The Black Tower (14 page)

The Iron Count.  No one knew his true name, but rumor held he was a former Jlantrian soldier, maybe even an officer of some note, and while it was difficult to prove those stories the very possibility of their being true gave Blackhall pause.  They said he was mostly metal, his ruined human frame fused to some corrupt Vossian Veilcraft that made him monstrous and unpredictable, untrusting even of his once-vast network of subordinates in the Black Guild.  City-states had been ruined and countless lives lost at his foul whim, and it was high time to deal with the bastard once and for all. 

Now the Count wanted access to Chul Gaerog.  The notion of being in such close proximity to the Black Tower again after all of those years filled Blackhall’s stomach with lead.  Argus was in deep, and if the boy was to have any chance of saving Jlantria it fell to Blackhall to keep the Count’s forces off his back.

I’ll be home soon, Cassandra
.

The sound of a thousand soldiers and their mounts, the siege weapons and war wagons and the hum of magic drowned out his thoughts.  Colossus shifted nervously beneath him, but Blackhall patted the big brute on the side of his neck.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispered, as much to himself as to his horse.  He, Gess and Malik fell in with the troops as they crawled forward towards the rotating portals of light.

Stygian wastes stretched in every direction.  Mounds of black dust spired into cones, waves of onyx drift, sink-holes which led to unseen deeps, caverns and crevices and long-dried rivers beneath the skin of the wastelands.  The sky was dark with soiled clouds and curtains of amber smoke, and the air smelled raw and burned.

Corinth lie in the distance, a forlorn ruin spread across several miles of blasted desert.  The sun was cold and dead, its light a muted stain against the otherwise oppressive black sky.  The air tasted of storms, but the armor Ghul had constructed for the soldiers would keep them safe from its dismal effects. 

Troops scattered and moved down the hillside.  They emerged from cracked valleys of broken rock to the north and the sea of blasted sand dunes that had fused to glass in the west. 

Corinth. 
It was the doorway to salvation and power, and it was finally within their reach.  Crinn watched it hungrily.  He breathed deep, felt his lungs rasp as they scraped against the metal shell of his outer body. 
So close. 

He hated the notion of leaving Ironclaw Keep, but he reminded himself that Chul Gaerog would be adequate recompense.  Now that Kala was dead it would be easy to wrest control of the citadel from the rest of the Cabal.  He’d left his stronghold gutted and abandoned, without so much of a trace of his forces’ existence save for the bodies on the crowns of the tower. 

His forces spread over the land like a horde of metal ants.  War machines rumbled across the landscape, drawn by
drad’mont
and thaumaturgically modified war horses.  Dark armor eclipsed the earth and made it ripple like an ebon ocean.

Mezias Crinn rode at the back of a great chariot of black steel, a blasphemy of twisted metal covered with spines and blades and enormous wheels capped with razor edges and human bones.  A massive
drad’mont,
specially trained to draw the vehicle, raced across the desert, its rough hide reinforced with steel barding.  Crinn’s throne from Ironclaw Keep had been supplanted to the chariot so he could still provide himself with the much-needed soothing narcotics.  High steel walls would keep out arrows and most magical attacks.  The vehicle roared across the ground like an iron dragon.

He felt so alive.  Crinn’s place was on the battlefield, and always had been.  Jaendrel had gone ahead to the city, but Crinn wasn’t worried – that telepathic monstrosity and its Cabal allies might seize Corinth from whoever held it, but without Crinn and Ghul they’d be unable to retain possession of the city, especially with a thousand Jlantrian troops marching across the Bonelands.  The White Dragon soldiers were still miles out, and Crinn’s forces had a good quarter day’s head start on them; by the time the Jlantrians figured out exactly where they were and what they were dealing with Corinth would be secured and prepared against a siege, and Crinn would crush the forces of the very Empire that had betrayed him.

And once I have Chul Gaerog, I’ll take revenge on the Empress herself.

His troops stamped across open plains of blasted rock and stunted trees burned black.  The few natural creatures that called the Bonelands home were blighted and foul, corrupted by the tainted magic left behind by the Vossian war machines that had rained destruction across Gallador and scattered it to the winds of time. 

Nearly two thousand troops converged across the black desert, humans supplanted with large numbers of Tuscars and a few trolls purchased from the black market dealers of Bloodwynd Island.  Every man under Crinn’s command was an unscrupulous killer, bound by loyalty to their General but otherwise given to all manner of sadism and pain. 

The war engines leaked foul arcane smoke into the atmosphere.  They had ice cannons, iron catapults, porcupines and mangonels loaded down with spikes and steel balls.  The Vossian inspired weapons were all of Ghul’s design, lovingly recreated and modified by the best war engineers the black market could buy. 

The legions gathered an hour’s travel from Corinth’s decaying husk.  The city glowed black-gold in the light of the cold sun.  The Black Army was a horde of dark metal and bone-crunching sound, a steel shadow that stamped and burned the earth as it marched.

My army.  My hour.

The Jlantrians had no chance.  The forces out of Ebonmark had half as many men as he had, and only minimal magical support.  More troops would be sent once it was revealed that an unstoppable army of Tuscars and mercenaries with Veilcrafted artillery and siege equipment were using
cutgates
to swarm the eastern coast, but by then it would be too late.  Den’nari forces would make their way west into the Black Hills to seize Ironclaw Keep, and Jlantrians out of Granger or Irontear would try to cut Crinn off and intercept any potential advance on Ral Tanneth, not that he had any intention of going there.  Once Crinn held Chul Gaerog any opposing force would be irrelevant – with the Black Tower’s power at his disposal he could deploy his armies anywhere, and once he tapped into the Blood Queen’s reservoir of magic the Empires would crumble in his grip.

Goddess.  It will be beautiful. 
It was a pity his Army was so removed from civilization – what he wouldn’t give to see his forces from the perspective of a villager or farmer, a procession of blood and steel slicing across the desert. 
Soon enough.  Jlantria’s greatest General will have his homecoming, and I’ll celebrate by putting the Empress’ head on a pole.  Maybe she’ll be the first bitch I place on top of my new tower.

They pressed on, their target in sight.  Crinn’s legions were a monstrous roar of hooves, grinding wheels and pulsing flames. 

The Tuscars began their war chant, a hideous and droning dirge that might have been animals dying.  The song carried through the black sky, a garbled series of rancid howls.  Clawed fists beat against breastplates.  The repeated march of armored feet filled the air like a barrage of thunder.

The plains surrounding the ruins of Corinth weren’t entirely deserted – Crinn’s forces discovered a temporary camp set up by a large band of merchants bound east for Raithe, returning from their search for artifacts and better trade routes to the primitive tribes on the eastern edge of the Grim Titans.  The caravan was not insignificant, a band some two-hundred strong, fully armed and equipped mercenaries and explorers with families, animals, large tents, even an elephant they’d likely bought off some Den’nari beast peddler.  They were brave or foolhardy to try and make their fortunes in the Bonelands, but what doomed them was their sense of timing, for they happened to be passing near the ruins of Corinth, might even have had designs to enter the Galladorian city and plunder it for resources, when Crinn’s army happened along looking for a fight. 

The caravan had doubtlessly survived other maladies of the Bonelands – Razorcats, maddened tribal natives, Charred Ones.  They might have even endured a direct attack by a Runefiend, but that hardly mattered now. 

Crinn ordered several hundred Tuscars and mercenaries to break off and destroy the caravan.  It was a risky diversion with the Jlantrians right on their tail, but he knew his men needed the release, for they’d been shored up at Ironclaw Keep for months, and some were losing their focus.  Best to give them an appetizer before the main course.

Most of the caravan survived the initial assault, a quick and brutal engagement that proved to be an effective test of both the Tuscar’s discipline and the mercenaries’ prowess.  The artillery proved useful, as shards of razor steel tore the elephant and horses to shreds. 

He gave his men just a short time to deal with the survivors, who he made clear were not to be taken captive.  A few were raped, a few more were put to the sword.  Some were set alight or beaten to death, hogtied and laid down so the war wagons could roll over them from the feet on up.  The air was full with screams and smoke and splattered bodies.  The prisoners begged for the children to be spared, but Crinn’s soldiers knew better than to entertain such outdated fancies of mercy – everyone was treated the same. 

After a time Crinn ordered that those still alive be tied and secured to each other, a mass of the twisted wounded tethered in a mass of screams and bloody limbs.  They begged and pleaded as they were left there in the burning ruins of their forlorn camp. 

Crinn ordered for the ice cannon to fire on them from a distance at a low yield – a gelid detonation at the heart of the ruined camp, which created a slow-building glacial chill that would build over the course of several minutes.  The temperature would slowly drop as the moisture in the air turned heavy and bitter.  He wished he could have been there to watch as their skin froze, broke brittle and released frosted blood gel. 

With the diversion concluded, the Black Army marched on Corinth.  They’d reach the ruins in another few hours.  Crinn’s prize awaited him.

It was now or never.

Something big was happening in Ebonmark.  Over the course of the past week the city had come alive with activity, a blend of excitement and fear.  There was no way to tell exactly what was going on from inside their prison, but it clearly had something to do with the military.  While Kyver shuddered to think what that might mean, he knew it was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss. 

It was starting to rain.  The grey clouds that had overtaken the sky matched the air inside the Castle Street Orphanage.  From the other side of the heavily paned and barred window Kyver saw one of the Jlantrians who watched over him from the outside, a nameless shadow sent by some enemy of his mother to ensure that he stayed put. 

Sorry to disappoint you.

Kyver had neglected to go out into the “play yard”, such as it was, a small square of space hedged in by tall iron fences so bound with dried out vines and makeshift planks of wood it was all but impossible to see the street outside.  He’d actually avoided taking his recess for several days by feigning a stomach illness, which, given the quality of the food Grunt prepared for the children, wasn’t such a preposterous notion.  Neither Mistress Kara nor any of her staff even seemed to care, as that meant there was one less body to watch out in the yard.  They left him locked in the boarding room with the bunks and chests of old toys and tattered books.  Kyver knew if he stayed “ill” for more than a week Mistress Kara would begrudgingly have a healer called in to check on his health, but until that happened he had some peace and quiet.  Only a few other children chose to miss recess, boys younger than he who kept to themselves and stayed wrapped in blankets in their beds, their grey faces washed of hope.

That won’t happen to me.  Not now, and not ever.

It had not been an idle few days.  Being the son of a thief had its advantages: even with as little time as his mother had spent with him, what she’d taught him proved invaluable: how to pick a lock, how to steal items right out of people’s pockets without them knowing it, how to keep to the shadows and avoid being seen. 

The tools he had on hand were less than satisfactory – a bent fork he’d pocketed during mealtime and a sliver of hard metal he’d worked from the bottom of a bowl at great expense to the skin under his left index and middle fingers, which now stung every time he moved them – and he had to work with the utmost discretion and silence, not only to avoid tipping off his jailors but to elude the notice of those few other boys in the long room, as he had little doubt they’d reveal his activities to Kara and her goons if they thought it would spare them some punishment.  Luckily for Kyver the budding rain and clouds made the atmosphere gloomy and difficult to see in, and though the bunks were crammed close together the room was massive, so he chose a window as far from the others as possible.  He felt certain none of the other boys had any idea what he was doing.

The locks which secured the iron shutters over the windows were no easy target.  They were solid and enclosed mechanisms that probably could have resisted a blow from a sword blade, let alone the efforts of an amateur lockpick such as himself, but that was no excuse not to try.  He’d already taken several stabs at it over the course of his “sick” days, at a spot right near the bunk he and Genna shared.  There was just enough of a gap in the shutter for him to get at the lock from both sides (it helped to have small hands).  He had a clear vantage of Castle Street from the window, enough that he could actually see the person who’d been sent to watch him.

“How do you know it’s him?” Genna asked.  This was the first day she’d decided to remain behind with Kyver while the rest of the children were sent out to play in spite of the approaching rain.  She knew what he was up to, and while she was nervous that he’d be caught and punished she clearly had no intention of dissuading him. 

Genna was his only friend at Castle Street Orphanage.  She was a good-hearted girl he fancied, though he’d never admit that, not even to himself.  Her honey-wheat blonde hair was loose and wild and her green eyes sparkled with a sense of life he’d never encountered before. 

“I just know,” Kyver said.  He jammed the piece of metal into the tumbler, slowly, careful not to bend or break it.  “Keep a lookout,” he whispered.

He was glad she was with him.  Beyond the practical matter of having another pair of eyes to watch for trouble he just felt better for having her company.  The fact that he’d only known her for a few short weeks in no way detracted from the fact that he felt closer to her than he ever had to anyone, even his own mother, who he sometimes doubted even remembered who he was.  He wanted Genna to come with him – she had no one there, and she was beginning to lose her spark of hope.  He could help her find a better life.  Regardless of what he thought of his mother he knew how to reach many of her criminal contacts, and surely he could call on someone to grant him a favor...if they could just make it out of the Orphanage.

The air was dark, stale and thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and sickness.  In spite of that pervasive odor Kyver still smelled the coming rain beyond the glass, and the thought of getting out and feeling it on his skin drove him on.  The lock was giving, slowly, but the fact that his efforts were taking so long was frustrating.

“Kyver?” Genna whispered.

“Yeah?” he answered, not looking up from his work.  His fingers ached from keeping the sliver of metal and fork carefully balanced as he tried to turn them in the precise motion that would break the lock.

“Are you sure about this?”

It was about to give, he could feel it, he just had to hold the bolt in long enough to force the tumbler to release.  Just a few more seconds.

“Yes,” he said.  “We don’t belong here, Genna.  We belong out there.”

He heard something coming up the road, something loud and steady, a wagon or a carriage or a team of horses.  Could their fortune really be that good?  The timing was perfect, if he could only get the damn lock to release.

“I’m not sure...” she said, but she didn’t press him.  She’d been in that dreadful place longer than he had, and he could only imagine what the notion of getting out must have seemed like to her.  They were dying there, piece by piece, and if they didn’t escape soon there’d be nothing left of them.

Kyver’s fingers felt close to breaking.  He sudenly lost his grip, and his hand shot forward and painfully slammed into the grill.  It came back bloody, a cut down one knuckle and his pinky nail cracked, and he was about to curse loudly when he realized the lock had given.  The iron shutter flew open, and before Kyver could react it hit him square in the face.  He winced and blinked away the hurt; his excitement and adrenaline helped him work through the bruise to both his ego and nose.

“Oh Goddess,” Genna whispered.  “You did it!” 

He was afraid she was being too loud, so Kyver put his finger to his lips as he grabbed the shutters and looked around the room.  The other children were tucked in their beds or staring off at the corners.  They were all listless; unlike he and Genna, he guessed most of them actually were sick.  They hadn’t seemed to notice the loud pop of metal when the iron shutters had opened, and Kyver quickly stood and angled his body so the grey light pouring in wouldn’t be too visible to anyone more than a few feet away.  The room was still dark, and remained quiet. 

Genna quickly grabbed a pair of pillow cases stuffed with their meager belongings, as well as roll of bedsheets tied together to form a crude ladder.  Kyver kept watch on the other children and the door while Genna hastily tied the string of sheets to the foot of the bed, which thankfully was bolted to the floor like the rest, secured out of some insane fear Mistress Kara held that thieves would make off with them. 

Kyver’s heart pounded hard, and his stomach twisted into knots.  He tried to ignore the pain in his hand, which he wrapped tight with a piece of cloth he ripped from a blanket.  Kyver felt as though he was going to be sick, and his skin tingled with fear.  If they were caught now they’d be beaten for days.

The source of the noise that had thundered down the road came into view, and Kyver’s heart jumped into his throat.  Soldiers, over two dozen Jlantrians in white and blue armor, marched up the street in perfect formation, their Captain – a brown-haired and scarred man he’d seen before – barking orders as their massive White Dragon standard blew in the wind.  For a moment the Jlantrian who watched them was completely blocked from sight, obscured by the thick formation.

Maybe Corvinia loves me, after all.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

Genna put her hand on his arm.  She didn’t say anything, but Kyver felt her tremble and saw fear in her eyes, the same fear he felt.

“Trust me,” he said.  To his surprise she smiled, and nodded.

Not wanting to waste the cover provided by the Jlantrians, Kyver and Genna stepped out onto the window sill and slid down their makeshift ladder.  They descended into the alley and out of sight of the main road, and for a moment Kyver reveled in the touch of the chill fingers of the rain.  After that, they ran.