The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3)

by Everet Martins

  “Good luck,” Aislinn said, her eyes narrowed like slits. Nyset stared at it for a long time, fingers working her wonderful lips. Walter started shifting his hips from side and started stretching his legs. Lena glared at him, finally directly acknowledging him. More minutes passed and Nyset brought the plate very close to her face, one eye closed tight. The goo stuck just like mucus, hardly moving at all. Should he tell her it’s just snot? Walter ran his fingers up and down Stormcaller and yawned.

  “Can I taste it?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Lena said.

  Nyset swabbed the goo with her finger and jammed it into her mouth, lips pursing. “Blah!” she sputtered, spitting up the sticky mucus onto the plate. Lena handed her a towel and she harshly rubbed it over her mouth.

  “Aproom! I only knew because unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time I’ve tasted it,” she said sourly.

  “By the Phoenix, she’s good,” Aislinn said, dropping her wide, leather gloved hands onto the counter with a thump.

  “And its uses?” Lena beckoned.

  “Digestive problems, stomach upset, loose stool, mainly,” Nyset confidently rattled off. She tugged at the tails of her shirt and took a quick breath.

  He knew she liked to study, but this was impressive. Walter was intrigued now, not realizing how deep her knowledge went in this area.

  Aislinn nodded rapidly, puffing her lips out. “You got it,” she said, taking the plate and scraping it into a barrel.

  “So, I’m in?” Nyset said, with a hop, hands clasped.

  “Almost,” Lena said, a sly smile on her face. “Just one more,” she said, rolling a pinkish ball of puff onto the counter from hands lined with rings from knuckle to fingertip. Nyset knitted her brows together and crossed her arms, deep in thought. Aislinn and Zaria didn’t succeed at hiding their slackening jaws, but did close them a few seconds later. They didn’t even know.

  This test is bullshit, Walter thought, shaking his head.

  “You have ten minutes to figure it out,” Aislinn said, planting her hands on her hips and sticking out her chest. The loose and dirt stained shirt doing nothing to hide her tremendous bust.

  Time passed and Nyset had tasted the pink ball, brushed it on her face, rolled it between fingertips, held it close to her nose, held her ear to it and still looked just as perplexed. A sheen of sweat glistened from the back of her neck and her lips moved noiselessly.

  “I—” She started to speak then stopped, furiously tapping on her lips with her fingers.

  Shit. He had to help her. She wants this. He could help. But Baylan said the Mind Eater was forbidden by the Tower. But they weren’t in the Silver Tower now, were they? Just this one time would be harmless, she wouldn’t even know the difference.

  Walter turned inward, parting the flames of the Dragon entering the clam of the Phoenix. Walter wasn’t sure what he was doing or if it would work, but he remembered seeing the construct of energy Malek had used on King Ezra to control his thoughts. It was just as harmless as a white lie. Walter’s eyes glazed over and his eyelids nearly closed as he molded the Phoenix to his will. Its cooling energy rolled down his arms like the departing tide, filling his fingertips with ice. He calmly slipped his hands behind his back, fingers wriggling.

  Malek had hid the glow of its light somehow. Walter could see the creature in his mind, the body of a spider with a massive eye the size of a dog’s head. Its segmented legs ended in narrow points and were jagged with barbs. He just had to take away its light. The insect skittered across the plains of his mind’s eye, seeking work, leaving blue trails of light as it moved. Walter imagined himself inhaling, swallowing its light. The bluish light drifted from its body in swirling wisps, dissipating like smoke. It was translucent now, shimmering like a mirage in the Tigerian Bluffs.

  He opened his eyes as the strange spider materialized on top of Lena’s head, a barely detectable shimmer in the air. Walter willed it to use its legs and it obeyed, jabbing them like daggers into Lena’s skull. She didn’t react to the spider though, or the beam that shot from its eye and into the front of her head.

  Her answer is correct. Whatever it is, it is true. Walter pressed his thought through the Mind Eater and into Lena. Lena seemed to nod in understanding. Shit, Walter thought, keeping the thought internally focused. Its legs sunk deeper into her skull, pressing its round abdomen to her head.

  “You’re a smart girl, I know you can figure this out,” Lena’s cool voice sprung in his mind. Walter’s eyes widened when he realized her mouth hadn’t moved. “Or maybe you don’t have what it takes to join the sisterhood? These two gentle minded souls got in, you should be able to as well…” Lena’s thoughts echoed in his head.

  This wasn’t right. He’d already gone this far, no turning back now was there? Walter injected the thought again, “her answer is correct.”

  Nyset glanced over at him and he flinched back a step, hands instinctively curling into fists. He felt sweat forming in the furrow that ran down the middle of his back. Did she know? Would she hate him for this? Should I tell her? He nodded at her, smiling reassuringly.

  She turned back to Lena and drew out a long breath. “I’m not sure, but I suppose a guess is better than nothing at all,” Aislinn tried to hide the start of a self-satisfied smile, Lena’s expression stoic. “Is it Fairymoss?” Nyset asked, voice wavering with an utter lack of confidence.

  “Her answer is correct,” Lena said flatly.

  “Really?” Nyset said, hands clapping. Walter let the Mind Eater go and the Phoenix power that left his fingertips frozen.

  “Shit,” Walter whispered. It worked.

  “Uhm, yes the answer is correct,” Lena said again, pulling on a necklace of sticks and twine. “Welcome to the sisterhood of herbalists!” She beamed with open arms. They embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.

  * * *

  Grimbald plodded along the Royal Road, King Ezra’s palace white like a bucket of milk reflecting the afternoon sun. He’d finally had some clothes tailored to fit his size from the good sum of marks Malek had most graciously left them in the Lair. It felt good to finally be able to move again.

  Grimbald paused, leaning against an iron street torch. He glanced at the paper secured with twine around the post. It was a sketch of Malek with the words: “10,000 marks. Dead or Alive.” Malek, probably somewhere shivering in the Mountains of Misery. They’ll never find him. For the third time, he uncurled the scroll clutched in his hand, reading Field Marshall Jast’s letter. It was addressed to him. Now that was something.

  Dear Grimbald Landon,

  I bore witness to your display of valor during the battle against the Death Spawn upon the Plains of Dressna. Visit me at the barracks tomorrow to discuss your future in the Midgaard Falcon.

  Jast Adlam

  Field Marshall of the Midgaard Falcon

  He gently closed the scroll and held it in his hand. It was just a few more blocks until he would turn right onto Falcon way. Grimbald thought it was strange that the guard’s barracks were in the Noble’s quarters. He didn’t like being in this part of the city much. He felt wrong, out of place. Like he didn’t belong here. He felt more at ease in the din of the market. It was too quiet here. Folks yelling, cursing and speaking plain, that’s what men should talk like.

  The people around these parts sat sipping on bright Scarlet Berry wine. Lounging on their small garden plots in front of their oversized houses. The houses here were as big as his Pa’s tavern in Shipton, the Hissing Gooseberry. A fine establishment if you asked him. All of this stuff wouldn’t go with them to the Shadow Realm. That was certain.

  The nobles whispered quietly to themselves, discussing things that were silly tidings in Grimbald’s mind.

  “Can you believe the color she painted her house?” A dainty woman hushed to her overfed husband.

  “It’s atrocious. There must be something wrong with her mind,” the man replied softly.

  But who was he to say what was importa
nt? A folk’s interest is but their own. Say one thing for Grimbald, he was big, that was certain. But he also had sharp ears that had served him well over his life.

  “Gia, look at that man!” another dainty hissed to his wife. Grimbald watched the dainty out of the corner of his eye, laughing at him like he was some kind of fool. The wife turned from watching a pair of big Sand Buckeye’s, bulbous plants snapping at each other for a piece of meat. A fine waste of food. There were a lot of hungry people in the lower district, especially outside the city walls.

  She turned her porcelain face towards him, just as Grimbald wheeled his head towards her and let out a growl. She gasped and her arm twitched, launching a blob of wine from her glass onto her frilly shirt.

  Grimbald grinned and snickered to himself. “City folk, too soft,” he said, loud enough so that they could hear. The man in unwrinkled clothing put his glass down with a tink, standing from his chair, trying to do his wife some justice. Grimbald stopped and slowly turned to the man, mouth forming a toothy smile.

  “Why… let’s go, Gia,” The man said with a scowl, guiding the woman by the elbow through the front door of their palace they called a house. Men would build houses as high as the sun if they could figure out how.

  He turned east onto Falcon way and fine construction gave way to buildings with warped window frames, sagging roof lines, and rotting trim. Must be in the right place.

  A merchant wheeled a rickety cart with strings of sausages hanging from the top. The smell of salted meat and garlic filled Grimbald’s mouth with saliva as it came near.

  “Sausage, sir?” the man asked, nose red with sunburn.

  “Couldn’t say no to that,” Grimbald said with a smile. The man looked him up and down and cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps two for you?”

  “Alright, two then. How much?”

  “Three marks,” the man said, cutting a length from a meat strip with a short blade. Tiny black flies buzzed about the cart, landing on meat and the greasy merchant. Grimbald fished the marks from his trousers, careful not to pull out more than he needed to pay. “It was wise to keep your extra marks hidden,” his Pa had always said. The merchant wrapped the sausages in some thin parchment.

  Grimbald counted the marks and dropped them into the merchant’s dirt lined hands. The man’s dark eyes fell upon Corpsemaker strapped to his back and lingered there, giving it the eye.

  “I’m hungry,” Grimbald said. The man smiled, handing him the meat, and stuffing the marks into a belt pouch. Grimbald strode on, finishing the first sausage, licking fat from his lips and moaning at the mouthwatering flavor. Just needs an elixir ale to go with it. He raised the second sausage to his mouth, ready to tear into it when something bumped into his arm, sending it rolling across the ground, gravel covering it on all sides.

  “Damn it!” he yelled, staring as the filthy meat stick came to a rolling stop. There was a lot you could do to Grimbald without making him angry, but messing with his food wasn’t one of those things.

  A man in a white outfit stepped in front of him, short with fire in his eyes. “Hey you, you’re friends with those wizard scum, aren’t you?” The man demanded, cute little fists clenched.

  “That was my sausage,” Grimbald said, frowning down at the bald man.

  “Are you working for the Silver Tower, boy?” the man asked, hand reaching for something behind his back and resting his hand there. A blade hilt no doubt.

  Two other men in white robes walked up beside the angry little man, the bottoms black with ash. A silly outfit for a city covered in ash. City folk are sure an impractical lot. He bent over with a groan and picked up the sausage, dusting it off with the back of his hand. They seemed to be the kind of men who he and his Pa would’ve had to toss out of the Hissing Gooseberry after having too many ales. All talk and no bite.

  “I’m talking to you, big boy,” baldy snapped, taking a step forward. Grimbald slid the sausage into his pocket for safekeeping.

  “I don’t know much about the Silver Tower. Run along now, you don’t want any trouble. I can guarantee that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Baldy barked, drawing a carving knife from his belt. The other two beside him had followed along, small knives of their own gleaming in the sun.

  A couple walking arm in arm turned the corner, saw the scene and hurried right back around the other way. At least some folk had some sense around here. He thought it strange they didn’t believe him. He was telling the truth.

  The two men beside Baldy fanned out, covering his flanks. Grimbald took a long step back, slowly reached his arm back over his shoulder, fingering Corpsemaker. Its wood was cool against his fingertips and was a perfect fit in his calloused hand.

  “You boys don’t want me to use this and I don’t want to use it on you,” Grimbald said, drawing Corpsemaker in a flash. The men in white jumped back a step. He held the axe by his side, flat side facing them. The axe head was wide as Baldy’s torso and twice as menacing as his scowl. The well-oiled weapon spelled certain death for anyone one the receiving end of it. Even fool men like these would know that, wouldn’t they?

  “C’mon, get him!” Baldy pointed with his dagger at the man to his right and shoved him towards Grimbald. The man recovered and the weapon in his hand trembled from dagger point up to his shoulder.

  “I don’t know nothing about the Silver Tower, other than that’s where the wizards come from. I’m hungry and don’t much want to shed any blood here. So why don’t we go about our separate ways in peace?”

  “That sounds like a fine idea to me,” Trembles said.

  Baldy seemed to lose a bit of his zeal now, as most men did who saw his size and strength up close.

  “Alright then, no blood.” Baldy said, sheathing his pointer. “Stay away from those wizards. They ain’t up to no good.”

  “I don’t care much for magics myself,” Grimbald said, hanging Corpsemaker behind his back. “But they have their place. They do a lot of good too. You should learn to live in peace with the wizards. They don’t mean no harm.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about! They want to enslave us all, make us their masters,” Baldy said, stabbing with his finger.

  “You guys need to find work. You have too much free time,” Grimbald said, pushing past them, his dark axe still lazily hanging behind his back, just in case they had a change of heart. They didn’t.

  Some of the soldiers on the streets recognized him from the battle of the Plains of Dressna and gave him proper respect, but other’s didn’t and sniggered as he passed them by. Men would always laugh at him, something he’d come to accept. Mediocre men blended in, but they didn’t have the chance to shine as he did, his dad always said.

  Grimbald stood before the barracks at the end of the road, shrugging his big shoulders and blowing out his cheeks. He stared at the arched doorway, the shining sigil of the Midgaard Falcon mounted on the heavy banded door. The building was built around a practice yard, forming the shape of a rectangle with one of the longer sides missing. Thankfully, the practice yard was empty this late in the afternoon. He was dreading having to walk by the men training, likely having another good laugh at his expense. No doubt, luck was on his side today.

  A row of wooden figures stood in a line on one side of the cobbled path, holding wooden swords and shields, filled with gouges and scratches. On the other side of the path were a series of targets bursting with hay and bristling with arrows. Along the walls bright swords, shields, bows, and spears lay in perfect lines in well used racks. A flag snapped in the wind high atop an iron pole, bearing a golden sun on white, the Midgaard standard.

  He readjusted the worn leather straps around his shoulder and torso that secured Corpsemaker to his back. He wouldn’t go anywhere without his beloved axe, his father’s gift for his fourteenth year. It had served him well so far. How long ago had that been? At least five years, he reckoned. Anyway, enough messing around. He didn’t have all day.

  His fist rapped on th
e door, echoing from within. He raised his fist to bang on the door again and then it opened.

  “Grimbald, I’m glad you came,” Field Marshall Jast said, offering his hand. Grimbald did his best not to crush it in his grip. “Do come in,” Jast waved.

  Grimbald nodded, ducking low through the door and into the middle of a brown stone, pristine hall.

  At either end of the long hallway were open doors with floor to ceiling bunks, mostly empty. Even from here, Grimbald could see the sleeping quarters were enormous. Must get mighty foul in there after bean supper.

  “This way,” Jast said with an air of command, his voice gruff.

  Grimbald followed Jast down the main hall, his armored boots echoing and clinking with every step. He had a long sword on his hip with golden braids arcing down around the gilded scabbard. They passed offices with the names of distinguished generals on silvery name plates hanging above the doors. Paintings depicting long dead generals lined the walls along with obituaries detailing their wartime achievements. They passed a few weapons that caught Grimbald’s eye, heavily gemmed and appearing to be worth more than the entire building.

  Jast slipped through a door and into an office bearing his name, plopping himself into a rigid chair. The walls were covered with maps of the most detail Grimbald had ever seen.

  “We have excellent cartographers in Midgaard,” Jast said. “Most finely trained. Please, take a seat.”

  Grimbald slid the chair away from Jast’s polished desk, giving himself room for his legs. He sat on the edge, shifting to one side of his ass.

  Jast stroked one of his flowing mustaches. “Grimbald, thank you for coming to see me. You fought wonderfully against the Death Spawn. I witnessed your fearless assault on the Lord of Death… and I’d decided you’d be an asset to our ranks.”