Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) (21 page)

What the hell is going on?
Danica wondered.  There were too many questions, and she still had no way to get answers. 
Just calm down.  Catch up with Eric, get to the city. 
But her mind wouldn’t quiet.

Jade’s behavior might have been a result of the trauma from watching those soldiers being tortured, but Danica had trouble believing that, especially since the girl had been an enforcer for the Shard and had likely seen and maybe even done worse. 

No, something inhabited her and Laros
, Danica thought.
  It doesn’t seem to be affecting her as much, but it might just be a matter of time. 

Danica sat next to Ronan, with her back against the wall.  She didn’t like her options.  It made sense to leave Laros and Jade behind, since they were obviously unstable, and Laros was unquestionably dangerous.  On the other hand, if there was any chance the two of them could be helped it might become the key to figuring out what was going on, since Danica had a suspicion those creatures in the forest had something to do with what had brought them all to Nezzek’duul in the first place. 

And then there were the Maloj.  They were all connected somehow.  It was too much of a coincidence that they’d fall into a trap designed to take them halfway across the world while the Maloj were on the loose, and just when Laros was taking them all to go and meet with the White Mother. 

There’s something I’m not seeing, something that isn’t adding up. 

She and Creasy spoke little.  He was a man of few words to begin with, and they had little to talk about.  He was following her lead and seemed content to let her call the shots.  He and Danica took first watch while Grail entered what appeared to be some sort of meditative trance.  The two mages sat quiet in the near darkness with only the flickering light of an oil lamp to light the shadow-drenched room.  The wind howled outside like a pack of animals, and she felt the cold through the walls.  Jade slept, and Laros stared off into nothingness. 

“
You okay?” Creasy asked Danica after a time. 

He’d sat so still and quiet for so long she hadn’t even been sure if he was awake, but once he spoke he set about cleaning his weapons, an HK45, a Remington 870 sawed-off shotgun, and his machete.  Except for the blade it was the same array of weapons Cross used to carry before he switched to an automatic rifle and those damn magic swords. 

You have a magic sword, too
, she reminded herself.  And in many ways hers was far more dangerous, since Claw was a massive Necroblade, designed to sever a mage’s link to his spirit forever.  It had been given to her by Lynch, an emissary in Lorn, for the purpose of slaying the Witchborn.  She’d come to realize it was quite capable of damaging the bizarre undead that had taken Laros, Jade and the others. 

“
I guess,” she said with a shrug.  “As good as can be expected.”  Creasy nodded.  “How about you?” she asked.

“
The same,” he said quietly.  He looked at Ronan.  “I know how much you mean to him.  To both of them, really.”

“
Both of who?” Danica asked.

“
Ronan and Cross.”  He paused, and took a furtive breath.  “I miss Tanya,” he said.  “I try not to think about her.  I know some people keep their loved ones in mind because it gives them hope, but it just makes me desperate.  When I get desperate, I make mistakes.”  He looked at her.  His skin was so dark he seemed to melt into the shadows, and his salt-and-pepper beard made him look much older than he really was.  His eyes were pale and bright, and Danica was struck by how large his hands were as he quietly sharpened his machete with a small stone.  Unlike the others he’d never changed into Southern Claw garb, so he still wore his Wolftown leathers and ragged brown pants and tattered shirt, looking every bit the mountain man.  “And we can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

“
I know,” she said.  “It’s difficult to keep a clear head when someone you care about is in danger.  Especially when you’ve…lost people close to you.”  She hadn’t wanted to say that.  Creasy had lost an entire settlement: Wolftown had been all but wiped off the map when Fane’s forces tore through it on their way to Ath.  “But I try.”

Creasy watched her.  He was so expressionless it was hard to know what he was thinking.  “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you’re doing a fine job.”  He leaned over and tapped Grail on the shoulder.  The Lith had removed his mask while he sat cross-legged on the ground and meditated, but his mouthless face looked almost a mask itself when he had his eyes shut.  Those eyes fluttered open, and the short-haired, golden-pale man narrowed his gaze, looked at Creasy, and nodded.  “Time for you to get some rest,” Creasy said to Danica.  “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Danica nodded.  She was exhausted beyond measure, even with her spirit running cold against her body in an effort to keep her awake.  Her skin was layered with dirt, and the sweat and grime under her loose black shirt and cargo pants were so thick she felt sure it would never wash off. 

A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes as she lay down, Claw within reach, and rested her head on a mostly flat pillow they’d found there in the station.  She watched Ronan as she slowly fell asleep.

She woke from a terrible dream about wolves and bleeding moons.  She couldn’t remember any details beyond the images, but when she came to she was covered with cold sweat, and felt like she’d been running.

A struggle had woken her.  She smelled blood, hex and flames. 

Danica was so groggy that for a moment she couldn’t move, and her vision was blurry and dark, like she’d come to underwater.  Her head swam.  Her limbs felt weak, so she used her metallic arm to push herself up. 

A flurry of kicks and motion came from the edge of the room.  Burning green-black air signaled the blaze of spirits.  Thaumaturgic plasma burned across the ground, and Danica was only barely able to get out of the way in time. 

The floor cracked open beneath a bolt of rotten energy.  Danica found her blade and felt her spirit press round her, but something was wrong.  He was distant, like he’d been trapped on the other side of a glass wall. 

Her vision faded in and out, and she was so groggy she couldn’t even stand.  The air was thick with vapors. 

Gas
.  They’d been drugged somehow. 

A body fell to the floor, and she heard a scream.  Her spirit hammered against the walls of her consciousness, desperate to get in. 

A shotgun blast tore through the darkness.  Blood spattered against the wall.  She heard a guttural chant spoken in shadows.  Her fumbling hand found Claw, and she tried again to pull her spirit close, and again she failed. 

She could almost see shapes moving, dark-clad people in cloaks or robes as they dragged someone away. 

Another shotgun blast rang out.  She made out bleeding shapes, like watercolors in the rain.  Everything took too long to form in her vision, and the seconds dragged out.  The planes and edges of the room stayed out of focus.

Dully she realized the air was hexed, so she cut through it with Claw.  She tasted spirit blood, felt her feet anchor on solid ground.  She sliced again, and the air parted.

A gunshot tore at her.  Her spirit finally crashed through whatever had been restraining it with a sound like breaking glass, and he managed to shield her just in time.  Creasy fired his shotgun again, and the blast sent the man who’d shot at Danica against the wall.  An ear-splitting wail cut through the air, a sound like razors on chalk. 

Cloaked men and women with rune-painted faces and scarred skin dragged Jade from the room.  Danica saw the girl’s spirit, bound like some sort of animal to the same chains they used on the witch. 

The men were armed with archaic rifles and blades.  They fired again, and Danica dove behind an upturned table and huddled next to Creasy.  His spirit moved slowly, like hers had, but now that she’d disrupted whatever magic the intruders used to dull their senses both of the mage’s powers were slowly returning to normal.

Danica glimpsed over the table.  Laros was gone, and Grail lay dead on the floor.  The black-toothed brigands forced Jade outside into a cold and monstrous storm of dark vapor and acid lightning which raged just beyond the doorway.  A handful of the cloaked marauders remained, their blank yellow eyes burning with hate.

She sent her spirit at them in waves of red energy.  A bitter tide flooded over their bodies and burned their flesh.  She felt her spirit’s anger, smelled their burning skin. 

Danica was on top of them before they could recover.  She hacked two of their heads off with Claw, sliced a third from groin to neck and crushed another’s windpipe with her bloodsteel grip.  Creasy cut the last two down with his machete, moving with surety and grace.

Ronan lay still, somehow unscathed by the conflict. 

Danica knelt next to Grail.  His stomach had been opened, and his entrails spilled across the floor. 

She joined Creasy outside.  Cyclonic gusts threw shards of stone and debris.  Walls of grey-black dust fell over the area.  Danica’s spirit shielded them from the worst of it, but even through that invisible barrier they felt the force of the wind and the power embedded in the maelstrom, darkness and death, twisted and tainted magic. 

The silhouettes of men faded into the dust storm.  They had some lumbering beast with them, a massive lizard.  The air burned with the taste of sand and the ghastly stench of old magic.  She and Creasy moved to follow, but the gale pushed them back.  Danica tried sending her spirit out even as she detected Creasy doing the same, but nothing worked.  Whatever powered this darkness was too great for the two of them to overcome.

After a few moments the storm faded.  The pre-dawn chill returned, and the sky winked back into existence.  Mounds of dust and dirt remained, and the railway camp looked as if it had been mauled by a tornado, but within seconds the blood red sky and pale stars appeared and the air was suddenly silent and very cold. 

“How can we track them?” Danica asked. 

“
Not ‘we’,” Creasy said.  “Me.”

They buried Grail in the hard-packed earth south of the railway camp, a quiet lot filled with sage brush and a few dead trees.  It seemed the safest place, as the earth wasn’t soft there, and his body would be difficult for predators to unearth.  Neither of them really knew him, but he’d seemed a loyal companion, and she knew he’d helped Cross, Flint and Shiv survive the wastelands when they otherwise would have died.

I thank you for that
, she thought.

The newly raised sun was a dull gold stain on the black horizon.  Already the stifling heat of the day pressed down on them.  Danica was weary to the bone.

What the hell is going on here?
she wondered.
  Those shadow people were somehow in league with the spirits from the forest…but what the hell do they want Laros and Jade for?  What did they do to them, why are they so important?

“
You’re not going alone,” she told Creasy.

“
I am,” he said.  “You have to get Ronan to safety.  We don’t need to lose any more people.”

“
No,” she said firmly.  “We’re not doing this.  We’ll all catch up with Cross, and then figure out what our next move is…”

“
If I don’t go soon, I’m going to lose them,” Creasy said. 

“
What?”

“
I’m tracking Jade’s spirit,” he said.  “It’s a trick I learned a while back.  Sometimes in Wolftown the mages would…lend fragments of our spirits.  Just trace amounts.  It left us a little weaker, but it allowed us to keep track of each another over long distances, just in case anything happened.”

“
How the hell is that possible?” Danica asked after she thought about it for a moment.  “Spirits can’t be just…split up.”

Creasy’s sunglasses were on, so she couldn’t read his full expression, but she was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes at her. 

“There are a lot of things a spirit can do,” he said, “that the White Council doesn’t teach.” 

That stung, but Danica knew he was right.  Though she’d spent a good portion of her life as an outlaw or a Revenger she’d been trained to use magic in the Southern Claw, using methods approved and regulated by the White Council.  She knew wilderness mages – those who survived long enough to be called such, at least – either learned to work their spirits on their own or else were taught by mentors, forest shamans or wastelands warlocks or tribal witches, arcane natives with their own secrets and tricks, many of which would have been considered far too dangerous to ever be approved by “civilized” magic wielders.

“So you can track her?” Danica said.

“
Yeah,” he said.  “For a time.”

“
Where are they now?”

“
Moving east.  Deeper into those broken hills.”  His eyes followed the railway.  “But you’re heading south.”

Danica ground her teeth in frustration.  It was just another bad position she found herself in. 

We should have dumped them and moved on when we had the chance
, she thought.

“
Creasy, forget about them,” she said.  “They’re not worth it.”