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

The middle ring, cleverly named the Middle, was much narrower by comparison to the outer, wide enough for a modest house on each side of the walls and a road for two carts to pass abreast. The middle ring was where the work was done. Blacksmith’s hammers sang on armor and echoed over the walls. The scent of fresh bread occasionally touched her nose. The roads were loosely packed cobbles, worn flat over the years.

The outer ring was known as a Dirt Ring, where the majority of the populace lived in squalor. They lived in over-packed hovels and survived on the scraps the few charitable denizens of the Middle left them. Unlucky pigeons were a dinner staple. You would be considered fortunate if you were to capture a particularly plump one. The roads were trodden soil, hard packed with heavy use and dotted with scraggly weeds. The outer ring was protected by low fieldstone walls, easily scaled by Death Spawn with a great leap and clawed hands. They were in dire need of a team of masons to patch and fortify it. It would have to be built taller and topped with spikes, like the Tower had. The few masons were already working themselves into early graves.

Nyset’s eye was captured by a pair of dueling Clyon lizards. They each had four horns around their scaled heads, about the size of her fist. There was a loud crack as their heads and horns collided. Their scales were violet in color and stark in the low grasses. At the end of their long tails were barbs as long as her arm, dripping with paralyzing sap. One lashed with its tail at the other, hissing across ground and kicking up dust. Her gelding whinnied and snorted when it saw them, dancing away from their battle. Nyset should have expected that, but her mind was elsewhere. She gave the reins a hard pull, getting the gelding under control, its eyes rolling.

The denizens of Helm’s Reach and the Earl Baraz had believed the lies that King Ezra perpetuated. Midgaard was a safe and happy place. Zoria was a peaceful realm where only dreams became reality. Fiction was always easier to believe, the truth a sour tincture, she thought wearily. They had never known war, or rather hadn’t remembered it. They were enamored in their petty feuds. They had forgotten who their real enemy was. The Tower hadn’t forgotten. She would not forget. Nothing would drain a city’s coffers faster than civil disobedience, she had read. That was something Helm’s Reach had in great supply. She would have to remedy that at some point. But how?

It was about a thirty-minute ride back to the gates, if they could be called that. She was so lost in thought she was surprised to see them approaching already. It wouldn’t take more than twenty Death Spawn to breach them in their current state. The crosshatched bars were pitted and corroded from years of neglect. She wondered how deeply the rust had penetrated the iron. How many slams from a battering ram would it take to pry them apart? They would need to be replaced and would cost marks, something the city was short on.

Even the Tower’s walls were breached, but they had to try. It’s what Walter, the late Arch Wizard Bezda Lightwalker and Baylan Spear would have done.

She sighed. The thought of the fallen opened fresh wounds, tearing at her heart and twisting her guts into knots. She felt so alone in this fight. The wind cut at her cheeks, pulling warm tears across the corners of her eyes and into her hair.

Sure, she had Juzo, Grimbald, survivors and new volunteers to help, but the ultimate responsibility was hers. Nyset carried the burden the day she declared herself Arch Wizard after the Tower fell. It was strapped to her back like an iron block, threatening to drown her if she slipped from the treacherous path. She had to be strong for everyone else. Humanity needed to see a hero and so did she.

She saw the way people looked at her. They looked to her the way you saw a lone candle in the dark. She was their last glimmer of hope. When their eyes were bold enough to find hers, they seemed to be waiting for words of encouragement, but none came from her lips.

The stone walls around the gates were crumbling. Between the gates were wide archer’s towers, dense with arrow-slit windows. As long as their enemies came through the front gate, they might have a fighting chance. Mortar slipped from between the stones with a hard rap from the guard’s spear butt. The archer’s towers had remained vacant until the Tower fell. Now they bristled with guards. Nyset was glad they were starting to feel the fear. The Silver Tower was only three miles away, still merrily burning and sending a dark plume into the sky. She heard a sword pulled from a scabbard and the screech of a hawk as she drew closer.

“Sorry, Arch Wizard, thought I heard something,” a guard called out over the parapet, one hand held over his eyes, the other gripping a long sword. He was staring into the sky, seeing the hawk lazily swirling on the boiling air. “Something wrong m’lady, er Arch Wizard?” the guard seemed to remember what that title meant and stiffened his back.

“Oh, no. Just the wind.” She sniffed and wiped the damp from the corners of her eyes. She left two dark blue dots of wet on her silks. The guard frowned down at her and sheathed his blade. He feigned at patrolling the wall, all the while keeping his eyes on her.

She pulled her gelding up behind the guard chipping away at the wall with his spear, the mortar crumbling like old bread. She dismounted. “Planning to rebuild it after?” The guard turned his head mid-strike, peering over his shoulder at her. His jaw hung open when he saw her. She waited for him to say something, but his reddening cheeks did the speaking for him. “Did I stutter?”

“Uh, no, no, Arch Wizard.”

“What do you know of masonry?”

The guard shrugged uncomfortably, armored shoulder plates clinking against his back-plate. “Know a little from my father,” he squeaked in a womanish voice.

“Good. You’re going to get twenty of your friends and teach them what you know. You’ll lead the fortification of the walls here at the gates. If you have any questions, you can bring them to the master mason.”

“But I—”

“Do you question my authority?”

“No.”

Nyset was quivering under her robes, doing her best to keep it from creeping through her voice. She wanted to puke up the bile in her stomach, right there onto the rough cobbles and fall to the ground weeping. She wasn’t ready for this burden. She hoped the guards staring at her over the wall and through the arrow slits took her silence for foreboding, or rage. She finally spoke and other conversations had cut off around her. “Do you see what remains of the Silver Tower?” She stabbed her finger to the south at the sinuous smoke.

“I was there,” she spat in his face. “I watched men split in half, beheaded, burning, screaming, pleading for mercy and yelling for their mothers.” She had to be strong. “The Death Spawn boiled over our walls, spitted wizards like Shroomlings on their spears.” She had to inject the fear into their bones. “They took everything from me!” They had to know their enemy. “And here you are, weakening our walls for our enemies,” she said softly. Someone coughed on the parapet.

The man’s eyes were wide and he cleared his throat, his tongue working at his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, hardly a whisper. She could see he was young now, at least three years younger than Walter. Had she gone too far? These emotions could only remain corked for so long.

“What’s your name?” Nyset asked with measured control.

“Cazius.” His eyes were down, his confidence withering like an old elixir cherry.

“Cazius, fix the wall.” She rested a hand on his shoulder plate. Then turned, mounting the gelding.

“Yes, Arch Wizard, yes of course, of course.” Cazius nodded furiously.

“The enemy is real,” she said, loud enough for all the guards to hear. “Our enemies do not take prisoners. Prepare yourselves. Prepare your families, for what burned the Tower is death itself. There are dark days ahead. Your time is precious. We must make every minute count.” She punched her hand, now lit with Dragon fire into her open palm, sparks showering the air. “Do it for all of us and for the fate of humanity.”

“Constant vigilance!” a guard shouted, his gleaming gauntlet raised. Others joined him in a mix of unsure cries. Some glowered at her and she saw more than a few ghastly faces. One guard started sharpening a sword. An archer twanged a frayed bowstring. It was a start at least.

She took in a great breath of air and held it in her lungs as she rode under the gates. She could feel the hundreds of eyes on her, following her as she rode. She would not cry, she would not. Sweat trickled down her temples. She found brown and blue eyes staring down at her through the murder holes under the parapet. The story would spread like wild fire by the end of the day, as she hoped it would.

W
alter ran
. The air was hot in his chest, his breath heaving, acid burning in his aching legs. How was he alive? Shouldn’t he be dead, unfeeling? He pawed at his throat, pressed at the thick coils of tissue around his neck like a garrote of scars. He spared a glance back over his shoulder. The beast was almost upon him. His heart was a storm of the ages, beating against his ribs. He willed his legs to move faster, could feel its humid breath prickling his skin. He could hear its pincers clanging off the stones like thousands of swords, harsh and biting in his ears. He couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t stop to catch his breath. Something felt like it was burning the skin on the back of his neck. He had to ignore it for now. It was a minor pain. Something he could easily stuff into the back of his mind.

He was shirtless and sticky with a sheen of sweat. His flesh was twisted and mutilated with battle scars. Brutal stretches of thickened flesh ran in every direction across his chest, around his back, and up his ribs. Up and down his arms were tens of white, raised mountains of scars. They had healed at least. His skin felt tighter where they were, resisting his movements. Where had his armor gone? On his waist was his sword belt. His Breden stamped long sword banged against his hip with every footfall. He wore simple woolen trousers and soft leather boots.

The demon had said he was in the Shadow Realm. Had he died? There had to be more than this. He should have been at peace now. The war should have ended for him. He was tired, so terribly tired. Maybe the stories were wrong after all. Maybe there would never be rest. The Shadow Realm was supposed to be a place of rest.

He didn’t know how long he had been running. Minutes? Days? Time felt like it stretched out here. There was no sun, no moon, or stars to hang hope on. There was only him and the gnashing of teeth at his back. He swung his arms harder, driving his feet with his upper body. He was falling and catching himself with his legs before crashing onto his face. It wasn’t running as much as it was a continuous stumbling on rubbery limbs. Part of him wanted to give up, but that just wouldn’t do. He would fight until the bitter end, even in the arms of death.

It was time to stand. How long had he been running? The question plagued his mind. He couldn’t discern an answer that made rational sense. Where was everyone? He caught his footfalls for the last time, boots planted and sliding across the smooth cobblestones. He whirled around, knuckles bone white. Everything was shrouded in shadow but an ellipse spreading from his feet, bright with an unseen light. The veins of the cobblestones were dark, as if held together by shadows alone.

His pursuer crept into the light, hundreds of pincers gently tapping on the stones. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, anything to stop the trembling in his legs. He ground his teeth together, gums sore, lips pulling into a snarl. His stomach felt like it was twisting into knots.

Walter rubbed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, it would all go away. He would be back in his bed, waking from the nightmare. It was all just a bad dream. Nyset would be there, warm against him and he would bury his nose into her hair. The nightmare did not fade.

A deep, rumbling, mocking laughter came from the beast. “There is no escape,” it hissed. He thought maybe if he ran long enough it, or he, would become something else. It didn’t. He didn’t. Its narrow face came into the light. Six eyes blinked with a series of clicks. An incredible mouth spread apart in a greedy smile. The mouth was lined with thick, sharpened teeth. Four arms wound out from inside the mouth. The arms were scaled like a lizard’s hide and terminated with metallic claws. Upon the apex of its head was a straight horn the length of his torso, built like a tower of bone.

“I don’t plan to escape,” he replied. The sound of his voice was different, rasping and sending a shudder of panic through his stomach. The beast’s eyes bulged from its long head, a claw darting for his neck. Walter twisted and bladed his body, raised his forearm to block and allowed its arm to slip over his head. Another arm came, chopping into his ribs and crushing and cracking them within its pincers. He bellowed a mix of agony and rage, back viciously arcing. Blood rolled down his ribs and onto his stomach, pooling at his waist.

How did he forget his weapon? His sword was out in a flash, slashing at the third arm and chopping into it. It was still broken, more a jagged dagger than a sword. It still did the job. The wounded arm flopped back into the beast’s mouth and the other released its hold on his ribs. Blood seeped from between its porcelain teeth and down its stubby chin. Walter felt his blood flowing down his legs, warm against his thighs.

He sheathed his broken sword, took a step back, and raised his chin. He hoped the beast would see this as a sign of defeat. The monster grinned and its mouth hissed open. The wounded arm flopped out, a dead snake against its chin, the other three snapping for his body.

Walter’s eyes narrowed and he leaped to its flank, landed on one of its squat legs and immediately pushed off again, arms outstretched, lips tugging into a grimace. His arms snapped like a bear trap around its horn and yanked its head back. The horn felt rough like an old bone in his arms, pressed and scratching against his chest. He planted his boots and dug his heels into its head, jerking it further back and producing a deep crack. The monster writhed and shrieked, smashed its pincers into the ground, head whipping and trying to buck Walter off.

Walter saw dark blood trickling out the base of the horn, realizing where the crack came from. His lips formed a wolfish smile and he started laughing.

“Die! Die!” He roared and smashed his heel into the horn, sinking his entire body weight into it as he kicked. Again, again, and again he kicked, harder and harder, horn cracking and splitting up the middle. The beast’s fury enraged him further, feeding his hate, filling him with the urge to destroy. Blood welled out from the horn, spreading down its face, neck, squelching on his boots with each savage kick. The beast smashed its head to the side as Walter kicked and the horn finally broke with a booming crack. Walter was tossed from its back, hurling through the darkness. He rolled across the stones, the horn clutched in his arms like a newborn baby.

He coughed, took a ragged breath, and rose onto one leg. The beast had collapsed. Its legs and hundreds of arms spread out under its snake like body. A fountain of blood softly bubbled from the top of its head, bony shards of white protruding in the red. It was as if he pulled the cork from a wine skin and inverted it. He rose to his feet and blood pattered from the end of the horn onto the tips of his boots. The dripping blood was like thunder in his ears, the only sound he could hear.

Something interrupted the thunder, screeching like a hawk from behind. Another beast slipped from the shadows. It had a scarlet eye as big as his head surrounded by three angular mouths. He didn’t think, simply reacted. He wrapped the wide end of the horn tight under his bicep in one arm and gripped the narrow end like a spear with the other. He lunged into the creature, ramming the horn’s tip into its eye.

The monster shrieked and blood showered from its impaled eye onto his cheeks. The wide end of the horn dug into his arm and side from the force of the blow, cutting and burning. Walter growled with ferocity, jabbing the horn into its eye again and again. Its blood slapped against his body with pleasing streaks. The creature slumped to the ground, tongues like vipers lolling from its mouths. Its body was amorphous, seeming to function without bones.

Something hit him in the back and white-hot pain lanced across his flesh. The force of the blow sent him staggering forward, his horn slipping from his warm and sticky fingers. Walter fumbled for it and seized only air as the ground vanished. He was falling, feet seeking purchase, red and black whirling past his vision. He fell head over heels, felt like his body was being pounded by smith’s hammers as he tumbled. His boot snagged on something, torn free from his foot and left behind. He finally stopped, rolling face down in a strange liquid, clinging to consciousness by a string.

Where am I?
I can feel my body sinking deeper. Deeper into…
Walter gagged, rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting out sheets of red. He was in a river, or a stream, trapped by valleys of ruby stones on either side. The river was hot, thick, and metallic tasting.
Blood. No, it couldn’t be.
He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, retching out globs of congealing blood. The blood swirled between his fingers and over his hands. It ran up his legs and filled his boot. He stared down into the river of blood, seeing his ghastly reflection in its winding eddies.

“Where am I?” he screamed, his voice ragged. He stumbled onto his feet and then fell against the sloped stones, his bare foot extracted from the red channel. “Where is everyone?” He sobbed. His bare foot slipped and one of his toes caught on something, cutting into it. “Damn it! Fuck!”

He looked down at his blood-covered foot. The ground wasn’t stones or rubies at all, but scarlet skulls. They were laughing at him, smiling like it was all a good joke. The valleys surrounding the river of blood were nothing but skulls. Heaping towers of them, packed tight enough to walk on. A laugh erupted from his throat, vibrating in his chest. His mouth formed a wicked smile. He dislodged his toe, freeing it from the skull’s yawning eye socket. “What is this? Why am I here?” He screamed.

“Hello? Help!” A shrill voice cried. Someone was splashing through the river in the distance, holding something gleaming. A sword maybe. Walter felt a spark of warmth in his chest at the sight of someone else.

“I’m here!” Walter yelled and waved. “Over here!”

The man screamed and waved. “Run! Run!” Walter could see the man was dressed in Midgaard Falcon armor, red plume matted back against his helmet.

“What?” Shadows were rolling behind the man like a wave. There were so many, too many of them. “Shit!” He scanned the ground, looking for the horn. There it was on the other side of the river, glistening with a mix of wet and drying blood. He snatched it in his arms, his breath gasping. “Make it stop. It has to stop…”

The man drew closer. He was at least twenty paces away, waves of blood spilling over his armor as he shuffled through the river. The soldier seemed to smile at him and paused for second, staring in disbelief. His eyes were a walnut brown and red with irritation.

He wasn’t alone. “Run!” Walter screamed. Why had he stopped?

A talon screeched against the man’s armor as it slid through his back and out his chest. The talon’s bony protrusions were pinked with his blood. Another one followed and proceeded to split the man down the middle, tearing him into two ragged halves. Two corkscrewing limbs the length of Walter hurled the pieces of the man’s body aside like butcher’s scraps. Behind the limbs was a beast with an oval shaped eye, its pupil the size of Walter’s head.

“No, no.” Walter stammered. He gritted his teeth, gripped the horn so tight he cracked a fingernail, but he didn’t feel it. He heard the crack, thought he should have felt something. He sprinted at the shadows, fury painting his heart with vengeance. His muscles quivered with rage, veins stark on his forearms. If he would die, he would die fighting.

He growled and sprung into the air, horn clutched overhead. He slammed the horn into the top of a bulbous creature, extracted it with a jet of blood. Another slashed at his back with what he thought might be tongues as long as lashes. He turned and dropped the horn, let them wrap around his arm then hacked them off with the remains of his sword. The wheezing monster was built like an ill tree, scraggly and gnarled, tongues oozing dark blood. It slumped against the wall of skulls, flatly regarding him with its hundreds of eyes.

He heard the screams of women coming from behind. He whirled, seeing three of them fleeing from a beast with an upside down face, wide mouthed with flat white teeth. Its flesh was reddish, shadowed in places, impossible to make any sense of its form. It was leaping like a rabbit, rapidly closing the gap between them. It had at least ten waving snakes sprouting and hissing from its head.

They were dressed like apprentices of the House of the Dragon, a shade of red he distinctly remembered. One girl reached a bloody hand for him, though he was much too far to reach back. It pounced on the two slowest women, mouth spreading open like a chasm. It didn’t stop. It continued bounding with their bodies dangling out of its mouth, chewing and grinding through their legs, bones snapping with loud cracks. One tried to pry open its jaw, another slammed her dagger into its mouth, clanging like metal on metal. It had a single limb it sprang upon, thick, wide and shimmering with blades at the end.

“This is all just a dream. Just a really bad dream,” he whispered.

There was nothing he could do for them now. The monster reached the last woman, blades slashing over her back and cutting her down, falling upon her with its incredible maw.

“When I open my eyes, this all will be gone and I’ll be back in the real world, back in reality.” He let out a tremulous laugh. “Back in my warm bed.” He ran further down the river, away from the horrors behind. He understood the blood now, knew its source. He knew he would soon be part of it.

“He fights so hard! The irony is that the more enraged he becomes, the more he fuels the hatred of future generations of rapists and murders,” A sensual feminine voice said everywhere but nowhere.

“What? Where are you?” Walter screamed into the sky. There was a moon he saw now—scarlet and dim as candlelight. The sky responded with silence. Was there no end to the cruelty of the gods?