City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) Page 6

  “You will. We’ll provide you with everything you need.”

  “Why me?” Dane asked again. “I have trouble believing you have no one in the Guild capable of taking care of this. Someone you know you can trust. This seems like a lot of faith to put in a…mercenary.”

  Goddess, I used to be so much more. What am I doing?

  “That’s a good question, Dawn Knight,” the Count said.

  “I’m not a Dawn Knight,” Dane said. “Not anymore.”

  “But you were. And as a Dawn Knight you were taught to use The Veil to track specific individuals, something few other Veilwardens can do. I need that skill. No one in my employ can handle this task the way you can. Our rivals know we’re searching for the Dream Witch. They’ve targeted my lieutenants, and anyone else who knows of her presence here in Ebonmark. They even made an attempt on Vellexa’s life last night.”

  “That’s why she didn’t meet me…” Dane realized.

  “Yes. And yet you still prevented Ijanna from falling into the hands of the Chul. Last night when you saw her the Dream Witch was on her way to meet a Drage criminal named Bordrec Kleiderhorn so she could arrange safe passage out of the city. Vellexa learned of the rendezvous and planned to have you take care of the job there and then, but when the Phage tried to eliminate Vellexa she was forced to retreat to one of our safehouses, leaving you to fend for yourself without any knowledge of what was happening.”

  Dane shrugged. “I get that a lot,” he said.

  “It’s no laughing matter,” the Count continued. “Both Ijanna and Kleiderhorn have vanished. Try as I might, I can’t locate them.”

  This is getting worse by the minute, Dane thought. Hiding from the Black Guild, who possessed agents in every city-state west of Raithe, was all but impossible. Ijanna was no amateur.

  “Ten thousand gold,” the Count said. “If I didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be here. Remember that. Fate has brought us together. A former Dawn Knight and my target both arrive in Ebonmark within days of each other…this is how things are supposed to be, my friend. This is why you are here. No one escapes the Dawn Knights.”

  Dane turned away. That’s right. No one.

  “Do we have a deal?” the Count asked.

  Dane breathed deep. What choice did he have? There was no chance the Iron Count would let him walk out of the Cauldron alive if he refused.

  Then don’t do it, he told himself. Say no, and die here and now. Salvage what’s left of your soul, you selfish bastard. This is your chance to put things right. That’s more important than helping this lunatic acquire more power, isn’t it?

  He looked down at his armor. It had meant something once. Now it was covered with filth. Just like he was.

  Dane smelled the fires. He saw the black face, heard the women crying as they knelt there, waiting for the killing blow. He saw the boy’s body on the path, cold and motionless. He heard her cries pierce through the night.

  A single cold tear ran down his scarred cheek.

  I can’t die. Not yet. I have promises to keep.

  “Well?” the Count said.

  Dane closed his eyes. His chest was tight with fear.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Five

  Mezias Crinn released his hold on the mirror after Dane had gone. The fallen knight hadn’t been quite as agreeable as Crinn would have liked – Dane clearly had his doubts, and it seemed he wasn’t quite as mercenary as they’d been led to believe. That could lead to trouble somewhere down the road, but at least Dane bought the story about why the Black Guild wanted Ijanna.

  And why wouldn’t he? Like every good lie it was nine-tenths truth.

  A shrill wind cut through the perimeter of crooked spikes around the top of Crinn’s tower. Decaying cadavers littered the metal spines, a grotesque fence of corroding flesh. The corpses’ eye sockets bulged with worms, and innards spilled into the bitter air.

  The odor of cook-fires drifted up from the camp below. Distant wolf howls carried like song. Crinn looked up at a grey sky filled with inky black clouds. It would rain soon.

  He turned away from the mirror – the only decoration on the roof aside from the spikes – and looked out over the Black Hills, an amply named wasteland dotted with broken stones and gnarled trees. In the center of that inhospitable region stood his bladed citadel, a dagger thrust into mangled earth.

  Crinn carefully stepped closer to the edge. It was over a hundred feet to the rocky ground below, but even if he were to fall Crinn’s unnatural body would survive. He’d lived through much worse. His cobalt cape whipped sideways in the freezing wind. Unnatural eyes glowed bright in the dying light, and when he flexed his fingers his metal hands made a sound like nails falling on stone.

  Events had been set in motion. Dane was no more intelligent now than when Crinn had last seen him, and the fallen knight would deliver the Allaji woman right into the Guild’s hands. Things were proceeding better than anticipated. Before long the Cabal’s plans would come to fruition, and Crinn would have his revenge.

  The air behind him turned dark. Motes of dust swirled from out of nowhere and formed a whirling funnel of vapor. He smelled brimstone and waste. Crinn sneered. He hated Jaendral’s showy arrivals.

  The dust congealed into the silken outline of a tall and lithe humanoid. After a few moments the Arkan’s features took shape. Jaendral’s eyes, mouth and teeth were all preposterously tall and narrow, and it’s alarmingly slender fingers hung like dead vines from its spindly hands. The Arkan’s eight-foot frame was emaciated, and the dark-skinned and genderless being never clothed itself, a habit Crinn found disgusting.

  Count, Jaendral hissed into Crinn’s mind. Its mental voice was an unnatural tide of sound, a grating hiss like the gasp of a dying man. I trust the meeting went well?

  “Of course it did,” Crinn said dismissively, his own voice a hollow metallic growl. “I have a new hunter secured. The Dream Witch will soon be ours.”

  How soon? Jaendral pressed. Crinn didn’t bother to turn and face the creature. Its mouth never closed, another disgusting feature of its race.

  “Soon enough,” Crinn said. “Now leave me be. I have business to attend to.”

  Crinn’s mercenaries gathered below. The new stock of slaves had arrived, and his black-clad soldiers led the shackled prisoners through the mass of tents and siege weapons around the base of the tower. A few of the troops eyed the women and young girls hungrily, but they wouldn’t touch the prisoners until Crinn inspected them first.

  Is everything else in place? Jaendral’s mental voice rasped. Kala is…concerned…

  Crinn finally turned and faced the hideous messenger. Jaendral was barely taller than Crinn and only half as wide. He could crush the Arkan with his iron fists if he wanted to, but he had to endure this repugnant creature to keep the Cabal’s support. Crinn had been given an important role in their most delicate operation, so naturally the others fretted every detail, and they’d continue to do so right up until the point when they finally breached the Black Tower.

  “We’re all concerned,” Crinn said slowly. “That’s why I’ve spared no expense ensuring the job is done right. You tell Kala all will go as planned. Ghul’s forces are nearly ready, and we’ll have the Dream Witch within a few days. That’s my job, and I’ll make sure it’s done.” He turned away. “The rest is up to her.”

  Crinn felt Jaendral’s unblinking eyes on his back. The Arkan possessed strange abilities, like the power to read people’s thoughts and twist and damage their minds. Such abilities didn’t work on Crinn anymore.

  You’d best have her soon, Jaendral warned. Much is at stake, Mezias Crinn. We must have the Skullborn, or else Chul Gaerog will remain forever sealed. If that happens, what meat is left on your body will be mine for the taking. In a swirl of vapors Jaendral was gone.

  Crinn was tired of Jaendral’s threats, which of course were really Kala’s threats. She wouldn’t let Crinn forget he was the newest member of the C
abal, and that infuriated him, for without him they never would have even found out about Ijanna’s existence in the first place. The Dream Witch was the missing piece of the puzzle – the Cabal needed her to retrieve their prize from Chul Gaerog.

  He stepped back to the edge of the tower. Crinn reached out and took hold of a dead woman’s foot. Her black hair was matted with the paste of decay, and her face was nearly skeletal with rot. He pulled on her leg and forced her torso further down the spike. The stink of her corpse stirred as the blade drove deeper into her crumbling frame. Crinn remembered how she’d begged, how she’d screamed for her husband to save her, and he laughed.

  He was no one’s puppet. He’d laid his plans carefully. There had been mistakes, certainly. Vellexa would be punished for her laxity, and he had to find a way to deal with both the Jlantrians and the Phage. But for the time being he had to be patient. He’d come too far to get careless now.

  Crinn made his way down to the ground level to inspect the new batch of slaves. He needed to select a companion for the cold night ahead.

  Six

  When he was young, all Azander Dane ever wanted was to grow up to be someone his father could be proud of. It didn’t matter that he’d hardly even known his father, because the thought that Rarrick Dane watched his son from the Shadowlands only fueled Azander’s drive to be the best soldier he could.

  Though he hadn’t known it at the time, growing up in Ral Tanneth had made him ignorant as to how bad things were in the rest of the Empire. Jlantria’s blue and white flag always flew high in the capital, held aloft by the faith of the city’s people and the grace and power of their ruler. Dane, like any good Jlantrian, believed all of the news handed down by The Thirteen, and until he joined the Army he’d never actually ventured further from the capital city than its surrounding farmlands. When the White Dragon Army marched down the wide avenues it was like a parade of gods, and the sight of those perfectly flowing capes, the blazing glint of polished steel and the steady step of white-armored soldiers were forever burned in his memory. The people of Jlantria slept soundly thanks to the Army’s ceaseless vigil. The evils of the world, human or otherwise, could never stand up to the stalwart purity of the White Dragon.

  Looking back, Dane knew he should have seen the truth, no matter how young and clueless he’d been, but he hadn’t – he wouldn’t. Even when Ral Tanneth’s food supplies dwindled and reports of the Army’s victories against its enemies grew more and more unbelievable, Dane, like so many others, refused to think anything was amiss. Jlantria could not fail, and would never fall. It was impossible. Both the Empire and its ruler were ordained by the One Goddess. It was not only their right to prevail, but their destiny.

  What a fool I was.

  Dane sat in the quiet foyer of the Iron Count’s sanctum, his hand absent-mindedly wrapped around a half-empty glass of wine. He laid his head back and watched the doors. Vellexa would return soon; she’d grown amicable again after she’d spoken to the Iron Count.

  Dane was happy she was gone. He needed time to think.

  Goddess, you’re in it now, right up to your neck.

  The Black Guild was one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. While their influence wasn’t as great as it had once been the Guild still ran black market weapons to every major city-state and practically controlled the slave trade industry for the entire continent. The Guild also sold pieces of the Stone of Pain – the very Stone the One Goddess had been bound to and tortured on by Nazarthos, the Unmaker. Such artifacts were all but impossible to come by, and to sell one was the ultimate sin in the eyes of Corvinia’s church.

  Now that same organization had placed an enormous responsibility on his shoulders, and the thought of the task ahead made his heart sink. If he failed, they’d erase him.

  But what if I don’t fail? Would that be any better?

  Dane had little love left for Jlantria. That hadn’t always been the case…being a Dawn Knight had once meant everything to him. But that had been a long time ago, before he’d seen what Empress Azaean really required from her trusted servants.

  But look at you now.

  His dedication to the Empire had led to his own downfall, but how was working for the Black Guild any better? He’d done plenty of questionable things since the dissolution of the Dawn Knights, but nothing compared to working for the most powerful crime cartel in Malzaria.

  What choice do I have? Even if he ran he doubted he’d stay hidden long enough to make his way west, and that would do him little good considering the Guild’s reach. Dane wished he knew how Ijanna had managed to avoid the cartel’s detection for so long, because he doubted he was up to the task himself.

  But it didn’t really matter how she’d managed to stay hidden…because Dane could find her. Dawn Knights were faultless hunters, and when skill wasn’t enough they were among the few who possessed the necessary skills to track using the Veil. It was difficult to hide from magic. It would take time and effort, but Dane knew he could locate the Dream Witch, whereas he had only exaggerated hopes he could elude the Guild. And that was that.

  Hopefully I’ll survive long enough to regret my choice.

  Dane took a sip of ruby wine. His body was stiff and wracked with pain, and the old wound on his stomach felt particularly tender. He looked up and realized the candles didn’t seem to have burned down at all even though he’d sat in the room for over an hour.

  The Count had insisted Dane stay through the night and start his hunt the next morning, but that was one wish Dane didn’t intend to comply with. Time was short. He had to find this Drage, Bordrec Kleiderhorn, before he could smuggle Ijanna out of the city. Thus far using the Veil to locate Ijanna hadn’t turned up any results, which meant she was somehow shielded, but that wouldn’t matter if he got close enough.

  She has ways of hiding, but no one escapes the Dawn Knights. Ask the souls in the Razortooth.

  Dane set the glass of wine on the table and reached for the static stone, a simple piece of smoothed black rock the size of a coin. It was a tiny shard of the Stone of Pain, and Dane felt sick when he touched it. Nausea and cold power flowed over his skin like ice water. He focused on the image the stone projected into his mind and saw a tall and athletic woman. Most of her blond hair was tied back but a few unruly locks dangled over her eyes. Ijanna had a stern and angular face. Dane had been told she was half-Allaji, and she bore that race’s signature blood-red eyes. The denizens of Allaj Mohrter were a mysterious and reclusive people with bizarre customs and a strong fear of outsiders. Most Jlantrians feared the alien race, and before the city-state had seceded from Jlantria many of the Empress’s Veilwardens had been Allaji.

  But the so-called Dream Witch wasn’t a Veilwarden – she was a Bloodspeaker, born with a reservoir of the Veil in her blood. While a Veilwarden Touched the Veil and shaped its energies, a Bloodspeaker was her own source of power. By and large they were dangerous and unpredictable, and if Ijanna truly did possess a near limitless supply of magic it was no wonder her previous pursuers had met with little success.

  One of the doors opened. Vellexa had returned. Dane pocketed the stone and stood up.

  Icy fear lanced through his veins as the figure stepped into the room. The man yielded a great curved sword. Shadows swarmed across his body like insects. His painted black face bore a wicked grin, and a steady stream of gore dripped from his lips like putrescent honey.

  Dane cried out and reached for his vra’taar. He took a step forward, the strength of his whole body tensed behind his weapon.

  Everything changed. The door was still closed, and the air was silent and still. He was alone. Sweat glazed his face, and his heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest. His fingers clenched the vra’taar so tightly they ached.

  Dane stood still for a long time, waiting, too terrified to move. After a while he slowly lowered his blade, and wept.

  “The Count told you to stay,” Vellexa said. She stood watching Dane with
her arms crossed as he packed away the items he’d requested, including a detailed map of the city, enough money to last him for a few days and a list of informants and the places they frequented. If he made any progress he was to leave word for her at a place called the Irontooth Tavern.

  “You need to understand something,” Dane said. “I intend to finish this quickly. I’m sure you and the ugly twins have plans for me if I fail, and I’d rather not enjoy any more of your boss’s ‘hospitality’ than I already have. So unless you have some compelling reason why I should stay…” Dane strapped on his backpack, slung his vra’taar over his shoulder and picked up the new cloak Vellexa had brought for him. “I’ve got work to do.” He brusquely walked past her and stopped at the door. “Are you going to show me out?” he asked impatiently.

  Vellexa smiled angrily. She walked up to him with a serpent’s grace in her stride. Her body brushed close enough to send a jolt of heat through his chest.

  “Of course,” she said. She stopped, her lips inches from his. “Do a good job, and I’ll give you a bonus.”

  “And what if I do a bad job?” he asked.

  “You don’t want to know…” she laughed.

  Seven

  Black lightning strikes the ground. Tendrils of electric energy spread like ink in water.

  Her skin chills. She stands at the base of Chul Gaerog, a cold spike of jagged rock and twisted blades. The earth in the citadel’s shadow is scorched black, while the surrounding wastelands are as yellow as old bones. The crimson sky presses down on her.

  She watches as dozens of children form a human chain around the tower. They look tired and hungry and so cold their flesh has turned grey. They stare at the spiked structure with lifeless eyes, enraptured by its soiled presence.

  She wears the crimson robes of a priestess of Allaj Mohrter, from a time when the city still had priestesses. Her skin is gelid and raw and the birthmark on her stomach burns like cold fire. The children bear the same mark, the mark of the Skullborn, but they wear it on their foreheads or chests.