The Black Tower (12 page)

Chairos.

He forced himself to rise, but every motion was agony.  The ringing hurt drowned out all sound.  He drifted on a sea of broken glass. 

Kruje focused on moving his feet, one and then the other, and he pushed his way out of the smoke and into the lane. 

A blast of blue fire took a nearby building and burned it from the inside out in a roiling eruption of arctic flames.  Another followed, and another.  Chairos was trying to burn the attackers out by systematically destroying every phantom assailant.  Eventually he’d find the real ones.

Kruje fell against a wall.  He drew in a breath and focused on it, held it, released.  The beating of his heart was the only sound in the world.  Sweat glistened down his skin, and his grip on the rock in his hands slipped, so he held it tighter.

There was light in the darkness.  He saw blue flames in the evening light, ribbons of energy which twisted back to their origin.  Mazrek Chairos, dark-cloaked and angry, stood in a ruined building, blasting one structure after the next with roiling waves of burning light. 

Kruje charged at him.  There were several hundred feet of open ground between he and the Veilwarden, most of it burned black and riddled with corpses and shallow pits, but he let his rage carry him forward.  Kar-Kalled overtook him.  His blood turned to fire, and his vision bled crimson. 

Cobalt flames roiled across the ground behind him as he moved.  A burning cloud swept over him.  He kept running.

A whirling blade came at him.  Kruje dove down and growled in pain as an axe-blade sliced into the meat of his arm.  The spear snapped as it fell useless to the ground.  Chairos ducked out of sight moments before a blast of white fire scorched the doorway where he’d stood; Thaenn or Methander had barely missed him. 

A shadow moved at the edge of Kruje’s vision.  It was the Blood Dame, Kilarra. 

She charged at him,
ka’naar
in hand.  Her cold mask reflected back the image of his dark flesh.  Kruje struggled to his feet.  Black blood sluiced down his limbs.  He raced towards her through curtains of dark smoke. 

Kilarra came to the edge of the wide pit around the
cutgate. 
A dagger flew at him, but Kruje slapped the weapon away with his bare hand and shattered it to pieces.  He moved around to intercept her.  Crusts of stone dust fell from between his fingers as he clenched the stone in his hand. 

She knelt down and waited for him, her double-axe held ready.  Kruje brought the rock down but Kilarra easily avoided the stone as it sank into the earth where she’d knelt seconds before.  She rolled in a blur, stood next to him, and jumped straight up.  Both boots connected with Kruje’s face.  His nose cracked. 

He felt his legs weaken, and realized dully that she’d hacked through the tendons.  His limbs buckled as blood sprayed from freshly cut arteries.  He lashed out and tried to grab her, but all he found was empty air.

She hacked into his chest.  His blood covered her like an inky tide.  Guts leaked out through his opened stomach.  Kilarra and her dual blades moved with breathtaking speed, an artist on the canvas of his flesh. 

He staggered back near the edge of the pit.  He tried to call out, but he could only gurgle blood. 

Pain sliced across his body, a torrent of hurt.  Fear flooded his veins.  He couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t feel his arms.  He lunged for her again, tried to take her head in his hands, but she moved to the side and brought an axe-blade into his leg, chopping through muscle.  Blood drooled from his mouth.  Everything was raw. 

He tried to call on Kar-Thelud, the Trance of Peaceful Memories.  If he was going to die he wanted his last moments to be calm, recollections of what he’d once had.  He saw nothing, heard nothing.  Only silence.

A horde of grey-skinned beasts flooded into the square.  He heard roars and blades as men met Tuscars in battle.  There were war cries and fire, magic and blood.

Kilarra watched Kruje for a moment, and then with a clean swipe of her blade she finished him off.

“He was here,” Cronak growled.  “Less than a day ago…they were both here...”  Cronak reared his head, sniffing the air in anger.  “Slayne and his allies vanished.  I don’t understand...”

Vellexa and her followers had descended on Corinth’s ruins with a fury.  The Phage’s battle with the other forces who vied for control of the
cutgate
– Raithian mercenaries, Jlantrians, Razorcats, even the Red Hand – had left them weakened to the point where her Tuscars and Black Hand enforcers had routed them with ease.

It seems the hunt for the Dream Witch has grown interesting.

Vellexa still sensed others in the ruins, scattered presences hidden among the broken buildings and cracked and shadow-stained streets.  Even with the Phage temporarily driven away the battle was far from over, and she knew they’d have to face more of the Count’s enemies before the day was done.  Dealing with the Red Hand, in particular, would prove challenging.  It had been a long time since Vellexa had been in the presence of other Bloodspeakers, and it was as intimidating as it was thrilling.  It was difficult to gauge how many were in the city or where, as they but the fact that they weren’t using their powers told her they realized they were being watched.  That was wise – thirty Tuscars and a dozen Black Guild mercenaries had just taken over Corinth, and it was clear from their rageful cries that the grey-skinned brutes were ready for anything,
anything
to stick it’s head out so they could smash it. 

In spite of their barbarism the brutish Tuscars were efficient and organized when it came to military engagements, even if it didn’t appear as such to the untrained eye.  The thirty brutes had spread in squad formation along a half-dozen streets to reach Corinth’s central hub, and now that they’d taken the square and eliminated all but a handful of the Phage they established guards at every access point.  Fan’skaar sent patrols to sweep for remnants of the force they’d just driven away. 

Vellexa strode across the square, through dust and gore and smoking bodies.  The air was ripe and crisp, charged with the electricity of a storm and stained with the taint of untamed magic, raw Veil energies not just of the region but from the massive but inactive
cutgate
in the pit at her feet.  Tainted though it was, the cold air was refreshing, a welcome respite from the dank and stifling desert heat.

Cronak knelt low and sniffed the air, then laid himself down so he could press his face to the dirt.  Vellexa watched him, fascinated still by the lupine demeanor he’d taken on after his transformation.  Everything in his motions, his gait, even his expression was wolf-like, and it all seemed somehow natural, like he’d been born that way, more animal than man. 

Vellexa heard wolves in the distance, Cronak’s new family.  The pack had followed them for some time but remained at bay.  She wasn’t sure how she’d react if they suddenly decided to join her henchman.

She stared into the hole.  There was no question in her mind it was a
cutgate,
but she’d never been in the presence of one so powerful.  Everything seemed to dip down towards that pit – the light, the ground, even the sky.  It was as if that void was capable of swallowing everything, and it was just waiting for the right moment.  A chill ran up her spine.  Something terrifying waited in those depths, something dark and utterly cold.

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, and Vellexa nearly jumped out of her skin.  She’d stepped right up to the loamy precipice of the pit without realizing it.  The soil was full of bones and chunks of old mortar and rock, and thick streams of dank red water ran down the soil like blood.

“Careful,” Cronak said, and he helped her back from the edge.

“I…” Vellexa felt dizzy, her limbs weak.  Something about the magic of whatever it was that waited on the other side of the
portal
was affecting her, dragging her senses down and sending her into a mental fugue.  “They went down there,” she said.  “Dane.  Ijanna.  Slayne.”

“Yes,” Cronak said.  “They slipped through unseen.  Even with the Phage watching and all of the fighting, Slayne and his group somehow gained access to the pit...they had to draw blood to do it…”

Vellexa only distantly heard him.  The hole was calling her, drawing her towards it.  She felt herself falling even though she stood still, sensed she was being dragged along the ground even though she didn’t move.

“Dane’s scent is different,” Cronak said, almost angrily. 

“What does that mean?”

“He is no longer a wolf,” Cronak said.  “He is changed.”

Vellexa pressed her palm to her forehead and expended precious life energy to block out that alien power as best she could.  It was difficult, but after a moment her head started to clear, her heart beat slower, and her mind felt more focused. 

“I thought…” She took a deep breath, and steadied herself.  “I thought you said that wasn’t possible – that the wolf state Targo’s drug induced couldn’t be cured.”

“That is what I believed,” he said.  “Targo didn’t just create some formula that alters the body – he may not have realized it, but in my visions I’ve seen the truth, and the blood disease opens up gateways to another world.  It calls to us, begs us to heed it.  And whenever I injure another and fill their blood with this magic they are imbued with the power of the wolfen lands.”  His eyes turned dark.  “Dane has used magic to shunt himself off from this gift.  He must pay.”

Cronak’s countenance was dark, his eyes and words full with hate.  For not the first time since his rebirth Vellexa realized she was afraid of him. 

“Yes,” she said with a nod.  “He has to pay.” 
For not fulfilling his obligation to the Guild.  For placing my son in danger.  For dragging me across this forsaken wilderness searching for him.  Everything went to hell the day he showed up in Ebonmark.  You’ll pay for that, Dane – for turning my world upside down. 

She looked at the pit, and nodded towards it.

“So he’s in there?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Vellexa probed the surface of the
cutgate,
careful not to disturb the energies.  In spite of its deep pull she realized the dismal locale was carefully shielded behind immense magical safeguards, an impermeable and nigh unbreakable layer of carefully placed thaumaturgy like folded steel.  The barrier prevented anyone from pushing through unless the proper triggers were activated.

“We can’t open it,” she said.  “Damn it.”

There had to be a way through.  Slayne and the Jlantrians had found the means to penetrate those defenses and follow Dane and Ijanna down the hole, but it occurred to her they might have simply been lucky enough to have done so before the safeguards were raised.  If not, that meant there was clearly a way to breach the shield, if only Vellexa knew how.

She stepped away from the hole.  Cold tension knotted between her shoulders like she’d been struck with an icy rod.  She had to contact the Iron Count and appraise him of the situation.  She knew he had more forces on the way, but she felt certain he’d want to know there was an unbreakable
cutgate
in place before he arrived.  She’d never attempted a Sending to the Count on her own before, having always relied on the artifact mirror in The Cauldron, but she didn’t have much choice. 

Only Kyver mattered now.  She had to get him back, no matter what.

“Who else is in Corinth?” she asked Cronak.  “I’ve sensed Bloodspeakers...”

“Yes, two of them,” he said.  “And a dying giant.”

“A giant?”  Memories of the battle beneath Ebonmark rushed back to her.  She’d been trapped in the company of Slayne and his Black Eagles, waiting for Keyes to deploy his
serpentheart
disease into the ruins of Black Sun, and she’d watched in shock as Dane and a Voss emerged from the subterranean temple and fought their way through Black Guild, Phage and Jlantrians to get to the surface and make their escape. 

“Find them,” she said.  “Tell Rutjack and Fan’skaar to lend men to help you.”

Cronak set off without another word and stalked through the shadows like a creature of the wild.  The sky was full and dark with iron-rich clouds, and even though the supernatural storm had passed Vellexa still smelled its soiled taint.  She’d directed her small force to safety the moment she saw the storms.  Half-melted bodies of Phage soldiers littered the ground, men who’d been unable to escape the diseased and caustic rain in time, and the earth was still sodden and steaming from the dire rainfall. 

Vellexa looked around.  The air was heavy with a sullen chill, the aftereffects of the storm.  Tuscars drew weapons and equipment from their lumbering reptilian
drad’mont
as they set up watch, and a few of Rutjack’s Black Guild troops followed Cronak into the streets.  Rutjack and Fan’skaar were arguing over where to set up the archers, but both of them seemed satisfied they’d secured the area.

Stop delaying,
she told herself.

She breathed out.  Blood-red fog issued from between her lips and enveloped her in a gritty film.  Inky darkness seeped across the ground and blotted out everything as it surrounded her with a column of shadows.  Everything else was gone – it was as if Vellexa stood alone, the last creature in the world.

White vapor erupted from her eyes and shot out across the dead landscape in search of the Iron Count.  Inside the smoke was Vellexa’s missive, transient and fluid words given physical form, meaning conveyed in jets of pale smoke.  She hoped she could find him – the man had forged a reputation for being impossible to locate, and since she didn’t even know his true name or definitive location she doubted it would be easy for the message to reach him. 

For long and silent moments nothing happened, and Vellexa just waited, sensing as her magic sucked the life from her veins.  The message soared out across the Bonelands and into the Black Hills, towards the honing stones in Ebonmark and along the coast. 

Vellexa was afraid.  She knew if she couldn’t make contact with him that she’d have to follow Dane into the gate,
if
she could even determine how to open it.  She tried to ignore the dismal presence of that void, its pulsing darkness and ragged breath.  It was like the maw of some great slumbering beast buried in the soil, waiting for someone to throw themselves headlong into the depths of its hunger.

Her magic stretched thin, and her heart raced with exertion – the missive had crossed all of the way into the Black Hills and as far west as Ravenwood, and while it would be impossible for anyone but its intended recipient to make any sense of the magically locked words she knew she couldn’t maintain the enchantment much longer.  Every second spent using magic meant minutes of her life lost.

And then it found him.  Vellexa felt a jolt of iron cold.  The missive reached the Count and latched onto him like a lamprey, and she cried out as the shadowy image of his ruined face came into view.

Vellexa
, he thought.  She’d expected anger, even surprise, but his tone was receptive and calm. 

“My Lord,” she said.  “I’m so sorry to intrude on you like this...”

Don’t worry yourself
, he said.  The voice wasn’t as metallic and monstrous as she was used to, but strangely human, even though it was unmistakably the same individual. 
It’s good to hear from you.  Have you reached Corinth?

“Yes, Count,” she said, her eyes closed as she struggled to keep her balance.  Maintaining the communication was exhausting, and since she’d initiated the contact it was her own Veil energies that bridged the mental gap between them.  The Count’s numerous magical safeguards turned her blood to ice.  “We have control over what’s left of the city.”

And the gate?

“Yes,” she said.  “The
cutgate
is intact, but seems to be sealed.”

Only to you
, he thought.

“We await your orders,” she said.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed.  The magic stretched tight.  She felt seconds of her lifeblood streaming away as surely as if she’d slit her wrists.  Surely he understood what price she paid as she stood there, waiting for his answer?

Of course he does
, she realized. 
He just doesn’t care.

Hold the gate
, he thought. 
Reinforcements are on the way.  Understood?

“Yes, Count,” she said before any more of her doubts could bubble to the surface. 

Do this, Vellexa, and your son will be returned to you.

The line of communication was severed.  Vellexa drew a cold breath and fell to her knees, and after a moment of disorientation she found herself back in Corinth, surrounded by the remains of Razorcats and mercenaries, watching the pyres at the edge of the square as her men established a defensive perimeter. 

She stared down at the sunken hole, that funnel of bloody earth which led to a dismal and empty darkness.  The cold touch of death oozed from the pit.

Vellexa feared she knew what lay on the other side, but in the back of her mind she laughed.

You always said you’d go to hell and back for your son,
she thought
.  Now you get to keep your promise.