The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4) (12 page)

“I’m sorry. I don’t recognize the meaning.” She slowly shook her head and her lip pulled up on one side.

The man lunged up to a standing position with feline grace. He tugged his gray sleeve down over the tattoo. “My sect executes the Tower’s command. We are its edge in the night.”

She stared at him, fighting to keep the fingers that wanted to tap on her lip at her side. She knew what he meant now. They were the Tower’s assassins. The same group that sent Baylan and Lillian fleeing for their lives across the realm.

“Assassins?”

The man’s cheeks seemed to redden. “Even the graveyard has ears, Mistress.”

“Right.” She wanted to peer over her shoulder, but thought it unwise to take her eyes off this man. “Your name?”

“Isa,” he said with a partial bow, his back rigid as a block of granite. The wind kicked up a coil of dust between them and her silks hugged her legs.

“Help me with him.” She nodded to Walter. “We need to get him to the surgeon.”

Isa nodded sharply, then hauled Walter up and hoisted him over his shoulders. He was much stronger than she’d expected. He was lean as the vagrants they had removed from her plot a couple days ago.

They started towards the city, not more than a mile off, shimmering like a body of water in the mounting heat. For a while, they didn’t speak.

“Isa, are there any others with you?”

“My partner perished in the west. We were sent by Bezda Lightwalker to keep our eyes on a small town, raided by Death Spawn four, maybe six months ago. I’ve lost track.”

“What small town?” She already knew the answer. He flicked his head back, pushed his dark hood off, unveiling a milk white scalp. There was something off about his appearance. Something she couldn’t pinpoint.

“Breden.” He seemed to wince, but it was subtle. Was he struggling? There was a tightness around the corners of his eyes. Not only was his head hairless, which wasn’t what left her unsettled. It was the utter lack of eyebrows that gave him the look of an unearthly creature.

Walter softly groaned and his arm started twitching.

“Something to relax you.” Nyset whispered into Walter’s ear, crusted with blood. She placed a scarlet leaf in the shape of a cross into his mouth. “Almost there.”

“Sorry for your loss. How did you lose your partner?”

“When Breden fell. You—” Isa grunted, paused, and re-adjusted Walter. “You didn’t hear?”

They were passing by a field of barley. Towering clouds cast clumsy shadows over the drying earth. A rush of wind was welcome at her back. It made waves course through the barley and they made shadows glitter. An enormous flag high in the center of Helm’s Reach rode the wind.

“Hear what?” She needed to hear it again to believe it. It had been too long since she thought of her home.

“The west has been ravaged, torn apart and ripped asunder. There is little left to be razed. I am unsurprised messengers have not arrived, but no birds? The Death Spawn have taken most of the coast. They were marching to the Great Retreat when I left.”

Nyset’s legs stopped working. She slowly brought her back leg beside the front. Isa carried on for a few strides before turning to face her, his face impassive. “Mistress? Something wrong?”

“Breden. You said you were there?”

He looked at her like she’d just lost her faculties. Perhaps she had. Rivulets of sweat crawled around his chin and a glimmering drop fell towards the ground. It rolled, tumbled, and warped in the air, twinkling with rays of the piercing sun. It fell upon a jagged rock, dashed apart like her heart felt.

“Burned. There isn’t anything left there, I’m afraid. The bastards even went as far as burning the elixir farms. Going to miss those beans.” He might as well have been a corpse for the lack of empathy on his face. There was no way he could have known she grew up there, left her parents there.

“Burned,” she repeated, her eyebrows drawing down. “Were there any survivors?” She was speaking she knew, but it felt like someone else’s doing.

“Myself,” he said. His grin was as murderous as his eyes. “Not too sure about anyone else. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. They left me a little mark though.” He wrapped one arm tightly over Walter’s back and lifted his shirt with the other, loosening it from his trousers. Nyset’s eyes immediately went to his wound, a poorly stitched gash that ran up from his hip to the bottom of his ribs. The flesh around the wound was an artist’s palette of purples, reds and yellows.

“It’s all burned then?” she croaked. She didn’t feel like the Arch Wizard anymore. She wanted to run to her mother, bury her face in her soft shirt, inhale the smell of the cows lingering there, and wail out all of her pain. She wouldn’t be there to cleanse her anymore. She knew it in her bones.

“Mostly. Someone you knew there?”

“Someone from long ago,” she said softly. Her parents were still there when they left. They were waiting for her. She and Juzo had just spoken of returning to them once things stabilized here. Isa said other things, what, she wasn’t sure. She felt cold, like the clouds had just dumped their icy payload over her skin and into her soul.

Nyset closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, ears ringing and drowning out the world. She was the Arch Wizard now, and there was no time for self-pity. How many mothers, fathers, and children would never see each other again because of the Death Spawn? How many wives waited for the return of fallen armsman, never to see the babes still kicking in their aching wombs? Death comes for us all and we were never the least bit ready. She rubbed her eyes, trying to rub away the crushing news. She had to fight for the living and get herself together. Now was not the time for mourning.

She opened her eyes.

“Mistress?” Isa was a hand span away from her.

“Oh!” Her eyes widened, backpedaled, much too close for comfort.

“Are you well?” he inquired.

“Fine.” She nodded, catching her breath and holding an arm out to keep at least that distance between them. “Keep going. Did I say to stop?” It was too harsh. She really didn’t want to direct with an iron fist. One thing all the books on leadership said and agreed upon was that ‘leadership changed you.’ She was starting to see how.

He raised the lump of skin above his eye where eyebrows should have been. “Alright then.” He started moving again, faster now. Maybe being firm was what people needed to take you seriously.

You’re alive, you’re alive,
she thought over and over, unable to take her eyes from Walter’s broken body.

W
alter shouldered
the bedroom door open, breath rasping in his throat, tongue dry as kilned wood. He peered into the darkness of a hallway, wincing at his aching arm and the persistent aching in his knees. He waited for his eye to adjust to the weak light. His missing hand was ragged strings of pain running up and down from shoulder to forearm, coming in torrents and jolting him from sleep. However he moved it, the strings seemed to jerk at one another like a web of knots.

Days became night and nights had become days in that room he’d come to know so well. The nights were plagued by worries, memories of demons, and endless regrets. How long had he been sleeping? He thought he did more sleeping in the last three months than he’d done his entire life.

Once again, he had to depend on other people to recover. He remembered dark faces peering over him between nightmares. Their faces were cut by shafts of light that crept through the walls of the room. They would flash from friend to demon in an instant, ravaging his notion of reality.

Was he in the land of the living, as the demons called it, or the Shadow Realm? He supposed the lack of twisted shapes, spikes, horns, and rivers of blood would deem it the land of the living. He snickered at that, a mad sound on his breath.

Exhaustion forced through the bandages around his rounded back and throbbing head. It crushed around his woolen shirt and curled over his shoulders. It threatened to press the soul out of him and bring him to his broken knees.

The air was hot and full of choking dust. It flitted through the skewed hallway, blasting the walls with sand. His skin stung, prickled with beads of sweat and whatever moisture remained in his tongue was slowly being wicked out. Even the air wanted to end him.

Whispering conversations and the clatter of cutlery rose up from somewhere below. In a tavern, he reckoned. Didn’t smell like elixir and he caught the sound of a pair of glasses clinking together. Must be suppertime. The dim light of candelabras cast the hall in a burning glow. He had a crudely whittled crutch in his arm and accidentally smashed into a wall as he stepped. His bladder felt like was going to explode if he didn’t find a piss pot soon.

His eye throbbed like it was being stabbed through for the first time. He touched his finger below his ruined eye, thick with crusted puss. He rubbed a bit of crust between his fingers, flaking and wet in the middle. There was still a lot of healing to do. He wanted to embrace the Phoenix and get it done. He didn’t have the strength yet. He thought tipping the scales with a touch of the Phoenix would kill him. He had to trust his instincts.

He finally managed to hobble to the end of the hall and found a piss pot in a cramped room littered with mops, rags, and brooms in a corner. The room smelled like few of its patrons had managed to get any piss inside the pot. Perhaps the piss was used to scour the floors in the evening. He tilted his head and eye back, wincing in pain. A long minute later, he heard the sound of his piss spilling into the pot.

“There… it… is,” he breathed. The pleasures in life always came from the details. He gave his cock a quick shake, fruits and all still intact. Even the demons of the Shadow Realm weren’t so cruel that they would take a man’s most precious appendage. “Fucking Shadow Realm. No, things weren’t as they seemed,” he said to a mop-head.

The prospect of sleeping more was awfully tempting, but curiosity about knowing his whereabouts won him over. He made his way past his room, walking near the rough-cut balusters overlooking the tavern below. A group of five men lumbered in, their faces and overalls black with dust, likely just coming in to sup after a hard day in the mine. The candelabras swayed with the wind they brought in with them. At least ten other patrons had entered while he pissed, stirring up a soft din of conversation. The hissing foam of a beer being poured brought saliva welling out from his inner cheeks.

He reached the stairs descending into the tavern floor, eying them with a heavy sigh. Stairs would become his new enemy it seemed. He took a lurching step, the crutch slipping from the second stair down, and barely caught a handrail with slick fingers before tumbling head over ass the whole way down. He abandoned the crutch to snatch the handrail, sliding down and thumping on each tread as it went.

“Shit!” he breathed, arm wrapping over the rail. His heart boomed in his chest, much harder than it should have. The hammering blood wracked his wounds with new pains. A scab or two had certainly split on his back. He felt the wet trickle of blood.

At least fifteen faces momentarily peered up at him, then returned to their friends and drink. In Breden, at least half of them would’ve rushed to help a man in need. Here, a glance was apparently all the help he garnered. He carefully maneuvered his way down, groaned and picked up his crutch. He cast his burning anger around the room, not a single eye meeting his to unleash it upon.

If Walter had still been hopelessly confident about the future, he might have thought this place nice. The tavern floor smelled even fouler than the piss room. How had he ended up here? Nyset? No, impossible. This had to be Juzo’s doing.

There were some tables at standing height and a few chairs haphazardly strewn about the well-worn floor. Everything was stained with spilled drink and sweat. It was half-way to being a latrine. It just needed a place to empty one’s bowels. It was difficult to discern the difference between patrons and staff. Some locals stretched out on sunken couches, slurping up what he now saw as dubious looking ale. The land of the living was starting to look more and more like the Shadow Realm.

Walter found his way into a corner and dropped into a rickety chair, surprised the wood didn’t crack under him. To his right were three well-armed men huddled over a map, one twirling a gleaming dagger, likely planning who they were going to murder next.

In that moment, it felt good to be here. It was as if he had never seen people before, enjoying the comings and goings of the bar. The simple joy of seeing people living, doing regular things brought a tremendous warmth to his chest. He gazed about in wonder, wiping the tears starting to form in his eyes. The moldy wood on his chair, splintering floorboards, tables with mugs and fly covered food had become pleasantly charming. He watched the tension slip from a man’s face as he took a sip of his first beer. The room started slowly filling with chatter and spikes of laughter. Even the air seemed to smell sweeter, slightly better than old piss.

Where was everyone? Where were his friends? He stared around at the pub, quickly filling up with thirsty patrons. He looked down to find his fingers had unraveled a length of string from his shirt, coiled tight around two fingers.

“Can I get ya something? You alright?” a woman’s voice said with mild concern.

“Huh?” Walter flinched, finding a barmaid grinning down at him, one front tooth missing. He flicked the thread from his fingers and snapped it free from his shirt.

“Something to drink?” Her beady eyes looked him up and down like she was appraising horseflesh.

“Uh… maybe later,” he muttered. The oppressive stink of urine was making it hard to think about food or drink.

“A fuck then?” Her caterpillar eyebrows rose up to her hair and she bent over so Walter could get a look down her shirt. He couldn’t stop himself from looking and finding it a grievous mistake. There was a mane of hair worming its way between her breasts. “Just five marks a fuck.”

Walter just shook his head, unable to pull his eyes away from such an unimaginable horror.

“Your loss.” She turned on her heels, taking mugs from the empty table to his left.

Walter crossed his arms. Letting the memories of the Tower’s fall play across his mind. He remembered it all so well. So many armsman and wizards had fallen to Death Spawn blades. Had their sacrifices been for nothing? Asebor had won and got what he wanted. He supposed this was how it felt to be on the losing side of a war. He didn’t like losing very much. He would need to build an army to fight back. The armsman were gone. There was still some of the Falcon in Midgaard, he hoped.

Walter peered through a narrow window. The pinking sun was greased in streaks of black clouds. A sign glittered from another tavern in the last of the day’s light. A merciful gust spilled through the window, bringing with it the scent of clean air. He stared at the glimmering sign and watched the shadows lengthen as the sun faded into the Abyssal Sea. He wondered if he’d ever find his way back there again.

One of three well-armed men to his right, a burly fellow with maces on either hip, unrolled a scroll and slid it across the table. He had a bushy beard tangled with strands of gray.

“A pitiful contract. What other options do we have? Boys boys, what do I pay you for?”

“Sorry Scab. Work’s gone dry since the Tower was overrun with the dark… things.”

“Death Spawn,” said Scab, bones in his jaw standing out from under taut skin. His sunken eyes were closed, as if he were about to drift off to sleep. “What is a hired sword to do in such precarious times?” he said with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Scab had a pair of flamboyant gloves, inlaid with fine silver, maybe ostentatious ten years ago, now worn through with holes in the most curious of spots. He had a fine sword on his hip, if not for the rust speckling the handle from years of neglect. Scab’s stubble was about a week’s old and his hair was long and greasy, probing the air at all angles.

One of Scab’s eyes opened and peered at his other man, thick as an ox. His other eye remained closed, seeming to be sealed up by yellow infection. “I hope you’ve found at least one contract worthy of my good eye, Wart?” A skittering fly leaped away before Scab could crush it under his palm.

Wart, a suiting name for a fellow whose face appeared to have been mashed into shape by a hammer and shaved by an axe. Wart shook his head and puffed out his cheeks.

“Truly, a surprise, Wart. A man of your vast talents should be capable of at least finding one contract, no?”

Walter found himself scratching his own face, in dire need of a good razor. He could use a bath too and was starting to wonder if the stink of piss was on him. Walter couldn’t help but stare at Scab, the quintessential image of alcohol infused neglect. His lips pulled up into a contemptuous smile.

Scab’s eye found Walter’s in the gloom and blinked a few times. “Do I know you?”

Shit. How long had he been staring? “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Walter. I’d offer to shake your hand, but well—” Walter beckoned towards the pinked bandages around his stump and shrugged.

Scab stared at Walter and his mouth opened then closed. He pointed up with an index finger then took a big gulp from a mug of ale, swallowed, grimaced, and licked his lips. Scab took another breath and another deep swallow of ale, swishing it down as if it were only water. Walter became aware of the hard eyes of Scab’s companions on him. Scab let out an echoing belch then nimbly snatched the dagger from the edge of the table, sheathed it. He seemed to be a functioning drunk at least.

“Why don’t you join us?” he rapped his knuckles on the side of the table towards the aisle, grinning with blackened teeth. “There’s no need to sit alone in a place of drink. Walter, is it?”

Walter nodded, casting his eye around the men. It couldn’t hurt to have some conversation; something to free his mind from the pain in his body would be welcome. They certainly weren’t the picture of law-abiding men, but he didn’t much care at the moment. He pulled up his chair, uncomfortably lower than the chairs they were in.

“Well, it looks like you’ve had a run in with the butcher.” That got a few chuckles from his friends. “Drink?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Sure? You seem like you need it.” Scab’s eyebrows raised up as he slurped down another mighty gulp. He raised his hand, signaling the barmaid, and pointed down at his empty mug.

“I’m sure.” Walter forced out a smile, then winced as a cut on his lip cracked open.

“You sure are a serious fellow. This is my first, Wart, and my second, Hook.”

Wart grunted and gave a sharp nod.

Hook, seemingly named by his curved monstrosity of a nose said, “Aye.”

“Wonderful place, isn’t it?” Scab spread his arms as if directing patrons through an art museum. “I never forget a face and I’m here practically every day.”

It was a shithole. “I could get used to it.”

“They all start to look alike after a while.”

“What does?” Wart asked.

“Taverns, of course. After a few, or five drinks.” Scab hiccupped. “So what brings you into my den of drink?”

“I’m not sure.” Walter knitted his brows. “I don’t even know how I got here.”

“Ah! I completely understand.” Scab snapped his fingers. “Walter, my friend. You need a beer.”

Fuck it. “Alright.” Walter waved for the barmaid, realizing it was the same one who had propositioned him earlier. His first drink that was not blood, in the land of the living. A sickled grin spread across his face. He saw the river of blood in his mind, spilling over the submerged faces of his new friends. He heard the roaring of demons, like a distant echo.

Scab coughed, then let out a roaring fart. “That might have been a wet one.”

The scarlet river faded from his mind and Walter noticed an overfilled mug had been placed before him, slopping spilled beer around the base. He craned his neck down and took a sip. It was wonderfully cold and aromatic with hints of vanilla and cinnamon.

“You’re back then?” Scab said, eyes narrowing.

“Huh?”

“You seemed to have left the realm for a bit.” Scab reached around his back, likely scratching his ass. He peered at flakes of skin lodged under his fingernails and brushed them away, spilling like snow on the table.