The Black Tower (22 page)

He launched forward.  If he could not best the creature, he would plunge
into
it
,
witness this phantasm from the inside out, learn its weaknesses, destroy it from within. 

Jar’rod vaulted through the sky with the force of a lightning bolt.  Darkness exploded beneath the assault, and he cut through to the dark and hollow core.

Had Jar’rod still possessed a mouth in that form, the sight of what lay within the nightmare beast would have made him scream.

They came into a large round chamber lined with copper.  A square shaft ran down from a hole in the center of the floor, and on the ceiling a similar hole led to a chimney filled with fire smoke and scalding hot fluid that rained down like sulfurous blood.  The liquid smoked as it ran down the walls and into the pit, a torrent of gold-stained sweat. 

Slayne stepped up to the edge and peered down, while Razel watched for trouble coming down the corridors.  There was no apparent bottom to the shaft, just an endless glean of cold metal vanishing into a haze of shadow.  Howls echoed up from the depths. 

Slayne knew that only
he
could hear them, but that did little to make them cease. 

They drilled into his brain, demanding blood.  The Calling: he wasn’t sure how he knew its name, but it was slowly taking him over, and it took every last ounce of will he possessed to drown the voices out.  He had to feed the burning hunger so he could enjoy the benefits of his animal strength, that brutal edge he’d acquired which made him more formidable and frightening than ever before. 

But the price of that strength was blood.  He’d killed several young girls to satisfy his lust for flesh – prostitutes, mostly, but he couldn’t always afford to be so selective – but the hunger never went away for very long. 

He was hungry now.

“Slayne!” Razel shouted. 

“What?!” he shouted back.  His voice echoed down the metal shaft. 

He’d only barely managed to pull the Veilwarden from the battle, and neither of them had emerged unscathed.  Slayne’s body now healed at a remarkable rate, one of the many benefits of having succumbed to the demands of his wolfen abilities, but Razel wasn’t so lucky: she’d suffered a deep cut down her right thigh that had dried black and crusted, and claws had slashed away part of her cloak and left three wide gashes on her back which festered with red fluid.  She grimaced with every motion, but he had to admire her stamina and determination.  Most people, even one with a Veilwarden’s disciplined mind, wouldn’t have had the drive to carry on.

Jar’rod was close by, still held aloft by Razel’s power.  He floated in an unconscious state, locked in a trance and oblivious to the world around him.  He hovered behind Razel as if tied to her, a shadow guarded by Veilcrafted shields that deflected several blows which should have killed him.  Now he was down close the ground, and his body twitched and shivered in place.  Sweat poured down the black man’s face, and his eyes shook behind sealed lids.  Jaro’rod’s chest heaved in and out, and his rib-bones pushed hard against his skin as he sharply drew in breaths. 

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Slayne asked.

Razel didn’t have a chance to answer before Jar’rod screamed.  His eyes remained closed but his mouth peeled open and released a blood-curdling howl.  Jar’rod twisted and writhed, and his arms and legs contorted.  It was as if something tried to claw it’s way out of him. 

Razel tried to take hold of him, but Slayne grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. 

“Let me go!” she said.

“I don’t think you want to do that...” he said.  He felt her pulse through her sleeve, tasted her sweat in the air.  Her heart was beating fast – he sensed it, almost felt it pounding.  Her ample chest heaved with fear.  His gums ached, and he ground his teeth. His head pounded like someone had struck him with a hammer.  “We need to go,” he said.

“We can’t just leave him!” she said, and she pulled her arm away and knelt down next to Jar’rod.  His screams abated but his mouth was still wide, twisted into a silent cry.  Slayne heard him straining against whatever it was that wracked him with pain.  “Jar’rod,” she said, clearly afraid to touch him.  Her leather armor was stained and torn, and she discarded her cloak in favor of more mobility.

Slayne paced the room with his short sword in hand.  Every breath he drew was tainted with the foul stench of that place.  Decades of decay and death lie buried beneath the twisted walls.

He watched her.  He didn’t like Razel, and never had.  His chest ached with tension.  With longing.

Jar’rod kept writhing, but he fell silent again.  There seemed to be nothing Razel could do.

“We have to find the others,” she said, her eyes locked on the Den’nari.  “Do you think any of them made it out?”

Slayne breathed in.  He smelled her blood, and it was sweet. He stiffened as he watched her sweat run down her brow and under her shirt.  He shook with need.

“Slayne?” she asked, her tone frightened, but he didn’t hear her.  All he heard were the wolves.

Argus launched another bolt of flame.  Adrenaline kept him going, and his heart raced with fear as he raced down the corridor.  The black halls seemed to go on forever, a confusing labyrinth of dripping stone and folded shadows. 

The demons were at his heels.  Undulating black shapes, claws and fangs of darkness.  Oily skin rippled through the black air.  He felt granules waft over him as he ran, as if the shadows were made of dust.  He moved as fast as he could, out of breath and legs aching.  His aim was off as he tried to fire backwards without stopping. 

His breaths were as cold as ice.  He’d gripped the Veil for what felt like hours, and he knew he couldn’t keep it up for much longer.

You have to.  You’re dead if you stop.

The passage ahead was barely lit by a phosphorescent glow which bled down the walls like something molten.  Shadows curved ahead and around him, shapes almost as solid as his pursuers, and he kept expecting something to grab hold of his legs as he ran by.  He chanced a glance backwards and saw the
dra’aalthakmar
closing in, a pulsing wave of unstable skin, shadowflesh bleeding into mass.  He paused long enough to cast another beam of white fire, and he felt the heat from the magic peel against his face.  Again that cold breath, a lungful of death that momentarily stilled his heart.  Black creatures, not quite reptiles but certainly not human, pure ebon skin laced with pulsing silver-white runes and long eyes reflecting arctic light.  They reeled and cried out in animal-like voices as the flames enveloped them. 

They retreated back, just for a moment, and Argus turned and ran.  He didn’t think, didn’t plan, just barreled down the corridor as fast as he could.

The passageway emptied out into a massive chamber easily as big as the Grand Cathedral in Ral Tanneth.  High vaulted ceilings spiraled off into the obscurity of cobwebbed shadows, and the grey and black walls were lined with razor edges and the sheared faces of smashed statues.  Thick columns of buckled stone ran down the center of the hall.  The same dank glow that had permeated the passage illuminated the chamber like a candle that glowed just out of sight.  Dozens of dark side passages led from the room. 

Argus’ last salvo had bought him some time.  He didn’t sense the demons at his back but knew they weren’t far behind him, and he felt sure there were more waiting somewhere in the shadows ahead.  He kept flames at the edge of his fingertips and ignored the dull ache in his chest that came from holding his grip on magic for too long. 

He tried to issue a Sending to Razel with no avail, but he couldn’t tell if something about Chul Gaerog was defeating his attempt or if something had happened to
her
.  His already pounding chest tightened with panic, and for a moment all he could do was turn in a circle and gather his bearings. 

He didn’t linger.  Argus stayed close to the wall and watched the depths of the ceiling out of fear that something would drop down on him.  He navigated a sloped and narrow corridor, not really sure what direction he was going but bound and determined to keep moving.  His legs ached, and his heart seemed to sink deeper into his chest with every step. 

I’m not dying
, he vowed. 
Not today.

The hall came to an end at a chamber with a high ceiling that sloped inwards like a blade.  A blazing white lantern cast flickering light onto uncertain walls, which seemed to recede at Argus’ approach.  A sense of vertigo overtook him, and for a moment he had to gather himself and fight down a sick feeling in his gut. 

A shallow pool ran down the center of the room between thick columns of crumbling granite covered with scratches and arcane graffiti.  Briny water churned and slapped up from the pool, as if the liquid were boiling.

A creature stood at the far end of the room, flanked by the decaying columns.  A knight in dark armor.

Argus surprised himself by drawing a deep breath.  The fear that had settled in his chest seemed to melt away.  He’d kept the Veil at the edge of his thoughts, a cold presence which danced along his fingertips and chilled his skin.  He looked upon Calladar, and knew his time had come.  The sense of calm that washed through him seemed unnatural, like he stood outside himself.  He clenched his fingers, found the blade at his side.  There was no turning back.  He just hoped Razel was all right.

He stepped to the edge of the pool and stared across at the man at the far end. 

It wasn’t Calladar. 

Whoever this warrior was wore the armor of a Dawn Knight, but there was something unnatural about him.  The knight’s body seemed wreathed in shadow, and an aura of cold darkness suffused his every step, like he bled dust.  His eyes shone with a cold white light.  The human shell was just a mask housing something frozen and dead inside. 

“Azander Dane,” Argus said.  It was the only person it could be, the last Dawn Knight unaccounted for since the calamity in the Razortooth Mountains aside from the handful the Empire knew served as wardens at Hellstone Deep. 

Dane wasted no words.  With a fluid motion he slid his
vra’taar
from its sheath and cast it forward through the air.  The weapon turned end over end with far deadlier accuracy than should have been possible.  Argus sensed the Veil, reeled at Dane’s unstable and tainted control. 

He only had a moment.  His shield came up just in time to deflect the sword, which careened off into the darkness with a shower of sparks.  Argus breathed in frozen air as he cast a wind about himself.  He lifted his body out of the way just as the dual blades whirled back like a boomerang and sliced inches from Argus’ face.  The weapon returned to its owner’s hand. 

Dane held an incredible amount of Veil energy at his command, much more than any Dawn Knight should have been capable of, which meant Ijanna was somehow helping him. 

He’s become Calladar, somehow.  Dane has been made Ijanna’s protector, which means she’s begun the transformation into the Blood Queen.
 
Goddess, we may be too late.

No.  So long as he held breath, Argus knew he had a chance.  Or at least he was willing to tell himself that.

Argus held his hands before his face.  Purple-black flames launched from his eyes, a flash of dismal light which seared through his opened fingers and ran down to his bracers.  Jets of cold fire launched at Dane, but the Dawn Knight, armored though he was, rolled out of the way and ducked behind the nearest column before he started running across the room.  Argus launched a second blast, and then a third, all in rapid succession, his body and mind reeling with each arctic burst. 

Flames lanced across Dane’s armor, but he kept moving, and in moments he was directly below Argus. 

The Knight leapt up, propelled by magic.  Argus twisted and narrowly avoided a swipe of the
vra’taar
that surely would have taken his head, but by doing so he lost his balance.  Everything spun.  He felt himself falling, cried out as he landed hard on his shoulder and scraped flesh from his hands.  Pain lanced across his skin, and his head smacked against the stone. 

Argus blinked, tried to get his vision back into focus.  His body felt folded in on itself, and his sense of direction was gone. 

He heard a rush of air.  Argus glanced up and saw Dane come at him, his blade descending.  Argus moved back, rolling free, and the clang of steel on stone rang through his ears.

The Veilwarden let his magic flow around him.  He tasted the cold of the grave, felt a wash of ice rush through his veins like freezing water.  Flames circled his hands, burning coronas of dripping light. 

Dane was off-balance, more injured than Argus had at first thought, for his skin was burned raw and bloody; even then he didn’t seem to be at any disadvantage, and he lurched forward and swung his blade.  Argus ducked into him, somehow avoided the razor edge as he grabbed Dane’s helmet in both hands and set it alight.  The Dawn Knight screamed.  Argus held on, drew more of the Veil and felt its cold rage fill him.  Dane’s flesh burned, so Argus drew back his fist for the killing blow.

The
vra’taar
slid into his stomach.  Argus screamed.  Pain exploded though his body, so intense he nearly seized up.  His fiery hand smashed into Dane’s chest.  Flames exploded across the Dawn Knight’s torso.

They fell to the ground, both crying out in pain.  Argus didn’t realize the blade had come free, but it had, and he rolled over and burned the wound shut without thinking about it.  The stench of his burning skin filled his nostrils and nearly made him retch.  He felt like he’d been turned inside out. 

Argus dimly saw Dane rip his helmet free and cup his smoldering face in his hands.  The Veilwarden coughed and choked and spat out a mouthful of blood. 

He found the Veil, somehow, used it to wrap himself in a cold wind and pull his body from the ground.  He shook with hurt, panicked at the notion of dying.  He felt himself going numb, and knew that wasn’t a good thing. 

The chamber seemed to be crashing in, the sound of their shouts, the blazing flames he’d cast that set the oil pool alight.  Fire and smoke licked along the columns and filled the room with smoke. 

Argus snarled and drew on the Veil as Dane struggled to his feet.  His body drained of strength as he summoned enough force to throw Dane back with a gust of wind and smash the man’s armored body against the wall. 

The Veilwarden sank to his knees.  Blood spattered from his mouth.  Something was torn inside.  Argus doubled over and fell to the floor. 

The Dawn Knight rose.  Argus wasn’t sure how, but he found the strength to stand himself, and as Dane retrieved his blade Argus let the Veil fill him like a black tide.  He held raw power at his fingertips, and readied himself to meet Dane’s attack.

Though he faced the certainty of his own death, for the first time in as long as he could remember Argus was not afraid.