Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (11 page)

Ovelia nodded. “Hope never dies.”

The shop’s proprietor glared at them in suspicion, and Regel made placating gestures to show him they meant no harm. Ovelia contemplated the marking. For all she had known, Garin Ravalis and his band of insurgents were long dead, but if they still worked to undermine the Children’s control...

“What?” Regel had returned from bargaining with the machinist who owned the shop. He had bought nothing, of course, but it seemed they could stand here unmolested. “What are you thinking?”

“Perhaps Luether is not as lost as it seems,” Ovelia said.

Regel looked unconvinced. “Tell that to Blood Vultara. Hope is their curse.”

“Vultara,” Ovelia said. The name was a curse in Tar Vangr: the Blood traitors who betrayed the Ravalis twenty years ago and opened the gates to the Children. “You cannot mean they still live.”

“A few of them,” Regel said. “When Pervast crowned himself, he rewarded the loyalty of Blood Vultara by giving their patriarchs to the Narfire. To this day he chooses a few among the heirs for his bed and disposes of the others—gives them to his lieutenants or flings them from high-city.”

“All this in punishment for failing to capture Lenalin and Paeter before they fled the city?” Ovelia shivered. “How do you know this?”

“I was there. I saw the bodies flying from the rocks.”

Ovelia remembered that awful day—her second and final visit to Luether. She’d lost her father that day, and almost Lenalin too. On that day, she’d sworn never to allow weakness to stay her hand. She was thankful she’d not seen the Children’s reprisals.

“Hope is a torment for the Vultara,” Regel said. “Every day, the few of the Blood that live hold out hope to one day overcome the Children, but every night, they sleep in the same prison. If they had no hope, at least they would not feel that pain.”

Ovelia might have replied, but shadows whispered around the hilt of Draca, and she focused on that. She could not very well draw the sword to examine its warning, so she had to heighten her awareness and find the danger herself. The proprietor was looking at her very directly, and the single other patron picked his teeth as he stared at her. His was an ugly face, obscurred by a web of scarred and melted flesh from his forehead to his left cheek, and his eyes twinkled with lustful malevolence that made her skin tickle. Her heart picked up its pace.

“Ovelia.” Regel had detected something amiss. “What—”

“We have to go.” The street seemed deserted of a sudden. “We have to—“

It was then she heard the monster roar as it loomed over her. She thought it a dragon of legend, its threshing claws rending through the street for any foolish enough to cross its path. It whirred and clanked, billowing steam and smoke in equal measure. One appendage, spinning with blades, reached toward her, and Ovelia managed to throw herself back to keep from being torn to pieces.

She reached for her sword, but Regel took her by the arm and dragged her out of its path. As Ovelia watched, the horrific machine rolled past them, its bladed hands plucking up corpses and other detritus. They panted in the alley.

“Old Gods, what was that?” Ovelia asked.

“A street thresher,” Regel said. “The Ravalis used them to sweep the streets clean. When the Children took Luether, they added the blades. I suppose they still fulfill their purpose.” He touched her forehead. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I—”

How could she explain her sudden outburst? That she had feared the ugly man’s attack, or that she feared what she would do given another moment of such scrutiny?

The scene in the street had drawn attention to them. Many of the men and women around them bore the marks of the Children of Ruin: vicious scars, artless tattoos drawn with as much blood as ink, and shards of metal thrust through their cheeks, lips, and brow. Each of these told its own story: each tattoo was a felled foe, and each piercing came from broken bits of an enemy’s arms or armor.

One man in particular seemed to be watching them since the mechanical dragon had passed. He wore two dagger shards stretching his lips into a rectangular distortion, and his yellowed and filed teeth turned his mouth into a pit studded with spikes. This Child wore a rusty war gauntlet, the blades of which clicked. He chuckled in time. Ovelia thought he looked familiar, and she realized she had glimpsed him at the dock as well. It unnerved her.

“We should get off the road,” Regel said.

Ovelia nodded and tried not to look at their gape-mouthed pursuer.

Regel bought passage in one of the mechanized carriages the city was known for, and they rode in its cramped, hot interior along the burned out streets. At least there was privacy here in the carriage.

Just north of the market they rode past a massive crane, which shuddered to life as they watched. Such contraptions lifted and lowered folk between the two levels of a mage-city. This one bore only a minor load: half a dozen folk and a small carriage. Looking up, Ovelia didn’t see many folk walking up on the pink glass streets of high-city anyway.

As they rode, Ovelia realized that what was beginning to decay in Tar Vangr was already destroyed in Luether. Gone were the palaces, dazzling parks, and cobbled streets—gone were the theaters and vast marketplaces and halls of worship. These buildings had been stripped bare and converted into foundries and smithies that bruised the sky with their smoke. Gutted holdfasts and towers lurched precariously, ready to crash down any moment.

“Why would they burn the buildings?” Ovelia murmured. “Is that not dangerous to all?

“The masters of Luether punish at whim,” he said, “whether justified or no.”

The carriage rolled to a halt, its metal wheels crunching over what sounded like glass.

“Why would we stop?” Ovelia asked.

“Hold,” Regel said, but she climbed out anyway.

The carriage driver was long gone. Ovelia saw him hurrying back in the opposite direction. She reached for her sword, ready for an attack, but Regel appeared at her side and held her wrist.

A trumpeting groan surrounded them, momentarily cutting off speech. Ovelia looked around for the source of the awful sound. Nearby, a broken-down building slumped like a gutted giant while desperate folk picked its bones for usable metal or wood. Long shards of cracked pink glass studded the cobbles stones like a rosy forest.

“Broken glass.” Regel looked up toward high-city. “Get back in the carriage.”

“What do you mean?” Ovelia sensed danger, but she couldn’t say from what. The shadows around Draca were huge and flat, like a shield or a plateau. And—

From high above, there came a great groan and screech of metal. Far overhead, a great wedge of splintering crystal, twenty paces wide and twice as long, quaked on its supports. That was the firmament upon which Luether’s high-city stood. A piece of the city was quite literally collapsing before her eyes.

“Old Gods of our fathers.” Ovelia’s eyes widened. “Regel, we have to help.”

“And do what?”

Up on the glass plate, she saw figures of men—seeming like ants at this distance—scurrying away from the broken wedge as it shivered and dipped. Then with one last, mournful cry of torn steel, the plate wrenched free of the last of its supports and fell.

There was a moment of weightless terror.

Then the plate crashed into the city below not a hundred paces ahead of them, with a thunderous roar of shattering stone. Regel stepped in front of Ovelia, shielding her as a wave of fetid air and smoke blew past them, sending their cloaks billowing backward. His arms encircled her, and she inclined her face to his, away from the destruction.

The explosion stole sound from the world and replaced it with ringing silence.

When Regel and Ovelia unveiled their faces, they saw the chaos that lay ahead of them in the street. Cries of pain and terror rose to the sky, and Regel saw bodies moving amongst the rubble—frantically clawing to free themselves, or twitching as death claimed them.

“Dust and shadow,” Regel said. “None of us are more or less.” He held out his hand. “Come. We’ll go around.”

“We have to
do
something,” she insisted. “Regel!”

“We will,” he said. “We’ll kill Mask.”

“But they need us,” Ovelia said. “Mask can wait. We can help.”

“Killing Mask requires that we live.” He gestured to the destroyed swath of low-city, crushed by a shattered swath of high-city. “If we enter that chaos, we might make a difference, but the Children will find us—that, or another collapse will kill us. One way or another, we die.”

Ovelia pulled. “We can’t just turn away.”

“This city belongs to Ruin.” Regel grasped her hand. “We will do as we must.”

Ovelia relented. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right.

“I—” Pain stabbed her belly, and Ovelia groaned. What had she eaten? “We should press on. I took rooms—”

Then her senses lit up. Draca spoke to her, and she knew the danger that would befall before it did. She swallowed the pain in her gut and looked behind them, to where shadowed men emerged from the alleys.

An ambush.

Eight

W
hen Ovelia touched her
belly and looked uncomfortable, Regel cursed silently. Since the docks, he’d had no chance to give her any of the antidote. It would have to be soon, clearly, or this whole errand would prove vain. They would have to find refuge, for if they fell under attack while she was weakened...

Too late.

A change swept over Ovelia’s face that Regel instantly recognized. She drew her sword halfway from its scabbard and looked at the flames leaking from its blade. “You expected this,” she said.

“It seemed inevitable.” He’d hoped to delay it, though. Fight on ground of his choosing.

Regel turned to see six men with warcasters fanning out behind them. One even had a repeating caster that whined mechanically and leaked a thin trail of thamaturgical smoke. A discreet cough from behind the ranks called their attention to Captain Fersi himself. He was fingering a large coin purse at his belt—the one Regel had left in his cabin on the ship.

“Tell me,” the captain said. “Did you sabotage the loader arm yourself, or have her do it? It might even have worked, had I not had this one follow you. Goodman Nashar—or perhaps it is
Ruinman,
no?”

“Gnasher.” The Child of Ruin with the pit-like mouth they had seen earlier emerged, war gauntlet at the ready. Though he could not show a smile, the man’s eyes danced with bloody mirth. He clacked his filed teeth and spoke in a broken, guttural voice. “I’s
Gnasher
.”

“I misspeak,” Fersi said. “Apologies.”

The other attackers were Fersi’s crew, and for that Regel was grateful. Involving even one Child of Ruin would make talking his way free of this difficult.

“You have your coin,” Regel said. “Would you dishonor our agreement?”

“Certainly not.” The captain offered his customary solicitous smile and spread his hands. “But we are through, you and I, and now I make a new bargain. This with the Ruin King. Or did you not know you are proscribed in Luether, Regel the Oathbreaker?”

The words elicited a few nervous murmurs, but they faded away when the Ruinman Gnasher stepped forward and spoke in his rasping voice. “I’s honored to spill the blood of the hero Frostburn.” He gave Regel a mocking bow. “I wear your steel over my heart when it done.”

“Wish I had your reputation,” Ovelia murmured, her words dry.

“It’s a blessing every day,” Regel replied in kind.

Gnasher’s beady eyes flicked to Ovelia. “Is your boy, Frostburn—or is woman? Either way, I take it, I do.” His split tongue waggled between his yellowed teeth. Ovelia bristled.

Regel put his hands to the hilts of his swords. “Walk away,” he said. “All of you.”

“You men saw us on the deck,” Ovelia added, her temper hot in the clipped words. “If you remain, your blood is on your own hands.”

Again, they hesitated, but Gnasher’s fearsome presence meant they could not back down.

“Kill the Ruinman,” Regel said, “and they’ll break.”

“Or we’ll die,” Ovelia said.

“Not yet,” Regel said. “Not until Mask.”

“Bring them.” Captain Fersi turned away. “Undamaged, if possible.”

Casters took aim, Gnasher loosed a cry of challenge, and swords sang free of their scabbards. Ovelia furrowed her brow, then clasped her hands to her ears and tackled Regel aside. The move startled him so that he almost struck back in retaliation. Why would she betray him now?

Then something small flew into the midst and burst in blinding light, like a star suddenly given life. The violent flash dazzled Regel, and he heard only wet murmurs in place of screams from their attackers, along with a loud, high-pitched keen that cut through his head like a burning casterbolt. All around him, sailors writhed and held their heads in panicked agony. He realized what had happened: an alchemical grenade, one that had affected him only in passing but struck them fully.

Regel did not know who had thrown the device, but he and Ovelia would certainly die if they didn’t take advantage. He drew his swords as the dazzled soldiers began firing their casters in a hot cacophony. Regel parried a bolt aside, and the others missed by at least a hand’s breadth. At his side, Ovelia had stepped out of the path of fire. She didn’t seem to have been affected by the blast, having sensed it coming and prepared herself.

He felt more than saw Ovelia charge into the thick of their attackers and followed suit, closing the distance before the sailors could recover and train their casters again. The poor, mind-scattered bastards had no close combat weapons other than their spent casters. Regel cut forward: one sword rang off a caster while the other found flesh, drawing a hiss of pain. He felt Ovelia at his back, hard and sleek, and they fought in tandem.

“Dancing Deer,” she shouted, and Regel grunted his agreement. He followed along as she feinted twice, then struck twice and dropped an unseen opponent to the grimy cobblestones.

They surged together in the filthy alley, cutting and guarding and killing. His blades found throats and gaps in boiled leather and soft spots where they could draw lifeblood. But more importantly, Regel and Ovelia fought well
together
, even after so many years. The fight on the ship had reminded his mind of her steps, but his body still knew them with perfection. They slaughtered their opponents like butchers who had plied their trade for decades.

A big shadow descended and Gnasher roared in his face, driving Regel back. The barbarian’s war gauntlet raked in from the side and tore the air where Regel had been standing. A Child of Ruin would make no easy prey, as the hapless sailors had.

He pressed his back against Ovelia’s reassuring frame. “Raking Tiger,” he said, or perhaps shouted. Hearing was returning gradually, but it was still hard to understand himself.

Ovelia took a step backward as Regel danced forward and slashed twice. His sword bit deep into tough flesh, and Gnasher cried out in pain. Then they spun, and Ovelia dealt Gnasher’s hasty defense a withering blow with
Draca
that made his war gauntlet groan in protest. Regel and Ovelia stayed in balance—stayed together.

And before Regel knew otherwise, it was over.

The world stopped shivering, the whine died away, and Regel’s senses stabilized. Four of the sailors were down: two of them unmoving and the other two coughing their way into death. Casterbolts protruded out of two of these unfortunates, placed with accuracy that said the shooters hadn’t been blinded in the least by the grenade. Gnasher lay unmoving in a pool of blood, with two bolts protruding from his back and a gaping sword wound in his side. The two remaining sailors knelt, hands up, weapons tossed to the dust.

Captain Fersi had fallen to one knee, a casterbolt through his thigh. “It was only about the coin,” he said, his tone perplexed.

“I understand.” A cloaked man with a viciously hooked warpick stood over Fersi. Regel couldn’t see what the cowl hid except for two bright emerald eyes that caught the fading light. “Get up.”

“Aye, Fox of Luether.” Fersi rose, wincing. “What passes now?”

“Kill him,” said another of the cloaked figures—a young man with a high-pitched voice who held a dagger at the throat of a kneeling soldier. “Death to the foes of Summer.”

“Hold, Alcarin.” The cloaked man held up a hand to stay him. He turned partially toward them, and his fine teeth glittered. Such fine teeth—and a smile to match—marked no mere bandit but a noble.

The young man—Alcarin—looked to Regel and Ovelia. He was a beautiful youth with dark, long-lashed eyes and full lips, but there was nothing soft about his dangerous expression. There was challenge in his stance, and Regel tensed. Perhaps the battle was not ended after all.

The leader of the cloaked warriors addressed Captain Fersi once more. “You’ve done your last bargain in my city.” He brought down his warpick and the captain fell back with a cry. When he looked up, however, he bore only a tiny cut on his cheek.

“Was that necessary?” The captain touched at the blood. “I detest bleeding.”

The cloaked man gestured to the oily edge of his pick. Then, as Fersi’s eyes widened, he smiled halfway. “No fear, pirate,” he said. “This toxin takes time to do its work... but when it does, forever after the Narfire-touched air of this city will become death to your lungs.” He looked up at the sun to estimate the time. “I suggest you flee this place, before such an unfortunate event occurs.”

“How very rude.” Fersi flinched from the man’s warpick. “Rude, but fair.”

“Wait.” The cloaked man indicated Fersi’s coin pouch and looked to Regel. “Yours?”

Regel nodded.

He drew it away from the captain’s belt, cut it free, and tossed it to land at Regel’s feet.

“Take your ship and go,” he said to Fersi. “Return to Luether when you are ready to swear allegiance to the Blood of Summer once again, and perhaps I’ll offer you an antidote.”

Fersi’s lips spread in a cruel smile. “Best fortune upon you, my lord.”

The captain hobbled away, grasping the casterbolt in his leg. The captain’s remaining sailors followed. The leader of the cloaked men watched, his warpick held casually at his side. He smiled, and deep dimples spread around his lips. “Regel, is it?” he asked. “I think you are the Lord of Tears himself. A pleasure.”

“Yes.” Sword raised, Regel stepped in front of Ovelia. “And now?”

Ovelia stood easy behind him, but he had no sword to warn him of peril. There were five of them, including the leader with the warpick, and they looked far deadlier than Fersi and his thugss.

“Garin!” Alcarin gestured out toward the main street, where the remainder of Fersi’s crew had gone. The commotion would certainly bring curious onlookers, and possibly more Children of Ruin. “Master, we cannot be seen here.”

The leader hung his warpick on his belt. “Take care, Lord of Tears. Who can say how many Fersi told of your identity, or how long you might remain hidden? This city is not forgiving of heroes.”

As Regel and Ovelia breathed deep of the smoky air, the rebels slunk away as quickly as they had come. Regel listened for sounds of reinforcements, but there were none. Ovelia seemed to be staring after where their leader had vanished, a look of contemplation on her face.

“Garin Ravalis?” Regel asked.

“That—” Ovelia blinked and shook herself. “Yes. That was him.”

“The prince in rebellion.” Regel nodded slowly. “I thought he’d be dead by now.”

“Apparently not.” Ovelia grimaced.

“Your shoulder?” Regel asked.

“Nausea. From the journey, no doubt.” Ovelia clutched her stomach. “I’ll never be a sailor.”

Regel nodded. He had asked the question, but he knew the truth. He needed to get her that antidote.

People were starting to gather at the end of the alley, drawn by curiosity. Battle in Luether was common, and equally predictable was the flock of vultures that descended to collect what they could from the dead. Wheezing emerged from the fallen Gnasher, who was starting to move.

“Frostburn,” he said, voice bubbling. “Frost—”

“Regel.” Ovelia nodded toward the Child of Ruin, pity on her face. “Shouldn’t we—?”

“We go.” Regel bent to reclaim his purse and turned away, leaving Gnasher bleeding and choking.

He pushed his way through the crowd. Ovelia lingered to look at the dying barbarian, but she hurried to catch him up within two breaths.

* * *

“Frostburn...”

Bleeding out onto the chipped cobblestones, the mouth-scarred Child of Ruin lunged at the crowd of slack-jawed onlookers that bore witness to his impending death. Mostly, they were the beaten down masses of Luether, but here and there stood a fellow Child, marked by a scarred face and a wicked smile at Gnasher’s distress. One stood laughing low to herself through filed teeth, heedless of the thin ribbon of drool hung down her chin. None approached the deformed man, however; they seemed content to wait until he breathed his last. Gnasher’s body was dying, but he remained fearsome even so.

That, Davargorn could respect, even if he found the sight a bit pitiful.

A small creature emerged out of the alley, one that paid no heed to the customs of Luether: a fox. Life on the ruinous streets of a dying city had rotted chunks of fur away from its mangy body, and a thousand alley fights had scarred it badly, including one dead eye. And yet it struggled on, heedless of any of the Children of Ruin who eyed it hungrily, and made its way to Gnasher’s boot, which it promptly began to chew. The Child kicked at it, but the fox simply retreated to let him miss, then attacked again.

Davargorn admired such courage. In his eyes, it placed the fox on a higher level than the dying barbarian. He activated his boots, surrounding him with swirls of black smoke as he rose into the air.

The fox’s example spurred the other onlookers forward, and they took shaky steps toward Gnasher. The slavering barbarian woman came first, filed teeth clicking in anticipation of a fine meal.

Davargorn alighted between her and Gnasher, perched on his toes like a hunting cat. His cloak swirled around him, its edge glinting like polished steel. The woman hesitated.

He gave her no warning. She would heed none, and he would only look weak if he tried.

Davargorn whirled, snapping his cloak between them. The daughter of Ruin staggered back, clutching at the blood pouring from her throat. She gagged and burbled, her filed teeth clicking and biting at her tongue. Davargorn lunged through the air and kicked her down, then balanced upon her chest as she squirmed and died. He put his hand on the hilt of the sword at his belt.

“Another?” he asked the crowd.

His cracked voice crashed against the assembled Luethaar like a tidal wave breaking on the rocks—and the rocks crumbled. One man gasped as though he’d been struck a physical blow, and his nearest companions glared at his display of weakness. The crowd dispersed in a chorus of mutters and accusing stares. Davargorn smiled, though of course his bone mask hid his expression.

“An odd pairing,” he said. “A broken woman and the angel of death.”

Regel, who had once killed at the behest of the Winter King, was the finest slayer the Calatan Empire or its heirs had ever seen. And that was precisely what drove Davargorn: his need to strike down Regel and be the best. He shivered just thinking about it.