A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5)

by Everet Martins

  Walter ran up behind it, wrapped its neck up with Bonesnapper, jerked it onto its back, wiry legs kicking out. Senka fell, driving her daggers under its jaw. The Black Wynch let out a soft hiss, jagged armor glistening with dark blood. She looked at him, her face spattered and dripping with a mask of red, and gave a sharp nod.

  She almost reminded him of the Shadow Realm then. But he was not there now. No, he was in Zoria, he reminded himself.

  Senka re-gripped her daggers, head swiveling for enemies. She dropped her arms, let out a tense breath, and finally sheathed her blades.

  Walter looked back. Grimbald chopped through the neck of the last writhing Cerumal, its head gently rolling off the wall. “Could’ve saved some for the rest of us,” he muttered.

  “Plenty more,” Walter snorted, squinted his eye at the horde fighting their allies in the distance. The gray mass of Death Spawn had shifted to the middle of the bridge, maybe quarter of a mile away, mixed in with the bright colors of wizards, Tree Folk, and Falcon soldiers. His saliva went thick as cotton, fingernails cutting into his palm. Men and demons alike flew from the bridge, some burning, others waving arms in an almost comical attempt to fly. But there was nothing humorous about the rocks rising out from below the bridge, sharp as a Blood Eater’s mouth.

  “Grim—” His breath caught at a figure towering above all the rest, glimmering tendrils darting around it. The scar on the back of his neck in the shape of a figure eight burned. He found his fingers clawing at it and wanted to force them down but kept scratching.

  We will have you back, the voice of the Shadow god crooned in his mind.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “No what?” Grimbald asked, peering out beside him.

  “Look. Could it be?” he asked. “Hard to tell from here, but who else could it be?” His throat was a furnace.

  “You must stay focused, Walter.” Isa grabbed his shoulders. Walter allowed himself to be turned. “Do not let your emotions rule your decisions. Come, the Arch Wizard gave us orders. We must complete our task.”

  Senka’s chest heaved. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

  Walter opened his mouth to protest then closed it. They were right. He ran his bloody hand through his hair, pulling as he went.

  “They’re right,” Grimbald echoed his thoughts. “Let’s get the gates opened and we can strike them from the back. Can’t do much from here anyway… not without taking undue chances.” Grimbald beckoned for them to follow. Was that an insult? Grimbald stepped on a headless Cerumal, kicked aside a dark blade and sent it clanging down into the courtyard. “C’mon, I know how to open it.”

  Walter looked out over the bridge again and swallowed. The sounds of war carried over the thunder of the falls. He thought he might have been able to see Nyset’s bright red robes. Maybe it was a trick of the light. It could’ve been any Dragon apprentice, but he knew it had to be her. It was her.

  The others were making their way to the stairs, leaving him, knowing he’d follow eventually. He jogged to catch up to them, hopping over a severed arm, bodies, avoiding puddles of blood and discarded bows. Their bows were massive and spiked at the end with heavy lines of bowstring. Grimbald was likely the only person among them who would have the strength to properly hold and draw them.

  A few carrion birds had already swept in and started on the feast, red with blood from beak to neck, uncaring of his passing. One boldly hissed at him, obsidian feathers bristling, as though he were about to pilfer its meal. He almost set it aflame, but thought better of it. He’d need the energy and everything had to eat.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, courtyard eerily quiet now. Everyone looked at each other, waiting for Grimbald to carry on.

  “Hm,” Grimbald muttered. He scratched his head, peering about and biting his lower lip.

  Walter saw Senka’s daggers had the molded shapes of snarling Dragon’s heads at the pommels, crosspieces worked like a pair of claws, blades long and straight. The hilts were intricate, metal grips molded to look like scales. The Dragon’s heads even seemed to have teeth gleaming behind blood. “Nice blades,” he nodded at them hanging from her scaled belt.

  Senka’s hands went around them. “My father’s work. He was a master sword smith.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She gripped them tight.

  Walter turned his gaze to the pearlescent sheets of Milvorian steel making up the gates, seeking out the mechanism that would draw them open. There were no chains or gears that he could see. A sinking feeling penetrated his gut. A surprising sense of hopelessness settled in. “Grim?”

  “Ah. This way!” Grimbald went around the stairway, heading for the wall on the other side of the stairs. “Sorry, had to get my bearings. Been a while and all.”

  Walter was filled with a great sense of relief, as if the worst of the battle had just then been won. He knew the real battle had yet to start, however.

  They followed him. Isa walked backwards with his bow at the ready, arrow nocked. Grimbald pawed at a section of wall facing out towards the bridge. “Here somewhere.”

  “What are you looking for?” Senka asked.

  “There’s a stone that opens a hidden door when pressed,” Grimbald said to her while tapping stones.

  “Haven’t got all day, Grim,” Walter said. It came out harsher than he wanted. He stood a couple paces beside Isa, caught the scent of his clean, leathery sweat, scanning the courtyard for Death Spawn.

  The grass had been churned into mud in the courtyard, a few bits of green remained at the edges between all the muck, struggling for life. The squat trees that had once lined the paths to Dragon and Phoenix spires had been burned to black husks. A few were crushed by hunks of stone, sprigs of green pushing out around the ragged boulders. Ornamental pillars were shattered nubs. Cracked planks, broken arrows, slaughtered bodies studded the once immaculate image.

  “I know, I know. I’ll find it. Only saw it once. They don’t show many people for obvious reasons.” Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. “Where is that damned stone?”

  “Here,” Senka said.

  “Ah! You found it! I’m sure glad you’re here, Senka,” Grimbald said sheepishly.

  The rubbing of stone against stone came from behind mixed with the clicking of gears. It was some sort of mechanical device beyond Walter’s understanding, beyond any wizard’s of this time. He turned to see a hidden stone door half-open, slowly sliding open under the stairway. The bottom was on a corrugated iron track, spots for gear teeth, he guessed. The doorway was round at the top, sides straight.

  Grimbald slipped inside and Walter backpedaled from Isa, peering into the open door. Shafts of light cut down from the stairs above, fanning out to provide lighting. Grimbald reached for a shiny handle, polished smooth from the hundreds of hands that had pulled it over the ages. He dragged it down.

  Screeching came from the other side. Walter ran around the stairs to watch the gate. Nothing happened. The squealing of metal against metal resonated from somewhere deep. He strained to listen. The soft squealing became a sudden clunk. His heart was loud against his ears as he stared at the gates. “Open you white bastards,” he growled. “Open, damn it.”

  It complied with his demands, opening an inch and then promptly stopping. A clang rang out, followed by a squeal and a high pitched grinding. The grinding abruptly stopped. Silence.

  “Keep going, c’mon then,” he willed the gate. Nothing.

  “Something’s wrong.” Grimbald looked at him from the other side of the stairs. “They always worked just like that.”

  “Well, no shit. Something’s always wrong isn’t it?” Walter snapped. “Let’s see if we can urge them along.”

  Walter marched for the gate and everyone followed. Isa slung his bow over his shoulder. Senka spat into her palms and rubbed them together.

  “Any idea what it is?” Walter threw over his shoulder at Grim pounding up behind him.

  “Do I loo
k like a fucking engineer to you?” Grimbald growled with a note of panic in his voice.

  Walter grunted at the mishmash of Milvorian plates welded together with what he could only guess was more Milvorian steel, given the color. Dragon fire wouldn’t touch the metal. They had no choice but to move it open.

  The bottom of the gate emerged from a slot in the ground, parted up a few inches before grinding to a halt. The bottom was lined with spikes sharp enough to split a man in half if he were unfortunate enough to be under it when it fell. He guessed it would close much faster than it would open. There was another gate behind it, patched up just the same as the first.

  “Let’s give it a lift.” Walter put his back to it, wrapped his clammy hand around one of the spikes, about the size of a sword hilt. The others did the same. “On three, remember to drive with your legs.” Nods went down the line, settling their backs against the cold steel and getting a grip on the gate.

  Walter took in a big breath. “One… two… three! Lift!” They grunted, groaned and strained against an immovable wall. The gate silently mocked their feeble attempts. They would not fail from a mechanical failure, could not.

  “Again!” Walter growled, this time drawing deep on the Dragon. His body was strong, but not strong enough. His eye glowed with smoking light, body shaking with strength. “Lift!” Walter screamed and with every ounce of his being, he directed it into dragging that gate up. He could see it in his mind. His back twanged, tendons, veins and arteries in his neck stood taut.

  “Lift!” he screamed again. Pain tore at his palm. Warm and wet. He pulled and heaved, wetness between his hand and the bar going slick with blood, his grip fleeting. He squeezed harder, stuffed down the screaming pain, drew more of the Dragon and held it as tight as a lover. “Lift! L—” His hand slipped free, falling onto his back. There was a hollow clunk and the deep whir of gears.

  The gate was moving. He laughed in disbelief. His hand was wet with blood, flesh glowing bright, a hint of bone showing for a second across his palm before the skin and muscle knitted it up. He pushed up to his feet, brushed a smear of dirt from his arm.

  “It’s working!” Senka said between breaths. She looked into her upturned hands, quivering, palms bright with blood blisters.

  “Give me your hands, everyone. You’ll need your grips.” No one complied, just watched the gates slowly parting. Isa fingered his bow, Grimbald his axe and Senka her daggers. “Please. Let me help you, I’ve got some strength to spare.”

  Isa eyed him for a long moment. “Alright, but just my hands.” He flipped his over and put them in front of Walter, tried to hide his trembling fingers by locking them out straight.

  Walter sent a sliver of the Phoenix into Isa’s hands, lightly bleeding where his blisters had broken. Walter made them fresh as they were when he woke this morning. The others followed, Grimbald more reluctantly.

  “Get ready,” Walter said. “The Death Spawn are on the other side. Treat them like your worst enemy, fight as if it may be your last.” Because it very well may be. He drummed his fingers on his chest; whispered a prayer to the gods that Nyset was still alive.

  They stood there watching the gates lower, four anxious warriors bathed in the bloody warpaint of their enemies. It they fell today and men lived on to tell the histories, it would be a glorious day to die.

  Chapter 23

  Asebor

  “Obliterate your enemies entirely, for even an ember may bring fire back to life.” -The Diaries of Nyset Camfield

  Upon the Silver Tower’s bridge, chaos ruled. The steely clash of blades rang in Nyset’s ears. Shrieks of rage and screams of agony. She growled like a famished wolf, hungry for Death Spawn blood. She threw herself to the ground, felt the hair prickle up on the back of her neck as a line of violet fire ripped through the air. Piercing screams came from behind. She didn’t have to look back to know there’d be a trail of carnage in the fire’s wake. She knew there was no stopping Asebor’s fire, cutting great swathes through all it touched.

  She wondered where Claw was. They had been separated in the fray when Asebor first appeared. Maybe he was in Shadow Realm now. Maybe he was clinging to life among the wounded.

  She gritted her teeth, looked up at Asebor, a metallic snake of blood winding down from the corner of her lip. He laughed as he snatched a soldier in his hand, twice the size of a normal man, and tore his chest plate off with a flick of his wrist. It whirled into the cloudless sky. With his free hand, he jammed his talons into the man’s chest with the crunch of bones. The man’s neck arched back, his screams ragged. In one motion, Asebor drew out the man’s internal organs, mercilessly flinging them onto her men, streaking them with his blood.

  Part of her wanted to cry. The bigger part wanted him to burn. She rose up on a throbbing knee, the padded leather torn.

  “You march on my gates! My Tower! My lands!” Asebor boomed, his voice echoing in Nyset’s lungs like an explosion. An apprentice in blue writhed upon his gleaming chains, bloody through the front where he’d been impaled. Another chain whooshed into the air, slashed at his head and held him up while his lacerated throat sprayed and gurgled. “You will all pay!” He was tossed away like a butchered carcass, one eye closed, tongue lolling out a broken jaw.

  “You bastard!” A soldier bellowed and hurled his spear. It hit Asebor, slipped harmlessly through his shoulder made of shadows.

  “Kill him!” A veteran wizard screamed, hurling fireballs one after the other, each skillfully deflected, slapped away by his chains.

  “Release! Draw!” General Stokes roared from the back of the screaming mess, doing his best to maintain some sense of order. A volley of arrows hissed in a great arc, pelting the Death Spawn at the back of their lines. A few fell, the weakened stepped on and over by their peers, left to bleed like stuck pigs.

  Sweat burned in Nyset’s eyes, her fiery discs relentless. A few had struck true, but each time, they passed through him as if he was just air. One caught him through the side, throwing out bits of shadow, reforming as if it were congealing water. It seemed to make him slow at least. Her hits and the magical strikes of others were doing something. If they weren’t, he wouldn’t have even spared the energy to try blocking them, Nyset surmised.

  How could they possibly stop what could not be injured? Walter had hurt him before, but that was in the Shadow Realm. If they could whittle down the Death Spawn, they’d be able to focus all of their attacks on Asebor. Maybe there was a limit to his healing, to how many attacks he could handle at once.

  “Load!” Nyset screamed at the back of the lines. The command echoed down the column and carried by different voices. Apprentices of the Phoenix shuffled to the front, ducked behind heavily armored Falcon soldiers holding tower shields.

  The shields were almost as big as a man and almost as heavy. Most of the soldiers were glad to be holding the shield wall as long as they didn’t have to run with those enormous hunks of iron. As long as the man next to you did his job, held his shield, stabbed his spear at Death Spawn who made it through the hail of wizard fire, you’d have a reasonable chance of making it out of this alive. That was until Asebor arrived, punching holes through their ranks as if they were leaves to be swept away.

  The apprentices wore blue robes, a blue so bright against the gray backdrop of Death Spawn that it seemed to be glowing. In their hands, they held wine bottles, half-filled with sloshing liquid and corked with bits of shredded cloth. Nyset watched a young boy with flat cheeks and eyes tip his bottle at a woman in red, sparking the rags alight on top of his bottle.

  “Throw!” Nyset commanded, flaming short sword raised up. It gleamed in the creamy light of the fading sun. Amber bottles spun through air, rags ominously burning. At least twenty glass bottles fell, popping and shattering around Death Spawn feet. Flames roared over the ground in waves, spreading, fanning out and shooting up in gouts.

  “Burn!” Nyset screamed, voice hoarse, eyes wild. A few bottles struck near Asebor, but the fire did not touc
h him. He walked through a burning wall of it, violet eyes swiveling to face Nyset.

  Her eyes went wide, nostrils flaring, guts squirming at his terrible gaze. She inhaled sharply and forced her eyes upon him, to not look away. She dragged on every shred of the Dragon’s strength she could hold.

  A Cerumal with an upturned nose, squat legs, and a chin speckled with hundreds of warts snarled at her. It ran in a series of leaps, dashed in front of Asebor, dagger in one hand, black sword in the other. Something stopped it mid-stride and dark blood sputtered from its scowling lips, blades clanging against the bridge.

  “She is mine!” Asebor roared. He backhanded a Black Wynch, struck its helm, sent it spinning around onto its side. The Cerumal fell to its knees, burning amber eyes going black. It thudded onto its chest, armor split in half at the back, spine standing out in ragged sections and pinked with blood. The Death Spawn cowered away from him, gibbering with fear.

  Nyset swallowed, hands sparking to life, her eyes searing brilliance.

  “Mistress!” Claw came from somewhere, caught himself before stumbling into her, Ghostwalker brandished in bloody hands. It was hard to tell if it was his blood or someone, or something, else’s. His armor was dented and scarred with deep slashes over his abdomen.

  Asebor stopped, back arching up, and twisted his dark shadow of a head to look back at the Silver Tower. The only indicator of where he looked was a vague outline of a head, the glowing eyes most telling. His careless chains whipped through an apprentice a few feet from Nyset, the head gone in an instant.

  Joy’s head rolled and stopped against her ankle, the apprentice she had helped just weeks ago. Nyset’s eyes went wide as saucers. “No,” she whispered and saw Joy’s eyes were fixed in a look of surprise. She supposed that’s how it’d feel. Her eyes filled with tears, chest swimming with rage. She growled like a feral animal.