The Witch's Eye Page 9

  “By way of where?” Maur asked. “This is the middle of nowhere.”

  “The middle of nowhere squared,” Ronan corrected.

  “You’re not really in any position to be asking questions,” Stark said. The dark-haired Lieutenant sized up Ronan and gave him what was probably supposed to be an intimidating look. “Especially considering the circumstances of your capture.”

  “Wait...” Ronan said. “We’re prisoners?”

  He realized he was unarmed. It was a state Ronan wasn’t used to, and certainly not one he appreciated.

  “Jesus, he really can’t remember anything, can he?” Crylos said to Ankharra. “And it’s always this bad?”

  “Only during particularly lengthy periods of violent focus,” Ankharra said. “The Order is trained by the Triangle to hone in and block everything else out when forced into deadly situations. They call it ‘Stepping into the Deadlands’. Sometimes the toll their body takes is to sacrifice parts of their mind. I’d always understood they lost childhood memories, not recent ones, but I suppose everyone is different.”

  “Lady, you’d best stop referring to me in the third person,” Ronan said quietly. “I’m not Maur.”

  “Maur resents that statement,” the Gol said.

  “Where are the others?” Ronan asked. Maur was clearly surprised by the question, judging by the look he gave Ronan. “What?” Ronan asked him.

  “Maur was under the impression you didn’t care about the people you were protecting,” Maur said.

  “I don’t. But if I go through the trouble to do something, I make sure it’s done right.”

  “The people you were escorting are safe and sound,” Lieutenant Stark said in his authoritarian voice. “Those that survived, that is. You lost six in that ridiculous skirmish you started.”

  “I started?” Ronan said. He stood up. “I don’t start fights, you little prick. But I do finish them.”

  “What the hell did you just call me?” Stark said, and he moved towards Ronan.

  “Stark!” Crylos said. “That’ll be all.”

  Stark hesitated. His fists were clenched so tight his bones seemed ready to break.

  “Sir,” he said, and he held Ronan’s gaze for a moment before he turned away and stomped outside.

  “Charming guy,” Ronan said.

  “You watch yourself,” Crylos said. “You’re on thin ice as it is.”

  “Like I give a shit,” Ronan laughed.

  “You’d best, since you have some things to answer for,” Crylos said. “You may not be a soldier, but you do represent the Southern Claw. Why were you in the company of a known criminal? Jade is wanted in both Thornn and Ath for violent crimes.”

  “We weren’t hanging out with her by choice, if that’s what you mean,” Ronan said. “Her boss – Vago – was helping us get home. The only way he’d agree to do that was if we helped his goons secure Blacksand’s borders against some Ebon Cities scouts.”

  Maur nodded his agreement. Crylos watched them both suspiciously.

  “So what happened?”

  “Things went to shit,” Ronan said. “Just like always. Look, keep her prisoner for all I care. Vago never held up his end of the deal, anyways.”

  Maur gave Ronan a look. Ronan shrugged. Maur just grumbled to himself.

  “Everyone’s been wondering what happened to Cross’s team ever since the attack on Thornn,” Crylos said. “I met Eric and your partners Danica Black and Mike Kane a few years back in Karamanganjii. They helped me and my men survive an assault by an Ebon Cities Wing. I know all about your team, and your exploits.”

  “Then you know that half of them are dead?” Ronan said. He was surprised by the crack in his own voice.

  “Yes,” Crylos said after a moment. “Maur already told us. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah,” Ronan said. “Me, too.” He looked at Maur, and saw sadness in the Gol’s eyes.

  Ronan was tired. He couldn’t deal with these people anymore. One of the reasons he’d originally taken the job with Cross’s team was because Eric or Danica always handled the negotiations with the military and black market contacts. Ronan was no good with people. He’d been raised to kill, and that was all.

  Christ, I may just be the most useless man on the planet.

  “Maur and his friend are only trying to get home,” Maur explained. “The mission to rescue Cross failed. The mission to rescue Black failed. Friends and team members keep dying. Maur and Ronan are all that’s left.”

  Crylos knocked on the table, thinking. Ronan wasn’t terribly good at reading people, but he got the impression that the young Captain was taken by their plight. Ankharra stood quietly nearby, wrapped in her long cloak. Ronan felt the dank cold of her spirit there inside the tent.

  Crylos looked at her. She nodded, as if affirming something they’d already discussed.

  “What will the two of you do when you return to Thornn?” he asked.

  Maur looked ready to answer, but hesitated. Ronan felt something sink inside him, like he’d swallowed a piece of lead.

  “Maur hadn’t thought that far ahead,” the Gol answered.

  “We don’t know,” Ronan said. “We’ve been so busy chasing down missing teammates…I can barely remember doing anything else.” He didn’t want to talk anymore, and yet strangely he suddenly found he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. “Things used to be good. We were a team. We went on missions, and we always pulled through. We went home, we got paid, and then we went and did it again.” He was shaking, and he hated himself for that. He’d never felt so vulnerable or exposed.

  Not since that day you walked away, he realized.

  “Ankharra,” Crylos said.

  “The city-state of Fane is on the move,” she said. The room seemed to glow in the light of her emerald eyes. “They’ve shifted the bulk of their military strength north, and they’re advancing towards Rimefang Loch. They’ve razed several settlements in their path.”

  “We saw them,” Ronan nodded. “They broke up the fight between the Revengers and the Ebon Cities back at Voth Ra’morg. I only caught a glimpse of them…”

  “Maur saw more,” Maur said. “They were impressive. They had Troj and Raza, and Southern Claw vehicles and equipment. Human, Vuul and Doj soldiers. Heavy artillery. A truly frightening force.”

  “Why are they going to Rimefang Loch?” Ronan asked. He was prepared for them not to tell him, and was surprised when they did.

  “The Witch’s Eye,” Ankharra said.

  Ronan looked at Maur, then back at Ankharra.

  “What’s wrong with your eye?”

  Crylos laughed.

  “I told you someone would say it sooner or later.”

  “I was hoping for later,” Ankharra said. “The Witch’s Eye is some sort of magical device. We don’t have a lot of details about its exact nature, but we do know it’s located somewhere in Rimefang Loch. Whatever it is, everyone seems to want it.”

  “Define ‘everyone’,” Maur said.

  “The Ebon Cities, Koth, Fane, and even the Revengers want this Witch’s Eye,” Crylos said. “But nobody seems to know exactly what or where it is. Intelligence reports indicate that Ebon Cities scouts are using the fighting in the Loch as cover for their search.”

  Ronan looked at Maur.

  “Why are you telling us?” he asked.

  “I’ve been authorized to recruit assistance wherever and however I can,” Crylos said. “We’ve been ordered to rendezvous with a division of Bloodhawks out of Ath, find out what’s going on and assist the Grey Watch, who are scouting the area and searching for signs of activity.”

  “I don’t get it…what the hell is so important about this Eye?” Ronan said. His head hurt.

  “We have reason to believe,” Ankharra answered, “that the Witch’s Eye is a weapon. Whatever it is, the vampires are afraid of it.” She smiled. “The White Council seems to think that warrants an investigation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mau
r nodded. Ronan shrugged.

  He’d never thought about what would happen if the team was gone. It had never really seemed a possibility: Cross knew his shit, and even when they were placed in terrible situations they always found a way to pull through.

  Nothing lasts forever, I guess.

  “Are you offering Ronan and Maur a job, or what?” Maur asked.

  “Yeah,” Crylos said. “We are. At whatever your going rate is. We could use men with your experience. I’m very sorry to hear about your teammates. Like I said, I had the pleasure of working with them. They saved a lot of lives.”

  Ronan looked at Maur, but he already knew what the Gol was going to say. He was too damned noble for his own good.

  What have you got to lose? he asked himself. What the hell else were you going to do when you got back to Thornn?

  Kane was dead, and even if Black and Cross were still alive he had no way of knowing where they were.

  Maur nodded. Cross would want this, that nod said, and Ronan agreed.

  He gave Crylos their answer.

  SEVEN

  CAGE

  I keep moving from one prison to the next.

  The wagon rolled across the plains, crushing old rocks beneath its iron-rimmed wheels. Spine-backed hills stood in the distance, past a grey landscape covered by drifts of gravel and chalk. Frozen clouds hung beneath a burning blue-white sun. The air was cold and dead and tasted like burned meat.

  Cross stared out from behind iron bars he gripped with cracked and calloused hands. His lips were raw and bloody, and his tongue was swollen from thirst.

  They were a motley crew inside, and a worse one outside. He was one of a dozen prisoners, ruddy-faced and dirty, scarred and beaten. Their clothing was so covered with filth and grime the captives themselves looked like rags. The inside of the wagon was large but still felt crowded. When the other prisoners looked at him they had murder in their eyes, so Cross stared out into the cold desert called the Bone March. He hadn’t been through that region for a very long time.

  Someone vomited out between the bars. Cross tried to ignore the cloying stench. He just watched the land, imagining now and again that he saw shapes moving among the cold and distant dunes.

  Their jailors were mercenaries, soldiers for hire who scoured the wastes for refugees from devastated settlements, survivors from lost caravans, stranded soldiers, or lone travelers. They used superior numbers, weapons and magic to take prisoners and ferry them to armistice towns like Dirge or Lorn to sell as slaves. They’d been scouting the area near the Carrion Rift when Cross had climbed out.

  My luck is so shitty it’s not even funny anymore.

  Pain flashed across his fingers. One of the gang rode a dark stallion up to the wagon and used a riding crop to smack Cross’s hand where he gripped the bars. The man was tall and lean, dark-skinned and dressed in dirty leather armor. He wore a soiled bandana, a bandolier packed with knives, and dark sunglasses that framed his dirty face.

  “Wake up, man!” he laughed.

  Cross had counted seven in the gang altogether – there were five riders, all on horseback, plus two more that sat on top of the wagon and steered the team of draft horses. Most of the gang was human, save for one Vuul and one Gol, and all of them dressed in mismatched armor and carried small arms, blades, hammers and whips. Their clothing and equipment was soiled with pale dust, lending them a ghost-like appearance. There was one female among them, a vicious masked woman named Kala who wore a pair of scimitars behind her back. Joro, the man who’d struck Cross’s hand, was a sniper. The carriage driver was a Gol called Rask.

  Cross hadn’t caught the other’s names, except the leader: a lean and scruffy mage named Tain. He felt the man’s spirit in the air, always – she was never far from the caged wagon, and now and again she slithered across Cross’s skin like an icy caress. Her touch left him raw and shivering.

  Cross had barely exchanged words with the other prisoners. He’d been more concerned with keeping away from them in case they decided he looked tasty enough to eat. They were almost indistinguishable from one another with their sand-blasted skin, grimy nails and hair made slick with dirt and grease. They all looked like they’d been whipped and beaten.

  He couldn’t imagine they were all criminals – that wouldn’t have made any sense – and yet they all regarded each other like a band of ravenous pack animals, men turned to dogs. There were no female prisoners, which Cross decided was a good thing. They were all human, which told him they’d likely been settlers or workers from the revived city of Rhaine. Last he’d heard the garrison at Rhaine was badly undermanned, and the few soldiers stationed there hadn’t been all that effective at maintaining order.

  “You,” one prisoner said. He had long and ratty hair, his eyes were bloodshot, and Cross couldn’t help but notice his teeth had been filed to points. “Do you have something to eat?”

  The prisoners were crowded together. The stench of body odor and unwashed breath was thick even with the open bars on the sides of the wagon. The floor of the dark vehicle was awash with filth and straw.

  “No,” he breathed, and the pain in his mouth and throat made him realize it had been some time since he’d spoken.

  “Yes you do,” the man hissed, and he lunged at Cross. Cross grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and slammed his face into the bars. Blood spurted from dry lips and broken skin.

  He let his attacker fall to the floor. Two of the other prisoners laughed and started pounding the man with their fists and bare feet, seemingly just for the pleasure of being able to take out their frustrations on a helpless victim. Cross turned away, ignoring them.

  “You a soldier?” another prisoner asked him, a man with a faint Irish accent. He was older, probably in his fifties, with a short grey beard and thinning hair. His eyes were large and expressive, and his tattered clothing was covered in pulverized pumice and cold dry soil from the Bone March. “You have the look of a soldier,” he smiled.

  Most of the other prisoners stared out into the wastelands.

  “I was a soldier,” he nodded.

  “Was,” the man said with a sly grin. “As in ‘Not anymore’.”

  Cross nodded.

  “Well, thank you for smacking that fool’s head against the metal. He’s been eying me like a prized fish all morning, and I was getting tired of it.”

  Cross laughed.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Name’s Flintlock. But you can call me Flint.”

  “Cross.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cross.” Flint offered up his dirty hand, and Cross shook it.

  “You stand out a bit from the rest, Flint,” he said.

  “They know better than to fuck with a former Marine,” he said with a wink.

  “Southern Claw?” Cross asked.

  “Oh, hell no. I’d just gotten out when The Black came. Had to get my wife to safety, take care of her.” He read the question on Cross’s face. “That was a long time ago.”

  The wagon rolled along. The injured man retreated to his corner. His face, nose and mouth were bloody. The others looked around as if ready to pounce on one another. Someone complained loudly about how badly his ass hurt.

  The slavers rode on, sometimes close to the wagon, sometimes farther away. They paid the prisoners little heed. The air was stiff and cold and the cracked landscape seemed to go on forever. Shadows from black clouds darkened the ground.

  “How long?” Cross asked Flint.

  Flint looked at him sideways.

  “How long…what?” His voice was dry and cracked.

  “How long have you been in this wagon?”

  Flint looked out again, considering.

  “Two days. My friend and I were scouting for water on the low ridge of Black Rock, out near Rhaine. There’s lots of open territory there…unclaimed territory. A water source is worth more than money in those parts, where mages are scarce.” He looked sorrowful, lost in a memory.

  “Your friend?” Cross asked
.

  “Right here,” came a voice from Cross’s right. He hadn’t even seen the boy in the shadows. The young man was eleven, maybe twelve, with big eyes, a sour expression, and longish hair that half-covered his face.

  “Meet Shiv,” Flint said.

  “You don’t look like a soldier,” Shiv said. He hadn’t hit puberty yet – his voice was still light, making Shiv rather androgynous, even for a pre-teen boy.

  “I’m not,” Cross said. “Not really. But I used to be.”

  “Hunter Squad?” Flint asked. Cross nodded. “I admire what you do. That can’t be easy.”

  “Nothing is easy,” Cross said.

  “Shut up in there!” one of the mercenaries yelled, an unshaved man with dirty teeth and aviation goggles. He didn’t look all that different from the prisoners: his clothing was covered in dust, his hair was ratty and unkempt, and his fingers were filthy. He wore a bandolier and carried a shotgun and a number of throwing knives.

  He rode closer. His dun bay wore a heavy saddle. The rider smiled as he leaned in close.

  “I said…shut up.”

  “We heard you,” Cross said.

  The man looked taken aback.

  “What’s the problem, Krayker?” asked Joro, the bandana-wearing sniper.

  “This little piece of shit just talked back to me.”

  “Cut out his tongue,” Kala suggested with a smile. The others laughed.

  “I think I might just do that,” Krayker said in his heavy southern drawl. He drew his knife and twirled it back and forth in his hand. “Would you like that, you little fuck?” he sneered. “I can cut it out and feed it to you. How do you think your own tongue would taste, bitch?”

  “Cut off my ears instead,” Cross said. “So I don’t have to listen to any more of your bullshit.”

  “Stop the wagon, Rask!” Krayker shouted, and the vehicle ground to a halt.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Flint asked him. “Just shut up and let him alone.”

  “Bit late for that now,” Cross said.

  Krayker leapt down from the saddle. Dust filled the air as the horses stamped to a halt. The slaver handed the reins of his mount to Joro and ran up to the wagon with a snarl on his lips.