Cloak Games: Shatter Stone

by Jonathan Moeller

  “How did you get that dent on your fender?” said Riordan as I backed the van out.

  “Ran over an anthrophage,” I said.

  He snorted but said nothing.

  A half-hour later I parked behind my apartment building and helped Riordan inside. I got him to my bed, and he lay down and passed out. I had never seen anyone fall asleep that quickly. I stared down at him for a moment and then touched his face. His skin felt feverish hot, but he didn’t stir.

  Well. I had finally gotten Riordan into bed. Just not in the way I would have preferred.

  I went to the living room and dug an unused burner phone out of its packaging, texting the location of the stolen truck to Homeland Security. That done, I used the crappy little phone’s Internet connection to check the local news. There was a report of a huge accident on the causeway, but it wasn’t described as a gunfight or a terrorist attack. Knowing how Homeland Security operated, they had likely decided to cover it all up.

  And while many people had been injured, no one had been killed. I could comfort myself with that, at least.

  I destroyed the phone, went to the bathroom, and cleaned up the cuts on my face and temple. They looked worse than they were, though I would have half a dozen bandages on my face until everything healed. I had a lot of bruises on my arm and hip and thigh from my various falls, but I hadn’t broken anything. Perhaps it was just as well Riordan and I weren’t going to sleep together tonight. I might have been too sore to enjoy it.

  Or so I told myself. Somehow I suspected I would have rallied.

  I dug out some blankets, rolled up on the floor in the living room, and went to sleep.

  Tomorrow was going to be a busy day, and I would need all the sleep I could get.

  Chapter 8: The Path of Logic

  The next morning, I was both relieved and annoyed.

  Relieved, because Riordan was his usual self, strong and full of vigor. The Shadowmorph had worked wonders on him.

  Annoyed, because I felt like crap.

  Riordan might have been able to sleep off a car crash and a fight, but I sure couldn’t. I had a nasty headache, my back hurt, and the bruises on my hip and elbow throbbed. My right leg kept cramping at odd times, and I wondered if I had pulled a muscle during yesterday’s adventures.

  It could have been much worse.

  “How are you feeling?” said Riordan.

  “Oh, just daisy fresh,” I said, glaring at the coffee maker and willing it to go faster.

  “Are you ready for this?” said Riordan.

  I started to snap something, but stopped and swallowed my words. Riordan had saved my life, and at great cost of pain to himself, and he didn’t deserve the business end of my bad mood. “Doesn’t matter. Today is our best chance to get to Venomhold and out alive again, and I have to take that chance. Ready or not, I’m going.” I hesitated. “You…don’t have to go if…”

  “Stop,” said Riordan without rancor. “I said I’m going to help you, and that’s that.”

  We stood in silence for a moment. I listened to the coffee maker croak and wheeze.

  “Sorry about your truck,” I said at last.

  “It was a good truck,” said Riordan. “But I can always buy a new one. It’s Mr. Cane’s fault, not yours.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for staying. You…didn’t have to stay for all of this.”

  “I know,” said Riordan.

  I laughed.

  “What?”

  “You’re a good boyfriend,” I said. “You stayed for breakfast, and we didn’t even sleep together.”

  Riordan blinked, and then burst out laughing. He hardly ever did that, and I felt myself grinning. “I can only imagine what Nora would say.”

  “I don’t have to imagine it,” I said. “You could just call her up, and she would say it at great length and detail.” I hesitated. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think we could have…uh, done anything last night. I was too sore, and you were unconscious the minute you got through the door.”

  “Too bad,” said Riordan, his voice quiet.

  Again, that sharp wave of attraction went through me. This time, it wasn’t from the Shadowmorph. It was just him.

  “Yeah,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Too bad.”

  The moment stretched on. Fortunately, the coffee maker croaked to completion before things got awkward. I poured us both mugs of coffee, and I took three ibuprofen pills and washed them down.

  “I’m ready when you are,” said Riordan.

  I wasn’t even remotely ready. I mean, I was prepared regarding equipment, but I didn’t want to go to the Shadowlands, and I did not ever want to go to Venomhold again.

  But I didn’t have any other choice.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll drive.”

  ###

  It was snowing as I pulled into traffic, and the snow only intensified as we drove towards Garden Cemetery. Riordan turned on the radio, and according to the forecast, Milwaukee was under a blizzard warning.

  “Great,” I said.

  “Good thing this van is so heavy,” said Riordan as I drove with cautious care down the street. Driving in snow isn’t as bad as people from, say, Arizona think that it is. You just have to be careful, keep your speed down, and pay attention. That said, it does help to drive a heavy vehicle loaded down with equipment.

  “I appreciate all the extra swords and armor you brought,” I said. “The extra weight helps.”

  We had stopped by the Family’s safe house, and Riordan had equipped himself for our excursion into the Shadowlands. He wore black body armor made of some sort of carbon-fiber weave and ceramic strike plates. It would stop bullets, which would be useless in the Shadowlands, but it would also stop claws and fangs, which would be much more helpful. Since guns did not work in the Shadowlands, he had retrieved a pair of swords and some sort of complex-looking crossbow built of black metal.

  I had my spells, and so did Riordan and Hakon. Robert Ross didn’t have any magical ability, but he ought to be able to handle himself in a fight.

  And if the Knight of Venomhold or her lieutenants found us, none of that would make a scrap of difference.

  I drove through the worsening weather until I came to the Garden Cemetery. It was out on the western side of Brookfield, and it was a big, spacious cemetery that looked almost like a nice park. There were rows of headstones on the outer lawn, and past them was a building that looked like a stately mansion, which no doubt served as the site for funerals and memorials.

  “Drive past the mansion,” said Riordan, pointing. “We’ll want to go to the crypts.”

  “Crypts?” I said, easing the van forward. The driveway hadn’t been plowed, and I suspected that not too many people would show up in the first half of February during a blizzard to put flowers on graves.

  “Crypts,” said Riordan, and a dry note entered his voice. “If you have money, this is where you get buried.”

  When he said “crypts,” I pictured something from one of Russell’s spy movies, a crumbling building with statues of weeping angels and suchlike out front. Instead, the crypts of Garden Cemetery looked like giant file cabinets built of expensive marble. There were dozens and dozens of the things, and each marble slab had pewter letters on the front with names and dates. I suppose when someone died, they just slid the coffin into the slot and closed it with one of those marble slabs.

  I spotted a black SUV parked in front of one of the crypts. It hadn’t been there long, to judge from tire tracks in the snow, but already the windshield had been covered with a white layer.

  “That’s Captain Ross’s vehicle,” said Riordan.

  “Right,” I said, pulling my Cavanserai into the spot next to it. Four of the big file-cabinet crypts stood in a square around a garden, and I spotted two men in black standing by the garden, sheltering from the storm against one of the crypts. “That’s them. Looks like he gave Mr. Valborg a ride.”

  I shut off the engine,
and we got out, and I staggered a little in the wind. I was wearing heavy boots, black jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater, and a heavy overcoat, and beneath it all, I was wearing thermal underwear, but it was still cold, and the wind drove snow and ice into my face, which made the cuts on my temple sting.

  Here’s another fun fact about being short – it’s harder to get through the damned snow. I followed Riordan as he headed towards the crypts, using the footprints he left to ease my passage.

  Robert and Hakon awaited us next to one of the crypts. Like Riordan, Robert wore black body armor and bore an arsenal of swords and a crossbow. Hakon was wrapped up in a heavy black overcoat, a fur hat perched upon his head, his arms crossed over his chest to stay warm.

  “Miss Novoranya,” said Robert, shouting over the wind. “Mr. Corvus. Welcome! A fine day for a march, isn’t it?” He sounded like a drill sergeant barking at his troops at dawn.

  “I never thought I would look forward to returning to the Shadowlands,” said Hakon, “but at least it will probably be warmer at Hangman’s Ring.”

  “Corvus?” I said. “Which way?”

  “The older tombs,” said Riordan.

  We crossed the square and stopped before another crypt. It was a ten by ten square of slots, and every single tomb had a name and a date on it. To judge from the dates, most of them occupants had been dead for thirty or forty years. The white marble of the tombs had a peculiar grayish tint that seemed wrong.

  “This is it?” said Robert.

  “Yes,” said Riordan, tapping one of the tombs with a gloved hand. “The marble here came from Hangman’s Ring.”

  “All right,” I said, flexing my cold fingers as I began to gather power for the spell. “When I open the rift way, move quickly. I won’t be able to hold it open for long. Corvus, you go first. You’ll have the best chance of dealing with anything hostile. Captain Ross, you go next, and then you, Mr. Valborg. Once you’re all through, I’ll follow. If you have any electronics on you, make sure they’re powered off. Otherwise, they’ll fry once we’re through the rift way.”

  “Left my phone in the car,” said Robert. He took a deep breath. “If we make it out of this alive, first thing I’m doing is calling my wife.”

  “Good idea,” I said. I didn’t want to think about Alexandra or her baby just now. “Ready?”

  All three men nodded.

  I turned to face the tombs again, taking deep breaths and gathering magical power. I could cast a rift way, but it was a powerful spell, and it would take all my strength and concentration. It’s hard to concentrate when you’re freezing cold, and bits of ice keep hitting you in the face, but I did it.

  I focused on the stone of the tombs, flung out my hand, and cast the spell.

  A sheet of gray mist rolled up before the crypts, shining with light. It formed itself into a gash in the air, and through the gash, I glimpsed a gray plain with a black sky, rocky menhirs rising from the earth alongside leafless black trees…

  “Go!” I said, my voice a hard crack.

  Riordan didn’t hesitate, but went through the rift way, drawing one of his swords as he did. Robert sprinted after him, and then Hakon went, my arms trembling with effort as I held the rift way open. It felt like holding heavy weights over my head when I exercise, right when I was almost at the point of muscle failure.

  I darted through the rift way and into the Shadowlands, letting the spell collapse behind me.

  Rift ways feel odd. Physically, they’re just a single step. Magically, however, they take you from Earth and into the Shadowlands, that endless world between the worlds. It always feels like a shock, even if it is just a single step. The Shadowlands is also the source of magic, and the power surged into me, which made me feel as if I had just dunked myself into a tank of ice water.

  I found myself standing on a plain of colorless grass. The sky was utterly black and starless, and peculiar ribbons of blue and purple and green fire writhed overhead. Here and there menhirs rose from the ground, their weathered sides carved with odd glyphs. About a hundred yards away I saw a ring of enormous black trees, each one taller than a church steeple, their branches barren of leaves. Dozens of nooses hung from the branches, each one holding a withered, emaciated corpse robed in black.

  Hangman’s Ring. Charming.

  Next to the Ring ran a road of white stone. It was about twenty feet wide, smooth and flat and hard. Alongside the road stood monoliths of rough gray stone, each of their four sides covered with glowing Elven hieroglyphics. The stones stood alongside the road at regular intervals. This was the Warded Way, the road through the Shadowlands, and the spells upon the road kept the creatures of the Shadowlands off the Way.

  Most of them, anyway.

  Unfortunately, the rift way had not deposited us on the Warded Way, and Riordan, Robert, and Hakon were fighting for their lives.

  We had landed in a pack of wraithwolves.

  The creatures looked vaguely like wolves, albeit larger and far more muscular than normal wolves. Despite their bulk, they seemed somehow gaunt and lean. Strange bony armor covered their long bodies and their heads, making it look as if they wore a second skeleton or perhaps a suit of armor. Their black fur was ragged and stringy, and their eyes burned with a red gleam.

  A dozen of the creatures moved around us. Riordan had dropped his sword, and the black blade of his Shadowmorph extended from his right hand like a shaft of darkness. He flicked his wrist, and the blade of power took the head from a wraithwolf, both head and body tumbling to the ground. Robert fought next to him, not moving as fast as the Shadow Hunter, but he fought with no less skill. His sword flashed out, cutting wounds in the wraithwolves, and Riordan seized their moment of stunned pain to kill them.

  Hakon was casting a spell, head bowed, hands moving before him, and fires burned upon his fingers. A wraithwolf bounded towards him, and the old man showed no sign that he noticed. I cursed, spun, and drew on my own power, flinging out a hand. A globe of blue-white lightning burst from my fingers and slammed into the charging wraithwolf, and the creature reared back with an inhuman howl of pain. I cast the spell again, and this time the globe struck the wraithwolf in the head, the lightning burning through its armored skull to sink into its brain. The creature went into a jerking dance and collapsed to the ground, the stench of burned wraithwolf meat flooding my nostrils.

  One of the wraithwolves struck Robert, knocking him to the ground. I cursed and hit the wraithwolf with a lightning globe, stunning the creature, and Robert drove his sword into its snapping jaws. Riordan killed another wraithwolf, the Shadowmorph blade a dark blur in his hands, but still more of the damned wraithwolves were coming.

  Hakon shouted and flung out his right hand, his face contorted with concentration and effort. A globe of white-hot fire the size of a baseball burst from his fingers and slammed into the head of the nearest wraithwolf. The sphere of flame turned the wraithwolf’s head into a charred stump, and the creature collapsed.

  It had been an impressive display of magical power, but it wasn’t over yet.

  Hakon swept his hands to the side, and the sphere of fire leaped from the dead wraithwolf and slammed into the next, shooting through its head like a bullet. Under Hakon’s direction, the globe jumped from wraithwolf to wraithwolf, leaving smoking carcasses in its wake. He killed seven of the creatures before his spell faded away, leaving only two wraithwolves left. Riordan took down one with a slash of his Shadowmorph blade, and I hit the second with a lightning globe, stunning it long enough for Robert to take off its head.

  Silence fell, and I looked around, breathing hard, but I didn’t see any other enemies nearby.

  “Good fight,” said Robert, wiping down his sword. He nodded towards one the dead wraithwolves. “I think this one was the alpha of the pack. If there are any survivors, they won’t come after us.” He nodded towards Hakon. “Nice spell, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Hakon, catching his breath. “I am out of practice. When I was your age I could ha
ve done nine wraithwolves with a single sphere.”

  I shook his head. “Yes, you killed only seven of the damned things in half as many seconds. Clearly, you’ve become defenseless.” Hakon snorted once but didn’t respond.

  “We had better head for the Warded Way,” said Robert. He sheathed his sword and drew his crossbow. “The Exokrator Milaxes should be along shortly. Best we meet him when he arrives at Hangman’s Ring. This way.”

  We set off towards the Ring and the Warded Way, leaving the dead wraithwolves behind. The pale gleaming stone of the Way drew nearer, as did the dark shadow of the Ring. I saw that the corpses in the nooses looked human, albeit desiccated with age, and every single of them wore a tattered black robe with a hood.

  “So where did those things come from?” I said. “I can’t imagine that anyone would go to the trouble of hanging people in the Shadowlands.”

  “The trees themselves hang their victims,” said Hakon.

  I gave him a startled look. So did Robert and Riordan. Evidently, they hadn’t heard this before.

  “The trees…hang people?” I said. Come to think of it, the trees looked…off, even by the standards of the Shadowlands. Their trunks gleamed as we drew closer, and something wet was dripping from the upper branches.

  I realized that it was blood.

  “They look like trees, but they are not,” said Hakon. “No more than the wraithwolves are real wolves. If anyone steps inside the ring of the trees, the hanged dead come down and attack. If they overpower their victim, they hang him from the branches of the tree, and he joins the number of the dead.” Hakon shrugged. “Presumably the trees feed off the deaths in some way.”

  “God,” said Robert. “The Duke’s officers always issued strict orders never to enter the Ring, and we never questioned them. It’s not exactly an inviting place. But I had no idea the trees eat people.”

  “This would have been a good thing to know,” I said. “Like, much earlier.”