A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5)

by Everet Martins

  A New Light

  Book 5 of The Age of Dawn

  Everet Martins

  Contents

  DRM

  Dedication

  Zoria Map

  Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  DRM

  The author has provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management (DRM) software applied so you can read it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Copyright infringement is against the law.

  To everyone who has helped me along the way.

  Zoria Map

  Newsletter

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  Chapter One

  Prologue

  The market square in the Silver Tower was in shambles. A merchant’s table was split down the middle, splinters strewn over a catapult stone wedged between it. The adjacent table was scorched to a blackened husk that would crumble at the slightest provocation. Others were in a similar state, splintered, bloodied, and battered by remnants of the Tower’s siege. There was a stream of glittering jewels left on the cobbles that had spilled from another table, most of them now crushed to dust under Death Spawn boots. A crate of apples and baskets of corn wilted in a corner. The maggots burrowed deep into the rotting food and flesh with equal fervor.

  Hedges around the square, once ornate, were burned or hacked into unrecognizable skeletons of their former beauty. Rot Flies had created bulbous nests on the Tower’s high walls, setting up shop for the feast of corpses down below. The ground was bristling with spears, broken swords, torn robes, hunks of stone, and great patches of brown blood. The only sounds were the endless buzzing of wings and a pair of crows dueling over a piece of fetid tissue.

  The water of the fountain had lost its glorious clarity, now still and a greenish-black hue. Two bodies lay propped over its marbled side. One man lay face down into the water, the woman facing up, as if having a nice back stretch. A spear had pinned her head to the fountain’s base, passing through her eye and out the back of her skull. Her intestines were pulled from her guts and wound around her neck for good measure.

  The battlements encircling the square were like sets of shattered teeth. Great sections of wall had been brushed away by the Death Spawn’s catapults. Other sections, some still intact, had fallen around the square, leaning against stairways, casting it in jagged shadows. A wizard with a long mustache had been hanged using his own robes. He was stripped bare, dangling in the wind from the battlements. Interspersed around the outside of the Tower’s walls were at least fifty wizards, their skin removed and hanging from their ankles like tattered sails. It was a warning to anyone bold enough to set foot on this side of the realm. It was also a reminder to the world that this land had been seized in the Shadow Realm’s grip.

  Behind the walls were the remains of spires, jagged strips of stone standing alone like discarded spears. They loomed around the Tower in varied states of disrepair. One looked like the mouth of an ancient beast, yawning open to reveal all the contents of wizard’s dormitories. Papers, laboratory equipment, and books of all sizes had fluttered to the ground around it. A gust came and swept the torn pages from an ancient tome into the air. Another spire was reduced to a single tower of stones; the mortar struggled to keep it upright.

  Tower’s gardens, where the most renowned artists in the realm once came to ruminate, was now reduced to a burning trash heap. The fires had burned for months, tended by a pair of Cerumal, whose skin had been permanently blackened by soot. They jabbed at the fire with their spears, stirring it up when the embers needed air. Into the blaze went everything the Tower held dear. Priceless paintings, sculptures, books, and drained magical artifacts went into the tireless conflagration. A black tendril of smoke curled into the air, veering off to the east and out to the Far Sea. A bush clipped in the likeness of the Phoenix stood in a forgotten corner, untouched and in defiance, its clean edges now filled in by unruly sprigs.

  A crow peeled a strip of skin from a bloated face and tossed it into the air before catching it, the snack sliding down its gullet with a squawk. It pried open a pair of blue lips and started nibbling at the black tongue inside. A crack split the air, echoing from the walls and sending the crow screeching into flight. It landed in an arc of stone wall that had been melted by Dragon fire.

  A violet spear of light rotated counter-clockwise, revealing a world of night and ruby on the other side. Asebor fell through the swirling violet portal, back to the land of the living. The sun seared his eyes and he raised a hand to mute its vicious glow. He growled, his hands moving to clutch at the gaping hole in his armor. Glowing blood spilled through his fingers onto the square’s cobbles. He took a staggering step to catch himself.

  “I should not bleed,” he hissed. His portal snapped shut, leaving a wisp of smoke curling in the air from the corpse’s chest it had carved through. He bellowed out with a laugh. How long had it been since he’d been wounded?

  The Breden boy.

  Every time it was the dual-wielder. First in the conduit between this world and the Shadow Realm, when he had removed the Cerumal’s armor and almost took his head with an axe of the combined powers but had escaped with a mar on his neck. The second time when he had superheated his chains here, in this very courtyard. And now, Asebor looked at his bloodied hand.

  “He escaped mother’s world. It should not have been possible,” he mumbled. But he had. Asebor did not deny the truth. Was the boy dead? Would his body be resurrected? Perhaps he was someone’s minion now; like the dead Alena raised. He hated to admit to himself that he didn’t know what would befall the boy. None had ever escaped the Shadow Realm before. Time crashed over this world, carving out new furrows. His gut shuddered with a spasm of pain and dashed away the line of thought.

  He already missed the Shadow Realm. In there, everything made sense. The reds were easy on the eyes, the moon a sallow globe, the sky black as coal. This world was forever foreign. The life clinging to the shallow soil, the fragility of men and their endless needs were tiresome innovations. What he missed most of all was his mother and his newborn sister.

  The Shadow god’s fingers would gently brush his face, her touch magnificent and everlasting. He remembered how it felt when she met his eyes. It was as if every cell in his body crescendoed in an orgasm to mark the ages. When would he next be allowed to return
home? When would he see his mother again? Perhaps when his work was done here, when men were fully bonded with the children of the Shadow god.

  The dual-wielding boy would have to be returned to mother recompense for the trouble he caused. Asebor would make him suffer for eternity, flaying and healing him in an endless cycle of pain.

  Asebor shifted into mist as he walked, passing through the fountain, as if never there. The mist knitted the wound in his gut in an instant, flesh and armor made whole again. The healing sent an icy chill waving up and down his skin. He drifted down the empty halls of the Tower, quiet as emperor’s graves.

  Asebor’s boots clinked as he stomped up the polished stairs. He passed by priceless paintings torn to shreds and irreplaceable vases smashed to shards. The war was progressing well this time. The wizards of this life were weaker, their gods forgotten. How quickly their fickle minds abandoned the notions of the Dragon and the Phoenix. One thing never changed about man: the ease in which the masses were manipulated.

  He’d been captured and imprisoned by the wizards in the last eon. He would love to watch them bleed if he could find them now. Most were likely bonded as Cerumal, or in the great beyond. The world where the soul is not. The thoughts sent his chains uncurling from his arms, rasping on the arched ceiling, scraping and showering down with sparks.

  He had promised the Shadow mother that he would not fail again when the seal of the Age of Dawn had broken, for failure meant a doomed eternity he couldn’t imagine. How had he come into the fold of such circumstances? It didn’t matter. What mattered was doing what had to be done.

  The dining chamber’s walls were a sky blue marble with veins of red. Carvings of the false gods were inscribed within the tiles. A few of them were a spider web of cracks, most gleaming as bright as the first day of the Tower’s siege. A procession of windows marched along one side of the room. The carpets were raised in scrunched waves, torn and bloodied. The massive dining table had been split apart down the middle, now propped up by a series of tables underneath. Cracked plates and a pile of silverware collected on the floor, left where it had broken.

  Dressna stared out a window, veined arms crossed behind her back. The back of her bald head shone with wet; the skin the color of a choking man’s face. Her leathery wings were folded against her back and their ends curled against the carpets. Four horns wound around her head in bony segments. They were sharp as spears at the ends.

  Alena sat back in an ornate chair, carved to resemble hundreds of Dragons in flight, swirling around one another. One gilded boot was propped against the table’s edge, emeralds on the cuff glinting like stars. She held a red melon in one hand, gently scraping its soft skin with golden nails. The polished wood on the table reflected the green glow of her eyes.

  Marcine sat on the opposite end, or rather Alena had likely placed herself as far from Marcine as possible. Her skin was ashen, covered in a mix of red-green sores and bits of earth. Half of her face was covered in dark leather, one eye matted with pus. Her torso was a mishmash of leather and rotting cloth, pulled tight over her bony form. A fuzzy spider, the size of a man's hand, scurried along her outstretched arm, around her fingers, and up the underside of her arm. “He is beautiful.” She grinned.

  “Children,” Asebor said from the entryway. A loose stone popped out from the archway, cracking in half at Asebor’s side.

  Dressna whirled towards him, wings hissed open, muscular arms drawn for combat. “Master?” She relaxed at seeing him.

  Alena crushed the melon between her fingers, launching a stream of red juice onto the top of her breast. “Great lord! You’ve returned to us.”

  Marcine slowly rose to her feet, her grin showcasing her black teeth and inflamed gums. “My savior.”

  Alena strode over to him, her hips jingling with gold chains and emeralds the size of pigeon’s eggs. “Great lord, are you hurt?” She reached to touch him and he raised his hand. She recoiled and took a step back. Her bare legs flexed, the skin puckering with goosebumps.

  How had she known? Her eyes were always keen.

  “Do not fear, Alena, for you have served me well. Without your forces, we’d never have been able to take the Tower. You are in my favor.”

  Asebor had no qualms about taking her in front of the others. He wanted her and he would have her later. There were, however, more pressing issues at hand. His chains hung limp from his arms and trailed behind him, daggers at the ends tucking themselves into the tops of his boots.

  “Thank you, thank you, great lord.” She bowed deeply and inched farther away, backing into a window frame.

  “I would bestow you my true favor if—” If he hadn’t felt like he’d need every scrap of power to face the dual-wielder again. “I am drained from visiting with the Shadow mother.”

  “Of course, master, I live to serve.” Alena stared at the ground, her hands balled into fists.

  His generals, the Wretched, had dwindled. They were a dying species, clinging to the last light of their legacy. The tide of war could always change in a heartbeat, he knew. The Shadow princess had initiated her scourge upon the other realms from the other side. This was only the start of the Shadow’s touch.

  Asebor’s face was a mask of shadow, revealing only slits of violet light for his eyes. He had always worn the conjured mask, as his true form was too terrifying for most, even for his loyal followers. He dreamed of an age where he could bear his true countenance, where even his most devoted followers wouldn’t piss themselves at the sight. He had to wear this mask to mold with his masses.

  He sauntered around the table and fell into a chair. He’d heard rumors that the bodies of men would be drained in spirit and strength by invoking the power of the false gods. Perhaps this is what they felt like. He’d only traveled between the realms a few times; each time more exhausting than the last.

  He sucked in a breath through nostrils shrouded in shadow. “Marcine, how are the forests of the west? Have you encountered resistance there?”

  “Oh!” She clapped her hands together. A bloodless wound in her shoulder parted open, and the spider slipped inside. Its numerous obsidian eyes peered out as the wound slowly closed. “It’s wonderful, great lord. Just wonderful. The roots blacken, the leaves fall, the rot spreads deep. The Woodland Plunge is mostly mine, the rot spreads along the coast, its tendrils claw at The Great Retreat. The Shamans will know it soon. They will retaliate. They will—”

  “Will you be prepared?” Asebor cut her off.

  “Oh, why, of course.”

  He stared at her, narrowing his eyes to deadly slits. She looked down and swallowed with a gulp. He grew tired of wheedling reassurances, tired of empty words, tired of endless failures and endless disappointments. “Of course, of course. That’s all I ever get from you cretins.” He rose up and smashed his fist through the long table, the legs of a supporting table splitting apart underneath. “Let’s review the failures of your brethren, shall we?”

  He put his arms behind his back and started pacing. Ragged tendrils of his scarlet cape twisted up to the ceiling. “Hilanda told me she, of course, had Bezda, the Arch Wizard under control. The Tower would be ours for the taking, the gates opened to us when we arrived. How did that turn out?” He cast his eyes around the room, all of their’s were wisely lowered.

  He growled. “Terar assured me that the bearer of Blackout was under his dutiful care. The prophecy stated that the bearer of Blackout was to lead the armies. The one bound to the blade was to have the wisdom of thousands of wars at our disposal. Destroyed by his own pet, a pity. A grievous failure.”

  Asebor stopped behind Marcine and placed his bladed talons on her delicate shoulders. Her back stiffened and her arms quivered in his palms. Wounds covering her flesh yawned opened and closed, the insects within peering fearlessly up at him. “Darkthorne assured me that the Chains of the North, some call it Bonesnapper, were hidden from all eyes. I forgave him once, but the second transgression, losing such a precious artifact, could never b
e forgiven.” He lowered his head, whispering into her ear. “How will you fail me, Marcine?”

  Sweat beaded on the back of her neck. “I will not, will not, master,” she stammered.

  His talons gently drummed on her shoulders, dotting them with her blood at every touch. “Good.” His arms dropped from her shoulders and fell behind his back. He resumed pacing, his chains softly clinking together. “And finally Malek, the arrogant swine. He went rogue and stopped obeying his master. Do you know what happens to those who do not obey?” He bent over, saying it into Alena’s face.

  She nodded with fury, her face going pale, eyes transfixed upon on the floor.

  Asebor bellowed into the room. “First, I took Malek’s hands, for they were no longer any use to me. Next I stripped him of the strength of the false gods, made him mortal.”

  Alena yelped and drew in with a breath as if she’d been struck.

  “Be wise with your words, for they matter. Do not tell me a thing unless you know it as surely as you know the Shadow god. Now,” he returned to his chair, creaking as he sat. “Dressna, tell me of work in the Nether.”

  She stomped up a pace beside him, the floor vibrating with her incredible mass. “We found the Black Furnaces. The last of the Scorpions have been obliterated,” she hissed. “They were most cooperative. All but a single child escaped us.”

  Asebor snorted. “A child? How?”

  Dressna’s eyes, white as milk, searched the room for an escape. “I believe I was poisoned.”

  Asebor nodded, silence filling the air. “No matter. She will likely rebuild their ranks and try to take the furnaces back. They’re a vengeful lot. Be prepared, fortify the defenses when you can. The Black Furnaces are in working order then?”

  “They were all in pristine condition master. The Scorpions held their oaths, as you said they would. In a year’s time, all of our forces will be outfitted with Dragon forged weapons and armor.”