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

  “Does the Bloodhawk have any weapons left?” Cross asked Ankharra as they moved down the beach and approached the breakwater. The cold sea washed over his boots. He looked ahead and saw Shiv and Flint with Wara, who guided them towards the ship. He felt panic rising in his throat. The air pulsed, as if to some massive and dissonant heartbeat.

  “Yes,” Ankharra said.

  “Good. Because as soon as we get on board I recommend you blow this entire island to hell.”

  The Bloodhawk hovered just over the shore. Turbines blasted up sea wind and kicked out wet sand, and the people waiting on the ground had to shield themselves with their arms. Cross squinted through the grey light.

  “Cross!” Danica shouted so she could be heard over the Bloodhawk’s engines. “We have to find Ronan!”

  “Where is he?” He’d completely forgotten that she’d mentioned the swordsman had been there with her, and that they’d gotten separated. The thought of Ronan being lost somewhere on the island sent ice down his spine.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I lost sight of him when we crashed.” She looked back towards the heart of the island. “There’s a good chance he didn’t make it.”

  “I doubt that,” Cross said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “That man has a habit of living through things that would kill almost anyone else.”

  “Then we can’t leave him,” she said.

  “I agree,” he said. We’ve lost enough friends.

  The Bloodhawk dropped a pair of steel-rung ladders down to the surface of the breakwater. The ladders flapped and dangled until one of the Doj got a hold of it.

  A pair of Southern Claw soldiers climbed up first, their M16As slung across their backs, then turned so they could help the others get into the ship. The vessel hovered, held steady in spite of the rising wind. There wasn’t much room on the breakwater, and someone could be seriously injured if anything happened to batter or shove the Bloodhawk off course, but it was too dangerous to land the vessel on the beach for fear of it sinking into the sand. The Bloodhawk’s silver and grey body dripped with seawater, and its 20mm cannons rotated and stayed trained on the gap in the pass, which bubbled with shadows.

  Flint and Shiv climbed up one of the ladders; Cross watched breathlessly as they went, half-expecting something terrible to happen, but both of them made it inside safely. Wara waited atop the breakwater and directed the boarding, her massive boots firmly planted on the mossy and jagged stone. Her height meant she could practically climb up and into the ship without the aid of the ladder.

  “Ankharra!” Cross yelled. His face was covered with misty spray, and his skin was icy cold. “We need to find our missing man!”

  “What?!” she shouted, somewhat incredulous. “Who?!”

  “Ronan, from my team, he came here with Danica!”

  “Cross, maybe you haven’t noticed,” Ankharra yelled back over the sound of the blasting turbines, “but there’s a whole gang of shadowy monsters about to bust off this island, and they’re not going to wait around for us to search for your friend!”

  He felt whispers in the air, sensed as Danica conducted an arcane survey of the area. “I think I’ve got him,” she said. Her eyes glowed hot white. “But there’s some interference. I can’t get a lock.” She turned and shouted to Ankharra. “Can we look from the air?!”

  “We’re getting out of here!” Ankharra said. “This mission has been a failure, largely because of you,” she said pointedly to Danica.

  As Cross expected, Black didn’t take kindly to that.

  “You know all about failure, don’t you, Ankharra?!” she said.

  “Do you have something to say, Revenger?!” Ankharra snapped.

  There was some history between them Cross had never fully understood, though he’d gotten some hint of it in Karamanganjii, when the soldiers of Talon Company had been ordered to help Cross secure the city so he could find the Woman in the Ice. He still didn’t know anything about their quarrel; Danica hadn’t offered up any clues, and he’d never really bothered to pry.

  The two witches closed in on one another, and the air curled and burned from the force of their spirits. He tasted hex power and ozone, like a lightning bolt had just struck.

  This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  Cross stepped right between them. He felt Danica’s spirit sweep against him, almost singeing his hair. Ankharra’s spirit was less gentle, and it pushed Cross a few inches across the ground with painful force before it reigned back. Their whispers clawed at his ears and made his head throb with pain.

  “Later!” he shouted. Oddly, Soulrazor/Avenger tensed where it was slung across his back. He felt it shift in place on its own. Voices echoed from within the dual-blades, pushing at the edge of his consciousness. He couldn’t understand them, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. “We don’t have time for this crap!”

  Most of the Southern Claw crew had climbed aboard. A pair of soldiers still stood on the shore, uneasily watching the rippling shadows at the gap of the peaks, and a couple more were atop the breakwater, waiting for the three mages to make the climb.

  “Just let us do a quick fly-by,” Cross said to Ankharra. “We should probably try to ascertain the size of whatever is in there…”

  “There’s no time,” Ankharra said. She broke her gaze away from Danica and looked at Cross. “I’ve called it in. Two Hellhawks are en route.”

  Hellhawks. Southern Claw strafe bombers. They were seldom used because their arcane payloads were incredibly destructive and often twisted the landscape in unpredictable ways. They were capable of dropping more traditional napalm and explosive blasts, but Hellhawks were rarely deployed for that purpose. Instead they dropped Hellbombs – cold iron missiles of raw arcane force, filled with mixes of vitriolic and magical explosives. It was dangerous to even stand near them for more than a few minutes without the benefit of thaumaturgic shielding.

  “How long?” Black demanded.

  “They’ll be here within thirty minutes,” Ankharra said. “Hopefully that’ll be soon enough to destroy whatever is in there.”

  “Then we have time to do a fly over,” Cross said. Ankharra rolled her eyes. “Please,” he said, hearing the fear in his own voice, and not caring that Ankharra heard it, too. “There isn’t much of my team left.”

  “You want to put that little girl in danger…”

  “I want to take thirty seconds to do a perimeter sweep of the island,” Cross said. “I think we can manage that safely, since for the time being whatever it is in there seems content to stay out of sight.” He looked at Danica. She was barely containing her anger, but he was thankful she bit her tongue. He turned back to Ankharra. “Please.”

  The witch looked at the ship, then at the shadows. The darkness was like an oily mass of boiling water, but for some reason it hadn’t advanced beyond the narrow pass.

  “Let’s go,” Ankharra said after what seemed at eternity, and she turned away.

  “Ankharra…” he said, but she barked at him from over her shoulder.

  “We’ll do a quick sweep for your friend,” he said. “And that’s it. I intend to be far away from here when those Hellhawks arrive.”

  The Bloodhawk lifted into the sky. The wind battered the ship, not the natural force of a heavy gale but more like the wind had claws, and was grabbing for them.

  The inside of the vessel was cramped because so many people were aboard. Thin seats lined the back end of the ship, right next to the lowering hangar door. The pilots up front were on an elevated platform bound off by short iron rails, and heaps of equipment lay between the lower staging area and the cockpit. The vessel was twice as large as the Darkhawk used to be, but unlike the team’s old vehicle it wasn’t divided into two levels but was one large room filled with the deafening groan of turbine engines and the smell of sweat and fear. Thin viewports to port and aft allowed only intermittent view of what lay outside, and with the rising wind all they could really see was white wave
s and splashing water.

  Luckily Ankharra had a scrying stone, a green jewel dangling from the end of a short silver chain. Ankharra stood near the back of the vehicle and held the chain so the jewel hung suspended over the palm of her hand. Light dripped from the gem and ignited the air, and within it Ankharra would see the full range of her spirit’s heightened senses. Her eyes shone like emeralds, sending hazy illumination over her dark and tattooed face, and Cross felt a cold breeze and heard the sharp whisper of a spirit’s garbled voice.

  Danica and Cross stood next to Ankharra. Grail and Wara were nearby, watching, and waiting.

  How many times can you do this? Cross asked himself. Defy death? He hoped Ronan was okay. The swordsman had always been something of an enigma to him, but now more than ever he had no desire to see any more of his team die. We’ve lost enough.

  “There,” Ankharra said at last. “He’s on a lower section of the island, a short valley running off from the southeastern edge of the beach.” She cupped her hands, and nodded for Black and Cross to put their own hands up to the light.

  It was a strange sensation, and not one Cross had experienced in a long time – sharing a vision, seeing through the eyes of someone else’s spirit. A shiver ran down his spine. His eyes seemed to shoot out of his body and into the ball of green flame

  and Ronan is there, bleeding and badly hurt. His armor has been torn, and his chest and arms are covered with smoking claw marks. Dark blood turns rancid and black and drips like oil to the ground. He stumbles across broken rocks and through ankle-deep water filled with ice floes, holding onto a broken sword and wearing bladed knuckles with half the points snapped off. His face-wrap is caked to his skin with blood.

  He seems barely alive, and he only makes it a few steps before falling to his knees. He’s lost so much blood, suffered so many wounds. Muscle and meat glisten in the silver light. Freezing mist curls around him.

  Ronan’s head is lowered as he kneels there, exhausted, but he looks up when the growls come. His chest heaves, and his fingers clench the hilt of the long-knife

  Shadows appear at the edge of sight, large and wolf-like. They bleed into one another, a wall of teeth and claws.

  They’re coming…

  Cross pulled himself away from the vision. His heart was pounding, and for a moment he was so disoriented he almost fell over. Wara put a hand and helped support him, and Grail did the same for Danica.

  “Those were the creatures that came through the gate,” he said. “I think they’re Maloj!” Just the sight of them had flooded his body with fear. He felt like a child again, hiding in the ruins of bombed out towns, helping keep the younger kids safe when Razorwing riders searched for survivors to take back to their tomb-like camps to be tortured and devoured. That had been a long time ago, but the memory was surprisingly raw and fresh, and Cross felt that old fear returning.

  “Maloj?” Wara said, disbelieving. “The Maloj are gone. They may not have truly ever been here.”

  “Regardless,” Danica said, “our friend is alive, and he’s in trouble.”

  “There’s an airstrike on the way,” Ankharra said. “And I have a ship full of wounded.” She looked from Danica to Cross. “I’m sorry. There’s only so much I can do.”

  “That’s right,” Cross said, growing angry. “You can drop us off. Because I’m not leaving him behind.”

  Ankharra watched him for a moment, considering, then nodded and lifted a comm mike to her ear.

  “Hold it,” she said. “Slow down, and circle back to the southeastern end of the island. Look for a downed Ebon Cities transport boat.” She looked at Cross and Black. “We’ll drop you down, and pull back to a safe distance. If those shadow things start exploding all over the place…”

  “Ankharra,” Wara said. “You can’t do that. Cross needs to stay here.” The giantess stepped closer. At nearly nine-feet tall she towered over him. Cross had a feeling she could have put him down without breaking a sweat, and she and her trio of Grey Watch soldiers were the main reason the space inside the Bloodhawk felt so cramped. She looked at Cross. “You’re staying put.”

  “Only if you restrain me,” he said, feeling only half as brave as he sounded. “Why do I need to stay here?” He watched Wara, and then looked at Ankharra. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  The two women exchanged glances before Wara grunted: “I’m coming with you.”

  “Fabulous,” he said. More mysteries, he thought. I don’t have time for this.

  He and Danica gathered their gear. He found Shiv and Flint, huddled in a corner and holding on for dear life. He quickly brought them up to speed and assured them he’d be back.

  “I know,” Shiv said. “You always come back. And you always will.”

  I wish I had her confidence, he thought.

  “Take care,” Flint said. “You want help?”

  “Just keep each other safe,” he said. “That’s the best thing you can do for me right now.” He hugged Shiv, shook Flint’s hand, and turned back towards the hangar door, hoping against hope they could reach Ronan in time.

  TWO

  MASKS

  Danica stood ready. The Necroblade called Claw was fastened to her back, two HK45s were strapped to holsters at her sides, and a pair of katars were sheathed on her hip and at the back of her waist. Her steel arm pulsed with arcane energy, an anchor for her battered spirit. She’d almost gotten used to not feeling anything there. Almost.

  Not feeling anything would come in handy right about now.

  She steeled herself. It felt like it had been ages since she’d had any sort of rest. So much of what had happened in the past week still seemed muddled and hazy, like she’d dreamt it. She wished that were true, that she was still asleep in her room in the mansion back in Thornn, waking that same morning Cross had left…only this time he wouldn’t leave, he’d still be there, everyone would still be there, and everything would be fine.

  She’d woke to that moment more than once. It didn’t matter where they really were or what was really happening, because sometimes when she woke she still felt herself back in that room, on that same morning, hoping against hope that this time everything would be okay, that Kane and Ash and Grissom would still be alive and they’d have a chance to do it all again. Everything would be the way it once was.

  That’s just a dream, she thought.

  The rear door peeled open like a lolling metal tongue. Icy wind slammed in at her and Cross as they stood with their arms raised to grip the iron bar over the hatch. They were less than a hundred feet from the ground, and the smoking remains of the Ebon Cities transport ship she and Ronan had been flown in on lay below. Husks of vampire corpses and flayed zombie meat covered the ground in grey clumps, and splatters of deep red and black ichor painted a stone surface so pale it could have been snow. Fire smoke drifted over the crashing waves.

  The Bloodhawk hovered in place. A pair of Southern Claw soldiers affixed cables and hooks to the metal pole for rappelling down.

  She looked at Cross. He nodded, and nervously looked away. Danica had the notion she’d kissed him, but if she had she barely recalled. It was like something from a dream.

  Everything feels like a dream to me right now, she thought. She still wasn’t sure why nearly drowning had seemed to wake her from the sluggish haze of obedience which the theurges of Lorn had placed her in, but it had.

  Her heart raced with worry. Ronan and Cross and Kane had all gone to Hell and back for her. The reward for saving Danica Black seemed to be death.

  Please let him be okay.

  The waves crashed below. After a few more moments of hovering the ship came over the drop point, and she could see straight down into the depths of the narrow canyon where Ronan had apparently fallen, which sloped under the downed ship and dipped into a fast-moving ravine filled with clear water. Thick falls poured into the canyon from both sides, and splays of sharp rock lined the walls like porcupine’s quills. The sound of the rushing water was
almost deafening, the only thing she could hear aside from the roar of turbine engines.

  The ship lurched unsteadily. She was dressed in the same dark leather armor they’d given her back in Lorn, but with a new armor jacket and fresh boots. Her black-red hair was shorter than she’d ever remembered wearing it before, but it was still just long enough for her to pull it back into a short pony-tail.

  Cross wore standard red and grey Southern Claw-issue leather body armor with metal shoulder plates and thick gloves. It was odd seeing him without any sort of arcane implement, hard to believe he’d really lost his spirit forever and was no longer a warlock.

  He was older, weathered. It was strange seeing him up on his feet with the grizzled beard and sandy skin, the way he’d appeared when they’d found him at Shadowmere Keep. He’d been in a coma, and they didn’t think he’d ever wake up. His hair hung down almost to his shoulders, as wild and as unkempt as the rest of him, and the bizarre hybrid blade was sheathed across his back. He wore an HK45 and carried a standard-issue M4A.

  He looked at her again. Older or no his eyes burned with the same radiance they’d always possessed. She’d missed looking into them.

  Stop. Now isn’t the time.

  “Are you up for this?” she asked him.

  “I suppose,” he said. “I have been wandering the wastelands for a while, getting in some practice with the Lith.”

  She smiled, looked back into the ship and nodded at the girl and her father. “Looks like you made some friends.”

  “Yeah,” Cross said. His eyes lingered on her arm. The steel appendage shone in the morning light. “A lot of things have changed.”

  She nodded, and looked down. “Yeah.”

  The ship lowered.

  “Twenty seconds!” an officer yelled out.

  Wara had donned a fresh armor vest and replaced her sword with a sizable war axe and an AA-12 auto shotgun that looked relatively normal-sized in her hands. Her thick black and grey hair rippled in the breeze. Next to her a Lith bowman – Grail, Cross had called him – had also suited up to go with them. His pale skin was wrapped in blue-black leather armor and a featureless golden face-mask, and though he carried no firearm he yielded a black bow and a quiver full of razor-tipped arrows, as well as a number of curved knives sheathed across his back.