City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) Page 8

  Dane spent much of the day re-acquainting himself with Ebonmark’s urban geography, which had remained unchanged since his last visit to the city some years ago. Though it certainly wasn’t the grandest place, Ebonmark had a charm all its own, a shadowy ambiguity and dichotomous energy which left a traveler wary, awestruck, comfortable and confused all at once. The city had been built at the nexus of the three Empires in an almost forgotten time when Jlantria, Den’nar and Gallador had been on amiable enough terms to openly trade with one another. Ebonmark rested at the fork where the River Grey met the River Black, and its west and south sides were lined with docks, fisheries and logging houses.

  Dane surveyed the area from an elevated road circumventing the city. The western mercantile district was occupied by abandoned customs offices and boats which had once ferried travelers for a nominal fee; now the ships were fully armed longboats manned by White Dragon regulars, and the waters were fortified with sharp stakes, watchtowers and siege weapons positioned to discourage vessels approaching from the ruins of Gallador. Bivouacs were spread around Ebonmark’s northern walls to intercept would-be travelers, and barracks, stables and crude tents covered the area like blemishes.

  Though it had once been the center of Ebonmark’s fishing and logging industry the southern docks were now termite-infested and littered with waste. Light rain peppered the sluggish waters, and the sickly sky was vibrant with the promise of more storms. The greasy air smelled of salt, fish and smoke.

  Ebonmark stood on a steep hill about three hundred feet above the river. The logging camps south of the city had been destroyed by Tuscar raiders, and on occasion the marauders even attacked the city itself. Vast plains of cracked earth and dead grass surrounded Ebonmark. The war against Gallador and the Blood Queen had destroyed most of the vegetation in the region, and the presence of the Tuscars and continued warring between the city-states had made the area as fertile as a stone. Had there been enough cooperation among the city-states to establish an organized force the Tuscars would have been run out and efforts could have been made to revitalize the area, but that hadn’t happened yet, and Dane doubted it ever would. Everyone was too busy looking out for themselves.

  Dane looked past the walls and saw the Black Hills to the southeast, a massive expanse of steep bluffs and craggy canyons. The shadowy peaks of the Razortooth Mountains stood to the west, and on the southwest horizon the mighty Ravenwood was sprawled across the landscape. The monstrous mountain range called the Grim Titans was visible to the northwest despite the great distance, and the lands to the north were barren, jagged and lifeless. Gallador had been a desert even before it had been corrupted by Vossian war machines, and now it was just a stark sea of red sand filled with valleys, devastated settlements and thousands of bones, earning the region its new name: the Bonelands.

  Storm clouds danced with diaphanous grace up and down the plains. The purple sky seemed to breathe. Even through the scattered storms Dane’s keen eyes caught sight of a wagon caravan in the distance, probably due east for the stormy coasts of the Moon Sea.

  Dane drew his hood and balled his gloved fists to fight the chill. He turned back to the city. His stomach twisted with hunger, and he’d wasted enough time.

  Ebonmark was a dark place. Sunlight never filtered down between the tightly clustered buildings, leaving the twisted streets thick with shadows. Dirt-packed roads made travel through town difficult and slow when it rained, which was often. Dane sloshed through the mud, his cloak pulled tight to shield his body against the cold fingers of the evening mist.

  At a glance Ebonmark’s buildings weren’t as dilapidated as the docks or as battered as the city walls, but the closer Dane looked the more he saw the city’s disintegrating face. Ebonmark hadn’t received proper structural attention in years. Doors that looked solid and stable from afar were revealed to be cracked and weathered up close, and windows which sparkled in the dim lamplight were fractured and brittle with age.

  Dane walked down Tower Street, which was lined with old shops and dozens of homes. Half of the businesses looked like they’d been shut down for some time. There were plenty of people about, their hoods drawn and their heads lowered. Ebonmark was clearly overpopulated – there were too many silhouettes in the windows, too many sheets of laundry dangling from frayed clotheslines, too many voices struggling to be heard over the din. Even at the darkest hours of the night the city was alive with motion.

  And yet Dane didn’t sense the aura of despair and desperation he was used to in other places. He passed through the heart of the city – not the physical nexus, where the crime and filth dwelled, but the true heart, those places where Ebonmark lived and breathed, the parts that reminded him of home. A pair of women walked out of a candlemaker’s shop with their arms full and smiles on their faces. A group of young men walked into a noisy tavern called the Pig’s Snout, jeering and slapping each other on the backs as they entered, their worries forgotten. A baby cried from an upper story room, her voice lost in the patter of falling rain. Tobacco and chimney smoke filled the grey air. Cats scurried by, eager to escape the weather.

  Dane’s boots stamped on rain-slicked stones between stretches of dirt and mud. The shadows of passers-by reflected in tall shop windows and puddles on the ground. The air tasted of ozone from the storm overhead and vegetables from the street vendors.

  He passed a bread shop, and stopped to peer inside. A long-haired old man stooped low and teased a pair of young boys with glazed pastries while their mother stood smiling behind them. Fresh loaves lined the narrow shelves, and even with the glass and the musky smell of the rain Dane’s nostrils swelled with the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread.

  He couldn’t help but smile. Parts of Ebonmark had made his blood run cold, and beyond the city walls was a barren wasteland filled with danger. The people who worked in those shops and walked down those streets knew of the terrors, of course, but they did their best to lead normal lives.

  What else would they do?

  Dane envied them for their ability to carry on as if the world was still a decent place. They slept soundly in spite of the wolves outside their doors.

  If only I had that strength.

  He ran his hand across the rain-moistened stubble on his face. Inside, the children received their pasties.

  Good. Somebody should get what they want.

  Dane wandered deeper into the city.

  Eleven

  Dane came to a cluttered and claustrophobic district filled with warehouses and storage facilities. The buildings were narrow and the roads thin, and the area was cluttered with stacks of boxes and sacks of goods. Night pressed in as the mists grew thick. Shadows grew tall, a conclave of dusky sentinels. The air was pungent.

  The name Jorias Targo was the only clue Dane had been able to uncover that might lead him to Kleiderhorn, and the connection between the two men was tenuous at best. From what he’d learned, Targo infrequently worked with Kleiderhorn, as both were independent criminals who refused to bow to the authority of the Black Guild or the Phage.

  Dane’s ability to glean Targo’s name from the whispers of the city was the reason the Iron Count had hired him. So far as Dane knew only the Dawn Knights possessed the ability to Touch the Veil in a way that allowed them to track individuals they’d never even met. The skill had been passed down through generations of the order, and it had never been practiced anywhere outside of Jlantria. The Dawn Knights had referred to the gift as cher’nag, or Seeing: the ability to locate a person, place or thing, no matter the distance. Unfortunately cher’nag was far from flawless, and there were ways to block its efficacy.

  His attempts to use cher’nag to locate Ijanna had failed utterly, likely due to her own formidable capabilities with the Veil. Dane had then tried to use cher’nag to locate Bordrec Kleiderhorn, and while that attempt also hadn’t provided the desired results the Drage’s defenses weren’t as strong as Ijanna’s, and Dane had been able to glean Targo’s name as one of the few unshi
elded individuals who’d had recent contact with Bordrec based on some residual traces of past conversations and surface memories. It was better than nothing.

  Dane found himself in front of a bookshop on the very cusp of the industrial district; most of the stores on Crab Street had been boarded up or long since torn apart. Noisy carousing stemmed from just a few blocks away, where a row of unsavory inns served anything their questionable clientele requested.

  The rain came down harder by the second, filling moldy old crates and shattered windows with puddles of dark water. There were no lights on Crab Street, and the cluttered lane was filled with channels of rain-washed filth. Everything carried the stench of urine and rot. The darkness made it difficult to see anything more than a few feet away, but Dane still sensed things moving in the shadows. An extremely old and weathered sign dangled from an iron pole over the shop’s solid oak door, but the letters had long since faded. The door was unlocked. Dane checked his weapon, and stepped inside.

  The interior of the shop was as vacant as an old tomb. The place was devoid of any furnishings. Dane saw a lamp on the floor, and after he fumbled with it for a moment he Touched the Veil and magically brought it to life. The lamp was new, and must have been left there recently.

  Something about the shop felt wrong. According to Vellexa, Targo used it as the primary betting station for the illegal Knuckle-Night events, and though he knew it was a longshot Dane was hoping the criminal would actually be there. He wasn’t sure at what hour the fights started, but Vellexa had made clear that once they did all bets were off.

  Maybe I’m too late.

  Dane investigated the back room of the shop and found nothing. “Damn,” he said aloud.

  “Place your bet and leave,” a voice said.

  Dane spun around, one hand on the hilt of his vra’taar. There was no one there.

  “Pardon?” he asked.

  “Place your bet and leave, or I’ll have you thrown out on your damn fool face.” The voice was gruff and thick and sounded like an echo.

  “How do I place a bet?” Dane asked. “Sorry, I’m…new here.”

  “Goddess save us, the stupid ones reproduce. Here.”

  Dane had left the lantern on the floor, and now it moved on its own accord. The circular base shifted and rotated as if guided by invisible hands, and after a few seconds a section popped open like a desk drawer. Dane saw a small compartment with a tiny piece of torn parchment and a quill still wet with ink.

  Clever. Dane cursed under his breath. It seemed everyone in Ebonmark was paranoid beyond all measure. He knelt down and put a hand on the lamp.

  “I have a message,” he said up to the ceiling. “For Jorias Targo.”

  There was no response. Dane took another look around the room. He knew Targo was there somewhere. The voice spoke again just as Dane prepared to Touch the Veil.

  “Well, what’s the message?” the voice growled.

  Dane stood up.

  “It’s to be delivered to Targo in person.”

  “This is as personal as you’re going to get,” the voice said. “And you’re speaking to Targo now. State your business and get out, unless you came to find out why people don’t bother me. I have a fight to get to, and you’re pissing me off, so talk now or I’ll see to it you never talk again.”

  Dane focused his mind, took hold of the Veil, and backed away from the lantern. “I need information,” he said, “and I’m willing to pay handsomely for it.”

  A long silence followed. Dane heard nothing but the beating of the rain and his own labored breaths.

  “What sort of information?” Targo asked.

  “I’m looking for Bordrec Kleiderhorn.”

  The lantern went out. Darkness enveloped the room.

  “Wrong question,” the voice said.

  Dane heard the shuffle of feet and the growl of large dogs just outside. He backed deeper into the room and flung a flash of hexed light to the floor the moment the door burst open. He saw his attackers.

  Three impossibly large humanoids with leather armor rushed at him with alarming speed. Lupine-headed and covered with grey fur, the clawed assailants had yellowed fangs and narrow half-moon eyes. The light faded, but the effect Dane placed allowed him to sense his opponents and track them in the dark. The effort was taxing, and he’d be completely exhausted in under a minute. He had to work fast.

  The first wolf came at him. Dane jabbed forward, and his heart skipped as the beast caught the long blade of the vra’taar in its grip. He kicked the creature in the stomach and drove it back. Claws raked against his armor – the other two had him flanked. He swung his weapon and they backed away, much faster than their mass and bulk suggested possible.

  Dane let the Veil guide his movements. His thoughts fell away. He surrendered himself to the grip of caustic energies burning at the edge of his mind.

  The three wolves fought almost as a single creature, and the room became a chaos of shadowy motion. Dane ducked and slashed and blocked iron claws with his blade. Sweat poured down his face. His chest heaved with effort. He sensed their positions in the darkness and twisted out of their reach, sometimes not fast enough. Their claws painfully ripped into his sides and arms and sent his blood splashing to the ground.

  Dane smelled carrion breath as he ducked low and brought his blade up in a sweeping arc, cleaving a wolf’s head from its torso. Blood flew onto the wall and claws tore at his back. He twisted around and moved away as his cloak got tangled in a wolf’s grip. Dane sensed the other one right behind him.

  Adrenaline flooded his body. The cold proximity of the Veil burned cold against his skin. Dane fell into the nearest wolf and ran his sword through its stomach, then used the beast as a shield against the other. Claws raked against his armor and blood welled around his knuckles as he shoved both wolves against the wall.

  Dane barely pulled back as the last wolf’s iron-hard claws swiped at his face. The bulk of furred shadow loomed over him, taller than Dane by a head. Its long and powerful arms seemed to cover the entire room. It was the biggest of the three, and fear flooded Dane’s chest. Exhastion was setting in, and he felt his skin go colder by the moment as he held tight to the Veil.

  Focus.

  The wolf snarled and leapt at him, and the instant its feet left the ground Dane stepped in and threw his vra’taar. The blade sank into the wolf’s chest and brought it down in a heap of blood and fur.

  The shop was silent again. Dane fell to his knees. His muscles burned, and blood sluiced down his arms. He re-lit the lamp, every movement a trial.

  The bodies of the three werewolves came into sight. Dane stepped between their crumpled forms, careful not to slip in the pools of blood. He slowly reached for his vra’taar, his eyes on the stilled jaws of the wolf his blade was embedded in. The creature was enormous, easily seven feet tall and covered with grey-black fur. Convinced the beast’s four-inch claws were just waiting to close in around his throat, Dane ripped his vra’taar free. The wolf’s body shuddered, but didn’t rise.

  Dane undid the gauntlet on his left arm and pulled down the vambrace to examine his skin where the pain was the worst. A half-dozen long cuts marked his forearm from wrist to elbow, but even though he was still bleeding none of the wounds seemed terribly deep. He had healing salves and bandages in his pack, and if he survived the next few minutes he’d take some time to clean and wrap all of his injuries.

  This is why I keep the damn armor on, he reminded himself. Dawn Knight’s armor was Veilcrafted, designed to be sturdy yet light, a combination of chain and leather mesh with strategically placed steel plates. It afforded considerable protection without slowing the wearer down, since the metal was enchanted to be almost weightless, and it could be worn beneath a cloak or a heavy coat.

  “You’re dead,” Targo’s voice said from everywhere. “I have a lot more where those came from.”

  “Not for long you won’t,” Dane said. He wiped his bloodied blade on the fur of the nearest body. “Unless y
ou tell me where I can find Bordrec Kleiderhorn.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Dawn Knight,” Targo laughed. “This is my city, and I’ve got protection from the likes of you.”

  “But not from the Guild,” Dane said. “And that’s why you operate like this, afraid they’ll sniff you out.” Dane hoped he didn’t sound as fatigued as he felt. He was dizzy from Touching the Veil, and it would be a while before he was up to fighting any more of Targo’s lupine henchmen. He brushed blood off his arm and replaced the vambrace.

  “So what are you offering?” Targo said with a sneer. “Protection?”

  “I can’t give you that, and you know it, but I can offer you Guild money in exchange for Kleiderhorn’s whereabouts.”

  “What do you want Bordrec for?” Targo asked after a moment.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters,” Targo growled. “I may not have any particular love for that ugly little bastard, but you have to understand how things work around here. You’re working for the Black Guild. I’m sure they pay well. Lots of people work for the Guild, and most who don’t work for the Phage. But there are some of us who choose not to work for either. That creates a lot of problems for us, but at least we have our freedom, and our dignity, and that carries weight in Ebonmark.”

  “You’re talking about watching out for other…‘freelancers’,” Dane said. His skin was raw under his armor, and he winced when he moved. The rain continued beating down outside.