Blood Skies (26 page)

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Authors: Steven Montano

BOOK: Blood Skies
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His eyes smoked. Black blood oozed from his nose and ears. He sent his power through his left hand, which he thrust forward without thinking. He screamed.
He watched the hound unfold, saw it split the seconds, saw it divide time around its body in a razor field and use those shards as a shield, a slipstream it navigated in order to escape harm. Cross targeted the folds, not the beast – the splits in the shields, the chinks in the moments. He cast thorns of black force captured from the beast’s own smoking body back into its dark hide. He assaulted shadow with shadow.
The act of using that necrotic power, of channeling without the aid of an implement, nearly tore him apart.
The beast folded in on itself. Cross saw only a vague flash of scenes -- screaming, burning, flailing, thrashing against that black power. He held his spirit at bay. She could lend him strength to fight the necrotic assault to his system, but not fight it for him. Despite the pain and dizziness, he managed to hold onto that thought, that command.
I lost you once, and I won’t let it happen again. You nearly destroyed yourself protecting me last time. This time, let me survive on my own.

 

He dreams of the silver glade beneath the black mountain. He sees no one there this time but himself. Even in pain and disorientation he screams at the memory of having seen Snow and being unable to rescue her.

 

Cross floated through seas of pain. He slept on a bed of thorns. Hurt attacked him from all directions, and it crawled over his skin like spiders. He felt his blood burn beneath his skin. He felt things inside him, black insects, dark beetles, painful and angry, and they burrowed straight through to his soul.
At least I got to hold you again
, he thought,
before we died
.

 

 

 

 

 

EIGHTEEN
SMOKE

 

 

He dreamed of a white spider. When he woke, Cross couldn’t feel his left hand.
It was well past dark when he finally came to. Cross was relieved when he realized they were no longer in the forest, but had instead camped on a steep and solitary hill that overlooked a rocky plain at the edge of the cold desert. Irregular stones and patches of brackish water dotted the landscape. The moon hung low in the sky, cold and dead. A massive shadow lay on the land to the north, a gulf so impossibly deep it seemed to suck in the moonlight: the Carrion Rift.
Cross sat up. His left hand was fitted in the old training gauntlet that he’d carried in his pack, a leather and steel glove set with numerous iron nodes that could connect to a portable battery pack. The gauntlet had safeguards and dampening fields much stronger than what Cross was accustomed to working with. It was meant for novices who needed help keeping their spirits contained, and while Cross had once relied on it, he now only carried it as a spare.
Now that gauntlet was bound tightly around his damaged hand, and made it heavy. He watched the fingers of the glove flex and bend as he willed them to, but he might as well have been watching someone else doing it, as he felt nothing beyond his burning wrist.
Graves was on watch, and he stared out over the moonlit flats with the M4A2 in his hands. Cristena and Stone sat near the campfire, nursing bowls of something that would pass for steaming hot soup.
“
Can I have some?” Cross croaked out. His voice sounded like he’d been breathing factory fumes.
Cristena slowly walked over to him. Stone gave him a surprisingly friendly nod.
“
Good to have you back,” he said.
“
You crazy bastard,” Graves added.
Cristena knelt down beside him. She was still very pale, and the dark lines under her eyes and the creases on her face made her look like a woman twenty years older who hadn’t slept for days, but still she smiled. She looked at his gauntleted hand.
“
How do you feel?” she asked.
“
Like hell,” he said. “I imagine I
look
great, too.”
“
Spectacular,” she said with a smile. “I’m glad you’re back.” She paused, as if uncertain what to say next. “Thank you.”
“
For what?”
“
For saving my life.”
“
Thank you for saving mine,” he said with an awkward nod. He held up the gauntleted hand for inspection. “Is this what I think it is?”
Cristena just nodded.
Well, damn
.
Warlocks were forced to rely on arcane implements in order to properly manifest the power of their spirits. The implements could take the form of gauntlets, rods, rings, even specially modified pistols or blades. Witches, on the other hand, had no use for them. No one had ever really been able to figure out why that was the case, just as no one really knew why only women could be trackers, or why a witch’s spirit manipulated existing matter while a warlock’s spirit formed matter out of nothing. Whatever the reason, a warlock who channeled without an implement to protect him from the touch of his spirit’s raw power was just asking for trouble. At best, he’d do physical harm to himself. At worse, he’d burn both he and his spirit to a crisp.
“
I’m not sure what’s on your hand, exactly,” Cristena said. “Some sort of…necrotic bacteria. It was emitting an incredible amount of magic.”
“
I know,” Cross said. “It’s what that stupid hound was made of. I took pieces of the hound’s body, sort of reshaped them, and used them as a weapon against it. I killed the hound with…pieces of itself.” He smiled weakly. “Cool, huh?”
“
Stupid,” Graves said. Cross looked in his direction, but he didn’t feel like answering.
“
The gauntlet is holding the necrosis in check, keeping it from spreading,” Cristena explained. “I wouldn’t recommend taking it off until we get you to a healer, or to a good hospital. It would start to eat you again.” She swallowed. “And I think it would spread really fast. Even if it wasn’t a bacteria, releasing that much pent up magic…”
“
Would suck,” Cross finished.
It would turn me into jerky is what it would do.
“
Man, what the hell were you thinking?” Graves looked at Cross in anger. “You piss and moan because you’ve lost your spirit, so as soon as you get her back the first thing you do is try to get yourself killed. What the hell?”
“
Graves!” Stone barked.
“
Oh, screw you!” Graves shouted back, and Stone leapt to his feet. He did that in spite of a broken rib, which was probably why Graves backed away from him.
“
I didn’t have time for anything else.” Cross stood up. It took a moment for the dizziness to subside. “I’m sorry, all right? But I wasn’t about to let Cristena die,” he said. “I killed it, didn’t I?” He looked at Graves. “Didn’t I?”
Graves shook his head, and turned his eyes back to the plain.
“
How close are we to Rhaine?” Cross asked.
“
Not far,” Cristena answered.
“
Half a day,” Stone added. He brought a bowl of steaming brown soup over from the fire and offered it to Cross. “You did good,” he said. “We’ll see if we can’t get you fixed up in Rhaine.” Stone glanced at Graves. Graves stepped over the edge of the ridge and moved a few paces down the hillside. “I don’t know what his problem is,” Stone said.
“
He’s tired of watching his friends die,” Cross said quietly.
“
We’re
all
tired of watching friends die. It doesn’t make him special.”
“
Well,” Cristena said, “it doesn’t make it easy, either.”
Stone shook his head and went back to the fire. Cristena waited for a moment, made sure Cross was all right, and then she went too.
Cross stood alone with his spirit. She brushed against him like a soft blanket, and reassured him with her ethereal touch.
I missed you.
It was awkward for Cross to do anything without sensation in his left hand. He still had full mobility, but he had to concentrate just to make it perform even the most mundane task. He could imagine what the skin looked like underneath the gauntlet -- black and blistered, covered in puss, maybe crawling with necrotic worms and larvae.
The gauntlet’s spirit dampeners used to drive me crazy when I was an apprentice. Now it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
After he ate, Cross experimented with his magic, both to reacquaint himself with the practice (it had been a few days, after all) and to make sure he could do it in his newfound state. Cross donned his normal gauntlet on his good hand to channel, and he only used his damaged hand for equalization and stabilizing. He conjured palm-sized flames and warped shadows into shields, hardened dust into spheres and summoned daggers made of ice. Every act was awkward, but he got the hang of it soon enough.
It felt good to touch his spirit again. He’d felt so hollow without her, he never wanted to let go.
Eventually, when he’d nearly worn them both out, he wandered away from the campfire. Stone and Cristena had both fallen asleep while he’d practiced.
Graves walked a perimeter around the camp, keeping watch. There was a small shelf of flat land just a few feet beneath the top of the hill where they’d camped. Cross was surprised to see the camel carefully tethered there, down on its haunches and asleep.
“
Wow,” he said with a laugh.
Graves looked up at Cross as he came around the perimeter. After a moment he looked at the camel and laughed quietly himself.
“
Yeah. The ugly bastard was waiting for us when we got out of the forest. He was the only one with enough brains to run for it when things went to hell.” He waited a moment. “You were right about the Wormwood following us. It spread around us to something like a two mile radius. Even Cristena said she’d never seen anything like it.” He paused again, out of things to say.
“
I’m sorry,” Cross said after a breath.
“
I’m
sorry. I’m not angry at you. You’re a hero, whether you’ll admit it or not. If not for you, none of us would be here now. I mean…
I’m
the one who had to pick up a haunted branch. I just…” Graves shook his head. Cross knew that Graves wasn’t normally one to talk about his doubts. His emoting was usually done with a glass of whisky in hand and a stripper on his lap. “This shit is getting to me, Cross. I just want to wake up.” A cold gust of wind came at them. “Do you remember what things used to be like?”
“
What, you mean before The Black?” Cross asked.
“
Yeah.”
“
Not really,” Cross said after he thought about it for a moment. “I was so young…five, maybe six when it happened.” He looked at Graves. “Same with you, right?”
“
Yeah.” Graves looked out into the dark, his face half lit by firelight. “But I remember a lot, actually. I remember my dad pushing me on the swing. I remember sunlight that didn’t look all bloody.” He spat on the ground. “I wish I didn’t remember. I wish I had no idea. Then maybe I wouldn’t know how shitty this all is, because I’d have nothing to compare it to.”
“
Sam…”
“
Don’t worry about it,” Graves said. “I’m fine, and I’m going to do my job. We’re going to find that bitch Red, and we’re going to make her pay for what she’s done.” He looked up at Cross. There was something cold behind his eyes. “We’ll do it for Morg, and for Kray, and for Winter. And we’ll get your sister, and we’ll take her home.”
Cross nodded.
“
I’ve got your back, man,” he said. He offered Graves his good hand. “Thanks for everything.” Graves shook it.
“
All right,” he said, “enough of this male bonding crap. Get some sleep. You’re on watch in four.”
Cross sat quietly through his shift. His eyes were alight with white shadows. The gossamer threads of his spirit danced around him in a nimbus of spectral strands. She stayed anchored at the corner of his mind, poised and dangling in the thick gloom of the dead night. Cross watched the stillness of the plains, and stretched his arcane senses out across the deepness of the wastes.
Something was wrong. There was something broken, something out of place.
That sense of wrongness nagged at him all the next morning as they marched northeast, out of the hills and into the deep northern tundra. They were out of the Bone March now, nearing the most northern areas ever explored by the Southern Claw. Patches of frozen moss and blue-black lichen stood in shallow pools of briny slush and icy reeds. The deep red sky hung low and oppressive, and the air was bitter, sharp and cold.
The earth seemed to be made of rust. The squad walked across the tundra, following trails of vaporous red clouds that stained the sky. They passed by drifts of great spider silk and sinkholes of frozen mud. Black pits of congealed tar lay like great footsteps to the southeast. Ahead, still at a good distance but so massive it was impossible not to notice, was the Carrion Rift, a cold black cut in the land. The entire landscape seemed to drift ever closer to the Rift, as if the ground were sinking toward it. Even at that distance the squad heard the black hounds in the Rift, its eternal prisoners. Their mournful brays carried in the dead wind.

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