City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1)

by Steven Montano

  The woman stood there afterwards, blank and listless. She didn’t move until a group of black-garbed men came and dragged her away in heavy chains.

  The last of the first round of fights was next; after that, all of the winners would be paired for the semi-finals.

  Damn it, Dane thought. This night is never going to end. He watched the iron gate, almost afraid to see what would come out next.

  “Watch carefully now!” one of Targo’s men yelled from behind him. Tollok, Targo’s chief henchman, stood only inches away, yet Dane could barely hear him over the roaring crowd. “Time to earn your keep, Dane!”

  “What are you talking about?!” he shouted back.

  Tollok pointed at the arena gate to Dane’s right. “That’s Artur Maddox’s fighter! We like Maddox! No problem there!” Then he pointed at the left-hand gate. “That’s Trask’s fighter! Trask is a lying, two-faced piece of shit! He’s new in Ebonmark, and the only reason Targo let him enter a fighter tonight was because we accidentally accepted a favor from him a while back!”

  Dane wasn’t about to ask about the favor.

  “So?!” he shouted. The air was so thick with noise Dane thought he’d drown in it. It felt like a riot was about to break out. “Who’s Trask’s fighter?!”

  Tollok grimaced. “It was a Jlantri weapons master, but Trask switched just a little while ago! Targo wants you to make sure Trask’s man isn’t using any magic, all right?!” And as suddenly as he had appeared Tollok vanished back into the crowd.

  Wonderful, Dane cursed. People stomped and jumped on the ground and called for the fight to begin. Dane’s heart pounded. He wanted to run the hell away from that place. What was happening there was wrong.

  You should know.

  The wound in his stomach is fresh. He stumbles through the mist and comes upon the boy’s body. The blood which stains the ground can never be washed away.

  He steadied himself. Nausea welled in his throat.

  That place, that pain, was all too familiar. He had to get away. There had to be another way to find the Dream Witch.

  No. You can do this.

  The right-hand gate rose. Dane and a hundred bloodthirsty gamblers waited for Maddox’s fighter to appear, and when he did a collective cheer rose from all but Dane, who at that moment realized those people truly were insane.

  It was a giant – a twelve-foot tall black-fleshed brute with knotted rune-carved muscles and fearsome white eyes. His bald head was lined with scars and the muscles in his neck bulged as he twisted his fearsome visage from side to side to take in the crowd.

  The giant’s arms were as big around as a human’s torso, and his hands were so massive Dane guessed he could easily take a stallion’s head in his grip. Simple black armor covered the giant’s lean body, but the creature’s midnight flesh was darker. His tiny white eyes peered around the room angrily, and when the creature opened his mouth his thick blunt teeth shone in the dim light. The giant held a gigantic war axe in his grip, and a thick silver collar had been fitted tightly around his muscular throat.

  It was a Voss, creatures who dwelled in enormous underground cities and plotted the downfall and enslavement of all other races, surface and subterranean alike. Despite their size and ferocious appearance the Voss were known more for their cruelty and cunning rather than their strength. During the Rift War they’d acted as the Blood Queen’s engineers, and they’d labored tirelessly to construct Veilcrafted war machines which had devastated Jlantria and Den’nar. As impressive as it was that a Voss had been captured and enslaved, Dane wanted to find this Maddox and strangle him – bringing a giant into a human city was like walking a lion through a field of lambs.

  Everyone seemed excited by the aberration standing before them, as befit the madness of the crowd. Some people stared wide-eyed or backed away, but no more than a few moments passed before any signs of fearing the Voss vanished and the crowd started cheering once more.

  Dane shook his head. Those people likely only knew of the Voss from stories. Even Dane had never actually seen one before that moment, but he knew what they were, and what they were capable of. Like all Dawn Knights he possessed intimate knowledge of the major races and forces that had fought with Vlagoth during the Rift War. He knew the Voss’s physiology, their inventions, even smatterings of their twisted language. He knew they’d delivered war machines to Chul Gaerog and had been in Gallador, where they’d negotiated the Blood Queen’s alliance with the dark empire and had ultimately triggered its doom from within.

  Dane wanted to walk away more than ever.

  The door housing the Voss’s opponent opened. Dane watched in awe. His head swam.

  This is hell. I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

  Maybe he was. Maybe being there now was his punishment for all the things he’d done.

  Trask’s fighter appeared, and the crowd roared. Dane’s heart jumped into his throat. The Voss didn’t stand a chance.

  Twenty-Two

  As head of the Phage’s operations in Ebonmark, Harrick had a lot on his mind, including how to deal with his ever growing list of enemies. He also had to worry about how to keep his superiors happy, which was becoming more and more difficult now that all they wanted was for him to capture the Dream Witch. Failure would mean his death, and that was only if they punished him while they were in a generous mood.

  It was a task he resented. The Black Guild had lost ground in their war with the Phage on every front but there in Ebonmark. Not only had Harrick’s business suffered as a result, but in the eyes of the Phage’s leaders he was also partially to blame. Then there were all of the independent criminals he had to contend with, men who took small but increasingly noticeable bites out of the Phage’s profits…men like Bordrec Kleiderhorn, whom Harrick would have loved to have gotten his hands on. The Phage knew Kleiderhorn was protecting the Dream Witch, but even with his vast resources Harrick hadn’t been unable to locate the Drage.

  Harrick paced up and down the frozen sewer cavern. Tonight was all about timing. If his plan worked he’d soon have Blackhall begging for his help, and if all went well then by the end of the night he’d have the thar’koon, Jorias Targo would be out of business or dead, and the Guild’s search for the Dream Witch would be over. With so much to gain he’d have been a fool not to take the risk.

  Tydith and Narr were restless, and Harrick couldn’t blame them. He reached for his Galladorian pocket watch and saw that midnight had come and gone. Jlantrians used clocks, so there was no excuse for Blackhall to be late. The Colonel had best hurry – Harrick wanted to be seen far away from the Knuckle-Night catastrophe when it occurred.

  It hadn’t been easy setting the trap. Establishing Trask’s existence had been relatively simple, but Harrick already had several false identities in Ebonmark, and he’d grown quite adept at creating and maintaining them. Getting information about the fight had been a bit more difficult, as Targo was none too trusting of gladiator owners he didn’t know. The hardest part, of course, had been procuring the gladiator and arranging for it to be transported to the battle with no one being the wiser. Tollok, Harrick’s man in Targo’s group, had proved useful, for he was the one who’d informed Harrick of Targo’s plan to have Azander Dane attend the fight. It was the perfect bait to lure the Jlantrians into the trap.

  Harrick pulled a golden coin from his belt pouch and slowly twirled it in and out of his fingers, back and forth. It calmed his nerves and distracted his hands.

  Just calm down. It will all be over soon.

  While Blackhall’s aid would be invaluable in removing the Guild from Ebonmark, Harrick didn’t want the Colonel to be the one in control of their partnership, or thinking he could treat the Phage like they were common criminals. By the end of the night Blackhall would realize he needed Harrick much more than Harrick needed him.

  The sound of metal echoed through the frozen chamber. Harrick and the others watched the ladder, ready for Blackhall or one of his subordinates. Harrick had been so
wrapped up with notions of destroying the Guild he’d nearly forgotten the task which would please his Phage superiors the most, especially Mez’zah Chorg. With the thar’koon in hand, the Dream Witch was as good as captured.

  Three men dressed all in black slowly descended the frost-encrusted ladder. Their midnight cloaks swayed in the breeze which blew down from the warehouse above, and each of them wore a curved sword on his hip. While Blackhall, Slayne or Gess weren’t among the party, one of them did carry a long package bound in cloth and cord.

  “Greetings,” the tallest of the three Jlantrians smiled as they walked to the opposite shore of the underground stream. He had long red hair and an unkempt appearance. “I’m Raeric. Colonel Blackhall sends his regards.”

  Harrick wondered if Blackhall had foolishly gone to apprehend Dane personally. “Do you have it?” he asked Raeric. Tydith and Narr spread out to either side of Harrick. Their hands hovered near their weapons.

  “No, we don’t,” Raeric replied. He had a smug look in his pale blue eyes and a wry smile on his lips. Harrick knew at once these unshaven ruffians were no soldiers. “The Colonel has offered you something in its place.”

  “I will accept nothing else,” Harrick said coldly. He didn’t bother hiding his anger. “You’ll deliver the blades as promised, or your Empress has no prize.”

  Raeric set the bundle on the ground and undid its binding while the other two men looked on. He pulled a pair of long scrolls from the unwrapped cloth and carefully held them over the water for Harrick. Harrick eyed him suspiciously before he stepped up and accepted them, his toes at the edge of the laggard flow. Dark things swam just beneath the azure water’s surface. Harrick’s breath frosted as he stepped back and held the scrolls in his gloved hands.

  “What’s going on?” he asked angrily. “What are these?”

  “The Colonel’s instructions,” Raeric said. “And a summary of the information he needs about the Black Guild.”

  “What about the blades?” Harrick said angrily. “I thought Blackhall was in a hurry to get his hands on the Empress’s new toy?”

  “He is,” Raeric said. “But not tonight. Instructions as to how to make contact with us are enclosed in the scrolls. If you wish to know more, you’ll have to speak with the Colonel, or with Slayne.”

  “I want the blades,” Harrick said through clenched teeth. “And I want them now!” Tydith and Narr drew their weapons. The sound of steel rang in the icy room, but the three messengers didn’t move. They didn’t even flinch. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “The Colonel doesn’t trust you yet,” Raeric said. “But if you give him the information he needs…he might.” He smiled broadly. “We Jlantrians are big on trust.”

  Without another word the three black-clad messengers turned to leave. Tydith and Narr both looked to Harrick for permission to attack, but he motioned for them to lower their weapons.

  Something strange was going on. Harrick had trouble believing Blackhall was playing games with him – he knew the Colonel was as anxious to get his hands on the Stone shard amulet as Harrick was to acquire the thar’koon. Now Blackhall was stalling, and Harrick had no idea why.

  It doesn’t matter, he decided. After you have new reason to hate the Black Guild, you’ll be more pliant to my demands.

  “You placed the bodies, yes?” he asked Narr once the three men were gone.

  “Yes,” the Drage answered. “Close enough to Targo’s fight to be found, but not too soon, and far enough away they’ll still be recognized after the accident. Just as you instructed.”

  “Good.”

  Whatever game you’re playing, Blackhall, you’ll find you’re not nearly as good at playing games as I am.

  Twenty-Three

  Dane watched the blasphemy of steel and flesh. The thing was nearly sixteen feet tall and wrought of heated black iron, like a suit of bulky armor that sweltered and steamed like a cauldron. It might once have been alive, but now only glimpses of blood and pus-covered skin were visible beneath the clunky outer shell. Spikes, serrated discs and blood-soaked rivets covered every inch of the metal body, and viscous red fluid leaked from gaps in the iron plate. Each step it took filled the air with the squeal of metal. One of the automaton’s arms was capped with a massive saber-like blade, while the other had an abnormally large first big enough to close around the Voss’s head. Crimson flames burned inside the eye-slits of the great helm, and most of the colossal horror’s body was drenched with blood. The slow and cumbrous manner in which it moved suggested something aside from a living presence. If a creature did exist inside that frightening assembly of blood and metal Dane could only surmise it was in incredible pain.

  The crowd quieted as the metal beast took a few lumbering steps forward, but once it raised its mighty blade and struck the wall with a deafening clang everyone roared with approval. Sparks rained down on the blood-covered dirt.

  The thing moved towards the Voss, dragging its blade across the ground. The clamor made it hard for Dane to Touch. He focused. The noise faded around him, and his vision spiraled and narrowed like a tunnel through the darkness.

  The metal beast swam in unstable Veilcraft. It wouldn’t be long before the power inside of it ruptured the golem shell, and Dane didn’t want to be around when that happened.

  The Voss stood dumbfounded. It didn’t even move as the mechanical horror drew close. The giant’s pale eyes were wide and its mouth moved slowly but silently, as if speaking to itself. It seemed to recognize the iron horror.

  Dane looked around for Targo’s men, but they were nowhere to be found. They could stop the fight based on how much Veilcraft Dane sensed in the walking armor, but he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to let it kill the giant first. Everyone knew what the barbarous race had down to people during the Rift War, about what they still did to their slaves in Meledrakkar.

  He thought about the mountains. About the boy in the mist.

  What makes me any different from him?

  The frenzied crowd grew more rabid by the second. They booed when the Voss eluded the steel warrior instead of closing for combat, not an easy feat given the confines of the arena, but the giant was deft and nimble compared to the colossus it faced.

  The Voss sidestepped the iron creature’s thundering blade and used his axe to block the dreadnaught’s grasping hand, but even when he had an opening to deliver a counterstrike he just backed away. The steel behemoth laboriously pursued its prey, leaving a trail of oil and blood behind it. The crowd was furious, and quite a few shouted what they’d like to do to the Voss if they were down there with it.

  Dane grinned in spite of himself. It was a sickly comic scene. It seemed the Voss was a coward…which went against everything Dane knew about the race.

  Something isn’t right here.

  The golem’s fist smashed the Voss against the wall, and the giant came away from the cracked stone bloody. He blocked a blow from the construct’s blade, and another. Sparks rained to the ground with each ear-shattering clang of metal.

  The giant ran to the opposite side of the arena, much to the crowd’s disapproval. For a brief moment he looked in Dane’s direction, and despite his alien visage it was easy for Dane to recognize the look of desperate fear on the ebon-skinned face.

  Dane felt a pang of pity for the brute, and hated himself for it.

  What the hell is wrong with you? he asked himself. It’s a Voss, for Goddess’s sake!

  The crowd painfully pushed him against the railing. Dane held his glowing vra’taar over his head and shouted out, which cleared enough space so he could catch his breath, step up on the rail and gain a batter vantage. He floated at the edge of a sea of sweat and flesh. Dane was nearly knocked into the pit when someone ran into his leg, but he righted himself and looked around again for Targo’s men so they could put a stop to the fight.

  Down in the pit, the Voss looked out at the crowd as it fled from its opponent. It yelled at them with a deep and bellowing voice. Dane recog
nized the harsh Vossian tongue, but he had no idea what the giant was saying.

  The metal beast struck the back of the Voss’s shoulder with its blade, but the giant pulled free and ran again. Black blood gushed from his wounds.

  Tollok was holding back a crowd of new arrivals at the doors. Dane glimpsed white and blue armor under black cloaks. A moment later Tollok was run through. Some thirty White Dragon soldiers plowed into the room and sliced through Targo’s men. Most of the crowd didn’t even notice.

  Shit.

  Dane couldn’t be taken by the Jlantrians – it would mean his death – and there was no way to stop the fight, not that it would’ve made any difference at that point. If the Voss didn’t die there today it would meet its end in another fight soon…and what the hell did he care about a black giant, an outlaw criminal monster who under different circumstances Dane might have killed himself?

  He started to climb down from the railing. The Jlantrian soldiers came to the edge of the crowd and pushed the witless spectators out of the way.

  The iron warrior’s blade punched through the Voss’s arm. The giant fell to his knees, head bowed, as if waiting for the executioner’s blow. The blade rose up.

  Dane froze in place. He saw the circle of women kneeling before the sword, waiting to die. The man with the black face killed them all, one at a time, laughing all the while. Dane felt their blood on his hands and face as he stood alone in the dark and screamed.