But that wasn’t true, Cross realized as he sat there, shivering and staring out at the Loch. He was just as broken as the rest of us. We all knew what we were getting into, we knew the risks.
That didn’t make things any easier. Ever since he’d heard of Kane’s death Cross felt like a blade had been wedged in his chest, and it wouldn’t go away. Part of him didn’t want it to.
After a while he and Danica walked the perimeter. They hadn’t spoken for a time, just watched the others and the setting sun.
“The White Mother,” Cross said at last. “Jesus.”
“You’ve been trying to get in and see her for what feels like forever,” Danica said. “If figured you’d be excited.”
“Not so much, no,” Cross said after he thought about it. “I mean…she’s supposed to be divine, right?”
“She’s just another avatar,” Danica said. “Remember? Just like Korva, and the Woman in the Ice.”
“I’m not sure if I want to bring that up with her,” Cross said with a nervous laugh. “The people of the Southern Claw worship the woman. If not for her guidance we wouldn’t even be here.” The White Mother had been their beacon of hope and power ever since the early days of the war. She’d come to mankind just after they’d discovered magic, and she’d directed the formation of the Southern Claw and the construction of the city-states, showed them resources and allies and weapons they might never have found, and used her knowledge of the Ebon Cities and its leader, the enigmatic Grim Father, to help humans survive when they almost certainly would have been lost.
He glanced sideways at Danica. He couldn’t stop looking at her.
“What do you make of all of this?” he asked her, wanting to talk, but not about what had happened. “Laros taking us to Ath…everyone having some ‘important role to play’. It sounds like Lith prophecy.”
“I think Laros is a slime,” Danica said without hesitation. “But I also can’t believe he’d have anything but the best interests of the Southern Claw in mind. And since we have nothing else to go on…”
“Those were my thoughts, too,” Cross said.
His heart skipped a beat. She was so beautiful, and seemed different in so many ways. Whatever the Revengers had done to her had affected more than just her body. They’d violated her in the worse possible way, had twisted and turned her soul inside out. They’d destroyed her, and then built her again.
I wish I could have been there to stop them, he wanted to say, but he knew she wouldn’t hear it. I wish I could have kept it from happening, wish I could have kept all of this happening. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Kane being dead and gone just didn’t seem real. Ash, and Grissom. Snow, burning on the train. Stop. Damn it, you have to stop.
He watched her. Her hair lifted in the pale breeze, and her smooth skin shone in the light. He wanted so much to reach out and touch her.
He stopped. She looked at him, and smiled.
“Dani…” he started, but she put her fingers to his lips.
“Wait, Eric,” she said. “I have something I need to say.” Their hands clasped. Her metal grip was tight, and Cross winced, but Danica quickly adjusted her grip. “Sorry…I can’t get used to this damn thing…” She brushed her hair aside. “I…” She hesitated.
Cross looked right at her. “Danica, I think I love you.”
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. A broken smile.
“I know. And I think I love you…but I can’t, Eric.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes, and held his hands.
“I don’t understand…” he said.
“I’m not sure if I can make you understand,” she said. “It’s…complicated. For me. I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone. Not anymore.”
“If you’re talking about this…” he turned her metal palm upwards, “trust me, I’m not worried about it…”
“But I am,” she said. “But it’s not just that. I…” She looked away, and bit her lip. Cross’s chest was pounding. He didn’t want her to say it, what she needed to say, what he knew she’d say. “I love you,” she said. “But I can’t do this, Eric.” She looked him in the eyes. “I want to. Believe me, I do.”
“Then do,” he said. His voice cracked. “We may be dead tomorrow, Dani…”
“That doesn’t change anything,” she said. “Eric…I’m a mess. You’re a mess. This whole planet is a mess…”
“Then let’s hold onto something good…”
“God damn it, Eric, stop being so optimistic!” she said. “It’s not that easy. Just because you want things to work out doesn’t mean they can!” She choked down whatever she was going to say next. Cross watched her, and fought back his own tears. He nodded sullenly. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she straightened and wiped her eyes. “You just stormed into my life,” she said with a grim laugh. “You changed everything. I wish things could be like you want them to be.”
Cross felt hollow. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it would be like this, and that it was probably for the best.
“We’re broken,” he said. “I thought maybe I could change that for you, for me…for Mike…but some things can’t be fixed.” He looked at her. He felt weak all over, worn. And he knew they still had so far to go. “I love you,” he said. “And I’m…sorry for messing up your life…”
“Shut up,” she said quietly. “You didn’t mess anything up. Without you I’d have wound up dead. Or worse, I’d still be a Revenger.” She pulled him close and hugged him. Her body was warm. He held her tight. “I owe you so much. And I’m sorry….so sorry…that we can’t be more.”
Cross shuddered at the words. “I understand,” he said.
Danica pulled back, and looked into his eyes. “Eric…”
“No, I do,” he said. “I really do. I’m…very glad to have met you, Danica. Thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Thank you…” He tasted tears, his, hers. “For being my friend.”
“I always will be,” she said. “I promise.”
They stood there for a while and held each other, ignoring the world around them. Bloodhawks took off and landed; tanks and half-tracks rolled across the open beach; the waves of Rimefang Loch crashed on the shore as dry thunderheads rumbled in the distance. People were watching them, but they didn’t care.
I’ll always love you, Cross wanted to say. I promise. But he wouldn’t. They’d said all they needed to.
PART TWO
EXILES
FIVE
DOWN
The Skyhawk flew through the night. It would only be a few hours before they reached Ath, assuming they could avoid the heavy cross-winds and stay clear of any unexpected Ebon Cities’ artillery. The air was calm, the wind sharp and cold. Ronan stood on the deck and looked out across the sea of rust orange clouds. Steel rattled beneath his feet, and his sensed the vastness of the sky all around them.
The setting sun was a fading glow in the distance, and the silhouettes of dark birds angled across the sky. The clouds cleared, revealing the devastation to the east. From their aerial vantage they saw miles of scorched earth and burning settlements. The ground had turned black beneath the advance of Fane’s army. Scores of war machines, Troj, Ebonbacks and soldiers cut a violent trail across the bleeding landscape. The river was filled with bodies and debris and ran thick with blood and oil.
Fane’s forces had destroyed everything they’d encountered along the Bloodnight River. Talon Company engaged them about a hundred miles east of Seraph.
“Why are we going to Ath?” Ronan asked.
Laros stood nearby on the deck. He looked at Ronan with contempt. “If you must know, it’s because that’s where we relocated the White Mother once Fane’s destination became clear. The White Council has no intention of letting her fall into enemy hands.”
“You don’t think you can defend the capital?” he asked.
“We’re not taking any chances.”
The Skyhawk
was a large transport vessel. It had few amenities, as it was used for hauling multiple Squads and large pieces of equipment into hot zones, though it did have quarters for use by officers and special passengers, and there was plenty of room to move around above deck even with all of the swivel-mounted 20mm cannons and smaller Bloodhawks strapped down with chains and wires.
The ship moved fast and the hull shook violently. Ronan found himself gripping the railing every time the vessel hit turbulence. They passed through mist and fog, and Ronan wiped a gloved hand over his face to pull away a film of icy moisture. They were in one of the few regions in the Southern Claw that saw any precipitation, even if it was scant.
The ship rattled beneath him. Massive turbine engines growled like beasts, and the hard gusts of wind made Ronan feel like he was about to be whisked off into open sky. His cloak rippled, and he kept his face wrapped tight, as his scars ached out there in the cold.
His mood was grim. No one knew what to expect from a meeting with the White Mother, and the scope of the tasks before them weighed heavy. They had to engage Fane and keep them from taking Seraph, and they needed to stop the Maloj, wolf sorcerers from horror stories, clearly more real than anyone had ever dared imagine.
They’re inside of me.
The thought came and went. By the time Ronan realized something had worried him he’d already forgotten it. He waited a minute, tried to recognize what had set him on edge, and when he couldn’t think of anything he dismissed it as nerves.
Ath loomed on the horizon. It was a city of twisted stone spires and crenelated towers, iron ramparts and barbicans shielded with thaumaturgically-reinforced steel. Ath stood at the edge of a tall cliff overlooking Rimefang Loch, a jagged shadow against the sky. Its walls fused to the crusted mountain on which it stood, and the city was only accessible by way of a number of carefully controlled roads and tunnels. Gargoyle mercenaries and Bloodhawks circled the blood-black sky, and columns of smoke trailed into the dusk air. Even from that distance Ronan tasted industrial grit.
But what Ath was most renowned for was its giants. A massive force of Doj mercenaries patrolled the valuable city-state at both the ground level and from the sky, and their arsenal was impressive. Several rode on Hookwings, enormous reptilian fliers with multiple fanged mouths and four enormous sets of wings. Both the giants and their mounts were easily visible from a distance. These were the true Doj, Deep Doj, who could grow to twenty-feet tall and yielded lances like swords and rifles the size of cannons. Like their Hookwings the Deep Doj were few, and most chose to remain far underground, away from men and vampires and wars. The White Mother and the warlocks of Ath had secured an alliance after the Battle of Bloodfield, when the Ebon Cities had wiped out one of the Deep Doj’s few topside settlements. Rather than return to their home in shame the survivors chose to remain and aid humans with the war effort. Their fortress was on the ground in the shadow of Ath, a block of stone and iron with a fused and smoking core like a fallen meteorite. The giants roamed within, keeping to themselves except when they were called upon. If their numbers weren’t so few they could have truly changed the tide of the war.
The Bloodhawk flew over the Doj compound. Ronan counted less than a dozen of the giants, and wondered if he’d be able to kill one if he had to. He knew it was wrong of him to wonder that. Normal people might question where the giants came from, and what it was like there; they’d wonder what the giants ate, what they had in common with humans; they’d wonder if the Doj would ever earn their chance to go home and return to their rightful place.
None of those questions interested Ronan in the least. He only knew how to do one thing well, and no matter how much he tried to fool himself that was never going to change.
They’re at the border. They taste life on the other side, and it’s intoxicating. They want it, need it. The very smell of the untainted reality beyond the barrier makes their jaws slaver with anticipation and lust.
He stands at the precipice of that oozing black, a pillar of darkness which fills the sky. He feels drawn to the wall of dead fluid, pulled like he’s falling towards a vertical night. Clawed hands stretch against the other side of the prison’s rippling surface.
He doesn’t resist. A razor caress of pain tickles at the edge of his mind. Smoking ebon claws skim across his naked flesh. He feels rank animal breath on the back of his neck. Eyes like coals stare into him.
A weapon weighs heavy in his hand. He turns and sees a shining beacon behind him, a glare of white light. He hears his own voice screaming in the distance.
All around him is the black void, a sea of grisly ink.
It’s their bodies, he realizes. They are the night. They are oblivion.
The weapon grows heavier. He can barely move his arms. Talons take hold and peel his skin away. His feet smoke against the cold earth as he stumbles, intoxicated with power.
He tries to speak, but only a growl comes out. He moves across a bone-colored landscape, a crumbling bastion of solid matter in the oily sea. The light shrinks, and he gives chase.
He can’t let it escape.
The first blast jarred Ronan awake. He thought it was part of his dream, a dream he instantly forgot upon waking. All he could recall was that it had been something about wolves, and the night.
The second blast rocked the Skyhawk even harder. The vehicle shook so violently Ronan banged his head against the wall.
“Fuck!” he shouted. “Ow!”
“What the hell was that?!” Stark yelled. Panicked voices echoed through the dark, and the dull roar of the failing engines cut through the walls.
The ship had proved to be too crowded for anyone to have quarters to themselves. Creasy, Ronan, Grail, Stark and Reza shared a single room, a large and narrow chamber with uncomfortable cots bolted into the walls, weapons racks up above, and small storage lockers next to the doors at either end. The green metal was stark and cold, and Ronan thought the living space had all the homey charm of a set of steak knives.
Stark was on his feet, holding on to one of the weapons racks and looking up at the ceiling as if some hidden power of x-ray vision would reveal the answer to his question. Reza had been busy loading magazines and Creasy, like Ronan, had decided to get some sleep. Grail was seated on the floor of the cabin, his face-mask on and his bow across his lap while he meditated or prayed or did whatever it was the Lith did.
Ronan blinked, and sat up. Though the cots had safety belts so sleepers could strap themselves down in case of emergency he hadn’t bothered to use them. Ronan didn’t like being locked into anything, even if it was for his own good. His neck was stiff, his eyes were blurry and his tongue was dry with the taste of something rotten.
Another blast shook the vessel, and Ronan was thrown from the cot. He reached out and grabbed the wall and only barely avoided falling on his face. They heard metal ripping in the distance as something tore away from the ship.
“That can’t be good…” Reza said.
“I’m heading for the Bridge!” Stark yelled. He checked his weapon and dashed out the door. Ronan heard klaxons in the distance, and the sound of explosions. The ship buckled.
Grail rose to his feet. Creasy unstrapped himself and looked around. “What the hell is going on?” the warlock asked Reza.
“We’re taking enemy fire,” she said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. We wouldn’t be shaking like this if…”
Another blast came, loud and heavy. The ship lurched and sank.
“We’re losing altitude,” Ronan said. “Parachutes?”
“Escape pods,” Reza said.
“You go with her,” he told Creasy.
“Where are you going?” Creasy asked.
“To make sure two of my only friends are all right.” Ronan grabbed his pack.
Creasy did the same. “No offense, but I’m coming with you,” he said. “I’d rather we all stay together.”
They took what equipment they could fit in their packs and rushed into the hall. Blaring
sirens and flashing red and white lights made the air spin. Blasts of steam erupted from the walls. Soldiers and crewmen were everywhere, confused and frightened. The blare of the alarms was deafening.
“Which way?” Ronan asked.
“To what?” Reza asked.
“Cross and Black.”
“Just down the main hall, to the right,” she said, and she pointed down a steep corridor.
The halls were tightly angled and steep. The central wide corridor was lined with stairs and side passages leading off to other decks and compartments. The place was a maze, but Ronan knew if you stuck to the main hall you could run from fore to aft and pass the Engine Room, Navigation, Armory and Bridge, each area sealed with thaumaturgically reinforced steel doors. The various cabins were scattered throughout the port and starboard sections, along with the Mess, the Science Lab, Medical and the cargo holds. The ship was big enough to carry an entire battalion, plus all of their equipment.
Creasy and Grail were at his back as Ronan followed Reza through the crowd. The signal to battle-stations had been sounded. Soldiers pulled on shirts and armor jackets and crewmen in flight suits ran with a purpose towards Engineering or Weapons Control. The high-vaulted ceiling rattled as another explosion rang out.
“How far?” he barked.
“Ronan,” Reza snapped. “Why don’t…”
The next blast ripped the air apart. Steel and fire barreled through the hall and bodies were torn in half beneath a wave of metal and flame. Ronan smelled napalm and burning blood.
He flew against the wall. Soldiers went down. Viscera steamed on the floor, and people were on fire. The ship tilted. Another boom came, so loud he thought his ears would explode.
He felt the ship falling, and for just a few seconds he was weightless, hovering over the metal as if it repelled him. His stomach twisted and his heart froze. He thought about entering the Deadlands, but he knew he didn’t have time.
The ship went sideways and back. The floor became the wall. A droning emergency call rang out, something like out of an old movie, a panic horn to indicate the ship was going down.
Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) Page 6
