Walter gazed at the paintings hanging on the walls, two you would expect, one of the Dragon and the other the Phoenix. They were intricately detailed, bursting with colors that almost seemed to glow. The third set his heart beating against his chest. This painting, the grandest of them all, depicted a bloody hand reaching, clawing out from the earth, a tombstone cracked behind it. It wasn’t the image that he found so disturbing, but the name inscribed on the tombstone, his name.
“Nyset?”
“Yes, Walt?” The energized chattering of everyone else sitting around the table softened as she spoke. Nyset’s hair was twisted up into a bun, sprigs of hair sticking out like hay. She wore a low cut, cream colored tunic that split between her breasts, secured by a strip of crisscrossing cloth stopping at her sternum, the bottom tucked into dark leather pants. On one delicate wrist were three wooden bangles, likely Lena’s doing.
He pointed at the painting, mouth hanging slightly open. “Really?”
“Well, it’s not beautiful, I know.” She folded her arms. “It had to be documented, this is of course not the only account. Your… rising has been noted in a book I’m working on,” Her cheeks seemed to be pinking as she spoke.
“A bit morbid.”
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Says the man capable of all manner of horrors on the battlefield.”
He shrugged. “That’s different.” It was a bizarre sight that left him a little unsettled. There was no point denying reality, though. “What’s your book called?” he asked, slurping on a white mug of elixir.
“Well—”
“Chronicles of Walter Glade, of course,” Claw gruffed from beside her. Claw’s outfit was similar to Nyset’s, except his shirt wasn’t crafted to show his tits and had about a week’s worth of stains on it. His salt and pepper hair had grown a considerable length, draping over his shoulders and falling over a disheveled beard. Claw’s beady eyes gleamed and his bushy eyebrows bobbed with amusement. “A fitting title, Mistress. You’ve a hero in your ranks, indeed.”
Walter felt his cheeks burning with blood. He became sharply aware of the lull in conversation, felt the eyes of all the others sweeping over him.
Grimbald stretched out, snatched a sausage with his fork from a pile of them, skin blackened and still crackling. With his other hand, he grabbed a golden honey cake, chasing his sausage with a golden bite. “Mm. Vant ta read dat one,” Grimbald mumbled through his overfilled mouth. He wore a gambeson secured with buckles straining to prevent his tremendous bulk from spilling out from between the seams. His head looked to have been freshly shaved and oiled, reflecting a white spot of sun coming in through a nearby window.
Nyset half-smiled at him from across the table, glared at Claw, then reached for the elixir decanter. “More, dear?” She smiled at him.
Walter grunted and held out his cup for her to fill it. He shouldn’t be surprised, he knew. It was surreal, sometimes still hard to believe that this was his life. He watched the elixir swirl into his mug in oily shades of brown.
“Everyone about ready to get down to business?” Nyset asked, her expression grave, the decanter thumping down on the table.
“Can’t believe we’re finally doing this.” Walter nodded, felt a flutter go through his belly.
“Mistress, er, Nyset.” Senka leaned forward in her chair, sharp elbows resting on the table and fingers twiddling.
Walter looked at her round face and innocent cheeks, doing well to hide her deadly skill. He thought he might have caught the gleam of one her poisoned needles from under a leather bracer. She wore a black as coal cloak hanging loosely over the hard ridges of leather armor. He would need to find himself some armor, he thought. The more energy he could save from having to heal, the more he’d have for spending on Death Spawn obliteration.
Nyset regarded her. “Senka?”
Senka’s midnight eyes rapidly blinked at Nyset. Her narrow mouth opened and closed without producing a sound. She frowned down at the crumbs on her plate.
Nyset patiently smiled at her, put a hand on her wrist. The girl flinched at that.
“The furnaces,” she squeaked, gathered herself. “Could we… when will we…”
“After. When we get the old Tower back,” Nyset said.
Senka beamed at her like a child who had just received the greatest of approving praises. “You understand my oaths, my people. We must protect the Black Furnaces. I must keep watch over them. My failures do weigh on me, my duties…”
Walter fought down the urge to tell her that the feeling would pass but reached for a honey cake instead. He dipped it in his elixir, felt the sweet glaze sticking to his fingertips.
Grimbald gave him a thumbs up and did the same, moaning at the elixir soaked bite. “Good idea.”
“What are these Black Furnaces?” Thalia asked beside Walter, shifting in her chair and looking uncomfortable. With her movement came the subtle scent of citrus wafting into Walter’s nose, drawing his eye to her like a bear to honey. She was thankfully somewhat clothed now. She wore a broad strip of leather over her breasts showing a deep furrow of cleavage, a flowing skirt over her hips, and a necklace with shining red beads the size of a small fist. Under her eyes and down her cheeks were spots of dark paint, almost the same color as her skin. Her hair shone like raven’s feathers, worked into a strange configuration and nestled into her bright headdress.
He remembered her stripped almost bare in the Great Retreat, pressing her hips against him, breasts occasionally brushing against his chest. He felt his prick stiffening up. He glanced at Nyset, met her narrowed eyes, then flicked his eye up at one of the paintings, cheeks burning. He felt a glimmer of guilt but reassured himself that he’d done the right thing in the end. Did Nyset have an inkling of what almost happened? No, she couldn’t. Should he tell her? He looked back at Thalia, found her dark eyes meeting his. She gave him a forlorn half-smile, nodded, and turned her attention to Senka.
Senka cleared her throat, voice reedy at first, then steadying. “The Black Furnaces aren’t merely forges, but special, old. They’re hidden deep within the sands of the Nether, lit by ever burning Dragon fire, lit by wizards before the Age of Dawn. Weapons and armor made in these forges are nigh unbreakable. They are similar in quality to the weapons brought to Zoria during the Tigerian invasion.” She drew a dagger from her sheath with a soft ringing and placed it on the table. The metal shimmered with waves of light. “My weapons were made there. They do not dull, do not break.”
“Milvorian steel,” Isa said flatly. He was seated close beside Senka, almost shoulder to shoulder. His well-muscled arms were crossed over his chest, not an ounce of useless tissue on his frame. The Tower assassin’s face was still bone white, despite sparring in the sunny practice yard most of yesterday. The complete lack of hair on his head gave him a foreboding look Walter hadn’t yet grown accustomed to. His expression was deadly serious and hard as stone. He had the look of a man who didn’t understand humor. How did he come to look this way? Did other Tower assassins look the same?
Grozul, the former House Master of the Phoenix cleared his throat, his white beard like a cloud over his mouth. “The forges can be used to produce alloys of essentially the same structural strength, weight, and chemical integrity that the…” he slurped elixir from his mug, making a brown spot on his mustaches, “the same armor that the former Silver Tower armsman donned.”
Walter’s eye went to the pair of statuesque armsman outside Nyset’s office, admired the pearlescent sheen of their armor. The only two that survived the Silver Tower’s siege. The only alloy that didn’t melt under the Dragon’s incinerating fires. There was something about the wizened wizard that niggled at Walter’s guts. Some ancient memory that he couldn’t recall. Small, frustrating gaps like broken teeth had formed in his memory since his return.
“Clearly incredibly valuable,” Nyset said, reached out and squeezed Senka’s wrist. “That will be our next target, should be easier to take once the Tower has been
reclaimed.” Walter felt himself admiring her voice, silky smooth and commanding respect. He then remembered her moaning last night, grinning at his knowledge of the stark contrast. He knitted his eyebrows, wondering if anyone else heard them.
Senka nodded a few times, eyes swimming with tears. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, sounding as if she were on the verge of falling apart right there. “I’ll kill her for what she did.” Her small fists thumped against the table’s edge. “S-sorry, Mistress,” she stammered, dark cheeks going darker with an influx of blood.
“It’s alright, Senka. We’ll find Dressna too; she will pay,” Nyset reassured.
“Dressna?” General Stokes asked, leaning against a wall, puffing on a wooden pipe. He wore the gleaming armor of the Midgaard falcon, bits of blood-red leather showing through between plates. Somehow Walter had missed him entering the room. Tendrils of smoke curled into the air from his pipe, filling it with a sweet fragrance.
“One of Asebor’s last remaining generals, as far as we know. Call themselves The Wretched,” Walter said. “Never seen her, only heard of her. Senka, care to explain?”
Lena skirted in between the guards, shimmying a chair between Walter and Thalia, despite the lack of room. The room was starting to feel cramped, her strong patchouli scent overriding Thalia’s more enjoyable one. Walter nodded at her, but she gave him an intense and feverish stare. Walter turned away. What was her problem?
Senka started. “She’s a foul creature, has horns, wings that don’t seem to work. The gray flesh of a dead man, big white eyes, incredible strength, hands of a giant…”
Walter caught a soft growl coming from Lena. “Is something wrong?” he said, turning to face her.
“Have you fessed up to your crimes, boy?” Lena spat, planted her hands on the table and leaned in toward him. Walter did not move. Her tone contrasted with her stunning amethyst eyes. Walter once again felt himself the subject of everyone’s eyes. Was this how Nyset felt?
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Walter glanced at Nyset, whose lips had formed a hard line. Grimbald’s spoon tinkled against his mug, stirring a pat of yellow butter into his elixir.
“Not now, Lena,” Nyset hissed, shaking her head.
“The Arch Wizard’s testing in Midgaard. Does that help you recall your treachery?” The herbalist said through a clenched jaw, hair beads clicking together.
Walter searched his memories, found nothing in how he might have slighted the mad woman. “No?” he said in a questioning tone. “My memories aren’t what they once were.” He truly couldn’t remember. He even felt like appeasing the woman in obvious turmoil. “Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
She rose from her chair, leaned closer. Walter couldn’t help himself and stole a glance down her shirt, admiring the curve of her porcelain white breasts. She growled, face filling up with red anger. “You—” she seemed to have trouble speaking it. “You used a Mind Eater on me, a forbidden spell!”
Nyset sighed.
The spots of Isa’s face where eyebrows should have been arced up.
“Magics,” Grimbald muttered, continued stirring and shrugged.
“What?” Grozul gasped.
Claw frowned down at a sliced piece of sausage.
Thalia folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, regarding him flatly.
Stokes looked confused, poured himself a mug of elixir then started for Nyset’s bookshelf.
“But why did you use a forbidden spell?” Grozul asked, wrinkled hands pressing into the table. “Did I not teach you this?”
“Answer the man!” Lena hissed.
Walter met Nyset’s eyes, who gestured for him to go on.
Walter groaned. “You did teach me that, Master Grozul. But this was long before I had ever set foot into the Silver Tower. I learned the spell from seeing, er, copying Malek.”
“The Malek?” General Stokes said, a book clutched in one hand.
Walter nodded. “Yes, the Malek. Speaking of Malek.” He took a deep breath. “Lena, Nyset I apologize for what I did. I know it was wrong, but, well, I just didn’t want you to fail. I knew how much it meant to you.” He bowed his head, then looked at Nyset.
A smile started to form on Nyset’s lips, dashed away by Lena turning her furious scowl on her. Lena heaved out a sigh and some the rage melted from her face. “Well, since you did not know, I can forgive you. Even if you would’ve failed my testing, dear, I would’ve let you in, you know.”
“I know,” Nyset said.
“Sorry, Walter.” Lena shrank back into her chair, pulling on a tube of hair. “I’m not sure what came over me.”
“So you were the reason for much of the conflict in the city?” It was his turn to bite back. “The Arch Wizard told me all about you.”
“Walt,” Nyset said. “Enough.”
“How many died squabbling against one another to fill your pockets? How much blood is on your hands, Lena?” Walter’s voice was a dagger.
She snapped from her chair, arms crossed over her chest, hands wound into fists. “I’ve made my penance to the gods and they have forgiven me.” She spun around, pulled her shirt up to her shoulders, exposing her bare back.
Walter’s eyes widened. Her flesh was laced with at least ten long, weeping wounds. How she sat there without a complaint was a mystery to him. She was tougher than she looked. Someone cleared a mucus-filled throat. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, we all have,” Lena said, pulling her shirt down. There were a lot of old scars there too, in various stages of healing. “Have to move on from them, though.”
Was that some type of self-punishment? He was too ashamed to say he’d been down that road and had an inkling of how she felt. “Right,” Walter said awkwardly, unsure of how to feel now. “Sorry,” he finally croaked.
“You mentioned something about Malek. A member of the Wretched, if my memory serves me well, which I believe it does. Was there something more?” Grozul asked, curling a length of white mustache around a finger.
“Yes. Thanks for the reminder. I found him.” Walter said.
“You found him?” Nyset asked, jaw dropping.
Claw grunted. “Malek?”
“Long story for another time,” Nyset said to Claw. “Another member of the Wretched.”
Grimbald groaned. “Hope you took good care of the traitor.”
“I did.” Walter nodded at Grim. “He won’t be bothering anyone, ever.” Walter frowned, remembering that madman’s pleading. Remembering Juzo.
Nyset frowned. “He did teach me a lot once. A shame things had to be this way.”
Walter started. “He said something strange. Said Asebor made him passive. Anyone know what that means?”
“Shit,” Nyset whispered.
“It was only a rumor. This confirms it,” Grozul breathed. “That means he has the capability of cutting you off from the god’s powers, their luminous gifts, taken from you until the end of your days.” The house master placed his mug on the table, knuckles white.
“Sounds worse than losing an eye,” Walter smirked. Much, much worse. “Some sort of spell, I’d guess? What’s the counter?”
Walter, Nyset and Claw’s eyes hung on the house master’s breath. “Well,” Grozul gave a helpless shrug. “There isn’t one.”
“Shit.” Walter sighed.
“Not that I’m aware of at least,” the housemaster added.
“Let’s just hope he doesn’t use that spell on any of us,” Nyset said, her olive skin gone pale.
“Hope?” Walter balked. If Asebor could use that ability on him, well, he didn’t want to dwell on those nefarious consequences.
“Let’s get back on task, everyone. We can’t worry about every possible item that can turn against us,” Nyset said, standing and leaning over the table. Silence. “It’s time we reclaim what’s rightfully ours. It’s time we take the Silver Tower back. We’ve got the forces and at least two-hundred wizards. Their numbers have to be weakened now after the failure at the Gre
at Retreat.” Nyset glanced at Thalia, her arms crossed. “We need to strike before they recuperate.”
Walter nodded, felt cold sweat spring from his palms, and with it, a surge of nervy energy. “Time for Asebor to die.” The words bubbled out of him. He caressed the Chains of the North hanging over his chair. He thought he might have felt them hum at his touch.
Grimbald grinned. “Time to give some Death Spawn new haircuts.” His pitiless axes lay propped in the corner nearest to him, no more than an arm’s length away.
Nyset started sliding dishes and mugs down to one end of the table. Others joined in, following her lead. She unfurled a wide swathe of parchment detailing the layout of the Silver Tower. It was a crude drawing, but would serve well enough for their needs, Walter thought. He came around her side, wrapped one arm around her hip and gave it a squeeze.
She flashed him a smile. “There are two ways into the Tower. The bridge that leads to the Milvorian gates and the hidden tunnel we took during our escape, assuming they haven’t found it and closed it up. Tunnel’s entrance is here.” Her finger traced a line from the Silver Tower’s practice yard to a spot on the plains. “The bridge is wide, big enough for a few carts to ride along simultaneously.”
“A natural choke point,” Grimbald muttered. “We’ll be bugs crawling into a Sand Buckeye’s mouth there.”
“If you have a better suggestion, I’d like to hear it.” Nyset tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear, bright eyes intent on Grimbald.
A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5) Page 40
