by James Davis
Storms ripped through the forests of her homeland and the lightning seemed to tingle down her arms and through her fingertips. She felt suffering and terrible pain, wails of unimaginable horror emanating from the trees as their trunks split and formed mouths full of splintered teeth. Blood flooded the forests as thunder rumbled overhead.
Nightmare upon nightmare flashed in her mind. Scenes of absolute terror assailed her senses, but through it all, Sameska was full of joy.
Sunrise was a brief affair the next morning. The light disappeared quickly behind dark clouds and cast the scene below in shades of gray. A cool breeze blew through the empty streets and unshuttered windows of Logfell, an unnatural autumn breeze more than a month early.
Morgynn stood on the shore, dressed in red. Eyes closed, she breathed in the bittersweet scents of plague and wild flowers as they mingled in the air. As the slight chill in the wind caressed her tingling skin, she was reminded of summers in Narfell. The cold at Bildoobaris, a gathering of the Nar tribes each summer, never quite warmed to even the early autumn chill of the Border Kingdoms.
Her left arm felt as if it were on fire, a sensation she reveled in as the last remnants of magic danced on her skin and slowly faded, leaving clean white lines where the scars of her spell had once been. She sighed, reluctantly opening her eyes to lament the spent incantation. She loathed the blank flesh on her forearm and absently rubbed her shoulders and neck with her right hand, mollified somewhat by the remaining swirls of magic carved there.
She pulled her tattered red robes around her and walked to the low stone wall that marked the edge of the little town. She couldn’t suppress a growing smile as she stood staring at the empty streets, doors left open and abandoned merchant carts crushed in the chaos of her magic. For a moment she fancied herself the last being alive in all Faerûn, looking upon the sad remains of a world that no longer held any meaning. In that moment she felt the cold eyes of death over her shoulder, a silent companion that rarely stood apart from her, a memory that hid beneath all others.
Her eyes settled on a patch of ground near the town gates, stained in the browns and rusts of old blood, and wondered at the memories of these folk. She briefly imagined she envied them, those swift heartbeats on the edge of oblivion where denial meets the inevitability of nature’s design. She shook her head and stretched her neck, almost a spasm of movement as she righted her thoughts. Refocusing, she turned away from morbid curiosity, banishing the imagined specter.
She followed the sounds of her followers, their chanting and prayers echoing in the silent and empty avenues. Speaking the languages of the infernal realms in deep, sonorous voices, they gave praise to Gargauth, their devil god, violating the once peaceful and sleepy cottages that lined the streets. She enjoyed the contrast of dark worship and the still-life of rustic architecture around her, a composition of sight and sound that no artist’s brush could render.
Turning a corner into a small square, she found the source of the comforting voices, chanting in a circle, sitting on the edges of a drawn symbol, their steady hands marking profane runes and designs as they lost themselves in a trance of unholy praise. They did not pause in their ceremony as she approached, nor did they reveal any awareness of her arrival. Though she led them, she was not Gargauth.
The high priest known as Talmen, named after one of Gargauth’s many defeated enemies, a high honor among the order, remained standing and apart from the circle with a few others. All of them wore masks depicting the faces of devils, but only Talmen bore the mask of the broken horns, the traditional symbol of Gargauth. He awaited Morgynn’s approach quietly.
She could feel his powerful lust for her, could see it in the dark eyes that stared at her from beneath his mask. She did not dissuade his affections, but rarely did she encourage them. The thought of his hands upon her sickened her far more than he would ever know.
Talmen watched Morgynn’s every move, and she subconsciously graced his expectations. She walked as if she owned all that she surveyed, even him, and cared nothing for the wants and desires of anyone else. Her hair, a deep black, was worn wild and long but she controlled it like an extra limb to suit her whims. She wore tattered red robes that would have been indecent if not for the belts and scraps of leather armor that served only to accentuate what could not be seen.
Talmen had served Gargauth for many years before she’d met him one cold Nar summer. He had seen far more than potential in her, and she had returned as much of his attention as necessary to get what she wanted. Morgynn held no illusions about their partnership, and she held no qualms against maintaining his illusions.
She parted her lips slowly, gathering his attention. His eyes almost dulled beneath the mask, and she could barely hide her disgust at the ease with which she could control him. No spell had ever passed between them to precipitate such submission. None had been necessary.
“Where is Khaemil? Has he returned?”
He scowled as she mentioned the name of her beast, and she could sense his displeasure, had counted on it, in fact. The lines at the edges of his eyes deepened, and his head turned slightly away. She could almost hear his cursing thoughts and smiled demurely to frustrate him further.
“He awaits you in the temple of their witches, Lady. A blasphemous and dangerous act I could not persuade him from,” the high priest replied. His annoyance with Khaemil was clear, as he was unwilling even to speak her favorite servant’s name.
Morgynn’s smile grew at the news, imagining her dark thrall in the hallowed halls of their enemy’s place of worship.
“Come now, Talmen.” She reached out, lightly brushing the cheek of his hideous mask, tracing its edge downward to rest a fingernail tip on his bare neck. “Blasphemy and danger are in our blood.”
His pulse quickened at her brief touch. His blood rushed beneath her fingertips and she imagined its distress at being trapped within a frame as poor as his. Her touch could remedy his blood’s imprisonment in mere moments, and she lingered a bit before pulling away.
“As you wish, Lady.”
He bowed briefly and hastily returned to the circle of his brethren, seeming more content to watch the object of his unrequited lust from a safer distance.
As she made her way to meet Khaemil, Morgynn stopped to study an ancient statue in the central square. The stone—broken, cracked, and heavily weathered—depicted elf warriors defeating a faceless enemy on a pinnacle. It was of dwarven design and looked far older than the town which had grown around it, carved for the elves centuries before when they inhabited the Qurth forest and its distant sister, the Duskwood.
She’d studied much of the region’s history while in Innarlith to the east. That was before its leader, Ransar Pristoleph, had ousted her nomadic Order of Twilight from his court. News of its current state she gained easily from contacts in Derlusk, as well as other beneficial services.
She quickened her step, eager to speak with Khaemil and be on her way. The near trees to the south waved and twisted in the growing wind as a pulsing sensation called to her from within the forest’s thick branches and underbrush. Since she had discovered it, she hated to be apart from that kindred pulse for too long.
The Temple of the Hidden Circle sat alone in a large circular glade bordered by stout oak trees, their long and sheltering branches framing the simple stone building. Though the oracle-priestesses visited only a few times a year, the people of the little town kept up the grounds with pride. A cobbled path led through a once bright and flowered garden, now stripped of leaves and blooms. Morgynn gazed upon the broken stems in amusement. She’d heard them called “oracle bells” and “destinies,” and she wondered how honest their auguries had been. Had they seen her, she wondered, huddled over their teacups, fevered and chilled as they looked for signs of the future?
The heavy wooden doors stood open before her, a stylized eye carved into the frame overhead. She walked in boldly, as much to spite Talmen’s misgivings as to satisfy her own curiosity and audacious nat
ure. Stained glass lined the walls to either side of the sanctuary, depicting scenes of daily life and terrible battles. None seemed relevant to the history she’d studied, but perhaps they were images of the future.
Before the altar, Khaemil stood like a shard of night, his thick black robes wrapped around him. He seemed almost a void amid the colorful glass and the bright marble floor, mirroring a small statue of a one-eyed sage set behind the altar, an image of the god Savras. Her darkening mood in the presence of the oracles’ sanctuary brightened as she approached her favored champion.
She leaned in close, resting her head on his shoulder, breathing in his strange scent and soothed by its familiarity.
“Talmen says you shouldn’t be here, pretty one, that you blaspheme against Gargauth.” Her tone was mocking and light, but she enjoyed the tensing of his broad shoulders. No love was lost between him and Talmen, and neither cared to hide the fact much.
Khaemil did not move except to incline his head in supplication.
“I remain your servant as ever, Lady, and will obey no other. The high priest has no respect for the rewards of faithful service.”
His voice was deep, rumbling from his large chest and seeming to shake the stained glass on either side.
Morgynn stepped back, studying his large frame, still amazed at his unwavering loyalty after so many years. He had become a symbol of her ambitions, a bold and dark knight sent by Gargauth as a blessing to the revived Order of Twilight.
“How went your hunting?”
The query hung like a blade in the air, razor-thin and cold, full of possibility. Morgynn did not enjoy disappointment and rarely tolerated failure. Though favored, Khaemil was not above her punishments, and she had earned his respect all the more for that fact.
Khaemil turned to her then, removing his hood and revealing pitch black skin, hairless and smooth. He was almost a head taller than Morgynn, but managed to look her in the eye without seeming disrespectful. His eyes were bright yellow, like a wolf’s, and his wide smile exposed sharp teeth and prominent canines. He squared his broad shoulders proudly in her presence.
“Well, my lady. The sweetblood makes his way here as we speak.”
Morgynn arched an eyebrow at this, satisfied with his success, but curious as to the nature of whom he spoke. Before she could question him further, they both sensed a disturbance outside. Looking to the door, they could see shadows fading as the sun rose. A strange yelping growl echoed from somewhere nearby, and Morgynn turned from Khaemil to meet the last of her followers returning from his own hunt.
Behind her, she could feel the heat of Khaemil’s change, her blood responding empathically as his quickened. His form shifted and condensed, settling into the shape of a great black dog. Morgynn adored the protective nature of the canomorph, known as shadurakul among his kind.
She stood in the doorway, looking out at the giant figure standing in the dying garden, shrouded in deep blue robes. It stood twice as tall as Morgynn and nearly three times as wide as Khaemil. At its side it held a rune-covered glaive, decorated with arcane trappings and grisly trophies. Khaemil crept close behind her. Snarling quietly, he sniffed at the chill air, his keen senses picking up the scent of the ogre’s monstrous companions to the south, a pack of gnolls on the edge of the deep forest, growling and clearly uneasy.
“Mahgra,” Morgynn began, “you’re almost late.”
“Lady Morgynn,” the ogre bowed slightly, a well-practiced and formal gesture, “I do apologize. We had some slight trouble evading the patrols farther south near Beldargan, of the old Blacksaddle Baronies, but fortunately, my magic brought us through unseen.”
The ogre’s voice made even Khaemil’s deep baritone sound like a squeak, thundering in their ears like a growing headache. Morgynn dismissed his unnecessary explanation with a wave of her hand. She had no desire to engage the ogre’s skill at prolonged discussion, typically a one-sided conversation centered on Mahgra’s own exaggerated and colorful accomplishments.
Khaemil stood close to Morgynn, eyeing the robed ogre with unmasked suspicion, a mutual feeling between the two.
“All is prepared, then,” Morgynn stated, paying attention to neither of them, her gaze lingering upon the silhouette of the forest’s edge through the morning mist. She paused as if listening for something. Her eyes clouded slightly and tiny splotches of red appeared at their edges as she answered a quiet call.
Mahgra retreated a step as Morgynn became lost in a trance. Khaemil felt the pressure of her magic in his chest, his pulse unable to keep up with the storm of her wild blood. He growled and sidestepped, baring his fangs in pain as her brief lapse faded and released him.
She looked meaningfully at Khaemil and Mahgra both, and her eyes told them their time in Logfell was over. No command was needed; no reminders were necessary. They knew their parts. The time had come.
Khaemil padded swiftly back to Talmen and the droning circle of wizard-priests. His dark form disappeared in the shadows of a silent avenue as he went to gather the rest of their order. Mahgra turned to leave as well, in the opposite direction, to assemble his charges and continue east along the coast of the Lake of Steam.
Morgynn, left alone, stood staring at the tops of the trees, barely visible above the town’s southern wall. Her blood sang in her veins, twisting languidly beneath her skin. Her bare left arm itched, the absence of scars still strange to her senses, while the pale shadows of a hundred past scars calmed her self-conscious musings.
She drew a dagger from her belt and walked toward the dark forest, no longer able to resist the pull of so many faded heartbeats, so many bright yet lifeless eyes, so many children born of plague-emptied villages, waiting among the twisted trees.
CHAPTER THREE
Evening approached, bringing more dark gray clouds. Birds began searching for steadier perches in the strong winds that rolled in from the Lake of Steam. A humid mist hung over the tall grass growing tenaciously on the hill between sea and forest, its mass interrupted only by the worn cart path that led to the town gates.
The mist shifted slightly, rolling in on itself, swirling in ephemeral drafts as a faint figure appeared in its depths. It was tall, this silhouette materializing in the agitated mist, a shadow taking form among shadows. He was wrapped in a gray cloak with a high collar and wore a long-used, wide-brimmed traveler’s hat.
The spinning haze settled and revealed fair skin, a graceful jawline, silvered blond hair, and the light armor of a quick-footed warrior.
Reflexively, Quinsareth hid his pale eyes beneath the brim of his hat, never sure who might be present as he arrived from the phantom roads of the shadowalk. He stopped for a moment, allowing the icy chill to fade from his body, letting the gravity of the dirt road settle into his stiff muscles, and clearing his mind of the discordant voices that echoed in the Shadow Fringe. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the mass of blurred darkness he’d seen was the ocean. Its appearance in the shadowalk had been hauntingly beautiful, a black velvet blanket of absolute nothing.
Quinsareth pulled the plated leather gauntlet from his right forearm and reached beneath his collar to trace the thin, jagged scar from Vesk’s knife. It was tender but closed and healing quickly now, a benefit of the shadowalk’s swift corridors.
The moisture in the air chilled him, driven by cool gusts of wind. He pulled his cloak tighter across his shoulders and surveyed his surroundings. He spotted the crude stone walls of the small town before him, noting the closed gates though it was barely sunset, or seemed so from the faint light illuminating the heavy clouds overhead. A signpost identified the town ahead as Logfell. A raven perching on the sign eyed him suspiciously, its wings raised.
Quinsareth replaced his gauntlet as he studied the town, something alarming him, triggering the abstract senses of his celestial blood and stirring the restless darkness in the pit of his stomach. He absently patted the scabbard of the slumbering Bedlam at his side. Although not truly asleep, the blade’s magic lay inert and silent,
allowing him a measure of stealth as he approached the gates.
The raven leaped into flight, flapping quickly against the wind and disappearing over the wall. No smoke curled from the chimneys beyond the low stone wall—a strange detail in a region where autumn was brief and winters brought more rain than snow or ice. In the early chill of the current season, Quinsareth expected warm fireplaces among those unaccustomed to such cold winds.
Standing before the wide gates, their surfaces eroded by years of exposure to the Lake of Steam’s briny moisture, he could smell the familiar stench of death. Its aroma barely touched the air, but it confirmed his growing suspicions. As he laid his hand upon the wood, a hundred scenarios played through his mind, none of them worrisome. He had no expectation of a warm reception, or even of a peaceful street scene painted with curious onlookers. Those of his ilk rarely arrived in time to wield blade and will against injustice before harm was done. Like a scavenger to carrion, the ghostwalker came to balance the scales.
Quin banished all thought of what might be, emptying his mind to be filled with what would be. He had no liking for practiced swordplay—patterned strokes and thrusts could be too easily read and countered. Entering the unknown—this seemingly abandoned town, for example—with scripted preconceptions could be just as dangerous. He leaned into the gate, swinging it open slowly. The first stone in this Fate Fall was Chance. The next, he expected, would be Mystery.
His eyes darted left and right, searching for any movement, but nothing awaited him. He found only an empty street and several rats scurrying for cover. Tiny dervishes of dust skipped across the avenue, disappearing between houses.
He walked slowly, watching the open windows and doors of the stone and wood cottages, looking for the tips of arrows or the flash of readied blades. Or perhaps the frightened faces of hidden villagers waiting to learn the intentions of this silent stranger. No one met his shaded gaze. All seemed abandoned and overrun with rats and birds, no doubt feuding over forgotten crusts of bread. He heard the flutter of wings echo down the otherwise quiet street.