Bloodwalk (30 page)

Too late, Quinsareth heard the whispers of a spell being cast and made out the dim silhouette of a massive figure in the chamber’s back corner. He ran forward, berating himself for being distracted, but was met head-on by the force of summoned magic. It slammed into his chest, an invisible gripping mass, spreading quickly across his body and denying his attempts to break free. In moments he was paralyzed. He could only watch as a black-skinned figure in dark robes approached from behind the sorceress’s divan.

The bright eyes within the figure’s hood tugged at some distant memory. The feeling was the same as what he’d felt before the call of shadows at the Red Cup, when the illusory red star begged him to the east, that same odd sense of a kindred spirit watching him slay the last of the Fallen Few. This figure had sought to summon him here, but to what purpose? The eyes were accompanied by a glittering smile of sharp, white teeth as Bedlam was knocked from his grasp to clatter on the stone floor.

Myrrium licked her lips with a forked tongue, stroking the bare chest of another quiet victim with her black claws. She had pushed through the thick tangle to lie in the open air, curious and a bit apprehensive about what might be occurring in the tower. The twisted vines rustled as Aellspath and Oerynn emerged, sated and sleepy-eyed, to stare up at the tower.

The churning clouds were flashing and rumbling more frequently, changing speed wildly. The arcane storm raged as its vortex above the tower grew larger and slid askew from the rune-inscribed spire. The Pale Sisters flinched and ducked as lightning struck the field of stone. Silently, Oerynn crawled closer to the nearby wall, spying strange movements in its surface.

The dense net of symbols and spells rippled and unwound, some disappearing, others upending themselves as their tight order fell apart in the absence of the Gargauthan scribes. The dryads gathered close, sniffing the air and feeling the stone restored in those places once burned and scarred with controlling magic. Their heightened senses could feel unseen forces working against the carved tapestry of spells, tearing it apart and draining its power.

Nervously they edged away from the tower, wary and alert as nature turned mad in the skies. The ancient roots that bound their lives together called from the forest, tugging at their primal need and sense of survival. One by one, they dissolved into the thickest roots around them, casting fearful glances at the discordant storm before safely returning to the pale oaks they had strayed from.

Lesani pulled her cloak tight against the howling wind, peering from beneath her hood with eyes that reflected the green glow of the lantern she carried. In a small iron cage, hanging from the end of her hooked staff, burned a bit of the green flame she had summoned earlier. She could not yet see the walls of Brookhollow, though what magic she could spare had carried her close.

Unnatural sounds emanated from the forest’s depths, noises from outside the material world that echoed in waves through the Weave. Lesani shuddered, sensing the imbalance that lurked somewhere within the Qurth. It shook the air, like an earthquake to those sensitive to nature’s harmonies and rhythms. Lightning screamed like fabric being slowly torn. Thunder pounded like dwarven hammers in deep forges.

Reflexively, she bit her thumb and flicked her fingers at the disturbance, an ancient gesture of the Ghedia meant to ward away evil. She smiled in spite of herself, feeling comfort in the traditions her mother had observed, powerless though they might be. Traditions were greatly honored among her Shaaryan forebears, and she’d often contemplated returning south to the plains of her people.

“Perhaps this shall be the last,” she said aloud. “We have strayed for too many generations among these Border Kingdoms, with its cities and ruins. All the signs point south, and perhaps we should continue that way.”

She paused, looking behind her and searching the darkness for some sign of her sisters. Only darkness lay in her wake, as empty as the road ahead. Frowning, she pushed toward the flashing horizon and held the green flame higher as she walked, determined to honor the last vestiges of her bloodline’s misplaced tribe one more time.

Flooded and cloaked men swung heavy scythes at the tall grass and bushes that had grown close to the outer walls of the city. Often they would peer over their shoulders toward the Qurth, watching for movement in the trees, fearful of being caught unawares. Two guard towers flanked the wall, protruding to provide archers with a swath of crossfire upon approaching attackers. Clearing the field of possible cover was difficult in the rain, but any precautions they could take before the impending attack might provide an advantage.

Atop the wall, gleaming spearheads glistened as rain trickled across their blades, propped against the battlements and waiting for warrior hands to wield them. Those warriors, Hunters of the Hidden Circle sworn to uphold the prophecies of the oracles, lined the walls, armed and armored in direct defiance of the most recent prophecy. Prayers for guidance had been whispered by them all. Doubt had brought them to this point, but faith would see them through, even at the cost of their lives.

On the ground, behind the barred gates, archers stood waiting for the call, shivering despite heavy cloaks and layers of leather armor. The wind had picked up, blowing colder and whipping their cloaks in every direction. Icy rain stabbed at exposed skin, the cold slicing straight to the bone.

Many citizens joined the hunters. They carried weapons of farm implements and polished old swords left behind by generations before. Many more stood bundled in open doorways, shouting for the defenders to lay down their arms and return to their homes. The hunters ignored these protests and maintained their posts. No one was faulted for following Sameska’s edict of passiveness, and no one was forced to renounce it openly. More than a few defenders shook their heads and wrung their hands over the conflict that had seemingly sprung from nowhere. They had known for some time that things were off balance inside the temple. Obeying the instinct to defend themselves felt inherently right.

Elisandrya rode briskly through the streets on a brown mare, feeling the loss of Morningstar deeply. She inspected the north and south gates, observing more battle-ready hunters at both. Messengers had been sent on the fastest steeds to Splondar in the northeast and to Sprynt, the northernmost city of the Blacksaddle Baronies in the south. She knew that aid from either would be unlikely, considering the virulent reputation of the blush, and that any assistance might arrive too late to do any good.

As she rode, several people approached Elisandrya from their homes, pleading for surrender and pointing emphatically at the enraged and strengthening storm above as a sign of Savras’s displeasure, then ducking back into cottages to attend to frightened children. Eli was speechless, newly realizing the damage Sameska’s manipulations had caused and might continue to cause. She stood high in her saddle, looking east down the main road toward the temple, her eyes hopeful.

But she saw no oracles coming to join the defenders, no sign of her sister whose face she both longed and dreaded to see. She sensed the quiet rift between them deepening over the outcome of this battle. She still hoped that at any moment, Dreslya would appear with her fellow oracles, marching in a procession down the main street to solidify the defenses of Brookhollow by uniting sword and spell.

“Without their magic,” she said under her breath, “one needn’t be a prophet to foresee this battle’s conclusion.”

The strident tones of a watchman’s horn split the air, dashing her thoughts apart. Three quick blasts pealed through the thunder and rain from the northern gate, a signal of movement outside; something approached the city under cover of darkness.

Eli patted the hilt of the sword at her side, checked the curve of her borrowed bow, and kicked the shivering mare’s flanks. She took a moment to offer a prayer for guidance, indulging her diminishing doubt and seeking any sign that she had been wrong. Not expecting an answer, she was stunned when an image formed behind her eyes, appearing for an instant and then dissolving, leaving behind an inexplicable sense of calm.

She saw tall waves of wind-blown grass on an endless plain covered in an aura of emerald flame.

The room smelled strongly of cinnamon, concealing the dusty scent of old bones and burned wax. Morgynn had lit several candles with a wave of her hand and the barest of whispers. The aasimar struggled to break free of the enchantment that held him in place. She smiled at his attempts and waited until he seemed satisfied of their futility.

She circled, looking him up and down, admiring his strangely handsome features.

“You chose well, Khaemil,” she said finally, stopping in front of him and exploring the depths of his pearly eyes. “Almost too well.”

“Thank-you, Lady Morgynn,” Khaemil said.

She leaned in close to him, brushing her cheek against his neck and listening to his heartbeat, calm and steady despite the situation. She reached up and touched his cheek, whispering arcane words in a deep voice, her breath warm against his throat.

Though the Hoarite could not resist her spell, something reacted to her magic, blurring her attempt to see his thoughts. Shadows cloaked her mind’s eye like dark clouds in front of a high sun—faint beams of light sought to blind her in a celestial radiance. Through the bright and the dark she could choose wandering thoughts, fleeting emotions in a sea of experience, but only those floating near the surface. The depths of the aasimar’s spirit shut out her dissecting sight, shifting and swimming in a pitch black fog that eluded her intrusive magic.

“Mysterious, aren’t we, pretty one?” she said, withdrawing her hand and dismissing the spell. “No matter. Your secrets are unimportant. Though I am intrigued by the paradigm.

“Shadows and light,” she said thoughtfully. “And only the barest hint of a man beneath them.”

“The Pale Sisters have retreated, Lady Morgynn,” Khaemil reported from the window, “but the storm is dissipating without the priests, far more quickly than it should. The tower could be in danger soon.”

Unnaturally loud thunder roared in the sky outside, punctuating his words as stones shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Multicolored lightning ripped through the clouds, casting an eerie glow across the shadurakul’s deep black skin. He tapped his claws anxiously on the stone window sill.

“Worry not, all will be well. Besides,” she replied sardonically, “we have a guest to entertain. A guest who’d have been wise to move on after slaying that oaf of an ogre for us, and even wiser to have ignored this prophecy business.”

She moved closer to Quin again, gazing at his eyes and face, sniffing slightly and noting the faint lines of old scars running across his neck and disappearing beneath his breastplate.

“I sense no hero in you, Hoarite. There is cruelty lurking behind those angelic eyes of yours, a coldness that belies any trace of charity or goodwill you might possess. Even the name your mind reveals is a lie, isn’t it? Quinsareth? A term in Old Mulhorandi, is it not? Meaning ‘falsehood,’ I believe.” She smiled, realizing some private humor, and added, “How quaint.”

She studied his reaction though his pale eyes revealed little.

“Was it the girl who brought you here, I wonder? Oh yes, I know of her, this Elisandrya. I have tasted her name on the lips of two men now who reached the end of their time in the last few days.” She thrilled to hear a slight change in Quin’s pulse, momentary but telling. She traced a fingernail across the ancient designs in his armor, following the symbols and letters of an alphabet she did not recognize as she continued. “A hunter for the oracles of Savras, a warrior for her people, brave and beautiful, brash and wild. What a monster she must think you, eh?”

Then she leaned close again, breathing heavily against his ear. “You might have been better counseled to have pursued a darker mistress.”

His eyes drifted to the floor and his sword, so close, lying against the deep pile of bones along the nearby wall. Skulls from Jhareat’s last days leered at him with empty sockets and grins that never waned. She stepped aside, allowing him to see the weapon he so desperately wished to wield.

“Or was it the prophecy that guided your steps, aasimar?”

His gaze went to her at the words. Turning, she looked over her shoulder at him, searching for some spark of emotion in his eyes. Pleased to have his full attention, she coyly brushed a strand of dark hair from her face and drew a long dagger from her belt. She licked her lips and wiped absently at imagined spots on the blade.

“I imagine the old witch of Brookhollow must have spun quite a tale. Even now they hide in their temple, trusting in her words while steeped in the stench of plague and fear.” She raised an eyebrow and regarded him conspiratorially. “Want to hear a secret?”

Thunder again shook the walls, sending bones to clatter on the floor as the dusty piles shifted. Morgynn’s eyes sparkled in dancing shadows as the candles died one by one, deepening the darkness of the chamber.

Horses pranced in place and snorted impatiently as Eli rode past, churning through the muddy puddles along the sides of the cobbled streets. Riders watched with grim countenances, holding back their steeds and awaiting the next call of the watchman’s horn, the one that would send them to battle.

Elisandrya pulled hard on the reins, stopping at the wall and looking up to the nervous face of the young hornblower. Dismounting and ascending the ladder, she expected to see the worst beyond the wall. Though she tried to shove images of massive armies and mounted cavalry out of her mind, they marched in her thoughts anyway. The unlikelihood of such a force in the Reach was not enough to quell anxious fear, that passing terror that grips all warriors before combat and pushes them to exceed their own expectations.

Gripping the battlements, she peered into the dark, blinking past sheets of rain and racing lightning. What she saw in the distance was unlike anything she expected.