Luckily Vellexa didn’t have to see the alchemists or their foul experiments very often. The twisted Veil engineers had been given their own space in the Cauldron to work, and they kept hidden behind locked and carefully warded doors except when they moved their goods for shipment. The strangest sounds issued from behind the cold black portals housing the alchemist’s chambers – liquid churning, crackling ozone, ghostly whispers, grinding metal, and the occasional cry of pain.
A door popped open and released a cloud of yellow haze and the smell of burning alcohol. One of the alchemists stepped out, a hideously gaunt figure dressed in tattered red robes stained with powder. A heavy cowl and black goggles concealed most of his face, and what skin she saw was cracked and peeled and nearly green from weeks of saturation in rooms filled with poisonous air. The alchemist ignored Vellexa as he dumped a large iron bucket of greenish waste into a floor grate before returning to the room.
Vellexa caught a glimpse inside as she passed, and wished she hadn’t. A naked man lay stretched out on an iron table, his every orifice filled with tubes pumping some phlegm-like substance into his body. Vellexa kept moving. Her stomach was strong, but she had her limits. She’d killed a great many people in her time with the Black Guild, sometimes in cruel and unique ways, but what the alchemists did made her sick.
Sammeus and Cronak waited for her at the end of the hall. Braziers lit the intersection. Chambers filled with smuggled goods lay in one direction, the slave pits in the other.
She nodded at her henchmen. Sometimes the two of them seemed to be her only true allies, especially when the Count was angry, as he surely was now. Cronak behaved like his usual grim self – he only ever smiled when he was being cruel, and then only half-heartedly, as if emotion pained him. Sammeus flashed a crooked grin. Her magic had restored his nose nicely, and because she’d used her power to heal him he’d behave like a devoted slave for a while. That was fine with her. Sammeus wasn’t the smartest of men, so it would be good to have a tighter rein on his behavior for the next few critical days.
“So what is this about?” he asked as she drew close.
“What do you think?” she snapped. Vellexa carried on down the right-hand hall, and the two fell in time behind her. The vaults were dark and silent.
“He must know we had nothing to do with it,” Sammeus said nervously.
“That doesn’t matter,” Vellexa answered. “The Jlantrians think the Black Guild is responsible, and now we have to deal with it.”
“Don’t forget the Dawn Knight,” Cronak added.
Azander Dane. There was a strong possibility he’d been killed in the explosion. As far as Vellexa knew he’d hunted down Jorias Targo in an attempt to find Bordred Kleiderhorn. If so, that meant bad news for the Guild and worse news for Vellexa, since the Count had made clear she’d be held accountable for Dane’s actions.
Vellexa’s already chilled skin grew colder. The end of the Black Guild seemed imminent, hard as that was to believe. She’d been with the organization for years, and it had existed in some form or another since before she’d been born. Life without the Black Guild didn’t seem possible. She knew how much it had taken from her, but she still grieved at the possibility of its demise.
“What will he do to us?” Sammeus asked weakly. Vellexa slowed. She’d never heard him sound so afraid.
He should be, and so should you, she told herself. But Vellexa couldn’t show fear, not in front of Sammeus and Cronak, both of whom she’d trained and watched over since either of them had been old enough to carry a weapon. They were like family to her, though she’d never tell them as much.
“Nothing,” she lied. “The Count has a plan. He always does. We just have to be ready.”
“I’m going to kill Dane,” Cronak said matter-of-factly. “When he’s found the woman, I’m going to bury my axe in his head.”
Vellexa smiled. “In time,” she whispered.
“Who do you think caused the explosion?” Sammeus asked.
“The Phage,” Vellexa said without a trace of doubt. “That rat-faced bastard Harrick is responsible, I’m sure of it, and somehow he convinced the Jlantrians it was us.”
And it’ll work, she thought. Because the Count foolishly ordered us to use Serpentheart on the Jlantrian soldiers. Serpentheart was a magical disease so potent even the foul-hearted Arkan wouldn’t purchase it. Unfortunately the Count had found other uses for the vile substance, and his eagerness to play with alchemist Aram Keyes’s deadly new creation was liable to bring the wrath of the Jlantrians down on the Black Guild like a hammer.
“What are we going to do, Vellexa?” Sammeus pressed. He was desperate for an answer, but Vellexa didn’t know what to say.
They walked down the rest of the corridor in silence until they reached the Count’s frozen room, and the mirror that waited inside.
Twenty-Eight
Mezias Crinn licked the dead woman’s face. He savored the taste of her cold flesh on his tongue, just as he’d savored every moment of her suffering. Crinn probed the gaping wound in her abdomen with a metal finger, and for a time lost himself in the stillness of her fragile form. He stirred up the tiny maggots nestling in the new rot before he turned away, tantalized by the thought of seeing her again. Eventually he left her mangled corpse in his private quarters and climbed the stairs to the heights of his lonely tower.
A cold shaft ran down the center of the black citadel. Crinn couldn’t navigate narrow doorways or passages due to the bulk and height of his remade metal body, so with the exception of a few sparse chambers Crinn’s tower was just a hollow cylinder. Wide steps wound up around the inside of the tower at an angle easy enough for his thick legs to navigate. Rows of spikes lined the damp mortared stone, each decorated with a nearly fresh corpse. What little skin was left on Crinn’s body scraped painfully against his more numerous metal portions as he climbed the stairs. The heavy fall of his iron feet echoed through the tower.
Crinn opened the steel door at the top of the steps and looked out at a ripe red sky. Freezing wind sliced into the flesh on his mangled face. His body cooled in the bitter dawn air, a welcome relief from the constant and uncomfortable heat his metal frame produced.
The shadowy sun crept up from a horizon filled with sluggish clouds. The Black Hills were cast in darkness. Crinn stood, held his arms to the sky, and basked in the silence.
It was a good life for him there, removed from the city-states. Crinn had only the company of his soldiers, and they knew not to disturb him. Even Ghul left him alone unless the need was urgent, leaving him with plenty of time to indulge his dark appetites. Crinn was a patient creature, and he enjoyed his solitude, which was precisely why this morning would be unpleasant. Something unsettling had happened in Ebonmark, and his subordinates in the Black Guild required guidance.
Jagged spikes formed a sort of wall around the top of the tower. The decaying bodies glowed in the morning light. Corpse stench clung to the roof like a cloud, but it was a taste he’d come to enjoy since the day he’d first donned his iron body. The dead grinned at him through rotting teeth and watched from empty eye sockets. They were the perfect companions.
Crinn heard the quiet clank of metal as his Black Army soldiers patrolled the area. Defending his stronghold was largely an unnecessary precaution – to the world, Mezias Crinn was already dead. Suits of rusted black armor and their long-decayed inhabitants had been impaled on a wall of spikes below, placed there to display what happened to Black Army soldiers who failed to maintain the proper level of discipline. Scattered tents and bivouacs stood in the tower’s shadow, and low cook fires cast faint traces of smoke and ash into the chill dawn.
Racks of weapons and supply chests had been stacked against the enormous ice cannon, which had been hastily covered with black tarps. Ghul insisted the catapult-sized device be tested above ground, and the shattered and frozen tree debris to the south attested to its working condition.
Crinn felt the mirror calling him. The device was
a wonder, a gift from Kala. It stood alone on a dais of iron and stone on the tower’s roof. The air grew colder.
He took a grim breath. It was time to tend to business. The mirror sparked to life with a wave of his hand. Cold mists poured from the intricate frame and inky darkness crawled across the glass. Crinn clearly saw though the black surface, but whoever stood on the other side would only see vague details about him and his surroundings.
Vellexa’s image bled into view. Her painted face was angular and thin, and her long midnight hair flowed over the shoulders of her black cloak. Crinn could tell she was afraid. She had good reason.
“Greetings, Count,” she said briskly.
Very afraid.
“We’re having problems, Vellexa,” he said. His metallic voice boomed in the quiet. It had taken him over a year to get used to hearing himself speak. “Tell me what’s happened.”
He watched Vellexa carefully. Crinn liked to see her squirm, and he’d have loved to have had his way with her, but she was among his most capable servants in the Guild, and it would be best to keep her around for at least a little while longer.
“Jlantrian soldiers and mercenaries are stirring up some trouble in the city and shaking down our operations, but as of yet no damage has been done. Blackhall believes the Guild was responsible for the explosion, not the Phage.”
Crinn laughed. “So you think this was Harrick’s handiwork?”
“I know it was,” Vellexa said. “He’s trying to pit the Jlantrians against us. I also think he knew Azander Dane was at that fight, so of course it worked to his advan…”
“Stop,” Crinn said. He ground his teeth together. “Dane was there?”
Vellexa swallowed before she spoke again. “I believe so. Targo runs those fights, and Dane was trying to get to Targo so he could find Kleiderhorn…”
“Enough,” Crinn said sharply. He cursed his own laxity – he shouldn’t have left so much to chance. “Vellexa, I need Dane found. He’s the only one who can locate the Dream Witch.”
“Sir,” Vellexa said after a heavy pause, “we don’t need him. His work is done. Targo will be easy to find now that his biggest source of income has been destroyed, and we can use him to locate Kleiderhorn and the woman, just like Dane had intended.” She paused, and when Crinn didn’t answer she went on. “Azander Dane’s services are no longer needed. The magic only a Dawn Knight can use led him to Jorias Targo. Now we can do the rest.”
Crinn watched her without answering. Vellexa maintained her composure as best she could, but as the silence dragged on she started to fidget nervously. She smoothed her cloak, looked around like she expected something to approach, and peered into the mirror. That fear was rather unlike her. Crinn had never found her more attractive.
How do I deal with this? he wondered. I can’t jeopardize the plan, but that plan didn’t include Dane up and vanishing on me.
It hadn’t been easy to lead Dane to Ebonmark, for at no point had Crinn wanted it known he was involved. Dane was the only Dawn Knight still alive who wasn’t protected by Hellstone Deep or the White Dragon Crown, and pulling the right strings to get him into the city without alerting him to the fact he was being manipulated had proved a trial.
It would be worth it. Dane was the one Crinn wanted – not Corva or Kraegan or Ghost or any of the others. He wanted Azander Dane.
“Vellexa,” he said at last. “Go and find Targo, and Kleiderhorn. Do your worst. Find the Dream Witch for me.” Vellexa straightened, even allowed a smile to creep onto her face, but Crinn continued. “But I still have need of Azander Dane. You will find him for me, as well. Do you understand?” Vellexa stood silent. Crinn imagined her face on the body of the woman he’d left downstairs, and smiled. “Vellexa,” he said in a slow, soft voice, as soft as iron could be, “you’ve failed me once already. If you hadn’t let the Phage take you by surprise you would have met Dane that night, and the Dream Witch would be ours already.”
“Yes, Count,” she said quietly.
“I have been very forgiving, yes?” he said pleasantly.
“You…you have been most generous, Count.”
“Good. Fail me again, and you know what will happen. Now go.”
“Count,” she said. She suddenly seemed as timid as a beaten dog. “What of the Jlantrians?”
Crinn smiled. It’s time to teach the Empress a lesson. “Keyes will handle both them and the Phage. Don’t concern yourself. You have your duties, so see to them.” Crinn knew how Vellexa felt about Aram Keyes; he waited for her to argue, but wisely she didn’t. He dismissed the image. The mirror turned black and Vellexa was gone.
Things were happening too fast. If Dane was dead, Crinn would be denied some measure of his revenge. He’d searched for the knight for too long to give up on him now.
“You would do better to conceal your thoughts,” a voice from the mirror said.
Crinn watched, and waited. Cold mist and darkness oozed from the glass. Frozen breath swept over him. Crinn drowned in a flood of night.
He saw her silhouette in the mirror, less a solid figure than a cluster of sinuous shadow. She lounged on a sofa, her hair loose and full, her hand wrapped around a goblet. A large and unmoving shape with brimstone eyes rested at her feet – one of her infamous black lions.
“Kala,” he said as pleasantly as he could. Something grabbed hold of his nearly human heart with iron fingers. The pain drove him to his metal knees.
“You’re behaving badly, Mezias,” she said. “You’re putting your personal grudge against Dane before the needs of the Cabal. You know that won’t be tolerated. I’ve killed others for such behavior, and I liked them a lot more than I like you.”
His eyes lost focus. He was locked in place, and what little there was left of his human body burned with pain.
“The Witch…the Witch…” he gasped. Tears fell from his eyes and ran down the metal chest plate. “She will be ours…soon…”
“Will she?” Kala asked. “You don’t seem so sure, nor do you seem wholly committed. Remember, General, you’re only alive because the Cabal has made it possible. Without us, you don’t exist.” Her voice was as smooth as honey. “We need the Witch.”
“I will…I will have her…as promised…”
“You’d best hurry. The Scars are nearly in our grasp. Those who hold the Scars hold Chul Gaerog. But each of us has to do our part.”
“I…will…” Stabbing hurt jammed through his mind. His skin was on fire, and his metal joints ground against his bones. He couldn’t suppress mewls of agony. “Please…please…”
“Good.” Kala waved her hand, and the pain vanished. Crinn’s control of his body returned. He felt like something had been ripped out of him. “Good work, Crinn. The Cabal is counting on you.”
And then she was gone.
It was some time before Crinn could move again. He grimaced as the arcane Vossian technology in his body re-ignited itself, small engines and cold crystal generators that kept him alive and moving. It had been a long time since he’d felt so much pain.
That night. The night Dane killed me.
Once Crinn could finally move he wasted no time. He activated the mirror and contacted Aram Keyes, head alchemist of the Black Guild. The Phage would pay for their transgressions, as would the Jlantrians.
And Dane. And Kala, when the time was right.
There was so much blood to spill.
Twenty-Nine
Parchments and leather-bound tomes were scattered all over the table. Blackhall sat at the edge of the mess, hunched over a stack of sheets on the floor. He hadn’t shaved, and instead of dressing properly he’d just pulled on a pair of breeches and an oversized black shirt while he worked. The air smelled of sweat and wine but was eerily silent, one of the magical effects of the arcane tower Blackhall still found unnerving. He couldn’t even hear the wind through the walls.
The disaster on the table which he, Slayne and Gess used as a meeting area consisted primarily of the day-to-days of run
ning a garrison, including duty rosters, guard shift details, lists of needed supplies, reports from officers, and notices to be posted around the city in the event of an emergency. There were copies of local Ebonmark laws and descriptions of the city districts, histories of local trade routes and the city’s ever-changing tax codes, detailed descriptions of all of the prisoners in the small city jail. There were lists of people Blackhall intended to meet with, and more lists of people who’d requested to meet with him. There were reports describing which of his soldiers had died and how, which soldiers were expected to be dead soon, and which soldiers had gone missing. There were logs on every scouting report on the Tuscars in the Black Hills, the Den’nari to the east, and the stranger things coming out of the Bonelands.
Even more papers lay on the floor, carefully lit by a lamp Blackhall had set at the far end of the room. The information Harrick had supplied him with was exhaustive – businesses and individuals known to work for the Black Guild, locations of warehouses where they kept stolen goods, even rumors about their leader, the laughably named Iron Count. It was questionable how much of the information was accurate, of course, when one considered its oily source, but it was much more than they’d had before.
Blackhall sat up and shifted the muscles in his back and neck. Several hours spent reading by lamplight was killing his eyes, but he wanted to work through the rest of the piles. If even half of Harrick’s information was accurate Blackhall could remove the Guild’s presence from the city within a week, especially if Gess worked closely with Argus Saam’siir to get enough support from Ral Tanneth.
Of course there was still Harrick and the Phage to deal with. The Phage obviously had the information they needed to take down their rivals in the Black Guild, and Blackhall had little doubt they had the resources, but war was costly, and he couldn’t imagine either side had wanted to bring the Empress’s full wrath down on them by destroying a city under her protection…even if she was all but willing to destroy it herself, if necessary. Blackhall regretted having to deal with Harrick, but it was the only way to get Ebonmark under control. If he couldn’t do it quickly then Wolf Brigade would get involved, and that would be a disaster. He had to avoid that, whatever the cost.
City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) Page 14