The Witch's Eye Read online

  Growls and dissonant echoes floated on the dank and lifeless wind. Day-burning stars shone through rips in the smoke overhead. Patches of ice appeared underfoot. He followed a path that had been crudely cut long ago so creatures could ascend the rock face.

  The atmosphere was raw and bloody. He tasted oxidized metal and heat, likely the result of toxic fumes spilling down from above. He waited for his spirit to wrap around him and mask him from the poison, and when she didn’t it took him a moment to remember she was gone.

  Everything grew darker. Broken rays of light fell like shattered raindrops. The ledge he followed came to a sudden end, so Cross hoisted himself up onto another. Tiny shards of stone painfully pushed under his fingernails as he climbed. One of his pant legs tore open at the knee and exposed a bloody scrape.

  Cross put his back against the wall and caught his breath. He worried about inhaling too much of the foul-smelling air.

  If I make it out of here, the first thing I need to do is find a healer. Maybe Ash can fix me up.

  The steady Rift winds felt strangely soothing. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been climbing without a break. His skin was cold and covered with rock grime.

  The ledge was barely big enough for him to stand on. If something happened and it crumbled – the cracking sound the Rift constantly made did little to instill him with confidence – he had little hope of grabbing hold before he plummeted to his death.

  Cross bowed his head and closed his eyes. He tried not to think about how much further he had to go.

  Your choices are to keep going until you make it out of here, or to give up now.

  He shuddered. His throat tightened at memories of Snow, who was buried down there in the Rift.

  He didn’t want to die. It wasn’t easy: sleep pulled at him, and the thought of closing his eyes and never opening them again was more appealing than he would ever dare admit.

  Cross grit his teeth and smacked his palms against his face. The new ledge he’d climbed onto offered no more choices than the path below. There was no direction for him to go but up.

  His eyes scanned the chasm. Icy wind scarred his skin as he searched for a handhold so he could keep ascending. He pondered the notion of backtracking until he found another path, some other ledge he should’ve used but hadn’t, some other trail through the web of salted stone and frozen rock.

  What he saw instead was an ancient and rusted ladder bolted into the canyon wall. The ladder was made from a combination of thick wire mesh and bendable rebar plate, and it ran for hundreds of feet straight up into drifts of red smoke. A piece of dark metal, its inscription long burned away by acid and time, was set in the rock at the base of the ladder, right at Cross’s eye-level…on the other side of the Rift, at least five-hundred feet away.

  Shit.

  He looked around, desperate. There had to be a way to get across. A handful of wires stretched across the chasm beneath him – thin cables that moored the Rift walls together, ancient and gnarly tethers that must have once been used to support pulleys used by Southern Claw excavation teams who’d searched the Carrion Rift for precious minerals or magic. Those expeditions had all ended in disaster…but the fact that he’d found signs of the cables meant he was closer to the top than he’d thought.

  I’m almost there. Almost free.

  He didn’t want to backtrack, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. The thought of climbing back down filled him with dread. He knew the descent to the cables would only take him an hour or so, but going down meant staring straight into the void.

  The wind sang. He’d heard tales of early Rift explorers. At least a handful of men from every crew went plunging into the Rift, and not always because of an accident, but because their eyes and minds became lost. They heard the songs in the wind, dark siren calls that enticed them to leap down like sailors jumping into an empty sea.

  Even if those stories weren’t true, scores of explorers and workers had died from natural accidents and wound up in the deep canyon floor. It was impossible to know how many dead lay at the bottom of the Rift.

  Cross steadied himself. He shook his head, and started the climb down. Immediately his fingers burned from the pressure. He was more exhausted than he’d thought. His muscles shook. He hesitated, took a breath, kept going. Ice cracked and shifted. Cold sweat dripped down his face.

  He felt the air beneath his body as he scaled down the rock ledge. Cross carefully pushed himself against the wall as soon as his feet were back on the rough path he’d walked before.

  The trip down didn’t take as long as he’d feared it would. Most of the time was spent on the steep path, and while he had to take extra care to secure handholds in case his feet slipped on the ice, Cross moved with decent speed. It helped that the wind came crossways and didn’t interfere too much with his momentum.

  His arcane blade clanged against his new weapon, the dead man’s squat and ugly red-metal sword. He felt the old .45 at the back of his waistline. Weapons wouldn’t do any good against the fall, but he felt eyes on him. Something watched him from within the caves, and as Cross approached the stretch of cables a chill ran up his spine. Even then, he felt sprightly by the time he finished the descent. Aching and exhausted though he was, he was renewed by a sense of hope.

  Cross drew as close to the cables as he could. Short of jumping down, he found he had to take a circuitous route to get close enough to reach the lines. He wound up on a stone ledge about four or five feet below a pair of the ancient cables, which ran straight into the crumbling limestone like puncture wounds. Drilled holes in the rock leaked oil and rust. The lines were frayed and partially corroded.

  The space between the walls was wider where the cables stretched across. He guessed he’d have to traverse nearly six-hundred feet.

  Of course.

  He didn’t look down. He heard whispers in the wind. It might have just been a natural effect of the cracks in the walls. It also might have been the sirens from the stories, mutated creatures from the depths of the canyon, enticing him to jump. Either way, he’d pay them no mind. He couldn’t afford to.

  Cross checked his shoes and his hands. He’d have to scale back up the rock to reach the cables, no easy feat given the lack of handholds, so he found a cleft, a vertical flaw where the stone had split apart. He wedged the dead man’s blade into the crack, edge down. Cross put all of his weight behind it and shoved the sword in as deep as it would go.

  Wind filled with rotten fruit scent pushed him against the rock. His fingers were freezing. Bitter fog curled around his body.

  When the blade was secure, Cross used it as a step. He lifted himself up and balanced his weight on the hilt where it protruded from the cliff. The blade was held tight: so long as the rock held and didn’t crumble or flake away, he’d be fine.

  Famous last words, he thought bitterly.

  The steel cable wasn’t as solid as he’d hoped, but it ran deep into the cliff, so even though it shook and wobbled when he grabbed hold he felt certain it wouldn’t slide out. The other cables were the same, but they were spaced just far enough apart that he doubted he’d be able to make use of more than two of them – one to grip, and one to walk on. Cross guessed this was how the crossing had been designed in the first place, and the third cable, which stretched another three feet over the central line, was meant to accommodate larger creatures like Doj, or else to slide equipment across in harnesses.

  The cable wobbled beneath his feet, but held. He gripped the overhead line tight. Cross gulped, took a breath, and tried not to think about the depths below. The steel wire shook with every motion. He felt like he was floating in mid-air.

  A scale of soot covered the cables, which were so frayed they’d become razor sharp. Cross stepped back off the line and onto the sword hilt, ripped away a shred of his tattered outer shirt and used it to wrap up his hands. It wouldn’t help much for maintaining a grip, but hopefully it meant he wouldn’t slice his palms and fingers to pieces.

 
; Cross looked up at the sky. Powdery rock flecked off the rotting crust near a cave mouth up above. He glimpsed the orange sun through gaps in the charcoal fog. Purple-black mists drifted across the gulf below. The Rift vented darkness like steam.

  He’d been so lucky in his life, and he hadn’t even known it. He’d had Snow, and Graves. He’d met Dillon, and he’d become friends with Black and Kane.

  Some part of him believed he’d never see anyone he cared about ever again. That he’d never taste happiness…that all he could hope for now was to stumble, blindly, through the dark.

  No.

  He couldn’t accept that. He wouldn’t. He hadn’t come this far – hadn’t survived battles with Jennar and been imprisoned at the hands of Margrave, hadn’t escaped the Whisperlands and dealt with murderous arcane natives – just to die as a forlorn man on a ledge in the middle of nowhere.

  It was time to go.

  Cross gripped the cable and pulled himself up. The canyon seemed to vibrate all around him. He sensed the emptiness beneath his body. Electric shivers ran up his arms. He felt something in those depths, some magnetic force that threatened to rip him down through layers of smoke and darkness.

  Fear seized his chest. He felt like he’d swallowed knives. All his life he’d feared floating away, falling into the sky. This was worse.

  Ice cold wind that smelled of copper slammed into him. Dust smoked from the cave walls as he made his way across the open maw. He kept his eyes on the ladder at the far side. Cross tried not to look down, but it was impossible. A river of darkness stretched under his feet, and his body bobbed like a trinket in the wind. His hands were raw and his shins ached. His shoulders were stiff, but he kept moving, one hand and then the next, shuffling sideways.

  The line shook with every blast of the black wind. He imagined the breath of some vast beast coming up at him from below.

  Cross looked back long enough to gauge the distance, and allowed himself a smile. He was just over halfway there. His body was sore and tired, but his grip was strong and he felt no more fatigued than when he’d started. He could withstand the wind gusts. He was well on his way to the ladder, and freedom.

  That was when he glimpsed eyes in the cave overhead.

  They shone like broken shards of white glass. Whatever watched him was mostly concealed by the darkness. Cross stared for long moments before he could make the creature out. Its flesh was grey and black, scaly but with tufts of hard fur like tarnished silver. Its eyes were the color of the moon, as were the claws on its three spindly arms. The face was long and misshapen, snouted like a deformed warthog, but as Cross watched it transmogrified into something human-like.

  The towering three-armed monstrosity of ungainly jaws and twisted talons changed to a beautiful and silver-skinned female, a naked woman with elaborate tattoos and eyes like melting stars. Her long hair hung over one shoulder, and her fingernails glittered green in the uncertain light.

  He heard voices in the wind. Whispers. Deep songs from the dark.

  No.

  Cross moved as fast as he could. He nearly lost his footing, and his hands sliced open on the steel cable in spite of the cloth. Pain shot through his palms and blood fell in thick drops.

  He only had a hundred feet to go.

  A jagged sphere of broken teeth launched from the cave above and barely missed his skull. It exploded against the cliff wall behind him.

  He moved faster.

  The whispers of the Rift intensified. The song made his thoughts heavy. He pictured himself slipping and falling into the warm embrace of the shifting fog under his feet.

  He heard a slurping sound, a gurgling cough like sewage erupting. Cross smelled acid and bile. Another chunk of dripping teeth flew through the air. Its shadow passed over him before it struck the cable.

  The line snapped. Blood flew across his face as he fell. His body slammed into the stone, and he cried out as pain shot through his ribs. His hands reached out and grabbed hold of the cliff wall.

  Cross choked on blood and dust. His feet dangled over open air. He looked up and saw he’d fallen some hundred feet below the ladder. The shadow of the siren dove at him.

  He desperately clawed his way up towards the ledge. His fingers were stiff and bloody. Rock powder fell onto his face. Bits of rubble flew out from beneath his boots.

  Sharp wings sliced through the air as the beautiful silver face twisted back into something bestial and foul. Black lips pulled back from small rows of razor teeth.

  Cross’s heart hammered. He struggled to maintain his grip.

  The shadow drew closer. He tried not to look at it, tried not to listen to the dirge that called to him from below.

  His feet found purchase on the wall as he grabbed the ledge with one hand. He yanked his blade free and turned his eyes skyward. The howling demon loomed close. Wicked talons and blade-moth wings splayed out around its screaming face.

  Cross sliced up. Pain flooded his arms, and something sharp raked his cheek. Dead breath washed over him and blood spilled into his eyes.

  The screams of the siren faded and echoed as she fell. Cross wiped the gore from his face and saw the creature vanish into the swirling mists.

  Cross felt where the claws had sliced open his cheeks and nose. He made it up to the ledge and stood against the cliff wall while he held a ripped piece of cloth to his face. The bleeding slowed, but didn’t stop.

  The touch of the wind made him wince. His hands were bloody where the cable had sliced them open, and he’d cracked open the fingernail from his left pinky when he’d fallen and clawed his way up the stone. The injured finger bled almost as badly as his face did.

  His shins and arms were bruised and sore, and every breath he took felt like it came through a filter of broken glass. He rested for a while, too weak to climb.

  There were sparse hand and footholds between him and the ladder above. He was too close to stop now.

  Not having magic sucks, he decided judiciously.

  Cross wrapped his wounded finger. He tried to get his bearings so he could take his mind off the pain.

  The entirety of the Carrion Rift stretched along the north end of the Bone March and west of the Reach. It would be a long trek back to civilization. He’d heard that Rhaine had been repopulated since he’d last been there, but he had no way of knowing where along the Rift he’d emerge. He could be a hundred miles from Rhaine, for all he knew.

  After a short time he returned to the task at hand.

  The climb was grueling, but Cross took things slow. He grimaced at the pain in his fingers. Small nicks in the stone wall provided footholds, even if his boots were no longer suitable for climbing.

  Cross hauled himself up. He focused on the stone, and barely registered the void of smoke around him. He tasted glacial salt in the air and heard whispers in the wind, but he paid them no mind.

  He thought of Snow. He remembered Rhaine, remembered standing there and looking out over the smoke-filled Rift after Viper Squad had perished. He’d known even then that crossing the bridge meant walking to his doom.

  He’d hoped against hope he could find his sister before something terrible had happened to her. But he’d been too late.

  You’re more than this, he told himself as he climbed. The Soulweaver tried to tell you. You define yourself with your pain. You won’t heal, because you won’t let yourself heal.

  You can be more.

  Cross reached the ledge beneath the ladder. He slowly pulled himself up and onto solid ground, shaking from exhaustion.

  He saw the bottom rung. The large plate on the ledge was right in front of his eyes as he knelt at the foot of the ladder and gasped for breath. The plate bore an arcane inscription covered in black frost and ice dust. Cross wiped it away.

  Set by Bram Steelrazor. AB 9. The first to come.

  He’d heard of Bram Steelrazor, a Gol explorer who’d worked with the Southern Claw and had headed up the first expeditions in the area near what had eventually become Rhaine.
<
br />   You’re nearly there. You’ve almost made it.

  You can be more.

  He took hold of the rung and made his ascent.

  The climb up the ladder took another hour. He passed dark caves filled with foul-smelling fumes. Sometimes he heard the echoes of monstrous stirrings within, but whatever dwelled in those holes let him be.

  The limestone surface eventually gave way to crumbling soil. Blade-like tree roots protruded from the Rift wall. The cold wind nearly shook the ladder loose from the stone on several occasions, but Cross just closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and held on tight.

  He’d never been so exhausted. His fingers were numb and his face stung. He tasted his own blood, and his wrapped finger oozed puss that made his grip tenuous.

  Grim roars and twisted voices howled up from the darkness. He climbed through a cage of smoke and steam.

  You can be more.

  At first he didn’t even realize he’d made it to the top. Smoke pressed around him. He saw a red glare from above and the shadows of distant fliers. The wind blasted harder, and he thought he heard a wolf’s howl.

  Cross pushed up through the soiled sea of smoke. He saw the top of the canyon, and his heart leapt. His muscles shook as he made the final ascent, another few feet up the cliff wall.

  The sky was vast and pale. The setting sun cast silver-grey light that turned the clouds the color of burnished steel. Cross smelled fresh air, tasted the ice of frozen streams, and felt the sting of the tundra wind on his face.

  He was less than five rungs from the top of the Rift when a figure leaned over the side and aimed a wide-bored gun right at his face.

  FIVE

  dragon

  They called her Dragon.

  It wasn’t her real name. She no longer knew her real name. It had been stripped from her along with everything else.

  She was just Dragon now. The weapon.

  Sunlight spilled through clouds of ink and lime. The curtains peeled back before the dry breeze. The city-state of Lorn was a fringe settlement populated with travelers and merchants, a borderlands town that bustled with activity and yet somehow remained eerily quiet. White silk flags rippled in the stale wind. The air was warm in spite of the grey sky, and Dragon’s skin felt sticky beneath her dress.