Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) Read online

  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.

  Showing you.

  Showing me what? he asks.

  What you must see.

  He steps closer, cautiously. The cracks she makes with her weathered staff radiate out like bolts of lightning. Creasy pushes the snow on the ice aside with his foot to see what his spirit is trying to show him. Smoking blue fumes rise when she pounds on the lake again.

  Something casts a shadow up from below. A darkness in the lake, buried under the frozen surface.

  Creasy leans down. His skin turns raw under his gloves. Utter cold creeps through his limbs and chills his blood. His breaths come slow and silent as he pushes the upper crust away. Ice fastens to his clothes and catches in his beard, but he ignores it.

  He sees teeth. Rows of canines yellowed by time and blackened by fire. Massive bone sabers arrayed in jagged rows between curled dark lips. The head is too large, lupine and distorted, and though the body is petrified in the glacial tomb he gets the sense that it’s moving. Pale eyes gaze skyward. Twisted claws thick with talons perpetually reach for the surface. Thick hairs cover its bulging muscles, and its vaguely humanoid form is twisted in a frozen predatory dance.

  Evil is frozen on its pure black face. Dead though it is, its presence terrifies him. Creasy’s blood is cold, and he feels suddenly exposed being so close to an ancient being he knows is not of this world.

  What is it? he asks.

  The Maloj, she answers. And you have to stop it.

  Me? Why?

  Your new allies will try, she says. But they will fail. So it will fall to you. To us.

  Part of Creasy suspects a trick, some manipulation, but this is his spirit. He knows her as surely as he knows himself. If any trick is being played then he’s the one playing it.

  This is a dream, he says.

  Perhaps. But that doesn’t change what must be done.

  What must be done?

  You must be ready, she says. And you can trust no one.

  Except you, he says.

  You and I won’t meet again, she says. Not like this.

  The ice cracks, and the beast shifts. Veins of water explode through the frozen void below. Creasy’s heart pounds hard against his chest. The vast lake buckles and shifts.

  I’m sorry it has to be you, she says.

  Shards of blade ice explode as claws rip out through the surface and latch onto him. His screams echo into the sky as the Maloj pulls him down.

  They left just before dawn. Creasy’s blood was still cold all through the morning, even as the sun rose high and burned down on them with hellish heat.

  He kept watching ahead, afraid of what was waiting for him.

  NINE

  HOLLOW

  He dreamed of wolves. They chased him across fields of skin and broken glass, and though he was able to stay ahead of them his feet were cut to bloody shreds by the time he made it to the city at the far end of the desert, a city of the dead. He felt safer there, but he didn’t know why.

  The scouting party left just before first light. Dank morning shadows clung to the ground like clouds of dark ice. Ronan was amazed at how cold it was, but they all knew it wouldn’t be that way for long.

  He, Danica, Creasy and Grail went east, moving at a steady and even pace. They brought plenty of water and enough extra clothing to protect their skin from the sun and shield them from the evening chill, since it was likely they’d spend at least one night out in the cold on their own before they rejoined the rest of the group.

  They followed the road for a short time, pushing through fields of broken black rock and drifts of petrified sand. Hollow echoes circled the dunes, the sound of lost voices. The ground turned darker the further east they went, and looked as if it had been burned, though Ronan didn’t get the impression there had ever been much there to begin with. The region reminded him of the Scorpion Desert, where the mages of the Crimson Triangle exiled the initiates from time to time to do battle with Firehorns and Bonesnakes and mad tribal marauders, sun-scorched lunatics whose skin had turned as coarse as leather and whose minds had been melted by the bitter heat.

  Within a couple of hours they were all bathed in sweat. Ronan considered entering the Deadlands just to maintain his focus and push himself to continue, but he knew that wouldn’t help anyone else, and he needed to wait until they found the people who’d been taken from the Skyhawk.

  Look at me, he thought bitterly. Worrying about others, going to rescue a piece of shit like Laros. I’m getting soft in my old age.

  They traveled light, with minimal equipment and weapons. They knew they’d be able to rely on Creasy’s and Danica’s magic, even if the two mages were still concerned about the bizarre effect the Nezzek’duulian wastes had on their spirits.

  It doesn’t matter, Ronan thought. I have yet to meet something I couldn’t kill.

  They crossed a dune-covered land. Battered ores reflected the sunlight, and the broken rims of ancient towers reminded Ronan of shattered teeth. Even with his shemagh Ronan breathed in sand, and the stinging wind whipped them with grit and debris. They kept moving, knowing if they stopped for too long it would be difficult to find the strength to start again.

  Danica and Creasy used t
heir spirits to keep everyone cool, and as long as the two of them took turns they seemed capable of maintaining the effect without overextending themselves. Still, even with that arcane effort the group still felt like they were walking through an oven.

  Of all of them, Grail seemed the most at ease. The Lith had an amazing knack for surviving in harsh environs. Ronan had always thought the nomadic race generally confined themselves to the Reach, but Cross had met Grail’s band north of Rimefang Loch, in the southern tip of the Bone March. Shorter and thinner than both he and Creasy, Grail kept his mask in place and moved without showing any signs of fatigue. No one was sure how the Lith ate or stayed hydrated, or if they even needed to. If Grail was uncomfortable in the least he made no indication of it.

  Both of the mages seemed out of sorts. Ronan was no good judge of character, but he’d spent enough time with each of them to recognize that neither was at ease. Creasy seemed more cautious than normal, and Danica was at the edge of anger and seemed even less stable than when she’d been a thrall of the Ebon Cities.

  And it could have been his imagination, but both of the mages seemed to be watching Ronan like they were wary of his behavior.

  Great. Like we don’t have enough to worry about without this shit.

  The land remained the same, just fields of dust littered with dark stones, at least for their first few hours of travel. The four of them made no sound, kept to what shadows they could find and followed Creasy’s lead. The warlock stopped and stared off every now and again, channeling his spirit to keep them on the correct path.

  Ronan drank sparingly. His lips were soon cracked from the heat, and the shemagh pasted sweat to his face and cheeks. His hair was slicked against his scalp and his eyes perpetually squinted against the blazing glare.

  They walked. Not much time passed, but it felt like forever. The earth turned the color of old bones. Hills appeared, cracked and black and covered with dead trees. Clouds dotted the sky, dark grey and thick, blocking out the sun but doing little to hold off the intense heat.

  The air lost much of its color. They wandered into a sepia landscape. Soon they were within sight of the forest Creasy’s spirit had shown him. A wall of lifeless trees stood at the edge of some broken hills.

  Ronan held his gun ready, the steel gleaming in the dim light. He wished he wasn’t so tired. Weeks of hard travel had taken their toll, and without entering the Deadlands he felt his thoughts and reflexes moving a beat slow.

  They crossed the open ground to the trees quickly, moving with silence thanks to Danica’s spirit. Slithering heat crawled across Ronan’s skin like a slimy gel. The ground turned to cracked granite, and jagged lines zigzagged across the earth like flaws on an icy lake.

  The trees were twisted and dead, a mass of gnarly brambles held together by strings of razorwire and curtains of finger bones. Masses of spider’s silk had been draped over the forest paths. Tall racks of antlers had been affixed to burned humanoid skulls and mounted high in the trees like sentries. The air was charred and still.

  Creasy and Danica exchanged looks and Creasy held up his hand, indicating he’d do the reconnaissance. The rest of them waited, readying their weapons.

  Ronan pulled off his gloves and winced as the wool tugged against his wounded knuckles. He sensed something hidden in the trees. The forest and the small canyon beyond weren’t very large, maybe the size of a warehouse, yet something about this area made it feel vast. It was like an entire world was contained within those thorny depths.

  A grisly sharp wind carried blood smoke and meat scent. Creasy looked ill. He tried to remain stoic, and his sunglasses hid his eyes and prevented the others from seeing his pain, but Ronan was an expert on suffering, and he could tell something was wrong. Whatever the warlock had detected in the forest was fighting back, twisting his spirit and hurting it.

  A shrill howl rang out, something between a locomotive whistle and the crack of a glacier. Dead air blasted from the trees. Creasy gasped and collapsed like he’d been stabbed; Danica and Grail both moved to help him.

  “What happened?” Danica asked.

  “Cursed,” Creasy said, out of breath. He took a moment to right himself. It seemed his dignity had been hurt more than anything else. “This place is drowning with maligned spirits. They attacked mine while she was in there, searching things out.” He stepped back. “I’m not sure if I can enter. She might not escape if they try to take her again.”

  Danica looked into the forest. She wouldn’t suffer the same effects, because from what she’d explained she could literally lock her spirit inside her arcane appendage and keep it contained. The arm was meant to restrict her spirit and confine him, but in this case it could be the armor that would let them both get out alive.

  “Did you find anyone?” Danica asked.

  “Just two,” Creasy nodded. “Down the left-hand path once you’re in the forest. I’ll stay here.”

  Danica nodded. Ronan looked at Grail, and nodded towards Creasy.

  “You stay, too,” Ronan said. “I don’t want Creasy here alone.”

  Grail’s featureless mask watched him a moment before the Lith nodded.

  Ronan and Danica stepped into the trees. The air was dead and still and as grey as the inside of a tomb. Thick clumps of black ash lay petrified on the ground like chunks of greased ice. The heat was just as intense in the forest as it had been in the plains, but Ronan and Danica both kept their armor jackets on to protect them from the sharp brambles and walls of thorns.

  Color seemed to vanish in the thick of the trees, and shadows fell like rain. Dead twigs and clumps of salt crunched underfoot. Everything smelled like a campfire.

  Skulls peered out at them from within the twisted briars. Clumps of moss had been set in the eye-sockets, dripping with oil. Ronan could imagine those skulls burning, torchlit bones in the dead of night.

  “What the fuck is this place?” he whispered. His katana swung from the sheath across his back, and he trained his Norinco Type 56 assault rifle on the path. Danica was armed with an H&K G36C and her katars, as well as the dark Necroblade called Claw, a shadow-infused Ebon Cities saber which constantly seemed to suck the light from wherever she went. Ronan sensed no trace of her spirit, the tell-tale chill in the air or the drag it normally placed on their steps when it circled them.

  “I have no clue,” she said. “A haunted forest, I guess.” She hesitated. “Do you hear that?”

  He did. There were sharp voices in the wind, the drooling calls of ghosts. Normally phantoms only lingered in an area for a short time after their living hosts had been slain, which was good because they posed a serious threat to mage’s arcane spirits. The ghosts there now wouldn’t have been roaming the forest on their own: something had tied them there.

  Something, Ronan thought. Or someone.

  They pressed on. A chill ran up the nape of Ronan’s neck. Dank moisture dripped from the dead branches, and the depths of the forest seemed to go on forever, a city of brambles filled with antlers, bone shards and webs that came to life in the dank breeze.

  After a few hundred yards the narrow path split, and per Creasy’s instructions they went left. There was barely room for them to walk without scraping their arms against the trees. Dry twigs snapped underfoot. The end of the path loomed before them, an eerily pale opening in the dead woods.

  The two of them emerged into a clearing surrounded by twisted trees. Ronan smelled old fires and oil. A hanged skeleton dangled from a large branch, creaking back and forth in the wind. The sky was visible from the clearing, flat and dead.

  The prisoners were there, face-up and spread-eagle, tied and staked to the earth with sharp stones. Their clothes were tattered and torn, and blood and dirt caked their skin in layers of grime that had turned them bone white.

  Ronan’s lips went dry. He cautiously stepped forward, but Danica quietly told him to stay back. The dozen or so people lay in a wide checkerboard pattern across the clearing. All of them were perfectly still, and a
s Ronan let his mind drift to the Deadlands he clearly saw that they were dead.

  The first body belonged to a Southern Claw ensign whose chest had been caved in by an impact that had smashed bone down into his heart. His wounds were black and seared, and some viscous fluid that wasn’t blood oozed from his corpse.

  Another soldier had been sheared in two, and only a stringy mass of sinew and intestines connected the halves of his body.

  A third man’s skull had been crushed, leaving grey and red matter and bits of bone to cook in the bone-dry heat.

  “What happened here?” Danica said.

  “Someone killed them,” Ronan said. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Danica said off-handedly. She approached the body of a young woman who’d been ripped open from groin to neck. “I don’t see any footsteps. Not even theirs. No blood on the ground. No signs of a struggle.”

  “It’s like they were flown here,” Ronan said.

  The air was tense with potential, like an engine about to kick to life. The whispers they’d heard outside the trees had faded to the background while they’d walked the path, but now that they were in the clearing Ronan heard the voices again, stronger than before.

  Something was coming.

  “Laros,” Danica said. She knelt next to the blonde man. He was tied down like the rest, his arms and legs secured by stakes, his mouth slightly agape. There was no sign of violence – he might have been asleep. Ronan saw Jade, similarly tied and unconscious, her hair a tangle of mud and clay. “He’s alive,” Danica said.

  “Peachy,” Ronan said. “Then let’s cut them loose and get the hell out of here. Something’s on the way.”

  Danica sliced through Laros’ bonds. He didn’t stir, but Ronan saw the warlock draw a shallow breath.

  Ronan watched the perimeter. He sensed something out there, and it was closing fast. He was tempted to return to the Deadlands, but he waited, wanting to hold off until the last moment. Fatigue was catching up with him, and the last thing he needed was to enter that place and not be able to come back.