Bloodwalk (35 page)

Blood pooled in the jagged fissure and she whipped her arm left and right, spattering the grass and mud with crimson drops. Sheathing her dagger, she dipped into a small pouch, grasping a fistful of black insect wings. She crushed them in her fist and muttered quick words over them.

“Ixelteth suranyat!”

The dried wings turned to fine dust, released to the wind as she opened her fist. The sooty cloud peppered the ground around her, hissing where it met the waiting droplets of her blood. Each drop turned solid and bulbous. Clusters of pale pink sacs formed, splitting open soon after, hatching hundreds of writhing red larvae. The larvae split open as well, giving birth to shiny crimson wasps on buzzing black wings.

She held her arms out lovingly and several insects landed on her fingertips and wrists. They crawled across her skin on thin, chitinous legs.

“Seek them out,” she whispered to them. “Sting their wretched tongues and fill their mouths with wings.”

The swarm gathered and flew at her command, buzzing through the rain like a red mist to find the source of their mistress’s displeasure.

Dreslya could not take her eyes from the smoking remains of the gates and those unlucky enough to have been caught in the blast. Black water, thick with ash, streamed along the street and around her feet. Several times, Lesani held her back from searching through the ash and char to find Elisandrya.

“Mourning will come,” she said to the oracle, “but not now.”

Dres gasped at the words, a lump forming in her throat. Her vision from earlier had carried voices and snippets of conversation drifting in and out of focus. The vision had been a warning, showing her the consequences of inaction. She remembered Lesani’s voice telling her of mourning, but she had thought the Ghedia spoke of the coming sunrise, of hope, not the death of her sister.

Lesani took her by the arm, leading her away from the defenders. The Ghedia searched inside empty doors and dark windows, though Dres did not know why. She followed in a daze, her eyes burning, trying to summon the courage to look away from the clouds of steam on the western end of Brookhollow. She tried to focus on the present despite the uncertainty of her vision. Rain soaked her robes and hair, and a numbness from the cold crept through her hands.

“Here!” Lesani shouted over a fresh round of monstrous thunder, pointing to the doorway of a stonework hovel. Low and sturdy, it stood abandoned and lifeless. “Come, I need your help!”

“Yes, you do,” Dres mumbled, confused. Cold and shivering, she was having greater difficulty discerning between present and future. “I mean, I know. At least I think I know.”

As the pair ducked inside, Lesani cleared a space on the floor, pushing a modest table and chairs against the wall.

She took several items from hidden pouches within her robes and sat cross-legged on the floor. Dres wandered to the lone window. Facing north, she could no longer see the steam and smoke, but she could smell them.

“Sit down, Oracle,” Lesani said, the edge in her voice catching Dreslya’s attention. “Elisandrya is a great warrior. I do not doubt you may see her again, but I need you here and now.”

Dreslya turned away from the window and the sounds of battle. At Lesani’s gesture, she sat across from the Ghedia. Though focused on the items she laid out in front of her, even Lesani glanced up at the window, like Dreslya, when the thunder died. In that moment of silence, filled only with falling rain, horrendous screams echoed through the streets. A furious buzzing filled the quiet. This, too, Dreslya remembered, and she paled in fear.

Sudden and untamed chaos jolted Morgynn’s body as the bathor were released from the oracles’ spell. She lowered her protective bubble, her feet dipping into the mud as the sensation overwhelmed her. Hundreds of feverish pulses rivaled the fury of the storm, drowning out all else. She stood still as the undead surged around her. Unnatural heat drew beads of sweat across her brow and down her back. She dismissed her protective sphere, allowing the rain and wind to cool her.

Searching left and right, over the backs of the hunched bathor, she watched as the Gargauthans advanced alongside the tortured throng of her creations. She stood quietly as they raced past her toward the ruined wall.

“Prophecies be damned, now,” she said. “This is the beginning of my vision, my Order of Twilight. Woe to those who stand against it.”

She fell into step with the undead. Magic itched along her arms to the tips of her fingers. Rain flowed in rivulets across her scars, following their patterns before dripping to the ground. Her crimson gaze fixed on the Temple of the Hidden Circle, and on the pitiful old woman who cowered within. A moment later, the broken gates became the vision she’d imagined. The bathor crowded into Brookhollow, pushing debris and bodies aside in their haste.

Drawing closer, she saw that beyond the destruction, Brookhollow’s defenders had rallied admirably. They presented an impressive wall of flesh for her bathor to rend and tear. Bows and spears were prepared to meet her horde.

They fired arrows first, piercing the pale skin of the bathor with no visible effect. The undead did not bleed or scream in pain. A few paused and stared curiously at the feathered sticks that seemed to spring from them. Flickers of intelligence hung like cobwebs in the attics of their eroded minds, but they soon pushed forward, shaking off confusion.

Long spears stood propped between the archers, ready for combat face to face, and the bathor sprang forward mindlessly, some impaling themselves. They ran down the hafts of the spears, skewering themselves through their abdomens or chests to claw at their shocked opponents. Horrified, archers and spearmen dropped their weapons, drawing swords and axes more suitable for close combat. The bathor knew only claws and teeth, and a single-minded urge to kill what they no longer understood.

The heat surrounding Morgynn’s horde burned eyes and lungs. The carrion stench forced more than a few weak-stomached defenders away to retch and cough. Some averted their eyes, afraid of seeing a relative or friend among the undead. Most held their ground and fought, and many defenders died in the first few moments.

The bathor were relentless, wailing horribly and dragging down the weak. They spat boiling blood on their victims, scalding skin as they tore at exposed throats. Slowly, the defenders were pushed back, making way for impossible numbers of feral opponents.

Morgynn watched their progress, glancing at the fallen hunters with interest, eventually finding what she sought. Lying against a half-burned stable was a young warrior with striking green eyes and wavy brown hair. The blood mage extended a hand toward him, gesturing at his chest.

She felt his slow heartbeat plodding toward death. Several bathor noticed him as well and crawled forward, splashing through the mud to claim their prize.

Morgynn approached the young man and waved a hand at the undead, sending them away with a glance. The bathor stopped, but could not tear their lifeless eyes away from the scene. Whimpering, they clawed at themselves as each puff of breath escaped the hunter’s lips. Morgynn knelt in front of the warrior, observing the wound in his stomach that gushed dark, almost black blood through his clenched fingers. His other hand gripped his weapon, the curved blade traditional to his order, but he was too weak to lift the sword.

“What is your name, boy?” she asked, laying a hand on his knee in a gesture of comfort.

He tried to speak but only coughed, his throat wet. After a second try, he answered weakly, “Arek.”

Morgynn heard him, but her mind was elsewhere. The young hunter’s blood flowed beneath her touch, a conduit showing her the battle within the city. Blood called to blood, forming a crimson map in her mind. One lonely trail stood apart from the others, moving swiftly under cover of darkness, hiding and running, then hiding again. She smiled and returned her gaze to the dying hunter.

“Well, then. Farewell, Arek.”

She crawled forward, over him then through him, merging with his flesh and fading to nothing. The impatient bathor loosed keening wails as they closed their circle and took what she’d denied them.

Lying in the guard tower, Elisandrya coughed, spitting blood and ash from her mouth. Rain washed over her and she flexed her muscles to warm them. She rubbed gingerly at her eyes, trying to restore her vision, blurred by smoke and unconsciousness. A heavy weight lay across her legs and she reached down to move it away. The coarse fabric of an ironvine cloak gave her pause. She raised herself to one elbow and blearily made out the fallen body of Zakar.

From his appearance and clouded eyes, he was far beyond her help.

As she pulled herself free, she noticed the clouds of steam growing thicker. Water streamed down her face and neck. Listening, she tried to make out voices she could hear close by. Their words were soft and unintelligible, a mumbling she could not understand, but she was certain they were children. Nearly panicking at the thought of children caught in the battle, she quickly escaped from beneath Zakar. Inwardly, she apologized to the fallen hunter for the rough treatment of his remains as she scrambled to her feet.

Eli found her bow and glanced at the ruined, tumbled wall where the gates had been. She knelt at the wall’s edge to leap down and find the stranded children. Looking down, she stopped herself before jumping. Her gaze froze as she looked into the glistening eyes of several young boys, their cherubic faces ruined by a maze of bluish veins and trembling spasms. They whispered and mumbled horrible nothings as she stepped back from the edge. Her hand brushed against the arrow fletchings in her quiver as a low growl over her shoulder caused her to whip around.

Next to the watchman’s tower, the top of a ladder rested against the wall. On the battlement, she met the murderous stare of an armed gnoll. Eli nocked an arrow and fired. The missile found its mark, killing the beast. She heard it fall among annoyed yelps and growls from its fellows below. Behind her, the children scratched and wailed at the wall, climbing over one another to reach her even as more undead crowded toward the breach on her right.

Wildly, she looked about for some escape. Her eyes fell on the dropped horn of a crushed watchman, a victim of the flying devils. The signal for a charge by the riders at the north and south gates played in her mind. She rose to her feet and saw the raised axe of another gnoll as it ascended the ladder. A few feet away, another ladder slammed against the wall. The signal horn might as well have been leagues away as the situation worsened.

Taking a deep breath, she nocked an arrow and raised her bow alone.

“Sanctuary.” Sameska’s voice broke the awkward silence. She sat on the steps, her back to the altar, pointedly avoiding the sight of it and the rune circle.

“Means nothing,” she added, her tone full of venom and contempt.

The oracles who stayed behind to maintain the temple’s arcane defenses ignored her. They focused on protecting the center of their faith, the foundation upon which their way of life had been built. A few refused to take any action, still convinced of the prophecy, though they wondered at Sameska’s sanity.

The high oracle rocked back and forth slowly, holding her knees. Occasionally, she spoke to the semicircle of meditating young women around the altar’s edge. Mostly, she whispered to herself, trying to make sense of where her followers had gone wrong, how they had fallen away from her wisdom.

“They don’t see her coming,” she mumbled. “All of them throw away their faith and their lives for fear. I see her, I have seen her blood.”

She narrowed her eyes, peering suspiciously at the silent oracles.

They’ll see us all dead, they will, she thought. They defy me, defy the words of their own god.

She blinked away the pain in her eyes. The soft glow of the chamber’s wards seeped through her closed lids and she pulled her cloak’s hood lower. She viewed the intrusion of the light as an affront to her leadership. It showed disregard for her bloodline and the respect the name of her family deserved. She bit her lip in frustration.

“Wayward souls, all of them, hiding in the dark.” She stared at the floor. “It shall fall to me. I must protect them from themselves. What must I do?”

She looked up then, to the broken dome above. Chaos boiled beyond the gaping hole, turning and flashing in the clouds, growling through the thunder. Savras did not answer her. She flexed the chill fingers of her right hand. Hidden beneath her robes, she gripped the hilt of a bejeweled dagger.

Lowering her head again, still listening for an answer, she returned her attention to the oracles before her, to their still backs and exposed necks.

A thin trail of evaporating shadow clung to the edges of Quinsareth’s cloak. The shadow of Brookhollow slowly gained detail as his eyes adjusted to the real world. He had emerged just north of the writhing mob that pushed its way through the western wall of the city. Invigorated and nearly healed by the shadow road, he ran toward the city. Bedlam hummed in the rain, screeching at each blade of grass that brushed along its length.

His keen vision picked out a group of robed figures in devilish masks. Solemnly watching the grim procession of undead, the Gargauthans made their way around the north side of an abandoned watch tower.

The city was a blur of flame and smoke. Hellish beasts roared in the sky even as the dead wailed and screamed on the ground. Quin consciously controlled his breathing as he ran, remaining steady and calm, observing the details of the terrain. He knew he was no soldier. He had never fought against armies. Morgynn alone was his chosen enemy, chosen by the shadows and the will of Hoar, a will for vengeance. He thought of what Sameska had called him, morbidly remembering his own reply.

“I am the assassin,” he said under his breath. Some part of him rejected the concept, but the feel of a sword in his hand and his single-minded purpose drowned out the nobler parts of himself, putting them away until they could be afforded. “Only that and nothing more.”