Ravenous undead flew at them as they ran. Whirling saws locked to maimed zombie appendages rang with the song of grinding steel. Bone needles hammered the ground. Cross sent his spirit out in a wave of dark wind that threw the needles aside before he brought her back around. He twisted and honed her form until she was a pencil- thin blade, a vorpal lance that rent the zombie front-runners in half.
The mass of undead was less than fifty yards behind them. Kane and Ekko made for the ruined building, the same as Crylos and his surviving men. Cross saw Southern Claw soldiers cut down by whirling bone blades and enveloped in folds of living skin the size of bloody carpets.
He couldn't hear anything beyond the catastrophe of bullets and explosions and screams. Burning meat scent filled his nostrils and throat.
The undead were right on top of them. Cross fired the triple barrel with mad determination. Kane dropped the empty shotgun and hacked through necrotic bodies with his swords. Ekko's oversized and utterly inhuman claws sparkled like diamond ice as she hacked and slashed through ranks of bladed zombies, wights and whip-bearing phantoms.
Blood flew onto their faces and chests. Cross didn't remember dropping the triple-barrel, but it was gone, and he hacked away at the enemy with his machete instead. Heads and arms cracked beneath the destructive energies that his spirit encased him in.
Still they came.
Thunderous blasts tore through the air to the north. The Flak 38 rolled into view. Three bloodied soldiers found a spot just past the ruins, positioned the cannon, and blasted into the undead ranks. Metal thunder broke the air. Shells the size of carrots pummeled dead flesh and tore Ebon Cities’ soldiers to pieces. The Flak 38 bought just enough time for Kane to pull Ekko back. Cross cleared enough space for them to run by firing a phalanx of flaming coals into the undead, which set their flesh alight.
Still they came.
Relentless, and without end.
The M2 was overrun. Half of Crylos' men were brought down with bone and blade. Most of the rest engaged in close combat with an overwhelming horde.
The Razorwing dropped a vampire swordsman out of the sky like it was a white flesh missile. The vampire slashed through the Flak 38 crew in seconds, and the lone soldier who got away was snatched up by the Razorwing’s claws and torn in half.
Cross called his spirit, pulled her to within centimeters of his skin. He felt her, tasted her, sticky and burning, like sweet acid on his tongue. Rage filled him, power fueled by the same controlled and murderous force that made him win fight after fight back in Krul, power that boiled his blood and made his eyes smoke when he thought of Dillon, who would never again see his sister or her son.
That power curled inside of him and froze, an icy core, a glacial shield around his heart, growing, building, freezing. And there, nestled right beside it, in some far removed and distant aspect of his mind, was a shard of light and life, a powerful and ancient slice of arcane matter, a derelict fragment of an older creature from an older time. Cross saw it, felt it.
Used it.
He is on the mountain, looking on as the blaze of cold fire races toward him. The frost is so powerful it freezes his skin.
He watches Snow and Graves and Dillon and everyone else he ever cared about crystallize and shatter like glass figurines.
Behind him, beyond the pale doorway, are Ekko and Black. Their bodies are alight in coronas of white fire, and their eyes burn like vacant suns.
They are the inheritors of Lucan's primal spirit. They are the keepers of the light that burned inside him, a light that has burned for centuries, and that will go on burning for centuries to come, regardless of what happens now.
But right now that light has a purpose to fulfill, and while it will not allow itself to be used for just any reason, it will grant them, those three, its new avatars, some small measure of its strength so that they can defeat their enemies.
It does this not out of compassion, but as a token of good faith: one service, for another.
Cross roared, and the sky flew apart.
Shards of light exploded out of his body. He didn't need to see Black and Ekko to know they’d had been taken by the same nova glare, that their bodies were held in sunbeam prisons. Their consciousness melted together, fused into a common purpose.
There will be a price. It was no voice, but an understanding held between them. An acknowledgement.
There will be a price.
There always is.
Raw soul matter exploded out of Cross like he was the heart of a star. It expanded and curled along the ground, reached into every crack and crevice, into every fold of dead skin and raw socket, into every hollow bone and dangling bit of sinew. Necrotic energy recoiled before the agonized cry of primordial spirits, a collective of the damned that screamed out of Cross’ bleeding eyes and hands like they were rolling liquid flame.
The undead exploded. Pale animated bodies and jagged skeletal weapons, razor vapors and icy claws, maggot hearts and grave dust, soiled black fire and cursed souls: all of it immolated within the onslaught of primal spirit matter like paper put to the flame.
White detonations rang up and down the field as dead bodies erupted in blasts of cold fire. The explosions carried on through the small horde in a chain reaction. Angry white light leapt from one body to the next.
In the sky above, the vampires in the final warship and those mounted on the last Razorwing were also affected by the light. The dead flesh tore from their rotted bones and evaporated like melting snow.
The light caught the burning fuel in the Coffin and ignited it. The resulting explosion peeled into the sky with a deafening blast. The ground shook. Everything sucked in towards Cross like a vortex.
When it was done, every last Ebon Cities fighter was gone. Nothing was left of them but ash.
Cross stood in a daze. His eyes burned and his skin peeled from the cold. His arms and legs trembled, and after a moment his strength left him completely, and Kane caught him as he fell to his knees. His throat felt like a chimney.
The last vampire warship crashed to the ground just a few hundred yards away. Shrapnel and gouts of caustic flame filled the frozen wind with the smell of burnt metal.
And as abruptly as the battle had began, it was over. The icy world settled into near silence.
The last Bloodhawk landed a few minutes later, having lost three men. The Bloodhawk that carried Ankharra had been shot down, but her magic helped most of those onboard survive the crash.
All told, over forty of Crylos' seventy-five men were dead.
They all stood in silence for a time. They watched bloody patches of fog fall and melt the icy ground beneath them. Smoke of different colors competed for control of the sky. Torn and exploded remains were everywhere, and soon they were covered in drifts of smoking ash. The air smelled like long-burned meat.
Ekko stumbled over to Cross and Kane. Black and Cole joined them. The side of Black's face was bloody from where, Cross later learned, Harker’s head had exploded when a bone grenade went off inside the ship.
Cross stared off into the pale and frozen sky. The ghosts of centuries passed through him. He felt soiled, and very old. He had become a conduit for Death.
And I'll have to do it again, before this night is done. That was what they really taught me in Krul, whether they knew it or not. How to kill…and kill again.
Quietly, the survivors of First and Second Platoon, Claw Company, gathered what resources and men they had left. Their task was not get finished.
They still had to find the Woman in the Ice.
Steven Alan Montano
Black Scars
TWENTY
