Perhaps most importantly, the Lith were a race of prophets. Their witches sensed future events and determined when and where something of significance might occur. Cross wasn’t sure how they did it – if it was through the use of spirits, it was in a manner that was unknown to humans.
No surprise there, Cross thought. For as much as we know about magic, we still don’t know a damn thing. It’s a wonder we’ve survived as long as we have.
Once Cross had all of his gear stowed away, he cleaned his weapons and tended to the camel. He’d first worked with such a beast during Viper Squad’s last ill-fated mission, when they’d purchased one from a merchant in the armistice city-state of Dirge. That camel had noisily but faithfully served at Cross’ side for the rest of the mission, and while he never found out what had happened to it (he was fairly certain it had either wandered off into the dead lands north of the Carrion Rift or else had been eaten by ghouls), he decided he’d always bring one along whenever duty required him to trek into the wilderness. This camel – which he didn’t name out of pure superstitious habit – had been with him for the better part of a year. Cross still didn’t know how to ride the beast, and he didn’t think that either of them was up for trying.
The rock shelf that the Lith camped on overlooked the Reach from the side of a squat mountain. Navigating up and down the sliding mountain face to get to and from the camp was treacherous, but the elevated position meant that only the most dedicated predators would dare try to harm them. The air was thin and cold atop the rocks, and the wind snapped against Cross’ cloth-wrapped face and cut straight through his grey armor like a blade. At times the gusts were so strong Cross felt sure they could have forced him off of the rock and into open air. The campsite was large enough, Cross guessed, to land a pair of the Southern Claw’s new Bloodhawk airships.
Dillon stood next to him. His scraggly black beard had finally shed some of the frost it had accumulated overnight. Cross’s own face bore only slight traces of stubble. Growing a beard wasn’t in the cards for him, and never had been.
Cross’ spirit pushed against him. Before the Viper Squad’s last mission, such an act would have brought him comfort. His spirit was tied to his soul, after all, an ethereal feminine counterpart, an extension of his own life force that he called on to craft magical effects and to gather information. She had, in many ways, been his deepest friend and companion, and his one true love aside from his sister.
They’re both gone now. Gone, and they’re not coming back.
The touch and feel of his spirit had changed, just as Cross had changed. The spirit he was bonded to was an entirely different entity than that he’d spent most of his life with.
A year before, in the secret obelisk prison that housed humankind’s arcane souls, Cross had destroyed Margrave, and his original spirit had, in turn, sacrificed herself to save him. His new spirit was a reward, of sorts, granted to Cross by whatever entity it was who ruled that obelisk.
It had been an uneasy marriage thus far. Sensing this spirit was like reaching through ice-water, or staring into a smoky mirror.
His spirit was a shadow of the one he’d once known, a bitter and resentful echo. The emotions that she emanated usually felt like an indictment of Cross, a resistance to whatever he attempted.
He felt more alone that ever.
There’s still so much we don’t understand about magic…so much that still doesn’t make sense. Maybe that’s why I’m still here. Maybe that’s why they sent me back.
He sees his old spirit, falling into the sky.
“Hello?”
Cross snapped to. Dillon was looking at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Are you all right?” Dillon’s voice was thick and loud. Rangers had to be silent. Cross was fairly sure that was why Dillon actually didn’t talk all that much – even his whispers were easy to hear. He had to make an effort at being quiet, which was probably why he was so good at it.
“Yes,” Cross said after a moment. A thick crust of iron clouds crept over the stale sun. Heavy shadows floated like vessels on the face of the pale valley. A silver-red river wound its way across the land below like an open wound. “What’s up?”
“Sajai,” Dillon said with a nod.
The Lith witch worked her way up the stone hill and towards the two Southern Claw men. Like all Lith, Sajai was thin and short. Her golden hair flowed in the freezing mountain breeze, and her milk white skin was as flawless as snow. Sajai was dressed in a pale blue cloak laced with gold and platinum cuffs, but the garment was tied tight at the waist like a corset. A series of tall knife scabbards surrounded her washboard frame, while her gloves and boots were made of some sort of animal skin, probably ice wolf.
Sajai came and stood before them. Cross found the Lith unnerving because of their physical appearance. He hated that he felt that way, but it was what it was. Their eyes were blue, so bright they sparkled in even the barest hint of light. They held themselves with perfect posture and poise, and the Lith made no sound, not even by mistake. They were like living wraiths.
Strangest of all, the race had no mouths: their faces beneath their small nostrils were like surgical masks made of flesh. Cross had no idea how they ate, and had never seen them do so, even though they always took meat from the animals they killed. So far as communication was concerned, all Lith seemed to have some telepathic or empathic connection with one another. The Lith also had a system of hand signals that they used to communicate with outsiders, but Cross had never seen them use it with each other.
Sajai, the witch mother of this band of Lith, used those signals now. They were subtle, and didn’t involve a great deal of overt motion, which seemed to suit their quiet race. The hand language still looked complicated, and Cross wished he’d been able to pick up more of it, which should have been possible given how many weeks he and Dillon had spent in their company. The Lith were nomads. They lived off of the harsh environs of the Reach, and though they never looked for trouble they always seemed capable of dealing with it when it came. They had also forgotten more about magic than the collective warlocks and witches of the Southern Claw would ever even possess, which was why Cross was there now.
Cross looked at Dillon.
“She wants to know if you’re ready,” Dillon said.
Cross nodded.
Sajai stood a full head shorter than Cross, but those blue eyes pierced straight through to his core. He felt his spirit twitch, as if afraid. Sajai’s arcane sight cast her face in a near invisible corona that surrounded her like gossamer dust. Cross could feel as her gaze took in everything about him, from his thoughts to his fears, from his past to his soul. She’d done it before, when he and Dillon had first arrived.
She wants to make sure I’m still driven by the same motives. She has to know that I’m not letting something slip, some hidden agenda.
When she seemed satisfied, Cross felt the tension in his body let up. He hadn’t even realized it was there in the first place. Sajai turned and started down the slope. Cross had the impression he was supposed to follow her, confirmed when Dillon nodded expectantly.
Sajai moved quickly down the hill, and Cross had to watch his footing on the unstable rock as he scrambled after her. Most of his gear was in his pack; all that he carried with him were his arcane gauntlets, bunched together in his fist.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pick up more of their language,” Dillon said from behind him as they carefully stepped down the hill. Dark protrusions of rock jutted out of the stone and formed the semblance of steps, but the pace at which Sajai moved and the height of those steps still made keeping their balance tricky.
“Me, too,” Cross said. “I’m better at reading languages than speaking them.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Do they think I’m idiot for not having learned more of it?”
“I doubt they care,” Dillon said quietly. “They’re not like us. They don’t really judge.”
They came into the company of more Lith wh
en they arrived at the bottom of the hill. The trek down the breadth of the mountain to the Reach itself would take hours, but the Lith had completely broken down their camp, and everything that had once been spread across the hillside had been rolled and neatly packed away and bound to the backs of stark white horses with reptilian skin and tufts of heavy hair on their feet and joints. The horse’s manes were like melted crystal.
The other Lith parted before them. Their weapons were sinuous and sleek, bows carved from stark white wood and swords and axes with blades made of translucent crystal. Cross saw no firearms anywhere in their midst. His spirit bristled as if threatened, and Cross had to exert some mental force to rein her in.
It’s like owning a pet wolf, sometimes.
Sajai passed through her fellows and walked towards the cliff, where they had a clearer view of the Reach. It looked like a sea of ice. Thick canyons of gray and green rock covered the landscape like wounds.
Sajai stepped up to the edge, propped one foot on a short stone that dangled precariously over open air, and looked out.
Cross had been sent by the Southern Claw High Command to learn something from this Lith woman, the leader of a tribe that in the past had given the White Mother valuable information about the Ebon Cities. He’d been sent to find something hidden out there in the wastes.
But the Lith had their own way of handing out information. They would not be rushed. They lived so much longer than humans, and much of what humankind found frightening was entirely familiar to the Lith.
She had to make sure that my need was genuine. She had to know I could be trusted.
Over the course of the past few weeks, Cross had done his best to earn that trust, with Dillon’s knowledge of the Lith guiding his actions. He felt bad for Dillon, really – the ranger was used to running reconnoiter missions for Hunter squads or charting out unexplored territory for Company deployments, not babysitting a warlock of dubious qualifications while he tried to get information from a race that he didn’t even share a common language with. Even though Dillon didn’t complain, Cross noted restlessness in his gait and in his thick voice. He was a ranger, after all – he wasn’t used to sitting still.
But you never complained when the mission came straight from the High Command. If they were giving the order, it meant that it was something the White Mother herself wanted done.
Without turning to regard them, Sajai pointed out to the Reach. At first Cross didn’t see anything: it looked like the same arctic wasteland it had always been. The air was dirty and cold and Cross tasted glacial smoke on his tongue. His scarred left hand burned in the frigid temperatures. Hard wind pushed against them.
“Crap,” Dillon said after a moment.
“Tell me about it…”
“No, look!”
Cross followed Dillon’s gaze. A few miles away, just past a ridge of low and dark hills, amidst a drift of early morning haze and ash, was a stream of smoke that curled up into the sky.
“Is that from a wreck?” Cross asked.
“Looks like it to me.”
An airship, he thought. It could’ve been any sort of mechanized or thaumaturgically driven vehicle, of course – a tank, a Rathian war wagon, a Bonewalker, an Ebon skiff – but somehow Cross knew what it was.
Sajai looked at Cross. She made a simple hand motion: a sweep and cut, drawing her hand away from Cross and above her own throat, then back out towards the trail of smoke.
“Follow,” Dillon said, reading the signal. His eyes went back to the smoke. “Follow and you will find.”
She’s been waiting for this, Cross thought. That’s why they’ve let us stay for so long. She was waiting for this day, this place, to show us where we needed to go. That ship had to be there. In order to find what we need, our next step is to go to that wreck.
Cross considered asking her what the smoke was, but he knew that she wouldn’t tell them.
Follow and you will find.
Cross looked at the smoke, and he felt something cold inside of him. It was as if eyes buried deep in the distance stared back.
“Thank you,” Cross told Sajai. “Dillon. I think it’s time for us to go.”
TWO
DREADNAUGHT
Dillon estimated that the trip would take just over half a day. They’d spend only a portion of that time crossing the flat wastelands of the Reach – most of it would be spent descending the small mountain, which had to be done carefully lest they fall to their deaths.
Luckily for Cross, Dillon was an expert at getting around in harsh environments. The ranger might as well have been born in the wild. He was fairly quiet and reserved, opinionated when it came to which route to take or what areas to avoid, but soft spoken on most everything else.
Cross did know that Dillon had a temper. They’d been accosted by brigands on their way to the Lithian camp, a band of wasteland outlaws who made a living feeding off of small caravans and launching attacks on Southern Claw border towns. Dillon hadn’t taken kindly to their intrusion, and Cross knew that if he hadn’t used magic to scatter the bandits Dillon likely would have killed each and every one of them.
Dillon had mentioned having a sister, and a nephew. Other than that, the ranger seemed content to keep to himself, and Cross respected that, even if he did find himself occasionally starting conversations that faded to nothingness due to a lack of response on the ranger’s part.
Small stones scattered down the side of the mountain as they made their descent. Cross’ camel slowed their travel with its deliberate and even pace. Dillon led the way on a horse as black as coal. His horse was adept at sliding down the smooth slope, but Cross’ dun moved a bit more awkwardly, due largely to her rider’s inexperience. Cross was slowly becoming a better rider, but he’d spent most of his military career being flown to his missions, and he’d only been riding horseback regularly for about a year.
Still…I should be better at this by now.
The small mountain where the Lith made camp stood at the northern end of a low and craggy range that cleanly cut the Reach off from the southern plains. If they turned south, they could have followed the range straight to the city of Fane. The landscape was dark and jagged, and the hills looked like enormous shards of black glass. The sun was dull and low as they rode into the Reach. Cross had to draw his armored coat tight and turn up his collar, and even gloved his hands felt frozen as he clung to the reins.
The ground in the Reach was hard and brittle, more ice than snow, with a thin layer of uneven and dark stone that ran underneath. Frozen streams and the fallen husks of stark white trees littered the landscape. Cross’ breath steamed in the air. His ears, mouth and nose were held under a cloth wrap, and even then they felt numb after they’d ridden for about an hour.
Dillon rode straight in the saddle. He wore a tan armored coat and had a long MK-14 carbine slung over his shoulder. An M4A2 was slung across the back of his saddle bag, and he had a 9mm Beretta strapped to a holster on his leg. Cross felt the weight of the sawed-off Remington shotgun in the holster on his back, which hung next to his black-bladed machete, the sheath turned so that he could draw it underhanded. His HK45 was slung in a holster on his left side, and his most potent weapon hovered in and around him, an ethereal shadow that tasted like charcoal and that whispered unintelligible mutterings into his head.
She hadn’t stopped whispering at him since he’d woken. It was like having a madman’s stereo. Sometimes, Cross just wished he understood what his spirit was telling him. Usually, he wished he could ask her to just be quiet.
They rode quietly across the ghostly ice plains. They stepped carefully to avoid sharp stones, patches of ice, and areas too brittle to support their weight.
Hours passed in near silence. Cross would have liked to sleep in the saddle, but it wasn’t going to happen. His nerves were alight, thanks in no small part to the nagging paranoia of his spirit. But that wasn’t entirely it: Cross disliked the notion of being directed by a prophecy. The fact that Sajai seemed
to have known there was going to be something there in the Reach that Cross needed to follow unnerved him. It was like a trap had been laid by the universe, and he was walking straight into it.
The plains sloped down near a cluster of bone white trees rimed with dark frost. The skeletal remains of a tall humanoid creature sat near the trees; one of its hands was frozen so that it looked like it pointed back the way Cross and Dillon had ridden from.
Cross tried not to take it as a sign.
At the bottom of the slope was a thin canyon that was maybe twenty feet across. The only apparent means to cross to the other side was to use a thin log that traversed the distance like a crude bridge. Frozen pools of blood waited at the bottom of the slope, next to the log.
A cluster of thick trees and rocks waited at the far end of the gap, and beyond the tress waited the unseen source of the streaming smoke.
“You smell that?” Cross asked. He smelled fire and fuel. “It’s an airship.” They couldn’t see any wreckage from where they were, but the smell made him certain.
“Could it be one of ours?” Dillon asked.
“I can’t think of a reason why a Southern Claw airship would be this far north,” Cross said. The Ebon Cities’ vessels used hexed organic fuel that smelled entirely different than that used by Southern Claw airships, so it was unlikely that the vessel was of vampiric origins. Cross deduced that it was probably a stolen or reconstructed vessel, like those used by smugglers and raiders.
Cross’ spirit moved ahead on her own. Thin lines of spectral essence connected them, which gave Cross an awareness of the area ahead. He felt the heat of fires and he smelled burning skin. He heard voices, and saw auras of pain. Lost and dead spirits roamed the air like predators in blood waters, but Cross’ spirit had become expert at protecting herself, and she eluded those wailing souls before they could do her harm.
Black Scars (Blood Skies, Book 2) Page 2