“No better time to start than now.” Juzo uncrossed his arms, striding towards the tent, the great sword’s hilt poking out from his airy, unadorned cloak. His face hadn’t healed without leaving him with a new set of scars, permanent scratches and deep pocks studding his jaw. It was amazing that he survived after all the arrow wounds he took at the Tower.
It was an abysmal failure. The siege of the Death Spawn haunted her dreams and scourged her days. What could she have done differently? She should have studied harder, slept less. Every time she asked herself that question, new answers arose.
She found a spell to detect wards in the library of Helm’s Reach, two weeks too late. It was true what Baylan had told her when she asked why he read so much, “What you don’t know can hurt you.” Now she understood. Now she would never forget.
She always had thirst for knowledge, now it was unquenchable. She eyed the tome in her saddlebag. The Lost Spells of Zoria. She wondered if now was one of those moments where she should could squeeze in a page or two.
She let her gaze wander back towards the rows of low fieldstone walls before Helm’s Reach. Dry wind tussled her sun kissed hair, pulling a wavy tendril around her neck. If—no, when—the Death Spawn decided to come here, there wouldn’t be enough herbs in all the realms to assuage their pain.
“Good morning!” Juzo called, holding his arm up to wave. The vagrant woman bared her teeth at him, squinting like she was just seeing him for the first time. Perhaps she was. Nyset was just noticing the jug of mead corked outside the tent, likely spoiling in the sun. Nyset followed Juzo on her gelding, pulling up beside him. The gelding’s hooves hissed through loose shingle where the floodwaters had carved deep furrows in the scrubland.
“Good morning,” she scoffed. “Got a fucking drink, asshole?”
“Doesn’t suit my tongue these days.” Juzo smirked and sauntered a step closer.
A man with a tangled beard poked his head out of the tent, blinked at Nyset, then sucked it back in like a turtle into its shell.
“You better have some damn good reason for botherin’ me at this hour you damned fucks.”
“There’s a reason. I’m afraid you won’t like it.”
The beggar’s narrow hand fell to her dagger, resting there, staring fire at Juzo. Her greasy hair crawled around her face, grinning with missing front teeth.
“The Earl gave us this land to build on, which means you have to go.”
Nyset frowned, noticing the woman’s shift was exposing far more of her than she wanted to see.
“Me and my man been living here for years. We’re here, not movin’. How’s that gonna happen?”
“I was hoping you’d move.” Juzo spread his arms in a gesture of friendliness.
The woman stared down at her shift, tugging it down to cover her lady parts. She squatted down, picked up an empty bottle and tipped the remaining drop into her mouth. She flung the empty bottle at Juzo, who let it bounce off his chest. “We ain’t movin’ without no drink.”
“This plot belongs to the Arch Wizard.” Juzo nodded towards Nyset. She could see the signs of violence brewing in Juzo’s flexing fingers.
“Who said it was hers?”
“I told you—”
“Don’t snap at me, boy.” The woman drew her knife, appearing much larger in her small hands. It was sharp and well oiled, a stark contrast to her living conditions. “Who said so?” she repeated.
Juzo gazed over to Nyset, his raised eyebrow seeking her counsel.
“I said so.” Grimbald cut in, his voice booming behind her. He slung the double-bladed axe Corpsemaker over his shoulder, gripped in one meaty hand. She had almost forgotten he was there. “You could ignore the Arch Wizard, and her friend.” Grimbald’s face spread into a wolfish grin. “But you might find that cute little knife in your neck.”
Nyset had forgotten how fierce the gentle man could be. It was something she should not forget again.
The woman glared down at her knife then back at Grimbald, her brow glistening with sweat. She looked like she was finding herself feeling a bit less thirsty now. She stuck the blade into its sheathe and stared down at her blistered feet. “I suppose we’ll just move along then. Just tryin’ to survive in this fucking wasteland.”
“Thank you, we’ll get you some new robes,” Nyset offered.
“I don’t want your pities. Can I get myself dressed now?”
Juzo gave a quick nod. “Seems like a fine idea.”
The bearded man came out, stumbling like he’d just taken a fierce blow to the head. He was buttoning the foulest piece of clothing Nyset had ever seen. It was stained with urine around his crotch and belly, and matted with shit on his backside. “We’ll leave the tent, not that nice a one anyway,” he chuckled in good spirits.
“You would leave such a treasured item?” Juzo chuckled.
Nyset had to fight the urge to laugh and elbowed him in the shoulder. “Stop,” she hissed at Juzo. When was the last time her lips had formed a smile? Too long.
The white beard stood staring at the tent. “Don’t suppose you have any beer or—”
“Water?” Nyset slid a full skin from her shoulder, held it in her hand for him to take. They were harmless, just trying to survive, like her.
“Beer?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Get moving,” Juzo growled. The beggars skittered away like drink was just on the horizon, ignoring Nyset’s offerings.
“No one was really going to hurt them, right?” Nyset asked, watching the beggars make their way back towards the city’s gates.
Grimbald stuck his finger into an eye of the skull pommel. “Of course not.”
“Good. We don’t need any unnecessary bloodshed.”
Juzo grunted.
Grimbald eyed the undulating earth “After we clear out the tent, we’ll have to get rid of all the shrubs.”
Nyset dismounted, squatted down and dug her hands into the mix of clay and dirt, letting it sift between her fingers. “I truly appreciate your help. I don’t know what I would do without you two.”
“Of course, Ny,” said Grimbald.
Juzo nodded at her and forced a smile.
“I think the Tower has a vault here. I might be able to get some marks to pay you—”
“It’s nothing. Just glad to be here.” Grimbald swatted at a buzzing fly.
Nyset bit her cracked lip. “I have to warn you, being so close to the Arch Wizard will make you both a target.”
Juzo let out a hearty laugh with a touch of mania in his voice. “I think it’s a little too late for that. Besides, life would be a bore any other way.”
“I don’t need marks. Friends is the one thing I‘ve always been short on.” Grimbald frowned down at his wide-toed boots.
“You now have friends of the most esteemed class,” Juzo said, giving the back of Grim’s neck a squeeze.
“Oh, that feels good,” Grimbald crooned. “You don’t have to stop, really.”
Juzo slapped him on the back before striding off to the tent and started dismantling it.
“Uh, the horror.” Juzo groaned, covering his nose.
Grimbald extracted another vagrant from inside the tent, male or female Nyset couldn’t say. The beggar dragged a filthy sack of belongings behind as Grimbald shooed him along.
“I need to go into the city and meet with Vesla now,” Nyset said, deftly mounting the midnight gelding. The horse’s nostrils were already lathered by the mid-day heat. “Do you need anything from me?”
“Some—” Grimbald lowered his voice, watching the vagrant dragging his trash. “Some elixir ale would be nice.”
“I’ll send cheese and nuts with your men, if I catch them in time.”
Grimbald grinned at her and made an exaggerated slurping sound, tongue tracing his lips. “Might as well get to it then.” He strode around to a black leather pack on the Blood Donkey and retrieved the measuring string he purchased at the market earlier today. He tossed one end
to Juzo and they started taking measurements of the stone block supporting the ruined house.
She turned on her gelding and left for Helm’s Reach. The city was all concentric rings, each ring containing a different class of citizens. It looked like a strange pastry at this distance.
The center rings were packed tight and rose up into the air like the gooey center of a honey bun. Her stomach rumbled at the prospect of food, but there was much to be done today and it would have to wait. In the central ring rose a small castle, Harwood Hold, a sort of miniaturized version of King Ezra’s palace, built for the Earl. It was immaculate by Breden standards. The King had commissioned the same architect to build it that had constructed the Midgaard palace. In the central ring was where the wealth, loungers and malingers were.
The middle ring, cleverly named the Middle, was much narrower by comparison to the outer, wide enough for a modest house on each side of the walls and a road for two carts to pass abreast. The middle ring was where the work was done. Blacksmith’s hammers sang on armor and echoed over the walls. The scent of fresh bread occasionally touched her nose. The roads were loosely packed cobbles, worn flat over the years.
The outer ring was known as a Dirt Ring, where the majority of the populace lived in squalor. They lived in over-packed hovels and survived on the scraps the few charitable denizens of the Middle left them. Unlucky pigeons were a dinner staple. You would be considered fortunate if you were to capture a particularly plump one. The roads were trodden soil, hard packed with heavy use and dotted with scraggly weeds. The outer ring was protected by low fieldstone walls, easily scaled by Death Spawn with a great leap and clawed hands. They were in dire need of a team of masons to patch and fortify it. It would have to be built taller and topped with spikes, like the Tower had. The few masons were already working themselves into early graves.
Nyset’s eye was captured by a pair of dueling Clyon lizards. They each had four horns around their scaled heads, about the size of her fist. There was a loud crack as their heads and horns collided. Their scales were violet in color and stark in the low grasses. At the end of their long tails were barbs as long as her arm, dripping with paralyzing sap. One lashed with its tail at the other, hissing across ground and kicking up dust. Her gelding whinnied and snorted when it saw them, dancing away from their battle. Nyset should have expected that, but her mind was elsewhere. She gave the reins a hard pull, getting the gelding under control, its eyes rolling.
The denizens of Helm’s Reach and the Earl Baraz had believed the lies that King Ezra perpetuated. Midgaard was a safe and happy place. Zoria was a peaceful realm where only dreams became reality. Fiction was always easier to believe, the truth a sour tincture, she thought wearily. They had never known war, or rather hadn’t remembered it. They were enamored in their petty feuds. They had forgotten who their real enemy was. The Tower hadn’t forgotten. She would not forget. Nothing would drain a city’s coffers faster than civil disobedience, she had read. That was something Helm’s Reach had in great supply. She would have to remedy that at some point. But how?
It was about a thirty-minute ride back to the gates, if they could be called that. She was so lost in thought she was surprised to see them approaching already. It wouldn’t take more than twenty Death Spawn to breach them in their current state. The crosshatched bars were pitted and corroded from years of neglect. She wondered how deeply the rust had penetrated the iron. How many slams from a battering ram would it take to pry them apart? They would need to be replaced and would cost marks, something the city was short on.
Even the Tower’s walls were breached, but they had to try. It’s what Walter, the late Arch Wizard Bezda Lightwalker and Baylan Spear would have done.
She sighed. The thought of the fallen opened fresh wounds, tearing at her heart and twisting her guts into knots. She felt so alone in this fight. The wind cut at her cheeks, pulling warm tears across the corners of her eyes and into her hair.
Sure, she had Juzo, Grimbald, survivors and new volunteers to help, but the ultimate responsibility was hers. Nyset carried the burden the day she declared herself Arch Wizard after the Tower fell. It was strapped to her back like an iron block, threatening to drown her if she slipped from the treacherous path. She had to be strong for everyone else. Humanity needed to see a hero and so did she.
She saw the way people looked at her. They looked to her the way you saw a lone candle in the dark. She was their last glimmer of hope. When their eyes were bold enough to find hers, they seemed to be waiting for words of encouragement, but none came from her lips.
The stone walls around the gates were crumbling. Between the gates were wide archer’s towers, dense with arrow-slit windows. As long as their enemies came through the front gate, they might have a fighting chance. Mortar slipped from between the stones with a hard rap from the guard’s spear butt. The archer’s towers had remained vacant until the Tower fell. Now they bristled with guards. Nyset was glad they were starting to feel the fear. The Silver Tower was only three miles away, still merrily burning and sending a dark plume into the sky. She heard a sword pulled from a scabbard and the screech of a hawk as she drew closer.
“Sorry, Arch Wizard, thought I heard something,” a guard called out over the parapet, one hand held over his eyes, the other gripping a long sword. He was staring into the sky, seeing the hawk lazily swirling on the boiling air. “Something wrong m’lady, er Arch Wizard?” the guard seemed to remember what that title meant and stiffened his back.
“Oh, no. Just the wind.” She sniffed and wiped the damp from the corners of her eyes. She left two dark blue dots of wet on her silks. The guard frowned down at her and sheathed his blade. He feigned at patrolling the wall, all the while keeping his eyes on her.
She pulled her gelding up behind the guard chipping away at the wall with his spear, the mortar crumbling like old bread. She dismounted. “Planning to rebuild it after?” The guard turned his head mid-strike, peering over his shoulder at her. His jaw hung open when he saw her. She waited for him to say something, but his reddening cheeks did the speaking for him. “Did I stutter?”
“Uh, no, no, Arch Wizard.”
“What do you know of masonry?”
The guard shrugged uncomfortably, armored shoulder plates clinking against his back-plate. “Know a little from my father,” he squeaked in a womanish voice.
“Good. You’re going to get twenty of your friends and teach them what you know. You’ll lead the fortification of the walls here at the gates. If you have any questions, you can bring them to the master mason.”
“But I—”
“Do you question my authority?”
“No.”
Nyset was quivering under her robes, doing her best to keep it from creeping through her voice. She wanted to puke up the bile in her stomach, right there onto the rough cobbles and fall to the ground weeping. She wasn’t ready for this burden. She hoped the guards staring at her over the wall and through the arrow slits took her silence for foreboding, or rage. She finally spoke and other conversations had cut off around her. “Do you see what remains of the Silver Tower?” She stabbed her finger to the south at the sinuous smoke.
“I was there,” she spat in his face. “I watched men split in half, beheaded, burning, screaming, pleading for mercy and yelling for their mothers.” She had to be strong. “The Death Spawn boiled over our walls, spitted wizards like Shroomlings on their spears.” She had to inject the fear into their bones. “They took everything from me!” They had to know their enemy. “And here you are, weakening our walls for our enemies,” she said softly. Someone coughed on the parapet.
The man’s eyes were wide and he cleared his throat, his tongue working at his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, hardly a whisper. She could see he was young now, at least three years younger than Walter. Had she gone too far? These emotions could only remain corked for so long.
“What’s your name?” Nyset asked with measured control.
“Cazius.”
His eyes were down, his confidence withering like an old elixir cherry.
“Cazius, fix the wall.” She rested a hand on his shoulder plate. Then turned, mounting the gelding.
“Yes, Arch Wizard, yes of course, of course.” Cazius nodded furiously.
“The enemy is real,” she said, loud enough for all the guards to hear. “Our enemies do not take prisoners. Prepare yourselves. Prepare your families, for what burned the Tower is death itself. There are dark days ahead. Your time is precious. We must make every minute count.” She punched her hand, now lit with Dragon fire into her open palm, sparks showering the air. “Do it for all of us and for the fate of humanity.”
“Constant vigilance!” a guard shouted, his gleaming gauntlet raised. Others joined him in a mix of unsure cries. Some glowered at her and she saw more than a few ghastly faces. One guard started sharpening a sword. An archer twanged a frayed bowstring. It was a start at least.
She took in a great breath of air and held it in her lungs as she rode under the gates. She could feel the hundreds of eyes on her, following her as she rode. She would not cry, she would not. Sweat trickled down her temples. She found brown and blue eyes staring down at her through the murder holes under the parapet. The story would spread like wild fire by the end of the day, as she hoped it would.
Chapter Two
Scarred
“Whispers of the Dead: Speaking the secret words will call forth their former spirits from the Shadow Realm, infusing life to the body of the dead. The body will once again take on movement with a hint of the intellect it once had. This is a form of Necromancy that is kept secret for obvious reasons.” -The Lost Spells of Zoria
Walter ran. The air was hot in his chest, his breath heaving, acid burning in his aching legs. How was he alive? Shouldn’t he be dead, unfeeling? He pawed at his throat, pressed at the thick coils of tissue around his neck like a garrote of scars. He spared a glance back over his shoulder. The beast was almost upon him. His heart was a storm of the ages, beating against his ribs. He willed his legs to move faster, could feel its humid breath prickling his skin. He could hear its pincers clanging off the stones like thousands of swords, harsh and biting in his ears. He couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t stop to catch his breath. Something felt like it was burning the skin on the back of his neck. He had to ignore it for now. It was a minor pain. Something he could easily stuff into the back of his mind.
The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4) Page 3
