The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) (5 page)

She turned her porcelain face towards him, just as Grimbald wheeled his head towards her and let out a growl. She gasped and her arm twitched, launching a blob of wine from her glass onto her frilly shirt.

Grimbald grinned and snickered to himself. “City folk, too soft,” he said, loud enough so that they could hear. The man in unwrinkled clothing put his glass down with a tink, standing from his chair, trying to do his wife some justice. Grimbald stopped and slowly turned to the man, mouth forming a toothy smile.

“Why… let’s go, Gia,” The man said with a scowl, guiding the woman by the elbow through the front door of their palace they called a house. Men would build houses as high as the sun if they could figure out how.

He turned east onto Falcon way and fine construction gave way to buildings with warped window frames, sagging roof lines, and rotting trim. Must be in the right place.

A merchant wheeled a rickety cart with strings of sausages hanging from the top. The smell of salted meat and garlic filled Grimbald’s mouth with saliva as it came near.

“Sausage, sir?” the man asked, nose red with sunburn.

“Couldn’t say no to that,” Grimbald said with a smile. The man looked him up and down and cleared his throat.

“Perhaps two for you?”

“Alright, two then. How much?”

“Three marks,” the man said, cutting a length from a meat strip with a short blade. Tiny black flies buzzed about the cart, landing on meat and the greasy merchant. Grimbald fished the marks from his trousers, careful not to pull out more than he needed to pay. “It was wise to keep your extra marks hidden,” his Pa had always said. The merchant wrapped the sausages in some thin parchment.

Grimbald counted the marks and dropped them into the merchant’s dirt lined hands. The man’s dark eyes fell upon Corpsemaker strapped to his back and lingered there, giving it the eye.

“I’m hungry,” Grimbald said. The man smiled, handing him the meat, and stuffing the marks into a belt pouch. Grimbald strode on, finishing the first sausage, licking fat from his lips and moaning at the mouthwatering flavor. Just needs an elixir ale to go with it. He raised the second sausage to his mouth, ready to tear into it when something bumped into his arm, sending it rolling across the ground, gravel covering it on all sides.

“Damn it!” he yelled, staring as the filthy meat stick came to a rolling stop. There was a lot you could do to Grimbald without making him angry, but messing with his food wasn’t one of those things.

A man in a white outfit stepped in front of him, short with fire in his eyes. “Hey you, you’re friends with those wizard scum, aren’t you?” The man demanded, cute little fists clenched.

“That was my sausage,” Grimbald said, frowning down at the bald man.

“Are you working for the Silver Tower, boy?” the man asked, hand reaching for something behind his back and resting his hand there. A blade hilt no doubt.

Two other men in white robes walked up beside the angry little man, the bottoms black with ash. A silly outfit for a city covered in ash. City folk are sure an impractical lot
.
He bent over with a groan and picked up the sausage, dusting it off with the back of his hand. They seemed to be the kind of men who he and his Pa would’ve had to toss out of the Hissing Gooseberry after having too many ales. All talk and no bite.

“I’m talking to you, big boy,” baldy snapped, taking a step forward. Grimbald slid the sausage into his pocket for safekeeping.

“I don’t know much about the Silver Tower. Run along now, you don’t want any trouble. I can guarantee that.”

“Oh yeah?” Baldy barked, drawing a carving knife from his belt. The other two beside him had followed along, small knives of their own gleaming in the sun.

A couple walking arm in arm turned the corner, saw the scene and hurried right back around the other way. At least some folk had some sense around here. He thought it strange they didn’t believe him. He was telling the truth.

The two men beside Baldy fanned out, covering his flanks. Grimbald took a long step back, slowly reached his arm back over his shoulder, fingering Corpsemaker. Its wood was cool against his fingertips and was a perfect fit in his calloused hand.

“You boys don’t want me to use this and I don’t want to use it on you,” Grimbald said, drawing Corpsemaker in a flash. The men in white jumped back a step. He held the axe by his side, flat side facing them. The axe head was wide as Baldy’s torso and twice as menacing as his scowl. The well-oiled weapon spelled certain death for anyone one the receiving end of it. Even fool men like these would know that, wouldn’t they?

“C’mon, get him!” Baldy pointed with his dagger at the man to his right and shoved him towards Grimbald. The man recovered and the weapon in his hand trembled from dagger point up to his shoulder.

“I don’t know nothing about the Silver Tower, other than that’s where the wizards come from. I’m hungry and don’t much want to shed any blood here. So why don’t we go about our separate ways in peace?”

“That sounds like a fine idea to me,” Trembles said.

Baldy seemed to lose a bit of his zeal now, as most men did who saw his size and strength up close.

“Alright then, no blood.” Baldy said, sheathing his pointer. “Stay away from those wizards. They ain’t up to no good.”

“I don’t care much for magics myself,” Grimbald said, hanging Corpsemaker behind his back. “But they have their place. They do a lot of good too. You should learn to live in peace with the wizards. They don’t mean no harm.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! They want to enslave us all, make us their masters,” Baldy said, stabbing with his finger.

“You guys need to find work. You have too much free time,” Grimbald said, pushing past them, his dark axe still lazily hanging behind his back, just in case they had a change of heart. They didn’t.

Some of the soldiers on the streets recognized him from the battle of the Plains of Dressna and gave him proper respect, but other’s didn’t and sniggered as he passed them by. Men would always laugh at him, something he’d come to accept. Mediocre men blended in, but they didn’t have the chance to shine as he did, his dad always said.

Grimbald stood before the barracks at the end of the road, shrugging his big shoulders and blowing out his cheeks. He stared at the arched doorway, the shining sigil of the Midgaard Falcon mounted on the heavy banded door. The building was built around a practice yard, forming the shape of a rectangle with one of the longer sides missing. Thankfully, the practice yard was empty this late in the afternoon. He was dreading having to walk by the men training, likely having another good laugh at his expense. No doubt, luck was on his side today.

A row of wooden figures stood in a line on one side of the cobbled path, holding wooden swords and shields, filled with gouges and scratches. On the other side of the path were a series of targets bursting with hay and bristling with arrows. Along the walls bright swords, shields, bows, and spears lay in perfect lines in well used racks. A flag snapped in the wind high atop an iron pole, bearing a golden sun on white, the Midgaard standard.

He readjusted the worn leather straps around his shoulder and torso that secured Corpsemaker to his back. He wouldn’t go anywhere without his beloved axe, his father’s gift for his fourteenth year. It had served him well so far. How long ago had that been? At least five years, he reckoned. Anyway, enough messing around. He didn’t have all day.

His fist rapped on the door, echoing from within. He raised his fist to bang on the door again and then it opened.

“Grimbald, I’m glad you came,” Field Marshall Jast said, offering his hand. Grimbald did his best not to crush it in his grip. “Do come in,” Jast waved.

Grimbald nodded, ducking low through the door and into the middle of a brown stone, pristine hall.

At either end of the long hallway were open doors with floor to ceiling bunks, mostly empty. Even from here, Grimbald could see the sleeping quarters were enormous. Must get mighty foul in there after bean supper.

“This way,” Jast said with an air of command, his voice gruff.

Grimbald followed Jast down the main hall, his armored boots echoing and clinking with every step. He had a long sword on his hip with golden braids arcing down around the gilded scabbard. They passed offices with the names of distinguished generals on silvery name plates hanging above the doors. Paintings depicting long dead generals lined the walls along with obituaries detailing their wartime achievements. They passed a few weapons that caught Grimbald’s eye, heavily gemmed and appearing to be worth more than the entire building.

Jast slipped through a door and into an office bearing his name, plopping himself into a rigid chair. The walls were covered with maps of the most detail Grimbald had ever seen.

“We have excellent cartographers in Midgaard,” Jast said. “Most finely trained. Please, take a seat.”

Grimbald slid the chair away from Jast’s polished desk, giving himself room for his legs. He sat on the edge, shifting to one side of his ass.

Jast stroked one of his flowing mustaches. “Grimbald, thank you for coming to see me. You fought wonderfully against the Death Spawn. I witnessed your fearless assault on the Lord of Death… and I’d decided you’d be an asset to our ranks.”

“Oh really? I’m confused. You told me before that because King Ezra had accused us—me— of treason that I’d no longer be considered by the Falcon’s rules of admittance,” Grimbald said, rubbing at his scruffy beard.

“That is true, yes…” Jast started twirling two lengths of mustaches between his fingers. “Well, I was able to pull some strings and I’ve found a position for you, as an officer no less,” Jast said, eyebrows bobbing.

“Really? Why? I mean, that’s great,” Grimbald stammered. Today really was his lucky day. His dream was unfolding and becoming real before his very eyes. But somehow it felt less glorious than he’d thought it would.

“Yes, really. You’ve proven yourself a fierce warrior and that’s what I need in my officers. Too many had scarcely seen battle, and many of which I’m sad to report fled at the sight of the Death Spawn.”

“I see, but—”

“The pay is great, you’ll get to stay here in the bunks for free. Where are you staying now?”

Grimbald shook his head and let out a great sigh. “I’m leaving Field Marshall. For the Silver Tower, tomorrow.” Grimbald felt the hope of his dreams slipping away, draining out of his body. Choices, hard choices. But he’d already made it, didn’t he?

“The Silver Tower, well that’s perfect. I could use eyes and ears in the Tower. Midgaard needs a stronger military presence there. Those wizards think they own the damn realm,” Jast said, blowing out his mustaches.

Grimbald’s eyes danced from side to side and he felt a great warmth settling in his chest. Not just a soldier of the Midgaard Falcon, but he’d be an officer. He couldn’t help but let the smile that wanted to burst forth pull his lips apart.

“That would be great sir, just great,” Grimbald said. This man didn’t waste time with simple talk, a man cut from the same cloth.

“Excellent,” Jast said, steepling his hands. “There were a few hundred men stationed in the Silver Tower and I haven’t heard from their commanding officer in months. I fear for the worst. His name was Hunter. Find out what happened and send word as soon as you can.”

“Three hundred men.” Grimbald’s palms started oozing cold sweat. “But sir, I’ve never commanded anyone,” Grimbald stammered.

“I trust you’re up for the task?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, sir,”

“Good. You’ll figure it out then. It’s not as hard as you think. Hold yourself up to a higher standard and act like you know what you’re doing,” Jast said, the inklings of a smile under his layered mustaches.

“I suppose I can do that.”

“Excellent my boy, excellent,” Jast stood, giving Grimbald a hearty shake. “Let’s get you some proper fitting armor and a proper officer’s pin, Captain Grimbald.”

He couldn’t wait to tell his pa that he’d be commanding a company as a Captain. Today was a going to be a great day.

B
aylan had
most of the Milvorian artifacts properly organized now. Every time he’d passed by the traitor’s lab, the hair prickled at the back of his neck. It wasn’t the artifacts themselves or the reminder of their previous owner, a man he’d once called friend, but the lack of order. At least that’s what he told himself. He could finally look at Malek’s lab table without acid creeping up his throat.

To his left, sat defensive artifacts that could assist in healing and shield strength. To his right were rows of destructive artifacts, which greatly outnumbered the others. These artifacts were made for violence and inflicting death in a variety of awful ways.

Baylan was glad to be a man only able to harness the Phoenix. He didn’t care much for violence and preferred a good book to a fight, but would fight if the need arose. Reading about violence was always more enjoyable than participating in its calamitous
field. Lillian though, she would have had a great propensity for experimenting with these. Blades of all types littered this section, curving, waving, straight and jagged. Some were so dull they couldn’t break skin, others sharp enough to cut stone.

He picked up a curved dagger that burst alight, fire lapping from its edges. She was a great partner. They might have had a family together. She had wanted a few girls and to live by the River of Blood. It would’ve been nice to spend their days with a nice view of the river’s clear waters. But no—that future had been dashed away by Death Spawn. It was no use going back to that place anymore, nothing but a divergent path now.

He slammed the dagger into the table, flames smoking as a hole burned through it. He released the dagger and the flames fizzled out, no longer activated by drawing from the Phoenix power swimming in his veins. A tear slipped down his cheek. She’s gone now. Into the great black. He would see her again in due time, in the Shadow Realm. Baylan wiped the tear onto the arm of his blue robes and then gave his head a quick shake. “The way to heal is to stay busy. Stay focused on the now,”
Lillian would have said.

“Now to work on that ward.” He snatched a worn book from a neat stack on the corner of the great laboratory table. He paced around the circular room, muttering softly to himself, book in one hand and the other resting on his chin. It appeared to be mostly Phoenix script, something he could read.

“I wonder—”

The book leaped from his hand, smashing into the wall, his fingers closing where the book was. He instinctively reached for the Phoenix, but it was blocked with a portcullis of energy.

“By the Dragon,” Baylan breathed. He grabbed the dagger sticking from the lab table and pulled it free. No flames sprouted to life this time. No vibrating force in his grip.

A figure in black robes glided into the lab, its face hidden in shadows under a billowing hood. Its mouth was visible though, skin pale and hairless. Its lips pulled into a smile, human teeth. Baylan felt an iota of relief at that.

Around the man’s neck hung a glowing crystal, an Equalizer Baylan guessed based on Walter’s description. He tried to wind his fingers between the force that cut him off from the Phoenix to no avail. He hadn’t felt the pang of fear in ages until now. He felt naked without the comforting power of the Phoenix at his fingertips.

“You can put that pig sticker down. It won’t help you now and you know it,” the tall man said, his voice smooth as silk.

A woman walked in behind the robed figure, crossbow leveled at Baylan, bolt loaded. She wore intricate leather armor of overlapping strips and a belt with at least four sheathed daggers. The handle of a sword bulged from under the cloak draped across her shoulders.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Baylan said, backing into the table and rattling the artifacts.

“Baylan, you did not think we would forget your treachery so quickly, did you?” The man slid his hood back, revealing a bizarre, hairless head. Tower assassins.
He could never get used to their strange grooming habits.
Baylan’s free hand tightened against the table’s edge and the other the dagger’s hilt.

The man drew closer, his white skin bright in shaft of light that cut across his cheek.

Baylan licked his lips. “The Tower rots from within. I did what I had to do. Asebor has returned! You must—” The crossbow twanged and Baylan gasped as something slammed into his leg. He fell onto his side, groaning and crawling along the cold stone, his dagger rolling across the floor. His hand wrapped around the bolt jutting from his leg as he whimpered in pain.

“Please, you know it’s true. You must have heard of the battle on the plains. The Death Spawn—” Baylan screamed as the hairless man kicked the bolt hanging from his thigh, twisting it under his skin.

“The punishment for a traitor is death, but you already know that.” The man gracefully paced around the room. The woman grinned, loading another bolt. “You have been a most elusive target, Baylan. You’ve hidden your path quite well. I must applaud you for that.”

“Asebor, the Wretched—the ground already runs red with their return. The seal of the Age of Dawn, broken,” Baylan groaned, trying to stand on one leg. The hairless man flicked his fingers and Baylan’s leg was thrown to the side, sending him crashing into the floor. His head smacked hard and his vision swam. Wetness trickled down the side of his cheek. He lifted his head, warm and sticky.

Another shadowy figure loomed behind the woman, a great axe hanging high in the air. The axe fell with a hiss, chopping and crunching into her shoulder and splitting her down the middle, stopping at the hips. Blood sprayed across the man’s robes and spattered onto the back of his bare head, onto the walls, and across the floor. The crossbow fell with a clatter along with the offal that had once functioned to sustain her body.

The robed man wheeled around and stumbled over Baylan at the terrifying visage of Grimbald. Grim freed Corpsemaker from the woman’s hips with a kick, sending the pair of legs across the room in a bloody smear. Grimbald blinked the blood from his eyes and the other assassin drew two black daggers from under his robes, rasping against leather.

“Nowhere to run little man. Might as well put those pig stickers down now,” Grimbald said with a bloody smile. The man smiled back and dropped low, then sneered up at Grimbald like he was a writhing maggot. He lunged, slashing at Grimbald’s thigh with the speed of the wind.

Grimbald bellowed and swung at the assassin, catching only stone, sending marble fragments shooting into the air. The assassin stabbed with his other knife, plunging it deep into Grimbald’s shoulder. Grimbald roared and sent a fist that connected with the man’s face, wiping the smile clean from his mouth. Grimbald punched him again, but only caught side of his ear.

Baylan scraped along the ground, clambering for the dagger across the room.
Damn this leg. Move!
He pushed as hard as he could, lunging for it and snatching it from the floor. Pain lanced up his leg in a spike of agony

Grimbald screamed and Baylan turned over his shoulder, watching as the assassin recovered from another strike he’d landed on Grim’s forearm. Grimbald swung with one hand now, unable to grip the axe with the other. The robed man dodged his attacks with ease and slashed him across the ribs. Grimbald fell onto a knee and clutched the wound, his teeth red with blood.

Baylan pushed off the floor, slipping in the blood, trying to reach the pale figure.
Just a little closer.
Baylan wriggled towards the fighting men, grunting and spitting.

The assassin raised both daggers overhead and Baylan slashed hard, cutting through his Achilles tendon, producing a loud pop. Grimbald rolled back onto his ass as the assassin’s daggers fell, clanging off stone and screaming in pain. Grimbald’s lips curled back in a vicious grimace and he swung his axe with a great roar. The axe split the man’s head in half and sunk deep into the floor. The halves of the assassins head rolled apart, brain matter exposed to the world.

“Shit! Shit, Baylan,” Grimbald winced, rolling onto his back, hands pressing on his wounds. Corpsemaker sat buried in the stone, its long handle stabbing into the air. Blood streaked down the walls, working its way to the bottom and pooling on the floor.

Baylan crawled through the sticky mess, fighting off the urge to vomit. One eye was closed tight, burning with someone’s blood. His arms squished over intestines and what he thought might’ve been a liver. He snatched the crystal from the half-split neck of the assassin and whacked it with the butt of his dagger, cracking it into bloody shards. The flames around the dagger sputtered to life, and the Phoenix was once again available.

He crawled his way beside Grimbald and pushed himself upright. His hands pulsed with the healing light of the Phoenix.

“Oh my, yes. Oh that feels good.” Grimbald moaned as his skin pulled together, pulsing with the glow of the Phoenix. Baylan wanted to fall over, slip into a deep sleep on the muck. Grim had lost a lot of blood and Baylan had to restore it. Now that his wounds were well knitted it was time to restore his blood volume. Baylan’s hands grew brighter still and the pallor returned to Grimbald’s face.

“Thank you friend, thank you so much for coming when you did,” Baylan said.

“Just did what you would’ve done. Who were they? Not friends, I hope.”

“No, not friends… assassins, Silver Tower assassins. A dangerous bunch.”

“Why were they here though?”

“That’s going to be a long conversation I’m afraid. Once everyone is back, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Fair enough. Want some help with that bolt?” Grimbald said, sitting up.

“That would be great. I think it’s going to have to be pushed out,” Baylan said, clenching his jaw. “Or pulled out. I’m not sure. Where’s Walter when you need him?”

Grimbald inhaled and wrapped his hands around the bolt. “Ready?”

Baylan rolled up his sleeve and stuffed it into his mouth and clamped down. It sucked up the saliva in his mouth and his tongue stuck to the cloth. He stared down the bolt, pulse racing and hammering around the wound.

“Alright. Count to three, then push it through. Okay?” Baylan said, the words muffled through his gag.

Grimbald nodded. “1…” The bolt was driven deep into his skin, piercing it on the other side and shredding through the muscle on the back of his leg. Baylan screamed and Grimbald continued pushing, driving his big thumb into the wound and then his finger, sliding the bolt out the other side.

Baylan reached around the back of his leg and tugged out the last of the bolt, nostrils flaring and panting wildly. The pain lessened a bit as the light of the Phoenix erupted from the wound stitching tendon, skin and muscle back together.

“So much for a three count,” Baylan said, lips a hard line.

“It was better that way,” Grimbald said flatly, brushing bits of gore from Corpsemaker.

“I suppose you’re right. Let’s get this place cleaned up.” He let out a heavy sigh.

W
alter took
a big slurp of his heavily spiced ale and his eyes widened at the unfamiliar taste. It reminded him of elixir, the cinnamon, and hot peppers blending together. Was there no end to the variety of ale one could find in the city? Maybe there were some good things about it after all.

The tavern was quiet and the sun was casting the last of its pink glow upon the lands. An elderly couple dined quietly a few tables away, glasses softly clinking together before eating. The Shining Sword tavern was cleverly named for its impressive collection of blades that covered the walls. The number of weapons rivaled that of the Falcon’s armory. Walter wondered if people would think to go here first during an uprising when weapons were needed.

“Where do we start? We all have a lot of catching up to do, but you two have a more interesting story I gather,” Walter said looking from Grimbald to Baylan. Blood still lined the creases of Grimbald’s nails. Walter hoped no one else would notice and become too curious, especially the off-duty guards sipping on ales at the bar, though they probably wouldn’t be bold enough to question a superior.

Grimbald was an imposing figure, head to toe in new Falcon armor. Heavy leather straps wrapped up and down his thick arms, shining plates on his shoulders, torso, and thighs. On his collar was a silver bar with two red gems, indicating the rank of Captain. He looked like a terrible to foe to be facing down now, big and armored.

Nyset popped a square cut piece of potato in her mouth, smiling with satisfaction. Juzo folded his arms, staring down at his drink and leaving the bubbling ale untouched.

Baylan nodded. “Well, uhm. Lillian and I weren’t entirely honest with you when we met, and for good reason, Walter.” Juzo shifted on his stool, watching Baylan with a glazed eye.

“The men that attacked me, attacked us,” Baylan said, regarding Grimbald, who deftly placed piece of steak into his mouth. “They were assassins from the Silver Tower. They came for me… and Lillian.”

“Assassins? Why?” Walter raised an eyebrow. “Just what we need, the Tower trying to kill us too.”

“When Lillian and I found you, Walter, we were fleeing from the Silver Tower, hiding from the assassins we knew were hunting us.”

“So everything you’ve told me has been a lie?” Walter slid his drink back and crossed his arms. Was there anyone who told the truth anymore? Was that too much to ask for?

“Not quite. At one point, we thought we might’ve left that life behind… until we saw the Cerumal outside Breden. That was why we left the Tower. There is something—someone–changing it from within. A corrupting force. When I found the book predicting the breaking of the seal of the Age of Dawn, I told my House Master. She strongly suggested I stopped going further down that path. Naturally, I didn’t,” Baylan said, flashing a grin, then taking a deep draught from his ale. “Lillian helped me in the research. We spent months in the library, digging up as much as we could about Asebor. He fascinated and terrified us. It was hard to believe it could be real, but all the evidence pointed back to my discovery.”