like that. No one seems to know how they came under the common banner of the Witch Queen.”
Azradayne, the reptilian said, or one of the reptilians said. It was hard to know which, since they all used Cross’s voice when they spoke into his mind.
“Who’s Azradayne?” he asked.
“Something not of our world, or of any world we know,” Vala said. “But whatever she is, she ’ s learned to tap into the Obelisk’s powers just like a human witch.”
Terrific, Cross thought.
“So she and her Shadow Lords want the Obelisk all to themselves, and they’ve stake d a claim here in the Whisperlands to accomplish that,” he said.
“You’re not very quick, are you?” Vala said.
“I heal quick,” he said. The blade smoked cold on the ground beside him. “So when do you take me to them? To the Black Citadel?”
“As soon as you heal,” Kyver said. “And as soon as you destroy the Druid.”
“The Druid,” Cross said slowly. “You mean that antlered thing that nearly tore me apart?”
Kyver nodded.
“Um…why?”
“You’ve been here long enough to know that the geography of the Whisperlands doesn’t always follow what you might think of as ‘the rules of reality’,” Kyver said. “Logically, there should be some other way, some other path or stretch of wilderness that one could cross, some desert or river or field that would allow you reach the Black Citadel.”
“But there isn’t, is there?” Cross said with a grim and knowing smile.
“No. There isn’t. In order to reach the Citadel, we have to pass through the Corpsewood, and the Burned Hills.”
“You guys have a knack for naming things,” Cross said. His leg had finally healed enough for him to sit up and bend it.
“They’re the native names,” Kyver laughed.
“ Your people can’t handle him?”
Kyver shook his head. “And we’ve lost our fair share trying.”
“So what makes you think I’ll fare any better?” he asked.
Again, Kyver’s eyes went to the sword. “It’s unique,” he said. “The power of The Black combined with the energies of the White Mother. You have a far better chance of defeating the Druid than any of my people do.”
Cross nodded. This wasn’t going to be easy.
It never is.
“Fine,” he said. “You show me where to go. I’ll take care of it. And then you’ll show me how to get to the Burned Hills.”
“We’ll help you,” Vala said. “Even though some of us don’t want to.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Kyver nodded, and he and Vala left Cross alone.
Someone brought him a blanket, and he wrapped himself tight. Cross pulled his legs in close and huddled alone in the dark. The chill was suddenly intense.
Worry gnawed at hi m. He tried to push it away, to ignore it, but the ache of tension settled in side hi m like a worm. His stomach churned and his hands shook.
He had so much to lose. He hadn’t really realized it before, but it wasn’t just the notion of letting the Southern Claw fall or the Ebon Cities win that terrified him. It wasn’t even the idea of failing Snow and letting her sacrifice — the sacrifice made by all of Viper Squad — be in vain.
I f he failed, he’d lose Kane, and Ash, and Grissom. He’d lose Ronan and Maur.
He’d lose Danica.
That thought was the most terrifying of them all.
I don’t care what happens to me, he realized. And I haven’t for a long time. I just want them to be safe.
He couldn’t sleep. It had always been difficult to rest in the Whisperlands. It should have been easy there in the clearing, now that he finally had a moment of safety. He watched members of the Grey Clan quietly mingle with one another, huddled in their tents or blankets, and he listened to the dark wind and the crackling fire. T he hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sound of some distant and shadow-born beast.
His heart felt cold.
I’m not going to survive this, he thought. Even if I defeat this hunter beast, even if we make it all of the way through the Corpsewood and the Burned Hills, the Shadow Lords will be the end of me.
He felt that certainty in his bones. He didn ’ t doubt it.
And as much as he tried to deny it, he was horribly afraid.
He walks to a shore covered in dried wood and ground bones. Shadows cling to the sky. Drifts of rolling dust cut across his path like charcoal rain. The river runs fast and deep.
He steps onto the logs and balances over the water. The black flow carr ies bits of animal matter and gritty fat. He smells blood and tar.
Clouds like grease stains claw at the broken tree line. Eyes watch him from the edge of the forest.
The log is slick. He stands steady, waiting. The white-black blade is in his hand. He is whole. This time, he is ready.
Behind him, he hears Kyver and the Grey Clan move into position. They hold iron nets and bone spears, bladed bolas and glaives. They hide in the shadows and wait for the hunter to show itself.
They don’t have to wait long. The shadow beast takes shape from a cloud of bones and blood. Its massive body rises from the ground. M ismatched shadow horns and tendril limb s glow with spectral luminescence.
It stands as tall as three men and grips a spear made of ashen knives. Green-white eyes reflect on the murky surface of the water.
He doesn’t move. He waits for it, knowing it will come.
Mongrel soldiers made of forest remains and shadows emerge from the river. They are dead bodies and black crusts of earth, broken bones and claws like rusted nails. They are two, then ten, then twenty.
The Grey Clan fires at them. Arcane bullets tear into zombie flesh. Speckles of dark blood and molded skin fly onto the shore.
He smells gunpowder and blood. The h unter’s denizens growl as they’ re torn apart.
The beast moves. It takes to the sky, become s the sky. It blocks out the night.
The spear comes down, but he ’s waiting. He ’ s played this battle out again and again in his mind. His blade has joined with him. They share a consciousness. It responds to his thoughts, and is a part of his body. He and it are fused as one.
He moves at the last second. The spear strikes wood, and the log cracks. A sound like splitting bones rings out. He loses his footing, but only for a moment. The shadow beast looms o ver h im, blocks out everything. It’ s a waterfall of soot darkness.
The blade flies, and he follows. He breathes grave fumes and feels liquid rot. Energy from the sword extends around him like a bubble. He floats in side the hunter’s form like he’ s lost in a black sea.
He dives forward, swallows grit and oil darkness. The blade cuts through the shadow heart. A scream like a crashing train fills his ears.
He falls. Hard ground rushes up at him, and the wind is knocked from his lungs as he c rashes to the shore. Pain shoots up his limbs.
The air is silent but for the shouts of the Grey Clan, their crie s of victory. He catch es his breath. His ribs ache and his legs are sore, like he’s been pelted with stones.
He stares at the blade in his hand. He wonders which of them is truly in control.
THIRTEEN
