Vampire Down (Blood Skies, Book 7) Read online

  She saw something in his gaze and put her hand to his cheek.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you,” he said.

  And they carried on.

  They had to abandon the sleds. The descending slope was jagged and rocky, the footing uncertain, but it would take hours to circumvent the area, and they’d be exposed out in the open much longer than they wanted. That shorter way would quickly bring them down to the dry cedars running parallel to the river, where they’d have easy access to water and cover from prying eyes above.

  It’s worth the risk, he kept telling himself, especially as his ankles strained and his back and shins started to ache. It would have been handy if Soulrazor/Avenger would lend him strength, as it had been known to do from time to time, but as usual the swords had a mind of their own, and this time he had to go without their help. Ice and dry rubble crunched underfoot, and more than once Cross felt his center of balance shifting, and he and Ronan almost went tumbling down the slope. Their shadows fell long beneath the pale dry sun. Lighting rings of blue fire waited at the bottom of the hill, natural gas vents which illuminated the darkness of the ravine.

  After what felt like hours they finally reached the bottom, where they laid Ronan and Shiv down as gently as they could on blankets while he and Danica rested in the shallow clefts of smelted stone. The air grew louder as they neared the river, and the wind brought the stench of char and lightning. They were thankful for the light provided by the gas vents, faint blue in the failing light, as the sky had been overrun with darkening clouds.

  They rested for a short time, drew fresh water from the melted snow which was so cold it burned down Cross’s throat, and carried on towards the broken forest whose floor was packed with rime ice.

  The two of them constructed new sleds for their passengers. Ronan and Shiv breathed, but neither of them stirred, they barely took water, and both of them were starting to look bone thin. They needed to find a way to feed them, and soon. Danica’s spirit filled the air with unstable heat as he poured strength into their bodies, healing energies they hoped would keep the two from slipping into death, but there was no physical change.

  Cross watched them both with a sickening feeling in his gut. Those past few days he’d been solely focused on how happy the time had been for he and Danica, often forgetting that two of his only friends might have been in terrible pain. Cross knew firsthand that just because the body was asleep didn’t mean the mind was at peace – he’d been unconscious and in the team’s care for weeks while his soul had wandered the black shadowscape known as the Whisperlands, desperately fighting for his life.

  Once the sleds were prepared they carried on and walked well into the night, pulling the makeshift supports behind them, postponing making camp until the gas vents were in the distance.

  The next day the sun barely rose above the horizon and the light it gave was cold and distant, as if muted through some sort of smudged lens. As the afternoon wore on Danica showed Cross signs of other humans who’d recently been in the area: ice-bleached bones and boot tracks, pools of oil and shell casings. The snow was hard and frozen, the air dry and clear. Every breath he took scraped down his lungs and his skin was so cold from exposure he felt as if he sweated ice.

  Legs aching and backs sore they marched on, hoping against hope there was something good waiting for them in Ath, but not really believing it.

  They came across the camp early that next night.

  Cross and Danica had come to the edge of the forest. The Nightblood River’s icy shores were to their right as they continued to drive south. They were near Stone Bridge, where they’d have to head due east towards Ath, or at least where Ath should have been – the clouds amassed as if intentionally blocking view of the city-state, the same place he and Danica had been bound for when the Skyhawk had gone down and somehow landed them in Nezzek’duul.

  They sensed motion ahead, so Cross asked Danica to stay with Ronan and Shiv while he climbed a ridge of frost-cracked rocks and greying weeds to investigate. It would have been easier to use the spirit to probe ahead, but if there were any warlocks or witches in the area they’d detect such an intrusion, and until he and Danica knew who or what they were dealing with they agreed not to take any unnecessary risks. They’d come too far to get careless now.

  We’re going to be ok. We have to be.

  He climbed slowly, and once he reached the top he peered over a crest of rocks and into a shallow valley smothered by white haze. Cross looked into the remains of a village. The buildings were old and makeshift, just heaped together sheds made of cast iron and brick, much like Wolftown but less stable and smaller, with no outer walls surrounding the structures. Stone mounds formed a circle around a smoking fire-pit, the source of the white smoke they’d spied from afar; the mounds were made of obsidian and basalt, their edges glowing faintly in the daylight.

  Men moved among the mounds, soldiers and mercenaries in black and tan uniforms which Cross didn’t recognize, at least not at first; they weren’t Southern Claw and they didn’t seem to belong to any of the larger mercenary outfits he’d heard of, so he pulled out his binoculars to get a closer look. There were at least a dozen men he saw clearly and even more at the far end of the camp, where a number of ATVs and a small tank were parked beneath camouflage tarps.

  Whatever their affiliation these soldiers were well-armed and well-equipped, and it wasn’t until he saw the silver cloaked female, bald and pale and seemingly floating on her own accord, that he realized who these forces belonged to.

  She was one of the Raza, a militant order of mercenary war witches. Last he’d heard their services had been sold to the city-state of Fane.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Fane was led by a former Southern Claw commando named Gunter Wulf. Under his direction they’d defected from the rest of the Southern Claw Alliance and launched an all-out campaign to take Seraph and overthrow the White Mother, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Rumors of an alliance between Fane and the outcast undead of New Koth had surfaced, and with the Ebon Cities closing in from the west and the new threat of the Maloj surfacing in the Loch the Southern Claw had found itself facing more problems than ever before.

  I was hoping the Suckheads would wipe these bastards out.

  Cross started back down the hill. His boot caught on a loose stone and broke it away, and he only barely had time to grab hold and keep himself from falling when he heard Danica cry out.

  “Eric! Run!”

  He heard gunfire and saw flames, smelled Danica’s spirit burn in the twilight, an ozone presence like turpentine and sparks. Cross turned with the shotgun in hand in time to see a pair of gangly and enormous red-skinned creatures in dark armor push their way through the trees with 20mm cannons they wielded like rifles. Static booms rang out and bounced off a hard shell of crackling red fire. Danica’s shield held steady.

  “Dani!” he shouted.

  One of the Troj turned in his direction as Cross stumbled down the hill. The cannon rose, and fear lanced through his gut. Cross threw himself down the last stretch of hillside just as a blast tore against the stone and hailed chunks of rock down on top of him; he painfully landed in the thick frozen sludge at the bottom of the hill, knocking the wind from his lungs. The shotgun flew from his hands, but he jumped to his feet and drew Soulrazor/Avenger.

  The artifact weapon guided him. With it in his grip he was deadly, unstoppable. It made him more, and he hated it for that.

  He held his breath as he moved in low, watching the grisly red-skinned creature. It had deep yellow eyes like cuts and broken black teeth. The muzzle of the wide-bored weapon pointed in his direction.

  A blast of fire lanced out and took the creature in the back. Danica stormed out of the trees as the second Troj fell to the ground behind her, choking on its own blood. A corona of light surrounded her like a blazing star.

  Distracted, the Troj offered up no resistance as Cross came close and cleaved thro
ugh its mid-section, spilling metal and guts to the ground in a noisy splash. The beast groaned and fell forward.

  There were more. Gargoyles descended from the sky and the nearby hills, and he could only surmise that they’d spotted he and Danica during their approach. The grey-skinned brutes were armed with hooked chains and crude blades affixed to their forearms.

  Movement on the ridge above indicated the arrival of more troops. He heard vehicles and shouts.

  “Go!” he called to her.

  Danica shouted something in protest, but Cross didn’t hear what as he turned and took a gargoyle’s head off at the shoulders. The creatures filled the air like a horde of armored bats. Their edged armor glinted in the failing light as they crashed through the trees, snapping branches in explosions of dead wood.

  “Get them to safety!” he said to Danica as he stepped close, leaned in and kissed her. Their lips touched for just moments.

  Danica pulled away and fired past him with the G36C, spraying hexed bullets into grey flesh and bringing several fliers crashing to the forest floor. Cross turned and hacked through two more, then tossed a grenade into the trees just as a chain wrapped around his legs and pulled him to the ground.

  Everything spun. Snapped branches and upturned roots painfully pelted his back and neck as was he dragged through the forest, and he barely rolled in time to avoid crashing into a tree stump and an upturned stone before his blade found the chain and severed it with a clang. He saw gunfire in the distance, but no sign of Danica; he’d lost her somewhere in the trees.

  The grenade went off, a thermal explosion that sent showers of sparks into the sky. Several trees immolated in controlled burns that would extinguish in a matter of moments, thaumaturgic flames that wouldn’t spread but that eliminated anything living caught in their blast, including the half-dozen gargoyles and another Troj who writhed and twisted in agony.

  The fires went out, and the world was suddenly dark. Cross rose, tried to gain his bearings, but before he could figure out where he was bullets ripped through the trees. He ducked and ran, and he made it a few yards before he smelled the chill of smoking ice. Hexed tendrils wrapped around him, and he severed them with the blade, feeling its sharpness as the ethereal appendages shrank back. He felt the Raza’s spirit out there, swarming towards him, so he readied his weapon to meet it head on.

  Cross stepped backwards into a creek slain by night frost. He ducked down and readied himself in the bank so whatever came for him would have to clear the rise.

  Something black poured in at him, dark claws and white-set eyes. For a moment he thought it was the Maloj, and his insides froze. Fingers clenched and eyes set, Cross launched himself forward, not realizing until the last second that it was a trap – an illusory assailant meant to lure him out.

  The shot took him in the neck. He felt pain spread through his body as something steamed his blood. The blades tried to fight it, tried to purge him of whatever poison it was that blazed like wildfire through his veins, but a chain launched out from a silhouette that moments ago hadn’t been there and ripped the weapon from his hands.

  His vision fading, Cross saw the Raza and a pair of men armed with edged chains, rough-looking barbarians with unkempt hair and thickset muscles. They stepped in and pounded him with boots and fists. A weapon found its way into his hand, Creasy’s old machete, and he drove it through one of his attacker’s chests; blood welled around his knuckles before a hard blow caught him in the back of the head. Hurt whitened his vision. He lost a few seconds, and then another jolt of pain seared across the back of his skull.

  After that, nothing.

  Danica. I love you. Please, get them to safety, get yourself to safety.

  In his mind’s eye he sees her, in a golden field beneath the sunset. They’re together, out of danger, at peace, where they’ll stay for the rest of their lives.

  He knows this dream can never come to pass, but he has it now, and he holds onto it for as long as he can.

  He came to on his feet, marching through the camp. The forest was on fire behind him. Fane seemed to enjoy burning things out – it was the easiest way to make sure they’d killed everyone.

  His mind and motions were sluggish, his legs distant and uncoordinated, like they belonged to someone else. The air was filled with smoke and fog and the night eclipsed the heavens. The soldiers stood in crowds around him, armed with spears and knives in addition to their M-16s and G3A3s. Torches set in the ground burned with white-hot flames.

  Near the center of camp their ranks parted, and a short but thickly shouldered man with no hair on his head stood before him. The man bore a severe expression. He was hard and lean like a wolverine, and his dark leather and plate armor were bound tight around his body and neck. Thick gauntlets covered his hands, and his eyes were pale, almost milky-white.

  “Eric Cross,” he said. He didn’t speak with any sort of malevolent tone, just stating a fact, and one the man seemed loathe to admit.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “You’re not Wulf.”

  “Wulf doesn’t waste time in the field,” the man said. “The Commander of the East Claw Coalition has better things to do with his time. My name is Hasker.”

  “East Claw Coalition?” Cross said, not bothering to hide his sarcastic surprise. “You’re kidding, right?”

  The same chain-wielding man who’d helped capture Cross back in the forest sharply elbowed him in the kidneys, sending a blinding shot of pain up his back. Cross fell to his knees, and another blow landed hard against the side of his face, spraying blood through his mouth. His vision blurred.

  He was so tired. Cross wanted to lie down on the ground and fall asleep. He didn’t want to talk to these men, didn’t want to know who Hasker was.

  “Bring him,” Hasker said, and he turned and walked away. The wind rose, sending icy flakes of snow slapping against Cross’s face. The cold air stung his nostrils as he was dragged to his feet. Someone had hold of him from behind – he realized for the first time his wrists were bound – and marched him forward, past the stone mounds and to the furthest building, a cold looking shack made of metal and stone.

  He looked around for Danica, or Ronan or Shiv, and when he didn’t see any of them he tried not to let his fear show. Cold worry twisted inside him.

  She’s fine, he told himself. They’re fine.

  Briefly he glanced back into the smoking forest.

  Light spilled from the entrance to Hasker’s hut, a barren room with a single cot and table and a pit of ash and frozen light. Hasker stood at the far end of the room; the chain-wielder and the Raza remained, and sealed the door behind them.

  Cross’s vision dimmed. Liquid queasiness pushed through his throat. He recalled that he’d been poisoned, that his arcane blade hadn’t been able to purge the toxins from his system. He shook himself, tried to focus.

  “What do you want with me?” he asked.

  “The swords,” Hasker said, plain and direct. In a way, it was welcome.

  “Well, you have them,” Cross said. “Can I go now?”

  “We also have you,” Hasker explained. “And only you can use them.”

  How the hell do they know that? he wondered.

  “Where are my companions?” he asked.

  Hasker watched him, breathing loud through his nostrils as the firelight played off his pale and heavily veined face. He pushed his tongue against his lips, then nodded to the Raza.

  The woman was smaller than Cross had at first thought, barely a child, really. Runic markings lined her face and pale arms, and her fingernails were as black as onyx.

  Smoke poured from her palms. Cross tried to back away, but the chain-wielder held him fast, and he no longer had the strength to resist. Ice blue mist swirled around his face, and the touch of it scalded his tongue. His eyes locked open, frozen like pools of glass.

  He saw.

  The Maloj’s claws lance out of the dark. Every strike from its dismal talons renders another life unseen. These ar
en’t the brutish killers they’d encountered at Rimefang Loch but calculating and subtle monsters, beasts with sinister agendas. With each assassination their presence grows, surrounding the present like vast shapes lurking in the depths of a pitch black ocean.

  Every strike kills more than a life, cleaves a hole in reality. Creatures are sucked out of existence with such razor surety it’s as if they have never been. Lives un-lived, destinies unfulfilled. Time alters, not radically, as the theorists project, just subtle shifts, no hurricanes from butterfly wings, for the Maloj are careful: they see with clarity the effects their claws will have, understand with certainty exactly how things will be altered. They are temporal marauders, twisting and turning time like a river until it leads where they want it to go.

  The Maloj kill the White Mother. It slips inside Ronan, and in the timeline that played out here was never found out, for the White Mother had never altered their destiny by delaying their ship, by ordering her most trusted White Council minions to lay the runes that sucked the Skyhawk out of Southern Claw airspace and into Nezzek’duul, a place protected by its own safeguards, massive arcane towers along its coasts which prevent foreign magics from invading unless they know precisely how to pierce those defenses. She saw this reality, this new timeline, and tried to alter it by saving those she knew would bring about the end of the war.

  How? What are we supposed to do?

  When the Maloj kill the White Mother, Thornn changes. The city still stands, but the Alliance is weak, never able to put up much of a fight. The Southern Claw fell years ago, easily overrun, and Thornn is now just a worthless outpost, abandoned even by the Ebon Kingdoms (not Cities).

  He and Danica and the others didn’t know this, went unaffected, because they were protected from it. Nezzek’duul’s defenses hedged them in, kept them shielded from this temporal horror.

  Without the White Mother only pockets of resistance exist. Fane is the East Claw Coalition, as monstrous and murderous as it was in their own timeline, capable of unspeakable cruelties and yet one of humankind’s only hopes. Meldoar is another safe haven, held by the stalwart Gol, who fight to protect their human friends from a terrible fate.