“Oil bomb!” he screamed and the Dragon instinctually bloomed in his chest, a raging torrent, compelling him to destroy. Walter welcomed the return of his dear old friend, ravenous anger. He had come to know it well and found in it a particular fondness he felt in no other.
“What?” Claw screamed in his ear, his chipped blade Ghostwalker faintly glowing and bleeding at his side. It was most certainly another talking sword.
Panicked bowstrings twanged, crossbows snapped, arrows hissed in a haphazard volley falling short of the target. Most plummeted into the gorge, others clattered against the bridge, piercing through dried out corpses.
A harmony of terrible shrieking came. Three more Shattered Wings roared into the air from behind the wall, filling the air with their demonic forms. They had four sets of wings, pincers for legs, featureless humanoid heads, bodies covered in a densely scaled carapace.
“Get back!” Walter ran off the side of the path, clearing himself space. He flared fire, skin warping the air with its heat, six fireballs coursing through the salty air. Tearing winds came in from the Far Sea, flapping at his cloak. He grunted, forced the fireballs at the lead Shattered Wing. The Shattered Wing folded its wings against its back, dropping from the air like a stone, barrel dragging it down.
“Damn it,” he snarled, watched the spiraling sextet of fireballs trailing black smoke where they should have struck the creature. He directed his attention further back at a pair of Shattered Wings following behind the leader. Walter split the group of six fireballs into two sets of three, whizzing like meteors.
A pair of his projectiles sheared through the wings of one. It shrieked in pain and sent them spinning like plucked petals from a flower. The last fireball of the set collided with the Tower’s wall, exploding in a shower of flames and chunks of stone.
The other set of three fireballs crashed into the neighboring Shattered Wing’s gut, sending it into a sideways spin. Coiled intestines trailed from an enormous wound, blood spraying, slabs of burning flesh dropping down, catching and sagging in its grabbing pincers. Perhaps it had thought to stuff its organs back in, he thought with a sadistic smile.
The pair of barrels caught in their clutches roared against the rocks far below, throwing up gouts of fire before being swallowed by the falls. The leader was almost upon them, screeching with its broad mouth agape, curving horns set to gore.
Walter fired again. Arrows, bolts, fireballs, and discs filled the air. Its wings whooshed, body twisting, ducking, agile as a cat. Arrows tore through its wings like paper. The weight of the barrel sent it wide, almost clipping its payload off on a sunken roof. It screeched an ear-splitting sound and rose up with a furious flapping of wings.
“Ny!” Walter pointed at the last one coming in. “Get it!”
“On it!” She gritted her teeth, amber light trailing over her brows like smoke.
Walter fixed his attention on the Shattered Wing rounding back in a wide arc. “Shit! Shit!” It was sweeping for the village, aiming for the end of the column. The wick was near its end. Screams came from the back of the column, some running, some standing and shooting bows. A few dropped to the ground and made themselves flat.
His jaw clenched and blood thudded in his skull. He blinked, sending a single fireball ripping into the blue. He willed it to curve through the air. It would strike true, he thought and clamped down on the sides of cheeks in concentration until a metallic taste filled his mouth.
The Shattered Wing dropped low. Walter’s fireball collided with its head, but it didn’t matter. He watched the wick meet the wooden barrel’s edge, winking out. It moved through the air like passing through a wall of honey. The barrel roared apart, threw out globs of burning oil and splintered wood.
“No,” Walter whispered, stumbled back onto the main path. A wave of icy defeat stabbed down his back. Shrieks of pain split the air. Men and women writhed, bathed in bone melting oil. The Shattered Wing’s ruined body fell into a death roll, hit the ground and rolled over at least ten warriors. Bones cracked and armor squealed.
“Move, damn it!” Claw rammed against him, shouldering past and running for the back. His hands were already glowing the healing light of the Phoenix.
Thalia whistled a series of commands. Her soldiers fanned out, taking knees and drawing arrows. Their bows were spiked at the ends, doubling as melee weapons.
Grimbald stared wide-eyed at the men and women burning, Corpsemaker trembling in his grip.
Walter spotted Grozul’s flapping robes, dropping down to administer healing spells.
General Stokes was barking orders, trying to keep some semblance of control in the midst of burning chaos. Walter had come to know that in battle, chaos reigned.
Walter started for the back of the lines to help Claw. A powerful arm grabbed him, stopping him in his tracks. He spun, saw Grimbald staring at him. “What are you doing?”
“We have a mission that needs doing.” Grimbald leveled his stern eyes at him.
“Shit.” Walter nodded. He was right. “Let’s get on with it then,” he growled.
“You must go, now, Walter!” Nyset was beside them, eyes glowing. She looked back down the column, lips pressed together until they were white. “We didn’t expect this.” The words spilled out. “Didn’t plan for this.”
He leaned in to kiss her, but she pushed her hot hands against his chest. “Not now. Go!” She snapped, giving him a fierce scowl.
He let out a heavy exhale. “Gates will be opened soon.”
“Thank you.” She caressed his cheek and forced a smile. He was rooted to the ground as he watched her run for a pair apprentices, issuing commands. He shouldn’t have expected more from her, but for some reason, the interaction had left him feeling hollow inside. He didn’t want to leave her. She wasn’t a defenseless lamb, but he couldn’t stifle the feeling that he was abandoning her.
She was right, he knew. He had to stay focused on the task. Lives depended on it. The truth was, he’d let them all burn if it meant saving her. He shook his head. “Ready?” Walter asked Grimbald.
Grimbald grunted with displeasure at having to use a portal.
He thought of his favorite place in the Silver Tower, a hallway lined with the statues of ancient warriors. Was it still intact? His portal cracked the air, buzzing and rotating to reveal the hallway. “Brace yourself, could be Death Spawn on the other side.”
“Right.” Grimbald nodded with determination.
“Come here.” Walter wrapped his arm around his massive side. “Careful of the edges.”
Walter gasped, stopping them in an awkward embrace, a step from the portal. A series of violet portals sprung open near the Tower’s gates. Death Spawn boiled out of them like bees from a kicked hive.
Grimbald dragged him on and it took a tremendous strength of will to let him. “They’ll have to deal with it,” Grimbald said into his ear. He smelled like fresh leather and honing oil.
They squeezed through the portal, leaving the world of burning men behind.
Chapter 21
Infiltraton
“War only ends for the dead.” -The Diaries of Nyset Camfield
Walter’s boots softly echoed from the polished stone lining the stale hall.
“Where are we?” Grimbald asked, his voice a whisper. His hand twitched for his axe, but there was no need. The hall was quiet as a grave, the only enemy choking dust. Walter’s portal softly fizzled on the tiled floor, triangular stones burning with molten heat.
“Above the veteran’s quarters in the main spire,” Walter replied and let the portal vanish with a hiss. “I think.” He swallowed. The moisture in his throat felt to have departed and he had to fight off the scratching urge to cough. He strained his ears, softened his breathing, listening. Grimbald mirrored him. His heart thumped behind his eye at the spot where an eye used to be.
They were in the middle of the hallway, layers of dust covering the floor. No prints. Armored statues depicting ancient warriors guarded the walls. The
y brandished halberds and spears forming a series of crisscrossing arches. A procession of semi-circular windows marched along the top of one wall, facing the main courtyard beyond the gates, throwing white light across the curved ceiling. The floor was cast in gray shadows.
“Now where?” Grimbald asked, breaking a long silence. He licked his cracking lips and peered over his shoulder. “Never made my way up this far… being a soldier and all.”
Walter sucked in that dry air, pulled his shoulders back, and clenched his fist. He beckoned with his stump. His memories of his time in the Tower came tumbling free from a patched over part of his mind. He started down the hall, black cloak trailing behind, dust eddies circling around his boots. With every step, he felt himself filling up with an iron resolve. To do what must be done. He would open the gates for Nyset and anything standing in his way would know pain.
“Careful, their weapons are sharp.” He ducked his head to get under a pair of interlocking spears. A distant roar of men and beast alike came through the windows. He paused. The sharp clang of metal against metal followed a second after. He huffed out a breath, trying to push down the desire to be there with her. He had to stay focused.
They shared a glance. Grimbald winced, nodded at him to go on.
The shadows ahead shifted around an alcove where the hallway turned to the left. Before the alcove, a beam of light cut down through a skylight, showed strings of dust dancing on the air. The shifting was slight, as if it were an oil slick that had moved an inch. Walter stopped, cocked his head, narrowed his eye and seized the Dragon. Shadows did not move. It had disguised itself as part of the wall, given away by another shimmer.
“What is it?” Grimbald whispered. Walter caught the scent of his nervy, stinking sweat. He heard Grimbald stumble, grunting and collecting his footing, likely narrowly avoiding mowing him over.
“Death Spawn.” Walter’s lips formed a thin, murderous grin. “Skin Flayer!” And with a burst of strength, he lunged forward, his sword of fire springing alight from his stump. Before the Skin Flayer’s form had fully materialized from hiding beside the wall, he rammed his blade into it. It tore into its gut, rasping out a breath. He dragged it up, easily splitting it from chest to waving coal hair, fire hissing on its blood and flesh. Scarlet splattered over the walls and spattered onto the ceiling. Its body sagged to the floor with a slopping squelch. A pair of glowing blades clattered onto the stone, rang throughout the empty halls.
Walter wheeled at a scuff. Shadows glimmered. “Behind you!”
Grimbald snorted, pivoted, drew his axe in a flash of light. “Haircuts for all!” he roared, Corpsemaker chopping in a vicious down stroke. Walter saw the skull mounted on the end of the Corpsemaker’s haft, ruby eyes shining with delight. His strike only caught the floor, sent splinters hissing against the statues, metal ringing with the din of violence.
The Skin Flayer fully materialized, its swirling violet robes hung on the air as if underwater, eyes slitted in a malevolent yellow. It stabbed with a glowing rune lined blade. Grimbald twisted, blade squealing against his shoulder plate, clanging off a statue. Grimbald growled, dragged his axe up. The skull on the bottom crunched against the bottom of its jaw, sent it staggering back.
Walter, fearful of burning Grimbald, ripped the sword free from its grip with the Phoenix. The Skin Flayer hissed, hand snatching at the fleeing weapon. The blade soared over their heads, scraped the ceiling, banged against the end of the hallway. The Skin Flayer drew another sword from under its robes, twirled it in a confident flourish. Blood trailed down from the bottom of its mouthless jaw.
It leaped, stabbing at Grimbald’s chest. He parried it with his axe, his momentum surging forward. It punched, cracked his head back. His legs carried him on, rammed it with his great shoulder, dropped his axe, grabbed it around the waist and drove it into the floor. It let out a gasp when it struck, blade falling from surprised fingers.
Walter swallowed, frustrated at being unable to help Grim in such tight quarters. He spared a glance over his shoulder, scanning for an expectant horde of Death Spawn. Nothing but dust. Motionless shadows.
Grimbald was standing with his crushing hands wrapped around and pressing into its squirming neck. Its face was scarlet, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, fingers wriggling in a feeble attempt to peel his off. Grimbald bellowed out with a haunting laugh, carrying it over to a statue, legs flailing for the ground. Walter saw a dark enjoyment in his grimace. Was this how he appeared to him?
Grimbald rose up onto his toes. “Die,” he hissed through his teeth. It let out a muffled shrieking. He inched the beast onto the point of a spear through the back of its neck. The spear was held by a stern-faced warrior, dutifully holding it to do its part in protecting the realm.
Grimbald removed his hands as the spear emerged through the front of its ashen throat. He booted it in the chest, sending it sliding down the haft and crashing against the statue. Its hands clutched at the wet haft, scraping and frantically clawing. It grabbed the haft, started dragging itself hanging by the neck up toward the spear point, wood groaning under its weight. It made it about a foot before its arms and legs went limp, blood pattered onto its boots and pooled on the floor.
“Now that’s fighting ‘til the bitter end, eh?” Grimbald said, bending over and dragging Corpsemaker from the ground.
Walter blew out his cheeks. “Whatever else is still inside likely knows we’re coming from all the noise we just made.”
“You think.” Grimbald cleared his throat, wiped blood from his cheeks. “Think Asebor is here?”
“He has to be. He wouldn’t miss a chance to kill more of us.” To kill me, he thought. Walter glanced down at Bonesnapper, still there.
“Think it will work?” Grimbald asked, bouncing his eyebrows at the gleaming chains.
“This?” Walter rattled the Chains of the North. “It has to. If it doesn’t…” Walter trailed off. They would all be fucked.
Grimbald grunted. “If you see him, kill him, Walter. Don’t go worrying about me. In the long scheme, my life is a trifle if you don’t end him.”
Walter opened his mouth to protest, but Grimbald stopped him with a strong squeeze of his shoulder, bordering on painful. “Please. Walt. Tell me you’ll do it. Do it for my Pa.”
Walter drew his gaze up from his boots, looked into Grim’s vibrating eyes. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. Hope to make it out of this, of course, but just wanted that plain and said. Just in case it came to that. No doubts, no hesitation.”
“It won’t come to that. Come on.” He slapped Grimbald on the arm, turned for the end of the hallway.
Senka tore at the sticky cobwebs matting themselves over her nose, mouth, cheeks, and eyes. A rivulet of sand coursed down from the tunnel’s low earthen ceiling, spilling into her hair and down the back of her armor. The sand had worked its way down her back, under her arms, between her breasts, in her crotch, and between her ass cheeks, grinding her flesh raw with every squatting step.
The rotting wooden supports lining the passage were tenuous at best. She half-expected them to come down at any moment, leaving them crushed in this tomb and one with the sands. At least, she wouldn’t be alone, she thought. She wondered if there was a fate worse than dying alone.
Isa scraped up against something behind her. “This is not a place for those gifted in height,” he spat with annoyance. He grunted.
“Almost there, Isa. I think we’re near the end.” Senka had no idea how much farther it was. She stabbed her sputtering torch into the dark, illuminating an extra foot or so of the endless night. The Mistress had told her the tunnel stretched on for about a fourth of a mile. They had to have traveled more than that by now. Could they have perhaps missed the exit? This was their last torch.
“What will you do when we get the Black Furnaces back?” Isa asked. The multitude of weapons bristling from his belt chimed together. Too many weapons, she thought. Needles for long range targets and daggers for close combat was all one
truly needed. Bows were only for hunting.
Roots dragged at her hair, clawed at her forehead. “I—” she frowned into the dark. “I’m not sure.” Something snagged her toe, leg kicking out. She stumbled, gasped, falling. Hands grabbed her. One on her shoulder, the other around her stomach. Isa’s hands. He was pressed against her, rigid as a pillar. “Thank you,” she breathed over her shoulder.
He sniffed, let her go. She wished he hadn’t. His warmth lingered on her shoulder.
Isa cleared his throat and pebbles skittered below his boots. “I could go with you. That is if the Arch Wizard would release me from my duties… and if you wanted me to join you.”
She set the torch between a pair of stones, twisted around, brushing sand from her hair. “I’d like that.” She grinned at him. He was a ghost in the glow of torchlight.
“Good.” He blinked at her, throat working.
“Yes. It would be.” She felt her cheeks filling with the warmth of blood. Her breath caught staring into his eyes, black sockets in the fading light. She took his hand in hers, rough as leather and squeezed it hard.
His ivory mouth grinned at her, gave her a gentle squeeze in return. “We should go,” he said. “Our light soon ends.”
“Mm,” she forced a smile, released his hand, turned back down the path and grabbed the torch.
She wondered if she would ever have the chance to feel his hand again. Would she live through this day? Would he?
Since the Black Furnaces had been lost, her life had become a meaningless shell. But she had found a new purpose, a new direction, a new meaning. The Scorpions had always served the will of the Tower and here she was, doing well by her name and serving the Tower proper.
She had other reasons too. She would live to carry on the way of the Scorpions. She would not let her sect’s art die. Perhaps another reason was fumbling around behind her. She stifled a snicker, smiling at Isa’s cursing.
A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5) Page 43