Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) Page 8

  Some of the survivors were there on the ground, while others could be seen and heard moving around inside the ship through the rents in the ship’s hull.

  He turned in a circle. Danica came up and looked with him. The air was so dry and hot he felt the moisture being sucked from his skin. His face flushed with heat, and sweat poured down his brow.

  There was nothing, not for miles. Dry white and brown desert, dead trees twisted like dancers, jagged stone hills like shards of broken glass. There were occasional rifts in the landscape, shallow clefts like scars.

  “This isn’t Rimefang Loch,” Danica said. “This isn’t anywhere.”

  Cross stared out into the wastes. His arms went weak.

  So close. We were almost home.

  Part of him wanted to collapse. He balled his fists and took a deep breath. The dry air scraped against his lungs.

  Don’t let this beat you. You’ve been through too much to give up now.

  It was difficult. His breaths were shallow, like someone had throw a wad of cloth over his mouth. Fear hit him like a fist to the jaw.

  “Danica,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “Let’s get all of the survivors together. We have to figure out what the hell just happened.”

  “And how to get out of here,” Ronan said.

  “We’ll worry about that later,” Cross said. “Ronan, see if you can find Crylos.”

  He looked back at the wastes. The sky was pale and vast, and there was no horizon – the desert just vanished off into obscurity, melting under the bone sun.

  Where are we?

  There were fewer than thirty survivors. Many were soldiers, but not all – most of the surveyors had lived through the crash, making up just under a quarter of their numbers, people with basic survival skills but little to no combat experience.

  Wara and the Doj were all dead, as were Crylos and Stark. Laros was also unaccounted for, which defaulted leadership to Ankharra, who’d commanded the spirit Cross had sensed during in the battle.

  The survivors assembled outside the ship, which stood like a batholitic tower against the amber sky. Dusk was creeping up on them, blood red and deep, but the air remained sweltering. Cross’s lips had already cracked from dehydration, but they decided to conserve their water until they knew how much they had, and how far they had to go.

  The land to the east was dry and vast. Hard wind from that direction carried grit and dust that stung the eyes and clung to the backs of their throats.

  The ridge the ship leaned against stood to the west, and beyond it were sharp hills and steep bluffs, twisted dead trees and mounds of dark stone.

  The passages through the shallow canyons to the north were opaque with shadow, and the steep angles made the area look like a forest of blades.

  Low hills and dark brown plains stretched to the south, a graveyard of stone spurs and broken jags. The earth in that direction had been worked and smoothed into the semblance of a road, even if it looked to have been untraveled for years.

  The general consensus was that south along that road was the best direction for them to go.

  “Is this everything?” Ankharra asked. She stood with Cross and Danica near the pile of collected supplies. Grail and one of the surveyors, a thin man named Wiley, were also close by.

  There were crates, boxes, medical kits, canteens, jugs, coils of rope, tools, ration packs, blankets, tents, boots and spare weapons, all loosely tethered together by a network of yellow cord and covered with a thick black tarp that shifted and cracked in the dry hot wind.

  “So far,” Danica said. “Ronan, Creasy and Reza are doing another sweep of the Skyhawk, but it’s unlikely there’ll be much more. I didn’t get the idea the ship had been stocked for a long-range voyage.”

  “It wasn’t,” Ankharra said.

  She’d shed her cloak and now stood there in a loose shirt and pants as black as her midnight hair. Tattoos covered her arms, neck and upper chest, and her silver bracers were shaped in the semblance of serpents. Sweat glazed her brown skin. Cross, for his part, had also shed his cloak and wore just the Southern Claw armor he’d been given before the mission to the isle, while Danica was still clothed in the revealing purple leather armor the Ebon Cities had forced on her, along with an extra armor coat. Grail was down to loose armor, his bow strung across his back. Wiley, who wore a plain grey jumpsuit just like the rest of his team, had a wild frock of snow-white hair in spite of his otherwise youthful appearance; sweat beaded around his spectacles, which shone bright in the pale sunlight.

  “It has to be the Scorpion Desert,” the surveyor said. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Nowhere else in the Southern Claw reaches this temperature.”

  “The Grim Lands,” Cross said. Wiley looked at him questioningly, but Cross nodded. “Trust me.” He looked around. “But that’s not where we are.”

  “Well if our surveyor doesn’t know…” Danica said.

  “I have a theory,” Ankharra said. “But I hope I’m wrong.”

  “Do you want to share?” Wiley asked. “Or are you going to follow standard Southern Claw protocol and keep everyone else in the dark?”

  “Mr. Wiley, you’re a guest on this ship,” Ankharra said, sounding almost bored. Cross had the impression they’d had this discussion before. “And in all matters you’re acting under military supervision, so I suggest your watch your tone.” Wiley smiled angrily, but nodded. “I did a quick reconnaissance of the wreckage,” Ankharra continued. “Cross, I was hoping you could look over the results with me. I’m not entirely sure what to make of my findings.”

  “Sure,” Cross nodded.

  “I’ll check in with Ronan and the others,” Danica said.

  “Corporal,” Ankharra said.

  A young man named Lancer trotted over, lean and tall with steel-grey hair and even greyer eyes. He reminded Cross of an armored nail. He wore a longsword on his back and carried an M16A2 with a bottom-mounted M203 grenade launcher. Cross hadn’t seen one of those since Graves.

  God, that seems like such a long time ago.

  “Ma’am,” Lancer replied.

  “Get yourself a partner and watch over these supplies. No one but myself, Eric Cross or Danica Black is authorized to touch this pile until further notice.”

  “What is someone needs water?!” Wiley barked.

  Danica gave him a look, and Wiley withered like a plant in the sun. It took all of Cross’s willpower to suppress a laugh.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Lancer said. He wore a face-wrap, but the thin hint of a smile was clear.

  Lancer pulled aside another soldier named Krieg, a tall and dark-haired man with a pronounced facial scar, to work the guard detail. Cross went with Ankharra while Danica and Grail went to find Ronan’s group.

  The survivors were scattered in a field full of rock shards just large enough for a person to rest on. Everyone’s faces were grim, and their eyes were full of fear. Weapons were cleaned and oiled and cleared of sand, a major concern there in the desert, which no one had been prepared for. Luckily being stationed near Rimefang Loch meant they had a decent supply of water-proof bags, and those would certainly help keep the weapons clear of debris so they wouldn’t jam.

  Cross saw Flint and Shiv eating MREs while they sat and quietly talked with a pair of soldiers. Shiv waved to him, and Cross waved back. She watched him with concern in her eyes.

  His gut twisted with worry every time he thought about her. She was too young to be out there, stranded so far from anywhere safe. Ever since he’d met her and her father all he’d wanted was to get them home.

  I will. If it’s the last Goddamned thing I ever do.

  Smoke shifted in the dry wind. The sky was cloudless and pale and filled with burning sunbeams. Cross walked with his hand over his face until he and Ankharra entered the shadow of the ship. The bloody remains of the seven soldiers who’d lost their lives to the gorilla-like brute had been taken and burned with the others – the dark fumes still plumed into the
air over a low ridge to the north – but signs of the combat were still apparent: dark bloodstains that had dried black in the heat, loose shell casings, broken blades.

  The wrecked ship loomed menacingly overhead. Though it rested at a slight angle against the forty-foot western ridge, all it would take was a shift of strong wind to bring it down. Trails led to a labyrinth of stone canyons to the north.

  “There,” Ankharra said. She knelt down and pointed at a haze of blast residue on the ground. Dark stains radiated out in concentric patterns like ripples of shadow. Thin trails of the greasy substance collected like miniature black dunes, and the ground smelled of hex powder and burnt rock. “What do you make of it?”

  “You do recall that I don’t have a spirit anymore, right?” he said.

  “You shouldn’t need one, because I also know you have a near photographic memory when it comes to anything you’ve ever seen or read, and that you know the Tome of Scars inside out. So tell me…what do you make of it?”

  Cross knelt down. The ship creaked and groaned and seemed to bend over them like a stick displaced by water, and just being next to the teetering vessel sent chills up his spine.

  He examined the residue, and after a moment saw what was odd about it: the pattern suggested less of a blast than it did a specific and deliberate marking placed on the ground.

  “This isn’t from the crash,” he said, and he reached a gloved finger out and scooped up a small trace of the substance. It started to eat away at his glove, and he immediately flung it to the dirt, where it returned to its inert status. “This was cast here intentionally.”

  “I agree,” Ankharra nodded. Her voice was wine dark and thick, rich with its Middle-Eastern accent. “And I believe that peculiar odor is a blend of ember weed, wormwood and…something else. A hex powder, but I can’t…”

  “Ground meteor steel,” he said. He leaned down and put his nose close to the residue, confirming the same scent he’d smelled when he’d first acquired Soulrazor from the wreckage of the future Thornn. “It’s somewhat rare. I smell silver, too.”

  “Does that all mean what I think it does?” Ankharra said. It was more a statement than a question.

  “Transubstantive locationism,” Cross said with a nod. His heart sank. “With ember weed and wormwood you create the directional signaling transference, the means to aim where you want to send something. The silver is the catalyst.”

  He stood and looked up the length of the ship’s underbelly, a maze of sparking wires, broken steel plates, twisted pipes and arcane tubing. Dark fluids still leaked even an hour after the crash. Cross watched the pools of fuel on the ground with some concern; it wouldn’t ignite from just the heat but it was still volatile, and if it went up it would turn the capsized ship into a giant pillar of flame.

  Yeah, that would suck.

  “That leaves the meteor steel,” Ankharra said. “The power source?”

  He nodded gravely. “That would be my guess. It’s what you’d need to transport something as big as a Skyhawk. If you had mages at both the source and the destination, each with a similar circle prepared, you’d be all set. They were probably on the ground when we flew by…hell, they could have even been on a raft or a small ship, since all they’d have to do was get under us at just the right moment…”

  Cross’s head was pounding. He felt his mind grow hazy, like he was trapped in a dream. The sun made everything molten. His skin was covered with desert scale, he felt sand and grit in his teeth, and his knuckles and face ached from the injuries he’d sustained during the fight. His blade kept him as healed as it needed him to be, just as it ever did – he still felt the wounds, and they’d doubtlessly leave behind ugly scars, but he knew they weren’t infected.

  It still needs me. I just wish it would let me know what was going on.

  The heat made him tired, and they’d only been stranded for half a day. He and Ankharra waited in the shadow of the unstable tower. They watched the others try to stay shaded.

  “You said you have a theory,” he said to Ankharra. His own voice sounded dreary and distant. “About where we are?”

  Ankharra stared off. She didn’t seem to have heard him. The hot wind rippled her clothing and pressed it tight against her body. Even covered with sweat and bruised from the crash she was a stunning creature, tall and thin, voluptuous and athletic, dark eyes the perfect complement to her olive skin. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to answer Ankharra said: “I was born here, in this land. My parents made the Long Voyage when I was very young.”

  “In this land…” Cross said. He tried to wrap his mind around what she was saying, but couldn’t, like the heat had leeched the power from his brain. He shook himself and focused, and the answer came. “Nezzek’duul,” he said. She folded her arms around herself as if suddenly cold, and nodded. “That’s impossible,” he said. “That means we’re thousands of miles from home.”

  SEVEN

  VOICES

  Danica and Grail found Ronan and the others two decks up from the bottom of the ship, where they pulled med kits and canned rations from the ruined quarters. Bodies were everywhere, impaled or crushed where the hull had collapsed in the crash. It took a few minutes to get everyone back out in the open, at which point Cross and Ankharra took Danica, Ronan and Creasy aside and explained where they thought they’d wound up.

  “Are you kidding me?” was all she could think to say.

  “I was born here,” Ankharra said. “Not in this area, of course. I’m from the city of Hexatharadraphia.”

  “You made that up just now, didn’t you?” Danica said.

  Ankharra gave her a look.

  “How far is it from here?” Cross asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m not even certain we are in Nezzek’duul, but that’s what my instincts tell me. I’m open to other theories.”

  “What does Wiley think?” Danica asked. “I mean, he is the surveyor, right? Have we had a chance to run this by him?”

  “No,” Ankharra said. “Cross and I just figured this out a few minutes ago.”

  Danica looked at Cross, and he shrugged. It was so strange to see him with longer hair. It reached almost to his shoulders, all wild and unkempt, and his beard was still thick and scraggly. It was a surprisingly good look for him, lending him the appearance of some sort of mountain man.

  Stop it, she told herself. You made your decision. Keep your distance.

  “And what led you to this conclusion, Ankharra?” Danica asked. She didn’t worry about the iciness in her tone – Ankharra held no illusions about how she felt about her.

  They stood in the shadow of the downed airship, its aft end on the canyon floor as it leaned against the western cliff. The sun was unbearably hot, and Danica smelled roasting dirt and sand. The landscape was dark and riddled with broken rocks and brambles. Striated layers on the ground showed where the wind had pummeled the area and blasted what appeared to have once been a hilly region into a largely flattened waste. South of the shadowy cliffs and toothed hills the world was a black desert of ebon sand and twisted stones and a solitary road, which bent off into the heat haze of the south. Tumbleweeds and twisted branches blew in the distance like ghosts.

  “My spirit recognizes the air,” Ankharra said. “Or at least he thinks he does. I haven’t been here since I was a child, and my spirit had barely formed at that time, but I’m certain we aren’t in Southern Claw territory.”

  Danica nodded, and looked at Creasy. She’d only done a precursory reconnoiter, but Creasy had conducted a quick search of the shadowy hills to the north.

  “I agree,” the soft-spoken Wolftown man said. “I’ve lived in most of the lands east of Rimefang Loch. This isn’t one of them, and my spirit senses that, too.”

  “We also found evidence of transubstantive locationist magic used in this area,” Cross added. “I think it was a two-man job. One person activated a circle on the other side, directly under the Skyhawk, while a second individual activated
the drawing portal we found here. We were sucked right through.”

  “I didn’t think it was possible for humans to use teleportation magic,” Danica said. “I know the Southern Claw has been researching it for years, but didn’t they decide it was too dangerous?”

  “It looks like someone found a way,” Cross said. “But I’ll be damned it I know how they pulled it off.”

  “Well this is fantastic,” Ronan said. “I know something about this place, but if you’re actually from here I imagine you can tell us a whole lot more,” he said to Ankharra.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “My family left when I was very young, and my parents fled for a reason. They didn’t teach me much about where I’d come from except its name, and all of the things they hated about it.”

  “Such as?” Danica asked.

  “The way women are treated, for one thing,” she said. “We’re property here, and have no rights. And as foreigners…we have even more to worry about. They’re very distrustful of outsiders in Nezzek’duul.”

  “I think the real question is why we’re here,” Cross asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

  A small crowd was starting to gather. Wiley was one of them, along with more of his survey team, and a few soldiers Cross didn’t recognize looked like they were waiting for instructions. Everyone was covered with dirt and sweat and looked thoroughly miserable in the heat, and Danica heard the murmur of fear in their quiet conversations.

  At least most of them are soldiers, she thought. We just need to keep them focused. The only civilians they had to worry about were the survey crew, and they’d be easy enough to deal with, even if Wiley did have all of the tell-tale signs of being a professional pain in the ass.

  “Ma’am?” one of the soldiers said. He was a young man, with a strong jaw and a tightly trimmed beard. “Sergeant Hart. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  Danica thought at first he was talking to her, but then remembered Ankharra was now the senior officer. She wondered if any of the men resented that, since mages didn’t undergo the same field training as enlisted men, as they spent most of their time mastering their powers.