A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5)

by Everet Martins

  The Cerumal never ran, even when there were few against overwhelming odds. She screamed and her knuckles split open, driving her fists into wells formed in the dirt. “How? Why?” She rolled back onto her knees, eyes closed, arms shaking. All this blood was on her hands, from her foolishness. Was this what leadership was? Living with the blood of the dead on your hands?

  She opened her eyes and they found the ever-burning curl of smoke leading out from the Silver Tower. It was a stub of ruined stone on the horizon, no longer the resplendent structure that commanded fear and respect. She would take it back. They could not have what was hers. She balled her fists and screamed, driving them into the sand, grinding dirt into her bloody knuckles.

  She saw Claw’s arm reaching for her, then paused mid-way. “Are you well?” He dropped into a low squat in front of her and stared.

  “Can you—?” She looked at Clara’s empty eyes.

  Claw put two fingers on Clara’s neck and held them there for a long minute. “Afraid she’s moved on already, Mistress.”

  Senka came up after Claw, skirting around him with her arms behind her back. “We’ve won, Mistress. It is a victorious day for all.”

  “A victorious day,” Nyset repeated. Her eyes turned back to the Tower looming over the horizon, always taunting her. Then she gazed down at Clara again. “But not for all.”

  Chapter 3

  Dicing

  “There is much magic in the world, missed by our senses blinded to its majesty.” -The Diaries of Nyset Camfield

  Walter let out a jaw-aching yawn and rubbed his eyes, wondering what his mother would be making for morning supper. Flour cakes perhaps, maybe some bacon to go with them would be lovely. His taste buds were eager for the touch of gooey syrup mixed with freshly churned butter. His bed felt unusually lumpy, like someone had put rocks under the mattress. Had Wiggles dragged rocks in his bed again? His face was cold with the weight of the morning’s mist.

  They had set up camp just outside of Shipton before the dense forest of the Woodland Plunge. The forest was lush, green with waving grass shrubs twitching from scavenging squirrels. There was a small clearing before the bridge that crossed into Shipton. The water under the bridge was brackish, mixed with the fresh water of the Blanched Falls and salted water of the Abyssal Sea. It sent a pleasing rumble over the camp, soothing him to sleep.

  Somewhere in the camp, someone’s ass roared with a wet, squelching fart. He would have laughed had not the reality of his life came rushing back then. It filled him with a great sense of dread, the kind that only departed when you were unconscious or numb with Fang Cress.

  Dead Mother. Dead Father. Dead dog. Baylan, his former mentor, was dead. Lillian, Baylan’s betrothed, dead. He’d killed Juzo just the day before, said the last words not more than a day ago. All dead and back to the Shadow Realm, to suffer in the arms of the cruel Shadow god. Countless more would die, he knew. The price to be paid for ending Asebor’s reign would be insurmountable. He knew it in his gut as well as he knew the Dragon and Phoenix whirling in his chest.

  He stared up at the blanket of mist cresting the tops of the pine trees and blinked. He rubbed his gnarled stump the demons of the Shadow Realm had left him with. He flexed his forearm, wondering if maybe today the palm and fingers would spontaneously reform. He found himself disappointed by the limits of the Phoenix’s healing. Why could it heal stabs, cuts, burns, and broken bones but not missing limbs? What was its threshold for damage?

  He had tried melding both the Dragon and the Phoenix together to heal his mangled eye to no avail. That method worked particularly well on some things. He remembered back to when he lived in the Tower of Meditation with Malek and his friends, and how that was the only way he was able to heal a Skin Flayer’s poison. He remembered the demon’s grisly face and its savage teeth. He remembered how it felt to be forced to hack his own arm off. He shivered under his wet, miserable blanket. When he found his way back there, he would have his revenge on that one.

  Juzo had fallen by his hand. How could he ever forgive himself? How could he tell his parents? How could he face Nyset? “Juzo, Juzo,” he whispered. “What have I done?” Juzo had only wanted to help in his own, twisted, misguided way. The power of the Dragon was not a trifle. It was as deadly to his enemies as it was to his friends. He had to learn that lesson in the worst way imaginable. His eyes were still sore from yesterday’s tears, damp again and red with irritation. Did Juzo know how sorry he was? Did he know it was an accident?

  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Juzo’s shocked expression and the hole burned through the side of his head. He saw it gape open and the horrible blood spilling out. Juzo’s blood.

  I killed my best friend.

  The thought was always there, always on loop in the back of his mind. He saw his body, unmoving against the cold earth, snaring roots poking out of the walls. He saw Grimbald heave clumps of dirt onto his white corpse. Over and over, he thought through things he might have changed, done differently, what he could’ve altered that might have left both of his friends alive. He knew it was a moot effort. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself, it was already done.

  Someone got up, stumbled through the woods, and moaned with the hissing of piss pattering on leaves. Walter inhaled sharply and came back to the present, shaking his head to dash away the unrelenting nightmare. He had to be here, for his mind was an inescapable labyrinth of pain.

  Beside him, one of Scab’s men tossed onto his side, adjusted his blanket, and let loose another cheek-vibrating fart. Walter crinkled his nose at the stench of old beer and rotting meat congealing in the air. Walter rose up on his elbow, his side sore from the uneven ground. “Would you go and shit already?”

  The man responded with the popping of a fart and tugged his blanket over his head. He liked his own fragrance, it seemed.

  “Get up you dogs! Up! Up! Up! Rise and feel the marks filling your purses,” Scab shouted across the heaps of sleeping men. Scab had his pitted sword raised in the air, saluting the first rays of the morning sun. As far as Walter could see, there were men huddled under blankets. They were pulled tight over their bodies, struggling to trap a little bit of the warmth from their stinking forms.

  “C’mon now, you louts. Don’t make me get out the whip.” Scab weaved between clumps of groaning men, driving boots into asses and nudging unconscious shoulders.

  “Fuck off, you fuck!” Someone shouted at him after being unceremoniously kicked from the arms of sleep.

  “A little too hard, sorry,” Scab said with a careless shrug.

  Scab was dressed in the only outfit he seemed to own. He wore a soiled and patched pair of navy trousers, topped with an opened coat that might have given him a regal appearance if it were ten years newer. His hair was matted with a month’s worth of grease, black and stabbing up at every angle.

  “Is it that time again already?” Grimbald grunted beside him.

  “Believe it is,” Walter choked out, his voice betraying him.

  “How you feeling?” Grimbald rose out of his woolen blanket, shirtless. He bent his neck down and started scratching it with both hands. Walter eyed the slabs of muscle on his sides, almost as big as Walter’s entire torso. His arms were thick with ropey scars. Along his ribs on either side were a crisscrossing set of healed wounds, likely the work of a Black Wynch’s talons. He worked his shoulders around and veins popped out on the enormous peaks of muscle.

  Walter had slept shirtless and bootless, black trousers billowy and hanging off his hips. He preferred to blend in the best he could, though he often failed. His balled up tunic and travel-worn cloak sat beside his blanket.

  Walter looked for Grim’s latest scar and found it on his upper ribs, still pinked around the edges. Juzo had become an enemy when he plunged his blade into Grimbald. Maybe Juzo got what he deserved, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it. Everyone should have been able to make mistakes and given a second chance. But some mistakes lasted a lifetime. Some
people didn’t get second chances.

  “I’m alright, yourself? By the Dragon, you’re a big bastard.” Walter forced a grin. Juzo’s scarlet eye flashed in his mind. Then the hole in his head, blood hissing and bubbling out of it.

  “I’m—” Grimbald bent at the waist to avoid getting slapped in the face by Scab’s sheathed sword.

  “A wonderful morning, my noble employer!” Scab gestured as he passed, a mad grin pasted on his flaked lips.

  Walter cleared his throat. “Morning,” he said and recoiled at his putrid stench. It smelled like he’d fallen into a latrine.

  “What?” Scab lifted his arms overhead and sniffed his armpits. His jacket was torn where it met his underarm, exposing a wolf’s pelt of hair underneath. He shrugged and strode down the line of mercenaries, sending his muddy boots into men trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep. “I’d like my morning elixir and two sausages soon, please get a move on,” he said to a wiry man.

  “Yes, sir. Water’s already being heated, sir.” The wiry fellow paused and stared at Scab.

  “Go on then,” Scab flicked the wiry man’s cheek with a dirty fingernail and he tore off, stumbling over someone’s bag then tripping on a blanket.

  Walter grabbed his toes and stretched his back. It was as tight as a drawn bowstring. He caught sight of Wart, Scab’s second, joining in the waking of the men. For such a brute, he had a much gentler approach than Scab. He gave shoulders soft shakes and spoke quietly to stirring forms.

  A rumbling came from Grimbald. “Sausages? Why don’t we get sausages? I could really go for some meat in my mouth.”

  Walter turned and flashed him a smile. “Have you ever met a sausage you didn’t like?”

  Grimbald gave his tunic a shake and bits of grass and dirt fluttered in the air. “Can’t say that I have. I like onion sausage, garlic sausage.” He slipped his shirt on. “Honey sausage, Shroomling sausage, lamb, pork, any kind, really.”

  “What about his sausage?” Walter pointed to a grizzled warrior, beard trailing down to his neck and clad in armor that had seen some hard use. He had an odd gait, seeming to favor one side.

  Grimbald’s broad eyebrows drew down. “Very funny,” he chuckled. Grimbald pulled his soiled handkerchief free from his pocket and flung it at Walter’s head.

  “Gah!” Walter winced with disgust and threw it back with two fingers. He laughed and Grimbald tucked it back into his pocket.

  “You two finding something funny?” Walter turned to see the grizzled man he had pointed to seconds ago standing over him, his face pocked with scars.

  “No, we’re just—” The man reached down and wrapped his leathery hand under Walter’s armpit, hauling him to his feet. Walter groaned as the cool earth chilled his bare feet. He looked into the man’s eyes, netted with wrinkles at the corners.

  Grimbald took a step forward, meaty hands balled into fists. Walter waved him down and nodded at him, then flashed a grin.

  “What I was trying to say,” Walter started, turning to Grimbald. “My friend and I were joking. Just having little harmless fun.”

  “You think it’s fun having yourselves a little laugh at my expense, do you?” The man tilted his head back, his narrow beard brushing against Walter’s neck. “I like funny things too.” Something sharp pressed against Walter’s ribs. “I think it’d be a rip roaring laugh to watch you bleed out like a stuck pig. Don’t you?” He leaned uncomfortably close, but Walter would not move. He caught Grimbald’s eye, saw him inching towards the old man. Walter shook his head.

  Walter cleared his throat, thick with unrelenting mucus. Was he getting sick? He sighed. “I killed my oldest friend yesterday. There’s really nothing you can do to hurt me, friend.” The silence stretched out between them. The man’s breath was warm on Walter’s face. A cracked corner of the man’s lip twitched then curled into a grimace.

  The old warrior dropped the knife and hid it up his sleeve. His fists came up and his legs opened into an awkward stance. He jerked his head from side to side, his neck releasing a series of unsettling pops.

  “What are you doing?” Walter asked.

  “Got to protect my honor. We’ll settle this our way.” The warrior beckoned to him with his white-knuckled fists.

  “Your honor?” Walter scoffed. That apparently amounted to sticking a knife in an unarmed man’s ribs. Of course, that excluded the furious weapons burrowed deep within his chest, the Dragon and the Phoenix, his loyal companions. “But I only have one hand and one eye. This isn’t entirely fair, is it?”

  A few men dropped what they were doing and gathered around for the entertainment. One chuckled and nudged his friend, handing him a wineskin.

  “Should’ve thought of that before you dragged me into your shit, boy.”

  “A mercenary with honor. Now that is a contra—” The man’s arm was a blur and pain ripped through Walter’s jaw, sending him sprawling onto his back. Laughter filled the air. He fell with a thump and blinked up at the trees. The mists were dissipating in the heat of the rising sun. It felt good to be alive, he thought. To be laying on the surface of the ground was so much better than being buried in it. He remembered the enveloping world of dirt and stone when he had returned from the Shadow Realm, fighting for breath.

  Walter pushed onto his upper back and sprung up to his feet in one movement. The world waved. Trees and shrubs blurred into a mass of greens and browns. His vision stabilized and the old warrior’s grin widened. The man had a great deal of power there.

  “Nice hit. Reckon that will be your last,” Walter held his arms at his side.

  “The lad has stones, doesn’t he?” a bystander said.

  “Not a very good fighting stance, boy,” the old warrior snickered.

  The warrior grunted and charged in. Walter smashed his heel into the man’s knee, straightening his leg with a pop. The warrior fell to the ground with a thud and his armor plates clanged together. A chuckle and a cheer came from the small circle that had formed. The man groaned, both hands clutching his knee. “You bastard. Uh — you bastard. That was a good trick. How’d you know that was my bad knee?”

  “Wasn’t entirely difficult to figure out,” Walter smirked. “You may apologize whenever you’d like.”

  “Fuck off, you little shit.” He groaned, both hands protectively held his knee. The circle that had started to form promptly broke up, likely hoping for a longer show.

  Walter could see his knee was bent far too much in the wrong direction. He bent down and tugged on the Phoenix, its icy calm filling him with a deep sense of peace. “Let me help,” Walter said quietly.

  The man’s narrow brows drew down and deep lines formed on his forehead. He let out a long exhale, released his hands from his knee, and turned to face the sky, then gave a quick nod.

  Walter pressed his palm into his knee, humming with the cool glow of the Phoenix. He saw the light a little differently this time. It wasn’t a cylinder of light bulging out from his palm like he’d always thought. It was thousands of Phoenix tails so tightly packed that they appeared to be a single entity. They spiraled their way into the man’s knee, flitting around like hundreds of surgeon’s blades. There was a twang, a pop, and the man’s kneecap slid back into place.

  “Oh, thank you.” He moaned and grinned up at him.

  Walter rose up and sniffed, shook his head at the man. He wanted to tell him he was pathetic and didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘honor.’ He turned away at the clinking of mugs and a smell that reminded him of home.

  “Feels better than it did twenty years ago,” the defeated warrior muttered.

  Scab threaded his way between grumbling men drying off armor, wiping down weapons, beating the water from blankets, and stowing away supplies. Behind him was his wiry servant, tottering on uneven earth and balancing a wide tray with an assortment of items for morning supper.

  Scab stopped, stared down at the old warrior and planted his hands on his hips. “Well, well, well. I see you’ve met Derri
k, one of the first to join the band. He has a fiery temper that often gets him into trouble, don’t you, Derrik?”

  “Fuck off, Scab.” Derrik groaned.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve just started to get to know each other.” He offered his hand.

  Derrik reluctantly took it, cast an annoyed eye from him to Scab. Walter helped him to his feet. “Suppose I’ll start on my morning duties and all now.” Derrik stalked off, posture slumped with defeat.

  Scab’s servant unfolded legs from the bottom of the tray and carefully set it down. It was a wonderful invention. He turned over three mugs, cracked at the top but functional, and started pouring beautiful, dark elixir into each one. He set the polished silver decanter down in the center of the small table. It was a piece that would have looked better on King Ezra’s table rather than in the middle of camp. Steam formed from the top of the mugs and curled into ghosts. On the tray was an ornamented plate covered by another of equal size. Walter guessed Scab didn’t acquire this set in the traditional manner. The servant turned over the top plate, revealing six sausages. Their skins crackled and the sweet aroma of basil and garlic scented the air. Walter’s stomach roared with hunger.

  “That’s good, very nice. Thank you, Alvis, perhaps I won’t kill you today.” Scab grinned at the servant and twiddled his fingers. Walter watched as Alvis’s face paled before he bowed and slithered away. Had Walter just met Scab, he would’ve thought that comment a joke.

  Grimbald had crept close to the small tray, staring at the sausages, as if it took every ounce of his being not to snatch one from the plate. It likely did. It reminded him of the restraint Wiggles had to use at family dinners. The hound would plant his maw on the side of the table, patiently awaiting scraps.

  “Are you hungry?” Scab grabbed a sausage and tossed it between his hands. “Ah, hot, hot!” He stuck a dagger through it and blew on it.

  “Very. Thanks, Scab,” Walter said.

  Grimbald licked his lips and rubbed his palms together. He fished a pair of skewers from his bag and handed one to Walter. Grimbald jabbed a sausage with his gleaming skewer and took a cautious nibble. He swooned. “These are perfectly cooked! I detect lamb, basil, a touch of garlic, salt from the Far Sea, a shake of cinnamon and… a dusting of coriander. Is that right? The skin is just right.”