The Silver Tower
Book Three of The Age of Dawn
Everet Martins
Contents
DRM
Dedication
Zoria Map
Newsletter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
DRM
The author has provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management (DRM) software applied so you can read it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Copyright infringement is against the law.
For those who share the love of slipping into other worlds.
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Chapter One
Prologue
“Where is it?” Darkthorne breathed, his metallic fist snapping shut. The horizontal bars of his helm, covering the pinched and scarred flesh beneath it, pulsed with a reddish glow. A cool burst of wind spiraled through the small room, kicking dust eddies into the corners and making the cobwebs shudder. The unlit candles on the wall burst alight, illuminating the carved blocks of limestone that comprised the walls.
In the back corner of the room, beyond the table just big enough for two, was an empty alcove. The ward he had inscribed upon the alcove was missing, no longer glowing with spell script. Why wasn’t it there?
“No,” Darkthorne whispered, gooseflesh penetrating his bones. The alcove was terrifyingly empty. The candles burned unnaturally brighter, as if the wicks were infused with fire-strikers, but they couldn’t illuminate what he wished to see.
He felt the organ in his chest trying to leap through his rib cage. He inhaled through his cracked, broken teeth and licked the spot in the back where the gums were empty. He let the tome slip from under the stump of his other arm, now terminated by a wicked blade. The massive tome fell upon the table, sending it teetering and falling with an echoing clatter.
He raced to the corner, squatting down, armor and flesh bonded as one, hissing and gliding on his descent. The alcove was empty. His steely hand traced the cube that was carved into the wall, patting, searching for the small sack that contained the Chains of the North. It was the most vital of all artifacts and Asebor had entrusted him to guard it. But it was missing.
Gone.
No longer here.
But how?
The ward should have slaughtered any living creature that had attempted to open the masterfully hidden door.
“No, no,” Darkthorne stammered and rose to his full height, whirling around the room, scanning for a broken, mutilated body. There were only thick cakes of dust and… footprints. He looked closer, there was dried blood beside the footprints.
“Malek, you bastard,” he boomed, his voice like boulders falling from a cliff, vibrating Snowden’s Cavern. There were few living who knew how to detect and disarm glyph traps. Malek was one of them.
“What am I going to do? What will I tell the master?” he screamed, slamming his glowing fist into the wall and cracking a limestone block. Bits of stone shot out and the mortar puffed out with dust. The sharpened fingertips of his glove jabbed into the craggy wall and he raised his head back before smashing it into the wall with a clang.
Blood trickled from the bottom of his helm and dripped onto his scaled breastplate. He slammed the heavy blade of his other arm into the wall, casting a shower of sparks through the air. The bladed end of his arm started at the elbow, replacing the section of arm Asebor had taken from him. He had failed when he sent the Skin Flayers to assassinate King Ezra and he couldn’t fail again. The blade was a reminder that he had not heeded. He sucked in air and took heaving breaths. Darkthorne turned, striding towards the wrought iron door and kicked it open.
“To me now! All of you, now!” His voice bellowed through the cavern. The torches winked as the shadows shifted and doors opened. Death Spawn flooded into the dimly lit hallway, ducking low and bumping into one another, gibbering. Their beady black eyes looked beyond him, unable to meet his eyes, or the place where his eyes once were.
“The item I had in this room is gone. The Chains of the North are gone!” He roared. “Rip this place apart and find it! If you do not find it, you will hunt the traitor, Malek, and return him to me, alive!”
A Black Wynch stepped forward, talons rapidly clacking against in the floor. “But—but master, we cannot attack another of the Wretched, Asebor forbids—”
Darkthorne was a blur, seizing the Black Wynch by its wiry neck and lifting it into the air with his hand. Its talons screeched against his bracer as it scraped and clawed for life. Darkthorne’s hand started compressing the soft, squishy neck in his grasp. The creature’s legs flailed wildly, but Darkthorne’s hands were a vice, crushing until his fingers met his palms, squeezing the beast’s neck flat, ejecting blood and flesh from each end of his fist and between his fingers.
The Death Spawn around him shifted back a few steps, muttering and stumbling over one another. The Black Wynch’s head rolled from the top of Darkthorne’s hand and its black blood spattered across his sabatons. Darkthorne opened his fist, allowing the Black Wynch’s lifeless form crumple to the floor.
“Any other objections?” They shifted further into the depths of the hall, a few shrieked at the question. “Go, now.”
They moved, fumbling in different directions, pouring into rooms, rifling through piles of weapons, heaps of trash, some running through the mouth of Snowden’s Cavern.
“Do not return to this place if you do not find Bonesnapper, The Chains of the North.” Darkthorne wiped a bloody hand across his cloak and pressed his fingers into his polished helmet, forcing tiny dents into it.
Maybe he dropped it when the tentacles had him…
He raced to his throne room where had fought Malek months ago. The floor was littered with earthen holes where he’d summoned the gelatinous tentacles, invoking the summoning spell ‘Arms of the Beast’. The cavern was hewed from the earth in blocky sections around the walls, contrasting with the floor polished mirror bright. Piles of rock from their skirmish had been pushed into corners forming small towers. His throne sat empty, menacing and hard, a solid block of brown stone lit by torches that waved on either side. The throne was carved in sharp edges, no effort made at comfort.
Darkthorne dropped to his hands and knees, the triplet of short spikes that jutted from his knee armor groaned as it was dragged across the stone. He stuck his bladed arm into one of the holes, ineffectually stabbing around and hoping for the resounding clang of metal on metal.
“What am I going to do? What will I tell him? How can I explain this?” He said hoarsely, droplets of moisture forming along the narrow bars that c
overed his mouth.
“Zal Man Baz,” he muttered, and a ball of amber light sprung to life in his hand. He dropped it into the hole, stopping about ten arm’s lengths down. Nothing.
“Always busy with important work, I see,” a voice rasped from behind. Darkthorne’s neck tingled and bristled with sweat. He pulled his head from the hole, pushing with his hand along its sharp edges, and twisting around to find the source of the familiar voice.
Asebor’s ruby cloak fluttered listlessly at his sides and his face was a shimmering sea of darkness, in constant motion and punctuated by two violet slits. He took a step towards Darkthorne, his hulking arms crossed, peering inside the hole.
“Anything good in there?”
“No—no great lord, I wasn’t expecting you. How can I be of service?”
“This is what you have to deal with when you destroy your own residence, Darkthorne. I’d suggest a less destructive spell next time, though you wouldn’t have the need if you didn’t betray your own kind, vying for my favor.”
“Great lord,” Darkthorne said, awkwardly prostrating himself, bladed arm scraping along the ground. “It will not happen again.”
“No matter,” Asebor said, waving a dark hand with spikes along the knuckles. “I love what you’ve done with the arm, very suiting. Is it Dragon forged?”
“It is,” Darkthorne said, rising onto his knees as Asebor lifted the side of the blade, inspecting it.
“Cold steel is an efficient weapon, wouldn’t you say, Darkthorne?” Asebor dropped the blade and started pacing around the crater.
“I—”
Asebor cut him off before he could answer. “Some scholars say the written word is more powerful than the sword, but I would disagree. I’m sure they would too if presented the option in battle. The man who writes last is the one with the sharper blade,” Asebor said, arms behind his back and pausing his circuit as three Cerumal stomped into the room. They quickly turned on their heels when they saw who was there, bumping into one another as all three tried to simultaneously squeeze through the hallway leading out.
“How have our numbers grown?” Asebor hissed.
“They’re… slowing. We’ve captured most of the vagrants and seized all the men from the smaller villages we’ve taken. You said before to keep things quiet, and I’ve tried my best to do that, to not lead anyone back here.” Darkthorne twisted his torso, trying to face Asebor.
“You have been careful. Good. Perhaps all one needs is to lose an arm to follow my command. Maybe you will soon redeem your previous failure. How many?”
“At my last count, we have 12,254 units at your disposal, master. This includes the losses incurred battling the Midgaard swine at the Plains of Dressna and the Woodland Plunge.”
Asebor crossed his thick arms, slowly nodding. “We lost a Lord of Death at the plains, did you know that?”
“Uh, yes, master,” Darkthorne stammered, plate clinking as he shuffled his knees together
“This swine is not to be underestimated. The Tower whores have grown since the Age of Dawn. The Age of Dawn, a grave insult that they will surely pay for.” Asebor spat.
“All about, I see my troops ripping this place apart. Why is that, Darkthorne? Is something… amiss?” Asebor grated. He reached his hand under Darkthorne’s neck, guiding him to his feet, face to stinking face. Asebor’s breath was hot, like the steam from a boiling kettle. Darkthorne turned away, lips quivering behind his gleaming helm.
“I visited the forge, the weapon stores, the bunks—all in disarray,” Asebor said, booting a stone across the room. The torches speckling the walls of the spacious cavern pulsed like a heartbeat.
“I—” Darkthorne began.
“You know what I do with liars, don’t you?” The chains around Asebor’s legs softly clinked together as they unwound and slithered into the air.
“It’s gone!” Darkthorne blurted out, prostrating himself and slamming both the blade and his fist into the floor. “Bonesnapper is gone!” He took great heaving breath, arms shaking and plate vibrating.
“Gone? What do you mean gone!” Asebor snarled. The chains around his arms and torso unfurled, joining the ones around his legs, five links of bladed death hissing and whipping around in a fury. Darkthorne’s noble posture slumped and his head hung low.
“There was a time when I had high hopes for you,” Asebor said softly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how this could have happened,” Darkthorne whimpered, his fist balled up in a mass of steel. He knew what was to come next. His eyes traced the dark blade that been woven into the recesses of what remained on his arm. He recounted the pain of losing that arm and enduring the surgeon’s hard work. The shame he had felt for losing favor with the great lord washed over him. All he had ever wanted to do in his life was be someone who could be relied upon and once again, he had failed.
The tattered, scarlet tendrils of Asebor’s cape flitted high into the air, caressing the cavern’s roof. His chains danced and spiraled among the mess of red, cutting and whipping. His violet eyes glowed with the brightness of the sun and Darkthorne shielded his eyes with his bladed arm.
Darkthorne dropped to his knees and fell onto his chest, hand clawing at the ground. “I’m sorry, master!” he wailed. “It was Malek, he took them when he came here. He has the weapon.”
“When?”
“When? I don’t know for su—”
The mass of chains and cape stabbed towards Darkthorne, encircling his limbs in their vicious grasp, lifting him into the air. He did not resist, for resistance only meant a more severe punishment. That was a painful lesson he would not forget. His arms and legs were jerked to the sides, limbs popping from their sockets like he was stretched upon the rack. The armor around his joints creaked and buckles fell, dinging against the floor below.
“When!” Asebor demanded.
“The last time you came!” Darkthorne breathed, jutting his chin out, trying to remove the pressure from a coil of red cape cinching around his neck.
“Malek, that traitorous dog,” Asebor whispered, white, sharp teeth reflecting the amber torchlight. “You have failed me for the last time, Darkthorne.”
“No! No, please I can still be of use to you, great master. I can—”
He cut off as a length of Asebor’s cape darted into his mouth, filling the noisy cavity. The length of cape worked its way around his tongue, dry and sticking. Darkthorne gurgled and choked, his eyes wild and anxiously searching around the room.
Darkthorne’s scream was muffled and blood rolled from between the bars of his helm. The length of cape emerged from Darkthorne’s maw and uncoiled, dropping the bit of flesh that had once been his tongue. A bladed chain stabbed under Darkthorne’s helmet, creating a gaping hole between the bars as it worked its way out.
Darkthorne howled as blood poured down from his head, streaming red along his polished armor. His armor and flesh were one, bonded during an accident when he was a youth playing in his father’s smithy. Some mistakes never healed with time. His helm was ripped free from his bald, bleeding head. Patches of skin were torn free, exposing white bone along his cheeks and scalp. One of his eyelids dangled from a sliver of skin in the corner.
“Some dogs need to be put down,” Asebor rasped. Darkthorne thrust his head back, writhing, screaming, and pulling against his bound limbs to no avail. The shimmering darkness about Asebor’s face slid back and up behind his head like an opening eye, revealing an incredibly large jaw and wild yellow eyes. The chain that held Darkthorne’s helm whipped behind him and hurled the helm into Darkthorne’s chest, bouncing off it and leaving a deep impression.
Darkthorne coughed and gurgled a thickening bolus of blood onto the floor. Asebor’s chains methodically worked, savagely tearing his armor off piece by piece, skin hanging from the back of each piece like torn cloth. His body no longer moved, twitched, or screamed. He was like a red painted doll, all muscle, bone and sinews now exposed to the open air. Asebor’s chains and cape fel
l lifeless to the floor, releasing Darkthorne, dropping him like a bag of butchered meat onto the ground.
Asebor’s chains and capes snapped straight, showering blood and flesh around the room. The chains returned to him, slowly curling about his limbs, painting red lines along his black leather armor. His cloak dragged behind him as he bridged the short distance between himself and the dead man. Asebor squatted beside Darkthorne, armor plates strewn around his flayed body. A pauldron rolled from side to side. Asebor reached his black hand out, gently stopping its humming.
“A shame, you had so much potential. It’s hard to find good help in these times,” Asebor said, tapping his index finger on Darkthorne’s bloody skull.
A line of blue light split the air behind him, its ends twisting in clockwise directions, forming a perfect circle. A topless woman stepped through the portal. She wore bottoms of gold and clear emeralds, a heavy fur cloak draped over her shoulders and trailing behind. She hid her gasp the best she could at the sight of her skinned colleague.
“Alena,” Asebor said, his back to her. He rose to his full height, turning and facing her. She shuffled back a step, eyes burning with intense green, pulling her cloak tight around her chest.
“I’ll need you to take over here. Darkthorne is no longer up for the job, as you can plainly see.”
“Great lord, I came as fast as I could. Of course, anything, master,” she said, releasing the cloak, spreading her arms in a flourish and bowing low. The demon half-skull she wore as a crown jostled and she reached untarnished fingers towards it, keeping it in place. She walked towards Darkthorne’s twitching body, rubbing her narrow chin, her long blackberry colored hair fluttering over her backside.
“What happened?” she asked, carelessly stepping into his pooling blood, her white hands planted on her bare hips.
The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) Page 1
