Crown of Ash (Blood Skies, Book 4) (21 page)

The shadow soldiers
prepare
for battle.  They move towards a wide platform
made of
wood and steel, a
c
raft hooked to a
thick chain that
stretches across
the river
and is attached to pillars of cold iron on the opposing shores
.  Arcane r
unes and sigils
cover
the
chain
and the barge. 
The vessel isn’
t large enough for
even half of the shadow warriors
.

They’re not coming. 

After a moment, he understands why.

The Shadow Lords haven’
t left the entrance to their
inner
realm unguarded.  Dark fliers take shape in the sky, human bats and draconic
beings
, things without form, nightmare avians.  More
shapes
approach
on
the ground
,
humanoids
that look
like the arcane natives, only these
enemy
creatures wear human skins and
ride
bastard
conveyances of living flesh and shadow matter, dark iron armor grafted to unstable
reptile
skin.  The small legion appears
from
nowhere and moves with startling speed. 

The black air
comes
alive.  He doesn’t even see the battle begin. 
B
odies fly into one another, shadow vapors and steel.  The
combatants
are
voiceless
in their conflict.  Metal explodes against metal and bodies explode like sacks of gel. 
Razor-white blades shear away limbs. 
Dark blood smears across
the
ground. 

He watches in horror,
but he’
s
held back and hedged
towards
the barge
. 
His allies
restrain him
,
and
they
prevent him from
tak
ing
part in the strife.  Shadow limbs push and shove
him along
.  His vision goes dizzy
as he
’
s forced forward.

Fliers descend.  They fall
in
an aerial wave.  They fill the crimson sky
with
the
sound of
beating wings. 

Blood rains
down.  The sound of ripping fill
s
his head.  There are no shouts or screams, but he hears
bodies
torn
apart in the razor storm
.  The ground gr
ows thick with
ruined
corpses.

He stumbles, dizzy, his blade held ready
.  T
he swarm of fliers launches down
,
and h
is allies push him
to the ground. 

Blood pounds
in his ears.  His body aches.  Dark fluid burns
his eyes
.  Stone grates against his knees.  Something hauls him to his feet. 

White m
issiles explode
in
mid-air and fan out like
webs
of steel rain. 
Behemoth hooves stamp s
hadow corpses into paste.  He swims through a sea of sand
and
blood.

Bodies fall into the water
, where t
hey’
re consumed by the ripping tides. 
B
one fish and serpent limbs drag them under.

He can’t tell the combatants apart in
all of
the chaos.  He swings at whatever come
s close and
threaten
s him
.  He hopes he isn’t hurting his
allies
.

He’
s on the barge.  He barely re
member
s getting there. 

Bull-Horns and Longspear are with him
.  T
hey toss the dark
mooring
rope ashore and
push
the heavy vehicle into
the
waters. 
The chain guides them across. 

A feeding frenzy takes plac
e just beyond their feet.  Moon-
pale fish with black eyes and
knife
teeth
chew
their way
through dark bodies.  Corpses
come apart
and drift like putty
to
the surface. 
Black
water splashes on
to
his face
. 

An explosion shakes the barge, and he falls.  Fliers descend, but they
’
re forced away by Bull-Horns and Longspear.  He joins them
in battle
.  His blade carves through shadow flesh and spills silver blood that s
izzles o
n the deck.  Ozone and acid fill his nostrils.  His arms grow sore as he saws back and forth
and cuts
through relentless waves of misshapen bat-like creatures with human faces and long prehensile tails
capped with
quivering hooks
.  He sees
eyes, deep and cold and black, shards of ice encased in dark flesh.

His arm is wounded.  He bleeds shadow bile that freezes
against
his sk
in.  Pain blazes from the
cut
. 
His skin is overtaken with cold.

Bull-Horns is ripped from the vessel and
thrown
into the water
.  The body thrashes before it’
s snapped
up
in the jaws of
an oil-skinned marauder, a shark-creature with
a
pulsating orifice mouth
.  Bull-Horns
vanishes
underwater
. 

He fights on, one-handed.  Longspear stands
next to
him.  B
lasts of cannon fire
issue
from the shore behind them, some crude artillery.  Gargoyle bodies explode and scatter
like
clumps
of wet sand. 

The black warriors struggle on. 
It’s
all but impossible to tell
which side
has the upper hand.

Deep cold gnaws at
his bones
.  He feels a chill so utter it makes his shadow-stain
ed flesh burn.  His head pounds.  The
glacial air
makes his body shake
. 

A
twisted presence worms its way through his veins
, some poison from his wound
.  Soulrazor/Avenger wills
the
corruptive
toxin
out of his body
, but his flesh pays the price.  He isn’t even aware of his own screams until the sound of them hurts his
ears
.

The barge
lands
on the far shore.  Lon
gspear pulls him
to the
bottom
of the steep slope
that leads
up
into
the canyon wall. 
The bone addled path ascends into a veil of fog.  A
ncient fossil
s
and hieroglyph
s lie embedded in the high stone walls
. 

When he turns, the barge is back in the river, headed
towards the far shore.  Longspear is on board, returning to his
comrades, not
wish
ing
for
them
to
die alone.

Cross
watches
them fight
.  He
knows they won’t
survive.  The faith they must have in the Eidolos – in
him
– is baffling.  They know nothing about him, and yet
they
s
acrifice themselves
, for t
hey feel
he can bring the Shadow Lord’s reign to a certain end.

They have nothing to lose
. 
They want things to change
, and they think
I
can
help bring i
t
about
.

S
kinwings fold their
bodies
around ebon
warriors
.  E
nem
ies
run
each
other through
with saw-
bone blades
.  M
utated mounts trample foes
into the ground
.  Skirmishers
are skewered on spears and dragged howling into the waters
,
where
they are
consumed by aquatic terrors. 

The fliers keep coming.  More of the Shadow Lord’s minions storm
in
from the west.

They’
ve forgotten
him
.  Even if the battle had once been about
his getting across the river
, it
isn’t any more
.  They
a
re lost to the
ir
bloodlust and
carnage.

He turn
s
away
and
climbs the path
.

His arm throbs with pain. 
Hurt burns through his body e
very time he tries to lift
the damaged limb
.  He walks like
he’s made of
glass
, and
fears he has some sort of fever. 

H
e makes his way up the
narrow path with
his blade in his good hand.  The
rock looks recently shorn
:
t
he remains of civilizations
have been
entombed in the black and crusty stone. 

Dark shapes slither up and down the walls. 
K
nots of tension
run
through
his back
.  He slowly regain
s
feeling in his arm.

His legs
are
tired.  Soot
y
sweat leaks
from
his skin.  His armor coat
feel
s heavy, and though he no longer needs sleep he briefly re
members
what it feels like, and he longs for it. 

Molten faces snarl and melt around him.  He
reaches the top of the path, and finds himself on a
shallow trail filled with bone and gravel. 
D
ark trees stand
vigil
like lost men.  The valley and
the
river below seem
like they’
re
miles away. 
B
lack mist rolls over his feet, like he
’
s stepped into an ink stain. 
D
ark trees
surround him,
fused together by smoke and fog.

There are riders
in the forest
, vague silhouettes darker than the shadow-thick sky
,
gaunt figures
who wear
dangling fetishes and chains
.  They have
long clawed limbs and curved weapons, hooks and hammers and double-swords, claw-handles and barbed shields. 
A
dozen of the
creatures
file out of the darkness
on sinuous mounts made of blades. 

Part of him wonders how he could be so stupid.  The emissaries of the Shadow Lords would
never
leave
the entrance to their inner
realm unprotected. 
These are
hunters
, and they’ve been
sent
to destroy
him.

He doesn’t hesitate. 
He ignores his pain and
moves fast and low
into
the
forest
. 
He knows
that
he has no chance i
f he stands and fights
, but t
here’
s little room for the
riders
to navigate in the
thick of the
trees
, and he can use that to his advantage
.  The iron oak
s
glow
like slivers of the moon, unnaturally bright
for
the shadow re
alm.