City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) (2 page)

“Of course.”

“What happened here?” he asked.  “To the Wastes, I mean?  Were they always like this?  Or was it the Tuscars doing?”

“The Tuscars didn’t come to the Heartfang Wastes until after the war had already started,” Jonas said, his eyes still shut.  His tone was slow and articulate, and everything that came out of his mouth sounded like a reprisal.  He sat cross-legged on the ground, his hands to his sides and his eyes closed.  Everyone in Silver Company was uneasy around the Den’nari advisor, who easily stood out from the others with his dark skin, the runic tattoos on his face and arms, and his strange weapons, chief among them the
raak’ma
.  Jonas was aloof and haughty at the best of times, and the fact that Jlantria and Den’nar had been bitter enemies for hundreds of years prior to the war certainly didn’t help anyone’s impressions of him.  He was the only non-Jlantrian in the Company.  “They descended from the Skull of the World at the Blood Queen’s behest.  It was the first time they’d ever come this close to humans.”  He opened his eyes and looked off to the distance.  “No…the Wastes were dead long before the Tuscars came here and claimed them as their home.”

Corgan chewed on a piece of jerky.  It tasted like salt, and little else.  “Then what made this place into such a lifeless shitfield?” he asked.  “What happened to whatever
used
to live here, before the Tuscars?”

“No one knows,” Jonas said.  “It has been dead here for a very long time.”  He took a sip of water from his flask.  “Even before the Blood Queen started the war, her presence was felt in the Wastes.  This is where she was born, but her foul presence had touched this land long before that.”  He looked at Corgan and Merrick.  “The Heartfang anticipated her arrival before she even existed.”

Corgan licked his dry lips.  “And how does
that
work?” he asked.

“If I knew that – if
anyone
knew that – perhaps we wouldn’t be here now,” Jonas said.  “But you and I both know the Blood Queen’s war against the Empires was a long time in the making.  Maybe longer than any of us realize.”  Jonas rose, picked up his weapon, and walked away.

Merrick looked confused, and frightened.  He turned his eyes back to his food.

Corgan watched Jonas.  The Den’nari had different beliefs regarding the Blood Queen’s origins and heritage than the Veilwarden Houses of Jlantria did, and while Corgan found some of Jonas’s views borderline heretical he had to admit that something about the man’s words rang true.

This
was
a long time coming. 
He’d been brought up fearing the Black Dawn, the end of days.  Part of him believed that time was now.

A chill wind carrying the scent of burning pitch whipped out of the west.  Corgan heard wolves in the distance.  His fingers were chilled to the bone, and cold mud had caked to his face.

The Company rested as best they could.  They conversed and told stories and wrote letters to their loved ones like they’d actually be delivered someday, even though they all knew that wasn’t likely to happen.

Masks
, Corgan thought. 
Masks we wear to hide us from the cold truth.  Because we’re all going to die.

Corgan still felt the icy touch of the rain long after it stopped. 
Goddess, I miss home
.

In spite of the Company’s best efforts, several of Corgan’s men had been infected by the Vampire Mist’s blighted touch. Four soldiers were dead by midday, and two more were too weakened from the blood-draining sickness to continue on foot.  There was no one to properly care for the dying men since the Company surgeon, Mavalth, had died several days ago, and one of the newly dead was Kraig, the only other soldier among them with medical expertise.

The Company only had a handful of horses left, but Corgan ordered that two of the mounts be used to carry the dying soldiers, Carak and Turvan, both from the village of Grath.  Everyone knew the loss of the mounts would only be temporary.

The marshy soil gradually gave way to crusted dark earth which flaked and cracked under their boots.  The unmoving sun was a stain in the wounded sky.  A grimy taste clung to the back of Corgan’s throat, and his hands had gone dry and chalky where the mud stuck to his skin.  Muscles ached deep in his legs, and his mind drifted while they marched. 

Four more soldiers are dead
, he thought,
and two more will follow shortly
.  That meant they were down to fifty-one men from over four hundred, and they still had an eternity to travel. 
Goddess, what did we do to deserve this?

“Sir?” Apart from the monotonous stamping of booted feet and the chink of armor, Merrick’s voice was the first sound Corgan had heard in quite some time.  The boy looked pale and haggard.  “Sir,” Merrick said again, “I hate to ask this, but…how long till we reach Chul Gaerog?”

A sensation of dread crept up Corgan's spine even from hearing the name of that place.  The Black Tower.  The Blood Queen’s redoubt.  The place where the war began, and hopefully where it would end.

“I’m not sure, lad,” he said.  “Maybe another day.  You should check with Jonas.”

“Sir…” Merrick said hesitantly.  He was a big man, but he spoke softly, and he often stammered his way through sentences rather than speaking them.  “Do we have enough men?  We lost so much of the Company back at The Throat …”

“We’re going to Chul Gaerog,” Corgan said plainly.  “Even if you and I are the only ones left, and you have to carry my decrepit old ass over your shoulder.  But we’re going to Chul Gaerog.”

“Sir…yes, Sir.”

“Enough ‘Sir’, all right? Call me Colonel Bloodwine.  Or just Corgan.  I hate that ‘Sir’ nonsense.” 

We can’t go back
, Corgan told himself. 
Hell, we wouldn’t
make
it back.
  They were several days from the edge of the Wastes no matter which direction they travelled, but hopefully they were less than a day from Chul Gaerog.  It came down to a choice of turning back and dying slow or pressing on to die fast. 

“Can I speak frankly, Sir?” Merrick said.  Even when he tried to be quiet he had something of a booming voice.

“Only if you stop calling me ‘Sir’,” Corgan said. 

Merrick laughed nervously.  “Colonel…I have to wonder how much good we can do at Chul Gaerog.”  He stared at the ground as he marched.

The boy was right, and Corgan knew it.  Still, every available soldier not already engaged with enemy forces was bound for the Black Tower.  He only hoped the other Companies hadn’t suffered the same severe casualties his had.  His men had been ambushed, cut off and separated from the rest of the White Dragon Army, and now they were all but stranded in the Wastes.  They’d tried without any success to locate friendly forces.  There just
had
to be more of them out there in the Heartfang – theirs was just one of a number of Companies organized as part of the offensive against the tower, the last major strike meant to cut the heart from their enemy.  But being alone for days on those dismal plains had made them lose hope they’d find anyone else in the skeins of black fog.  All they could do now was press forward.

They’d never considered turning back.  It would be treason and blasphemy, and there was too much at stake.  The only thing to do was keep going, even if the way forward meant death.

What horrors he’d seen.  Men who shot fire from their eyes.  Heads ripped from bodies at the whispered commands of black warlocks.  War machines fueled with blood.  Everyone knew tales of foul Arkan sorcery swallowing up towns, Tuscar war beasts bigger than sea galleons, cruel Vossian siege fortresses secretly constructed beneath human cities.  Corgan believed every one of those tales as surely as he believed in the One Goddess herself, for he’d seen proof of many of them, and he’d seen other things, darker things. 

Things no man should ever see.

Somehow the united forces of Jlantria and Den’nar had held their ground against the Blood Queen’s hordes in the south while also contending with her Galladorian allies to the north.  Now, after a decade of fighting and with Gallador’s unexpected fall, they’d finally managed to drive the Blood Queen’s forces back into the Heartfang Wastes.  There was still hope.

It’s just hard to believe it when you’re walking through
this
.

“It’s almost over,” Corgan said, his eyes straight ahead.  “There’s no way to know how
anyone
will fare at Chul Gaerog.” 
I just know we have to try.

“Yes, Colonel,” Merrick said after a moment.  He looked disappointed, but more than that he looked embarrassed.

“It’s all right, son,” Corgan said. 

Merrick nodded and fell back in with the others.

A low howl rang out from the distance.  Dripping red clouds hung low in the sky.  They walked in silence.  Another howl came, and then another.  Silver Company marched on, their eyes glazed, their feet as heavy as stones.  They eventually stopped to bury the bodies of Carak and Turvan. 

They were careful not to overwork the horses.  Sweat slathered across the beast’s necks and flanks, and though there was little fluid to spare Corgan ordered they be watered regularly.  Someone’s life could depend on them later.

Corgan walked ahead of his men.  Pain pulsed up his shins with each step, and his shoulders ached like someone had strapped lead weights to his back.  Every fiber of muscle in his body begged for rest as he marched across the ebon landscape.  Dull sunlight pained his eyes. 

He needed sleep.  The sight of his men shuffling along and holding their blades like they didn’t know how to use them filled him with dread, but Corgan moved through the waking nightmare with grim resolve.  There was, after all, no way to wake up.

Jonas fell in time beside him.  Corgan hadn’t seen him approach, but he rarely did.  Jonas’s face betrayed no emotion, and of all of the men of Silver Company he showed the least signs of pain or fatigue.  He was a bit thinner than when he’d first come under Corgan’s command, but aside from that the ranger appeared no worse for wear.  The Den’nari people were like that – their soft words and mystic ways concealed what a hardened folk they truly were.

“We don’t have anywhere else to go,” Corgan said, so quiet that at first he wasn’t sure if Jonas had heard him, but after a moment the other man nodded, so Corgan went on.  “We won’t make it out of the Wastes.  We’re too far in.  I was hoping we’d run into some of the other Companies by now…”  Corgan ran his gloved hand over his face.  He had to stay awake, stay alert.  “Maybe we’re the only ones left,” he laughed.

“I doubt that,” Jonas said.

“It was a joke,” Corgan sighed.

“It wasn’t funny.”

That itself almost made Corgan laugh.  “I want to go home,” he said, and he regretted it almost instantly.  That wasn’t something to be said in front of one of his men, especially not to an outsider who didn’t even share his religious beliefs.  “She has to die,” he said.  “The Blood Queen has to die.  Otherwise it will just start all over again, and sooner or later she’ll win.”  He took a drink from his water flask.  His lips were cracked and grimy.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Jonas said stoically.  His voice almost sounded approving.  “The men will do their best.  They’re tired, they’re afraid, and they have their doubts, but they’re only human.  And that’s what this is all about.”

Jonas quickened his pace, and left Corgan alone.

Corgan thought of Ral Tanneth. 

The waters of the Grey Sea softly collided against the distant shores, and the shadows of birds soared low through the silver sky.  The city’s domed rooftops glittered copper and gold; arched bridges ran between the towers.  Robed citizens wound their way through the streets, going about their business without any knowledge of the Blood Queen or the war, because none of that had happened yet.  The only fighting was on the far side of the Empire, minor border skirmishes or maritime engagements against Gallador or Den’nar, nothing on the same level of devastation and loss that would follow in the next few years.

The memory was vivid.  Corgan smelled berries and heard the music of strings, felt the warm sun on his face and the cool and misty air. That was how Ral Tanneth had been, before the war.

Corgan had also been different.  He saw a younger version of himself, with a full head of black hair and a proud posture, his face chiseled and clean-shaven.  What a sight he must have been now.  He hadn’t shaved in months, and he bore several ugly scars, but beyond those physical differences he was a different man now, worn thin and beaten by the hammers of war.  He saw it in the others, as well, especially Merrick, who’d once shone so bright he might have been chiseled from the sun, but who now held the look of someone trying not to see what lay directly ahead, whose eyes always searched for something that wasn't there.

Corgan had been in love once, to a girl named Tyrene from a small village north of Irontear.  At least it felt like love, but they’d never really said the words.  They hadn’t been able to spend much time together thanks to Corgan’s constant duties, but they made what time they had count: sitting by the stream, making love in inns or by the river, walking long walks and talking of little things. 

I miss you so much. 

He hadn’t seen Tyrene since the war began, nearly a decade ago.  For all he knew she was dead, just another one of the countless casualties.

Corgan silently damned the Blood Queen, with her cabals and armies and monsters.  Jlantria and Den’nar might only temporarily hold the advantage over her and her demonic brood, but it was the first glimmer of hope they’d possessed since the fighting had started.

He just prayed he’d live long enough to see her die.

The day wore long.  Corgan lost track of the hours as they marched.

The clink of armor and barding filled his ears.  Corgan gazed through drifts of red smoke and watched the vacant horizon.  He smacked his lips in thirst.  He was just about to reach for his canteen when a tremor shook the ground.  It might have been thunder.