new threat, Connor rallied. Lurching forward, he rammed his sword through the vampire’s chest, catching him full in the heart. Kestel brought down the candelabra again as the vampire fell forward, smashing the bloodied silver down on the vampire’s skull with a sickening crunch.

  The room smelled of blood and decay. Kestel screamed as the vampire whose skull she had just crushed began to rot more quickly than a corpse left in the sun. Within seconds, its once-ashen skin had purpled and blackened, then began to peel back, exposing decomposing tissue beneath it. A few seconds later, the skin was gone, and the rotted muscles and organs became gelatinous, then sloughed off, leaving only bone. A heartbeat more, and the bone crumbled into dust.

  Blaine heaved for breath and looked out over the battle. More of Penhallow’s loyalists had joined the fight, enough that the attackers were joined one-on-one, eliminating their advantage. The floor was littered with decomposing corpses, but Blaine had no idea whom the body count favored. Penhallow was in the center of it, holding his own, though his once-fine doublet was torn and bloodied, and he moved as if at least some of the blood was his. As Blaine watched, Penhallow cut down his attacker, only to have another take his place.

  Geir was closer to them, but still fighting off an opponent who seemed well matched in both skill and strength. Like Penhallow, Geir was bloodied, with a gash on his left cheek and multiple slashes to his shirt that left the sleeves in tatters. Geir’s face was set in a grimace of deadly resolve, eyes hard, lips pressed tightly together, though out of resolve or pain, Blaine could not tell.

  Connor cried out as someone yanked his arm, pulling him off his feet and tossing him into the fray in the center of the room as casually as one might throw a rag doll. The motion caught Geir’s attention, costing him his focus as his opponent made a vicious slash with the scythe blade in his left hand. The blade cut along Geir’s belly, and Geir doubled over, his face twisted in pain. The attacker stepped back for the kill, and Geir jerked upright, spitting his attacker with his sword, driving it into the man’s abdomen and up through the rib cage. Blood flowed down, covering Geir’s arm, staining his tattered sleeve, and it dribbled from the lips of the dying vampire, whose expression was one of complete astonishment.

  Blaine ducked as a fiery blur whizzed past his head. Verran was grabbing anything in his reach, lighting it on fire from the torch he held and lobbing it into the fray. The vampires drew back. Blaine strained for a glimpse of Connor and saw him lying on the floor with Penhallow standing over him, fighting off an attacker while shielding Connor with his body. The fighting was vicious, but there were fewer fighters still on their feet and the air had become as fetid as a charnel house in summer.

  “Get them out of here!” Penhallow shouted above the din.

  Geir staggered toward where Blaine and the others stood ready for another wave of attack. “Come on,” he said, his voice tight with pain. One arm was clutched across his belly, but he stayed on his feet, sword still in hand.

  “We can’t leave Connor,” Blaine protested.

  “Penhallow has him. He’ll protect him. But we can’t protect all of you and still fight Reese’s men.” Geir gave Blaine a shove toward the door and tore a torch free from its sconce, pushing it into Blaine’s hands.

  “Run!” Geir shouted, flinging open the door to their escape route.

  The corridor was dank and smelled of mold and decaying sludge. Rough rock walls were moist, and partially frozen slime made footing treacherous. They moved as quickly as they dared, and at every breath Blaine expected to hear the pounding of footsteps in pursuit.

  No sooner had they cleared the first turn than they heard a thunderous roar behind them. In the near-darkness, Blaine had no idea what was going on, but every instinct told him to keep running, and he did, with the sound of his companions’ footsteps pounding behind him. A cloud of dust billowed through the tunnel, choking him and stinging his eyes.

  “What in Torven’s name was that?” Dawe swore when they finally stopped, heaving for breath and digging at the grit in their eyes.

  “Sounded like the whole damn roof collapsed,” Verran replied.

  “It did.” Geir’s voice sounded at the edge of the darkness, his face barely visible in the torchlight. “The corridor was snared. Lanyon had it set so that we could seal it off, either to keep invaders out or to put a barrier between us and pursuers.” He paused. “If Lanyon was successful, no one will be coming after us. If he wasn’t… it should hold them off for a while.”

  “We’ve got to go slower. Piran’s hurt,” Kestel spoke up from the rear.

  “Don’t listen to her. I’m fine,” Piran growled, but his voice was tight, pinched with pain.

  “We don’t dare stop yet.” Geir’s voice cut through the gloom. “Keep moving.” Geir was the last in line, giving Blaine to know that Geir felt they had more to fear from someone following them than they did from unknown perils in the darkness ahead of them.

  Piran had been injured even before the fight, and Blaine had seen Geir take a nasty wound that would have killed him had he been mortal. By comparison, Blaine was in pretty good shape, though his body ached and he was bruised and sore to the bone. His shirt and trews stuck to the blood on his skin where he had been cut in the fight. Although his long-ago salle training had kept him alive, it was obviously inadequate to the perils Donderath presented. If they survived the night, Blaine resolved to sharpen his sword skills.

  Dawe had managed to get behind Blaine in the chaos of the escape. Kestel and Verran were in the middle, followed by Piran and Geir. “Do you think Penhallow won?” Dawe asked in a half whisper.

  “Don’t know. Whoever sent the attack sure sent enough fighters. Question is—were they after Penhallow himself, or did they get a tip that we’d be there?” Blaine replied.

  “I don’t feel right leaving Connor behind.”

  Dawe’s words echoed the recrimination Blaine had struggled with in his own thoughts. “I didn’t like it either. If Penhallow wins, I imagine he’ll see to Connor. And if he loses…” Blaine didn’t finish his sentence.

  Thirst and hunger gnawed at Blaine as much as the sting of his wounds. They made their way through the twists and turns of the rock tunnel for more than a candlemark. Gradually, the tunnel led them uphill, ending in a heavy oaken door that was barred from the tunnel side.

  “Now what?” Blaine asked, fatigue and tension making his voice terse.

  “Unless you want to spend the night in here, we open the door and see if there’s a surprise on the other side,” Geir replied.

  Blaine and Dawe traded places so that Dawe would have an open shot into the doorway. Blaine threw back the bolt and thrust the torch forward, illuminating the path. Dawe’s crossbow was at his sho
ulder, notched and ready. Torchlight glinted on Blaine’s sword. Tired and wounded, Blaine fervently hoped that nothing unfriendly awaited them.

  Silence greeted their entrance. “Move forward,” Geir urged. “If there were anything waiting, I’d hear or smell it.”

  Carefully, Blaine and Dawe edged forward. The torch illuminated a wine cellar, filled with dust-covered casks and racks of filthy bottles. Overhead, the ceiling soared in bricked barrel vaults.

  Geir brushed past Blaine and headed for a set of shelves that held winemakers’ tools. He rummaged around and returned in a few minutes with a yellowed pile of folded muslin. “They use this to strain the wine,” Geir muttered. “It’ll do to bind up your wounds. Sit.”

  Behind him, Kestel and Verran wrestled with one of the kegs and a tap. Kestel brought Geir a bowl of wine that was dark as blood. “To clean the wounds,” she said.

  Verran brought a full pitcher and offered it first to Piran. “Should help with the pain,” he said with a shrug.

  Geir handed off the muslin to Kestel. “Ever make bandages?” he asked tersely.

  “On occasion,” Kestel replied. She grasped the muslin and began to rip it into wide strips. Dawe remained standing, his crossbow ready.

  Geir knelt next to Piran. “Let’s have a look at you,” he said, helping Piran shed his torn and bloody shirt. The wounds caused by the barghest had healed, but Piran had taken several new gashes in the fight with Reese’s talishte.

  Piran eyed the dark stain across Geir’s belly where the scythe had cut. “Shouldn’t you be tending yourself?”

  “Have a look,” Geir replied, pulling apart the damaged shirt to reveal a thin, pink scar. “Although I’ll admit it hurt something fierce to begin with.”

  “Yeah, I bet it did,” Piran replied with a hint of incredulity.

  Geir cleaned the wounds, adding the healing power of his saliva to those that were the deepest and most ragged. Kestel came behind him to bind up the wounds, and Verran kept the pitcher of wine full. After everyone had taken what they wanted of the wine, Verran busied himself digging through the barrels and boxes in the corners of the cellar, emerging with a victorious grin a little while later. He held a large waxed wheel of cheese and a handful of dried fish.

  “Dinner is served,” he said. He brushed the dust from a worktable and set down the cheese, then carved a wedge out of it with his knife.

  “Don’t tell me those fish are—” Piran began.

  “Yep. Herring,” Verran replied.

  Piran let out a curse. “I had really hoped never to eat another one of those damned fish in my life now that we’re out of Edgeland.”

  Verran shrugged. “Suit yourself—but I’m hungry and I don’t think I’ll mind the taste at all with enough of this wine.”

  Piran groaned. “All right, all right. Pass me a hunk of cheese and some of that damn herring.”

  Verran refilled the pitcher of wine and moved around the room, dispensing cheese and herring. Geir moved to where Blaine sat.

  “You and your people fought well in there—for mortals,” Geir said, not looking at Blaine as he tended the gashes Blaine had taken in the fight.

  “You did pretty well yourself—for a dead man,” Blaine replied.

  A faint smile touched the edges of Geir’s lips. “I’ve had a few centuries of practice, and war was my art, even when I still lived.”

  “Were the attackers after Penhallow—or us?”

  Geir worked in silence for a few moments, daubing at the worst of Blaine’s wounds. “Pentreath Reese and Lanyon Penhallow have been at odds for a long time. Penhallow prefers to work through mortal intermediaries. He has no desire to wield power directly—at least, not anymore. Reese would set himself up as the dominant warlord. It was only the magic that kept him at bay before—magic and the organized human armies that far outnumbered his own get.”

  “Does that mean Penhallow is on our side?”

  Geir did not look up. “Penhallow has no desire to see Reese rule the Continent. Assuming that such a thing would even be possible, given that there are relatively few of the talishte. Penhallow believes that mortals would inevitably rebel and strike back.

  “And besides that, Penhallow loathes Reese on general principles. Reese is an arrogant, domineering ass. Penhallow is more… civilized. For years, Penhallow has made it his business to support anything that keeps Reese from getting what he wants.” Geir shrugged. “To a point, it’s a rich man’s pissing contest. But it goes deeper than that. Penhallow is correct in his belief that Reese would be a merciless tyrant. Even the undead don’t care for such a ruler.”

  Blaine frowned. “Could Reese have had something to do with the war? Or with the Meroven strike that destroyed the magic?”

  Another shrug. “Who can say? Reese is a devious bastard. All of the powerful talishte have their networks of spies and informers, and their mortal supporters.”

  “Garnoc, through Connor, made sure Penhallow knew what was going on at court, who had gained King Merrill’s attention, what intrigue was playing out,” Geir added.

  “So that Penhallow could interfere?” Blaine challenged, as the combination of pain and fatigue made him increasingly ill-tempered.

  Geir gave a sharp laugh. “Is that what you imagine? A vampire puppet-master pulling the strings and making the king dance? I almost wish that had been true. If that were the case, I promise you Penhallow would never have allowed the war with Meroven to go as it did.” He sat back as Kestel bound up the last of Blaine’s wounds. “No. If anything, what happened occurred because Penhallow could not openly be at court.”

  “Why not?” It was Kestel who asked, giving Blaine a pat on the shoulder as she helped Geir tie off the final bandage and sat back on her haunches.

  Geir grimaced. “Merrill feared us. There are rumors that his father was set upon by a feral vampire, and forever after, he hated us. Under King Merrill’s father, we were hunted almost to extermination.”

  “But not under Merrill?” Kestel questioned.

  “Merrill stopped the persecution, but we think it was because of silver, not scruples. Since we talishte have been forced to live in the shadows, both figuratively and quite literally, we have mastered, shall we say, a thriving underground economy?” Geir’s laugh was bitter. “There has been a talishte hand behind many of the large fortunes on the Continent, as advisers, assassins, and negotiators.” He stressed the last word just enough to give Blaine the sense that such negotiations incorporated the politics of speed and unnatural strength they had witnessed in the battle a few candlemarks earlier.

  “Some of the nobility had good reason to fear for their continued wealth if the talishte were exterminated. They prevailed on Merrill, and he stopped the hunts.”

  “There is a rumor,” Kestel said, looking intently at Geir, “that Merrill might have had an even more personal stake in the matter.”

  Geir chuckled. “As always, m’lady Kestel has her sources. You are correct. Merrill’s oldest daughter was stricken with a breathing sickness. She grew pale, and her blood was not strong enough to keep her alive. The king sought the help of every healer in the kingdom, and from beyond its borders, but no one could help her. She was dying.

  “In desperation, King Merrill sent for Penhallow, who was known to him as a talishte with integrity. He begged Penhallow to bring his daughter across so that she would not be lost to him. Penhallow complied.”

  “At what cost?” Kestel asked.

  “When the princess had been brought across and Merrill was assured of her survival, Penhallow made it clear that aggression against the talishte would put Merrill’s daughter in certain danger.”

  “He took her hostage?” Blaine said sharply.

  Geir shrugged. “He didn’t need to. Merrill had been so grief-stricken over his daughter’s illness that he had not truly thought through the consequences of saving her. When he realized that he had unwittingly given the talishte their most powerful bargaining chip, Merrill kept his word abo
ut the hunt, but he banished the talishte from court.”

  “Did that include his daughter?” Kestel asked.

  Geir nodded. “Merrill was not as fanatic in his prejudices as his father, but his dislike of our kind was deeply ingrained in him. He could make exceptions for economic and political reasons. But he found that he could not stand the thought of what his daughter had become. He gave her a small fortune—the money that would have been her dowry—and sent her away.”

  “What happened to her?” Kestel asked quietly.

  Geir looked away. “Penhallow kept his word to King Merrill. The princess was welcome among us, treated with respect, and protected. But on the morning after the magic died, when we learned for a certainty that Quillarth Castle had fallen and that the king was dead, the princess ran out into the sun.” He shuddered. “She immolated herself.”

  They were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Geir stood. “We’ll rest here for the day. It’ll be dawn soon. We’ll leave after night falls.”

  “And go where?” Dawe asked.

  Geir moved to answer, but Blaine spoke first. “Glenreith,” he said. “My home—if anything’s left of it.”

  “I thought you wanted to get to Mirdalur?” Geir said in a tone that gave Blaine to guess the talishte did not like surprises.

  “We’re tired and wounded and we don’t have a plan,” Blaine replied. “We heal slower than you do,” he said, meeting Geir’s gaze. “And we have absolutely no idea what we’re walking into at Mirdalur. If Glenreith is standing, we’ll have shelter and maybe food, too. A base from which we can plan our next move. Perhaps Penhallow and Connor will meet us there. Even if they don’t, we have Ifrem’s map, along with that book of Grimur’s to go on.” He grimaced. “We might only get one chance to set things right—I don’t want to foul it up because we didn’t bother to get the details straight.”