The Lord of Death (The Age of Dawn Book 2) (3 page)

Small bone fragments and blood congealed in the carpet of dust. “Unholy devil?” Juzo roared. He slammed the man’s head again, this time producing an echoing pop. “Unholy scum?” Juzo screamed as he continued bashing away the remains of the northman’s face into the hard stone floor. “Fuck you!” Juzo raised the man’s neck as high as it would extend and bashed the man’s skull with all of his fury. A crack split the air and Juzo released the two severed halves of the man’s skull. At the grisly site, the anger, rage, and fury drained out of him like urine in a broken chamber pot.

Juzo slowly rose, hands trembling, tears in his eye, and mouth twisted in a sneer.
Get it together, man. By the Phoenix, get it together.

“The gods have long abandoned me,” he whispered. “They do not care for creatures of the dark plane.” His frown became a sinister smile. He let out a dry laugh. Juzo pushed the strands of hair that dangled over his eye behind his ear and brushed the dust from his jacket.

He approached the hall’s final archway, topped with two spider-like creatures. The Reapers sat as still as statues on stone outcroppings on either side. The top halves of their bodies were humanoid and female, nude except for the spiked carapace covering their shoulders and arms. Their bodies were slender and skin a deep midnight, firm breasts protruding from puffed out chests. The lower half of their bodies had four legs covered in heavy layers of thick carapace. The front legs were short, compared to the rear legs, and terminated in sharp points. The back legs were at least twice as long and folded in the middle at a sharp knee joint. Between the Reaper’s front legs—the main body of the Reaper—was an enormous mouth lined with canines that could easily swallow a man whole.

Don’t make eye contact and remember, this is your home. You belong here.
Juzo forced himself to not break his stride as he glided under their watchful eyes.

“Thanks for the help,” he muttered.

He hadn’t seen the Reapers in action yet, and didn’t want too.
Perhaps you shouldn’t be testing them with sarcasm?
He stopped five paces beyond the Reapers, sighed and rubbed his eye. When he opened the heavy iron door a moment later, he started when he saw the master.

“You have fed?” Terar hissed and tapped his cobra staff.

Juzo dropped to his knees and prostrated himself. “Yes master, I have fed as you commanded,” Juzo said into the floor.

“I see that you do not lie. This is good. You will make a good pet. Are you still a good pet?”

“Yes, I am your pet, your perfect pet, master.” Juzo’s eye welled with tears.

“What is your name?” Terar asked, tilting his head.

“Ju — No! My name is —” Terar casually waved his hand and Juzo started violently shrieking as thousands of small spines tore into his body from head to toe. Every time he rolled, seeking reprieve from the agony, it only served to drive them deeper. He rolled from side to side and his body trembled, back forcefully arched, hands gnarled beside him.

“What is your name?” Terar asked, just as casually.

“My name —”
Warrior’s Focus.
Juzo mastered the breath that fought to heave from his lungs. The all-encompassing pain muted slightly and his double vision melded. From the floor, Juzo could see the mutilated flesh that lurked under Terar’s mask. The folds of that boiled flesh seemed to increase in depth as he started to breathe with control.

“You will stay here!” Terar roared, his voice penetrating Juzo’s skull like a dagger and breaking Warrior’s Focus into tiny shards.

“My name is Law, my name is Law!” he shouted. The spines wracking his body vanished, but the pain did not.

“I have another task for you Law, the final test of your obedience.”

“Yes master, anything!” Juzo pleaded.

“Do you remember what happens when you do not obey?”

A tremble washed over Juzo. “Yes master,” Juzo said in a low voice.

“You will return to the wood beyond the Bluffs and bring a living child back here for your next feeding. I would like to watch, but for now you will go to your room and will stay until you are ready.”

Until I’m ready? What does that mean?

W
alter’s bronze
skin shone in the morning sun. He savored the mouth-watering aroma of bacon and flour cakes that wafted up to the Tower of Meditation’s roof. His empty stomach rumbled with envy. The sounds of clanging dishes and people rising, enjoying their morning suppers, carried from the streets below. It reminded Walter of what he used to call home.

Dad’s morning elixir, Mom’s lovely laugh. No. Stay focused, don’t pick the scab now.

Walter’s fists clenched and then relaxed with a forced exhale.
Stay on task.

He stood with his feet wide and eyes gently closed, steadying his breath and entering the calm of Warrior’s Focus. The undulations in the red oak below his bare feet became magnified in their peaks, valleys, and splinters. The wind eddies caressed his cheeks and tunneled through his hair, an intoxicating sensation that dropped his pulse a few beats.

Inhale life. Exhale death. Inhale the rays of the sun and exhale the clouds.

He let the strange thoughts slide over his mind with no attempt at analyzing their source or meaning.

Malek tossed a gleaming white plate into the air. “Open,” Malek shouted.

Walter’s eyes snapped open and he narrowed them, tracking the plate’s trajectory. Walter thrust with his right hand open and the plate slowed in mid-air, hovering for a second and then smashing into the roof, cracking into three pieces.

“Three days of training, and you can’t even stop a plate,” Malek said, shaking his head.

Walter nodded and his face flushed, staring into the distance towards King Ezra’s glittering cream stone castle.

“You’ll get it, keep trying,” Baylan said lazily from behind a thick book.

“C’mon, again,” Walter said, lips pressed into a line.

Malek reached into a wooden box and hefted another plate in his hand. “You know, there are a lot of people who would love to eat from these,” he said with a sly grin.

“Wasn’t this your idea?” Walter said, raising an eyebrow. Malek sighed and lobbed the plate in a high arc towards Walter. Within Walter’s mind the figures of the Phoenix and the Dragon intertwined in a sinuous dance, moving as one. To touch only the Phoenix without brushing the Dragon was becoming more difficult the more he trained.

They wanted to work together damn it, but Baylan said to hide his ability and there had to be a good reason.

It was like trying to wiggle only a segment of a toe. It was challenging, but possible with intense concentration.

The plate stopped in the air before Walter’s face, nose wrinkled and mouth a grimace.
Yes, that’s it —

“Better!” Malek said with a clap.

The plate just as suddenly resumed its descent.
No!
Walter panicked and slashed with his mind at the plate. As it was a hand from the ground, it stopped in the air again, a second before exploding into hundreds of tiny shards.

“I said catch the plate, not turn it into sand,” Malek said with his spindly arms crossed.

“Yes, I heard you last time. You’re up Ny,” Walter said, blowing out his cheeks with a sigh and walking towards Baylan.
Don’t use an axe when you need a hammer,
his father had said.
Right, aphorisms are nice, but how?

“Testy! I get no appreciation, can you believe this Baylan?”

“Huh?” Baylan said absent-mindedly, eyes peering over the edge of his book. Baylan sat in a beautifully carved chair with lion’s heads for armrests.

“Never mind,” Malek said. He waved his arm and bits of plate tumbled and rolled together in a stream, then into a barrel along the roof’s walled edge.

Walter’s body still felt weakened and tired from the ritual Malek had performed to remove the cursed Cerumal armor. As he passed Nyset, she flashed him a toothy smile that lifted some of the exhaustion from his bones. Everything throbbed with a deep ache as he sat in the still-warm chair beside Baylan.

“But this one, this is an excellent student you’ve found,” Malek said, regarding Nyset.

Walter felt the embers of lingering anger flaring in his chest. Malek’s eyes greedily looked her up and down, as if he were evaluating horseflesh.
Don’t trust the bastard. Bastard? Did he not remove your curse? Trust your gut.
It was a fraction of the rage that boiled out of him when he bore the armor of the Cerumal, but it seemed some of its effects had left a taint. Malek said that this would happen.

“Open!” Malek yelled, vaulting a green plate into the air.

Nyset held her arms loosely before her, hands working into claws. Three flaming discs burst to life around her head in a roar. She punched with a clawed hand and a disc zipped through the air, tearing a thin sliver from the edge of the plate. She punched again with both hands and the remaining two discs exploded into motion. They simultaneously intersected with the plate, slicing it into four pieces. The bits of plate clattered to the roof, edges smoking and liquefied.

“Yes!” Nyset shouted, shaking her fists. “Finally.”

“Impressive, you could do well in the Tower, but you’re not quite ready.” Malek said flatly.

“Yeah? You think so?” she said, grinning.

“Don’t get too comfortable.” Malek said, pushing back the hood on his cloak.

Walter rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and examined the scars that spiraled around his arms. “Strange to see scars,” he said softly.

“Those scars, in all likelihood, will not heal.” Baylan said quietly. “You’re lucky to be alive, do you know that?”

“Of course. I’m in debt to Malek. I hadn’t realized how much it had twisted my mind, making me so hateful, angry… wanting to kill.” Walter poured himself a steaming cup of elixir from the decanter that sat on the table between them. He held the mug to his nose and inhaled deeply, face relaxing. He reached his other arm under the table and rubbed Wiggles. The black hound stood and leaned against his legs, clearly enjoying the attention.

Walter rubbed at the back of his neck, massaging the small patch of Cerumal gray skin that remained like a birthmark. Its texture was rough, like the back of a lizard.

“I see your skin has mostly healed, that’s good,” Baylan said, peering around Walter’s face.

“Mostly, not entirely,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Now!” Malek yelled. Walter watched as a series of flaming darts wove through the air, two of the five punching clean holes through the plate’s face. The other burning projectiles tore across the blue-green sky and vanished a few seconds after. Nyset clapped her hands together and hopped. Wiggles pushed his ears back and stared at Nyset.

“Walt, you never told me where you found Stormcaller, you know,” Baylan said, flipping a page in his book.

“No?”

“Nope,” Baylan said, eyebrows bobbing.

Slurp, swish, swallow went a gulp of elixir in Walter’s mouth. “It was what I would call a crypt, the strangest one I’d ever seen. It was the same place Juzo found Blackout.”

Baylan listened attentively as Walter told him the rest of the details.

“The next time we are west of Midgaard you must take me too it,” Baylan said, furiously scratching notes with his quill.

“Alright. Since we’re on the subject of artifacts, you obviously know a great deal about the Cerumal armor, Baylan. What can you tell me about it?” Walter asked, looking at him sidelong. Baylan raised his eyebrows and inhaled deeply, setting his book upon the table.

“Perhaps I should have told you this earlier… well, as far as its effects there isn’t a whole lot written in the histories, as very few have lived to tell the tale,” he said, meeting Walter’s eyes.

“It corrupts the mind and poisons the spirit, the spirit that drives the evolution in man, the desire to improve, to do what is morally good, but you already know this, I presume?”

Walter sipped his dark elixir. “Yes,” he said, slowly nodding. “The effects on the mind seem to stick around, it seems.” Walter frowned.

“After the mind has been thoroughly corrupted, reverted to its feral animal state, it is easier to control and manipulate. The Black Wynch, we’re not sure how… seems to be able to control the Cerumal warriors with some type of psychic connection.”

“A what connection?”

“With some type of mental power, like the Phoenix or the Dragon, but of a different nature. I’ve read that they’re able to issue commands to the Cerumal, like a captain on a battlefield, but without the need for a horn.” Baylan gestured and his legs bounced.

A black plate clattered to the ground in two halves, smoldering. Nyset rested with her hands on her knees and a sheen of sweat glistened on the back of her neck.

Walter widened his eyes, remembering a bizarre dream he had with a creature that must have been a Black Wynch. It had golden chains of light connecting it to Cerumal warriors. Yes, he had seen that before. He shuddered at the memory of it slitting his throat. The pain he felt in that dream felt frighteningly real.

“On the opposite side of the blade, as the mind is tarnished, bodily strength and endurance is enhanced, and physical features are distorted, over time becoming the horrors we saw in Breden.” Baylan poured himself a cup of elixir and dipped a spoonful of butter into it.

“By the Phoenix, how did such a creation come into existence?”

“What we do know is scant at best. When the savage Asebor battled against humanity, before he was sealed at the start of the Age of Dawn, it was written there was a smith’s furnace— known only as The Black Furnace—that was able to produce such evil objects.”

Walter felt his shoulders tingle and found himself drawn towards Malek. The man stared wide eyed at them, mouth hung stupidly open. When Walter met his eyes, he recovered in an instant and returned his focus to Nyset. Walter watched Malek move with a youthful grace, snagging another plate.
That seemed to have struck a chord.

“What do we know about this Black Furnace?” Walter said, returning his focus to Baylan.

“Again, very little. It’s rumored to be buried somewhere beyond The Wall in the Nether, in literal sands of time.” Baylan put his elixir down and licked the buttery oil that lined his lips.

“Since this Asebor is back and has Bonesnapper, the one weapon you said can hurt him, what can we do?” Walter said, watching Nyset expertly obliterate another piece of dinnerware.
This is madness. What I would give to return to my simple life of two months ago.

Baylan tilted his head back, gazing into the blue. “Wars are fought one day at a time.” He said gravely. Walter felt his stomach tremble.

Heavy footfalls scraped up the stony steps leading to the roof and the triangular door pushed open. Grimbald ducked low and bobbed his bald head as he lumbered through. The head of the massive axe on his back glinted in the sun. He removed it from the leather strap on his shoulder and rested it against the odd doorway, his impressive muscles flexing.

“Juzo, we need to find my friend. We need to go the Tigerian Bluffs to find him,” Walter said with urgency.

“Hm. What Bluffs?” Grimbald said, eyes squinting.

“The Tigerian Bluffs to the east of The Wall, Nyset thinks he might be there.” Walter regarded Grimbald as he slid down the smooth stone wall beside him, plopping with a thump. “Hopefully still alive…”

“Oh yeah? Never been. Haven’t been to many places,” he said, watching Nyset. “Wow, she gets better every day,” he mused.

“She is very talented,” Baylan said. “Well, how did your interview go?”

“It was alright. They asked me a whole lotta questions. I knew the Midgaard Falcon was selective, but… it was tiring.”

“The army will be very fortunate to have you in their ranks,” Baylan smiled, flipped open a notebook and scribbled something.

“Yeah, then I’ll finally prove my Uncle Will wrong. He always told me I should just work in the tavern, that the army would never accept a big person, well looks like he was wrong.” He grinned.

“It is amazing what can be done when you put your mind to it,” Walter said, clapping the man’s meaty shoulder.

Nyset sauntered over the group and placed a hand on her hip. “I’m ravenous, everyone ready for morning supper?” She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

“Hopefully, we have enough plates left,” Malek said.

T
he sparse dining
chamber in the Tower of Mediation contained a smoking hearth, a simple table, and a few cupboards on the walls. They sat around the circular table with strange letters on the edge, pouring a carafe of hot elixir into mugs. Walter stared at the letters, cocking his head and trying to make sense of them.

“So why do they call this place ‘The Tower of Meditation’ anyway?” Walter asked, rubbing one of the symbols with his fingertip.

“Well this is my home,” Malek said, setting down a box of pastries. “Could you wager a guess at what I prefer to do with my time, Walter?”

“I see. Why do you meditate?”

Malek ran a hand through his hair. It looked like he had cut it himself with a pair of dull scissors. “I meditate to
be
.”

Walter scrunched up his eyebrows and tore into a fig pastry, eyes widening at the first bite. “Delicious,” he moaned. Grimbald took a glug from a beer stein filled with dark elixir. Nyset examined the contents of her pastry, rubbing the strange fruit paste between her fingers. Baylan took a bite and wiped the crumbs from his blue robes, and sighed.

“I really should be getting back to the Tower soon. I’ve sent word of Lillian’s passing and of the attacks multiple times. It’s so strange,” Baylan swallowed and took a sip of elixir. “I haven’t received any return messages.”

Malek leaned back in his chair and dabbed at his mouth with a cloth. “That is unlike the Tower, I presume?”