The Black Tower (30 page)

It was Vlagoth’s throne, the throne she’d sat upon when Corgan Bloodwine had come to claim her life.  The glaring light at Dane’s back illuminated the bloodstains, just slightly darker than the burned and ruined steel, all that remained of the child Blood Queen. 

Calladar, too, had failed.

Dane saw the crusted stains of blood Corgan had lost when the angel of razors tore him apart.  Dane followed the trail of dried gore.

Bloodwine escaped.  He took the same
cutgate
out of here that he’d used to get in.  I just hope it’s still there.

Dane stumbled upon the portal, a disc of bloodstained stone just around the corner.  He smelled darkness curl from its face, magic born of skinned souls. 

He ran, each breath dragging like a blade down his throat.  Dane willed himself not to lose consciousness.  Licks of white fire bounced along the ground behind him and scalded his legs as he fell forward. 

Dane woke in the Heartfang Wastes. 

The sky was grey and flat, and the frozen earth wept.  The small white sun lent no heat to that crusted and lifeless stretch of dust.  Dead trees and pools of brackish oil dotted the landscape.  Blackflies hovered in great clouds.  The earth was ridged and boiled, seeded with ground willow, spike grass and feverthorns growing in treacherous clumps.  Every stone he saw was crusted with lichen and salt, and the air was bone dry and cold.

Argus was there with him, and Dane had to check to make sure the man was breathing.  The ground was marked with black stains, once runic etchings that had been wiped away by time.  Though the battle that had led Corgan Bloodwine to Chul Gaerog had occurred three decades before, signs of the struggle still remained: discarded weapons, snapped bones, bits of long corroded armor. 

There was nothing for miles.  They were as far from civilization as they could possibly be.  Even Chul Gaerog was several hundred miles to the south of where Silver Company had made their final stand, and even if they’d wanted to reach the citadel they’d have to cross the Iron Ridge and traverse the dreaded Lichfields. 

He sensed no magic in the air – it seemed the power that would send travelers back to Chul Gaerog was inert. 

They were a week’s travel from Jlantria’s southernmost cities, and the Heartfang was filled with Tuscars and their beastly allies.  Even then, Dane realized he wasn’t afraid of that place.  

Being stuck here is the least I deserve.

To be lost, to wander forever south into the great crimson vastness that covered a third of the continent...there were worse things.  Azander Dane could name them.

His bones ached deep down, and he was suddenly very aware of all of his wounds, every cut and stab and bruise.  He should have been dead, but he knew some magic – his own, Ijanna’s, the Janus Tree’s, something – had prolonged his life, but that sorcery did little to combat the pain.  He peeled off one of his gauntlets and winced as skin from his knuckles came with it, and his hands oozed blood as the flesh tore.

He sat there and watched Argus, watched the wastes.  He wondered if Ijanna would appear.  She’d had the strength to do what needed to be done.  So had he.  Did she hate him for that? 

He needed the answer to be no, but he doubted that was true.  It made no sense for him to feel this connection to her.  What little time they’d spent together had been hexed, a Veil-induced delirium of violence and lust spent as master and servant, protector and avenger.  But it seemed fate had intended to throw him in her direction, first at the behest of the Black Guild, and later on his own misguided and misinformed desire to see her safe, imagining that would somehow make up for the things he’d done. 

He sat there in the light of the freezing sun.  The hard air burned his wounds and his lips were cracking and dry.  He watched Argus breathe and waited for something to come out of the wastes and claim him.

His thoughts went to the Razortooth Mountains.  For once the memories didn’t terrify him, but filled him with shame.  How many days had it been since that had happened?  How old would some of those children be now, those women? 

He sometimes wondered what news of his crimes had done to his family, especially his mother.  Just to imagine her face and her tears as she heard the words “Your son is a murderer and a traitor” was like a blade twisting in his heart.  There were no excuses, no misunderstandings.  Azander Dane
was
a murderer, a slayer of women and children, and no amount of justification would ever change that fact.  The blackest of all crimes, and he’d committed them willingly.

What am I doing here?
 

He hadn’t saved Ijanna, hadn’t saved himself.  She’d found another way – she’d faced the tree, the true source of magic, the cause behind all of the madness and conflict.  Had she ended it?  What would happen to the Veil?  What would happen to her?

What do I do now?

There were no answers.  The desolate and strangely isolated Heartfang Wastes were strange like that – it was hard to lie to yourself, but even harder to find any truth. 

The day was halfway gone and the sky was open and pale when Ijanna finally appeared.

Argus was still unconscious, but Dane had done everything he could to take care of him.  He’d pushed his scant medical training to its limits, but Dane thought the Veilwarden would be alright.  Something had kept both of them alive long after they should have died. 

Dane felt like he’d been dropped from a great height, lifted back up and dropped again.  He sat quietly, his head in his hands.  His thoughts didn’t come easy, like trying to catch a breath in the middle of a fierce storm.  The blackflies were driving him crazy, and his fingers and toes tingled with cold.

What do I do now? 
He kept asking himself that same question over and over again, and he was still waiting for an answer.  Azander Dane was there because from the moment he’d killed Ijanna’s son he’d been led towards that moment, that place.  He was there because he’d chose to be, because for all of his mistakes he’d tried to make things right, and that had to count for something.

When Ijanna suddenly stood before him he thought for a moment he’d finally lost his mind.  Her face was smeared with ash and blood, and her blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders.  Her armor was gone and her cloak was on the ground, leaving her in a loose grey shirt and breeches and tall boots stained with crimson dust.  Her eyes glistened with tears.  Black clouds in the distance rumbled with the promise of rain, though any moisture that fell in that place would be unwelcome.

He looked at her, enraptured by her, pained by her.  She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, just as she was a reminder of all the horrible crimes he’d committed.  He never wanted her to leave, yet he knew that to stay with her would slowly kill him.

So be it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, almost lost in the dead wind.  Tears ran from his eyes, fast and hard.  Great sobs wracked his body, and suddenly the burdens of his cursed life seemed too much, and he felt like they’d crush him beneath their weight. 

He bowed his head and coughed as he cried, his breath gone.  He couldn’t stop choking out sobs, couldn’t stop the tears.  Every life he’d taken, every lie he’d told, every promise he’d left unfulfilled – it was as if they all came pouring out of him, and he was powerless to do anything but sit there and let his body tear itself apart with sorrow.

Ijanna took his head in her hands.

“I’m so sorry...” he managed.  “Please...forgive me.”

The air was silent for long and painful moments.  He felt one of her hands in his hair, and hoped against hope she held a blade in the other.

“I can’t,” she said.  “Only you can do that.”

She held him, and he cried.  They didn’t move, not for a very long time.

It had been a costly victory.  Kruje and the Bloodspeaker Vellexa sat near a small campfire she’d conjured in the city square, in the shadow of a large manor with scorched walls and crumbling stone columns.  Night had fallen, and a bloody crimson fog crept in from out of the Bonelands. 

The rest of the Red Hand and Tuscar soldiers who’d actually survived the battle were scattered all about the wide city square.  The head Tuscar, Fan’skaar, was still convinced there was danger about, and he had his troops on patrol, kicking in doors and looking for any sign of trouble.  The Red Hand explored as well, but with an entirely different agenda, for Thaenn and Methander – Kruje was surprised and relieved to learn that both had lived through the fight – were convinced that some artifact of import still lay hidden in a pile of rubble or an unopened chamber, and they were determined to find it. 

That the two groups were at odds was without question, but Kruje and Vellexa had convinced their respective allies there was no need for another fight, at least not at the moment.  The forces the Iron Count had brought charging through the desert had gone, and the majority of the combined Jlantrian and Den’nari forces they’d done battle with had been utterly wiped out.  No one seemed interested in the ruined city anymore, and why would they be?  The
cutgate
to Chul Gaerog was gone, and would not be created again.

Kruje and the woman spent most of their time seated there in silence.  The giant’s mind was miles away.  He’d somehow helped prevent the only known means of gaining access to the Black Tower from falling into the wrong hands, but it seemed a shallow victory, especially considering how many lives it had cost.  The very existence of the intact
scarstones
implied more existed, if not in Corinth then elsewhere on Malzaria, and the many parties interested in gaining access to the Blood Queen’s citadel were not only highly motivated but well funded. 

All of this will happen again
, he thought grimly. 
If only I could have gotten into the Tower.

But he hadn’t.  Not only that, he’d failed to help Dane.  He’d abandoned his original reason for joining forces with the Dawn Knight – to sacrifice the man as part of a ridiculous Vossian prophecy he’d chose to believe meant he’d return to Meledrakkar triumphant – the moment he’d understood just what grave danger they were all truly in.  Petty things like rites of succession and taking revenge on his brother paled in comparison to preventing the Veil from tearing Malzaria apart. 

I’m sorry, Dane,
he thought.  His head pounded, and he felt like a great weight had fallen on his shoulders and stayed there, crushing him.  A pang of loss shot through his veins like iced blood. 
I’m sorry I lied to you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. 
Dane was most likely dead – no human had ever escaped from Chul Gaerog, and Kruje was sadly doubtful his friend would be the first. 

Vellexa had described feeling a powerful burst of energy, as if the flow of the Veil within her had surged uncontrollably for the briefest of moments, causing her tremendous pain; Thaenn told him the same.  After that surge, she said, the world seemed to go dark, as if for a short time magic had utterly and completely faded from existence altogether.  A void, where before she’d always felt the well of her own power, and though she was incapable of tapping into the greater Veil like a Warden she’d sensed its absence, like every star in the sky had suddenly blinked out, leaving the universe cold and empty. 

“
It’s returned,”
she said.  “
My power is there, but Breathing the Veil has become...a trial.  As if it’s reluctant.”

He heard fear in her, and he was reminded of the terrible truth – every mage, whether Veilwarden or Bloodspeaker, was addicted to yielding magic, the primal rush it gave them, the adrenaline, the thrill of feeling thaumaturgic energies.  Even the Voss could feel it, to a much more limited degree, whenever they hammered weapons and armor with Veilcraft.

They were addicts, each and every one of them.  He shuddered at the notion of what would happen if the Veil truly did vanish.

The world would die, slowly, and we’d be trapped with armies of madmen unable to fuel their addiction.

Of course, it was that addiction that was slowly wasting Malzaria away.  Bloodspeakers couldn’t help it – they were born with their powers, after all, and had drawn all they would and could from the source before they were even old enough to understand what it was they’d done – but Veilwardens called on magic willingly, claimed to protect it when in fact they were the ones stripping the world’s defenses away.

Kruje looked into the night.  A few of Vellexa’s mercenaries had gathered around the bonfire, their steel weapons glowing orange as they walked patrol and cast shadows across the rock-addled sand.  All of them were silent, waiting, cloaked in skins they wore over their armor to shield them against the sudden coldness of night. 

He tried to piece together what the stutter of the Veil meant.  The fact that it was back to normal, or close to it, indicated that Dane had likely succeeded, at least in some capacity.  But at what cost?  Had he killed Ijanna, and prevented the rebirth of the Blood Queen?

Kruje very much hoped for his friend to be alive.  He’d never had someone he’d come to rely on and worry about as he had that strange and misguided human, and the very fact that they’d come to form such a bond just showed him how insane the world truly was. 

After a time he and Vellexa resumed their conversations, though their communication was halting, at best – her Tuscar was excellent, but Kruje’s wasn’t, and even if his understanding had been better the barbaric language was blunt and without subtlety, lacking many of the nuances of the giant’s native tongue.  Vellexa proved incapable of forming a mental bond – only some mages could master that trick, it seemed – but even with those limitations she and the giant were able to make some sense of what had happened in Corinth over those past few days.  She told him of the Black Guild, the dreaded Iron Count, their battle with the Phage and his drive to capture the Dream Witch, about how she’d met Dane in Ebonmark and the path she’d set him on.  She explained how her son Kyver had been captured and used as leverage by the Jlantrians to get her to do what they wanted, and how the Count had then done the same.

“
So what will you do?
” Kruje asked her in Tuscar.  “
The Count is dead now.  And the Jlantrians...”

“
Hopefully they’ve forgotten us
,” she said.  “
It was just one man, really – Slayne – and hopefully he’s dead by now.  If not, I plan to deal with him.” 
She looked up through the smoke and into the darkness of the sky, and shuddered.  “
I’m done with the Black Guild.  It seems so strange to say that, after so long.  I’m not sure what I’ll do without it in control of my life.”

She lowered her eyes, and looked into the flames.

“
Yes you do,
” Kruje said.  Vellexa looked at him, and though at first she seemed to take some offense, after a moment she smiled.

“
Yes,”
she said.  “
Yes, of course I do.  Just me and Kyver.  The way it should be.”

Kruje smiled.  He envied what she had to look forward to, even if the road ahead was long.

“
And what about you?
” she asked.  “
I’ll admit I was confused when I saw you with Dane in Black Sun.  What’s your role in all of this?
”

Kruje furrowed his lip and stared into the crackling flames. 

“I’m alone,”
he said.  “
I have no home to return to.  I have only a single friend, who for a time I was willing to sacrifice for my own selfish gain.  Now I just hope he’s still alive.”

“
He is
,” Vellexa smiled.  “
He must be.  He’s proved already how difficult he is to kill.
”

Kruje nodded at that.  He wondered if Dane had found the strength to kill Ijanna after all of that time telling himself his very soul depended on her rescue.  He worried for Dane: it was easier than worrying over himself.

I hope you lived
, he thought to the Knight. 
Because if you did, it means I still have a chance to make things right.

“
Where will you go?
” Vellexa asked.  By the sound of her voice, even she was beginning to tire of their limited Tuscar. 

“
The only place where I’ll have a chance to find him,
” Kruje said.  “
Chul Gaerog.
”

Vellexa watched him.  Her large eyes were expressive and penetrating. 

“
Are all Voss insane?
” she asked.

Kruje laughed at that.

“
Most of us...
” he began, but he was cut off.

The red and black silhouette came out of nowhere.  She moved like a serpent, her double-headed axe glittering like scales in the moonlight.  It was Kilarra – Chairos’ lover and chief enforcer.  Her mask was battered and broken along her bleeding jaw and her armor was torn and shredded, but whatever injuries she’d sustained did little to slow her assault.

Kruje moved to grab his axe as he called out to Vellexa.  The Bloodspeaker turned and drew a scimitar she’d kept concealed beneath her cloak, but Kilarra was faster than either of them.  An axe-blade swept forward and caught Vellexa in the stomach, doubling her over.

The giant rushed at the Blood Knight, his axe held high as he bellowed a war cry.  Rage ran through him like fire.  Kilarra dodged his blow easily, and as his heavy blade sank into the sand she slashed at his face.  He managed to raise his arm in time to protect himself and howled in pain as the axe-head drove straight into the muscle of his forearm and ground against the bone.  Pain lanced down his limb and spiraled in his stomach. 

Kilarra ripped the blade loose and splashed dark blood to the ground, and as Kruje stumbled back she came at him again and sliced into his stomach.  Gore oozed out in streams.  He felt something push against the inside of his skin, and it was all he could do to clench tight and keep his guts from spilling out.

Pain more intense than anything he’d ever imagined pulsed through his body, and he grew dizzy.  Kruje breathed deep, let his anger propel him.  He’d spent months in the fighting pits allowing his rage to take over, for Kar-Kalled to drive him when his lack of courage and experience held him back.  Now, he didn’t need it. 

He lashed out and smashed his fist against her mask, shattering it to pieces.  The silent woman made no sound even as she spat blood from between broken teeth.  Her body fell back and landed in a heap near the flames.  Kruje moved through the fire, his axe back in his hands.  He looked down at the Blood Knight’s face, imagined it once young and beautiful, now marred with scars and pain and grey from being covered for so long. 

Her eyes were on him as he approached.  She didn’t even try to move as he brought his weapon down and cut her in two.

The axe clattered to the ground, and Kruje rushed over to Vellexa.  She lay on her back, blood seeping from the deep wound in her stomach.  Her eyes fluttered, ready to shut. 

“
Thaenn
!” Kruje thought to the Red Hand Bloodspeaker, unsure of where she was.  “
Someone help
!” he called out in Tuscar.

“
Kyver...
” she gasped.  Blood trickled from between her dark lips.  “
Oh no...Kyver...
”

She coughed, her body shook, and she was gone.

Kruje stood and watched her.  He quietly sang
mugah’lok
, the death chant that prepared one’s soul to meet the J’ann. 

“
I’m sorry, Kruje
,” Thaenn said some time later.  They’d burned Vellexa’s body, the only sensible thing to do in a desert where nothing stayed buried.  “
She seemed like a decent woman.
”

“
Yes
,” he said. “
She did.
” 

He felt deeply disturbed by her loss, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why.  Maybe it was the senselessness of her death.  Maybe it was the fact that she’d sat right there, an individual, another living being he’d somehow found some common ground with.  Just a few months ago Kruje would have laughed at the notion of befriending a human.  Now it was becoming a habit.

“
We have to go
,” Thaenn said.  “
The Red Hand.  We need to get back to the Ravenwood.  I was hoping you’d come with us.
”

Kruje looked down the road to where the surviving Red Hand had assembled, their dark cloaks shifting in the wind, silhouettes against the coming dawn.  He imagined himself traveling with them – outcasts, like himself.

“
I have to find someone,
” Kruje said.

“
Yes,
” Thaenn thought through their telepathic link.  “
Your friend Dane.
”