The Witch's Eye (6 page)

Cross wandered through a labyrinth of stone
and ice. He passed dark pools of black gel and rows of knife-like icicles.  There was no telling how long he wandered.  His skin was frozen, but his blood burned.

He found a
cold stone chamber with walls of glittering sapphire ice.  A wolf-skin bed occupied one corner.  Bone firmaments and frozen fingers dangled from strings tied to hooks in the ceiling.  Another tunnel led away, blocked by a bear-skin curtain.  He smelled cinnamon and blood. 

Cross
made it halfway across the chamber when the blonde woman entered from the other direction.  She held a human skull in her hands, and she was so preoccupied with examining it that for a moment she didn’t notice him.

His blade was strapped to her back, and a bone knife hung from her belt.  He shouldn
’t have been able to move at all with how fatigued he was, but some power filled him, rage or desperation or something else, something darker.  Whatever it was, Cross launched himself at the woman with a snarl.  He didn’t know himself, didn’t recognize this creature wearing his skin.  He’d become like the other, the one he’d killed. 

The blonde
woman slashed him across the stomach, but it was only a glancing wound. He surged forward, tackled her, and brought them both to the ground.  She dropped the knife but lashed at him with her claws, ripped open his cheek.  Growling, he took her face in his hands and slammed her head against the floor, once, twice, a third time, and he kept smashing down until her head cracked and came apart in his fingers.  Blood dripped down his arms.

Cross fell back, crying. 

What have they done to me?

It didn
’t matter.  He had to survive, had to leave.  He had to find Danica.  He didn’t know where to start, but she certainly wasn’t in those caves.

He took his blade, and power
flowed into his body.  He held Soulrazor/Avenger so tightly his knuckles turned white.  Murder filled his heart.  He knew he had to destroy the other two women before he could escape.  He would never know what they’d wanted him for, for breeding or just for their cruel pleasure, but it didn’t matter. 

He would kill them.  He
had to.  He wanted to.

No. 
The
blade
wanted him to.  Cross realized with horror that the sword’s need had become his own. 

That doesn
’t matter now.  Worry about that later.  Now you have to escape.

He wrapped
the wolfskin blanket around his freezing body and set off down the tunnels, intent on fighting his way back to the surface.

THREE

FIRE

Ronan quickly came down the side of the hill.  Failing sunlight cut across the bruise-black sky.  The black clouds had rolled in quickly, but he couldn’t afford to wait.  He didn’t want to be stumbling around on the plains in total darkness, at least not if he could help it, but it would be easier to see once the Firehorns he’d spied from the top of the slope were on his tail. 

Ronan hadn
’t been hunting in years, ever since his time with the Crimson Triangle.  He’d been a boy then, not even twelve.  He remembered pale fields of blasted wheat and drifts of salt white sand.  The boys were punished if they came back empty handed, and there’d been times when they’d stayed out for days, fearful of what would happen if they returned without a prize for their masters.  The dead plains had been riddled with giant scorpions and arcane snakes.  He remembered the feeling of hard sand between his toes and the weight of the double-edged blade in his hands.  His knuckles and knees had gone raw, and he’d tasted grit and dust in his teeth.  He’d killed many things on those fields, and had learned the best ways to bring down a superior opponent with minimal danger to himself.  The boys had fought in packs, but even with their training many of them had died.

I haven
’t seen a Firehorn since
, Ronan thought as he raced away from the marsh and onto the plains.  Firehorns were fearless, and while the battle at Voth Ra’morg might have pushed them away they wouldn’t stray far if there was food to be had, since the big brute’s favored meal was carrion. 

The marsh gave way to flat
lands of frozen mud and hard black stone.  He ran at a fast and steady pace.  The downed vampire ship was in the distance, and its raging fire cast ghostly light into the darkening sky.  Ronan passed through a bank of shadow fog and found the Firehorns.

There were only
about two-dozen of the beasts.  It was a small herd, but still large enough for his purposes.  The creatures dug into the earth with curved horns in their search for rot grubs and black worms.  Three eyes sat high on their sloped pachyderm heads, and though their six stunted legs gave them a fearsome and ungainly appearance Ronan knew for a fact they could move fast if properly enraged.  They were bigger than he remembered, just over the size of a full-grown bull, and their scaly red flesh was riddled with bony white protrusions. 

The nearest
Firehorn paid him no heed – he wasn’t a threat yet.

He looked back the way he came. 
It was maybe three-quarters of a mile back to the Gorgoloth camp.  He had to lead the beasts where he wanted them to go without breaking his neck or getting trampled on.

The things I do for my friends.

Sword in hand, Ronan took a breath, tensed his muscles, and narrowed his vision.  His mind focused and hardened.  He set foot in the Deadlands.

H
e raced forward.  Sunlight glinted off his katana as he ducked low and sliced open the closest Firehorn’s throat with a clean, swift stroke.  The creature stumbled, its eyes darkened, and its heavy body toppled forward.  Scant traces of flame flickered in its nostrils as it died.

Ronan turned and
ran. He heard grunts and growls behind him.  The air burned with pale red flames.

He was outside himself,
a vessel, not a body.  His mind had taken him to another realm.  The mages of the Crimson Triangle called it the Deadlands: the place where killers dwelled.  Ronan went there at will, and while it was sometimes difficult to return, the journey had its benefits.  His vision went almost black and white as he gazed through a shadowy reflection of the world.  The burning pain in his legs faded.  He felt a sense of calm even though he was in mortal danger. 

Orange light at his back lit
the way ahead.  Thunderous hooves shook the ground.  A mass of armored bodies chased him.  He smelled flames and brimstone, and jets of fire lanced past him as he came to the bottom of the hill. 

He
cleared the distance back to the ship quickly.  His body was weary, but he kept moving, locked on his destination.

Gorgoloth shouted
from above as Ronan ran up the steep hill. The shattered warship was at the top of the rise, just beyond a cluster of broken rocks.  He reached the apex of the slope and rounded a tall spire of blasted granite.  The campsite and its blazing fire came into view.  A Gorgoloth sentry charged at him with a bone club, but Ronan easily dodged the attack and sliced the creature’s throat. 

Ronan
ducked behind a stone, and let the Firehorns do the rest. 

The beasts charged into the camp with fury in their eyes.  Gorgoloth moved to meet the flaming beasts head on, and their brutal ferocity served them, at least for a time.  Spears and slings brought the lead
Firehorn down in a heap of shell and flame, and it tumbled to the ground in a pool of its own molten blood. 

White manes and black skin leapt at the herd
. Bodies collided.  Gorgoloth were set aflame and stone hammers smashed pachyderm eyes.  Bodies were trampled and exploded in bursts of gore. 

Bestial
howls and the terrified screams of prisoners filled Ronan’s ears as he followed the Firehorns into the camp.

He hacked two Gorgoloth
down before they even saw him.  The barbarians were undisciplined and ravenous, and they pushed one another out of the way in their bid to get to the front of the battle.  Only a few kept their eyes on the prisoners, and Ronan hacked those sentries down one by one, so swift and silent that he reached his next target before his previous victim hit the ground. 

T
he battle raged behind him.  Prisoners saw Ronan and pleaded for release.  He hacked through the cage-locks with grim efficacy, and before long the prisoners were able to use their weight to force the doors open.

The
roar of the Firehorns echoed into the sky.  Ronan felt the heat of the battle as the fires drew close to the cages. 

“Over the slope!” he shouted
.  He pointed at the ridge opposite where the Firehorns had attacked the camp.  “Maur?!  Where are you?!”

A few
Gorgoloth ran back from the battle to attack the escaping prisoners. A man’s head exploded beneath the force of a heavy stone hammer, and two soldiers were gutted with spears. 

Ronan
stepped forward and sliced a Gorgoloth’s head off with his katana, then pierced another through the chest.  He side-stepped just in time to avoid a spear decorated with human teeth.  His assailant raised another spear, but icy blades cleaved into its skull from behind. 

Jade
shaped her spirit into a crimson saw and hewed through two more Gorgoltoh.  Both she and Maur were bloody and bruised.

“Maur is happy to see you!” the Gol shouted.

“Move!” Ronan barked.  Maur gave him a hurt look.

Ronan ducked
.  A fist-sized stone flew past his head.  He couldn’t tell how many Gorgoloth or Firehorns were left, but more and more of the black-skinned humanoids had turned away from the battle to come deal with the escapees.  Many of the prisoners were hampered by injuries or fatigue, but they ran for the ridge as fast as they could.  Ronan wiped blood and sweat from his face and followed, shoving Jade and Maur along ahead of him. 

Licks of
fire arched into the black sky and came down like burning rain.  Bursts of steam covered the ground.  The cages caught alight.

T
he prisoners dove over the ridge and moved down the hill.  Ronan came to the edge, where Maur and Jade helped a woman and a soldier slide down. 

“
Could you go any slower?!” Ronan yelled.

Jade scowl
ed. 

A gro
up of Gorgoloth charged straight at them.  They were just ebon silhouettes against the backdrop of flames and beasts. 

Ronan felt the air pull towards them
.  Frost burned his tongue and turned his skin raw.  Jade’s spirit whispered as it gathered itself.  Crackling energy shook the air.  Jets of azure liquid shot out of the ground and gelled into a curtain of frozen mist that fell onto the Gorgoloth.  The ice burned through their skin and tore them to bloody chunks.

“
Now
we can go,” Jade said, and she started down the hill.

Ronan laughed.

“I guess she can come,” he said.

“Maur thinks you are
both full of surprises,” the Gol said.  He was about to slide down the slope, but Ronan grabbed him and insisted he climb up onto his back.  Maur agreed, reluctantly.

Full of surprises?
he thought.  He watched Jade as she slid down.  The flames made the air behind them orange and thick, but the marsh below was dark beneath the clouds. 
Let’s hope not.

They
made their way down the slope, leaving the throes of battle behind them.

They worked their way across the marsh and towards the ruins of Voth Ra’morg.  Ronan didn’t like the idea of going back, but one of the rescued, a young soldier named Moone, made an excellent point:
some
shelter was better than
no
shelter, and the best chance they had to defend themselves would be in the city.

Ronan had rescued
seventeen survivors from the Gorgoloth cages, not counting Maur and Jade.  That meant they had a group of more than twenty that needed protecting, and Ronan quickly grew tired thinking about how difficult that was going to be.  Most of the survivors were farmers, settlers and travelers bound for Kalakkaii, Vale or Fane.  The two soldiers, Moone and Kyleara, were on leave from the engineer’s core out of Ath, while the rest of the refugees were from remote settlements that had stood in the Gorgoloth’s destructive path. 

Voth Ra
’morg’s buildings were silent and dark.  Stars burned cold in the pale sky.  A haze of smoke lingered in the air, and wind rattled the city walls. 

The
large group took shelter in an empty warehouse located just off the main city streets.  They started a fire and took stock of their meager possessions.  There wasn’t much food, and they quickly learned they weren’t any better off with their other supplies, either.  Things weren’t looking good.

The fire raged and curled
.  It wouldn’t burn forever, but it would keep them warm for a time.  The survivors huddled around the blaze.  The warehouse was spacious and relatively empty except for some old stone columns and a set of rusted storage lockers, as well as an ancient Buick with no engine block.  Though most of the windows had been shattered there was only one real way into the building, a large sliding steel door with a working lock.  Moone stood guard at the door with an M16, one of the few weapons they’d scavenged along the way.