City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) (12 page)

With my luck he’s already halfway to Kaldrak Iyres and this place is surrounded by wolves and Vossian gladiators.

“No,” Targo’s voice said.  “And now you owe me for three wolves.  But I’m in a hurry, so I’ll have to deal with you later…”

“Wait!” Dane said.  “Look, if not money, there has to be something you’d be willing to trade for.”

There was no answer, just the pounding rain and a distant bleat of thunder.  Dane waited for a response, or for more of Targo’s werewolves to emerge from the shadows and tear him apart, but none came.  After a time he returned his
vra’taar
to its sheath, picked up the remnants of his now tattered cloak, and made for the door. 
Damn it.  Now what?

Dane was almost outside when Targo’s voice cut through the air.  “Actually,” Targo said, “there
is
something you’ll do for me.” 

Dane couldn’t help but notice the lack of a request.  “What’s that?” he replied cautiously. 

“Like I said, you owe me for three wolves,” Targo said, “
and
you want to find Bordrec.  Fine.  But you’d better hurry.  Go to the Red Witch and ask for a lady named Azzah.  Get there before the fights start – you’ve got less than an hour.”

Dane was about to ask exactly what it was he’d be doing at the Red Witch, but he decided not to press his luck.  He was fortunate to have gotten that far without getting himself killed.

Yet.

Twelve

Kruje coughed up a sliver of bone.  He was tired of eating half-raw meat that looked and tasted like the remains of the previous night’s fallen gladiators.  The collar they forced Kruje to wear was too tight, so it was difficult for the giant to swallow a mouthful of water, let alone any solid food.  He’d have voiced his complaints if any of his incompetent human captors spoke his language, not that they’d care.

Special manacles covered his hands like buckets, so Kruje had to lean over and suck up his meal from the iron bowl on the floor of the cage like he was some sort of animal.  His enormous muscles ached from the cramped position – a Voss wasn’t meant to perform such acrobatic feats – and his jaw and throat were sore from choking down food.  The soured meat had been improperly minced, and shards of bone cut his gums and soured his stomach. 

He gave up on the food and looked around the room.  The hall which held the prisoners was vast, with more than a dozen black iron cages filled with beds of straw.  Plate-armored guards with spears patrolled the rows.

Luxury accommodations, to the last. 

The gladiators were a motley assortment.  There he was, once heir to the Third Iron Crown of Meledrakkar, now reduced to a common slave.  His own mistakes had triggered a series of disastrous events culminating in his being caged.  The humans had no honor, no couth and no respect, and he made note of every indiscretion laid upon him with vengeful resolve.  One day he’d repay each and every one. 

Chief amongst the crimes committed against him was his being forced to keep company with those dregs.  Just the smell of the other gladiators was enough to turn his stomach.  Kruje’s cage stood against the far wall (downwind of the rest of the room, he noted bitterly), and his great height gave him an excellent view of his fellow prisoners: a noisy beast, vaguely humanoid save for its insect-like head and six powerful arms; a Tuscar gladiator in pale white armor; a great black horse with eyes the color of blood and two jagged horns protruding from its forehead; a dark-skinned man with long braided hair and many scars; a bald human with no eyes and a metal stud where his right hand should have been; and a pale woman with dark hair and strange bird-like metal wings.

And then there was Kruje himself.  Before his capture at the hands of the humans Kruje hadn’t known the first thing about combat, but he’d been forced to become quite the warrior in order to survive Maddox’s favorite hobby.  He wished for a single opportunity to catch the slaver unaware so he could take the bastard’s head off with his teeth. 

Kruje’s ebon skin was scarred and rough from months of fighting, sleeping in cages and eating trash unfit even for carrion feeders.  The iron shackles around his neck and hands grew heavier by the day, and Kruje feared he’d actually grown accustomed to the treatment, all too similar to how the Voss had dealt with their human prisoners during the Rift War. 

That was why he was such a prize to the humans: because he was Voss.  Humans regarded he and his kin with terror and awe, and to parade one around like a carnival prize took away their fear of him, demystified the enigma of an ancient and powerful race of giants known as much for their cruel command of arcane engineering as they were for their size and sheer brutality.

Though Kruje couldn’t speak the human’s foul tongue he saw the excitement and disdain in Maddox’s expression when he showed his captive off to his slaver friends.  Kruje was Maddox’s freak, but more importantly he was Maddox’s champion.  Kruje hadn’t seen another Voss since he’d left Meledrakkar.  The novelty of his existence was what Maddox truly owned, and that was what brought so many to watch the giant fight.

Kruje watched his fellow gladiators.  He’d never seen any of them before, and after the fights were done he’d never see any of them again, for only one combatant ever walked away from those grisly events, regardless of where they took place, regardless of how far Maddox dragged him for another money-making spectacle.  Kruje didn’t give his opponents a second thought.

Maddox shouted at him from just outside the cage.  The slaver was broad-shouldered and bald, with a red cloak and beady eyes.  Maddox liked to point and puff like he was something important.  The slaver spoke to his pair of henchmen, and one of them stepped close enough to prod Kruje’s stomach with a longspear.  Kruje growled in pain and cursed at them, but Maddox’s laughter prompted his men to keep at it.  Blade points darted in and jabbed into his back and arms.  Skin split and dark blood gushed.  Kruje writhed and thrashed, shaking the cage and howling at them in anger.

They weren’t gentle, for they knew his giant’s metabolism would heal the wounds well before the fight began, just as he knew it was pointless to resist.  Maddox had the means to kill him instantly if he so desired.

Bleeding and numb with pain, Kruje moved as close to the edge of the cage as he could and hollered at Maddox.

“I’ll suck the flesh from your bones!”

Maddox just laughed, and made like he was petting Kruje before he turned and walked away. 

Thirteen

The tower was tall and straight, a fifty-foot blade piercing the dusk sky.  The Dream Witch turned her eyes skyward and tasted the wet night on her black tongue.  Red light oozed over the murky horizon. 

Ijanna watched the guards on patrol.  She counted four walking a regular rotation around the base of the tower, and two more stationed up top.  A recent string of attacks had been coordinated against Colonel Blackhall’s troops in the city, and a number of small patrol squads and off-duty soldiers had been ambushed and brutally killed.  It was common knowledge that the Black Guild was behind the attacks, which was just one of the reasons the Colonel still maintained his command post and camp outside the city proper.  Still, it seemed unlikely the Iron Count would launch a direct assault against Blackhall’s arcane stronghold.  Even
he
wasn’t that crazy.

No.  Just me.

The tower was a bald and ugly thing, a four-story cylinder of stone crafted with impressive Veilcraft, magically shielded and completely portable through magical means.  It was typical of the White Dragon Empire – they went to great lengths to explain why they had to outlaw use of the Veil, how much danger and trouble it would cause if it was yielded unwisely, then turned around and produced frivolities like portable towers.  Only the Empress and her pet Veilwardens of the so-called Three Houses were allowed to use magic, which left people like Ijanna, born with rare and devastating talents, in a very bad place. 

Ijanna knew first hand how bad things were for Bloodspeakers.  The memory of what she’d lost would haunt her to the end of her days.

The Jlantrian military camp, which blanketed the eastern side of Ebonmark like a grim sentinel, was chaotic, noisy, and cluttered.  Wide black tents housed a dozen soldiers apiece, and between the tents were boxes of dried goods, spare bedrolls and barrels of water and herbs.  Temporary stables for the Jlantrian’s horses stood every few hundred feet, and Ijanna spied larger tents used as smiths and armories. 

The air was thick with the smell of animals and wood smoke.  Men gathered around tables and gave quick prayer before their meals.  Blazing cook fires cast smoky light across the sea of tents.  Blackhall’s forces had constructed a forbidding wooden palisade around the camp, forming a second wall outside the city. 

There were only a few White Dragon troops out in the open aside from the sentries; most were either off-duty in their tents or assembled in the mess.  While the camp was by no means undefended, Bordrec’s spies had been watching and had come to the conclusion that the dusk mealtime was when the fewest soldiers were on patrol.  If she was going to infiltrate the Jlantrian’s base of operations, now was the time to do it.

Ijanna crept across the top of Ebonmark’s outer wall, using the deserted parapets for cover.  The old stone was cracked and corroded, and Ijanna had to watch her footing because of the rain.  She closed in on Blackhall’s tower, moving low and using the mist to stay hidden.  Blue-and-white armored troops moved through the maze of tents and crates below.  The sentries atop the tower kept more of a vigil on the camp and the barren plains north of the city than they did on Ebonmark’s walls.

Satisfied she was out of sight, Ijanna Breathed the Veil.  Invisible vapor flowed like gel across her skin.  Ice ran down her spine and crept up her arms.  She jumped down and soared for long seconds before she landed with the grace of a cat in the jungle of dark tents, surrounded by the meaty odor of men and the rumble of snoring soldiers. 

She moved fast, avoiding the well-lit areas.  Ijanna stayed low and slipped behind cover as a pair of sentries walked by, talking about how much they hated the constant rain.  Once they were gone she glimpsed around the corner and saw that she wasn’t far from Blackhall’s tower.  Bags of dry goods and barrels stood next to another tent a few yards away, the last cover to be had before she reached the open space around the base of the tower. 

She quickly made her way to the dark tent, hoping it was unoccupied.  Ijanna exhaled Veil vapors to muffle the sounds of her passage.  She reached the tent, slipped inside and crouched in the darkness, waiting, her muscles alight with effort and her heart in her throat.  The rain beat down and slapped against the canvas.  She heard distant conversation and scattered footsteps in the mud.  No one had seen her.

More crates and barrels surrounded her, all of them sealed tight and cold to the touch.  The rest of the space was full with tarps and blankets, and the tent was open at both ends, allowing Ijanna to see the tower on the other side.

A fit of coughing ripped through the darkness and made Ijanna jump.  A sleeping soldier was barely visible in the light from outside.  He lay on the ground not three feet away from her, his hair tussled and his face soaked with sweat.  Though the soldier clutched a bottle in hand he didn’t smell of alcohol; rather, the air in the tent was heavy with sickness.  The large man tossed and turned but didn’t wake.   He mumbled to himself, and seemed to be in pain.  Ijanna carefully inched forward, staying low to the ground, and placed her hand on his brow.

He burned with fever, but when Ijanna put her other hand in his palm she shivered at how icy his skin felt.  The soldier hacked again, the force of his cough so strong his entire body buckled, but still he didn’t wake.

Ijanna breathed softly.  She steadied herself, kept her hand on his forehead, and set her breaths to a carefully controlled rhythm, each quicker than the last.  Soon her chest rose and fell in time with the soldier’s breathing.  Their heartbeats fell into synch. 

The Veil swam through her, and the world receded to a pale outline.  She took one more breath and released the Veil.  His fever was gone.

Ijanna took another breath and let go.  He slept peacefully.  Her eyes were heavy and her head swam.  She’d forgotten how taxing it was to use the Veil to heal another.  Though her power was great and she was capable of accomplishing feats well beyond the reach of other Bloodspeakers, some things were difficult even for her…like snatching someone from the edge of death.

Why did I do that?

The soldier didn’t wake, but in moments his fretful breathing slowed and his burning flesh cooled.  Ijanna watched him.  She hadn’t realized at first how large he was.  He must have been nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, a stone-faced man with a thick and muscular neck and enormous arms.  When she’d healed him she’d realized he hadn’t been afflicted by any ordinary sickness, but some dark disease induced by Veilcraft.

Arcane plague delivered by the Black Guild.  This is how they wage war on the Jlantrians invading “their” city.

Now that she’d healed him he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.  Ijanna made sure he was alright while still watching for sign of anyone coming into the tent.  She couldn’t afford to linger; Bordrec and his men would be creating their distraction soon.  Still, it did her heart good to see the stranger healed, even if he was a Jlantrian.

Anxiety gripped her chest.  She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to heal the man, especially since doing so had left her in a weaker state. 

Don’t lose focus.  There’s too much at stake.

Ijanna silently made her way through the rest of the darkened tent.  It didn’t take long for her to understand why it wasn’t guarded – the space between the barrels at either end was filled with bodies loosely covered by tarps.  Flies filled the air.  Empty eyes stared up at her, their lids moist in the dank mist. Ijanna swore she heard moans coming from the sea of corpses.