Crown of Ash (Blood Skies, Book 4)

by Steven Montano

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Cross said as amiably as he could.

  “You: be quiet,” she said coldly.

  “Hang on,” Kyver said. “You know who we are…who are you?”

  “My name is Eric Cross,” he said. “I used to be a warlock and a member of the Southern Claw. Now I’m a mercenary. I’ve been trapped in the Whisperlands for…I don’t know how long.”

  “None of us do,” Kyver laughed. “That’s one of the many lovely side effects of this place. No one ever knows how long they’ve been here, even if they came here on purpose.”

  “Like the Shadow Lords,” Cross said.

  “Yes, like the Shadow Lords,” Kyver nodded. “Like us.”

  Cross hesitated.

  “Excuse me?”

  Kyver and Vala exchanged glances.

  “You say that you saw the City of Thorns,” Vala said. “It was founded by those who came before us.”

  We search.

  “I thought the people from the city were trying to escape,” he said. “That they were looking for a way out of the Whisperlands.”

  “That’s not exactly the case,” Kyver said. “They were looking for something. It just so happened that the people who know the way out of the Whisperlands are looking for it, too.”

  Cross took a breath. He was in no position to do anything here, especially without his blade. A few more of the Grey Clan came close, the reptilians.

  “‘Those who came before us’,” Cross quoted. “Tell me something…is there a way out of the Whisperlands that leads into a place called the Carrion Rift?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Kyver said. “And you know what both we and the Shadow Lords seek. It’s called the Obelisk of Dreams.”

  Cross’s heart went cold. He saw his sister, burning on the train. No matter how deep he tried to bury that pain it was there. There was no escaping it.

  “I’ve never heard it called that,” he said quietly. He looked at them, hesitated, and realized he had little left to lose. “Why do you want it?”

  “We don’t,” Kyver said. “And we never have. But we can’t let the Shadow Lords have it.”

  Cross studied the man. He appeared young, even with his speckled grey-green skin and fading white blonde hair. His eyes were pale blue, almost like ice. The shirt he wore had upturned collars and loose sleeves; he looked like he should have been in a library instead of out there in the shadowy wilderness. The aspects of his reptilian nature were subtle, just faint scales and glittering shards of snake skin on the backs of his hands and on his neck.

  “How do you know about it?” Cross asked.

  “That’s…complicated. We are not from your world….”

  “No. Way,” Cross said.

  Vala glared at him, but Kyver laughed.

  “This is actually difficult to explain,” he said. “The world we come from…originally…well, we gave you the obelisk. We gave you magic. Or our ancestors did, at any rate.”

  Cross nodded, and listened. He wasn’t sure why he should believe anything they said, except for one simple fact.

  Why would he make this up?

  “The ritual performed by you humans opened up a channel,” Kyver said. “A gateway. It allowed our dead to flow into your world, but the nature of the ritual you invoked ensured that those dead wouldn’t be free to roam about on their own.”

  “Your people…your dead…are the spirits we use for magic?” Cross said. “Jesus.”

  “Don’t feel bad about it,” Kyver said. “It’s always been better this way. Things were different where we lived. The dead were harvested there. They were burned as fuel, consumed by those who used them. It’s similar to what happens here, but…they didn’t survive.”

  “You said ‘lived’,” Cross said. “Your world…”

  “Is still there. But we aren’t.” Kyver shrugged. “We knew that the connection was in danger. It was in danger when you humans first had cause to seek it out. After the Obelisk was buried in your Carrion Rift, we knew we had to act, so we crossed over.” There was an unmistakable note of regret in his voice.

  He misses his home, Cross thought. I never knew. I never had any idea that our spirits were anyone’s dead but our own, or that they came from anywhere except our own world.

  “Even once we made the voyage to your world,” Kyver continued, “we still couldn’t reach the Obelisk, because it doesn’t actually lie in your world. It hangs halfway between there and the Whisperlands, trapped on the boundary because of the Rift’s unstable nature. The Obelisk can only be reached from this side, in the realm of shadows.”

  “How did you get here?” Cross asked.

  “Only the spirits humans use can make the trip directly,” he said. “For us to travel to your world, we had to…occupy, I think you would say…lives on your side. We had to have vessels that we could reside in once we got here.” He looked up at Vala, and she nodded, as if encouraging him to finish. “We couldn’t just pass through. We needed to replace other living creatures with ourselves.”

  “Desh,” Cross breathed. “You replaced the people of Desh. Christ…” He felt himself wanting to rise, but he knew his leg was in no state to do so. “How? What happened to them?”

  Kyver’s grim nod told him all he needed to know. Cross felt his insides go cold.

  “There really wasn’t any choice,” Vala said. “We had to make sure that our dead were safe. And we all know what would happen to your Southern Claw without the aid of magic.”

  “So Desh’s people are dead?” Cross said. There was a touch more anger in his tone than he’d intended.

  “Yes, they’re dead,” Vala said. “Our presences occupy their bodies, and what was inside those bodies has gone. Over time, some of the host bodies take on the physical aspects of our native forms.”

  “But Desh vanished a long time ago,” Cross said. “Years before the Obelisk fell into the Rift…”

  This is a waste of time, a voice said in Cross’ head. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t his own, but one of the reptilians.

  That must be how they communicate in their native tongue, he thought, not entirely convinced the thought was his own, or that it was even safe to have thoughts, less they be detected. He looked around, but he couldn’t tell which of the reptilians had addressed him in his own voice. Several of them were quite bestial, and had only vaguely humanoid limbs. Their eyes glowed green and yellow in the dusky light, and their weapons were made from jagged bones and ironwood.

  The smell of the campfire grew stronger as the wind pushed the smoke back in their direction. The small conglomerate watched him, waiting.

  “All right,” Cross said with a nod. “So was the Eidolos right?” he asked. “Will you help me stop the Shadow Lords?”

  “Why do you think you’re still alive?” Vala asked.

  “You’re not the friendliest person, you know that?” Cross said.

  “All right, all right,” Kyver smiled. “Relax, Vala.” He looked at Cross. “Yes. We’ll help you secure the Obelisk and keep it out of the Shadow Lord’s hands. We’re not keen on the notion of helping that Eidolos, but if doing so helps keep our dead safe then it’s worth the risk.” He narrowed his reptile eyes and smiled. “I take it the Eidolos gave you some insight or information that will prove useful.”

  Cross pursed his lips, and nodded.

  “Well?” Vala said.

  “No,” Cross said. “If I tell you, you have no use for me after that.”

  “Not true,” Kyver said. “Because you’re the only one, I think, who can use that.” He pointed behind Cross.

  One of the reptilians – a tall and scaly creature with a cobra-like head and thick muscular arms covered in green scales – opened his armor coat and revealed Soulrazor/Avenger, which dangled from a cord tied around the hilt. The harlequin blade shone dully in the autumnal light.

  “That,” Kyver said, “may be the only chance we have. It’s strong enough to combat the Shadow Lord’s magic. And
it should prove useful in battling the creatures down in the Carrion Rift, should we wind up there.”

  Cross looked at it for long, silent moments.

  “What do you know about it?” he asked.

  “I know it can heal you,” Kyver said. “We’ve been watching you for a while, Eric. We know that even without magic you’re very resourceful, and very capable.”

  Cross snickered.

  “I haven’t been feeling much of either lately,” he laughed. “What do you know about the Shadow Lords?”

  To his relief, the Grey Clan started to disperse. They moved back to their tents and campfires and returned to sharpening weapons and arranging supplies, walking the shadow-drenched perimeter and staring out into the vast and surrounding dark. Kyver, Vala and a few others remained. To his surprise, the reptilian handed him his sword, and his wounded leg started to knit itself back together almost the moment he touched the weapon. It worked with the rapidity of a spirit, even if it lacked a spirit’s subtle touch.

  It had never healed him with such speed before, and it wasn’t a peasant experience. He felt like hot knives pushed into him as his skin laced back together, and he had to clench his teeth and struggle against the pain. Tears came to his eyes, and his fingers dug into the muddy ground.

  He already knew the blade had a mind of its own. He just wasn’t sure if he was happy about it.

  Kyver sat down cross-legged in the dirt. Vala watched with some interest as Cross’s leg healed.

  I feel like a pig on display out here, he thought bitterly.

  “The Shadow Lords are all warlocks,” Kyver said. “A couple of them are supposedly Southern Claw defectors, but no one is sure about that. The rest are from the wild: fringe settlements, border towns, cannibal tribes, things like that. No one seems to know how they came under the common banner of the Witch Queen.”

  Azradayne, the reptilian said, or one of the reptilians said. It was hard to know which, since they all used Cross’s voice when they spoke into his mind.

  “Who’s Azradayne?” he asked.

  “Something not of our world, or of any world we know,” Vala said. “But whatever she is, she’s learned to tap into the Obelisk’s powers just like a human witch.”

  Terrific, Cross thought.

  “So she and her Shadow Lords want the Obelisk all to themselves, and they’ve staked a claim here in the Whisperlands to accomplish that,” he said.

  “You’re not very quick, are you?” Vala said.

  “I heal quick,” he said. The blade smoked cold on the ground beside him. “So when do you take me to them? To the Black Citadel?”

  “As soon as you heal,” Kyver said. “And as soon as you destroy the Druid.”

  “The Druid,” Cross said slowly. “You mean that antlered thing that nearly tore me apart?”

  Kyver nodded.

  “Um…why?”

  “You’ve been here long enough to know that the geography of the Whisperlands doesn’t always follow what you might think of as ‘the rules of reality’,” Kyver said. “Logically, there should be some other way, some other path or stretch of wilderness that one could cross, some desert or river or field that would allow you reach the Black Citadel.”

  “But there isn’t, is there?” Cross said with a grim and knowing smile.

  “No. There isn’t. In order to reach the Citadel, we have to pass through the Corpsewood, and the Burned Hills.”

  “You guys have a knack for naming things,” Cross said. His leg had finally healed enough for him to sit up and bend it.

  “They’re the native names,” Kyver laughed.

  “Your people can’t handle him?”

  Kyver shook his head. “And we’ve lost our fair share trying.”

  “So what makes you think I’ll fare any better?” he asked.

  Again, Kyver’s eyes went to the sword. “It’s unique,” he said. “The power of The Black combined with the energies of the White Mother. You have a far better chance of defeating the Druid than any of my people do.”

  Cross nodded. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  It never is.

  “Fine,” he said. “You show me where to go. I’ll take care of it. And then you’ll show me how to get to the Burned Hills.”

  “We’ll help you,” Vala said. “Even though some of us don’t want to.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Kyver nodded, and he and Vala left Cross alone.

  Someone brought him a blanket, and he wrapped himself tight. Cross pulled his legs in close and huddled alone in the dark. The chill was suddenly intense.

  Worry gnawed at him. He tried to push it away, to ignore it, but the ache of tension settled inside him like a worm. His stomach churned and his hands shook.

  He had so much to lose. He hadn’t really realized it before, but it wasn’t just the notion of letting the Southern Claw fall or the Ebon Cities win that terrified him. It wasn’t even the idea of failing Snow and letting her sacrifice – the sacrifice made by all of Viper Squad – be in vain.

  If he failed, he’d lose Kane, and Ash, and Grissom. He’d lose Ronan and Maur.

  He’d lose Danica.

  That thought was the most terrifying of them all.

  I don’t care what happens to me, he realized. And I haven’t for a long time. I just want them to be safe.

  He couldn’t sleep. It had always been difficult to rest in the Whisperlands. It should have been easy there in the clearing, now that he finally had a moment of safety. He watched members of the Grey Clan quietly mingle with one another, huddled in their tents or blankets, and he listened to the dark wind and the crackling fire. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sound of some distant and shadow-born beast.

  His heart felt cold.

  I’m not going to survive this, he thought. Even if I defeat this hunter beast, even if we make it all of the way through the Corpsewood and the Burned Hills, the Shadow Lords will be the end of me.

  He felt that certainty in his bones. He didn’t doubt it.

  And as much as he tried to deny it, he was horribly afraid.

  He walks to a shore covered in dried wood and ground bones. Shadows cling to the sky. Drifts of rolling dust cut across his path like charcoal rain. The river runs fast and deep.

  He steps onto the logs and balances over the water. The black flow carries bits of animal matter and gritty fat. He smells blood and tar.

  Clouds like grease stains claw at the broken tree line. Eyes watch him from the edge of the forest.

  The log is slick. He stands steady, waiting. The white-black blade is in his hand. He is whole. This time, he is ready.

  Behind him, he hears Kyver and the Grey Clan move into position. They hold iron nets and bone spears, bladed bolas and glaives. They hide in the shadows and wait for the hunter to show itself.

  They don’t have to wait long. The shadow beast takes shape from a cloud of bones and blood. Its massive body rises from the ground. Mismatched shadow horns and tendril limbs glow with spectral luminescence.

  It stands as tall as three men and grips a spear made of ashen knives. Green-white eyes reflect on the murky surface of the water.

  He doesn’t move. He waits for it, knowing it will come.

  Mongrel soldiers made of forest remains and shadows emerge from the river. They are dead bodies and black crusts of earth, broken bones and claws like rusted nails. They are two, then ten, then twenty.

  The Grey Clan fires at them. Arcane bullets tear into zombie flesh. Speckles of dark blood and molded skin fly onto the shore.

  He smells gunpowder and blood. The hunter’s denizens growl as they’re torn apart.

  The beast moves. It takes to the sky, becomes the sky. It blocks out the night.

  The spear comes down, but he’s waiting. He’s played this battle out again and again in his mind. His blade has joined with him. They share a consciousness. It responds to his thoughts, and is a part of his body. He and it are fused as one.

  He mov
es at the last second. The spear strikes wood, and the log cracks. A sound like splitting bones rings out. He loses his footing, but only for a moment. The shadow beast looms over him, blocks out everything. It’s a waterfall of soot darkness.

  The blade flies, and he follows. He breathes grave fumes and feels liquid rot. Energy from the sword extends around him like a bubble. He floats inside the hunter’s form like he’s lost in a black sea.

  He dives forward, swallows grit and oil darkness. The blade cuts through the shadow heart. A scream like a crashing train fills his ears.

  He falls. Hard ground rushes up at him, and the wind is knocked from his lungs as he crashes to the shore. Pain shoots up his limbs.

  The air is silent but for the shouts of the Grey Clan, their cries of victory. He catches his breath. His ribs ache and his legs are sore, like he’s been pelted with stones.

  He stares at the blade in his hand. He wonders which of them is truly in control.

  THIRTEEN

  DAYS

  A few days passed while Danica sat in prison. It felt like a few years.

  Cell Block D12 was large, grimy and dank. Gritty moisture dripped from the steel ceiling, and the heat was strangling. Drifts of metal debris floated through the air like laggard metal insects. Flickering thaumaturgic lamps cast dim illumination, but the corners and recesses of the chamber were drowned in shadow.

  There was no segregation of the prisoners – Cell Block D12, like every cell block in Black Scar, was just a big open room. There were no beds, just blankets, and most of those blankets were soiled and rancid. Food was provided at irregular intervals through grooved metal pipes that churned out sloppy gruel into large vats, and water was supplied through large faucets. There were a half-dozen of each food and water stations, and they were often claimed by the strongest inmates.

  There were roughly 50 inmates per cell block. Black Scar prison housed nearly 3,000 prisoners, and it brought in more every day, because they were always running out.

  Life for women in Black Scar was particularly brutal. But Black and Cole could both handle themselves, and they hoped that if they stuck together they’d be able to fend off any would-be rapists. They slept in shifts, and they also had their new “friend” Gath to watch their backs, but Black wasn’t about to rely on him very much at all.