Reign of Ash (51 page)

It seemed to take forever for the group to cross. On the far side of the coal seam it was marginally cooler, although the burning coal was close enough that they all opened their cloaks and mopped their foreheads. Connor’s lungs ached from the smoke, and he longed to leave this area behind.

They moved a safe distance away from the flames and heat. Zaryae collapsed into Borya’s arms, sobbing, and Desya stood next to them, his entire form rigid with anger and grief. The others stood apart, unwilling to intrude on their mourning, but mindful that they were still not out of danger. Lowrey was bent over, wheezing and gasping for breath, looking pale and terrified. Dawe had unsheathed his crossbow, and Piran had drawn his bow. Both men eyed the dark ridges of the canyon walls. Night had fallen, and after the brilliance of the fire seam, their lanterns gave a paltry glow that seemed to be mocked by the darkness of the canyon.

“I don’t like this,” Connor muttered. Nothing about the journey had been hospitable, but in the darkness, the canyon seemed ominous.

“We’ve got to make camp,” Verran said. “For all we know, there could be a huge cliff in front of us, and we wouldn’t know it until we fell off it, it’s so dark.”

“We can’t stop here,” Blaine said, “it’s too exposed. We need to move farther back in the canyon, away from the fire.”

“Give them a little more time,” Kestel admonished. “Then we’ll worry about making camp.” She approached the huddled group and laid a hand on Zaryae’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

Zaryae drew a shuddering breath and nodded, unable to speak. Borya was weeping, but Desya remained dry-eyed, his expression filled with suppressed rage.

Blaine moved up behind Kestel. “We’re all sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “And when we get through this, you and the twins are welcome to make Glenreith your home if you wish. But now, we need to move on.”

Zaryae nodded and linked arms with Borya, who seemed to be supporting her weight as they began to walk. The group drew closer together, watchful of the cliff sides as they started forward.

A crossbow thud echoed in the canyon, and a quarrel slammed into Desya’s shoulder hard enough to spin him to the side before he collapsed. Zaryae screamed and would have run to him, but Borya held her back as three more shots laid down a line not to be crossed.

“Show yourselves!” Blaine shouted, moving to the fore.

An instant later, lanterns were unshuttered, and they saw a force of at least fifteen armed men, crossbows nocked and ready, blocking the path. A tall man with an unpleasant expression stepped forward.

“You are trespassing. You do not belong here. Now, you will die.”

V
edran Pollard’s horse reared as he brought his sword down hard on the infantryman to his right, cleaving the man from the shoulder through the ribs. The night sky was filled with torchlight and smoke as two forces faced each other at the base of the Riven Mountains.

Pollard’s mood was darker than usual. He lay about with his sword, slicing his way through the motley assembly of army survivors who had followed Niklas Theilsson home from the Meroven front. They stood little chance against Pollard’s contingent of nearly two hundred men, even if Lanyon Penhallow had brought a dozen or more
talishte
with him.

The battleground stank of blood and offal. Few of Theilsson’s men were mounted, which meant that Pollard’s small cavalry was at a distinct advantage. Pollard led the charge against the foot soldiers, with his own infantry closing ranks behind him. Thanks to Reese, Pollard had
talishte
of his own in the field, moving with deadly swiftness among the poorly armed soldiers.

Hoofbeats sounded, coming hard and fast. Pollard’s attention snapped to the man on horseback riding toward him with single-minded focus, sword raised in challenge. His mood, already grim, grew blacker as he recognized Lanyon Penhallow.

While Penhallow lost the advantage of
talishte
speed for his attack astride a horse, he forfeited none of that edge in the series of sword blows he rained down on Pollard. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” Penhallow said, bringing his sword down hard against Pollard’s blade. “You’ve made yourself extremely inconvenient.”

“So now you’re McFadden’s bodyguard?” Pollard returned, parrying the blow although it took his full strength to do so. Sparring with Reese had conditioned him to fighting a
talishte
, but it still required exceptional focus to track the faster-than-mortal movements, and despite his own skill as a swordsman, it put the odds against him.

“More like his vermin killer,” Penhallow said, scoring a nasty gash in Pollard’s shoulder. “Call your troops off. You won’t win.”

Pollard laughed and blocked another strike. “That outcome is very much up for debate.”

Penhallow prepared for another onslaught, but just as he was about to strike, two of Reese’s
talishte
warriors appeared behind Penhallow astride war steeds. They attacked in tandem, drawing off Penhallow, as Pollard carefully backed his horse away from the skirmish.

“I’ll leave you to my friends, Lanyon. Of course, it’s not too late to change sides,” he added with a laugh.

Penhallow cursed, but whether it was intended for Pollard or for his new assailants, Pollard did not know and did not care. He spurred his horse in the other direction, intent on rejoining the fight.

Pollard spotted Nilo across the field and fought his way through the tangle of soldiers and horses to reach him. Nilo and a small contingent were battling a nearly equal number of Theilsson’s soldiers. What the enemy soldiers lacked in armor or supplies, they made up for with sheer determination, and they were giving Nilo and his men a fair fight. Pollard rode in, taking out his frustration at Penhallow on the soldiers in his way. Within minutes, the enemy soldiers had been killed or had fled for their lives. Nilo directed his men toward a new target and turned toward Pollard.

“Where in Raka are the additional troops?” Pollard demanded. “They should have been here before this.”

Nilo shook his head. “Not here, that’s for certain.”

Pollard cursed. “I want to break through the line and get men into the pass. They can still pick up McFadden’s trail.”

Nilo looked at him askance. “You believe McFadden is actually going to find Valshoa?”

Pollard glowered. “I believe McFadden is going to find a place of power where he’ll make an attempt to bring back magic, as he did at Mirdalur. And when he does, I want our men in place to capture him or kill him, if necessary. Whoever controls McFadden holds the fate of magic. That’s the kind of bargaining chip I like.”

Nilo’s eyes narrowed as he looked out across the battlefield. For now, the fighting had shifted west. “We’ve got the advantage in numbers,” he said. “I think we can break the enemy line if we use a wedge formation, drive at the center of the line, and use our
talishte
fighters on each flank. They don’t have the resources to withstand that kind of concentrated assault.”

“I like that,” Pollard said, nodding. “Make it happen.”

Nilo mustered his commanders and shouted orders, rallying his men. The enemy troops sensed a change, and Pollard could hear the sound of distant voices preparing for an assault. From his vantage point on a small rise, Pollard could see across the plain toward the mountains, where Theilsson massed his soldiers. Pollard had made certain to have enough
talishte
fighters to eliminate the danger that Penhallow’s men would try their firebombing trick again.

Penhallow will be lucky to survive the battle
, Pollard thought.
We’ll sweep McFadden’s pathetic little army out of the way and end this farce. Lord Reese will be very pleased, and we will be one step closer to our goal.

Theilsson’s army formed a line blocking the entrance to the mountain pass. Trumpets blared, and Pollard’s army surged forward, hammering that line with brute force. Outnumbered, the enemy held firm, but even at a distance, Pollard could see that Theilsson’s position was becoming untenable. When the line broke, Nilo’s men ran for the pass and the trumpeters sounded their horns in victory as the enemy army retreated in disarray.

We’ll have McFadden before the night is over
, Pollard thought, smiling.
And when I’m through here, I’ll make sure the backbone of any resistance movement McFadden was planning to lead is utterly broken.

“Lord Pollard! Sir!” A voice shouted from behind him. Pollard turned his horse to see a runner coming from the direction of their camp.

“What is it?” Pollard snapped, unwilling to miss a moment of Nilo’s glorious rout.

“Sir, there are troops coming from the rear. A large force, headed this way.”

Pollard glowered. “Commander Britt is late. I assure you he’ll pay for disobeying orders. He should have been here yesterday —”

“Sir!” the messenger interrupted, and Pollard looked down ill-humoredly at the interruption.

“What?”

“They’re not our troops.”

“W
e’re here at the invitation of Vigus Quintrel,” Blaine countered, defiant despite the leveled crossbows. “Take us to him. He called us here.”

The leader of the group stared in silence at Blaine for a moment, deciding. “Surrender your weapons. We’ll take you to the Quorum, and they’ll decide.”

Blaine nodded for the others to lay down their weapons. Given how well armed the group had been, this took a few moments and was regarded with raised eyebrows by many in the ‘welcoming’ group.

“You don’t appear to come for peaceful reasons,” the speaker observed.

“We’ve got some powerful enemies,” Blaine replied, his mood dark. After losing Illarion and a grueling day cheating the traps of the Guardians, he thought, being taken hostage capped off a miserable journey.

“Bind their wrists,” the speaker said. He returned his attention to Blaine as men from the mob went to do his bidding. “Fight us, and we’ll kill you without bothering with the Quorum. Many have tried to reach Valshoa and have lied about their purpose. If you aren’t who you claim to be, none of your group will leave this place.”

“Heal my companion,” Blaine demanded as one of the soldiers tied his wrists with rope.

The man looked down at him with grim amusement. “You’re hardly in a position to give orders.”

“Quintrel invited us here. We have a passage token from the Knights of Esthrane. What will they say when they learn you’ve murdered one of my companions?” Blaine challenged.

The commander stared at Blaine for a moment as if taking his measure. Finally, he turned. “Rillen,” he called to one of the men who stood guarding Blaine’s group. “Bind up the wound. We’ll get him a healer when we reach the city.”

“Who is your Quorum?” Blaine’s voice was defiant. “It’s Quintrel we’re here to see and the Knights of Esthrane.” Their captors did not bother to answer.

They waited while Rillen crossed to where Desya lay and broke off the quarrel, leaving a portion of the shaft embedded in his shoulder. Kestel and Zaryae reached for their packs to get to their medicinal herbs, but the guards warned them back. Blaine knew that withdrawing the arrow without proper preparation could make Desya bleed out, but the sight of the quarrel protruding from the skin still made his gut tighten. Rillen packed and bound the wound and then straightened. “That’s all I can do for him here.”

“Thank you,” Blaine said, an undercurrent of anger still clear in his voice. “But it wasn’t necessary to shoot him in the first place.”

One of the men bent to lift Desya in his arms. He groaned. In the lantern light, Blaine could see a spreading stain where the quarrel had pierced Desya’s shoulder.

“Just take us to Vigus Quintrel,” Blaine said, tamping down his anger. “He’s the one who brought us here.”

It took another half a candlemark to reach the back of the canyon. They passed through a narrow cavern entrance and took a route through passageways so complicated that Blaine knew he could never find his way out unassisted. Their captors did not seem to need any markers to keep their bearings. Lanterns were the only light, and several in their group stumbled in the rough passageways.

Cooler air signaled that they were near an exit. Blaine’s minders shoved him out of the cave and into the moonlight. Before them stretched a valley filled with a city of stone. Blaine could see the shadowed outlines of hundreds of buildings, and the ruins of many more. Valshoa had once been a city of the size of Castle Reach, and despite the devastation, it was possible to imagine its former grandeur. Lights glowed in only a fraction of the buildings, and Blaine wondered if the other structures were habitable, or if the Knights and mage-scholars who had sought refuge here had not yet reclaimed more of Valshoa’s lost glory.

“This way,” the leader said, heading down the slope toward the city.

Moonlight was sufficient to gain a better idea of the lost city as they drew closer. Many of the ruins lacked upper floors or roofs. Some were nothing more than the footprint of a foundation. Yet at least a third of the houses Blaine could see looked livable. They walked along what had once been a wide boulevard. Now, its paving stones were pocked by wear, and debris littered the gutters.

Their arrival drew attention, and as they made their way through the streets, a crowd followed. Bound and under guard, Blaine could not shake the memory of a similar walk, when he had left the dungeons of King Merrill and been paraded with the other criminals to the convict ship that would take him to Edgeland. It was a memory he did not care to relive, and he hoped it was not an omen.

Finally, the leader stopped in front of one of the largest buildings still standing. It looked as if it had once been a place of official business, a court or royal office, with large columns and wide stairs leading up to massive wooden doors.

“In here,” Blaine’s captor said, giving him a push for emphasis.

Blaine glared but did not reply. Instead, he focused on their surroundings, trying to assess every detail for some clue as to their likelihood to survive. Inside the huge doors was a large gallery, and the walls were ringed by balconies on each of three stories. Whatever the building’s original purpose, it was clear at a glance that it was now a library.

“You will wait,” the man said, stopping midway across the gallery.

Blaine studied the room. The building was old and weathered, and the tiled stone floor had clearly seen a lot of traffic. Several bookshelves looked like recent additions, cobbled together out of necessity rather than crafted by cabinetmakers. Rough tables and chairs gave the impression that squatters had overrun an abandoned palace.
And to an extent, that’s what happened
, Blaine thought.
First the Knights of Esthrane, then Quintrel and his followers. They moved in and made the best of it.

A gray-cloaked figure approached from the back of the gallery. The figure stopped, and the leader of the men who had taken Blaine’s group captive stepped forward.

“Scholar,” he said. “These trespassers were found at the end of the fourth Guardian. One has been shot. What shall be done with them?”

Blaine shouldered forward, heedless of his keepers. “Vigus Quintrel called us here. I have a passage token from Nidhud of the Knights of Esthrane. I am the last Lord of the Blood, and we’ve come to see if magic can be restored.”

The gray-cloaked figure lowered its hood to reveal a woman with the close-cropped red hair of a sworn scholar. “I know who you are.”

For a moment, Blaine could not breathe. Despite the scholar’s robes and the short hair, Blaine recognized her. Carensa, his onetime betrothed, thought lost in the wreckage of her father’s manor at Rhystorp. He stared at her as if she were a ghost, and his mouth went dry. Before he could speak, Carensa turned to their captors.

“Cut their bonds, and take them to the gathering room. Get a healer for the wounded man, and next time, have a care about who you shoot,” she said with a hard look at the commander, who bowed his head in acknowledgement of her censure. “See that they have food and drink. They’re honored guests and have been expected.” She gave Blaine an evaluating gaze that he could not decipher. “Master Vigus and I will join them shortly.” With that, Carensa turned and strode back the way she came.

The soldiers cut the leather straps that bound their wrists. “This way,” the leader said grudgingly.

The gathering room was only slightly smaller than the main gallery. It looked to be capable of holding a large crowd. A fire burned in the fireplace at one side of the room, and over the mantel Blaine saw a crest that by now had become familiar: the shield and diagonal blue stripe of the Knights of Esthrane. A man carried Desya to a small couch near the fire and laid him on the cushions.

“Our healer will be here very soon,” he said, refusing to meet their gaze and looking more contrite than Blaine would have imagined possible. “We didn’t shoot to kill.”

Zaryae rushed to kneel beside the couch and fumbled for the herbs and potions she carried in her pack. She folded Desya’s hand in hers. Borya stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, but said nothing. Kestel took the herbs and conferred quietly with Zaryae, then moved to the table to begin preparing something to staunch the bleeding and ease Desya’s pain.

“Who was the woman scholar?” Piran asked. “She looked at you as if she knew you.”

“That was Carensa,” Blaine said, still in shock.

Piran raised an eyebrow. “
Your
Carensa? Your betrothed?”

The others turned to look at Blaine. Kestel was watching him with an unreadable expression. Blaine felt his face redden. “After nearly seven years, she’s no longer ‘my’ Carensa,” he said. “I released her from the betrothal when I was exiled. Aunt Judith said she’d married and then disappeared in the Great Fire.”

He paused. “Judith also said that Carensa rebelled against her father’s wishes to study with the scholars. Her husband didn’t seem to mind, and Judith said she seemed to have passion for little else.” He grimaced. “Her husband and son died in the Great Fire. She’s probably not the only one to take advantage of an opportunity to disappear and start over.”

They turned as the door through which they had come opened. Several gray-robed scholars entered bearing platters with bread and meat and pitchers of water and wine. Another scholar went directly to where Desya lay and began to unpack potions and small bottles of elixir from a bag on her shoulder. Kestel and Zaryae offered their assistance, and the healer put them to work.

“Eat, and then the others will return to talk.” The speaker was a man whom Blaine guessed to be in his late thirties, with dark hair and brown eyes. He had an intelligent look, although he seemed hesitant in their presence. The other scholars did not speak, but they eyed the newcomers with open curiosity.

“Were you mages?” Blaine asked. “The mages Quintrel helped to disappear?”

The man looked away. “I was both a scholar and a mage before the Cataclysm. Not long before the fires came, Master Quintrel persuaded me to leave the city and come to this sanctuary.” He nodded toward the others. “That’s true for all of us.”

“And the Knights of Esthrane?” Pirran asked. “Are they here as well?”

The man looked uncomfortable. “The Knights keep to themselves, for the most part, but they allowed Master Quintrel to bring us here, and they protect what’s left of the knowledge we were able to save from the fires.”

Kestel gave the man her most winning smile. “You’re so isolated. How do you feed yourselves?”

The man blushed at her attention. “The canyon entrance is deceiving. Behind the city is a valley good for farming and small herds. The Valshoans tended the lands until they died, and the Knights maintained the herds to give them a source of blood. Master Quintrel had been preparing for our arrival some time before the fires. The first to take refuge here replanted the gardens and tended the vineyards and orchards. There aren’t many of us, so it doesn’t take a lot to sustain us.

“Please,” he said gesturing toward the food. “You’ve had a long journey. Refresh yourselves. Master Quintrel will be in to see you soon.”

“How is Desya?” Kestel asked, looking toward the healer. Desya was pale, but his chest rose and fell in deep breaths, and he appeared to be sleeping.

“Your friend will live,” the healer replied. She wiped Desya’s blood from her hands on a towel from her bag. “It could have been far worse.”

“It’s plenty bad enough,” Borya muttered.

“He’ll need rest, and he won’t pull a bow or wield a sword with that arm for a while, but there should be no permanent damage.” She paused. “If I can convince one of our
talishte
to help, would you accept his healing to speed the recovery?”

“Of course,” Zaryae replied.

“Thank you,” Blaine said, meeting the healer’s gaze.

The healer gave a wry smile. “We caused the damage. I’ve just put things right.” She followed the other scholars from the room.

“Bit of a switch, isn’t it?” Dawe remarked when the scholars had gone. “We got from ‘We’re going to kill you’ to ‘Have a bite and take a load off’ within a candlemark.”

Verran plopped down in a chair by the food. “I much prefer being fed to being killed,” he said and took a roll and piece of meat. “And I have to say, after all this, I’m rather curious about this Quintrel fellow.” He took a bite from the roasted meat and poured himself a cup of wine. “At least he’s real. I’d have hated to come all this way to find out he was just a story someone made up.”

“Oh, he’s real enough,” Connor muttered.

“Do you think you can raise the magic here?” Dawe asked and looked at Blaine.

Zaryae answered, “There was great power here, before the Fire. I can feel it.” She shivered and wrapped her colorful shawls tightly around her. “Now the power is wild. If the magic can be harnessed at all, it could be bound here. I’m sure of it.”

Blaine shrugged. “We’re here, and we have the disks, the maps – and my blood. Let’s hope it’s enough.”

They ate with little conversation, and Blaine guessed they felt the same grief and apprehension that gnawed at his stomach. Illarion’s death cast a shadow over all of them. Borya especially was struggling, and Blaine guessed that he blamed himself for being the cause. Zaryae tried to comfort Borya and tend to Desya, but sorrow was clear in her face and she looked near collapse.