The Black Tower by Steven Montano

Malath concentrated on his task.  Her child sensed something was wrong and woke, crying.  Her heart pounded hard in her chest.
    The moment passed.  Nausea welled in her stomach.  Sammael kept crying, so she took him in her arms and held him tight, cooed into his ear.
    “Be ready,” Malath said, not just to her but to the others in the cage.  “It’s time for us to act.”
    His words had the desired effect, as they always did.  Maybe he infused the Veil into his voice, or maybe it was just his dominant persona, that sense of authority he conveyed without even trying; whatever it was, eyes that had been blank with exhaustion and hopelessness snapped wide open, and people rose to their feet. 
    Malath took Ijanna and hauled her up by her arms, careful to protect Sammael as he did so.  He looked at a young man who was nearby. 
    “Get those scraps of cloth,” he told him.  Malath looked at Ijanna.  “The Red Hand will be here soon, but the Knights know what we’ve done.  We have to get you and your son ready to move.  I know you’re exhausted, Ijanna, but you’re going to have to run.”
    “But...”
    “I owe you everything,” he said.  “No matter what happens, I want you to know I’ll never forget this.”
    They used the cloth to craft a primitive pack and secure Sammael to her back.  The crude sling put his face at the back of her head, and once they had him fastened tight Ijanna felt her son’s breath on her ear. 
    The other Bloodspeakers did what they could to pull themselves together.  They had no magic – many of them never had – but they would make up for that with courage.  They would be victims no longer. 
    Sammael giggled as Malath finished setting him in place.  He grabbed Ijanna’s ears and hair, and she bit down at the pain and smiled, happy to have him so close. 
    There was no question they’d been discovered, for soon the Dawn Knights came for them, up the hill and to the cage, their silhouettes lit by torches.  The soldiers let loose with flaming arrows and bolts which tore through the creased walls and punched into bodies.  Prisoners caught alight.  Each cage held between twenty and thirty captive Bloodspeakers, but they were packed so tight that one catching fire immediately spread flames to the others.  Soon the cages were filled with burning bodies, smoldering and smoking people who screamed horribly as the flesh melted from their bones. 
    More bolts came.  Metal pierced burning skin.  Cries were cut short by gurgling moans of pain.
    A flaming crossbow bolt flew past Ijanna and into the wall; another struck a young man who threw himself in front of her, and he fell to the ground choking on his own blood.  Ijanna stumbled back and would have fallen if not for Malath catching her. 
    A blast of fire and frost ripped through the night from the edge of the forest.  The air burned with the cold heat of an icy sun.  Rolling waves of power tore through the Dawn Knight’s ranks and brought them to the ground.  Fingers froze and snapped off around the hilts of their weapons like ice drops, and men burned without even being touched by flames.  Blasts of force threw Jlantrians against the walls of their own cages, snapping their necks and spraying blood across their black-and-gold armor.
    The air was alive with motion and noise.  Prisoners pushed against the bounds of their crude iron and wood prisons, which they rocked with such desperation the structures started to collapse.  People were smothered in the escape, Bloodspeakers and Dawn Knights alike. 
    Vra’taars slid from their sheaths and hewed prisoners in half.  Dozens of hungry and manic captives dragged Dawn Knights to the ground and overwhelmed them with sheer numbers.  The prisoners pried their captor’s helmets away and tore at their faces and eyes and pummeled them with stones found in the mud.
    Ijanna saw a host of dark cloaked men at the edge of the trees – the Red Hand.  They used short rods to