Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Too late.” She paused. “This would be so much simpler if we were still in Edgeland.”

  Blaine tangled his fingers in her hair. “Because freezing our asses off with no sunlight for six months is so romantic?” He chuckled.

  Kestel sighed. “No. Because I saw a way for it to work for us, without a war, without our pasts getting in the way.”

  Blaine tipped her chin so she met his gaze. “I can’t avoid the battle that’s coming. Reese and Pollard won’t let the matter drop, even if I don’t go to Valshoa. As for what happened in the past, yours or mine, I made peace with that in Velant.”

  Kestel slipped out of his arms and moved closer to the fire. “The problem is, I want more than I have a right to.” She looked back at him defiantly. “If we begin this, I want more than to be your lover or your mistress. I’m only interested in playing for keeps, and while that could work in Edgeland, where we were on our own, I don’t know how that can possibly work here.”

  “Why not?”

  Kestel gave him a sidelong look, as if he had missed the obvious. “Because you’re a lord, and I’m a courtesan. That defines what’s possible, and I’m not willing to settle.”

  “Good. Because neither am I.”

  Kestel’s gaze was wary. “Meaning?”

  Blaine moved to stand behind her and gently turned her to look at him. “The way things appear to be shaping up, I’m not a lord – I’m a warlord. And I can’t think of a more perfect partner for a warlord than an assassin.” He leaned down to kiss her, savoring the moment.

  “Your family —” she protested.

  “Will learn to live with it,” Blaine finished. “There is no court, no nobility: no rules. Donderath is like Edgeland, a barren land where we can make of it what we will. And I want you with me.” If I live through the battle, he added silently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “W

  hy did Penhallow come to the castle?” Pollard delivered a sharp kick, and the bound man on the floor groaned in pain as Pollard’s boot connected with his ribs. Pollard’s guards had already taken their turn at the man who was bruised from head to toe, his clothing reduced to rags.

  Lars Lynge, former seneschal of Quillarth Castle, lay in a heap on the floor. His shock of white hair was filthy and streaked with blood, and his eyes were purpled and swollen almost shut.

  “Answer me!” Pollard ordered, making sure that his boot connected with the man’s hip.

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Pollard said, and this time he landed a kick to the older man’s knee that elicited a howl of pain. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Penhallow stayed a few nights. He kept his own counsel.”

  Two of Pollard’s soldiers dragged the battered man across the room and dumped him into a chair. “Tell me about Penhallow and Treven Lowrey,” Pollard said in an icy voice.

  “They came to the castle for refuge,” Lynge replied. “Then they left. I don’t know where they went.”

  “What did they do while they were in the castle?” Pollard tapped his toe against the stone floor, an indication that he would not wait forever to get the information he sought.

  Lynge drew a labored breath. “They wanted to know the history of Donderath.”

  Pollard swore and kicked a wooden crate so hard that it skidded across the stone floor. He swung around and leaned down close to the seneschal’s swollen face. “What were they researching?”

  “History. Nothing but history,” Lynge wheezed.

  “What kind of history?” Pollard’s voice was dangerously even.

  “The old families of Donderath,” Lynge replied. His skin was ashen where it wasn’t bruised, and his lips had taken on a bluish hint. Pollard guessed that the beating had gone harder on the seneschal than his men intended. No real loss. We were going to kill him anyhow. It’s one more obstacle out of the way.

  Reese’s talishte had arrived a week after Penhallow and the Knights of Esthrane left. Despite the castle’s guards, it had been easy for Reese’s men to break through the defenses. Pollard looked around the shambles of the castle’s main dining room. The Great Fire had damaged the castle badly, but he would make a thorough search. He planned to be certain that nothing valuable to Lowrey – or to Blaine McFadden’s cause – might still remain.

  Pentreath Reese had slipped soundlessly into the room and stood in the shadows at the back.

  “What did he want to know about the old families?” Pollard asked, gritting his teeth. He was looking for the Lords of the Blood, he thought. The question is: What did he discover that Reese doesn’t already know?

  “Lowrey was a thief. He was looking for valuable items,” Lynge said. “To sell, I imagine.”

  From the look in Lynge’s eyes, Pollard was sure that the man had no illusions of leaving alive. “What did Lowrey steal?”

  “Anything he could,” Lynge said. A fit of coughing took him, and blood flecked his spittle.

  “Like what?” Pollard said, barely keeping his temper in check. He was certain Lynge was lying. Yet there was nothing to be gained by further injuring the man, and everything to be lost if it hastened his death before he could share what little he knew.

  “When you stop having information for me, you stop having a reason to live,” Pollard grated. “I’m going to look forward to gibbing you like a fish.”

  “No.”

  Reese’s voice was sharp, and the command carried compulsion, freezing Pollard in place. Pollard swore under his breath, and when the compulsion eased, he leaned back, away from the old man. Lynge did not make a sound, but for the first time, there was real fear in his eyes.

  In a few swift steps, Reese stood beside Pollard. He snatched up Lynge’s thin arm so hard that the man came off the chair a few inches, dislocating his shoulder. Lynge gasped as Reese bowed his head and sank his fangs into the cleft of Lynge’s elbow.

  Pollard forced down a shudder. Reese was even more savage in the blood-taking than he had been with Pollard, making a gash like a hungry wolf. The old man’s lips moved, but Reese paid no heed. Reese continued to feed long past the point that Pollard knew the talishte had enough blood to provide the needed information. The seneschal convulsed, then fell back, limp. Reese dropped the bony arm, and the body slid to the floor.

  “Lowrey and Penhallow believe Vigus Quintrel knew the secret of the origin of magic,” Reese commented. He withdrew a kerchief from his vest and dabbed at the blood that stained his mouth, and even in the lantern light, Pollard could see a ruddy flush that colored Reese’s cheeks from the feeding.

  “Did they find anything that would locate Quintrel?” Pollard asked.

  Reese stroked his chin as he thought, as if sorting through the memories he had gathered from Lynge’s blood. “Penhallow certainly thought so,” he said. “They were interested in the thirteen old families, the Lords of the Blood.” His expression darkened. “And disks. Obsidian disks that Penhallow believed had something to do with raising the magic.”

  “What about McFadden?”

  Reese’s anger was clear in his face. “From what Lynge saw, it’s clear Penhallow thinks McFadden can restore the magic.” He fell silent as he parsed through the other memories he had stolen. “Interesting,” he mused.

  “What?”

  Reese’s voice was an angry growl. “Now I know why Penhallow took on Bevin Connor, Garnoc’s servant. He’s a medium.” He let loose with a stream of invective. “That explains why things went so unexpectedly well for Penhallow with the Wraith Lord and why the Wraith Lord sided with him. He wants a body to possess.”

  “Perhaps Lynge was mistaken,” Pollard said.

  “Not in this. I could feel Lynge’s fear: He didn’t like the idea that the dead could possess the living. Damn,” Reese said. “This complicates matters. The Wraith Lord should not have been involved.”

  “Did Penhallow learn anything else at the castle?” Pollard pressed.

  Reese began to pace. “Yes.
They went into the crypts beneath the castle – into the forbidden tombs of the Knights of Esthrane. Penhallow found several of the disks, and he took them with him.” Reese’s temper was clearly at a breaking point, and Pollard made sure he was out of convenient reach.

  “If the disks alone could restore the magic, they would have done so already,” Pollard said.

  Reese wheeled on him. “Not if they must be used by a Lord of the Blood.”

  “Blaine McFadden.”

  “Yes.”

  Pollard frowned. “Garnoc’s servant – did he learn anything from the spirits?”

  Reese frowned. “He was receiving information from someone, but Lynge was unclear about the source.” He slammed his fist into a wooden table, and his talishte strength smashed the thick wood. “It means Penhallow has an advantage, and a dangerous one.” Reese squared his shoulders. “He must be stopped.”

  “And McFadden?”

  “McFadden is more dangerous than I thought. I want him brought to me before he gets any closer to a way to restore the magic.” He began to pace. “If McFadden is chasing the old mages, it might explain why he turned up in Riker’s Ferry and again at the lyceum, then eluded my agents there.”

  Reese turned to Pollard’s guards. “Take the body, and leave us.” He was silent until the men had dragged the corpse from the room.

  “Why Riker’s Ferry? It’s in the middle of nowhere,” Pollard said.

  Reese began to pace once more. “The mages I interrogated said that Valtyr had a theory about how magic worked. He was quite interested in the null places and the places of strong magic. They say that’s what his maps showed. McFadden’s interest makes me quite sure that at least one of those maps has found its way into his hands. It would also account for his unhealthy fascination with Mirdalur.” Reese paused. “If Quintrel’s obsessions are driving McFadden, and the Knights are now assisting Penhallow, then perhaps we should look more closely at Valshoa.”

  “Valshoa is a myth,” Pollard challenged.

  Reese shrugged. “‘Myths’ are what mortals call events they only half-remember. Valtyr was not the only one to believe Valshoa existed. It was rumored that at least some of the Knights of Esthrane sought out Valshoa when they were forced into exile.”

  Pollard began to laugh. “That’s what McFadden is searching for? A place out of stories told around a campfire?”

  Reese’s gaze was cold. “Laugh if you like. But McFadden returned from Edgeland for a reason. It’s possible he might have encountered Grimur there.” He made an expression of distaste. “Probable, if Lanyon Penhallow was meddling. I find it particularly interesting that Garnoc’s man also ended up in Edgeland and returned with McFadden and now seems to have become Penhallow’s servant.” He paused. “I do not believe in coincidence.”

  “And now, rumors that the Knights of Esthrane have returned, in the kingdom’s direst hour,” Pollard said, skepticism clear in his voice.

  “Not rumor,” Reese snapped. “They fought for the Wraith Lord and destroyed many of our men.

  “What have you learned from your man in Riker’s Ferry?” Reese asked. “Has he seen McFadden?”

  Pollard stepped back without thinking and steeled himself before answering. “He’s disappeared. But he was last seen being taken by a talishte who was with McFadden.”

  Reese turned on him with a glare, and in his eyes, Pollard saw barely restrained fury. “You continue to disappoint me. McFadden is free and is still a step ahead of you.”

  Pollard met Reese’s gaze. “Not for much longer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “W

  e’re under attack!”

  The shout woke Niklas from his sleep, and the sound of the camp rousing for battle snapped him instantly alert. He rolled from his cot, dressed in a rush, and belted on his sword. By the time he cleared the doorway of his tent, he could see his soldiers already mobilizing.

  Thank the gods I decided to stay down here with the men instead of up at Glenreith, Niklas thought and gave a worried glance over his shoulder. Up on the hill, Glenreith loomed dark and silent.

  “Report!” Niklas collared one of the soldiers who ran toward where the men were forming up into battle ranks.

  “Don’t know who or why, but we’ve got a godsdamned army closing in on us, sir,” the man reported, his face flushed with excitement.

  “Shit,” Niklas muttered.

  “Captain!” Niklas looked up as Ayers strode in his direction.

  “Tell me what we’re up against,” Niklas replied, falling into step as he and Ayers made their way toward where the men were massing. He could hear his lieutenants rallying the soldiers, assigning posts, readying for battle.

  “Best guess is that it’s Pollard, and he’s got more men than we do,” Ayers replied tersely. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he intends to take out our camp, then march on Glenreith.”

  “Talishte?” Niklas asked.

  Ayers grinned. “That’s one thing that went right, sir. They sent talishte against us as a sneak attack and didn’t expect us to have biters of our own. We drove them back, and the scouts had a chance to report that there’s a large force headed our way.”

  Niklas nodded grimly. “Now we get to see if all our preparation was worth a damn. I’m glad we’ve gotten some reinforcements.”

  Though they had not been camped long, Niklas’s men had been busy in the time they had been at Arengarte. One contingent had dug out and secured the old cellars as a precaution against magic storms. The other three contingents had been tasked with fortifying both Arengarte and Glenreith. Both Blaine’s manor house and Niklas’s family home were included within the defensive line Niklas and his commanders had devised.

  More important, word had spread that Niklas’s straggler army had returned. Since they set up camp, two other bands of soldiers found their way to Arengarte and asked to swear allegiance to Niklas’s lord and join his regiment. Glad to have the extra help, Niklas thought. Something tells me we’re going to need it.

  “Use the signal lantern to get word to Glenreith,” Niklas ordered.

  Niklas’s troops had turned a large rectangular area connecting Arengarte and Glenreith into a no-man’s-land, with a heavily defended perimeter. Four lines of defense were designed to make an advance as slow and costly as possible for attackers and to provide defenders with time to inflict a steep toll on their enemies. Only one clear path led to the camp and past it, to Glenreith, and it was well guarded and easily blocked.

  The forest had yielded a wealth of trees from which abatises were formed: tangles of large trees felled or positioned so their sharp branches faced the enemy, impeding advance. Behind the abatises, Niklas’s soldiers had dug deep trenches lined with sharpened pikes. Caltrops had been fashioned from old nails harvested from ruined buildings and bent into wicked, four-pronged shapes that always had one pointed end skyward, ready to impale a boot or a hoof. The caltrops were spread lavishly across the land on all sides of the defended area, where they became nearly invisible in the dry grass.

  Behind the abatises and the trenches were line upon line of X-shaped wooden obstacles, logs studded with sharpened pikes designed to stop a mounted attack and slow men on foot. Behind the pike-logs the men had thrown up an embankment to hide archers who could pick off invaders as they wormed their way through the defenses. In the heart of the camp, small, mobile catapults were armed with a nearly inexhaustible supply of rocks to lob at an advancing force.

  “Let them come,” Niklas muttered. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

  “Captain Theilsson!”

  Niklas turned, and in the blink of an eye, Gennedy, one of the talishte fighters Geir had assigned to the camp, seemed to appear out of nowhere to stand before him. I’m never going to get used to that damn talishte speed, Niklas thought, simultaneously grateful that, thanks to Geir, he could claim some of that advantage on his side.

  “We struck camp, and the open area is secure. My archers are in place,” Ge
nnedy reported.

  Niklas nodded. “Good, good. We’ve got to hold Pollard here, keep him from getting anywhere close to Glenreith.” He gave a wolfish grin. “The more of Pollard’s men we kill tonight, the fewer we’ll have to deal with later.”

  Gennedy’s smile mirrored his, even more predatory with his visible fangs. “I have no love for Reese’s men. We’ll clear the skies for you.”

  After the pounding Geir’s talishte had given their camp over Blaine’s capture, finding a way to avoid talishte-inflicted casualties had become a high priority. Once Geir’s vampires and Niklas’s men had patched up their misunderstanding, they had worked together to find a way to protect the camp – and Glenreith – from similar attack.