The Witch's Eye by Steven Montano, Barry Currey Page A

from the stone and formed a low mist.  The ground between them and the rock was so drenched with shadow it looked like a black sea.
    Ronan kept his senses sharp, expecting attack.  The entire region was controlled by Gorgoloth tribes.  They also needed to be wary of Vaath, intelligent arcane zombies who roamed in murderous bands; renegade Gol, outcasts from Meldoar who lived like barbarians; Cryl, thin human-like scavengers with preposterously long arms studded with razor protrusions; and of course the Blood Wolves, whose bays sounded in the forests to the south.
    It ’s a Goddamn miracle we haven’t run into something already. 
    Someone tripped and fell to the ground.  It took a minute to get the man up.  The darkness was near absolute. 
    “We have to stop,” Greer said.
    “No,” Jade said.  “Not yet.  There’s no cover here.  We have to find shelter.”
    “Look, if you ’re worried about us being seen…” Greer held up his arms.  They could barely make out more than his silhouette.  “I think we’re okay.”
    “Most of the creatures out here don’t rely on sight to hunt,” Ronan growled. Greer had no response to that. 
    They slowed their pace.  Ronan scanned the horizon, reached out with his senses, felt the darkness.  He’d been raised and trained to note disturbances in his surroundings, not just with sight ( Sight is useless, the voice from the past said, you are weak if you rely on your eyes) but listening, smelling, feeling the difference in the wind.  He noted subtle shifts in the darkness.  His skin was tense, and when he swallowed again the air was different. Felt different. 
    Something was wrong.
    Gunfire rang out from up ahead, flashes of white against the black.  Guttural howls came out of the night.  Shadows moved through the dark.
    The group panicked.  Kyleara and Jade tried to direct everyone into a defensive perimeter.  Ronan drew his blade and handed his gun to Greer, who gave him a panicked look.
    “W hat do I do?” he asked.  Ronan didn’t answer, but left Greer with a terrified look on his face.
    Maybe I should work on my people skills , he thought.
    Forms raced at them.  Flares shot into the sky, and the identity of their attackers became clear.
    Gol.
    The small humanoids looked bestial.  Ronan had heard of Gol renegades, outcasts from Meldoar who’d been forced into the wilderness where they banded together and formed roving packs of marauders.  Those clans were desperate and insane, violent and unpredictable.
    Over a dozen mad Gol armed with pickaxes, razor swords and shotguns charged at the band of survivors.  Shots tore through the air as the dwarves howled with murderous glee.
    Jade ’s spirit tore into their ranks and pelted the Gol with ice stones that knocked them back and tore open their grey skin.  Moone and Kyleara shot at the creatures, but the Gol were utterly fearless and seemed immune to pain.  They charged ahead even as their fellows fell dying to the ground. 
    Ronan moved forward and met them head on.  His mind narrowed to the razor edge needed for bloodshed.  He stepped in the Deadlands. 
    He was barely aware of his own motions as he dodged blades and slashed through Gol bodies with his katana.  Severed arms fell to the ground. Opened stomachs spilled organs and pale blood. 
    More dwarves charged down the hillside.  There were too many to count.  A few of the Gol stood on the ridge and fired flares into the sky, their scraggly beards bound in braids made from bone and razor fetishes.  They had mortars at the top of the hill, as well as a few bolt-action rifles.
    “Jade , cover us!” he shouted. 
    H e sliced through two more Gol and ran forward.  Moone held position two hundred yards to the west and mowed the Gol down as they charged at him with swords and axes.
    Ronan ran straight into their attackers and hacked through them with his blade.  His blood was ice cold.  He didn’t feel fear, didn’t feel anything.  His