The Black Tower (15 page)

The going was hard on the other side of the
cutgate
.  Blackhall called for a forced march, and immediately he sent out scouts to try and locate the other units as they came through.  Maps were handed out and a quick command center was set up, just a few tables and tents, enough for them to gather their bearings before they pressed deeper into the wastes. 

The Bonelands were dense and flat, black soil and dust-filled bowls, sandstone ruins, collapsed trees and dry ravines. The air tasted burnt and smelled of death, and if the sky had been dark further south it was utterly black there in the north, a dry and chill nightmare of charcoal mists and ebon smoke. 

They located the other squads spread across the desert hills like swarms of metal ants.  Riders and runners raced back and forth carrying messages and coordinating the forces as they joined together.

The Den’nari scouts noted evidence of another force having passed through the area, a mixed group of men, Tuscars and large mounts.  The smoke of fires burned in the distance, and with aid of his periscope Gess was able to pick out the distant ruins of a lost and forlorn city.  The land was hilly but without cover, a rolling expanse of black desert.  It would be a difficult march.  The terrain wouldn’t offer much advantage to either force, which was about the extent of the good news, because within the hour the scouts reported that Crinn’s superior numbers were already closing in on Corinth. 

The Jlantrians made haste.  They’d accounted for all but two squads, which meant roughly forty men had gone missing, either delivered off course by unreliable magic or picked off by some monstrous presence of the Bonelands.  Blackhall said a prayer for them – the only time he ever prayed to Corvinia was on behalf of his men, and he hadn’t done so since his last campaign against the Tuscars many years ago – and gave the order to carry on.  They had too few scouts to continue the search, and they needed all of the information they could get regarding the army they rode against.

The going was slow and tiresome, and only the Den’nari camels seemed capable of navigating the sand without growing too fatigued.  The horses were soon slathered in sweat, and the men on foot fared worse.  The air was bad and thin.  Water was passed around constantly. 

Malik, who seemed to have a knack for covering great distances on his own, accompanied the scouting missions, and he was the one who delivered the news of the Iron Count’s forces: the mercenary army was much larger than anticipated, almost double Blackhall’s numbers, and they’d nearly reached the city gates.  Crinn had slaughtered merchants with his bizarre Veilcrafted weapons, which were similar to those found in the Vossian ruins of Black Sun.

Blackhall counted the hours until battle.  They pressed across the desert, careful to conserve strength but not wasting any time.  He thought of Cassandra and Malachai and hoped he’d see them again, but believed in his heart he would not.  He’d learned long ago to accept the notion of his own death.  He feared it, as any sane man did, but he had to accept the possibility, the reality, that he was just another soldier.

And soldiers die
.  To think anything else was folly, and would lead to ill decisions.  They had a job to do. 
Whatever it takes.  You’ve done it before.  Do it now.

They carved a route north, using the maps they’d brought to find a path that avoided the valleys and the highest dunes.  The men spread out just far enough to allow maneuverability as they traversed the ruins of forlorn towers and passed fields filled with twisted lichen and moss that might have once been lakes or seas.

It would be another half day, the scouts estimated, before they reached Corinth.  Syke’s men led, and the war wagons and trolls brought up the rear.  They pounded the earth low and stamped up fields of dust.  Any chance of surprise was lost, but they’d known that would be true before they’d even left the city.  He looked at the faces of his men, painted dark by black sand and wind-blown dust, and he was proud to not see fear, to not see anything but the iron-hard determination of soldiers who knew this could be their last day alive, that they rode to protect their loved ones from a fate no one could describe.  They knew that their actions at this place, on this day, could determine if a new Rift War would come to pass.

Gess was stoic and silent at his side.  They poured over maps together, decided that the Count’s forces were converging on the city from the southeast, and that they would make their way to the southwest.  It was unlikely they’d beat their enemy to Corinth, but from Argus’ description the outer walls were in ruin, so rather than meet their opponent on an open field they could take to the streets and use the cover of buildings to their advantage. 

He sensed the Veilwarden’s apprehension.  He wished Slayne was there with him, and hoped to see him again, he and Argus.

Blackhall pictured Cassandra and his son in his mind’s eye.  His heart ached at the notion of being with them.

Whatever it takes. 

“I love you,” he whispered.  If Gess heard him the Veilwarden chose not to say anything.

The air crunched with metal and dust and the grunts of war-trained beasts.  They marched on under a sweltering sky full with black clouds, their hearts hammering with pride, their minds on the battle ahead.

Dane waited, alone and in the dark. 

Over the course of his cursed life he’d been many things, few of them good.  He wondered what Corvinia would think of him if he stood before the gates of heaven now, waiting as his soul was measured, weighed on the scales of deeds.  He looked back on the events of his life, on all of the dreams he left unfulfilled and the people he’d killed.  He looked at the young boy he’d once been, and the monster he’d become.  And though he’d spent the last few weeks trying to redeem himself, he knew that would never happen.  He saw through the human skin now, saw the beast underneath. 

Everything he’d ever hoped and lived for had been crushed in those camps: no matter what else he did or what else he might become, he would always be one of those mad knights who’d slaughtered people in the mountains. 

Dane wore the black and gold armor, Dawn Knight’s chain and plate recreated for his trial.  His helmet rested in the crook of his arm, and the hilt of a perfectly crafted
vra’taar
rested in his grip.  It all fit perfectly, made for him, though he didn’t know how that was possible.  He didn’t know much, now, except that Ijanna was going to bring the Blood Queen back to life, and Dane was going to battle a fallen champion for the right to help her. 

Stone walls ground all around him.  He stood upon a granite platform which sparked its way up from the depths of a long shaft filled with shadows and dried bloodstains.  A haze of grey light waited above.  The gap between where he stood and his overhead destination narrowed quickly.  Stagnant rain fell from the charcoal mist and splashed onto the stone at his feet; a few drops hit his face, cold liquid that smelled of frozen rock.  He heard the rattle of chains before he saw them, dangling coils like dead metal snakes.

His heart pounded so hard he thought his chest would burst.  Adrenaline surged through his body.  His muscles and teeth were clenched tight, and he didn’t think he could close his eyes even if he wanted to. 

I have to win
, he thought. 
I deserve to die, but I can’t let Ijanna do this.  I can’t let her sacrifice everyone.

He’d slaughtered innocents in the name of a cause, and it had blackened his heart and soiled his soul.  If he could save Ijanna from ever having to experience that, he would.

There has to be another way.

The hazy light grew close.  He couldn’t hear anything over the constant ear-shattering grind of stone.  The platform seemed to be picking up speed.

What could he do?  Would be able to convince Ijanna not to go through with what she’d been raised believing was her destiny?  In her mind there was no other way out of this, not anymore. 

Closer.

No.  There has to be a way.  There just has to.

Closer.

There’s always a way.

Just a few more feet.  Dane dropped to one knee.  He hadn’t prayed since his early days in the Dawn Knights, and something twisted inside him, a sense of fear that his words wouldn’t be accepted, that a man like him had no right to implore Corvinia for guidance when he’d done so much evil in her name. 

Goddess
, he thought. 
Please forgive me.  I’m not proud of what I am, what I’ve done.  Given the chance I would take it all back, and I’d gladly exchange my life for those of the people I killed in the mountains.  I would die each of those deaths a thousand times if it meant they could be alive and whole again. 

A dull ache spread through his skull like a crack in ice.  The light shone through the mist.  He sensed presences above, creatures lying in wait. 

Forgive me
, he thought again, and he stood as the platform reached the apex and came to a halt with a resounding boom.  The chamber was vast and deep, the walls so distant they seemed imaginary.  Darkness as thick as a starless night curled around him, a shadow-drenched oblivion which engulfed the platform.  He felt the ground shift as a frigid wind came from below. 

Dane stood on a pillar of dark grey stone crusted with ancient ice.  The marble circle was veined and cracked and barely five paces across.

A stone balcony hung maybe fifty feet away and directly ahead on the nearest wall.  The stone railing looked to be on the verge of collapse, and the iron throne it protected looked like it had been hammered from suits of armor.  Dark alcoves hung to either side of the throne, but as Dane watched the shadows themselves twisted and peeled away.  They were creatures: tall humanoids without features, bulky and bladed silhouettes possessing multiple arms and talons, ice-white eyes like gelid stars and maws of razor teeth.  Their bodies were pitch black, darkness made animate.  And there were hundreds of them. 

Dane realized with horror that the creatures weren’t of the shadows, but
were
the shadows, that they indeed made up the substance of that gigantic chamber, a horde of umbral humanoids that scrambled over one another as they climbed the walls and piled themselves high like animals in a pit, pushing and clawing their way closer to the balcony.  Waves of bitter cold emanated from their dark and insubstantial flesh, and Dane watched as his own breath frosted in the air.

But even with as terrifying as those presences were, it was the sight of Ijanna on the throne that chilled his heart the most.  Her red Alajji eyes glowed like crimson coals in the darkness and cast a bloody shine about her face.  Her hair was slicked and bound back with bone and iron clasps, and she wore leather and plate armor enameled black as night, set with crimson tabards, gauntlets and greaves and a pure white sash tied about her waist.  Her face was ashen pale, her countenance grim.  If there had ever been any emotion on her face it had since been wiped clean. 

Dane wanted to call out to her, to try and snap her from whatever trance Calladar had her under, but that shine in her eyes and the icy set of her face told him it would be a useless gesture. 

“Beautiful,” Calladar said. 
“
Isn’t she?”

Calladar was suddenly behind Dane, standing atop the pillar with him.  Twin curved swords with spiked hilts and serrated edges were strapped across his back, the metal dark and smoking with frost the color of winter moonlight.  His iron wings were gone, and the metal plate that had covered his face had been replaced by a simple piece of soiled cloth wrapped so only his eyes and greying hair were exposed.  The angel’s dark armor was stained and bloody, riddled with spiky protrusions and uneven jags of twisted steel.  The ground burned black beneath his feet. 

“What have you done to her?” Dane asked, his voice thunderous in the hollow cavern. 

“Nothing she objected to,” Calladar said.

“What did you do?!” Dane shouted. 

“I helped her,” Calladar replied, his iron eyes unblinking, his body rigid.  “Helped her become what she was always meant to be
.
”

Dane’s heart sank.  It might have already been too late.

“Ijanna?!” he called out.  He turned from Calladar.  “You don’t have to do this!”

She didn’t move.  He couldn’t even tell if she’d heard him.

Calladar shifted into a fighting stance.  There was barely space for the two of them atop the column, which meant there’d be little room for maneuvering, and absolutely no margin for error once combat began.  Dane stepped to the side and moved into his own defensive stance, feet spread wide, crouched low to spring.  He kept the
vra’taar
at his side, fully aware that Calladar intended to bait him, since the man hadn’t drawn either of his blades.  Dane’s spine tingled at the sense of the void at his back. 

“What are they?” he asked, nodding towards the writhing shadows all around them. 

“Your unenlightened scholars call them demons,” Calladar said.  “They are the
dra’aalthakmar
– the souls of those who died in the Heartfang Wastes, now woven into shadow form so they can ride out and take revenge on the living once the Blood Queen has returned.  They’ll purge the world, and help quicken the Veil’s destruction.  These soldiers will herald the return of the One Goddess so the battle against the Unmaker can begin.”

“You’re insane,” Dane said.  To his surprise, Calladar laughed.

“Perhaps,” the angel of razors said.  “But know this: they will only allow one of us to leave this arena.”

Calladar’s hands moved to draw his weapons as something happened in the air over their heads.  The column shook.  Light pulsed, blood-red and cold.  Dane felt ice scale against him.  Everything seemed to slow.

Dane’s sword sprang up just in time to deflect Calladar’s blades.  Sparks rained in the dark.  The razor angel came at him with a torrent of strikes, rapid movements that defied the bulk of his armor.  With no room to maneuver all Dane could do was shift his balance and move the
vra’taar
side to side to keep blows from landing, but many did.  The two blades sliced open his arms as they drove through armor plating.  Dane hissed as blood ran down his skin. 

His feet pressed right to the edge, and he felt the empty space behind him.  Dark whispers leaked from the living shadows.  Calladar pressed his advantage and Dane moved using the Veil, let it guide his actions along with his years of training, no thinking, just react.  Steel echoed through the darkness. 

Another sword edge tore through the meat of Dane’s left shoulder, and then into his side.  He swung hard and forced Calladar to duck, then brought his knee against the side of the angel’s head and knocked him back.  The twin swords scissor-crossed in front of him and nearly pulled the
vra’taar
free, but Dane pushed down with all of his strength, crying out as he smashed his gauntlet into his opponent’s face.  Calladar stumbled back, and Dane came away from the edge. 

Scratching voices fell around him like rain.  The air was rancid and cold.  Dane couldn’t stop moving, but he had to keep the edge of the column in sight.  He swung, thrust, beat back one sword only to nearly find himself maimed by the other.  He tried to focus the Veil into some sort of attack, a ball of force he could use to knock Calladar over the side, but the angel’s relentless barrage didn’t give him enough time to even gather a breath. 

Dark eyes shone from under the angel’s cowl, and the once-human face was bloody beneath the oozing cloth.  Calladar growled like something possessed.  Sweat poured down Dane’s face.  The limited field of vision he had out of the visor was going to get him killed, but he knew the only reason he’d survived as long as he had was because he had something to keep his skull from being split open. 

Dane forced himself to the center of the tower.  He deflected Calladar’s next attack and swung around so his opponent would be forced closer to the edge.  He kept hoping the other man’s style of rapid assaults would eventually wear him down, but since Calladar wasn’t exactly human that wasn’t something Dane could count on.  He, on the other hand, was quickly growing exhausted.  His muscles were sore and his breaths turned ragged from moving in that heavy armor. 

He held the Veil ready.  Its dull and sullen chill pulsed through his veins like ice water. 

Calladar howled and threw himself forward.  Dane moved just in time to avoid the blades.  He cut into Calladar’s side with the short end of his
vra’taar
.  Blood and skin pulled away as Dane twisted the sword around for the killing blow.  Calladar pushed back and knocked the wind out of Dane with an elbow to the ribs, then brought both blades around.  Dane tried to duck, but he wasn’t fast enough – blood sprayed from his face as his helmet shattered.  He stumbled, felt where his cheek had been sliced open.  Blood rained from his mouth as the helmet rolled off the top of the tower and bounced into the darkness.

He saw Ijanna.  She watched impassively.

They danced a dance of steel.  Dane used the Veil to give himself strength and heal his wounds.  Pain pulsed through his body.  Calladar deflected his every blow, and each one of Dane’s attacks led to a need to defend himself.  Exhaustion crept through his limbs.

Dane focused.  He’d been using the Veil to stay alive, but he had to let it go, had to unleash that pent up potential. 

He ducked beneath Calladar’s blade, opened his hand and released a pulse of white energy which fell to the ground like a rain of slime.  The stone creased, bent as if it were melting.  Calladar’s foot caught, and Dane moved in to finish his opponent off when the angel screamed.

His armor ripped outwards.  Bladed wings unfolded from the back of his body, impossibly gathered beneath his edged armor.  Skin ripped and blood sprayed.  Dane fell back as one of the wing’s edges nearly cleaved through his throat. 

With the wings beneath him Calladar pulled free of the stone and soared into the air.  Dane’s muscles were on fire, but he turned and crouched low to avoid the sweeping reach of the razor feathers.  Calladar aimed his blades down as he flew.  Blood fell through the darkness.  Dane clenched his fist and shaped the Veil into a translucent shield of crystalline force.  Life energies sucked from his veins, and his blood froze. 

Calladar collided with the shield.  They were both thrown back.  The long edge of Dane’s
vra’taar
slid into the angel’s stomach.  The world spun, spiraling darkness and eyes like frozen suns, the stone at his back, then above him.  Pain shot through his limbs.