Juzo gently slid the blade into the man’s chest, easily penetrating his plate, between his ribs and through his heart, as gentle as scorned lover. The guard’s eyes snapped open, wet and gray, frantically looking the blade up and down, letting out a series of low grunts.
I am the eater of souls, Blackout said.
“It’s all over now, sssh,” Juzo crooned. Juzo shielded his eye as Blackout burst alight with a brilliant flash, and just as quickly faded. The twisting mouth of the man snarled from inside the blade and his fist pounded on the prison within. The sword faded to black, somehow darker than the blackest parts of the passage.
“Why do you need them?” Juzo dared to asked, wiping the blood from Blackout on the guard’s pants.
Why do you need the life essence of man? Blackout replied.
“I see,” Juzo said back, nodding and sheathing the blade.
He stepped from the alleyway, looking the desolate street up and down. The street torch flickered beside him, merrily burning away. It dispelled the darkness surrounding the leather merchant’s shop, the square cobbles near his boots, presumably a beacon of safety for most. It banished all the darkness all around.
Except him.
His footfalls trailing behind you at night were the ones you were justifiably terrified of hearing. He was the creature mother’s warned their children about. He was the terror that the nightly patrols attributed unexplained murders too. The guard was right, only strange people emerge in the evening.
Juzo strode from the alley, obsessively wiping his lips again and again, checking over his shoulder as he walked into the expansive market square from the road. The few people he passed seem to know well enough not to try to make eye contact with him. He’d guessed it was the eye patch or the blade at his side, or a combination of both.
He walked through the snaking sections of empty merchant’s carts in the square. Empty baskets, quiet counters, scales laying unoccupied, no goats bleating and chickens squawking. That was the way he liked things. He fondly remembered a time when he enjoyed the bustle of humanity, now it just made him sick to see so many sacks of food together in one place.
One of the great advantages of his newly given power was a hatred for sleep. Sleep only brought nightmares and he seemed to manage just fine without it, as long as he fed regularly. It wasn’t much of a problem to drink the blood of man in such a big city. Bodies are easy to hide and known thieves are quick to be blamed. He’d only been here a week and they were catching on, increasing the number of patrols in sections he’d been.
He rounded a corner into a column of vegetable carts, bits of cabbage, corn husks, and various mashed leaves littered the ground. A group of men wearing all white formed a circle halfway down the aisle, seeming to be in a scuffle with someone. Months ago, Juzo would have wheeled around in the other direction. Fear was an emotion so foreign to him now that he forgot what it felt like. He came closer to the group now and could make out what they were saying. His eye narrowed, peering at the stumbling form within the ring.
“Damn wizard scum. Stay out of our city!” A man barked, shoving someone inside the small ring.
“You all think you’re better than us, don’t you?” Another said with a kick.
“You’re shit, you’re lower than shit!” A lean man yelled, angrily jabbing the air with a club.
Juzo was closer now, close enough to see a frail man in blue robes cowering on his hands and knees, tears streaming from his wrinkled eyes and swallowed by his narrow beard. On the side of his head was an ugly gash, trailing blood along his haggard face. The old man’s eyes flicked to his, peering between a pair of white trousers. Juzo looked away, down aisle, as if the line of empty carts continued uninterrupted. He drew beside the group now, just enough room for him to pass and continue his late-night stroll. Why had he come here? Curiosity? Boredom?
“Help! Please!” The man reached an arm towards Juzo, his hand black with ash. The man yelled as a boot was slammed into his stomach, dropping him into a fetal position.
Juzo paused, almost past the group, staring at the writhing man. You’re not a hero. You’re an abomination. What good has playing the hero done for you so far? Keep walking, there’s nothing for you here. Juzo turned away from them, taking a step.
“Move along. Or do you want some trouble too, freak?” the man with the club said over his shoulder. He was an ugly-looking bastard with a sharp rat face, casting a sneer at Juzo.
Juzo froze in his tracks, body rigid, black pupil expanding and leaving a thin band of red around his iris. Juzo’s jaw clamped down hard, tearing into his cheeks, metallic blood filling his mouth. His tongue pressed tightly against his sharpened teeth. He took a step back, spinning on the balls of his feet to face the group.
They insult us! Blackout hissed within. We will eat their souls, Blackout boomed, a whisper and a roar overlapping in his skull.
“Are you hard of hearing? I guess you can join the party too!” Another man with a club said, pulling away from the group and tugging up his white hood over his pudgy head. He hefted the club in his palm as he stalked towards Juzo, his expression set on violence. Juzo drew Blackout and held it loosely by his side.
The man in white stopped, the club pausing mid-air before clapping onto his palm. “And what are you going to do with that, boy?” he said, cocking his head and pulling on a thin mustache.
“No one tells me what to do,” Juzo said through gritted teeth, staring at the man’s boots, chest heaving with labored breaths. The tendons on Juzo’s arm bulged with the tremendous force of his grip on Blackout, fingertips digging into the leather wrapped handle. Juzo raised his head, meeting the man’s dark eyes.
The man stumbled back a step. “What the fuck are you?”
“No one controls me,” Juzo croaked, voice trembling. “No one!” he screamed, raising Blackout high and chopping down. The man raised the club and Blackout slashed through it, his shoulder, and halfway into his breastbone. Blood splashed onto two others who ran up beside him. The man dropped the other half of his club and fell with a gurgle. Juzo raised his leg, and kicked the man off the blade, freeing it.
The two who had come to help stumbled back, faces aghast, white robes spattered with globs of blood. They turned to run, one dropping a dagger and another something else metallic. Juzo lurched a step then stopped, letting them go before swinging again.
No mercy! They want to control you, lock you up in Terar’s chambers, Blackout hissed.
“No, not again,” Juzo stammered, lost, taken in by Blackout’s words, head shaking, lips curling back into a twisted grimace. “Not again!” He hissed, eye glowing with hate.
Juzo sprinted in a blur, fresh blood infusing his legs with power. He easily caught up with the one who’d dropped his useless dagger. He swung hard, Blackout whispering through the backs of his knees. The sword yanked on Juzo’s grip, piercing in and out of the man’s chest before he hit the ground. He fell onto his stumps, screaming, his hand clawing at the sucking wound through his chest.
Two other’s fled in opposite directions, weaving through produce carts and shoving them into a state of disarray. A bowl of spices leaped from a table in one direction, filling the air behind the man in a cloud of yellow. A tower of grain sacks toppled over a few rows beyond as the other man in white, stumbled and huffed.
There was one more of the bastards though, stammering and shuffling back. One whose fate had already been told, the rat faced bastard who’d been foolish enough to try to tell Juzo what to do, to take him back to the Master’s dungeons. The man’s beady eyes rolled back and forth from Juzo to his dying friend. Juzo twirled Blackout in his hand, slinging blood from its edge, spattering red dots along the man’s absurdly clean robe.
“Wha-what do you want? Who are you?” The rat faced man said, arms raised in a gesture of innocence.
Feet scraped the ground behind Juzo and he looked over his shoulder, seeing the old man in blue stumbling away, his hand pressed to the side of his head. Ju
zo let out a heavy sigh.
“Go home, leave the wizards alone,” Juzo said, pointing with Blackout, his eye drooping with weariness.
The man’s expression shifted from quivering with the fear of impending death to angry scorn. His big fists curled into gray balls, arms shaking. The corner of his lip pulling into an odd sort of smile.
“Fucking wizard scum! They don’t belong here. You don’t belong here!” he said, stabbing his finger into Juzo’s chest.
“You’re either really brave or really stupid,” Juzo muttered, his lips pulling back to reveal his teeth, sharp points glimmering in the torchlight.
“You… you’re one of them. One of those demons that’s been attacking the villages!” he said, jabbing again with his index finger. He pulled his hand back and Blackout sliced through the air and the finger was gone, a nub of flesh rolling on the cobbles.
Destroy, Blackout whispered.
The man pulled his hand back, gasping and moaning with shock, clutching his wrist with the intact hand.
Juzo let Blackout go to work on the man, he being only its conduit for destruction. Blackout cut beautiful lines through the white ocean of cloth, jerking his arm in hard directions as it hewed him limb from limb. Red liquid and bone fragments were its preferred medium.
“You should have just let me pass,” Juzo whispered, his chest pulling in a ragged breath, sheathing Blackout. He turned around, continuing on his way as though nothing had happened, leaving a butchered mess in his wake.
Killing all those men didn’t make him feel better. He might have saved one man’s life but killed three others. He was no better than the strange men in white. He wasn’t anyone’s hero. He was the reason people locked their doors at night. But it all ends the same, doesn’t it? At least he was full now. This should hold him over for a few days.
Juzo wrapped his arms tightly around his body, hugging himself as he strode on. He was very likely the only person who would ever hold him, he thought with a grim snicker. In a world of enemies, he walked alone.
Black clouds moved in, surrounding all but the yellow glow of the orb above. He tilted his head back towards the sickled moon, smiling as the great emptiness filled his heart. Not even the stars would be his friend tonight.
Chapter Three
Morning Elixir
“Spring comes with sweet showers. I awake to the cries of Shroomlings before the light bathes my eyes. They scurry around at night, waiting for the dawn. Their voices remind me of my childhood in Helm’s Reach, their voices like the din of the city.” - The Diaries of Baylan Spear
A shaft of light cut through the window, bathing Walter’s eyes in its warmth. He tossed onto his side, the feather bed swallowed his flailing legs. He rested his cheek on his forearm, eyes parting. His face felt cool against Stormcaller. The Dragon forged metal encircling his arm reflected the brilliance of sun around the simple room, casting bright lines up and down the walls.
He rose onto his elbows, staring about the room. The beds were empty, sheets pulled tight around the edges and pillows fluffed up. Some of Nyset’s herb bags had spilled open, a pinch of bright red petals below their bed. A tower of books sat beside the rectangular post of Baylan’s bed, worn with barely legible bindings, likely stinking of library. Two beds lay pushed together where Grimbald slept. The remnants of the first bed that had crumbled under his weight were stacked in a pile in the corner, broken boards and nails poking out in all directions.
How long had it been since he left the Lair? How long since he last moved? Ate? Drank? Walter rubbed his temples, staring down at the floorboards. He worked a hand through his dark hair, scratching his scalp and pushing it back at the same time.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of Stormcaller’s mirror bright finish. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He looked like a man who’d slept for days and needed more still. His eyes were sunken, lips dry and peeling. His face as pale as death. He blew out his cheeks at his ghastly reflection.
“No more rest. It’s time to get myself together,” he said, pulling his arm away and sitting up with a groan. Maybe he would stand in just a few more minutes. A little more rest couldn’t hurt.
The days and nights blended together when you spent most of your time sleeping, interspersed with the occasional bowl of stew or staggering walk to the shit hole. Walter didn’t know what day or time it was, or overly cared at the moment. He felt like he was in a living dream, unsure of what was real and what was imagined.
“Where am I?” he muttered.
His head pounded like a blacksmith’s anvil, the hammers working hard to beat his brain into something usable. Memories faded in and out with too many empty gaps. Nyset coming by, smiling, scratching his head as he drifted into sleep. Baylan feeding him some type of porridge. A loud bang and Grimbald yelling. He smiled. That must have been the bed.
Walter scratched at his bare chest, gazing down at the two menacing scars that thickened around his ribs. The Lord of Death, pinning him to the ground, a blade held by his throat. The sacrifice. Wiggles. It all came rushing back in waves of pain.
He remembered agreeing with the voices in his head, the Phoenix and the Dragon, for the power to live. He had to make a hard choice, but was there really another option? The poor dog probably only had a few more years left anyway, he consoled himself.
With power comes sacrifice, Noah said from the trenches of his mind. He hadn’t heard his counsel for a while and found himself longing to hear his Sid-Ho master again. Alas, he was dead. Like many others that had been unfortunate to be near his path of destruction. His parents, the people of Breden, the Midgaard Falcon, Lillian, Wiggles, Juzo… whatever the hell happened to you? No journey is complete without collateral damage, right?
Walter cleared the mucus lining his throat, spitting into the bucket beside the bed, and tossed his legs onto the floor. He wriggled his toes, cold against the diamond cut marble tiles. He shook his arms, lined with newly formed scars and cracked his neck. He stood, walking up to the floor to ceiling mirror mounted to creamy blocks of marble and gilt lining the walls.
“You sure had fancy taste, Malek,” he said, turning his head from side to side in the mirror, scratching at the start of a beard. The last patch of ashen Cerumal flesh on the back of his neck had finally healed. Today was going to be a good day. “Every day alive is a good day,” his mother would’ve said.
“Right,” he said nodding and slipping on a brown tunic sitting atop the front of his bed. Voices carried through the heavy door that remained closed, not particularly pleased ones at that. Walter narrowed his eyes, reaching for the Dragon. Its warmth and chaos was a tidal wave of fury in his muscles and through his bones. His eyes burned with brilliance and long scimitars of dancing flames sprung to life in his hands.
His eyes widened and he gripped them a little harder. Relax. It’s probably your friends. He opened his hands and the scimitars fell to the ground, dissipating in wisps of smoke. He held onto the Dragon though, swirling flames always a finger’s length away. Deeper, below the angry shell of the Dragon’s flames lurked the Phoenix. It languidly swam in the void, almost seeming to nod at him with a blinking avian eye. Its long tails caressed the hard edges of the Dragon’s spine, bringing a sense of calm control to the angry chaos.
The familiar emotions of the god’s essences that lived within his chest, love and hate, battled one another for dominance. They were a comfort, a reminder of who he was, what he could do. A dual-wielder, Baylan had called it. It was nice to always have a weapon at your side. Walter had always wanted to be more than an elixir bean farmer. Now he wondered if he’d got more than he wanted.
The voices drew nearer, muffled through the door.
“Such ruthless men, why doesn’t the King do anything?” Baylan said with annoyance.
Walter took a deep breath and placed his hand on the door. His fingers snagging on wood splinters as he pushed it open. The hinges creaked and Nyset and Baylan looked up at him. A smile tugged at the corners
of Nyset’s lips and he found her eyes grinning back at him. Walter released the Dragon, letting its energy spill from his soul.
“You’re awake!” she said leaping towards him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
“It would seem I am, though I’m not entirely sure,” he said with a laugh. He stuck his nose in her hair, the scent of lilac oil intoxicating.
“How long have I been out?” he asking, squinting, still acclimating to the light. “Has it been long?”
“Just over a week. We’re not particularly surprised… given what you did at the battle on the Plains of Dressna,” Nyset said, pulling away, leaving him wanting more of her warmth.
“Yes…” Walter said, looking at the long table of Malek’s artifacts, now well organized. Baylan’s doing of course. The man had a strong liking for straight lines and symmetry. Too much of a bother for Walter. The memory of the power that had burst through his body during the battle returned. He was the essence of death, a conduit of the Dragon incarnate. Death Spawn falling to their knees, burning into piles of charred flesh.
“I remember,” Walter whispered, nodding.
“You do? Excellent Walter! I need to rifle through your brain. This must all be documented,” Baylan said, excitedly dashing into the bedroom, tossing books across the floor.
“Baylan, the wizard…” Nyset said after him.
“Yes, ah—yes.” Baylan walked back, hands faintly pink with what Walter thought might have been blood.
“What are you guys talking about? Is everything alright?” Walter asked absently.
Walter marched into the kitchen. He could only think about one thing right now. He released the tension from the iron clasp sealing the glass jar of elixir beans. He inhaled sharply at the bitter aroma, wafting it about his nose.
“Walter, I know this isn’t the best news to wake up too,” Baylan said, stretching his arms across the doorway, his billowy green robe sleeves hanging down.
The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) Page 3
