The sky bleeds red and black. Clouds loom and twist like screaming faces. He presses ahead through the black wind.
The City of Thorns is far behind him. He walks across a dust sea. A forest of brambles, thorns and rock waits in the distance, but first he has to traverse field s of clay and black water. Cracks in the ground remind him of scars. Dark ice and petrified wood crack beneath his boots.
There is no faster route to take, and that knowledge claws at him. He has to hurry.
Because h e knows what the Shadow Lords are after.
He carries on without rest. His shadow body grows weary. He fades in and out. His blade is all that keeps him stable.
I’m turning less real. Soon, I’ll be just like them, like the natives.
Will I remember who I am? Will I remember why it’s so important that I succeed?
He can’t think about it for too long. He leans into wind filled with grit and debris and makes for the black forest in the distance.
He steps into a graveyard of trees. Dark filigree and necrotic ash drift at the perimeter of the forest and form a wall of ice shadows. The wind blows around the woods as if forbidden to enter.
T he air is dark red. The t rees are as pale as bones. Wind-felled trunks litter the forest floor like casualties. Tangled roots make the way treacherous. Witch’s hair hangs down from branches like petrified spider’s webs. Most of the trees are bare, as if some great fire ripped through the area without leaving any burns.
He follows a path bordered by twisted brambles and smooth stone. Shadows cling to everything like moss. Trees root inside one another. They grow inverted or thrust back into the ground like swimmers. Rocks split and bleed darkness that gathers in thick pools. Leaves hang petrified in the air.
He walks slowly, wary of upturned roots that pulsate and ooze a briny substance. His blade is ready, a dim shine in the forest corridor.
He knows these are forbidden w oods. Even the Shadow Lords don’ t come here, for they fear the rule r of this place. The Eidolos warned him, but even it could put no name to the master of the woods.
The n arrow earthen path gradually gives way to dark and dust-covered stone s that are flat and low and clustered together like teeth. Hoarfrost and petrified mushrooms push against his boots. The path widens into a creek bed, a low and elevated channel filled with shattered rock a nd derelict tree limbs. There’ s no way to determine if the ground is moist or not. Everything is too black.
Strange sounds call through the distant sky. He looks up and sees a storm of shadow just beyond the trees.
Enormous t oppled logs litter the ground in the forest, juggernauts of wood covered in dark growths and insects. Vines curl and unfold like languid snakes.
The air is cold and still. He hears the wind beyond the trees, but he doesn’t feel it. He can’t hear much besides the alien birds and the crack of forest growth beneath his boots.
He’ s covered in shadow. He loses his grip. He feels his mind slipping. He doesn’t re member his name.
The obelisk. Remember that.
The obelisk. The source of human magic. Its likeness was drawn on the wall of the dark shrine, surrounded by another image of six cloaked men reaching for it.
It was there, somehow. It had fallen through the Carrion Rift and wound up in the Whisperlands.
I should have realized it before now. I should have seen it coming.
The Shadow Lords are intruders in the Whisperlands. They rule by show of force, but to rule isn’t their goal. They don’t care at all what their presence does to the realm, or to those trapped inside it.
They know the way out. That’s why the Eidolos has sent him to find them, to challenge them. They aren’t from this world. They are here for a purpose.
They search for the obelisk.
I can’t let them have it. I don’t know what they want with it, but if the stone falls into their hands then the Southern Claw will be lost.
Remember the obelisk.
And Snow. Remember Snow.
He will not forget her. Not ever. She ’d died so he could succeed, so that their mission hadn’t end ed in vain. To fail now would be a desecration of her very memory.
He walks deeper into the night woods. He feels eyes on him.
The river bed opens to a wide beach on a black shore. Massive trees, some of them hundreds of feet long, lay toppled in a catastrophe of black wood. Roots dangle like melting blades. Stones shift into silt and sand beneath his feet. The ravine flows under the trees and empties in to a laggard flow of ebon waters covered in steam. The far shore is barren, and beyond it stands the rest of the shadow-smothered forest.
Something waits for him on the opposite shore.
At first he can’t make it out, as the large figure blends into the darkness. A grey disturbance surrounds it like a sullen cloak, a twist in the atmosphere, like the being wa s cut from somewhere else. It shimmer s like a heat haze. It is out of place, only temporarily present.
It is derelict. A refugee, just like he is.
Whatever it is, it watches, and it waits. It’ s twice as large as he is.
T entacles made of oil writhe just beneath the surface of the water. He hears a ripping sound, like a great wound has opened. The tendrils leap up and smother the ghost silhouette with thick necrotic unguent. Even from across the shore he smells the stench of hog’s blood and animal waste, of decay and dead sap.
Darkness creeps all over the master of the forest. It is a dread conflagration of nightmares that controls this wasteland of trees. It feed s on creatures who attempt to pass through its domain.
He hears the lost voices of scattered ghosts. The entire forest is filled with the remains of the lost. The dark smell of condemned souls burns in the wind.
This is the forest of a hunter.
The beast is humanoid. Its t hick arms end in curled claws. Forest topiary surrounds it like armor. Shattered antlers fuse to its head, and its torso is wrapped in a tapestry of bone blades. The spine of some slaughtered wilderness beast extends from the hunter’s arm and twists and sharpens to form a curved blade, a spear of shadow. The creature’s mass is blood and darkness held together by iron-hard sticks and forgotten bones.
Its body billows and expands. Smoke pours from the gap s in its grisly armor. Behind it, gutted animal remains an d hollow shells assemble into a host of beast soldiers.
He readies himself to face the hunter. Power surges through Soulrazor/Avenger. Chill energies course into his veins. Shadows fleck away from his body like dried mud. The light from his weapon pushes the darkness away.
The hunter’s a ssault is swift and brutal. The shadow creature is suddenly within arm’s reach. He d oes n’t see it cross the wate r, doesn’t see it move at all unt il it’ s on top of him.
Blood grease limbs thrust at him with the bone spear and Soulrazor/Avenger barely deflects the attack in time. His body falls to the ground, battered and bruised. There’ s blood on his face. F orest roots dig into his back. He rolls away from the next blow, which hits the earth and sends up clods of silt and stone.
It’s difficult to find his footing on the rocky shore. He swipes at the hunter, rips away root flesh and rot, and the beast howls with a voice like a horde of dying animals. His ears twist and bleed at the sound.
The bone blade knocks his weapon away. Pain shoots through his hands. The joined sword falls into the water. He chases after it.
A blow takes him in the back. He flies through the air and lands on top of a massive log. A branch cuts straight into his leg. Pain sears through the impaled limb. His scream carries into the sky.
The beast looms over him.
H e tears the branch away. It snaps like a bone, and the pain shoots up his leg and into his stomach. His vision blazes white. He falls. Up and down bleed together. Wood fragments spray onto his face as the shadow man strikes the tree where he’d been and nearly cleaves it in two.
He falls into the water, a blood broth filled with gristle and rotted meat. He tumbles head over heels. Mold fluid seeps into his lungs. He struggles to the surface, spits out muck and grime, falls back down. He bobs, weightless, along the surface. The fast-moving river carries him away.
The hunter beast is in the distance. Trails of smoke twist from its arms and into the sky. Flaming missiles bear down and scorch the skin of the river. He sees the waters burst and turn foamy where the small meteors strike.
He swims as best he can. Bone fish and slithering dead things push against him and threaten to drag him under. He can barely see as he tumbles through dingy waters.
He narrowly avoids jagged rocks. The waters become more violent. He feels himself going down. He sinks closer to the bottom of the river. Soon he’ s lost in the shadows and stones.
He ’s on the shore. He doesn’t remember getting there.
His clothes and skin are saturated, and his body is covered with forest debris. Pale leaves cling to hi m as he painfully pushes himself up from the rocky ground. His arms shake, and his back is stiff with pain. The wound in his leg peels open when he tries to move, and he almost screams again.
He’ s alone. The hunter beast chose not to pursue him.
He limps along the rocky shore, looks into the forest next to the river and sees nothing but darkness.
Dead leaves fl oat through the air as he struggles forward. His leg starts to go numb.
The sword kept him safe. Soulrazor/Avenger offers him some measure of safety. It knows he has purpose here, and it pushes him on even though his spirit has long since left. It will protect him again.
But first h e has to find it.
He struggles through ankle-deep waters and pushes past s tanding stones and sediment drifts. Black fish lie dead on the river bank. He sees scat and bones, and smells rot.
Someone waits for him.
These natives are different from the others he’ s encountered. They are paler, not as covered by shadow. They are m ore like him.
They are garbed in primitive dress. Remains of clothing from the other world he barely remembers have been mixed with dark animal bones, furs and hides taken from shadow beasts.
There are a score of these creatures. T hey watch him soundlessly. He waits with fear in his chest, and he wipes black substance from his eyes.
They don’ t say a word. They step closer, and though for a moment he feels he should resist he allows them to lay hands on him. Their touch is surprisingly warm, and solid.
They’ re real. More real than the rest of this place. Just like I used to be.
T hey are human-like, but not human. Their skin is scaly, and they are larger than he is, stronger and more agile. They move with a sinuous grace he’ s seldom encountered before, here, or anywhere. They move like a si ngle sentient being, like they’ re coordinated in their motions and thoughts. He fears they’ re just extensions, another horde of puppets like the Eidolos’ s false children, but something in their scaled expressions, their quizzical and almost concerned faces, tells him he has nothing to fear from them.
They help him into the trees.
Cross felt himself grow more solid the deeper they went into the forest. Before long they were away from the river, and they stepped into a large clearing where the ground was moist and dark but the grass was actually green.
He heard voices, a mixture of human and other tongues he didn’t recognize. There were over two dozen people in the open camp, several of them standing guard along the outer perimeter, where the otherwise clean air turned vitriolic and dark. They’d camped in an island of solidity, a place secluded from the polluted fields of shadow. Tall torches had been set in the ground like spears and filled the clea ring with flickering yellow light.
The people were a mixture of human and green-gr e y humanoids with reptilian skin. Some of them had other lizard-like features as well: sharp and yellowed teeth, snake-like eyes, forked tongues, claws in stead of hands. Once inside the shadow-safe zone their clothing was tattered workman outfits and light armor cast in earthen tones. Their weapons were archaic rifles, blades and spears. Every one of the creatures w as dirty and looked bone tired, and Cross imagined they’d been there in the Whisperlands for a very long time. There were women among them.
“Welcome to our humble camp,” said one of the men he ’d been leaning on, a grey-haired and mostly human individual. “I’m Kyver.”
“Eric,” Cross replied after a moment. He was disturbed at how long it took him to answer. His voice was dry and hoarse, and h e was exhausted beyond all measure. “Not to be rude, but…could we do something about my leg?”
“Sure,” Kyver said.
They brought Cross to a bedroll near a shambled collection of tents. Everything looked very temporary, like they were ready to up root at a moment’s notice.
“What is this place?” he asked. Kyver and another human helped Cross set himself down on his back as gently as he could. He was woozy and weak. Blood soaked his leg, and in the torchlight he saw how bad his injury really was. Cracked skin glistened raw beneath his torn trousers. The slightest breeze made the wound sting.
“This is Vala, our medic,” Kyver said. Vala was a tall black woman with severe eyes and tight skin. She wore a dingy tank-top and camouflage pants, and her arms had more tone and muscle than Cross could ever hope to have.
“Lay still,” she said, her voice as commanding as her angular face.
“You bet.” He did his best not to hiss as she applied s altwater salve to the wound. “Saltwater…i s it a vampiric infection?”
“No, but it’s similar,” she said. “You know how the shadows start to creep all over your body after you’ve been out there for too long?”
“Yeah.”
“If it gets too deep into your skin, you lose your mind,” she said.
“We call it Shadowplague,” Kyver said. “For lack of a better term.” He smiled. Dead wind howled in the distance. “You probably have questions…”
“Yeah…maybe not as many as you think, but…yes.” Cross propped himself up on his elbows as Vala tore away his pant leg.
“Hold still,” she snapped.
“Sorry.” He looked at Kyver. “Who are you? Grey Clan?”
Kyver paused. Vala looked up at Cross like she intended to use the blade at her side to cut his throat.
“There’s only one creature in the Whisperlands who could have possibly told you that,” Kyver smiled. “And unfortunately for you, the Eidolos is no t a friend of ours.”
“He… it…doesn’t see things that way,” Cross said. “Trust me, I have no reason to trust it either, but it told me how to get to the City of Thorns, and where to travel from there to reach the Black Citadel. It seems to think there’s a way out of the Whisperlands, and that maybe you could help me find it.”
“You’ll get yourself killed listening to the advice of an Eidolos,” Vala said sharply. She looked at Kyver. “Should I stop treating his wounds?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Cross said as amiably as he could.
“You: be quiet,” she said coldly.
“Hang on,” Kyver said. “You know who we are…who are you?”
“My name is Eric Cross,” he said. “I used to be a warlock and a member of the Southern Claw. Now I’m a mercenary. I’ve been trapped in the Whisperlands for…I don’t know how long.”
“None of us do,” Kyver laughed. “That’s one of the many lovely side effects of this place. No one ever know s how long they’ve been here, e ven if they came here on purpose.”
“Like the Shadow Lords,” Cross said.
“Yes, like the Shadow Lords,” Kyver nodded. “Like us.”
Cross hesitated.
“Excuse me?”
Kyver and Vala exchanged glances.
“You say that you saw the City of Thorns,” Vala said. “It was founded by those who came before us.”
We search.
“I thought the people from the city were trying to escape,” he said. “That they were looking for a way out of the Whisperlands.”
“That’s not exactly the case,” Kyver said. “They were looking for something. It just so happened that the people who know the way out of the Whisperlands are looking for it, too.”
Cross took a breath. He was in no position to do anything here, especially without his blade. A few more of the Grey Clan came close, the reptilians.
“‘Those who came before us ’,” Cross quoted. “ Tell me something…is there a way out of the Whisperlands that leads into a place called the Carrion Rift? ”
“ Y ou know the answer to that,” Kyver said. “ And you know what both we and the Shadow Lords seek. It’s called t he Obelisk of Dreams.”
Cross’ s heart went cold. He saw his sister, burning on the train. No matter how deep he tried to bury that pain it was there. There was no escaping it.
“I’ve never heard it called that,” he said quietly. He looked at them, hesitated, and realized he had little left to lose. “Why do you want it?”
“We don’t,” Kyver said. “And we never have. But we can’t let the Shadow Lords have it.”
Cross studied the man. He appeared young, even with his speckled grey-green skin and fading white blonde hair. His eyes were pale blue, almost like ice. The shirt he wore had upturned collars and loose sleeves; he looked like he should have been in a library instead of out there in the shadow y wilderness. The aspects of hi s reptilian nature were subtle, just faint scales and glittering shards of snake skin on the backs of his hands and on his neck.
“How do you know about it?” Cross asked.
“That’s…complicated. We are not from your world…”
“No. Way,” Cross said.
Vala glared at him, but Kyver laughed.
“This is actually difficult to explain,” he said. “The world we come from…originally… well, we gave you the obelisk. We gave you magic. Or our ancestors did, at any rate.”
Cross nodded, and listened. He wasn’t sure why he should believe anything they said, except for one simple fact.
Why would he make this up?
“The ritual performed by you humans opened up a channel,” Kyver said. “A gateway. It allowed our dead to flow into your world, bu t the nature of the ritual you in voked ensured that those dead wouldn ’ t be free to roam about on their own.”
“Your people…your dead…a re the spirits we use for magic? ” Cross said. “Jesus.”
“ Don’t feel bad about it,” Kyver said. “ It ’ s always been better this way. Things were different where we lived. The dead were harvested there. They were burned as fuel, consumed by those who used them. It’ s similar to what happens here, but…they didn’t survive.”
“You said ‘lived’,” Cross said. “Your world…”
“Is still there. But w e aren’t.” Kyver shrugged. “We knew that the connection was in danger. It was in danger when you humans first had cause to seek it out. After the Obelisk was buried in your Carrion Rift, we knew we had to act, so we crossed over. ” There was an unmistakable note of regret in his voice.
He misses his home, Cross thought. I never knew. I never had any idea that our spirits were any one’s dead but our own, or that they came from anywhere except our own world.
“Even once we made the voyage to your world,” Kyver continued, “we still couldn’t reach the Obelisk, because it doesn’t actually lie in your world. It hangs halfway between there and the Whisperlands, trapped on the boundary because of the Rift’s unstable nature. The Obelisk can only be reached from this side, in the realm of shadows.”
“How did you get here?” Cross asked.
“ Only the spirits humans use can make the trip directly,” he said. “For us to travel to your world, w e had to…occupy, I think you would say…lives on your side. We had to have vessels that we could reside in once we got here.” He looked up at Vala, and she nodded, as if encouraging him to finish. “We couldn’t just pass through. We needed to replace other living creatures with ourselves.”
“Desh,” Cross breathed. “You replaced the people of Desh. Christ…” He felt himself wanting to rise, but he knew his leg was in no state to do so. “How? What happened to them?”
Kyver’s grim nod told him all he needed to know. Cross felt his insides go cold.
“There really wasn’t any choice,” Vala said. “We had to make sure that our dead were safe. And we all know what would happen to your Southern Claw without the aid of magic.”
“So Desh’s people are dead?” Cross said. There was a touch more anger in his tone than he’d intended.
“Yes, they’re dead,” Vala said. “Our presences occupy their bodies, and what was inside those bodies has gone. Over time, some of the host bodies take on the physical aspects of our native forms.”
“But Desh vanished a long time ago,” Cross said. “ Years before the Obelisk fell into the Rift…”
This is a waste of time, a voice said in Cross’ head. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t his own, but one of the reptilians.
That must be how they communicate in their native tongue, he thought, not entirely convinced the thought was his own, or that it was even safe to have thoughts, less they be detected. He looked around, but he couldn’t tell which of the reptilians had addressed him in his own voice. Several of them were quite bestial, and had only vaguely humanoid limbs. Their eyes glowed green and yellow in the dusky light, and their weapons were made from jagged bones and ironwood.
The smell of the campfire grew stronger as the wind pushed the smoke back in their direction. The small conglomerate watched him, waiting.
“All right,” Cross said with a nod. “So was the Eidolos right?” he asked. “Will you help me stop the Shadow Lords?”
“Why do you think you’re still alive?” Vala asked.
“You’re not the friendliest person, you know that?” Cross said.
“All right, all right,” Kyver smiled. “Relax, Vala.” He looked at Cross. “Yes. We’ll help you secure the Obelisk and keep it out of the Shadow Lord’s hands. We’re not keen on the notion of helping that Eidolos, but if doing so help s keep our dead safe then it’s worth the risk.” He narrowed his reptile eyes and smiled. “I take it the Eidolos ga ve you some insight or information that will prove useful.”
Cross pursed his lips, and nodded.
“Well?” Vala said.
“No,” Cross said. “ If I tell you, you have no use for me after that.”
“Not true,” Kyver said. “Because you’re the only one, I think, who can use that.” He pointed behind Cross.
One of the reptilians — a tall and scaly creature with a cobra-like head and thick muscular arms covered in green scales — opened his armor coat and revealed Soulrazor/Avenger, which dangled from a cord tied around the hilt. The harlequin blade shone dully in the autumnal light.
“That,” Kyver said, “may be the only chance we have. It’s strong enough to combat the Shadow Lord’s magic. And it should prove useful in battling the creatures down in the Carrion Rift, should we wind up there.”
Cross looked at it for long, silent moments.
“What do you know about it?” he asked.
“I know it can heal you,” Kyver said. “We’ve been watching you for a while, Eric. We know that even without magic you’re very resourceful, and very capable.”
Cross snickered.
“I haven’t been feeling much of either lately,” he laughed. “What do you know about the Shadow Lords?”
To his relief, the Grey Clan started to disperse. They moved back to their tents and campfires and returned to sharpening weapons and arranging supplies, walking the shadow-drenched perimeter and staring out into the vast and surrounding dark. Kyver, Vala and a few others remained. To his surprise, the reptilian handed him his sword, and his wounded leg started to knit itself back together almost the moment he touched the weapon. It worked with the rapidity of a spirit, even if it lacked a spirit’s subtle touch.
It had never healed him with such speed before, and it wasn’t a peasant experience. He felt like hot knives pushed in to hi m as his skin laced back together, and he had to clench his teeth and struggle against the pain. Tears came to his eyes, and his fingers dug into the muddy ground.
He already knew the blade had a mind of its own. H e just wasn’t sure if he was happy about it.
Kyver sat down cross-legged in the dirt. Vala watched with some interest as Cross’s leg healed.
I feel like a pig on display out here, he thought bitterly.
“The Shadow Lords are all warlocks,” Kyver said. “A couple of them are supposedly Southern Claw defectors, but no one is sure about tha t. The rest are from the wild: fringe settlements, border towns, cannibal tribes, things like that. No one seems to know how they came under the common banner of the Witch Queen.”
Azradayne, the reptilian said, or one of the reptilians said. It was hard to know which, since they all used Cross’s voice when they spoke into his mind.
“Who’s Azradayne?” he asked.
“Something not of our world, or of any world we know,” Vala said. “But whatever she is, she ’ s learned to tap into the Obelisk’s powers just like a human witch.”
Terrific, Cross thought.
“So she and her Shadow Lords want the Obelisk all to themselves, and they’ve stake d a claim here in the Whisperlands to accomplish that,” he said.
“You’re not very quick, are you?” Vala said.
“I heal quick,” he said. The blade smoked cold on the ground beside him. “So when do you take me to them? To the Black Citadel?”
“As soon as you heal,” Kyver said. “And as soon as you destroy the Druid.”
“The Druid,” Cross said slowly. “You mean that antlered thing that nearly tore me apart?”
Kyver nodded.
“Um…why?”
“You’ve been here long enough to know that the geography of the Whisperlands doesn’t always follow what you might think of as ‘the rules of reality’,” Kyver said. “Logically, there should be some other way, some other path or stretch of wilderness that one could cross, some desert or river or field that would allow you reach the Black Citadel.”
“But there isn’t, is there?” Cross said with a grim and knowing smile.
“No. There isn’t. In order to reach the Citadel, we have to pass through the Corpsewood, and the Burned Hills.”
“You guys have a knack for naming things,” Cross said. His leg had finally healed enough for him to sit up and bend it.
“They’re the native names,” Kyver laughed.
“ Your people can’t handle him?”
Kyver shook his head. “And we’ve lost our fair share trying.”
“So what makes you think I’ll fare any better?” he asked.
Again, Kyver’s eyes went to the sword. “It’s unique,” he said. “The power of The Black combined with the energies of the White Mother. You have a far better chance of defeating the Druid than any of my people do.”
Cross nodded. This wasn’t going to be easy.
It never is.
“Fine,” he said. “You show me where to go. I’ll take care of it. And then you’ll show me how to get to the Burned Hills.”
“We’ll help you,” Vala said. “Even though some of us don’t want to.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Kyver nodded, and he and Vala left Cross alone.
Someone brought him a blanket, and he wrapped himself tight. Cross pulled his legs in close and huddled alone in the dark. The chill was suddenly intense.
Worry gnawed at hi m. He tried to push it away, to ignore it, but the ache of tension settled in side hi m like a worm. His stomach churned and his hands shook.
He had so much to lose. He hadn’t really realized it before, but it wasn’t just the notion of letting the Southern Claw fall or the Ebon Cities win that terrified him. It wasn’t even the idea of failing Snow and letting her sacrifice — the sacrifice made by all of Viper Squad — be in vain.
I f he failed, he’d lose Kane, and Ash, and Grissom. He’d lose Ronan and Maur.
He’d lose Danica.
That thought was the most terrifying of them all.
I don’t care what happens to me, he realized. And I haven’t for a long time. I just want them to be safe.
He couldn’t sleep. It had always been difficult to rest in the Whisperlands. It should have been easy there in the clearing, now that he finally had a moment of safety. He watched members of the Grey Clan quietly mingle with one another, huddled in their tents or blankets, and he listened to the dark wind and the crackling fire. T he hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sound of some distant and shadow-born beast.
His heart felt cold.
I’m not going to survive this, he thought. Even if I defeat this hunter beast, even if we make it all of the way through the Corpsewood and the Burned Hills, the Shadow Lords will be the end of me.
He felt that certainty in his bones. He didn ’ t doubt it.
And as much as he tried to deny it, he was horribly afraid.
He walks to a shore covered in dried wood and ground bones. Shadows cling to the sky. Drifts of rolling dust cut across his path like charcoal rain. The river runs fast and deep.
He steps onto the logs and balances over the water. The black flow carr ies bits of animal matter and gritty fat. He smells blood and tar.
Clouds like grease stains claw at the broken tree line. Eyes watch him from the edge of the forest.
The log is slick. He stands steady, waiting. The white-black blade is in his hand. He is whole. This time, he is ready.
Behind him, he hears Kyver and the Grey Clan move into position. They hold iron nets and bone spears, bladed bolas and glaives. They hide in the shadows and wait for the hunter to show itself.
They don’t have to wait long. The shadow beast takes shape from a cloud of bones and blood. Its massive body rises from the ground. M ismatched shadow horns and tendril limb s glow with spectral luminescence.
It stands as tall as three men and grips a spear made of ashen knives. Green-white eyes reflect on the murky surface of the water.
He doesn’t move. He waits for it, knowing it will come.
Mongrel soldiers made of forest remains and shadows emerge from the river. They are dead bodies and black crusts of earth, broken bones and claws like rusted nails. They are two, then ten, then twenty.
The Grey Clan fires at them. Arcane bullets tear into zombie flesh. Speckles of dark blood and molded skin fly onto the shore.
He smells gunpowder and blood. The h unter’s denizens growl as they’ re torn apart.
The beast moves. It takes to the sky, become s the sky. It blocks out the night.
The spear comes down, but he ’s waiting. He ’ s played this battle out again and again in his mind. His blade has joined with him. They share a consciousness. It responds to his thoughts, and is a part of his body. He and it are fused as one.
He moves at the last second. The spear strikes wood, and the log cracks. A sound like splitting bones rings out. He loses his footing, but only for a moment. The shadow beast looms o ver h im, blocks out everything. It’ s a waterfall of soot darkness.
The blade flies, and he follows. He breathes grave fumes and feels liquid rot. Energy from the sword extends around him like a bubble. He floats in side the hunter’s form like he’ s lost in a black sea.
He dives forward, swallows grit and oil darkness. The blade cuts through the shadow heart. A scream like a crashing train fills his ears.
He falls. Hard ground rushes up at him, and the wind is knocked from his lungs as he c rashes to the shore. Pain shoots up his limbs.
The air is silent but for the shouts of the Grey Clan, their crie s of victory. He catch es his breath. His ribs ache and his legs are sore, like he’s been pelted with stones.
He stares at the blade in his hand. He wonders which of them is truly in control.