The Witch's Eye (17 page)

She
knew about revenants.  Animated undead were usually mindless and ravenous, but revenants were zombies possessed of vampire’s intelligence.  They were cunning and swift, strong and determined. 

Both
Renaad and Cristena were scarred and broken beings with pale skin and solid black eyes.  Renaad’s long hair drifted down past his armored shoulders.  His skull had been ruined by a head trauma, so what was left of his rotted face was concealed beneath a steel plate.  Jagged scars covered the rest of his magically preserved flesh, and he wore steel and leather armor set with sharp epaulets, iron gauntlets and bladed boots.  Cristena had short dark hair, and her dead flesh was pale and bore an almost icy sheen.  Like her once husband, she was tall and thin.  She wore purple and black leather armor beneath her thick black cloak.  She’d once been a witch, but now her weapons were short-spears, chained knives and serrated ebon swords.

The
revenants’ cold presence filled Dragon’s captive spirit with apprehension and dread.  His anxiety clawed at her mind, but she pushed him back into the cold and lightless depths of his bloodsteel prison. 

The
plains were dry and cold as they stepped out of Lorn and approached the Razorwing.  Lynch and a host of Lorn’s ministers and dignitaries waited for them out in open ground.  They wore pale robes and heavy iron chains that denoted their servitude to the Ebon Cities. 

P
ale-skinned Raza mercenaries stood at attention nearby, as did the vampire shock troops of Lady Riven’s honor guard.  The vampire countess herself was nowhere to be seen, as she rarely emerged from her steel-capped tower at the edge of the city.

Th
e Razorwing’s oily black flesh creaked like leather as Dragon approached.  Its white eyes narrowed, squeezed in by scaly lids. 

It was just past dawn. 
Stars burned high in the sky, and the fading face of the moon vanished behind iron clouds and drifts of night smoke.

This is wrong
, she told herself. 
This isn’t who you are, and this isn’t where you’re supposed to be.

In spite of her thoughts
and her spirit’s protests, Dragon stepped onto the Razorwing.  Within minutes the beast rose into the cold morning sky with its trio of riders secured to the platform on its back. 

T
hey soared past hills covered with scorched trees and shattered rock.  A black river wound its way south towards the coast, but the Razorwing flew east, towards the ruins of Wolftown.

NINE

STORM

“Let
’s go.  Now.”

The wagon had
just stopped.  Jaro, the sniper, yanked the cage door open, and Saul aimed his shotgun inside.  The smile on his face made it clear he wanted someone to try and escape. 

Cross sat up in a daze.  He
’d been hypnotized by the rhythm of the wagon’s motion and the monotony of the landscape.  Bitter clouds stained the sky, and blue-black ice coated the bases of nearby pines.  The sun shone silver off the walls of a tiered and fractured ravine.  Cross could see straight down into the trench as they pulled him from the wagon.  The shallow chasm was maybe seven or eight feet deep, and its rock and bone floor was littered with dark holes. 

Flint watched with fear
in his eyes.  Cross recognized the former Marine as a good man, even if they’d only known each other for a few days.  All Flint cared about was keeping Shiv safe.  Cross nodded to him, and faked a smile.  He knew Flint could tell it was false, but the older man nodded back just the same.

Jaro handed Cross off to Saul
and closed the cage door.  The Vuul wasn’t gentle: his arms were as thick as tree trunks, and he held the back of Cross’s neck with an iron grip.  What was left of Cross’s rotted boots offered little protection against the sharp stones underfoot, and he winced in pain with every step as Saul pushed him to the edge of the trench.

Most of Tain
’s men stayed on horseback and maintained a perimeter around the wagon, but Tain and Kala waited down in the ravine. Both of them were dressed in pale animal hides.  Cross’s sword was on the ground at their feet.

“Watch your step,” Saul said, and he shoved Cross down the slope. 

Cross tumbled to the bottom, and rocks cut into his knees and forearms.  His landing kicked up a cloud of grey dust.

Tain and Kala st
ood over him.

“Time for you to show me how to use your blade,” Tain said quietly.  Kala
smiled.

“I
’m not a fencing instructor,” Cross coughed.  He was out of breath, and so weak he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stand, but when he felt Kala’s blade at the base of his spine he leapt to his feet.

“Show me,” Tain said quietly.  “Now.  Or I’ll kill your friends in the wagon.”

Cross nodded.  The smell of hex
was thick in his nostrils as Tain’s spirit wove around him.

“I need…
I need the sword,” Cross coughed.

“Like hell you do,” Kala said. 

“Look…” Cross said after he coughed again.  “My spirit is trapped in there.  The only way I can channel her is to actually
touch
the blade.” 

Tain watched him impassively.  The man
’s face was a mask. 

Remind me to never play poker with this guy.
 

“You have to touch the blade?” Tain asked calmly.

“Yes,” Cross said, not caring how exasperated he sounded.  “If I could use the magic from a distance, don’t you think I would have done it by now?”

“And I presume
no one can use it but
you
,” Tain said.  Cross didn’t answer, but Tain nodded. 

The air went quiet.  Cross smelled
a blast of rot and filth, and while such an odor wasn’t uncommon in the Bone March, something about it caught him off guard.  The strange thing was neither Tain nor Kala seemed to notice the stench, but the
horses
did – Cross heard them stamp and whinny with fear.

A presence
pushed against him.  For a moment he thought Tain had set his spirit on Cross to torture him again, but the feel of the cold power as it scraped against his flesh was different than before.  A sudden rush of energy filled his body.

Neither Tain nor
Kala were looking at the blade. Tain stared at Cross, while Kala’s attention had shifted topside, so neither of them saw the sword take on an icy-blue sheen.  Thin lines of rust smoke leaked from the double-edged surface.

“I guess the blade is useless to us
, then,” Tain said.  “Which means you’re useless, too.”

The stench of rot intensified. 
Cross heard a distant scream approach like a locomotive.  Suddenly, a towering rampart of blood and smoke exploded up from the ground like a geyser.  Cross, Tain and Kala were all thrown back.  Cross saw faces in the shifting pillar, twisted and contorted souls wracked with agony.  Something hovered at the core of the ghostly blast: a smoking lens of crimson ice hanging in the air like an eye.  It looked into him, looked
through
him.

Cyclonic force battered
Cross’s body.  The vortex doubled in size.  Outside the ravine, the arcane storm tore the landscape apart.  Trees fell into the sky, uprooted by the spectral hurricane.  Blood and sand whipped out with a sound like rasping metal.  Bones and grit flew through the air.

Cross
froze.  A rush of power from the sword surrounded him…
protected
him.  Cold energies gelled against his body like liquid steel.  The air around him turned black as he was encased in an onyx shell, an armored sarcophagus.  Cross struggled to see through the iron-dark surface of the ebon cocoon.

Bodies
exploded into bursts of skin and gore.  The whirlwind diced Saul apart like a head of cabbage. Horses flew to pieces.

Cross
was thrown back, but the storm couldn’t penetrate his armor.  Everything smelled like fire.  His sweat burned.  Caustic wind pushed him hard against the wall. 

The storm raged
on.

Tain lashed out at the wraith tempest, that undead storm fused around
the smoking eye of ice.  The gem watched the potent spirit shape into a spike of acid and fire, but even the warlock’s assault wasn’t enough.  His spirit was scattered, her screams lost in the dead tide. 

Kala leapt
in front of Tain to protect him and was lifted into the storm.  Blood rained down as her body was ripped apart. 

Tain stood stunned. 
Claws of smoke reached down and took hold of him.  Night-hard talons punched through his chest and lifted him up.  His torso cracked, and his insides spilled out. 

Screams echoed in
Cross’s mind as the prisoners were torn apart.

Flint.  Shiv.

He tried to stand, but the wind knocked him back.  His cries of pain were lost in the phantom wind.

H
e struggled, helplessly.  Blood and sand hailed down on him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the storm faded.  Needles of sunlight poked through the crimson darkness.  His shield dissolved, and shards of obsidian fell to the ground.

Cross
stood up.  His body was wracked with hurt, but he stumbled back to where they’d pitched him into the ravine.  The hills had been cracked open and the trees looked like broken matchsticks.  Red mist clung to the ground. 

Smoke and ash
condensed and receded into the eye of the storm, that piece of floating ice.  It was opaque, blackly red and darkly frosted.  He heard its voice, malign and ancient, vast and unsettling.  The air was made cold and dead by its presence.  It hung like the cold space between the stars.

H
e only saw the eye for a moment before it was gone.  It had left nothing but ruin in its wake.

The wagon had been pushed onto its side
and decimated.  Bits of wood and metal and bloody remains covered the ground.  Plucked organs spilled putrid fluids.  The air was charnel, and smelled like a slaughterhouse. 

Cross turned away and
covered his face.  He saw his sword in the dirt at the bottom of the trench.  The blood-covered steel ran with richly dark smoke.

It had saved him. 
Only him.

Why
?

Cross picked up the
weapon slowly.  Strength poured through his body.  His shaking hand steadied.  He took a deep breath.

He saw the eye of ice in his mind
’s eye, and held it there. 

After a time, Cross investigated what was left of the wagon.

The stench of human and animal remains hung thick.  Blood steamed in the cool afternoon air.  Twisted body parts sizzled like they
’d been put to the torch. 

The wagon was in splinters.  Wheel spokes protruded from
human remains.  The gory ruins of the horses had spread like paste.  Twisted intestines were coiled around broken pieces of wood.

Cross
’s chest was tight.  He thought about Flint and Shiv, victims of other men’s cruelty, in the wrong place at the wrong time, torn apart by the whim of the icy eye.  Hatred boiled in his heart. 

He
’d never heard of such a creature, a specter fused to a core of diamond, but he vowed to learn anything and everything he could. 

The
more I know, the easier it’ll be for me to destroy it.

Cross
searched for salvageable equipment.  Most everything had been torn to fragments, so he didn’t expect to find much.  He started with the remains furthest from the epicenter of the carnage. 

After a few minutes h
e uncovered a Smith & Wesson Model 36 and a sawed-off Remington 870. They were both covered in gore.

As he searched, s
omething stirred at the center of the wreckage.  Wood creaked and fell apart.  Cross saw shadows emerge from the devastated wagon.  He checked the shotgun, made sure it was loaded, and moved closer to the pile.  His heart pounded.

Flint pushed his way out
from under the shattered wood.  He held Shiv in his arms.

“
Help!” he yelled, and he flung a piece of debris away.  Cross laughed with joy and ran over to them.

“How…
?”

“Don
’t ask,” Flint said.  His Irish accent seemed thicker when he was exhausted and stressed.  “Because I don’t know.”

Cross gripped Flint
’s arm tight to make sure he was real and not just some trick of the wastelands.  He helped them get free of the destruction.

“Try,” Cross said
with joy in his voice.  Flint and Shiv were covered in grime and dirt, but apart from a few scrapes and bruises they both seemed to be okay.

“Something grabbed us,” Shiv said excitedly.  Like her father, her accent came through heavy
now, and she didn’t bother trying to masquerade as a boy anymore.  “Something…black.  Like a ghost.”