Inside the walls, Dirge was much as Cross expected — a dirty, dingy, noise-filled mess.
The streets were filled with grimy citizens with faces spotted with sickness and fatigue, charcoal dust that stuck in the air, iron wheels that ground against the broken street, furnace flames that burned high into the sky, and walls of arcane steam. People moved in crowded packs, and they toted sacks of dried goods and pulled carts of potatoes, grain, coal dust, raw steel and machinery parts. The air tasted like industry and sweat.
Dirge’s structures were pushed together like crowded bystanders. Buildings had been built with crooked angles, and every window and door looked too tall and too narrow, as if every block had been compressed in a giant hand. Dirge was not a tall city except for the outer walls, but it was thoroughly congested. All of its structures, even the clay and dirt roads, were gray or black. Walking through Dirge felt like passing into an ink stain.
“ Do we want to get some rooms?” Graves asked.
“ We might as well,” Stone replied. “No sense sleeping outside the city when we can stay at an inn. But let’s get moving — we don’t want to be out after sundown.”
Cross thrilled at the notion of spending the night in a bed. His back felt as stiff as steel from sleeping in a thin bedroll on uneven ground for the past several days.
Dirge’s sparse population dressed in a variety of clothing as haphazard and diverse as the people themselves. Humans of all races and associations were there: refugees from the rapidly dwindling frontier, miners from the Razortooth logging camps, former citizens of nearby Southern Claw cities like Thornn or Ath. Many of the people looked to be working class, and they dressed in dingy grey and brown work clothes and heavy boots. Others wore a hodgepodge of fashions, from the retro-Medieval attire of Thornn to the heavily cloaked garb worn by the Gol of Meldoar. There were too many people in too much of a rush to pay the three Southern Claw Hunters any mind.
Cross saw very few of the city’s black-garbed sentries down on the street, but they were easy to spot higher up on the parapets, where they watched both the roads of Dirge and the surrounding countryside. Flame-cannons propped on swiveling mounts allowed the sentries to aim the deadly weapons at targets on either side of the outer wall. Cross figured that in addition to the obvious show of force represented in the cannons there were likely more subtle means that Dirge’s rulers used to keep the streets clean of undesirables, from incognito warlocks and witches to arcane scopes in the towers.
The black tower at the center of Dirge loomed over the rest of the city. It was a dagger, a black spike that protruded up from the nexus of town like a dirty blade. Cross couldn’t help but feel watched by the tower, as the thorny obelisk seemed to follow and hover over them as they walked, poised like a frozen black snake. It wasn’t as if the rest of the city wasn’t oppressive — the dark material of the buildings set them in stark contrast to the pale red sky, and Dirge was so dark in some areas that its people became walking silhouettes.
Stone directed them to the tavern district, just a few short blocks from the main city gates so that visiting merchants and emissaries from Rath wouldn’t have to travel far before they came to the hospitality of an inn. Most of the signs in the district were written in High Jlantrian, an archaic tongue used by the vampires. Many Southern Claw officers could read High Jlantrian, but to Cross it looked like a random series of slashes and cuts. He recognized it for what it was, but he couldn’t read it. High Jlantrian had no arcane value at all. Cross had spent his time learning Inverted Malzarian, the text of magic.
It was still daylight when they approached an inn, so there were very few vampires about. Those that Cross did see kept their pale faces carefully wrapped and their bodies concealed beneath bulky crimson cloaks, clothing that symbolized their status. Dirge was an armistice town: its rulers had quietly surrendered to the mercy of the Ebon Cities. The city was allowed to retain its human population, but the local authorities reported to a vampire Viscount, who along with a small contingent of undead honor guards had indirect control of the city.
An unmistakable aura of fear existed in Dirge, so palpable Cross could almost taste it. From what he understood there were only very few vampires to actually be found in the city at any given time, but more could always arrive, as they had the freedom and authority to do whatever they pleased.
This is no way to live, Cross thought bitterly. We’ll run you out of here, and out of everywhere else, you bastards.
The establishment they entered, The Blackfang Inn, was a spacious and smoke-filled place that was deathly quiet, dark and cold. Immaculately clean wood-polished floors and a long and sleek bar showed no signs of ever having been even touched, in spite of the dozen or so patrons seated at both the bar and at the few small tables. Those tavern patrons were stoic and silent, deeply focused on their purple liqueurs and thin black cigarillos. Gray and silver air shone from the skylight above the bar and illuminated the bartender in silhouette. Cross smelled whisky and hashish.
Stone nonchalantly walked up to the bar while Graves and Cross took a seat. The other patrons looked much as the three Hunters did — dirty, unkempt, sleep-deprived and in need of a drink — but for some reason Cross felt ridiculous putting down their dirty packs on a floor that looked like it could have doubled as a trauma room. A large metallic fan set high in the ceiling sliced the pale light from outside into swirling ribbons. A square balcony bound by black iron rails and set with dozens of blank steel doors stood a dozen feet above the main floor. Those doors, Cross could only assume, led to the coveted bedrooms.
Stone bought a round of Dirgian brandy. It was one of the weaker drinks available, he assured them, since they needed to keep their wits about them even though they all agreed a drink was much needed. He also set a room token down on the table.
“ One room?” Graves said with a groan.
“ Don’t even start,” Stone said. “We’re safer if we stay together. I don’t trust this place one bit.”
They all were all on edge. If someone figured out they were from Thornn, the militia would come gunning for them without a moment’s hesitation…especially that portion of the militia that bore fangs.
“ I may have found a place where we can find a tracker,” Stone said after he took drink.
“ Really?” Cross asked.
“ You were only at the bar for two minutes…” Graves said quietly.
“ I have a way with people.”
“ What way?” Graves laughed quietly. Their conversation was undoubtedly the loudest in the tavern, even though they spoke barely above a whisper. “Your idea of a conversation is usually an insult followed by a rabbit punch.”
“ That reminds me, I owe you a rabbit punch,” Stone said.
“ Well?” Cross asked.
“ The bartender said we should try a place called the White Spider. It’s a gambling hall, brothel…our kind of place. She said we might have some luck finding a certain individual who works off the beaten path.”
“ Well okay, then,” Cross said.
“ What?”
“ Nothing.” Cross couldn’t say why, but the mention of The White Spider bothered him…which made no sense, because prior to Stone mentioning it he’d never even heard of the place.
“ Good,” Stone said. “Let’s finish our drinks and get up to the room.”
Cross kept his uncertainties to himself, chalking them up to fatigue and paranoia.
Renting the room took nearly all of their pooled local coin. They didn’t have much. Southern Claw currency was not only useless in Dirge, but it would give away who they really were in a matter of moments.
The room was as plain and as boring as Cross knew it would be, with only a single bed, a vacant wardrobe, and a bathroom with no mirror, which was hardly a surprise given the town’s stance on vampires. One small window let in filtered gray and white light that helped relieve the room’s otherwise oppressive atmosphere.
They slept in shifts in spite of their fatigue. Someone was up and on watch while the other two slept back to back on the small bed. Cross, despite the misgivings of the other two, took the first watch — he was wired with anxiety, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for quite some time, regardless of how tired he felt.
He sat in the room’s single chair, with his pistol in his hand and Graves’ shotgun on his lap. Cross leaned the chair back against the wall and kept his eyes on the locked door and window.
Most of the sounds that he heard over the course of that night were perfectly normal, things one could hear in any city: muted conversations, industrial machines at work in the distance, the steam whistles of local trains blaring through the night, laughter, even an occasional bout of drunken song.
But there were other sounds, things he’d expected to hear but hadn’t wanted to, that reminded Cross he was in a town controlled by vampires: guttural undead throat songs that floated down from the rooftops, the sound of bodies flying through the air like rags caught in the wind, the whisper of demonic voices, and the garble of unguarded telepathic refuse intentionally released to intimidate the populace.
Cross also heard the feedings.
The vampires never desired the outright elimination of an armistice town. Such would defeat the purpose of having allowed it to surrender in the first place, since by even allowing the town to do so the vampires must have had some future plans for it. Had that not been the case, slaughter would have been the first option. But the blood tax was heavy, and after dark all unguarded humans were fair game. The vampires would, by agreement, never enter a closed or sealed home or business, so if you were smart enough to lock your doors and shut your windows at night, to block off your fireplace and seal your doors, then you had nothing to fear. But if you didn’t, or if you ventured out of doors and were spotted by the undead, you were nothing but a meal.
The stipulation should have been simple for anyone to follow, but Cross had heard tales of those who’d defied the blood tax. There were drunks or other homeless persons caught in the open streets, people driven outside by emergencies but who felt confident they could make it in and out of doors before it was too late, children who doomed their entire families because they managed to force a window open while they were playing, or households wiped out simply because someone forgot to properly close the door. Even when it meant life or death, mistakes happened.
The sound of a feeding was impossible to ignore. Cross heard the smack of teeth, and sucking sounds so loud he swore they came from there in the room. He heard pained moans and animal barks. It amused him to think that once, so very long ago, these creatures had been painted as romantics by fiction writers. They were animals, pure and simple, vicious of heart, evil of spirit, malign in their sole drive to wipe humanity out.
Cross waited, watching. His heart raced and his skin was flushed with cold sweat, for even though he knew they were safe he still expected a vampire to crash into the room at any moment.
He was only on watch for about two hours. It felt like twelve.
He remembered hiding beneath buildings while he listened to other children squeal in pain while they were slaughtered. Some things he would never forget, no matter how hard he tried.
Cross’ sleep, once it was his turn to do so, was fitful, filled with nightmares of gore-covered black unicorns who chased him through a silver glade at the base of a jagged mountain. There were women trapped there with him, and though they ran, none of them escaped.
I’ve seen this before.
In the morning, not feeling refreshed at all, Cross checked over Winter’s battery pack and chemical engines to make sure they were still in good working order. Graves had the last watch, and he sat in the same spot that Cross had, his shotgun in hand. He spun a throwing knife back and forth between his fingers.
“ All good?” he asked.
“ All good.” Cross packed everything away. All of their gear was out of sight, and ready to move. “Stone’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he?”
“ He’s grabbing breakfast.” Graves looked at him. “What’s eating you?”
“ The White Spider,” Cross said. “Something about the name of that place is familiar. And it’s bugging the hell out of me.”
“ Try not to worry about it,” Graves said after he pondered a moment. “And try not to think about…you know.” When Cross didn’t answer, Graves leaned close. “Hang in there, man. Things will work out.”
“ Right,” Cross said bitterly. “Let me ask you something, Sam: when was the last time something ‘worked out’ for us?”
Graves thought for a moment. The early morning light came through their east-facing window and cast half of his scarred face in shadow.
“ About three years ago,” Graves said, “This was before you joined Wolf Company. I was squad leader for a perimeter patrol. The Sorn had been sending skull drones to scout for refugees or farmers to take back to their mines. Anyways, we were out near the Razortooth, and we saw this broken down caravan. It kind of looked like a wagon train from the old west, but even at a glance we could tell it hadn’t been touched in years. We were going to investigate — not for survivors, just for supplies — but before we could, we were called back to drive some Bloodwolves away from one of the research towers. Anyways, we didn’t get back to check out the caravan for another couple of days, and lo and behold, when we finally got back to it we found two dead Sorn, blown to bits. It turns out the caravan was a trap: there was an Ebon Cities necrobomb rigged to the wagon, set to explode if anyone poked around at it. The Sorn who set it off were the very same ones we’d been sent to find in the first place. So in the end, the raids stopped, and I didn’t even lose any men in the process.” Graves smiled. “So yeah…that worked out pretty well.”
“ That was dumb luck,” Cross said after a moment.
“ How is that different from ‘just working out’? Look, I realize that the world is shit, but that doesn’t mean that good things never happen.” He thought for a moment. “Things will work out. You have to believe that sometimes.”
Cross shrugged.
“ Sorry, I have trouble seeing it right now. And I’m extremely suspicious of this place we’re going to.”
“ You haven’t even been there,” Graves said.
“ I know, I know,” Cross said. His mind was stressed to the point of snapping. He couldn’t stop thinking about Snow, wondering what Red had done to her, or would do to her…or was doing to her at that very moment…
No. Stop it. That’s not going to help her, and it’s not going to do you much good, either.
“ Something in my gut just tells me that the White Spider is all wrong.”
“ Come on,” Graves said. He looked more worried than Cross would have liked.
You must think I’m going crazy, he thought.
“ Grab your gear,” Graves finished, “Let’s go find Stone.”
Stone, as expected, was downstairs, seated alone at a table, eating a bowl of steaming soup. There were only a few other patrons in the tavern, mostly gray-eyed workmen dressed in heavy industrial boots and ragged fur coats, probably laborers from the mines or the factories. Cross smelled coffee, and his gums watered.
“ We have some concerns,” Graves said quietly. He and Cross sat, and Graves made it sound like both of them were worried they might have been walking into a trap at the White Spider.
“ You’re being stupid,” Stone told Graves, and then he turned to Cross. “And you’re being paranoid. It was your idea to go and find a tracker in the first place, remember? I thought it was a ridiculous plan. For the record, I still do.”
Cross was about to argue, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. It was hard to focus. He was having difficulty putting even simple thoughts together. It must have showed, because Stone and Graves both gave him a look like there was something wrong with him.
“ Are you out of sorts because you lost your spirit?” Stone asked.
“ I think so…sorry. Nothing is really making sense to me right now. My head is all…fuzzy.”
“ Hey, me too,” Graves added with a nervous laugh.
“ Yeah, but we’re used to it from you,” Stone said with a perfectly straight face. “You’re naturally stupid.”
“ Screw you, friend,” Graves smiled back.
“ Sir.”
“ Fine. Screw you, Sir.”
They ate some hearty soup — it was lamb, Cross thought, with artificially grown vegetables and a surprisingly thick gravy-like broth — and they drank strong coffee, all of which invigorated him and made him feel better than he had in days.
“ Cross,” Stone said after they ate a while, “your senses are pretty dull, huh? And your judgment has been…hot and cold?”
“ I’ll be all right,” Cross said. Stone looked at him doubtfully. “I’ll be all right,” Cross insisted again.
“ Stone…” Graves said quietly.
“ You stay out of this,” Stone said sternly, then turned back to Cross. “We’re not going on a parade. If you’re not going to be able to cut it, something needs to be done. As it is…”
“ I know,” Cross said. “Without magic, I’m useless. Well, Stone, with all due respect…go to hell. I’m fine.” He went back to his soup.
Surprisingly, Stone nodded, and he didn’t bring it up again.
They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, and Cross steeled himself for having to hand over his magical duties to a complete stranger.
What the hell good am I now? he wondered. Maybe Stone is right. Maybe I’d be best staying behind.
But no. Snow was out there, and Cross wouldn’t quit until he found her. He knew there was little hope that she was still alive — the Blood Witch was no vampire, but he couldn’t think of a reason why she’d keep her captive breathing. But he had to hope.
What else am I going to do? Besides, like the man said…sometimes things just work out.