The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) (21 page)

“Right,” Walter said turning away, unable to watch. He felt like he had stumbled upon some hidden part of nature, tucked away because man couldn’t handle its violence.

Screaming and the clashing of steel rang out from the wall. He darted back through the archway, seeking the source. On the western side, the boats had reached the embankment and had started raising ladders. One made it to the top before it was kicked over, Death Spawn tumbling into the depths like rocks due to their heavy armor. Not the brightest lot. They had only sent four boats, a fraction of the thousands blackening the land. Why so few?

“They’re testing our defenses,” growled Burtz, Master of the House of Arms. Some of the armsmen shuffled nervously in front of him, rotating their shoulders and tightening straps.

“What do we do now?” Walter asked, unsure of his place in the man’s hard eyes. He hadn’t met him, only heard of his brutal sessions through Juzo and Grim. Truth of it was, he felt like he should have been training under him too.

“We wait, of course. We don’t leave such a defensible position,” Burtz said.

Grimbald marched up the stairs, his regal uniform replaced with gleaming armor of the Falcon, bright ruby straps securing the pieces to his sweating arms. Corpsemaker was hanging by his side, loose in his hands, the curving edge looking deadly sharp.

“There wasn’t any sense in trying to crush the life of the weapon when you didn’t need too,” Noah, his late Sid-Ho trainer reminded him. It had been a while since that voice was there to advise him.

“Grim, you and your men hold the main gates and defend it with your life. You might not have to do anything but suck each other’s cocks, but if they get through you’ll need to press them back.”

“Consider it held,” Grimbald said, bowing low to the Master of Arms.

“There’s no need for that now, not here. When you’re my apprentice, you bow. When you command your men, we’re equals. Got it?” said Burtz, hands resting on the mace and sword on his hips.

“Yes, sir. I mean—okay.” He nodded, awkwardly stepped backwards, almost tripping on the end of a spear as he turned around. Grimbald gave them a curt wave as he marched down the stairs adjacent to the wall, shouting commands to his soldiers.

“Juzo is feeding,” Walter whispered to Nyset and Baylan.

“Good. He’ll need to be strong now,” Baylan said, scribbling away.

Nyset slowly shook her head. “Why are they here? It doesn’t make sense. They can’t get through, can they Baylan?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they can get through, but I don’t want to blind myself with my own confidence. It is a deadly blind spot for many,” he said, winking at Walter.

He thought he was doing better with that, but maybe not. It was a hard thing to change what you always were. You could always change for the better, evolve into a shinier version of yourself. The scars would always be there, but you could change.

H
ours passed
and the sun slid behind the hills, painting the sky in pinks and ambers. Walter stared out over the parapet with the others, hushed whispers spreading over the defenders as the fires raged. The few Death Spawn bold enough to make a run for the Milvorian gates were quickly picked off by raining fire, bolts and arrows. A line of bodies littered the bridge, some human, most Death Spawn, rotting in their own pools of piss and blood. The carrion birds had already moved in, picking at the remains. A mangy looking bird tore a long strip of skin from a face, then started choking on its own greed, squawking, flopping over and motionless.

The villages became a place of fire and shadow. Buildings became an endless network of fallen walls, crumbling roof lines, and stabbing crossbeams. It was a nightmare of broken cries, disembodied shapes flailing through the night. Some were lucky enough to end their misery by making it to the precipice before the water, leaping for a quick death.

The interspersed towers loomed into the dark, now gutted husks. Doors and windows screamed open and fire flicking out, blasting through and tickling at the twilight. Blackened beams tipped with fire jabbed at the flames and they stabbed back. Black ash drifted into the air, occluding the pinks of the dying sun. The village had a new set of towers, black smoke creeping over the hills, sucking up the light of fires, blotting out the hope of the stars.

Grimbald stared over the gates from down below, puffing on a pipe, his armor reflecting the bleeding sky. The Falcon soldiers were out of formation, their faces weary and leaning on spears, waiting for the nightmare to reach their door. Grimbald, sensing their foreboding, started going around to the men, laying his hands on their shoulders and giving encouraging handshakes.

Two blue-robed men were using blasts of air and fire to sweep away the remains of the Shattered Wing. Another had carried off the body of the first casualty behind the walls, the junior apprentice boy who had fell to the Cerumal’s hands. Walter hoped that would be the only casualty, but one could always have hopes, couldn’t they? Hope kept a man striving, made the path less difficult to bear. It we thought things would get better tomorrow, we could push through today’s battle.

The Arch Wizard finally came down from her spire, Tamia dutifully at her side. The torches were lit in the market square, along the main parapet, and the surrounding walls. All eyes were on her, face still beautiful even in shadow. She wasn’t wearing the silken robes she normally wore though, now she was dressed for war. Shining armor plates covered her shoulders, forearms, torso, and thighs, lined with thick, curved spikes. A scimitar with a gleaming white handle carved in the likeness of the Dragon sat on her hip. Would she actually get her hands dirty? That was yet to be seen.

The Arch Wizard strode to the middle of the square, Dragon fire illuminating her eyes. A waste of energy, Walter thought. A show of strength would be good for the men though, hopefully it was enough to wash away the stain of her earlier absence. Whispers spread through the defenders, dying down as it became clear she was preparing for a speech.

“You have done well with defending the Tower today. Do not fear, for our walls will not break.” She said, holding her hands behind her back, and starting to pace across the wide street. “You must know that what you fight today are not men, but Death Spawn from the legends.”

“No such thing!” an armsman shouted.

“Yes, they are real!” she shouted back. “The Seal of The Age of Dawn has broken. The demon god, Asebor, has returned. You may have heard about it as a child. We have withstood his scourge before and will not bend today.”

Soldiers and wizards exchanged uncertain glances, swallowing, some hands trembling and gripping weapons to make it stop. “We have crushed Asebor once before and we will do it again. You are the best trained women and men in all the realms, the most deadly with the Dragon and Phoenix.”

Some straightened up, fist clenching and nodding around Walter. “This is fucked,” an armsman said beside Walter.

“Listen,” he hissed back.

“Kill without mercy,” the Arch Wizard continued. “Do not give quarter to these beasts. There will be no prisoners. If you don’t… they will take everything that is dear to you! Your children, your lives, your souls all banished from the Shadow Realm. No rest, no peace.”

“No quarter!” Burtz bellowed, raising his spiked mace into the dark.

“No mercy!” screamed a woman, a curving sword of fire glowing in her hand.

“There is a good reason why I waited so long to come to you. There was something I had to be sure of, something I had to think about. There is an apprentice who stands among you, one truly gifted,” she said, her eyes finding his, staring at him unwavering.

Walter didn’t like where this was going one bit. His stomach squirmed under her gaze, bile singing up to his throat, palms tingling with sweat. Nyset squeezed his hand. “Dragons. How could she know?” she whispered. The wizards and armsmen around him, turned to face him, eyes narrowing.

“This man, Walter Glade of Breden touches both of the god’s essences. Both the strength of the Phoenix and the Dragon reside in his soul. Do not fear, for he has the strength to slay the demon god. You have a hero of the ages in your presence, standing with you against the demons. Do not let him die.”

How had she found out? It had to have been Stormcaller on his arm. He was a fool to wear the bracer to her office. Tamia stood behind her. He expected her to be snarling at him, but she was oddly relaxed, her thin lips forming the start of a smile. She tilted her head to the side, nodding with satisfaction. There was something about her newly discovered expression he found deeply unsettling.

“A dual-wielder!” Master Grozul shouted, beard vibrating. “It makes sense,” Walter heard him mutter.

“I didn’t have anything to do with this,” Baylan said, shaking his head.

As he had suspected, it would only be a matter of time, though he hadn’t guessed it would quite go like this. Walter swallowed hard, and men inched away from him like be might explode into a fiery rage at any moment.

Bezda’s white sword hissed from its scabbard. “We will triumph once again!” she roared.

Everyone but Walter and his friends joined in her war cry, roaring and screaming. Walter nodded at the far too many sets of eyes on him, his cheeks flushing. How many would be conspiring to put a knife in his back now?

T
he sun crept
along the skyline, almost surprising Walter to see it. He wondered if it too wanted to hide from the horrors that its light would reveal.

“The evening was uneventful,” a high pitched voice said to another near him, a woman’s voice maybe.

Walter might have agreed, if not for the thousands being slaughtered beyond the Tower’s bridge. He rubbed the black crust that had formed in the corners of his red-rimmed eyes. Sleep was a distant luxury for him as he listened to the wails of the dying carrying across the river.

Here they stood in the arms of safety while so many were being slaughtered. They should have done something. Anything but stand here, but you couldn’t change the past and it was already done. Besides, he knew deep down that he would be more useful here than throwing himself into the bear’s den for a quick death. This was one of the many horrors of war he had read about. There would be sacrifices. The deaths of the innocent. The harmless.

Everywhere behind the wall, now, there was a sort of fear. He could see it in each hard, ghastly face. In their words and movements. It hung in the air like the moments before a storm broke. Like a field of dry elixir plants, ready to sprout fire at the first spark.

He watched the village burn all night, a blackened wreck of crumbled stone and glowing embers. Smoke tendrils wound into the air like an octopus, dissipating into a black cloud. The horde of Death Spawn lined up along the precipice before the bridge, gibbering, screeching, and occasionally killing each other. Walter thought he could see a pair of them ripping a screaming man apart, tearing his limbs off one by one in sick pleasure. They unceremoniously tossed the defiled body off the cliff, rolling end over end like a doll down to the bottom, its head shattering like a tomato on the jagged rocks.

“Fuckers!” someone shouted.

“Why won’t they come?” asked Juzo, leaning against the wall, his bastard sword draped across his back.

“They’re waiting for something. For what, I cannot answer,” Baylan said, crossing his arms and staring out.

“What is that?” Nyset asked.

Someone was working their way towards the bridge, a figure in head to toe armor, waving a white flag. He walked slowly, taking staggering steps, one hand seemed to have been replaced by a curved blade, gleaming in the early light, dragging behind with its weight. The figure’s boots scraped on the blue stone as he drew closer to the gate and Walter could see he had left a trail of blood in his wake, seeming to be dripping from the cracks in its armor.

“A white flag. They’re giving up now, are they?” Walter said, one corner of his mouth rising, curiosity certainly piqued.

“An obvious trap,” Juzo said, echoing Walter’s sentiment.

Bezda strode around the parapet, pacing from side to side as the figure approached, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. She stood with her back rigid, chin raised high, the very picture of a leader forged in iron. Bows drew back and eyes glowed, leveling on the creature as he came into range.

“Stop.” Bezda roared over the wall. The creature halted, stumbled into a thick baluster on the bridge, almost tipping over the edge from the weight of its oversized blade on its arm. Blood started pooling around its feet as it righted itself.

“What are you and what do you want?”

“I am an emissary. I have come to speak about a peace agreement,” the voice said, harsh like gravel. Some of the guards laughed, but the Arch Wizard wasn’t smiling.

“Very well, open the gates,” she commanded.

“She can’t be serious,” Walter said, watching her march down the stairs alongside the wall. Murmurs rolled over the crowd as the massive bar sealing the gate was lifted by six well-muscled armsmen.

“Maybe she knows something we don’t,” Nyset suggested. Walter was tempted to launch a rebuttal, but since holding his tongue seemed to be working out well for him, he didn’t want to break the trend.

The gates softly groaned as they were pulled apart by heavy ropes on pulleys, ivory colored steel gaping open in the middle, leaving just enough room for the shambling monster to step through. He lumbered his way in, smearing red on the stark white gate.

Grimbald, leading the Falcon near the gates surrounded Bezda as she reached the ground level, forming a circle of gleaming blades around her. She waved them away, standing a few paces away from the beast. They shifted back, but not by much.

“What do you propose then?” she asked, her voice echoing up the walls. All was still, everyone hanging on her words. A man sniffed somewhere and another coughed, retched up some phlegm and spat on the creature. A line of yellowy-green mucus dripped from its pauldron and onto its blade.

The monster stared around, nothing but balled up flesh under its bleeding face. Its black eyes washed over Walter, briefly meeting his, and his shoulders tightening under its horrific gaze.

“Alena, the ruler of the south, the one true god Asebor’s right hand, the one who makes men weep in their graves, sent me with this message,” the resurrected body of Darkthorne said.

Someone growled in the distance, like a wolf pulling flesh from a carcass. Walter realized it was Grimbald, his grip white around Corpsemaker.

“Open your gates. Drop your weapons. Release the false god’s powers. Surrender and your death will be quick,” Darkthorne said, his voice booming through the walls.

As he spoke, Bezda’s lips became a lethal smile, her eyes glowering.

“If you do not,” Darkthorne continued. “You will be flayed, eyes gouged, tongues torn free, cocks ripped off and stuffed into your broken mouths—”

The Arch Wizard’s sword hissed through the air, a white arc passing through Darkthorne’s neck as if it were but a stalk of wheat. His head rolled across the way, stopped on an Armsman’s spear butt. Blood gurgled from his neck, his body limp and falling onto its knees

“The Silver Tower! Does! Not! Surrender!” she shrieked, a line of blood spattered across her face and hair. She took a heaving breath, staring down at the beheaded body. Her arms were locked in the position of her follow through, the curving tip of her blade dripping with scarlet.

Bezda bent over, snatching Darkthorne’s head from the ground, marching to the top of the parapet.

“She’s amazing!” Nyset whispered into his ear.

Walter nodded with enthusiastic agreement. “Get ready. I think things are about to get ugly.”

She passed by the group, mania in her eyes, and thrust the head out towards the Death Spawn army. Her hands burst alight with fire, igniting the head, its flesh sputtering like frying bacon.

“I’ll give you peace!” she roared. She pushed with both hands and the head vaulted into the air, hissing, and casting a wide arc before exploding in a hail of fire into the Death Spawn. A few danced about, tiny figures burning on the cliff, some tumbling to their deaths.

A great roar came from the black shapes, like a storm tearing in from the Abyssal Sea and down the Denerian Cliffs. Bezda shrieked back, eyes glowing with Dragon fire. Walter’s chest vibrated with his own screams, resonating with the deafening roars piling in all around. Juzo held his massive blade into the air with one hand. Nyset’s whirling discs sprung to life, shimmering and ready for blood. Baylan raised both of his arms, robes fluttering in the still air. Grimbald beat Corpsemaker on his chest far below, leading his men to do the same.

The Death Spawn spilled like black slime over the bridge. At the front were two pointed battering rams working their way to the Tower’s gates. Behind those were endless sets of siege ladders being carried along. Out of the black, four Shattered Wings rose, screeching death and weighted down with clinging soldiers.

“Fire at will!” Bezda shouted. “This is your home! We are the protectors of the realms. We do not die!”

Fireballs, flaming arrows, and burning spears pelted the air with their red and orange trails. The Shattered Wings easily avoided the attacks at this distance, dodging with ear-piercing shrieks. About half way across the bridge and high in the air, they folded their wings against their backs, diving like arrows, their mouths gaping open.

Something boomed in the distance. Walter saw the arm of a catapult swing up above the fumbling throng. The rock rose, then grew larger and larger, rolling over and seeming to move too slow, as if sinking in honey.

A faint ringing settled in his ears, a feeling of nightmare made reality. He stared up at the rock, jaw hanging open, same as the other defenders. A feeling of horrible inevitability crept along the parapet. He couldn’t tell where the stone was going to fall, but had enough sense to conjure a Phoenix shield big enough to protect him and his friends. Men scattered, dropping clattering weapons, squawking and yelling. The Shattered Wings were coming in behind the rock, screeching.

Walter remained, staring up the black shape tumbling through the blue sky. Will it crush me? Thousands of pounds of rock, about to turn his body into soup. It would be a poor way to die. He felt his lips pull into a sadistic smile. There was a deafening boom as the rock crashed into a spire behind him, decapitating an armsman on the way, and tearing a wide hole through the side of the stone column rising into the sky. Splinters and bits of stone rained down, pattering on the wall. The unfortunate headless soldier stumbled forward a step, knees weakening, toppling backwards off the wall.

“I have the shield, Walter, kill them!” Baylan roared into his ear, overriding the ringing. Walter dropped the Phoenix shield and Baylan conjured his own. Walter nodded to Nyset, who nodded back. Juzo clutched the bastard sword in both hands, mouth snarling, red eye gleaming.

Nyset thrust her arms forward, discs hissing and crisscrossing mid-flight. They intersected with one of the flying bastards, severing through its opening wings and one of its long arms. It smashed into the gates below, Cerumal tumbling from its body and flailing in the air as they fell into the rushing water.

Walter reveled in the Dragon’s fury and the calming focus the Phoenix brought, savoring their combined forces. His eyes glowed with red brilliance and surrounded his body in a white glow. A torrent of fire blasted from his fingertips, ten fireballs whizzing towards a Shattered Wing. Three struck true, one blasting a burning hole through the center of its head, another its chest, and a third passing through a wing. The beast did somersaults in the air, limbs and wings opening lifelessly and crashing onto the bridge, then rolling into the water, Cerumal screeching as they plummeted.

There was another crash, rattling the wall underfoot as another rock struck the parapet at the end. Fragments and stones showered into the air, sending stones the size of heads into the market square and onto the bridge.

“They’re coming!” Juzo roared at the top of his lungs. Walter looked down, the mass of black wasn’t the typical Death Spawn he was used to seeing. Most of these were skeletons, walking corpses, some with bits of flesh still attached. One had maggots dangling from an eye socket. Another looked like it was recently dead, a water logged corpse.

The remaining two Shattered Wings swooped overhead, dropping Cerumal, Black Wynches, and Skin Flayers onto the defenders. They screamed as they rose back into the air, impossibly fast, buffeting winds in their wake. A few Cerumal dropped onto the wall, one nearby grabbing a terrified apprentice around the throat and cutting her neck wide open. She gurgled blood and sagged over the wall like her bones had turned to dirt.

Walter ran to the snarling beast, its face with the nose of a hog and skin white as a corpse. Walter grunted, catching its bloody dagger hand overhead with his forearm, conjuring a dagger of fire in his other, stabbing the knife into the beast’s body. Once, twice, three, four times. Brutal underhanded thrusts that lifted the Cerumal off of its feet, passing through its armor with ease. Blood burned and poured from the holes in its torso, warm and sticky on his hands. Walter grabbed its head in both arms, twisting his body and hauling it over the wall. Something slammed against his leg, filling it with white pain. A block of stone lay beside it, dust filling the air, as his knee snapped off to the side. The healing warmth of the Phoenix filled his leg, righting his bones back into position.

“Walt, your leg,” Nyset gasped, heaving fire at the airborne attackers.

“It’s fine,” he groaned.

A Shattered Wing swept low, snatching an Armsman with its bulky arms and flapping into the air. The beast let him go, screaming with futility, arms and legs flailing, halberd still clutched as he bounced onto the bridge with a clanging of armor on stone. He crawled towards the gate, legs twisted in the wrong direction. The approaching horde enveloped the man, crushing him underfoot.

“Shit!” Juzo said beside him. “Did you see that?” Juzo drove his bastard sword through a Black Wynch who was carving up an old wizard with its terrible claws. The man cowered against the back wall, his robes shredded and blood leaking through. Juzo lifted the Black Wynch off the cobbles, skewered it like Shroomlings and onions, its talons whipping back. Incredibly, he held the sword with one hand and booted the raging Death Spawn from the end of his blade onto the snarling horde below. Baylan dropped beside the man, casting the old wizard in the healing light of the Phoenix.

Walter realized that this was the first time most of them had ever seen Death Spawn. It was one thing to see a few of them for your first time, another entirely seeing thousands for your first time.

“Do not fear! They die just as we do!” he roared. Some of them nodded, seeming to stiffen with resolve.

Walter limped to the edge of the parapet and peered out. The catapult’s arm roared through the distant charring and smoke. The distance was off, and it flew high overhead. Walter cringed, following the massive rock with his eyes. It blew a great chunk of stone out of the spire leading up to the House of the Phoenix, ringing and shattering stone, fragments raining down into the gardens.