The Black Tower (31 page)

“
Yes,
” Kruje thought.  “
But first I have to return to Ebonmark, and deliver a message.  To a boy named Kyver.
”

The world had become a ruin of blood, bone and flesh.  The stench of the dead hung thick in the air.  Rain fell, thin cold needles that lanced into the piles of bodies stretched across the desert.  Sick and unnatural water scoured the skin from the bones of the dead, dragging soft and mottled human shells to the ground like melted wax, puddles of black water and liquified organic filth.

Body parts were strewn everywhere, and men and their mounts had been impaled on spears and blades.  Massive shards of smoking metal, the projectiles from the razor towers, protruded from the earth like iron quills.

Dark birds descended, immune to the caustic rain from having lived in it for decades, their bloodshot eyes and twisted beaks alerted to the presence of so much fresh meat. 

They found the Jlantrian in a pile of bodies, barely alive.  Hajir was feeling only half alive himself, but with the proper amount of healing magic in a more nurturing environment he knew the burns that all but covered him would be fully cured, and all he had to do in the meantime was live with the pain.  Every motion was agony, and dark red fluid seeped from beneath patches of charred skin that seemed to float above the surface of his body, islands of crusted flesh he swore still smoked.  He felt the muscles where they’d started to melt away, and he hissed in pain with every slight motion. 

At least I’m still alive.

Hajir was so tightly wrapped in cloth he looked like a leper, and for his part he tried to stay confined to the camel the other soldiers had insisted he ride so as to avoid placing too much stress on his body.  Lucky for him it took every ounce of his focus to concentrate on using the Veil to shield them from the effects of the corrupted rain, which allowed him to keep his mind distracted from his own agonizing hurt.

The scouts pulled away the rubble piece by piece, blood and sun-scorched rock that had smothered dozens of men.  Hajir tried not to think about the fact that the muck they found clinging to the undersides of those large stones were the remains of his own men, several hundred loyal Den’nari warriors who’d perished on this damn fool mission; of those few dozen he had left, many were wounded, and it would take all the bravery and strength they had just to return home in one piece.  If Ghul decided to return and finish what he’d started there was no way Hajir’s men would survive, but he’d be damned if he was going to leave any wounded behind.  Emperor Ja’al Krag had in the past berated Hajir for the attention he put towards the care of his men, but it was necessary to inspire loyalty.  Besides, the Emperor wasn’t exactly the warmest of individuals.

The hideous rain pounded down, but Hajir had developed a steady breathing pattern and discovered a cycle of meditation and effort that allowed him to maintain his protective field over his troops without draining too much of his strength. 

They came across an arm, or part of one, protruding from the rubble.  Hajir watched as they cleared away more ruined rock and found the man’s head, bloodied and bruised and drenched with dirt but still attached to his body, which shifted as he gasped for air and swallowed the sickly rainwater.  The man had lost his other arm, and Hajir immediately called for a medic before he realized the limb had been gone even before the battle, had in fact been neatly cauterized and concealed beneath a protective sleeve.  His short-cropped hair and pale skin marked him as a Jlantrian.

They slowly pulled him from the broken stones.  Miraculously, his body was more or less in one piece aside from a few nasty cuts across his arms and legs, but he seemed dazed and out of sorts, and might have suffered some internal injuries.  Hajir ordered the man slowly and carefully brought down to level ground, and he passed what Veil energies he could spare into the unconscious body.  As he did so he felt a jolt of familiarity – the Veil already clung to the Jlantrian in a strong protective aura.

So much for the mystery of how he survived being crushed by a trebuchet stone
, Hajir thought ruefully. 

“Tough bastard,” Rafar said.

“Indeed,” Hajir said.  “Put him with the others.”

They had an entire line of the wounded near the center of what remained of Hajir’s forces, some walking, some on camel or horseback, most on rickety wagons or riding on the sides of the Jlantrian catapult they’d managed to salvage.  There were precious few White Dragon survivors – this Veilwarden, who Hajir deduced was none other that Toran Gess of House Blue, would not have many countrymen to converse with. 

Later that night they set fire to the canyon, putting the dead to rest and protecting the bodies from further defilement so their souls might find release.  They would return to Den’nar, along with their surviving Jlantrian allies.  Word had already been sent to the emissaries to communicate what had happened to both Ja’al Krag and the White Dragon Empress, and Hajir could not imagine either of them would be pleased. 

It seemed a temporary alliance had been formed, but it was of no great surprise – the Empires had not united since the Rift War, and while times weren’t quite so desperate yet, they would be soon.  Rumors were already flying that the Emperor’s Skull Riders were mobilizing to fly to Chul Gaerog and make a pre-emptive assault if the Blood Queen had indeed returned, and the legendary General Karthas was said to be mobilizing his most elite troops to reinforce those Jlantrian cities closest to the Heartfang Wastes. 

It’s a pity we can only find common cause whenever a catastrophe is on the horizon
, Hajir thought. 

It was time for war.  Hajir had been only a boy when the battle against the Blood Queen had ended, and he hoped, perhaps foolishly, never to see such a large-scale conflict himself. 

They marched south, for home. 

Too easy,
he thought. 
It couldn’t have worked out better. 

All of his planning had finally paid off, all of the waiting.  All of the lies he’d sown and lives he’d sliced away.  He’d given things just enough time, not too little, not too much.  Like a chef he’d been careful to add the proper ingredients and determine exactly how long everything needed to cook. 

The hardest part had been getting the Bloodheart Stone into the Jlantrian’s hands.  It couldn’t have just been given to them – that would have been too obvious, and would have aroused suspicion.  They had to feel as though they’d
taken
it, like they’d accomplished something.  He was a careful player, above all other things.

But now that they had it, now that all of the game pieces had been set...well, now it would be easy.  Almost too easy, and it was times like these when he resented being such a careful thinker, times like these when he wished his overstuffed mind would just relax long enough to allow him to savor what he’d accomplished without wondering if he was being manipulated in kind, if what he thought was good fortune was in fact just him letting his guard down and walking into another trap.

Have faith
, he told himself. 
Allow yourself to bask in your rewards.

He went over everything in his head.  He hadn’t missed a detail, had checked and re-checked every contingency.  The leaders of each idiot faction that had yet to play a role would soon be sufficiently motivated to do their part in carrying out his plans, even if none of them knew what part that was, or that they were even involved. 

That’s true power.

The entire situation would have to be continually monitored, of course – there were always uncounted contingencies that could never be planned for, certain entropic elements which would require his intervention to keep things from derailing.  Events had to occur in sequence: the pieces could only move within their set parameters, much like the pawns on a board, and if any tried to move otherwise he’d have to step in. 

If all went well, the final act would begin soon, the spiral of doom that would bring everything in Malzaria crashing down, piece by piece.

The most unpredictable piece of the puzzle was, of course, the Veil.  So stupid, so eager to destroy itself even though it wasn’t even truly alive.  So sad.

So perfect.

The architect of the terrible scheme that had led the Cabal to Corinth and Colonel Blackhall and his Jlantrian forces to their deaths stood and looked out over the city of Rhaine from the apex of a needle-like tower of dark stone and iron bannisters.  The city was a vast, round place, with perfectly elliptical and elegantly spaced streets that from on high gave the dark metropolis the synchronicity of an insect colony.  Wide lanes were packed tight with fat houses; every district of the city was marked with towers, few as tall as those at the center of the dark city but still impressive in their own right, blades of dark stone covered with gargoyles and jagged curves and chains that dangled in the rain-soaked wind. 

The sky was deep blue and layered with dark clouds and smoke from the manufacturing labs, where the Phage toiled day and night producing chemical narcotics and toxins for sale in foreign markets.  The outer city wall was a perfect circle of reinforced blood-colored stone, wet from the crashing waves of the Moon Sea to the east, whose churning waters roiled from the force of the storms. 

He anticipated the storms, longed for them.  They gave him peace.  It was difficult to maintain his composure some days, to wear that human veneer of respectability and refinement, not when the animal inside yearned for release.  The chaotic forces of nature spoke to him, called to him.  Storms were the opposite of himself in so many ways – chaos on the outside, calm at their core, at their center.  He envied them that.

Breathe in
, he told himself. 
Take in the storm.

It had taken a long time to reach that point, but at last he’d positioned himself to where the pieces would fall in his favor.  Thirty years had passed since he’d last had the chance to claim what was rightfully his, but he’d learned much since then, had used the decades to explore the limitations of his flesh-bound form, to learn its weaknesses and advantages. 

He knew he couldn’t lay claim to the power he deserved all on his own, which was why, this time, he’d chose to have someone else do it for him.

The bedchamber was enormous, round and tall and exceedingly dark.  Marble columns stretched up to the disc-shaped stone ceiling, and the walls and floors were wrought of polished onyx so clean that if the light had been more sufficient he could have made out his own reflection.  A massive round bed covered with oceans of burgundy silk and mountains of pillows occupied the center of the room.  Wind blew in through the wide round window and pushed aside the sheets, revealing the woman who lay there.

He stood naked at the window and watched both the storm and the woman with hunger.  Her long red hair spilled over her ample breasts.  He felt himself stiffen, and reflected that there were advantages to being bound in a human form, after all.  He crossed to the bed and placed a hand on her face, and she moaned, though it wasn’t a moan of pleasure.  With as drugged as he kept her it was all the protest she could offer.

She was terrified of him, of what he planned to do.  She wanted things to remain as they were, with the humans in control.  She’d envisioned a world without them, a world where humanity was allowed to find its own way.

What she doesn’t understand is that there is no world without
us
. 

He rolled her over onto her chest and pulled her hands behind her back.    She couldn’t resist, not with the narcotics he’d been pouring into her system for all of those years.  She enjoyed this miserable form, this mundane bodily existence, but he knew that if she ever had her faculties returned she’d do everything in her power to stop him. 

He couldn’t have that.  He’d come to depend on her, to rely on her existence. 

He hungered for her, always hungered for her.  He’d never been able to get his fill of her flesh. 

“Forever, my love,” he whispered as he tied her down. 

Now, pleasure, and then work.  We have a world to destroy.

Though the news had not been delivered to her in person, Empress Azaean wasted no time putting on a grand funeral ceremony for her dearly departed daughter.  It was a suitably opulent affair, a day of mourning when all shops were ordered closed and the penitent citizens of Ral Tanneth poured out to the streets to watch as an empty casket of platinum and gold was paraded along on a grand wagon drawn by a team of silver stallions. 

She was told that many cried – Kala was genuinely loved, and after speeches were given and prayers were spoken by none other than Archbishop Sarren himself, the Empress addressed the people of the Empire.

“No mother should have to outlive her only child,” Azaean said before a throng of thousands.  She used the Veil to amplify her voice and give it resonance, a hollow echo that cut through the deepest streets and cliffs of the city.  The Grand Basilica of Corvinia was a grand white structure abutting a large plaza.  Marble columns stretched along an enormous walkway which led from the tiered steps to the great statue of the One Goddess, who looked down on the temple and the assembled people as if protecting them.  Azaean felt like she was looking up at herself.  “My daughter went before her time, the victim to murderous circumstance.  But I – we all – must take solace in the fact that short though her life might have been she lived it to its fullest.  She wasted not a single one of her precious days.”  Azaean clawed the inside of her hands as she stood, careful, slow, so no one would notice. 

Damn fool child
, she thought.
  If our roles had been reversed you’d be up here espousing the so-called evils I made you endure. 

It was the Empress’ first public appearance outside the walls of Kai-Ren Thoth in over a decade, and it felt disturbing to be outdoors.  She kept flinching at every gust of wind, and the vastness of the sky seemed ready to suck her up and into it.  Her gown of silver and white fluttered in the icy breeze, and she used her powers to keep the stench of the city at bay.   Azaean’s dark hair was twisted into curls, and her pale face was as white as new fallen snow.  The skies over Ral Tanneth were clear that day, and as the sun started to set the air took on the hue of liquid gold. 

The people looked up at her.  They were farmers and merchants, mothers and children, peasants and scholars.  For a moment she felt a sense of pride that they would throng there for her, and then remembered they were there for her daughter.  She clenched her teeth.

“I will miss her very much,” she said. 

Azaean gripped the Veil tightly.  Her power spread out across the people so she could gauge their reactions, and she felt their emotions seep into her as she stood there giving her eulogy.  She felt sadness, which was expected, but also anger, and fear.  Fear of Bloodspeakers.

Good
, she thought.  Her spies embedded in the populace had done their job well.  Before the week was done the citizens of Jlantria would be calling for the Red Hand’s heads, since the rumors the Empress’ agents had spread made clear that Malath Zayne and his band were the ones responsible for the Imperial Princess’ death. 

After the ceremony Azaean returned to her solitude, demanding that her advisers and servants leave her in peace.  That in and of itself was nothing unusual, but now it seemed she was troubled by the loss of her child, which was exactly how she wanted things to appear. 

Later that evening, Azaean sat alone in her private chambers.  Memories of her daughter weighed her down like a ghost.  Kala had been such an adorable child, wondrous and beautiful and radiant, so full of life and curiosity, so eager to learn, so eager to please.  But for all of her charm, Azaean had never loved her.  She couldn’t explain why – something about her own flesh and blood had always been off-putting, and when she recalled birthing the child she remembered feeling like an unwelcome growth had been removed.  Kala had seemed so alien to her, so remarkably strange, like some creature dropped in from another world. 

She sat in the cold white chamber and watched the reflection of the hearth flames as they danced off the crystal goblets on the table.  The room was cold and still.  Azaean sipped on clear wine, the finest in all the Empire, but tonight it made her stomach sour. 

What kind of a monster was she to not love her own daughter?  The only time she’d ever felt anything like love had been for Merrick.  He was dead now, gone before his daughter had even been born, and Azaean feared her capacity to care for others had died with him. 

Her hands were shaking.  Her head started to pound.  She felt the Veil coming for her, growing along her skin like a virulent parasite, and in the space of just a few heartbeats she suddenly felt like she’d been chewing on razors.  Azaeaen clutched the sides of the desk so hard her fingers bled.

She didn’t bother going for her elixir now that she had the Bloodheart Stone.  It was her savior, that artifact, for in that ugly lump of red rock on a silver chain was enough power to help her defeat the magical disease that was slowly killing her.  She held the stone tight, confident that now that she held the artifact in her possession the misery would finally be over.

But the tremors worsened, and the air grew black.  She felt a bitter wind fill the room like a hot and angry breath.  She clutched the stone and felt its heat, a dull and pulsing throb of molten energies which smelled of brimstone.  The light intensified, a throbbing red shine which moved straight through her hands like she was transparent.  Her pain continued to worsen.

Why isn’t it working?!

She needed her elixir.  Heart hammering with fear, Empress Llandra Azaean tried to rise.  Light bled from her eyes.  She tasted her own flesh.

No!

The Veil consumed her.  Sparks of caustic heat dripped from her fingers and frothed from her mouth.  She gagged and fell to the ground, thrashing about in pain.  Her clothing burned and melted away.  Daggers of light ripped from her stomach.  Her eyes exploded out, the miracle of sight reduced to a stain on the floor. 

There were no memories, no regrets.  Just pain so intense it drowned out all thought.  She screamed, but there in her deep sanctum nobody could hear her.

The Empress was dead, and no one knew it.

When she opened her eyes again she was in the throne room.  The Grail Knights looked out across the chamber, not allowing their surprise to show at the sudden appearance of their Empress.  They were used to her magic, after all, and it wasn’t the first time she’d used the Veil to transport herself from one part of the palace to another. 

Her raven dark hair hung loose down around her shoulders, full with curls, and her dress was yellow and gold and loose, displaying her pale shoulders.  She smiled, feeling young.

“Your Imperial Majesty?” one of the servants asked, a simple girl named Tessa, she thought, Tessa from Granger, who was terrified of the White Dragon, though she no longer had any need to be.

“I am fine,” Azaean told her.

The Empress walked to the window and looked out over the city.  Her city, her Empire, to shape as she saw fit.  Her back was to them, so no one in the room saw her wicked smile.