Bloodwalk (19 page)

Yet something within her responded to Kaeless’s demanding calls. Whether the rebellion of youth or the need to proclaim once and for all that she was not her mother’s daughter, she felt compelled to answer. The need felt almost primal in its urging as she watched men die screaming and smoking under the bright weapon in her mother’s hand. It would not be enough to destroy the righteous woman who’d birthed her. Kaeless needed to know, needed to understand.

“I’m not like you,” she whispered, gritting her teeth and boiling with sudden emotion and rage-filled passion. “I will walk my own path, even if it is paved in my own blood!”

She strode toward the battle, casting a spell and choosing a victim. The faces of the Sedras were indistinct and unimportant. She had little memory of the tribe, having purged names and events from her past to make room for more important knowledge. Flames flew from her fingertips, carving a smoking path through several warriors. The Weave wound itself about her body, a cloak that she pulled apart one thread at a time. Time ceased and she lost herself in the fight.

The battle did not favor the Gargauthans. Many fled, running deep into the sunken fortress to hide in the dark, cursing the vicious Nar warriors and their clerics. Bodies fell on both sides, and fueled by the Gargauthans’ magic, most rose to fall again. The stench of fire and blood fed the pit with the scents of days gone by. Morgynn stood injured, struggling to cast her spells in the midst of the fray. She had precious few spells still stored and had eyed an escape route behind her several times.

Then Kaeless appeared before her. Similarly wounded and exhausted, her mother stoically strode forward to achieve what she’d come for. Morgynn’s defiance returned in full fury, and those few remaining spells seemed just enough to destroy this woman who desired dominance over her fate.

The words of a spell flew across her tongue with a taste of ozone that left her body tingling. Her hands blazed with blue light and crackled with lightning. She stared down her mother but found only rage mixed with sorrow in Kaeless’s eyes.

Mere yards separated them. A column of fire exploded nearby as a Gargauthan ended his life on the blade of a thrown spear, casting fiery magic blindly with his last breath. The force knocked Morgynn and Kaeless to the ground. Though Morgynn fell only to her knees, Kaeless lay on her side, shoving the sizzling corpse of a fellow warrior off her legs and grasping madly for her mace.

Morgynn jumped, landing on top of her mother and wrapping her sparking hands around Kaeless’s throat. The magic burned and popped as she squeezed the shaking body of her parent, driving the lightning through Kaeless.

A blow from Morgynn’s right released her hold and sent her rolling away in pain. A Sedras warrior had come to save their tribal leader and high priestess. His sword had bit deeply into her shoulder, exposing the bone. She felt a chill radiate from the wound. She shook her head to clear the haze of pain, but the world spun before her eyes.

Dimly she saw Kaeless regain her footing and lift the bright mace. Acting on reflex, Morgynn cast another spell, hurling a ball of fire. Weary with vertigo, she stumbled and the fiery sphere missed, exploding against the cavern wall behind her mother. Morgynn fell backward to the ground, screaming as her weight bore against her flayed right shoulder.

Silhouetted in flame, Kaeless approached her daughter and raised her weapon high. Morgynn spat the blood from her mouth and called yet another spell. Shouting the words, she felt the Weave respond. At the edge of its release, the spell evaporated and darkness overcame her. Raising a hand to her cheek, she felt something wet. Her blurry eyes showed the world turned on end, her face pressed to the ground and pain throbbing in the side of her head.

Her neck went limp and something pushed against her throat from within. She tried to move, to see her mother’s fallen body, to witness the victory of her allies. She could see figures still fighting in the distance, but could not hear them over the pounding in her ears. Magic still hovered at the edge of her mind, tugging at her attention, demanding to be worked. Silently her lips moved, trying to comply with the instinct to complete the spell.

The only sound that triumphed over her failing senses was her mother’s voice.

“Forgive me.”

She felt a dull impact then succumbed to darkness.

Morgynn awoke with a start. Lying on the divan, she stared at the ancient text of a Theskan wizard she’d slain when he’d commanded her hand in marriage. She smiled at the memory, still picturing his body swinging from a post outside his home as she and the Order abandoned yet another realm to find a more fertile foothold on the continent. The smile did not last long, shadowed by the torment of old dreams.

Her stomach rumbled with much dreaded hunger. She had loathed food for years, only playing at its enjoyment while dining with powerful contacts and would-be suitors. Almost all sustenance tasted like ash and dirt in her mouth, save for strong elf wine and dwarven spirits—drinks she tended to consume in large quantities when available.

She turned her head to stare at her pack containing dried meat and fresh water. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of eating, which helped to quell the pangs in her stomach.

There would be time enough for eating later, she thought.

Waving her hand, the Theskan tome slammed shut and flew to the floor. Lifting another from beneath the divan, she caressed its red leather cover lovingly, carefully setting it upon the footstool in front of her. A haze of power surrounded the book like a web of thickened air, a threatening mirage of wards.

“Suth vas bethed,” she whispered and ran a finger down its spine, disarming her seal upon its secrets.

This was the only book remaining from Goorgian’s arcane library. Only half completed when she’d found it, now her own handwriting filled the remainder of its pages. Rumors hinted that several more tomes existed, stolen by looters and brave souls seeking quick profits. She had traced many of them to the possession of the Durthan witches of Erech Forest, just east of Goorgian’s fallen stronghold in Narfell, but for now, the one would do.

She found the old wizard-priest to be insightful and imaginative, but his ideas were sometimes full of a madness born of his extended contact with creatures from the Lower Planes. Having traveled so long with the Gargauthans, Morgynn was quite aware of the dangers and pitfalls of favors and contracts with creatures of the Lower Planes.

Opening the cover, she turned to the book’s center, where Goorgian’s writing ended and hers began. His tight and obsessive script gave way to her flowing and hypnotic handwriting, a transition from one wizard’s spells to the next, similar in theme and idea but vastly different in method and execution.

At the whisper of a cantrip, the brazier flared back to life, lighting the words on the open pages and reviving the scent of cinnamon around her. Adjusting her mind to an intense focus and awareness of the Weave, a state of concentration bordering on a trance, she devoured the text with her eyes. The study of magic was a different experience for her than for most wizards. Memorized spells merely filled the minds of other wizards, burning themselves in memory. For Morgynn, the words entered her eyes, settled in her mind, and were carried away in the space of a heartbeat to burn themselves throughout her body. Each spell she cast thereafter left her colder and wanting more.

Morgynn held vigil with the book until she no longer knew whether it was day or night. Raising her eyes from the final page, the arcane words swam in her vision. She stood and replaced the seal upon the book, then reluctantly reached for the pack of food. She grasped something hard and dry, not caring what it was, but made certain to take a bottle of wine. She walked to the window with the meager meal, warmth flowing in her veins as she contentedly gazed outside and forced herself to eat.

The field of stone below was illuminated in brief flashes of lightning as the Gargauthans still set to their task. Several summoning circles had been drawn to facilitate the Gargauthans’ spells. A contingent of gnolls, no doubt survivors from Mahgra’s failed attempt on Targris, loped in from the forest and met with Khaemil. She ate sparingly and drank freely until the bottle was emptied and tossed aside.

Half the stale bread still lay in her hand, its tasteless remainder sitting like lead in her stomach. The empty bottle of Derluskan wine lay shattered on the floor at her feet. Its taste did little to erase the dryness in her mouth and had reduced her hunger only slightly.

Her mind felt full and satisfied with the peaceful calm of magic that flowed through her blood and rested at her fingertips. She threw the bread among the bones beneath the window and walked back to the cushioned divan, unable to resist further rest. Sitting down, she stared into the glowing coals in the brazier, focusing on their light. Though she wanted to be prepared for the coming battle, she considered sleep a necessary evil, tolerated but unwanted.

“Wasted time,” she murmured.

She wondered at her own words. Did they describe sleep, or her youth? Past and present were interchangeable at times, and she’d often feared waking up face down on the stone floor of the courtyard in Goorgian’s pit. She scoffed at her foolishness and knew that worse fears lingered in the cloudy mists of her memory.

When she awoke next, the Order of Twilight would move against Brookhollow and the Oracles of the Hidden Circle. As she lay on the long couch, she imagined their faces as she strode into their sacred ground, as her minions took apart their defenses and brought low the primary obstacle against her ambitions. Flames licked at the walls of their temple as she drifted to sleep. Her waking thoughts faded as she slumbered, giving way to incessant memory. Marble walls became rough stone and peace became chaos.

Talmen had escaped the battle, hiding in the ruins and wringing his hands in anger and fear. He did not consider himself a coward, but he knew a losing situation when he saw one. The Sedras had come prepared to kill and die in their crusade against his kind. The Gargauthans had not been prepared for either, trusting in the natural fear the Nar tribesman bore for the abandoned cities and ruins of their ancestors.

They hadn’t counted on Morgynn or a mother’s desire to see a daughter dead.

As the remainder of the Gargauthans fled in a hail of arrows and spears, Talmen watched. The Sedras gathered around their high priestess, prying her away from the fallen form of Morgynn. Climbing up on ropes and bare stone, the Sedras left the pit known as the Well of Goorgian, taking with them their own dead and leaving the rest to rot.

Time passed and the malefactor saw no evidence that the Sedras would return, but he could still hear noises high above and he ordered the other priests to go below, deeper into the ruins. The light of numerous flames flickered from the mouth of the pit, growing brighter with each breath. Talmen could feel the heat that filled the chamber and watched in rage as stone melted and dripped. Crashing down in a glowing cascade, the magic of Lathander’s priests sealed the entrance with molten rock, causing cave-ins that blocked any escape.

As the seal spread, compounding itself with fallen rocks and cold soil from beneath the tundra’s surface, Talmen’s eyes returned to the still and bloody body of Morgynn. Even in death he found her beautiful. Looking to the darkness behind him, to the safety in the lower depths, he was suddenly pulled by some unfathomable desire to that battered body staring at him with blank and half-closed eyes.

He was at her side in a few heartbeats, dodging the rocks and glowing bits of debris that tumbled down the steep sides of the collapsing pit. A heated rock landed on the hem of his robe, burning a neat hole through it and setting it aflame. He cursed and beat the fire away, glaring at the unseen presence of the Sedras above, swearing an oath to exact satisfaction for their incursion.

Looking down on Morgynn again, his oath took form and face, seeing the proper tool for such vengeance. Without delay, he pulled her legs away from the glowing, encroaching wall and lifted her limp form over his shoulder. He carried her, disappearing into the chilled corridors and fallen stairways of the ancient city.

Grimly, his mind was already beginning to imagine what bargaining it would take to gain Gargauth’s favor in this endeavor. As he pushed on, deeper and deeper, he felt a sense of providence and strange destiny, a calm that strengthened his resolve to continue.

In spite of that feeling, uneasiness lurked somewhere behind it, like the waiting jaws of a trap from which he might never escape.

Morgynn’s eyelids fluttered and she rolled uneasily in her sleep, but she did not awaken from her slumber on the divan.

Elisandrya sat on a boulder and stared.

She had done all she knew for Quin—bandaged his wounds, mixed healing herbs for poultices as the Ghedia had taught her, and collected rain water for him to drink when he stirred.

He’d slept peacefully the entire day. Night was once again dominating behind the clouds, banishing the misty, veiled light of the sun. In the flicker of the small campfire, she studied him and wondered if he was the one—if Savras had led her to him. The implications of that possibility boggled her mind in light of Sameska’s prophecy.

She saw no symbols of Hoar on him, no sign that he followed the fickle lord of justice. He was attractive in an odd way. A pervading sense of goodness surrounded him, but something else lingered in his strange eyes, something dark. That curiosity held her gaze for a long time.

Eli had seen and heard of aasimar before, people touched by the blood of a celestial ancestor, but she had never come face to face with one or known their names. He had fought with an unexpected fierceness, a lust for battle that went far beyond mere necessity. She had not gone so far as to touch the screaming blade he’d wielded in battle, having wrapped it in his cloak and carried it carefully out of the temple through a secret passage beneath the altar.