The Witch's Eye

by Steven Montano

  “That’s right,” Cross said.

  “Are there vampires in Dirge?”

  “Plenty,” Flint said. “Is that where we want to be? I mean, that’s where Tain was taking us, right?”

  “It’s not my first choice,” Cross said. Even with the extra coats and blankets the wind sliced right through their clothing, and Cross didn’t relish the notion of sleeping out in the open. Even the trees would provide very little cover with how cold it got at night. “But we need water and shelter, and we’re not going to find either out here.”

  Frost-white mist filled the air around Dirge like fire smoke. Cross recognized the steep path of red clay and the crumbling slopes of pyrite and shale. The trees bent in the lancing wind. Bones littered their path.

  “How long have you been a mercenary?” Shiv asked.

  “A few years,” Cross said. They were all tired and sore, but Shiv kept talking like they were out for a casual scroll, and Cross found he actually appreciated that.

  “Shiv...” Flint warned, but Cross smiled.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “She’s not bothering me at all.”

  “Then you must have super powers,” Flint said.

  “How many soldiers were on your team?” Shiv asked, nonplussed.

  “Six, at last count. And I hope they’re all okay.”

  “Why did you leave the military?”

  Cross hesitated at that one.

  “That’s kind of hard to explain,” he said. “After the unit I was assigned to was...well, everyone in it was killed, including a few people very close to me...I had a hard time being a Hunter anymore.”

  They walked. The path bled red to black, scorched by powder stains and fire. The air smelled scorched.

  That can’t be good.

  “But you have a mercenary team,” Shiv said. “How is that different from being in the army?”

  Cross smiled, and pulled his coat tighter around his body.

  “It just is.”

  White smoke drifts parted before them. They came within sight of Dirge, and saw it had been burned. The riveted walls had partially collapsed, and rents in the iron allowed them to view the twisted structures within.

  “What the hell…?” Flint said, and he covered his nose.

  “Shit,” Cross said quietly.

  They drew their weapons and moved closer. Flint drew Shiv back. Charred bodies littered the road.

  “They don’t look real,” she said.

  “No, they don’t,” Flint echoed.

  Cross moved ahead. The city gates stood wide open. He saw corpses piled high, some splattered like greyed meat against the inner city walls. The air was alive with crackling flames and dense smoke that smelled of skin and blood. Everything was silent save for the sound of burning and the occasional collapse of timber and stone. Cross held the sawed-off shotgun ready.

  “We should get out of here,” Flint said. “Whoever did this might come back.”

  “Not ‘who’,” Cross said. “‘What’.”

  “The thing from the caravan,” Shiv said. Her voice was afraid, but she spoke with confidence.

  Cross turned and looked at her.

  “How do you know?”

  She met his eyes unflinchingly.

  “I just do.”

  Flint watched his daughter with a mixture of fear and concern. He looked at Cross.

  “What’s she talking about? Did we just follow it to Dirge?”

  Cross didn’t know what to say. He turned back to the husk of the city. Something was in there, he was sure of it, a dismal presence he sensed with or without the aid of magic.

  “Wait here,” he told them.

  “You’re not going in there?” Flint said.

  “We need supplies,” he said. “More importantly, we need water. We don’t have a lot of other options.” Flint frowned. “Trust me,” Cross said, “I’m not a huge fan of the idea, either.”

  “You don’t go in alone,” Flint said, and the manner he spoke made it clear he’d broker no argument. Cross was surprised when Shiv nodded her agreement in spite the fear in her eyes. He cursed under his breath.

  “Fine,” he said. “But both of you stay right on my tail. We don’t get separated, no matter what.”

  They stepped carefully through Dirge’s shattered barbican gates. Thick smoke drifts obscured everything beyond a few feet away. Rubble and shattered steel littered the ground. Even though he hadn’t been a warlock in what felt like ages Cross still recognized the taint of hex the air, the strong meat-scent of dark magic. Whispers slithered through the chill wind.

  Dirge was utterly lifeless. Cross stepped over shattered stone and burned wood. The barbican walls were scorched black, and many of the warped buildings had folded in on themselves like burning paper. Everything creaked in the cold wind. Bits of wood and glass flaked and floated down. Cross expected the whole city to collapse at any moment.

  He aimed the shotgun at the smoke drifts. Flint had the rifle, and Shiv moved between them. Cross looked around the debris-addled road for the barbican gatehouse, and found it behind the crumpled remains of a ruined wagon covered with ash and meat.

  Cross nodded at the structure, then pointed at Flint and motioned for him and Shiv to watch the road. Flint didn’t look thrilled with the idea, but he didn’t argue. Shiv made to follow Cross, but her father put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back.

  Cross stepped over mounds of corpses that had been immolated from the inside out. Stomachs had burst and teeth had melted from flames that had poured out of the throat and gut. Eyes had boiled and exploded, and hair had crisped off at the roots. His boots slid in charred muck and syrupy remains. Cross covered his mouth and nose to fight off the stench.

  He came to the gatehouse. He hoped there were supplies within, or at the very least a city map so he could better deduce where they might find water stores without having to wander the streets.

  The black iron door squealed loudly as he pushed it open. Pools of slime and blood had jelled to the floor, and blood flies thickened the air. The walls were covered in splattered remains. Something had torn through the chamber like a murderous whirlwind and shredded its contents. Smashed wood and broken weapons were everywhere. He stepped inside with the shotgun held in front of him. His boots clung to the bloody filth.

  “Cross!” Flint called from outside. The sudden sound in his voice made Cross jump, and he turned and ran back outside.

  Flint and Shiv were behind a low stone wall. Pieces of rubble shook on the ground. He heard a low rumble, the grind of motion. It wasn’t a tank, or any sort of machine he’d ever heard before.

  Cross raced over to his companions. Shiv was terrified, and Flint didn’t look much better.

  “What is that?” Shiv asked.

  They heard sucking sounds, and crackling, like burning grease.

  “Stay behind me,” Cross said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  A gust of frigid wind pushed grisly fog through Dirge’s streets. Cross’s blood stiffened with cold, and the air was heavy with the stench of death.

  A few moments later the fog parted and revealed an arcane horror.

  Before Dirge had surrendered to the vampires, Rael, the warlock ruler of the city, had experimented with ways to fuse his spirit to non-living organic matter. Humans had never found a way to animate dead flesh, but Rael had argued it would be beneficial if they learned. “Know thy enemy,” he argued. It came as little surprise to anyone when he handed the city over to the vampires, and even less a surprise when he was promptly executed once the appointed Viscount learned what he’d tried to do. Everyone had assumed Rael’s experiments had been destroyed.

  Maybe they missed one. When everyone in Dirge was killed, it must have somehow found a way out.

  It was many tethered into one: human remains joined by chains of sinew. They didn’t walk but floated, a mass of opened torsos covered with unnatural lamprey-mouthed orifices, all grinding teeth and sucking acid lips. No eyes, no faces,
the heads as featureless as those of mannequins. The arms were spindly and capped with silver-iron claws. Milk-white blood trailed from the corpses’ toes like puss.

  The wall of limbed rot approached fast. Open chest cavities spun dark teeth and grinding tongues. Purple saliva sputtered to the ground.

  “Go!” Cross shouted. They ran for the gates.

  Bodies snapped away from the complicated tangle of sinew and flesh. Faceless cadavers charged forward. A low collective growl filled the empty streets with garbled dark song.

  Cross, Flint and Shiv ran through the barbican tunnel and out of the city. The droning sound washed over them like a dirty tide. Cross made sure the other two were clear before he turned around.

  One of the beasts was right on top of them, but he splattered it with a deafening shotgun blast. Another appeared, and Cross barely had time to chamber a round and shoot the diseased creature. His ears rang with gunfire and throaty growls.

  Cross chambered another round and fired his last shot. Two of the zombies went down in a splatter of body grease. Even as the bodies fell the wide and toothy maws in their chests continued to gobble at the air. The zombies came through the barbican tunnel. They snapped their flesh tethers and pushed each other out of the way as they ran for the human meat.

  Flint positioned Shiv behind him while he fired past Cross and into the undead crowd, and another zombie went down. Cross drew both his blade and the Colt .45.

  The dripping mass of zombies moved shoulder-to-shoulder, and drew to within a few meters. Cross aimed at the nearest zombie and pulled the trigger, but all that came out of the .45 was a hollow clang as the gun misfired, years of moisture and rust taking their toll.

  “Shit!” He dropped the gun, clutched the sword in both hands and took a defensive stance. “Flint, get her out of here!”

  The blade sent waves of black frost through his veins. His eyes glazed behind layers of pulsing ice, and his chest burned with frozen fumes. Everything seemed to slow.

  He side-stepped the first zombie and swung. Soulrazor/Avenger sawed through teeth and gristle. The two halves of the body fell to the ground in a steaming clump. Another came at him, and a third. He sliced and hacked through their ranks, barely aware of his own motions. Zombies collapsed all around him. His senses were overpowered with grey stink and dead sweat, and his body ached with effort. He moved mechanically, at one with the meteor steel in his grip.

  He was back in the arena in Krul, fused and focused on his intent: kill, or be killed.

  A mouth scissored and nearly clamped onto his face. Cross dropped, rolled out of the way and sliced upward. His sword hewed through black muscle. More dead poured from the city gates, too fast and numerous to be stopped. His heart pounded as he cleaved through more corpses. Claws raked his flesh and pulled open his coat. Nails hissed into his skin.

  Blood run down his arms. He fell into a tide of bodies. Clammy skin pushed against him. Circular disc teeth cut into his left knuckle and ground the skin away.

  Cross tried to rise, but was pushed down. Gasping dead breath washed over him, the bitter smell of decay. Claws tore at his face. He swung up, sliced a body in two, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many of them.

  A blast of white flared overhead. Burning rain fell from the sky. Heat flashed across his body, but Cross kept fighting.

  The zombies burned. White fire danced across their writhing bodies. Flames jumped from one to the next, a cavalcade of rot torches.

  He was blinded by the molten light. Cross raised his arms to shield himself, and realized he didn’t need to. Whatever tore the undead apart left him unharmed.

  The joined zombies slowly fell to the ground in mounds of ash. A collective gasp of dying breaths escaped their lips, the sound of grave wind released from a sealed coffin.

  Flint and Shiv were alive. The fires hadn’t burned them.

  A group of nomads stood nearby. Their still-smoking muskets, ancient weapons scribed with runes and set with bone handles, had been the source of the eldritch flames. The travelers bore other weapons as well, curved blades and short spears, claw-handles and bone rifles. They were short and lithe creatures, silent and pale as ghosts. Their strange horses glittered with white scales and crystalline manes.

  The newcomers had white-blonde hair and pale eyes. They didn’t have mouths – the lower parts of their faces were sealed skin, smooth and featureless, which gave them the semblance of flesh masks.

  Cross’s heart skipped a beat. He breathed easy.

  They’d been rescued by the Lith.

  Cross had worked with the Lith before, on the very mission that had eventually introduced him to Danica and Mike. That had all happened a few years ago, but it felt like it had been much longer...the time he’d lost as Red’s captive sometimes made it difficult for him to put clarity to his own past.

  A race of mysterious mystics with prophetic powers, the ghost-like Lith were on peaceful terms with the Southern Claw. Unfortunately, communication with the race was something of a challenge. Cross had actually lived with a small Lith tribe for almost two months, and yet he’d barely picked up any of their complicated hand signal language, and had relied on his then partner, a Southern Claw ranger named Dillon, to translate for him.

  He hadn’t thought about Dillon for a time. He hoped the ranger’s sister and nephew were doing well. He’d never gotten the chance to meet them.

  There were seven Lith in the party, five males and two females. Lith, generally speaking, were smaller than humans, but two of the males in this group were actually taller than Cross and had a surprising amount of muscle mass, at least compared to others he’d met. All but one of the females had faded blonde hair and pale golden skin, and they all moved with feline grace. Several of them wore steel face-masks that matched the shoulder and leg armor they wore over their ice-blue leathers.

  Cross had never understood how the mouthless race ate, and he’d never had the information offered to him. They communicated with each other via some sort of telepathy, and only used their hand language with outsiders.

  A rare dark-haired female seemed to be their leader. Two of the Lith investigated the ruins, while she and the others tended to their bizarre horse-like mounts, six-limbed creatures with icy skin and crystal hooves. They also had a pair of traditional horses and a single Bactrian camel.

  The presence of the camel made Cross smile. He’d developed something of an affinity for them a while back...in fact, the first time he’d laid hands on such a creature had been right there in Dirge.

  “So...are we safe now, or are we worse off?” Flint asked him.

  The wind was cold and sharp and the sky was clear. Cross, Flint and Shiv sat near a long-abandoned campsite a few hundred yards outside of town. Even though none of them knew the Lith’s hand language, some things were easy to communicate, and the three of them recognized that they were being asked to wait while the Lith investigated Dirge’s ruins. Flint had some basic first-aid experience, and though they had little more than needle and thread on hand he did his best to stitch up Cross’s bloody knuckles and face.

  “We’re safe,” Cross answered. “The Lith are allies of the Southern Claw. I’ve worked with them before.”

  “Wonderful,” Flint said through clenched teeth as he finished up a stitch on Cross’s cheek. “I haven’t.” He looked at his handiwork. “You’re no prettier than before, but it’ll do. Let’s take a look at that hand again.” Cross held it up. A chunk of skin had been ripped from the middle left knuckle, and every finger had been scraped raw. They stung horribly. “We’ll wrap that up,” Flint said. “Maybe find some antibiotics in the city, if we can head back in.”

  Cross felt the jutting stitches on his left cheek.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me till you’ve seen it,” Flint said. “And don’t do that while I’m around, eh?”

  “Wow, you’re a lousy nurse,” Cross said with a pained grin.

  “You should feel lucky you still have a face
.”

  Shiv sat bundled in a blanket. She watched the Lith, who rested close to the city gates. She’d been quiet for a while.

  “They’re scary,” she said. “Why don’t they have mouths?”

  “Shiv,” her father warned. “Mind your manners,” he said.

  She gave him an exhausted look.

  Cross laughed. He saw the way Flint watched his daughter when she wasn’t looking, and the way he watched the Lith: suspicious, not hostile, but wary. There was fierce protectiveness in his gaze.

  He’d seen the way Shiv watched her father in much the same way, fearful, loving. Worried. She always made sure he was okay, and she said reassuring things just when he needed her to.

  Cross realized at that moment he’d do anything to keep them both safe.

  He wondered why the sword had chose to spare their lives, and he worried about how Shiv knew with such certainty that the same entity responsible for the destruction of Tain’s slave-taking crew had also brought slaughter to Dirge. He had his suspicions. He just hoped he was wrong.

  The dark-haired Lith leader walked over to them. She was slim and athletic and had a commanding presence. The woman’s dark mask hung next to a curved blade on her belt. A short bow was slung across her back, and her cloak was made from a frost-colored animal pelt. She walked up and knelt down in front of Cross, as if there was something in the dirt she wanted him to see.

  Cross knelt down with her. The woman’s thin hands were lined with scars. She watched him. With no pupils, all Cross saw in her mirrored eyes was his reflection. She reached down and drew a jagged semblance of an eye in the dirt, surrounded by something that might have been clouds. Cross nodded.

  “I saw it,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t understand.

  “What is it?” Shiv asked.

  “Shiv, back away,” Flint warned, and his daughter dutifully obeyed. Cross hadn’t even known she was standing over his shoulder.

  “It’s what destroyed Tain’s caravan,” he said. He looked up at the Lith woman and pointed at the city. “It’s what destroyed Dirge.”

  “And good riddance,” Flint said. Cross looked at him. Flint hesitated, and then nodded an apology. They both knew innocents had been killed in both attacks, and there was no telling what other destruction the crystal entity had brought.