The Shadow Age (The Age of Dawn Book 7)

by Everet Martins

  The denizens of the Helm’s Reach, Midgaard, and even some of the wizards howled at the sight of blood. They were like coyotes celebrating a fresh kill. Their fevered screams made Isa think they were the ones at war.

  Soldiers of the Midgaard Falcon shrieked curses and punched fists into the air. From behind them roared a line of wizards and Armsman, offering tips and encouragements to Senka and insults for Bezog. The Armsman smashed spears into shields, swords on breastplates, while wizards blasted fireballs into the sky to voice their rage. A cloud of dust formed around the square born of stamping feet intent on crushing the opposing champion. There was enough noise to wake the dead.

  Isa understood their glee. He knew how facing death reminded one of how precious life was if you came out on the other side. He also knew those who enjoyed it most had never truly seen the face of Death, a merciless terror that held no discrimination.

  In the middle of the square between sides, Isa saw a face he recognized, but the name he couldn’t place. He could see the bottom of his face shrouded in an oiled and square-cut beard. The figure was hooded, but beneath the shadow, he saw eyes that were bright with rage, hands twitching under a heavy robe. Isa watched how the folds of his robe shifted, deciding it was only the shape of hands and not hidden weapons.

  Bezog bellowed, hammer swinging in a great arc, jerking Isa’s attention to it. Senka fell into a back roll as his hammer struck the earth, pocking it with a deep cavitation. Isa dropped his hands to his hatchet and hammer on his belt, gripping them tight. A layer of greasy sweat formed under his palms, mouth going dry as glass.

  “Live! Fight! Win! Damn you, Senka!” he breathed. “Kill him!”

  It would only take one of those hammer blows to end the battle. That heavy knob of steel would crush her bones flat and turn them into dust within her veins. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his lungs forgot their only job. His throat hitched as he consciously made himself take in a hard breath. “Kill him, Senka!”

  Senka heard none of it. None of the taunts from the king’s side or the encouragements from the Arch Wizard’s side. She only heard the creak of plate and leather as Bezog moved.

  This square was hers to own. He was on her ground, the territory of the last Scorpion. There was no ground better suited for Bezog’s death. She didn’t see the scowling king and his cursed daughter, the Arch Wizard biting her nails, Isa’s face paler than she could’ve imagined possible. Her world narrowed down to Bezog and his boots on her tract of earth. His mouth was bleeding like a sieve, waving down his front and with streams pattering from his thigh plates. She must’ve struck a major artery with her cut. Bezog was starting to show the signs of wear.

  Bezog’s breath was coming labored now from all those mighty swings. She felt like she was just starting to warm up, even coming to enjoy this. She grinned at the sweat beaded on Bezog’s brow. The burden of all that effort with all that armor had to take its toll eventually. His shield started to lower a bit. Senka wondered how badly his arm must be burning to support such a monstrosity. Some mad part of her wanted to laugh, but she kept it boxed in, knowing humility was the only path to victory. Compared to fighting Death Spawn hordes and running from Tigerian slavers, this was nothing. She could do this for days without tiring.

  She darted in, aiming high in an attempt to even out his bloody smile. He ducked as predicted, his shield naturally tipping forward. She swiveled around the wall of iron, dagger shooting in arrow quick, eyes finding flesh. After cutting his face, she’d cut his bicep tendon, rending the arm useless and putting an end to this. As her daggers sought flesh, a flicker gleamed in Bezog’s eye, his voice roaring as his trap was unleashed. His shield tore for the heavens, crashing into her wrist and sending her dagger spinning.

  The attack left his body exposed, and Senka still had another blade. Not one to miss an opportunity, her dagger curved around his shield, plunging into a section of leather binding his breastplate to his backplate. She felt the blade grate between his ribs, the guard smashing against his flesh. She ripped the dagger out and leapt back as his hammer smashed the ground where she’d been a moment before, kicking out a plume of earth.

  Bezog groaned and bent toward his stabbed side, one leg taking a wobbling step. A second later, he regained his footing, teeth pulling back into a bloody snarl. He launched himself at her, not giving her a chance to revel in her blow. He swung, and she stumbled back at the ferocity of it, air whipping at her cheeks. He stabbed with his shield, trying to drive its tipped rim into her gut, and she barely danced away in time. He chopped again with a bellow while she circled farther back. The earth behind her was growing short.

  He settled his stance, great shoulders heaving from all that effort. His hammer arm came to rest at his side, shield drawn up, but lower still. As he turned toward her, she saw a rivulet of blood glistening from his new wound. She noticed how he changed the angle of his shield to cover that spot, so it couldn’t be hurt again.

  A grin forming on her lips started to overwhelm her with the joy of impending victory. She would make the Arch Wizard proud. She filled her empty hand with a new dagger from her forearm sheath, the blade long, one edge serrated. Her wrist ached, but nothing felt broken.

  Something bit her neck, and she flicked the insect away, her grin dropping, sparing a glance back to see the gleam of a needle standing from the earth. A flurry of questions blazed through her mind. Which poison? Who did it? Why?

  The answer to her first question came with a ripple of ice, followed by heat at the injection site. A heavy dose of Windroot oil. She wanted to laugh because Windroot oil couldn’t harm her any more than a stuffy nose could. Windroot oil was one of her own favored poisons, capable of leaving a man paralyzed with a needle tip’s worth. She worked with it on a daily basis, lancing herself dozens of times to further her own self-inoculation. There were few poisons this side of the world that could touch her blood. All the nights spilling her guts from both ends when she accidentally overdosed had finally paid off.

  Bezog slightly cocked his head at her as if seeing the gears cranking in her mind. “Do you find this amusing, little one?”

  She called her smile back, broader this time. She scanned the crowd, too many to closely inspect and none making their intentions plain. Someone wanted to sabotage her. They saw that she would win and couldn’t let her. She would show them how thick the carapace of the Scorpions could be.

  Isa narrowed his eyes as the man with the square cut beard fumbled at his belt, stuffing something into the confines of his robe. He caught sight of the shape, long and narrow and not unlike a stick. The man’s eyes were wide as he watched Senka, jaw hanging open, then closing to mouth what might’ve been curses. The bearded man flowed into the crowd and bodies greedily filled in around him. Isa growled in confusion, swiveled his gaze back to Senka, tracing her eyes where she regarded the ground. He couldn’t discern the gleam of the needle from the shimmer of crystals in the earth, but he was aware enough to know that something was off. He thought to pursue the man. If it had been anyone but Senka fighting, he would’ve.

  “Not a man easily wounded,” Claw said into Isa’s ear. “This is the same Bezog. Boneslayer. I remember his face now. He is the descendant of the leader of my sworn enemy’s clan, the Poison Wolves. He was only a lad then… but even then, a fighter whose name was known among the clans. I should’ve been the one to fight him. In the North, the stories say he’d never been wounded in any duel. Hard to believe… but maybe not. He—”

  “Shut up!” Isa hissed back. “You’re not helping. And you’re too old to fight a man like him.”

  “You’re right. Ah… sorry,” Claw muttered, the Arch Wizard glaring at him. “Talk too much when I’m worried.”

  “Claw. Sorry. Did you see that fellow with the beard that was over there?” Isa pointed to the spot where he’d been. “See him do anything strange?”

  “Didn’t see him,” he gruffed.

  Isa grunted with a nod.

  The
Arch Wizard leaned over to speak into Isa’s ear. “The man with the beard that was across from us and robed like a back alley cuthroat?”

  “The same one.”

  “That was Romek Baraz, the heir to the former earl.” Nyset sniffed. “A bit strange that he didn’t wish to openly show himself as a supporter of Midgaard. Perhaps doesn’t like the public,” she said, cheeks seeming to flush with blood.

  Isa eyed her. “Wait. The son of the man you murdered?”

  Her cheeks glowed bright now. “The same one,” she huffed.

  “Damn it!” Isa growled, grinding his knuckles into his palm. “He did something. Don’t know what.”

  “I’ll find him when this is over,” Nyset said, voice hard and leaving no room for protest.

  Senka charged Bezog. The crowd cheered and roared with each of Senka’s connecting strikes. Isa didn’t think it would matter to them who won, just as long as the fight was prolonged and bloody. A trio of the Arch Wizard’s scribes were frantically writing in their books, gazes swiveling up and down as they took in the battle and recorded it.

  The start of a smile tugged at Isa’s lips. She was incredible. There would no doubt be songs and stories about this day. Beneath that smile was a candle of fear, ever burning as long as Bezog’s hammer moved. His heart thumped against his temples and into his guts. He tightened his muscles and clenched his fists with Bezog’s every mountainous swing. He couldn’t remember when he last felt so utterly useless. Whatever Romek did, he’d pay for it. Isa would get to him first.

  Senka dashed for Bezog, a blur of midnight leather armor so fast Isa could hardly track her movement. It was a testament to the Arch Wizard’s selection. Bezog swiveled his shield, but she again whirled around it, dagger slashing at his eyes. Bezog jerked his head back, dagger slicing across his nose and splitting it down to the bone. He jerked his shield up and stabbed with his hammer, but Senka had already fallen back.

  A flap of Bezog’s split nose hung over his upper lip. Blood streamed down bright and a bubble formed in one nostril. Senka’s eyes swam in it, reveled in the beauty of that deep scarlet. The Dragon was in her bones, answering her prayers.

  Everyone was going to be proud of her. Isa would forgive her for her stint with Angel’s Moss. She hated the way he’d looked at her back at the Black Furnaces when he’d seen she had a bit of it. His scorn put a hollow in her stomach that made her feel dirty inside.

  She wished her father were here to see her now, doing right by the name of the Scorpions. She would redeem them all of their crimes, the countless murders in exchange for marks. They were no better than the Swiftshades, worse maybe. She could be the one to wipe the grime from their name. She could make the Scorpions a name to be respected by virtue rather than by fear.

  Her father never told her the brutal truth of what the Scorpions did, that what they did wasn’t right. She didn’t know. She knew no other life than the harsh lands of the Nether. She was taught killing a man was no different than a wolf taking down a hog. The Scorpions had given her a place in the world. The endless vortex of murder stopped with her.

  Her breath huffed in her chest, legs nimble, strong and dancing around the square. Her skin tingled with hot sweat, pulse throbbing in her throat. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling as the end drew near.

  Bezog’s movements were growing ever slower, hammer swings going wild. The blood loss from the wounds on his nose, mouth, wrist, and side were weakening him. He’d bleed out soon, she guessed. All she had to do was survive. This day was hers, and she saw in his tired eyes that he knew it. The shrewd confidence that glowed in his face not ten minutes ago was lost. A fighter would go down a fighter though. She admired that.

  He held his shield tight against his side and high to guard his face. Those wounds had to hurt. His stance withered, legs trembling, fingers no longer wrapped tight about his hammer but holding it loose in his grip. His forward leg seemed to inch even farther toward her, his knee buckling for a moment before he righted himself back up with a growl.

  At the start of this fight, she thought him full of tricks and gambits. She avoided such a temptation then, but now she knew he couldn’t match her speed and cunning. The Arch Wizard had once called her a storm of blades, and now, the storm would rain.

  “The Shadow Realm welcomes you!” she shrieked, charging in, her voice lost in the roaring crowd. She’d already avenged her father with the killing of the demon Dressna, but now she would be someone special. She would prove herself the best warrior the Nether had ever birthed from its sandy cunt.

  Senka’s daggers rasped against his shield, taunting and leading Bezog around to the square to put the sun in his eyes. He squinted at the lancing light, and she leaped in. Senka feigned for his flank, hand rising up and threatening another strike at his face, but at the last second, she changed direction, ducking under a whispering hammer blow. She set her Dragon head dagger on a path to slice through a strip of leather showing below his knee, driving all of her strength into the attack, every muscle in her body squeezing.

  All of her pent-up anger came out with a mighty shriek. The dagger her father made for her rushed toward Bezog’s leg, the crippling moment. Rather than cutting clean through tendon and ligament, it clanged on the heavy plate covering his thigh. Bezog shifted his leg at the last instant, leaning forward and stiffening it for her blow. The honed edge clanged, then knocked the dagger free from her grip, the impact jarring her bones. She wasn’t ready for that much resistance and ended up stumbling around him, lurching into an uncontrollable spin.

  Bezog twisted with the dexterity of a Black Wynch, hardly tired, and not with a measure of weakness. All of it a trick. A great weight of iron smashed her in the back of the arm, dislodging the serrated dagger and sending it hurling over the crowd. Agony flared in her upper arm.

  “No!” she yelped, guts churning up acid. She recovered her footing, drawing a new set of daggers from her boots as she turned to face Bezog. A dark shape came into her vision, his shield driving in like a battering ram and taking her off her feet. She was torn from the ground and sent sprawling head over ass, coming to rest on her back. Air came in short gulps of fiery pain and bits of dirt. She scampered up to her feet, fighting the urge to double over and wretch.

  Bezog’s broken mouth tugged into a triumphant smile, watching her over his shield. “You’re good with those. A better opponent than most I’ve fought in recent memory. I thank you for your honor, for not using your poisons.” He advanced a step and stomped upon her Dragon headed dagger, grinding it deep into the dirt. “Death draws near for you, child.”

  “The bastard,” Isa hissed. He had to admit, even he was fooled by Bezog’s feigned exhaustion. He felt like his chest was filled with rocks, making it hard to breathe. It took every measure of his self-control to watch as Senka was hurt, yet remain where he stood. He wanted to push through the crowd and take off Bezog’s head. He had to remind himself that this fight was hers.

  Senka advanced with her blades, her reach paltry compared to the length of Bezog’s war hammer. Bezog’s energy appeared renewed as if the bout had just begun, sweeping his weapon around the square, and keeping Senka on the move. Isa watched his every movement, step and swing, all filled with strength and control.

  The group from Midgaard screamed with fervor, fists and spears punching at the sky as they cheered Bezog’s name. The Tower’s side had gone deadly quiet, faces scrunched and eyes narrowed.

  Senka had to close the gap between them to land a blow, but it seemed like she’d been instilled with fear at taking such a heavy hit from Bezog’s shield. There were openings provided on the recovery from his swings, but she didn’t take the chance to strike.

  “Damn it, Senka. Kill him!” Isa shouted.

  Maybe that was the encouragement she needed. Just then, she dashed in on an opening, attacking the same arm of the wrist she first wounded. She slashed at it as he started to recover from his swing, her strike true, the dagger rasping down his plated arm and
stopping at the flesh at the underside of Bezog’s wrist. Blood sprayed from his hand, and the hammer fell to the ground from limp fingers. She threw herself at him with a scream, dagger flashing down with a fierce downward strike. Bezog dragged his shield up in time, her blade clashing down its front and wrenched from her grip.

  Isa couldn’t help but think that Bezog let his hammer drop. She stabbed at him again, and he snatched her by the arm in his crushing grip, their flesh connecting with a clap that felt like a knife thrust in Isa’s guts.

  “By the Dragon,” Isa said, voice hoarse.

  Senka reached for another dagger at her belt, but Bezog pressed himself tight against her, pinning her arm to her side. He lifted her by her other arm, something popping in her shoulder socket and dragging a grunt from her lips.

  “You lose!” Bezog growled, dropping his shield, and gripping the back of her other arm’s triceps.

  “I can’t!” Senka violently wriggled in his encompassing power as he pulled her in close.

  “Death looms!” he snarled, his mix of spittle and hot blood spraying on her cheeks.

  Senka growled and smashed her forehead into his throat, whipping his head back with a gurgle. She slid her knee up the hard edges of his breastplate, using it as a wedge and to drive herself back. She ripped the arm Bezog was holding by the back of the muscle free, whipping it again to her back and drawing a blade rasping from its scabbard.

  She cried out as his hand wound down around her forearm hard enough he might’ve crushed her bones if she gave him enough time. She aimed her blade for his throat, aiming to pierce a hole through it. His other hand came up across his neck, palm open and blocking the blow. Her blade punched through his hand and stopped at the guard, his blood oozing over her hand. Senka screamed, driving with all the force her meager arm could muster against his, trying to press her dagger point into his neck. His resisting arm trembled, eyes wide at the driving point.