City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) (9 page)

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. 

They’re so young.  They don’t deserve this. 

She knows they’ve been summoned by the same faceless power holding her firm in its heartless grasp, a power that draws her closer with each passing day.

More lighting erupts from the bloody sky and strikes the children.  They don’t scream, even as their bodies burn ashen black.  They’re still for a moment, just statues of soot, until a sudden gust of razor wind scatters them into clouds of dust.  She screams.

Ijanna woke with a start.  The rain cast curtains of water down the only window.  She shivered under the woolen covers of the tiny cot.  She was so dizzy she thought she’d fall over, but at least she was awake.  And alive. 

Light spilled into the room from the windblown lantern outside.  Lewd conversations and drunken song sounded through the walls.  The room was bare aside from the bed, a washbasin and her backpack, which she’d left lying on the floor along with her hastily removed clothing.  Ijanna pressed her forehead to her knees and breathed deeply. 

Another dream of the Black Tower. 
A dream of things to come, of a future I might finally be able to escape.  I won’t follow the path laid out for me.  Not anymore.

There was much to do.  Ijanna knew it was foolish to remain in one place for too long, but staying in Ebonmark for a few more days was worth the risk if it meant finally acquiring the means to elude her fate.

Her dizziness gradually subsided.  The dreams of Chul Gaerog always took their toll. 

Ijanna pulled herself out from under the blankets and reached for her pack.  The cold air raised goosebumps across her skin, which was moon pale and covered with runic tattoos, each of them painted by the mystics of Allaj Mohrter…all but the Skullborn mark, a crooked and horned visage around her navel, which she’d been born with.  The mark always felt uncomfortably warm, and she avoided touching it as much as possible.

Someone crashed against the other side of the door.  Ijanna loosed her razor-thin shortsword from its sheath and stood ready.  Drunken laughter sounded closeby, but after a moment whoever it was shuffled down the hall. 

Probably just one of the drunken louts who practically live in this smelly place.
 

Even with as long as she’d been away from Allaj Mohrter, Ijanna still couldn’t get used to the way people in the rest of the world – especially the crass Jlantrians – polluted themselves with smoke and drink and disgusting diets of fatty meats.  Sometimes it seemed they lived to do little else but poison themselves, and whenever they weren’t laboring at work they gathered and gorged on toxins. 

Ijanna pulled her clothes out of her pack.  She’d not meant to sleep as long as she had, as she still had to find Bordrec.  She knew for certain he’d object to her plans.  A wicked smile crossed her lips – it would be worth making the request just to see his reaction. 

She pulled off the yellowed tunic she’d slept in and put on a plain black shirt and pants.  Since her quest to find Bordrec would take her into the streets she donned her leather armor, which had been specially fitted and designed to give her maximum flexibility and speed.  It was well worn and would soon need to be replaced, but that would have to wait for now.  Ijanna’s mind went back to what Bordrec had told her about venturing into Ebonmark alone – never go unarmored or unarmed.  At the time she’d thought he was just being overprotective, but after the incident with the Chul she wasn’t about to take any more chances.

And what about the warrior who’d attacked the Chul?  He’d moved like an assassin, and there was no question he’d called on the Veil to defeat those cannibals.  He might have been one of Blackhall’s enforcers.

No.  Don’t delude yourself. 
The way he’d taken care of the Chul marked him as a professional mercenary, and the speed with which he’d appeared meant he’d been waiting for them.  Or for
her
.   

Ijanna strapped on her leather gauntlets and adjusted her greaves.  Every second she spent in Ebonmark was dangerous. 

You have to keep moving
, she told herself. 
I know you’re tired of running, but you can’t stop now
.  The cold reality of her situation twisted in her gut like a knife.  She was in a losing race against time, walking into the hands of certain death.  There was no one to save her, so if her plans in Ebonmark fell through she was as good as dead. 

Just like before
.
Nothing will have changed if this doesn’t work, but if it does…

Ijanna stared out the window and watched the rain.  All paths led to the same place, a place she didn’t want to go.   She felt tears budding in her eyes. 

“You’re not a girl anymore,” she bitterly said to herself in the liquid Allaji tongue.  “Stop acting like one.”

Ijanna bound her hair up with a long leather cord and readied her pack.  The slim bag had been with her since she was a teenager, and it had somehow survived the years despite her tendency to overfill it, just as she did now with a tinderbox, some rations, a coil of silken rope, a collection of soft-bound leather books and some blank parchment and writing implements, all in addition to her spare clothing.  Ijanna knew she’d need a few more utilitarian supplies before she left Ebonmark, but she’d worry about that later.  For the time being she donned her cloak, slid her blade into its sheath and left the room.

The hall led straight to the common area, a bright dining hall filled with merry music and noise and the strong smell of beer, mutton and freshly baked pastries.  She felt a pang of hunger, so she snuck a small loaf of bread from a serving tray and tucked it under her cloak. 

The Harpy’s String was one of the few reputable establishments in Ebonmark.  The birchwood floor was packed with laborers and merchants who came to drink away their troubles.  Newly placed White Dragon flags hung from iron poles placed high on the walls, and blazing orange lanterns bathed the room in autumnal light.  Ijanna pushed her way past sweaty men in brown work clothes and perfumed merchants in colorful capes as she made her way to the bar.

The innkeeper’s name was Javan, a bald ex-soldier with a smile as wide as the scar on his scalp and arms the size of tree trunks.  He knew Ijanna by face if not by name, and he made his way over to her after he finished delivering a mug to an overly drunk woman in an ale-stained frock.  He said something, but Ijanna couldn’t hear him over the drunken song coming from the other end of the room, so she cupped her ear and leaned over the bar.

“Are you leaving?” he repeated in a half yell. 

“Yes.  Where am I supposed to go?”

Javan discreetly reached into his vest and produced a note, which he slid to her under a tankard of warm mead.  He smiled and went back to work.

Ijanna took the note but left the mead and slowly made her way out of the inn and into the cool night.  Rain fell relentlessly, sullying the streets with mud and carving small rivers in the road.  Hooded lanterns shone from the fronts of aged buildings all along the street, but Ijanna ducked into a well-lit alley behind the Harpy.  Once she felt she was comfortably out of sight she read the note.

If you need to reach me, give a coin to the beggar at the alley between Harper and Cane, on Temple Street.  He’ll know what to do.

- B

Bordrec was even more paranoid than she was, but Ijanna was thankful for his caution, especially in the wake of the Chul’s attack and the appearance of her mysterious “savior”.  Kleiderhorn had connections all over the city and was an adamant enemy of the Phage, but even though he’d proved useful Ijanna still looked forward to a time when she’d no longer need his help.  She had to ask one more favor of him, and she knew he wouldn’t be happy about it. 

Ijanna tucked the note under her cloak and set off towards Temple Street.

Eight

Ebonmark’s central housing district on Monsoon Road had once been filled with the residences of the city’s wealthy and the services catering to them.  The area had been known for its fine carriages and marble fountains, and the City Watch had maintained careful vigil to keep vagrants and rogues away.  Even the city’s walled solarium had been carefully patrolled.  Now, three decades later, Monsoon Road and its environs was a dilapidated refuge for outcasts, cutthroats, prostitutes and drunks.  Rank cadavers could be found in the gutters, the fountains were cracked and defiled, and the solarium had burnt to the ground.  

A simple two-story house made of old mortared stone stood at the end of Monsoon Road.  It had once been the residence of a minor ambassador, but now the building was stained with brown blood and scratches, rotted oak boards covered the windows, and the shattered doors lay on the ground like casualties.  Inside the building the cracked and splintered furniture was weighed down with corpses, and half-eaten bodies hung from the walls by wickedly sharp hooks or dangled from rusted chains in the ceiling.  Triangular runes had been carved into the floor in effluvia and blood.  The stench of decay hung in the manor like a cloud, serving as a warning to stay away from the house at the end of Monsoon Road, for it was a lair of the Chul.

Kol took a bite from the end of an arm.  The meat was ripe and pulpy and juices ran down his throat before he gobbled the morsel down.  Food was in good supply in Ebonmark now that the ignorant Jlantrians had taken control of the City.  Not only were there new soldiers, but some sort of trouble between the occupying forces and the local criminals had left the city’s citizens more vulnerable than ever. 

Unfortunately, he and his pack were forced to exercise discretion.  That angered him – patience wasn’t a trait suited to a Chul warrior, but his pack couldn’t afford to draw too much attention.  If they acted carefully they’d have more than enough offerings for the Witch Mother very soon, and what she didn’t want they’d take for themselves. His pack had been given a task worthy of their strength and cunning – they were to kill the Dream Witch, the prophet who threatened the Witch Mother’s power. 

Kol dropped what was left of the arm to the floor.  Searak knelt down and sucked the eyes out of a dead woman’s head.  Kol heard Talaith and Kaerog screaming like a pair of wild boars while they fucked upstairs.  More of his pack was spread about the manor or were out in the streets, hunting for more meat.  He had over a dozen Chul who’d kill or die at his command.

He ran his calloused fingers through his black hair, the same midnight hue as that of all Chul, made that way by the Witch Mother’s magic.  Kol contemplated his revenge.  Four of his pack had died the previous night, slain by a style of blade he hadn’t seen for many moons.  The man who’d killed them was a Dawn Knight, feared soldiers disbanded by their own Empress.  Kol couldn’t contemplate what one was doing in Ebonmark now, but his timing couldn’t have been worse.

Whatever you’re doing here, you’ll be a long time dying, and you’ll make a fine meal.
 
You and the Dream Witch can die together, screaming.

Kol reached down to a clay bowl at his feet.  Thick black sludge boiled the oozing heart at the bottom of the container.  He dipped his hand in the scalding liquid and covered his fingers with dark paste, then slowly painted his face in the design of the Skull of the Moon, the mark of the vengeful hunter.  The rest of his pack would do the same once he was done, and with the powers of the Skull at their command they’d gain great strength until they succeeded at their task, or until the magic of the Skull killed them.  Either way they’d die with the sign of the Witch Mother on their flesh.