The majority of the walls were covered by floor to ceiling bookshelves stuffed with gilded tomes. A glass globe containing a shifting gyroscope sat upon a stand before one bookshelf, flickering to life at the call of her Dragon fire. It was an invention created by her best artificer, filling the room with an even glow. Before the opposite wall was an astronomer’s map of the heavens, another globe constructed of steel and spheres showing where the realms were placed among the stars.
The knock came again, louder this time. “Mistress. An urgent matter needs your attention,” Claw gruffed.
“I’m coming.” She thought to admonish him through the door for waking her at this hour but thought better of it. He would only be here if the matter were grave. Exhaustion was leading her to impatience.
She rose up, tugging her cream shift down to cover her backside. She gave the astronomy globe a parting spin, metal spheres gently whirring on oiled gears as they revolved about the sun. Everything ached for a reason she couldn’t place. Her muscles felt like she’d gone to battle, knees like she hiked a mountain, and back like she’d hefted a boulder. Even her foot bones felt sore against the marbled tiles. She wrangled her hair with both hands, raking her fingers through it before pulling it over to one shoulder, then grabbed a scarlet robe from a hook on her door.
Another knock resounded through her chamber.
“Claw, stop,” she grunted, dragging the robe around her body, then opening the door in kind. “What is it?”
His characteristically hard expression betrayed nothing. Claw looked like he’d lost ten pounds in the last week, skin drawn tight around his wrinkled eyes. “Mistress. I’m not sure how to say this…” He scratched at his gray beard. “Well, it seems we have visitors.”
“Visitors? You must be joking,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “Send them away until tomorrow.” She started to close the door, and he raised his hand to stop her. A spike of heat flared in her chest.
“Not any visitors,” he said. “From Tigeria. At our shores. Now.”
“I see,” Nyset said, raising her chin. “It was all true then. Have the servants prepare the meeting chamber, send their ambassadors at once.”
“Of course,” he said with a formal bow, hand gripping the sword on his hip.
Nyset sat rigid in a gilded chair raised upon a dais of alabaster marble. She failed to stifle the scowl forming on her mouth as what remained of the Tigerian rulers entered through the enormous arched doorway. The retinue paused just under the entrance of the Tower’s throne room. Claw ushered them in, gesturing for them to come and whispering what she guessed were comforting words. She slowly relaxed the tightness in her arms, fingers taking on her tension, nails pressed white against the armrests. She wore a robe in sharp angled cuts of deep blues trimmed in vibrant reds. It was broad and yawned around her neck and chest, showing her olive skin. Golden strands of braided hair draped across either shoulder and over her breasts. On one side of her chest was a Dragonhead brooch the size of a pigeon’s egg, its eyes inlaid with rubies.
A thousand thoughts whirled through her mind. Tigerians hadn’t been sighted in Zoria for over five hundred years when they last invaded during the Trial of Devastation. She knew the Shadow had a grip on Tigeria, but not so firm to send them fleeing from their lands. She had to hope this was a call for help in ousting the Shadow. Given the damage Grimbald reported on their armada, she was assuming the former.
This moment felt surreal, like she was witnessing it through someone else’s eyes. Tigerians, enemies of the realm, were in the Silver Tower. They were a cruel race, enslaving and consuming men like they were no better than cattle. The memory of the Tigerian invasion was still strong among the people. Children’s tales spoke of catfolk riding Tougeres, enormous cats bigger than horses, capable of slicing a man in two with a single paw swipe. Half of the Midgaard Falcon fell during their invasion, making it all the way to the walls of Midgaard before they were repelled and sent fleeing back to their lands. Strewn about the realm were artifacts they brought with them, some imbued with strange and miraculous powers. Many of these artifacts were once held in the Tower until Asebor controlled it. He and his Wretched drained many of them of their strength to enhance their own, rendering them as useless as antique shop trinkets. They are supposedly intelligent beasts, but she’d be the judge of that, she thought, steepling her hands and tapping her fingers together.
Stone balconies with intricately carved balusters flanked the rectangular chamber. Giant banners depicting the Phoenix and the Dragon hung over the edges of the balconies, twitching in the gentle night breeze at either side of her chair. Around the perimeter of the room stood exotic shrubs, flowers, ferns, and priceless vases painted with bright pastels. In the corner, a fountain of a carved Phoenix peacefully gurgled. Through the windows, a patina of stars glimmered in the black.
The chamber was vast. A carpet embroidered with a repeating sigil of the Dragon and the Phoenix intertwined in a dance of feathers and scales, leading to the Arch Wizard’s dais from the entrance. Flanking the carpet were Milvorian torches as tall as a man, each bearing a crackling ball of Dragon fire, the metal glowing with an opalescent shine and capable of withstanding the magical heat. Shadows flickered among the walls, the corners of the room cloaked in darkness.
She glanced at Isa at her side, his clothing a ragged contrast with the richness of the room. His gray cloak was parted open to show a grisly display of tools that served the major function of killing. He didn’t notice her watching him as he eyed the approaching group, his eyes wide like a hawk to prey.
On the opposite side of her chair was Senka, dressed much the same as Isa but in more form-fitting hardened leather, no doubt concealing an assortment of daggers and poisoned needles. Farther off the side of her dais was Grimbald and Vesla, her tome opened and a stub of charcoal at the ready to document this affair. Twelve of her most favored and deadliest wizards leaned over the balcony, letting the force below know where they stood if they thought violence would be the answer.
Her gaze fell on a figure leaning over the balcony, long gray hair tucked behind the ears of a face with eyes faintly glowing like embers. Juzo. She regarded him with a warm smile, and he returned the gesture. She was glad he stayed. There was something about seeing the friendly face of an old friend that braced her spirit.
Questioning murmurs rolled over the gathered onlookers. A throng of veteran and apprentice wizards alike filled in behind the torches that trailed carpet. There was one Tigerian leading the group of seven, behind him what she presumed to be his closest guardsman. Among them was a man with a woefully familiar face. “Scab,” she mouthed to herself, eyes narrowing as she shook her head in disbelief. “How?” A new onslaught of questions savaged her mind. How did he survive? How did he end up in Tigeria? And beside Crugen, no less.
Grimbald trudged down the stairs of the dais, creating a thunderous clap with his hands and grabbing attention. “Quiet! Everyone, quiet down.”
Claw raised his hand for the Tigerians to stop where they were, about twenty feet from the dais. He slinked around the torches and onlookers, ascending the first step of the dais to Nyset’s side. He cleared his throat as silence fell over the chamber. Only a cough and someone clearing a throat was heard.
Nyset’s eyes finally adjusted to the light, taking in the leading Tigerian who she presumed to be Crugen. She did her best to hide her shock, mouth slightly parting at glimpsing this foreign race. She quickly closed it, eyes narrowed as she studied him. The warm excitement of her exploratory side welled in her chest, wishing to spend countless weeks with this creature to discern all of its secrets. She’d read all she could about them in books, of course, but that was never like the real thing.
His head had the shape of a man’s, but the mouth and slitted eyes of a cat’s with fat lips bisected and whiskered. Atop his head were triangular ears with tufts of white emerging from the canals. His fur was dark brown and striped in blacks, matted in oily spikes. His eyes were
large and glowed with an intense yellow so bright she might have guessed he could wield the Dragon. She resolved that behind those eyes there was certainly a wise intelligence. He wore a crisp overcoat ornamented with golden threads down the front and filigreed with silver about the collar and wrists. Light trousers covered his legs, and his feet were expectedly bared with long dark nails emerging from his toes. His hands too were like a man’s, though bristled in fur and lined with talons that appeared very functional. From his backside wagged a long tail, gently swaying at the carpets.
His guardsman appeared much the same, though their clothing was plain. They were lithe and muscular, Tigerians conditioned by the sword. They were unarmed of course, their swords and blades confiscated before Grimbald would allow them to see her. Their heights were similar, a bit shorter than the average man standing at about five feet in height. Where they seemed to vary most was in their fur patterns. One of the guards was flat white, another a tortoiseshell of blacks and brown, and another a gradient that traversed from black to brown. They didn’t seem all that fearsome from here. Fur is quiet combustible, she thought with the start of a smile.
Claw raised his chin and puffed out his chest, eyes wide as he regarded the Tigerians. “I present to you Nyset Camfield, the one hundred and twenty-fourth Arch Wizard of the Silver Tower. Known as the Shield of Zoria for slaying the beasts of Shadow, the Ruler of Nightmares for preserving the integrity of the Shadow Realm, and the greatest wizard to have lived in this epoch,” he said, tone filled with the pride a father might feel for his daughter. He inhaled deeply, appraising the Tigerians with a darkening expression. “Bend the knee, and then you may state your business upon our shores.”
A long moment passed. They didn’t move, the Tigerian guards’ eyes flickering between each other. Nyset slightly lifted her chin, rising to her feet with the start of a frown.
Scab stepped out from behind the group, grinning with a mouthful of broken teeth. She had almost forgotten about him, lost in the clutches of curiosity. “May I? I know the customs here and given the state of things… well, we haven’t had the time to brief them on your ways, Mistress. I’m sure you understand,” Scab said with a flamboyant gesture of his lone hand.
Nyset glared at one of Grimbald’s most decorated general’s as he scurried up to him, apologetically bowing as he did. He urgently whispered in Grimbald’s ear, and they both scampered out through the back of the chamber.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t burn you where you stand?” Nyset’s voice bellowed, eyes going wide.
“Well, well,” Scab stammered. “Because you need me, Mistress. I am an arbiter in Tigeria, and I can help you bridge your communication divides. And besides, we have a shared enemy.” Scab bowed, mastering his voice. As he rose, he rolled up his tattered sleeve, showing a swirling brand of dark script on his remaining forearm. Nyset heard Isa gasp and thought she could sense a wave of terror pouring off him. Perhaps the bastard could help her help Isa. He might be useful, she decided with a tired sigh. The fireballs filling the sconces hissed and crackled, mirroring her anger.
Scab looked worse than she remembered him. He seemed to have aged over ten years and hardly four had passed. The life of drink and whoring wasn’t serving him well. His eyes were ringed in an angry red, the skin flaked and cracking, lips in much the same state. Some of his hair appeared to have been put into dreadlocks, the rest of it a knotted mess that only a blade could salvage. Incredibly, he had the same faded red coat he always wore, though now bits of cotton were hanging out at the shoulders, chest, and elbows. It was darkened by soot, stained with salt and mud. His nose appeared to have doubled in size with a pair of pinked cotton balls stuffed into his nostrils.
Scab lowered his eyes and shuffled his feet. Crugen regarded him with what might’ve been a cold expression, revealing nothing.
“Well, tell me what happened.” Nyset gestured with a short wave. It felt as if the room stopped breathing. A boot scuffed, sound bouncing from the expansive walls.
Scab opened his mouth to speak, and Crugen placed his hand on his arm, cutting off his voice. “Arch Wizard,” Crugen slightly bowed, eyes never leaving hers. “I am Crugen Nenkur, King of Ashrath. I know we have our differences…” He swallowed, mouth wordlessly opening and closing. “We’ve lost…” He peered down at the tiles. “We’ve lost everything. Ashrath is no more.”
Mutters and the upstart of conversation roared through the hall, some words reaching her ears. She caught the words ‘Shadow’ and ‘Asebor.’ Nyset raised her hand for silence, and the crowd obediently quieted. “Go on, Crugen.”
He frowned, staring at her for a moment before slowly nodding. His eyes glossed with tears. “We come to you in peace, seeking refuge from an enemy we cannot best alone. The capitol, Ashrath, was overrun with terrors. Snakes whose eyes glowed with the violet light of the Shadow. Among them were demons, constructs more horrifying than any of documented writings regarding Death Spawn. Our home is… lost.” He shook his head while lowering it and his voice.
Nyset raised her voice as conversations spiked the air, cutting them down. “You are welcome to ours, despite our differences.”
“What?” Isa balked.
“No,” Senka hissed. “What they did to us, you can’t—”
Nyset cut her off with a pointed glare. She continued, “Know that in Zoria, men are not your slaves. Given your treatment of men, I fear your people will have a hard time here, even under my protection.” A few snarls of agreement called from the crowd, and Nyset grimaced. “Your crimes against humanity will not go unpunished. We are not your cattle, not your slaves. In fact, you will bow to men while you are in the Tower’s protection, at least until the war is over. Is that agreeable, Crugen, King of Ashrath?”
Senka breathed like a smith’s bellows, boots shuffling.
Crugen gazed at his feet in contemplation. His guardsman were wide-eyed, some with jaws open in blatant disbelief. Scab snickered beside them, arms crossed over his chest as he licked his broken lips. Crugen slowly raised his head, nodding. “That is agreeable, Arch Wizard. Though I wish you to know that despite our backs being broken, we are not defenseless. My people will not suffer such disrespect without a riposte. Among the thousands of us that escaped Tigeria are hundreds of Tougere’s aboard our ships. They too need a place to rest. I fear their hatred of man is too conditioned to change. We will control them, however.”
Nyset felt the fire of the Dragon curl in her throat, filling it with warmth. “Your people will suffer while they are here, Crugen. Zoria is well aware of how Tigerians regard men. Your actions have repercussions, and I can’t control them all, our people. If there are problems, I assure you that there will be retribution.” She sighed through her nose and crossed her arms. “We’ll find a place for your mounts in the northern forests, though you’ll have to build your own stables. And you’re, of course, welcome to use our moorings, but if we detect even the slightest sniff of an invasion, your people will be bathed in Dragon fire. We will be watching you. Do you understand?” Nyset regarded Crugen with an icy stare.
“I understand, Arch Wizard,” Crugen croaked.
“There is one more thing you must do, Crugen. As my personal guard, Claw has said…” Nyset glowered, “bow before me.”
A tremble passed through Crugen, hand raising to caress a heavy iron chain around his neck with a silver pendant of a Tougere’s head. His fingers found the pendant, massaging it while whispering to himself in the harsh Tigerian language.
“Don’t be a fool, cast aside your pride,” Claw muttered, lips pulling into a snarl.
Crugen threw a glance about his group, nodded a few times then slowly lowered himself to the ground, resting on both knees with a groan, ears twiddling. “Tigeria is in your debt, Arch Wizard.”
Grimbald appeared at the side of her chair, bending over to speak into her ear. “Ny. I-I have grave news.” He carried an odor of nervy sweat, a scent she hadn’t detected on him since the first day they’d met.
“Not here.” He shook his head, pulling on his beard.
“Tell me now,” she demanded, raising her voice more than she meant.
He swallowed. “Midgaard is lost, Ny. Somehow… the Shadow found its way there.” At that precise moment, the crowd’s murmurings fell away, and Grimbald’s voice carried from the walls. “Midgaard has fallen.”
“Midgaard is lost?” a voice echoed.
“Midgaard’s fallen! The capitol!” a woman screamed.
“The Shadow has returned to Zoria!” a quaking voice cried.
“What are we going to do?” a panicked voice asked, the energy waving over the chamber.
Nyset felt the world swirl around her, cheeks draining of color, legs feeling light as feathers. Not here, not now, not this. She let her eyes fall to Crugen, still kneeling with his head lowered. “When did it happen?” she felt herself ask.
“Hours ago. Shortly before they arrived, I’m told,” Grimbald answered. She looked at him, both of them sharing in a pained grimace. “I’ll get the Armsman ready…” He straightened himself up, eyes steeled with resolve.
“Do you have word about the king?” Nyset asked.
“He and his heirs made it out intact, though most of his Black Guard fell with their escape. A small battalion of the Falcon trailed behind them, defending them from any Death Spawn that gave chase. I’m told they made it to Helm’s Reach hours ago, taking refuge in the palace.”
“I see. Thank you, Grim. Lost…” She tasted the word as she rose to stand, clearing her voice for all to hear. She tugged on her hood, skin slicked with cold sweat. She pulled on more of the Dragon, feeling its urge for destruction surging in her heart while drawing on the tempering power of the Phoenix.
The Shadow Age (The Age of Dawn Book 7) Page 23