Read Online City of Scars (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 1) by Steven Montano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Montano
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no, and die here and now. Salvage what’s left of your soul, you selfish bastard. This is your chance to put things right. That’s more important than helping this lunatic acquire more power, isn’t it?
He looked down at his armor. It had meant something once. Now it was covered with filth. Just like he was.
Dane smelled the fires. He saw the black face, heard the women crying as they knelt there, waiting for the killing blow. He saw the boy’s body on the path, cold and motionless. He heard her cries pierce through the night.
A single cold tear ran down his scarred cheek.
I can’t die. Not yet. I have promises to keep.
“Well?” the Count said.
Dane closed his eyes. His chest was tight with fear.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Five
Mezias Crinn released his hold on the mirror after Dane had gone. The fallen knight hadn’t been quite as agreeable as Crinn would have liked – Dane clearly had his doubts, and it seemed he wasn’t quite as mercenary as they’d been led to believe. That could lead to trouble somewhere down the road, but at least Dane bought the story about why the Black Guild wanted Ijanna.
And why wouldn’t he? Like every good lie it was nine-tenths truth.
A shrill wind cut through the perimeter of crooked spikes around the top of Crinn’s tower. Decaying cadavers littered the metal spines, a grotesque fence of corroding flesh. The corpses’ eye sockets bulged with worms, and innards spilled into the bitter air.
The odor of cook-fires drifted up from the camp below. Distant wolf howls carried like song. Crinn looked up at a grey sky filled with inky black clouds. It would rain soon.
He turned away from the mirror – the only decoration on the roof aside from the spikes – and looked out over the Black Hills, an amply named wasteland dotted with broken stones and gnarled trees. In the center of that inhospitable region stood his bladed citadel, a dagger thrust into mangled earth.
Crinn carefully stepped closer to the edge. It was over a hundred feet to the rocky ground below, but even if he were to fall Crinn’s unnatural body would survive. He’d lived through much worse. His cobalt cape whipped sideways in the freezing wind. Unnatural eyes glowed bright in the dying light, and when he flexed his fingers his metal hands made a sound like nails falling on stone.
Events had been set in motion. Dane was no more intelligent now than when Crinn had last seen him, and the fallen knight would deliver the Allaji woman right into the Guild’s hands. Things were proceeding better than anticipated. Before long the Cabal’s plans would come to fruition, and Crinn would have his revenge.
The air behind him turned dark. Motes of dust swirled from out of nowhere and formed a whirling funnel of vapor. He smelled brimstone and waste. Crinn sneered. He hated Jaendral’s showy arrivals.
The dust congealed into the silken outline of a tall and lithe humanoid. After a few moments the Arkan’s features took shape. Jaendral’s eyes, mouth and teeth were all preposterously tall and narrow, and it’s alarmingly slender fingers hung like dead vines from its spindly hands. The Arkan’s eight-foot frame was emaciated, and the dark-skinned and genderless being never clothed itself, a habit Crinn found disgusting.
Count , Jaendral hissed into Crinn’s mind. Its mental voice was an unnatural tide of sound, a grating hiss like the gasp of a dying man. I trust the meeting went well?
“Of course it did,” Crinn said dismissively, his own voice a hollow metallic growl. “I have a new hunter secured. The Dream Witch will soon be ours.”
How soon? Jaendral pressed. Crinn didn’t bother to turn and face the creature. Its mouth never closed, another disgusting feature of its race.
“Soon enough,” Crinn said. “Now leave me be. I have business to attend
He looked down at his armor. It had meant something once. Now it was covered with filth. Just like he was.
Dane smelled the fires. He saw the black face, heard the women crying as they knelt there, waiting for the killing blow. He saw the boy’s body on the path, cold and motionless. He heard her cries pierce through the night.
A single cold tear ran down his scarred cheek.
I can’t die. Not yet. I have promises to keep.
“Well?” the Count said.
Dane closed his eyes. His chest was tight with fear.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Five
Mezias Crinn released his hold on the mirror after Dane had gone. The fallen knight hadn’t been quite as agreeable as Crinn would have liked – Dane clearly had his doubts, and it seemed he wasn’t quite as mercenary as they’d been led to believe. That could lead to trouble somewhere down the road, but at least Dane bought the story about why the Black Guild wanted Ijanna.
And why wouldn’t he? Like every good lie it was nine-tenths truth.
A shrill wind cut through the perimeter of crooked spikes around the top of Crinn’s tower. Decaying cadavers littered the metal spines, a grotesque fence of corroding flesh. The corpses’ eye sockets bulged with worms, and innards spilled into the bitter air.
The odor of cook-fires drifted up from the camp below. Distant wolf howls carried like song. Crinn looked up at a grey sky filled with inky black clouds. It would rain soon.
He turned away from the mirror – the only decoration on the roof aside from the spikes – and looked out over the Black Hills, an amply named wasteland dotted with broken stones and gnarled trees. In the center of that inhospitable region stood his bladed citadel, a dagger thrust into mangled earth.
Crinn carefully stepped closer to the edge. It was over a hundred feet to the rocky ground below, but even if he were to fall Crinn’s unnatural body would survive. He’d lived through much worse. His cobalt cape whipped sideways in the freezing wind. Unnatural eyes glowed bright in the dying light, and when he flexed his fingers his metal hands made a sound like nails falling on stone.
Events had been set in motion. Dane was no more intelligent now than when Crinn had last seen him, and the fallen knight would deliver the Allaji woman right into the Guild’s hands. Things were proceeding better than anticipated. Before long the Cabal’s plans would come to fruition, and Crinn would have his revenge.
The air behind him turned dark. Motes of dust swirled from out of nowhere and formed a whirling funnel of vapor. He smelled brimstone and waste. Crinn sneered. He hated Jaendral’s showy arrivals.
The dust congealed into the silken outline of a tall and lithe humanoid. After a few moments the Arkan’s features took shape. Jaendral’s eyes, mouth and teeth were all preposterously tall and narrow, and it’s alarmingly slender fingers hung like dead vines from its spindly hands. The Arkan’s eight-foot frame was emaciated, and the dark-skinned and genderless being never clothed itself, a habit Crinn found disgusting.
Count , Jaendral hissed into Crinn’s mind. Its mental voice was an unnatural tide of sound, a grating hiss like the gasp of a dying man. I trust the meeting went well?
“Of course it did,” Crinn said dismissively, his own voice a hollow metallic growl. “I have a new hunter secured. The Dream Witch will soon be ours.”
How soon? Jaendral pressed. Crinn didn’t bother to turn and face the creature. Its mouth never closed, another disgusting feature of its race.
“Soon enough,” Crinn said. “Now leave me be. I have business to attend
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