The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  The Arch Chancellor started across.

  The far side of the chasm held enormous pillars and archways, vast hallways leading off into the darkness beyond, and at their center reared a pair of massive gold-leafed doors. All light within the cavernous space seemed to bend in their direction.

  Standing in front of the ancient portico that barred all passage into the mountainside, one would have almost believed the stories told of giants roaming the land of Aldor. Valtor took a brief moment to appreciate the looming structures before waving his staff in an arc.

  The great doors shook, raining bits of dust and debris around its outer frame as he heard the sound of wood and metal scraping together from the other side. Lowering his staff, he waited and watched as the doors split at the seam and then parted.

  “Voyestra.”

  Torches all throughout the chamber burst alive, revealing a massive domed cavern, hewn from the mountain itself. In front of him lay a great ring of stones marked with ancient glyphs. At the center of the stones stood an ominous looking tree with its leafless branches spread out in all directions like little tendrils searching for the light of a sun they would never find. Near the back of the colossal chamber lay a pool of black liquid, placid as glass.

  Valtor took a seat on a nearby stone and waited. He could hear the sound of approaching feet echoing off the rock from outside the double doors. Hustling with all the speed a pair of stubby legs could muster while supporting such a heavy physique, a pale inquisitor waddled in. His face was half-covered in tattoos, symbolizing his place within the Inquisition, and his white robes were stained with blood and dark patches of sweat from his quick descent from the tower above.

  “Your Eminence,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “How can I be of service?” Valtor was both fascinated and disgusted by the inquisitor’s improbable size. He had to be one of the fattest men Valtor had ever seen. It was a wonder he didn’t keel over and die right there.

  “How is your work with the smith coming?”

  “The smith? Ah, well, it’s moving along quite nicely,” he lied unsuccessfully with a smooth smile.

  “That’s good news.”

  The inquisitor took another step closer and Valtor promptly wished he hadn’t. The man smelled of perspiration, blood, and rotten cheese. “I’ve heard rumors that progress has been rather slow of late?” He raised a questioning brow.

  “Ah, well, you can’t believe everything you hear, Arch Chancellor.”

  “Yes, well, the more you speak, Inquisitor, the more I’m willing to believe that is the case.”

  The inquisitor’s left eye twitched. “He has proven to be rather difficult of late. I’ve never questioned one so . . . so—”

  “Difficult?”

  “Yes, difficult.” He bowed once more in deference.

  “I was told you specialized in cases like this, which is why I chose you specifically to work with him. His gift will prove useful to me. We haven’t had a true metallurgist come through the Tower in ages, let alone one who is already a capable weapon-smith. We need him. I don’t care what it takes. Torture him. Threaten him. Bribe him for all I care, just get him to agree to work with us.” Valtor stopped to consider. “Does he have any family or friends we can exploit?”

  “He has no family that I know of, Your Grace, but then again, he hasn’t exactly been the most cooperative of patients. I’ve never had one last as long on the rack as the smith. He’s quite the specimen.” Valtor watched the man’s eyes as they seemed to glaze over in thought, as if lost in some fantastical dream of future mutilation. It was clear the inquisitor had a certain attraction or fondness for the sword-maker, much like a cat playing with a mouse before sinking its teeth into it.

  “Find something we can use as leverage.”

  “Yes, sir. I will push him even harder. There is a girl—”

  Valtor’s head rose. “A girl?”

  “Yes. She’s a healer. I use her on some of the tougher cases to push them to the brink, and bring them back for more. I believe there could be a spark there if I give it a chance to grow.”

  Valtor could tell the man was grasping at straws, but at the moment, so was he. He wanted the metallurgist’s talents put to use in arming his soldiers. The smith had the capability of creating powerful weaponry, more so than he probably realized. The Guardian Protector’s swords had more than proven that. Valtor could only imagine what he would be able to accomplish with an army wielding such weapons.

  “Very good.” Valtor bounced the tips of his fingers on the top of his staff. “I believe that might be worth pursuing. In fact, I believe it might be time for me to have a chat with our stubborn friend as well.”

  The inquisitor’s eyes lit with excitement. “Yes, Your Eminence, splendid idea. If there was ever a man who could talk a snake out of its hole, it would be you,” he said with another sweeping bend at the waist.

  Valtor didn’t know if he should be pleased or offended at the inquisitor’s comment, but he did so enjoy watching the man grovel.

  Chapter 47 | Rae

  RAE HESITATED, her quivering hand held at the ready, fist clenched and knuckles white as she tried hiding her hatred, her fear, and her self-loathing before continuing. She took a deep breath to steady herself, realizing she was left with no other choice.

  Rap—Rap—Rap. The sound of her knuckles hitting the chipped wood faded as she stood there with both hands clutching the hem of her worn dress. She tried wiping the palm of one hand across her short-cropped hair. No matter how much she tried to coach it into lying down, it seemed to have a mind of its own. Giving in to the realization that the sandy-colored mop was only going to do what it wanted to, she dropped her arm back to her side and squeezed another fistful of dirty material between her fingers. Somehow the feeling of those pleats of ripped cloth comforted her in a way nothing else could.

  She struggled to hold in her temper as she waited for the door to open. If she was good and held her tongue, maybe he would let her spend some time with Suri. She hadn’t seen her daughter in a couple of days and it showed in the circles under her eyes and the stiffness in her limbs from the sleepless nights she’d spent pacing the cold stone of her chamber floor. She was crazy with worry. Was her child alright? Was she being fed? Did she have a warm place to sleep? Those worries kept rolling around in her mind like a millstone at the grind—constantly moving, but going nowhere.

  She knew that Suri would be kept with all the other children bred within the walls of the White Tower. She knew it all too well, having been raised there herself.

  Her body tensed at the sound of the latch being pulled back from the other side of the door.

  Light spilled into the dark hallway, its glow enveloping her with warmth. The smells emanating from the room beyond were sickly familiar. She was a frequent acquaintance of these dismal chambers, and had been since she was old enough to notice the physical changes in her body. She had it memorized—the crackling sound of the fire, the damp feel of the cold stone beneath her bare feet, the meticulous layout of his precious tools neatly strewn across the tops of the shelves, even the smell of the sweat-stained mattress in the corner. The thought of what had been done to her on that mattress threatened to release the pent-up emotions she strove to keep at bay. Her pride, however, was not as important as Suri.

  “Ah, come in, my dear. I’ve been expecting you.”

  With head lowered, Rae stepped past the fat inquisitor. Not daring to look him in the eyes, she stopped in the center of the room and waited for further instruction. It had been at least three weeks since her last visit to his chambers. With the growing number of young female wielders being brought in from the outside to service the needs of the Black Watch ranks, she had hoped her days of use were finally numbered.

  It appeared her hopes had been naïve. If there was one lesson her miserable life had taught her, it was that men were pigs and she wanted to spit every last one of them and roast them slowly over a fire. The way they dominated her, the
way they leered at her, the way they used her as a toy to play with one day and pass on to someone else the next fueled the fires of rage inside her soul. That hatred had kept her alive, until Suri.

  She had heard stories from some of the other women about love, about men they had left behind when taken—men who had cared for them, men who had protected them, men who had adored them. Ha, she thought, fools, the lot of them. They always had the same silly notions when they first arrived. “My pa will come for me.” “My husband’s going to rescue me.” “My brothers will save me.” She would listen and laugh. They were men, and men only did one thing—what was right for them!

  She heard the door shut behind her and on reflex, she started unbuttoning the back of her torn dress. She knew how upset he got when she wasn’t submissive, and she couldn’t afford to make him upset, not today. She wanted to see her Suri. She had managed to unfasten the last button on the back and was pulling down the top when she felt a meaty hand slide across her neck.

  “Not tonight.”

  She froze. She didn’t know what to do. He moved around to the front and sat in his rocker by the fire, watching her for a moment. She wasn’t sure if this was some sort of test, if he was just trying to see how willing she truly was, so she continued to pull her arms from her sleeves, one at time.

  “Did you not hear me? I said not tonight.” His tone was more forceful this time. He was unmistakably agitated. This wasn’t a good sign. He was already in a foul mood. What would he say to her asking to spend time with Suri? Quickly, she lifted her top and redid the buttons.

  She couldn’t help but feel the slightest relief, though.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  She was taken aback. Help? When had he ever needed her help? Her body, maybe. Her magic, quite often. But never her help. Her spirits lifted, and her mind raced. If I can help him then maybe he will let me see her. A surge of hope flooded through her small frame, and she knew right then—she would do anything he asked.

  Chapter 48 | Orlyn

  “WHAT IN BLAZES could have possessed Ty to go in there?”

  Orlyn stood outside the small trinket shop and stared up at the faded sign swinging out front. Both sides of the gloomy lane were surrounded by three and four-story buildings that blocked all light from the sun. There were very few shops in use down the narrow passageway, and those that had taken up residence were of such a nature that traffic up and down the dimly lit lane was all but nonexistent.

  “I don’t see any lights on inside,” Feoldor said in a relieved sort of tone. “Maybe she’s gone.”

  Orlyn grunted as he shifted his weight to his other foot. “If only we could be so lucky.”

  Feoldor pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders. He pinched the material at the neck to hold in the warmth while at the same time blocking the wind that whipped its way in and around the larger structures. “This place gives me the shivers.” He eyed the darkened second story windows. “And in more ways than one.”

  “Aye,” Orlyn said as he glanced at his longtime friend. Feoldor’s hair was even more tousled than usual, strands sticking out in all directions. “Are you ready?”

  Feoldor raised his hand, palm facing outward towards the lonely stretch of dark alley behind them, and the breeze immediately ceased, leaving behind an eerie sort of calm. “Now I’m ready.”

  Orlyn scanned both sides of the quiet lane. After assuring himself that there was no one coming, he held his staff out in front and concentrated. The intricate weave of runes encircling the length of wood, like a beetle vine growing around the trunk of a large pine, pulsed a soft green. “Let’s go.”

  The two men slowly made their way toward the front entrance. Carefully, they inspected the door, windows, and archway looking for any sign of hidden traps or magical weave. Once they were satisfied, Orlyn reached out and twisted the rusty handle. He gave a small push and the door opened.

  A bell hanging from the top of the door jamb announced their arrival. They waited a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkness before stepping inside.

  “You see anything?” Feoldor asked, arching his neck around the other side of the door to get a better look.

  “No, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone here.” Orlyn was the first to step inside. He raised his staff and the runes brightened.

  Feoldor followed him in. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here.”

  “Keep your eyes open. If this woman is a dark witch and has managed to stay hidden all this time, I doubt she is without talent.”

  “We could have really used Veldon on this,” Feoldor said as he shuffled through some dusty odds and ends on a nearby shelf and came away with a small lamp, “if not for any better reason than to give us some additional light. Here, loan me your tinderbox, will you?”

  Orlyn sighed. “Where’s yours?”

  “I didn’t figure I’d need to carry one what with you and your walking storage robes.”

  Orlyn rolled his eyes then dug around in one of the many inner pockets woven into his baggy garments and handed a small box over to Feoldor. The glassblower quickly lit the lamp’s wick and, raising it high enough for the light to reach clear to the far side of the room, he started forward.

  “I’ll take this side,” Orlyn said as he started working his way down the left aisle. He stopped every couple of steps to listen for any sounds coming from the back-room or the apartments above, but the place seemed devoid of life. It felt to Orlyn like walking through an undisturbed tomb. The boards under his feet groaned as he shifted his weight.

  Ty wasn’t exaggerating when he had talked about the unique assortment of dangerous looking artifacts. Orlyn held up his staff to get a better look at the small shriveled faces hanging in the corner. “Interesting?”

  “What is?” Feoldor asked as he finished his survey of the right side of the room and walked over. “I found an odd assortment of weapons and a couple shelves of old tomes . . . Wow! Are those real?” He joined Orlyn in staring at the heads. He spared a quick look down the counter in front of where Orlyn was standing before turning his attention back to the shriveled craniums. “Anything of value over here?” Feoldor was clearly having just as hard a time pulling himself away from the desiccated faces as Orlyn.

  Orlyn finally managed to direct his attention elsewhere. “We should check the back-room and the residential chambers.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Feoldor groaned at the idea but kept to Orlyn’s heels as they headed for the open doorway at the back. The room was all but empty save for a four-legged table, a single stool, and what looked like a black piece of quartz lying on top. Orlyn was about to head over to the table to get a closer look at the rock when Feoldor grabbed his arm.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Orlyn stopped. He strained his ears, hoping to catch what Feoldor had heard. He scanned the dim room, moving his staff in a circular pattern to chase away the shadows from the dark corners. He looked at Feoldor and shook his head.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Feoldor slowly released the air he had been holding. “I don’t like this. Something about this place doesn’t feel right. It feels like we’re being watched.”

  Orlyn couldn’t argue with that. He had been struggling with the same sensation ever since they walked through the front door. Slowly, they did another sweep of the room and again came up empty. There was a door at the back leading up to the living quarters. Orlyn pointed his staff at the door and Feoldor reluctantly nodded.

  Moving up the stairs, they kept to the outer, less noisy, edges. The stairs were narrow and the ceiling lower than Orlyn would have liked. He found himself bending at the waist so as not to rake the top of his head. It didn’t take long to make a sweep of the rooms. Most were empty. There was a single bedroom with a modest trundle bed, a small dresser, and a large chifforobe. Everything was layered in dust and blanketed in cobwebs. It was as if no one had stepped foot in this section of the building
for at least a decade.

  “I’m starting to wonder if anyone’s lived here in years.”

  Feoldor grunted. “Maybe she’s a ghost?”

  Orlyn rolled his eyes and forced out a breath that vibrated his lips. He passed a final glance around the untouched room before heading back downstairs.

  With a sigh of relief, they left the shop and shut the door behind them. Stepping out into the vacant alleyway, they turned back to stare at the rundown building.

  “Well, that seemed … lackluster,” Orlyn said, feeling almost disappointed at not having found something more.

  “I’m telling you there is something about this place.” Feoldor made a chattering sound with his teeth.

  “I know what you mean.” Orlyn stared at the old curtains hanging from the bedroom window on the second floor. He thought he caught some movement, but after a while, he chalked it up to his own imagination. “I think we best keep an eye on it all the same.”

  “That would be a good idea, and since your shop is the closest, I volunteer you for the job.” Feoldor patted Orlyn on the shoulder before heading back up the narrow lane.

  Orlyn, finally pulling himself away from his examination of the bedroom window, grunted and quickly followed him out.

  Chapter 49 | Mangora

  “MOVE OVER, you giant oaf, before I boil you from the inside out!”

  Mangora pushed the huge Tallosian back from where he had been standing on her foot. The bell at the front of her shop had long since hushed its ringing, signaling that the two men had not returned.

  “You do,” he said in his rough, broken form of Aldoran, “and we not fight.”

  Mangora was half-tempted to take him up on his threat and roast him right there. But, like any other great tactician, she knew it was always the wiser choice to place the more expendable soldiers on the front line. So she held her tongue. Besides, she knew how desperate Baeldor’s people were. His lust for gold and the promise of open pillaging was more than enough to garner his complete loyalty as well as the loyalty of those warriors in his tribe that followed his brand of violent leadership.