Steven Montano: Crown of Ash

He tries to rise, but they push him back down. He can’t find his sword. Blood and puss ooze out of his wounded arms. H is eyes are crusted over with scabs.

He isn’t sure how long they’ ve beat en him. Shadows seep into his pores. Only their proximity to the gap in the worlds, the hole that leads to the Carrion Rift, keeps hi s body stable.

Only the living are lost. He still can’t determine what that means, what significance the message is supposed to hold. His mind races for an answer. It ’s something to focus on as he battles his way through the pain.

Blood pounds in his ears. He feels himself grow more corporeal by the moment. H e turns and looks at the Obelisk. T he gap in the wall is widening. Solid matter spreads like water. T he shadow dust and spectral smoke that’ s closest to the artifact slowly transforms in to crumbling granite.

Inch by inch, the cavern grows more solid, more real. He realizes this is the Shadow Lord’s doing, their way of transporting the Obelisk home.

Dark crafts float in the canyon on the other side, black iron vessels like half-moon platforms, iron dreadnaughts covered with spines and guns. They are Sorn ve hicle s. He sees the giants on the decks, grey silhouettes with crackling harpoons and massive guns. Their l one eyes shine like diamonds in to the bleeding dark of the Whisperlands.

The Shadow L ord s have communicated with them somehow, told them the Obelisk’s location in the physical world so they can come to haul it away. He c a n’t fathom how the giants ha ve survived the horrors of the Carrion Rift when no Southern Claw or Ebon Cities expedition ever has. He imagines the backing of a cadre of powerful mages and vastly superior alien technology plays some part, as does finally knowing t he Obelisk’s resting place, which the Shadow Lords had sought for so long. They had found the caverns, but they could have searched that labyrinth for years and never found anything.

And I led them right to it. Like a fool, I blundered my way to something they’d have never found on their own. Soulrazor/Avenger led the way. It knew the location all this time.

Only the living are lost.

Cross’ s heart s i nk s. The Eidolos wanted him to lead them to the Obelisk all along. It had doubtlessly been promised some power, some reward for helping the mages find their prize.

Only the living are lost. But the sword was n’t lost, and it never has been. A nd the Eidolos knew it. That clue was inc luded only as a mocking promise, a taunt to make him realize how easily he’d been used.

The Shadow Lords strike him with bludgeoning maces made of ice and darkness. The wounds dully sound in the echoes of his mind. His body twists and contorts with hurt. Blood sprays and bones crack.

Cross tries to strike back at them. He sees the sword, his sword, in Tregoran’s hand, and while the Shadow Lord can’ t use it, could never use it, the weapon is out of its yielder’s reach. He tries to grab it, and they beat him back down to the ground. His hand slips in a pool of his own blood. Frozen charcoal stone presses against his face.

The dark metal howl sounds again. A shadow stands at the edge of the shifting chamber, a man’s silhouette. It fades in and out of sight, flickers like a shadow in dying candlelight. The shape expands and recedes, twists and slithers out of view.

He knows what it is. He’ s faced it before, or something like it. Coal black skin fuses around a hardened meteor core that shines through the eye s and mouth, like the creature has swallowed an exploding star. The darkness rests in a human shell, a crumbling skin mask cloaked in black armor. The red-headed figure ’s broken skull barely contains the darkness within.

It isn’t The Sleeper — he’ s sure of that. But it’ s another refugee of the shadows, another aspect of The Black.

Tregoran and Marklahain recognize it, and they hammer it with arcane power. Acid bolts and razor lightning stream across the cavern. The air turns hot and molten. Stone melts and drips from the walls. P arts of the passageway collapse in a hail of steaming rock. He smells burning stone and scalding water.

The shadow advances, unscathed. The magic bend s around its outstretched hands and burn s new passageways in the shadow stone. Hollow screams echo through the cavern. Sonic bursts cut through the rock.

Pulses of black and red energy peel away from the shadow like waves of rolling water. T he Shadow Lords are crushed and eviscerated by storms of black sound.

The creature doesn’t stop. Its howl shakes the cavern. His ears bleed.

Its dark hands conjure a vitriolic ball of acid shadow, a sphere the size of a human heart. The missile flies at Cross. It s plits reality like a razored wedge pushed through an icy floe. He twists out of the way.

The sphere barrels past the Obelisk and knock s it aside. The artifact teeters at the edge of the cliff face. It dangles over the precipice, nearly fall s into the Rift.

The sphere of dread matter shatters the barrier between worlds and tears into th e Sor n vehicles on the other side. The vessels explode. Charred metal falls in to the Rift’s hellish depths.

The Shadow moves towards him. What’ s left o f its disguise melts away. It’ s just darkness now. C rumbling bits of bone and flesh dangle from its ebon body like shreds of paper. The ground melts beneath it. Glowing eyes capture Cross and freeze his heart.

A blast of fire strikes the Shadow from behind. The attack does no harm, but the flames distract it.

Danica stands in the distance, the source of the roiling flames. She has changed, somehow — the sense of her spirit is muted, the pulse of her life force has been altered and shifted, but there is no question it’ s her, in the flesh, adrift in the Whisperlands the same as he is. S he hammers the minion of The Black with as much power as he ’ s ever seen her channel at once. He feels the pain as it roll s through her body, and he senses her fatigue.

The Shadow turns toward her. In that fraction of a second, Cross’s hand closes around the hilt of his blade, and he lifts it from the ground. H e rises and strikes with every last reserve of his strength.

He pushes Soulrazor/Avenger into the Shadow’s back. The creature’s howl blasts the ceiling apart. Stone rain falls around them. Frozen vapors blast against Cross. His lungs crystallize, and his fingers go black.

H e manages to hold on. T he gale shoves against him. He clings to the hilt even as his feet slide back ward s al on g the ground. He smells the creature’s void heart. M eteor blood drip s like silver from its wounded shadow flesh.

He g rip s the hilt of his b lade and throws his body forward. He pushes the sword all of the way through the Shadow with a cry of pain and rage.

The Shadow explodes. Cross is thrown back. He loses direction. Everything twist s around him.

He sees Snow and Graves. He sees Dillon and St one and Cristena. He sees Mom and D ad. All of them stand together at the edge of a forest glade. He wants to run to them, to be with them.

Mold darkness fills his vision. He smells brimstone and hex fumes, forest rot and burning coal. He smells fresh cut wood and acrid smoke.

He smells the train.

Backwards. I’m fading backwards.

He sees the train fal l up through the air. I ts bladed crenellations fuse together. Thick cars bound with blade s and wire s collapse inward. Stones and rubble ascend along the cliff face, an inverted waterfall.

For the briefest of moments, he feels himself drawn into the past.

A face pulls him back. It hangs right over him. Green eyes like smoothed emeralds bleed into view. Hair turned pale blonde falls around his face. He feels her warm breath and her moist lips. He kisses her back.

His body knits itself together. Blood seeps out of wounds as they seal from within. His b ones realign and pull themselves into place. Sharp cuts hiss closed as if cauterized. Tears of pa i n roll down his face. He grips the earth with one hand, and holds her hand with the other.