The Fortress in the Frost: The Triple Realm Duology, #2

The Fortress in the Frost

The second and final part of the Triple Realm duology

Stephen Hunt

Green Nebula

Map of the Triple Realm

What is history but a fable agreed upon?

-Napoleon Bonaparte

First published in 2020 by Green Nebula Press

1st Edition, Copyright © 2020 by Stephen Hunt

Typeset and designed by Green Nebula Press.

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For my father, John Hunt, who gave me many things, not least a love of reading and a taste for the literature of the fantastic.

Praise for Stephen

‘Mr. Hunt takes off at racing speed.’

- THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

‘Hunt’s imagination is probably visible from space. He scatters concepts that other writers would mine for a trilogy like chocolate-bar wrappers.’

- TOM HOLT

‘All manner of bizarre and fantastical extravagance.’

- DAILY MAIL

‘Compulsive reading for all ages.’

- GUARDIAN

‘An inventive, ambitious work, full of wonders and marvels.’

- THE TIMES

‘Hunt knows what his audience like and gives it to them with a sardonic wit and carefully developed tension.’

- TIME OUT

‘Studded with invention.’

-THE INDEPENDENT

‘To say this book is action packed is almost an understatement… a wonderful escapist yarn!’

- INTERZONE

‘Hunt has packed the story full of intriguing gimmicks… affecting and original.’

- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

‘A rip-roaring Indiana Jones-style adventure.’

—RT BOOK REVIEWS

‘A curious part-future blend.’

- KIRKUS REVIEWS

‘A ripping yarn … the story pounds along… constant inventiveness keeps the reader hooked… the finale is a cracking succession of cliffhangers and surprise comebacks. Great fun.’

- SFX MAGAZINE

‘Put on your seatbelts for a frenetic cat and mouse encounter... an exciting tale.’

- SF REVU

Contents

1. PROLOGUE

2. HANDSOME PAY

3. THE LANDARSKY COMES

4. KIRKUS

5. WAR OF THE WAGONS

6. HOLD THE BRIDGE

7. INTO SPARTIA

8. WITHOUT DOUBT

9. WAR OF THE AIR

10. THE WILL OF THE EMPEROR

11. KRAGGENLOFT

12. DUEL

13. THE IMPSTAD’S PROTECTION

14. THE WALL

15. THE REALM OF VULCANUS

16. WARP OF THE WORLD

17. UNCLE FISH

18. THROUGH THE GATE

19. KULLER-CAIN

20. VICTORY HAS A SMELL

21. VAMPIRE ZIGGURAT

22. AS THOUGH WE WERE TITANS

23. EPILOGUE

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

It was freezing that night. But being cold was better than being dead. A lot better. Jieck gazed at the city below, a smoky constellation of yellow oil lamps covering the foot of the hills while leaving the summit free to be claimed by the royal estate’s dark rises. Camlan. Sweet Camlan, the Triple Realm’s capital and city of a thousand whores. The municipality was almost as crowded as the fog-cloaked lanes of Llud-din, the twisted rookeries where Jieck learned the art of thieving from a cunning old ruffler; good times, before fate moved him into more devious employments. Not to mention dangerous.

One of Jieck’s military escorts pulled back a curtain, joining him on the kettle-black’s rear box as the clumsy steam-driven automata laboured up the slope towards the royal citadel. Not that the man was a real soldier. In much that same way Jieck couldn’t quite claim to be a proper thief anymore.

Be there soon, I expect, said the soldier.

Jieck grunted. Soon enough, old horse.

Don’t like night travelling, never have. A fellow should be able to see what the forest’s hiding. Demisapi, footpads, highwaymen, and hobs waiting to spirit away honest folk.

Jieck smiled. For all the perils of the fey forests beyond the manor houses and estates of man – the boundless green darks of the tumble – he’d take their dangers over the precariousness of court life any day. Duels and politics, the endless stream of small treasons and treacheries, and Queen Annan’s toppers, assassins whose versatility spanned little-known poisons to sharp daggers inside dark corridors.

With a jolt, their kettle-black turned away from the citadel and rattled down a bridleway through the royal woodland, frost crackling under the carriage’s iron wheels. Jieck recognised a white wooden pigeon loft as they passed it. Close now, the monster’s lair was near; the capricious devil with whom Jieck’s fate had grudgingly become entangled.

Lanterns along a bridge chased away the night. A lodge and coach house waited for them, a sprawl of stables, tack rooms, and paddocks built around a duck pond. Opening cast-iron gates, a stable-hand lingered as the kettle-black wheezed to a halt. A man whose broadness of shoulder owed more, Jieck suspected, to the exercise of sabre than stallion.

Jieck jumped down, considering the irony that one of the Realm’s most powerful figures made his home inside the grounds outside the citadel’s claustrophobic runs; though no doubt underground passages linked this place to the palace.

He’s awake, said the supposed stable-hand. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.

Jieck entered the lodge and waited by a log burning stove, working the cramp out of his muscles. He ran a professional’s eye over a satinwood music cabinet, calculating how much Camlan’s rufflers would pay for its intricate clockwork mechanism should it, say, mysteriously disappear from the room only to turn up in one of the capital’s more dubious markets. Jieck was tempted to open the door to see what tune it would play, but the burly servant reappeared.

The man scowled at Jieck, and the thief smiled back. His reputation preceded him. Warmth washed over Jieck as they ushered him into the master’s private office, a room well-heated to compensate for its occupant’s chilly demeanour. Domnal Mac Aedo glanced up from behind his desk, sober black clothes making him a shadow in the corner.

You are late, thief.

Jieck shrugged. The King of Roubaix’s spies are getting better. They took exception to me travelling through their territory this time. I only just made it to the fishing boat.

Martyr save me from competent kings, Mac Aedo said. Sit.

Jieck did as bid.

You have the report?

I do, Jieck confirmed. But the news isn’t good. The targets your agent inside Goricht tried to assassinate escaped. It seems your friends had a falling out with King Ganderman shortly after that because the next time they were spotted was leading a rebel army for the king’s wayward daughter.

What! Domnal Mac Aedo nearly leaped out of his chair. "They were the ones who plunged Goricht into revolution?"

Looks like it, old horse.

Incredible! So, they may not know it, but the fools have done us an immeasurable favour. Goricht’s king was a puppet ruler for the Empire of the Tree. His loss will cost the Imperium influence in that part of the world, which is no bad thing. Mac Aedo carefully studied his courier. Do you remember, thief, when I saved you from the scaffold outside Rivergate prison – what I said to you?

Jieck felt the hemp cord tightening around his neck. See everything, say nothing, ask no questions.

You have a fine memory. You will be of assistance to me in this matter, so I shall break the last of my rules. Tell me what you know of the targets and I will answer what I deem pertinent to your service.

Jieck had entered dangerous ground. He considered his words. Some things he knew he shouldn’t, but playing the dunce in front of the master carried its own dangers. The people whose death you ordered are soldiers from the Realm, dispatched to the mainland on an operation for the state. That business was compromised. You commanded the company to return; they refused, making it clear to your agent in Goricht they intended to continue as before. Word was sent, indicating they should cease to be a... problem.

Mac Aedo steepled his fingers. Quite so. I cannot explain much concerning their mission, but I shall tell you of the party assigned to carry it out. They are gutter-scum, killers from a regiment of dragon-browns.

Jieck nodded. Dragon for the proud royal standard the soldiers marched under, brown for the cheap mud-coloured cloth the common foot regiments wore into battle. Troops pressed from the poorest shires and worst city slums. Many were the times Jieck landed in a local doomsman’s court to be offered the choice of prison, or service in the royal brown or navy blue. Frankly, jail was by far the better decision. A man could escape from a cell, but the brutal life of bearing muskets for Queen Annan frequently ended with a hail of balls ripping through someone’s vital organs. And Jieck looked upon all of his organs as vital.

Mac Aedo continued. We sent three officers with the company: none of them gentlemen. Their captain is a ruthless low-born bastard called Taliesin, a common ranker whose commission was purchased for him by the Prince of Gwynedd. In return, I believe, for having once saved the prince’s daughter; or was it his mistress? I never can remember. Taliesin has two lieutenants. One a lapsed rebel from the highlands, Connaire Mor. The other an alehouse hell-rake, a dandy called Gunnar … an idler who fought a duel too many and killed the wrong nobleman. The company’s soldiers do not improve on their officers.

Jieck would have laughed if his master’s face was not so grim. And you sent these people onto the continent in the crown’s name?

Queen Annan took a liking to that rogue Taliesin. Besides, the captain is an ambitious devil with a reputation for getting the job done, no matter what the cost. And Taliesin is disposable… an ideal pedigree for my purposes. His dragon-browns travelled incognito as a mercenary company, but fate unmade our plans when their vessel sunk en route to its destination. The rascals were ship-wrecked off Roubaix and taken prisoner by the authorities, more specifically, by the Moon Queen’s court. I don’t know how, but by escaping her clutches they stirred up a hornet’s nest inside Roubaix. They bearded Roubaix’s king, the Moon Queen and the local Church of the Martyr before fleeing into the forests of Sisteron.

And then they turned up in Goricht?

Yes, Mac Aedo growled. Old Shadow curse me, but the Realm would have been better sending a revolutionary mob from the Levellers, the trouble Taliesin and his damnable devils are causing out on the mainland.

There’s something else, Jieck added, scratching his sandy mop of hair. Your agent in Goricht. After he failed to get rid of Taliesin, an assassin from Roubaix visited him. A topper hired by the Moon Queen was his impression, tracking Taliesin and his crew. Your agent told the assassin where Taliesin was bound for, figuring this jack might make a better job of killing him than your people had.

The assassin’s name?

Uriel.

Domnal Mac Aedo laughed, a terse exhalation of air. Uriel. Doubtless, our agent in Goricht had little choice in being so generous with the Realm’s secrets.

You’ve heard of this foreign hunter, then?

He is pain given human form, thief. The whisper of death and the best killer gold can buy, one made more dangerous because none of his erstwhile employers understand what motivates the man. If Uriel catches up with Taliesin and his low-born scoundrels, he will slay the entire company. Still– Mac Aedo searched through his papers and manuscripts. Take this seal. Visit the ports for me. If a ship returns from Sombor with any Realmsmen on her, I want her crew and passengers held, no fuss or attention. Notify me by the fastest coach you find.

Sombor?

You heard my orders, thief. Leave tonight.

Jieck stared at his patron, then left without a further word. He had just discovered what country Taliesin and his soldiers were bound for – and given how many people were dying around the secret, that was perilous knowledge indeed. But why Sombor? Some uncivilised huddle of goat-herders living at the end of the earth. What did Sombor possibly possess that could interest Queen Annan?

As the door closed, Mac Aedo’s bodyguard emerged from the alcove where he had stood concealed. And if Taliesin is foolish enough to return to the Realm, milord?

Mac Aedo thought on this for a while. Why, may he live to regret it, Cranagh. May he live to regret it!

The master of the queen’s spies made to dip his silver-tipped stylus into its ink well. Strange. The pen was missing? He could swear the damn thing had been on his desk before Jieck entered.

Chapter 2

HANDSOME PAY

They loved to welcome shipwreck survivors on Sombor’s coast. It was the clearest sign fishermen struggling each season for rights to the sea’s bounty could find of the dark deep’s fallibility.

Gunnar and Elaine stumbled across the dirt streets, citizens on the quay throwing food and cheers at the survivors. He wondered if they would shout so loudly if they knew it was a corsair ship that had gone down. The couple hungrily gnawed at the bread and salted meat offered, Elaine slaking her thirst with a water skin an old woman pulled off her wall for them.

If this was Sombor’s largest port, the prosperity of the state Annan’s sister fled to had proved short-lived, a collection of transient wooden buildings raised between the warm blue sea and the town’s ramparts. It reminded Gunnar of campaign camps the Realm’s army cobbled together; as though the citizens expected to walk away any minute and abandon the place. A prairie of low rolling grassland stretched to the horizon beyond the city walls. But what grass. Bamboo-thick, it grew taller than a worker’s height, sharp blades undulating in the wind. No roads that Gunnar could see. He gazed at the plains, tearing chunks out of the loaf. It would take an expedition weeks to hack and push its way through the grasslands. Did the Somborians live only on the coast, trading with other ports up and down the land? In the grass, blades thrashed and something resembling an ibex bound into the air, its leap broken by a sinuous-green coil of muscle lashing out and bringing the animal down. Hidden by the undergrowth, shoots rustled and seethed as the prey struggled to escape.

Elaine turned her head in distaste at the creature’s death throes. How horrible.

Gunnar agreed. Beyond the parapet, the snake-like predators began their meal.

A figure up on the wall spotted them and bellowed. Mortal life... can it be?

Gunnar started. It was the Gogmagog’s monk, his bleary-eyed features revitalised by the bright sunshine.

You’re blessed alive, lad, you and our stowaway lass both!

And you! Gunnar laughed. Holy Martyrs! I thought we were the only ones who’d survived.

Not only me, lad, there’s also a company of us staying in that tavern over there. Some of your companions now, cursed evil devils they are. They’ve dragged me through dark forests and the wide sea and many a battlefield, and not even a whiff of the barely bloody drinkable to help me on my way.

Before Finbar could direct the couple towards their friends, one of Bron’s sailors burst out the tavern’s window, his stripe-shirted body barrelling across the dirt road. With a thud, he struck a woven basket filled with fruit. Gunnar sprinted over to shove open the inn’s door.

Inside, Laetha threatened Taliesin with a stiletto-thin dagger. "That’s your idea of treasure? We’ve come all this was for a piece of high-born bawdy! I’ve fought my way through half the sodding Roubaixian army, faced a legion of tree-devils, beastmen, soft-headed quality that make the bunch back home look normal, and now you tell me that there’s no gold here. Just a spoiled royal brat who should have received a good beating years ago. I’ve acted a bit of a rascal before, one-eye, but you – I’ll cut your bastard throat out!"

Connaire Mor covered the enraged soldiers with his pistol, the gun’s lock cocked.

Laetha glanced at the entrance as the door opened, eyes widening at the sight of Gunnar’s ghost. Taliesin’s boot connected with the hunchback’s gut, then slapped the dagger out of his hand with the soldier’s out-rush of air. Now the situation reversed, Laetha on the floor with his blade turned against his own throat.

Grinning, Connaire Mor tossed a sabre at a dragon-brown he thought he’d never see again. Gunnar caught the sword by its hilt and blocked the tavern’s exit.

Finbar pulled Elaine out of the firing line. Come on, lass. Matters are turning mortal ugly inside. No place for a long-suffering head, without even a drop of the healing liquid for this poor empty belly.

Taliesin pressed the blade in. Use your brains, you vicious little runt. Annan’ll pay richly to have her sister returned to her. A fortune! Enough angels for you to travel back to your county and buy every warden who chased you out. All we have to do is grab one girl and catch the first ship out of here.

The soldiers appeared slightly placated. A man waved a fist at their captain. She’s not some malmsey-sweet village dollymop. She’s their king’s wife. He’ll have guards, troops, a whole army waiting for us.

He doesn’t know why we’re here. And when he does, it’ll be too late. Look at the regiments we’ve encountered since we arrived on the mainland. Has there been any who knows one end of a rifle from the other? A quick snatch, a swift grab, then away.

Murmurs of agreement sounded, and Taliesin knew he had them back on the leash again.

Laetha rolled to his feet, hobbling across to their table. The tinker passed him a mug of local ale sweetened with honey and herbs. "Annan Pendrag better sodding pay handsomely for this, one-eye. Or her glorious majesty will find her household reduced by a head."

Gunnar walked over to his officer. You look well for a dead man.

And you, Taliesin embedded the dagger in the hunchback’s table. What are you wearing, sir? You resemble one of Finbar’s saints after too long left nailed up on a tree.

Gunnar shrugged.

I see you kept the woman alive.

Gunnar expected the captain to berate him for bringing along the nobleman’s daughter, but he just smiled. As it happens, I have a use for a young lady of quality.

Taliesin didn’t elaborate, so they fell into exchanging the tales of their travels. Gunnar discovered he and Elaine arrived two days after the rest of the Realm’s survivors. A caravan was due to arrive this day, offering the company – if the locals were to be believed – safe passage to the nation’s capital. Taliesin appeared fiercely pleased upon hearing news of the devil-boat’s destruction at the hands of the corsairs. Bron’s sailors crowded around, disbelieving the dandy’s detailed description of the massive metal craft. If the Gogmagog hadn’t engaged one of the Imperium’s strange machine vessels, they might dismiss his yarn as sunstroke-induced ravings. The dandy was equally incredulous, discovering Taliesin spurned the chance of wealth and high command at the feet of a foreign queen. But no more so than Laetha.

Chapter 3

THE LANDARSKY COMES

An agitated local pushed through the common room as the late afternoon drew close. The Landarsky! The Landarsky comes!

The sawdust-covered floor trembled as he spoke, bottles buzzing on their tables. Leaving the tavern to find the shuddering’s cause, Taliesin blinked in bright sunlight. Four blunt heads rose on serpentine necks out on the prairie, ponderous bodies advancing on pillar-like limbs, the plains quivering in protest. Finbar crossed the sign of the tree. The giants were whales of the land, green lizard-like hides glistening in the light. But it was what the beasts drew that shattered the earth with its great rumbling. A ship! A wooden galleon on wheels, or at least that was the dragon-brown’s first impression. She rolled forward, six times the Gogmagog’s length and twice as wide, her Trireme-flat decks topped with buildings and towers.

Running to the coastal town’s walls for a better view, they watched monstrous steel blades on each wheel scything away the grass. In her wake, a convoy of smaller house-wagons trundled, protected by the wheeled city. Wooden boats among a sea of wild cattle, shaggy horse-sized yale, herds stretching out to the horizon as they grazed on the rich aftermath of trimmed hay.

No wonder there’re no roads across the plains, Taliesin said. They don’t need it.

Drawing about, the wagon-city slashed a swathe of the tumble in front of the port’s walls, dragging to a stop. Above them, Taliesin swore the massive green beasts were singing a keening, whistling song as their heads swayed in the air.

"Where