loomed menacingly overhead. Though it rested at a slight angle against the forty-foot western ridge, all it would take was a shift of strong wind to bring it down. Trails led to a labyrinth of stone canyons to the north.
“There,” Ankharra said. She knelt down and pointed at a haze of blast residue on the ground. Dark stains radiated out in concentric patterns like ripples of shadow. Thin trails of the greasy substance collected like miniature black dunes, and the ground smelled of hex powder and burnt rock. “What do you make of it?”
“ You do recall that I don’t have a spirit anymore, right?” he said.
“ You shouldn’t need one, because I also know you have a near photographic memory when it comes to anything you’ve ever seen or read, and that you know the Tome of Scars inside out. So tell me…what do you make of it?”
Cross knelt down. The ship creaked and groaned and seemed to bend over them like a stick displaced by water, and just being next to the teetering vessel sent chills up his spine.
He examined the residue, and after a moment saw what was odd about it: the pattern suggested less of a blast than it did a specific and deliberate marking placed on the ground.
“ This isn’t from the crash,” he said, and he reached a gloved finger out and scooped up a small trace of the substance. It started to eat away at his glove, and he immediately flung it to the dirt, where it returned to its inert status. “This was cast here intentionally.”
“ I agree,” Ankharra nodded. Her voice was wine dark and thick, rich with its Middle-Eastern accent. “And I believe that peculiar odor is a blend of ember weed, wormwood and…something else. A hex powder, but I can’t…”
“ Ground meteor steel,” he said. He leaned down and put his nose close to the residue, confirming the same scent he’d smelled when he’d first acquired Soulrazor from the wreckage of the future Thornn. “It’s somewhat rare. I smell silver, too.”
“ Does that all mean what I think it does?” Ankharra said. It was more a statement than a question.
“ Transubstantive locationism,” Cross said with a nod. His heart sank. “With ember weed and wormwood you create the directional signaling transference, the means to aim where you want to send something. The silver is the catalyst.”
He stood and looked up the length of the ship’s underbelly, a maze of sparking wires, broken steel plates, twisted pipes and arcane tubing. Dark fluids still leaked even an hour after the crash. Cross watched the pools of fuel on the ground with some concern; it wouldn’t ignite from just the heat but it was still volatile, and if it went up it would turn the capsized ship into a giant pillar of flame.
Yeah, that would suck.
“ That leaves the meteor steel,” Ankharra said. “The power source?”
He nodded gravely. “That would be my guess. It’s what you’d need to transport something as big as a Skyhawk. If you had mages at both the source and the destination, each with a similar circle prepared, you’d be all set. They were probably on the ground when we flew by…hell, they could have even been on a raft or a small ship, since all they’d have to do was get under us at just the right moment…”
Cross’s head was pounding. He felt his mind grow hazy, like he was trapped in a dream. The sun made everything molten. His skin was covered with desert scale, he felt sand and grit in his teeth, and his knuckles and face ached from the injuries he’d sustained during the fight. His blade kept him as healed as it needed him to be, just as it ever did – he still felt the wounds, and they’d doubtlessly leave behind ugly scars, but he knew they weren’t infected.
It still needs me. I just wish it would let me know what was going on.
The heat made him tired, and they’d only been stranded for half a day. He and Ankharra waited in the shadow of the
“There,” Ankharra said. She knelt down and pointed at a haze of blast residue on the ground. Dark stains radiated out in concentric patterns like ripples of shadow. Thin trails of the greasy substance collected like miniature black dunes, and the ground smelled of hex powder and burnt rock. “What do you make of it?”
“ You do recall that I don’t have a spirit anymore, right?” he said.
“ You shouldn’t need one, because I also know you have a near photographic memory when it comes to anything you’ve ever seen or read, and that you know the Tome of Scars inside out. So tell me…what do you make of it?”
Cross knelt down. The ship creaked and groaned and seemed to bend over them like a stick displaced by water, and just being next to the teetering vessel sent chills up his spine.
He examined the residue, and after a moment saw what was odd about it: the pattern suggested less of a blast than it did a specific and deliberate marking placed on the ground.
“ This isn’t from the crash,” he said, and he reached a gloved finger out and scooped up a small trace of the substance. It started to eat away at his glove, and he immediately flung it to the dirt, where it returned to its inert status. “This was cast here intentionally.”
“ I agree,” Ankharra nodded. Her voice was wine dark and thick, rich with its Middle-Eastern accent. “And I believe that peculiar odor is a blend of ember weed, wormwood and…something else. A hex powder, but I can’t…”
“ Ground meteor steel,” he said. He leaned down and put his nose close to the residue, confirming the same scent he’d smelled when he’d first acquired Soulrazor from the wreckage of the future Thornn. “It’s somewhat rare. I smell silver, too.”
“ Does that all mean what I think it does?” Ankharra said. It was more a statement than a question.
“ Transubstantive locationism,” Cross said with a nod. His heart sank. “With ember weed and wormwood you create the directional signaling transference, the means to aim where you want to send something. The silver is the catalyst.”
He stood and looked up the length of the ship’s underbelly, a maze of sparking wires, broken steel plates, twisted pipes and arcane tubing. Dark fluids still leaked even an hour after the crash. Cross watched the pools of fuel on the ground with some concern; it wouldn’t ignite from just the heat but it was still volatile, and if it went up it would turn the capsized ship into a giant pillar of flame.
Yeah, that would suck.
“ That leaves the meteor steel,” Ankharra said. “The power source?”
He nodded gravely. “That would be my guess. It’s what you’d need to transport something as big as a Skyhawk. If you had mages at both the source and the destination, each with a similar circle prepared, you’d be all set. They were probably on the ground when we flew by…hell, they could have even been on a raft or a small ship, since all they’d have to do was get under us at just the right moment…”
Cross’s head was pounding. He felt his mind grow hazy, like he was trapped in a dream. The sun made everything molten. His skin was covered with desert scale, he felt sand and grit in his teeth, and his knuckles and face ached from the injuries he’d sustained during the fight. His blade kept him as healed as it needed him to be, just as it ever did – he still felt the wounds, and they’d doubtlessly leave behind ugly scars, but he knew they weren’t infected.
It still needs me. I just wish it would let me know what was going on.
The heat made him tired, and they’d only been stranded for half a day. He and Ankharra waited in the shadow of the
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