Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) (14 page)

Shirt pasted against his skin and mouth filled with the bitter taste of desert sand, Creasy knelt in the cracked dirt and held his hands to his sides.  The dry earth burned his knees through his pants, and even wearing sunglasses his eyes ached beneath the glare of the blasting sun. 

Creasy’s mind drifted out, a bird over a dune sea.  The sensation of heat and wind and sweat running down his back and through his beard all faded, like he was falling into a dream.  His body was left on the desert floor, kneeling in front of the others, and he saw himself, ever so briefly, as he was lifted out and away.

His eyes were in his spirit.  He flew through her, with her, his consciousness clutched tight like a fish in a hawk’s talons.  The sky turned two-dimensional, a hazy mirror of sand and smoke.  Everything twisted and melted together.  He floated over a shimmering island of stone in the dry sea, a blasted array of structures, once-great buildings ruined by time and the elements, now just dilapidated versions of themselves, roofs cracked, pillars leaning like drunks. 

She found the train platform, and while it appeared it hadn’t been used for its intended purpose in quite some time there was still a skeleton crew there, surveying and digging for mineral deposits in a nearby network of caves.  They were dark-skinned men, their faces weathered and cracked from growing up under the blistering desert sun, their clothing loose and functional.  Those outside covered their heads with shemaghs, while those inside drank cool tea and ate rice cakes and cold lentils. 

The station had lines of communication, radio wires and thaumaturgic transmitters mounted high on iron poles, bulbous gem-like eyes buzzing with arcane potential.  They must have had some access to the larger city Creasy’s spirit glimpsed in the distance, a cluster of sharp spires held within oddly curved walls.  A small locomotive with just a handful of cars waited at the station, its only possible destination back the way they’d came, as the functional part of the line ended there.  It was a place on the far edge of civilization.

Creasy’s spirit cut low to the ground and stayed out of sight.  He had no reason to believe these men were hostile, but he didn’t want to take that risk, at least not yet.  He’d leave that to Ankharra and the others to decide. 

Rather than draw her back just then he decided to inspect what lay to the east.  His spirit blinked through standing stones and narrow crevices, dark and shadow-drenched cuts in the earth filled with vague and unsettling creatures, razor whispers and smoking breath.  He guided her clear of those spaces, kept her away from the things in the dark. 

He pushed her back over the landscape, his consciousness reeling from the effort.  There was something about this foreign land that unsettled him, even if he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.  The atmosphere was different, more charged, weighted with magical potential. 

Something caught his spirit’s eye.  At first he thought it was creatures crawling across the dark sands, but as she slowed, disturbed by a presence clinging to the ground like a polluted wall of smoke, he realized they were bodies.  Recently dead spirits clung to the remains like desperate children, violent and enraged at their host’s passing. 

They were Southern Claw, dead soldiers from the crash.

The trail of corpses led east, towards a dead forest at the edge of a shallow valley.  The sand in that crevice was grey and old, and through his spirit he smelled ash and blood smoke.  Twisted antlers and charred bones marked a twisted topiary of brambles and thorns.

Something waited within, hidden in the trees.  Something dark, and very old.

The sun was setting fast when they returned, and the temperature kept dropping.  Long shadows loomed across the canyon wall in the flickering firelight.  The Southern Claw soldiers had started a handful of campfires, which twisted in the freezing night wind.  Though the blazes would attract predators from a dozen miles out the survivors needed the warmth, and there was still too much carnage inside the Skyhawk to risk using it for shelter.  The damn thing could collapse at any moment; camping near it probably wasn’t the best idea, but if they ventured too far they’d be exposed out in the open…unless they went north, into the jagged canyons, but they all shared the same feelings towards those shadow-drenched crevices and the unnatural things they knew stirred within.

Creasy, Ronan, Cross, Black and Ankharra sat huddled under brown wool blankets around a campfire and discussed their options.  Creasy was used to the cold, but the winds in Wolfland were seldom this hard and stinging, and even with his spirit warming him he felt the lash of the frigid cross-winds like the sting of a whip.  The cold there in Nezzek’duul was different than that in the north.  With no cloud cover or humidity the heat just pushed out into the open air, so even rocks and sand that just a few hours ago had been scorching hot to the touch were now ice cold. 

“
So what are you saying?” Cross asked.  “Is this where they took our people?”

“
I believe so,” Creasy said.  He was exhausted, but tried not to let it show.  It was getting harder and harder to keep his strength up these days.  He was almost ancient in warlock years, and he doubted he had much time left.

Time enough
, he thought. 
I have things to do before I sleep. 
He thought of the children in the forest, of all the friends he’d buried. 
There’s time enough to make things right.

“
So if we go south,” Ankharra said, “we’ll get to this station?”  Her accent seemed to be growing thicker by the day.  Creasy wondered if she hadn’t been hiding it all this time, or if perhaps she was trying to make it more pronounced since with any luck they’d be dealing with locals soon. 

“
Yes,” Creasy said. 

“
How far?” Ankharra asked.  A howl of the dry wind carried across the open desert like the voice of the lost.

“
It’s about thirty miles to the station,” Creasy said.  “Not quite that far to the dead forest to the east.”

“
Any idea what’s in the forest?” Black asked.

“
Nothing good,” he said.  “Old power.  Something evil.  That’s about all I can say without getting closer.”

“
Fun shit,” Ronan said. 

Murmuring voices filled the air, conversations from the other fires.  Creasy’s spirit sensed the fear in the camp.  Twenty-seven people huddled together against the encroaching sea of night.  Walls of darkness pressed in on them.  The bloody sky still showed the outlines of the ship and the distant hills, but without the light of the fires the darkness from the desert would have been absolute, as there were no stars.  The moon was full and bright, yet seemed incapable of penetrating the inky shadows. 

“So what now?” Cross asked.  He looked at Ankharra.  “I mean…it's

your show.”

“And as you all know, I’m not used to being in command,” she said.  She looked around the fire.  “Suggestions are welcome.”

“
It’s dangerous to stay in one place for too long,” Creasy said.  “Especially here, where none of us really knows what to expect.”

“
He’s right,” Cross said.  “There could be more of those ape creatures, or something worse.”

“
The railway, then?” Danica asked.

“
The main group should go that way,” Creasy said.  “And a few of us should go to the dead forest.”  He pulled his dirty green coat tight around his body.  “We can catch up after we rescue whatever survivors we can.”

“
Who’s ‘we’?” Cross asked.

“
Me and three others.  The same group as before.”

“
You’ll need another mage,” Danica said.

“
Are you volunteering?” Ronan asked her.

“
Damn right.  I’ll take Reza’s place.”

“
Wait a second…” Cross said. 

“
Ronan and I have worked with Creasy before,” Danica said.  “We’ll be fine.  Reza knows the way to the rail station, so she can lead the larger group.  Grail can come with us.”

The Lith nodded.

Creasy saw Cross shake his head in frustration.  It was fairly obvious he and Danica were having some sort of argument, but Creasy wasn’t about to get in the middle of it.  He knew better than that.  Whenever Tanya started going on the warpath he always found it best to just get the hell out of her way.

“
Fine,” Cross said.  “Assuming Ankharra is okay with that.”

Ankharra looked hesitant.  “Are you sure you don't want some more soldiers?”

“A small group moves faster,” Ronan said. 

“
We’re not sure there’ll even be anyone to rescue,” Creasy said, his eyes on the flames.  He felt several heads turn towards him, and he shrugged.  “We may get there just to find out that your friends are dead.”

“
Laros is no friend,” Ronan grunted.

“
He needs to be kept safe,” Ankharra said sternly.  “Listen, we’re all exhausted.  We should try and get some rest.  We’ll leave at first light, before it gets too hot.  Thirty miles…it should take us about a day-and-a-half to get to the railway station.  We have enough water for a trip that long.  Your scouting group can take whatever you need.”

“
We’ll find whoever there is to find and catch up with you,” Creasy said.

Ankharra nodded and stood up, wrapped in her black cloak.  She looked miserable in the cold.  “If I don’t see you in the morning, good luck,” she said, and she went off to get some sleep.

Ronan spat into the fire.  “See you kids at sun-up,” he said, and he turned and went to find a place to sleep, as well. 

One-by-one the group either left the fire or huddled in closer to sleep.  There were about eight fires in all, enough for three or four people to gather close, and at least one person from each group remained up and on watch with guns held high.  A handful of soldiers had been assigned to walk the perimeter, and they were careful to stay within clear sight of the flames.  The primitive campsite could be spied from miles away, a blazing raft in the black shadow sea.

Creasy laid back and rested his eyes.  He knew it would be hard to sleep with his nerves so alight.  They were so far from home he couldn’t even fathom it.  Something stirred beneath the earth, some taint, like the land was sick.

He saw Cross and Danica nearby, in the shadows close to the flame.  They sat there quietly, each of them alone with their thoughts.  Creasy didn’t need his spirit to sense the sadness between them.  He didn’t know their story, had only glimpsed pieces of it, but his heart grew heavy feeling the tension there.  He tasted their tears in the wind.  They sat so close, yet were so distant.

He went to sleep thinking of Tanya, but it was the eyeless woman on the ice who waited for him in his dreams.

They’ve met before, many times.  Creasy has grown up imagining she’s the physical manifestation of his spirit.  Many mages regard their arcane counterpart as a sibling, or sometimes as a lover.  Creasy sees his as a mother, an ancient and shriveled crone who tolerates him.

Ice and mist curl in the air.  Bone-biting chill gnaws at his flesh and freezes him in place.  He’s trapped on the ice, burdened down by wolf skins and enormous boots tied with crampons.  His lips and ears are greased to protect against frostbite, and his thick gloves only barely keep his digits from freezing.  Every breath is labored and comes out like chimney smoke.

The sky is an inverted bowl of black glass littered with winter stars.  Glittering light makes the ice lake under his feet glow like a flattened moon.  The lake stands in the center of a stark plain of smoking blue shale.  Low fog clings to the ground and hills loom in the distance, cracked daggers of broken stone like teeth on the horizon.

She’s there, in the middle of the ice.  She has no eyes, and never has – as long as he’s been able to see her, ever since he was a boy living on the streets in Kalakkaii, she’s been eyeless.  Lanky white-grey hair hangs down around her leathery face, and a thick moose-hide cloak covered with rime ice gives her the semblance of a pack-beast.  A crooked sap made from burned oak supports her weight; its face is covered with ice-carved runes, and as she stands and waits for Creasy she uses the staff to draw pictures in the frost on the lake, casting fangs and horses, eyes and blades.

What took you so long?
she asks.

I didn’t know it took me long,
he says
.  Should I ask for forgiveness?

No.  Never ask for forgiveness.  Because none will ever be given.

She taps the ice.  Snow pushes away as if blown by a sharp wind.

This is the first time we’ve ever spoken,
he says, and it’s true.  He’s seen her many times, but words were never exchanged
.  I didn’t think it was possible.

It isn’t,
she says
. 
Her voice is a greasy croak.
  And yet it is.  It has to be.  There are few who can be trusted now.

She taps again.  The ice cracks.

What are you doing?
he asks
.