The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4) (20 page)

“Shit.”
Not again, Juzo. We need you.
“See where he went?”

Wart shrugged. “West. A fearsome bunch, glad to have them gone to be honest. They were making the men jumpy with those damn red eyes of theirs. Jumpiness isn’t good for men itchy for killing, understand?”

Walter tilted his back and closed his eye, bathing his face in the warmth of the sun. Was the world truly conspiring against him? “Don’t worry,” he said to the sky. “You’ll get more killing than you’d bargained for, that’s a promise.”

Walter heard Wart’s lips suck as they parted from his teeth in that grisly smile.

“Should we search for him, Walt?” Grimbald said into his ear.

Walter slowly shook his head. “We don’t have time for that now. There’s too much at stake. His leaving… was his choice.”

Grimbald sighed and licked his lips. “Alright. Getting anxious to see my Pa, been too long. Hope he’s alright.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Walter met his eyes, blue as the sky. He hadn’t the faintest idea if he was all right, but wasn’t that the right thing to say? Did trifling words really help anybody? He reckoned not.

The Wall loomed up faster than Walter had anticipated. The sunken eyes of Falcon soldiers looked like black pits in recesses of their helmets. Their heads cocked, faces peered out, and whispering voices spread across the battlements as they drew close to the portcullis. It looked to be in good shape, scoured and oiled without a speck of rust. Spears shone in the light, interspersed between mirror bright shields held at the ready. Walter, Grimbald, Scab and Wart rode at the front and stopped, followed by the ramshackle band of mercenaries about thirty paces behind.

Walter looked to Grimbald and gestured for him to speak.

“Your names and business in the great city of Midgaard?” a voice demanded. The walls were incongruously tall, about the height of five houses stacked up. Death Spawn would have a hard time scaling it, but Shattered Wings…

He peered up, looking for the source of the voice and found a man in head to toe armor. On his helmet was a twin pair of red plumes swaying in the breeze like bloody horns.

“Me?” Grimbald whispered to Walter.

“Do you know of any other Midgaard Falcon Captain?”

“Right.” His hands traced the golden knots on his collar.

“A Captain? Why didn’t you tell me we were traveling with a man of such prestige?” Scab smirked and nudged Walter’s arm.

Wart and his horse snorted in unison.

“Grimbald Landon, Captain of the Falcon, Tower company,” Grimbald shouted up the wall.

Disbelieving mutterings spread across the battlements. “The Tower fell. You mean to say you survived?”

“We did,” Grimbald replied. “A few of my men did too.They’re back at Helm’s Reach, rebuilding the Tower’s presence there.”

“Very well, think I heard of that. Sorry about the questions, Captain. And your losses. I suppose you can guess why we’ve had to tighten up security. Who are your men? Don’t look like soldiers to me. More like a team of bandits.”

Scab raised his hand, index finger going up, mouth opening. Walter grabbed his arm and shook his head. “Stay quiet for once in your life,” he hissed at Scab. Scab’s mouth closed and he frowned at Walter.

Grimbald exhaled, cast a sidelong glance at Walter, then back up the wall. “They’re volunteers from Helm’s Reach. They’ll stay out of the heart of the city, mainly looking for beds and drink.”

“Very well. Plenty of taverns looking for patrons… people are scared to travel these days. Raise the gates!”

“Raise the gates!” Another voice echoed the command down to the men working the wheels and levers.

The clinking of great chains and the thumping of gears echoed from behind the massive stone blocks. The portcullis yawned open inch by inch and eventually yielded enough room to pass through. Walter’s horse walked into the shade of the archway, its cool air felt refreshing on his skin. He had to duck his head to avoid the gate’s jagged bottom.

Not much appeared to have changed on the outskirts of the city. There was a path scarred by wagon wheels and hooves that ran between farms on either side. The farms stretched out like green vistas to either end of the Wall, just a sliver of stone at this distance. These were the Nobel’s farms. Peasant’s farms were mostly outside the Wall’s protection. The farm owners weren’t nobles themselves, but merely employed by them.

A voice carried on the wind. “Move it, you lazy bastards. I don’t pay you to stand around and gossip, you’re here to work damn it!” The man wore well-tailored, clean clothing and shouted his orders from a low porch.

A shepherd prodded the hindquarters of a couple goats veering too far from the herd. They had departed from the main dirt path onto another’s farm to pilfer vegetables. The path was forged in a perfect line directly under the Blood Gates, marked with a pair of newly constructed archer’s towers on either side.

He grinned up at seeing the Midgaard palace looming on top of the mighty hill, almost a mountain, gleaming white like fresh cream in the light. Geodesic domes capped the palace’s towers, wide stretches of glass unlike the world had ever seen. The outlines of towers in the lower city stabbed into the sky, interspersed between houses with irregular rooflines. Walter didn’t understand it, but he’d overheard architects calling the odd rooflines art before. Art of the most useless type. They certainly were not designed for dispersing water or volcanic ash.

The low fieldstone wall before the Blood Gates had been built up to about fifteen strides and was now supported at the back with pillars of wood. Walter swallowed at seeing that. It reminded him of the Death Spawn horde pushing through the blown apart gates at the Tower. There was a lot of ground to cover between The Wall and the Blood Gates. There were at least ten archer’s towers between the barriers, now mainly guarding workers from pocketing vegetables. That was good, but was it enough to stop Death Spawn?

“The defenses look good. Better than I remember.” Grimbald echoed his thoughts.

Walter nodded at him. “Keep your eyes open for any weaknesses in their defenses.”

“I’m on it.”

“Out da’ way peasants, coming through!” a voice roared from behind. They pulled off to the side to let the creaking cart pass, loaded up with sacks of potatoes.

“Mind the berries, child.” A woman scowled at Walter. He looked down and found his mare’s hooves were trampling on a flourishing strawberry plant.

“Sorry about that.” He smiled uncomfortably and reined his horse back onto the road. She shook her head and spat. She resumed taking plucking strawberries from vines and putting them in a basket.

“It’s as if they’re preparing for war.” Scab rubbed his eye, yellow and green puss flaking off. “We’re safe here, aren’t we? I did not agree to defend against a siege.”

Walter snickered and gestured wildly like Scab. “Life is chaos. You’ve got to just accept things as they are, my dear friend.” He turned, grinning at him.

“Very clever, you bastard.” Scab grinned and the hint of metal gleamed from a tooth. “There’s no worry a good drink won’t solve.”

“Even a siege?” Walter could joke about it, even while remembering the horrors of it as if they had happened hours ago. It muted the pain, ever so slightly.

“Most things.” Scab pursed his cracked lips.

Walter peered over his shoulder to watch as the band made their way under the gates. More than a few soldiers threw wicked stares at them. Walter guessed it was their attempt at intimidation to prevent them from making bad decisions. The band walked in a respectful line along the road, huddled up together as fearful as a bunch of whipped dogs. Their wild bravado seemed to have departed. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Ah, we don’t go to major cities too often. Helm’s Reach never lets us in, nor the Tower, the Great Retreat… so they’ve come to making up stories about the plagues city folk carry. I give ‘em ‘til tonight before they’ll be ravaging the streets,” Scab said.

Walter groaned. “Try to keep them quiet before then. I’d like to make it least a night here before you get thrown out.”

He squinted his eye, searching for the familiar shape of the Lair’s spear-tip spire. There it was, his tower, standing alone down near the market quarters, built straight as an arrow. His father would have appreciated its craftsmanship. It was built with minimal frills. A small garden circled the top to gather the unobstructed sun and water. There were square windows surrounding the upper rooms, wide enough to let the air pass through, but under an overhang to prevent rain from flowing in.

“The Lair,” he whispered.

“Mm.” Grimbald hummed beside him.

He wanted to go there, to see if his bed still smelled like Nyset. Dragons did he miss her. Why had he left things so poorly with her? The thought of her angry at him gnawed like a biting Rot Fly you couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times you swatted at it.

When had he last been there? He had to think about it for a minute. It had been over three months. He would have to ask Baylan to… Baylan. No, he was dead, lost in the Shadow Realm. Like so many others. Baylan set a ward trap before they left that he was supposed to figure out how to disarm. Unless it had been triggered, he didn’t know how to get into his own home.

He let out a dejected sigh.

“What is it?” Grimbald asked.

“Nothing. We have to go see King Ezra. Will you come with me, Grim?”

Grimbald’s lips twisted.

“I could use the support.”

“Okay. As long as we stop by my favorite bakery after. Grumble’s Fiddlesticks.”

“Deal.” Walter chuckled.

“
D
amn it
, Thurber. Do you ever listen to a word I say? The walls make better notes of my orders.” King Ezra let out a rumbling belch. “I asked you months ago to tell the masons that they were to make the windows open.”

“But my liege, they do open.” Thurber said quietly. He turned to face the windows, a candle burned to a nub and fluttering on the end of his clipboard.

“Nonsense!” King Ezra waved his jeweled goblet, splashing at least half of its contents onto the marbled floor. It formed a pool of scarlet beside the golden throne. “They’re hardly cracked open, I want them able to be fully opened, damn it. The point is to allow the air to move through this damned room. Is that too hard for your elixir bean sized brain to understand, Thurber? My damned fruits are sticking to my legs.”

“No, sir.” Thurber said flatly, pretending to be scribbling something on his paper.

“Let me show you, Thurber.” King Ezra rose from his chair on wobbly legs and faced the windows. “Must I do everything myself?” he muttered. He hobbled over to the stained glass windows, slow as a tortoise, and jammed his tiny fist through the opening. His arm stopped when the window’s edge caught it. He twisted his hand around in the outside air. “See? My hand doesn’t even pass through the opening.” The beard shrouding his mouth in cottony hair vibrated as he spoke.

“Sir, your hand
is
outside.” Thurber peered at the King over his silver-rimmed spectacles.

“No more games Thurber. We have work to do. Who’s next?” The King shrugged his heavy brown and black spotted furs over his bony shoulders. He trudged back to his throne and fell into it when he drew near, as if his muscles had turned to dust.

“A peasant, sir.”

“Peasants,” he muttered. He thrust out his goblet and left it hanging in the air, expectant. Feet shuffled from behind the ornate dais and a boy in simple robes filled his cup to the brim with red wine.

“The noble King Ezra, how I’ve missed him,” Walter whispered into Grimbald’s ear.

“This place is amazing!” Grimbald’s head turned every way, taking it all in.

“Who’s that sitting beside him?”

“You’re joking?” Grimbald snickered.

Walter shrugged and narrowed his eyes at the saintly figure beside King Ezra. She wore cream-colored silks interwoven with tiny diamonds, making her body shine like light on water when she shifted in her seat. There was a volcanic eruption of ruffles that started at her neckline and trailed down her chest and around her shoulders.

On her head was a circlet with at least ten power diamond marks. Walter could make out the tiny Dragons trapped within, like a fireflies in beads of glass. In a time unknown, wizards could infuse marks with the essence of the Dragon. The art has long been lost, making them an incredibly precious commodity. Men were such strange creatures, only valuing possessions by their rarity rather than intrinsic utility.

It was rumored that the marks could be drained of their power to supplement one’s own, also a lost art. Walter guessed there would be little of the power in those tiny spheres and not much use.

“So who is it?” his voice felt distant as his eyes feasted on her curves.

“The Princess.” Grimbald replied.

Her eyes shifted from Thurber’s to his, a luminous blue. His heart jumped, his pulse hammering against his temples. She blinked at him, her lush eyelashes opening and closing like butterfly wings. She lowered her eyes and the beginnings of a coy smile touched her lips.

“Stay quiet until the King calls on you,” a member of the Black Guard hissed at him.

Walter felt his whole body jump as if struck. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths to get his heart rate down and ease his nerves.

The Black Guard’s scarred hands rested on his belt, studded with four daggers and a long sword. He wore overlapping leather armor, cut in hard angles and black as tar. Walter thought it unwise to have so many weapons around the king. There were that many more opportunities for a weapon to be stolen from your own belt and used against you. If Juzo were here, he could’ve grabbed a dagger and plunged into the king’s heart before anyone knew what happened.

Grimbald grunted, met the man’s eyes and turned away. He looked the floor to ceiling painting up and down. It depicted troops on the Wall fighting against an army of men riding cats the size of horses. Supposedly, they were the Tigerian’s and had tried to take the realm over five-hundred years ago.

The man in front of them shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. He clutched a rumpled hat in dirt creased hands and held it over his groin like that would protect him from King Ezra’s ignorance. Bits of plant matter clung to his trousers. His head was bald and white tufts of hair sprouted from every other spot on his pate. He was a farmer, Walter knew.

He and Grimbald had been waiting in the same corridor and breathing in the same dusty air for over two hours. It was adjacent to the king’s audience chamber, and they had been unable to see it until now. Walter found his feet involuntarily shifting from side to side, anything to keep his mind off of his bulging bladder. Where was a piss pot when you needed one?

He thought he should have felt some kind of pity for the princess with such a man as her father. He found he couldn’t give it much thought though. He had to focus on figuring out how he’d get an army out of King Ezra’s mad clutches.

Walter traced a finger along the smooth mortar of the walls, joints wide as his thumb. The stones twinkled with tiny crystals in a shaft of light. There was a window above the center of the hallway, occasionally sighing with warm air.

“Hand off the wall, cripple.” The Black Guard smirked.

Walter bit his tongue, drawing a bead of blood. He inhaled sharply through his nose, licked his lips and let the spike of rage slip out with his exhaled breath. This wasn’t the time nor the place, and he had to learn to let his ego slide. He relaxed his face and stared at the guard, like he was a piece of meat to be butchered. A breeze pushed through the windows and the paintings marching along the walls twitched.

Walter could hear Grimbald rumbling with a low growl, like a wolf to trapped prey.

The swishing of silks carried down the chamber and into the hallway. Walter peered around the edge as Thurber approached, his face drooping with boredom. He wore billowing forest green robes with gold thread around the collar and wrists. He donned a strange hat in the shape of a cylinder with tendrils of gold fabric that fell over his back.

“Please send in the next person for the King’s audience,” Thurber said to the Black Guard, who slowly pulled his gaze from Walter.

“Come,” the Black Guard barked.

The man before them shuffled forward and entered the chamber. He almost fell when his boot caught on the first step ascending to the dais. It flapped open like a mouth, showing his toes. “Sorry, sir. My King, sir,” he stammered.

“Uh, where do I stand? Here? There” The farmer pointed at different steps.

“There is fine,” Thurber intoned. He tossed his stub of charcoal in a pot and produced a new one from a pouch on his hip.

“This,” King Ezra gestured with his goblet. “Is my life.” He took a slurping sip. A droplet of red wine curled around his beard. “What do you want?”

“Uh—” The farmer dropped to his knees, head down.

Thurber noisily flipped a page on his clipboard, narrowly avoiding the burning candle. “He claims his farm was razed by the death, uh, things and seeks help.”

“Death Spawn, Thurber,” Ezra muttered.

“Right, Death Spawn.” Thurber coughed into his writing hand.

“Well, that’s downright ridiculous. We have patrols everywhere. It’s impossible for the Midgaard Falcon, the most disciplined men in all the realms, to have missed anything. Impossible, damn it.”

“Impossible, sir?” Thurber raised his razor thin eyebrows.

“Dragons, Thurber. Have you no loyalty at all to your benevolent King?” Ezra ground his palms into the arms of his throne. The ends were molded into lion’s heads with rubies for eyes.

“Of course, my liege. I was merely saying—”

“I haven’t got all day secretary. You do know how to waste my time, don’t you? Why I haven’t I replaced you yet?”

Thurber audibly swallowed and took a step back away from the throne. His clipboard came up by his side, as if he were preparing to hurl it at him. He scratched the arm holding it and then lowered it, his nostrils flaring open.

The King leaned over in his throne and spoke into his daughter’s ear, seeming to forget everyone could hear him unless he lowered his voice. “Now, pay close attention, Larissa. You may have to deal with this sort of rabble if your king isn’t up for the task or has to travel.”

“Yes, father,” she whispered.

Ezra peered at the farmer and scowled. “Out with it already. What is it that you need?”

A pregnant silence crept into the chamber.

“Me, sir?”

Ezra stared at him, eyes hooded. He took a glug of wine, swished it around then swallowed. He leaned over onto his side, half of his ass in the air and let out a cheek-vibrating fart.

Thurber’s eyes peeled apart and his eyebrows tried to escape his forehead.

The farmer started. “Well, my king, there were patrols as you said so, yes. They came and—” He peered up at Ezra, then looked off to the side.

“And?” King Ezra beckoned with jeweled fingers.

“They were killed.” The farmer croaked. “By the monsters, the Death Spawn. They burned everything we had. More soldiers came to help, they did. The soldiers killed them right and good, but by then it was already too late. Not just my farm either. Couple other’s farms too. Kasey’s and Marvin’s among ‘em.”

Thurber’s wide eyes looked enormous behind his spectacles, unblinking.

Larissa leaned forward in her chair, one hand on her delicate chin.

King Ezra let out a great sigh, all the air in his body seeming to leak out. He slumped against the back of his chair as if he’d just taken a crippling body blow. “How many?”

“Patrols or Death Spawn?” The farmer’s hands massaged his hat.

“How many dead, you dolt!” King Ezra snapped.

“Oh.” The farmer sniffed. “Three, my liege. They fought hard to save us. I’ll never forget their sacrifice.”

“Why are you here?” The King upturned his goblet into his mouth and gave it a shake, then held it out to be refilled. The cupbearer was there in an instant, filled his goblet, and scurried back into the shadows behind the chamber.

The farmer pressed himself lower into the marbled floor. “I was hoping, your majesty, there’d be some help from the city. To help me rebuild my farm and my dwelling. For the sake of my children.”

“No, no. You misunderstand my question.” He wagged his index finger at the farmer and his eyes formed into wrinkly slits “Why are you alive?”

The farmer turned back, looking into Walter’s eyes, wrought with defeat. He slowly turned to face the king. “I hid. Me and my sons and daughters. We hid in the root cellar. Was too afraid to do much.” His head sagged onto his chest. “Did nothing but sat there like scared babes.”

“As I suspected.” King Ezra tilted his chin up and scratched his neck. “Thurber, send for the barber. I need a shave, my beard grows unruly.”

Thurber made a note and strode through an archway, exiting the chamber. He was likely thrilled to have a few moments away from the king.

King Ezra opened his palms in a gesture of helpless innocence. “Our coffers are quite empty. I deeply apologize, for the city cannot give you compensation for your losses.”

“But I pay my fair share of taxes every fortnight. Never a day missed in seventeen years.” He rose up, sitting on his knees, back straight. “I understand things are hard…” The farmer’s head turned to face the eastern wall, made up of mainly glittering gems and mortar to hold it all together. His face was bathed in reds, greens and blues of the afternoon sun. “But there must be some way you can help?” he pleaded.

“I understand that you’re a fool,” the king muttered. “There’s nothing I can do for you. Next!” He nodded towards a Black Guard, who darted forward like a cat.

“Nothing? Not even seed? Some wood maybe?” The farmer stood up and the Black Guard’s big arms slid under his, dragging him on his heels. “No, but wait!” the farmer yelled. “You have to help us!”

The king jerked up out of his throne, his face a thunderhead. “You and your family should’ve fought back. Maybe your farm wouldn’t have been burned if you weren’t such a coward. This world has no room for cowards!” He pointed and jabbed with his finger, wine slopping out of the goblet in his other hand.

“Father,” Larissa placed a hand on his arm, gently lowering it.

“I’m not a fighter, damn you!” the farmer shouted.

“Stop resisting,” the Black Guard said into his ear.

“Without me, without us you and everyone wouldn’t have a scrap to feed upon.” He leaned forward, bared his teeth, and pressed his feet into the stone.

The Black Guard released one of his arms, and drove hard a fist into the farmer’s lower back.

He cried out and fell to his knees, sobbing.

“Stop your whimpering.” The Black Guard dragged him up, limp legs trailing on the stone.

“Damn peasants!” Ezra roared. “It’s never enough for you. Always wanting something more. You shouldn’t have farmed outside the Wall. That was a risk you elected to take.”

“We had no choice my king, no choice. Couldn’t afford anything else.”

“Get him out of my sight, Lajoy!” Ezra threw his furs over the back of this chair.

Walter’s jaw hung open, staring as Lajoy dragged the farmer into the corridor, passing him and Grimbald. Walter remembered Lajoy now, the first Black Guard he had the misfortune of meeting. A few sprigs of his golden hair fanned out from under his midnight helmet. The farmer’s eyes were closed tight, tears trickling down his cheeks.