Dillon rode straight in the saddle. He wore a tan armored coat and had a long MK-14 carbine slung over his shoulder. An M4A2 was slung across the back of his saddle bag, and he had a 9mm Beretta strapped to a holster on his leg. Cross felt the weight of the sawed-off Remington shotgun in the holster on his back, which hung next to his black-bladed machete, the sheath turned so that he could draw it underhanded. His HK45 was slung in a holster on his left side, and his most potent weapon hovered in and around him, an ethereal shadow that tasted like charcoal and that whispered unintelligible mutterings into his head.
She hadn’t stopped whispering at him since he’d woken. It was like having a madman’s stereo. Sometimes, Cross just wished he understood what his spirit was telling him. Usually, he wished he could ask her to just be quiet.
They rode quietly across the ghostly ice plains. They stepped carefully to avoid sharp stones, patches of ice, and areas too brittle to support their weight.
Hours passed in near silence. Cross would have liked to sleep in the saddle, but it wasn’t going to happen. His nerves were alight, thanks in no small part to the nagging paranoia of his spirit. But that wasn’t entirely it: Cross disliked the notion of being directed by a prophecy. The fact that Sajai seemed to have known there was going to be something there in the Reach that Cross needed to follow unnerved him. It was like a trap had been laid by the universe, and he was walking straight into it.
The plains sloped down near a cluster of bone white trees rimed with dark frost. The skeletal remains of a tall humanoid creature sat near the trees; one of its hands was frozen so that it looked like it pointed back the way Cross and Dillon had ridden from.
Cross tried not to take it as a sign.
At the bottom of the slope was a thin canyon that was maybe twenty feet across. The only apparent means to cross to the other side was to use a thin log that traversed the distance like a crude bridge. Frozen pools of blood waited at the bottom of the slope, next to the log.
A cluster of thick trees and rocks waited at the far end of the gap, and beyond the tress waited the unseen source of the streaming smoke.
“ You smell that?” Cross asked. He smelled fire and fuel. “It’s an airship.” They couldn’t see any wreckage from where they were, but the smell made him certain.
“ Could it be one of ours?” Dillon asked.
“ I can’t think of a reason why a Southern Claw airship would be this far north,” Cross said. The Ebon Cities’ vessels used hexed organic fuel that smelled entirely different than that used by Southern Claw airships, so it was unlikely that the vessel was of vampiric origins. Cross deduced that it was probably a stolen or reconstructed vessel, like those used by smugglers and raiders.
Cross’ spirit moved ahead on her own. Thin lines of spectral essence connected them, which gave Cross an awareness of the area ahead. He felt the heat of fires and he smelled burning skin. He heard voices, and saw auras of pain. Lost and dead spirits roamed the air like predators in blood waters, but Cross’ spirit had become expert at protecting herself, and she eluded those wailing souls before they could do her harm.
Cross felt multiple living presences ahead, moving on the other side of the trees and stones. There were voids there, as well, unspaces where beings should have stood, but didn’t.
“ We’ve got vampires ahead,” Cross said, and he and Dillon dismounted.
They readied their weapons.
“ How many?” Dillon asked.
“ I’m not sure. Two, maybe three.”
“ That could be rough for just the two of us.”
His spirit bristled at that. She didn’t like Dillon not counting her as part of the group. She’d developed quite the temper.
I need to be careful of that. If she flares out of control and catches me off guard, we’ll all be in trouble.
“ There’s more,” Cross said. He had his HK45 in one hand; he molded his spirit in the other, his gauntleted hand. He didn’t latch onto her form too tightly, but held her ethereal tendrils like a rein, firm enough to let her know she’d be needed back soon. She extended her form to the other side of the open canyon, but at his command she moved, smoke-like, back to him, and she surrounded his body and filled his lungs with a burning sensation. Warmth filled him, vaguely erotic and invigorating, but at the same time painful and poisonous. She was like some dread hashish.
“ There are a half-dozen other life forms over there, too. Maybe more…it’s hard to say.”
Dillon chewed on that for a moment. His dark beard was cut close to his angular face, which always looked grim.
“ Human?” he asked.
“ Can’t say.”
“ Damn.” Dillon spat. “Is there anything you are sure about?”
“ I’m sure I don’t want to go over there,” Cross nodded.
They left the horses and the camel tethered to a lone tree at the west end of the ridge. Dillon led the way. He carefully stepped out onto the log, which shifted suspiciously beneath the ranger’s weight and looked ready to twist or collapse. Cross watched nervously as Dillon slowly but surely worked his way across. Wind flew up from the canyon depths, but Dillon didn’t slow or falter in the least. Cross did his best not to look into the canyon — he just watched Dillon advance and tried not to think about how deep it probably was.
Once Dillon crossed, he drew his rifle and took up position, and Cross realized he hadn’t thought of a good reason not to follow.
The log was two-feet-thick, but it creaked unnervingly when Cross set foot on it. He heard dirt and stone loosen from the cliff wall as he shuffled across. The wood felt slick beneath his boots, and the wind gusted just enough that it felt like malevolent hands pushed against his body, waiting for the right moment to shove.
Cross didn’t look down. He didn’t have to: he could sense the depth of the rift below, and his legs almost turned to jelly.
Stay with me.
She did. In spite of her reckless tendencies, Cross’ spirit stayed close as he crossed the unstable log, and her swirling form supported just enough of his weight that he almost floated across the last stretch of the cold run.
Dark growls peeled up from the depths of the canyon. Dillon chanced a glance down, but Cross didn’t. When he reached the far side he galloped onto stable ground and didn’t look back.
“ Will your camel be okay?” Dillon asked. Cross did look back then, and he saw the silhouette of the two mounts and the camel against a backdrop of dead clouds.
“ Yeah. I think it's smarter than both of us combined.”
“ Then why doesn’t it have a name?”
“ Names aren’t its style. Lay off about the camel, will you?” he laughed.
Dillon smiled.
They quickly cleared the open ground between the canyon and the line of dead trees. Cross and Dillon moved one ahead of the other in alternating runs, so that one man always kept an eye on what lay ahead while the other advanced.
The smell of fuel grew heavier as they came to the trees. Smoke poured into the air from the other side in an unrelenting stream.
Cross sent his spirit forward again. She found burning fuel tanks and bits of thaumaturgic cold steel, broken hex fields and snapped chains forged from arcane iron. She discovered a handful of living things, as well as the void space of vampire souls.
Cross and Dillon kept low and moved quietly through the trees. Soft stones shattered into pale dust beneath their boots, and their feet cracked apart dry twigs and brush. The floor was littered with pine needles and bits of wood and steel. Torn clothing dangled from dead branches.
They came upon the first body about twenty paces into the woods, a crumpled human in dark armor. His flesh was scalded and his head had snapped back against a dead pine. He’d fallen from the ship as it had exploded and crashed. A. 44 Magnum revolver was held in a hip holster, but he bore neither badge nor insignia.