The Lord of Death (The Age of Dawn Book 2) (2 page)

“Get me this boy —” Hilanda began but stopped as Asebor raised a bladed hand.

“Who else does the boy travel with?”

“Baylan Spear of the Silver Tower, a farm girl, Nyset Camfield, who appears to have been touched with the Dragon’s grace, and an uncouth innkeeper’s son, Grimbald Landon.”

“What is this boy’s birth name?” Asebor rasped.

“The boy is named Walter Glade of Breden.”

“Stay close to this boy, Malek. Teach them, befriend them, do whatever it takes to keep them close.”

“Yes Master,” Malek said, pulling his hood up.

The room grew quiet and the low hum of the amber orbs became palpable, an undercurrent of energy that invaded the chamber.

“My sweet Marcine, what does the forest say?” Asebor asked as jovially as he could manage. He steepled his hands and a few pieces of his cape waved beside him in constant motion.

Marcine twisted in her chair and sat on her hands. “The Woodland Plunge is corrupted at the roots,” she drawled with a strange accent. “The forest dies and the animals flee as if it were ablaze.” A two headed insect the size of her palm emerged from one of her unsettling wounds and skittered across her bare shoulders. It had a round body with a scaled carapace and a set of four pincers. With great care, Marcine pulled a hand from under her leg and formed it into a cup. The insect settled into her hand, buzzing with its feelers.

Malek, seated beside her, pointed at it and a small flame hovered before the tip of his index finger. “No! He’s adorable,” she crooned and pulled the vile creature to her chest in protection. Malek raised an eyebrow and sneered his disgust.

“You have hid your presence well, Marcine,” Asebor said. “Hilanda tells me the Tower is perplexed at the forest’s deterioration. This will be a severe blow to their strength. Today, you have pleased me.”

“Great lord,” Dressna said, her face cast down. Asebor shifted his burning eyes to her. She swallowed and continued, “Forgive my pathetic ignorance. Why do the Tower scum care for the forests?”

“Without the strength of the forest their defenses will fall,” Asebor replied. “The Tower has many ancient ward artifacts, their force is tempered in the roots of the trees.”

Dressna slowly nodded, her sharp horns glinting in the light of Asebor’s eyes. “Burn the forests… burn them to the ground,” she said.

“Pay attention you vacuous beast,” Asebor snarled. “That would draw far more attention than we need.”

“Yes, yes master.” Dressna nodded deeply, dipping her body.

“Terar,” Asebor beckoned, folding his bulging arms.

An inaudible hissing sound came from the masked man’s face, eventually becoming comprehensible. “The foretelling has come to pass,” Terar hissed, still as a statue. “The bearer of Blackout has returned.”

“You have the bearer in your control, I presume?”

“Yes, great lord. The bearer resisted, for a brief time. All break, eventually.”

“You are a master of your craft, Terar. You do not disappoint me,” Asebor said and Terar nodded slightly.

Darkthorne groaned under his breath and placed a large wooden box upon the table. “The blade is secure. I will send the bearer to you once he is fully mastered. Some dogs still need to be whipped once let off the leash.”

“I understand,” Asebor said, amused, shifting his eyes to the wet trail Alena left on the landing. “Train the Blackout bearer, prepare him to lead the armies, as is his place.”

“Of course, my lord”

“What do you present, Darkthorne?”

Darkthorne set his steely hands upon the edges of the walnut box. “A gift, master”

“A gift, for me? You shouldn’t have. Zekes, bring it”

Zekes stirred from a shadow cast by a pillar, setting the blue glowing jar down on the landing. He limped to Darkthorne, and a line of drool swayed from his mouth with each shuddering step. The room was quiet as he scraped across the floor.

“Your servant seems to be in need of replacing,” Malek said.

“Perhaps. But Zekes has a fundamental quality you lack: loyalty.” Asebor said coldly. Malek’s face burned red and his eyes briefly lit with fire. Asebor stared at Malek for a long, uncomfortable minute. Malek battled to hold his stare, but eventually found the table much more interesting.

Asebor cracked the lid on the beautifully polished box and threw up his hands in defense. “What is this!” he roared as his chains and cape sprouted to life, whipping the air.

The Wretched jumped to their feet, flames burning, eyes glowing, auras bright, room darkening, and lightning sparking. They wheeled on Darkthorne. “Traitor!” Marcine shouted and winged insects burst from her sores.

“No, wait… stop!” Asebor commanded. He slowly opened the lid again, examining the box’s contents. “You, you’ve found it.” He marveled. He reverently lifted a bundle of entwined chains from the box. “Bonesnapper!”

Gasps and whispers spread through the cavern. “It can’t be,” said Hilanda, mouth agape. Asebor carefully hefted the thin chain in his hands.

“The Chains of the North. For thousands of years my servants have searched for a trace of its existence. Countless failures and endless disappointments. Yes, this is a gift worthy of the histories, Darkthorne.” Asebor ran his bladed finger across the chain’s mirrored surface, clinking between each link. Asebor stood and thrust his palm in Darkthorne’s direction.

“Great, lord, I only intend to serve, please I—” Darkthorne intoned.

A cone of violet emerged from Asebor’s hand and bathed Darkthorne’s in its glow. Darkthorne’s chest violently arced and his head lolled back, armor plates squealing. “You have my favor,” Asebor grinned.

Darkthorne slumped in his chair, and then stirred as light pulsed from behind the bars of his thick helm and the slashes of exposed skin entwining his armor. He looked at his hands and formed them into tight fists and a brilliant burst of light flashed from them. “Thank you great lord!” Darkthorne shouted and stood, bowing low.

“How did you find it?” Asebor asked, still tracing his fingers down its mirrored surface.

“A Black Wynch detected it in a village to the south-west, Breden. The place is no—“

“Detected it?” Malek interrupted and leaned forward to grasp the edges of the black table.

Marcine folded her arms and the last of the insects seeped into her flesh.

“But only a dual wielder of the Phoenix and the Dragon can make it detectable,” Hilanda trailed off, hand rubbing her narrow chin.

“Yes,” Asebor rasped. “Did you find the chain’s wielder?” Asebor demanded, voice reverberating around the chambers.

“I— no,” Darkthorne defended. “They were instructed to find the chain only. We were successful, great lord.”

“You found the chains, but did not think to destroy the wielder?”

“No, lord.”

“No matter, it is here now.” Asebor said, hands tapping on the closed box.

“There were warlocks in Breden, we lost both of the leading Black Wynches. If they were able to slay them, they might have been able to bring ruin to the whole battalion. I had no choice but to pull out,” Darkthorne said.

“Do the people of this time follow the old lore ?” Asebor said.

“No,” Malek said. “Most are practical folk.”

Asebor nodded. “Alena!”

“Yes, great lord?” She moaned from the bottom of a set of stairs.

“After marching upon Midgaard, you will find the Dual Wielder and obliterate it. Be prepared, for this warlock is not a trifle.”

“I live to serve. The Lord of Death will be most happy,” Alena croaked from her hands and knees.

“Take Bonesnapper. I don’t want The Chains of the North anywhere near me in the future. Guard them with your life, Darkthorne, for it depends on them staying hidden.”

“It will remain hidden,” Darkthorne said, bowing.

“Leave me,” Asebor waved his hand about the table.

The Wretched stirred in their seats and Malek was the first to stand. “Do not test my patience.” Asebor hissed.

T
he moon burned brightly
in the crisp night. The dry leaves beside Juzo rustled in the icy breeze, briefly parting to yield a clear view of a round human form. His blood-red eye tracked the movements of the two silhouetted men, ten paces apart. He had mainly fed on Tigerian Boar and rodents before tonight. Tonight was going to be different. Tonight the master ordered him to taste the blood of man.

Juzo licked his newly sharpened teeth, cutting his tongue on a coarse edge. He swallowed the small trickle of blood and savored its metallic sweetness. The memory of last night hammered across his mind again. Four of Terar’s taskmasters had burst through his cell’s door, grabbing him and pinning him to the floor. One came with a carpenter’s hammer and chisel, and another with a pair of dulled hooks to pry his mouth open. They worked his mouth until dawn; until Terar was satisfied with their work. On one tooth the taskmaster had struck too hard, splitting the tooth in half.
Thank the Dragon my wounds heal so quickly now,
he thought, licking the jagged tooth.

“I think she went this way,” said the tall, bulbous man. The man crept low along the brush, long bow in one hand and the other held to his belt knife. He was no more than two arms from the hollow tree where Juzo hid. Juzo slowed his breath, making it imperceptible in the breeze. He watched as a pair of Sand Buckeyes hungrily snapped their fanged mouths at the man. The hunter glared at the gnashing plants and sliced their heads off with a swing of his knife. The saffron colored petals revolved along the ground as they fought for a meal.

A short man stalked up behind the fat man and examined a broken branch arcing towards Juzo. The short one hefted a bow in narrow hands and adjusted the quiver on his shoulder. His gangly form and pale face glowed in the moonlight.

“This way,” The fat man whispered, nodding towards Juzo. Juzo froze. The short man’s eyes strained into the darkness beyond and slid past Juzo, his friend following closely behind. The fat one stopped beside the gnarled tree where Juzo huddled, motionless.

“Wait—something smells… off,” Fatty said. Shorty glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

“Smells like a rotting corpse. Let’s go, I’ve got mouths to feed,” The fat one said with impatience. He stalked off, twigs snapping under his stout form.

“Your mouth could do with a little less feeding,” Shorty muttered when the other man was out of earshot. Shorty sniffed the air and scanned the dancing shadows of the wood. The wind bit through the groaning trees creating a harsh whistling. “Something ain’t right here,” he said to himself.

Juzo slid from the shadow of the tree hollow, as quiet as the wind. Shorty was still now, and Juzo crept up behind him, breath held. He reached out with his right hand, fingers trembling in the cool air, hesitation poisoning his resolve. He felt his jaw clench and teeth grind together.
Do it now, no second guessing.

He reached one hand across Shorty’s mouth and the other clasped his windpipe in an iron grip. The man reacted quickly, dropping his bow and reaching for his skinning knife. Not quickly enough. Juzo savagely pulled and tore through flesh, ripping Shorty’s scream from his trachea. The knife tumbled from his grip and stuck into the ground tip first. A torrent of blood gurgled from where the majority of his neck had been. The dying man struggled and jerked for a moment, but Juzo held him tightly as he died in his arms.

Minutes later the hunter went limp and Juzo gently lowered him to the ground. He felt blood all over his hands, warm and sticky. He threw a piece of shredded tissue aside that lay on the back of his hand and stuck a red finger into his mouth, sucking as he withdrew it.

Why am I doing this? Why must I do this? They left me. They all forgot about you.
The thoughts pounded through Juzo’s mind.
But it tastes so sweet.

“Hey!” The fat man shouted from twenty paces. He nocked an arrow and leveled his bow. Juzo squatted, wrapping an arm around the remnants of Shorty’s neck and hoisted his legs from the ground by the belt. Juzo rushed towards the other hunter. He released and the arrow slammed into Shorty’s chest. He nocked and released again. The arrow whooshed in the wind and thunked into Juzo’s arm.

Months ago, that would have been a terrible pain; now a Rot Fly bite.
Juzo pitched the corpse shield into him, disarming his bow.

“You son of a bitch!” Fatty said in disbelief, wide eyes steeled. He charged at Juzo, right fist drawn for a heavy punch. Juzo blinked his unearthly eye and thrust his hip forward, sending a sharp knee into the man’s gut.
Too easy.
He doubled over, gasping for air. Juzo smashed an elbow into the back of Fatty’s neck, producing the satisfying snap of broken vertebrae.

Juzo inhaled deeply and stared up at the bright moon. A gust flipped his now all-gray hair behind his head, fluttering over the collar of his long jacket.
What have I done to deserve this?
Juzo stomped on the longbow, splitting it in two. He stuck his boot under Fatty’s back and rolled him over. The hunter’s chin pointed to the sky, exposing beautiful carotid arteries that furiously jumped with every heartbeat.
Drink, eat, lick, consume, destroy, life, live, eat.
He tried to resist, he truly did, and finally he gave like a dam in a flood.

He parted his mouth and sunk razor sharp canines into the man’s neck. The punctured skin spilled hot, comforting blood into Juzo’s mouth. The metallic taste was overwhelming, urging him to suck harder at the man’s blood. Life pounded in his chest as he was filled with renewed vigor.

“Incredible!” he gasped. Juzo drank greedily until the well was dry.

J
uzo trudged
up the loose stone path that wound around a plateau. The masses of towering earth loomed over the subtle path, swallowing the dim moonlight. He passed a recently dead man with eyes that had been plucked out by vultures and flesh torn by animals. The corpse wore an unadorned sword on his hip and a leather bag over its back. Each plateau appeared nearly identical and many wanderers only managed to find their way in, and not out, of the maze of plateaus. Their distinctive features became more apparent as you spent more time with them, much like a favored lash.

“Not a place for the weak,” Juzo muttered.

Juzo stepped on the crumbling stone and planted his feet as he felt the gravel give way. He slid down two paces, small stones tumbling over his boots.
This is my life. One step forward, five steps back.

He glanced at the scar on his arm where the arrow had struck.
Now that… that was interesting. What will Walt think when I tell him about this?
He shook his head.
Walter is a pile of bones in a Shiv Fang’s den, stupid. Have to get back to the master, can’t make him mad. No, no, no, don’t make him mad.
Juzo shivered and wiped crusted blood from his chin.

Step, step, step, slide. “Fuck,” Juzo whispered, his sallow face a grimace. He paused and raised the collar on his jacket, a useless gesture when the wind no longer pricks your skin.
If he has to flay me again, it will by my fault, all my fault. He knows I’m moving too slow.
Juzo’s lips trembled and he set his jaw.

He reached the narrow cavern leading to the master’s lair. The glyph inscribed upon the ground flashed with green light before Juzo’s eye. The glyph was composed of two concentric rings, and within the rings were arcane letters Juzo couldn’t read a month ago. Now it was second nature. “Toxic cloud,” it read. Juzo carefully took a long step over the glyph.

A lot of new things were familiar to him now. The taste of a woman’s sweet blood, sensing people’s malicious thoughts, miraculous wound healing, and bending the minds of the daft. These things took some getting used too. The increased strength and stamina was enjoyable. The need for blood was not.

Juzo worked his way down the staggered, non-uniform stairs that only a madman could create. The stairs spiraled and descended into black a chasm, seemingly endless. Torches sprung to life with green light as Juzo came near. He stopped to take a breath and looked the stairs over, analyzing their strange angles. He then started leaping, taking five to six at a bound. He grinned in satisfaction, muscles springing with power and vaulting him through the air.

The master granted him power beyond his dreams at the price of spiritual ruin. Power to be something better than his family could ever hope. The ability to slay the snobs that plagued Midgaard, so the master said. To be someone people pissed themselves when they set eyes upon.
Yes, they will all bow to me.
He shook his head in rapid denial.
No, you bow to the master. Do not forget it.

“Fuck those Midgaard pigs,” he whispered.

The stairs emptied into a long chamber with tombs on either side. The entrances to the tombs were archways carved in the likeness of a hissing cobra. Within the eyes of the cobras were torches that crackled as Juzo swept past. He strode quickly with his chest puffed out and eyes gazing forward.
I am not broken, I am not.
His hands formed into tight fists and small dust eddies twirled in the flapping of his long coat.

The screams of the tortured faintly carried into his ears from the dungeons below.
I don’t hear them. This is not my life. No, the master is good to you.
The identical tomb entrances repeated on either side of the dimly lit hallway, making it impossible to gauge where it began and ended.

“Who’s there?” a gruff a voice demanded in the distance.
An adventurer? Here? I can’t believe someone made it this far.
The soft hiss of cold steel withdrawn from leather made Juzo’s shoulders tingle.

Juzo bladed his lithe body along the walls and drew closer, seeing a massive sword reflecting in the waving torchlight. The man’s sword was outlined in a faint blue light.
A magical sword, must be careful.
A week ago, Terar stabbed him with a magical dagger to demonstrate the aura’s significance. The slowly bleeding wound on his arm was a painful reminder.

The man had thick hair that ran down his back and was decorated in heavy furs. His face was a swath of deep battle scars and there was a notch missing on the top his ear.
A man from the north? There’s a first time for everything.
Memories of searing pain forked through his mind.
Maybe not quite everything.

“I know ya there, you devil!” the voice quavered. “Come out you unholy bastard, time ta meet the Phoenix.”

Juzo stepped into the light, facing the hulk of a man from four paces away. The northman clutched his sword in a firm two-handed grip and dropped into a fighting stance, sword point leveled at Juzo. He scowled and glared at Juzo with a level of hatred only a true enemy could display.

“You’ve come to the wrong place, friend. You’re lost. I’ve already had my fill of blood today.” Juzo gestured towards the tunnel’s arcing entrance. “So go, live another day.”

“Fuck you unholy scum!” The northman roared and charged, swinging his sword overhead to cleave Juzo in two. Juzo leaped diagonally towards the man before the blow landed, using his momentum to send a crushing heel into the northman’s knee. The man’s knee straightened and crunched as it was forced the wrong way. He backhanded Juzo with a rocky fist, sending Juzo sprawling into a nearby tomb, and kicked his knee back into place. Juzo rolled to his feet and licked the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth.

The northman, far too large for the tomb, stabbed with his blade, slicing Juzo across the cheek. It burned like molten fire, unlike any pain he’d ever felt from such a minor wound. The northman’s sword slammed between two stone blocks behind Juzo. He grimaced as he tried to free it.
A very powerful sword indeed.
Juzo smashed his heel into the same knee he targeted last time and it emitted a pleasant cracking as it bowed backwards this time.

The northman released his grip on the glowing blade stuck in the tomb’s wall and stumbled back onto his good leg into the main hall. Juzo’s hands formed into claws and he raked at the northman’ face, tearing four bleeding lines on each side. Juzo dropped his body low and hammered the northman’s torso with four rib-crunching punches. The northman gasped for air and fell onto his back, wriggling away from Juzo.

“What are you?” he gasped. “No man can hit that hard.”

“Odd, isn’t it?” mused Juzo as he watched the northman struggle for a full breath. “Thin men, fat men, intelligent men, stupid men, they all respond to broken ribs. One second you think you’re invincible. The next you can’t even breathe without help.”

“Unholy devil,” the northman croaked, his cool blue eyes glancing at his sword in the tomb’s wall. The torches burned with increased intensity as a gust whipped through the dark hallway.

“Oh, you’d like that blade wouldn’t you? Why don’t you just go ahead and get it and I’ll wait here.” Juzo crossed his arms and nodded at the man. “Go on.” The torchlight in Juzo’s red eye made it look aflame.

What am I? A monster, murder, criminal, guilty, worthy of the guillotine.

The northman crawled and struggled to his feet, hopping on one leg, groaning. Juzo swept the northman’s healthy leg out from under him and slammed him into the stone floor with the opposite arm. The man winced and blood pooled around his nose.
No you’re not the master. End this. End this now. You can be better than him. I can? Yes, I can.

Juzo leaped into the air and came down upon the man’s back with both heels. The northman stopped crawling, wincing, and groaning. He stopped everything. Juzo exhaled with a ragged breath and wiped a bloody hand on his mouth. He stood there, staring blankly at the corpse for a long moment. He reached with both hands into the northman’s winding nest of hair and clutched it at the scalp. Juzo straddled the man’s thick torso and slammed his slack face into the ground with a sickening thud. He smashed the dead man’s face into the stone again and again and again.