Reign of Ash (2 page)

They rode for half a candlemark, away from the direction they had come. They were going north, as close as Blaine could reckon from the sun. Away from Mirdalur, and no closer to Glenreith. The odds weren’t in their favor, despite the fact that Geir had escaped capture.

The wagon rolled into a camp of fighters, who regarded it with wary curiosity. Whoever’s army the archers represented, it was a motley one. From what Blaine could see, only about half the men had tents, and those were stained and patched. Many had only the shelter of lean-tos or pieces of canvas held up by posts.

“How many do you figure are out there?” Kestel asked.

“Too many,” Blaine replied.

The fighters’ camp was as hard worn as the men themselves. A hodgepodge of moveable structures greeted them. Cook fires dotted the encampment, and in the rear, Blaine spotted mud-spattered horses and several wagons. No doubt the fighters would be glad to gain use of the horses and wagons his group had brought with them.

When they reached the outskirts of the camp, their Glenreith bodyguards were directed into two tents ringed with guards. Blaine, Kestel, Piran, Dawe, and Verran were ushered to a large tent in the center of the camp. By the tent’s size, Blaine guessed it to be the captain’s, but if so, then the group’s leader was an ascetic. A bedroll lay to one side, and a small brazier in the middle did little to drive out the late autumn chill. A soldier’s satchel lay near the bedroll, and there was a small shrine to Charrot, Torven, and Esthrane at the foot of the bedding. Otherwise, the tent was empty.

“Wait here.” The young man who seemed to be the leader of the archers spoke in low tones to two of the fighters, who remained by the tent’s entrance. Then Blaine and his friends were left alone.

“Best odds we’re going to have,” Piran muttered. “Five against two.”

“And more than two score on the other side of the doorway,” Kestel replied in a whisper. “I knew you couldn’t read, but I thought you could do figures,” she added with a hint of a smile that softened her words.

Blaine sighed. “With luck, these men will see we’ve got no quarrel with them and let us go.”

“I’d put the odds of that as slim to nil,” Piran sighed. “If nothing else, they’ll want the horses. And maybe Kestel.”

Despite their situation, Kestel grinned. “Let ’em try,” she replied, palming a dagger from somewhere on her body.

“Shh,” Dawe warned as footsteps drew closer.

Muffled voices sounded outside the tent. One was the voice of the man who had brought them to the camp. The other voice, deeper and more mature, was muffled. The tent flap swung back and a tall man entered, flanked by two guards. The man was broad-shouldered, with short-cut, dark blonde hair. Several days’ worth of stubble shadowed gaunt, high cheekbones. He wore a woolen coat over what might have been gray uniform pants, and his clothes looked as if he had been roughing it for quite some time.

“My officer says he’s got a bunch of escaped convicts,” the man said, not bothering to look up as he entered. Then he lifted his head and stopped in his tracks, staring at Blaine.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he breathed, and his face had gone pale as a ghost.

“So are you,” Blaine responded, feeling as if he had been sucker punched. “Niklas?”

“Blaine McFadden died in Velant,” the man repeated, his voice just above a whisper. “That’s what we heard.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Blaine replied. “Although several people did their damnedest to make that happen.” He paused. “Aunt Judith said you’d died in the war.”

A crooked grin spread across the man’s face. “Sorry to disappoint,” he echoed. “We were on the front lines, and it’s been a damn long walk home.” He sobered and turned to one of the guards. “Cut their bonds. Bring me some food, get a healer for them, and fetch whatever ale you can find.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it, Lieutenant. I’ll take my chances with them.”

The soldier did as he was told. Blaine rubbed his wrists. “Does this mean we get our horses back?” he asked as the others looked between the two men, trying to figure out the sudden lurch in conversation.

Niklas laughed and stepped forward, extending a hand to Blaine and then folding him into a back-thumping embrace. “By Torven’s horns, Blaine. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“You know this bloke, Mick?” Piran asked warily.

Blaine nodded. “This is Niklas Theilsson. We grew up together. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember.”

Niklas gave Blaine a quizzical look. “You go by ‘Mick’ now?”

Blaine sighed. “I did in Velant. These are my mates from Edgeland.”

The look in Niklas’s blue eyes gave Blaine to guess the other was trying to put the pieces together. “Perhaps introductions are in order.”

“We met in Velant and survived because we had each other’s backs,” Blaine started, a slight note of challenge in his voice as if he expected judgment from Niklas. When their host said nothing, Blaine continued. “Verran Danning is a master locksmith and sometime minstrel,” he said, giving Verran’s thieving a quick cleanup. “Dawe Killick was a silversmith. Kestel Falke was a courtesan and an assassin.”

Kestel grinned. “It was the assassin part that got me my passage to Velant,” she said, a flash of warning in her eyes.

“And finally, Piran Rowse —”

Niklas interrupted with a chuckle. “I know Piran by reputation,” he said. “Your court-martial is still legendary.”

Blaine and the others turned to look at Piran. “Was there more to the story than you let on, Piran dear?” Kestel asked in her sweetest voice.

Piran reddened. “Might have been. No more than Mick here forgetting to tell his mates he’s a bleedin’ lord.”

Niklas swung an arm to indicate his nearly empty tent. “Please, have a seat. I think we have a lot to discuss.”

Blaine nodded to the others, and they sat cross-legged on the ground. Niklas brought a low, folding table and set it in front of them, then joined them. An aide returned with a pitcher of ale, a cloth filled with hard bread, sausage, cheese, and a variety of battered, military-issue tin cups. A healer followed him.

“This is Ordel, my battle healer,” Niklas said. “He’ll patch up the damage from the fight.” He turned to Ordel. “Blaine’s an old friend, and these are friends of his. Can you take a look at their injuries?”

If Ordel thought it strange that Niklas’s ‘old friend’ arrived bound and under guard, he made no comment. “Yes, sir,” he replied and turned to Blaine. “Let’s see the damage, and I’ll do my best to have you patched up in time for supper,” he said with a grin.

“Thank you,” Blaine said, looking to both Niklas and Ordel. They were silent for the time it took Ordel to see to their wounds, and then the healer straightened and looked to Niklas.

“Nothing too serious,” Ordel said. “They should be fine in a few days.” Niklas nodded his thanks, and the healer ducked out of the tent.

“Eat,” Niklas instructed, “because I have a feeling this isn’t going to be a short conversation.”

“Then fill us in,” Blaine said, as he poured a cup of ale and passed the pitcher to the others. “We know Donderath lost the war. We know the magic is broken. But what led up to that – we don’t know.” He paused, fearful to ask the next question, yet knowing there was no way around it. “Before you start, I have to ask. Did Carr come back with you?”

Niklas suddenly looked tired, and his expression was grim. “Yes, Carr survived. Many of our soldiers didn’t. Carr was lucky. He’s out on extended patrol right now. I’ll make sure the two of you have a chance to talk when he gets back.”

Kestel laid a hand on Blaine’s arm. “Carr’s your younger brother, right?”

Blaine nodded. “He was just a kid when I was exiled.”

Niklas sighed. “We were all a lot younger then. In so many ways, it was a completely different world.” Niklas poured himself a cup of ale, and for a moment, he looked at a loss for words.

“There had been incidents along the border with Meroven for years,” Niklas began. “I went into the army not long after you were sent away.” Niklas glanced toward Blaine. “Even then, spies told us Edgar of Meroven was unstable, and that he was likely to try to expand his borders. One thing led to another, and soon, Donderath and Meroven had an open war. The other kingdoms were pulled in and before long, the entire Continent had chosen sides.”

Niklas shook his head. “Casualties were terrible. I tried to keep Carr out of the war for as long as I could, but finally, I knew he’d sign up with someone else if I didn’t take him. For your sake, I did my best to keep him as safe as possible.”

“Thank you,” Blaine murmured.

“After years of war, when it became clear that men alone wouldn’t decide the outcome, the mages got involved.” Niklas’s eyes took on a haunted expression. “It was about a year ago. I thought I’d seen the worst carnage war had to offer, but the mages turned it into a bloodbath.” He looked down for a few moments. “Still, the men on both sides never left their posts. I can only speak for my men, but when we saw what the Meroven mages could unleash, we feared what would befall our homeland if we could not hold the line.”

Niklas looked toward them but his gaze seemed far away, and his expression was bleak. “One night, it all came to a head. On the ground, the sheer energy that crackled around us felt as if the gods were sparring, as if the world were coming to an end. And in a way, it did.

“A blast of magic more powerful than anything we had ever felt before swept over the battlefields, knocking down men as if they were bowling pins. Those who took the brunt of the force were killed instantly. Those of us lucky enough to be sheltered at that moment survived, but with injuries. The sky opened up and fire fell on us. The sky was filled with a green light, and wherever the light touched the ground, the land burned. It was the night of the Great Fire.” Niklas’s voice grew quiet, and he closed his eyes against the images in his memory.

“That night, whatever the mages did not only destroyed both armies, it destroyed the magic as well,” Niklas went on. “Magic stopped working, at least the kind of magic men could control. Wild magic became a danger, with magical storms touching down without warning, destroying everything in their paths. Strange beasts out of nightmares started appearing. Men went mad.

“When I could gather what remained of my men, we started for home. The Great Fire had laid waste to Donderath. The manor houses were destroyed. When the magic ‘died,’ it took the little magics as well as the great ones. Buildings, dams, and fences held together with a bit of magic all collapsed. Healers couldn’t use magic to heal. Farmers lost the magic to get rid of pests, so their crops failed. We never realized how many small magics we depended on until they stopped working.”

Niklas met Blaine’s gaze, and Blaine could see the grief in his friend’s face. “We went to war to protect Donderath. We failed.”

The group sat for a moment in silence as Niklas’s story sank in. Finally, Niklas shook himself free of his memories. By now, Blaine and his friends had eaten their fill of the bread and cheese, and Blaine pushed food toward Niklas, refilling his cup with ale.

“That’s quite a story,” Blaine said, sobered by the account. “We knew bits of what happened, but not from the front lines.”

“Something brought you back from the edge of the world, Blaine,” Niklas replied, taking a sip of his ale. “I’d like very much to know what it was.”

As briefly as he could, Blaine recounted how the death of magic on the Continent had affected even distant Edgeland. “Without the warden mages, Commander Prokief couldn’t keep the convicts from rebelling, and the Velant prison fell,” Blaine said. “Those of us who had earned our Tickets of Leave to become colonists realized that without supply ships from home, the colony wouldn’t have enough food for the winter.”

“How did you get a ship? And why did you, of anyone, come back?” Niklas pressed.

Blaine shrugged. “The ship was adrift and abandoned, and we towed her into Skalgerston Bay. We could take 500 people back with us, which was a burden off the colony. Those who wanted to return took their chances and made the trip.”

Niklas fixed Blaine with a piercing gaze. “You still haven’t answered me, Blaine. Why did you come back?”

Piran gave Blaine a warning glance, but Kestel nodded. Dawe shrugged. “Up to you, Mick,” Dawe said.

Verran grinned. “You can tell him, but will he believe you?”

Blaine returned his gaze to where Niklas sat waiting. “It’s a long story, but according to an ancient
talishte
and a very old mage’s map, there’s a chance that magic isn’t gone forever.” He paused, knowing that what he was about to say would strain the belief of even the best of friends. “Magic as we know it was harnessed four hundred years ago at Mirdalur when the king and the oldest nobles bound the wild power to their bidding. When the Meroven mages wiped out the Donderath nobility, they also broke the blood ties that bound the magic. All of the eldest heirs of the old Lords of the Blood are dead.”

“Except one,” Kestel said, with a meaningful look at Blaine.

Niklas met Blaine’s gaze. “You’re the last Lord of the Blood?”

“Apparently so.”

“From what we’ve been told, as long as there is a living Lord of the Blood, it might be possible to harness the magic again,” Kestel continued.

“That’s why you returned?” Niklas asked, looking at Blaine as if he were suddenly a stranger.

“Told you he wouldn’t believe you,” Verran said.

Blaine looked down. “As crazy as it seems, yes.”

“Only we tried it and nearly got ourselves all killed,” Piran added. “So Mick wants to give it another go, because he can’t leave well enough alone.”

“The old records said the first lords harnessed the magic in a ritual at Mirdalur,” Blaine said, with an exasperated look at Piran. “We tried going there, to see if my presence would reactivate the magic.” He grimaced. “Piran’s right. The wild magic nearly killed us.”

“So that’s it then?” Niklas asked. “There’s no hope of bringing the magic back?”

“We’re not sure,” Kestel replied. “There are clues that it can be done – but we don’t know quite how just yet.” She hesitated. “There are some forces in Donderath that would be just as happy for the magic to stay dead.”