Reign of Ash (3 page)

Niklas frowned. “Forces?”

“Do you remember Vedran Pollard?” Blaine asked.

“Real son of a bitch,” Niklas replied. “The only person I knew who was as mean as your father – maybe even worse.”

“Yeah, that’s Pollard. He’s thrown in his lot with a vampire named Pentreath Reese.”

Niklas whistled. “They’re the ones who don’t want to see magic return? Damn, Blaine. You sure know how to pick your enemies.” He scowled. “That group my men fought, you think they were Pollard’s men?”

Blaine nodded. “Yes. We had to dodge them the whole way to Mirdalur and then run for our lives when they nearly caught us there. Pollard also had his men camped outside Glenreith when we returned, trying to pressure Aunt Judith into an alliance.”

Niklas made a rude noise. “You’ve got to be kidding.” When he saw Blaine was serious, he shook his head. “For a man everyone thought was dead, you can still kick up a fuss.”

“Somebody knew Blaine was alive,” Kestel commented soberly. “Pollard sent an assassin to Velant to kill him.”

All traces of humor drained from Niklas’s expression. “Seriously? An assassin? So you think Pollard may know about this whole Lord of the Blood thing?”

“Looks that way,” Blaine replied.

Niklas leaned forward. “Actually, this isn’t the first I’ve heard of Pollard. We’ve seen his handiwork the whole way across Donderath.”

Blaine frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve never tangled with the black-clad men before, but only because we tried to stay out of their way. We have heard tales whenever we’ve stopped for provisions, and the stories aren’t good.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Guess that’s why, when my men saw them fighting your group and the odds looked uneven, they waded in.”

“Believe me, we’re grateful,” Blaine said. “What tales did you hear?”

Niklas shrugged. “Rumors that Pollard’s been hunting down former mages. Several have disappeared and never returned. There were dark stories about men in black clothing ransacking the mage libraries and universities, carrying off sacks of items, and torching what was left.” He grimaced. “Pollard seems to like setting fires. I’d heard the same about villages where he didn’t get the information he was seeking.” He snapped his fingers. “Went up in flames, and Raka take the survivors.”

Outside, they heard a sudden crash. Horns sounded an alarm. Shouts and the sound of fighting filled the air. Niklas jumped to his feet, as did Blaine and the others. A guard appeared in the tent doorway.

“Sir, we’re under attack.”

“By whom?” Niklas had drawn his sword, and his eyes glinted with anger.

The guard looked as if he was struggling against his own fear. “
Talishte
, sir. We’re being attacked by vampires.”

“I
don’t like this.” Bevin Connor looked at the wooden coffin and shuddered. Before the Great Fire, Connor had been the assistant to the late Lord Garnoc, and the eyes and ears of Lanyon Penhallow, an ancient and powerful
talishte
lord. Now, pinned down by forces loyal to Pentreath Reese, Connor was debating whether Penhallow’s proposed escape was preferable to remaining under siege.

“Do you have a better way out?” Penhallow asked. They stood in the caverns beneath the fortress of mercenary general Traher Voss, on the banks of a swiftly flowing subterranean river.

“You’re already dead. You don’t have to breathe,” Connor replied testily.

Had Penhallow needed to draw breath, he might have sighed. Penhallow was a tall, lean-muscled man. Long brown hair framed an angular face and blue eyes. Though his features spoke of nobility, his body was as strong as an athlete’s. And although he looked to be in his late thirties, Connor knew that Penhallow had existed for hundreds of years.

“We’ve been over this before, Bevin. The
kruvgaldur
bond will let me put you into a deep trance. It’ll slow your breathing and heartbeat, so you won’t need much air for a short time. That’s as long as we need to let the current take us out of the fortress and past the siege. By the time the boxes surface, Traher says we’ll be in neutral territory.”

“How does he know? Did he ever do this?”

“Not exactly,” Traher Voss replied and cleared his throat. Voss was a portly man in his middle years, with a fringe of graying hair around his balding pate. Thick-necked and broad-shouldered, Voss looked like a career military man.

“But we have slipped materials out of the fortress when the king’s guards were at the gate and the items were, shall we say, of questionable background,” Voss went on. “We know the river comes back aboveground a few miles downstream, in a cave. Makes it unlikely someone happening by is going to notice when you bob back to the surface. It’s far enough away that I doubt Reese’s soldiers will be wandering around.”

Connor spotted a second coffin a few yards away. “Who’s that for?” he asked, glancing at Penhallow. “Are you going to be shut up in a box as well?”

Penhallow shook his head. “That’s for Treven. He’s supposed to meet us here, and he’s late.” Treven Lowrey, former mage and magic scholar, largely did as he pleased.

“How do you know it’s wide enough in the underground passage? What if the box gets stuck? What if there’s a second channel for the water and I end up gods-know-where?” Connor protested.

“When Traher suggested the idea, I had the same concerns,” Penhallow replied. “So before I brought you down here, I navigated the course myself.” He gave a slight smile, enough that the tips of his elongated eyeteeth were barely visible. “As you point out, I don’t have to breathe.”

“And?” Connor demanded, only slightly mollified.

Penhallow chuckled. “The passage is wide enough in most places,” he answered. “Where it’s not, I’ll guide you. I’ll travel the channel as I did before. If there were any trouble at all, I assure you, I could get you to safety.”

Connor eyed the coffin again. The box had been weighted with enough rocks that it would sink below the water’s surface, but it would not be heavy enough to come to rest on the bottom. It also looked as if it had been covered with pitch. “It’s not the water,” Connor muttered, and his blue eyes flashed. “I don’t like being shut up in a box when I’m not dead yet.”

“While we stand here talking, Reese’s men are pounding the shit out of my walls,” Voss grumbled. “And your friend McFadden is out there making a target of himself.”

Connor winced at Voss’s words. “All right,” Connor said. “Let’s do it before I have time to think about it.” He paused and pushed a strand of dark blond hair out of his eyes. With a glance, he measured the coffin, glad that he was just average in height and build so that the box would not be too tight a fit. He repressed a shudder. At just twenty-two years old, he had hoped to wait a good long time before having a coffin fitted for him. “Will I sleep through it?”

Penhallow grimaced. “If I put you into a deep sleep and we have trouble on the other end of the passageway, I won’t be able to wake you quickly enough. I can dull your senses, slow your breathing so the air lasts longer. You’ll feel as if you’ve had too much wine, so that the voyage won’t bother you quite so much.”

Far over their heads, Connor knew that catapults continued their bombardment of the fortress. While Voss seemed confident that his fortifications could withstand the siege, Connor had felt nothing but cold dread with every pounding blow.
What’s worse? Staying here and possibly being overrun and tortured or being put in a coffin and buried alive?

“Give me your arm,” Penhallow said. Dutifully, Connor rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing a series of small, white, pinpoint scars. Penhallow met his gaze for a moment, then pressed Connor’s forearm to his mouth. Connor was used to the momentary pain of the bite as Penhallow’s fangs pierced his skin. It was through the blood that Penhallow read his memories, gathered the intelligence Connor provided as a spy. And it was through the blood that Penhallow provided the
kruvgaldur
, or blood bond, that imparted his protection and a weak telepathic link.

“Don’t fight it, Connor,” Penhallow said quietly. “Let it take you.”

It was instinct, not intention, that resisted the
talishte
’s compulsion. Penhallow had always been a kind master, asking for Connor’s cooperation rather than wresting information from him by force. Now, Connor felt the full weight of Penhallow’s power blurring his consciousness even as a primal part of him struggled to remain fully awake.

Penhallow lifted his mouth from the wound, and immediately, the skin began to heal. Connor’s legs were unsteady, and both Penhallow and Voss reached to catch him as he wavered on his feet. Penhallow lifted him, showing no strain at hefting a grown man as easily as he might have picked up a sleepy child. He placed Connor into the coffin.

“I will never let you out of my sight in the river,” Penhallow promised. “I won’t allow any harm to come to you. Don’t be afraid.”

Groggy with the compulsion, Connor did not struggle as Penhallow lifted the lid of the coffin and fit it into place. He felt relaxed, as though he had drunk several bottles of wine. He recalled having been distressed over something but could not remember what. Distantly, Connor noticed glimmers of light around the coffin’s lid, and some part of his mind seemed to think that wasn’t a good idea.

The sharp smell of pitch filled the coffin. One by one, the glimmers of light disappeared, and Connor lay in total darkness. The coffin was just wide enough for his shoulders, and barely long enough for him to stretch out to his full length. A memory surfaced, something about how the joiner sometimes broke a corpse’s legs to fit the box. Despite Penhallow’s compulsion, Connor shuddered.

Inside the coffin, Connor jostled against the sides as Penhallow dragged the casket into the water. For a moment it seemed the casket might roll over, but before Connor could brace himself, the box righted. In the distance, he heard muffled voices, then felt the coffin sink until it touched the shallow bottom of the river’s edge. Then he felt the current take him, and he heard the rush and roar of the river as loudly as if he bobbed beneath a waterfall.

The current grew swift, and the coffin yawed from side to side. Connor splayed out his arms and legs to brace himself within the narrow confines of the box. Yet his heartbeat did not spike with fear, and his breathing remained shallow and measured. He felt a curious sense of detachment, as if the journey were happening to someone else and he was only an observer.

With a crash, the box pivoted and the impact slammed Connor against the side of the coffin. The water sounded as if it might rip the box apart, and its force buffeted the box like a cork. Again and again it slammed against rock until Connor wondered whether the wood would hold. For a moment, the compulsion wavered, and Connor felt an instant of sheer panic.

I’m going to drown. Suffocate. Gods help me!
Only then did he notice that the air in the coffin had grown stale and warm, and he drew in a great lungful, then felt his head spin.

The coffin lurched so hard that Connor was thrown to the side. His nose hit the wood and began to bleed freely. Terror overtook him, and Connor began to dig at the wood around him, tearing his fingernails, desperate to get out. Even the frigid cold of the underground river seemed better than the stifling confines of the sealed coffin.

The panic subsided as quickly as it came, and Connor felt a deep lethargy. He stopped scrabbling at the sides of his coffin, suddenly content to relax in its warm, dark solitude. Whatever had happened, the coffin was moving again, bobbing and swaying with the current. Soothed by the rocking motion, Connor’s breathing slowed to the rhythm of deep sleep.

Gradually, the movement of the coffin slowed. The box ceased its rocking. Connor heard a grinding noise, and the coffin shuddered to a stop. Several sharp tugs jostled him within the confines of the box, starting his nose bleeding again. He heard a splintering noise, and suddenly, sweet, fresh, cold air swept in to fill his lungs.

“Connor.”

The voice called to him from a far distance, at the very edge of hearing.

“Connor.”

The voice seemed closer now. It was insistent, but without any threat of danger. Connor resisted. Honeyed warmth enfolded him, and he drifted, completely relaxed, at the verge of wakefulness.

“Wake now.” The words were a command. The warmth melted away, and Connor came alert.

He lay in the wooden coffin. Its lid was open, and he saw at a glance that the cave roof above him was very different from the cavern where he had fallen asleep. Penhallow stood over him, dressed in dry clothing, although his long hair was wet. Penhallow extended a hand to Connor to help him sit up, and Connor realized the vampire’s skin was even colder than usual.

“We’re out,” Penhallow said as Connor climbed out of the casket and wiped the blood from his face.

“Safe?”

Penhallow shrugged. “That’s yet to be determined.”

Connor gave a sharp glance toward the water. “What happened? There was a moment when it felt like the box was being smashed to bits.”

Penhallow looked chagrined. “My apologies. The current took your coffin out of my grip for a moment and pinned it against the river wall. The compulsion may have slipped a bit as my concentration was elsewhere until I could get you free.”

Connor frowned. “How do we know Reese’s men aren’t waiting for us at the cave mouth?”

“I’ve made a thorough scouting,” Penhallow said. “It’s safe… now,” he replied. Connor glimpsed a few flecks of blood on Penhallow’s shirt and wondered how many threats the vampire had eliminated.

A third man stood on the riverbank beside another opened casket. Treven Lowrey stood watching them, with a look on his face as if he were not quite sure his lunch would stay down. Lowrey’s hard-angled features were more pinched-looking than usual, his wire-rimmed glasses were slightly askew, and his robes were wet at the hem.

“So Treven showed up after all?” Connor asked, struggling to remember whether Lowrey had been present when he had been placed in his own coffin.

“Kidnapped me, for all intents and purposes,” Lowrey grumbled, smoothing his long, gray hair where it had escaped from an untidy queue.

Penhallow chuckled. “You also claimed that Traher had ‘kidnapped’ you when he merely rescued you from Pollard’s men. And now you think I’ve done the same. Honestly, Treven, aren’t you a wee bit happy to be out of the siege?”

Lowrey glowered at him. “I’m not the least pleased about being packed up like a corpse. I don’t like water. And you know the
kruvgaldur
always makes me nauseous.”

Penhallow barely hid a smile. “I could take you back.”

Lowrey cast a nervous glance toward his sodden casket. “That’s all right. I’ll make do.” He reached into the coffin and took out a bulky knapsack. “I hope we don’t have far to walk. I don’t relish carrying these books.”

“Books?” Connor questioned.

Lowrey gave him a piercing look over the rim of his glasses. “Vigus Quintrel’s journal, and a few other items Penhallow and I agreed were too important to leave behind.”

Penhallow reached into Connor’s coffin and withdrew two swords, scabbards, and sword belts that had been stowed for the journey. “Best to be prepared,” Penhallow added, handing one of the swords to Connor and belting on one of the weapons himself.

Penhallow lifted one of the coffins and drove a fist through the wooden bottom, a move Connor was sure would have badly broken a mortal’s hand. After he had made a few more holes, he threw the coffin back into the water and watched it sink, then did the same with the second casket.

“What was that for?” Lowrey demanded.

Penhallow turned to look at Lowrey. “If anyone finds this cave, they won’t have an easy answer on how we escaped. Let them figure it out for themselves.”