The Black Tower (6 page)

“Do we know their numbers?” Syke asked.

“Three hundred and counting,” Blackhall said.  “Lucky for us they’re being deployed in unfavorable terrain, the quicksand flats near the edges of some fairly deep valleys.  It will take them a bit longer to reach their destination.”

“And that?” Syke asked, pointing at a single black marker far to the south, buried deep in the Black Hills.

Gess snickered.  “The Count’s citadel,” the Veilwarden answered.  “He’s taken Ironclaw Keep.”

Syke looked at Blackhall questioningly, and the Colonel nodded.

“Yes,” he said.  “The same Ironclaw Keep once used as a training facility by the Dawn Knights.” 

The renegade Dawn Knights had always thought themselves superior to the rest of the White Dragon army, and Mezias Crinn, their commander and one of the most highly decorated Generals in the Empire, had the facility specially constructed to suit his brutal militaristic mindset.  It was of little wonder the Dawn Knights had all gone insane and slaughtered hundreds of captured Bloodspeakers in the mountains. 

Syke watched the map carefully, tapping his fingers and speaking softly to himself.  His eyes sparkled with intelligence, which seemed to be in direct counter to his rough and barbaric appearance. 

“Can I offer a suggestion?” he asked.

“Of course,” Blackhall said.

“If we can, we should intercept the Count’s forces there in the Bonelands rather than try to beat them to the city.  It sounds like we may have a numeric advantage, and if we can meet them in open battle I’m sure our men’s training will help us overcome a bunch of hired mercenaries and street thugs.  We can keep them from even reaching Corinth.”

Blackhall rubbed his chin and nodded.  It wasn’t exactly a sound strategy – if there was any chance they could secure the city it would be much safer to fight their enemy from behind its protective walls.  That being said, with surprise on their side there was a good chance they could position their forces and take the Count’s mercenaries in a pincer maneuver and outflank them. 

“That sounds like a good idea,” Gess said, as if reading Blackhall’s thoughts.  “Here’s a better one: what about taking Ironclaw Keep?”  The look Blackhall gave him obviously signaled his thoughts about
that
idea, and Gess raised his one good hand.  “Just a thought.  If we eliminate the threat at the source...”

“Ironclaw Keep no longer stands in Jlantrian territory,” Blackhall pointed out.  “The entire Black Hills region was annexed back to Den’nar as part of the Treaty of Black Fork.  We received trade control of the River Grey, they got the Black Hills…a learned man such as yourself would surely know this,” he said acidly to Gess.  Gess put his hand up in mock surrender.  “To take Ironclaw Keep would mean walking into the Empire of Den’nar, and I don’t think that’s a good idea, given our less than joyous relations.”  He looked at each of them in turn.  “We’d need Karthas’ authority, and he’d need the blessing of Empress Azaean.”

They both watched him like he’d told them to stand in the ocean. 

“Sir,” Syke said brusquely, “I’m sure General Karthas would approve, especially considering what a mess the Den’nari are in right now.  Emperor Krag couldn’t find his ass with both hands...it’s unlikely they’d even know we were there.”

“I understand that, Major,” Blackhall said, “but making that assumption could be dangerous, and I don’t want to give Den’nar any excuse, however slim, to start trouble with Jlantria.”

“I think it’s a mistake
not
to jump at this opportunity,” Gess said.  “We can easily realign the
cutgates
...”

“No,” Blackhall said.  “This is a military operation, Toran, and unless I receive a contrary order we’re doing it my way.  We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”  He looked at Syke.  “Prepare your men.  We need to leave as soon as possible.”

Blackhall left the tent without another word and started back towards the city.  The sky grew dark with storm clouds, and the dull rumble of thunder shook the ground.  He sensed Gess on his heels, moving double-time to keep pace with Blackhall. 

Ebonmark’s citizens were doing their best to carry on with their morning in spite of the presence of so many soldiers just outside the walls, and the air was alive with the sounds of the market and the passage of wagons and men on their way to work.  Every soldier he saw saluted him, their young faces eager and ignorant as to the atrocities awaiting them.  He wished he had some way to warn them, but no words could adequately describe the horrors of mass combat.  He’d spent years as a foot soldier at the Skull of the World, battling scores of Tuscars in the bitter cold, waiting in trenches and freezing in the winter chill, spilling blood that dried black on ground like putrid sludge, suffering chillbains and hallucinating between battles, lying in wait, watching the night fires, praying the Veilwardens would just burn the hordes away or that the trolls would be deployed so they could all finally go home.  He’d never intended to stay in the White Dragon Army, not after those nightmares, but he’d wound up making it his life in spite of himself.

The only reason I’m still in is because I don’t know how to do anything else. 

They passed through the city gates and entered the outer residential districts, where the hard rains had turned the ground to mud.  Dogs and children made black by grime ran to and fro, dodging in and out of the crowds of soldiers and barely avoiding the wagons bound for market.  The houses near the road were similarly caked in mud, and a nearby avenue circled round a marble fountain that had been cracked and drained of its water years ago.  The shops were open, and the streets were busy.

“Blackhall,” Gess said.  “Not to ask a ridiculous question, but...”

“But why am I so concerned with Karthas’ approval all of the sudden?” Blackhall countered.

“Good guess,” Gess said with a nod.  “Not two weeks ago you were doing everything you could to go behind his back.”

“The game has changed,” Blackhall said as they passed an apple vendor.  Gess forked over a copper for a massive golden fruit slick with morning dew.  “Karthas’ specialty is war.  It’s all he’s ever known, all he’s ever loved.  He wanted to start one right here in Ebonmark, and I couldn’t abide that.  I took that war away from him.”  He stopped and faced Gess.  “I need to grant him this one, and let him do things
his
way.”  Gess watched him, probably ascertaining how crazy he was, but after a moment the Veilwarden nodded.  Blackhall turned and got back on course.  There was a sausage vendor at the edge of Harp Street whose food was absolutely fabulous, and he intended to get some smoked links before they had to depart.  “I was also serious about not starting any trouble with Den’nar.  I’m on a short leash with Karthas as it is; finding that damn amulet bought me some favor, and that’s the only reason he hasn’t already found a reason to deploy me back to the Skull of the World.”

Gess walked with him without commenting, which Blackhall felt certain was a first.  They passed the fountain.  A small horde of children chased chickens and tried to snag them in burlap sacks; when they were outmaneuvered by the poultry they turned on one another and shoved bags over their playmate’s heads.  Dawn’s light spilled over Clock Street, drowning the hard-packed lane with red and gold light.  Doors opened, and people emerged to assemble near the gates and watch the occupying Jlantrian forces set off for battle.  Blackhall wondered how many of them secretly wished the White Dragon Army wouldn’t come back.  They’d saved the city, but most of those people didn’t know that, and even if they did they likely blamed the Jlantrians for Ebonmark having been placed in danger in the first place.

He and Gess passed bakers and butchers, and they stopped just long enough for Blackhall to buy two links of sausage.  They were greasy and delicious, and the hot juices stained his face as he ate them.  He and the Veilwarden eventually reached the tower, a black edifice of solid stone which stood at the center of Ebonmark.  Blades of sunlight warmed his skin.  The largest building which abutted the square belonged to the Soapmaker’s Guild, and the scent of lye, rose and hyacinth made the air thick and sweet. 

They were nearly to the tower when Gess put a hand on Blackhall’s shoulder.

“I think you should reconsider,” he said.

“Reconsider what?”

“Not marching on Ironclaw Keep.” Gess said.  “I’m about to communicate with Mace and Garrick back in Ral Tanneth, and once I do we’ll be ready to use the
cutgates
within the hour.”

“I told you,” Blackhall said firmly, “we’re not doing that, not without Karthas’ approval.  We have our orders, and we’re going to follow them.”  He turned to go inside, but Gess stood there at the base of the tower, watching him.

“What’s this really about, Aaric?” he said. 

Blackhall looked around.  A few soldiers passed by, but none were foolish enough to stop and listen in on a conversation between the Grand Marshall of the city and his Veilwarden adviser.  He closed the gap between he and Gess in a few steps and fixed Toran with a stare.

“You know damn well what this is about,” he said.  “It’s about following orders so I don’t get any more men killed.”

“Aaric...” Gess said.  “We did what had to be done.”

“Maybe,” he said.  “Maybe not.  Either way, I still hear those men’s screams in my sleep.”

“And you think
not
acting now will make them come back?” Gess said quietly, not breaking from Blackhall’s gaze.  “We can cut the head off the snake, Aaric, but only if we strike fast.”

“The Count’s forces are already deploying,” Blackhall said.  “We can’t just leave Argus and the others out there alone.”  He ground his teeth in frustration.  He wanted to smack Gess upside his head, largely because he thought the Veilwarden was right – if they could somehow eliminate the Iron Count, the larger threat would be quelled, but to mount an attack on Ironclaw Keep with insufficient forces was suicide, and without the Army to back him Argus and his men would be as good as dead.  “I listened to you once,” he told Gess.  “And I’m still having nightmares because of it.  Don’t push me to do something else I’ll regret.”

He turned to go inside.  He reached the door when Gess spoke again.

“Sacrifices have to be made sometimes,” he said.  “There’s a greater danger waiting at Ironclaw Keep than you know, Aaric.  We would be doing the world a favor by ridding it of the Iron Count.”

“And what about Argus?” he asked.  “Should we ignore his call for help?  I thought he was your friend.”

“Argus would understand,” Gess said.  He watched Blackhall for a moment, and sighed.  “You do what you need to do, Aaric.  But do me one favor.”

“What’s that?”

Gess spoke low.  “Don’t pretend like I manipulated you into poisoning those men.  You make your decision, and you live with it.  Just like the last time.”

Gess turned and walked away.  Blackhall watched him, and bit down in frustration.  Was he right?  Was a strike on Ironclaw Keep the right decision?  Was his fear of making another mistake leading him the wrong way?

No.  The fate of the Empire rested in Argus’ hands, and his success was the only way to ensure everyone’s safety.  They had to get to him, had to keep the Count’s forces off his back.  It was the only right decision.

Then why are you shaking?

He thought of Cassandra and Malachai.  He missed them more than ever.

Vellexa dreamed of fire.  She woke thinking about her son Kyver, and wondered if he was safe.

There was little life in the Bonelands aside from their band of Black Guild mercenaries and Tuscars.  They ran across a wolf or a scrubhawk now and again, as well as the ubiquitous Razorcats and the occasional distant rumble of a Runefiend.  Cronak made short work of any game – every time her stoic and frightfully wolfen companion returned from scouting ahead he always had something freshly dead slung over his shoulders, usually a desert antelope or some sort of malformed vole.

He was growing more distant, colder.  Cronak rarely spoke unless she prompted him with a question, and when he did volunteer words on his own they were almost invariably about the pain and suffering he intended to rain down upon their enemies.  Her old friend was becoming more like she remembered him, violent and sullen, the way he’d been before he’d been re-born as a half-wolf monster.  For a time he’d been like a child, fascinated by the world and everything in it, fiercely protective but oddly brotherly.  She’d enjoyed that new Cronak, and she missed him already.

Not that there was any place for sentiment out there in the blasted wastes at the edge of the world.  Whenever they weren’t on the march her men sparred and trained relentlessly.  They’d been traveling for days, and the stark and unending desert made it seem as if they could keep on walking for years.

Wine-dark skies hung low over the ebon sands.  The land was so black it was like walking through spilled ink.  Vellexa’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and on the rare occasion when the sun shone through the clouds the world seemed blinding. 

They only had a few mounts, but the Black Guild men frequently offered Vellexa their horses, and though she didn’t care for the special treatment she appreciated the time spent off her feet.  The horses were savage creatures, war beasts purchased on the black market, specially bred for combat and trained to kick in heads or trample fallen foes to death.  They were a far cry preferable to the
drad’mont
, the Tuscar’s horned reptilian beasts, monsters with grey skin and bulging muscles, vaguely boar-like in their stance but with heads resembling those of prehistoric armored turtles.  The Tuscars rode three or four to a
drad’mont
through use of leather cords and strange black saddles, though many of the warriors simply ran or jogged across the Bonelands, somehow keeping pace even while on foot.  Vellexa knew how capable they were – the Guild had employed Tuscars for years, and she’d personally seen them fight or run for hours without rest and still be ready for more – but out there in the Bonelands the drive they possessed seemed almost supernatural. 

The air was hot and stale.  She sensed Cronak’s bloodthirsty longing, the werewolf taint that had soiled his blood and transformed him into something even less human than he’d been before.  She echoed his feelings.  She couldn’t decide who she’d kill first if given the choice, Azander Dane or Marros Slayne.  It would be a difficult decision. 

The trek across the wastes of Gallador was far from easy.  They passed through impenetrable mist and fog, navigated treacherous banks and twisted stone spires.  The Tuscars were silent through all of it save for the battle cries they issued when the opportunity for slaughter presented itself.  On occasion Fan’skar informed her of a change in route or a danger his scouts spied, or else he’d ask her some inane question about human eating habits or mating rituals.  The human mercenaries were louder, and sometimes complained about the lack of light or the length of the trip, but at no time did Vellexa sense that Rutjack and his men were discontent with her or the situation – they were just itching for a fight.  Like Cronak they sought some sort of release for their pent-up aggressions, and skirmishes with desert beasts wasn’t going to cut it.

Vellexa moved in a haze whether she was mounted or on foot.  Sweat  slicked her skin, and her eyes were heavy from the heat.  Her cloak rippled behind her in the desert wind.  She clenched her fists, itched to draw on her Veil energies and lash out.

Soon
, she promised herself.

“We will kill them all,” Cronak said as if he’d read her mind.  Maybe he had – she really wasn’t sure what he was capable of.  She nodded.  In her mind’s eye she saw Dane, his entrails dangling from his torn stomach, used like thin ropes to bind him to a wooden pole.  She saw Slayne, hands hammered to a wall and blood running from his mouth, skin doused in oil so she could set him on fire. 

She thought of Kyver from time to time, but her memories of him grew more vague by the day.  She was doing this all for him, this trek into a cold and dry hell, but it was becoming more and more difficult for her to think about anything except killing those who’d wronged her. 

And then, the city.  It was bleak and desolate, a line of walls like broken teeth on the horizon.  Fire smoke rose from the core of the ruins and filled the sky, red and grey and burning with dark magic.  Bodies littered the landscape, and the stench of death was strong.  Soon they stood before the ruins of Corinth, dwarfed by its cracked parapets.

Tuscars dismounted and drew their
shek’taars. 
They advanced on the main gates, where they circled like a pack of hungry jackals.  Fan’skar barked orders, as did Rutjack.  Arrows and bolts were exchanged, equipment was taken from the horses, men drew blades and readied for the assault.  They were nearly fifty strong – she just hoped it was enough.

“He’s here,” Cronak said.  “Slayne is here.”

“And Dane?” Vellexa asked him.

Cronak stiffened. 

“I can’t sense him,” he said.

“Not to worry,” Vellexa said.  “I have a feeling we’ll see him soon.” 

She took a deep breath and followed her warriors into the ruins.