closer to the bottom of the river. Soon he’ s lost in the shadows and stones.
He ’s on the shore. He doesn’t remember getting there.
His clothes and skin are saturated, and his body is covered with forest debris. Pale leaves cling to hi m as he painfully pushes himself up from the rocky ground. His arms shake, and his back is stiff with pain. The wound in his leg peels open when he tries to move, and he almost screams again.
He’ s alone. The hunter beast chose not to pursue him.
He limps along the rocky shore, looks into the forest next to the river and sees nothing but darkness.
Dead leaves fl oat through the air as he struggles forward. His leg starts to go numb.
The sword kept him safe. Soulrazor/Avenger offers him some measure of safety. It knows he has purpose here, and it pushes him on even though his spirit has long since left. It will protect him again.
But first h e has to find it.
He struggles through ankle-deep waters and pushes past s tanding stones and sediment drifts. Black fish lie dead on the river bank. He sees scat and bones, and smells rot.
Someone waits for him.
These natives are different from the others he’ s encountered. They are paler, not as covered by shadow. They are m ore like him.
They are garbed in primitive dress. Remains of clothing from the other world he barely remembers have been mixed with dark animal bones, furs and hides taken from shadow beasts.
There are a score of these creatures. T hey watch him soundlessly. He waits with fear in his chest, and he wipes black substance from his eyes.
They don’ t say a word. They step closer, and though for a moment he feels he should resist he allows them to lay hands on him. Their touch is surprisingly warm, and solid.
They’ re real. More real than the rest of this place. Just like I used to be.
T hey are human-like, but not human. Their skin is scaly, and they are larger than he is, stronger and more agile. They move with a sinuous grace he’ s seldom encountered before, here, or anywhere. They move like a si ngle sentient being, like they’ re coordinated in their motions and thoughts. He fears they’ re just extensions, another horde of puppets like the Eidolos’ s false children, but something in their scaled expressions, their quizzical and almost concerned faces, tells him he has nothing to fear from them.
They help him into the trees.
Cross felt himself grow more solid the deeper they went into the forest. Before long they were away from the river, and they stepped into a large clearing where the ground was moist and dark but the grass was actually green.
He heard voices, a mixture of human and other tongues he didn’t recognize. There were over two dozen people in the open camp, several of them standing guard along the outer perimeter, where the otherwise clean air turned vitriolic and dark. They’d camped in an island of solidity, a place secluded from the polluted fields of shadow. Tall torches had been set in the ground like spears and filled the clea ring with flickering yellow light.
The people were a mixture of human and green-gr e y humanoids with reptilian skin. Some of them had other lizard-like features as well: sharp and yellowed teeth, snake-like eyes, forked tongues, claws in stead of hands. Once inside the shadow-safe zone their clothing was tattered workman outfits and light armor cast in earthen tones. Their weapons were archaic rifles, blades and spears. Every one of the creatures w as dirty and looked bone tired, and Cross imagined they’d been there in the Whisperlands for a very long time. There were women among them.
“Welcome to our humble camp,” said one of the men he ’d been leaning on, a grey-haired and mostly human individual. “I’m Kyver.”
“Eric,” Cross replied after a moment. He was disturbed at how long it took him to answer. His voice was dry and hoarse, and h e was exhausted beyond all measure. “Not to be rude, but…could we do something about my leg?”
“Sure,” Kyver said.
They brought Cross to a bedroll near a shambled collection of tents. Everything looked very temporary, like they were ready to up root at a moment’s notice.
“What is this place?” he asked. Kyver and another human helped Cross set himself down on his back as gently as he could. He was woozy and weak. Blood soaked his leg, and in the torchlight he saw how bad his injury really was. Cracked skin glistened raw beneath his torn trousers. The slightest breeze made the wound sting.
“This is Vala, our medic,” Kyver said. Vala was a tall black woman with severe eyes and tight skin. She wore a dingy tank-top and camouflage pants, and her arms had more tone and muscle than Cross could ever hope to have.
“Lay still,” she said, her voice as commanding as her angular face.
“You bet.” He did his best not to hiss as she applied s altwater salve to the wound. “Saltwater…i s it a vampiric infection?”
“No, but it’s similar,” she said. “You know how the shadows start to creep all over your body after you’ve been out there for too long?”
“Yeah.”
“If it gets too deep into your skin, you lose your mind,” she said.
“We call it Shadowplague,” Kyver said. “For lack of a better term.” He smiled. Dead wind howled in the distance. “You probably have questions…”
“Yeah…maybe not as many as you think, but…yes.” Cross propped himself up on his elbows as Vala tore away his pant leg.
“Hold still,” she snapped.
“Sorry.” He looked at Kyver. “Who are you? Grey Clan?”
Kyver paused. Vala looked up at Cross like she intended to use the blade at her side to cut his throat.
“There’s only one creature in the Whisperlands who could have possibly told you that,” Kyver smiled. “And unfortunately for you, the Eidolos is no t a friend of ours.”
“He… it…doesn’t see things that way,” Cross said. “Trust me, I have no reason to trust it either, but it told me how to get to the City of Thorns, and where to travel from there to reach the Black Citadel. It seems to think there’s a way out of the Whisperlands, and that maybe you could help me find it.”
“You’ll get yourself killed listening to the advice of an Eidolos,” Vala said sharply. She looked at Kyver. “Should I stop treating his wounds?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Cross said as amiably as he could.
“You: be quiet,” she said coldly.
“Hang on,” Kyver said. “You know who we are…who are you?”
“My name is Eric Cross,” he said. “I used to be a warlock and a member of the Southern Claw. Now I’m a mercenary. I’ve been trapped in the Whisperlands for…I don’t know how long.”
“None of us do,” Kyver laughed. “That’s one of the many lovely side effects of this place. No one ever know s how long they’ve been here, e ven if they came here on purpose.”
“Like the Shadow Lords,” Cross said.
“Yes, like the Shadow Lords,” Kyver nodded. “Like us.”
Cross hesitated.
“Excuse me?”
Kyver and Vala exchanged glances.
“You say that you saw the City of Thorns,” Vala said. “It was founded by those who came before us.”
We search.
“I thought the people from the city were trying to escape,” he said. “That they were looking for a way out of the Whisperlands.”
“That’s not exactly the case,” Kyver said. “They were looking for something. It just so happened that the people who know the way out of the Whisperlands are looking for it, too.”
Cross took a breath. He was in no position to do anything here, especially without his blade. A few more of the Grey Clan came close, the reptilians.
“‘Those who came before us ’,” Cross quoted. “ Tell me something…is there a way out of the Whisperlands that leads into a place called the Carrion Rift? ”
