The Witch's Eye (12 page)

T
hey still had a few hours of light left, and both Ronan and Moone hoped they could find a place to rest for the night with better vantage and shelter.  The winds in the Bone Hills could get extremely harsh, especially after the sun went down and the dread chill rolled in from the northern wastes, and if they stayed exposed after dark they ran the risk of getting chilblains or frostbite.

They also needed water
.  Their supply was almost gone, and while they could do without food they had to have something clean to drink.  Ronan had experienced the horrors of dehydration first hand: it led to deteriorating eyesight and cramping muscles, and if they went too long without fluids they’d start to hallucinate.  Very little of the ice at the edge of the Bone Hills was suitable for melting down to drink since it was full of sediment and lime, and the few pools they’d come across were thick with minerals that floated up from the bedrock. 

It had been an uneventful
two days of travel.  On the first night they’d found an abandoned shack that had probably once been the home of a trapper or wilderness scout.  The place had Gorgoloth markings all over it, and Ronan thought they’d pressed their luck staying there even for a couple of hours to rest, but the brief shelter had been welcome.  The shallow crater was the first comparable thing they’d found since.

Ronan watched the survivors.  They were two-thirds men and one-third women, none
of them older than their middle forties, and no one younger than a teenager.  Their clothing was ragged, dirty and disintegrating, as no one had been given the opportunity to wash for days.  They were like the landscape now, dirty and grim, stripped of their color, cold and thin with hunger.  Everyone was exhausted beyond measure, clearly visible in their demeanor and motion. 

You knew the risks
, he wanted to tell them
. 

Something in the way he watched them must have caught Jade
’s attention. 

“You don
’t like people much, do you Ronan?” she asked.

“What
ever gave you that idea?”

“What happened to
make you like this?”

He looked at her.  She was an admittedly beautiful woman, but there was somet
hing about her he didn’t trust, even beyond the fact that she still paid loyalty to the Shard.  He couldn’t decide if she was more wolf than lamb, and that made her dangerous.

“What the hell do you care?”
he said.

Jade watched him for a moment with anger in her eyes. 

“I don’t,” she finally said, and she stood up and walked off.

“Ronan,” Moone said as he
came down from the edge of the hill.  “Should we get going?”

“Ye
ah,” Ronan shrugged.  “Round your people up.”

“They
’re not
my
people,” Moone said.  “I’m just helping them.”

“
They’re sure as hell not
my
people,” Ronan said.  “So that makes them
yours
.”

They walked for another two hours.  The sky bled dark.  For the last few minutes before sunset the sun looked like a candle floating in oil. 

The temperature
fell dramatically, and the need to find shelter became more pressing.  Moone and a couple of volunteers – young men from one of the farming settlements near Kalakkaii who claimed to have hunting experience – scouted ahead to find a place for the group to hide. 

“They
’d better hurry,” Greer said after they’d gone.  “It’s getting difficult to see where we’re going.”

No shit
, Ronan thought, but he kept his mouth shut.  The way ahead was covered with frost boils, patches of shale and deep crevices.  The clouds bled to pale wisps of red and black that hung unmoving in the sky, as if defiant of the razor-cold wind. 

“Maur is cold,” the Gol said.

“We’re
all
cold,” Taala said.  “And hungry.”

“We
know
,” Ronan said.  “We’re working on it.”

A tower of icy rock stood in the distance
, just at the edge of the Bone Hills.  Cold vapor curled away from the stone and formed a low mist.  The ground between them and the rock was so drenched with shadow it looked like a black sea.

Ronan kept his senses sharp, expecting attack.  The entire region
was controlled by Gorgoloth tribes.  They also needed to be wary of Vaath, intelligent arcane zombies who roamed in murderous bands; renegade Gol, outcasts from Meldoar who lived like barbarians; Cryl, thin human-like scavengers with preposterously long arms studded with razor protrusions; and of course the Blood Wolves, whose bays sounded in the forests to the south.

It
’s a Goddamn miracle we haven’t run into something already. 

Someone tripped and fell to the ground.  It took a minute to get
the man up.  The darkness was near absolute. 

“We have to stop,” Greer said.

“No,” Jade said.  “Not yet.  There’s no cover here.  We have to find shelter.”

“Look, if you
’re worried about us being seen…” Greer held up his arms.  They could barely make out more than his silhouette.  “I think we’re okay.”

“Most of the
creatures out here don’t rely on sight to hunt,” Ronan growled. Greer had no response to that. 

They
slowed their pace.  Ronan scanned the horizon, reached out with his senses, felt the darkness.  He’d been raised and trained to note disturbances in his surroundings, not just with sight (
Sight is useless,
the voice from the past said,
you are weak if you rely on your eyes)
but listening, smelling, feeling the difference in the wind.  He noted subtle shifts in the darkness.  His skin was tense, and when he swallowed again the air was different.
Felt
different. 

Something was wrong.

Gunfire rang out from up ahead, flashes of white against the black.  Guttural howls came out of the night.  Shadows moved through the dark.

The group
panicked.  Kyleara and Jade tried to direct everyone into a defensive perimeter.  Ronan drew his blade and handed his gun to Greer, who gave him a panicked look.

“W
hat do I do?” he asked.  Ronan didn’t answer, but left Greer with a terrified look on his face.

Maybe I
should
work on my people skills
, he thought.

Forms raced at them. 
Flares shot into the sky, and the identity of their attackers became clear.

Gol.

The small humanoids looked bestial.  Ronan had heard of Gol renegades, outcasts from Meldoar who’d been forced into the wilderness where they banded together and formed roving packs of marauders.  Those clans were desperate and insane, violent and unpredictable.

Over a dozen
mad Gol armed with pickaxes, razor swords and shotguns charged at the band of survivors.  Shots tore through the air as the dwarves howled with murderous glee.

Jade
’s spirit tore into their ranks and pelted the Gol with ice stones that knocked them back and tore open their grey skin.  Moone and Kyleara shot at the creatures, but the Gol were utterly fearless and seemed immune to pain.  They charged ahead even as their fellows fell dying to the ground. 

Ronan moved forward
and met them head on.  His mind narrowed to the razor edge needed for bloodshed.  He stepped in the Deadlands. 

He was barely aware
of his own motions as he dodged blades and slashed through Gol bodies with his katana.  Severed arms fell to the ground. Opened stomachs spilled organs and pale blood. 

More
dwarves charged down the hillside.  There were too many to count.  A few of the Gol stood on the ridge and fired flares into the sky, their scraggly beards bound in braids made from bone and razor fetishes.  They had mortars at the top of the hill, as well as a few bolt-action rifles.

“Jade
, cover us!” he shouted. 

H
e sliced through two more Gol and ran forward.  Moone held position two hundred yards to the west and mowed the Gol down as they charged at him with swords and axes.

Ronan
ran straight into their attackers and hacked through them with his blade.  His blood was ice cold.  He didn’t feel fear, didn’t feel anything.  His eyes were locked on the ridge.  Ronan’s heart pounded as he leapt, cut, dodged, and ran.  He was fifty yards from the mortars. 

The red flares
in the sky fizzled just as the mortars fired.  Shells popped into the air with hollow thuds.  He saw flashes of white flame. 

A
Gol gunner saw him and took aim, and was about to fire when a chain of explosions destroyed the ridge. Heat washed over Ronan’s body as mortars and dwarves vanished in a violent blaze of fire.  He was thrown back and landed on sharp stones that punched hard against his armor.  Pain flashed through his ribs.  He lay on his side, head ringing, and tried to pull himself up.

Another blast came from
further up the hill.  The Gol scattered and ran.  Red flares were replaced by white flares that hung in the night like angry suns.  He heard machinery to the west, the groan of wheels and tank treads.  A fast-moving Bloodhawk warship passed overhead with a sonic scream. 

Southern Claw.

Ronan rose on unsteady legs.  His eyes burned, and his sense of balance was gone.  Gol scattered all around him, but he wasn’t about to let them go. 

His blade flashed in the
ghostly light.  He hacked through limbs and sliced heads away from their brittle bodies.  Guns shattered and throats split.  Hot blood flashed onto his hands.  Exhausted though he was, Ronan moved without mercy or pause.  He was in the Deadlands.  He would not be stopped. 

Ronan
saw eyes and grey skin and open hands thrown up to defend against his attacks.  He moved with deadly grace and precision and ran his blade into every grey-fleshed enemy he met.  His boots were soaked in blood, and bits of Gol skin covered his face.

He dimly
heard an order to stand down.  Some distant part of his brain, the part unaffected by the rush of hate and anger that waited for him in the Deadlands, understood it wasn’t his enemies who ordered him to drop his weapon. 

A Gol a
pproached him, and he almost raised his blade to strike before he realized it was Maur.  His friend put a blanket over his shoulders.

“Easy,”
Maur said.  “Easy.”

Ronan closed his eyes, and let his body rest.

He was debriefed s
ome time later by Captain Alex Crylos, a lean and blonde-haired man with a strong jaw and a commanding presence.  Crylos’s second-in-command was a witch named Ankharra, an exotic Southern beauty with dozens of tattoos beneath her loose black cloak. 

“Maur and this man were members of a Southern Claw funded mercenary team led by Eric Cross,” Maur explained.

“That’s all fine and good…but who’s Maur?” Crylos asked.

“
He’s
Maur, for God’s sake,” Ronan growled.  He realized it was the first words he’d spoken in some time.

The tent was long and wide and fille
d with tables and maps.  Crylos, Ankharra, and another officer named Stark sat at a long wooden table across from Ronan and Maur.  The two of them had been cleaned up, and now wore thick winter coats to combat the night’s chill. 

Ronan
saw the deep of night through the tent-flap.  The howling wind sounded like a choir of lost voices, and the air was bitingly cold.  Snow blew by outside.  They seemed to be in an extended military camp filled with bivouacs and tents and armed Southern Claw soldiers.

“It speaks,” Ankharra laughed.
  It took Ronan a moment to realize she was talking about him.

He
recalled little of what had happened after the battle, which meant he’d had a particularly bad trip into the Deadlands.  That happened from time to time, especially back when he’d been a young initiate.  The more one isolated their mind, the greater the cost.  When he was fourteen, Ronan had been tested against a pair of Vuul gladiators.  He’d had no chance against them, and had been forced to go so deep into the Deadlands it was a wonder he’d been able to come back out.  Ronan had lost two days of his memory by the time it was all finished, and he’d done his best to avoid delving that far ever since.

“How long?” he asked.

“Just a few hours,” Ankharra said.  “I’m sure you’ve had worse.”

He looked at her. 
It was difficult to focus.  He felt like he’d been drugged. 

“You know what I am?”

She nodded.

“Your kind is rare,” she said.

“Rarer than you think,” he said.  “I don’t belong to the Order, or the Triangle.  Not anymore.”

“We know who you are,” Crylos said to both he and Maur.  “Though if you
’d stop referring to yourself in the third person, friend, it would make things a lot easier,” he explained to Maur.