The Black Tower (16 page)

Somehow Dane’s hands found purchase on the edge of the stone.  He fell hard against the side of the column.  The darkness threatened to engulf him.  His arm felt ready to wrench out of its socket, and his fingers burned with pain.  He dangled over the shadows.

Dane looked up and saw Calladar leaning over him, his stomach ruined and bleeding but his eyes filled with rage.

Hatred.  Anger.  Pain.

It was maddening to be locked in that mortal shell, forced to watch but not act.  Helpless.

As helpless as a prisoner bound to a stone.

Forty days of rape and torture.  Unending agony, hurt upon hurt.  How could one creature live through so much pain?

Ijanna sat upon the throne, and watched.  The iron at her back seemed to grip her, and she felt as though the flesh would peel from her bones if she tried to move away.  Ice ran through her veins, her heart pounded furiously against her ribs, and her breaths ached like knives pushed into her chest. 

Ijanna’s mind coursed with memories that weren’t hers, memories of the Turn of Night.  She saw the Stone of Pain and felt Nazarathos’ claws rake against her flesh.  His forked black tongue slithered across her skin like a bloody worm. 

She saw the world, but not as she knew it.  Farmers, villagers, soldiers, diplomats, murderers, animals, monarchs, beggars, cities, streams, forests, deserts, tundras, oceans, seas, but all of it was wrong.  Tainted.  Darkness ebbed from the pores of reality, creeping jet that wound up from the very bowels of the earth to wrap like tentacles around everything and everyone.  It was his touch, his grip, a plague upon Malzaria. 

Things aren’t supposed to be this way.

He shaped the world as he wanted.  Everyone believed Corvinia acted in mysterious ways, but all this time it had been
him
, her brother, her rapist, her tormentor.  He’d crafted a world of lies.  The One Goddess was dead, and only Ijanna could bring her back.

For as long as the Veil existed it had been corroded by the Unmaker’s touch.  Corvinia could not be free so long as it was there, and whether or not they knew it everyone in the world would remain his slave.  His power grew over the turn of centuries, and would continue growing.  Nazarathos had grown fat and bloated on the world’s pain and suffering while Corvinia’s life force slowly ebbed away.

This was
Nazarathos’
world, and it had to be purged before it was too late, before his dark power was absolute.

This is only the beginning. 

But to stop him meant destroying the Veil – it meant ending life, all life, in order to deny him control.  She would have to burn the world down and build it up again.

Ijanna screamed.  The man who’d murdered her son and a creature that might have once been a man battled for the right to protect her so she could carry out this terrible deed. 

Azander Dane was about to die.  He hung by his fingertips over the void.  He’d come there to help her find a better way, even though there was no better way, and never had been. 

He’d killed her son because he’d been blindly loyal to a cause.  Whatever he was now, at his core that was what defined him: a man willing to kill for what he believed in, no matter the cost.  He would always do what needed to be done.

Would
she
?

The weight of the lives she’d take threatened to crush her.  Ijanna felt a deathly cold inside, bitter and raw.  How many would she kill so she could make the world a better place?  Did she have any choice?

It’s better that you’re gone, Sammael,
she thought to her son, and memory of his sweet smile and brown curls brought tears to her eyes.  Sadness wracked her soul. 
The worst is over for you.

Trembling, Ijanna rose.  She’d made her choice. 

He couldn’t hold on.  Dane’s fingers felt ready to break.  Pain from maintaining his grip burned down his arms.  His feet scraped uselessly against the sides of the stone column, and at any moment he’d tumble into darkness.

His thoughts were of Ijanna, and how he’d failed her.

Calladar held his sword high.  Dane watched the blade, waited for the dark steel to come crashing down and sever his hands.  He wondered how long he’d fall before his body landed on the jagged stalagmites, or for the
dra’aalthakmar
to
envelop him. 

Something crackled and flared.  A pulse of blood red light issued from the iron throne.  The air was thick with the sickly aroma of bodies left to dry in the sun. 

A fork of darkness jumped out from Ijanna’s hand as she stood.  Her hair blew forward around her face, and her eyes shone ice-white.  The black lightning bridged the gap between the throne and the column in a spark of cobalt flames.

Something cold pierced Dane’s heart.  The sound of a thunderstorm echoed in his skull, and his breath froze in his lungs.

Another bolt lanced out and struck Calladar in the chest.  Dane watched as the angel’s heart oozed out of the iron torso, a black and turgid mass that spilled into the pit.

Calladar’s eyes stayed locked on Dane as the blade slipped from the angel’s hand.  A serene expression crossed the brutally scarred face, and a moment later the angel of razors fell over the side.  The sound of breaking metal and flesh echoed up from the depths.

Ijanna was still.  Dane waited for a moment, and when it became clear nothing else was going to happen he started the laborious process of hauling himself up the stone column.  His arms felt like they were on fire, and every breath was a gasp.  His muscles were failing.  Bile built at the back of his throat, and his insides were raw with cold.  Trembling, he finally managed to pull himself up far enough to get an elbow over the side, and then his entire arm. 

His armor was gone.  When that happened he couldn’t say, but suddenly he had no weight to bear but himself and his clothing, and even then the act of pulling his exhausted body up the rest of the way wracked him with pain. 

Finally, after what felt like hours – hours filled with the chattering of shadows and the sizzle of burned flesh – Dane rolled up and onto his back.  He was gashed and ripped and his bloody wounds oozed onto the dark rock.  He wheezed as he lay there, fighting for the strength to move. 

He sensed her presence moments before their lips touched.  Dane’s body sparked to life.  Heat surged between them.  Ijanna had also lost her armor, and her tattered clothes were riddled with soil and dust.  Her body pressed down on him, warm and soft.  Her breasts pushed against his chest and her dark tongue probed his, filled him with heat.

Every instinct told him to push her away, to reach up and snap her neck or throw her over the side.  He fought it, but it rose again, and the only way he could silence the urge to kill her was to take her in his arms, his hands in her hair as he pulled her close. 

Off in the darkness, the demons laughed.

It was a paradise of pain.

Only through pain may we recall the trials of those who’ve come before.

By enduring it shall we overcome our demons, and the demons of the world.

The old prayer rang through his mind as he was beaten.

The Blood Queen scourged him without pause.  The whips were barbed and sharp enough to rip skin from his back and expose the raw muscle underneath.  Blood sluiced down his body and pooled on the floor.  The air was barely lit by gilded candles and filled with vapor, like a foggy mire. 

He was tied cruciform and naked, ankles and wrists bound by black iron chains.  Every lash sent a jolt of hurt through his body.  He screamed, many times. 

She took no pleasure in the torture, so he did his best to ignore the pain.  It was, after all, only flesh.

He already knew that with the passage of time the Veil energies in Chul Gaerog would corrode his body, and in order to survive he’d have to be augmented in a fashion similar to Calladar.  Best to break him now, so he could more easily accept the transfiguration.  Only then could he serve her, as he was meant to.

Time passed.  He was moved to a different chamber.

The walls were white, the floor stained with his blood.  A bed of crimson silk sat in the middle of the room.  She took him there often and eagerly, possessed of a sexual hunger the likes of which he’d never before encountered.  Even with his back flayed and his wounds fresh he, too, was a voracious lover, and she matched him.  She clawed his face when she mounted him, bit his chest and cheeks.  It was a punishment as well as a reward, this branding, these marks.  She’d never forgive him for the death of her son.

That was Ijanna’s role now, as Blood Queen: to punish.  She forced Dane to live so he might serve her, so he would not be rewarded with a quick death.

She gasped when he pushed inside her, slow at first, then violent.  Their hips pounded until they bruised, flesh on flesh, sweat and blood, slick and hard.  When he spilled his seed he cried out in pleasure and she screamed his name, and they lay there for a while, held tight in each other’s embrace, before she trussed him up and returned to the whip, and the blood would flow again.

Time passed.  It might have been minutes, it might have been days.  The air never changed, nor did their routine: she beat him, they fucked, she beat him again, no sleep, no respite, no need to pause for food or rest.  This was his existence, this fugue of punishment and pain.

His will dissolved.  He retained memory of his life, of the crimes he’d committed and the horrible things he’d done.  She’d once been the victim, even if only by her own perception, and he’d been the one doling out punishment, burning people alive, slaying children, watching as bodies were put to the torch or torn apart. 

I deserve this.  All of this. 

The magic of Chul Gaerog strengthened him.  The Blood Queen left scars that wouldn’t heal, but each time she took him inside of her he gained vitality and strength, and even when she beat him the wounds seemed to numb his body, like she was toughening his flesh. 

As his strength grew so, too, did Ijanna’s.  She derived power from his pain, somehow absorbed vitality every time he was wounded. 

Some notion of his original purpose – to save her, to help her find another way – remained, carefully tucked away in the fading corners of his mind.  He held it there, a vestige, hoping that when the time came he’d be able to find it again.

He felt the Veil, just out of reach.  He didn’t Touch: the presence was too strong, a behemoth force, a roaring juggernaut of power begging to be tapped.  He feared what would happen if he used it, but knew in time he’d have to.

He was ready.  He looked over himself: his body was a ruin of wounds that had healed ugly, turning him to a map of jagged flesh, but he felt stronger than ever.  Muscles clenched, lean stomach tightened, skin frozen from the chill in the tower.  His face was covered with stubble, and when he gazed into an iron mirror he saw cold eyes, deep green like an icy sea. 

He’d not been modified as the angel had, not yet.  For now he had to live with the wounds. 

She came to him – Ijanna, his Blood Queen.  Her long blonde hair flowed behind her like a cape, and when she undid her robe her naked flesh was pure white.  He took her in his arms and kissed her, gently at first, but her touch sparked life and lust, and his sex grew so hard in her hands it pained him.  He took her to the crimson bed and dove between her legs, licked her sex until she screamed, bent her over and took her from behind, rough, fast, growling as he thrust in and out. 

She took control quickly enough.  He was hers to command.  She put him on his back, took his length in her mouth, pumped him until he was ready to climax but forbade it, rode his cock with steady moans of pleasure as she clawed his chest.  The air filled with heat and noise, the animal cries of their coupling.  When he spilled he felt hollowed, like his soul had been drawn to a place of darkness and pain.

When they’d finished they lay in the cold sheets, their sweaty flesh entangled.  Ijanna rose and looked down at him.  Her eyes shone crimson in the darkness.  Her flesh was perfect, and a haze of soiled light burned around her soul.  He would die for her, kill for her.

“Serve me,” she said.

“Always,” he answered.  He bowed before her, and she placed her hand on his brow. 

How he loved her.

Mazrek Chairos was brutal when he took Kilarra that night.  His lusts needed to be sated, and he had to take his anger out on someone.  They’d lost ground to the Black Guild on account of that bastard magical storm, and someone was going to pay.  Even without a tongue his bodyguard was still more than capable of mewling in pain, and as he thrust into her and smacked her face hard enough to draw blood he enjoyed hearing her whimpers.

They hadn’t expected to find any Black Guild members in Corinth, and the arrival of the Bloodspeakers had further stacked the odds against him.  Now more than half of his men were dead and the Guild mercenaries were tightening their grip on the city, and if that wasn’t bad enough his scouts had reported the presence of more Red Hand Bloodspeakers.  Another conflict was inevitable, and Chairos didn’t have enough resources at his disposal to hold the city. 

After he spilled his seed he threw Kilarra to the floor and beat her until her face was bloody and his fists were raw.  She didn’t resist, but in the end he felt no better, and that made him even angrier.  Eventually he left her to recover from her wounds while he dressed.

The day wore long.  Chairos and his forces had retreated back to some buildings north of the central city square, which allowed them easy access to a number of cellars and storerooms where they could heal up while they stayed out of sight.  He’d considered using the cover of night to launch a counterattack on the Guild, but their force was primarily made up of Tuscars, creatures with keen vision even in the darkness.  Waiting until sun-up was the wisest move, as it would give Mez’zah Chorg’s reinforcements time to arrive. 

Assuming the bitch actually sent them.

Chairos donned his cloak.  The air was hot and ripe with electric tension.  He and his men had lit the darkness of those half-ruined cellars with old lamps.  The buildings were filled with collapsing dirt walls, leaning marble columns, old shattered furniture, moldered bones and the cloth remains of once-fine raiment.  

His wounded men had spread out and took what opportunity they could to rest.  He’d sent Re’shak back through the
cutgate
to Kaldrak Iyres to fetch more soldiers from the manor; he couldn’t bring all of his men, not if he wanted to maintain control of his territories while he was away, since it would have been just his luck for Grath or Ferro to move in and try to snatch up his businesses while he was off risking his life and squandering his resources to make Chorg happy.  Chairos knew that if he spread the word he could raise a small army of mercenaries, but that would take time, time he didn’t have. 

Chairos moved up the stairs and into the open parlor of the ruined building.  Everything tasted like dust and shattered stone, and he practically felt the creaking age of the city.  He saw the edge of the darkening sky, red with haze and dust from the Bonelands.  He’d only ventured into the Galladorian wastes a handful of times before, most recently when he’d gone to recover a Shard of the Stone of Pain from the ruined keep of Than Dakeel, but that had proved to be a wasted trip.  Chairos had spent little time outside of Kaldrak Iyres, where he’d been born and raised, the son of a prostitute and a gambler, neither of who he’d known beyond his childhood.  He’d always made his own way, and he tried to remind himself that was what this was all about: gaining rank and station.

Don’t wind up like Harrick
, he thought to himself.  The foolhardy head of the Ebonmark cell had become near legendary in the ranks of the Phage even though he’d only met his demise a couple of weeks prior – everyone knew how he’d overextended himself trying to capture the Dream Witch, and in the end he’d walked right into the Jlantrian’s trap and gotten himself and his men killed. 

“I’m not Harrick,” Chairos quietly said to himself as he stared at the dank sky.  He was a man who touched the Veil often and effectively, and since he lacked a Bloodspeaker’s abilities for healing he was unable to repair the subtle damages the Veil visited upon his body: his teeth were rotting away at the back of his mouth, his shoulder bones ached so badly that sometimes he couldn’t sleep, and his eyes were failing, all maladies normally reserved for men twice his age but that because of his affinity for sorcery had been visited upon him early.  It was no wonder the venerable Veilwardens of Jlantria all looked like a band of ancient crones by the time they were forty.  The failing of his eyes bothered him more than the other ailments – it was difficult for him to read for more than a few minutes without developing a powerful headach.  He used the Veil to repair the physical evidence of damage: no one would ever know the state of his teeth, and just because his bones ached didn’t mean he didn’t look like a perfect physical specimen on the outside, with broad shoulders and well-toned muscles, a chiseled face and perfectly groomed dark hair and beard, eyes that melted ladies hearts and froze men’s souls when he glared at them.

The wind kicked shards of stone and bitter tasting desert grit through the hollow building.  Chairos sensed motion in the distance, echoed and indistinct, too difficult to pinpoint.  He ground his aching teeth in frustration and pounded his fist on the wall.  He stepped out of the structure and looked down the forlorn road; Corinth was so vast it was easy to get lost in its ruins, and though he was just a few blocks from the portal to Chul Gaerog it might as well have been on the other side of the desert. 

If only he could devise a way to get through that damn
cutgate. 
There were few Veilwardens who could match up with him in a head-on fight, let alone a bunch of wretched Bloodspeakers, but this Black Guild force was just large enough to give him pause, especially with his own men so depleted. 

Even if he could defeat the Red Hand and the Guild – a tall order given his limited forces – he still had to wait for Chorg before he could get to Ijanna, at which point the gesture would be pointless.   It would be Chorg’s glory to enjoy all to herself, and any contributions Chairos had made by that point would quickly be forgotten. 

Kilarra joined him there in the ruined building, seemingly no worse for wear after the beating he’d given her.  A Blood Knight’s stamina was incredible, part of the intense ritual initiation of endurance and pain.  He needed more of the Blood Knights if he was to succeed; Re’shak would return with two more, which would put his total at six.  They were entirely devoted fighters, bloodthirsty and near perfect human specimens, and even if they fell each would take ten opponents with them to the grave.

They waited.  He heard the distant sound of combat, had his scouts keep tabs on the Black Guild and the Red Hand.  The dark sky grew red as the sun threatened to rise.  He was almost motionless as he listened to the shrill wind and breathed in the razor air of the Bonelands.  Kilarra stayed with him, her mask in place, hands on the hilts of her blades.  After a time he took her in his arms, and she held him close.

He made love to her again, gentle this time.  Being inside her always soothed him.  She could never be replaced.

A few hours later Res’shak returned with reinforcements: two more Blood Knights and twenty Phage soldiers, all eager to do battle with their hated enemies in the Black Guild.  They told him of the armies forming to the south, a mass of armed mercenaries with siege weapons, trolls and Tuscars, a sizable force some two thousand strong.  Worse, further south were Jlantrians, a host of a thousand mixed infantry and cavalry, all White Dragon regulars.  A major battle was about to begin.  Chairos’ small force was doomed.

And then he received the missive from Chorg.

Be ready
, she said. 
Your saviors have arrived.

A short time later a host of Phage mercenaries arrived at a
cutgate
west of the city, a group of several hundred battle-hardened killers called the Wraiths – Rhainian assassins and cutthroats, men-at-arms the Phage used for wiping out villages and raiding enemy strongholds. Their leader, Rael, reported to Chairos, and along with Veilwarden Seara Gith the Wraiths would help Chairos destroy their enemies in Corinth and breach Chul Gaerog while the Black Guild and the Jlantrians killed each other south of the city.

By the time the sun was in the sky the battle for the Black Tower would be well underway.