Dillon estimated that the trip would take just over half a day. They’d spend only a portion of that time crossing the flat wastelands of the Reach — most of it would be spent descending the small mountain, which had to be done carefully lest they fall to their deaths.
Luckily for Cross, Dillon was an expert at getting around in harsh environments. The ranger might as well have been born in the wild. He was fairly quiet and reserved, opinionated when it came to which route to take or what areas to avoid, but soft spoken on most everything else.
Cross did know that Dillon had a temper. They’d been accosted by brigands on their way to the Lithian camp, a band of wasteland outlaws who made a living feeding off of small caravans and launching attacks on Southern Claw border towns. Dillon hadn’t taken kindly to their intrusion, and Cross knew that if he hadn’t used magic to scatter the bandits Dillon likely would have killed each and every one of them.
Dillon had mentioned having a sister, and a nephew. Other than that, the ranger seemed content to keep to himself, and Cross respected that, even if he did find himself occasionally starting conversations that faded to nothingness due to a lack of response on the ranger’s part.
Small stones scattered down the side of the mountain as they made their descent. Cross’ camel slowed their travel with its deliberate and even pace. Dillon led the way on a horse as black as coal. His horse was adept at sliding down the smooth slope, but Cross’ dun moved a bit more awkwardly, due largely to her rider’s inexperience. Cross was slowly becoming a better rider, but he’d spent most of his military career being flown to his missions, and he’d only been riding horseback regularly for about a year.
Still…I should be better at this by now.
The small mountain where the Lith made camp stood at the northern end of a low and craggy range that cleanly cut the Reach off from the southern plains. If they turned south, they could have followed the range straight to the city of Fane. The landscape was dark and jagged, and the hills looked like enormous shards of black glass. The sun was dull and low as they rode into the Reach. Cross had to draw his armored coat tight and turn up his collar, and even gloved his hands felt frozen as he clung to the reins.
The ground in the Reach was hard and brittle, more ice than snow, with a thin layer of uneven and dark stone that ran underneath. Frozen streams and the fallen husks of stark white trees littered the landscape. Cross’ breath steamed in the air. His ears, mouth and nose were held under a cloth wrap, and even then they felt numb after they’d ridden for about an hour.
Dillon rode straight in the saddle. He wore a tan armored coat and had a long MK-14 carbine slung over his shoulder. An M4A2 was slung across the back of his saddle bag, and he had a 9mm Beretta strapped to a holster on his leg. Cross felt the weight of the sawed-off Remington shotgun in the holster on his back, which hung next to his black-bladed machete, the sheath turned so that he could draw it underhanded. His HK45 was slung in a holster on his left side, and his most potent weapon hovered in and around him, an ethereal shadow that tasted like charcoal and that whispered unintelligible mutterings into his head.
She hadn’t stopped whispering at him since he’d woken. It was like having a madman’s stereo. Sometimes, Cross just wished he understood what his spirit was telling him. Usually, he wished he could ask her to just be quiet.
They rode quietly across the ghostly ice plains. They stepped carefully to avoid sharp stones, patches of ice, and areas too brittle to support their weight.
Hours passed in near silence. Cross would have liked to sleep in the saddle, but it wasn’t going to happen. His nerves were alight, thanks in no small part to the nagging paranoia of his spirit. But that wasn’t entirely it: Cross disliked the notion of being directed by a prophecy. The fact that Sajai seemed to have known there was going to be something there in the Reach that Cross needed to follow unnerved him. It was like a trap had been laid by the universe, and he was walking straight into it.
The plains sloped down near a cluster of bone white trees rimed with dark frost. The skeletal remains of a tall humanoid creature sat near the trees; one of its hands was frozen so that it looked like it pointed back the way Cross and Dillon had ridden from.
Cross tried not to take it as a sign.
At the bottom of the slope was a thin canyon that was maybe twenty feet across. The only apparent means to cross to the other side was to use a thin log that traversed the distance like a crude bridge. Frozen pools of blood waited at the bottom of the slope, next to the log.
A cluster of thick trees and rocks waited at the far end of the gap, and beyond the tress waited the unseen source of the streaming smoke.
“ You smell that?” Cross asked. He smelled fire and fuel. “It’s an airship.” They couldn’t see any wreckage from where they were, but the smell made him certain.
“ Could it be one of ours?” Dillon asked.
“ I can’t think of a reason why a Southern Claw airship would be this far north,” Cross said. The Ebon Cities’ vessels used hexed organic fuel that smelled entirely different than that used by Southern Claw airships, so it was unlikely that the vessel was of vampiric origins. Cross deduced that it was probably a stolen or reconstructed vessel, like those used by smugglers and raiders.
Cross’ spirit moved ahead on her own. Thin lines of spectral essence connected them, which gave Cross an awareness of the area ahead. He felt the heat of fires and he smelled burning skin. He heard voices, and saw auras of pain. Lost and dead spirits roamed the air like predators in blood waters, but Cross’ spirit had become expert at protecting herself, and she eluded those wailing souls before they could do her harm.
Cross felt multiple living presences ahead, moving on the other side of the trees and stones. There were voids there, as well, unspaces where beings should have stood, but didn’t.
“ We’ve got vampires ahead,” Cross said, and he and Dillon dismounted.
They readied their weapons.
“ How many?” Dillon asked.
“ I’m not sure. Two, maybe three.”
“ That could be rough for just the two of us.”
His spirit bristled at that. She didn’t like Dillon not counting her as part of the group. She’d developed quite the temper.
I need to be careful of that. If she flares out of control and catches me off guard, we’ll all be in trouble.
“ There’s more,” Cross said. He had his HK45 in one hand; he molded his spirit in the other, his gauntleted hand. He didn’t latch onto her form too tightly, but held her ethereal tendrils like a rein, firm enough to let her know she’d be needed back soon. She extended her form to the other side of the open canyon, but at his command she moved, smoke-like, back to him, and she surrounded his body and filled his lungs with a burning sensation. Warmth filled him, vaguely erotic and invigorating, but at the same time painful and poisonous. She was like some dread hashish.
“ There are a half-dozen other life forms over there, too. Maybe more…it’s hard to say.”
Dillon chewed on that for a moment. His dark beard was cut close to his angular face, which always looked grim.
“ Human?” he asked.
“ Can’t say.”
“ Damn.” Dillon spat. “Is there anything you are sure about?”
“ I’m sure I don’t want to go over there,” Cross nodded.
They left the horses and the camel tethered to a lone tree at the west end of the ridge. Dillon led the way. He carefully stepped out onto the log, which shifted suspiciously beneath the ranger’s weight and looked ready to twist or collapse. Cross watched nervously as Dillon slowly but surely worked his way across. Wind flew up from the canyon depths, but Dillon didn’t slow or falter in the least. Cross did his best not to look into the canyon — he just watched Dillon advance and tried not to think about how deep it probably was.
Once Dillon crossed, he drew his rifle and took up position, and Cross realized he hadn’t thought of a good reason not to follow.
The log was two-feet-thick, but it creaked unnervingly when Cross set foot on it. He heard dirt and stone loosen from the cliff wall as he shuffled across. The wood felt slick beneath his boots, and the wind gusted just enough that it felt like malevolent hands pushed against his body, waiting for the right moment to shove.
Cross didn’t look down. He didn’t have to: he could sense the depth of the rift below, and his legs almost turned to jelly.
Stay with me.
She did. In spite of her reckless tendencies, Cross’ spirit stayed close as he crossed the unstable log, and her swirling form supported just enough of his weight that he almost floated across the last stretch of the cold run.
Dark growls peeled up from the depths of the canyon. Dillon chanced a glance down, but Cross didn’t. When he reached the far side he galloped onto stable ground and didn’t look back.
“ Will your camel be okay?” Dillon asked. Cross did look back then, and he saw the silhouette of the two mounts and the camel against a backdrop of dead clouds.
“ Yeah. I think it's smarter than both of us combined.”
“ Then why doesn’t it have a name?”
“ Names aren’t its style. Lay off about the camel, will you?” he laughed.
Dillon smiled.
They quickly cleared the open ground between the canyon and the line of dead trees. Cross and Dillon moved one ahead of the other in alternating runs, so that one man always kept an eye on what lay ahead while the other advanced.
The smell of fuel grew heavier as they came to the trees. Smoke poured into the air from the other side in an unrelenting stream.
Cross sent his spirit forward again. She found burning fuel tanks and bits of thaumaturgic cold steel, broken hex fields and snapped chains forged from arcane iron. She discovered a handful of living things, as well as the void space of vampire souls.
Cross and Dillon kept low and moved quietly through the trees. Soft stones shattered into pale dust beneath their boots, and their feet cracked apart dry twigs and brush. The floor was littered with pine needles and bits of wood and steel. Torn clothing dangled from dead branches.
They came upon the first body about twenty paces into the woods, a crumpled human in dark armor. His flesh was scalded and his head had snapped back against a dead pine. He’d fallen from the ship as it had exploded and crashed. A. 44 Magnum revolver was held in a hip holster, but he bore neither badge nor insignia.
Dillon nodded at Cross. They moved on without a word.
Cross’ spirit coiled around him like a hungry snake. Her touch burned against his skin, and she slithered over his mind like warm oil.
The trees were just thick enough to block easy sight of what lie ahead. Cross hadn’t thought the trees ran that deep when they’d viewed them from afar, but after several minutes he and Dillon still worked their way through a veritable forest.
They found more wreckage, and two more bodies. Cross stopped, and Dillon followed suit.
His spirit found an area up ahead that she refused to enter on her own. Cross considered coaxing her on, but he decided against it. He signaled to Dillon that there was danger ahead. They crept forward.
The hull of a wrecked airship lay smoldering on the ground. The crash had formed a clearing. The ship had barreled over a stretch of trees and flattened them, creating an open area that was several hundred yards across. Broken trees, still aflame, lay like sticks all over the dark forest floor, and the earth was torn and black. Smoke and ash hung in the air, and gusts of cold wind enveloped everything in diesel smoke. The air was a fog of vehicular fumes.
Cross and Dillon emerged a few yards away from what looked like the tail end of the crash, where they found the aft end of the ship. The shattered remains of the foredeck, Cross guessed, were what accounted for the wreckage they’d already found. He saw blood and broken limbs amidst the burning refuse. Everything smelled like factory fires in a slaughterhouse.
“ Cross,” Dillon said quietly.
There was a body on the ground in front of them, and it was still moving. Greasy innards dangled from its waist where the legs had been torn away from the torso. Thick chains, still attached to a bulkhead, held the severed limbs just a few yards away.
The vampire clawed its way across the ground. Its black nails ripped into the soil, it’s clothes were tattered and ragged, and a deep cut in its forehead oozed a copious volume of pale blood that pasted its dark hair to its scalp. Dark, undead eyes regarded Cross and Dillon coldly, and the creature’s ashen face contorted in hunger, rage and pain.
This was a prison ship.
Cross looked at the smoking aft and saw the word DREADNAUGHT chiseled in letters across the dark wood. Most of the bodies they saw must have been those of prisoners, as they were dressed in the same crumbling rags as the vampire, but Cross saw another body that had been impaled on a broken shard of wood. That body, Cross reasoned, must have been one of the jailers, as he wore leather armor and had a. 44 Magnum in a side-holster, just like the body in the trees.
“ Black Scar?” Cross asked aloud.
“ That’s my guess,” Dillon nodded.
The vampire snarled and hissed. Its black tongue slathered hungrily out of its massive jaws. Cross smelled the creature’s carrion stench and grave-soil musk.
Dillon unsheathed his machete and sliced off the vampire’s head with a quick strike.
They heard movement. It was difficult to see the interior of the Dreadnaught’s aft-end wreckage, but they had a clear view of the shattered deck, much of which was still ablaze.
Cross stepped closer to the ship with his HK ready. His spirit wound about his free arm. Her anxious state almost rendered him numb, and her whispers clawed at his ear. Dillon moved into a covering position.
After a few steps, Cross stopped. The air was suddenly colder. He saw his breath and felt his skin go cold, and the ground crystallized beneath his feet.
“ Cross!” Dillon shouted.
Dillon’s rifle shot cracked open the air like a hammer.
Cross saw the vampire. It leapt at him from out of nowhere, its claws outstretched, its jaws wide, its pale skin covered in scars and runic tattoos. Cross had no time to react, but he didn’t have to. Dillon’s bullet shattered the vampire’s jawbone and it fell to the ground, where it writhed and clawed with violent force, as if taken by a seizure. Cross shot it, this time in the heart, and it stilled.
Two more vampires came at them. Their tattered clothing looked like it had been worn for centuries. Their ebon fangs and claws stood in stark contrast to the pale light. They were emaciated and fearless, clearly starved for blood.
Cross released his spirit. She flew into the first vampire as a drill head of pure force, an invisible and tightly wound cyclone that threw the creature into the air and onto its back. Cross raised his pistol and shot it as it fell.
The second vampire came from the other direction, and in a heartbeat it was nearly on top of Dillon. The ranger had no space to get a shot off with his rifle, but his machete was at his belt, and he pulled it free just in time to deflect claws aimed for his throat.
Cross’ senses overloaded. He heard a throbbing hum and noted a powerful male scent, like that of a wild wolf. His skin tingled with the unclean touch of someone else’s magic.
Red chains of fire swirled through the air and wrapped around the vampire’s body. The undead howled in fury as the chains touched its rotting flesh, which blistered and smoked with a gut-wrenching odor. The chains only burned the vampire when it moved against them; otherwise they hovered just inches away, where they circled the creature like flaming predatory eels. They kept it contained. So long as it stayed within their orbit, they wouldn’t burn it.
A burst of automatic gunfire shredded the ground between Dillon and Cross.
“ Don’t move, you morons!”
A tall and dark-haired man in black combat armor stepped out of the smoke. His hair was spiky and wild, and he wore a bandolier filled with knives and extra ammunition magazines over his armored coat. A broadsword was sheathed across his back, and he held an MP5.
Cross glanced at Dillon, who didn’t take his eyes off of the gunner.
Where are you? Cross wondered. His spirit returned, and he had her probe the area for the master of the other spirit, the male spirit. A witch was nearby, hidden somewhere out of sight.
That spirit and his master probed right back. Cross had wondered if the act of confining the vampire in such a flamboyant manner would prove too taxing on the witch and thereby prevent her from masking her presence, but he realized that those arcane flames were far too potent for even a high witch to maintain. That meant she used an implement to do it, an arcane focus that would reduce the stress placed on her own magic.
A damned powerful implement, he guessed. That means that she’s perfectly capable of matching anything I can do right now.
“ Dillon,” he said. “Wait.”
“ For what?” he asked. The shooter had the drop on them both, but Cross knew for a fact that Dillon could take him if he had to. Those throwing knives on the back of his belt weren’t just for show.
“ For the witch,” Cross said. “She’s around here somewhere.”
“ Really?” the shooter laughed. He had a coarse and gravelly voice. He bore a scar on one side of his face. “You’re a bright one, aren’t you? Both of you: drop your weapons.”
“ I don’t want to,” Dillon smiled.
“ Good,” the gunner replied, and he raised his gun and aimed it at Dillon’s face.
“ Knock it off, Vos,” a woman’s voice called out.
Four figures emerged from the burning fog and haze. Two men and one woman were bound and chained together at the wrist. Both of the men were blonde; one was an older man with thinning hair and a number of scars, while the other was younger and athletic, bearded and tattooed. The third prisoner, the woman, was lithe and the color of a ghost, with long blonde hair and a number of tattoos — dragons and blades, pyramids and skulls — that matched those of the bearded prisoner.
The prisoners were shepherded by a woman that Cross momentarily mistook for Ilfesa Warfield, a seductive black marketer and witch in Thornn whom he’d lusted after for the past several years. This woman was taller than Warfield, more toned, and impossibly more voluptuous, clearly displayed by the tightness of her form-fitting armor. Her waist was waif-thin, and her legs seemed to go on forever. She was clearly in excellent physical condition. Her deep red hair was perfectly straight and fell just past her shoulders, and her cheeks were sharp, angular and angry. Her eyes shone sapphire blue.
The witch wore black leather armor that matched that of her partner, Vos. In one hand she held a Colt Python revolver. Her other hand was encased in an arcane gauntlet, and she gripped a small ball of smoldering flame.
“ You’re Revengers,” Dillon said. He didn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice.
“ Yes,” the woman said. “And you’re a dumbass. Now drop your weapons.”
“ Wait…is there suddenly bad blood between the Revengers and the Southern Claw?” Cross asked. He holstered his HK. His spirit hovered in the space between them, an invisible wall of fire. He felt the witch’s spirit, along with all of its harsh male destructive potential and raw primal energy. They were evenly matched.
“ You’re not dressed as Claw,” the witch said. She was right — Cross and Dillon both wore earth-colored fatigues and armored coats with no insignias.
“ Who in the hell else would we be with, lady?” Dillon groaned.
“ There are lots of questionable characters roaming the wilderness these days,” Vos smiled.
“ Tell me about it,” Dillon said.
Vos motioned for the prisoners to drop down to their knees, which they did, though the bearded man did so reluctantly. He shook his head sadly at Cross, and smiled wryly, as if he was the only one in on some great joke.
Cross knew all too well that the Revengers were to be taken seriously. They were a mercenary outfit, not a part of the Southern Claw. They maintained autonomy because they controlled the massive facility called Black Scar, a vast and secure prison complex located in the wilderness far to the east of the Reach. The Revengers charged inordinate fees to the Southern Claw for use of this facility, but the Claw did so, as there was no better place to hide away dangerous citizens or captured creatures that for whatever reason needed to be kept alive. Relations between the Claw and the Revengers had always been tenuous, in no small part because of the rumors that inmates at Black Scar were subjected to brutal treatment and horrific living environments. Then there was the Revenger’s excessively mercenary nature: anyone could be incarcerated into Black Scar if the price was right. Worse, anyone — or anything — could also be set free, so long as there was ample cash involved.
“ I don’t care if you’re Southern Claw or Wile E. Coyote,” the Revenger woman said. “You just destroyed two of my prisoners. Destroyed prisoners are no good to me.”
“ Yeah, that’s a bitch,” the bearded prisoner laughed. “Of course, you don’t mind them roughed up a little bit, do you Hot Pants?”
Vos cracked the prisoner in the back of the head with the butt of the MP5. The bearded man fell forward, and he nearly dragged the others prisoners down with him.
“ Nice move, kid,” the other blonde man smiled. He seemed distant, and woozy.
The female prisoner didn’t speak, but she cast Vos a baleful look. Cross noticed the scar that ran lengthwise across her throat.
“ Kane,” Vos said to the prisoner. “Do that again. Please. I’d love to break your kneecaps.”
“ I like it when you talk dirty,” Kane groaned.
“ All of you, shut up,” the woman growled. She turned back to Dillon and Cross.
“ So you’re Southern Claw?”
“ Yeah,” Dillon nodded.
“ What are you doing all of the way out here?” she asked.
“ Recon,” Dillon lied.
Either the woman bought it, or she didn’t really care. She looked at Cross.
“ I’m going to call my spirit back. I’d appreciate if you’d do the same.”
“ I’d rather you didn’t call your spirit back,” Cross said, “at least not until you have that vampire safely contained.”
She smiled. He pulled back his spirit. She was reluctant and angry, and he could feel how desperately she wanted to confront the witch’s spirit. Cross had to exert more will than usual in order to force her to behave. He sensed as the witch called hers back, as well, seemingly with the same amount of required pressure.
The fiery chains around the vampire didn’t move, which meant that the woman’s gauntlet was wholly responsible for keeping the undead contained.
I’ve never seen an implement with that much power. Of course, no one really knew the full extent of the Revenger’s resources, but they were unquestionably extensive. Black Scar itself was supposedly buried deep within the earth, a multi-layered stronghold of chiseled iron protected with incredible levels of magic and artillery.
“ Your weapon?” Dillon said to Vos.
Vos watched Dillon for a moment, smiled, and lowered his gun.
“ You want to give me a hand?” he asked the ranger.
Dillon complied, even though he didn’t seem overly enthused by the idea. He and Vos secured the prisoners and moved them away from the wreckage. None of the prisoners spoke while they were moved; they just kept their eyes to the ground.
The witch’s name was Danica Black. She was a Warden of Black Scar and a Revenger, two facts that counted as marks against her in Cross’ mind.
That’s right, make excuses, he chided himself. She’s even further out of your league than Warfield is. And that’s saying something.
Cross stood at the ready while Black carefully adjusted the dials and switches on her arcane gauntlet, modifying the flaming chains that constrained the vampire and making them more stable. The chains never actually touched the creature: they just hovered less than an inch away from its pale flesh, ensuring that if the vampire tried to break free it would turn itself to ash.
“ Is this everyone?” Cross asked as they moved away from the wreckage and into the trees. The dead forest was thin and open, and after a short distance they finally found ground that was devoid of debris. Sharp stones covered the frozen soil of the forest floor. There was only a small amount of snow on the ground in the forest itself, but Cross looked through the tree line to the east and saw fields of white. The air was bitter and cold, and even though they put some distance between themselves and the Dreadnaught’s wreckage the smell of burnt wood and fuel still hung thick all around them.
“ This is all,” she said with a shake of her head. Soot and ash covered parts of her smooth face and hair. “All of the survivors of the Dreadnaught’s trip across the Reach. All six of us.” She smiled bitterly. “Shit.”
Black paced about, kicking stones with her tall boots. Cross tried not to think about how much she looked like Warfield.
Okay, stop it.
Her spirit was there, tense and watchful. Cross’ own lapped at it, teased it with challenge.
Dillon and Vos erected a crude camp, where they gave the prisoners — Lucan, Kane and Ekko — some water.
“ This has been a really nice trip, Vos,” Kane nodded as he was handed the canteen. “Can we go to the beach, too?”
“ Only if we get to see your girlfriend in a bikini,” Vos smiled.
“ I thought you were my girlfriend,” Kane replied.
“ Where are you bound for?” Cross asked Black, ignoring the sparring contest as best he could.
The vampire hovered just a few feet away. It watched them malevolently, unmoving, utterly silent save for the crackle of arcane flames that surrounded it. Cross saw the reflection of pale fire in its glassy eyes.
“ None of your business. Now let me ask you something, Cross,” Black said. She was a full head shorter than he, but her presence lent to her height. She had a slight accent, something inner-city. Her people had probably descended from New Yorkers, from the time Before The Black. “What are you doing out here?”
“ None of your business,” Cross said after a moment. He leaned against a tree and folded his arms. “Well, that was productive.”
“ At least we know where we stand,” Black smiled.
“ True,” Cross said. “But it’s going to be difficult to help each other if we don’t share some information.”
“ Help?” Black laughed. “Who said anything about needing your help?”
Before Cross could answer, a howl echoed from somewhere in the distance. It was followed in short order by another, and then a third, and then there was a choir of howls, a dirge that rattled the trees. That sound cut like cold blades through the air.
“ Oh, God, what the hell is that?” Kane moaned.
“ Wolves!” Vos said, but Dillon shook his head.
The voices behind the howls were deep and broken. The creatures that made them were inhuman, and a legion.
Not wolves, Cross realized. Gorgoloth.