The Bowl of Souls: Book 05 - Mother of the Moonrat

by Trevor H. Cooley

  “Are you coming, Edge?” it asked. “Or should I come at you?”

  I am fast. I am hard. I am strong.

  “Come,” Justan replied. “Or wait until more of my friends arrive.”

  “You would have them die too?” it asked. “But they will all die soon enough.”

  “Is this you or Mellinda talking?” Justan continued to move. He placed one foot into the water section and felt its coolness encase his skin. The material of his pants lifted away from his leg as if weightless.

  Its eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t like you using that name.”

  “Oh, but I should,” Justan said. His hair lifted away from his scalp as his body was enveloped in the magic of the water section. He prepared his attack. “That’s her true name. That’s the name she had when she betrayed Stardeon with Gregory.”

  It cocked its head and when it spoke this time its voice was different. It was a bit higher, more female, and something about it buzzed at the edge of his mind as if trying to penetrate the bond. “Who told you this?”

  Justan stopped his circling and stepped forward. “That was the name you had when your people rejected you. When you bonded with Dixie. Before you became the monster that was buried under a tree.”

  I am fast. I am hard. I am strong, Gwyrtha chanted and whatever she was doing was almost finished.

  “I will enjoy your death,” the raptoid said and it stepped fully into the water section. It moved towards Justan deliberately, not rushing, its arms ready, its clawed hands open, knocking aside any chair or table in its way.

  Justan hopped up on a table in front of him and let it come, focusing in even tighter until its every stride was as slow as if the room truly was under water. It snatched up a chair and hurled it at him. The chair tumbled through the air end over end and Justan saw the raptoid run behind it. It jumped.

  He ducked under the chair just as the raptoid jumped. It sailed at him, eyes wide with blood lust, claws outstretched. Justan dove under it, rolling as he hit the floor and felt the stinging lash of its tail across his back.

  He rolled to his feet and spun, slashing with his swords, expecting the raptoid to be right on him. Instead he found another chair hurtling towards him. He knocked it to the side with Peace and saw the raptoid hurling the table he had been standing on just moments before.

  Justan was forced to fall backwards to avoid it, bending his knees and letting the table pass just inches from his face. His back landed in a puddle of blood just as he saw the raptoid in the air above him, having jumped after flinging the table. Justan rolled to his left, slashing out with Peace as he spun to his feet.

  The blade connected with the raptoid’s outstretched hand and as Peace pierced its skin, an understanding flashed through Justan’s mind. This raptoid was newly made and embraced its body. It was not broken inside like Talon had been. Ewzad had made it strong enough and durable enough that it feared nothing, but it was loyal to the moonrat mother. It also intended to eat his heart after it killed him.

  The raptoid paused after the blade cut its hand, giving Justan time to scramble to his feet. He stood in the fire section again and the heat made the cut on his back twinge.

  “This is the blade you struck Talon with?” It asked, holding its hand. The cut hadn’t been too deep, slicing only skin and muscle. It didn’t look frightened like Talon had been. Just contemplative. “She warned us about it. It has . . . an interesting bite. She warned us of your other sword too. I wonder how that feels?”

  “I will be happy to show you,” Justan replied. He forced his breathing under control, glad that Peace was sucking his fear away. “Where is Talon, anyway?”

  “She is here. Killing your people.” the raptoid said. It licked the wound. “No more talking.”

  I am fast. I am hard. I am strong. Gwyrtha was readying herself.

  “What is your name?” Justan asked. He flipped Rage over so that the dull back side of the sword rested against his arm.

  “Hungry,” it said, licking its lips. “King Ewzad named me well.”

  “That’s a terrible name,” Justan said, hooking the tip of Peace’s blade under the armrest of the chair beside him.

  It came at him, not leaping this time, and Justan hurled the chair at it. Hungry spun, letting the chair collide with its shoulder, and whipped out with its tail. Justan brought his right arm up defensively and let the tail hit the edge of Rage’s blade. The moment the edge pierced its scales, Justan unleashed half of Rage’s stored power.

  The force of the blast tore the raptoid’s tail apart and sent it sprawling into a table in the earth section, scattering wood and blood across the black painted floor. Justan didn’t wait for it to recover. He started towards it, ready to use the rest of Rage’s power.

  Gwyrtha got there first. Hungry barely had time to turn over before she was on him. Though Peace was still draining Justan’s emotions, he couldn’t help but pause for a moment, surprised by the changes.

  Gwyrtha had not grown larger. Instead, her torso had shrunken in size, making her body more dense, her arms and legs a little longer. The scales on her body had enlarged and hardened, looking more like armored plates than scales and her claws had lengthened. Her mane stuck up from her back stiff and bristle-like and her head looked fiercer than before. Her teeth were longer and sharper and heavy scales protected her eyes and throat.

  She wrapped her jaws around the raptoids head and they thrashed, slashing at each other with clawed arms and legs. Her claws tore through muscle and skin and scored bone while his bruised her belly and tore a few scales loose.

  Gwyrtha’s jaw tightened and a tooth pierced one of his eyes. Hungry thrust his taloned hands up under her ribcage, trying to tear her open, but even though his claws punctured through, he was unable to tear her toughened skin. She wrenched her head back and forth until finally there was series of loud cracks and the raptoid began to convulse.

  “You can get off him now, sweetheart,” Justan said, holding Rage at the ready. I can finish this.”

  I will! I am fast. She wrenched her head more wildly and the raptoid stopped moving. I am hard. She dug in her claws and pulled. I am strong! she said and strained until she tore its head free.

  Gwyrtha spat its head to the side and Justan wrapped his arms around her bristling neck.

  You were amazing! Are you okay, sweetie? he asked, checking on her injuries. Her belly was scratched and punctured in a few places, but the wounds were shallow.

  I am strong, she said.

  Yes you are, he agreed. He reached into the bond and healed her quickly.

  Fist is hurt, she said.

  He looked into Fist and found out she was right. The ogre had deep gashes in his chest and some kind of poison in his blood. Justan set to healing him, panicked that the poison was the same type that had killed Coal.

  Justan, don’t worry about me, Fist said. Go and see if there are more of them.

  Not until I’m sure you’re alright, Justan said. Fortunately the poison was much weaker and Justan was able to flush it from the ogre’s system.

  Now go. Mistress Darlan will finish once she has healed Wizard Valtrek.

  Alright, fine, Justan said. He pulled back from the bond and looked down at the corpse of the raptoid in front of him. Its torso and belly were torn into ragged shreds, yet the orange moonrat eye was still staring from its chest.

  “Goodnight, Mellinda,” Justan said and stabbed it out.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  “Ho, come on, then. I risk my life to save your friend. Ho! Nearly die! And still you refuse to name me?” the imp complained.

  Willum leaned on the wall’s edge, looking into the calm night beyond and frowned. Ever since leaving Sir Edge’s bedside, all the imp had done was whine about needing blood to recharge him or being named. I’m still thinking of a good one.

  “A good one? Bah, I may not be able to read your thoughts yet, Willy, but I can tell when someone is making up a story. How good the name is doesn’t matter!”


  “It doesn’t matter?” Willum scoffed. “Are you telling me you really don’t care?”

  “The name doesn’t matter,” the imp insisted.

  “Oh? How about Barbara? Or Dorris? Or Jenifer? Suzy-?”

  “You know what I mean,” it said with a mental snort. “A male name, but other than that, it doesn’t matter . . . Just not something stupid, like Bimber or Plog or other Kobold names.”

  “So it does matter,” Willum said with a smile.

  “Oh, you vex me Willy! Stalling the way you do. You’ve doubted me. You’ve wondered. You even took me in front of a blasted gnome! What more can I do to prove that it isn’t a trick?”

  It had a point. Despite the fact that the imp was an unrepentant trickster, it had proven that it wasn’t evil. It had agreed to forgo its rules and behave itself for the most part. The gnome librarian had assured him that naming the imp meant only that he was claiming ownership of the axe. The downside was that their connection would be more akin to the bond. That was the thing he was most resistant to. The imp would be able to talk to him at all times, even when he wasn’t touching the axe.

  “Tell me the truth,” Willum said. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “You know,” said a low monotone voice from behind Willum. “People will think you’re crazy if you keep talking to your axe aloud.”

  The night was dark and moonless, but when Willum glanced back, he could see Swen’s tall form silhouetted by the lights of the Mage School behind them. “Me? You talk to your bow.”

  The archer snorted. “And I talk to my arrows too. But I don’t actually think they talk back.”

  Swen wasn’t supposed to be on duty yet, but whenever he wasn’t eating, sleeping, or making arrows, the wall was where he could be found. He preferred pacing the top of the wall to socializing with the other guards.

  “Hey Willy” the imp said. “Tell tall boy to move off. We’re talking here!”

  Willum let go of the axe’s handle. “People really don’t believe that Tad’s axe speaks to me?”

  Swen shrugged. “I guess most do. And if anyone suggests otherwise, I make sure to set them straight. Still, they call you Willum Odd Blade.”

  “I thought that was because of my weapons.” He was the only warrior in the school that dual wielded an axe and scythe. It was such a strange choice of weapon combination that some of the instructors had called him crazy for trying it.

  “Could be,” Swen said, shrugging again.

  “Wait. Do you believe me?” Willum asked, noting the careful way the archer was phrasing his words. The big man hesitated. “Come on, Swen. Don’t tell me that my best friend doubts me.”

  Swen moved over to stand beside him and bent to rest his elbows on the wall. He looked out into the night. “You truly consider me your best friend?”

  Willum smiled and looked at the tall man’s chiseled face. “Can’t think of anyone else.”

  Swen shook his head. “What about Samson or Tolivar or that named warrior you spent so much time with before he froze half the troops.”

  “Samson and Tolivar are more like family. And Sir Edge . . . I’d say he’s a friend, but I really don’t know him all that well,” Willum said. “That freezing thing wasn’t his fault, by the way.”

  “I heard that too,” Swen said.

  Willum pushed off the wall and faced him, “So do you believe me or what?”

  “Alright. I guess you’re my . . . best friend too,” Swen said, looking away, obviously uncomfortable.

  “No, I meant about the axe,” Willum said with amusement at Swen’s discomfort. “Do you believe it speaks with me?”

  “You say it does. I can’t doubt your word,” the archer said with a shrug.

  “Look, here,” Willum pulled the axe from its half-sheath and held it out towards the man, handle first. “Let me prove it to you just to make you feel better when you have to defend me to the others.”

  “What are you doing, Willy?” the imp said. “And what’s all this talk? Aren’t I your best friend?”

  Just tell him hello, imp.

  “You don’t have to prove anything.” Swen said, looking at the axe dubiously. The imp was making the runes etched into the blade glow a fiery red.

  “Just reach out and touch the handle, Swen,” Willum said. “It’ll speak to you.”

  “No I won’t. I’m not talking to your ‘bestie best friend’ unless you name me first.”

  Swen raised his hand hesitantly.

  You had better speak to him if you wish to prove yourself to me, Willum said.

  “Oh ho! See this is where playing without the rules puts us into a conundrum, Willy boy. You think you can drag me along, making hints and half promises and I’ll do whatever you say, hoping . . . hoping while you delay.”

  Swen touched the handle.

  Just do it!

  Swen drew back his hand with a gasp. He looked at Willum with wide eyes.

  “What?” Willum asked. “What did it say to you?” You didn’t hurt him, did you, imp?

  “I merely gave him a traditional impish greeting.”

  “It said . . .” Swen frowned. “‘Hey wood face. Willy talks too much’.” He reached up and touched his face. “Why wood face?”

  Willum had to stifle a laugh. The imp must have overheard Tolivar tell him that Swen had a face that looked as if it were carved from wood. “It, uh, has a strange sense of humor.”

  “Ho-ho! That was a good one. Right, Willy? I felt you hold back a giggle.”

  I don’t giggle, Willum replied. And just because I find it a bit funny, does not mean it was a nice thing to say to my friend.

  “When did I say I was nice?”

  Willum put the axe away. “At least you know the truth.”

  Swen nodded slowly. Then he grew still for a moment. “Do you hear that?”

  Willum turned and looked to the center of the school where the clock tower was lit up by the lights in the center square. It was faint, but he heard frantic voices. “What’s going on?” He grabbed the axe handle again.

  “Something strange is happening, Willy,” the imp said. “Something smells . . . bad in the air now.”

  “Something like what?” Willum asked.

  “Maybe we’re about to find out,” Swen said. They could see two figures running down the wall in their direction, giving instructions to every guard they passed by. One of them carried a torch and torches were only supposed to be used in case of an emergency at night. It dulled a guard’s night vision and made them an easy target to archers below.

  “Ho-ho! It smells like the witch, Willy. An eye is nearby.”

  Willum pulled the axe from its sheath. Is it coming from these two guards?

  “I don’t know. Somewhere close. Ho, be ready!”

  Willum reached through the bond and contacted Tolivar and the others. Something’s going on in the school. I can’t tell what it is from the wall, but the imp senses a moonrat eye somewhere nearby.

  There is a commotion near the center square, Samson replied from the stables. He jumped the pasture fence as he spoke, I’m heading there now.

  I’m knee deep in the friggin’ forge, said Bettie. But Lenui and I will be there if you need help.

  I’m on my way to you, Tolivar replied. He was only a half mile down the wall to the north.

  Willum elbowed Swen. “Something’s coming. Be ready.”

  The big man didn’t ask questions. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it on his enormous bow.

  Willum watched the guard’s approach with a tight grip on the axe, but as they drew nearer, he let out a sigh of relief. The one carrying the torch was Sabre Vlad and the one with him was his assistant, Lyramoor. They ran to Willum’s position and stopped, both of them with serious looks on their faces.

  “Willum! Swen!” Sabre Vlad said. “We’ve gotten word that assassins have entered the school. We don’t know how they got in, but it is our job to make sure they don’t get out.”
r />   “How many are there?” Swen asked.

  “It’s close! It’s close, Willy!” the axe said.

  “The axe says there’s something here now!” Willum shouted.

  Swen and Lyramoor looked over the outside edge of the wall, while Willum and Sabre Vlad looked over the interior. Willum didn’t see anything at first, but then he noticed that little marks on the stone beneath Sabre Vlad were actually the tips of claws. A shadow stirred beneath the warrior and before Willum could call out in warning, the creature shot up from the dark.

  Sabre Vlad barely had time to pull his sword from its sheath, before it grabbed him and sank its teeth into his throat. The warrior let out a gurgle and the creature tore free with a spray of blood. Willum cried out, staggering backwards.

  The torchlight showed Willum a nightmare. The creature’s scaled skin was jet black and its face was reptilian with deep red slitted eyes. As it swung towards him, Willum saw that its torso was disturbingly female in shape and that an orange moonrat eye was embedded in the center of its chest almost as if it were a hanging pendant.

  “Name me, Willy,” the imp pleaded. “Quick! Do it now!”

  “Vlad!” cried Lyramoor and as Sabre Vlad fell back, clutching at his ruined throat, the elf darted forward, slashing at the creature with his dual falchions.

  Swen grabbed Willum by the collar and dragged him back several paces. “You’ll be in Lyramoor’s way,” the archer said and Willum saw it was true.

  The torch lay on the ground where Vlad had dropped it and the fight its flickering light illuminated was something of beauty. Lyramoor was a consummate swordsman, perhaps the best dual wielder in the academy and despite his worry for Sabre Vlad, the elf’s movements were poetry. He whipped about and danced, taking up the whole of the walkway as he fought.

  I need a wizard here now! Willum called through the bond. Samson, get one! Sabre Vlad is down!

  It’s a mess here too, said the centaur and Willum caught a glimpse through the bond of students screaming in terror. I’ll try.