The Witch's Eye Page 4

  The drug persisted. The other women came to him, one at a time. He wasn’t sure how much time passed between visits, or how he was able to maintain their needs. His body twisted with pleasure and pain. Juices ran and pooled on the wolf hides. His nostrils filled with the aroma of women and sex, blood and saliva. After a time he faded, bone weary and exhausted.

  They kept him there, drugged and alone. He was given time to recuperate before they started in again.

  Do they want children? he wondered.

  It was hard to think clearly. He remembered a time when he’d frequented the brothels in Thornn, when women, who he’d always had trouble relating to, could only be purchased. Some years ago this situation – being trapped in a cave and used by three ravenous women for their carnal pleasure – would have been a dream come true.

  He had to get out. He had to save someone…but it was difficult to remember her name. He saw her face, beautiful and pale, dark red hair hanging down over gem-blue eyes. She was in pain, he knew she was in pain, but he couldn’t do anything to help her. She was just out of reach, just like…

  Just like who?

  It was so hard to remember.

  They came again, one and then the next, never together. Their need was more anxious, their treatment of him less kind. He could do nothing to stop them, even though he wanted to. His lust was overpowering, and even as his mind raged at him to rebel, to dash their heads against the stone and seize their weapons, he couldn’t. He was theirs, completely and utterly. He didn’t even know how they drugged him.

  Maybe they don’t need to anymore, he thought. Maybe they’ve broken me, and I just don’t realize it yet.

  Hair dangled across his face and rough nails tore open his back. His skin was raw and bloody and covered in puss and stains. They stitched him back together afterwards. Black threads tightly bound his wounds. He couldn’t lie back, for his skin ached too much.

  He tried to stand when they were gone, but he didn’t have the strength. The fog was so thick it blocked sight of the walls. He floated in a silver nowhere.

  All he could do was lie down and wait for them to come for him again.

  Screams of ecstasy and anguish rang through his ears. He spilled his seed into the dark-haired woman as she raked her nails across his chest. He fell back, yelling in pleasure and pain. He felt hollow inside.

  Everything was fading. He felt the poison in his blood, turgid and thick.

  Every time one of the women came for him he felt less alive. They were killing him slowly with their passion. He knew he didn’t have much longer.

  Will they keep me alive until they find another, like they did with the man I killed? he wondered. They’d already proved their healing abilities – how long had his predecessor been their slave? How long had they prolonged his life to serve their need, even after his mind had gone?

  He tried to hang on to something, anything. He knew he had to find someone. Sometimes he could even see her face.

  I can’t fail her, like I failed before.

  Who did he fail before? He couldn’t remember. He tried, but he couldn’t.

  One woman, and then the next. They licked his flesh with icy tongues and took him inside, roughly ground their bodies against his and clawed open his skin. He swam through a haze of naked flesh and juices. Pleasure drowned his agony.

  Drowned. She didn’t drown.

  He lay still in the dark. His body felt soft and liquid, as if rotting from within. Drugged smoke filled the air. He clawed his way towards consciousness, fought to narrow his vision through the ice blue light. Scabs and blisters and scar tissue covered his back.

  She didn’t drown. She died burning on the train.

  He stumbled forward. He didn’t remember getting up. He moved slowly through the dark. His bare feet scraped against sheets of rough ice and broken stone. Pale mold ran down the cracks in the walls.

  She died on the train. Snow…burning on the train.

  Anger welled inside him. Blood pumped through veins turned frozen and stiff. His muscles ached with every step, but he had momentum, and he used it. He left the narcotic fog behind him. His mind slowly started to clear as he moved through the darkness of the tunnels.

  Danica. I have to find Danica. I won’t fail her, like I failed my sister.

  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 on
to 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 flatlands 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.

  He 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.

  The 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.

  The 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 scowled.

  A group 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 str
eets. 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.

  Ronan surveyed the group. Their ashen and exhausted faces glowed in the flickering light. Most of them were adults, but a few teenagers were in the mix, scraggly and lean, their eyes hollow from the horrors they’d witnessed. Most of the men were able-bodied enough, but Ronan could tell just by looking at them that they weren’t fighters.

  Survivors, maybe, he thought. But not fighters. They won’t last long out here. Ronan shook his head.

  “So what do we do?” Greer asked. He was a wiry man with steely eyes and a face like a hawk. Despite being a farmer he had a hard edge about him. Several of the others – including Taara, a dark-skinned Southerner who possessed considerable skills as a healer – deferred to Greer’s lead when Ronan wasn’t telling everyone what to do.

  They’ve done this before, Ronan thought. They’re used to being led. That’s no way to live.

  “Well,” Moone said from his vantage by the window, “the closest and safest Southern Claw city-state from here is Thornn, but even that’s got to be a week’s walk.”