Ascending Shadows (The Age of Dawn Book 6)

by Everet Martins

  Tatlat winced at the strange sight and jabbed his blade into the dead man’s neck, lifting the snake’s bottom half into the air for inspection. Its tail had a pair of menacing barbs, the skin shimmering with silvery scales. He mumbled something in Tigerian that might have been a curse and flung the snake from his sword.

  “That’s not good!” Scab declared, madly nodding his head. “Not good at all.”

  “You have an impressive skill of deduction,” Juzo said.

  The captives had stepped ten or so paces back, still carefully moving away from the Tigerian’s corpse. “Could be more in there,” Isa muttered.

  “But how? How did it… do that?” Greyson stared.

  Isa could only shake his head in confusion. “Some type of disease, the Arch Wizard said.”

  “So it is true, the dark has reached Tigeria,” Orin said contemplatively.

  Tatlat started for the gates.

  “Come no farther!” Orin screamed. “You will not enter today, maybe never. Your band has been touched by the dark. You’ll not give us your black ills. The gods curse you for your flesh peddling. Curse us all for buying! I knew this price would be great, but not this great.” Orin stared down at his hands resting between spikes.

  “You turn us away? After all we do you?” Tatlat sent his mount to continue towards the gate, and a few arrows fell around him, hissing then thunking into the ground. One shaft split on a hidden stone with a crack. “We do much business over the years. A friend. Now this?”

  “Come farther and we will not miss next time. You know my words are true,” Orin said with an air of command. “The darkness follows you!” He glared at Tatlat and swept from the wall, boots thudding down a set of wooden stairs behind it.

  Did he perhaps see what Isa saw or was he alluding to the dead Tigerian? Either way, they would not find rest here.

  Tatlat sighed, growled and sagged in his saddle. He gave his Tougere a limp tug, then with some effort raised himself up. “To Ashrath!”

  Fifteen

  Ashrath

  “When the killing ends, the taste of elixir will still be wonderful, the flowers beautiful.” – The diaries of Nyset Camfield

  The stark walls of Ashrath loomed over the smaller city of Zeelist, a dark blob in the distance now. Ashrath’s walls were impressively high. They might have even been higher than the Tower. Senka could see the tops of gray towers looming behind them, some with broken spires and a patchwork of shingles, a clue to the wealth hidden within. The walls were stuccoed with a cream colored mud, showing the occasional spot of bricks behind it like a torn scab. The enormous bricks that made up the wall’s bones must have each spanned four feet and weighed hundreds of pounds.

  Senka raised her chin, using her pride like a shield against the dejection she felt at the failure of their mission. It all seemed hopeless now. They were about to be sold as slaves, some muttering about hoping for a lenient master. She watched their chances of ever returning to Zoria whittle away with every passing step into the heart of Tigeria. She would stare damnation in the eyes, make it know her name. She would not go quietly, not without at least warning them of what was to come.

  Everything had gone wrong because of that damned Sea Croc. They washed up at the wrong place in the wrong time. They missed the port of Flamton where they were supposed to land. They were to meet the Mistress’ messenger there. Did he or she have any idea what happened to them? Did anyone? Were they all considered dead by the Tower? Senka shook her head, growled, and hammered her hand against her thigh. “Damn the Far Sea, damn the Sea Crocs, and damn these chains!” she shouted.

  Tatlat peered back at her, and a couple Whisperers regarded her with what could only be contempt. All of this was her fault, she thought. If only she could’ve managed to pull herself together earlier and see the world beyond the allure of Angel’s Moss. Maybe then she would’ve fought harder and prevented their capture. She had become a slave to her senses. She lost the mastery she once had over her desires. Frustration pushed up in her guts in the form of burning acid in her throat. She let out a desperate sigh and set her gaze on the distance.

  It seemed the entire realm was making a pilgrimage to the capital. Carriages, Tougere contingents, stretching lines of slaves at least three times as long as theirs, and even teams of horses were converging through the enormous gates. Everywhere you looked there were plodding Tigerians, some with children that were much like their adults but shorter and less muscular. They even played like human children, some wrestling in the dirt and annoying their mothers. Given the bored looks she saw on faces, this must have been an ordinary day for these people. She felt the weight of her chains for the first time then, heavy on her wrists and trying to drag her down. They made every successive step harder than the last.

  The gate’s archway reached up at least ten stories as if they needed enough room for a siege engine to pass through. The roads were like the branches of a great tree, the central artery passing under the gate. Between the branching roads were shanty huts where Tigerians toiled at gardens whose leaves were brown and wilted. The rains had apparently not reached this far.

  Chickens clucked and hopped across the road. Upon shoddy looking tables, Tigerians hocked rotting vegetables and strings of salted meat. A Tigerian woman led a strange group of birds with legs as long as a man and necks as short as turtles. Their beaks were broad and pointed like swords. They surpassed her in height and followed her much like goats. They even had bells dangling from their necks. A few minutes later, a Tigerian herdsman had crossed their path with goats, though they were far leaner than the goats they raised in New Breden. She wondered if their milk tasted about the same and that made her stomach rumble with unsatisfied hunger.

  Tatlat and his crew led the group down the path at a dizzying pace. The white sigils of the Whisperers held little significance to the common folk. Most were wise enough to give him space when he drew near. There were some Tigerians who must’ve been vagrants that didn’t bother moving at all, not until the last minute giving them just enough room to pass. They wore threadbare rags and plodded along, uncaring of where they stepped or whose path they crossed.

  She detected the stink of booze in the air at the of passing a stumbling vagrant, the horrific odor reminding her of Zoria. She never thought she’d miss the Jolly Pig. Never thought she’d miss the tang of freshly spilled cow’s blood and Olin’s barking orders. But she did. A lifetime of slavery under a Tigerian master was not a life she was prepared to endure. If it came to that, she resolved that she’d spill her own blood and put herself into the sands. It wouldn’t be an honorable death, but neither was living out your days as cattle.

  Senka’s feet burned, and a trail of hot sweat ran down the center of her back. She found that she was almost starting to enjoy the marching, despite knowing the endpoint. Every day, her legs grew stronger, her core dense with muscle, and her endurance now seemingly endless. She was perpetually tired, but knew through struggle came strength. Even with the dehydration, the severe lack of food and rest, she could feel her body hardening to the insults of her environment.

  She turned and saw a woman plucking insects from between the rows of a tilled garden. She had strange features unlike any she’d seen before. Her eyes were close together and dark as night, her jaw broad and nose flat. They met each other’s eyes for an instant, and in that moment, Senka felt all of her despair. Her Tigerian master stood over her, shouting orders, a worn whip draped over one arm.

  She saw that almost every Tigerian farm had humans working for them. Some were working like beasts of burden, carrying precariously balanced loads for the opened gates of Ashrath. Others were harvesting vegetables, another stretching and salting an animal hide. Her jaw dropped at seeing a woman nursing a pair of Tigerian babies, their little sharpened teeth nipping at her breasts.

  Tatlat drove them hard, hoping to make it into the city before the sun was high, she reckoned. Senka flinched at the sound of a whip crack, and the woman she saw earlier
cried out. That would not be her, she resolved. “Not me, not me,” she whispered to herself with a shake of her head.

  Isa said they had to wait for their opportunity to escape. When would that time come? Questions raced through her mind. Her heart fluttered at seeing the towering gates fast approaching. They had to do something. Time was running down, and Isa had yet to make a stand since Corin had beaten him. Had he given up already? Had he been broken? She glanced back at him. His head was beaded with sweat while his face looked down, his jaw flexing with every labored step.

  “This is Ashrath?” Senka asked Scab, who was marching ahead of her. Both of the men that had been between them perished since they left, their lifeless bodies draping across two of the Whisperers’ saddles.

  A great rumbling carried over the plains. She peered around, expecting to find storm clouds in the distance, but frowned at finding the sky devoid of clouds.

  “That it is Shawnka.” Scab hefted his chained arms. “Welcome to the glorious capital of Ashrath. You will never likely be outside these walls again, enjoy your freedom while it lasts.” He clicked his tongue.

  “Did you hear that?” She narrowed her eyes and strained her ears.

  “Mhm. Just the southern rains; same we passed through. Rains almost every day in the forest.” Scab shrugged.

  “Never here?” Senka asked.

  “Not never, sometimes. Never seen it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Suppose that anything grows here means it rains eventually.”

  Senka groaned, her palms starting to sweat as the city grew nearer. There had to be a way out of this, she thought with a jerk on her chained wrists. “No. We’ll find a way out. The Dragon and Phoenix will help us. They must.” Senka felt the inklings of hope returning as she said it. “The gods always persevered. You must have faith. Remember Walter?”

  “Walter! Hah! I certainly remember that he’s dead as the soil we tread upon.” Scab laughed then sneered. “Faith is for the simple minded, Senkik. You don’t strike me as one with potatoes for brains… but on second, thought maybe—”

  “Fuck off, Scab,” she hissed through gritted teeth, stumbling as the chained man behind her tripped. She bent down to help him up and felt a presence looming over her.

  “I am affronted…” Scab trailed off then swallowed.

  Something softly growled. She looked up and saw a Tigerian woman with amber colored eyes staring at her. “Humie scum!” She spat a glob of spit into Senka’s eye then kicked her in the gut, blowing the air from her chest and making her collapse. She heard her spit again, Scab barking curses.

  A nearby Whisperer waved the Tigerian woman away, likely more concerned about damaging the goods than Senka’s wellbeing. “What—” She gasped. “Why?”

  “Up we go.” Scab dragged her up choking for a breath, the world blurring behind tears of pain. More than a few stitches had torn in her side, welling out with dark blood. Senka was ready to kill her, but she was already gone in the throng of shuffling bodies, men, animals, and the noise. There was too much noise, made it hard to think. Hundreds of bodies were marching for the gate, slogging jingling wares and crowing animals for what must have been a marketplace.

  She forgot how fast the Tigerians were, how strong. They were not to be underestimated. She wiped the spit from her eyes, blinking it away. It wasn’t like human spit. Instead, it felt sticky like honey and stunk like mold. She pushed her dark hair back, scratched the dust from her itching scalp. “And when are your mysterious friends going to come to your rescue?” Senka bobbed her eyebrows at him.

  Scab half-smiled and took on a serious tone. “In due time, my noble poisoner.”

  She ignored the slight. “Before or after being roasted upon a Tigerian spit?” If he was going to be helped, she could at least try to gain his favor. Maybe he might find it in his black heart to help her. She had no other options. Part of her thought that a life of slavery might be the better choice than having to continue speaking to this scoundrel. Alas, she would do her best to serve the Tower, even if that meant wading through shit like this man.

  “Long before!” Scab laughed then blew out his cheeks, lowered his voice. “I hope.” He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, shrugged against his rumpled coat. It seemed to have shifted colors during their journey, now in shades of red, orange, and pink in spots where it got the most sun.

  Sizzling and the putrid odor of cooking meat that should’ve been discarded long ago filled the air. As if the gods were aiding her, they passed by a roaring fire with at least four human corpses in various states of doneness. The corpses were skewered with spears from ass to mouth, eyes plucked free and showing their blackened sockets. A group of four Tigerians stared at the licking flames with ravenous anticipation, knives in hands. One of them started poking a man’s cooking paunch with his knife, made the skin crackle, blood and fat oozed out. They’d all been gutted, their organs pushed off to the side of the grill to presumably stay warm.

  Senka turned away, put a hand over her mouth, and mastered her lurching stomach. “How? Why— the horror,” she cut off as bile thrust its way up her throat.

  Scab watched the Tigerians with a grim expression as they marched on to the gates. She saw then that he was tired. His eyes were a bright, feverish red, heavy bags hanging under them, corners of his lips carved with deep lines. Dark work came with a price: the erosion of the soul and crumbling of the spirit with every man sold to Tigerian masters. She could spot the worry in his unusual flinching at every sound, likely wondering how he’d ended up on this side of the coin.

  “How’s it feel?” Senka asked.

  “How’s what feel?” Scab said, legs pushing forward but his head still careening back to try to watch the grilled men.

  “To know that you’ve lost your freedom.”

  Scab clicked his tongue a few times and peered up at the sky.

  “No answers up there, remember?” Senka said, despair clawing at her chest.

  “If we survive this, perhaps I’ll be a changed man. Yes, I think I will.”

  “Like the same sort of change you made after the Arch Wizard gave you mercy?” Senka scoffed. “Once a bastard… well, you know the saying.”

  “Mercy.” Scab muttered. “You call this mercy?” He raised his steel capped stump. “That was my cock rubbing hand. Do you know how difficult it is using the wrong hand? What should take minutes now sometimes takes over an hour. An hour!” he barked.

  “Surprised it works,” she murmured.

  “What’s that, desert girl?” Scab scowled at her.

  “I think you heard me just fine.” She let an evil smile creep up her lips.

  “Oh, you want me to show you just how well it works, do you?”

  “Welcome you to try—” Senka raised her arms in a fighting stance at an approaching figure.

  “Humies!” A tall Tigerian woman swathed in soiled rags leaned towards her and started dragging mucus up her throat. She smelled worse than the slaves, as if she was a living turd.

  “No, you don’t!” Senka was flooded with anger. She kicked her in the knee with a loud pop, and the woman beast fell with a wail. Spit dribbled onto her furry chest between her strange furry tits, air pressed from her lungs and making her assault fall limp. The Tigerian woman crawled after them, but they marched on. Senka made sure to kick a cloud of dust and gravel over her. “Humies! Humie slaves! Die! Hope you suck lots o’ cocks!”

  “Well done, Senka. Though they don’t seem to like you.” Scab scratched his neck with dirt ringed fingernails. The skin under his beard was red with lice bites.

  “Senka. You said my name right. You finally said it right,” she breathed. There was another distant rumbling, a bit louder and more forceful this time, though still nothing but empty sky on the horizon.

  They were almost under the gates to the city, the walls shear and reaching up to forever. She stared up, marveling at the intricate stonework that could only be seen when this close. From what she could tell, there was some type of story i
nscribed upon the wall’s face. She saw men fighting Tigerians, Tigerians on boats, an image of the Dragon and the Phoenix. There was the head of a Tougere swallowing both of the gods, its giant teeth depicted piercing through both of them. Her eyes went wide at seeing what could only be a carving of Asebor surrounded by an army of Tigerians. Had they fought them in the past? Did the Tigerians worship a false god? Questions flitted through her mind that she knew only the Arch Wizard could properly answer. Her thoughts gave her a brief reprieve from the looming dagger’s tip of a life of slavery.

  There were huge statues of what looked to be Tigerian warriors perched on either side of the gates. They wore harsh armor with spikes that seemed sharp enough to impale a man upon. They stood about half the height of the wall, each bearing double-axes that intersected at the apex of the archway. There was a mirrored copy of them in the Tigerian bluffs, though in a sore state of disrepair from the violent winds and years of neglect.

  “Did I say your name? Must have been an accident,” Scab murmured, peering up at the wall. “No matter how many times I pass under this wall, I always see new things.”

  Senka swallowed. “Why don’t they like us?” There were spiraling stairways on either side of the wall as if inviting a raiding force to storm up them. It was a show of arrogance, a show of their unflappable power. She saw a series of shifting figures upon the top of the wall. Guards, she realized. They were like ants at this distance. The range and lethality of their bows must have been great at that height, a remarkable advantage, she thought. It would likely take an invading force at least ten minutes to climb those circuitous stairs, ample time for dousing them with oil, fire, and arrows.

  The path through the gates funneled everyone into a stony hallway in groups spanning no more than five men across, a natural choke point. The hallway was wonderfully cool and had a musty smell. She saw there were at least a hundred murder slits lining the ceiling where archers could easily shoot down at you, but you’d be hard pressed to counterattack. She wondered what traps would lay on those rising staircases around the wall.