The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) (3 page)

The man in white stopped, the club pausing mid-air before clapping onto his palm. “And what are you going to do with that, boy?” he said, cocking his head and pulling on a thin mustache.

“No one tells me what to do,” Juzo said through gritted teeth, staring at the man’s boots, chest heaving with labored breaths. The tendons on Juzo’s arm bulged with the tremendous force of his grip on Blackout, fingertips digging into the leather wrapped handle. Juzo raised his head, meeting the man’s dark eyes.

The man stumbled back a step. “What the fuck are you?”

“No one controls me,” Juzo croaked, voice trembling. “No one!” he screamed, raising Blackout high and chopping down. The man raised the club and Blackout slashed through it, his shoulder, and halfway into his breastbone. Blood splashed onto two others who ran up beside him. The man dropped the other half of his club and fell with a gurgle. Juzo raised his leg, and kicked the man off the blade, freeing it.

The two who had come to help stumbled back, faces aghast, white robes spattered with globs of blood. They turned to run, one dropping a dagger and another something else metallic. Juzo lurched a step then stopped, letting them go before swinging again.

No mercy! They want to control you, lock you up in Terar’s chambers,
Blackout hissed.

“No, not again,” Juzo stammered, lost, taken in by Blackout’s words, head shaking, lips curling back into a twisted grimace. “Not again!” He hissed, eye glowing with hate.

Juzo sprinted in a blur, fresh blood infusing his legs with power. He easily caught up with the one who’d dropped his useless dagger. He swung hard, Blackout whispering through the backs of his knees. The sword yanked on Juzo’s grip, piercing in and out of the man’s chest before he hit the ground. He fell onto his stumps, screaming, his hand clawing at the sucking wound through his chest.

Two other’s fled in opposite directions, weaving through produce carts and shoving them into a state of disarray. A bowl of spices leaped from a table in one direction, filling the air behind the man in a cloud of yellow. A tower of grain sacks toppled over a few rows beyond as the other man in white, stumbled and huffed.

There was one more of the bastards though, stammering and shuffling back. One whose fate had already been told, the rat faced bastard who’d been foolish enough to try to tell Juzo what to do, to take him back to the Master’s dungeons. The man’s beady eyes rolled back and forth from Juzo to his dying friend. Juzo twirled Blackout in his hand, slinging blood from its edge, spattering red dots along the man’s absurdly clean robe.

“Wha-what do you want? Who are you?” The rat faced man said, arms raised in a gesture of innocence.

Feet scraped the ground behind Juzo and he looked over his shoulder, seeing the old man in blue stumbling away, his hand pressed to the side of his head. Juzo let out a heavy sigh.

“Go home, leave the wizards alone,” Juzo said, pointing with Blackout, his eye drooping with weariness.

The man’s expression shifted from quivering with the fear of impending death to angry scorn. His big fists curled into gray balls, arms shaking. The corner of his lip pulling into an odd sort of smile.

“Fucking wizard scum! They don’t belong here.
You
don’t belong here!” he said, stabbing his finger into Juzo’s chest.

“You’re either really brave or really stupid,” Juzo muttered, his lips pulling back to reveal his teeth, sharp points glimmering in the torchlight.

“You… you’re one of them. One of those demons that’s been attacking the villages!” he said, jabbing again with his index finger. He pulled his hand back and Blackout sliced through the air and the finger was gone, a nub of flesh rolling on the cobbles.

Destroy,
Blackout whispered.

The man pulled his hand back, gasping and moaning with shock, clutching his wrist with the intact hand.

Juzo let Blackout go to work on the man, he being only its conduit for destruction. Blackout cut beautiful lines through the white ocean of cloth, jerking his arm in hard directions as it hewed him limb from limb. Red liquid and bone fragments were its preferred medium.

“You should have just let me pass,” Juzo whispered, his chest pulling in a ragged breath, sheathing Blackout. He turned around, continuing on his way as though nothing had happened, leaving a butchered mess in his wake.

Killing all those men didn’t make him feel better. He might have saved one man’s life but killed three others. He was no better than the strange men in white. He wasn’t anyone’s hero. He was the reason people locked their doors at night. But it all ends the same, doesn’t it? At least he was full now. This should hold him over for a few days.

Juzo wrapped his arms tightly around his body, hugging himself as he strode on. He was very likely the only person who would ever hold him, he thought with a grim snicker. In a world of enemies, he walked alone.

Black clouds moved in, surrounding all but the yellow glow of the orb above. He tilted his head back towards the sickled moon, smiling as the great emptiness filled his heart. Not even the stars would be his friend tonight.

A
shaft
of light cut through the window, bathing Walter’s eyes in its warmth. He tossed onto his side, the feather bed swallowed his flailing legs. He rested his cheek on his forearm, eyes parting. His face felt cool against Stormcaller. The Dragon forged metal encircling his arm reflected the brilliance of sun around the simple room, casting bright lines up and down the walls.

He rose onto his elbows, staring about the room. The beds were empty, sheets pulled tight around the edges and pillows fluffed up. Some of Nyset’s herb bags had spilled open, a pinch of bright red petals below their bed. A tower of books sat beside the rectangular post of Baylan’s bed, worn with barely legible bindings, likely stinking of library. Two beds lay pushed together where Grimbald slept. The remnants of the first bed that had crumbled under his weight were stacked in a pile in the corner, broken boards and nails poking out in all directions.

How long had it been since he left the Lair? How long since he last moved? Ate? Drank?
Walter rubbed his temples, staring down at the floorboards. He worked a hand through his dark hair, scratching his scalp and pushing it back at the same time.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of Stormcaller’s mirror bright finish. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He looked like a man who’d slept for days and needed more still. His eyes were sunken, lips dry and peeling. His face as pale as death. He blew out his cheeks at his ghastly reflection.

“No more rest. It’s time to get myself together,” he said, pulling his arm away and sitting up with a groan. Maybe he would stand in just a few more minutes. A little more rest couldn’t hurt.

The days and nights blended together when you spent most of your time sleeping, interspersed with the occasional bowl of stew or staggering walk to the shit hole. Walter didn’t know what day or time it was, or overly cared at the moment. He felt like he was in a living dream, unsure of what was real and what was imagined.

“Where am I?” he muttered.

His head pounded like a blacksmith’s anvil, the hammers working hard to beat his brain into something usable. Memories faded in and out with too many empty gaps. Nyset coming by, smiling, scratching his head as he drifted into sleep. Baylan feeding him some type of porridge. A loud bang and Grimbald yelling. He smiled. That must have been the bed.

Walter scratched at his bare chest, gazing down at the two menacing scars that thickened around his ribs. The Lord of Death, pinning him to the ground, a blade held by his throat. The sacrifice. Wiggles
.
It all came rushing back in waves of pain.

He remembered agreeing with the voices in his head, the Phoenix and the Dragon, for the power to live. He had to make a hard choice, but was there really another option? The poor dog probably only had a few more years left anyway, he consoled himself.

With power comes sacrifice,
Noah said from the trenches of his mind. He hadn’t heard his counsel for a while and found himself longing to hear his Sid-Ho master again. Alas, he was dead. Like many others that had been unfortunate to be near his path of destruction. His parents, the people of Breden, the Midgaard Falcon, Lillian, Wiggles, Juzo… whatever the hell happened to you? No journey is complete without collateral damage, right?

Walter cleared the mucus lining his throat, spitting into the bucket beside the bed, and tossed his legs onto the floor. He wriggled his toes, cold against the diamond cut marble tiles. He shook his arms, lined with newly formed scars and cracked his neck. He stood, walking up to the floor to ceiling mirror mounted to creamy blocks of marble and gilt lining the walls.

“You sure had fancy taste, Malek,” he said, turning his head from side to side in the mirror, scratching at the start of a beard. The last patch of ashen Cerumal flesh on the back of his neck had finally healed. Today was going to be a good day.
“
Every day alive is a good day,”
his mother would’ve said.

“Right,” he said nodding and slipping on a brown tunic sitting atop the front of his bed. Voices carried through the heavy door that remained closed, not particularly pleased ones at that. Walter narrowed his eyes, reaching for the Dragon. Its warmth and chaos was a tidal wave of fury in his muscles and through his bones. His eyes burned with brilliance and long scimitars of dancing flames sprung to life in his hands.

His eyes widened and he gripped them a little harder.
Relax. It’s probably your friends.
He opened his hands and the scimitars fell to the ground, dissipating in wisps of smoke. He held onto the Dragon though, swirling flames always a finger’s length away. Deeper, below the angry shell of the Dragon’s flames lurked the Phoenix. It languidly swam in the void, almost seeming to nod at him with a blinking avian eye. Its long tails caressed the hard edges of the Dragon’s spine, bringing a sense of calm control to the angry chaos.

The familiar emotions of the god’s essences that lived within his chest, love and hate, battled one another for dominance. They were a comfort, a reminder of who he was, what he could do. A dual-wielder, Baylan had called it. It was nice to always have a weapon at your side. Walter had always wanted to be more than an elixir bean farmer. Now he wondered if he’d got more than he wanted.

The voices drew nearer, muffled through the door.

“Such ruthless men, why doesn’t the King do anything?” Baylan said with annoyance.

Walter took a deep breath and placed his hand on the door. His fingers snagging on wood splinters as he pushed it open. The hinges creaked and Nyset and Baylan looked up at him. A smile tugged at the corners of Nyset’s lips and he found her eyes grinning back at him. Walter released the Dragon, letting its energy spill from his soul.

“You’re awake!” she said leaping towards him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“It would seem I am, though I’m not entirely sure,” he said with a laugh. He stuck his nose in her hair, the scent of lilac oil intoxicating.

“How long have I been out?” he asking, squinting, still acclimating to the light. “Has it been long?”

“Just over a week. We’re not particularly surprised… given what you did at the battle on the Plains of Dressna,” Nyset said, pulling away, leaving him wanting more of her warmth.

“Yes…” Walter said, looking at the long table of Malek’s artifacts, now well organized. Baylan’s doing of course. The man had a strong liking for straight lines and symmetry. Too much of a bother for Walter. The memory of the power that had burst through his body during the battle returned. He was the essence of death, a conduit of the Dragon incarnate. Death Spawn falling to their knees, burning into piles of charred flesh.

“I remember,” Walter whispered, nodding.

“You do? Excellent Walter! I need to rifle through your brain. This must all be documented,” Baylan said, excitedly dashing into the bedroom, tossing books across the floor.

“Baylan, the wizard…” Nyset said after him.

“Yes, ah—yes.” Baylan walked back, hands faintly pink with what Walter thought might have been blood.

“What are you guys talking about? Is everything alright?” Walter asked absently.

Walter marched into the kitchen. He could only think about one thing right now. He released the tension from the iron clasp sealing the glass jar of elixir beans. He inhaled sharply at the bitter aroma, wafting it about his nose.

“Walter, I know this isn’t the best news to wake up too,” Baylan said, stretching his arms across the doorway, his billowy green robe sleeves hanging down.

Shit,
Walter thought, pouring elixir beans into a ceramic mortar.

“There was a wizard, an old acquaintance of mine who lived in the Noble’s Quarters. We found him dead at the Lair’s entrance today before taking a morning walk.”

“What? Why?” Walter said, his hand pausing in mid-air as he put the jar back on the shelf.

“Disgusting, truly his body was disgraced. They ran him through, left his body skewered on a pike for us to find. They’re animals,” Baylan said through gritted teeth.

“We think it might be some sort of message, and the Falcon guard who helped us take care of the body seemed to agree,” Nyset said, ducking under Baylan’s arms and entering the dining chamber. She filled a pot with clear water from a bucket.

Walter started slowly mashing the dark elixir beans with a pestle, freeing their delicate oils with each crunch.
No, nothing will stop me from having a cup of elixir. Not even a dead man at my door.

“I spoke with the Black Guard. The Purists have greatly increased their numbers. They’re taking in new members from the city and the surrounding outskirts… it seems like they would be a logical culprit,” Baylan said, circling the table and sitting into a beautifully carved chair in the likeness of bulbous Sand Buckeyes, tumbling over one another.

“Is there nowhere we can go and be safe?” Nyset said twirling a golden coil of hair with one hand and putting the pot on the stove with the other. She snapped her fingers and a blob of fire tumbled from her thumb, igniting the birch wood below the grates.

Walter swallowed, biting his lip, mashing the beans with more force.

“Purists? Are these the fools who run around in white?” Juzo said, leaning against the dining chamber’s entrance, his arms crossed.

“Juzo!” Walter beamed, gently setting the pestle into the bowl. “Where have you been?” Juzo offered his hand and Walter ignored it, giving the man a bear hug. Juzo laughed with surprise, smiling and baring his grisly teeth. Walter pushed himself back, looking him up and down.

“You look good man, better than the last time I saw you,” Walter said. Juzo’s cheeks had filled in a bit and his skin seemed to have met the sun. Walter still had trouble holding the man’s red eye though. He wasn’t sure that was something he’d ever get used too. Not the same vicious yellow of the Death Spawn, but damn close in strangeness.

“I wish I could say the same to you, Walt, you look like you need another week of rest,” Juzo grinned. It seemed you could gauge the strength of a friendship by the level of brutal honesty given, Walter thought. Juzo’s loyalty was unfaltering, stepping in to save him from certain death during the battle on the plains, at least that’s how Walter wanted to remember it. He tried to repress the memory of that dark blade biting into his shoulder, still rotting the flesh around the wound. Walter would have to heal that eventually, for time would not.

“You had a run in with them, Juzo?” Baylan asked, nibbling on a nut the size of his fist. Walter poured the elixir bean fragments into the simmering pot on the stove, stirring them in with a wooden spoon.

Juzo nodded, taking a chair beside Nyset, turning it the wrong way and sitting with his chest against the back, arms folded over the top. “I guess you could say that. I was taking a walk last night, saw a few of them beating an old man… tried to help him, against my better judgment.”

“Why? What happened?” asked Nyset, crinkling her tiny nose.

“They tried to kill me! I had no choice but to defend myself,” Juzo said, looking down and shaking his head, strands of gray falling across his face.

“Juzo… those men, you did that?” Nyset said, rolling her shoulders, raising an eyebrow.

“We heard from a crier this morning that a couple of men, Purists, had been butchered,” Baylan said, slowly putting the nut down on the table.

The room grew quiet, not much to be heard but the bubbling pot of elixir and shouts carrying up the tower from the street below. The denizens of Midgaard rose early, begrudgingly pulling carts down the ash covered streets to the market square. Walter could see Juzo squirming, unsure of what to say.

Juzo started, unfolding his arms, “I—”

“I would have done the same thing,” Walter interrupted, voice hard as stone. Nyset looked at him, tilting her head, highlighting her long pale neck, inviting his mouth. Wouldn’t he? Maybe. He had killed men before who wanted to kill him. Why was this any different?

“They left me no choice. I was just trying to do some good,” Juzo said shrugging, pulling at the tall collar around his coat. Does he ever take that thing off? Walter wondered, taking a seat beside Baylan.

“Maybe use a little less force next time,” Baylan suggested, resuming gnawing on his nut.

“Yeah. I can do that,” Juzo nodded, forcing a smile. “Got caught in the fire of the moment I guess.”

“It happens,” Walter said, tapping the spoon on the lid of the pot, then setting it aside.

“I’d like to leave for the Silver Tower tomorrow, if you’re up for it, Walter. I would rather we not delay much longer, everyone else is prepared to depart then, if you are.”

“I’ll make sure I’m ready. That’s great. I can’t wait to see the Tower.” Walter poured the pot of elixir through a sieve into another pot.

“Me too,” Nyset chimed in, getting mugs from an oaken cupboard carved with indecipherable letters. Walter set the pot down, taking a seat beside Nyset.

“I don’t know how you guys drink that stuff. Tastes like dirty water.” Juzo scowled as Nyset started filling mugs, sliding one to Walter and Baylan.

Walter swooned at the first sip. “Oh, how I’ve missed this. The first sip is always the best,” he said.

Baylan took a sip, swishing it in his mouth. “I’m going to lock up the rest of the artifacts Malek so graciously left us and research a blocking ward for the Lair.”

“A ward?” Walter asked, sipping on his elixir and moaning at the bittersweet taste. Juzo and Nyset leaned in expectantly, awaiting Baylan’s reply.

“You don’t know about wards? I have not been a very good teacher have I? A ward, as the name suggests, is designed for keeping people out of an area you don’t want them in,” Baylan said, waving his stump, which was now a curve of skin where his wrist had once been, and taking a slurp of elixir.