The Shadow Age (The Age of Dawn Book 7)

by Everet Martins

“Yes…” the king muttered. “Well, if Bezog is truly worthy of whom I have considered to call my champion, he will do this.”

  “You will make the people hate him if he kills them,” Greyson said, suddenly struck with a crushing exhaustion. Dying could make one tired. He inwardly laughed at the grim thought.

  “Then maybe he can end it without killing them,” Larissa added.

  Greyson leaned on his elbows with a great sigh, setting his gaze on the ground. “Bezog and those damned books,” he muttered.

  Bezog gave the thick tomes resting on either of his hips a reassuring touch. It had been him against the world for as long as he could remember. His books provided comfort where no one else could.

  His books were filled with his favorite story, the Chronicles of Walter Glade by Baylan Spear. Baylan was a former scholar and wizard of the Silver Tower, and best of all, Walter’s mentor. It contained his only true friends. In his imagination, the characters lived and breathed. In fact, a few of them actually still lived. He could only hope to meet them. Perhaps someday he could free himself from his oaths to the kingdom and visit the Tower.

  The stories of Walter and his friends provided respite when sleep eluded him. They served as a refuge for his anxious mind. He’d re-read them countless times now. It was a grand two-part compendium, detailing the heroism of Walter and his friends against the Shadow Realm.

  Bezog dreamed of becoming a hero himself, having some evil to overcome. Maybe then the ghost of his father would be proud of him. He would matter. In this age, The Age of Light, there was no great evil. The only war to be fought was a war against oneself. The Purists might’ve found some relics of the Old Magic, but they were not a force to be reckoned. With enough men, he thought they could easily be snuffed out, had the king wished it.

  Being named the king’s champion afforded him a new opportunity, an even greater honor than serving as the Captain of the Black Guard. Where disputes could be settled in a duel, he would be given the honor of fighting for the king. It was a grand chance to serve the king throughout the realm, perhaps beyond.

  There were few things he was good at, but fighting was one of them. If the king wanted a champion, he’d give them a champion, a spectacle of blood they’d never forget. He wanted to be remembered like Walter.

  Bezog set his jaw, club dragging out of the dirt to rest on his shoulders. Kalman gestured for the others to spread out, Edwin and Danton joined at his flanks. Now the triumvirate had a semblance of order, truly working together without the fear of the other stabbing them in the back. These men weren’t like the frenzied Purists he slew yesterday, untrained and clumsy. These were killers, his earlier wins only a matter of luck in his mind. His main advantage was that they were all hurt or injured, and he was not.

  If he swung hard and fast, he might be able to take Edwin down before the others could react, giving himself a chance against the other two. Edwin was fast and strong, a deadly and rare combination.

  He slashed his eyes over them, trying to discern how they’d attack, club defensively raised across his body. Danton hung back as the other two continued to advance. Some of the fear from that first fight was still in him then. No one liked getting clubbed in the gut once, nor relished a second prospect.

  Kalman predictably held his shield up high and tight against his ribs. Edwin’s long-sword confidently dangled from his fingertips, giving the crowd something to cheer about. A thin smile curled up his long face. He wondered how much effort that smile must’ve taken to push that through his throbbing balls.

  Bezog knew that if he could bloody that smile, the fight would be half-won. Edwin came first, smile faltering, sword flashing in. Bezog caught the blow against the haft, driving it away before it could cut him, splinters spraying on his cheeks. Bezog tricked him, feigning with a herculean strike, but sending the club straight in to stab him in the chest. He cried out, staggering back and holding a hand against his sternum.

  His club was always in motion, knowing Kalman’s strike was a whisper away. There was a flickering at the corner of his eye, and a stream of fire tore down his ribs, his club losing its momentum. He pushed down the urge to roar in pain as the crowd exploded with glee. Legs trembling beneath him, he fell. Dirt tunneled into his nostrils, gravel scraping up his cheeks.

  He blinked and found himself staring blankly up at the sky, all crystalline and spotted in puffy clouds. And there is the inherent problem with three against one, he thought. There was no honor, no fairness in it. If you ignored even one man, the fight was over in a few heartbeats. A clattering of crows whirled over the bleachers, searching for morsels to steal from unsuspecting hands. The spires of the Midgaard palace were dark sentinels, looming over the grounds in the blazing sky.

  No hero ever won a fight lying on the ground, he told himself. Bezog didn’t look at his wound, fearing it might strip away his rising courage. He rolled onto his side, movements clumsy, all wrong as he pushed himself to his feet. One of his hands was slicked with blood, fingers sticking together between clumping mud. His side became nothing but a source of agony, impossible to ignore. A cold wind tore at his back, flapping at his light leather armor.

  The crowd erupted in whooping cheers, and the three men exchanged worried looks.

  Kalman spoke over the top of his shield, eyes weeping tears in the wind. “Why won’t you just stay down? Then this could all be over, and we’d be at the damned pub already.”

  Edwin shifted his stance, snapping a twig under his boots. Bezog sucked in a breath, realizing he’d risen without his club and dashed for it. Edwin’s boot crashed into his ribs so hard he thought he might have had the strength to puncture his guts with it. Bezog fell again, rolling onto his side, roaring as his wound surged with new life. The wind died, blood winding down his smallclothes and tickling his cock. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but the pain wouldn’t let him.

  “Had enough, have you?” Kalman barked. “Yield!”

  “No. Did I yield? Why have you stopped?” Bezog wound his bloody fist tight around the haft of his club. He gathered his spirit, drawing in a full breath, and filling him with the strength of the rocks against the waves. “Mercy is weakness.”

  “Stubborn bastard,” Edwin growled, setting his stance to drive another kick into his gut. He lowered his club clutched in two hands to block, making Edwin’s shin thump into the middle of his club. Edwin fell back with an agonized howl, hobbling on one leg, the other horribly misshapen where he’d kicked.

  Bezog threw himself at Danton as he charged in at what he might’ve considered the opportunity to best Bezog. Bezog caught sight of the tourney master wearing a puzzled frown. Bezog rammed Danton before his sword could land, sending him staggering back, and then driving a solid club blow to his stomach. Golden vomit expelled from Danton’s lips, eyes wide with the shock of it all. Bezog’s hand clamped on Danton’s shoulder, ripped down to his wrist and twisted it hard. Something snapped. Danton screamed, dropping his sword. Bezog shoved Danton to the ground, thumping down like the dead. He gave Danton’s sword a hard kick, sending it spinning into the low wall surrounding the ring. “Stay down,” Bezog growled. Danton furiously nodded, holding his wrist, now bent at an unnatural angle and already swelling.

  Kalman slightly dropped his shield, mouth hanging open. “Not again,” he muttered. “Fine, fine.” He lunged in, sword darting like a viper in what Bezog guessed was his last gambit. The man was tough as wood. Few men had any fight in them after sustaining a few of his strikes. He admired his persistence.

  Bezog dodged the blow easily enough but saw after it was too late that it was a feint. Kalman dropped his shield, both hands holding his blade and driving it deep into Bezog’s side, scraping against his ribs and rattling in his chest. He gasped at the shock of it, anger rising up like a barnyard conflagration.

  His club, now too close to strike, was jammed across the front of Kalman’s neck, the studded end tucking under Bezog’s armpit and clamping it tight. Bezog extended his arm gr
ipping the haft’s end, narrowing the gap between the club and Bezog’s arm to choke Kalman with his club. He saw what was happening a second too late, and dirt-creased fingernails scraped against the club’s haft. Kalman wriggled a few fingers between the club and his neck, only serving to make the choke tighter, knuckles grinding on his throat.

  Kalman’s eyes filled with scarlet, veins emerging like a map of tree limbs over his forehead. His legs flopped against Bezog’s thighs in a fruitless attempt at escape. Bezog was a boa constrictor, squeezing and squeezing with every muscle in his body. Pressure only increased with each exhalation. Kalman uttered something incomprehensible, but Bezog didn’t hear, nor care, choking him harder still. Foam formed on Kalman’s lips, mouth gaping open, tongue flicking at the corners. His carotid arteries rose from his neck like ancient roots, cheeks going bright as fresh blood.

  Kalman went quiet. His legs became limp, hand gripping the sword wedged between Bezog’s ribs loosening to fall by his side. Bezog’s lips pulled into a grimace of rage, choking even harder still and only stopping until he heard a pop in Kalman’s throat, his trachea shattered, cervical spine severed.

  Someone was hammering at his arm, someone else punching him in the back. He hardly felt them, nerves lighting up just enough for acknowledgment. Something struck him in the back of his head. More flies to be brushed away. Shouting roared in his ears, but it was all muted, vision narrowed down to pinholes. He saw only Kalman and felt only his sword wedged in his side.

  The bastard almost deprived him of his only chance at becoming a hero. Maybe he’d succeeded. Prismatic colors bloomed like explosions in his vision, some so bright the world vanished. Bezog focused his attention on his wounds, gushing hot blood down his side, pooling around his belt, worming its hot fingers around his thighs. Not good. Thoughts washed over his mind like a wave to the shore, slipping below the sands before their magnitude could be understood.

  Bezog finally released him, and a sigh escaped Kalman’s mouth. Bezog stared at nothing as he slumped to the ground, colors in his vision retreating like a drawn curtain. His vision fanned back out, earth coming into view. There were legs all around him. Men shouted at him with expressions of anger, but their words weren’t getting in his head.

  He saw, and for the first time heard, the tourney master screaming in his face, jabbing an angry finger in his chest. “Stop! Stop! You big bastard! Look at what you’ve done! He yielded!”

  “I stopped,” Bezog said quietly, but the tourney master roared over him.

  “Did you not hear him shout yield?”

  Bezog gave him a slight push, more to push himself away than the tourney master. The other men had faces unknown to him, none daring to strike him now that they could see his mind was clearing. This wasn’t the first time his bloodlust got him into trouble.

  Bezog’s eyes were drawn to the bleachers at the arena level. Danton had limped over to sit, now glowering at Bezog while clutching his broken wrist. Edwin sat beside him, blade still dangling between his fingers at his side. His attention was fixed on the surgeon as he worked to splint his leg. Bezog frowned at him, seeing a pinked stub of bone protruding through his shin.

  Pride always blocked a man’s ears to the voice of reason when he’d been duly defeated. Didn’t those two know that, in the battlefield, he wouldn’t have given them a second chance? He shook his head, making the colors of the arena smear together.

  The tourney master dropped down to help Kalman, giving his face a few slaps in an effort to revive him. “Come on, boy, get up!” Given the pop Bezog heard, he knew there’d be no reviving. Had he choked with his hands maybe, but not with a length of wood.

  Bezog stepped up and swept his gaze over the onlookers. He noticed a grim silence had fallen over the crowd. No cries of victory, no whoops for his effort. Faces in the crowd blanched, some turned away, while few nodded their approval. It seemed the tourney master was the only one unaware of Kalman’s demise. Or perhaps he was just an optimist. Bezog supposed General Kalman was well liked, though he didn’t know the man personally. Death was the worst-case downside risk one took when entering the tourney. Sometimes you lost.

  The tourney master rose up, dark eyes wide with horror, pocked marked cheeks drawn into a grimace. He raised a trembling hand and jabbed at his chest with his index finger. “You, Bezog, are a murderer! I name him a murderer!”

  “As if people never die in the arena,” Bezog muttered, turning his back on the mad tourney master. He dropped his club with a thump. His lips pulled into a smile at the prospect of his bed being warmed by a pair of Midgaard’s best whores. He took a step, and the sword in his side shifted. A bolt of fire traveled down his body, dragging him down to his knees. He laughed through a hard grimace. Somehow, he forgot about that. “Think I need some help,” he whispered to the dirt, driving himself back up to his feet.

  “Murderer! That was no accidental killing!” The tourney master barked. “And you know it, Bezog. You murdered him. No better than an animal.”

  A few members of the crowd joined the tourney master in calling him a murderer and stabbed at the air with angry fingers.

  “My champion! He is not a killer, but the best fighter among the best! Can’t you see?” The old king’s prattling voice called down from the royal box. “This man is no murderer. Bezog Samius, I name you my champion! The boldest, fastest, and toughest fighter in Midgaard!” The king’s voice carried over the arena, his arm rising up in an effort to draw a cheer from the crowd. A broad grin spread under his beard and crinkled his eyes.

  “The champion!” someone yelled.

  “Champion!” said another voice, just a second after accosting him as a murderer.

  Pathetic, Bezog thought.

  “The Champion of Midgaard!” another resounded.

  Bezog breathed a sigh of agitation, maybe ten feet away from exiting the arena, legs suddenly not obeying his command. He tried to take another step, and the world went dark. The ground came up to give him a parting slap to the head. The cheers of the crowd sent him off to a pleasant sleep where there was no pain, and someone remembered his name.

  FIVE

  Keeping Watch

  “Duty compels me to do what I would wish to shirk.” - The Diaries of Nyset Camfield

  The squealing of rusted hinges woke Salma from a frayed thread of sleep. A parting oaken door revealed a bar of torchlight cutting down the black. She gasped, blinking at the light, dry throat aching like it was lined with broken glass. She scampered back into the corner of her cell, chains jingling, fear winding down around her chest like a vice. The jailer never came this late. And it was far too early for morning supper.

  She stared at the shadowed figure through oily strings of dark hair, framing in her high cheekbones and doe eyes. Her breaths came quick and shallow. Was this the moment when one of them would finally have their way with her? She’d been here for maybe three years without a single assault and thought herself free from such tortures. Maybe that was about to change. The hog went his whole life merrily rolling in the muck, unaware of his grim future until he caught the gleam of the blade that would slit his throat. Things could turn, her mother always said.

  She pulled on her threadbare robe, drawing it down to cover her long legs. She swallowed and licked her lips, coated in a thin layer of scabs. She listened for sounds from the other cells, but nothing could be heard but the usual stirring and groans. An echoing shriek called from a distant world. She pawed at the corners of her eyes, wiping away the hardened bits.

  “Salma?” a gruff voice asked. A man’s hand poked a torch into her cell, bringing the smooth contours of her cobbled walls to life.

  “Yes?” she croaked, shielding her eyes from the pain of the light. It was so terribly bright.

  “I’m sorry to have woken you at this hour.” She saw the shine of his armor and realized he was one of the Silver Tower’s Armsman, not the jailer. Unusual. The guard was built like an ox, bald headed, arms as thick as her torso. “The Arch Wiz
ard requests your presence and… help.” He said, giving a shrug of one shoulder.

  “My help? What could I possibly help the Arch Wizard with?” Salma’s heart fluttered with panic. Whatever this was, she knew it wouldn’t be good for her. She pressed herself into the corner of her cell. The icy wind from the Far Sea flowed down her lone barred window, forming goosebumps on her back.

  “You’ll see. Come on,” the man said, raising his arm to offer her something. Her eyes adjusted to the light and she saw it was a waterskin. Maybe it was poisoned, but what choice did she have?

  She rose up on wobbly legs, guessing she’d be dragged up if she refused to comply. At least he was polite about it. “What’s your name?” She only dared to ask because of his effort at a friendly expression.

  “Grimbald,” he said, handing her the waterskin. She took a few glugs, the water cool and crisp on her dry throat. She might have thought it refreshing had she not been imprisoned. Refreshing was a word she reserved in her mind for sitting on a seaside porch and having a glass of Scarlet Berry wine. He unlocked the manacles connecting her to the floor, not that she was a danger to anyone, certainly not this hulking creature.

  “The Grimbald? Grimbald Landon?” She crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. Why would a hero of the Shadow War be in the Arch Wizard’s dungeons?

  Grimbald grunted with a nod. “The same one.”

  She didn’t belong here. She’d only been in the dungeons for a few years, but it felt like forever. Her world had been reduced to a ten by ten foot square of stone, a bucket, and a food tray. She once tried to slit her wrists on the tray’s corners, finding them far too dull and unable to break skin.

  It wasn’t the worst jail she’d been in. They were bathed once a week, fed regularly, and even had their clothing washed. The Arch Wizard, on the whole, ran a benevolent prison by Salma’s estimate. She’d only been in a few prisons, all eventually escaped. After repeated failed attempts to escape this one, she gave up, resigning herself to her fate.