City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) (28 page)

Everything was happening so fast.  The war with the Phage wasn’t going well – she’d known this for some time, but she was only beginning to see the full ramifications of the failed struggle.  Her men’s morale was low, and the rivalry within the Black Guild was getting worse, in no small part due to the Count's decreasing presence in the organization’s day-to-day affairs.  He’d always been a distant leader, but over the past few months his orders had grown more and more erratic, to the point where they sometimes bordered on the preposterous.  The Phage held numerous advantages over the Guild: they had more men, they controlled more territory, their leaders took a direct hand with the syndicate’s operations, and though the Phage was younger than the Guild its power had grown considerably over the past few years. 
They
were the new criminal power, and the longer Vellexa watched the Black Guild’s influence dissipate beneath the Phage’s onslaught the more she realized she was on the losing side of the war. 

Maybe the Count was right, and the only way to truly beat the Phage was to capture and sell the Dream Witch before they did, but it was unlike him to stake so much on a single plan.  The way he told it the acquisition of the Dream Witch was the Black Guild’s last hope for survival, and if they failed their days were as good as numbered.  Maybe things truly had become that desperate…or maybe dealing with the imminent collapse of his organization had driven the Count insane.  Vellexa knew no more about the Count’s true identity than anyone else, and that frightened her.  If he was human, he was only
barely
human, and Vellexa had no reason to believe he wouldn’t make whatever sacrifices he deemed necessary if it meant the preservation of his criminal empire. 

That shouldn't have bothered her – it was the way things had always been – but it did. 

Vellexa’s tall boots echoed noisily through the vacant hall.  In her mind's eye she saw the manor she'd always dreamed of – curtains over the tall windows, new doors in place of the chipped and cracked wood, fine carpets instead of dusty floors, paintings to bring life to those faceless dark walls.  Her position in the Black Guild had made it possible for her to purchase the manor, but its demands on her time had also denied her the privilege of actually living in it.  Such was the case with her entire life.  Money, power and privilege weren’t available to a common street whore – and a hated and hunted Bloodspeaker, at that – but the life the Guild had given her was just an empty promise, a dream she could plainly see but never actually possess.  She didn’t even have time for her son anymore, but the less she thought on that, the better. 

Her foot slipped on something wet and dark.  Vellexa’s eyes searched the hall leading from the foyer to the library and found a trail of sloppy blood.  She cursed under her breath.  Jlantrian squads had taken to patrolling the neighborhood as of late, and the last thing she needed was for nosy soldiers to uncover something like this. 

Vellexa focused her mind and breathed.  The vaporous essence of the Veil leaked into the air around her, a cloud of blood fog.  The grisly vapor raced carried a spoken message to the carriage driver to have the mess cleared away.  The threat of anyone seeing Targo’s or Cronak’s blood was quite slim, but she couldn't afford any more mistakes, especially not now. 

She walked over to a tall bookshelf concealing a secret passage.  Vellexa had fallen in love with the manor due in part to discovering that eccentric feature; the previous owner had apparently been a rather paranoid merchant.  Depressing a single book was all it took to make the case swing open with a creak.

A dry stone passageway led beyond the bookcase to a steep staircase choked with cobwebs and dust.  At the bottom of the steps was a small labyrinth of narrow corridors and claustrophobic rooms, wherein lay the evidence of the previous owner’s true nature: shackles and cells, rusted knives and wooden needles, coffins lined with spikes.  The shadows were thick in that dungeon, located some fifty feet underground.  She followed the torch light coming from the right-hand corridor.

Jorias Targo had reverted to his humanoid form, tall and muscular with tattooed arms and grey eyes.  His foul-smelling intestines dangled from his open stomach, and heavy streams of blood poured from his ankles and wrists.  His breaths were shallow and hard as tears of pain rolled down his face.  Three men studiously paced around him and checked the heavy leather straps binding him to the low stone table.  They talked quiet but candidly as they removed their cloaks and rolled up their sleeves.  Only Sammeus remained stoic.  His long silver hair hung loose about his shoulders, and his eyes were cold. 

“Where's Cronak?”  Vellexa asked.  Sammeus’s face was grim, and he looked ready to fly into a rage.  He’d always had trouble keeping himself composed. 

“Down the hall.  Tyvik is with him.”  Sammeus looked at Vellexa.  “Let me do it,” he asked with an almost child-like eagerness. 

“We need to know where Bordrec Kleiderhorn is,” she said sternly.  "That’s the most important thing right now.  Without that, whatever happens to Cronak will have been for nothing.”

Sammeus unconsciously licked his lips.  Vellexa hadn’t seen him so bloodthirsty in a long time.  “We’ll learn what we need to from Jorias," he whispered.  “Trust me.”

Vellexa had her doubts, but she also had no stomach for torture, and she wanted to grant Sammeus some way to vent his rage.  “Make him talk,” she nodded.  “I trust you, Sammeus,” she said with the emphasis one might use with a child.  It was what Sammeus needed.  “Make him talk, and make him suffer for what he did to Cronak.”

Sammeus pulled down a large pack hanging from a hook on the wall, a long roll of hide bound with a small lock. Inside were knives, hooks, needles, screws, saws and razors. Sammeus chuckled to himself as he perused his selection.  Vellexa left him to his work.

She walked down the stone hall to a small room with a single cot and chair.  Cronak was there.  He looked dead, and for a single frightening moment Vellexa thought he was.  His color was gone, his thick long hair was stained with blood, and the white bandages covering his torso had turned crimson.  His chest still moved with shallow breaths, at least for the moment.

Tyvik, a former field surgeon in the White Dragon Army, sat on a chair and searched through Targo’s overstuffed pack using the dull light provided by a lamp on the floor.  His bald pate was covered with sweat, and he ran a hand over her bearded face in frustration.

“Well?” she asked quietly.  Tyvik nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Vellexa!  Oh, eh…I redressed his wounds, but I don't like the look of them.  That bastard Targo really tore him apart.  I…” He hesitated.

“Well…what?!” Vellexa demanded.

“I don't think he's going to make it.”

And that was that.  For some reason Cronak’s wounds wouldn’t heal, no doubt a result of Targo’s monstrous condition.  Vellexa took a deep breath.  Cronak’s parting wouldn’t be easy.  He’d been at her side for many years, and she already felt naked without him standing next to her.

“Leave us,” she told Tyvik.  “Now.”

“Vellexa, you should look in Targo’s bag.  It might…”    

“Go!” she shouted.  And he went.

Vellexa stood over Cronak’s bed.  She couldn’t cry – she’d lost the ability years ago – but a shroud of regret hung over her.  He was one of her only friends, and now he was going to die.  The thought made her weak. 

Vellexa stayed with Cronak as he slipped off to a permanent night.  Targo’s agonized screams filled the stony halls.  She thought of her son, and of how badly she wanted to be with him.  Kyver wasn’t safe where he was now, no matter how skilled his bodyguards were. 

She looked at Cronak, but saw her son, and her heart filled with fear.

Forty-Two

If Damark doesn’t stop pacing
, Slayne thought,
I just might have to kill him.
 

Slayne wasn’t a patient man.  He’d been trained to move and act quickly, and anything slower than a full run felt like a waste of time.  The worst part of his job was the waiting.  He, Damark, Rearic and Syn sat in a small room in an abandoned house on Ice Street.  Normally Slayne only had one of his agents with him at any given time, but today he knew he’d need more.  He had just over a dozen Black Eagles in Ebonmark, all specially trained soldiers he’d hand-picked from the White Dragon Army or from criminal gangs he’d been involved with before he’d gone to work for the Empress. 

You can’t leave your past behind.  Sometimes it pays not to.

There was mold everywhere.  Several damp pools stained the rotting wood.  Most of the buildings in the neighborhood were in excellent shape, but that particular structure had been condemned, and it provided them with a perfect vantage of the shrouded manor down the road.  If Harrick’s information was correct, that manor was the home of Vellexa, a high-ranking member of the Black Guild. 

It had been a while since Slayne had done assassination work, but it was why Aaric had helped him organize the Black Eagles in the first place.  Sometimes matters required more than what the White Dragon Army could or would do.

Damark kept pacing.  He was relentless.  He’d gone several days without a shave, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Stop,” Slayne said.  “You’re driving me insane.”

“What are we waiting for?” Damark growled.  “The carriage is right down there!”

“Calm down,” Syn said.  She looked almost ghost-like with her short black hair and milky white skin.  “We’re just waiting for Jamaer to let us know what’s going on down there.”

“Does it matter?” Damark sighed.  “That woman we saw was Vellexa, right?”

“She was probably the one responsible for the explosion,” Raeric added.  “She killed all those people.”  He always sounded calmly conversational – he might as well have been talking about what he’d eaten for lunch.

“Everyone shut up,” Slayne said firmly.  “We don’t move until Jamaer signals us.”  He looked at Raeric, who sat by the window.  “Anything?”

Raeric was a handsome man with long red hair and a tear-shaped scar under his left eye.  He carved into the window frame with a longknife while keeping careful watch on the manor gate.  “Nothing,” he said with a shake of his head.

Slayne sat in the corner and rubbed his hands together for warmth.  It grew colder in Ebonmark by the day, but it was nothing like the winters in Tarek Non or Ral Tanneth.  Unlike Aaric, Slayne didn’t really miss the capital, even if he did wonder what his daughter was doing those days. Crysella was her own person now, and she’d made her feelings towards him plain and clear. 

She knows what I am
, he thought sadly. 
And what I’ve done. 
Slayne sometimes wondered how much Blackhall really knew about him.  They’d been friends for a long time, but Slayne wondered if they’d still
be
friends if Blackhall knew the truth of what had happened in the Razortooth Mountains. Aaric had his suspicions, to be sure, but like any good friend he had the kindness and wisdom not to ask about the past. 

Friends do that
, Slayne thought, though he only had Blackhall to base that on, since men like him didn’t keep many friends.

The icy wind hammered the walls of the abandoned manor.    Shrill moans echoed through the vacant house, and the air inside was bitter, cold and damp.

The Black Eagles sat and waited in silence, each aware of the gravity of their situation.  They’d only been searching for the Black Guild’s headquarters for three days, but every moment was vital.  Slayne had to come up with results before Wolf Brigade arrived in Ebonmark.  There was also the Phage to contend with, and the amulet the Empress wanted.  And then there was the woman he’d killed – or
thought
he’d killed – and those damn blades she’d stolen. 

Too much to do.

“There he is,” Raeric said at last. 

Slayne pushed past Damark and Syn and looked over Raeric’s shoulder.  The avenue below was mostly deserted, and the large houses along the lane looked old and dead.  The carriage still sat at the closed gates to the walled-off manor, and the manor itself was only barely visible through a cloak of topiary.  Slayne’s trained eyes scanned the scene and picked every detail apart.  At last he saw Jamaer, a speck of black beyond the iron fence.  The Den’nari gestured in silent cant, the coded sign language used exclusively by the Black Eagles.

“They have Targo,” Raeric said quietly.

“Son of a bitch,” Slayne whispered.  “They found him.  And now they’re probably going to kill the bastard.”  But the Guild had destroyed Targo’s operations – why bother bringing him there?  “Get ready,” he said quietly, and his agents sprang to life.  Cloaks fell to the ground and weapons were drawn.

“Are we going to intervene?” Syn asked.

“I’d rather wait til nightfall, but I don’t think we can waste any more time,” Slayne said.  He pulled off his cloak.  Slayne wore thick leather armor and a number of short swords and
ring’tai
.  “Remember,” Slayne said, “we need Vellexa alive.  And Targo, if possible.  You know what to do with everyone else.”

It was time to send a message to the Black Guild.

Forty-Three

Targo lay still, and Vellexa looked on in disgust.  His chest had been sliced to ribbons, and his fingers and toes looked like stewed beef.  Much of his body was strewn across the floor.

Sammeus and the others stood around the table wearing cheap and tattered gloves and aprons caked with blood.  The room was an abattoir.  Cutting implements slick with gore had been carelessly thrown onto the shelf on the back wall.  The men moved quietly, unaffected by what they’d done…all save Sammeus, who looked pleased with himself. 

Good.  He’s had his revenge, and mine.
Targo’s pitiful screams had been the most horrible sound she’d ever head.