He looked up at the swaying gates, great hinges screaming for mercy. He tilted his head at the odd circle written upon the gates. The text shone bright in the day, purplish circle surrounding a series of connected triangles. It rang with a familiarity that he found hard to process in the midst of trying to keep his head on. It was a ward, like the one Baylan used at the Lair—it shone with incredible brilliance, burning light searing his eye.
There was a deafening roar, something smashed into his chest, hurling him into the air, hands grasping at nothing. His ears rang, skin and clothes burning, staring up at a spire mid-flight. His back and neck collided with something hard, stabbing and tearing through his flesh, raining on his face. He groaned, his vision swimming in sheets of red, white, orange. Voices screamed between the dull ringing, boring into his head.
Juzo’s white hand twitched, blood warm and running between his fingers. He took a sharp breath, neck twitching, images swirling in and out of focus. Dark figures running. Screaming. Wizard split in two. His back was against a wall, eye rolling back, excruciating pain in his chest, legs quivering. He peered down, tens of arrow heads were sticking out the front of his chest, guts, a few through his legs, others scattered around his body, splintered and broken. He lifted a trembling hand to an arrow head, mindlessly rubbing the sticky edges. A small ball of fire burned at his side, cooking a black hole into his hip. He batted it away, swatting at the flames, panting.
“What?” he whispered. “What is this?” Juzo screamed.
* * *
Grimbald roared into the fragments of the ruined gate raining down around him, hacking into the shoulder of a bald Cerumal. He was one of the lucky ones, well away from the blast at the time. There wasn’t going to be much to bury of the others. Most of his men circling around the gate were gone. Nothing left but boots, dropped weapons, dismembered limbs, smears of blood, and stinking offal.
Juzo was motionless at the back wall before an archway, arrows poking out of him every which way. He seemed like a nice person, had his fair share of scars, but didn’t we all? Grimbald wished he had a chance to get to know the man better. There was nothing he could do to help him now, or any of the others hit by the explosion. He had to focus on the living.
“They’re through, by the dead, they’re through!” he screamed, stating the painfully obvious. He wasn’t alone, by the dead, he wasn’t alone. There were others, still fighting, still pushing.
Some of the horde spilled through the narrow gaps in the gate, a tide of dull armor and ugly weapons raging behind. They tore and bashed with shields at the remaining pearl splinters. Once they got through what was left, they spilled in like a broken dam, falling over each other, gibbering and squawking with renewed ferocity.
Each person would have to decide where they would stand, where they would die. Time started to crawl. He saw each of the their hissing mouths, spikes glinting on the edges of their shields, brown, white, and black speckled furs around the neck of another. Weapons flashed, stabbing in the bright sky, glinting spear points, sharpened swords, curved sickles.
They bellowed out with a war cry, some shrill and others low. The warm air pulsed in and out of Grimbald’s nostrils, knuckles white around Corpsemaker. His palms were wet with blood and sweat, the hair on the back of his neck glistening. There wasn’t any choice but to charge into the swarming hive. He was either a fool or a hero, Which, he wasn’t sure. Only the histories would tell… if humanity lived to write it. Maybe someone would find Baylan’s notebooks.
The abandoned hope was in everyone’s eyes now, the remaining defenders shuffling back, fingers twitching on fireballs. He wanted to run, find a place to hide and weep like he did when the boys at school teased him. The old scars never left us alone. It would have been a good idea if there was a place to run to. Nowhere to go but into the jaws of the wolf. Maybe they could push them back, get something up to hold the gates. To die running or die fighting was no choice at all.
Grimbald pulled Corpsemaker from behind his back and bellowed with all the air in his lungs, dashing into the Death Spawn. He felt the other’s following him, heard their cries, Nyset and Baylan close behind. His boots stomped through the dirt, blades ringing all around. His breath burst from his lips, rushing in and out.
He just barely twisted his body in time to avoid being impaled upon a spear, bashing into heavy iron with his shoulder, sending a Cerumal rolling through a few others and taking out their legs. He hacked through the leg of a downed Cerumal, brought Corpsemaker up again, and hacked through its gut, almost splitting it in half. He swung again, axe grinding against a shield with razor sharp rim. He drove the shield back, slamming it under the neck of its yellow-toothed wielder. A woman his age in bright red stumbled into him, vomiting red and yellow onto his shoulder, down his armor.
A white sword stabbed into a Black Wynch’s helm and dark blood bubbling out. A heavy curved blade slashed at Grimbald and he pressed back, the blow chopping into the arm of someone beside him. A great boom rained from above, catapult stone tumbling over the edge of the wall, raining a cloud of dust into the fray. Grimbald forced the living things behind him back as the stone fell, rolling down and crushing at least six under the massive boulder. He blinked, eyes hot and watery, unable to detect friend from foe.
A hand scratched at his chest, hanging on his armor. He bashed it with the butt of Corpsemaker, feeling the arm snap under the blow. A red face flitted by, collapsing. Something slammed into him and he fell, his face smashing on a stone. Blood trickled out his mouth and he groaned. He was on the ground, hands straining for his weapon, the only comfort he could imagine in this nightmare.
An axe was no weapon for a fight like this, too tight, impossible to swing. He stopped looking for Corpsemaker and drew daggers from his boots, perfectly balanced in his hands. Men strained against the horde, chopping and stabbing, shining mail surrounding the screeching beasts. He rose to his wobbly legs and sent a dagger in a curving strike into a black eye, the other slitting it up the balls. He thought he saw the other Shattered Wing out of the corner of his eye, shrieking and dropping stones.
Grimbald stabbed and was repelled by a shield, the vibration coursing up his arm causing the dagger to slip out of his grip and under thudding boots. Men and Death Spawn were packed in tight, pressing into the gnashing blades, fighting to get an arm free. Something gouged into his leg, burning and getting worse as he tried to free himself. Something else—a spike, a blade—ground deeper into his leg, wetness pouring down his shins under his armor.
He took a big breath, summoning his strength for a mighty push. He roared, thrashing with his arms and creating a gap to move. His dagger jabbed into a mouth, cutting out from under a cheek, teeth clamping on the blade. He slammed the monster in the face with his big fist, nose shattering, taking his weapon out. They were pressed back in again, the unconscious Cerumal with the slit face bleeding all over him.
A mace flew at him from the side. His arms were pinned and all he could do was clench his jaw and close his eyes. Something in his neck popped, head whipping to the side, filling his vision with white light. The next thing he knew, he was crawling through rubble against the wall, hand snatching a sword from the ground, dragging it behind, waiting for the inevitable blade to be rammed through his shoulder blades. On the ground again crawling like a worm, hands sinking into stone and dirt, mouth trailing blood, legs straining to propel him.
He shrimped onto his side, back pressed against the wall. There was a Cerumal on the other side, much in the same position as himself, except Grim still had his arm. Grimbald gasped as the beast burst alight, white fire burning from its limp body. There were legs everywhere, swarming all around like moving trees. Legs with plate, legs under robes, legs with bloody mail, legs in hard leather. A boot kicked him in the breastplate, clanging off.
He thought it might be time for a rest now, maybe close his eyes for a few seconds. The colors of the world blended together in an unrecognizable palette. Angry roars and screams
of pain made their way into his ears. He tongued his cheek, skin in tatters and leaking metallic fluid. There was stuff on his eyelids, maybe blood. He didn’t seem to care much right now.
* * *
Bezda roared, a curved blade in both hands and held over her shoulder, Milvorian boots echoing in the vast hall. An impassioned strike, one that should have been easy to dodge, yet Hilanda waited. The Dragon House Master’s black dress, twinkling with gems like stars, drifted into smoke, becoming formless shadows, swirling over her bare flesh. She grinned at Bezda, calm as a Sid-Ho master, hands and eyes burning violet.
The Death Spawn emerged from the dim behind the grand table. Three Skin Flayers unsheathed their blades, ringing all at once. Walter dropped low, Stormcaller burning at his side, blade of fire raging his other hand.
A sacrifice must be made, the voices of the Dragon and the Phoenix grated in his head.
“No,” he muttered. “No sacrifices.”
Hilanda’s eyes darted to him for a second then back to the charging Arch Wizard. The shadows dropped from her body, leaving her nude, enveloping the area under Bezda’s feet in a lake of black.
The pool of shadow erupted with at least twelve arms, clawing, ripping, and tearing into Bezda’s legs. Some were full of spines, others had animal’s claws, others terminated with axe heads and blade tips. They all ripped into her, pinning her in place, shearing armor off in seconds. Walter stared in horror as the flesh was torn from her legs in great chunks and flung across the room like fresh steaks. A piece of her leg landed on the table on the side of a plate, gray sinews reaching out and blood pooling.
The Arch Wizard screamed, her blade thudding on the priceless carpets, Dragon fire leaving her eyes. “What is this? You commune with the tainted form of the Dragon?” A tainted form of the Dragon. Which was he using?
“The great lord has blessed me, has he not?”
“Your soul will never reach the Shadow Realm,” Bezda coughed, blood rolling in waves down her porcelain chin. The shadows chopped into her hips, one arm punched into her gut, extracting intestines like a rope being hauled up from a well. A pair of black arms stretched up from the ground, whipping her intestines around her neck, cinching around and around, snapping tight. The Arch Wizard’s head lolled, face turning blue, yellow bile hanging from her lips. How quickly the perfect flower could become the picture of decay. Another pair of arms became dark spears, stabbing through her arms, hoisting her into a shaft of light.
“Enjoy your last sunrise, Arch Wizard,” Hilanda sang in a joyful tune. The shadowy blades stabbed in and out, body supported by her swaying neck, jabbing great bleeding holes all over her torso. A rattling breath pushed through her closed lips, eyes rolling back, body flopping onto the stone with a wet slap.
“Now that business is finally taken care of, there is you.” Hilanda’s eye turned to him. “She was a bore in the bed chambers, I must say. The things we must do to rise from our stations.” The shadows spiraled around her legs and arms, transmuting from rigid forms to calm waves.
Burning acid crept up Walter’s throat, and he turned, spitting and retching over his shoulder. The brown liquid splashed inside a vase worth more marks than his farm. It took everything he had to stay focused, to keep his eyes on the soon to be dead. Deep furrows formed in the crevasses of his forearms, nails cutting into his palms.
“You? You’re responsible for all of this?” He barked, pointing at her with his buzzing sword, Death Spawn fanning out around him. She planted her hands on the table, her breasts hanging over the stained glass plates, nipples bright with pink.
“Nothing lasts forever, Walter. Even a child must know this. All things crumble in time’s winds, even the Silver Tower.” She flashed a grin, pushing away from the table, pressing a dark fingernail on her pouting lips.
“My family, my friends—so many dead because of you and your cruel god. Why?” he hissed. It didn’t matter what she said, just empty words, biding his time, planning their deaths, seeing it play out in his mind. He knew for certain that only one person would leave this room alive and it wasn’t going to be this creature. Retribution flowed through his veins like molten iron, immolating the ragged edges of his soul.
“Why does the Sand Buckeye eat the Shroomling?” she asked, palms opened, purple fire sputtering bright as gems in the high sun, shadows slithering around her chest and stomach.
A sacrifice. A sacrifice. The Dragon and the Phoenix breathed in the recess of his mind.
“The living highest on the food chain must eat the weak,” he offered through clenched teeth, eyes bursting alight with Dragon fire, Phoenix assuaging its torrent.
“It has teeth,” she laughed, eyes pulsing brighter, shadows shivering.
She was mocking him, laughing at the arrow in his dad’s neck. Laughing at the horror his mother endured. The blades piercing through the countless lives fighting for life on the walls. Walter didn’t find torturing the living to be all that funny. “If you were going to do a thing, you might as well get on and do it,” his mother had always said.
“Alright then,” he whispered, his breath slowly leaking out his mouth. A portal exploded to life in the middle of a Skin Flayer, cone of Dragon fire erupting from his left hand, Stormcaller in his right shearing through darting shadows, the table, and severing the third Skin Flayer into four sections, blood streaking the air in waves.
“Nicely done,” Hilanda clapped softly, shadows chaotically whirling around her, becoming the shape of shields, claws, spears, and swords. “It won’t be enough though,” she sneered.
The Skin Flayer closest to him collapsed, split down the middle and halves squelching apart. The other burned, writhing on the floor, gray skin bubbling, attempting to put out the unstoppable fire. The pieces of the third rolled to a stop against the walls, red trails left by each section of its broken body. The table made for at least forty guests shrieked as it caved into the floor, dinnerware clattering down to the center, cutlery tinkling on colored glass.
The shadows slipped off Hilanda’s body in a rolling wave, cresting with blades of all kinds, hissing towards him, shredding carpet, smashing towering vases. Walter growled, hurling an arc of white fire at the wave of blades, cutting the shadows down in swathes. The shadows screamed and Hilanda stumbled back… arms, legs and torso smoking and charred. She fell to a knee, a trickle of blood leaking from the side of her mouth.
“Nicely done,” he clapped, tilting his chin up at her, sucking in air through his nose. “Now the strongest eats,” he grinned, fire flaring in his eyes. No mercy. No quarter. He had been looking forward to a time where he could put his new skills to the test. It had finally arrived.
“Fuck you!” she screamed, shadows flying at him in the form of snakes, fanged mouths opened wide.
He cut them down with a portal, heads flopping to the ground. He leapt through, portal opening behind her. He lunged out, his boot connecting with her jaw, feeling it break against his rigid toes. She cried out, groaning and crawling. It never failed, those who couldn’t shut their mouths always cracked the easiest.
He stepped over her, shadows seeming to cower away from her naked form, grabbing a fist full of her silky hair. A curving dagger of fire formed in his hand. He drove it slowly through the back of her ribs, as gently as a lover’s first penetration. He thought he should feel something, cry maybe, but his eyes were dry, crusted over with Death Spawn blood.
Hilanda screamed, “Please! Stop!” He almost let her go, that part of him that still felt something other than hatred. The part that had been cut away and walled up so many months ago, alone and broken, buried in the silt on the bottom of an endless lake. His hand loosened in her hair, his head sagging, the dagger inching out.
His gut erupted with stabbing pain, shadowy swords, daggers, and sickles cutting through his flesh and bone. This was what mercy got you, he reckoned. Bright shafts of blue light emerged around the shadows, pushing the weapons out, putting his focus into the healing, using telekinesis to eje
ct the shadows.
Hilanda crawled, snickered, “Stupid fucking apprentices.” She looked over her shoulder, her jaw hanging loose and to the side. “So it is true, you touch them both,” she groaned, barely decipherable, blood leaking from her nose and mouth. One pale hand pressed against the bubbling wound in her back, her bare ass wriggling, tendrils of smoke rising up from her back.
The shadows tried to worm their way back into him. He roared, skin erupting with jets of fire, lashing out and cutting through them. Hilanda screamed, her skin bursting open, bleeding, blackened, and burning.
Walter unclipped the buckles on his useless armor and it fell to a clang on the floor. He snatched his shirt from over his head, blood rolling down his trousers and skin stitching together.
“It’s hopeless, hopeless.” She laughed, mouth spreading wide, but lopsided on her face. “The great lord comes. He marches through the gates as we speak.” A violet portal split the air in front of her, and she sprang up, leaping at it. There would be no escape, no reprieve from his wrath.
A wall of fire and, behind it, a slab of stone jerked from the floor, blocking her entry. Her face smacked into the stone, her hair sparking and sizzling with Dragon fire. Noxious smoke filled the air as all but a few tufts of her hair were left unburned.
“You’re right, it is indeed hopeless.” He straddled her bony ass, hands wound around her skull, fingertips pressing into her eyes.
“No, no, no,” Hilanda pleaded, tears wetting his fingers. “I’ll do anything, anything.”
“Anything you say? You want to live, do you?” She was responsible for so many deaths. She had to die.
“Yes, anything. I can give you power. I can help you,” she said through sobs.
“Then die, you fucking coward,” he whispered in her ear.
The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) Page 26
