The Witch's Eye

by Steven Montano

  It had occurred to him that other children had normal memories, memories that weren’t filled with torture and killing and trials of pain. He envied them.

  One of the vampires turned and fired, but Ronan was faster. He severed its hand and cleaved through its skull with a pair of quick strikes. Its body fell quivering to the ground.

  The last vampire retreated inside. The space beyond the open doorway was suffused with shadow. Black smoke rolled across the ground. Ronan sensed presences within, but it was so dark he might as well have been staring into a night sky.

  “Maur?” he called out. “Creasy?”

  Nothing. Ronan carefully stepped forward.

  “Ronan!” Black yelled. She came around the corner in a blaze of crimson magic. Her spirit poured into the shack and lit the unnatural darkness within.

  The vampire waited just on the other side of the doorway with a dark-bladed hatchet aimed squarely at Ronan’s head. Maur and Creasy were inside, bloodied and bound.

  Ronan ducked, and the blade struck stone. His katana took the vampire in the face and split its skull. The undead fell without a sound, and Ronan kicked its torso out of the way.

  “Jesus!” Danica yelled.

  The two captives were bloody messes. Creasy’s bare chest was covered with cuts. The warlock’s face was bruised and blistered, a purple and black mass that oozed puss and blood. His eyes were scabbed over, and he babbled deliriously. The only thing that kept him upright was the rope securing him to the pillars in the middle of the room.

  Maur looked even worse. The Gol had been stripped naked and flogged with a bladed whip. His bald grey pate was covered in bleeding wounds, and his fingers and toes had all been crushed to a pulp.

  “Oh, God,” Danica said.

  Ronan drew his knife and cut Creasy free while Danica wrapped a blanket around Maur. The Gol shook in place and muttered to himself. Danica’s spirit filled the room with burning vapors. Ronan’s eyes stung as the air turned hard and sharp, like he was breathing in gas fumes. He laid Creasy down on his back. Blood was all over Ronan’s hands and chest by the time he’d finished.

  “Where the hell is Creasy’s spirit?” he asked.

  Danica looked around, and then nodded at a low table. “Those empty bottles. Narcosm. They must have knocked him out and poured it down his throat before he could do anything.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Maur,” Danica said. “Hang on, Maur.”

  Ronan knew Danica was trying to use her spirit to heal the Gol, but because of his alien anatomy – the Gol were skin automatons, a race of refugees expelled from their true forms and trapped in derelict organic vessels – Danica had no idea where to start. Gol healed themselves, and they didn’t share the secrets of their bodies with outsiders.

  She doesn’t know how to help him.

  He looked at Creasy. Blood dripped from the warlock’s mouth. His lips were split, and his jaw had been broken. Fluid ran from his ear. Ronan cleared blood away from the other man’s neck, and was relieved to see they hadn’t bitten him. But he wouldn’t live long.

  “Dani,” Ronan said. She looked at him with desperation in her eyes. “Creasy needs help.”

  And you can fix him, but you can’t fix Maur. He didn’t have to say it out loud, because she knew, he saw it in her eyes. He nodded at Maur, and changed places with her.

  Maur’s milky white eyes were glazed over. Pale blood seeped from his raw and sticky skin. Being conscribed to a flesh prison didn’t dull the sensation of pain, and Ronan knew the Gol must have been in considerable agony. Maur had never been seriously injured before, and the few wounds Ronan had ever seen him sustain always seemed to heal by themselves.

  Ronan took off his outer shirt and bunched it up so Maur could use it as a pillow. Maur cried and mumbled but didn’t wake.

  “God damn it, Maur, I didn’t save you from those Gorgoloth just to have you end up like this,” Ronan said quietly.

  Magic swam through the air. Blue-grey smoke curled around Creasy’s body. He gasped and coughed. The warlock blinked, and his mouth opened into a scream. His hands grabbed at nothing.

  “Ronan!” Danica shouted. “Hold him!”

  Ronan left Maur and clutched Creasy’s hands. The warlock’s legs kicked out, but Danica held his feet still while her spirit did his work. Ronan watched the warlock’s wounds heal. Skin sealed together. Puss and tainted blood pushed out of his body before the lacerations fused shut like they’d been soldered. The man thrashed and kicked, and it took every bit of Ronan’s strength to hold him still. Blood-curdling howls issued from Creasy’s lips as his ruined body was painfully reassembled by another’s magic. Bones shifted and vertebrae snapped back into place. The air smelled like burning skin and body fluids.

  After what felt like hours, Creasy finally stopped screaming. Ronan tasted hex in the air, the conjoined arcane power of opposing magics. Somehow Danica’s magic had freed Creasy’s spirit, and they both worked to heal the warlock’s wounds. Danica eased off after a time to let Creasy’s spirit do the work on her own.

  She and Ronan carefully backed away and went to tend Maur. There was nothing they could do for the Gol, at least not there, so Ronan sat with Maur while he slept and watched over him. Maur was one of the only people he’d ever known who thought of him as a friend.

  And I almost left you behind, he thought. Danica and I both nearly walked away. What the hell is wrong with us?

  Creasy’s spirit finished healing him within the hour. The warlock lay exhausted and shaking when it was all done. Danica gave him a spare blanket from her pack, and Ronan shared what meager rations they had.

  The warlock sat against the wall. Danica was cross-legged on the ground across from him, while Ronan stayed close to Maur.

  “They wanted to know where we were going,” Creasy said. His voice was low and garbled, like he’d swallowed glass. “They started with Maur first. I tried lying, tried bargaining, but they wouldn’t stop.”

  “They didn’t threaten to bite you?” Danica asked.

  “No,” Creasy said. His eyes focused on something distant. His salt-and-pepper beard was thicker than before, and his skin was more leathery. He seemed to have aged ten years since they’d last seen him. He looked at Maur. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “No,” Ronan said. “No, he isn’t. We need to get him to someone who knows about Gol anatomy.”

  “Meldoar?” Danica asked.

  “That would be the best bet,” Ronan said. “At the very least we need to get him back to Talon Company. I’m not sure if they have the proper resources or not, but they’d have a better chance of taking care of him than we do.”

  “Where is Talon Company?” Danica asked. “We’ve already been delayed.”

  “I’ll take him,” Creasy said. “I’ll take him to Ath, and Meldoar if I have to.” He looked at each of them. “I’m sorry about what happened to your friend. I wish it hadn’t.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Danica said. She looked at Ronan. “I’m sorry it took us so long to get back and help you.” Her eyes went to the ground.

  “Yeah,” Ronan added. “Me, too.”

  Creasy watched him. The warlock’s eyes were large and penetrating. It seemed Creasy was staring into his soul. Ronan felt the man’s spirit, a chill presence that licked at his flesh like an icy wind. Light from the single oil lamp cast heavy shadows across their faces.

  “I know you had to fight yourselves to come back,” Creasy said. “I honestly wasn’t sure if you would, but I’m glad you did.” He motioned at Maur. “He showed a lot of courage. He’s the tallest one here. But what happened to him was bound to happen eventually.” He held a cup of water in his shaking hands. “No one does what we do without getting hurt. No one lives in these times without bearing scars.” He took a drink. “I’ll take your friend to safety. Those bastards won’t bring me down again. But now you two have to go. The vampires aren’t the only ones looking for the Witch’s Eye.”

  They made su
re Creasy had everything he needed. They had no mounts, and Ronan was almost ready to tell Danica to go on alone, but Creasy used his spirit to lighten Maur’s weight. He secured the Gol to his back, and they used loose cords and a length of rope to make sure the small man was secure.

  Creasy wore grey and green fatigues and a long armor coat. The vampires hadn’t done anything with his equipment. He offered Ronan his HK45, but Ronan insisted he keep both it and the shotgun. Ronan gave him his kodachi as well, which left him with a katana, a wakazashi and a few throwing daggers.

  More than enough.

  The night was cold and deep. The clouds faded into black tendrils of smoke, and the moon shone high and bright. The plains were empty and desolate.

  Ronan hoped the Creed wouldn’t be missed too soon. Creasy and Maur needed time to get to safety.

  “Northeast,” he told Creasy.

  “My spirit will guide me,” he nodded.

  Maur wore his red cloak. Ronan made sure he had some extra cloth so he could lay his head down against Creasy’s back. The Gol was awake, but only barely. His eyes were glassy, and he seemed drunk.

  “You going to be okay?” Ronan asked.

  Maur smiled. He was clearly in terrible pain.

  “Maur thanks you,” he said weakly. “You didn’t have to come back. Maur knows…it was difficult for you.”

  Ronan’s mind went back. He stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the shrine. He saw his reflection in the pool, and the face that stared back at him was haggard and pale. The face of death.

  “I’ll do it again if I have to,” he said. “But I won’t be happy about it.”

  Maur nodded.

  “Are you ready?” Danica asked.

  Creasy nodded.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “And you,” she smiled.

  Ronan shook the warlock’s hand. He nodded at Maur. He had a terrible feeling he’d never see him again.

  The two men took to the plains with Creasy’s spirit gathered around them in a red haze.

  Danica and Ronan followed the river northwest. They’d lost almost a full day. Their boots squelched in and out of mud and shallow waters. It was a few hours to midnight, but if they were lucky they could be back at the shores of Rimefang Loch before morning.

  “Thank you,” Danica said.

  “For what?”

  “For coming back with me,” she said. “For helping me find the way.”

  NINETEEN

  SIEGE

  They passed wrecked warships, floating graveyards of smoking steel and bone. Violent waves at the periphery of the sea gradually gave way to calmer waters as they approached the network of isles near the center of the Loch. Cross watched the islands: they were all quiet, and seemed uninhabited. Most were covered with dark forests and rows of sharp stone.

  The derelict ships proved difficult to navigate around. Cross thought at first there would only be a handful of them, some abandoned Ebon Cities warships or wrecked Southern Claw cutters, but they came across scores of dark-hulled vessels drifting in the dank waters or crashed against the razor shores, boats half-submerged in oil slicks or marooned in patches of black moss. Fuel, smoke and grease churned from the rent metal hides and darkened the sea. Ruined corpses drifted on the surface of the water.

  Flint piloted their stolen pirate vessel slowly through the narrow channels. They caught sight of an occasional stray undead out in the water, a lone zombie or a war wight too far away and too burdened by armor to pose any threat. The moonlit waves were thick with bloody broth and floating dead. Dark fliers appeared now and again, grim silhouettes against the pale midnight clouds. The crimson haze of the rising sun hung in the distance. The air was cold, and the spray of freshwater mist made the inside of the vessel slick.

  Cross kept Shiv bundled up in a blanket they’d found onboard. The Lith kept their eyes alert, watching for danger.

  He was surprised nothing challenged them. They heard far-off bomb blasts and artillery and saw faint gold-white explosions to the south. Sometimes the war howl of a Razorwing or the blast of a turbine engine sounded in the distance. Occasional fins silently poked through the surface of the black water. The dull groan of the motor seemed loud enough to be heard for miles in the still night.

  Cross and Shiv sat at the back of the boat, near the small platform where Flint piloted the ship. Rogue would come and point to a specific direction they wanted Flint to head or motion if they needed him to slow down or still the engine when vampire-driven fliers or Ebon Cities war boats came into view through the cloying mist. The rest of the Lith stayed at the front of the long and wide vessel with the crystal horses and Musad. The camel seemed bored with the voyage.

  “Cross?” Shiv asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “What are we looking for?”

  He hesitated.

  “The gem that destroyed Dirge,” Cross said.

  “But what is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You’re just looking for it to find your friend,” she said.

  “Yes.” He smiled. The night waters flowed by. “Yes. All of my friends.”

  They rode in silence for a time. The Lith checked their weapons, recurve bows and razored gauntlets, serpentine swords and barbed spears. Cross looked back at Flint and nodded, and Flint smiled, since he couldn’t hear a thing over the motor short of gunfire or an explosion.

  “Cross?” Shiv asked. She stared out into the night.

  “Yeah?”

  “What am I?” He heard the fear in her voice.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “At first I thought you were a witch.” He sat down on the bench next to her. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. My sister was a witch. The friend I’m trying to find is a witch.”

  “But I’m not a witch,” she said plainly, and she looked at him. Her short hair was wet and wind-blown, and her expressive eyes locked on his. She seemed so much older than twelve. “You don’t know what I am.”

  “No. I don’t. But someone will.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There are plenty of people in the Southern Claw who know a lot more about magic than I do.” He looked away. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lorn or the White Council finding out about Shiv. He saw nothing good coming from that.

  The boat cut through the waters. The distant call of some alien beast sliced the air apart, and more explosions shook the distant sky.

  “Cross?” Shiv asked again.

  “Yes, Shiv?”

  “I’m scared.”

  He took a deep breath. He offered her a hug, and she accepted. He felt her tremble.

  “Me, too,” he said. “Me, too.”

  The island where they landed was cold and dead. Sharp stones protruded from the shore like broken rib bones. The wide and stony beach led inland to patches of dense brush and steeply angled rocks.

  The black sky seemed to ripple away from the crystal moon as the bloody teeth of dawn gnawed at the horizon. Shells and loose stones crunched beneath the pirate vessel as it slowly came to shore. Bull and Dozer leapt out and threw mooring lines around some large rocks, and the Lith started unloading equipment onto the beach.

  Cross looked at Witch and held up his hands to ask what was happening. She pointed inland, towards the brush and the steep hill beyond. A faint glow stemmed from beyond the rock ridge and the night-dark trees at the top of the rise.

  “Is it a fire?” Flint asked.

  “Maybe,” Cross said. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should keep sailing,” Flint said. “We can reach Ath in another day, tops. We have food and water on the ship.”

  “No,” Shiv said. “You know we can’t, Da.”

  The Lith brought the mounts off the boat and saddled them.

  “We’ll have a difficult time sailing these waters without their help,” Cross pointed out. “And they seem pretty intent this is where we’re getting off.”

  Flint
didn’t like that, and Cross didn’t blame him. He was tempted to tell him to go, to take the ship and whatever food and weapons they needed, but he feared they wouldn’t get far.

  If you stay with me, you’ll be in danger. But I can’t send you on alone.

  “You can wait with the boat,” he suggested. “I’ll go with them to see what it is they want here.”

  “Are you nuts?” Flint said. “We’re sitting ducks out here.” He looked at the Lith, then back at the water. “Still…if we leave the boat out here with no one to watch it, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  “Cross,” Shiv said. “You can’t leave us alone.”

  Cross looked at Witch. She waited for him expectantly, her arms crossed and her eyes locked on his.

  “I need to go with them…” Cross started, but Shiv took his hands.

  “No, you don’t. You need to stay with us.”

  Cross looked at Flint, who shrugged.

  “Shiv,” her father said. “Come on, lass. Let the man do what he has to do.”

  Cross wasn’t sure if Shiv was worried about him or if something else was going on. There was no telling what sort of power she had. For all he knew, she had the same prophetic abilities as the Lith.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

  “You don’t know that,” she said. Her voice was hauntingly cold. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know where they’re taking you, or what will happen.”

  “No, I don’t,” Cross answered. He stood up and strapped Soulrazor/Avenger’s sheath to his back. Flint handed him the Remington 870. It was the same “Witness Protection” style shotgun Cross had taken from Graves years before, sawed-off and fitted with a pistol grip. It almost could have been the same gun. “But I have to try.” He looked at Flint nervously, then back at Shiv. “Is there something you need to tell me? Something you know?”

  Shiv licked her lips nervously. Her gaze was penetrating. He felt something familiar, not quite the touch of a spirit but something close, a smoking presence that filled the air between them like a freezing fog. Cold blue light swirled in her irises. Something dark was there…it was as if something gazed out through her eyes, some far-off presence from a place of shadows.