He fights on, one-handed. Longspear stands next to him. B lasts of cannon fire issue from the shore behind them, some crude artillery. Gargoyle bodies explode and scatter like clumps of wet sand.
The black warriors struggle on. It’s all but impossible to tell which side has the upper hand.
Deep cold gnaws at his bones. He feels a chill so utter it makes his shadow-stain ed flesh burn. His head pounds. The glacial air makes his body shake.
A twisted presence worms its way through his veins, some poison from his wound. Soulrazor/Avenger wills the corruptive toxin out of his body, but his flesh pays the price. He isn’t even aware of his own screams until the sound of them hurts his ears.
The barge lands on the far shore. Lon gspear pulls him to the bottom of the steep slope that leads up into the canyon wall. The bone addled path ascends into a veil of fog. A ncient fossil s and hieroglyph s lie embedded in the high stone walls.
When he turns, the barge is back in the river, headed towards the far shore. Longspear is on board, returning to his comrades, not wish ing for them to die alone.
Cross watches them fight. He knows they won’t survive. The faith they must have in the Eidolos — in him — is baffling. They know nothing about him, and yet they s acrifice themselves, for t hey feel he can bring the Shadow Lord’s reign to a certain end.
They have nothing to lose. They want things to change, and they think I can help bring i t about.
S kinwings fold their bodies around ebon warriors. E nem ies run each other through with saw- bone blades. M utated mounts trample foes into the ground. Skirmishers are skewered on spears and dragged howling into the waters, where they are consumed by aquatic terrors.
The fliers keep coming. More of the Shadow Lord’s minions storm in from the west.
They’ ve forgotten him. Even if the battle had once been about his getting across the river, it isn’t any more. They a re lost to the ir bloodlust and carnage.
He turn s away and climbs the path.
His arm throbs with pain. Hurt burns through his body e very time he tries to lift the damaged limb. He walks like he’s made of glass, and fears he has some sort of fever.
H e makes his way up the narrow path with his blade in his good hand. The rock looks recently shorn: t he remains of civilizations have been entombed in the black and crusty stone.
Dark shapes slither up and down the walls. K nots of tension run through his back. He slowly regain s feeling in his arm.
His legs are tired. Soot y sweat leaks from his skin. His armor coat feel s heavy, and though he no longer needs sleep he briefly re members what it feels like, and he longs for it.
Molten faces snarl and melt around him. He reaches the top of the path, and finds himself on a shallow trail filled with bone and gravel. D ark trees stand vigil like lost men. The valley and the river below seem like they’ re miles away. B lack mist rolls over his feet, like he ’ s stepped into an ink stain. D ark trees surround him, fused together by smoke and fog.
There are riders in the forest, vague silhouettes darker than the shadow-thick sky, gaunt figures who wear dangling fetishes and chains. They have long clawed limbs and curved weapons, hooks and hammers and double- swords, claw-handles and barbed shields. A dozen of the creatures file out of the darkness on sinuous mounts made of blades.
Part of him wonders how he could be so stupid. The emissaries of the Shadow Lords would never leave the entrance to their inner realm unprotected. These are hunters, and they’ve been sent to destroy him.
He doesn’t hesitate. He ignores his pain and moves fast and low into the forest. He knows that he has no chance i f he stands and fights, but t here’ s little room for the riders to navigate in the thick of the trees, and he can use that to his advantage. The iron oak s glow like slivers of the moon, unnaturally bright for the shadow re alm.
He is close to the Black Citadel. Things are more solid, more real.
The rider’s gangly weapons sweep low to the ground and stir dead leaves. Their mount ’ s eyes shine silver.
He bends around the trees and dodges a long blade. Sparks fly as steel strikes the forest, like the trees themselves are made of iron. He brings Soulrazor/Avenger up and cleaves through b lack armor flesh, metal fused to tissue. The blade hisses as he buries it in to the rider’s face. The creature makes a high-pitched draconian sound that reminds him of boiling lobster.
Another rider comes at him. He dodges back, uses the cobalt trees for cover.
His heart pounds. He hears the dissonant whinnies of primordial steeds that smell of carbon and fused metal. The air is deathly cold. E very breath freezes and falls.
The rider swings at him, but he deflects the blow with his double-blade. His arm reels from the impact as t he force of the attack drives him to the ground. The creature and its mount rear up, one a part of the other, a centaur made of shadows. The mount’s hoof ed feet kick at the air.
The blade gives him strength. Harlequin power surge s through him, a bastard fusion of diametric energies. His attack sears throu gh the mount and into the rider, and tears them both apart. They explode in a b rittle cloud of dust glass that rains like pellets to the forest floor.
White h ands erupt out of the ground, and they reach up and grab him. The other riders charge through the trees. D esperate, he cleaves through the clawing ice limbs. Pale blood sprays on to the black earth.
He flees deeper into the forest.
We search.
He runs for hours. Hooves thunder behind him.
He can’t stop. Blood pounds in his ears. He waits to be crushed by a blow to the back. His legs ache with fatigue. He runs through a forest covered in frost smoke and made dense with darkness. Trees like slivers of ice cage him in.
The riders cease their pursuit. He isn’t sure how long it has been since he’s lost them. He slows, and walks deeper into trees turned blue with frost.
The sky is different. The normally dank illumination that suffuses the Whisperlands fade s to a frozen lunar shine that makes everything ghostl y. The shadows recede. He see s the stark detail s of the bone trees and the scarred terrain. Skeletons sit in piles of frozen leaves and seem to stare at him.
Time is slower, like the air has thickened.
He struggles against the cold. Every crunching leaf echoes like breaking glass. The air tastes of forest rot and burning ice.
There are fires in the distance. He moves ahead cautious ly. Soulrazor/Avenger feels heavy in his hand.
The trees grow taller as he nears the gates of a grim city. The settlement is made of fortified wood held together by iron sap. Thin streams of milky water run in a perimeter around the forest outpost. Tall arrow slits reveal grim shadow faces with pale eyes. B ows are aimed at him, and he senses the presence of a mage’s spirit. The creatures are vaguely reptilian.
What is your business here? He hears the question, but when he tri es to answer they’ re all gone. Only the dead forest city remains. The water has turned to dust. The gates lie shattered.
There are no creatures there, living or dead. He finds crushed wagons and open homes, abandoned watch posts and weapons long unused.
His feet shuffle in frozen dirt. Open doorways look like hollow eyes. He feels like he’ s being watched, even though he knows he’ s alone. Nothing living has dwel l ed with in those walls for a very long time.
We search.
He knows this City of Thorns is where the arcane natives came from. This was their home, when they ’d had a home. This place i s stranded, exiled in t he Whisperlands just as Earth is stranded in the world After The Black.
He wonders why they left. He feels he should be afraid, but he isn’t.
He w a nders from house to house. The small wood en structures are bereft of furnishings. I ce and dust cover everything. Glitters of frozen crystal litter the ground like fallen stars.
There is a well at t he center of the city. Its broken stone wall surrounds a shaft that runs deep into the frozen sludge. There are bones at the bottom, frozen white shards of once-humans that glitter in the pale air.
He moves on.
