by Layton Green
“Though anyone can use the portal,” Lord Alistair continued, “only a spirit mage can successfully protect against an attack while inside. You’re not trained for this, of course, but I hope that one day you will be.”
Val could feel the envy radiating from Braden.
“This is an unusual situation, as I am going myself, and our contact has no knowledge of our arrival. Too long have they dabbled in our affairs without fear of repercussion. First the acolyte murders, and now this. An impression needs to be made, a message sent.”
Val finally read the name engraved at the foot of the portal next to Lord Alistair. Neither a country nor a kingdom like the others, but instead the home of a legendary group of assassins, the name caused a shudder of fear to roll through him.
“It is time,” Lord Alistair said, “to call upon the Grandfather of Alazashin Mountain.”
-5-
“Want to tell me where we’re going?” the Brewer asked, as he and Caleb rode south along the Barrier Coast.
“Nope,” Caleb replied without emotion, focusing on the steady rocking of his mare.
Though his back ached and his thighs kept cramping, the physical pain helped numb the dull roar that filled Caleb’s mind, unrelenting since he had buried Marguerite and Luca’s charred remains.
“Seeing as we’ve been gone almost a day and you haven’t so much as said hello, told me our destination, or mentioned anything at all about why you dragged me out of bed, I think I’m entitled to a little repartee.” The Brewer rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m also starving, the horses need rest, and my back feels like a team of delvers are pounding it into mush.”
They were riding through a valley full of wildflowers and knee-high grass. A canopy of twisting oaks defined the forest on their left, a rhythmic series of waves pounded the shoreline.
“Why did you come with me?” Caleb asked.
The Brewer was quiet for a moment. “Because I had a dream, too.”
“You and me, the journey, a tower on the coast?”
He gave a single, grim nod.
“Was that it?” Caleb asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Was there more to the dream? Did you see a battlefield with New Victoria in the background?”
The older man looked confused. “No. Just the tower.”
Caleb did not have to search his memory to recall the dream. The entire jumbled sequence was still vivid in his mind, a living thing that had not dissipated with the morning light.
A freestanding cylindrical tower, slender and crumbling.
Ancient as the pyramids.
White as sun-bleached bone.
Caleb inside the tower, climbing a spiral staircase that never seemed to end, strange beasts carved into the walls in bas-relief, a feeling that time had no meaning, the floor disintegrating, and a mace with a diamond-shaped head floating in the darkness.
And then the part that had shaken him to his core and caused him to jump out of bed soaked in sweat.
A battlefield on the outskirts of New Victoria, a slaughterhouse of bodies and fallen trees, the city on fire in the background. Caleb strode at the head of one army, wearing his black cloak and holding the diamond-headed mace he had seen atop the tower, the Coffer of Devla carried by porters on a carved wooden stand beside him. High above the other army, Lord Alistair hovered with an imperious gaze, black lightning sizzling up and down his arms.
Despite the smoking buildings, Caleb’s army was not faring well. Scores of wizards lined the rails of airships drifting behind the Chief Thaumaturge. On the ground, the Protectorate Army was a swarm of iron locusts standing between the battlefield and the city. The armies clashed and the dream muddled the images, as dreams do. Then it skipped forward, and somehow Caleb was clashing with his nemesis alone in the middle of the sky. The Coffer opened, the sky pulsed, and bodies fell like hail. A furtive shape closed the Coffer, and the Congregation mages rained fire and destruction on the forces gathered beneath them. As the wizards slaughtered Caleb’s army, he surged towards Lord Alistair with the diamond mace in hand, revenge and bloodlust thrumming in his bones. Lord Alistair smiled and held out a palm. Black lightning issued forth, the dark energy swarmed over Caleb—
And the dream ended.
Recalling it had caused Caleb to break out into a cold sweat and start breathing heavily atop the horse. Could the mace he glimpsed in the tower pierce magical defenses, like Will’s sword could do? Had he made a mistake in the dream by leaving the Coffer unattended?
What did it all mean? Was any of it real?
He also had the sense he could still affect the outcome of the dream—except there was no chance of victory without the Coffer at his side and the mace in his hands.
He had to have them.
If Will failed to recover the Coffer, then Caleb would go after that, too. But for now, for whatever reason, the dream had shown him the path to the mace.
I need to stop calling it a dream, Caleb thought with a grimace. Dreams were not real enough to compel him to act so rashly, not even in his present state. What he had seen the night before was as real as the flesh on his bones and the grief in his heart.
What he had seen was a vision.
He eyed the beauty of the descending sun, a tangerine plunging into an inkwell. In his vision, waves had crashed against a rocky shore beneath a tower that rose high above the Barrier Coast. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was the Barrier Coast, except he and the Brewer had ridden south out of Freetown, just as they were now.
Later that night, when they finally stopped at the base of a sand dune covered in scrub grass, Caleb helped the Brewer with the horses and then collapsed on his back. Before they left Freetown, the wise older man had the presence of mind to pack two sleeping rolls and a few days’ rations. With the movements of an automaton, Caleb accepted a water skin and a stick of dried beef.
The Brewer was sitting cross-legged, his linen sleeping roll spread atop the sand. Caleb laced his hands behind his head and stared at the stars, remembering how much Marguerite had loved to sleep beneath them, and how Luca had snuggled between them. The electromancer’s lightning bolt might as well have cut through Caleb as well, because he felt hollowed out inside, seared and cauterized.
“I miss them, too,” the Brewer said quietly. When he still didn’t get a response, he said, “What do you think the dream means? Since it’s the only thing you’ll talk about.”
“I have no idea. I just know I have to go.”
“Have you ever seen it before? The Tower of Elarion?”
Caleb sat up as if given a shot of adrenaline. “You know what it’s called?”
“What do you mean?” the Brewer said. “I’m following you, aren’t I?”
“In the dream, we were traveling south. I’m just going along with it.”
The Brewer stared at him, then rasped a chuckle. “I assumed you’d heard the legend and knew where you were going.”
“What legend?”
“That the tower is haunted. They say it’s been here, watching over the Barrier Coast, for as long as anyone can remember. Not even the nomad tribes from the southern desert know its origin. According to their lore, a cleric-mage named Elarion once lived inside, before the Roma arrived. Most think Elarion himself is a myth, though someone built the tower.”
“A cleric-mage?”
The Brewer nodded. “That’s probably a legend, too. The Roma aren’t short on faith or stories.”
“What’s the history of the tower? Is the mace supposed to be inside?”
“Mace? What mace?”
“You didn’t see it? A diamond-shaped head with a black wooden handle?”
“No.”
“It’s why I’m making this journey. In my vision, I found it in a room atop the tower.”
The Brewer looked as if he had tasted something unpleasant. “The top?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He rested his elbows on his knees. “The tower is supposed to be haunted, b
ut no one really knows for sure, because everyone’s afraid to go inside. Even wizards. The last one who did never returned.”
A flicker of fear penetrated Caleb’s despair. “A wizard didn’t return?”
“I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t have to go inside.”
“If you didn’t know I was after the mace, then why are you here?”
“Who else is going to sing about the exploits of He Who Opened the Coffer?
There aren’t that many true bards around, you know. I’m kind of rare in these parts. Maybe even unique.”
Annoyed by the attempt to lighten the conversation, Caleb’s voice turned sharp. “What did you see in your dream?”
The Brewer took a long drink of water. “It took me a while to orient myself. You know how dreams are. When I finally realized I was staring up at the Tower of Elarion, I turned and saw you lying on the ground, outside the door. I started playing my lute and . . .” he waved a hand and yawned. “That’s about the size of it. Listen, I’m turning in.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean?”
Caleb rose and stood over the older man. “What happened to me in the dream?” His roiling emotions turned his voice into a growl. “I need to know.”
The Brewer’s eyes, sad and knowing, lifted to meet Caleb’s. “Some things in life are better left unspoken.”
“Bruce.”
“It was just a dream.”
“Tell me.”
The Brewer’s gaze slipped into the darkness that surrounded them. “I was playing my lute because I was trying to revive you. I don’t have healing powers or anything, but I can take people out of a trance sometimes, just like I can put them into one.”
“So was I in a trance?”
“I’m not sure.” He let out a slow breath. “In the dream, I couldn’t tell if you were alive or dead.”
-6-
As soon as Will and the others materialized in Praha, Will spun, sensing eyes on his back. A one-armed beggar lying on a piece of frayed sackcloth was watching the four of them with rheumy eyes. After ensuring the vagrant meant no harm, Will scanned the rest of the street, its ancient cobblestones worn down to smooth nubs. He realized the view through the portal had been limited, and they had landed in a courtyard ringed by stone buildings stained almost black, as if from a fire or from centuries of grime. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the cobblestones were silver-plated artisanal tile that had long since lost its gleam. The tiles were exquisitely patterned, and the workmanship must have cost a fortune.
Just behind them, the crumbling archway they had seen provided egress from the courtyard. A hint of gray dawn light illuminated the tapered points of the obelisks on either side of the archway, two black thorns jutting skyward. The ruined city took naturally to the morning gloom, though Will could tell it had once been very beautiful. He recalled the history Mala had told him, though she admitted no one knew how much of the story was myth.
Many eons ago, ancient records told of a city called Enokkadi, built by a race of tall and splendid immortal beings called the Nephili, long since vanished from Urfe. The name caused Will’s eyebrows to rise from the similarity to the word Nephilim, a legendary race of giants mentioned in the Bible. If he recalled correctly, the Nephilim were said to be descendants of fallen angels who had coupled with humans.
Whether the Nephili were native to Urfe, created by menagerists, or had arrived from some other world or dimension, not even the legends opined. But the Nephili capital of Enokkadi was said to be the most exquisite city on Urfe, filled with wonders beyond imagining and magical technologies that had never been equaled. The Nephili themselves possessed powerful innate magic, though not the ability to work spells like human mages. A proud and beautiful race, the Nephili passed ruthless laws allowing only their best and brightest to reproduce, which led to inbreeding among their elite and a gene of madness that took root in their society. Somehow, the magic that lived within them and which they had corralled to build their city became corrupted, unleashing a plague of unknown origin that annihilated their race (not so immortal, Will thought) and festered in their walls and homes. It had turned their city into a twisted, nightmarish version of itself that remained uninhabitable for a thousand years, until the infection burned itself out.
Or so the story went.
Whatever the true origin, no government desired to rule the accursed place. Long ago, one of the kings of Bohemia had renamed the city Praha and tried to reclaim it, though no upstanding citizen would live inside its walls, and soldiers sent to explore its depths kept disappearing. The king gave up and declared the region an independent city-state, and Praha remained an autonomous entity to this day, ruled by no one except the thieves, beggars, hardened adventurers, and other dangerous sorts who called the city home.
A door slammed in the distance. The odor of musty clothes and rotten vegetables spoiled the air. Will shivered beneath his leather jerkin, since the temperature was much chillier than on the Barrier Coast. Mateo’s loose patchwork cottons seemed to provide more warmth, and Yazmina looked snug in her pewter cloak. In order not to attract attention as a mage, Dalen had opted for gray cotton breeches and a brown tunic.
Like Will, the others were gazing at their new surroundings with a mixture of wariness and controlled amazement.
“Praha exists,” Dalen breathed. “I thought it was a story of my Da.” His expression dimmed as he turned in a slow circle, staring open-mouthed at the city. “Lucka, how it reeks of weird magic. I’m no augur and even I can feel it.”
On the other side of the archway, the street curved into the distance, walled in by a corridor of blackened buildings that rose to uneven heights far overhead. As Will stepped beneath the arch, the others pressed close behind, and they found themselves in an intersection which the obelisks had shielded from view. The street on either side looked similar to the narrow one twisting ahead.
“Mala said we need to find the docks,” Mateo said, “but which way are they?”
“She was there when the Coffer thief disappeared,” Will replied, “but she didn’t recognize the particular street. We’ll have to find a map or a better vantage point.”
Zariduke was strapped to Will’s back, and he drew it out. He didn’t like the feel of these silent streets, the menace and forbidden history hanging in the air like a cloud of pollution. Tall buildings abounded in the skyline, towers and minarets and larger structures of exquisite design, often connected by walkways and bridges and arches high above the streets. The architecture rivaled or even surpassed that of the Wizard District, though Will feared what lurked in the blackened recesses of Praha’s buildings. Nor would he risk having Dalen fly above the sight line unprotected, where an arrow from a watchful brigand could bring him down.
Mala had suggested they seek out an old contact of hers named Skara Tenjilk who called Praha home. If anyone could help them discover who had hired the Coffer thief, Mala had said, it was Skara. The adventurer lived inside a nilometer, a type of old well used to measure water levels, near the city’s docks. Will had no idea how someone lived inside a well, but Mala said if they found the docks, they couldn’t miss it.
He hoped she was right, but that didn’t help with their current predicament. As they trudged into the heart of the city, seeking an open establishment to inquire about the docks, the streets became grittier and more mazelike. At times, a panhandler would appear in a doorway, though Will wondered who they were targeting. Twice a pair of passerby scurried past the party with cloaks drawn tight, hoods shielding their faces. It was only a matter of time before the party encountered a more dangerous group. Due to the narrow, curving, labyrinthine nature of the streets, and the immensity of the city, even Will quickly lost his bearings.
What I wouldn’t give for a pencil and some graph paper.
The party stopped for a drink of water as they considered their options. Mala had said certain areas of the city were populated, including taverns and inns, though the options
were sparse and seedy. They must have landed in a mostly abandoned neighborhood. “Yaz, any way you could help? Summon a giant bird or something?”
Yasmina gave the leaden sky an uneasy glance. “The bird life here is wary, unfamiliar with wilders. I’m afraid I would need time to earn their trust.”
Mateo scratched at his fluffy beard. Similar in age to Will, he had brown hair that fell past his shoulders, a lean but muscular build, and khaki-colored eyes. “We might need to risk a climb into one of these towers. The sun will set early here, and I don’t fancy sleeping in the open.”
“Aike,” Dalen muttered. “I feel as if thieves are already scouting us.”
“Agreed,” Will said in a tight voice.
Mateo pointed out an arcing walkway to their left, at least two hundred feet overhead. The aerial bridge connected a cylindrical tower to a squat building capped by a field of twisting spires. “If we can reach it, that walkway affords a good view.”
There were no objections, and after a few minutes of winding their way through the streets, they found the base of the slender tower. Will pulled on an iron ring set into a doorway covered with faded carvings in bas-relief. The bulky stone door swung open with a creak. Stale air leeching out of the tower. After Dalen summoned a ball of light to illuminate the interior, Will stepped warily inside, sword at the ready.
From up close, the cylindrical tower was wider than he had thought, at least a hundred feet across. A spiral staircase with no railing or support system filled the center of the room, disappearing into the darkness overhead. More decorative carvings enhanced the walls, though the staircase and the rest of the interior was almost as ruined and blackened as the outside. Will had the feeling that furniture had once filled the bottom of the tower. Had someone once lived inside? Was the structure magisterial, defensive, ornamental?
“Let’s try it,” he said, testing the marble stairs with his boot. They felt solid. The stairs rose two and a half feet from one to the next, as if built for occupants much taller than the average human.