Crown of Ash (Blood Skies, Book 4) (57 page)

These dreams aren’t real
, she tells herself
.  You don’t get to do this…to h
ide.  There can be no happiness
.  N
ot for you.  Not
after
the things you’ve done. 

Because she remembers the prisoners, the torturous mines with their flesh-scalding steam and razor whips, the screaming children pushed into the Gauntlet to be hunted
down
by Ebonbacks and mutant tigers, the hollow eyes and soulless gaze of people marched to their deaths
.  Human life
reduced to filth and chattel, and she
was
one of the architects of that
suffering and madness
. 

How much blood is on your hands?  Why did you think you would ever be given a chance for
happiness?
 

She falls, and hopes she
’
ll never stop falling. 
S
he
knows
she
deserves no end from the nightmare
of
her life.

Do you?

The world is so dark it
’
s hard to tell if she’
s underground
or not
.  Stones like
red
stars glitter overhead.  The air is filled with heated
smoke, and
e
verything is covered in dust.  She tastes soot
. 

S
he moves different
ly
there
, steps to a strange pulse and rhythm.  Everything feels slowed. 

O
bsidian walls riddled with fissures and
cracks
stand in the distance
.  Wine-
dark waters
drip down from the distant ceiling
and scald the floor.  The air sweat
s
. 

Columns of bone and salt support the endless cavern.  She senses something familiar
about
the area
. 
A thought nags at her,
a sense that she
’
s seen
it before, that she’
s
meant
to be
t
here.  She
smells the age of th
at
place
. 

There’
s no clear path
for her to follow
.  She stands at the center of a cavern
filled with
columns and mounds of bone.  Echoes and howls
echo
th
rough the darkness
. 

The Razorwing’s body floats by
as if
it’s
carried by a laggard tide. 
D
ark blood splotches the air like drops of oil.  Its tongue lolls out of its mouth, and its razor teeth are cracked.

She moves, unclear
as to
where she needs to go.  Something
drives
her
towards
a particular
corner
of the cavern.  Blood stones and dripping red waters glow like a dusk sun.  Her feet crush salt-dust stones.  Blades and gun parts litter the floor, and she sees evidence of
a
ruined vehicle, metal machine parts and pistons, loose gears and plates of black iron.  She sees a metal wheel and
twisted ventilation ducts.

They are the remains of a train.  She knows where she is,
and
knows where she must go.

Instinct
makes
her hesitate.  If
the shadow
Rake has come this way, he will still need her for
the
sacrifice.

But
what else can I do
?  I can’t go back.

Cross.  She
knows
Cross
is
there, and without another thought she
follows
the metal innards of the
ravaged
Necronaug
ht. 
Dust grates through her lungs.  Her steps echo in the darkness.

She runs, determined not to let another friend die.

TWENTY-TWO

MORROW

Something hammers the air.  It
’
s
far off
at first,
like
thunder.  B
lack dust shakes loose from the
ceiling.
  The clang of metal rings in the distance
. 
The
dread
ful
sound approaches like a vast automaton of shadow and stone
. 
What little light there is bleeds away.

The two remaining Shadow Lords – Tregoran and Marklahain --
turn
their masked faces
to regard
the
approach
. 
Cross
senses their fear. 
Their p
inprick eyes
narrow
beneath
their
featureless masks and their hands crackle with
the
glow
of
pale frost. 

He tries to rise, but they push him back down.  He can’t find his sword.  Blood and puss ooze
out of
his wounded arms
.  H
is eyes are crusted over with scabs. 

He isn’t sure how long they’
ve beat
en
him.  Shadows seep into his pores.  Only their proximity to the gap in the worlds, the hole that leads to the Carrion Rift, keeps hi
s body
stable.

Only the living are lost
.  He still can’t determine what
that
means, what significance
the
message is supposed to hold.  His mind races
for an answer
.  It
’s
something to focus on as he battles his way through the pain. 

Blood pounds in his ears.  He feels himself grow more corporeal by the moment
.  H
e turns and looks at the Obelisk
.  T
he gap
in the wall
is widening. 
Solid matter spreads like water. 
T
he shadow
dust and spectral smoke
that’
s
closest to the artifact
slowly
transforms
in
to crumbling granite.
 

Inch by inch, the cavern grows more
solid
, more
real
. 
He realizes this
is the Shadow Lord’s doing
,
their way of transporting
the Obelisk
home. 

Dark crafts float in the
canyon
on the other side,
black iron vessels like half-moon platforms, iron dreadnaughts covered
with
spines and guns. 
They are
Sorn ve
hicle
s.  He sees the
giants on the decks, grey
silhouettes with
crackling harpoons
and massive guns
.  Their l
one eyes
shine
like diamonds in
to
the bleeding dark
of the Whisperlands
.

The Shadow L
ord
s have communicated
with
them
somehow
,
told
them the Obelisk’s location in the physical world
so they can
come
to haul it away
. 
He c
a
n’t fathom how the giants ha
ve
survived the horrors of the Carrion Rift when no Southern Claw or
Ebon Cities expedition ever has
.  He imagines the backing of a cadre of powerful mages and vastly superior alien technology plays some
part
, as does
finally
knowing
t
he
Obelisk’s resting place,
which
the
Shadow Lords
had
sought
for
so long
.
  They had found the caverns, but they could have searched that labyrinth for years and never found anything.

And I led them right to it.  Like a fool, I blundered my way to something they’d
have never found on their own
.  Soulrazor/Avenger led the way.  It knew the location all this time.

Only the living are lost.

Cross’
s
heart s
i
nk
s
.  The Eidolos
wanted
him to lead them to
the Obelisk
all along.  It had doubtlessly been promised some power, some reward for helping the mages find their prize. 

Only the living are lost. 
But the sword was
n’t
lost, and it never
has
been.
A
nd the Eidolos knew it.  That clue was inc
luded only as a mocking promise,
a taunt to
make
him realize how easily he’d been used.

The Shadow Lords
strike
him with bludgeoning maces
made
of ice and darkness.  The wounds dully sound in the echoes of his
mind. 
His body twists and contorts with hurt.  Blood sprays and bones crack
.

Cross
tries to
strike
back
at them
.  He sees the sword, his sword, in Tregoran’s hand, and
while
the Shadow Lord can’
t use it, could never use it,
the weapon
is out of its yielder’s reach.  He tries
to grab it, and
they
beat
him back down
to the ground.  His hand slips in
a
pool of his own blood.  Frozen charcoal stone presses against his face.

The dark
metal
howl sounds again.  A shadow stands
at the edge of the shifting chamber, a
man’s silhouette.  It fades in and out of
sight
, flickers like a shadow in
dying candlelight
. 
The shape expands
and
recedes
,
twists and slithers out of
view
.

He knows
what it is
.  He’
s faced it before, or something like it. 
Coal black skin fuses around a hardened meteor core that shines through
the
eye
s
and mouth
,
like the
creature has swallowed
an exploding star. 
The darkness rests
in a human shell, a crumbling skin mask cloaked in black armor
.  The
red-headed figure
’s
broken skull barely contains the darkness within.

It isn’t The Sleeper – he’
s sure of that. 
But it’
s
another refugee of the shadows,
another aspect of The Black.

Tregoran and Marklahain recognize it, and
they
hammer it with arcane power.  Acid bolts and razor lightning stream
across the cavern
.  The air turns hot and molten.  Stone
melts and drips from the walls
.  P
arts of the passageway collapse in a hail of steaming rock.  He smells burning stone and scalding water. 

The shadow advances, unscathed.  The magic bend
s around its outstretched hands and
burn
s
new passageways in the shadow stone. 
Hollow screams
echo
through the cavern
. 
Sonic
bursts
cut through the rock.