To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

  The storm grew and spread. The few scattered folk who still lived within sight of the terrible mountain huddled in their longhouses as the beams creaked and the wind howled. What seemed an unceasing blizzard of snow piled above their walls and onto their roofs, until all that remained were white mounds like so many grave barrows, marked as dwellings of the living only by the thin pennants of smoke that fluttered above the chimney-holes.

  The vast expanse of open land known as the Frostmarch was also engulfed by driving snows. Only a few years before, the vast plain had been dotted with small hamlets, thriving towns and settlements fed by the traffic of the Wealdhelm and Frostmarch roads. After half a dozen seasons of continuous snow, with crops long dead and virtually all the animals fled or eaten, the land had become a desolate waste. Those who huddled in the foothills along its border or in the sheltering forests knew it as the home only of wolves and wandering ghosts, and had come to call the Frostmarch by a new name—the Storm King’s Anvil. Now an even greater storm, a dreadful hammer of frost and cold, was pounding on that anvil once more.

  The storm’s long hand reached out even beyond Erkynland to the south, sending gusts of freezing wind across the open grasslands, turning the Thrithings bone-white for the first time in memory. And snow returned to Perdruin and Nabban—the second time in a season, but only the third time in five centuries, so that those who had once scoffed at the Fire Dancers and their dire warnings now felt a squeeze of fear on their hearts, a fear much more chilling than the powdery snow sifting down onto the domes of the two Sancellans.

  Like a tide moving toward some unimaginable high water mark, the storm spread farther than ever before, bringing frost to southern lands that had never felt its touch and draping a great cold shroud over all of Osten Ard. It was a storm that numbed hearts and crushed spirits.

  “That way!” the leading rider shouted, pointing to the left. “A prenteiz, men—up and after!” He spurred forward so swiftly that his clouded breath was left hanging in the air behind him. Snow spouted from beneath his horse’s hooves.

  He bore down on the empty space between two tumbledown, snow-covered dwellings, his mount slashing through the drifts as effortlessly as through fog. A dark shape bolted out into the open from behind one of the buildings and dashed away, bounding erratically across the flat. The leading pursuer vaulted a low, snow-buried fence, landed, and followed close after. The horse’s pounding strides obliterated the smaller prints of its fleeing quarry, but there was no need now for tracking: the end was in sight. Half a dozen other riders came hurtling from between the houses and spread out like an opening fan, surrounding the quarry like a riverman’s fishing net. A moment to draw the net closed—the riders reining in as a narrowing circle—then the hunt was over. One of the men who had ridden the wing leaned down until his lance touched the captive’s heaving side. The leader dismounted and took a step forward.

  “Well run,” said Duke Fengbald, grinning. “That was excellent sport.”

  The boy stared up at him, eyes wide with terror.

  “Shall I finish him, Lord?” asked the rider with the lance. He gave the boy a hard poke. The child squealed and flinched away from the sharp lance-head.

  Fengbald peeled off his gauntlet, then turned and flung it into the rider’s face. Its metal beadwork left a cross-hatching on the man’s cheek that welled with blood. “Dog!” Fengbald scowled. “What am I—a demon? You will be whipped for that.” The rider shied away, pulling his horse a few steps back from the circle. Fengbald glared after him. “I do not murder innocent children.” He turned his eyes down to the cowering boy. “We had a game, that is all. Children love games. This one has played with us as well as he could.” The duke retrieved his gauntlet and put it back on, then smiled. “And a merry chase you led us, boy. What is your name?”

  The child grimaced, baring his teeth like a treed cat, but made no sound.

  “Ah, too bad,” Fengbald said with a philosophical air. “If he will not talk, he will not talk. Put him with the rest—one of these shack-women will feed him. They say a bitch will always nurse a stranger’s pups.”

  One of Fengbald’s men-at-arms dismounted and grabbed the boy, who put up no resistance as he was draped across the front of the soldier’s saddle.

  “I think he is the last,” said Fengbald. “The last of our sport, too. A shame—but still, better than if we let them run ahead of us and spoil our surprise.” He grinned broadly, pleased with his own wit. “Come. I want a warm cup of wine to take off the chill. This was a hard, cold ride.”

  He vaulted up into the saddle, then swung his mount around and led his company back into the snow-smothered remnants of Gadrinsett.

  Duke Fengbald’s red tent sat in the middle of the snowy meadow like a ruby in a puddle of milk. The silver falcon, the duke’s family emblem, stretched its wings from comer to comer above the door-flap; in the stiff winds that blew down the river valley, the great bird trembled as though longing to take flight. The tents of the duke’s army were clustered all around, but set at a respectful distance.

  Inside, Fengbald reclined on a pile of figured cushions, his cup of mulled wine—several times refilled since he had returned—held loosely, his dark hair unbound and trailing down across his shoulders. At Elias’ coronation Fengbald had been lean as a young hound. Now the master of Falshire, Utanyeat, and the Westfold had grown a little soft in the waist and jowls. A fair-haired woman kneeled on the floor near his feet. A thin page, pale and anxious-looking, waited at his lord’s right hand.

  On the far side of the brazier that warmed the tent was a tall man, squint-eyed and bearded, dressed in the leather and rough wool of the Thrithings-dweller. Refusing to sit as city-folk did, he stood spread-legged, arms crossed. When he shifted, his necklace of finger-bones made a clinking music.

  “What else is there to know?” he demanded. “Why more talking?”

  Fengbald stared at him, eyes slowly blinking. He was a little befuddled by drink, which for once seemed to curb his belligerence. “I must like you, Lezhdraka,” he said at last, “because otherwise I would have become sick of your questions long ago.”

  The mercenary chieftain stared back, unimpressed. “We know where they are. What more do we ask?”

  The duke took another drink, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his silken shirt and gestured to his page. “More, Isaak.” He returned his attention to Lezhdraka. “I learned some things from old Guthwulf, for all his failings. I have been given the keys to a great kingdom. They are in my hand, and I will not throw them away by acting too fast.”

  “Keys to a kingdom?” said the Thrithings-man scornfully. “What stone-dweller nonsense is that?”

  Fengbald seemed pleased by the mercenary’s incomprehension. “How do you plains-folk ever hope to drive me and the other city-dwellers into the sea, as you are always babbling about? You have no craft, Lezhdraka, no craft at all. Just go and fetch the old man. You like the night air—do your people not sleep, eat, piss, and sport beneath the stars?” The duke chuckled.

  The High King’s Hand, having turned to watch his page fill his cup, did not witness the Thrithings-man’s venomous look as he left the tent. But for the wind strumming the fabric, the tent fell quiet.

  “So, my sweet,” Fengbald said at last, prodding the silent woman with his slippered foot, “how does it feel to know that you belong to the man who will one day hold all the land in his grasp?” When she did not reply, he pushed her again, more roughly. “Speak, woman.”

  She looked up slowly. Her pretty face was empty, drained of life as a corpse’s. “It is good, my lord,” she murmured at last, the Westerling words thickly accented by a Hernystiri burr. She let her head sink back down, her hair falling like a curtain before her features. The duke looked around impatiently.

  “And you, Isaak? What do you think?”

  “It is well, master,” the page said hurriedly. “If you say it will happen, it will happen.”

  Fengbald smiled. “Of course it
will. How can I fail?” He paused for a moment, frowning at the boy’s expression, then shrugged. There were worse things than being feared.

  “Only a fool,” he resumed, quickly warming to the topic once more, “only a fool, I say, could not see that King Elias is a dying man.” He waved his hand expansively, slopping a little wine over the rim of his cup. “Whether he has caught some wasting illness, or whether the priest Pryrates is slowly poisoning him, I do not care. The red priest is an idiot if he thinks he can rule the kingdom—he is the most hated man in Osten Ard. No, when Elias dies, only someone of noble blood will be able to rule. And who will that be? Guthwulf has gone blind and run away.” He laughed shortly. “Benigaris of Nabban? He cannot even rule his own mother. And Skali the Rimmersman is no more noble or civilized than that animal Lezhdraka. So when I have killed Josua—if he even truly lives—and put down this petty rebellion, who else will be fit to rule?” Excited by his own words, he drained the remainder of his cup in a single draught. “Who else? And who would oppose me? The king’s daughter, that fickle slut?” He paused and eyed the page intently, so that the young boy lowered his gaze. “No, perhaps if Miriamele came begging to me on her knees, I might make her my queen—but I would keep her closely watched. And she would be punished for spurning me.” He smirked and leaned forward, placing his hand on the pale neck of the woman who knelt before him. “But never fear, little Feurgha, I would not cast you aside for her. I will keep you, too.” As she shrunk away he tightened his hand, holding her, enjoying the tension of her resistance.

  The tent flap bulged and flapped inward. Lezhdraka entered, snowflakes shimmering in his hair and beard. He held the arm of an old man whose bald head was red with too much sun and whose white ruff of beard was stained and discolored by the juices of citril root. Lezhdraka roughly shoved the man forward. The captive took a few stumbling steps, then fell stiffly to his knees at Fengbald’s feet and did not look up. His neck and shoulders, exposed by the open collar of his thin shirt, were covered with yellowing bruises.

  When the nervous page had filled the duke’s cup once more, Fengbald cleared his throat. “You look somewhat familiar. Do I know you?” The old man wagged his head from side to side. “So. You may look up. You claim to be the Lord Mayor of Gadrinsett?”

  The old man nodded slowly. “I am,” he croaked.

  “You were. Not that there would be much glory in being mayor of this pesthole in any case. Tell me what you know about Josua.”

  “I ... I don’t understand, Lord.”

  Fengbald leaned forward and gave him a brief but solid push. The Lord Mayor toppled over to lie on his side; he did not seem to have the strength to sit up again. “Don’t play the fool with me, old man. What have you heard?”

  Still curled on his side, the Lord Mayor coughed. “Nothing that you have not learned, Duke Fengbald,” he quavered, “nothing. Riders came from the evil-omened valley up the Stefflod. They said that Josua Lackhand had escaped from his brother, that he and a band of warriors and magicians had driven out the demons and made a stronghold on the witch-mountain in the middle of the valley. That all who came to join him there would be fed, and have places to live, and that they would be protected from bandits and from ... and from ...” his voice dropped, “... from the High King’s soldiers.”

  “And you think it is a pity you did not listen to these treasonous rumors, eh?” Fengbald asked. “You think that perhaps Prince Josua might have saved you from the king’s vengeance?”

  “But we did no wrong, my lord!” the old man moaned. “We did no wrong!”

  Fengbald looked at him with perfect coldness. “You harbored traitors, since everyone who joins Josua is a traitor. Now, how many are with him on this witch-mountain?”

  The mayor shook his head vehemently. “I do not know, lord. In time, some few hundred of our folk went. The first riders who came said there were five or six score there already, I think.”

  “Counting women and children?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Fengbald snapped his fingers. “Isaak, go find a guardsman and bid him come to me.”

  “Yes, sire.” The youth hurried out, happy with any errand that took him out of his master’s reach for a few moments.

  “A few more questions.” The duke settled back against the cushions. “Why did your people believe it was Josua? Why should they leave a safe haven to go to a place of bad reputation?”

  The old man shrugged helplessly. “One of the women who lived here claimed she had met Josua—that she had sent him to the rock herself. A gossipy creature, but well-known. She swore that she had fed him at her fire and had marked him instantly as the prince. Many were convinced by her. Others went because ... because they heard you were coming, Duke Fengbald. People from Erkynland and the western Thrithings came here, fleeing ... moving east ahead of your lordship’s progress.” He cringed as if expecting a blow. “Forgive me, lord.” A tear ran down his wrinkled cheek.

  The tent flap rustled. Isaak the page entered, followed by a helmeted Erkynguardsman. “You wanted me, lord?” the soldier said.

  “Yes.” Fengbald gestured toward the old man. “Take this one back to the pens. Treat him roughly, but do not hurt him. I will wish to speak to him again later.” The duke turned. “You and I have things to talk about, Lezhdraka.” The guardsman dragged the mayor to his feet. Fengbald watched the process with contempt. “Lord Mayor, is it?” he snorted. “There is not a drop of lordly blood in you, peasant.”

  The old man’s rheumy eyes opened wide, staring at Fengbald. For a moment, it seemed he might do something entirely mad; instead, he shook his head like someone waking from a dream. “My brother was a nobleman,” he said hoarsely, then a fresh outpouring of tears spilled down his cheeks. The soldier grabbed his elbow and hastened him out of the tent.

  Lezhdraka stared insolently at Fengbald. “‘Do not hurt him?’ I thought you were harder than that, city-man.”

  A slow, drunken smile spread across Fengbald’s face. “What I said was, ‘treat him roughly but do not hurt him.’ I don’t want the rest of his folk to know he will spill his guts any time I ask. And he may prove useful to me somehow, either as a spy in the pens or as a spy among Josua’s folk. Those traitors take in all who flee my terrible wrath, do they not?”

  The Thrithings-man squinted. “Do you think my horsemen and your armored city-dwellers cannot smash your king’s enemies?”

  Fengbald waved an admonitory finger. “Never throw a weapon away. You never know when you may need it. That’s another lesson that sightless fool Guthwulf taught me.” He laughed, then waved his cup. His page scurried after the wine ewer.

  Outside, darkness had fallen. The duke’s tent glowed crimson, smoldering like an ember half-buried in fireplace ashes.

  A rat, Rachel thought bitterly. Now I’m no better than a rat in the walls.

  She peered out at the darkened kitchen and suppressed a bitter curse. It was just as well that Judith had long since quit the Hayholt. If the huge, galleon-stately Mistress of the Kitchens were to see the condition of her beloved domain, it would probably kill her dead. Rachel the Dragon’s own work-callused hands itched as she felt herself torn between a desire to repair the damage and an equally strong urge to throttle whoever had let the castle fall into this dreadful state.

  The Hayholt’s great kitchen might have become a den of wild dogs. The pantry doors were off their hinges and the few remaining sacks of foodstuffs lay ripped and scattered about the chamber. It was the waste as much as the filth that set a fire of anger burning in Rachel’s heart. Flour lay all across the floors, ground into the cracks between flagstones, crisscrossed with the prints of heedless, booted feet. The great ovens were black with grease, the baking paddles charred from inexpert use. Staring out at the wreckage from her hiding hole behind a hanging curtain, Rachel felt tears coursing down her face.

  God should strike those who did this dead. This is wickedness with no purpose—devil’s work.

  And the kitche
n, for all the damage done, was one of the places least affected by the evil changes that had overtaken the Hayholt. Rachel had seen much in her forays out of hiding, all of it disheartening. The fires were no longer set in most of the great chambers and the dark hallways were almost misty with cold. The shadows seemed to have lengthened, as though a strange twilight had settled over the castle: even on the days when the sun broke through the clouds, the Hayholt’s passages and gardens were steeped in shade. But the night itself had become almost too frightening to bear. When the dim sun set, Rachel found herself hiding-places in the abandoned places of the castle and did not stir until dawn. The unearthly sounds that floated through the darkness were enough to make her pull her shawl over her head, and sometimes as evening came along there were shifting, un-solid shapes that hovered just at the edge of vision. Then, when the bells rang midnight, dark-robed demons silently walked the halls.

  Clearly some dreadful magic was at work all around. The ancient castle seemed almost to breathe, imbued with a chilling vitality that it had never had before, for all its illustrious history. Rachel could feel a crouching presence, patient but alert as a predatory beast, that seemed to inhabit the very stones. No, this ruined kitchen was only the smallest, mildest sample of the evil Elias had brought down on her beloved home.

  She waited, listening, until she was certain no one was about, then pushed her way out past the curtain. The closet behind this hanging had a false back hung with shelves of vinegar and mustard jars; the shelves hid a passageway into one of the network of corridors that ran behind, above, and beneath the Hayholt’s walls. Rachel, who for many weeks now had made her home in these between-places, still marveled at the web of secret ways that had surrounded her all her life, unseen and unrecognized as a riot of mole tunnels beneath a formal garden.

  Now I know where that rascal Simon used to disappear to. By the Blessed Mother, no wonder I sometimes thought the boy’d been swallowed up by the earth when there was work to be done.