The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3)

by Everet Martins

  “I see,” Walter said, sliding a pile of soil on his side into the hole. “Clearly you’re stronger, and incredibly fast now, is there anything else that this curse has given you in exchange? I only ask because when I was wearing the Cerumal armor, it had a similar effect on me. I was stronger and faster and I could sometimes I think I could see spirits of the Shadow Realm,” he said with a shiver.

  Juzo seemed to have perked up a bit, snapping him out of his solemnity. “Yeah, I’m glad you asked.” Walter looked around, seeing the other’s still working, but hanging on Juzo’s words, moving cautiously and not making too much noise so they could hear. Walter and Juzo, stood, tapping on the dirt covering the hole with their boots and smoothing it out.

  “Well, Terar was a bastard, but he taught me how to use my abilities. I can see things that have magical properties when I want too. They glow with a light blue, much like the light of Phoenix… but when I do that everything else is harder to see. I can—” Juzo held his breath, and turned around, seeing the other’s had moved in closer to join the conversation.

  Juzo nodded a few times, seeming to be steeling himself for what he was about to say.

  “It’s alright, we’re all friends here, Juzo. No one will judge you,” Walter said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Right,” Juzo said, letting out the held breath, his pale cheeks reddening. “It seems like the people—the people who I haven’t killed from drinking their blood, I seem to be able to read their thoughts and feel their emotions as if there were another mind within me.”

  “Amazing,” Baylan said, eyes gleaming. “Your abilities are only rumored legends. To have a real Blood Eater in our midst is—”

  “Baylan, I understand you’re excited… but could you let him talk?” Walter said flatly, cutting him off.

  Baylan’s mouth hung open, then he paused and nodded, bending over and sliding his notebook from his pack. “Of course, it’s truly fascinating,” he said, his voice singing.

  Juzo shrugged and met Walter’s gaze. “That’s pretty much it. The downside is that if I go too long without blood, my abilities fade along with the pain and insatiable hunger,” Juzo said, rolling his shoulders.

  Walter nodded. “Impressive indeed, it must be strange hearing someone else’s thoughts.”

  “It is. I’m not particularly happy with the ability to be honest. I have enough going through my skull as it stands.”

  “I understand that. You don’t seem too tired for having such an adventurous night.”

  “Yeah, I don’t seem to require all that much sleep anymore. It’s quite nice actually. You don’t realize how much time people waste sleeping until you no longer need it.”

  “I could use more sleep,” Nyset chimed in, stowing a slab of heavily salted deer meat in a pack on her horse. “Everyone just about ready?”

  “Sure am,” Grimbald said, scratching at the red donkey.

  “There’s something else,” Juzo said, pulling a rolled up scroll from the inside of his coat. He unfurled what looked to be an old and well used map, drawn in heavy ink with small red circles around a few parts. “I found this in Terar’s lair.”

  The others gathered around, peering down at the map stretched between Juzo’s white hands.

  “It looks like Breden, Midgaard, and the Nether are all circled,” Walter said.

  “Mhm. Yes that is congruent with the attacks. I believe the Death Spawn army we fought was headed for Midgaard. We were lucky to fight them on the plains.”

  “If they had made it to the city walls, a lot of innocent people would have been killed. We got lucky,” Grimbald said, pulling on his beard.

  “There’s not much in the Nether, strange that they would go there,” Baylan said, tapping the spot on the map. “They had already gone to Breden, this we know for sure.” He winced at his stump, then looked from Walter to Nyset and Juzo.

  “The other battalion. If we had this map earlier, we could’ve warned them,” Grimbald said, rubbing his eyes. “The small group that attacked Breden must have not been this red circle. They must have still been planning to assault the west… that’s what the other Falcon battalion must’ve hit.”

  Walter nodded slowly. “I think you’re right, Grim.”

  “The good news is there doesn’t seem to be any red circles near the Silver Tower,” Juzo said, rolling up the map and stowing it in his coat.

  “That is a comfort. We’re just a few days from the Tower now, there is something else we need to discuss,” Baylan said grimly, closing his notebook with a slap. “Come closer now.”

  They gathered around, hanging on his words. Walter felt a pang of guilt for snapping at him earlier. He could’ve been his father in terms of age and deserved more respect than Walter had given him. Nyset sauntered up beside him, hand on hip and head tilted. Grimbald crossed his incredible arms and dropped into a low squat, light gleaming from his bald head. Juzo brushed dirt from his hands and shook dust from his coat.

  “I’m going to need a disguise and we’ll need a story for everyone else. I’m going to cut my hair, shave this beard, and change into my old apprentice’s robes. As you’re well aware, the Tower is hunting me and I’ll be recognized if I just march through the Tower’s gates looking like this,” he said, splaying his hands towards his curling shoe tips.

  “Think that will be enough?” Grimbald asked, scratching his face.

  “I hope so. I haven’t been back for close to a year. I still have friends in the Tower, I think. There are other rebels who believed in what Lillian and I discovered. They can help us.”

  “I wouldn’t put a lot of faith in hope,” Juzo said, staring at a bubbling Shroomling corpse they missed.

  Baylan’s brows knitted together and his lips pressed into a line, white from the pressure. “For anyone who asks, I was on a recruiting mission and found you two,” Baylan said, regarding Walter and Nyset. “You’ll both go and train under the Phoenix and Dragon houses. I think it goes without saying, Walter, that you shouldn’t touch the Dragon unless your life depends on it. If anyone finds that you can wield both powers… they’ll make you a lab rat with undue haste.”

  “What about us?” Grimbald asked, nudging Juzo and almost knocking him over with the force.

  “Dragons, you’re built like a bull,” Juzo said, catching his footing. “Yeah, what about us?”

  “You two will train in the House of Arms to join the Silver Tower’s army. They only accept the best fighters in the realm, and I think you two will both fit that role perfectly. They’ll test you… they won’t trust my judgment, so be prepared.”

  “I want to train there, but I also have to meet up the Falcon troops, find out what happened to their former commander,” Grimbald added.

  “Right.” Walter nodded at Grim, “Seems like a good plan. What about the Equalizers, shouldn’t the wizards know about those?”

  “They should. We’ll have to figure out how to broach the subject with Bezda. If we go in and tell her what we know, she’ll realize we’re not apprentices and dig deeper and figure out who I am.”

  “Right. Maybe we can stumble upon one and turn it in to her?” Nyset said, securing pouches to her hips.

  “Maybe,” Baylan said, seeming unconvinced of that idea. “Whatever you do, let’s not ruffle any Phoenix feathers and keep quiet while we’re there. The less attention we have on us, the better. We need to approach this situation with tact, not brute force,” he said looking from Grimbald, to Juzo, then to Walter.

  “What are you trying to say?” Walter asked, knowing very well that was one of his many deficiencies. “A man who finds no fault in himself and lacked humility could learn nothing new,” his father had said.

  “What I mean is, no hanging Death Spawn corpses on pikes.”

  “I think I can manage that,” Walter snickered. “The sun waits for no one, let’s get going then.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Silver Tower

  “The stars are bright, glittering like br
oken ice in a deep river. I pull the wool blanket over my legs, stretching my toes towards the fire. Grimbald sharpens his axe, sharpening stone singing into the night. It was time to return home.” -The Diaries of Baylan Spear

  The Silver Tower loomed in the distance like the tip of a blade jutting from the earth, gleaming bright in the high sun. Baylan shielded his eyes, blocking the light that seemed to be trying to bore a hole through his skull. A bevy of messenger falcons whirled around one of the spires like white dots in the blue. The tributaries spanning from the Lich’s Falls converged here, flowing down into a cascading waterfall, glittering like diamonds. The fresh water flowed under a bridge, wide enough for five carriages, then washed out to the Far Sea.

  The memories of that place crashed over him like a tidal wave, stopping his gelding as he stared. He remembered sitting at that magnificent bridge, enjoying the water’s background tumult, listening to Lillian’s excitement at discovering how to manifest earthen objects with the Dragon. All of the years he had spent studying in the library, endless nights and endless days knee deep in stacks of dry books, sucking the moisture from his fingertips and leaving them raw. Some men fought with their bodies, others with their minds. He envied those who could turn off their minds for the day. His was always churning, chattering, always starving for more. The effort was worth it though.

  He remembered his office, walls stacked with books from floor to ceiling. He remembered making love to Lillian on his desk, knocking over artifacts and almost burning the place down as something exploded with Dragon fire. Thankfully, she knew how to put it out with a blast of wind. She would not be here again though, as much as he had hoped. He wondered if he walked into the House of the Dragon, would he find her in her usual spot in the corner, wet with sweat as she laid waste to wooden targets. He knew that was only a lurid fantasy, an alternate reality, far distant from the one he was in now.

  He thought he and Lillian would be on the run forever, never to turn back, a life of always looking over your shoulder and regarding all with foreboding suspicion. He thought someday he would settle in the Great Retreat, build a small house there, hunting Shroomlings and growing elixir beans. He didn’t know what he would do now. Life had a funny way of changing plans you thought forged in iron. It seemed a lot easier to not plan at all and just let the Phoenix bring you where it wanted, a pebble in its ravaging undulations.

  Walter sauntered up beside him, dark tan blooming around his neck. Baylan smiled, looking the hard lad up and down, and gave him a reassuring nod, as if not lost in a torrent of reverie. He wasn’t the same boy he’d met hewing through trees a few months ago. There was a darkness to him now, the one that seemed to divide children from adults, fiction from fact, dreams from harsh reality. He was a little less playful and seemed to be taking in life with a heavy heart. Perhaps the stress of knowing you were the only one alive capable of destroying a demon god might have something to do with it, Baylan reckoned.

  “That’s the Silver Tower, Baylan?” Walter said, eyes twinkling with greens.

  “It is.” He gave his horse a light tap with his heels and it started walking again. Walter followed. He peered down at his hand clutching the reins, dark and deeply wrinkled. His round stump was held loosely over his leg, skin in scarred bunches around where Walter had sawed through his ruined hand. He held the aching, mocking remains of it to his chest. The same way he used to when he would hold a book, use a flask, draw his dagger, all ruined by Asebor’s scourge on the lands.

  He saw Walter glancing at the stump, then swallowing and licking his lips. “Forgive yourself. It’s no one’s fault but my own,” Baylan said.

  “I put on that damned armor, if it wasn’t for that you’d still have your hand,” Walter muttered.

  “Nonsense. We must all take responsibility for the repercussions of our actions. I tried to heal you, knowing there might be risks. Let it go, Walt. It’s just a hand. The Phoenix blessed me with another,” he said, his chest radiating warmth.

  The path wound south like a snake through the Plains of Dressna, choking with thorny scrub, passing the great expanse of desert, The Nether, to the east. A purple lizard slithered under a shrub, seeking refuge from the heat under dappling shade, four horns emerging from its oversized skull.

  Ash still covered the ground from the volcano’s recent eruption, blown into great heaps like sand dunes. The stink of sulfur occasionally wafted on the air intermingled with stinging sand and dust. On the eastern side of the Tigerian Bluffs, where blood had left its grisly stain on the plains just a couple weeks ago, left no sign of the carnage from this distance. Nature was quick to renew and scour the life clean from its surface. It was hard to imagine that Walter had been pinned under that great Death Spawn’s weapons, death so close he could probably feel the reaper’s icy touch on his back. If that had happened, all would have been lost. The boy was tougher, like soft leather being worked into armor, and that gave Baylan a measure of peace.

  To their west was a city, Helm’s Reach, not more than a half day’s ride, like a mirage in the endless scrubland. It was a fraction of the size of Midgaard and about twice as large as Breden with about as many denizens. They were religious zealots, a city divided into halves by those who believed only in the Dragon and those only the Phoenix. Baylan thought it was strange in his youth and madness now. It was like arguing whether water or air existed. Men would always argue and squabble, for a life without something to strive for was no life at all. All men came into this world free, then found themselves trapped in ethereal chains.

  Helm’s Reach, the place he called home in another life. He had those memories crushed into a tight ball, forcing them down when they threatened to well up. They were pressed deep inside where they wouldn’t soil his new purpose. He had to guide Walter in confronting Asebor, as fate deemed it so. His most critical tasks would be helping Walter understand his abilities and imparting knowledge where he could.

  He looked down the path towards Nyset and Juzo, then back at Helm’s Reach. Baylan’s parents didn’t want anything to do with him once they learned he was bestowed with the gifts of the Phoenix. Their jealousy was severe and he was made to feel like a plague ridden creature. He was cast away and sent to live out his days in the Tower. It was terrifying then, but he was glad they did it. If he hadn’t been forced to leave, they might have ended up killing him as dogmatic Dragon believers.

  And there they were, memories once again leaking like spilled ink and spreading across his mind. He had to be stronger, keep his mind focused, needle sharp on the coming trials. The workings of the Silver Tower left no room for an unfocused mind, especially for one who was an accomplice in murder of Tower guards.

  The focus of his vision blurred on occasion, then sharped with some effort as he stared at the silhouette of the Silver Tower. Time was a cruel master. People touched by god’s essences aged slower, an additional gift or curse depending on your perspective. Baylan considered it an incalculable gift as it gave him time to acquire more knowledge to further understand the world. He was in his ninety-sixth year if he was keeping track properly, which he believed he was.

  Baylan rubbed his fingers over the stubble lining his head, still getting accustomed to not having his flowing locks. His face felt raw from the close shave, a few purposeful nicks from his knife around his jawline, giving himself what he hoped was a younger appeal. He donned robes of a dark blue, unadorned and close enough to pass for apprentice’s robes, the wide hood tickling his neck with its finely woven thread. He had purchased it in Midgaard, as the Tower often sent wares to the city for trade.

  * * *

  Walter stopped at a fork in the road, splitting and marked by a battered sign pole. One sign pointed west and was carved with ‘Helm’s Reach’ and the other, bright like it was recently oiled directed south towards the Silver Tower, as if either place was possible to miss in this treeless land. Below the sign was a withered Sand Buckeye, skin puckering like a dried up lemon.

  Walter twisted in
his saddle, looking at Baylan walking up from behind, wiping damp from his eyes. Maybe the place brought back some nostalgia for the old man, or maybe it was dry air that whipped from the Far Sea, either way he thought he’d leave that potential scab alone.

  Grimbald stopped at the sign, his gaze leveled at the gleaming Silver Tower, spires stabbing into the sky in perfect symmetry around the main column of the Tower. “So this is where most of the wizards of the world come to learn?”

  “Yes! I can’t wait to train here,” Nyset said beside him, rubbing her hands together and grinning widely.

  Grimbald blew out his cheeks and let out a displeased grunt.

  “Grim, what is it about magic that you seem to dislike so much?” Nyset asked. Walter had been wondering the very same question.

  “I trust forged steel and my fists. They’re something you can see and feel, know when they’re being used. These powers, don’t misunderstand me, I can see their usefulness… but they’re hard to understand for someone who can’t use them or know when they’re being used.”

  “I can understand that,” Walter said, nodding.

  “Malek, the one you all trusted had been controlling King Ezra—”

  “I never trusted that asshole,” Walter cut in, folding his arms and glancing at Nyset with accusation.

  “I didn’t either. It’s good you didn’t, otherwise he still might be uh—being controlled,” Grimbald laughed uncomfortably. “The thing is, I don’t much trust what I can’t feel.”

  Nyset tapped her chin with a long finger. “When you drop a rock, which way does it go?”