Rashana screamed in frustration, snapping her whip against a boulder. The rock split it two with a sharp spray of fractured fragments. Needle-like slivers of rock sliced through the air, pinged on her body, and fell harmlessly to the ground. All that destructive force, and I still don’t have a scratch, Rashana thought proudly.

Despite her best efforts, the trail had gone cold. She couldn’t find so much as half a boot print in the dust. Thirty soldiers and three prisoners—they couldn’t just disappear into the ether, could they? Yet they were missing, sure as the storms above and the rocks below. If she could find a clue or locate their essence, then it would be easy, but a strange red dust floated in the air that blocked her perception, masking their trail.

She’d reached the end of this intact section of Bridge, however, and there was nowhere else to go. If she could fly, or transform into a bird like Gruvrik, then she’d leap off the edge and explore what lay beyond, but even if she forged her arms into wings, metal probably didn’t fly very well. Everyone knew that.

Rashana stood on the crumbling edge and peered downward, studying the steel support system. A fine mist obscured the trusswork of the Bridge’s underside, so she couldn’t be sure if there were gaps that made climbing impossible, but it seemed likely that a determined enough group could climb down and hide from view.

She reviewed her memories of spying on them, scanning for new details. They had each carried those strange, rolled mats and a coil of rope, just like the three children they’d seen back on their first day on the Bridge. Perhaps the mats unfolded and could be used like hammocks to provide a quick shelter or place to sleep while they explored the underbelly of the Bridge.

Rashana had no such limitations. She didn’t sleep, didn’t tire—at least not in the human sense, she thought bitterly—and she didn’t need to use ropes to cling to the Bridge beams. She was growing fond of her whip, but she could always remake it later. If required, a piton or a long loop of cable could be more practical.

She plunged over the rim of the world, prepared to follow her quarry to the bitter end. An instant transmutation of her arms into cables with grappling hooks let her swing like a monkey, or perhaps like a spider on its web. She liked that idea better.

Rashana quickened her pace, imagining that she was a spider queen, ruling the Bridge from her web of steel. She latched onto one broken platform after another, each swing pulling herself further along toward her destination . . . wherever that may be.

Energy burned through her. She didn’t feel sensations in the same way that Indara said the humans did, through the tactile perception of their skin or the senses of the other organs, but at some soullish level, she perceived the world around her. Sure, she had haptic sensors, but it wasn't the same as the memories from Indara's childhood. Right now, the life-force of the man she’d drained rushed through her, filling her with strength and ideas. She examined each of the memories, turning them over in her mind like shining treasures, and one of the fragments flared to life, opening suddenly to reveal new details.

The war clan was taking them back home to the Eastern Crèche. That’s where she would go, if she could find a way to follow. An image flashed through her mind unbidden: the rush of launching from a collapsed section of the Bridge on wings of leather, soaring through the storm clouds to reach the next stretch of tunnels and roadways.

Next time she met one of the kidnappers, she decided, she was going to steal his wings if he fought back. Then she was going to steal his soul.

=+=

“I’m disappointed,” the soldier snarled, spitting at Errol’s feet. “We were promised a fight, a real fight, and instead you show up. It’s an insult—a waste of our valuable time. You know how long we’ve been spoiling for a scrap?”

Errol shrugged, as much as he could while hogtied, his hands behind his back. He made a muffled reply, the words lost in the gag in his mouth.

The soldier kicked him in the ribs, flipping him over. “And there you go again, wasting my time and scuffing up my boot. I’m going to have to polish that in the morning. For each point off in my inspection, you’ll earn a broken rib.”

The wind howled around them, thick and dank with disease. The soldier cursed and spit at him again. “I’m trying to stand watch. Here I am, on guard duty in the middle of the Bridge, surrounded by cursed spirits, and there you are intentionally distracting me. Do the lives of your countrymen mean nothing? We might all get wiped out while you indulge. Selfish! Selfish.”

The soldier kicked Errol again when he tried to answer, knocking the air from his lungs in a flash of pain. The Laurentum marine drew back for another savage strike.

“Stand down,” an older voice growled. The squad’s sergeant stalked up, glaring around as though he were looking for the same fight the other soldier had complained about. He ripped out the gag and rolled Errol back to sitting.

Errol chuckled. “Sounds like your time wasn’t too valuable after all.”

The sergeant frowned down at him. “You’ve got spine for a Mako, I’ll give you that.”

“He wouldn’t last one week in the Shark Clan.” Errol laced the words with contempt, his eyes boring holes in the soldier. “Mako is more illustrious than any of you could hope to attain, but go ahead and mock me.”

“Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll let him start kicking again.”

“Fine by me. I’ve seen harder kicks from two year olds getting their diapers changed.”

The sergeant gestured toward Errol, and the soldier rushed forward, swinging with every bit of malice he could muster. Errol moved with the kick, letting it flip him over again. His hands brushed the soldier’s leg. He grabbed hold as tightly as he could while constrained and drained his full voltage stream into the man.

The smell was worse than he remembered. Bits of charred flesh splattered on the stone next to him. The soldier collapsed, falling over Errol and sprawling against a partially demolished wall. Errol absently noted that one of his boots had gone missing.

The body felt heavy and dull on Errol’s shoulders. A rush of footsteps, followed by a jerk; the sergeant hauled on the soldier, and the body fell off Errol, thudding into the dust next to him. Blood seeped from the ears. The eyeballs had ruptured, leaking vitreous fluid over the twisted snarl of the corpse’s face.

Errol had never seen anything so beautiful.

The sergeant yelled in alarm, summoning backups. Ten of his troop circled Errol, swords drawn, a thin sheen of sweat on their foreheads. Outnumbered, tied up like a pig prepped for the slaughter—and they were afraid of him.

“Freyman’s intel was bad,” one of the soldiers spat. “I didn’t sign up to wrangle an Eel.”

Freyman. Why was that name familiar?

“We’ll deal with him once we’ve got the others. Hold position. If he threatens you, kill him on the spot. If moves, kill him. If he talks, kill him. If he looks at you funny—you know the drill.”

Errol felt drained. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be the dejected, compliant prisoner that he needed to be to survive. Although his voltage stream had grown more potent, he still didn’t have much stamina. His encounter with the Bridge spirit left him shaken and uncertain, but refreshed in a way he couldn’t explain. She’d empowered him. He could probably handle the trials for Bull promotion now, if he survived.

If.

“Don’t let down your guard, lads,” the talkative soldier said, licking his lips. The others all moved a step away from him, as if they were afraid Errol would lance him with lightning. “This is only an appetizer to the main course. Big fish is still out there.”

“Shut up, Reuben.”

“Sarge put me in charge when he’s gone.”

“Did not.”

“Did too! He looked right at me.”

Errol shut out their bickering. He closed his eyes and evened his breathing, reaching out with his sensor field. Ten soldiers stood nearby, their signals strong enough that he could sense them without effort. At least a half dozen more wandered about on the edge of his field, perhaps as many as eight or nine, flickering in and out of his perception. None were potent enough to be the sergeant. Errol couldn’t quite say how he knew for sure, but his awareness had sharpened; usually he could only differentiate between weak signals if he’d profiled the person first. Now, he tracked the sergeant almost without thought.

What strange gift had the Bridge given him?

Two by two, the others faded away, heading in different directions. Scouts, most likely, all looking for his companions. Part of him wanted to struggle against his bonds, disrupt the parties searching for his little team, stop them from hurting anyone; but another, more calculating side that he’d never expected, told him that the soldiers weren’t ready to kill.

They could be his eyes and ears. If only he had a way to help them gather his team. He wished he had the powers of a mage, to merge with their minds and direct their steps. Then he could sweep through the Bridge in hours and find them, bring them back here, figure out some way to liberate all of them—he cut off that line of thinking. A sudden thought chilled him. Indara was powerful enough to do all of that, he reckoned. Why hadn’t she simply come herself? Why send this ragtag group?

His first answer was that they were simply expendable, but that didn’t seem to satisfy the itch. Something else made them stay away. What had Grimhilt said about the Stormorb?

Be on guard; its power is tainted. If you give in to the temptation to touch the thing, you may find yourself twisted by forces far beyond your comprehension.

Perhaps the siren song of power was too strong to resist. But in that case, how did they expect Errol to return to Laurentum with the device? They’d told him not to touch it, but what if they were wrong about its operation? After all, the Bridge didn’t touch the thing . . . did it?

Errol reached out for the Bridge spirit, scanning with his sensor field. Nothing. She only seemed interested in talking when she had her own plans. The thought of her with the artifact grasped in ethereal hands made him chuckle.

“Something funny, boy? Want to share?”

Reuben’s voice, at once menacing and fearful. Errol looked up to see the man approach, his brows knit together, his forehead leaned down and forward like a boxer ready to trade blows above his weight class. He leveled his sword at Errol, and managed not to shake. Perhaps they were better trained than he’d credited them. “Sarge told you not to move, or we’ll kill ya.”

“Freyman never struck me as the bloodthirsty type.”

Reuben took a step back, the point of his sword wavering a moment before lowering to the ground. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Errol grinned up at him. “Oskar will be very unhappy if anything happens to me. You’re a smart man, Reuben. You know how he likes his pets.”

Reuben scrabbled backward, tripping over his feet in haste. He rejoined the soldiers on perimeter guard. “We’re wasting our time watching him. Might as well hack off our own thumbs as threaten that one. I’m gonna get some grub; the Eel ain’t going anywhere.”

Errol settled back and closed his eyes, telling himself that he should catch up on sleep if they were going to leave him alone. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t stop grinning. They thought he was an Eel.