The Black Tower (4 page)

Get a hold of yourself
, he told himself. 
This is where you are.  You were the one who was complaining that you were too sheltered, that you were wasting your years away in the White Fortress.  Think of where you are, and of what you can do here. 

Argus steeled himself as best he could.  One way or another, it would all be over soon.

The rest of the Black Eagles and Jar’rod joined them shortly, and the group spent some time reconnoitering central Corinth.  Argus didn’t like what he saw. 

The middle of the city was crawling with Phage.  A cancer upon the White Dragon Empire and arguably the most powerful crime cartel on Malzaria, the mercenaries had secured a perimeter around the Scarstones and the crater-shaped
cutgate
.  There were perhaps two dozen warriors carefully positioned behind fallen structures, and they had lookouts and archers on the rooftops.  The air crackled with Veil energies, and a number of the Phage were also Blood Knights. 

The door to Chul Gaerog waited, silent and cold, a deep hole as dark as night and stained with the stench of death.  Argus felt its power even from over a hundred yards away, where he and the team waited in a hollow building and peered out through broken brick walls.  The sour odor of corrupt magic scoured his nostrils.

After they’d gathered what information they needed the group retreated back to an open area east of the square.  The sounds of combat had faded – Kala’s forces had either been defeated or driven into hiding, and the Red Hand had disappeared. 

“Advice?” Argus asked the group. 

He, Slayne, Razel, Fon, Malei and the dark-skinned Den’nari dream walker Jar’rod stood in the corner of a broken tower, while Brutus and the rest of the Eagles kept watch.  A head-to-head battle with the Phage would prove difficult, given that they were outnumbered two-to-one; even the advantage of having three Veilwardens, a troll and a Skinwarper didn’t tilt those odds in their favor.

Slayne seemed to be thinking the same thing, and he said so.

“This can get messy,” he said.  “My Black Eagles are the best there are, but the Phage train their men well, and those Blood Knights won’t die easy.”

“I’d rather avoid open conflict if we can,” Argus said.  Motley faces stared back at him, half-masked in shadow.  “If there’s some way we can gain access to the
cutgate
without them knowing it...”

“That would be our best option,” Slayne said. 

Several of the others nodded their ascent. 

“Then let’s come up with a plan,” Argus said. 

“
No excuses, Chairos.  I want her dead.”

It had taken a great deal of courage for Mazrek Chairos to contact his superior, Mez’zah Chorg.  Not only had he been forced to swallow his pride, but he’d had to deal with the very real and terrifying possibility that the co-leader of the Phage would take revenge on the Veilwarden for his failure.  Chorg now knew with certainty how close Chairos had come to acquiring the Dream Witch, and the criminal overlord would do everything in her power to make sure Ijanna didn’t escape again.

Even if it kills me,
Chairos thought.

It wasn’t like he had much of a choice.  Chairos had lost over half of his men taking Corinth, and even with all of that effort Ijanna had disappeared through a
cutgate
that by all appearances was no longer open.  Dane had escaped with her, which just added salt to the wound.

I’ll kill that bastard
and
his bitch
, Chairos thought with clenched teeth.

He sat on a low stone in the courtyard of a manor overlooking the central city square.  Chairos had discarded his cloak and had his sleeves rolled up far enough that Kilarra could clean his wounds; the flesh had been scoured by the flames of a Drage Veilwarden, some ally of the mercenaries who’d taken control of the ruined city, and though Chairos had used his magic to heal his injuries he was still displeased with his Blood Knight mistress for having allowed Azander Dane to escape, and he planned to have her perform menial tasks like cleaning his injuries for as long as possible.  The actual healing had proved painful – the Veil’s touch was not gentle, and Chairos thought he’d pass out as the scorched flesh peeled back and new tissue painfully grew in. 

Two nearby Blood Knights watched the clearing and stood vigil over the Phage troops, who’d spread out so they could ambush anyone foolish enough to try and challenge them. 

Chairos stared at the black pit at the center of the clearing, which was surrounded by a ring of standing stones that rippled with black power.  Even breathing close to them hurt, but what ached even more was resisting the
cutgate’s
draw.  He wanted to go to it, to fling himself headlong into that dank gate even though he knew that at the moment it led nowhere.  Any who Touched or Breathed the Veil could easily sense that the gate connected to the bowels of Chul Gaerog, where the powerful taint of the Blood Queen’s impossible magic still waited, a limitless reservoir of energy, a bottomless well of pure magical force.

But how to reach it?

Torches lit the open clearing of upturned black soil, bodies and rubble.  The battle for Corinth had been vicious and surprisingly lengthy, and though Chairos still wasn’t sure who employed the mercenary forces he’d overcome they were clearly well-funded and powerful, and they doubtless had more forces in reserve somewhere close by.  The Red Hand were also in the city, scuttling through the ruins and causing trouble.  As elite as Chairos’ Blood Knights were, one Bloodspeaker with a battle stave was a force to be reckoned with, and a group of them was an utter nightmare.

“Enough,” Chairos growled, and Kilarra backed away, her eyes sullen behind her red iron mask, her black leather armor stained with her victim’s blood.  Her long dark hair had been pulled up in a top-knot which swayed behind her like a rope. 

He watched her hungrily.  He’d take his anger out on her in a more direct fashion later, after Chorg was done with him and when they were sure the area was safe. 

His telepathic connection to the Phage leader had gone silent – he knew she was conversing with her Veilwarden advisers and sages, trying to determine if there was a way to open the
cutgate
so Chairos could continue his pursuit.  He dismissed the Knights with a wave of his hand, stood up and started to pace.  His nerves were on edge.  The Veil’s cold and lingering touch clung to his skin like a glaze of frozen sweat.  He rubbed his eyes clear of dust and blood and stared into the sky.

The night was dark and hot, devoid of stars.  The large torches they’d set at the perimeter of the square did little to combat the shadows.  Chairos surveyed the manor.  They’d seized a good stock of supplies and dug themselves into a formidable position, but he didn’t want to take any chances.  He’d already dispatched a pair of his men to return to Kaldrak Iyres through his own
cutgate
so they could gather reinforcements, and he hoped Mez’zah Chorg would dispatch forces of her own, even if that meant putting himself deeper in her debt.  Better to be alive and to owe one of Malzaria’s most powerful criminals than to wind up in a sandy grave.

He bit his lip in frustration.  The Red Hand.  It wasn’t bad enough that this mismatched mercenary force had prevented him from capturing Ijanna, but those pretentious freedom fighters had killed a good many of his soldiers.  He’d always despised Bloodspeakers, thought of them as mongrels who practiced a weak and undisciplined means of using the Veil.  He delighted in torturing such creatures with magic, and showing them how feeble their way was compared to his more refined and cruel art.

“I may just keep you alive,” he said quietly. 

A smoky shadow rose from the ground around him like a charcoal ghost.  The air grew icy cold and smelled of something burning, and Chairos steeled himself as the projected image of Mez’zah Chorg took shape: black dust gathered into a female silhouette, featureless except for its glowing red eyes.

“I was about to tell you the same thing,”
she said, her voice distant and full with echo, like the words came from the back of his mind. 
“We’ve found the means to re-open the gate, but you’ll need assistance.  One Veilwarden cannot do it on his own.  Help is on the way, Mazrek, more than enough for you to accomplish this task.  And you
will
accomplish this task.  Fail, and you’ll live to regret it for a very, very long time.”

Chairos tried to maintain his composure.  Even the projection of Mez’zah Chorg had a forceful and intimidating presence.  Her every word dripped with malice, and she didn’t make idle threats.  One didn’t crawl their way to the top of a brutal organization like the Phage without possessing an unstoppable will and a willingness to slaughter others.  Chairos admired and respected the woman almost as much as he feared her; oddly, he felt no such respect or fear for her equal and opposite in the Phage, Cranos Thane, lord of Raithe.  Chairos knew Chorg had plans to remove the other Veilwarden from power and replace him with one of her subordinates.

And if I’m lucky, that will be me,
he thought with grim satisfaction.  Idle daydream or no, the thought of rising to such lofty ranks practically filled him with lust.

“I will not fail you,” he said.  “I have more men on the way.”

“
I’m sending fifty of my own,”
Chorg’s vaporous avatar said.  “
As well as a dozen more Blood Knights and Saera Gith.” 
Chairos suppressed his grimace.  Gith was a powerful Veilwarden but a ruthless opportunist.  Though her presence would perhaps allow him to re-open the
cutgate
and apprehend Ijanna he’d have to watch his back around that black-hearted witch.  “
Will that be sufficient for you to hold this area and capture Ijanna?”
Chorg said, her voice sullen and dark.  “
Or should we dig up a
dragon
for you, as well?”

Chairos bowed deeply.  He couldn’t supplicate himself enough, and he knew he’d missed a golden opportunity by letting Ijanna slip away.  Harrick, leader of the Phage cell in Ebonmark, had died trying to please Mez’zah Chorg, and now Chairos found himself in the same predicament. 

It’s too late now,
he thought. 
Think on what you have to gain.
  He took a breath and focused.  All his adult life he’d reached for power and influence enough to fund his addiction to Touching the Veil.  Feeling its cold caress and listening to the whispers of dead souls as they flowed across his skin was more intoxicating to him than all of the drugs and women Kaldrak Iyres had to offer. 

“I eagerly await Saera Gith’s arrival,” he said to the figure of ash and smoke.  “Thank you for your patience.”

“I have no patience, Chairos, you know that,
” Chorg’s avatar said. 
“Gith will arrive shortly.  Fail in this, and you will suffer.”

The dust settled in a wide pile, and a cloud puffed up around his feet.  Chairos stared at where Chorg’s image had stood.  He sensed his Blood Knights close by, watching for danger, watching
him
, and he felt himself shaking, which meant there was only one thing to do.

“Kilarra,” he said.  She stepped out of the shadows, her head bowed.  He normally communicated to her telepathically; addressing her out loud was his way of letting her know how displeased he was.  “I recall there being a bed inside that manor,” he said coldly.  “Go there, and wait for me.  Be undressed.”

He breathed deep, and felt himself stiffening, a sure sign his confidence was returning.  Punishing Kilarra had a way of setting him right.

Later, while he was fucking Killara from behind, their bodies glazed in sweat and her back riddled with cuts and bruises where he’d lashed and beat her while he rode her like a brood mare, he thought of Dane, and Ijanna, and how much they’d suffer before they died. 

After he’d spilled his seed inside Kilarra and held her down until she stopped moaning he kissed her shoulder, softly, tenderly.  They lay there on the bed in the darkness of the manor, holding each other, quiet and at peace.

It was a perfect day.

It had been three years since Mezias Crinn, better known as the Iron Count, had been cut down and burned by his own rebellious men.  Many things he’d once enjoyed – sunlight falling on his skin, a woman’s touch, the taste of mutton or red wine – were now lost to him, as his largely metallic body was incapable of translating those sensations into anything his mind could understand.  The only true physical pleasure he experienced came from injecting himself with specially prepared narcotics, Veilcrafted drugs which numbed him to the pain of his vile existence. 

He knew he’d gone mad some time ago, but the fact that he understood how insane he was came as something of a solace.  He understood perfectly well that the urges he felt to mutilate women’s bodies or to decorate his fortress with the rotting remains of his victims were unnatural and horrifying, but he was incapable of ignoring them.  Part of him felt ashamed by his hideous impulses, and sometimes he was revolted by some of the things he’d done.  How far he’d fallen, a once esteemed commander in the White Dragon Army reduced to a drooling metallic maniac, a diseased monster hidden away in the depths of a dark and isolated citadel. 

But being ashamed did no good.  This was what he was, and the sickening desires and drives he felt were all a part of the new paradigm of being Mezias Crinn, lord of the Black Guild and member of the Cabal.  He loathed himself, accepted those feelings, and moved on.

But this…this is a good day. 

After two years of being Kala’s lackey, Crinn’s plans were finally coming to fruition.  Things would have been better if he’d already had control of Corinth, but he and Ghul were moving soldiers through the
cutgates
by the hour, and soon an entire legion capable of crushing any opposition would surround the ruined city.  Crinn wished he was already inside Chul Gaerog, where he could watch the Dream Witch as she was bound and gagged and used just as the Blood Queen had been three decades before, but that would all happen soon enough. 

But plans in motion weren’t what made this day so wonderful: that had been the news he’d received from Jaendrel that Kala Azaean was dead.  Sadly her bitch-whore Empress of a mother would also revel in that development, but Crinn wouldn’t let that sour his good fortune.

Kala was the one member of the Cabal Crinn had truly feared, for only she and Ghul knew the secrets of his magically animated body, and she’d made it abundantly clear to him she’d use that knowledge if necessary.  He wasn’t worried about Ghul – the Voss had simple pleasures and ambitions, and he’d been bought and paid for after Crinn had been placed in charge of assembling the Cabal’s military forces.  Only Kala had kept him complacent, and now she was gone.

Crinn stood atop his bladed tower, Ironclaw Keep.  The air was freezing cold and the sky was black and raw.  A crackling circle of torches lit the periphery of the tower roof, and the wind was heavy with the scent of pitch and rot.  A full arrangement of decaying bodies had been impaled on the spines of the tower, surrounding Crinn like a grisly entourage. 

Noise rang into the sky.  From the outside, Ironclaw Keep appeared largely deserted, manned by only a handful of black-clad soldiers equipped with siege weapons and surrounded by sharpened wooden palisades, but in reality nearly a thousand troops occupied the chambers below, a host of well-trained and well-armed men who filed through the underground halls into the massive network of
cutgates
which allowed them to enter the wastes surrounding Corinth.  Word had come back from Ghul that the forces they’d already deployed had crushed any signs of civilization they’d come across; it would still be several hours before they came to Corinth itself, an unfortunate shortcoming of
cutgates
the Cabal’s Veilwardens had been unable to correct.  Crinn didn’t understand the logistics of it, didn’t understand why
cutgates
had to be placed in some areas but couldn’t be set in others, why there were only certain points even in the middle of an abandoned desert where they could deploy their men and why they had to wait a certain amount of time before activating each gate.  The Phage had stolen the city away from Kala, and some ancient Veilcraft in the area was interfering with the portals closest to the city, but the troops they’d sent through were still numerous enough that Crinn had faith they’d steal the ruins back by mid-day. 

And this is just the beginning.

Crinn smiled as he listened to his forces prepare.  His iron body was well-attuned to Veilcraft, and what scant flesh remained on his person flushed with cold whenever a new
cutgate
opened. 

Don’t forget who made this possible, Crinn.

The scracthy, annoyingly high-pitched mental whispers of Jaendrel, the Arkan, echoed through his mind.  The creature had actually had the decency to wrap its skeletal husk of a body in a thick black cloak, and the cloth fluttered in the night wind as the emaciated creature hovered close by.  The land was dark past the tower grounds, a charcoal stain of jagged black hills and dead forests.  The moon lay hidden behind a wall of cobalt clouds.

“
I thought you’d be in hiding
,” Crinn said in his powerful metallic voice.  “
Mourning the loss of your master.”

Watch your tongue, human
, Jaendrel hissed mentally. 
It may be one of the only parts of you that isn’t metal, which means it can still be removed.  Kala was no master of mine – the Arkan serve none but the Arkan. 

Crinn nodded and smiled.

“
Of course
,” he said. 
“That’s why your kind have had so much success without the aid of the Cabal.”

Jaendrel shifted around to float in the air before Crinn.

Our arrangement
, Jaendrel thought to him,
is one of convenience. 
The creature’s leering and excessive mouth was barely visible beneath the folds of its cloak.  Its head appeared stretched, which rendered its grin grotesquely tall and thin.  Cold grey eyes shone like lost coins. 
You’ve hardly been with the Cabal long enough to speak for the rest of them
, the creature continued,
while I have created many opportunities for this organization.  If anything, it is
you
who should answer to
me,
especially now that Kala is gone. 

Crinn glared at Jaendrel and ground his metal teeth.  His iron fists clenched.  He wanted so badly to crush the disgusting body to a pulp, but though he hated to admit it the hierarchy of the Cabal was still something of a mystery to him, and eliminating Jaendrel could carry severe repercussions if he acted hastily.  Like it or not, he had to endure the repugnant underworld monster a little while longer.

“
Of course
,” he said. 

That seemed to take the Arkan aback, not that it was easy to tell by its hideous and malformed face, all black and grey flesh that looked like it had been burned away and then frozen again, but after a moment of considering Crinn and doubtless feeling frustrated by the Voss technology which rendered Mezias immune to mental probing, the creature nodded.

What is your progress?
it asked.

Crinn laughed.

“
Are you blind?”
he said. 
“Our soldiers are passing through the
cutgates
now, getting within striking distance of Corinth even as we speak.  More are being sent into the Heartfang Wastes to surround the Black Tower so they can be ready to breach its halls once we’ve gained access.”

Your forces are moving too slow,
Jaendrel thought angrily. 
A host of enemies are already battling inside the city, and all of them are there for Ijanna Taivorkan.  The Phage, the Red Hand, even Jlantrians dispatched by Empress Azaean...

“Yes, yes, I
know
, Goddess damn it!”
Crinn barked.  “
For a supposedly diabolic race you Arkan tend to whine like a bunch of wetnurses.  I have Black Guild soldiers in the Bonelands bound for Corinth, and they’ll secure the city even before our other forces arrive.” 
He narrowed his eyes at Jaendrel. 
“Are you sure you can re-open the gates and make use of the Dream Witch?”

The wind grew colder.  A pulse of energy swept up from below, chilling Crinn’s metal body and momentarily rooting him to the spot.  Another
cutgate
flared to life deep underground and would remain open long enough for a hundred more soldiers to pour through, this time to some blasted ruins northeast of Corinth, half-a-day’s march from the city walls. 

Do not dare question my abilities
, Jaendrel thought coldly. 
Kala acquired much of her knowledge from
me
.  I am perfectly capable of carrying out her duties now that she’s gone.

“Yes
,” Crinn growled. 
“The question is,
will
you?”

There was no response.  Crinn smiled.  Expressionless as the Arkan were, Crinn had learned to read Jaendrel, and it was clear the creature was uncomfortable with the notion of actually entering Chul Gaerog.  Stories told of powerful traps and wards, not to mention the dark angel Calladar, another malformed creation of Vossian Veilcraft and a devotee of Vlagoth even in the wake of her death...rumor had it he’d eliminated every creature in the tower after Vlagoth died and transformed them into an army of living shadows.  If he was as powerful as Jaendrel had led Crinn to believe, dealing with Calladar would prove to be quite a challenge.

“
Well?”
Crinn pressed. 

It will be handled,
the Eidolos replied.  Crinn wanted to strangle the bastard.

“I hope so,” 
Crinn said.  “
It would be a shame for us to have come so far and sacrifice so much, only to have the ground crumble beneath our feet.”

Just do your part
, Jaendrel thought. 
Secure the city, and keep the Scarstones out of our enemies’ hands.

Jaendrel vanished, his body discorporating like dust in the black wind.  The night grew darker as the moon vanished behind a wall of clouds, and a wolf called off in the distance.

Crinn held his metal head back and breathed deep.  Soon he’d finally get the chance to kill that pathetic monster.  There were many he wanted to destroy – each would get their due attention.

He stared out through the spines of the tower and held himself over the edge.  A sense of vertigo overtook him as he leaned out into open air.  He’d loved to dangle from high places as a boy.  This didn’t feel the same, but it was close.

His own men had robbed him of his ability to feel, those traitor Dawn Knights who’d turned soft, who’d betrayed their General, hacked him to pieces and left him for the wolves.  They were all dead now, all gone...all but Azander Dane.

Every time Crinn’s phantom hand itched, every time he had the urge to lay down and sleep even though he no longer could, every time he saw a beautiful woman and remembered what it had felt like to have them...every time Crinn’s metallic prison caused him torment, he thought of Azander Dane.

After a time, Crinn returned inside.  He had preparations to make.

It was time to lead his forces to war.