Free The Black Tower by Steven Montano Page A

again, as well as the ubiquitous Razorcats and the occasional distant rumble of a Runefiend.  Cronak made short work of any game – every time her stoic and frightfully wolfen companion returned from scouting ahead he always had something freshly dead slung over his shoulders, usually a desert antelope or some sort of malformed vole.
    He was growing more distant, colder.  Cronak rarely spoke unless she prompted him with a question, and when he did volunteer words on his own they were almost invariably about the pain and suffering he intended to rain down upon their enemies.  Her old friend was becoming more like she remembered him, violent and sullen, the way he’d been before he’d been re-born as a half-wolf monster.  For a time he’d been like a child, fascinated by the world and everything in it, fiercely protective but oddly brotherly.  She’d enjoyed that new Cronak, and she missed him already.
    Not that there was any place for sentiment out there in the blasted wastes at the edge of the world.  Whenever they weren’t on the march her men sparred and trained relentlessly.  They’d been traveling for days, and the stark and unending desert made it seem as if they could keep on walking for years.
    Wine-dark skies hung low over the ebon sands.  The land was so black it was like walking through spilled ink.  Vellexa’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and on the rare occasion when the sun shone through the clouds the world seemed blinding. 
    They only had a few mounts, but the Black Guild men frequently offered Vellexa their horses, and though she didn’t care for the special treatment she appreciated the time spent off her feet.  The horses were savage creatures, war beasts purchased on the black market, specially bred for combat and trained to kick in heads or trample fallen foes to death.  They were a far cry preferable to the drad’mont , the Tuscar’s horned reptilian beasts, monsters with grey skin and bulging muscles, vaguely boar-like in their stance but with heads resembling those of prehistoric armored turtles.  The Tuscars rode three or four to a drad’mont through use of leather cords and strange black saddles, though many of the warriors simply ran or jogged across the Bonelands, somehow keeping pace even while on foot.  Vellexa knew how capable they were – the Guild had employed Tuscars for years, and she’d personally seen them fight or run for hours without rest and still be ready for more – but out there in the Bonelands the drive they possessed seemed almost supernatural. 
    The air was hot and stale.  She sensed Cronak’s bloodthirsty longing, the werewolf taint that had soiled his blood and transformed him into something even less human than he’d been before.  She echoed his feelings.  She couldn’t decide who she’d kill first if given the choice, Azander Dane or Marros Slayne.  It would be a difficult decision. 
    The trek across the wastes of Gallador was far from easy.  They passed through impenetrable mist and fog, navigated treacherous banks and twisted stone spires.  The Tuscars were silent through all of it save for the battle cries they issued when the opportunity for slaughter presented itself.  On occasion Fan’skar informed her of a change in route or a danger his scouts spied, or else he’d ask her some inane question about human eating habits or mating rituals.  The human mercenaries were louder, and sometimes complained about the lack of light or the length of the trip, but at no time did Vellexa sense that Rutjack and his men were discontent with her or the situation – they were just itching for a fight.  Like Cronak they sought some sort of release for their pent-up aggressions, and skirmishes with desert beasts wasn’t going to cut it.
    Vellexa moved in a haze whether she was mounted or on foot.  Sweat  slicked her skin, and her eyes were heavy from the heat.  Her cloak rippled behind her in the desert wind.  She clenched her