“How did it get here?” Charlie mused aloud. She trailed a hand along the door, and sounded the horn mounted on the side of the windshield. The obnoxious noise shattered the quiet of the mountains.
“Did you think you were the only thing to come to this world through a Great Gate?” Rhys sounded mildly amused.
“Is it an Aston Martin? A Volvo? Nissan Versa?” Jack said, delighted. He fluttered around the car like a drunken butterfly, bending to look under it, then leaning over the doors to peer around the inside. “Can it go 100 miles per hour?”
Lallia climbed into the brass bell of the horn. Tom materialized on the horn’s bulb and jumped up and down, producing halfhearted squeaks.
“Sorry, Jack. None of the above,” Charlie said. She squeezed the horn’s bulb, shooting Lallia out of the bell. “It’s a very, very old one, by my world’s standards.” She pulled out her pocket comp and snapped a few pictures.
She circled around and pried open the folding hood. Charlie eyed its innards, thinking it was a pity she knew nothing of mechanics. If this thing could drive at all, they might not have to walk for a bit. But she didn’t know the first thing about how it worked. Maybe her encyclopedia had instructions.
Jack tried out the horn, eliciting a pained squawk. Delighted, he squeezed out a series of rapid-fire honks. Rhys reached over and crushed the bell, the dying horn giving one last painful cry.
“Here,” Charlie said, opening the car door. “Let’s see if it’ll start.” She pulled open the door and hopped up onto the driver’s seat. There were three pedals on the floor – gas, clutch, and brake? – a lever on each side of the wheel, two levers to the left of the driver – one with a hand grip like crocodile jaws - and a crank-like lever rising in the middle floor between driver and passenger. A few other dials and buttons decorated the dash, and a slot that could be a key ignition.
Her eyes wandered the interior, and spied something half wedged in the passenger seat. Charlie pulled it free. It was a man’s black leather glove; supple, new, and old fashioned. Charlie went cold. The car had the look of one driven into the tree, not one caught by a Gate while parked. “Where’s the driver?”
Jack’s head poked up out of the engine compartment. “The driver?”
“He was not so fortunate as you.” Rhys’ voice came from the other side of the trees. “I have found him. What remains.”
Charlie and Jack scrambled to join Rhys. Bones scattered among the bushes, picked clean and gleaming white. Scraps of black and white cloth hung caught in nearby branches, along with a top hat, black wood cane, and a pair of gnawed leather shoes. A silver shine proved to be a key. Charlie gingerly picked it out of the grass.
Rhys nudged the skull over until it stared upward, jawless. “We should move on.”
“What could do that?” Charlie asked. The scattered bones on the ground seemed too surreal to be human.
“Shadow spawn,” Jack said. “It is said they can strip flesh to the bone in moments.”
That would explain the quiet of these woods. Nothing left to make noise. Charlie’s skin crawled. “Are we in danger?”
“No, of course not,” Jack said. “They would burn in sunlight. No. We are safe until sunset.”
“By which time, we should be long gone,” Rhys said.
***
Her encyclopedia, sadly, did not include instructions on how to drive a Model T. Charlie tried to get the car to start, but her efforts to figure out the archaic controls on her own failed. Charlie abandoned the car with reluctance, but Rhys didn’t give her the time to dwell on it.
Rhys pushed Jack and Charlie onward at a pace that was nearly brutal. Charlie stretched her muscles past their protests, spurred by the thought of whatever left those picked-clean bones behind.
They set up their minimal camp when neither Jack nor Charlie could continue any further. Though Jack was weaving with exhaustion, he took the time to conjure up the canvas tent, and unlike the previous nights he also set up what he explained as a basic protection spell. Though shields were too advanced for him, Jack said the spell would avert anything that wasn’t particularly determined to notice them.
Jack dropped right to sleep practically the moment he finished.
Charlie couldn't bring herself to close her eyes. She curled up on her cot, but every time she tried to sleep, she saw the driver’s skull behind her eyelids.
A shadow darkened the doorway of the tent. Charlie bolted upright, but it was only Rhys.
“I thought perhaps it would be wise not to keep all of my supplies in one bag. Would you put this in Jack’s holding bag for me?” He held up a long, thin object wrapped carefully in padding.
Rhys asking a favor? Was the sky falling? “Sure,” Charlie said casually, and got up to take it from him. It felt like a glass tube under the padding.
Rhys didn’t let go of it right away. “It is very fragile and very important.”
That sparked instant curiosity. “What is it?”
“Unique.” Rhys released it and left the tent.
Seriously? Could he be more cryptic? Hadn’t he ever heard of Pandora’s box? But Charlie resisted the temptation to unwrap it. It wasn’t like she’d be able to identify it by sight and for all she knew it was poisonous.
She dutifully dragged Jack’s bag from under his cot and tucked the padded vial inside.
***
Charlie’s eyes flew open. Her heart raced. She sat up on her cot. Her eyes searched the darkness. Her skin was cold. Her stomach felt queasy.
The embers in the small fire pit flared. Rhys crouched at the edge of camp, sword in hand. Tense.
Charlie could hear nothing but her own breath. She didn’t see or hear what woke her, but couldn’t shake the feeling. Something stalked the night.
Charlie eased out of her sleeping roll. The crackle of her small movements sounded deafening. She slipped out of the tent and across the camp to Rhys’ side. He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging her presence.
The darkness reduced their world to the light of the dying embers. Not a hiss of wind broke the silence. Charlie’s skin crawled.
“Stoke the fire,” Rhys murmured. The fine hairs that escaped from Rhys’ braid stood on end, crackling with tiny sparks.
Charlie crept backwards, not willing to completely turn her back on the night. She nearly stepped into the fire pit. Charlie snatched up a half charred stick. She stabbed at the embers, exposing the dimly glowing orange to the air.
Movement caught her eye. Her head snapped around.
Nothing.
Nothing but the too-black shadow surrounding them. No stars. No moons. No reflection off of the distant snowy peaks.
One of the embers caught and popped, sending Charlie nearly out of her skin.
Charlie backed up further and reached into the tent, finding Jack’s foot. She shook it. “Jack,” she whispered. Her voice sliced through the silence.
Jack stirred. He lifted his head and shoved his hair from his eyes. “Whaa…?”
Charlie hissed him quiet. “Something’s wrong.”
She quietly collected her bow and quiver, then slipped her feet into her sneakers without bothering to tie them. Lallia and Tom poked up their heads.
“Stay,” Charlie whispered.
The pixies glanced at each other and ducked down into their bowl.
A faint chitter sounded from the darkness, almost like a snicker.
“Shadow spawn,” Rhys said.
“Put it out!” Jack dove for the fire pit, whipping out a piece of chalk and scribbling a mark on one of the stones. “Spawn are drawn to light!” He slapped his palm down over the mark, whispering a hurried word, and the glowing flames vanished, even the embers.
In the same moment all of Rhys’ tiny crackling sparks disappeared.
A faint glow emanated from the tent. It was tinged turquoise and pink, bright enough to outline the inside of the tent. And the shadow slinking into it.
It was small, barely bigger than a purse dog
and built roughly like a greyhound, with narrow hips and a deep chest. Its powerful jaws were those of a wolfhound.
Charlie’s eyes shot from the creature to the bowl of pixies. Tom’s head poked up, eyes round and frightened.
Another chitter sounded from the dark night, teeth clicking.
Charlie whipped an arrow onto her bow, drew, and fired at the shadow spawn in the doorway. The barely-aimed arrow scraped along the creature’s side. It spun on her with an outraged whine. Charlie leapt at it, one foot coming down on its spine, the other on its head. Both crunched under her sneakers as her weight crushed them. A spasm of disgust rolled up Charlie’s spine, even as she reached out to snatch up the bowl, pixies and all. She clutched it to her chest, extinguishing the light.
Pain ripped up her leg as it was torn out from under her, teeth fastened into her shin, scissoring through her flesh to grip the bone with incredible pressure. She didn’t even feel the pain at first, only the terrible power in those jaws clamped into her leg and refusing to let go.
Her arm lashed out with her bow, slamming it into the shadow spawn’s solidness, but it refused to relinquish its grip. Charlie kicked and flailed in the pitch black and felt another set of teeth sink into her thigh. More snapped at her arm and caught at her face.
Flashes of white light lit the night like a strobe. His face intent with concentration, Rhys crackled with small, controlled lighting arcs as he fought off a horde of small black spawn. The light glinted from thousands of dark teeth.
Charlie fought like wild, rolling and slamming the spawns attached to her leg into the ground. The teeth didn’t release until she felt bones snap.
Jaws clamped onto her forearm and dragged her, breathlessly fast, out of the tent and into the woods.
Charlie screamed pure terror, clinging with the other arm to the bowl and the two pixies rattling inside. Her side slammed against a tree, knocking the air out of her.
Rhys shouted. Blinding white blue light flashed through the trees with an ear-cracking boom. Inhuman squeals pierced through even the ringing in her ears.
Something the weight of a cat dropped on her stomach, teeth sinking in a moment later. Charlie writhed, trying to scrape it off as the spawn dragged her along the ground, twigs and roots stabbing and tearing.
More teeth set into her already torn shin, chewing. Charlie screamed.
***
The moment Charlotte killed the first shadow spawn, the others swarmed the camp.
Rhys’ night sight picked out the silvery shape of each shadow spawn as they converged on the camp. Rhys tried at first to scythe through them without using lightning, but the sheer number of shadow spawn defied reason. When he saw Charlotte fall, something twisted like a knife in his gut. He fought to reach her, using every means at his disposal, and if the flashes of lightning brought more spawn down on him, it was that many fewer to attack the others. This was simpler when he worked alone!
Rhys ripped shadow spawn jaws out of his shoulder and crushed the creature’s head, simultaneously slamming the butt of his spear down on another. Two more clung to his back, claws tearing and jaws biting. He ran a current of lightning across his back, flinging them away. Then Jack went down in a wash of blood.
He heard Charlotte shriek. He saw her dragged from the tent. Rhys felt something inside snap.
Rhys let out a wordless roar, drawing on the well of power within him while physically reaching up toward the sky. He ripped lightning out of the reluctant clouds, pulling it down into the camp. It forked out and slammed down on the shadow spawn, washing over him to rip into those clinging to him before dispersing into the ground.
Rhys did not wait to see if any survived. He snatched up Jack’s bloody corpse, tucking it under his arm, and darted into the trees.
Be alive. The thought broke through his battle haze. Be alive. Each of his strides covered twice the distance of a normal man’s, in half of the time. He feared it would not be fast enough.
He feared. For the first time in nearly a decade, he feared for someone else.
Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, the aftermath of his handiwork.
Rhys followed the drag trail, punctuated with spatters of blood.
Charlotte screamed.
Magenta hair against dark foliage. A writhing body painted with crimson.
Rhys dropped Jack, his spear flashing into his hands instead. Rhys scythed through the shadow spawn attacking her, like the specter of the lord of death himself.
Charlotte curled around herself, torn arm covering her face. Lightning crawling across the angry sky painted her figure sharp blue and white. The air filled his mouth with the thick taste of blood.
Rhys’ spear dropped from his hand. He lifted her up, one arm behind her back and one behind her knees, her head cradled against his shoulder. Blood stained her abdomen through the shreds of her shirt and dripped warm from her leg and arm. One of her shoes still clung to her foot, but the other had vanished.
Charlotte’s eyes flashed open, blindly searching the dark. She trembled in shock and pain, her skin cold to the touch. Her abraded arm still clung doggedly to the bowl of pixies. Relief made Rhys’ legs weak. Alive. Still alive. For now.
The sky grumbled, displeased with his interference.
A chitter sounded from the night. Some of the spawn yet survived.
Jack moaned and coughed. Spat.
Rhys knelt to grasp his spear, but he could not fight with Charlotte in his arms.
Charlotte’s damaged leg would not carry weight even if she had the strength to stand. She still bled and that weakened her further. Calling down another lightning bolt would kill her.
Rhys could call a Gate.
He had not called a Gate in years, but with the Keystone shattered and the Gates opening and closing of their own accord, he thought he might be able to summon one even without the Keystone itself. But. His Gates only led to one place: the bridge between worlds. Every bit as dangerous as shadow spawn. But what choice had he?
Rhys heard a distant crashing through trees and brush. Large. Two-legged.
“Here!” Rhys bellowed, caring only that it was not spawn.
Chitters and shrieks rose up, accompanied by startled shouts and the sounds of mage fire. Light broke through the trees.
“Here!” Rhys sent up an arc of lightning into the trees, a beacon for them to follow. He felt the shiver of a mage’s locating spell.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Angels
Charlie gingerly prodded her shin. The shadow spawn had made a pulp of it, but now she could barely tell by looking. The encampment’s Healer had set her muscle and skin back where it belonged, what was left, and magically induced new tissue to grow. She discovered through exploration that there were also a few numb places where she couldn’t feel anything at all. The tissue regrowth must not have included all the nerves. Deep purple scar tissue marked the worst tears and her flesh felt deeply bruised, but for all that, she had to be deeply grateful for the fact that she would be able to walk again. Maybe even without limping.
Her arm was in similar state, though the damage didn’t seem to be as extensive. Most of the chewing had been done to her leg.
Sometime while she was unconscious, someone changed her into an undyed cotton tunic and loose trousers. They’d taken her last sneaker, leaving her barefoot. She knew blood must have dripped into it, so it was probably just as well. At least the tunic had a back.
Charlie lifted the tunic hem to continue the inventory of her scars. Most of the gashes on her stomach and back were superficial and had vanished completely. Only a few were left to tell the tale.
Battle scars. Her first, and she hoped they would be her last.
A fresh burst of rain hissed against the canvas of the Healers’ tent. It hadn’t stopped since they’d reached the encampment.Now the air felt damp as well as cold, and the canvas let out a wet cotton smell.
Charlie hadn’t seen Rhys or Jack since she was pried out of Rhys’ grip. She’d lost
consciousness then, waking up later here in this tent.
Charlie dropped her hem and curled up on the cot with her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. No one had seen fit to tell her what was going on, or who these people were, besides that the Healer had seen to her wounds. She had to be grateful for the rescue, but what had they gotten themselves into?
***
“Name?” the uniformed officer demanded. He had a stern, square face, the short ear points of an imperial elf, and the stiff bearing of a career military man. His bars identified him as a captain, and the name he went by was Meryl. His narrowed gold eyes bore unflinching into Rhys’ across the table.
Rhys resisted reaching through them into the man’s mind. The captain was suspicious and on his guard; he would not be as susceptible to mind magic and Rhys could not risk betraying his secret.
Yet.
“I am known by Rhys,” he said. “My name belongs to me alone.”
“Your name belongs to your High King.”
Rhys’ upper lip twitched, faster than any could see.
“What is your business in the Northern Reaches?” Captain Meryl said, eyes unrelenting. As were Rhys’.
Rhys lifted his hand to display the contract around his wrist. Its ink remained sharp and black, informing him Charlotte lived. Either of their deaths would break it.
Meryl’s mouth narrowed with disdain. “A sell sword. Who is your master?”
“Lady Charlie, Manager on Duty for the Order of Lady Dragons.”
The captain tipped his head slightly, as if listening to a soft sound, and it confirmed Rhys’ suspicions. Someone had cast a truth spell over the tent; a powerful one at that. While Rhys had not lied about the identity of his contractor, he doubted there was a true “Order of Lady Dragons.” Only a master mage could cast a truth spell sensitive enough to detect such a small detail.
Rhys needed to tread carefully.
The captain nodded to one of the two guards at the door, who stepped out to brave the pouring rain.
“Were you the one who called down lightning and caused this mess?” Meryl said. His tone said he knew the answer. Not that there were many options; of the three of them, Charlie was nearly unconscious of blood loss, Jack was the guild mage - with a notation on his medallion signifying his aptitude for fire, not lighting - and Rhys was the only one remaining.
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