The Shadow Age (The Age of Dawn Book 7)

by Everet Martins

  Greyson joined Bezog at his side. Chains clinked as bodies swayed from the gallows. “This is the work of the Purists?” He couldn’t believe it. In the streets of Midgaard, the worst of their crimes had been assaults, beatings, the occasional gang rape, but nothing like this.

  “I’m afraid so,” Bezog said with stoic poise. Greyson scanned the other man’s face, his posture, and expression. Bezog revealed nothing, everything about him a block of stone. Maybe his men were right.

  “They’ve gone too far,” Greyson said, turning back to stare at the dead, brow deeply furrowed and mouth a grimace.

  Bezog grunted, and the other Black Guards offered only shaking heads. Bezog circled the dead once, slowly, his shrewd eyes all-seeing.

  Greyson couldn’t pull his eyes from the piled dead, broken limbs blurring into a creature of nightmares. “No better than Death Spawn,” he whispered. He raised his head to find Bezog had mounted his horse, his men waiting beside him, all watching Greyson. “Who were they? What had they done to deserve this?”

  “They were wizards.” Bezog gestured at the gallows nearest to him as if that said it all. “Too weak to become apprentices in the Tower, not strong enough to defend themselves from the likes of these… men.”

  Pines marking the perimeter of the clearing and reaching maybe fifty feet into the sky lolled in a hard gust.

  “This… this is wrong,” Greyson said, dragging his eyes away from the bodies and peering at the sky. Black clouds boiled past. His father might have found a weapon, but Greyson wasn’t so sure this was the right one. This was an uncontrollable whirlwind.

  “Shall we go on? Or have you seen enough?” Bezog asked, his voice tinged with a note of impatience.

  “One of those three men you killed said that we were to announce ourselves to his lord, Terar. Do you know where this man is? Who he is?”

  Bezog rolled his shoulders, a low rumble forming in his chest. “I know where this man is. As to who he is I cannot answer. His men are despots. I could only guess that their leader is too. You would like to go to him?”

  “I wish to see him,” Greyson answered, tonguing his teeth. “You haven’t?”

  “No, I have not. Then I must warn you that if you find this unpleasant, you will find the rest of this journey trying.” Bezog raised his chin at him. “Ahead there are more clearings like this. They eventually lead to their encampment.”

  “The Purists are clearly out of control. I need to see this man, tell him to put a stop to this madness. If he won’t listen to reason, then he’ll surely respond to the edge of the Midgaard Falcon’s blade.”

  A slight chuckle came from Bezog. “Very well, my noble prince. Tread carefully, however. From what I’ve heard, he is not one who takes kindly to threats.”

  “You insult me?” Greyson balked.

  “Do not assume that because I follow your command today implies that I will tomorrow, young prince.” Bezog arched a scarred eyebrow at him, turning away before Greyson could respond. He let the matter rest.

  They left the clearing, back onto a path between a stretch of forest yielding another clearing much like the last, except with more gallows and more bodies. On and on this went for a few more clearings, narrow paths connecting them like arteries to organs until they reached the main camp.

  It was one of the strangest constructs Greyson had ever seen, drawn from the depths of madness. A towering structure of wooden scaffolding was set in hard angles and rose about five stories. Sounds reached his ears, carrying across an expanse of clovers and stumps. Figures milled about the structure, echoing boots thumping along planked floors. Some worked at squealing pulleys, while others sawed or hammered nails into wood. Shouts of command carried up and down the structure. Along the base plumes of smoke rose up the tower, spiraling around it like a pair of twin snakes.

  “Magic,” Greyson whispered. “No smoke moves like that.”

  Bezog grunted a dark agreement.

  Standing proud from the topmost roofline was a weather vane that appeared to have been fashioned from bones. Below the roof was a room with a balcony, three banners hanging from its edge, their bottoms ragged, their fronts showing a painted image of an open-mouthed cobra. There were ladders, ropes, and stairs traveling along the tower in unfathomable angles. Long timbers jutted senselessly out in places, sharpened to points and holding scores of impaled dead. Some still writhed, their agony carrying across the expansive clearing. A few balconies appeared to have been made entirely out of obsidian fangs, a series of jumbled spikes poking out in every direction.

  Flanking the main tower were smaller towers interconnected with bridges of rough-hewn timbers. Their roofs were made of what appeared to be animal skins stitched together, sharpened wooden tips standing out from the corners where they were secured. Where one would approach to scale such a structure was a mystery. Perhaps that was the point, he reasoned.

  Circling the structure, the land was cleared of all trees but saplings and scrub, cutting a ring around the forest. A trampled path led up to the structure’s base. They started on the path, passing bizarre constructs of wood and bones standing as tall as men. The structures held circlets of hollowed bones dangling from dried sinews, gently clinking together to produce low notes.

  “Wind chimes,” Greyson muttered. “I see why my father gave them these lands. Were they making these…things in Midgaard?”

  “No,” Bezog said flatly.

  The bone chimes flanked the path every ten feet or so. Some were adorned with long bright feathers, bursting with yellows, blues, and reds. Another was a veritable homage to forks with at least fifty of them nailed to the structure. Some forks were secured with lengths of twine at their ends hanging from what looked to be a human femur. When the wind blew, they clacked together in an oddly sickening sound. For a reason he couldn’t place, that sound made his guts clench harder than any other.

  “Forks?” Greyson searched Bezog for understanding. Greyson gripped his reins hard, then seeing his gelding glance back at him, he let his squeezing legs relax.

  Bezog smirked. “Perhaps they prefer spoons. Shit for brains.”

  “Excuse me?” Greyson glared at him.

  “You can’t explain madness. Can you explain why Dragon fire doesn’t burn the wielder’s flesh?” Bezog said, gazing ahead.

  “I’m sure a wizard could.”

  “Maybe. The world is not rational. I would think someone touched by the Shadow would know this.”

  Greyson’s jaw clamped down in a quiet rage. How had he known? Understanding dawned. Bezog had fought in the Shadow War, knew the signs. Greyson mastered his fury, voice croaking. “I’ll not stand for this blasphemy. When my father hears of this—”

  “You won’t tell him. Because…” Bezog snorted up phlegm and spat a glob of yellow from the corner of his mouth. “Because then you’ll have to tell him what I said. And he might believe me.”

  Greyson seethed. “What do you want?” A few mutters passed behind him. He glanced back to see the other Black Guards staring agape at a bone structure studded with at least twenty swords, fanned out to show their flats.

  “I merely wish to serve.” Bezog shrugged, massive plate armor creaking.

  “Is that all?” Greyson rolled his eyes at him, but he missed it, so he set his gaze on the approaching tower.

  “Contrary to what you may think, young prince, some of us still find fulfillment in duty and oaths.” Bezog’s hand fell to his hammer, fat fingers tracing its dented haft.

  “Are you…a wizard?”

  A genuine laugh bellowed out behind Bezog’s high neck armor. “I have been many things, Greyson, but never a wizard. In another life. We draw close.” Bezog waved a finger at the tower.

  “Are you sure this place is safe?” Greyson asked, the structure seeming to grow and loom over them like an approaching giant. Heat crawled up his throat and wriggled under his eyes, or perhaps that was just the Shadow snake growing in his body. A manic chuckle escaped his mouth.

>   A few of the Black Guards exchanged puzzled looks, brows furrowed. “Oh yes, men who are willing to kill you on sight, a safe place indeed,” Bezog said. “Are you sure you’re well, Greyson?”

  “Well enough I…” The words forming in Greyson’s mind fell away as a gate of all latticed wood started creaking open, sliding upwards into a concealing pocket of wood. Greyson spotted men working wheels which pulled on chains from a catwalk above the gate. The men were lithe, shirtless, and barefoot with pants torn off below the knee. Their heads had been shaved, their faces were painted white, flecked with dirt and streaked with sweat. Blood trickled down the chin of one, frantically jerking at his wheel.

  “Mad fucking Purists,” a Black Guard muttered, lines of sweat curling down his hard jawline.

  There were no bells of alarm, no men drawing arrows or spears on them. It was as if their visit was wholly expected. Perhaps they had been tracked. Had Bezog warned them? Was Bezog sending him to his death, a way to get rid of him? If that was the case, he wouldn’t have fought for him hours ago. Nothing made sense.

  Once the gate was drawn, the men doing the work raised their heads and cupped their mouths, projecting hoots up the tower. A few men higher up hooted back and then sent the hoot farther up. The hooting carried among the connecting towers at the lower levels in what he eventually realized was a form of communication. On it went until it reached the topmost level where a figure bent over and called it back in a final shriek.

  They reached the gate. It held not a semblance of symmetry. It was all twisted angles, jagged lines, and stabbing ends in every conceivable wood variety. Some sections were secured by rope and others nailed. Greyson thought he might have even seen bones in some areas. It was as if twenty different carpenters worked on it in unison, neither agreeing on the design or construction method.

  Bezog and his men halted about ten feet before the gate. “This is as far as we go. If you want to go on…” he gestured for the parted gate, “we will wait.”

  “Fine.” Greyson expected nothing less from Bezog. “So much for living to serve, eh, Bezog?” Greyson vaulted off his horse, his knees buckling as he landed. Agony flared in his bitten leg. An arrow of fire sliced through his guts, head thrown back in a groan of misery. Fingers trembling, he closed them into fists.

  “Prince?” Bezog cautioned. Greyson saw him eying his men, all their expressions filled with distrust.

  Greyson turned to face the raised gate, steeling his guts, iron filling his mouth as he chewed on his inner cheeks. Somewhere, he heard a child’s giggle. “Have to put an end to this madness,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t leave. I won’t be long,” he threw over his shoulder. Bezog replied, but Greyson didn’t make sense of the words.

  He passed under the threshold, his steps quickening, and then coming to a squealing halt. His breath caught in his throat, realizing he had no notion of where to go next. There were five possible directions. Two were hallways of all wooden scaffolding spanning to the left and right, two were twisted stairways rising up at steep angles, and straight ahead was an odd cart suspended by frayed ropes and a series of pulleys. It seemed as if the cart would somehow be raised if pulled from the heights.

  A jumbled pile of scrap wood topped with sawdust sat between an area of wall between the stairs and the cart. With a few seconds of hesitation, he strode for the cart. He knew that by acting as if he knew what he was doing and where he was going, it would command some measure of respect from the commoners. He reasoned that the same behavior would work on these creatures playing at men.

  The planks bounced under his feet, the woodgrain covered in a patina of crud. He peered back and up at the pair who’d opened the gate for him, flinching at their black eyes watching him like prey. He stepped into the cart, which carried a strong odor of piss and beer. He placed his back to its wall, searching for what to do next. He spied a series of three handles, each made of wood. Two were dark with the oil of what must’ve been thousands of hands. He shrugged and gave one a pull. The handle resisted the force while the cart shuddered in protest.

  “The other one then,” he whispered. A worm of sweat squirmed down his back, aching to be scratched. He pulled the other switch hard, harder than he’d intended, locking it into the down position.

  The cart shook for a moment as if it might explode and eventually trundled into motion, rising up the tower. “What a creation,” he whispered. He wondered how many engineers this Terar pilfered from the city.

  Greyson carefully inched over to the opened side of the cart and gripped one of the series of logs making up the walls. He looked down at the Black Guards to find them staring up at him, slowly shrinking away. Bezog pointed, and Greyson followed the line of his finger. He was struck with a sudden feeling of turning. The world became a smear of colors. He screwed his eyes shut. He staggered back into the confines of the cart before he lost his grip, fell, and shattered his brains on the fleeing ground. Some distant, broken part of him knew that his brood, the beast growing within his body, wasn’t quite ready for the world of man.

  He shook his head, breathed deep, opened his eyes and the world stabilized. He saw he’d passed the catwalk where the two painted men worked to draw up the gate and passed another level after that. Above him, a series of pulleys squealed and clattered. A bridge appeared at eye level where two muscular men kicked a leather-wrapped ball back and forth. Something was off. He furrowed his brow at the wrongness.

  It wasn’t that they were nude. And it wasn’t how their cocks comically flopped against their inner thighs as they played. It was their faces. They were crinkled and wilted like tanned leather. There were strange stitchings at the backs of their heads where hair poked through a scrunched hole. Some sort of masks. The masks looked like faces, but the faces held a strange and permanent expression of open-mouthed horror. No. No, they weren’t just ordinary masks but human faces. His eyes bulged with the realization. “By the…” he cut himself off, words louder than he wished.

  The last man to receive the ball turned to face him. A mouthful of broken teeth grinned through the hole of someone else’s skinned face. Through someone else’s wilted dead eyes, bright blue eyes blinked. And the scene passed away as the bridge was replaced with a stretch of scaffolding.

  Greyson closed his eyes, hot breath hissing through his lips. He willed the image to fade, but there it was, forever seared upon his psyche. He opened his eyes as a pleased moan reached his ears.

  The next floor showed a room whose interior was varnished in streaked blacks. A rank odor pierced his nose, drawing a wince. It was an unmistakable scent: ejaculate, sweat, earth, and musk. A nude woman whose flesh glowed like the moon had her limbs pinned and spread against a wooden structure, held with leather straps at each wrist and ankle. A dark shape knelt before her groin, another woman. Her naked hips materialized, wiggling and her head turning as if reaching for an angle, buried in the pale woman’s crotch. Her midnight skin tone nearly matched the walls. She turned her head to look at Greyson, head shaved, face slicked in glistening wet. She licked her teeth at him, eye sockets nothing but shadows. More figures appeared as his vision adjusted as the room flowed away. There were more moans, lost in ecstasy, maybe twenty men and women unabashedly pleasuring each other.

  “That was…interesting,” Greyson muttered. “At least they weren’t wearing human skins.” He tried to squeeze a laugh from his quivering heart, but his jaw clenched it down behind a cage of teeth. He tugged on his collar, trying to work some fresh air down his stifling armor. A flood of warmth filled his crotch, palms bristling with nervy sweat. “Damn it, control yourself,” he admonished. His eyes fell to the floor in a vain attempt to steal another glance at the orgasmic room through the floorboards.

  Another stretch of scaffolding followed, and from the next room came a wave of violet light. It was painfully bright, forcing him to close one eye and narrow the other. There was a long desk in the room, and upon that desk, a spinning orb twice the size of a human head streame
d out whitish-violet streams of light. As his vision adjusted, he saw other things on the desk too. There was a candelabra, a fat tome parted open, an inkwell and quill beside it. Shelving lined the walls from floor to ceiling packed with books, scrolls, tinctures, and jars of only the Dragon could guess.

  A man raised his head from behind the desk, face rippled and scarred as if he’d been in a terrible fire. Greyson gasped, heart hammering in his throat.

  “Just a moment and I shall be with you,” the man said, voice a high-pitched rasp.

  “Okay,” Greyson called with a limp wave. Stupid wave, stupid princeling, he scolded himself in Bezog’s voice.

  With one hand, the man delicately held a crystal in gangly fingers. The crystal faintly glowed with violet wisps that seemed to be drawn from the orb. The crystal flashed like a spark and the glow faded. “Another Equalizer is complete,” the man said, one side of his twisted mouth pulling into a leer that must’ve been his smile. “Meet you upstairs.”

  The cart emitted a jarring clunk as it came to rest at the next floor, the topmost level of this tower of madness. He recognized it from the bottom. The rectangular room was exposed to the elements on all sides. A gust of fresh air brought a surge of relief to Greyson’s chest. At least the air hadn’t gone mad too. It had a balcony following the perimeter with a triumvirate of flapping banners at one side, topped with a hip roof of tanned leather.

  He carefully lunged away from the cart, making sure to clear the wide gap between the cart and the room’s floor. There was a stairway in the center of the room leading down to the lower level where the burned man could be heard trudging his way up, each step made with a pained grunt. Greyson placed his hands on his hips, puffed his chest up in an attempt to brace his confidence.

  He made a loop around the room, licking his inner cheeks, the planks bare and free of clutter. The material making up the roof was a series of sewn together animal skins. He shook his head, a growl forming in his chest, knowing, in all likelihood, they were human skins. He couldn’t bear to further inspect it to find out. He went to the front balcony, eying the gray clouds reaching down to touch the forest.