Ash Fallen

  Ash

  Fallen

  Blake Channels

  Blossom Cove Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ash Fallen. Copyright © 2019 by Blake Channels.

  Cover art by Zauberschmeterling and tiky224.

  Cover and map design by J&R Brown.

  Published by Blossom Cove PublishingTM.

  To find out more about the author and available books, visit blakechannels.com.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For Kiersten and Bella –

  Shine bright and dream big.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY BLAKE CHANNELS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rosalie parted her lips and tried to mimic her friends and neighbors. Their glassy eyes were focused forward, shoulders slack, as they swayed back and forth like a worn-out porch swing in a gentle, midday breeze. The people of Mabel Village stood in the middle of town square, open-mouthed, but silent; eyes wide open, yet unseeing.

  Before chaos erupted, Rosalie had just returned from a morning hunt and was enjoying a late, quiet breakfast on her front porch. She’d always preferred the tranquility of her small village over the buzz and noise of the more populated towns on Orthron. She’d looked up, startled, when she’d heard a whooshing sound and had watched in shock as silver, metal canisters soared through the air and landed on the street in front of her with a resounding clang. A gaseous substance poured from the containers.

  Abandoning her blueberry pancakes and piping hot mug of krisha tea, she’d rushed down her porch steps to investigate. Coughing, and vision clouded by the gas, she’d stumbled around in confusion as she’d witnessed the personality changes of her neighbors. While her senses had heightened under the uncertain danger of the vaporous substance, everyone else’s seemed to dull. Through the haze, she’d noticed the soldiers swarming the town.

  Her heart had skipped a beat as she surveyed her surroundings. The townspeople hadn’t appeared worried. In fact, they hadn’t shown any emotion. Without speaking, they’d pressed together, eyes fixated ahead as they’d stepped in unison towards town square. Her inquisitiveness getting the better of her, she’d fallen into step with them.

  Now she feigned submission as her long, dark auburn hair whipped around her face in the cool morning breeze. Soft tendrils tickled her cheeks and forehead, but she resisted the urge to brush them aside. Just as she resisted the urge to hug her arms to her body to warm herself against the morning chill, or to fiddle with the emerald stone that hung around her neck – something she often did when she felt anxious. Instead, she stood, dark-green eyes unblinking. Heart pounding.

  “We need to gather everyone closer,” she heard a man’s surly voice from somewhere behind her. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. Her skin prickled, but despite her curiosity, she resisted the urge to turn her head to investigate.

  “Roe,” she heard another man whisper. Fear walked down her spine as she fought to ignore the voice. “Roe,” the man repeated more forcefully; but this time she recognized who spoke.

  “Talon?” she whispered back, still facing forward.

  “I’m here.” Her loyal, childhood friend appeared at her side, his steady fingers grazing hers. The pair kept their arms at their sides and eyes frontward.

  She spoke softly, keeping her voice low. “What’s going on with everyone, Talon? I’m scared.”

  “Shh. Me too,” he said, though she’d never known him to show fear and suspected his confession might be exaggerated for her benefit. “I think those canisters launched over the wall weren’t just filled with tear gas. I think they held a chemical agent to control us. Everyone is acting like they’re sleepwalking.”

  Rosalie’s eyes and nostrils burned from the gas. She was about to ask why the effects of the gas didn’t work on the two of them, but noticed the crowd shuffling forward, murmuring as they went. She thought she made out the phrase: stay the course, be true to the cause.

  “Stay the course, be true to the cause,” she muttered in unison as she edged forward, doing her best to blend in with the others.

  Talon joined in. “Stay the course, be true to the cause.” He kept his tone flat.

  The crowd pressed together under the ancient oak tree outside the red-bricked building of Mabel City Hall. A thick, morning fog cloaked the square and the air was dense with the smell of sweat and rotting grass clippings. Rosalie felt cramped and fought against the urge to panic as the throng squeezed closer together. The murmuring ceased, and the group once again swayed back and forth, back and forth.

  Two men approached the swaying villagers. Both appeared threatening – armed and intense. Their tall stature and broad-shouldered, brawny build suggested their presence should not be taken lightly. Behind them, they were flanked by a small army. The soldiers didn’t carry shields or wear fancy breast plates. Instead, they were dressed in protective leather skins and armed mostly with spears or bows. Some held daggers and swords. Few held guns. Under normal circumstances, Rosalie thought her village might have stood a chance against these men and their crude weapons. But under the powers of whatever drug controlled the town-folk, there was little hope.

  The man with the dark-red hair moved through the crowd, analyzing each villager. He spoke softly as he stared into the vacant eyes of each person. Rosalie’s spine tingled. Would he realize the gas hadn’t worked on her? Beside her, Talon gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then dropped his hand back to his side.

  After what seemed like an hour, but was likely less than ten minutes, the man made his way over to Rosalie and Talon. He towered above them, and beads of perspiration formed on Rosalie’s forehead. Beside her, she could hear Talon’s breathing patterns change. His breath became shallow, labored.

  After looking each of them in the eye, a look of surprise crossed the man’s face. And then he smiled a peculiar smile. He turned to his right and motioned to one of his men. “These two,” he said, pointing at Talon and Rosalie. “Bring them up the steps.”

  Talon squeezed Rosalie’s hand once more as the pair was led up the concrete steps of City Hall. His hand was clammy in hers. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” she hear
d herself say. But her words lacked confidence.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rosalie studied the two, fierce men who stood before her atop the steps of City Hall. The man on the left, whom she’d heard called Stryker, appeared to be the leader. He peered back at her through his dark, wicked eyes. His hair was blonde, almost white. A deep scar ran down his right cheek and stopped above his jawline. He wore his hair long on one side, partially covering the scar.

  On Stryker’s right was the man who’d picked her and Talon out of the crowd. He was a tall, muscular man with dark-red, tousled hair cropped below his ears. Rosalie gathered he was second-in-command. He was handsome, in a brusque, mysterious sort of way. He had a confident air about him. He wore khaki-colored shorts, and when he turned to address the men, Rosalie noticed the tattoo of a dagger covering his left calf muscle. She was always drawn to the dangerous types, and she bit her lip, intrigued despite the magnitude of her situation.

  The two leaders exchanged a meaningful look before the man with the tattoo approached Rosalie. She tried not to flinch as he studied her. When he held her gaze with his icy blue eyes, he appeared to see right through her.

  “I’m Ash,” he said briskly.

  She stared coolly back at him, unblinking.

  “What’s your name?” he ordered. His tone was commanding and unfriendly.

  “Rosalie,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

  “Rosalie, you will come with us. I can either bind you and see you carried off, or you can come willingly.”

  “I’ll come willingly.” She tried to sound brave, but the quiver in her voice was undeniable. She bit the inside of her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Look through the homes. Take what you can find that will be of use to us,” the man named Stryker barked to a group of men standing a few steps below. The men dispersed to carry out the order.

  “Please, please don’t leave them defenseless,” Rosalie begged, eyes glistening with tears.

  “We need the weapons,” Ash explained. When she started to protest, and his eyes met hers, he found himself softening. “We’ll leave enough behind for them to protect themselves.” Then he motioned to one of his men. The man ran up the steps, two at a time. When he reached the top, Ash murmured something in his ear. A questioning look crossed the man’s face, but he masked it quickly, nodded in response, then turned and jogged in the direction of the others.

  “Thank you,” Rosalie whispered. Ash grunted, claiming indifference with a shrug of his shoulders, then walked down the steps. The villagers had grown quiet and were standing ramrod straight, still facing City Hall. When he reached the bottom step, he spoke in hushed tones. Rosalie couldn’t hear his words, but she felt oddly comforted by the soothing sound of his voice.

  “Let’s move out,” Stryker ordered once the men returned with their loot.

  Ash grabbed the canteen one of the men handed him and offered it to Rosalie. When she refused it, he thrust it into her hands. “You’d only be hurting yourself.”

  She snatched it from him, slipped the strap over her shoulder, then fell into step behind him. Talon walked beside her, keeping quiet. His wrists were bound – but thankfully his feet were not, and he wasn’t gagged. Rosalie knew he couldn’t bear the shame of being gagged or forced to hobble. She walked in silence, all the while sending up silent prayers to Evgund, god of protection and morality.

  When they reached base camp, it was growing dusk. Unlike Mabel Village, base camp was a poorer township, void of modern amenities. Instead of stick-built or brick homes with glowing porchlights, there was a circle of modest grass huts with flaming torches to mark the entrances.

  Stryker and Ash disappeared into separate huts and Rosalie and Talon were led to a campfire to warm themselves. Both sat warily on an overturned log being used as a makeshift bench. Exhausted from the journey and unsure of their emotional state, neither spoke. Rosalie’s feet ached from the long walk. The terrain had been rough, and the leather, worn-out ankle boots she’d worn were hardly appropriate footwear. Perhaps if she’d known she’d be walking all day, she would have chosen different shoes. Then again, she thought, if she’d known what was going to happen when she awoke that morning, she probably would have stayed in bed. Or hid beneath it.

  She and Talon were given a meager bowl of stringy stew. They shared the remaining water in the canteen. Rosalie rarely ate anything she didn’t hunt or grow herself, but given her mounting hunger pains, she made a singular exception. The stew was flavorless, and smelled unpleasant, but the pair scarfed it down wholeheartedly. Neither knew when their next meal was coming – or if it was coming.

  After dinner, the two friends were separated. Talon was placed in a guarded hut with a handful of prisoners, but Rosalie was led to a smaller hut. When she entered the humble dwelling with the straw roof and dirt floors, she saw Ash standing in the corner. He was leaning over a rickety table and studying a map by candlelight. Whenever he moved, his muscles rippled from beneath his tight shirt.

  Forgetting her tired feet, Rosalie shifted tactics. As she approached him, she pushed out her chest, taking a flirty, unfiltered approach.

  “Where is your leader?” she crooned.

  “My leader?” he asked, giving her a blank stare.

  “Yes, the man they call Stryker.”

  A devious smile played across his lips. “My leader,” he said, “is elsewhere. You’re here to tell me what you know about Castle Druin.”

  “What would you like to know?” She let her hand rest on his chest, then playfully trailed her fingers down his abdomen.

  He caught her hand before she could explore further, pressing his thumb hard against the veins in her wrist.

  “Careful now,” he warned, giving her wrist a squeeze and finding pleasure in the escalated rhythm of her pulse. “Stryker will be in no mood for your games.” His grip was strong, and she involuntarily shuddered at his touch.

  “And what are you in the mood for?” she taunted, testing him. Her voice was sultry – low, yet wildly feminine.

  “I’m in the mood for you to tell me about Druin,” he said, releasing his hold on her wrist and taking a step back from her. His pointed stare penetrated her thin shield of false confidence.

  She shrugged her shoulders, trying to appear unphased. “I don’t know much about it.”

  “You lie,” Ash said, matter-of-fact. “Your village has been at odds with the Druin ruler for decades. You appear to be one of the warriors,” he said as he skimmed his fingers over one of the leather strips of her shockingly short skirt, “so I’d say that makes you an expert.”

  Rosalie rewarded him with a playful smile, but her heart pounded in her chest. Though she’d heard unspeakable stories about Lord Zebadiah, ruler of the Druins, and his harsh treatment of his people, she’d never set foot on Druin soil. Her captor must have misread her attire as that of a warrior. She was a huntress, which meant she could be rather resourceful, but she was no warrior. The overall look was similar she supposed – sleeveless, button-up shirt knotted above the waistline and leather, gladiator-style skirt. But the bold stitching and intricate beadwork of a female warrior’s skirts easily set them apart from the simplicity of those worn by a huntress.

  “And what do I get out of this if I tell you?” she said, feeling less smug.

  “You get to live.” He kept his tone low and flat. “I’ll give you some time to consider it.” He returned his attention to the map, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist.

  Rosalie left the hut, shell-shocked. She wasn’t accustomed to being so easily discarded. Fear and uncertainty settled in the pit of her stomach.

  A lanky, sandy-haired man stood outside the hut, waiting to escort her to her sleeping quarters. He smiled at her, but it wasn’t a friendly smile; more like a smirk.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said, once she saw where her captors intended to keep her. Her new home was to be a cramped, make-shift cell shared with four male detainees. She tried to keep the panic out of
her voice when she heard the vulgar catcalls from the prisoners.

  “Take me back to Ash,” she spoke with authority to the man at her side. She placed her hands on her hips to keep them from shaking.

  “Ash doesn’t have any use for you,” he said, growing impatient.

  “I have information he’ll find useful.”

  The man hesitated and doubt clouded his features.

  “I’m a Mender,” she blurted out in desperation.

  This did pique the man’s interest. “A Mender, you say?” His tone was a blend of fascination and skepticism.

  “Yes,” she said, with mounting confidence. “Your men look like they’re planning to go to battle. My mending powers can be of service.”

  After pausing to consider, the man grabbed her by the arm. “Very well then, I’ll take you back to Ash. But I’ll warn you, he’s not to be trifled with. If you are exaggerating your powers, you will regret it.”

  When Rosalie reentered Ash’s hut, she was more humbled, but fire still burned in her eyes. Ash continued to pour over the brittle map and pretended not to notice her presence, but he smiled to himself. With her auburn hair that stopped above her waist, athletic figure, and scantily clad attire, the woman was stunning. Intriguing. Trouble. He figured she probably broke every heart and rule she ever came across.

  “Back so soon?” he tormented, still feigning disinterest.

  “She’s a disparate,” the man at Rosalie’s side revealed.

  Ash’s eyes flitted to Rosalie’s, then he flashed the man a warning look. “I don’t care for that term,” he said flatly.

  The man flushed red and his shoulders slumped. Rosalie would have smirked with satisfaction if she wasn’t so uncertain of her own fate. “She’s a variant,” he corrected himself. “Claims to be a Mender.”

  “I see,” Ash said, addressing him but looking over at Rosalie. The anger in his eyes had cooled. “Leave us, then.”