by Eddie Patin
The soft, wet thing jabbed her in the face again.
Morgana struggled and grimaced. When her eyes focused through the pain, she saw one of the Virgin Oracles standing before her on a table-like platform, painting her face. She was dipping her brush into a large, wooden bowl full of chunky, coagulated blood. The masked woman moved strangely, thin and bony within her dark blue robes, looking back and forth between the bowl and Morgana's face with her glossy black mask.
Suddenly overwhelmed by the odor of and the feel of the blood on her face, Morgana gagged and coughed. It was just like with her mother! Oh God—those crazy bitches ... that blood...
Cold fear and revulsion boiled up inside Morgana. She looked from side to side—so painful to move—and saw a handful of other townsfolk up on their own crosses, their faces also painted dark red with blood. Just like always, they were all nearly naked, freezing in the chilly air with nothing more than loincloths. Their nearly-nude bodies were painted black. Looking down at her own body, Morgana saw that she was the same: nude but for her loincloth, her torso, arms, and legs slick with black paint. No wonder she was so cold!
The other Virgin Oracles were writhing around in the street as if in a trance, lazily dancing and reaching for the rising moon. Chosen soldiers lined the intersection with spears, their golden masks gleaming in the flickering torchlight.
Part of Morgana's mind immediately connected the blood with the Virgin Oracles and the full moon. Menstrual blood. Beyond disgusting. She gagged again, smelling it. Morgana tried not to think about the blood on her face and where it came from, but her mind put a vile vision in her head anyway of those bitches hiking up their robes and squatting in the church over that large bowl...
The Virgin Oracle in Morgana's face suddenly pulled back, holding her bloody brush and cocking her spooky head as if checking her work, then climbed down.
Morgana gagged, coughed, and vomited a little. Helpless with her arms bound by leather strips to the cross, her spit-up trickled down her face and chest. She spat several times down to the street. A cold wind blew through the Crossroads, chilling her exposed skin and freezing her to the core. She tried to ignore the smell of the blood before it made her sick again.
Morgana used the fingers of her right hand to feel around for her smuggler's ring.
Her ring was gone.
"Fuck..." she groaned, her head immediately panging with pain.
What the hell did they hit her with? she thought. The flat of a sword?
Magister Josiah Estren suddenly started climbing up onto the platform before her.
In the torchlight and under a dim sky, the old man's too-soft, pasty white face and watery grey eyes terrified her. A fiery hatred burned inside Morgana's core—she wanted to see this man torn limb from limb—but with cold blood on her face and lashed naked and vulnerable to this cross, she felt completely helpless.
She felt afraid.
Estren straightened up, grunting with the effort and pulling himself up onto his walking staff, then drew himself up before Morgana with a buttery smile.
"At last, Morgana," the Magister said, almost purring. The bags under his eyes and waddle under his chin quivered as he spoke. "You are back here where you belong, girl. We've had enough of your trouble, I should say!" For an instant, Josiah Estren's face betrayed a look of intense loathing and hatred, then, his mask of immeasurable softness slipped back into place. "Rejoice, dear Soloster girl, for you are about to be delivered personally into the arms of the Golden Lady."
A jolt of fear shot up Morgana's spine. She looked past Estren's pale, looming face and feathery white hair and into the streets around her. She searched frantically for an escape. There had to be a way out. Jason and Riley and Gliath had to be out there, ready to kill all of the soldiers with their deafening weapons and set her free! There had to be at least a handful of rebels watching, maybe planning to spring one last attempt at a coup! It was a ritual night. It was a good time. They had to rescue her—Morgana had devoted the last several years of her life to saving them and trying to save New Bozeman...
As the Virgin Oracles danced with drugged rapture in the intersection, raising their slender, pale hands at the rising moon, Morgana caught sight of a glint on one of their hands and thought that she saw the distinct square design of her smuggler's ring.
She felt terror well up inside her she squashed it down. Morgana faced Estren and tried to speak as flatly as she could.
"You've got my ring, Estren."
"And your sword, Morgana!" he replied with a serene smile. "You will never use that weapon against the Communion again."
Her face and neck became hot despite the cold air.
"I'll kill you with it, you evil fuck."
Estren's smile promptly vanished and his waddle quivered. His watery grey eyes were suddenly hard for a moment, then he smiled again, turned, and climbed down the platform.
Morgana looked around and saw that each cross holding a prisoner had a wooden platform pushed up in front of them. She'd never actually been to of these ritual nights before. Ever since Estren had released her and Edward from their imprisonment under the church a year ago, she'd been out at night plenty of times, trying to help save her people from the gargoyles, but she never dared to approach the Crossroads during one of these events.
Now she was part of it.
The platforms were indeed like tables with a small ladder leading up one side. Estren must have had them made specifically for reaching the condemned without having to take them down, probably for nights like this.
Dread boiled up inside the young woman's guts.
She looked out over the town and saw the gleaming of torchlight on flesh; bodies hiding just inside their broken homes, gathering to watch while still somewhat protected from the soon-coming gargoyle threat.
"Help me!" Morgana screamed out to the village. "My people, help me!"
She looked around and saw that two prisoners were looking at her with dark red faces. Estren took a moment to look up from his place on the ground, smiled, then looked away. The Chosen made no move. The villagers—all dressed in layers of dirty rags and hanging deep back in the shadows with candles here and there—watched her with dark, wide eyes and empty faces.
"People of New Bozeman!" she shouted. "I am Morgana Soloster, the last of the Solosters that built this village! Estren is lying to you! My brother Owen never betrayed the people! It was a lie! This man has tricked you!"
There was no response from the sheltered crowd.
Morgana noticed that the sky was a lot darker now. The mist would come at any moment...
"Please! I found my brother today in the mountains near the necromancer's tower! Owen Soloster never betrayed us! He was killed by the necromancer and turned into a gargoyle!" She felt ridiculous. The people watched her from the shadows as if they were watching a goddamned show. This town used to have a theater, but it had been shut down for years. She was their drama now.
"The necromancer's dead!" someone yelled back.
"I know he is," Morgana shouted back, "but he killed Owen the day my father was killed—don't you see?! Estren convinced Owen to go out there, and the survivors who came back worked for the Communion! It was all lies! Estren killed Damien and my mother and took control, and it's all based on a lie! He's lying to all of you! He did it all for power!"
Several people responded with boo's and hissing.
"Shut up, you damned Soloster! You're a bunch of lying snakes!" a man yelled from somewhere.
"Good riddance to you, Soloster bitch! Your family doomed us all to the Darkness!"
"But the Darkness came before the Communion, don't you remember?!" Morgana pleaded. "Think about it! My father was a good man to all of you! We were a prospering—"
"Your father was a tyrant!" someone shouted back.
Disappointment and helplessness crashed over Morgana just as if she was swallowed up by a rising tide. The people were all brainwashed. Her own people hated her.
"But w
e have always been good to you!" she stammered, feeling hopeless and alone. "My great grandfather Lionel built the walls and brought everyone together, and we—"
Morgana was interrupted by the sound of a man gurgling on her left following by the excited cackling and crowing of all seven Virgin Oracles down in the street.
She looked over, full of dread, and saw Estren standing in front of one of the men hanging from the cross sawing at his throat with the knife that he regularly carried in his robe's waistband. The Magister's face was tranquil with a slight, soft smile, and he looked back and forth between his grisly work and the rising full moon. Covered in blood and black paint as he was, Morgana couldn't tell who the prisoner was.
When Estren was finished slitting the man's throat, he climbed down from the platform and headed to the next, muttering quietly to himself. The fresh blood from the killed man's neck was slick in the moonlight covering his black chest.
The eunuch speaker for the Golden Lady then climbed up to the next cross—the one right next to Morgana's—and did the same thing.
"No! No, please!" the man cried. He was bearded. Morgana recognized him suddenly as one of the Hubbard twins. His icy-blue eyes were easy to spot in the light of the moon and torches, which were now wide and full of fear as Estren reached up to grab the bushy beard and lift it out of his way...
Estren slit the Hubbard man's throat, sawing through it with his small knife.
Morgana felt a crushing weight of despair plunge through her.
The Hubbard twin—either Darin or Jordan, she wasn't sure—writhed against his bonds, gurgling and hissing as his blood seeped out over his broad, black-painted chest. Estren watched for a moment—calm and happy—before turning to climb down.
Wild, naked fear shot through Morgana.
She was next.
As Estren was heading over to her platform, wiping his blade clean with a bloody rag, there was a sudden, loud sound like the snap of one of the star warrior's weapons. In the initial instant, Morgana felt a rush of relief, thinking that Jason and the others were rifting in to rescue her! Then, a bright, blue bolt of lightning flashed through the air from the south—sizzling through the coming mist—and struck one of the Virgin Oracles in the street with a hot pop. The Oracle screamed, throwing her limbs out in all direction as crackling white electricity washed over her. She collapsed with her arms and legs writhing as her blue robe burst into bright flames in two places.
The other Oracles screamed.
Estren paused and looked to the south with his jowls trembling and his moth hanging open.
Morgana looked too, feeling a smile creeping over her lips—expecting Jason—just in time to see several monstrous forms sweep in through the mist. The shadow of a dark man was flying through the sky toward them...
The odor of burning meat and hair invaded Morgana's nose.
Her smile vanished just as the townspeople began screaming and the Chosen soldiers stirred into motion.
Many gargoyles swooped into town on stony wings inside the fog or from above it, all in a protective ring around the man who Morgana could now see was flying while standing on something like a large, glowing blue disc, emerging from the rolling fog above the Crossroads. The man stood straight on the flying disc, dressed a lot like the warriors from the stars, and the dark hair and neat goatee on his pale face seemed a lot like the head that she—
It couldn't be...
"Oh, Goddess!" Estren muttered below Morgana, staring at the approaching assault with his knife still in his right hand. "Oh, Goddess, save us!"
"It's the necromancer!" someone screamed. "He's returned!"
As if to punctuate the point, the flying man pointed his hand down at the Crossroads and shot lightning into them again. There was a crack and a bolt of bluish-white fire shot instantaneously past the roofs, through the street, and fried one of the Chosen soldiers. The struck man immediately threw his weapons violently away from him and spasmed roughly. He burst into flames, tossing off his helmet and golden mask in the process. The soldier seemed to leap out of one of his boots, then fell to the street, his clothing burning like a raging fire and skin smoking in several places.
Everyone panicked.
Then, the gargoyles joined the fray.
Morgana struggled at her bonds, helpless and completely vulnerable.
"To the church!" Estren bellowed. "Everyone get back to the church!"
She pulled at her leather bindings, straining as hard as she could, but she was stuck!
"Help me!" she cried. "Someone let me down! Please!"
There was a loud whoosh past her, and Morgana knew that a beast had just flown by her. She was aware that at any moment, one of those vicious creatures could approach her and do whatever it pleased to her exposed body. It could slice her to ribbons with its claws, or slowly pull her to pieces...
A crash on a platform near Morgana's cross was followed by screams. The young woman closed her eyes. She was tempted to keep her eyes clenched shut during the entire experience since she couldn't do a goddamned thing. She was trapped! Men screamed around her. She heard another woman scream, quickly cut off with a rip and a sick splash. She heard metal blades clanging into what had to be the stone forms of the monsters. Soldiers were grunting and slamming and sometimes crying out as they were torn apart. Heavy things hit the ground and collided with buildings. Bricks and rubble toppled. Something suddenly slammed into the base of Morgana's cross. She and the cursed execution device she was lashed to swayed from the impact.
All the while, there was a repeating sound: snap, a hot crackling, then a sizzling explosion and scream as the necromancer killed people, one by one.
Morgana opened her eyes. She had to see the fiend who had killed Owen and doomed her entire village by his evil existence in the southern mountains.
The young woman saw a chaotic scene of total carnage around her. From her high vantage, she spotted at least three gargoyles romping around in the street from victim to victim; mostly Chosen soldiers, but sometimes dragging townspeople out of their ruined homes near the Crossroads. Red-splashed body parts littered the street and the fog, rolling in thick now, painted the night with a yellow and red glow of torches reflecting on pools of viscera and blood. Morgana immediately looked to the cross on her right side and saw that the prisoner nearest her had been torn from his cross. His black-painted arms were still bound to the beam, ripped away at the shoulder. There was no body anywhere.
Horror overwhelmed the young woman. She struggled against her bindings like a mindless animal. She realized that she was screaming...
Looking up as she struggled, Morgana saw the necromancer standing on his flying disc. The bottom of the disc glowed with a pale, blue light. In the mist and closer now, she could see that he was middle-aged, tall and thin, with the same short, dark hair and trim goatee as the disembodied head delivered to her by Xarzeth the Black. The necromancer's cheeks were lean and lined, and he was dressed strangely, a lot like Jason and Riley were. As the necromancer pointed with his right hand down to another soldier down in the street, he shot off another bolt of lightning—even more brilliant in the surrounding mist—and the bluish-white magic-fire backlit a figure suddenly climbing up onto the platform in front of her...
Morgana focused on the hunched, robed man—her eyes dazzled by the lightning—then she recognized Magister Josiah Estren with a flush of cold fear sweeping through her body.
Estren was still outside in the chaos. He approached her, his dark eyebrows furrowed into a scowl, his soft face making an odd grimace. His bloody knife gleamed in the surrounding light from fire and the moon.
"No!" Morgana cried, struggling again helplessly against her bonds. The sense of impotence in her—completely powerless and vulnerable, bound to the cross, filled her with a sickness that made her want to puke and scream.
Estren rose up to his full height in front of Morgana. He looked angry and full of murder. His white robes were splashed with red blood from the insanity that he'
d crawled through below them.
The soft, old man smiled at her and approached with his knife's edge shining.
Then, with a loud whoosh, Estren suddenly disappeared as a big, dark form flashed in and down from Morgana's right. The platform was dashed to pieces with a loud explosion of wood and fell with a clatter. Morgana looked down. Estren lay helpless and terrified—surrounded by splinted chunks of the wooden platform—held under the stony, clawed form of the gargoyle who'd just pounced onto him from above.
The Magister let out a long, wavering whine.
The gargoyle then moved with a flurry of grinding speed, seized Estren by the arms, and launched into the air, carrying the screaming man away toward the south.
Morgana looked up—too afraid to cry out—and saw the necromancer staring down at her.
A moment later, she felt a tremendous crash, herself. A huge shape had smashed the street next to her and Morgana felt herself falling backwards—her and her cross—until the beams holding her bashed into the raised platform in front of the church. Morgana was jarred and smacked the back of her head hard against the cross. She found herself staring up at the sky, seeing stars spritz across her vision...
Two speedy stone shapes flew past far overhead in the mist.
There was a heavy thumping on the cobblestone platform next to her and Morgana closed her eyes, awash with terror. When she opened them again, she found herself staring at the leering face of one of the monsters. It paced around her bound, fallen form, flexing its stone wings with a grinding sound as men screamed above the din of clanging weapons and ripping flesh throughout the Crossroads.
The young woman almost lost her mind entirely to fear when the creature brought its blood-splashed snout down close to her. It opened its mouth like a stone lion as if to swallow her face, but it made no sound; no growls.
Then Morgana suddenly felt the leather straps torn away by a careful stone claw—pulling roughly at the skin of her naked arms. For an instant, she felt herself freed. In the next instant, the monster looming over her roughly grabbed her arms with hands that felt like rough stone with a grip far stronger than she could possibly resist.