Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (37 page)

“Keep your wits about you,” Blaine cautioned. “We saw a lot of rock slides on the way here. I’d rather not get caught in one. Let’s go.” Blaine rolled up the map and stowed it in his pack, then signaled for them to move forward.

As they neared the edge of the valley, Dawe caught up with Blaine and pointed to several places along the cliffs. Connor’s gaze followed Dawe’s gesture. The rough rock walls were pockmarked with openings large and small, and Connor repressed a shiver, wondering what might be watching them. Humans were probably not the only ones who went hungry during Edgeland’s winter.

Piran had grown more watchful as they made their way through the valley. “I don’t see any tracks,” Piran muttered. “This is fresh snow. There should be foxes about, and stoats. Mountain goats and reindeer, too. I haven’t seen any tracks except ours since we entered this damned valley.”

“Maybe the trappers got them all,” Connor replied.

“Keep your voice down!” Piran cautioned in a harsh whisper. He pointed up at the precarious snow ledges that cantilevered from the edge of the valley’s crags. “I’ve got no desire to have that snow down on us.” He turned, and his torch’s light cast long shadows across the snow and rocks. “Edgeland’s harsh, but there are animals all over if you know where to look. I’ve got to wonder why there aren’t any here.”

Connor shivered, and for once, it had nothing to do with the cold. “Does anything bigger than a fox live up here?” he asked in a low voice. “I mean, anything that might hunt us?”

Piran gave a mirthless chuckle. “For a long time, Commander Prokief was the only predator we had to worry about. Him and his warden-mages. Out here—I’ve heard tell that trappers see some of those big white bears once in a while. They come and go, but they’re bad news. Trappers say one of those bears’ll hunt a man for days if it catches the scent.”

They came to a stop. “We’re here,” Kestel said quietly. A natural alcove in the cliff face greeted them. While the rock itself was majestic, it had been hallowed by the gifts of many pilgrims. Weather-worn beads hung draped over rocks and the branches of a lone pine tree. Small, faded flags fluttered in the wind, held aloft by tattered lengths of twine. Here and there, the cliff face had niches carved into it, deep enough to hold a candle. The charred nubs of several candles remained frozen where they had gone out.

“Look, over there,” Dawe said, pointing. A large clearing between two slopes made an open space around the shrine. Not far across the clearing, the land ended, but whether to a ledge or into a sheer drop, Connor couldn’t see from where they stood. The snow was pockmarked with odd circles, some that appeared to go down several feet. The trees on the mountain’s slopes were broken, scattered like kindling.

“Maybe it was the quake, when Estendall exploded,” Kestel replied.

“Maybe,” Blaine repeated, but he sounded unconvinced. Connor and Piran moved closer, suddenly unwilling to be far from the rest of the group.

“Let’s do what we came here to do,” Blaine said, keeping his voice low and glancing up at the snow that clung to the high outcroppings. “Dawe, Kestel, move into the shrine area. See if you can feel any magic. Connor, let’s get that disk of yours into position and see if anything happens.”

Kestel reached out and took Dawe’s hand. Dawe gave his torch to Piran and squared his shoulders. Together, Dawe and Kestel walked carefully toward the shrine, moving slowly, as if they were testing the magic with every step. Connor followed them, holding the obsidian disk at the end of its leather strap flat on his palm in front of him. He glanced back to where Blaine and Piran stood, braced as if ready for an attack.

“Something feels wrong,” Kestel murmured. Dawe nodded. “Is it magic?” she asked in a half whisper.

“Damned if I know, but it feels… twisted,” Dawe replied.

The obsidian disk on Connor’s hand began to move of its own accord. “Something’s happening!” Connor hissed. It was all he could do to stifle a shout.

The disk began trembling, then started to slide from side to
side although Connor’s palm was level. It did not glow, but Connor felt a tingle where his skin touched the disk’s glassy surface.

A high-pitched screech filled the air and a circle of light opened around where Dawe, Kestel, and Connor stood. Kestel and Dawe clapped their hands against their ears and fell to their knees, their faces twisted in pain. Connor watched the disk on his palm thrash from side to side, taking on an eerie blue glow. Outside the circle, Connor could see Blaine and Piran. They looked as if they were calling out to him, but he could hear nothing. He saw Blaine stagger, as if some of the effects reached him even outside the circle of light.

The circle of light formed a coruscating curtain, and Connor felt his heart pound. The light was far too similar to the deadly magical fire that had taken its toll on Castle Reach. But where the fire that destroyed Donderath had burned, Connor thought, this power was cold, even colder than the ice around them, leeching the warmth from his blood and bone.

Dawe and Kestel were on the ground, writhing. Dawe moaned, teeth gritted, and Kestel whimpered between labored breaths. Terrified, Connor did the first thing that came to mind. He grabbed the disk in both hands and held it up, a meager shield against the light.

The faint blue glow grew brighter, surrounding the disk like a nimbus. The screech that accompanied the circle of light that imprisoned them grew louder, sending a searing pain through Connor’s head that made him stagger. Outside the light, Connor saw a sudden wind buffet Piran and Blaine, guttering their torches and driving them back from the shrine.

Light struck the medallion in a bolt of cold fire. The blast threw Connor on his back, tearing the obsidian from his grip and snapping the leather strap that held it around his neck.
Dazed, he expected to see the amulet go flying, even as he awaited the onslaught of the pain that racked Dawe and Kestel. Instead, the disk hovered, trailing the bits of broken leather, as more and more bolts struck it.

The bolts sheared off from the curtain of light, and with each one that struck the disk, the curtain wavered and grew thinner, dimmer. In the distance, Connor could now hear the howl of the wind and make out the warning shouts from Blaine and Piran, and the anguished cries of Kestel and Dawe.

A crack like the loudest thunder reverberated from the mountains around them, followed by a gust of wind that raised a blanket of snow in the air and then dropped it, threatening to bury them. The ground rumbled, and Connor looked toward the twilight sky. The curtain of light winked out, and in its place came a glistening wave.

“Avalanche!” Blaine shouted.

Snow crashed down from the peaks, swirling toward them like an incoming ocean wave, and just as unstoppable. Caught in the rush of snow, Connor tumbled head over heels. When the snow momentarily freed him from its grip as they surged down the slope, Connor gasped for air, only to be buried again an instant later. He had lost sight of his companions, enveloped in cold, shifting darkness. Connor did not know whether he would suffocate before the press of the snow crushed him, or whether he might be dashed against the rocks or plummet from the drop at the end of the clearing. But he was very sure that he was about to die.

Something thin and hard smacked against the side of his head. Connor felt it slide down his body, until the smooth surface stroked against his hand. Reflexively, he grasped it, and realized that the disk had found its way back to him just in time to witness his death.

For a moment, he was airborne, falling through space as the avalanche carried him across the clearing and off the ledge. He gulped air as the snow loosened around him, bracing himself for a killing impact as he fell back against the rocky ground. He landed hard enough to jar the breath from him, but the landing was onto deep snow that cushioned his fall. Just as quickly, a smothering blanket covered him again, tumbling him like a twig in the surf.

Finally, slowed by its own momentum, the avalanche drifted to a stop. Trapped in a pocket of air, Connor forced down panic. It was completely dark, and he feared that any movement might collapse the precious pocket around him. Completely disoriented by the fall, he had no idea whether he should dig down or up to reach the surface. His whole body ached, battered and bruised.

The awful cold he had felt earlier in the day was replaced by a seductive, sleepy daze. The air around him was stale, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. For a fleeting instant, the idea of digging occurred to him, but it would require far more energy than he possessed. Resigned to death, Connor closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

C
ONNOR STIRRED. HE WAS LYING ON SOMETHING
hard and he hurt all over. He had a blurred memory of the avalanche, of sleep, and then nothing.

Gradually, Connor realized that he was breathing, and that if he concentrated, he could feel his heart beating. He wiggled first his fingers and then his toes. Aching muscles protested, but his body responded. Connor abruptly noticed that he was wearing neither gloves nor boots.

Surely I’m dead. I wonder what the Sea of Souls looks like?
For a moment, he struggled between fear and curiosity, before the need for certainty won out and he opened his eyes.

He lay on a plank floor in a dimly lit cabin. The air smelled of burning wood and an odd scent Connor couldn’t place. The ceiling above him was made of hewn timbers holding up a roof of flat boards. Turning his head to one side, he saw Blaine lying nearby, covered with a thin woolen blanket. If the others were here, he could not see them without sitting up, which he wasn’t quite ready to do just yet. Beyond Blaine, in the corner, the carcass of a deer hung by its hind legs, fresh enough that blood was dripping into a bowl beneath it.

Connor’s head throbbed. As he came to himself, he realized just how many parts of his body hurt. Gingerly, he flexed his arms and legs to reassure himself that nothing was broken, a minor miracle. He guessed that he would be covered in head-to-toe bruises for a while, a trivial price to pay for surviving.

“You and your companions are safe.”

The voice startled Connor and his heart reassured him of his status among the living by beginning to pound. Moving carefully, in case he had not discovered the true extent of his injuries, Connor sat up.

The cabin was a small rectangle, smaller than the kitchen at the homestead. A small stone fireplace at one end sent the warmth of a roaring fire into the room. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread filled the air, along with a hint of juniper from the cabin’s wood and the logs in the fire. On shelves around the cabin’s walls, Connor spied an astrolabe, navigator’s instruments, and a few figures carved from wood. A table and bench and a bookcase sufficed for furniture. Skinned and tanned hides hung from the walls, and several hides covered the floor. Connor recognized most as deerskin, along with what appeared to be that of a huge bear. With a start, Connor realized that the cabin had no windows.

Piran and Dawe lay to his left, while Kestel lay beyond Blaine. None of them stirred, but all were breathing. Their coats and outer garments had been removed, and each was covered with a homespun blanket. He turned toward the voice that had awakened him.

A man sat in a wooden chair near the fireplace, his face a play of light and shadow as the fire flickered from the wind outside. His dark hair was drawn back to frame his pale skin. The man’s looks suggested intelligence, perhaps aristocracy. Their
benefactor—or captor—sat with both hands clearly in view on the arms of the chair. From what Connor could see in half-light, the man was tall and he wore a tunic and trews and high boots.

“Who are you? How did we come here?”

The man gave a half smile. “My name is Arin Grimur. You and your companions are here because I pulled you from the snow.”

“Thank you.” Connor found himself unwilling to look the man directly in the eye. Despite their rescue, Connor felt uncomfortable, although he could not figure out why. “How did you find us?”

“Your blood called to me.”

Connor’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced toward the deer in the corner, and to the bowl of fresh blood beneath it. It had been the scent of blood that Connor had not been able to place when he awoke. “How so?” he managed, knowing that his voice was pinched with fear.

Arin Grimur chuckled, revealing the tips of overly long eyeteeth. “Don’t be afraid. The marks of your master protect you. Even here, Lanyon Penhallow’s reputation is known and respected.”

Connor reflexively laid one hand over the marks on the inside of his arm. “Why did you save us?”

Grimur regarded him for a moment before answering. “Lanyon Penhallow is my maker. Although he and I parted ways decades ago, I bear him no ill will. If he chose to give you his protection, then you have mine as well.”

Connor realized he had been holding his breath. “Thank you,” he repeated. He glanced worriedly at his friends, who still had not stirred. “Are they—”

Grimur gave another disquieting half smile. “They are alive
and well. Bruised, perhaps, but no serious injuries. I thought it best to let them sleep until you and I had been introduced.”