Gradually, the pain receded. He had no idea how long he lay on the stone floor of the vault. Blaine groaned and opened his eyes, managing to turn his head slightly to one side.
He could see the bodies of his friends around him, motionless on the floor. Blaine felt panic rise in his chest. Sweet Charrot, don’t let them all be dead because of me.
Blaine drifted in and out of awareness, unable to tell whether it was sleep or unconsciousness that took him. The air around them had grown bitterly cold, and all but one of the torches had guttered out. The attack had left him numb, unable to move, and the immobility coupled with the darkness triggered suffocating fear.
Faint light came from the doorway, and in it, the figures of men appeared. Blaine tried to hail them, but only a rasp escaped his lips.
“Over here!” Boots crunched on the stone floor as their guards entered the room. This time, no wild magic flared.
“Can you stand?” The captain of the guards bent over Blaine. “We’ve got a situation topside.”
“What kind of situation?” Blaine asked, using all of his willpower to pull himself up.
“There’s a sizable force headed this direction. Toley and Danner took the wagons and horses back the way we came so they wouldn’t give us away, and threw the rope ladder down to us. Said they saw armed men, at least thirty strong. We didn’t think a fight would go in our favor, so I’m hoping there’s another way out, or we’re stuck down here for a while,” the captain replied.
To Blaine’s relief, the others were stirring, helped to stand by the guards. Blaine pointed to the rubble at the other side of the room. “There might be a door under there, but no telling where it leads.”
The captain grinned. “Anywhere away from here is good,” he said. He turned to the guards. “Let’s get to it, men.”
Verran and Kestel locked the door to the cistern passageway while the others made slow progress clearing the ruined doorway. Geir insisted on being at the forefront, protected more than once from falling stone by his talishte reflexes. They worked as quietly as possible, unable to tell whether the armed troops had stopped in the ruins above them.
The doorway opened into a tunnel, but the first several feet of the passageway had collapsed. Gradually, they cleared the rocks away until an opening was big enough to pass through.
“Where do you think it goes?” Blaine said to Geir.
“Back under the old fort, would be my guess,” Geir replied. “Of course, given the damage the fort has taken over the years—and in the Great Fire—there’s no guarantee that we can get through at the other end.”
Blaine shrugged. “Unless you want to take your chances with a small army up top, I don’t see that we’ve got a choice.”
Armed with torches, they filed carefully through the doorway and into the dark tunnel. Geir went on ahead, not needing the torchlight. He returned a few minutes later.
“There’s some blockage down the way a bit, but I think we can clear it. From what I can tell, the ceiling looks sturdy. And I found this,” he said, holding out a small leather book.
“What is it?” Blaine asked.
“I couldn’t see much, but what I saw looked like mage symbols. And several of the pages are signed with a ‘V.’ ”
Blaine looked up sharply. “Vigus Quintrel?”
“That would be my guess. Why the book is here, I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s been down here for very long, which means someone else passed this way fairly recently.” Geir paused. “I don’t think the passageway collapsed. I think it was intentionally blocked.”
“To prevent anyone from using the ritual chamber?”
“Maybe. Or to protect it. No way to know.”
Blaine took the book and slipped it into his shirt for safekeeping. They soon reached the next place where the tunnel was blocked, and worked in shifts to clear away the fallen rock, passing the stones back along a human chain to clear the way. Once again, Geir scouted on ahead, and this time, he returned with a smile.
“We can get into the cellars of the old fort. I didn’t go farther than that, but at least it gets us out of the tunnels,” he reported.
Tired, hungry, and covered with dirt, the group climbed through a narrow opening into a large room. Blocks of hewn stone formed the walls of a cellar large enough to hold them all with room to spare.
“The question is—are we trapped in here?” Piran muttered.
A large slab of stone blocked the cellar’s entrance. Without Geir’s talishte strength, Blaine wasn’t sure they would have been able to move the stone, but together, they forced it back far enough for everyone to squeeze through, and then put it back to conceal their escape route.
They found themselves in what remained of a storage room. The ceiling, like the floors that once were above the room, was long gone. Ruined walls remained, open to the elements. By the position of the moon, Blaine could see that the night was far spent.
Wordlessly, the captain tapped Blaine on the shoulder, indicating with a gesture toward the courtyard near the cistern’s entrance. Soldiers armed with broadswords roamed the area, but none of them seemed to focus on the cistern itself. Nor was their attention at the moment focused on the ruined fortress.
Two by two, they stole away, moving silently in the darkness. To Blaine’s relief, they found the guards and their horses waiting safely a short distance from Mirdalur. Only then did they feel comfortable speaking, and only after Geir had scouted the area and confirmed that they were alone.
“Do you think those were Pollard’s men?” Kestel asked in a near whisper.
“Hard to tell, m’lady,” the captain replied. “I didn’t see any insignia. Since the Fire, there’ve been armed bands springing up everywhere. No telling whose they are.”
They mounted up and rode single file, anxious to put distance between themselves and Mirdalur before dawn. When they had traveled several miles without incident, Kestel rode up alongside Blaine.
“What now?”
Blaine thought about the failed attempt in the chamber beneath Mirdalur, and the leather-bound book inside his shirt. “Pollard and Reese apparently think that one Lord of the Blood might bring back the magic. So do I.”
“Mirdalur didn’t work,” Kestel said.
“We don’t know what Penhallow’s found out, or what’s in this book.” Blaine tapped the journal beneath his shirt. He met her gaze. “Pollard’s not going to quit coming after me until one of us is dead,” he replied. “I’ve got other plans. First, we’ll figure out what happened to Penhallow and Connor. Then, I’m going after Vigus Quintrel. Magic or no magic, I’m going to get this settled, once and for all.”
extras
meet the author
Donna Jernigan
GAIL Z. MARTIN discovered her passion for SF, fantasy, and ghost stories in elementary school. The first story she wrote—at age five—was about a vampire. Her favorite TV show as a preschooler was Dark Shadows. At age fourteen she decided to become a writer. She enjoys attending SF/Fantasy conventions, Renaissance fairs, and living-history sites. She is married and has three children, a Himalayan cat, and a golden retriever. For book updates, tour information, and contact details, visit www.AscendantKingdoms.com. Gail is the host of the Ghost in the Machine Fantasy Podcast, and you can find her on Facebook (The Winter Kingdoms), Goodreads, Shelfari, and Twitter (@GailZMartin). She blogs at www.DisquietingVisions.com.
interview
Your previous five novels, including the Chronicles of the Necromancer books and the Fallen Kings Cycle, were all set in the same world and featured many of the same characters. Ice Forged marks the beginning of a new series. How much of a departure are we in for? How did the new series come about?
This is a whole new enchilada! Brand-new world, completely new characters, totally new magic system and gods.
I love my Fallen Kings Cycle and Chronicles of the Necromancer series characters (and do plan to come back to tell more stories about them at some point), but let’s be
honest—after everything I’ve put them through, in what for the characters is a little over two years, the survivors really deserve to put their feet up and have a few beers for a while.
So I’d been playing with the idea of what if magic broke (as it nearly did in the Chronicles books), and what if we had a postapocalyptic medieval world, and what if a world sent its convicts to the northern rim (instead of, in our world, Australia)… and I was off and running.
One element Ice Forged shares with your previous series is vampires. What about them fascinates you? How do they enhance the way you build your worlds?
I watched Dark Shadows when I was in preschool (what was my mom thinking?), and the first story I “wrote,” at age five (I had to have my grandmother write it down because I couldn’t spell yet) was about a vampire. I’ve been hooked ever since. In my world of the Winter Kingdoms, you saw vampires as a paranormal minority, treated as ethnic minorities have been in our world—accepted in some places, persecuted or tolerated in others. In the new Ascendant Kingdoms Saga, the vampires (talishte) are more rare, although not the only immortals. I enjoy looking at the world through the eyes of a character who has lived several lifetimes and wonder what would keep you wanting to stick around? Would it be power? Wealth? Family? Nostalgia? The answer, I believe, is highly personal to the specific talishte. I think they represent both the ultimate outsider and a melancholy creative force. For those few who do choose to remain among mortals for hundreds of years, there has to be a good story. I want to tell that story.
In your novels, magic appears as a kind of vast natural force. In Ice Forged particularly, magic is taken for granted and incompletely understood by the people wielding it. Does anything from our reality guide how you present magic in your fiction?
I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of magic as a force of nature. Those with a talent for magic have an inborn ability to sense and use the power. In the world of the Ascendant Kingdoms, magic is much more prevalent than in the Winter Kingdoms books—until the magic disappears, and the civilization that utilized it crumbles. In that sense, magic becomes a natural resource, like water or fertile ground, and when any civilization takes its resources for granted, problems ensue. History is full of vanished civilizations that thrived and then disappeared because a river changed course, land was overfarmed, or other natural catastrophes made the resources unusable. Modern-day postapocalyptic fiction doesn’t intrigue me (a long story, but it has to do with my upbringing, which expected the end of the world at any moment by various means), but I was interested in how it might play out under these circumstances in a medieval setting. So here we are!
Despite some pretty harsh conditions, your characters manage to sit down to some delicious-sounding meals on occasion. Where do you get your menu ideas?
I’m constantly amazed at the ingenuity of our ancestors when it came to putting a good meal on the table despite rudimentary tools. When you realize all the cakes, breads, roasts, and other goodies that were cooked over an open fire or in an oven with no temperature control, you just have to stand in awe. Fortunately, many of the recipes have survived, or at least been approximated thanks to historians and the Society for Creative Anachronism, and have been posted online. So when I’m at a loss for a menu, I go Web-surfing and always find mouthwatering, historically correct options!
In the rare moments when you’re not writing, what do you do for fun?
I like hanging out with my husband, three teenage children, my dog, and some friends. So that includes movies (yes, usually SF/F), reading, going to Renaissance festivals when I’m not signing books, and hanging out at Disney World (so shoot me, I’m a Mickey fan—I think Walt Disney was the ultimate creative genius). I don’t read as much epic stuff as I used to, not wanting to be influenced, but I do read a lot of urban fantasy, paranormal mystery, and plain-old mystery (I usually post the books I’ve read in any given month on my Twitter account @GailZMartin and on Shelfari). With all the travel I do, I read a lot—around a hundred books a year! Fortunately, I really do enjoy going to conventions as a fan as well as an author, so when I’m not on panels, I like hanging out and getting my geek on. I love to go to Myrtle Beach and veg with a book in hand, and I also love to spend time with extended family in Pennsylvania. Lots to do!
introducing
If you enjoyed
ICE FORGED,
look out for
THE DRAGON’S PATH
The Dagger and the Coin 1
by Daniel Abraham
All paths lead to war…
Marcus’s hero days are behind him. He knows too well that even the smallest war still means somebody’s death. When his men are impressed into a doomed army, staying out of a battle he wants no part of requires some unorthodox steps.
Cithrin is an orphan, ward of a banking house. Her job is to smuggle a nation’s wealth across a war zone, hiding the gold from both sides. She knows the secret life of commerce like a second language, but the strategies of trade will not defend her from swords.
Geder, sole scion of a noble house, has more interest in philosophy than in swordplay. A poor excuse for a soldier, he is a pawn in these games. No one can predict what he will become.
Falling pebbles can start a landslide. A spat between the Free Cities and the Severed Throne is spiraling out of control. A new player rises from the depths of history, fanning the flames that will sweep the entire region onto The Dragon’s Path—the path to war.
The apostate pressed himself into the shadows of the rock and prayed to nothing in particular that the things riding mules in the pass below him would not look up. His hands ached, the muscles of his legs and back shuddered with exhaustion. The thin cloth of his ceremonial robes fluttered against him in the cold, dust-scented wind. He took the risk of looking down toward the trail.
The five mules had stopped, but the priests hadn’t dismounted. Their robes were heavier, warmer. The ancient swords strapped across their backs caught the morning light and glittered a venomous green. Dragon-forged, those blades. They meant death to anyone whose skin they broke. In time, the poison would kill even the men who wielded them. All the more reason, the apostate thought, that his former brothers would kill him quickly and go home. No one wanted to carry those blades for long; they came out only in dire emergency or deadly anger.
Well. At least it was flattering to be taken seriously.
The priest leading the hunting party rose up in his saddle, squinting into the light. The apostate recognized the voice.
“Come out, my son,” the high priest shouted. “There is no escape.”
The apostate’s belly sank. He shifted his weight, preparing to walk down. He stopped himself.
Probably, he told himself. There is probably no escape. But perhaps there is.
On the trail, the dark-robed figures shifted, turned, consulted among themselves. He couldn’t hear their words. He waited, his body growing stiffer and colder. Like a corpse that hadn’t had the grace to die. Half a day seemed to pass while the hunters below him conferred, though the sun barely changed its angle in the bare blue sky. And then, between one breath and the next, the mules moved forward again.
He didn’t dare move for fear of setting a pebble rolling down the steep cliffs. He tried not to grin. Slowly, the things that had once been men rode their mules down the trail to the end of the valley, and then followed the wide bend to the south. When the last of them slipped out of sight, he stood, hands on his hips, and marveled. He still lived. They had not known where to find him after all.
Despite everything he’d been taught, everything he had until recently believed, the gifts of the spider goddess did not show the truth. It gave her servants something, yes, but not truth. More and more, it seemed his whole life had sprung from a webwork of plausible lies. He should have felt lost. Devastated. Instead, it was like he’d walked from a tomb into the free air. He found himself grinning.
The climb up the remaining western slope bruised him. His sandals slipped. He
struggled for finger- and toeholds. But as the sun reached its height, he reached the ridge. To the west, mountain followed mountain, and great billowing clouds towered above them, thunderstorms a soft veil of grey. But in the farthest passes, he saw the land level. Flatten. Distance made the plains grey-blue, and the wind on the mountain’s peak cut at his skin like claws. Lightning flashed on the horizon. As if in answer, a hawk shrieked.
It would take weeks alone and on foot. He had no food, and worse, no water. He’d slept the last five nights in caves and under bushes. His former brothers and friends—the men he had known and loved his whole life—were combing the trails and villages, intent on his death. Mountain lions and dire wolves hunted in the heights.
He ran a hand through his thick, wiry hair, sighed, and began the downward climb. He would probably die before he reached the Keshet and a city large enough to lose himself in.
But only probably.
In the last light of the falling sun, he found a stony overhang near a thin, muddy stream. He sacrificed a length of the strap from his right sandal to fashion a crude fire bow, and as the cruel chill came down from the sky, he squatted next to the high ring of stones that hid his small fire. The dry scrub burned hot and with little smoke, but quickly. He fell into a rhythm of feeding small twig after small twig into the flame, never letting it grow large enough to illuminate his shelter to those hunting and never letting it die. The warmth didn’t seem to reach past his elbows.
Far off, something shrieked. He tried to ignore it. His body ached with exhaustion and spent effort, but his mind, freed now from the constant distraction of his journey, gained a dangerous speed. In the darkness, his memory sharpened. The sense of freedom and possibility gave way to loss, loneliness, and dislocation. Those, he believed, were more likely to kill him than a hunting cat.
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