Ascending Shadows (The Age of Dawn Book 6)

by Everet Martins

  He’d come to accept his fate years later. It wasn’t the worst life one could have. It wasn’t begging for handouts. He had a bed to sleep on, a belly always filled, and a skill with steel that inflicted fear in those around him and occasionally earned honors from the Arch Wizard herself. Bezda Lightwalker, the former Arch Wizard, had rarely visited the Swiftshades. When she did, it was for grim work.

  Just over four years ago, she’d sent him and Clare westward. There were rumors of bandits scourging the west, raiding the farmsteads and villages. Isa hadn’t thought much of it, assumed it was just a few bandits needing to be put down, as some dogs occasionally needed. They came upon a small village called Breden according to their map. It was clear from the outset that it wasn’t bandits, as a large battalion of the Midgaard Falcon had been slaughtered and put on pikes hewed from the local foliage. Limbs were torn from armored bodies, some split down the middle. They had no choice but to investigate further. No bandits could do that, certainly not countryside rebels. He had seen dark work before, but this was something else entirely.

  He remembered approaching the curving path towards the front gates, hearing the strange Death Spawn gibbering for the first time. It reminded him of pigs softly squealing. A twig broke under Clare’s foot, roaring like thunder in the quiet. They had shrieked in alarm. There were at least thirty of them, swiveling eyes that looked like burning coals at them. He had felt crippling, gut-wrenching fear then. It was the sort of fear that made his bowels want to evacuate. It was a feeling he hadn’t known since he was a child. Thinking of it now made his armpits wet.

  They wore heavy dark armor, all shifting shadows and sharp edges. They were not men, but nightmares made real. They had carnivore’s teeth and dense knots of muscle where their armor left their ashen skin bare.

  Run, Clare screamed, her hairless head swiveling to meet his eyes. He still heard her screams before he slept. She was gorgeous. She was his and he hers. They ran, but he was faster. Three of their black arrow shafts took her in the back. A fourth thunked into the back of her thigh. One zoomed past his head, taking out a notch of his ear.

  When he turned, he saw a bloody tip standing out from her chest where it had punched through her armor. He would always remember her icy blue eyes scanning for his. He tried to fight them, but fear had him in its tireless grip. His blows were slowed, careless, and missed their marks. A jagged blade cut him down from shoulder to hip, crushed his ribs and sent him stumbling. The pain was agony, their weapons burning like fire in his blood even in the face of his acquired pain tolerance.

  He ran into the thicket like the coward he was. He ran and ran until he stumbled into a river bank, rolled his ankle, sobbed, and fell into a soggy mud hole. The coal-eyed beasts searched for him for hours, but they never found him. He huddled there alone, shivering, bleeding, listening to the screams of dying villagers. They found Clare’s body though.

  After the beasts had departed, he limped back to the village. He saw Clare on a pike with the rest of them, at least what remained of her. He only knew it was her by the scars on her belly, her head gone, decapitated and removed. There were so many bites on her arms and thighs, gaps of flesh missing and showing the bones beneath. He could only hope her death was quick. He had almost taken his own life then, had the blade drawn to do it, saw his ghastly reflection on the flat of it. But he had to report what he found to the Arch Wizard. He owed the Tower everything, and that included his life. There were others who could live despite his folly and cowardice.

  As he traveled, he discovered groups of refugees fleeing the west. To his horror, he’d learned that the Tower had fallen. It took minutes for the notion to sink in. Everything he thought immutable had changed. Some feared Midgaard wouldn’t protect them, seeking refuge in the wilds of the Great Retreat. The Tower is in demons' hands, the merchant had said. There’s nothing there for you anymore, white one.

  He traveled onward to the east, avoided main roads and on foot to avoid detection. He had to see the Tower for himself. Before he got there, he’d learned there was a new Arch Wizard who’d escaped to Helm’s Reach with a band of loyal followers. Bezda Lightwalker was dead. He found the new Arch Wizard easily enough with the persuasion of steel. That was when he met Nyset Camfield, the self-proclaimed Arch Wizard of the Tower mourning the loss of her love, Walter Glade. Then Walter returned, rising out of the grave like something out of the stories.

  In a span of weeks, everything that was stable about his life was once again upturned. The nightmares he saw in Breden weren’t just his delusional imaginings, but beasts of Shadow. The Shadow Realm was a place of horrors where men were tortured for eternity. It wasn’t a place of joy like the stories told. A man had escaped that fate and returned to his body. But why not Clare?

  He stared down at his fingers pressing into the banister, pinked from the pressure. A tall man swaggered over to him, grinning with yellowed teeth, breaking his reverie. “Like the ship?”

  Isa thought of what to say, but no words came. He peered up at a dark-skinned man scampering up the rigging, calling orders down to another sailor below manning the ropes and dropping a sail. The dramatic rolling of the Warwick started to even out.

  Isa took in a full breath, calming his nerves. “This the best the Tower can provide?” he said with what he hoped was a hint of humor. The man was barefoot, wore an opened coat with a few buttons missing and torn breeches rolled up to the knee. His face was red with sunburn, even his eyelids seemed to be peeling.

  “The name’s Derwood.” He squinted and offered his hand.

  “Isa.” He gave it a quick squeeze, noted his strong grip. “Smoke?” He offered Derwood a tobacco stick procured from a hip pouch, only slightly damp.

  “Gave it up. Not good for my countenance.” Derwood popped the cork from a flask and took a draught, winced, and let his body sway with the groaning ship. “Drink?”

  Isa slowly shook his head then lit his tobacco with a firestriker, scraping it against a metal bracket holding the banisher together. He inhaled deeply on the smoke, burning down into his lungs. The sky became a sharper blue, the sea a greener green, and the dark coils of hair emerging from Derwood’s chest a deeper black. “Stuff works far better than a mug of Elixir.” He regarded its glowing tip. “So what do you do aboard the Warwick, Derwood?” The nightmares faded into the depths of his mind, back where they belonged.

  Derwood took another sip from his flask then corked it, his head tipped back and gazing at the wispy clouds. “Captain of course. Thought you Tower wizards were supposed to be quick witted?”

  Isa snickered. “I’m no wizard. Steel is my magic.”

  “My sort of magic too.” Derwood slapped him on the back, producing an echo in his chest.

  “Who’s manning the helm then?” Isa nodded at the stout man on the raised platform, one hand resting on the spoked wheel.

  “Ah, my second, my apprentice. Always makes a mistake, so he’s likely goin’ to be an apprentice for a long, long time.” He grinned.

  “Anything you can do to make this hunk o’ wood go faster?” Isa asked, peering out at the endless stretch of green-blue water.

  “If you can harness the Dragon and send us some wind, maybe. You sure you can’t do that?” Derwood gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Won’t tell anyone.”

  “Afraid not. Like I said, my gifts seem to only lie in steel.” Isa dropped a hand to the hatchet hanging from his belt. “Otherwise, wouldn’t need these trusty companions.”

  “I see, Tower killer, I reckon. Glad to have you aboard then. There are pirates on these seas, though we’ve yet to encounter them, thank the Phoenix.”

  “Just an Armsman,” Isa muttered and watched as the smudge of Zoria faded from his vision, engulfed by the sea.

  “Armsmen go through the Test of Stones now, do they?” Derwood raised a dandruff covered brow at him.

  Isa inhaled on his tobacco. He was an educated man, maybe more than just a captain, Isa thought. “Pirates and monsters. Any oth
er dangers I should be aware of?” He exhaled through his nostrils, the smoke carried off in the wind.

  Derwood let out a great belly laugh and put his back to the banister. “No monsters out here, none ‘cept those that travel on ships and there’s no shortage of those. Death Spawn are fearsome, sure. Men more so. Do terrible things to each other, don’t we?”

  The door of the lavatory creaked open, and Senka staggered out, her arms clutched around her belly. She was still stunning, though her once-round cheeks had become sharp as a hawk’s. Her short hair was messy from the wind-swept salt, armor a patchwork of different shades of leather. She wouldn’t take it off, despite his warnings about how difficult it would be to swim with it on if she went overboard.

  “Warwick rolling too much for you?” Derwood called to her, grinned at Isa, then back at Senka as she came over. “Got some ginger in the stores, ask the cook for some tea with it, will help keep your stomach in place. Even I need some once in a while.”

  “I’ll be alright, thank you, Captain.” She put a hand on the banister and wedged her boot onto the bench in front of it. “Just will take some getting used to.” She shook her head at the shimmering sea. “Never seen so much water in all my years. It’s truly incredible. Just wish it would stop moving so much.” She forced out a laugh.

  Derwood chuckled. “Get your sea legs in due time. Happens to everyone. Can’t believe neither of you have heard of me or recognized my face. Captain Derwood, the greatest captain of the Far Sea from here to Tigeria and beyond!” He raised his finger and belched. Isa was glad he wasn’t manning the helm then, given the strength of the spirits on the breeze.

  Derwood started to tip over, caught himself on the banister, then tugged on a golden loop through his ear with a spirited laugh. “I could fill you with stories of adventure from my heralded past. How the Warwick eluded the pirates of the Black Islands, how I once commandeered a ship from the port of Maldaneas. Never heard these tales?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Isa narrowed his eyes, wondered how many splinters of his tales were grounded in truth.

  “Well, that’s alright. You’ll hear them all eventually, being in this little world together now. Some nice profits today. Magic pays well in Zoria, eh?”

  Senka cleared phlegm from her throat and spat over the side. She grabbed the banister and coughed, looking like she was on the verge of vomiting. She managed to get it under control, shamefully looking down after. “Sorry.”

  “Appreciate you not puking on my deck. Boys don’t like cleaning it.” Derwood laughed. “When you get hungry, plenty of wine, cheese, and bread on board.” He nodded his approval at her.

  Isa leveled his iron gaze on him. “One big family.”

  “You understand then!” Derwood planted his ringed hands on his hips. “You, me, the crew, and us against the sea. Adventure!”

  “Crazy sonofabastard.” A crewman mending some rope muttered shaking his head, not bothering to look up from his task.

  “What’s the Warwick built for?” Isa asked.

  “Not for war, can assure you that. She’s got brittle sides, good for running from pirates!” he laughed. “Nah, trading tobacco and Elixir from Breden, wine from Tigeria, herbs from Maldaneas mainly. Got good cheese too.” He licked his lips.

  Senka gazed at Isa with dim eyes, then wearily looked at Derwood.

  Derwood went on, gesticulating. “The quicker I get my goods to port, the better the price they fetch. Folk want their herbs and Elixir fresh and so on. If I can get herbs to Zoria from Maldaneas before they wilt, gets me about five times the price. Business is good.”

  “Don’t use oarsmen? What if the wind dies?” Isa’s eyes swept over the empty seats where they would have sat.

  “Wind rarely dies in the Far Sea. The crew will row if we need to.” He grinned with what seemed like genuine excitement. The captain paused to cast his gaze over the water, took in his crew’s work. “Sea’s quiet today. Should be easy sailing.”

  “Quiet?” Senka peered at him wide-eyed, turned back to face the horizon.

  “Suppose the Shadow War was bad for trade. Things have resumed, I’d imagine?” Isa asked. He realized then that he was enjoying having a regular conversation. It was pleasant to not be yelling at Swiftshade recruits, not killing boys with Leechwood Venom, not having to flog the more rebellious apprentices. He had almost forgotten what it was like.

  “Yeah.” Derwood paused, crossed his arms and sucked his teeth. “Ships come and go now, most captains without fear it seems. Though some crews are still reluctant, good for business that is, less competition and all.”

  Isa peered around for prying ears. “You can’t be too careful. We are traveling by the Arch Wizard’s direct orders. You must get us to Tigeria without issues. Do you understand?”

  “Fully.” Derwood grinned, and bits of dried skin were swept from his cheeks and into the sea. “I’ll let you two alone now. Got some things to tend to, bottles need drinking, and the Warwick needs some captaining.” Deerwood sauntered off, screaming reprimands to the dark-skinned man skittering deftly down from the rigging.

  “An interesting fellow,” Senka said, easing over to the banister beside him. A wave slapped against the ship’s sides, spouting up and spraying over them. Isa brought his cloak up in time, covering Senka. Icy water rolled over the deck, washing back out between the banister slits.

  “Thank you.” Senka grinned at him, feeling the warmth of her against his side, not realizing until now how close he’d dragged her.

  “I…” His jaw fell stupidly open, his mind as blank as new parchment. Why couldn’t he think of something to say?

  “Are you well, Isa?” She drew closer, maybe six inches from his face, and he found himself swimming in her dark eyes, feeling her breath on his lips.

  “Fine.” He shuffled away from her, trying to make it look as if he just needed space to adjust his belt.

  “Think he knows the real reason why we’re going? A trader has to hear lots of stories,” Senka said, turning her gaze back on the water, the wind twitching at her hair.

  “Maybe. Doesn’t matter if he does.” Isa took in a slow breath, steadying his nerves. Treat her like you would any other person. Is that so difficult?

  “All the lives lost during the Shadow War, and we made it through. All the pains and wounds suffered. It never stops amazing me to be alive every day.” She squinted out at the water, glassy-eyed, throat working. “Do you ever think of that?”

  He shook his head. “Not usually,” he conceded. Usually just worried about who I was going to fuck for the evening. Which type of tobacco I’d smoke to burn my demons away. “But I do sometimes,” he lied. What kind of man are you? The kind who can murder without mercy, do the things no one else can do, his thoughts answered.

  “Never got a chance to thank you,” Senka went on, seeming to have her emotions mastered now.

  “Thank me?”

  “For helping me take vengeance for the Scorpions, for my father, upon the Shadow One, Dressna.”

  He became aware of his uncomfortable shoulder rolling. “Just doing my work. Know you’d have done the same for me, for anyone.”

  “No, Isa.” She grabbed his arm and turned him to face her. “Without your help… I would be in the Shadow Realm, and Dressna may have fled. I owe you a great debt, my honor depends upon it. Anything you need at all, anything that I can do, please ask. I must fulfill my obligations.”

  He was tempted to make a crude joke but assumed she wouldn’t understand, or that he might mess up the moment. He knew her lack of cultural understanding was once a source of embarrassment. “It’s nothing.” He would’ve blushed if he were capable. “But if your honor depends on it… well, I’ll think of something,” he said, a smile creeping up his lips.

  She saw then that she was still clutching his bicep and took her hand back. He wished it was still there as the warmth faded. “Excuse me, Isa, I’m going to lay in my quarters now. I’m not well.” She turned her back on him
before he could say something else, not that there was anything bright on the tip of his tongue.

  He stood there and watched her walk away, her hand trembling against the banister, occasionally using it for support. He didn’t think that quiver was from seasickness or her susceptibility to cold. She was acting strangely. He’d expected her to want to spend more time making up for the lost years. It was an odd thing, to be living in the same city as someone else, yet never seeing them. He also knew time had a way of changing people. He couldn’t help but shake the feeling that she was hiding something.

  Days aboard the Warwick rapidly took on a brutal monotony. He wasn’t sure how many had passed as he stopped counting at six to stop torturing himself. Isa would wake before the sun crested the horizon. He’d then put his body through hundreds of sit-ups, push-ups, squats, and pull-ups hanging from a crossbeam in his quarters. He practiced the axe and the hammer, hacking through imaginary foes attacking him from all sides. He had to keep his edge honed. Without it, he was nothing. He’d come out onto the deck shirtless and drenched in sweat, letting the breeze cool his body while waiting for the sunrise in solitary meditation. On and on the days went, yearning for the day the sun would catch a swath of land on the water. It seemed today would not be that day.

  Senka spent most of her time in her room, door closed, curtains drawn, and only coming out once or twice to eat a paltry meal. So much for a glorious reunion, he thought. Where was a whore when you needed one? He scratched at his aching balls. He thought in a few days one of the more feminine-faced sailors might be able to satisfy his insatiable needs.

  One morning, they passed each other by. He was on his way to the kitchen and she her room. “Are you well, Senka?” he asked her.

  She gave him a bright, chest warming smile and a small nod. “Well enough,” she said weakly before stumbling away from him, her espresso skin gone a sickly gray.

  “Wait.” His voice cut harder than he wanted. “Are you sure you’re well? Because you don’t look or seem well.”