Soulrazor

by Steven Montano

  Cross’ key clicked in the heavy lock. The thick oak door led to the foyer, a stretch of hall covered in arcane safeguards and anti-undead wards. A powerful undead creature, like a vampire, would make it to the door at the end of the hall, but they weren’t likely to still be in one piece when they got there thanks to coiled hex fields and blessed napalm sprayers. Lesser undead wouldn’t even get that far.

  Beyond the foyer stood the main hall, a large and open space with arched doorways and staircases. It was the central hub of the large house, the area that saw the most traffic, and the one room that was in less than pristine condition. Ammo crates, duffel bags, canteens, backpacks, spare combat boots, armored coats and flak vests, arcane gauntlets, blades, practice dummies, armor plating…all manner of military-related junk had been strewn everywhere, most of it at least somewhat organized, but significant portions were just a complete mess. While there were more fortified storage areas that housed the true equipment reserves, the main hall was where all of the leftovers wound up. Cross’ team acquired a surprising amount of extra equipment, mostly items acquired from skirmishes with criminal gangs and human marauders in the wastelands.

  Ronan was in the hall when Cross arrived. He threw knives at a practice dummy in an open space of floor next to what Cross could only surmise was supposed to be the dining room, since the big wall panel was designed to lift up and provide easy access to the kitchens, which went largely unused. Ronan’s dark camouflage pants and tee-shirt didn’t look all that different from what he wore on missions. A dozen knives stuck out of the wooden dummy, not a single one of them more than an inch away from the others.

  “You’re alive,” Ronan said quietly. Sound echoed easily in the large house, enough that Cross could already tell that some sort of activity was going on upstairs. “Good. Things were fairly disorganized while you were away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Cross said. “Did we reschedule the meeting with Pike?”

  “Yep,” Ronan said. “It’s going on right now. So your timing is excellent.”

  Figures, Cross thought. He wasn’t sure if he was annoyed that they hadn’t waited for him, or that he hadn’t been lucky enough to miss it.

  “Who all is here?” he asked.

  “Black, Kane and Ash are upstairs with Pike and Mr. Personality.” Cross knew that Ronan referred to Laros, Pike’s warlock second-in-command, a man that most of the team held a fairly low opinion of. “Grissom is out getting something to eat. Maur is downstairs screwing around with the Darkhawk.” Ronan looked at Cross. “And you’re standing in the hall, looking like you got mauled by something.”

  “Do I look that good?” Cross snickered.

  “I was being kind,” Ronan smiled.

  Cross slowly made his way upstairs. The banisters were cool to the touch, and the windows on the west wall illuminated the wide balcony at the top of the steps with muted midmorning light.

  Cross’ body groaned as he reached the upper halls. Every door was immense, large enough for even Grissom to fit through. Everything was carved from dark oak, and the ceilings were extremely tall. Grey light cast everything in somber tones. Motes of heavy dust drifted like laggard insects in the still air, and the heavy wood floor paneling made Cross’ trip up the stairs anything but silent.

  There were at least a dozen rooms on the middle floor, but there were only a handful on the third, where Cross was bound. The central staircase moved straight up to the massive dining chamber, which the team had converted into a meeting hall. The stray black-and-gray cat that Grissom had adopted a few months back was there on the steps as Cross made his ascent: it stared him down, almost daring him to try and step on it. He’d nearly tripped on the damn thing three times already, and no wonder, since it was roughly the size of a truck. Halls at the top of the stairs led off to the other rooms on the upper floor: map chambers, arcane studies, and libraries. The armories were in the basement, and the team quartered in the suites on the middle floor.

  Cross had to stop for a moment. The stairs were quite steep between the second and third floor, and he felt fatigued. Normally his spirit gave him a reassuring push, but not today. She kept her distance. Maybe she was still cowed by what had infected them, by whatever it was that infused the dark fluid in the Bonespire and had caused Cross’ control over her to slip.

  I need to figure out what the hell is going on. I’m not safe with her like this. No one is.

  Cross had wondered if leaving his thaumaturgic implements off would help to quell her, since they both how dangerous it would be for her to manifest without proper arcane safeguards in place, but he’d decided against it. She’d channeled herself in the hospital, after all, and while the circumstances had been somewhat different, Cross had no doubt that his best bet was to keep his gauntlets on so that he could curtail her if she lost control again.

  His nerves were on edge. He’d slept badly for the scant hour he’d slept, and his muscles were tense with worry.

  Cross stood still, took a deep breath, and ascended the last stretch of steps to the double doors that led to the meeting hall, which was located beyond a set of doors covered in arcane runes. Those runes emitted a screeching, banshee-like wail if any undead approached. A pair of small clay homunculi – miniscule, misshapen constructs that looked like clay pots with arms and legs, some of Ash’s minor creations – hopped out of invisible holes in the floor and leapt up to grab the handles, and the doors swiveled inwards as Cross approached.

  Those are the silliest damn things. I love how Ash keeps making them even though Ronan and Kane use them for target practice.

  The meeting hall was large and smelled of incense, coffee and beer. The lime green carpet always made Cross think of sickness, but for some reason they never got around to changing it out.

  The room was dominated by a solid oak meeting table that had been painted black and covered with runes, maps, and whatever Kane and Grissom carved when they got bored during briefings. A wooden replica of Thornn sat directly in the center of the table, and Cross, Black or Ash would sometimes highlight the model with laser pointers to give directions if the team had a mission inside the city. That had become a more regular event with the increasing number of smugglers, criminal cults and vampire-controlled spies who’d set up operations in Thornn.

  A narrow strip of dingy yellow window cast the room in a gilded haze. Ash and Kane were seated at one end of the long table, while Elias Pike and Marcus Laros sat at the other. Black paced around the room.

  Only Laros was dressed in full military attire. Pike, who even in uniform redefined the notion of “scruffy”, wore a pair of jeans and an armored coat over a thick shirt. Kane and Ash similarly wore civilian clothes, and Black just wore a tank top and a dark pair of cargo pants, but her casual demeanor was somewhat ruined by the Colt Python she wore in a shoulder holster.

  There were three spirits in the room when Cross arrived – they belonged to Black, Ash and Laros – and they made the air volatile as they cautiously circled one another like spectral cats. The atmosphere was electric and tense, and Cross’ unstable spirit, even though she stayed in the background, only made things worse. There was enough pent-up magic energy in that room to detonate the entire house.

  Whatever conversation they’d been having came to an abrupt halt when Cross entered the room.

  “Cross,” Pike said brusquely. “We were just talking about you.”

  “That’s why my ears were ringing,” he answered. “I’m glad you decided to meet without me.”

  “Dude…sorry,” Kane said.

  “No, seriously,” Cross said. “I’m glad.”

  “What happened?” Black asked. The worried expression on her face was uncharacteristic. “All that they told me was that you’d somehow lost control of your spirit.”

  “A disturbing notion,” Laros said. “Especially considering how unstable your spirit is in the first place, Eric.”

  “Are we on a first name basis now?” Cross asked him scathingly. “
Marcus?”

  Pike laughed.

  Marcus Laros was one of the senior warlocks in Thornn, Pike’s aide, and a royal pain in the ass. He didn’t approve of the use of mercenaries for Southern Claw military actions, and he especially didn’t like the fact that Cross had willingly turned his back on the service, or that Cross’ team was afforded so much access, leniency and freedom without officially being part of the military chain-of-command. Laros had made it something of a personal mission to make life difficult for them, and since he reported to the White Council – a body of warlocks and witches that communicated directly with the White Mother – there was little Cross could do aside from put up with him.

  Laros was tall and handsome, with chiseled aquiline features and glittering green eyes. His armor and robes were pale blue, like frozen snow, and his hair was clean cut and short.

  “So what’s the story?” Cross asked. He walked into the room, threw his backpack onto a chair, and took a seat. One of Ash’s homunculi servants flew over to the table on tiny clay wings and offered a jug of water with its miniscule claws.

  “I think I’d rather know what happened at the hospital first,” Laros repeated. His face was always stern and serious, but with the slightest twist of a wry grin at the corner of his mouth, like he knew a joke that he intended to keep all to himself.

  “Let’s stick to business,” Pike said.

  “Determining whether Eric is up to the task of taking on this mission is business, Commander,” Laros said quietly. “But if you disagree, I’m sure the White Council…”

  “I’m fine,” Cross snapped. “There were traces of that necrotic fluid that we found in the Bonespire in my system, and it caused my control over my spirit to slip while I was asleep. I had a bad dream, and she reacted to that dream.” He held up his bandaged forearms and hands. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  “Jesus…” Black said.

  “That hardly sounds ‘fine’ to me…” Laros started.

  Kane interrupted by coughing “Ass-hole!” into his hand.

  “Excuse me?” Laros demanded.

  “Kane, grow up!” Ash barked.

  “This is ridiculous,” Pike growled.

  “Enough!” Cross barked. Everyone went silent. “Look, Rikeman gave both me and my spirit a clean bill of health. He did a full workup with the oscilloscope and everything. Whatever was in my system is gone now. You can talk to the Doc, if you like.”

  “I will,” Laros said in his cool voice. “And until I do…”

  “No,” Pike said firmly. “We’ve waited long enough. We need to get the details of this mission hammered out. Cross, your timing is perfect.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, I guess,” Cross said. Something made his stomach twist into a knot. That was when he realized he hadn’t eaten all day. “Food,” he said to the homunculus, and it flew off with a metallic buzz.

  “Ok,” Black said, “what have we got?”

  “Plenty,” Pike said. “And none of it is good. Laros.”

  The mage stood up and removed a set of parchments from a scroll case that he wore like a backpack. Each scroll seemed thicker than the last, and from a glance Cross saw that several of them were quite old.

  Laros also had a small book in hand, and that was something Cross did recognize: it was a copy of the Tome of Scars, a summation of what the human race had learned about magic. Red had stolen the original version from Thornn a few years back. That theft had had led to Viper Squad’s final mission.

  “Intelligence has reported a large excavation project going on near the southern city-state of Fane,” Laros began. It was clear that he was used to orating – he had the voice for it.

  Kane raised his hand.

  “I’ve never been to Fane,” he said. “Is it nice?”

  “It’s an industrial city-state,” Ash interjected in her cool voice. “It’s run by a regime of merchants called the Hammer and Fist. They’re not technically part of the Southern Claw, even though the city is.”

  “Fane is where the Crucifix Point massacre happened a few years ago,” Laros continued. “This excavation is not of the city’s doing, but it is the work of the Ebon Cities. It’s easy to see how it has avoided notice up until now, since Fane does quite a bit of outdoor drilling and iron mining in the region.”

  “So this excavation…what are they digging for?” Black asked.

  The homunculi brought Cross a sandwich of black bread, dark ham and strips of white cheese. Mustard dripped down the side and onto the table. The construct had neglected to bring a plate, so the sandwich just sat on a collection of maps of lower Thornn. Cross shook his head, and started to eat.

  “We’re not sure,” Pike answered. “And that’s where you come in.”

  “Wait a second,” Cross said through a mouthful of food. He hated doing that, and he forced everyone to wait a moment while he chewed and swallowed. “What about the Bonespire? The avatars?”

  “If you’d be patient for once in your life…” Laros said bitingly. “I was getting to that.”

  Cross took another bite of his sandwich. It was surprisingly good for something made by an 8-inch tall construct that looked like a winged monkey.

  “The vessels that you discovered in the Bonespire,” Laros continued, “where replicas of the White Mother.”

  “And the Woman in the Ice,” Cross added.

  “And maybe others,” Pike said. “We’re still unclear as to what exactly they are…”

  “And it’s not our place to make inquiries,” Laros finished. “The White Council will communicate your findings to the White Mother, and when she decides to reveal more to us, she will.”

  Kane snorted.

  “In the meantime,” Laros continued, “more of these female vessels have been spotted.”

  Everyone waited a moment. A dirigible engine scratched through the air outside.

  “Let me guess,” Black said. “They were seen near Fane.”

  “Are they part of the excavation team?” Ash asked.

  “Yes,” Laros nodded. “In fact, we have reason to believe that this dig is actually why they were created.”

  “For what?” Kane asked. “They needed avatars of some dead ice goddess…to dig? What in the hell kind of sense does that make?”

  “Were you able to do any analysis on that cylinder?” Cross asked.

  “They are the schematics for these living vessels, or ‘avatars’, as you insist on calling them,” Laros said. “These women are not alive. They are flesh automatons: not undead, not golems…but something similar to both. And they were made to be stronger and more durable that any creature ever encountered by the Southern Claw. They also bear some sort of bio-arcane signature that we’ve never seen before.”

  Every living creature carried a unique bio-arcane signature, a combination of living cells and spirit energies that could be used to determine their identity. Reading those currents was how spirits scouted unknown areas and relayed information back about the creatures they found. Some creatures – like the undead – bore no signature, but they could be located and identified by their lack of a signature aura.

  “That makes no sense,” Ash said. She always spoke like she was deep in thought. The runes cast on her ebony scalp seemed to grow darker whenever she was agitated or distressed, as they did now. She stepped close to the table and leaned in next to Cross. Her pale shirt and dark denim jeans made her look like she should have been working as a barista instead of helping to fight a war. “They can’t have a signature if they’re not alive.”

  “That’s the thing,” Pike said. “They are alive. But they have no minds of their own.”

  “You can’t be alive without a mind,” Cross said.

  “Thank you for your expert opinion,” Laros said with a mocking smile.

  God, he’s an ass, Cross though.

  “But, case in point, you can,” Laros continued, “and the Ebon Cities’ scientists have devised a means of doing so. The results of their l
abor are these women.”

  “Huh?” Kane said.

  “They are controlled by captive arcane spirits extracted from the same necrotic engines that power the Bonespire defenses. Normally, the vampires can only utilize those energies when they are tied to large and immobile power stations that can handle that much energy…”

  “We all know how it works, Laros,” Black said impatiently.

  “I don’t…” Kane said.

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  “…but now the vampires have somehow devised a way to use that captured spiritual energy in a mobile machination.”

  Laros unrolled one of the parchments, which displayed a charcoal sketch of one of the avatar women. Lines of measurement, arcane schematics and display keys covered the sheet, which was so filled with calculations and cross-referencing diagrams that the central sketch was almost impossible to make out. Everything was rendered in High Jlantrian, and the inverted arithmetic and hex algorithms would be nearly impossible to translate, but Cross pulled the sheet away from Laros and looked it over, and after he studied it for a minute he had the basic idea of what they were trying to accomplish.

  “Where did this come from?” he asked. “That cylinder?”

  Laros nodded.

  “What do you make of it?” Black asked Cross.

  Cross looked at her, and then at Pike, who watched him with interest.

  “They figured out a way to harness a small amount of this…avatar’s power,” he said. He looked at Black and Kane. “It’s the same as Lucan’s power, the power of The Woman in the Ice.” He shifted his gaze to Laros. “It’s also the same as The White Mother’s power. Whatever energy it is that those women represent…that’s what the vampires have tapped into here. Or at least it’s what they think they’ve tapped into. Either way, this is bad.”