The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) (22 page)

He looked down at the gate, eyes bulging at the Death Spawn smashing it with battering rams carved out of wide trees.

“Wizards! Burn them!” roared Bezda from the middle of the wall, her sword raised high. The bottom of the gate erupted with volcanic fire, heat sharp on his face, boiling the shrieking skeletons and gibbering Cerumal. They leaped to their deaths, seeking refuge in the waters. Others filled in around them, picking up the burning rams and working with coordinated effort to smash the Milvorian gates.

“Baylan, the gates will hold. Impenetrable, right?”

“Right,” Baylan said over his shoulder, finishing his work on the wounded man.

“Armsman, fire!” Bezda screamed. There was a rattling of snapping bows and crossbows as they were loosed in a volley. A sheet of arrows and bolts rained pain on Death Spawn unlucky enough to not be carrying shields. The armsmen dropped behind the wall, drawing arrows, reloading crossbows, fumbling arrows and bolts, panting and gasping. The horns blew from the highest spire, louder with pressing urgency.

Death Spawn fell onto their backs, shrieking and clutching at wounds, bones shattered. They continued on, getting up, driving forward, picking up the rams and hammering on the gates. Bow strings twanged and crossbows clanked and curses were shouted. Nyset joined the other wizards, blasting them with roaring fire, whipping air, and crushing stone. They flew left and right off the bridge, but they were relentless. Their numbers seemed to have no end, a black snake stretched for eternity over the bridge and into the mass of black at the precipice. As long as they didn’t get through the gates, they might have a chance.

A man fell beside Walter screaming, hands wrapped around a jagged black arrow lodged through his eye. More arrows were hissing from below, clattering against armor and occasionally finding flesh under helmets and in faces.

“Is it going to be okay? How bad is it?” the man whimpered, his other eye staring up at Walter. He turned to his side, slipped off his helm, the arrow head sticking out the back of his skull.

“You’re going to be okay,” Walter lied, putting a hand on his chest while the end came, breaths growing shallow.

“Juzo!” Walter barked, tracking a Shattered Wing, plucking the legs off an unfortunate wizard in the air before dropping him onto the rocks. “Let’s get these fuckers!”

Juzo’s mouth spread wide, teeth gleaming murder. “This one’s mine.” He pointed towards the one sweeping in for another defender on the eastern side of the wall.

Beside Walter, a ruby robed wizard squealed as a shaft stuck into his chest, fireballs hovering in his hands. He twirled around, and the fireballs launched into his neighbor, blowing a charred hole in his side, offal spilling out onto the stone. The two of them fell on top of each other, a pool of blood spreading out under Walter’s boots.

“Shit!” Walter hissed. That could have been him, guts open to the world.

Juzo was a flash of white and black sprinting across the wall, sword pressed against his back. The Shattered Wing dropped low and Juzo sprang up, sword raised overhead, clutched in two hands. His blade sunk deep into the Shattered Wing’s back, shrieking and vaulting into the sky, twirling and shaking like a dog, Juzo trailing from its back like a flag. Walter watched in awe as streams of scarlet and chunks of flesh were thrown from its back by Juzo’s hand. He plunged his arm into its back, through a hole he had created and extracted his blade with the other hand, clinging to its innards. He worked the bastard sword like a smith’s hammer, beating in and out of the monster’s back, blood pouring out like a punctured wine skin.

The Shattered Wing ceased flapping and started dropping like a tossed carcass. Juzo slammed his sword into its back, gripping it with both hands, crashing down towards the monsters clamoring to get out of the way. It boomed onto the bridge and Juzo leaped from its back before it started rolling like a log, blasting Death Spawn from the sides of the bridge.

Maybe not the best way to kill the beast, but it had worked and his friend was still alive. “Juzo, you crazy bastard,” Walter breathed. There was a sliver of blue stone bridge exposed and Juzo waving his sword to ward off the approaching mass.

Walter clenched his fists, clawing at the Phoenix and the Dragon, seizing their strength. Their powers swirled like a hurricane in his mind, waiting to be unleashed. A luminescent portal opened in front of him showing Juzo beyond it. His sword hummed, chopping into the first skeleton to attack, splitting it down to the abdomen. Walter leapt through, rolling onto the bridge, the portal buzzing as it shut.

“Walter!” Juzo yelled. “My rear!” Walter pressed his back to Juzo’s, the demons crowding in on either side. Walter faced the great mass ahead, and Juzo the horde working the gates.

“I’m here, but I’ll need room,” Walter said, Stormcaller hissing to life at his side, its amber tendrils waving.

Juzo pushed off of him, grunting, thudding of sword and bone at his back. Hopefully, Juzo was at the delivering end. Walter tilted his chin up, sucking in the fetid air. In his left hand appeared a Dragon fire longsword, flames flickering at the edges. The storm raged in his heart, filling his legs and arms with energy. He dropped low, Stormcaller crackling at his side, the sword held across his face in a reverse grip.

The Death Spawn flinched for a moment, then started beating swords, clubs, daggers, and claws against shields. They advanced and Walter whirled into them, a hail of fire and electricity, scourging through bone and flesh.

His strikes were precise, chopping through arms, hewing out legs, stabbing under helmets, beasts roaring and flailing as they tried to overwhelm them. They stumbled over the dead, one tripping and running himself through with a spear. They roared and shrieked. One without eyes tried to tackle him and he opened it from head to toe with a vertical slash of his sword, split halves rolling to the side and exploding with dark blood. He saw things clearer in the midst of blood, all doubts, fears, questions, choices washed away as he was forced into the present.

Walter held the ground before the bridge. The rest behind Juzo were being picked off by the defenders of the wall and the wide circles of Juzo’s sword. Something jabbed into his shoulder, crying out, dropping the fiery sword, poofing into smoke. He reached back, the stray arrow shaft sticking out his back, lanced between his armor. Phoenix light pushed the arrow out of his back, the skin knitting together, leaving only pain.

He always found things more complicated than they needed to be, but now he was seeing how simple they really were. The healing light of the Phoenix and fury of the Dragon were all that he really needed.

Juzo was at his side now, sword chopping sideways and cutting a walking bag of bones into two pieces. They exchanged a nod and went back to work, Walter tightly controlling the path of Stormcaller. Juzo’s speed was astonishing, inhuman, heavy sword moving fast as a dagger. His blade caught the sun, white arc searing through the air, chopping through a Black Wynch’s arm. The dark streaks were shooting, the armor clanging.

Walter ducked, cracking Stormcaller through the ankle of a Cerumal, dropping him to the ground, and came up blocking the swing of an axe with a Phoenix shield. He dropped the shield and punched with his hand, releasing a cone of fire upon the Death Spawn. Flesh, fat and even bone spattered in the conflagration. A burning skeleton dashed towards him and he kicked it in the ribs causing it to stagger back over the edge. Roars bellowed from behind like a distant echo, the human kind. Cheering maybe.

Juzo screamed, striking into a group of skeletons. He stomped over their bodies, bones cracking underfoot, sweeping wide arcs with his blade. He lunged forward, spitting a Skin Flayer through the chest, the glowing blades dropping with clangs.

They couldn’t stay much longer, there were too many and Walter felt the weakness of the powers starting to creep in. They might have made a small dent in the horde, but it would be meaningless for them to die here. It would make for a good death, Walter thought. One for the stories no doubt, but not today.

The thought of death touching his mind made his energy soar, rage boiling up inside of him like a volcano. The world became sheets of red, bone, sinews, and torn flesh. He got stronger, feeding off the shrieks of the dying Death Spawn.

Destroy!
The Dragon roared in his mind. His skin felt like it was on fire, wisps of smoke leaking through his pores. With every swipe of Stormcaller he felt more enraged, muscles burning like acid, screaming, laughing, crying, tears sliding through the blood under his eyes.

He cut through a sword, sent a blast of air ripping a spiked shield out from a Cerumal’s hand, charging at him. He grunted as it came, his legs swelled with blood, ramming the beast over his shoulder and off the bridge, shrieking to its death. He cut with Stormcaller, blowing a skull apart with a fireball, making everything right in the world.

A Skin Flayer fell at his feet, a yawning gash through its chest. It tried to roll over at the sight of Walter, but Walter’s boot came down onto its head, and its nose smashed the wrong way, its skull thudding into stone.

“Die! Die!” He smashed his foot into its head over and over, nose flattened, eye hanging out of the socket, black teeth tumbling from its mouth, its lip split.

“Walt!” Juzo yelled and gripped Walter’s shoulder like a vice, blood spattered in his white hair.

Something thrashed behind the column of Death Spawn, knocking skeletons and Cerumal off the bridge as it roared down the lane. It had the face of a bull, a blackened ring between its nostrils and stubby horns jutting out of its head. It wore thick plates, secured with hammered rivets, its beady eyes staring down the lane from under its helm.

Juzo and Walter shared a horrified glance as the other Death Spawn pressed into the side of the bridge, trying to get out of its warpath. The bull swung its club in a mighty arc, plastering the low walls with corpses and hauling them over the chasm. It finally reached them, lifting the club high over its head, bellowing out a cry of hate. A formidable move, but not a smart one. Walter slashed with Stormcaller, hissing through iron, cutting three lines into its gut. The spiked club fell from its hand and boomed onto the ground, rolling into the wall. The creature stumbled forward, a torrent of blood flowing through the gashes in its armor. The monster snarled at Walter in desperation, its bloody teeth bared, raising its iron fist overhead. Juzo jammed his sword into the giant’s neck, driving it up to the hilt, blood rolling down and onto his coat. The bull turned to Juzo, seeming surprised before collapsing onto its knees. Juzo extracted his blade with a vicious pull and the bull tried to stand again, found his legs unusable and spun around, toppling over the edge and falling, a splash roaring up seconds later.

The Death Spawn looked confused, milling about as if their reality had just broken, maybe forgetting why they were here. They stared at one another for a moment, then back at Walter and Juzo. One of them gibbered and another squawked something in their tongue.

“Time to go,” Walter breathed, rage melting out of him, a portal glimmering in front of them. “Juzo, jump through.”

“Through? Have you lost—?”

Walter grabbed him before he could resist, yanking them both through the portal. They came out at the back of the market square, hopefully far from hurting anyone on their side.

“Fuck, Walter!” Juzo breathed, whirling around, sword at his side. He let out a sharp exhale. “The last time I went through one of those it was into Terar’s claws.”

“I know—sorry, didn’t have much time to convince you.”

“Yeah, right. Well, that was some
good
killing!” Juzo laid the flat of his bleeding sword over his shoulder, careless of the blood streaming down it. He started licking his fingers like he had discovered a savory sauce not to be left uneaten.

The square was empty, other than a few vagrants picking through unattended carts. Walter found it surprising the Tower let them stay, but he supposed there was room for all types in the world, even in the Tower. There were a few who he couldn’t tell from researchers or urchins, stains streaked down the fronts of their robes.

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Walter said, laughing and grinning at him.

“We are, what are you? You want to talk about sick fucks,” Juzo slurped the blood from his ruby covered thumb. “Might want to have a look at yourself fighting one day. Wouldn’t want to be on the other side, I’ll say that.”

“Could say the same for you pal, nice to be at your side again.”

Juzo’s sinewy flesh grew brighter before Walter’s eyes, his muscles seeming to fill out. “How long do you think we’ll have to hold here?”

“Days, months. Haven’t the faintest idea. As long as those gates hold, I think we’ll be alright. Bezda was right, the Tower can’t fall,” he said, wiping drying blood and smearing it across his mouth.

“No? Symbologic reasons?”

“Symbolic,” Walter corrected.

“Ah, right.” Juzo said against a slurping finger.

“And more, countless more.”

They looked over at the pearl colored Milvorian gates, bulging and flexing, a legion of death on the other side, waiting. The Falcon encircled the street behind the gates, Grimbald at the front. His towering form stood above them all, almost as big as the giant they had just killed. Corpsemaker was draped across his back, glinting death.

The dead and badly wounded were being carried off towards the practice yard, heavy on the backs of those lucky enough to make it this far unscathed. There were a lot of dead, a lot more than Walter thought were on the walls. Every person had their own form of agony. Some endlessly wailed, fumbling at wounds, asking for forgiveness, mercy, water and mostly drink. One man coughed as he stumbled by, choking up a bolus of thickened blood, spitting it out and slapping onto the cobbles. A hawk-faced woman wheezed, hanging across an armsman’s shoulders, her breath becoming a lover’s whisper. The dead were easy to identify by their lack of whimpering and pleading. Walter reckoned there were going to be a lot of graves to be dug.