Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  They turned a corner and found four men with drawn swords standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking their path. Connor heard footsteps behind them, and three more armed men appeared from the shadows, cutting off their exit.

  “We’ll be having your coins, and anything else we take a liking to, like that fine coat of yours,” the tallest of the men said, and with his sword point he indicated Lowrey’s cloak.

  “Not tonight.” Penhallow had barely spoken before he moved as a blur, going for the two men on his right. Connor drew his sword and went after the men on the left. He hoped that the surprise of Penhallow’s attack might make up for his own lack of sword skills.

  That left Lowrey to face the rear. Robbed of his magic by the Great Fire, Lowrey glowered at the men and lifted his long staff. He bellowed a cry as he ran at the man in the center of the line, swinging his staff so wildly that the other two were forced to jump aside or be bludgeoned. “Take my cloak will you, blackguards?” he challenged.

  Connor found himself facing two well-armed opponents. He struck first at the man on the left, managing to bloody his shoulder before the second man attacked and scored a gash on Connor’s forearm. Connor parried, acutely aware that his time as Lord Garnoc’s assistant had never included any serious training at arms. His opponents, eyeing an easy kill, closed in on him, one from the left and one from the right.

  The man on his right feinted, but Connor caught the flicker of movement on his left in time to parry the second man’s strike, a blow that reverberated down Connor’s arm from wrist to shoulder. Knowing that the man on his right would strike in earnest, Connor pivoted more by instinct than by sight, rounding on his attacker, his sword leveled at the man’s chest. The brigand’s momentum drove him into Connor’s sword, even as his own sword slashed deep into Connor’s shoulder.

  Penhallow easily evaded the swords of his quarry. He lifted the man on the far right in one hand and hurled him down the alleyway as if he were a child’s ball. Striking before the second man could run, Penhallow’s arm lashed out and his hand caught the man by the throat, crushing his windpipe and snapping his neck before the startled thief could raise his sword.

  As the second crumpled body fell to the bloodstained cobblestones, the remaining thieves fled for their lives. Penhallow went to Connor’s aid as Connor freed his sword from the dead brigand. Connor turned to see Lowrey standing over the fallen form of one of the thieves who had been downed and bloodied by Lowrey’s frenzied attack. What the mage lacked in skill he made up for in bluster, and this time luck was on his side.

  “And don’t come back!” Lowrey shouted after the fleeing bandits, shaking his staff in the air after them.

  “You’re wounded,” Penhallow said as Connor swayed on his feet, as much from the nervous energy of the fight as from the blood that soaked his shirt at the shoulder and forearm.

  “I’ll be all right,” Connor assured him, but he stumbled and would have fallen if Penhallow had not gotten under his good shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist.

  “You’ll need attention, but we’ve got to get away from here,” Penhallow said, his undead strength effortlessly supporting Connor’s weight. Without turning, he addressed Lowrey. “Treven! For the gods’ sake, stop looting the dead and get moving!”

  “We’ve got more need of his copper and silver than he does,” Lowrey muttered, but he got to his feet and followed, staff raised should further trouble come their way.

  “Did you see that, Lanyon? I took the blackguard down with my stave in two strokes. Never had a chance to lay a hand on me,” Lowrey said.

  “Good for you,” Connor muttered, ashamed that he needed Penhallow’s support yet feeling the world around him begin to spin.

  They walked for a few blocks, then turned again, and the road in front of them broadened as the boulevard neared the castle. Once, the homes along this wide avenue had been those of prosperous merchants and sea captains. Farther up the hill, when the road broadened yet again, were the city homes of the nobility. Unlike the crowded tenements of the twisting, narrow streets at the heart of the city, these homes had been sprawling and grand, walled to keep out inquisitive looks from passersby, secured with ornate wrought-iron gates, and defended by household guards.

  Though the tenements that remained standing were still occupied, despite their squalor, it appeared that the nobles and merchants had fled their homes when the Fire rained down. Gates hung askew, leaving what remained within open to looters and squatters.

  “This will do,” Penhallow said, veering into one of the gateways.

  “What if there’s someone hiding in there?” Connor asked, though in truth, he was so light-headed he feared he would soon collapse.

  Penhallow strode toward the ruined home as if he were its owner. “If someone were here, I’d know it, mortal or talishte. We’re safe – for now.”

  The courtyard had once been beautiful, Connor guessed. A broken fountain sat in the center of the garden, filled now with leaves and debris. Where the magic tendrils of power had struck during the Great Fire, part of the outer wall was blackened and reduced to rubble. The house itself appeared to be intact, though a tree from the walled yard had fallen over, crashing into the roof. The shutters on the downstairs windows had been pulled aside, and all of the windows were shattered.

  They entered through the main door, which sagged on its hinges. The darkness smelled of mold, decay, and urine.

  “Close the shutters, Treven,” Penhallow commanded. “Then light a lantern.”

  Penhallow’s voice left no room for argument. While it was too dark to see Lowrey’s expression, Connor could only imagine the scholar opening his mouth to retort and then shutting it again to do as he was bid. Penhallow found a tattered mattress and eased Connor onto it. Outside, Connor heard the clatter of the shutters and Lowrey swearing as he struggled to find the latches, followed by the click of flint on steel as he tried to light his lantern in the moonlit courtyard. Finally, Lowrey strode back into the house, carrying a small, shuttered lantern. He opened the shutters, and light flooded the room.

  Intricate mosaics covered one wall, while frescoes decorated two more. A tapestry hung against the fourth wall, though it had seen better days, dirtied and soot-streaked from the Fire, stained by whatever goings-on had occurred after the home’s owners had fled. Connor tried to focus on the details to keep himself from passing out. A broken ale cask, filthy blankets, and an old, torn shoe gave him to guess that squatters had laid claim to the house in the aftermath of the city’s fall.

  “Let’s see those gashes,” Penhallow said in a voice that would have brooked no denial, had Connor felt well enough to protest. He pulled open the remnants of Connor’s torn shirt to reveal the deep, bloody cuts.

  “Not as bad as the last time,” Penhallow muttered.

  “I almost died the last time,” Connor argued, his voice weak.

  “As I said.” Penhallow spat into his palm and laid his hand over the worst of Connor’s injuries. Connor cried out and writhed as the energy began to heal his wound.

  “I still don’t know why your magic works and mine doesn’t,” Lowrey murmured, coming to stand behind Penhallow but facing away, watching the door with his staff at the ready.

  “Your magic – the hasithara – is external, and its binding to be usable by humans was artificial. The kruvgaldur is part of what I am,” Penhallow replied without taking his eyes off Connor. “The power that sustains the immortals is as much a force of nature as the storms and floods – or the wild, untamed magic that you mages call visithara.”

  “Yet when the magic, the hasithara, moved beyond our grasp, even your talishte mages lost their power,” Lowrey responded.

  “But they did not lose the kruvgaldur,” Penhallow replied, his attention still on Connor. “It is our essence.”

  Connor dropped back against the mattress, which smelled of rats and mold. He was sweating, and his breathing was shallow and rapid from the pain and blood loss. When Penhallow remov
ed his hand, the shoulder wound had healed. Once more, Penhallow spat into his palm and pressed it against the deep cut in Connor’s forearm. His touch felt like fire, and Connor bit back a curse. After a moment the pain eased and the gash closed, healing without a scar. Connor sank into the old mattress, too spent to care about its smell.

  Penhallow rose and wiped his bloody hand on a rag. “It’s near dawn,” he said. “I must feed, then find shelter.” He looked down at Connor. “We need to reach the castle before the night is spent.”

  Connor nodded, pushing himself up. His wounds were healed and no longer hurt, but his body still reacted to the trauma, arguing for whiskey and a good night’s sleep. Connor shook his head when Penhallow offered him a hand, managing to get to his feet on his own. “I can walk,” he said. “Let’s just hope I don’t have to fight.”

  Penhallow chuckled. “If I’m to be your new master, perhaps some salle training is in order. As soon as people stop trying to kill us, I’ll make arrangements.”

  “Thanks,” Connor muttered. He was hungry and so tired that he would have gladly slept the night on the cast-off mattress, but he knew Penhallow was right: They had to reach the castle before dawn.

  Penhallow scouted the courtyard and signaled for the others to follow him. Connor gritted his teeth and resolved to keep up, knowing that Penhallow was holding himself back to mortal speed for his and Lowrey’s sake.

  The road sloped steeply above the houses of the nobility, leading up the hills to where the ruins of the castle sat at the crest. Just months before, Quillarth Castle had been an imposing structure, a walled fortification hundreds of years old, reigning supreme from its lofty perch. Connor looked up at the dark summit and shuddered. The castle had always been lit like a beacon, its bailey awash in torchlight, its windows glowing brightly. The tall, round bell tower was the castle’s highest point, with bells that could be heard all the way to the seaside and beyond. It was said that the bells of Quillarth Castle had guided many a sailor safely to port.

  “You’re quiet, lad,” Lowrey said, falling in step with him.

  Connor shrugged, uncomfortable with the emotions his memories roiled. “Whenever I’d go into town to run an errand for Lord Garnoc or to bring back buckets of bitterbeer, I would always keep my eye on the bell tower. You could see it from anywhere in Castle Reach.” He paused.

  “Quillarth Castle was seven hundred years old. It looked so mighty on the hilltop, like it sprang from the bones of the world. It had been there long before I was born, and I figured it would stand long after my death. To have outlived it…” Connor’s voice trailed off, his gaze on Penhallow’s back. Though the talishte had not spoken and appeared to be ignoring the conversation between Connor and Lowrey, Connor was well aware that vampire hearing was sharp enough to pick up every word. The grief he had felt all day at the sight of the ruined city, and now, the damaged castle, crushed down on Connor, giving him a new respect for Penhallow.

  As they neared the castle ruins, the horizon had begun to lighten from black to deep indigo. Penhallow quickened his step, forcing Connor and Lowrey to move faster as well. When they reached what remained of the castle walls, Connor was surprised to find guards stationed at the gate and at the places where the walls had collapsed.

  “Looks like someone’s home after all,” Lowrey murmured.

  The guard at the gate stepped out to stop their progress. “State your business.” Though it was difficult to see much by the torchlight, it appeared the main gate had been repaired, and as Connor glanced to his left and right, it looked as though an effort was being made to restore the castle wall.

  “Lord Penhallow, to see Seneschal Lynge,” Penhallow announced himself, as casually as if the Great Fire had never happened and they were arriving at the king’s invitation for a ball or a fine dinner.

  The guard eyed Connor and Lowrey, then returned his gaze to Penhallow. Connor fully expected them to be turned away or detained while the guard checked with his superiors, but to Connor’s surprise, the guard made an awkward bow.

  “Lord Penhallow. You are expected.” His gaze flickered back to Connor and Lowrey. “I was not told there would be others in your party.”

  “My assistant, Bevin Connor, former assistant to the late Lord Garnoc,” Penhallow said smoothly. “And mage-scholar Treven Lowrey, from the university.”

  “If you vouch for them, m’lord, they may pass, seeing as you’re expected by the seneschal.”

  Penhallow nodded. “Thank you, soldier.”

  At that, the guard stepped aside, and Connor followed Penhallow into the castle’s walled bailey. The once-formidable walls had crumbled in many places, and the stones were blackened from the heat of the Great Fire. The bell tower had withstood the Cataclysm, but subsequent storms had badly damaged it, and the top levels had crumbled, making it significantly shorter than it had been. The dependencies, mostly wooden, had been consumed in the Fire, as their blackened outlines against the stone confirmed.

  Connor turned to survey the castle itself. Quillarth Castle had been one of the thirteen original fortified keeps in the kingdom of Donderath, built when most of the Continent was wild and lawless. It was a fortification first, and the residence of a monarch second. Though King Merrill and his predecessors had built onto the original castle over the centuries, Quillarth had never lost the sense of being a defensible outpost. Its façade was unadorned granite, its windows narrow enough to shield from siege, as strong and stoically silent as the soldiers who had guarded it through the centuries.

  Of the castle itself, only half of the massive original structure survived. Connor’s gaze wandered to where his window had been, in the suite of rooms he had shared with Lord Garnoc. That portion of the castle still stood, but like the rest, it had been badly damaged. The Great Fire on the night of Donderath’s fall had taken its toll, but so had the magic storms and the anarchy that followed, dangerous aftereffects that survivors called the Cataclysm. It took all of Connor’s will not to sink to his knees and weep for what had been lost and might never be again.

  Penhallow laid a hand on his shoulder. “We need to be about our business, Bevin,” he said quietly. “If I believed Blaine’s efforts to be a lost cause, we would not be here.” He glanced at the sky, growing lighter with the impending dawn. “But we must hurry.”

  Connor nodded. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, then followed Penhallow and Lowrey up the cracked, broken front steps and into the grand entranceway.

  “Bevin Connor. I did not think to see you again this side of the Sea of Souls,” a voice proclaimed. Lars Lynge, seneschal to the late King Merrill, stepped out of the shadows and embraced Connor. “Welcome back.”

  Lynge had been Merrill’s seneschal for nearly twenty years, the cool, efficient force that held the complex court together. Tall, slender, and in the old days, always immaculately groomed, Lynge had struck Connor as an intelligent man for whom any show of humor or emotion was uncomfortable. At a complete loss for words, Connor awkwardly returned Lynge’s embrace before stepping backward to free himself. Lynge motioned to a passing servant and spoke in low tones to the man, who scurried off.

  Var Geddy stood just a pace behind Lynge. As Lynge’s assistant, Geddy was usually seen but not heard. He was close to Connor’s age, sharp-featured, with dark, lank hair that hung in his face. Geddy had always reminded Connor of a blackbird, nervous and fidgety. Connor and Geddy had been together the night of the Great Fire, searching for the map and pendant in the royal library, and from the bell tower, the two men had watched in horror as their kingdom burned.

  Connor met Geddy’s gaze, and in the man’s green eyes, he saw acknowledgement of a shared grief. “Thought you’d hopped a ship to somewhere – anywhere but here.”

  “Long story,” Connor said, his attention straying to where Penhallow and Lynge were deep in hushed conversation. Lowrey, seemingly forgotten for the moment, was wandering around the stately entranceway examining the walls, and Connor was surprised to se
e that tears were streaking down Lowrey’s face.

  Bereft, Lowrey turned to the group. “What of the paintings and the tapestries that hung here?” he cried. “Surely they didn’t all perish in the Great Fire?”

  Conversation ceased as the others looked at Lowrey. Connor eyed the walls and realized that he had never seen them bare. Massive oil paintings of Charrot, the High God, and his consorts, Esthrane and Torven, had graced the bare granite walls. Tapestries told the stories of the gods and their lovers, their battles and dalliances, their celebrations and mourning. Gone, too, Connor noted, were the gilt-framed mirrors that had filled the entranceway with reflected light. Swags and buntings of elaborate draperies had once softened the austere lines of the grand staircase. Unadorned, Quillarth Castle looked even more like a fortress.

  “They’re down below, m’lord,” Geddy replied. “What with the fires and such, and the magic storms, we didn’t want to lose anything else. They’re safe, m’lord. Or as safe as anything remains these days.”