Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  “That was on no one’s head but mine,” Blaine said sharply.

  Niklas gave him a knowing look. “Ah, but part of the reason you did it was to keep your father from thrashing Carr and taking liberties with Mari.”

  “No one was supposed to know about what happened to Mari,” Blaine said, meeting Niklas’s eyes.

  “Carr took a bad sword wound in one of the battles, and it poisoned his blood. He was fevered, dying. The healers almost didn’t think they could save him. I sat with him, because he was calling for you and you couldn’t be there,” Niklas said with a forced smile. “You and me, growing up, we were thick as brothers, so I let him think I was you. That’s how I found out what really happened. Carr wasn’t talking out of turn. He believed he was talking with you.”

  Blaine looked away, struggling with his feelings. “Yeah, well. He hates me now. Pretty clear about that.”

  “Give him time,” Niklas said. “He’s still young, and he’s been through a lot. After all, for us, it’s a bit like having you back from the grave.”

  Blaine sighed. “Let’s talk of something else, shall we? What are your plans, when we reach Arengarte?”

  Niklas sighed. “I stopped making plans when we lost the war. We’ve spent the last six months foraging our way across a scorched landscape, fighting off highwaymen, dodging magic storms.” He gave Blaine a sideways glance. “It’s not just the storms. So many strange things have happened since the magic went bad. Nightmare creatures, men gone mad.” He sighed. “It’s taken all we had in us just to survive. I never really got farther than leading them home, because to tell you the truth, I didn’t think we’d make it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if Kestel made a few plans on your behalf?” Blaine said and smiled at Niklas’s astonishment.

  “Kestel?”

  At the mention of her name, Kestel left Dawe with a nod and urged her horse to catch up, flanking Niklas. “Is it arranged?” she asked, her eyes alight. Her tunic and trews were cut for a man, but they could not completely hide the contours of her figure. Kestel had bound her red hair back in a braid, and she wore neither cosmetics nor jewelry, but her green eyes sparkled like emeralds, and the winter wind brought a glow to her cheeks.

  “Why don’t you tell him, since you’re the one who had the idea?” Blaine urged.

  Kestel smiled broadly, and despite the dust from the road that smudged her features, it was impossible to overlook the fact that she was a beautiful woman. Intelligence and cunning glinted in her eyes, the traits that had made her equally skilled as a spy and assassin at court. Blaine knew that any man who overlooked her abilities for her beauty did so at his own peril.

  “You need a base. Glenreith needs protection, and come spring, men to work the land. I suggest that you and Mick strike an alliance. Billet what troops you can at Arengarte, and send the ones who need healers to Glenreith.” She winced. “It’s the least we can do since Geir attacked them on our behalf.

  “It’s more mouths to feed, but also more hands to harvest the root crops left in the fields and to hunt for game over the winter,” Kestel went on enthusiastically, leaning forward in her saddle to make eye contact with Niklas. “And if I’m not mistaken, Captain, a respectable military man such as yourself leads his men in service to a lord. King Merrill is dead, so your duty there is finished. Only two mortal lords remain, to our knowledge: Lord Pollard, and the Lord of Glenreith,” she said, with a meaningful glance toward Blaine. “In whose service would you find honor best served?”

  Niklas chuckled. “She really is a marvel, Blaine,” he said with a grin, then turned his attention back to Kestel. “M’lady makes a fine case, and, truth be told, similar thoughts had occurred to me.”

  He looked to Blaine. “Well, Blaine, what do you have to say? Are you agreeable?”

  “Completely. And I can’t imagine Aunt Judith having any qualms about it. If we do make another attempt to bring back the magic, having your men along will make it somewhat less risky than going out on our own. And if we can’t bring the magic back,” he said and paused, hesitant to put that scenario into words, “then we really are on our own, without a king or king’s guardsmen to keep the peace. I hope it doesn’t come to that. But either way, support from you and your men would be much appreciated.”

  “Consider it done,” Niklas said. “Although we’ll arrange a bit more of a show for the men once we’re settled. I’ve spoken with them, and most left nothing behind, so they have nothing to return to. They can’t sell their swords, since even the mercenaries have no work without kingdoms or lords.”

  “It won’t last,” Kestel said soberly, and both men looked at her. “Haven’t you read the histories? Before there was a king, there were warlords, fighting over land and water. A continual state of war, until the victors divided the spoils among themselves. Even if the magic comes back, that’s what’s to come. The pattern repeats.”

  “Then we’d best stand united,” Niklas said. “You can count on us.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I

  t looks like a wasteland,” Niklas said as they rode through the countryside. Before the war, this section of Donderath had been known for iron mines that supplied the kingdom with the raw material for weapons, armor, tools, and cookware. Now, the towns were deserted, and many of the miners’ small shacks had burned in the Great Fire. In the daytime Niklas knew that it was easy to spot the dark tunnels that led into the Broadhill mines, but now they were as silent as the towns that had once prospered around them.

  Niklas scanned the hills, though at night it was impossible to see the mine openings from this distance. On this road, the hills were never out of sight. Niklas wondered whether the mines were actually deserted, or whether, in the months since Donderath’s fall, desperate men had made them their homes.

  “It’s like this, or worse, all the way from the Meroven border,” Niklas said, his tone grim. “The fighting spilled over to both sides of the actual border, so it’s a muddy mess filled with bloated corpses and all the wreckage an army leaves behind.” He grimaced. “We scavenged what we could, but there wasn’t much left.”

  Blaine nodded. “We sailed into Castle Reach,” he said quietly. “Most of the city burned. What’s left is a ruin. Even the brick and stone buildings took quite a bit of damage.”

  Niklas shook his head. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said drily. “We go to war to prevent Meroven from wreaking this kind of damage on Donderath, only to have it all destroyed without the enemy’s ever invading.”

  Blaine didn’t reply for a few moments. “Up in Edgeland, when we heard about what happened, I don’t think most people really believed what Connor said about everything being gone.” He sighed. “It wasn’t until the ship sailed into the harbor and we could see for ourselves that people really understood the truth. It’s still hard to believe it’s like this across the whole kingdom.”

  Niklas shrugged. “Since I haven’t been all the way across Donderath, I can’t say for sure, but from what we’ve seen on our return from the front line, odds are good that conditions aren’t any better anywhere else.”

  In the distance, Niklas could see a small village. After the scarred landscape and ruined towns they had passed, it was a pleasant relief to see smoke wafting from the chimneys. On the outskirts of town, near a wide stream, was a gristmill, its wheel turning with the water.

  “We can hardly march an army into town,” Niklas said, “but we’re short on flour, and biscuits keep my men on the march. I’m going to see if I can find someone who’ll sell to me, maybe see who else has been this way lately.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Blaine offered. “I’d like to hear what passes for news in these parts.”

  After a short discussion with the others, Blaine and Niklas rode toward the mill. As the daylight faded, lantern light shone through the building’s lower windows, indicating that the miller was likely still at his task. Outside, on the road into the village, they saw no one.

  Niklas cas
t a glance toward the village. Lights glowed in many of the windows, and in the distance, they could hear faint strains of music and voices carried on the wind from the village alehouse.

  “Wonder where everybody is?” Niklas said quietly.

  “By the sound of it, lifting a pint or two in the village,” Blaine replied. “Not buying their grain, that’s certain.”

  The two men kept a wary eye but saw nothing to give alarm as they rode up to the mill. They looped their reins over the hitching rail outside and approached the door. Niklas took the lead, and Blaine hung back with his hand close enough to his sword to draw the weapon if need be, but mindful of not making the miller fear an attack by brigands.

  After three loud knocks, the door opened. A portly man in his middle years appeared in the entranceway. He had a bald pate with a fringe of white, closely cropped hair, and the burly shoulders of a man used to hard work. “Ho there!” he greeted them. “A bit late to be comin’ round, don’t you think?”

  Niklas gave a shallow bow and managed the grin Blaine had seen him use many a time to get out of trouble. “My pardon, sir. We meant no harm. I had hoped to buy a sack or two of flour.”

  The miller regarded them for a moment, and his gaze lingered on the swords they wore. “You have coin to pay for it?”

  Niklas nodded. “Aye.”

  With a harrumph that seemed to indicate the miller would believe when he saw the coins himself, he moved out of the doorway. “You’re in luck. I don’t always have flour for sale,” he said, ushering them into a small room that was obviously where he handled his accounts. There was a writing desk with a lantern and a ledger, a solid wooden chair, and a worktable to one side. A narrow stairway led up from the corner, and Niklas wondered if the miller had his home on the upper floor. In the background, Niklas could hear the squeal of the gears in the waterwheel and the crunch of the millstones.

  The miller had gone to retrieve a sack of flour, and he came back to flop it onto the table. “You’re not from here.”

  “No, sir,” Niklas replied. “Had to ride a while to find a mill with flour to sell.”

  The man went back to retrieve a second sack, and he thudded it onto the table next to the first. “True enough, and with the way the harvest was, you’re lucky to find it. It’s been slim enough for the folks who brought their own grain to mill,” the man said. He gave Niklas a measured look. “That’ll be two silvers for the flour.”

  Niklas withdrew two silver coins from his pouch and put them on the table. “Not much traffic on the road in these parts,” he said with feigned casualness.

  The miller scooped up the coins and gave a snort. “It’s on account of the madness,” he said. “Started a few months ago, when Old Man Turney’s boy went wild. Killed a cow and nearly beat one of the hired men senseless before they got him tied up.”

  “You say it ‘started’ then,” Blaine said. “There have been more?”

  The miller gave him an incredulous look. “You’re really not from these parts, are you?”

  Blaine shrugged. “Just passing through.”

  “Gods have pity on us,” the miller replied. “Turney’s boy was just the first. One of the scullery maids over at the tavern lost her wits a month or so later, and then the butcher’s wife.” He shook his head. “It’s an awful thing, not knowing where it’ll strike next.”

  “There was no warning? No change before they went mad?” Niklas asked.

  The miller shrugged. “I wasn’t with them, so I can’t say for certain, but none that gave much warning, that’s for certain.” He shook his head. “That girl over at the tavern started talking crazy, like she was looking for a child that ran off, only there weren’t no such thing. The cook there told me the girl looked at her like she’d never seen her before, although that girl had worked in the kitchen for two years. Came after her with an iron pan, she did, shrieking about how the cook had stolen her baby. Almost brained her with that skillet, too, I heard,” he said with a chuckle.

  “And the butcher’s wife?” Niklas said.

  “Same sort of thing,” the miller replied. “Went after one of the customers with a big knife and nearly killed the man. Them that saw it said her eyes were wild, like she’d never seen him before, although he bought his meat there all the time.” He shook his head. “Then Davey, the blacksmith’s son, ran off a few days ago. No one knows whether the madness took him or whether he just lit out looking for something better.” He sighed. “No making sense of it. World’s comin’ to an end, I guess, what with the Fire and the war and all.”

  Niklas hefted one of the bags of flour, careful to put the load on his left shoulder so he could still draw his sword if need be. He fought a smile as he realized Blaine had done the same. “See any unusual traffic on the road?” Blaine asked casually.

  The miller’s eyes narrowed as if he realized his two visitors were getting a lot of information with their flour. “No highwaymen, if that’s what you’re a-fearin’,” he said. “Saw a group of men in black cloaks riding off west a few days ago,” he said with a jerk of his head in the direction they had come. “They didn’t bother anyone, but I wouldn’t have wanted to get in their way. Well armed, they were.”

  More of the men we fought by the barn? Niklas wondered. “We’ll keep an eye out,” he said. He and Blaine moved toward the door.

  “If you’re not staying at the alehouse, I hope you’re not far from home,” the miller said as Niklas opened the door.

  “Why’s that?” Niklas asked, turning.

  “On account of the ghost knights, that’s why.”

  Niklas froze in the doorway. “‘Ghost knights’?”

  “Renegade knights that King Merrill’s grandfather banished long ago,” the miller said. “Some biters, some mortals, all the fiercest fighters ever seen. Got too dangerous, so the old king tried to wipe them out. Killed some, but the others just disappeared.” His voice fell.

  “But there were always stories that they’d just gone into hiding,” the miller added. “That when the king needed them most, they would return.” He shook his head. “Well, if they’ve come back, they’re late. Won’t be doing Merrill any good, I wager.”

  “Have you seen them?” Blaine asked.

  The miller shook his head. “Not me. But Jeb the peddler swears that he saw gray-cloaked men riding on warhorses along the ridge road near midnight one night. Claims he wasn’t drunk, although I’m not so sure.”

  “Why did he think they were the ghost knights?” Niklas asked.

  “He said he got a look at the crest on the shields they carried, and a glimpse of the uniforms they wore when the wind blew one man’s cloak. They had a blue diagonal bar, like the tales tell.” He shrugged. “But where they were going, or why they came back, no one knows.”

  The sacks of flour were getting heavy, and Niklas was anxious to return to their group. “Thank you for the flour, and for the news.”

  “Don’t get much chance to tell tales nowadays. Ride carefully.”

  They did not speak until they had secured the flour sacks behind their saddles and ridden clear of the mill. “Madness and ghost knights,” Blaine said. “And a sighting of Pollard’s men. What’s next?”

  Niklas shook his head. Night had fallen, and the air had turned colder. A headache was starting in his temples, and he cast an eye at the sky, hoping it did not mean that snow was likely. “Well, we know where Pollard’s men were headed,” he said. “As for the ‘ghost knights,’ they’re almost certainly the Knights of Esthrane. The question is, are they real?”

  A dark figure hurtled from the woods with a shrill cry, and Niklas’s horse reared. A wild-eyed young man stood in the road brandishing a broken tree limb as if it were a broadsword. His hair was long and matted, and his face and skin were as dirty as if he had rolled down a hillside. The homespun clothing he wore was stained and torn.

  “You may not pass!” he shouted, swinging the branch in such a wide circle that the horses shied back.

  Bla
ine and Niklas had already drawn their swords. “We want no trouble,” Niklas said. “We have no quarrel with you.”

  “Can’t let you pass,” the man replied emphatically. “The ghosts wouldn’t like it.”

  “Ghosts?” Niklas asked, eyeing the trees around them to see if their attacker had any friends waiting to strike. He could see no motion in the shadows. I wonder if this is the blacksmith’s boy who went missing, Niklas thought. Another case of the madness.

  “Can’t you see them?” the young man challenged as if they were daft. “They’re all around us, and they don’t like people disturbing them.”

  “We won’t disturb them,” Niklas said in a soothing tone. “We’re just trying to get home.”

  “Liars!” The man advanced and thrust the branch at Niklas, nearly striking him. “That’s not what they tell me. Not what the ghosts say.”