Bloodwalk (22 page)

An airy giggle passed her lips as the spell she’d left unfinished still floated through her mind, teasing her with that feeling of the living, the warmth and ecstasy of magic. Desperately, she clung to those arcane phrases, nearly weeping as she spoke them uncontrollably, feeling the emptiness that lurked behind them grow as they were lost. The lightning faded from her thoughts, but, strangely, its heat remained as if mocking her death.

The spell was gone. She knew she would never feel its power again. Never would she feel the Weave respond to her command and flow through her body, but despite her fears and lamentations, something strange happened. Her blood began to burn and a searing light assailed her eyes. The lightning returned. The magic tingled through her blood, summoning it back into a heart that beat more fiercely than she remembered.

She could still see the hag and its reaching brand, the worming souls around her and the ever-changing colors of the sky, but she also saw her arms rising in the air unhindered by the foul ooze.

New life flooded through her in waves of unspeakable heat and wild, pulsing magic such as she’d never felt before. A droning chant surrounded her, drowning out all other sounds as she rose, weightless, into the air. The night hag’s fanged mouth opened in a stifled roar as she stabbed at Morgynn’s rising form with the heated brand to no effect.

Morgynn ignored her, fixated on the warmth of life and magic that mingled in her body, growing stronger as the chant grew louder. Her heartbeat joined the relentless voices in her mind, and she flew upward into the tumultuous sky. Tiny bat-winged creatures swarmed toward her, and she screamed in horror as their claws lodged in her retreating heels. Looking back, she kicked at the little green-skinned demons. Her sanity swooned as she felt them pulling her down, into the pit, to the worms and the hag with her cruel brand.

Her screams continued for a long time, even as the walls of Goorgian’s Well coalesced around her. Gargauthan priests in fearful masks stood gathered, ghostlike and somber, as her eyes fluttered open. Her flesh transformed and trails of blood receded into closing wounds. The bones of her misshapen face, disfigured by her mother’s killing blow, cracked and popped, knitting together. Talmen held his ears as her ungodly wails echoed throughout the ruined halls of the Well.

As Morgynn opened eyes that streamed crimson tears, her laughter became maniacal. Somehow, she had evaded death. Goorgian’s dark, battle-scarred well looked like a paradise. Kaeless had lost but still had much more to lose.

On the first day of autumn, the horses had grown sick, becoming weak then dying within days. The nomadic Sedras were at a loss to treat such a virulent disease. Magic and healing had availed them nothing. Rumors of a horse plague would make them outcasts among the scattered tribes of the Nar. Fear of a harsh winter, though, settled more deeply into the bones.

An autumn without productive hunting would make the colder months all the more difficult. They moved more and more slowly, until finally they stopped to construct a more permanent settlement for the safety of the tribe. Light gray skies blanketed the snow-covered permafrost when Morgynn and the Order of Twilight finally beheld their wandering foes.

The smell of smoke from the campfires drifted on the late afternoon air. The temperature had dropped considerably in the last few days, a constant reminder of colder days to come. The Gargauthans wore heavy cloaks and furs, while Morgynn had shed many of the usual trappings of the Nar plains, filled as she was with a feverish heat that coursed through her body. She was barefoot in the snow, wearing little more than a crimson robe and small pieces of found armor for modesty’s sake against the bitter northern winds.

The day was drawing to a close, bringing thoughts of supper and sleep under the darkening gray of the clouded sky. The season’s silence carried a young girl’s voice across the plain, clear as the calling horns traditional among the Nar tribes.

Pieces of an old Lathanderian chant sought their ears, ghostlike across the white fields, eerie as it twisted in the wind.

In the flames of his crown,

We give praise to the dawn.

In the fields where we hunt,

We give praise to the light.

Morgynn remembered the tune only vaguely, having heard it as a child, before she was taken away by the Creel. It was a song of ending, a light-hearted dirge for the setting sun. Its haunting melody had no meaning for her anymore, though her head ached to remember such things from before her untimely death.

Masked from sight by illusions, the newly formed Order awaited Morgynn’s command, already viewing her as a sign of their god’s favor. Morgynn surveyed the peaceful camp, settling in for the evening with only unmounted scouts on foot to watch for signs of danger. The smell of cooking horseflesh signaled the beginning of a mournful supper. They had slain one of the healthy to feed the tribe until they could catch up to the wild oxen in the foothills of the Giantspire Mountains.

The song drew to a close, the last lines awakening the burgeoning spirit of destiny that burned in the blood of Morgynn’s restored body.

Night is yawning,

The Dusk is falling,

Twilight is dawning,

The Sun is calling

‘Farewell ‘til the morning’s prayer.’

The last note disappeared in the wind. Morgynn narrowed her eyes and stretched her fingers out wide to her sides, touching those warm tendrils, the unseen connections from pulse to pulse in the hidden forces of the Order. Her silent command was clear and unmistakable.

“Kill them all.”

The battle those words precluded was swift and brutal. The Sedras were weak, and the Order was prepared. There was no salvation for the tribe. Hunger gave them a desperation for survival but little else. The evening matured quickly as Morgynn waded through an ocean of chaos.

Sweat poured across her brow in pink rivulets. Her entire body was flushed with heat arid pulsing with magic, an instrument of the Weave vibrating with power. The ground became soft and spongy beneath her feet. The permafrost of the tundra melted and became mud as fires raged across the Sedras camp.

All around her, magic seethed and slithered from vengeful Gargauthan throats. Unimaginable beasts howled in the ungodly pain of tortured existences as they heeded the bidding of the Order and fed on the flesh of the fallen and dying. Their hideous melodies sang in her mind, etching themselves in the depths of memory.

Morgynn drank in the moment, lived in the passing time of the night and early morning. She immersed herself in the final act of a former life, the first task of a spirit lost to blood and magic.

The sky was a halo of light, a false dawn to mock Lathander’s breach of the eastern horizon. That sunrise would find only waste and char, carrion and silent screams whistling through mouths agape with voiceless tongues. Devilish visages, leering faces of crafted wood and painted metals, paced solemnly among the remains, witnesses to the death of one moment and the birth of another. They all looked north one by one to the girl they had wrought from injury and Abyss. A shadowy black dog slunk close to the hem of her crimson robes, casting bright and intelligent eyes on any who came near this new mistress.

Talmen, now the Grand Malefactor of the Order of Twilight, gazed upon Morgynn’s dark beauty in awe. The light of flames danced across the broken horns of the skull-grinning mask he wore. Acolytes gathered behind him, following his lengthy stare as they whispered prayers of promise and offering.

Morgynn ignored them all, circling the prone form of a final enemy, the first enemy she had ever known. Golden armor was battered and warped, blackened in spots and spattered by mud and blood. A heavy mace that had once glowed like the sun lay twisted and broken, beyond the reach of fingers too weak to lift it. Kaeless breathed raggedly, puffs of steam drifting lazily in the dying morning wind. Her eyes stared sightlessly into the gray sky. She shook her head in senseless denial, lost in a silent prayer. A plea for mercy or forgiveness, Morgynn could not tell.

Kaeless’s head jerked to one side, suddenly alert to the noise of nearby footsteps.

“Forgive me! Forgive me!” she cried mournfully, pleading blindly. “I killed her! I killed her, and Lathander punishes us! My own daughter….”

Her voice trailed away into nonsense, mere mumblings as the pain of mortal wounds slid like burning ice through her body.

Morgynn knelt closer, shaking with baleful animosity, to reach her mother’s ear. “No. You didn’t kill her.” She kept her voice soft, soothing.

Kaeless squinted, trying to make out the dark blur against the lightening sky, trying to identify that familiar voice. She held her breath, waiting for that woman to speak again, to absolve her soul of wrongdoing.

“She isn’t dead.” Morgynn reached out to stroke her mother’s matted hair, leaning in and whispering, “She is damned.”

Morgynn’s hand clamped over Kaeless’s nose and mouth, foregoing magic or dagger so she could feel the life ebb between her fingers. In moments, her mother’s eyes glazed over, her trembling stopped, and the battle was over.

A chant arose among the Gargauthans in the blasted field, a prayer to their devil-god. Morgynn heard them, but did not listen. She sat and stared at the hands she had felt melting away in a grave of ooze as demons had bargained over her soul. A gust of the north wind blew across the small hill, and she marveled at the gooseflesh that arose along arms covered in scars and blood.

Panting, Morgynn awoke. Recognizing her surroundings, she rubbed her forehead and her eyes, trying to clear the fog. The plains and the Sedras camp were gone, replaced by her chamber atop the tower of Jhareat. The dreams had ended.

Morgynn sat on the edge of the divan, bent at the waist, rubbing her temples and shutting out the phantom noises of her awakening. Khaemil was nearby; she felt the vial of his blood at her belt stir and churn. He could wait. She sat still for a long time, trembling as her emotions ran amok. No matter how much she slept, she always awoke exhausted.

Morgynn descended the stairs carefully, weary from dreaming too long. Near the bottom, she heard voices outside. Talmen’s was one—his voice and emotions were known to her through the connection she’d forged on his forearm. Khaemil was the other. She stopped to listen before revealing herself. Tracing a finger lightly on the wall and whispering a spell, the stone became as clear as glass so she could watch them, though they could not see her.

“She sleeps still?” Talmen asked.

“No, she has awakened. Her screams stopped only moments ago.”

“Ah, then she has rested. Good. Matters are grim enough without having to worry about her judgment.”

Khaemil turned away from Talmen, facing the wall, smiling and shaking his head.

“Did you honestly think you would come to this point and not have your precious life threatened by some enemy? Or would you prefer that we choose a more fitting location for your Order, some place uninhabited and far away, perhaps?”

“I am no coward, shapechanger. My only fear is that our ambitions may exceed our ability. We have traveled across half of Faerűn, growing in numbers but dwindling in prospects. Any reservations I have concerning this one are well founded, I assure you.”

Khaemil smirked and looked sidelong at Talmen.

“Your doubts will mark you, human. Leave them behind when we march or they will pierce your flesh and put your body in the grave where your mind already rests.” He looked back to the tower’s entrance as Morgynn appeared. “This, I assure you.”

Morgynn stood with her fingertips pressed to her temples. Her eyes were closed as she walked, but her form was straight and her step was sure. Despite the lingering distress of her nightmare, she was confident in her bearing.

Talmen and Khaemil parted as she neared and passed between them. Her hands slowly left her aching head. Stretching her neck in a spasm that helped to separate physical action and wild emotion, she opened her eyes and beheld the monstrous troops that lay waiting on the field of stone. Although few in number compared to the garrison she hoped to command one day, the nature of the minions would be both horrific and daunting to any enemy.

“I commend you, Malefactor. Your wizards and priests have done well.” She favored him with a look over her shoulder. “The malebranche will be interesting to observe in battle. What little there may be.”

Talmen bowed. Morgynn was amused by the change in the priest’s thoughts and actions now that she was in his presence.

“Thank-you, Lady Morgynn, but our servants are summoned merely to complement your own. The bathor numbers far outweigh my Order’s meager contribution.”

“Very good,” she replied. “Go. Take your place and gather them. Our path will be prepared shortly.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Talmen walked swiftly toward the forest’s edge. He showed no emotions, but she felt him tremble beneath his mask as he stared into the trees and gripped the scar seared on his arm. Khaemil’s words still echoed in his mind, and Talmen endeavored to bolster his feelings to match his show of courage. She left his mind then, confident that his fear of her was greater than his fear of death.

“I wager he will soil himself if the oracles have a guard posted at the gate, my lady,” the shadurakul said over the droning work of the wizard-priests around the tower.

The humor in Khaemil’s jest was not lost on her, but her mind was elsewhere as she scanned the damp ground.

“No doubt. But as long as he makes it that far, his fear is irrelevant.”

Finding what she sought, Morgynn knelt on the ground, tracing long fingers around a puddle of water. She mumbled words of magic and waved one hand erratically over the water’s surface while the other reached for a pouch at her side. A sliver of wood appeared in her hand from the pouch—a splinter from the ancient scrying bowl in Goorgian’s Well. It would be a catalyst for her spell to allow her simple scrying to become more intrusive than her targets might enjoy. Completing the words of the spell, she finished the incantation by biting her lip and drawing blood. This she spat in the center of the puddle and it flashed with light, dimming to show a scene of swirling mist and impenetrable gray.