The Witch's Eye

by Steven Montano

  Witch was the last of them to flee. She swept the area behind them with churning clouds of blood fire.

  She’s a mage? How in the hell is that possible?

  Only humans could yield magic.

  And yet Shiv called her Witch right from the start. Like she knew.

  They rode. Cross didn’t look back, but followed the other Lith as they tore across the hills. Rogue led them through undergrowth and into the shadows of leaning stones. Cerulean mists masked their path.

  The explosions in the distance dulled and faded, and after a time the air went quiet. Cross slowed Musad. His hands gripped the reins so tight they’d gone white. Blood seeped from a wound on the side of his face, and his back was twisted with tension. Flint was barely holding on behind him, and Shiv sat tightly between them on the saddle.

  “It’s okay,” Cross said. “We’re okay…”

  “No,” she whispered. “No we’re not.” She looked up. “I did that.”

  “You did what?”

  “I don’t know how,” she said. “I don’t know…”

  “Shiv?” Flint asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Shiv,” Cross said. “Look at me.” She did. Her eyes were filled with fear. “Tell me…what did you do?”

  “Witch,” Shiv said. She was trembling all over. “I gave Witch magic.”

  They rode for another hour. They’d miraculously avoided the Ebon Cities phantoms, and somehow they didn’t come across any more patrols. Clouds of steam and smoke hung over the deeper Loch, and Cross saw distant fliers and skin dirigibles, vile undead vehicles that dropped incendiaries and acid blasts onto enemy shores.

  The sky was pale and silver. They rode over crags and petrified lava rock. Deep water flowed into clefts in the stone.

  There were eight of them left – Cross, Flint, Shiv, and the five Lith that Shiv called Witch, Bull, Dozer, Rogue and Grail. They moved in and out of cover provided by tall dark stones on the beach. The ridge to the west steepened, and soon they traveled along what was essentially the base of a short cliff. The level ground at the top led west, back into Ebon Cities territory.

  The beach consisted of fine dark sand and pools of cold mud. Crabs and shellfish pushed up from tide pools and slid out from under slick stones. Broken sea-shells lay tangled in foul-smelling seaweed and kelp. The waters crashed against small islands made of coral and rock. Cross smelled dead fish and salt mist. The odor of vehicle fuel hung heavy, the by-product of the war vehicles populating the bustling battleground of the Loch.

  Cross wondered if they were being followed by any more ghostly spotters, which the vampire artillery used as targeting points for bombardments. Those phantoms were almost impossible to detect. When Cross had been a warlock his spirit had been very adept at scouting enemy ghosts and arcane disturbances. Even his second spirit, murderous bitch though she’d turned out to be, had kept him aware and in tune with movements in the spirit world. Soulrazor/Avenger, for all of its deadly power and healing capabilities, could never replace that, nor what he missed the most: the presence of another, cleaved to his skin and bonded to his soul. Not a day went by that didn’t miss her.

  Grail, Rogue and Bull moved ahead of the others, while Witch and Dozer stayed close to the humans. Dozer, like Cross, watched for trouble from behind.

  “Cross,” Flint said after a time.

  Cross guessed it was just past noon, but it was hard to tell since the sun was hidden behind the twisted clouds. Dark mountains loomed to the west, and jagged islands blocked view of the Loch to the east. Dozens of uncharted isles waited in the sea.

  “Yeah?”

  “What happened?”

  Shiv rode on Musad’s back. The camel trailed behind them, its tether in Cross’s hand. He saw with some relief that she’d fallen asleep. Both he and Flint walked in the camel’s shadow.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “She said she gave Witch magic.”

  “Yeah…I heard.” Flint’s voice was unsteady. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know,” Cross said again. “I’d tell you if I did, Flint, but…”

  Flint took hold of Cross’s arm and spun him around. His eyes were full of fear, and his body was tensed up like a man ready to do violence. His bald pate was covered with sweat and grime.

  “Cross. How. Is that. Possible?” Witch and Dozer looked at them but kept moving. “You know something. I know you do.”

  Cross remembered his mother. The memory was vague and distant, from when he was barely old enough to understand what was happening to him…but he remembered her fear, her despair. He remembered her face, the face of a woman whose relief at learning her son was going to live had been mutilated by the knowledge of what he was. He’d always wondered if some part of her hadn’t wished he’d died that day rather than live on as a warlock.

  He saw that same face now.

  “You know as much as I do, Flint…even though you don’t want to admit it.” Cross took a breath. “Your daughter is a witch. Not a variety of witch I’ve ever seen before,” he added quickly, though he wasn’t sure how that was supposed to make things better. “Look…it’ll be okay. She just…”

  Flint punched him hard in the face. Cross reeled back, nose and jaw stinging, and fell to the ground. He tasted blood.

  “How will it be okay?” Flint yelled. “It’s not okay! She can’t be a witch, you understand? Now I want you to tell me what’s going on!”

  Cross stood up slowly.

  “Flint…I’m sorry. She’s a witch.” He wiped blood off his lip, and looked at the ground. He didn’t want to see that face of fear. “That’s all I know.”

  “No,” Flint said, and he shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. “It can’t…” He stumbled back, and bumped into Musad.

  Shiv was awake. She looked down at him, and nimbly came down off the camel’s back.

  Flint sat down hard on the ground. His chest heaved with sobs, but he tried his best to keep the sound of his grief in check.

  “She can’t…she can’t be…”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Shiv said. She stood right over Flint, and as he looked up she leaned down and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry.” She was trying not to cry. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…”

  “It’s…okay, baby,” Flint said. Flint took her in his arms. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Witch and Dozer looked on. Witch bowed her head. Cross wondered if they could understand, if the gravity of what had just happened was clear to them.

  It has to be, he thought. No one wants to learn their child is a weapon…a freak. No matter what race they are. He looked at Witch, and she returned his gaze. Her milky eyes were penetrating and cold. Only humans can use magic, Cross thought. He knew the Lith were telepathic, but only between each other. Still – rules had already been broken. For all he knew, she could read his every thought.

  Only humans can use magic. How did Shiv do that?

  He thought about what that could mean, the ramifications of a mage who could grant magic to others, and the notion of it terrified him.

  If the Ebon Cities gets their hands on you…

  Witch kept watching him. Somehow, he thought she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  They moved on. After another hour they found a way to get onto the Loch.

  A black steel vessel was moored to a makeshift dock made of crumbling driftwood. Skulls were mounted on the dark pylons, and a short wooden building on the verge of collapse stood just off the shore. The ship was a small motor-driven ship with a simple canvas top and a wide interior large enough to fit a half-dozen people and a good deal of cargo, perfect for the pirates unloading their goods onto shore.

  Cross had seen their like before. The men were human, but they held no loyalty to the Southern Claws. They made their living moving illegal goods across the Loch and selling them to the vampires at an inordinate cost. Southern Claw weapons and armor were highly valued by the Ebon Cities war labs, as were drugs, thaumaturgic equipment, and
human slaves. The five men dressed in a mismatch of purloined armor and dirty clothing, and they carried all manner of assorted weaponry.

  The smugglers moved with organized precision. Cross guessed they didn’t deal with the vampires face-to-face – likely they dropped off their goods and picked up their payment here at this secret dock, happy to turn a profit and unconcerned that by doing so they were turning their backs on their own humanity.

  He, Flint, Shiv, Witch and Dozer hid behind a low hill to the south. Sharp wind from the east lashed them with an icy chill.

  “What’s going on?” Shiv asked, but Flint motioned her to hush.

  Cross tugged on Witch’s arm, but she shook her head no. He looked back at the dock.

  Grail, Rogue and Bull moved with alarming silence. The Lith emerged from behind the shack and killed two men with iron arrows before the pirates even knew they were under attack. The bodies fell into the water.

  Rogue flew forward and skewered another pirate with a handful of knives. The last two smugglers went for their weapons – one drew an MP4, while the other moved for a massive flamethrower mounted on the boat. The first man got an ineffective burst off before an arrow took him in the throat. The second just reached the flamethrower when Bull skewered him through the back with a barbed javelin.

  The Lith stepped onto the pier. Wood creaked and shifted beneath their weight. They moved around crates of sealed alcohol, medical supplies and ammunition – the vampire’s payment for whatever the men had delivered.

  Cross looked at the shack.

  “Cross?” Flint asked.

  “Get your daughter aboard,” Cross said. “I’m going to take a look.”

  Cross walked past Rogue and Grail. He felt their eyes on him.

  The shack was dingy and dark. His breath frosted as he stepped inside. The floor was frozen. Cross stood in the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Bits of loose frozen rock and rough spheres of marble-colored ice bled into view. The shack was insulated, and the pirates had filled it from top to bottom with glacial orbs.

  Each ball held a preserved human fetus: a small child’s corpse, limbs tangled and frosted blue, enlarged heads cracked open. Umbilical cords had petrified in twisted orbits. Cold eyes shone in the dark confines of frozen prisons.

  They were bodies stolen from pregnant women, ripped from their wombs and preserved with dark magic. The vampires used them to study human anatomy – to better learn how they could destroy their enemies.

  You bastards.

  Cross walked away from the building. The others watched him as he climbed on board. They cast off mooring lines and drifted away from the shore before the engine sputtered to life.

  He motioned to the flamethrower, and then pointed at the storehouse. Witch didn’t seem happy with the instruction, but she didn’t stop Dozer from scorching the shack as they slowly pulled away. The flames roiled, and the building caught alight beneath the focused stream. Dark smoke poured into the sky, and they heard the sound of ice exploding.

  Cross shielded Shiv behind his back while Flint piloted them out to sea, keeping the boat in the shadow of the islands. The ship bobbed up and down, and everyone had to hold on tight.

  “What was it?” Shiv asked. “In the building?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cross said.

  He looked at Witch. She nodded, and gestured towards the open waters. What they sought was somewhere in the Loch. Cross hoped they weren’t too late.

  EIGHTEEN

  RESCUE

  The vampire Creed had taken over the remains of a fishing settlement that looked like it had been abandoned for years. The cluster of dark buildings stood in a field of broken stone and open dust trails patched with shards of brittle grass. The Nightblood River stood half-a-mile away in a shallow canyon of rock, where the water ran fast and sharp.

  Inky clouds rolled across the sky. It was almost night.

  Ronan and Black had followed the trail from the point where they’d been ambushed by the Ebon Cities recon force. The path took them on a different route than they’d gone before, away from the thin forests and straight into the badlands to the south, a region covered with ruined hills and twisted foliage. Ronan saw blood flies and mosquitoes in spite of the gnawing cold.

  They approached the settlement slowly. The air was dark, but there was no real cover. They drew to within a few hundred yards, and Ronan was surprised they hadn’t been spotted.

  Maybe we have. Those fuckers could just be luring us in.

  “You want to use your spirit to scout ahead, or something?” he asked. They kept low and moved through knee-high grass that had been drained of its color. Small stones and snails crunched under their boots.

  Danica’s spirit hovered around her metal arm like a toxic cloud. Ronan heard its whispers, felt its slithering presence.

  They paused. Danica looked ahead. Her eyes shone with dull crimson light. Hex fumes issued from her golem appendage.

  Ronan tensed his hands and checked his blades. He watched Danica.

  He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened back there at the river. If something in Wolftown had freed Danica from the Ebon Cities’ control, then falling into the Nightblood had snapped her out of her amnesia. She seemed to remember everything now, even if she did still seem a bit disconnected.

  But why the hell did you spill your guts to her like that? he asked himself. What do you think is going to come of that? Ronan wasn’t used to having weaknesses. He especially wasn’t fond of telling others about them. But this feels right, he told himself. Coming back for Creasy and Maur. This is where you belong.

  Like when he’d walked away from the Triangle. Like the day he’d let the blonde boy live.

  “There are three Suckheads,” she said. “Maur and Creasy are inside.” Danica looked at him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He pulled up his cowl and readied his katana. “What about the Razorwing?”

  Danica’s eyes shone in the darkness. Her spirit’s spectral whispers dragged against their skin.

  “It’s on the far side of the compound,” she said. “Alone and untended.”

  “Let’s take care of it first,” Ronan said.

  He’d first killed a Razorwing when he was twelve. They were one of the most difficult creatures to sneak up on, worse than Icelizards or Hornclaws, but not as difficult as Ebonbacks or Hulkers. The memory of crawling along the Skull Plains was still fresh, and he remembered the feel of slick freezing mud on his skin as he’d tried his best to stay low and quiet in spite of his cold terror. The Razorwing he’d been sent to kill had been a youngling, but even then it was still five times his size, and he’d always remember the sight of its scales glittering dark in the gelid sunlight. It had died quickly.

  They kept low and ran a wide perimeter around the cluster of buildings. Ronan kept expecting an alarm to go up, or for one of the vampires to appear. He heard a cry of pain in the distance. It sounded like Maur.

  Hang on.

  The earth was black and moist, making the footing uncertain. They stayed to the east side of the ravine and moved past low mounds of earth. Ronan motioned for Danica to wait and watch the settlement. She knelt low and obliged, even if she didn’t look too happy about it.

  Ronan raced forward. He focused, and his mind sliced to the cold place inside him. He returned to the blood yard, to the scores of young men and women wearing bloody bandages on their blistered feet. Blade-carved runes ruined their once clear flesh and their eyes were blank and glassy as they stared into the coastal winds. He was ten years old. He’d killed man and beast, women and children. And he would kill many more.

  He was in the Deadlands. He saw the shadow of the Razorwing against the violet sky. It shifted where it stood, its wings unfolded as it clawed and buried its face in something on the ground. It was feeding.

  Ronan seized his chance. He slowly came forward, ten yards, then twenty. He didn’t even remember removing his boots, but he’d cast them aside al
ong with his cloak and armor jacket. His bare feet sank into cold mud.

  The Razorwing feasted on a young Ebonback whose outer shell hadn’t fully formed, which allowed the draconian beast to tear into the center and bite into sinew and gristle. Ronan crept closer. The sound of cracking bones filled the air. The world was still, the dark plains frozen beneath a stain of clouds. He smelled blood. He was just a few feet away when the Razorwing looked up at him. Ronan saw his reflection in the yellow-gold eyes. He sprang.

  The beast reared and roared. Its tail lashed forward, but Ronan was too fast. The katana sliced into the Razorwing’s throat. Ronan had killed a thousand creatures over the course of his life. He knew where to cut, and how to strike. He knew how to kill things quickly or kill them slowly.

  The Razorwing thrashed. Ronan narrowly dodged a slicing wing. Dank water filled his mouth as he crashed to the ground. The reptile writhed, and hot purple blood sprayed everywhere.

  The buildings came to life. The Creed had been alerted.

  Ronan rose and ran away from the flopping Razorwing as it bled out. He kept low, using the grass as cover.

  Pale vampires appeared in the darkness. Ronan saw bladed guns and shifting cloaks. He ducked as gunfire tore into the night. Bone needles exploded into the Razorwing’s dead hide.

  Two of the vampires moved into the field. Their armor jackets were the color of blood, and their large and fanged mouths hung open with thirsty anticipation. The third vampire stayed at the door of one of the buildings, its steaming hand-cannon held ready.

  Danica’s spirit tore into one of the vampires as it moved towards Ronan. Its body twisted beneath a shower of red sparks, and there was little left of it by the time Ronan sprang forward and sliced off its face.

  The other vampires shot at Danica. Her spirit shred the bone needles and bullets into powder.

  Ronan moved fast. His feet were drenched in swamp water and his skin was frozen, but he was back on the blood yard again, racing for pig-heart targets and dodging swinging pendulum blades, his skin raw where he’d been whipped or cut open. He’d been taught to block out the pain, to block out everything, because nothing mattered but the kill. That was his purpose, his only purpose. Nothing else mattered.