Shadow of Ice Island (The King’s Spies #1)

Chapter 1

Cole

A silenced voice carried no tune.

That’s the thought that ran through Cole Tanniyn’s mind as one of the raiders thrust a rusty sword at his chest. He leaped back and smashed against a set of shelves holding sacks of flour. One tipped off the ledge and thumped on the floor by his feet.

Blazes! Cole had better pull it together, or he’d die before he ever reached Ice Island and could question his uncle.

While the Tsaftown army had been camped to the east of Mahanaim, Lord Livna had sent out several dozen patrols to check the area.

Cole had been paired off with Thakkar Oruk, a living storm; and Alden Wroxton, the silent blade—two of the Fighting Fifteen—and of course, Kurtz Chazir, Cole’s friend, traveling companion, and fellow Marad spy.

Their foursome had happened upon an outpost where two wagons sat empty, each hitched to a pair of rangy mules.

“Let’s look inside,” Thakkar had said, dismounting his black stallion.

“Grab your shield,” Kurtz told Cole. “Sword drawn too.”

Cole slid off Cherix’s back, drew his sword, and grabbed his shield off the saddlebag, trying not to let his annoyance at Kurtz’s continued mothering to show on his face.

He followed the others into a tiny outpost reeking of salted fish and onions.

Shelves lined the walls and center of a cramped space no bigger than four peddler’s carts hitched in a square.

Two men’s heads bobbed above the back shelves, while a burly third man stood in the front corner, stuffing candles into a sack.

Raiders.

“Ho there. It’s me, Thakkar.” The Berlander stood with his hands empty, palms raised. “Give me your names so I might know if you are friend or foe.”

At that, seven more heads appeared as men, who had been crouched or bent over, straightened to their full height.

Not good. Cole tightened his grip on his sword and moved his shield in front of him.

“We’re none of your business,” said the burly man stealing candles.

Thakkar quickly drew a pair of hand axes that gleamed in the dim light. “You’ve had your fill. Take what you’ve stolen and leave. Now.”

The raiders exchanged glances, their expressions defiant.

“There’s plenty to share, soldier,” the burly man said. “Feel free to help yourself, but you’ve no right to stop us.”

Thakkar sighed, almost pitying. “Have it your way.”

That’s when the fight began.

The raiders surged forward, fierce but uncoordinated in the cramped space.

Thakkar met the burly man head-on, his hand axes moving in quick, precise arcs, disarming his foe in moments.

Wroxton slipped through the maze of shelves and came up behind the raiders in back, while Kurtz intercepted a bearded man on their right.

Cole found himself face-to-face with a wiry fellow wielding a rusted sword.

The raider lunged, which was how Cole had knocked into the shelves of flour.

He barely deflected the next blow with his shield, stirring memories of the Battle of Armonguard and the Eben he’d accidentally killed.

He couldn’t rely on dumb luck today. If he wanted to live—to reach Ice Island and see his uncle again—he had to fight. So he thrust out his sword.

The raider edged closer, grinning. “Don’t know how to use that very well, do you?”

Behind Cole’s wiry opponent, Thakkar whirled, hand axes flashing as he felled another raider, who crashed into a shelf, toppling sacks of beans and sending jars of honey spinning along the floor. A barrel of apples tipped over as well, scattering its contents past Cole’s feet.

The wiry man feinted left, then swung right, knocking Cole’s shield down the aisle. It hit a barrel and clattered to the floor.

Cole’s breath hitched as he tightened his grip on his short sword. The raider pressed forward, and Cole parried every strike. Without the shield, keeping up felt easier than before.

Maybe he really could do this.

The raider struck again. Cole raised his sword, but the man twisted mid-swing and executed a vicious underhand swipe. Cole blocked the blow, but his grip was too weak, and he dropped his sword.

Blazes!

Weaponless, Cole’s chest tightened as the raider lifted his rusty sword high.

And suddenly, Cole was back at the Battle of Armonguard, facing the Eben giant with nothing but the Armonguard flag.

“Lee-lee-lee-lee-lee!” the Eben sang.

Cole’s stomach slid into his boots. Without a sword, he did the only thing he could think of. He turned the flagstaff and pointed the sharp end at the giant.

The Eben tossed his spear in the air and caught it with his grip reversed. Ready to throw.

Cole was going to die.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

“Cole!”

Back in the outpost, Kurtz lunged in front of Cole, intercepting the raider’s attack with his longsword.

The blades clanged, and the raider stumbled back. Kurtz closed in, but the end of the raider’s sword caught his shoulder. Kurtz didn’t slow, though his hiss made it clear he’d been hit.

A chill flared in Cole’s chest. He scanned the chaos—barrels, broken shelves, spilled food, scattered tools. Where was his sword?

He crouched, fingers searching debris, and found something heavy and rough—a fallen sack of flour. He ripped open the bag, and when he stood, he hurled it over Kurtz’s shoulder.

White powder struck the raider’s face, staggering him. Kurtz seized the moment and slammed his pommel against the wiry man’s temple. The raider dropped to his knees, his rusted sword skittering away.

At the back of the outpost, Wroxton felled the last raider. Silence followed, broken only by labored breathing.

Thakkar, hand axes wet with blood, glanced at Cole. “Nice throw,” he said dryly.

Was he being serious? Or sarcastic? Cole didn’t know, but his face burned as he picked up his sword from beneath a pile of apples and threaded it into the ring on his belt.

Kurtz clapped him on the back, wincing slightly as he favored his injured shoulder. “Good thinking with the flour, eh?” he said. “You saved my neck there.”

Cole’s gaze fell on the battered raider, who glared at him through a mask of white dust. Just behind him, Cole’s shield lay on the floor. He retrieved it, brushed off the flour, and threaded it over his arm.

Wroxton and Kurtz set about binding the prisoners’ hands with strips of rope pulled from the wreckage.

“Now…” Thakkar crouched before the scarred raider. “Let’s talk about who you work for.”

“We work for ourselves,” the man said. “No inbreeding lordling will tell us how to live our lives.”

“Do you even know of whom you speak?” Thakkar asked.

“Donediff Hadar is no child,” Wroxton added. “He ruled over Er’Rets Point these past five years. His mother is Lady Ginger of Allowntown, and he’s married to Yulessa of Xulon.”

“He wed a giant?” another of the raiders asked.

“To make sure his heirs don’t end up as lowborn as you lot, eh?” Kurtz said.

“Let’s get them into the wagon,” Thakkar said. “We’ll drop them off at the Mahanaim constabulary on our way back.”

Cole eyed the growing brown stain on Kurtz’s shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“Bah!” Kurtz said. “Don’t worry about it, eh?”

But that would be impossible. Traveling with Lord Livna and the Fighting Five Hundred was supposed to keep them safe on the journey to Tsaftown, but Cole was starting to wonder if surviving the journey would be harder than whatever waited for them in the frozen North.

The next morning, the Tsaftown army was on the move again. As they headed north over the snow-dusted Allown plains, Cole rode behind Kurtz, concerned by how the brawny man favored his good arm.

Last night, once they’d returned to camp, Cole had put up the horses. When he’d made it back to their tent, Kurtz had already patched up the cut on his shoulder—swore it was just a scratch.

Cole didn’t believe him for a second.

Kurtz could have died, and it was Cole’s fault. Sure, Cole played the lute well, was unmatched with horses, and had a knack for observation. But if he couldn’t fight, how in all Er’Rets could he be a worthy spy? He simply wasn’t strong enough to protect anyone.

Runt of the litter—that’s what Nonda Fawst had always called him. He wanted to be strong and worthy, like the Tsaftown soldiers. Like Kurtz.

But he wasn’t.

To make matters worse, Kurtz had placed them in the procession six horses behind Jeffrey Korngold, a bard also bound for Tsaftown.

The golden-haired man was more talented than Minstrel Harp and bolder even than Kurtz.

He was currently playing “The Ballad of the Tanniyn”—the song Cole had sung to Mistel when she’d been stormed to the Veil, the mystical barrier separating the realm of the living from that of the supernatural.

Jeffrey’s fingers flowed over the lute strings like river water over stone, his smooth, robust tenor twisting Cole’s insides into a knot.

“Where water meets sky, on vast ocean waves,

A lost man adrift, above a watery grave.

To the skies he prays, ‘I have a son, a wife!’

‘Oh Arman, how I’ll serve you if you only save my life.’”

Cole hugged his lute, inferiority mounting.

Was it wrong to hate the man?

Ahead, Kurtz guided his horse, Smoke, off the path, waited for Cole to catch up, then fell in beside him on the road.

“What kind of soldier wears his sword on his back and carries a lute in his arms?” Kurtz asked. “If you’re attacked, what are you going to do, bash them over the head with the instrument?”

“I would never break my lute.”

Kurtz chuckled. “I’ve no doubt of that. What’s with you, eh? Why so melancholy?”

Cole forced himself not to look at Jeffrey. “I’m fine.”

“A lie as tall as a redpine,” Kurtz said. “Out with it.”

Cole sighed and lowered his voice. “Who will hire us with that bard in town?”

“Korngold? Bah! Don’t worry about him, eh?”

“How can I not? He does everything far better than me.” To further prove Cole’s point, Jeffrey ended “The Ballad of the Tanniyn” with a fingerpicked run that resulted in applause and a few whistles from the surrounding soldiers.

Part of their mission was to get hired at the Black Boar, a tavern in Tsaftown, but with someone like Jeffrey competing for work, Cole wasn’t at all confident in their prospects.

“Mistel said she and I performed better together than alone. I wish she could have come.”

“Ah. So it’s the ginger songbird you’re sore about. Why are you still wearing that bracelet of hers, anyway?”

Cole eyed the string of beads around his left wrist. “What else is it good for?”

“Wearing it says ‘Don’t talk to me, ladies. I’m taken.’”

Cole wrinkled his nose. “It does not.”

Kurtz gestured at the bracelet. “It’s made of beads. It’s clearly a woman’s trinket. No man would wear something like that unless he’s being sentimental.”

“Maybe I want to be sentimental.”

Kurtz groaned, the expression on his face so exaggerated that Cole couldn’t help but laugh.

“What do you care, anyway?” Cole asked.

“Because you keep moping around, and it’s my job to guide you through life.”

“No one assigned you that task.”

“I assigned it to myself,” Kurtz said. “A young poet should have women tripping over themselves to speak with you. But that frown on your face scares them away.”

“There are no women in the army, Kurtz. And even if there were, I have more important things on my mind.” Like how they were going to get hired anywhere in Tsaftown with Jeffrey Korngold for competition.

“Bah,” Kurtz said. “Talent is wasted on fools, it is. If I could spin words the way you do, I’d have more women than a king.”

“You have had more women than the king,” Cole said.

Kurtz blinked a measured beat. “Stop being so literal. I thought you were a poet, I did. Don’t you know about metaphors and hyperbole and all that nonsense?”

Cole raised an eyebrow, impressed that Kurtz knew such terms. “I do, but you’ve missed the biggest point, my friend.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t want more women than a king. I’m content with my memories of Mistel.”

Except for the part when she hadn’t come to see him off. That still smarted, though he supposed he deserved it.

“Enough talk of women, then, if all you can do is mope,” Kurtz said. “Talked to Quimby today. He wants to know our plans once we arrive in Tsaftown.”

“Get hired at some alehouses and taverns,” Cole said. “Unless Jeffrey gets hired everywhere first.”

“He can’t play every establishment in the North by himself,” Kurtz said. “How do you want to handle Ice Island?”

“Don’t know.” Cole was still shocked that his uncle was alive when he thought the man had died years ago. Prince Oren wanted Cole to question him, see if he’d admit who framed him. “Stop by for a visit, I suppose.”

“Jol seems to think we won’t be able to just show up. Says the place has been locked down pretty tight lately. We’ll have to get invited.”

“By who?” Cole asked.

“Verdot Amal.” Kurtz said the name as if it tasted bad. “He’s the warden.”

“And that’s a problem why?” Cole asked.

“Because I spent thirteen years on Ice Island for a crime I didn’t do,” Kurtz said, “and Verdot Amal is the man who made it happen.”

Cole’s stomach dropped. He’d known getting into Ice Island would be hard. Now it felt impossible. “Wonderful. I need help from the one man who’ll probably throw me in a cell just for knowing you.”

“Bah!” Kurtz said. “What’s thirteen years’ worth of hatred when it comes to uncovering the truth, eh? I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

And suddenly, talking to his long-lost uncle didn’t feel like a reunion to Cole. It felt like a trap.