The Black Tower (5 page)

It had been months since Colonel Aaric Blackhall had actively led troops into battle.  There had been the night of the purge of Ebonmark’s criminal element, but that had been a clandestine operation, men fighting through dark and narrow corridors and murdering everything in sight; while that had proved effective, it was hardly the sort of military operation he was used to, fighting Tuscars in the Reach in the early days after the Rift War.  Of course, according to the more aged soldiers, nothing after the War counted for much in the way of field experience.  Battles against wilderness brigands and even Tuscars were effectively over before they began, especially since the Jlantrian Empire had such a sizable contingent of troll soldiers – those monstrous brutes had been bred for combat in the wake of Vlagoth’s campaign, a precaution taken in case another major threat ever rose again.  No, according to General Karthas and others of his generation there hadn’t been a proper war in decades.

If only that were true
, Blackhall thought grimly.

He stood on the grounds just outside of Ebonmark, a dry and bitter plain which stretched east into foothills and cracked valleys before it eventually disappeared into the mists west of the Moon Sea.  The chalky morning air froze his breaths into steaming vapor, and his lips were dry and cold.  He kept pacing back and forth as he rubbed his hands together.  The sky was orange-gold, a fresh dawn turned to fire by the new rays of the rising sun.  Heavy reams of frost laced the area’s scant vegetation, and dozens of shallow pools had frozen solid and now refracted the light like crystal discs. 

The sounds of the city coming to life echoed through the morning: horses trotting across the stones, crowds of people milling towards the farmer’s market, the clatter of portcullis gates, guards mounting wagons to run patrols.  The northern horizon was covered in frost-blue mist which shrouded the dark trees.  It felt far too cold for that time of year, especially so close to the southern edge of the blasted Bonelands desert, but the weather suited Blackhall’s foul frame of mind. 

Reinforcements from Ral Tanneth had finally arrived, and thank the Goddess for them – evidently Karthas had decided to trust Blackhall with an entire Company dispatched out of Fort Steel, located miles up the River Grey at the borderlands between the Razortooth Mountains and the Ravenwood.  Being stationed in such a remote and deadly area bred hard men, and they looked it.  Blackhall’s soldiers in Ebonmark had been through hell and back, but they still had the amenities of a city at their disposal (even if Ebonmark was something of a slum compared to other places he’d been), but the men of Fort Steel lived in the company of mountain men and Hill People, went weeks without news or fresh supplies, and were subjected to hard rains and deep frosts all year round. 

This is practically a holiday for them
, Blackhall thought. 

The men of Steel Company stood at attention.  They were restless.  Their white-and-blue White Dragon armor was stained with forest grime and rainwater, and like the men who wore it the armor was battered and seemed to have been through hard times.  There were seven hundred visiting soldiers, over half of which Blackhall had immediate use for, especially since Gess had miraculously acquired magical assistance from House Blue. 

The fates were aligning to get Blackhall and his soldiers north quickly so they could help Argus.  Just yesterday Gess had insisted it was impossible for them to use magic to transport any of their troops, and Blackhall had resolved himself to the notion that they might not be able to reach the Veilwarden in time to help him, but now Gess claimed that the same
cutgates
Argus had used to assemble his team of mercenary hunters were being reconfigured to transport Blackhall’s forces.

He steeled himself.  Just a few days ago the possibility of getting home to Cassandra and Malachai had been very real.  Realizing he now had to wait to see them, that he would indeed be marching headlong into danger before he’d be able to earn his right to go home, soured his mood.  He almost wanted someone to step out of line so he could smash their jaw.

It won’t be long now
, he thought, wishing there was some way Cassandra could hear him. 
I promise I’ll be home soon. 
It had been months since he’d seen his son, and it felt like it had been even longer since he’d laid with Cassandra, since he’d run his fingers through her hair and stared into her eyes. 
Goddess, I miss you.

Captain Tyburn – gruff and short, his scarred face mostly concealed behind an unruly mess of dark hair, armor stained with burn marks he’d earned in the Tuscar Campaign of 823 – marched up and down Steel Company’s ranks.  It was impossible to know if Tyburn approved of the soldier’s state or not given his frozen expression, but he moved fast, which told Blackhall everything was more or less in order. 

Blackhall’s men assembled outside Ebonmark, where they readied their mounts and gathered weapons.  Even though Blackhall’s magical tower and his men had been moved into the city after the destruction of the Black Guild the camps and bivouacs and barricades that had stood outside the gates for weeks were largely still intact.  Smiths shod the horses and hammered weapons to point, Sergeants handed out arrows and bolts, men gathered tins and canteens and preserved rations and jerky.  Officers barked orders and troops fell in line. 

The sounds of the city were soon drowned out by the cacophony of Jlantrians readying for battle.  Mounts were loaded down with food, weapons, blankets and bedrolls.  Blackhall spied the war wagons, reinforced vehicles protected by sliding metal shutters to shield archers, surgeons and wounded.  Crates and boxes were scattered everywhere, and White Dragon regulars tied equipment down, readied their mounts and conducted last minute checks on the cumbrous siege weapons, a trio of ballistae and a single trebuchet.

Blackhall sensed the tension in the air, saw it in the faces of his men.  Even those who’d been involved in the fight against the Black Guild and the Phage or who’d helped repel Tuscar attacks against the city had only seen a handful of skirmishes, and no one knew what sort of opposition they’d meet on the other side of those gates.  According to Gess their forces would only be able to transport them to within a day’s march of Corinth, so they’d still have to cross the brutal Bonelands, a place riddled with Burned Men, Runefiends and Razorcats.  Even those men out of Fort Steel, who saw regular conflict with Tuscars and occasional horrors out of the shadowy depths of the Razortooth Mountains or the haunted forest called Ravenwood, had never been so far north, and only a handful of the Sergeants or senior officers had ever been involved in any sort of large-scale engagement. 

Karthas is right, I suppose
, Blackhall thought grimly. 
We haven’t had a war in a while, and these men are out of practice. 
Defending farms and raiding bandit lairs was nothing compared to meeting an enemy on the field of battle. 

“Sir,” Captain Tyburn said.  “Would you care to inspect the men?”

“No, Tyburn,” Blackhall said.  “I trust your judgment.  Let them get something to eat, then put them to work.  I want to be able to head out as soon as Gess is ready.”  He looked around.  “Where’s Major Syke?”

“Inspecting the wagons, Sir.”

“Good.  Carry on.”

Tyburn barked out orders and the men of Steel Company moved towards the grub tents, where they unloaded their packs and stowed their equipment so they could more easily pack it all away after they’d eaten. 

Gess joined Blackhall as he moved towards the front gates.  The ground outside Ebonmark’s east walls had been stamped low by traffic; they’d cleared away the trees out to a mile perimeter a few weeks back, making it easier to spot Tuscar raiders, not that the brutes had dared launch an attack with so many White Dragon soldiers stationed right outside the city gates.  The Tuscars had long controlled the plains east of Ebonmark, and they endlessly tried to seize control of the River Grey, but ever since the war against the crime guilds had concluded the barbaric raiders had grown strangely quiet.  The continued presence of so many Jlantrian soldiers doubtlessly had something to do with that, or maybe some other internal struggle had drawn their attention – the tusked and grey-skinned marauders were known to live in a cruel and uncompromising caste system, where tribal leaders constantly vied for position to gain favor with their Horned King. 

He supposed he should have been happy that raider activity was settling down in the area, but it just left him unnerved.  It was always quietest before something terrible happened, and though he was leaving nearly as many men to defend the city as he was taking with him he still couldn’t help but feel like he was abandoning a place he’d been charged to protect.  He’d sacrificed much to keep Ebonmark’s citizens safe – his men, his time with his family, maybe even a bit of his soul.  He still woke up in fright at the thought of how he, Gess and Slayne had arranged the slaughter of Ebonmark’s criminal element and Karthas’ vicious Wolf Brigade mercenaries.  He’d lost some part of himself that night, something he desperately wanted back but knew he’d never find.

“I don’t like this, Toran,” he told the Veilwarden as they walked.  Gess was looking healthy in spite of having lost his hand a few weeks back to the rogue Dawn Knight Azander Dane.  The thin man’s grey robes and severe haircut lent him the semblance of a priest or a monk, but the mage was foppish and arrogant, and there were still times when Blackhall doubted Gess was being completely honest with him in regards to the actions of his Veilwarden allies back in Ral Tanneth.  They approached the war wagons; the metallic juggernauts had been assembled near the south end of camp, stout iron vessels which seemed to suck the light from the air.  “I forgot how much I dislike charging into battle.”

“You’re a soldier,” Gess said with a wry grin.  “I figured you’d love it.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Blackhall said, trying to laugh but unable to.  He was twisted inside, gripped by a fear he hadn’t felt in years.  Never once had he been frightened for his life when they’d laid plans to destroy the Black Guild and the Phage.  It wasn’t until after they’d carried out their mission that he’d started to feel this terror, this nagging sense of danger and dread.

Your soul is dirty now.  Tainted.  You’re getting too old for this, and you know it. 
But he couldn’t walk away, not yet.  He still had a job to do.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Gess told him as they neared the wagon.

“What is?” he asked.

“The fact that you don’t enjoy war.”

Syke was a young man with a great deal of scars, a survivor of the southern campaigns against the Tuscars near Tarek Non.  He was short and stocky, with shoulders a mile wide and arms like stacks of bricks.  His brown hair was cut close to his scalp, and a thin beard covered his stony face.

“Sir,” he said as Blackhall approached.

“At ease, Major,” Blackhall said.  “What’s our status?”

Syke’s at-ease posture looked like that of most soldiers at full attention.  A wickedly curved axe was slung across one shoulder and twin blades protruded from cross-guard hilts at his lower back; the man’s armor was more leather than plate, and like the rest of the Steel Company men he looked like he’d have been perfectly at home in a gladiator’s arena.

“The war wagons are ready,” he said.  “We’ll need a few hours to stow the rest of the equipment.  After my men get some food they’ll be ready to fight.”

Blackhall chewed on the fact that they’d be in combat so soon.  Part of him still wished the use of
cutgates
wasn’t possible, that he and his men faced a long march before they’d come to blows with the Iron Count’s forces.  Tension mounted in Blackhall’s back, so rock-hard it felt like a creature had crawled under his skin.

“Come with us, Major,” he told Syke.  “I want to show you something.”

The three of them walked to a low wooden table in the middle of a wide open tent near the city gates.  The dirt floor was packed with sacks of grain and arrows, extra shields and pieces of scrap metal the smiths hadn’t been able to fit to the exterior of the war wagons.  A large map was nailed down to the table, detailing all of Malzaria.  Gess had placed blue chess pieces as markers in the Bonelands near Corinth, indicating where the
cutgates
would deposit them once he and the Veilwardens back in Ral Tanneth opened portals outside of Ebonmark.  Small black rocks had also been set, roughly the same distance from the ruined city but with a more random array. 

“Gess,” Blackhall said.

Gess looked at him.

“What?”

“Would you please explain the map.”

“It’s a map.”

“Gess...”

“Fine,” the Veilwarden said, and he looked at Syke.  “The blue chess pieces indicate where our forces will emerge when we use the
cutgates. 
We’ll be able to move roughly a hundred soldiers at a time.  Those units will reunite on the other side.  Since all of our arrival points are within a few miles of each other we shouldn’t be split up for very long.  We’ll divide each unit as equally as possible between your men and the Colonel’s.”

Syke nodded.  “What are the black markers?” he asked.

“That’s where the Iron Count’s forces have been spotted by our Veilcraft reconnaissance,” Gess said.  “They just started to appear.”