Malek crawled through the open cell, one nubby hand against his ribs, bare feet covered in dust and inflamed sores.
Such power. “Where did you find this?” Juzo said, stowing the weapon in the bag and tying it around his belt. There was something else in there that he first missed, small and rolled up like a tobacco stick. He pulled it out and unfurled the piece of parchment. It was a map of Zoria with red circles around some spots. It might have been a coincidence, but they seemed to line up well with where the Death Spawn had turned up.
“No, no, no. Asebor won’t like this. No, no. He won’t be happy. He’ll—”
“Asebor. The one you served, the one Terar worked for as well?” If there was something Asebor didn’t like, Juzo loved it. Anyone who Terar knew were his sworn enemies. He rolled up the map and slid it into the deep inside pocket of his jacket.
Malek’s eyes were staring at a closed cell. Juzo focused the part of himself that could hear and feel Malek. Malek’s mind was a jumbled mess, focusing on his hunger for blood, the rest gibbering thoughts mashed in his skull.
“Malek!” Juzo snapped. The withered shell of a man started crawling towards the cell, groaning with each movement, oblivious of Juzo. Useless creature.
Juzo walked over to him, hauled him up over his shoulder, light as a bundle of Silver Fish. Malek moaned into his ear and slumped over like a corpse. Juzo snatched the keyring hanging from the wall. He dumped Malek from his shoulder into the cell he was eying and the Rot Flies angrily buzzed in the air. Another man clinging to life was strapped to the wall with iron bars, staring up at Juzo with death in his black eyes. The imprisoned man’s head shook in defiance, likely taking all the energy he had.
He had to keep Malek alive, he might know other things.
Juzo swallowed. “That’s all the food you’re getting for a long time, make it last,” he said into the cell.
Juzo closed the door with a slam and locked the door with a click. He turned away, knowing he just sent another man into the Phoenix’s embrace. His eye wept with dampness and he wiped it on his coat with a groan. He could make some good of this situation, something to possibly redeem himself in the eyes of the gods.
He opened the doors to all the other cells, twelve in total, all unlocked. He chopped with Blackout through chains, bars, and fetters, freeing the remaining prisoners. There were five and all still breathing, though moving like snails across the stone. Some wept and other’s reached imploring arms towards him.
“Shit,” he whispered. He spent the next couple hours carrying the prisoners outside of the dungeons and onto the cool sands of the Tigerian Bluffs, dropping them off just outside the hidden entrance. Every time he returned and dropped off another, he was surprised to see them all still there, bodies sagging against the wall beside the narrow entryway. Their dead eyes stared up at him, looking for guidance.
“Food and water, that’s what you need,” Juzo said, rubbing his hands together and staring down at them.
“Thank you,” a rail thin woman mouthed at him.
She must have not realized that months ago he might have been one of the ones feasting on her blood. Doing the right thing now didn’t rub out the mistakes of his past. You could only try to make the future a little brighter. Juzo found a crate of bread crusts, green and blue with fuzzy mold, and a few jugs of brown water, and some threadbare robes in the dungeon supply closet. He brought them up and set them in front of the haggard men, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. They gazed longingly at the sustenance, then their eyes fell upon him, then flicked back and forth to each other, none daring to move.
“It’s okay,” he beckoned. “Eat, drink, and put some clothes on.”
A man with shaggy, tight coils of hair around his head and neck lunged towards the water, inverting the jug into his mouth and swallowing hard. The woman followed after, stuffing the revolting bread into her sore-riddled mouth, the skin appearing to be painted on her ribcage.
“I’m afraid this is all I can do for you. No one will hurt you anymore. You’re free… I’m sorry things turned out this way,” Juzo said, frowning down at them, overcome with guilt.
He walked away from the feasting people, towering plateaus all around with the backdrop of a dark sky above, speckled bright with stars. Juzo looked up to the moon, all knowing, judging him for his atrocious crimes. He would make things better in the future. He might be a monster by nature, but he didn’t have to live like one.
Juzo still remembered where all the handholds were, launching his body at least ten arm lengths through the air at a time, the cool night air flapping his coat with each leap. He climbed the top of his favorite plateau, the tallest among the bluffs. He hefted the chains in the bag around his waist, incredibly lightweight for something made of metal. It was far too valuable an artifact to go roaming the lands with. He started chipping at the stony platform with Blackout, carving an alcove for the bag. When that was done, he dropped the bag into the hole, pulled its canvas strings into a tight knot, and covered it with a few flat stones, then covered those with dead, scraggly brush, making it look natural.
He walked around the plateau, looking out beyond the plains. The volcano was glowing red hot in the distance, like an angry mouth trying to swallow the stars. It felt like only days had passed since he had last been up here, watching the Death Spawn army preparing to ambush the Midgaard Falcon. Then looking down, seeing to his shocked eyes that Walt had come. He’d came for him, he hadn’t forgotten.
Juzo sniffed and felt his damn eye getting wet again. He harshly wiped it against his coat, stiff with dried blood and scratching his face. He also wiped away the softness he felt emerging from his soul, only to be replaced by hard stone. He liked it better this way, it was easier to endure this fate. He traced his fingernail along his sharpened teeth from side to side, staring into the mouth of the volcano. “I can be better, I can try to do some good with this,” the thought replayed over and over in his head.
Chapter Eight
A Nuisance
“In the catacombs, the sanctuaries to the far south lay most of the Tower’s dead. I fear the spell of resurrection may soon be discovered in these innovative times.” -The Diaries of Baylan Spear
The glow of the morning sun stung Walter’s eyes through the slit of the tent, probing him to consciousness. Metal tinging on metal rang in his ears. Something brushed his cheek and he scratched it, fingers knocking something fleshy out of the way. Rat or mouse, he wasn’t sure but it wouldn’t be living in here for long.
“Damn rats—ow!” He yelled, eyes snapping open, ready to kill whatever just bit his face. A tiny creature with a mushroom for a head narrowed its black eyes in anger, raising a toothpick sized spear in its hand, its lips drawn back into a snarl. Its spear lanced into Walter’s cheek like a needle. “Why you little—” He let out a groan as he tried to sit up, but something was preventing him from moving. He looked down from his chest to his legs and his eyes bulged at the scene. At least fifty Shroomlings with a full rainbow of head colorings were banging spikes into the ground with miniature hammers. The spikes were securing lengths of vines across his legs and arm, leaving just one arm free.
“You little bastards!” He barked, pushing up hard, spikes and vines twanging as they were torn from the ground. He snatched one of the Shroomlings and gave it a hard throw outside the tent, and watched it tumbling and rolling across the dirt, tossing up dust.
“What the—” Nyset said, waking up, then yelping in surprise. She craned her neck to Walter, her body wriggling against her own set of fetters.
The Shroomlings screeched and screamed, little arms waving in the air and running wildly in all directions. They were dropping miniature weapons and tools, lifting the edges of the tent flap and crawling under. Walter plucked the vines snaring Nyset, freeing her to move.
Walter pulled one of the small spears from his cheek and stabbed it through the chest of a fleeing Shroomling. Its tiny blue skinned form was like a young boy’s other than t
he strange head. They wore smallclothes too, which was another wonder that gave Walter pause.
“Don’t hurt them!” Nyset shouted, lifting the tent flap to allow them to escape with a pitying smile. Three ran in single file, led by a Shroomling with a red and pink spotted head. The leader ran straight into a tent pole and fell onto its back and into a roll, taking out the legs of its followers.
“Are you insane? They’re planning to eat us,” Walter said, jumping to his feet and brushing little hammers and vines from his chest and legs. He pulled another toothpick-like spear from his forehead, drop of blood seeping out behind it, followed by a glimmer of the healing light of the Phoenix. “Little shits! Get out, go!” he yelled.
Walter stepped out from the tent, shaking his head in annoyance at the hundreds of tiny creatures darting around in all directions.
“Hey! Drop that!” Walter shouted at a group of six dragging a rump of salted deer towards the forest. He threateningly stomped his foot near them and five of them fled, leaving the sixth to be crushed by the weight of the meat with a squeal. He wheeled around the campsite, fire pit trailing a thin tendril of smoke, looking for other pilfered supplies.
Walter had never seen them organize like this, or saw so many in one place. Maybe they were different type of Shroomling than the ones he had back home, but these were smart and knew what they were doing. The most he had ever seen together was two, which he’d guessed were a mating pair. Where they had come from was anyone’s guess.
Nyset’s bronzed arm reached through the tent flap, allowing a few stragglers to scurry out, followed by her giggling face. Walter turned and peered into the cramped tent where Baylan and Grimbald slept. Another group of Shroomlings, oblivious to the plight that befell their peers, circled around the sleeping men, chanting in a low murmur, tiny spears whirling around their heads. Grimbald and Baylan were both covered in green vines from head to toe, tightly wrapped across their bodies secured by little copper spikes. How they didn’t hear them was beyond his understanding.
“Shroomlings, get out! Get!” Walter shouted at them. At least a hundred of them stopped in their tracks. Their chanting ceased and their spears were held frozen in the air.
“Quiet,” Grimbald mumbled, rolling over onto his side, and ripping out most of the vines and spikes. Their little black eyes stared at him, wide and unblinking.
“Go!” Walter beckoned through the canvas flap to the outside.
“By the Phoenix,” Baylan said, plucking the strings over his legs free. “What incredible little creatures,” he said groggily.
The air buzzed with strange sounds, like a horde of angry bees. One of them pointed at him with its spear and its mouth, the size of his fingernail, dropped open emitting a shrill scream. The others followed with an ugly scream of their own and then they charged, spears held high. Walter’s eyes widened and he back pedaled, boot catching on a rock, sending him onto his back.
They were on him, tiny spears stabbing all over his body with all their tiny rage and fury. Their bright heads rolled across his arms and legs, tiny spears raising and reflecting the shining sun.
“Ny!” he shouted as a spear lanced through his lip. He didn’t want to hurt them, for her sake, but they left him no choice. No more games.
The Dragon spiraled through his body, infusing it with its waving fury. His body exploded with brilliant white flames, hotter than the sun itself. The Shroomlings screamed for but a second before they were burned to chars, only their blackened skeletons and little spear heads remaining. Those that weren’t touching him writhed on the ground, their skin bubbling and scorched. Walter stood, squishing them under his boots and relieving their pain. Juzo was suddenly beside him, helping him with the ugly work.
Grimbald and Baylan pushed out from the tent. Baylan’s face twisted in disgust and Grimbald eyed their little bodies with a curious stare. Walter was stomping on the last of them, soft bodies squelching around his boots. He saw Nyset in the corner of his eye, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“What?” He gave her a look that dared her to criticize him for his actions.
“Nothing,” she said softly, wiping her cheeks. “It shouldn’t be bothering me so much, I’m not sure why it is. I feel like just seeing this—” she gestured sharply towards the dead Shroomlings. “Seeing these creatures dead like this just reminded me of everything that’s happened, that’s all.”
Walter brushed the dust from his back and let out a long breath, walking over to Nyset standing outside the tent, arms crossed over her chest. He stopped a pace in front of her, looking into her watery eyes, swimming with browns like silt kicked up on the bottom of a lake. She looked just as she had when she was a child, upset at Walter for playing too rough with her, still unaware he couldn’t play with her the same way he did with Juzo.
He did what he didn’t know to do then, reaching his arms out, enfolding her in his embrace, her small form warm and soft against his chest. She nuzzled her nose into the corner between his chest and shoulder, placing a hand through her hair, almost white in the morning sun. He felt her hands pushing away from him with more force than he expected and he released her.
She looked up at him with a frown. “You really need a bath, Walt,” she said smiling and puffing air through her nostrils and giving his chest a squeeze with her thumbs.
“Glad you said it,” Juzo said a few paces from the fire pit, digging a hole with a rock scooped like a spoon.
“Oh yeah?” Walter said, inching closer to her while taking a sniff. Indeed he did, a lovely aroma of garlic and onions hung in his nose. He lunged forward, wrapping his arm around her head and pulling her into his armpit. A pinch of orange flowers spilled from one of her many pouches, fluttering onto the dirt.
“No! Walter!” She screamed from under his shirt, over his mischievous laughter. She ducked under his arm and pushed him away. “That’s not funny,” she said with a touch of a smile, yellow-white locks streaking across her forehead.
“You love it,” he said grinning.
“What am I going to do with you?” she said with a groan, turning back into the tent, the red tails of her long shirt flapping in a gust. She started coiling their bedrolls, canvas bags with sprigs of hay sticking out in sections that needed repair.
“Whatever you’d like,” Walter said quietly so only she could hear. She didn’t acknowledge that, but he knew she had heard by the brief pause in her work of compressing the bedrolls.
Walter thought himself pretty smooth with that comment, giving her something to think about. He stared at her for a moment, hoping for some further banter, but none came and she continued packing to leave. Maybe he had been too forward and made her angry. Or maybe she was preparing to corner him behind some other guardhouse to have her way with him.
Say one thing for Walter Glade, he was great at saying the wrong thing at the right time. Understanding women was about as difficult as trying to unwind the ten pound knot at the Festival of Flames. When you got your hands in there and started working at it, you only made things worse.
Walter walked over to Juzo, grabbed a flat piece of limestone, sharp and craggy in his hand, and started helping him with the hole. Walter hoped the rock wasn’t a metaphor for how this day would pan out. Juzo looked up at him and gave him a quick nod, a streak of pink through the side of his gray hair, appearing far too much like old blood for Walter’s liking. The bottom of his coat was damp with wet as if he’d gone swimming the night before. Walter peered over at Grimbald and Baylan, dismantling their tent and strapping poles onto the horses.
“Did you—uh, have a long night?” Walter asked softly.
Juzo’s hand paused mid-dig, then continued, scraping muddy silt from the hole. “I did, have to eat.”
Walter felt the bile in his stomach rise up his throat in revulsion, swallowing hard. He pulled the cork of his water skin and took a draught, washing it down.
“You disapprove?” Juzo’s eye met his, bright and narrowed like the mouth of a furnace.
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“No. I—you have to do what needs to be done,” Walter said, flinging a clump of silt from his rock. “What did you…?”
“Eat?” Juzo cut in.
“Yeah,” Walter said with a nod.
“You won’t fucking believe it if I told you.” Blackout rattled in its sheathe and Juzo’s hand pressed down on the hilt, seeming to calm the sword as if it were an angry dog.
“Really? Try me,” Walter said, eyes flitting from the sword hilt back to Juzo’s eye. He sometimes found himself foolishly looking into the dark leather patch, wondering what it looked like under there.
“I went back to Terar’s, over at the bluffs,” he jutted his head back in the direction of the towering plateaus in the distance. Walter felt an icy chill creeping down his neck, down his arms, and to his ass. The volcano behind let out a deep rumble, vibrating across his feet, as if it were listening and waiting for the perfect time to add its own punctuation.
“Why did you go back? That would be the last place I would have ever guessed you would go,” Walter said, standing and looking down at the hole. “Think it’s big enough now.”
“I’m not sure why I went back, nostalgia, closure. Like the last kiss from a girl you knew you would never really see again after a breakup.”
Walter had trouble identifying with that analogy, Nyset being the first girl he would even consider calling his girlfriend, if he could call her that, he wasn’t sure. He bent over, scooping up a pile of charred Shroomlings with his rock, and lowered them into the earth. “So, how was it?”
“Other than almost being killed by bizarre creatures that served as Terar’s guardians, Reapers he had called them… I tied up some loose ends.”
“Alright,” Walter nodded, pouring in another pile of tiny bodies. “Did you feed on a man?” The question he had wanted to ask bubbled through his lips unexpectedly.
Juzo pushed a pile of silt over the Shroomling bodies, green, yellow and blue heads poking above the sand. “No,” he shook his head. “I’m going to try to avoid that, even if it leaves me ravenous. I can drink the blood of animals… and creatures, but—it’s like every meal you eat is nothing but rice. It will do the job, give you some energy, but eventually you’re going to have to get your hands on some meat to survive.”
The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) Page 10
