Twenty-Four
Kruje knew he was about to die. Every muscle ached with fatigue, and he shook with fear. His wounds burned like wildfire.
I never had a chance.
He’d avoided the Bloodnaught as long as he could, cursed with the knowledge of what would happen if he did any damage to it, but it didn’t really matter because his fate had been sealed the moment he’d stepped foot in the arena. He’d called for help without expecting any, had even tried to warn the humans to get away, a last and desperate attempt to please the J’ann through his selflessness.
He was too weak to move. He watched his blood pool in the dirt. All he had the strength to do now was watch his own shadow on the floor. His neck tensed, ready for the sharp blow to end his once-promising life. Would he see through newly dead eyes as his head flew away when he was decapitated? He hoped not.
Close your eyes, he told himself, but he couldn’t, and in any case the blow never came. A shadow passed overhead, and he heard a clang of metal directly in front of him. Kruje looked up and he saw something he never thought he’d see.
A human had saved him.
The man was young and fit and as nimble as a Bloodcat. He wore a tattered cloak, which he quickly discarded as he rose from the ground to prevent himself from getting tangled. The man’s armor was black and gold, the sturdy Jlantrian style of leather and chain with metal plates at the knees and shoulders. He had a curved hand-and-a-half sword with a second shorter blade protruding from the bottom of the hilt like some deadly thorn. The dark helmet left only his eyes, chin and mouth exposed.
Kruje’s savior was so tiny compared to the Bloodnaught – its very shadow eclipsed the little knight, but he held his ground, poised as if ready to leap. The Bloodnaught seemed to have forgotten Kruje entirely, and focused on the human.
What in the name of the J’ann is going on? The knight must have deflected the killing blow, but why?
Kruje struggled to his feet. The wide-eyed crowd was dispersing and seemed to be in a panic. Something was happening up above, beyond his line of sight. He wondered if maybe someone in that throng of blood-eager gamblers actually spoke Vossian and had decided to heed his warning. Kruje found his axe and picked it up, though its weight suddenly seemed too much for him to bear.
The Bloodnaught took a long step forward and brought down its blade. The knight dodged out of the way and the metal sparked against the ground, but the Bloodnaught’s powerful fist caught the man with a backhanded strike and sent him crashing against the arena wall. The human fell in a crumpled heap, blood pouring from his nose. Even then, his eyes never left the Bloodnaught.
Kruje heard the automaton’s combustion generator as it started to overheat. Its explosion was imminent, and if he and his foolhardy savior didn’t find a way out of there soon they were both as good as dead. It had taken five hundred Bloodnaughts to destroy the Empire of Gallador, but just one would be more than enough to kill everyone in the building.
The Bloodnaught slowly approached the knight. Each step made the ground rumble as it stamped through pools of viscera and gore. Though the Bloodnaught seemed to have forgotten Kruje the thought of leaving the human behind had never crossed the Voss’s mind. He gritted his teeth and charged with a war howl that would have made his father and brother proud.
Kruje brought his axe down and shattered the Bloodnaught’s blade. He hoped the indirect strike wouldn’t set off the Bloodnaught’s combustion generator. The automaton stumbled back, thrown off balance long enough for Kruje to reach the knight, who watched him with his weapon held ready.
“We have to get out!” Kruje shouted, not sure if the knight understood him. The man’s eyes were locked on the Bloodnaught as it righted itself. Kruje lowered his axe and raised an open hand to try and make the knight understand. “Please,” he said, “we can’t fight it! We have to run! Run…”
The crowd pushed away from the iron railing. Kruje saw motion from the corner of his eye as one of the doors to the arena opened and Maddox and his men emerged. The slaver’s face was twisted with rage, and he held the fearful stone in his hand.
Kruje felt the collar around his neck tighten. His legs went weak with fear.
Twenty-Five
Dane’s head pounded. Sharp pain pulsed down his back. He felt like a broken doll.
The metal giant stomped towards them. The air was heavy and loud and it seemed the entire place would come crashing down. Sweat and blood ran in his eyes. Dane threw his helmet aside so he could see.
The Voss stood between he and the golem, and it kept shouting at him.
What in the One Goddess’s name is he doing? He listened to the black giant’s words. Run? Is that what “vrast” means? To run?
The Voss stood stupefied. Exhausted and swimming in pain, Dane held his vra’taar aloft and focused every last fiber of his strength into the blade. He could barely keep his eyes open with the hurt slicing through his head. A dread chill overtook his bones as raw Veil power scraped against his soul.
Dane sensed the Voss moving towards him. Someone nearby cried out in rage. Dane focused, felt his blood stiffen as fire surged in his veins. A lance of white flame shot from his weapon and slammed into the iron juggernaut. Molten blood spurted out in streams, and a tidal wave of bleeding mercury ran down the metal husk.
His vision went red, as if Dane cried blood. He was thrown from his feet and flew through the air until he struck something hard. Pain eclipsed his body. All he heard was the sound of metal. Dane struggled to right himself, but something pressed down on him.
The world blazed bright. Dane cried out into heat and darkness as it washed over him.
Twenty-Six
The sun rose. Tendrils of pale mist from the River Grey slithered across the city. The light gradually cut through the morning gloom, but even in the new day Ebonmark looked old and sick. Shadows seemed to scurry away like vaporous rats, and the oddly-shaped buildings leaned like headstones in old soil. Blankets of darkness covered the cold desert to the north, and to the east the Moon Sea was just a glitter of green and blue beyond cracked hills, scattered farms and desolate outposts.
Aaric Blackhall stood alone atop his small tower. Cold wind cut across the plains and battered the Jlantrian camp, which was half-illuminated by early morning light and dying cook fires.
His father had shown him his first sunrise when he was only six years old, and he’d not missed a single one in the three-and-a-half decades since. Blackhall wasn’t what he’d call a sentimentalist, and he never understood what it was about the dawn which inspired so many poems and songs; truth be told, he didn’t even understand what it was he enjoyed so much about them, except for the simple fact they reminded him of home. Seeing the new day always made him think of his boyhood. His father had been alive, and his worries had been petty and few. It was a time he missed.
Blackhall rubbed his hands together to fight off the new day’s chill as he stared out over the city. Ebonmark was a deplorable place. While he admired the common folk who lived here – those who’d survived the old wars and raids and crime and the constant change in rulers and laws – he hated the city itself. It was diseased, a useless stump that had somehow become the object of everyone’s attention. The crime guilds wanted Ebonmark for its advantageous trade location, while the Empires wanted it because it stood at the borders of their old territories. In a way, the criminal’s reasons made more sense.
But the Empress wanted more than just Ebonmark: she wanted her precious Stone amulet, and she was willing to seize a city or a nation to get it.
What the Empress wants, the Empress gets, no matter the cost. Goddess, Empress, Empire.
His eyes were heavy with fatigue. Blackhall hadn’t slept much since the catastrophe at the arena. He’d felt honored when General Karthas had given him the task of securing control of Ebonmark…honored, but surprised. He and Karthas were soldiers of an entirely different stock, and the older, more brutal and much more Goddess-fearing Karthas had never approved of
Blackhall’s methods, which he considered soft. Karthas would destroy a city in order to save it, and chalk it all up to the One Goddess’s mysterious will.
I should have known better. This isn’t a reward, it’s a punishment, and I’ve been handed a near impossible task. Now I’m stuck with it.
He heard the calls of distant hawks. Ebonmark was coming to life, and the sound of foot traffic, horses and rumbling wagons echoed through the streets. Sunlight punched through the clouds like ember daggers.
Blackhall yawned. He didn’t want to face another day in that place, and he wasn’t sure he could do it without killing someone.
Step to, old man. There’s work to be done.
He slowly walked down the stairs and into the tower. The cold citadel, brought and used at Gess’s insistence, was almost pitch-black inside. Blackhall’s bare feet left steam imprints on the cold stone steps as he descended to the meeting chamber, the very place where the mysterious woman had intruded three nights before. Gess had used the Veil to replace the hole in the wall, but the man’s arcane connection to the tower hadn’t been sharp enough to notify him of the woman’s invasion in time.
A cup of warm wine still sat on the table from the night before, next to the letter Blackhall had started writing to Cassandra. A pair of candles cast dim light across the room, and his tall and twisted shadow seemed to follow him as he walked. Blackhall rubbed his raw eyes and took a sip of wine, which churned in his empty stomach and reminded him how hungry he was.
Goddess, what a mess this is.
Over a hundred people had died in the explosion, twenty of his own men among them. He’d put off meeting with the elder merchants of the city, the only sort of council or power base Ebonmark had left, as he knew they’d only scream at Jlantria’s lack of efficiency and demand more protection. Instead of wasting time with the merchants Blackhall had spent the last three days coordinating the recovery efforts. Only a large crater remained of the arena, which was still filled with hundreds of pounds of debris and dozens of decimated corpses the workers hadn’t been able to pull out yet. Blackhall couldn’t afford to spare any more White Dragon regulars to aid with the recovery and Gess’s magic wasn’t suited to the task, which meant the clean-up would take another few days. Clouds of ash still hovered over the blast site like a miasma, and people swore they heard ghostly whispers in the area.
It reminded him of the war. He’d been a young soldier when the Blood Queen was killed, serving in the hellhole that had once been Savon Karesh. Proud structures had fallen into smoldering piles of rubble, and the streets had been devastated by siege weapons and Vossian technology, leaving the marbled city in ruins. Sometimes Blackhall still heard the dull explosions of arcane weaponry and the savage cries of Tuscars as they assailed the walls. He remembered the screams, the cramped quarters, the waking after scant hours of rest and wondering if he’d ever sleep again.
Seeing the blast sight made him think of those times. It was little wonder he wasn’t sleeping well.
Blackhall was no closer to discovering who was behind the explosion now than he was three days ago. Every shred of evidence pointed to the Black Guild. They had a long running feud with Jorias Targo, the man whose arena had been destroyed, and the Guild also had access to the sort of Vossian technology Blackhall’s men had found in the rubble. According to Gess the fragments they found were chief components in several different Vossian war machines that could have caused that level of devastation.
Blackhall might have thought the Voss themselves were responsible, but the bodies of two Black Guild agents – the same two wanted in connection with the magical disease which had taken the lives of several Jlantrian soldiers – had also been found in the vicinity of the explosion, apparently killed by the blast they themselves had set off.
The clues couldn’t be any clearer…and that was what worried him. Something about the situation simply refused to make any sense.
A knock sounded on the trapdoor below.
“Colonel?” the voice said from the other side.
It was Toran Gess, Veilwarden of the House of Blue, a cabal of mages in service to the Empress. House Blue was not to be confused with its rivals House Red or House White, both of which Blackhall thought sounded like wines. All of the Houses were advisors of sorts to Empress Azaean, and between the three groups they controlled most of the information and arcane knowledge in the western continent. Only their loyalty to the Empress kept them in line, and the Houses vied for her favor by constantly attempting to outdo one another with feats of arcane wonder, acting as the better spies or servants, and generally making a grand display of their power like a bunch of preening peacocks.
Blackhall looked himself over. He was entirely disheveled, still in his robe, hadn’t shaved, and his breath reeked of alcohol. He decided he didn’t care. “Good morning, Toran.”
Gess appeared from below, his eyes bright and alert. He’d dressed in his usual drab shirt and breeches, and the Veilwarden was so gaunt he put skeletons to shame. He gave Blackhall a look.
“Ready for the day, I see,” he smiled.
“I’m not in the mood, Toran. What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
Blackhall sat down heavily and pushed his hands though his thick hair. Goddess, I’m so tired. “Have a seat.” When it became clear Gess was going to stand, Blackhall sighed. “Go on.”
“I spoke with Argus Saam’siir this morning,” Gess said in his sprightly voice. “He had some distressing news.”
Argus was the head Veilwarden of House Blue back in Ral Tanneth, and he was a ruthlessly honest and dependable man. Blackhall liked him, and would have preferred his company to Gess’s any day of the week.
“Official or unofficial bad news?” Blackhall asked.
“Official, or at least it will be. And I said ‘distressing’ news. Not bad.”
“Goddess, please just get to the point…”
Gess nodded. “Argus wanted us to know what was happening before any official declarations were made.”
Blackhall stiffened. He’d been waiting for this, but he hadn’t expected it so soon. “Go on,” he nodded.
“It goes without saying General Karthas is quite displeased with what’s happened. Argus said the General used foul words he’d never even heard before to describe our performance here in Ebonmark…which at least means Karthas has taken steps to improve his vocabulary, I suppose…”
“Focus, Toran.”
“I’m getting there,” Gess said. “Anyways, Karthas has his own plan to rid Ebonmark of its criminal population, and it involves using the men from Wolf Brigade. He’s going to present his plan to the Empress soon.”
“Shit,” Blackhall sighed. “I can guess what his plan is.”
Wolf Brigade was an Imperial unit only by the loosest definition of the term – most of its soldiers were former mercenaries and hardened killers who’d been recruited into Jlantrian service, and their more brutal tendencies had been nurtured and encouraged. They were never sent into places where civilian casualties were a consideration.
“Oh, it gets better,” Gess said. His sounded genuinely worried, and at that point he sat down. “Argus thinks the Empress might just go along with Karthas’s proposal so long as it puts the amulet in her hands.” Gess must have read Blackhall’s anger. “This is no surprise, Aaric. You know how impatient she can get.”
“Damn it!” Blackhall stood up and paced the room. “You know what this means, don’t you? Karthas will come rolling in here with Wolf Brigade and turn this city into even more of a battlefield than it already is. He’ll burn it out killing those criminals and not care about what happens to the people who live here!”
“Aaric,” Gess said sternly as he stood up. “Calm down. Karthas can’t do that – he doesn’t have the time. He has to be in Tarek Non within the week to reestablish control of The Fang. Empress Azaeaen assigned him the task personally.” The Fang was one of the most important fortresses keeping the Tuscars contained
in the Skull of the World and out of Jlantria, but it had fallen into disarray when the venerable General Winter had died.
Blackhall tried to contain his anger. It wouldn’t do for Gess to see him lose his temper, especially since the Veilwarden was required to report everything happening in Ebonmark back to his superiors in Ral Tanneth. He may have been under Blackhall’s authority, but he answered to House Blue.
“Karthas might not be able to come here and do it himself,” Blackhall said, “but he can still send the Wolf Brigade and start a small war.” He thought that would actually be worse. Karthas was by no means a loving man, but with him around the Brigade might at least behave like White Dragon soldiers; without him they’d just act like the undisciplined murderers and rogues they really were.
Damn it. Karthas resolves every situation like it’s a full-scale war, and for some reason the Empress lets him.
“What are your thoughts?” Gess asked.
“I won’t do it,” Blackhall said quietly. “I won’t do things his way, Toran.”
“You will,” Gess said quietly, “if your Empress wills it.”
Blackhall hesitated. He didn’t entirely trust Gess, and had to be careful what he said. He nodded. “Then we need to make sure she has no need to let Karthas do this. We can handle things in Ebonmark, and quickly.”
Blackhall turned up the lamp on the desk and walked over to his chest to fetch some clothing.
“If I may ask,” Gess said, “how are we going to ‘handle this’…?”
“Find Slayne,” Blackhall said. “Tell him I need to see him right away. It’s time we changed the rules of this battle, Gess, and I think I know how. But we have to move fast.”
Twenty-Seven
Vellexa shivered in spite of the heat. The anticipation of meeting with the Iron Count chilled her blood.
She walked through the black halls of the Cauldron. Her shadow grew long in the flickering torchlight and her tall boots clacked loud on the floor as she passed the alchemy labs, where the Black Guild’s most devious minds toiled day-and-night concocting drugs, potions, powders, elixirs, salves, poisons and diseases to sell on the black market. The alchemist’s creations were a recent addition to the Guild’s illustrious enterprises and had proved to be quite lucrative, even if several key members of the organization – Vellexa among them – didn’t approve. Veilcraft was risky, and the Guild’s alchemy was among the deadliest she’d ever seen.
City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) Page 13
