Dillon and Cross grabbed their packs. Any business Cross had with the Lith had to wait until they broke camp. The humans were guests there, and not terribly well trusted ones in spite of their best efforts to abide by Lithian customs and obey the ghostly people’s loose laws. The Lith were one of the few races that humans got along with, after all, and while their presence was much quieter than the Gol or the Doj, the Lith were a valuable source of information and trade. They were tied to the land in a way that humans hadn’t been since The Black, and they had ways of culling resources from the inhospitable terrain that people of the Southern Claw couldn’t, even with the aid of magic.
Perhaps most importantly, the Lith were a race of prophets. Their witches sensed future events and determined when and where something of significance might occur. Cross wasn’t sure how they did it — if it was through the use of spirits, it was in a manner that was unknown to humans.
No surprise there, Cross thought. For as much as we know about magic, we still don’t know a damn thing. It’s a wonder we’ve survived as long as we have.
Once Cross had all of his gear stowed away, he cleaned his weapons and tended to the camel. He’d first worked with such a beast during Viper Squad’s last ill-fated mission, when they’d purchased one from a merchant in the armistice city-state of Dirge. That camel had noisily but faithfully served at Cross’ side for the rest of the mission, and while he never found out what had happened to it (he was fairly certain it had either wandered off into the dead lands north of the Carrion Rift or else had been eaten by ghouls), he decided he’d always bring one along whenever duty required him to trek into the wilderness. This camel — which he didn’t name out of pure superstitious habit — had been with him for the better part of a year. Cross still didn’t know how to ride the beast, and he didn’t think that either of them was up for trying.
The rock shelf that the Lith camped on overlooked the Reach from the side of a squat mountain. Navigating up and down the sliding mountain face to get to and from the camp was treacherous, but the elevated position meant that only the most dedicated predators would dare try to harm them. The air was thin and cold atop the rocks, and the wind snapped against Cross’ cloth-wrapped face and cut straight through his grey armor like a blade. At times the gusts were so strong Cross felt sure they could have forced him off of the rock and into open air. The campsite was large enough, Cross guessed, to land a pair of the Southern Claw’s new Bloodhawk airships.
Dillon stood next to him. His scraggly black beard had finally shed some of the frost it had accumulated overnight. Cross’s own face bore only slight traces of stubble. Growing a beard wasn’t in the cards for him, and never had been.
Cross’ spirit pushed against him. Before the Viper Squad’s last mission, such an act would have brought him comfort. His spirit was tied to his soul, after all, an ethereal feminine counterpart, an extension of his own life force that he called on to craft magical effects and to gather information. She had, in many ways, been his deepest friend and companion, and his one true love aside from his sister.
They’re both gone now. Gone, and they’re not coming back.
The touch and feel of his spirit had changed, just as Cross had changed. The spirit he was bonded to was an entirely different entity than that he’d spent most of his life with.
A year before, in the secret obelisk prison that housed humankind’s arcane souls, Cross had destroyed Margrave, and his original spirit had, in turn, sacrificed herself to save him. His new spirit was a reward, of sorts, granted to Cross by whatever entity it was who ruled that obelisk.
It had been an uneasy marriage thus far. Sensing this spirit was like reaching through ice-water, or staring into a smoky mirror.
His spirit was a shadow of the one he’d once known, a bitter and resentful echo. The emotions that she emanated usually felt like an indictment of Cross, a resistance to whatever he attempted.
He felt more alone that ever.
There’s still so much we don’t understand about magic…so much that still doesn’t make sense. Maybe that’s why I’m still here. Maybe that’s why they sent me back.
He sees his old spirit, falling into the sky.
“ Hello?”
Cross snapped to. Dillon was looking at him.
“ Sorry,” he said.
“ Are you all right?” Dillon’s voice was thick and loud. Rangers had to be silent. Cross was fairly sure that was why Dillon actually didn’t talk all that much — even his whispers were easy to hear. He had to make an effort at being quiet, which was probably why he was so good at it.
“ Yes,” Cross said after a moment. A thick crust of iron clouds crept over the stale sun. Heavy shadows floated like vessels on the face of the pale valley. A silver-red river wound its way across the land below like an open wound. “What’s up?”
“ Sajai,” Dillon said with a nod.
The Lith witch worked her way up the stone hill and towards the two Southern Claw men. Like all Lith, Sajai was thin and short. Her golden hair flowed in the freezing mountain breeze, and her milk white skin was as flawless as snow. Sajai was dressed in a pale blue cloak laced with gold and platinum cuffs, but the garment was tied tight at the waist like a corset. A series of tall knife scabbards surrounded her washboard frame, while her gloves and boots were made of some sort of animal skin, probably ice wolf.
Sajai came and stood before them. Cross found the Lith unnerving because of their physical appearance. He hated that he felt that way, but it was what it was. Their eyes were blue, so bright they sparkled in even the barest hint of light. They held themselves with perfect posture and poise, and the Lith made no sound, not even by mistake. They were like living wraiths.
Strangest of all, the race had no mouths: their faces beneath their small nostrils were like surgical masks made of flesh. Cross had no idea how they ate, and had never seen them do so, even though they always took meat from the animals they killed. So far as communication was concerned, all Lith seemed to have some telepathic or empathic connection with one another. The Lith also had a system of hand signals that they used to communicate with outsiders, but Cross had never seen them use it with each other.
Sajai, the witch mother of this band of Lith, used those signals now. They were subtle, and didn’t involve a great deal of overt motion, which seemed to suit their quiet race. The hand language still looked complicated, and Cross wished he’d been able to pick up more of it, which should have been possible given how many weeks he and Dillon had spent in their company. The Lith were nomads. They lived off of the harsh environs of the Reach, and though they never looked for trouble they always seemed capable of dealing with it when it came. They had also forgotten more about magic than the collective warlocks and witches of the Southern Claw would ever even possess, which was why Cross was there now.
Cross looked at Dillon.
“ She wants to know if you’re ready,” Dillon said.
Cross nodded.
Sajai stood a full head shorter than Cross, but those blue eyes pierced straight through to his core. He felt his spirit twitch, as if afraid. Sajai’s arcane sight cast her face in a near invisible corona that surrounded her like gossamer dust. Cross could feel as her gaze took in everything about him, from his thoughts to his fears, from his past to his soul. She’d done it before, when he and Dillon had first arrived.
She wants to make sure I’m still driven by the same motives. She has to know that I’m not letting something slip, some hidden agenda.