Read Online The Witch's Eye by Steven Montano, Barry Currey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Montano, Barry Currey
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died from natural accidents and wound up in the deep canyon floor. It was impossible to know how many dead lay at the bottom of the Rift.
Cross steadied himself. He shook his head, and started the climb down. Immediately his fingers burned from the pressure. He was more exhausted than he ’d thought. His muscles shook. He hesitated, took a breath, kept going. Ice cracked and shifted. Cold sweat dripped down his face.
He felt the air beneath hi s body as he scaled down the rock ledge. Cross carefully pushed himself against the wall as soon as his feet were back on the rough path he’d walked before.
The trip down didn ’t take as long as he’d feared it would. Most of the time was spent on the steep path, and while he had to take extra care to secure handholds in case his feet slipped on the ice, Cross moved with decent speed. It helped that the wind came crossways and didn’t interfere too much with his momentum.
His arcane blade clanged against his new weapon, the dead man ’s squat and ugly red-metal sword. He felt the old .45 at the back of his waistline. Weapons wouldn’t do any good against the fall, but he felt eyes on him. Something watched him from within the caves, and as Cross approached the stretch of cables a chill ran up his spine. Even then, he felt sprightly by the time he finished the descent. Aching and exhausted though he was, he was renewed by a sense of hope.
Cross drew as close to the cables as he could . Short of jumping down, he found he had to take a circuitous route to get close enough to reach the lines. He wound up on a stone ledge about four or five feet below a pair of the ancient cables, which ran straight into the crumbling limestone like puncture wounds. Drilled holes in the rock leaked oil and rust. The lines were frayed and partially corroded.
The space between the walls was wider where the cables stretched across. He guessed he’d have to traverse nearly six-hundred feet.
Of course .
He didn ’t look down. He heard whispers in the wind. It might have just been a natural effect of the cracks in the walls. It also might have been the sirens from the stories, mutated creatures from the depths of the canyon, enticing him to jump. Either way, he’d pay them no mind. He couldn’t afford to.
Cross checked his shoes and his hands. He’d have to scale back up the rock to reach the cables, no easy feat given the lack of handholds, so he found a cleft, a vertical flaw where the stone had split apart. He wedged the dead man’s blade into the crack, edge down. Cross put all of his weight behind it and shoved the sword in as deep as it would go.
Wind filled with rotten fruit scent pushed him against the rock. His fingers were freezing. Bitter fog curled around his body.
When the blade was secure, Cross used it as a step. He lifted himself up and balanced his weight on the hilt where it protruded from the cliff. The blade was held tight: so long as the rock held and didn’t crumble or flake away, he’d be fine.
Famous last words , he thought bitterly.
The steel cable wasn ’t as solid as he’d hoped, but it ran deep into the cliff, so even though it shook and wobbled when he grabbed hold he felt certain it wouldn’t slide out. The other cables were the same, but they were spaced just far enough apart that he doubted he’d be able to make use of more than two of them – one to grip, and one to walk on. Cross guessed this was how the crossing had been designed in the first place, and the third cable, which stretched another three feet over the central line, was meant to accommodate larger creatures like Doj, or else to slide equipment across in harnesses.
The cable wobbled beneath his feet, but held. He gripped the overhead line tight. Cross gulped, took a breath, and tried not to think about the depths below. The steel wire shook with every motion. He felt like he was floating in
Cross steadied himself. He shook his head, and started the climb down. Immediately his fingers burned from the pressure. He was more exhausted than he ’d thought. His muscles shook. He hesitated, took a breath, kept going. Ice cracked and shifted. Cold sweat dripped down his face.
He felt the air beneath hi s body as he scaled down the rock ledge. Cross carefully pushed himself against the wall as soon as his feet were back on the rough path he’d walked before.
The trip down didn ’t take as long as he’d feared it would. Most of the time was spent on the steep path, and while he had to take extra care to secure handholds in case his feet slipped on the ice, Cross moved with decent speed. It helped that the wind came crossways and didn’t interfere too much with his momentum.
His arcane blade clanged against his new weapon, the dead man ’s squat and ugly red-metal sword. He felt the old .45 at the back of his waistline. Weapons wouldn’t do any good against the fall, but he felt eyes on him. Something watched him from within the caves, and as Cross approached the stretch of cables a chill ran up his spine. Even then, he felt sprightly by the time he finished the descent. Aching and exhausted though he was, he was renewed by a sense of hope.
Cross drew as close to the cables as he could . Short of jumping down, he found he had to take a circuitous route to get close enough to reach the lines. He wound up on a stone ledge about four or five feet below a pair of the ancient cables, which ran straight into the crumbling limestone like puncture wounds. Drilled holes in the rock leaked oil and rust. The lines were frayed and partially corroded.
The space between the walls was wider where the cables stretched across. He guessed he’d have to traverse nearly six-hundred feet.
Of course .
He didn ’t look down. He heard whispers in the wind. It might have just been a natural effect of the cracks in the walls. It also might have been the sirens from the stories, mutated creatures from the depths of the canyon, enticing him to jump. Either way, he’d pay them no mind. He couldn’t afford to.
Cross checked his shoes and his hands. He’d have to scale back up the rock to reach the cables, no easy feat given the lack of handholds, so he found a cleft, a vertical flaw where the stone had split apart. He wedged the dead man’s blade into the crack, edge down. Cross put all of his weight behind it and shoved the sword in as deep as it would go.
Wind filled with rotten fruit scent pushed him against the rock. His fingers were freezing. Bitter fog curled around his body.
When the blade was secure, Cross used it as a step. He lifted himself up and balanced his weight on the hilt where it protruded from the cliff. The blade was held tight: so long as the rock held and didn’t crumble or flake away, he’d be fine.
Famous last words , he thought bitterly.
The steel cable wasn ’t as solid as he’d hoped, but it ran deep into the cliff, so even though it shook and wobbled when he grabbed hold he felt certain it wouldn’t slide out. The other cables were the same, but they were spaced just far enough apart that he doubted he’d be able to make use of more than two of them – one to grip, and one to walk on. Cross guessed this was how the crossing had been designed in the first place, and the third cable, which stretched another three feet over the central line, was meant to accommodate larger creatures like Doj, or else to slide equipment across in harnesses.
The cable wobbled beneath his feet, but held. He gripped the overhead line tight. Cross gulped, took a breath, and tried not to think about the depths below. The steel wire shook with every motion. He felt like he was floating in
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