Tower Of The Forgotten Read online

  TOWER

  OF THE

  FORGOTTEN

  A TAINTED CABAL NOVELLA

  MITCHELL

  HOGAN

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title

  Copyright

  Also By

  Tower of the Forgotten

  To the Reader

  Also By

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  TOWER OF THE FORGOTTEN

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Mitchell Hogan

  Copyright © 2017 by Mitchell Hogan

  First Printing, 2017

  Also by Mitchell Hogan, the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence, in reading order:

  A Crucible of Souls US

  UK : DE : CA : AU

  Blood of Innocents US

  UK : DE : CA : AU

  A Shattered Empire US

  UK : DE : CA : AU

  TOWER OF THE FORGOTTEN

  Sometime before the events of Revenant Winds…

  Niklaus du Plessis squinted, his eyes swiftly adjusting to the darkness after the glare of the midday sun. Inside the building, which was dark and dingy from boarded-up windows, the details swam into sharp relief. His keen sight was unnatural. A gift of hers, since he’d agreed to do her bidding so long ago. Slivers of light came through the gaps in the boards covering the windows, illuminating dust particles in the air. The air smelled of the sea and fish this close to the port.

  He took a few steps inside, noting the floor was almost spotless—a strange fact for an apparently abandoned warehouse in the industrial district of Riem. But he knew it wasn’t altogether abandoned, as he’d traded one of his last gems to meet a noted swordsman here and prevail on him for a few hours’ tutelage. Niklaus’s sword work was getting a little rusty, and that was one thing he couldn’t allow—he could be assigned a new mission at any moment and had to be prepared for any contingency.

  Timber creaked somewhere to his left. Niklaus scanned the room, the floor of which was covered with stacked crates and barrels, along with patches of dry and soaked rags, sand, and what looked to be a shiny patch of oil. All designed to make footing variable and difficult.

  Another creak of wood, this time from the right. Niklaus took a step forward and loosened his swords in their sheaths. His hands clasped their sea-ray-skin-covered hilts, which ensured a secure grip even when damp.

  He glided another step, this time to his left, making sure he still had room to draw. He thought for a moment, then drew both blades and unbuckled his sword belt, letting it slip to the floor with a clunk.

  As he did, he glanced down. When he looked back up, steel flashed toward him. Niklaus swayed back, all he could do, and realized it wasn’t a sword blade but a throwing knife—and more followed. One sliced a shallow gash along his upper arm, and another cut through his pants at the knee before thudding into the wall behind him. He threw himself to the floor, rolled behind a stack of crates, then leaped to his feet.

  Silence greeted him, only broken by the sound of his own breathing and his pounding heart. An inch to the left and his knee would have been taken out. And there was no recovering from a blade or an arrow to the knee. If you were put down that way, you were down for good. He hadn’t expected the thrown weapons, but he should have. The agent he’d paid to arrange this had said the swordsman’s condition was there were no rules: he didn’t want to waste his time playing with brats. Niklaus had been reluctant, but he needed to be tested by the best. He didn’t even know who he’d be facing—only that it would be one of the finest swordsmen in Riem. The best in the Pristart Combine, if you believed the agent and the exorbitant fee.

  The humming buzz of another knife sailed past his position and thumped into something wooden. Niklaus didn’t spare it a glance. He gripped both swords tighter and breathed a prayer to his goddess, Sylva. She never answered, but then again he never expected her to. If he couldn’t survive on his own, with the talents she’d given him, then what use was he?

  Niklaus ducked low and rushed toward a patch of deep shadow next to a canvas-covered stack of crates. Another knife whistled past. He ignored it. Instead of stopping behind his new cover, he held both blades in one hand and climbed the stack, using the thick ropes that tied down the crates as foot- and handholds. Once he reached the top, he pressed himself flat and waited a few breaths before taking his short blade in his other hand again and squirming quietly to the edge. Dust from his movements filled his nostrils, and he stifled a sneeze.

  Not many warriors would give up the sure footing and stability of the ground for a higher vantage and its added restrictions. And no decent swordsman would. At least, none from these parts.

  Footsteps sounded. Swift and quiet, someone who was familiar with the layout of the building and its contents. No one would move that quickly unless they were. Or unless they could see well in the shadows, as Niklaus could.

  He peered over the edge of the canvas, searching for any movement.

  Cloth scraped against rough wood. There, to his right. There was a hiss of indrawn breath, as if someone had expected to find Niklaus where he wasn’t. Then there was silence.

  Niklaus counted his breaths, five, ten, fifteen, and still there was no sound.

  Across from him, at almost the same height, was another pile of crates. It was a short leap if he was standing, but he’d give himself away with the noises he’d make if he tried. Just beyond it was . . .

  Dark-clad shapes watched from a platform set along one wall, ten feet from the ground. They were leaning forward, squinting in the darkness . . . and many were young. Students, then. These fools had turned the fight Niklaus had paid for into a spectator sport. And if there was one thing he didn’t do, it was fight for the amusement of others.

  Without another thought he rolled over the edge and fell to the ground, twisting as he did so to land on his feet. Dust followed him, filling the air, and he glided a few steps away to move out of the cloud. He bared his teeth, hands clenched tight.

  He’d parted with one of his last gems for this—a sapphire from an old barrow near Atya, thousands of miles away across the Simorga Sea—and he was being played for a fool. But more importantly, he needed to keep a low profile. If his next assignment required anonymity, that advantage had been destroyed. Word of this fight would snake through the martial elements of the city, as such events always did, along with his description.

  His hot rage subsided, to be replaced with a cold, hard anger.

  “Come out!” Niklaus shouted. “No more hiding. Come out and face me!”

  A shadow beside a pillar moved, materializing into a hulking man. “Shadows are not to everyone’s taste,” he bellowed. “But I thought you wanted a test. I am Draglor, warrior without peer, breaker of men, and you will yield to me.”

  “I was assured this would be a discreet training session.”

  A sneer twisted Draglor’s lips. “This is discreet. If this were a fight worth watching, there’d be a real crowd.” He shook his left hand then rolled what sounded like a rock toward Niklaus.

  When it began to glow, Niklaus realized it was an alchemical globe. He let it pass and it came to rest against a wooden box. Its illumination grew until it reached the brightness of a few candles. Enough for the spectators to see the fight clearly.

  Draglor was a barbarian from the far south, but totally unlike the laughing and generous men Niklaus had seen on his travels. His face was grim and scowling, as if the world had wronged him and he would forever carry a grudge. A mane of coarse black hair hung down to his shou
lders, and his massive body was clad in boots and tight-fitting pants and shirt, as if he wanted everyone to admire his physique. He could see why many thought the barbarian was one of the greatest swordsmen in Riem and sent their sons and daughters to train with him.

  Draglor was overdeveloped to the point of being a grotesque parody of manhood, and he was a full head taller than Niklaus. Merely from the movements he’d seen, Niklaus knew he was also quick and deadly.

  But the difference between them was that Draglor assumed he couldn’t be bested, while Niklaus realized there was always someone better than you and strove to improve his skills through challenge and training.

  “If it’s a straight-up fight you want,” rumbled Draglor, “then I will oblige you.”

  Niklaus glanced at the heavy blade in Draglor’s right hand and the shorter one he’d just drawn in his left. He swallowed, despite his confidence. Both were wickedly sharp, and Niklaus wasn’t wearing armor. Then again, neither was Draglor, and his muscles were just so much meat to be carved. One slip from either of them and it would all be over.

  Niklaus felt sure Draglor would make a mistake, or at least pretend to. He’d take Niklaus’s coin and carve him up as an example to his students, as a warning to rivals, and as an advertisement for his business.

  Niklaus’s stylized way of fighting wasn’t known in these parts. Indeed, it had been lost over the centuries. But it had a clear purpose. Accuracy over strength, swiftness over brute force, and above all, a grace that took decades to master.

  He needed to be at his best, to enter the flow where he did not fear death.

  Cease worrying about what Draglor can and can’t do, Niklaus admonished himself and closed the gap between them.

  Steel rang as their blades crossed, before parting with a scrape. A tentative probing only, from them both. Niklaus’s eyes narrowed. He’d expected Draglor to launch an all-out attack with that heavy blade of his. The fact he hadn’t meant he wasn’t just a brute, he was a thoughtful brute. The worst kind.

  Draglor struck suddenly, faster than Niklaus thought he could wield the thick weapon. A slice toward his face, but Niklaus sidestepped as fast as the beat of a finch’s wing, letting the blade pass through the space his head had just vacated. An elegant move, just enough to avoid the sword with disdainful ease. He kept his own blade down, not bothering to parry.

  Hisses of approval at Niklaus’s move rose from the onlookers. Draglor’s face reddened; then he sneered. His eyes twitched, betraying his unease.

  But Niklaus watched, sizing up his opponent even as he moved aside. Going for a quick victory here would be foolhardy, a way of risking his own death.

  Draglor arrested his swing, jerking his blade out of its swoop, and Niklaus’s question had an answer. The man’s heavy blade was no impediment. Even with the extraneous weight, he was fast. Very fast.

  With a grunt, Niklaus backhanded a cut at Draglor’s arm and was parried, both swords ringing. They traded blows—Draglor a slash at Niklaus’s thigh, Niklaus a slice toward the barbarian’s groin—both deflected, sparks flying in the dim light.

  Niklaus thrust and was deflected. He spun and back-slashed another cut, which was blocked. Draglor had stepped close and hammered an elbow at Niklaus. He only just managed to turn his head, but the glancing blow was enough to send him staggering. Draglor’s blade traced a line across Niklaus’s side that burned like fire.

  Niklaus darted away, cursing, and created space between them. Luckily, the cut to his ribs was shallow and not debilitating.

  The barbarian was good. Very good, if Niklaus was honest. And his muscled bulk would cause many an opponent to be overly cautious. But his technique lacked subtlety. He’d had excellent training, of that there was no doubt. Nonetheless, his methods bore the remnants of learning from the violent struggles of experience, where failure meant death or serious injury. Draglor’s style lacked precision and he reacted viciously, whereas a true master swordsman had to be dispassionate when he fought. And when your opponent let emotion into their swordplay, there were always gaps to exploit . . .

  They circled each other in a brief pause, feet scuffing on the floor, their breath the loudest sound in the large room.

  Niklaus didn’t wait for Draglor to attack. Instead, he launched a flurry of blows at the giant: vicious cuts and lunges designed to make Draglor parry wildly. Their swords clashed a dozen times with blinding speed, shining arcs of steel, blurred blades with enough force to sever limbs. Niklaus pressed forward, pushing Draglor back, the giant yielding ground at every strike.

  With a shift to his left, Niklaus executed another lunge, but this time he left an opening.

  Which Draglor took. A desperate slash at Niklaus’s shoulder.

  Niklaus ducked under the wild swing, thrust low and hard, and pierced Draglor’s thigh. Despite the pain, the barbarian countered by hammering the pommel of his short sword toward Niklaus’s head. Niklaus jerked out of the way and sliced sideways, filleting half the muscle from the bone. Draglor screamed, dropping both blades and clutching his leg in an attempt to hold it together, while Niklaus slid a graceful turn, sweeping his sword up to rest in a high guard, the hilt at a level with his eyes, tip extended toward the ceiling. Blood splattered across the floor.

  Draglor screeched. Spectators shouted in dismay and rage. Boots stamped as the men and women rushed to ladders and descended to their teacher’s aid. Niklaus paused, nostrils flaring as he breathed, then brought his blade whirring down. He stopped the edge a hair’s breadth from Draglor’s neck. The barbarian flinched, slumped to the floor, blood-soaked hands still holding his own thigh muscle.

  It was a mistake, Niklaus realized, to have come here. But he had to keep his sword skills sharp, and the only way to do that was to face skilled warriors.

  “I hope your students enjoyed the show.” He turned to retrieve his sword belt, leaving Draglor writhing in a pool of his own blood.

  Word would spread from this. There would be repercussions. More swordsmen would come to face him. Maybe he would be defeated. Maybe he would die. But he’d made his peace with that fact long, long ago. To remain in his goddess’s service, to have a chance at joining her, he’d made a sacrifice of his life.

  ~ ~ ~

  “So you think you need to be a skilled swordsman to outwit death?” asked the aging noble with trembling hands who was sitting across the table from Niklaus.

  The man’s eyes flicked left and right. Trying to gauge the reactions of his friends, as if he’d said something worth considering. Niklaus hadn’t come here for the tedious banter, but to unwind after his fight with Draglor. The cut to Niklaus’s side had been stitched and dressed by a local doctor and shouldn’t bother him.

  A bottle-fly crawled across the noble’s shoulder with the self-assured arrogance of an insect that wasn’t afraid of consequences. Or perhaps its brain was so tiny it had no concept of consequences. After all, it had been drawn to the sweet scent of syrupy alcohol surrounding the drinks table. It had no idea the aroma that had drawn it wasn’t its usual fare of flower nectar.

  But Niklaus knew about outcomes, and he eyed the bug with no small amount of jealousy. The consequences of him losing the next few hands of cards would be disastrous. Five-hand Malice was usually one of his stronger games, but he’d already lost most of his royals, or whatever they called their bastard currency this far west, where civilization had degraded into constantly bickering independent cities. Talents, that was what they called their minted coins. And for a few moments, despite knowing the name of their currency, Niklaus couldn’t recall where he actually was.

  Maybe it’s the drink, he mused, then took another swallow from his glass of Thimble Rum, an expensive brand infused with cinnamon that was apparently all the rage among the wealthy. His glass was much larger than a thimble, though, and this wasn’t his first. He’d stopped counting at five.

  “I said,” Niklaus replied slowly, “that it takes a skilled person to do so. A sword helps in certain situations, esp
ecially out in the wilderness. But here, where terrors don’t assail you from every direction, perhaps the pen and coins do better.”

  The Pristart Combine. That was where he was. In the city of Riem, home of the Arcanum, a prestigious university. Or so he’d been told by almost every one of the citizens he’d spoken with over the last few weeks since his arrival. They had pride in the fact, and goddess knew they had little else to be pleased about. The Combine consisted of around fifteen small countries who seemed to be constantly arguing with each other. Usually it was the good-natured yet slightly cruel bickering of siblings, though sometimes it broke out into open warfare. A few centuries ago they’d managed to agree on a common currency, otherwise living here would be a nightmare, but they’d reached agreement on little else since.

  The bottle-fly disappeared behind the man’s neck, and Niklaus raised a hand to rub his own as he felt the ghost of the thing’s legs brush across his skin. Some thought the creatures brought good luck, drawn as they were to sweetness, but bugs were just bugs. People made their own luck, usually with a sword or with coins.

  “There are still terrors in the cities,” the noble said primly. “Monsters of a different stripe.”

  “Are you going to play or not?” someone said close by. It was the skinny noble who sounded like he spoke with a mouthful of marbles. One of the four strangers Niklaus had found himself playing Five-hand Malice against.

  Niklaus stared at the cards in his hand and suppressed a sigh. His luck never seemed to change. Bad before, bad now, and surely bad in the future. He thought about drawing another two cards, but that would cost him more talents, and his fortune probably wouldn’t change.

  Perhaps this was the price his goddess, Sylva Kalisia, extracted for his service.

  The very thought of her drove all others from his head. He examined the exquisite image of her he held in his mind. Long hair and sleek wings as black as a moonless night, penetrating violet eyes, her feral shamelessness that stopped his breath—