by James Davis
The dark-haired savant edged closer still to the perimeter of the circle, gazing upward into the spinning gale with blood-rimmed eyes and a blank stare. Dreslya held back an empathic gasp as the girl’s foot crunched on the glass, her sandles merely padded cloth that offered little protection from injury. The imagined pain cleared Dreslya’s head and she hurried to cast a spell. Conjuring a gust of swift wind, she directed it toward the circle, sweeping away the fallen glass, though it could not loosen the shards that already pierced the savant’s bleeding foot.
The dark maelstrom lowered menacingly, hovering just above the girl’s upturned face, bits of glass scratching her cheeks and forehead as they whipped past. The cloth that covered the blood-stained statue of Savras was ripped away and carried into the cyclone, fluttering as it was sliced apart and lost. The statue stared blankly upon the scene, dried rivers of brown blood trailing from its eyes. Sameska fell as the statue was revealed, and she scrambled backward weakly on hands and heels, averting her eyes.
Dreslya stepped as close to the circle as she dared and held her hands out at her sides, intoning an ancient rite. The duties and powers of acting Sybilite were still hers, and the temple’s protections were formidable. A spell of command tumbled past her lips easily as she cast, stoically watching as several cuts appeared on the savant’s face. Her voice was ragged and desperate as she shouted the last.
“Peshtak revallas, emuarte!”
The chamber shook with power, and the spinning wind slowed for a moment, recognizing a sudden threat. The sanctuary’s runes glowed and burst to life, arcing across walls and floors like the lightning outside. Light beamed through the darkness of the foul wind, and the air creature writhed, surging upward to seek escape. Glass fell in a sparkling rain as the elemental abandoned its weapons and the helpless prey below. Trapped in the temple’s net of spells, the wind quickly dissipated, destroyed by the magical wards of the temple.
Silence fell upon the chamber, broken only by sobs and the scraping feet of those rising from where they’d fallen. Rain splashed high above where the glass dome had been, the wards preventing the weather from penetrating. Dreslya rushed forward to catch the dark-haired savant as the temple’s white light banished the girl’s strange possession. She caught the wounded priestess and lowered her to the floor. Ignoring the sacred circle beneath them, she inspected the girl’s bleeding cuts and whispered prayers of healing to close them.
Other oracles rushed forward to help. Dreslya rose, feeling slightly dizzy but relieved. Sameska stood as well, watching as rain slid across the invisible shield of power in the gaping hole above. Eyeing the chaos and disheveled oracles, she addressed the fearful and berated the blasphemous.
“This is what comes of our betrayal! This is his punishment, his wrath in answer to our doubt! We must—”
“No.” Dres spoke quietly, but the runes in the chamber still pulsed to her command, amplifying her voice and vibrating in the floor. Sameska stumbled back as if struck. “Savras is not a god of blood and vengeance. We are taught to heed his words, not fear them.” She turned to speak to the oracles, ignoring Sameska.
“I know that doubt still grips you, and I will not dismiss your fears as petty or trivial. I will ask none of you to join me at the gates to meet the evil that seeks to tear us apart.” She paused, looking down at the blood staining the deep grooves of the circle and the shimmering glass spread across the floor. “But I will tell you this … I have been shown that a prophecy does indeed unfold before us, and we must decide for ourselves what parts we shall play in it.”
Dres retrieved her bundle from the floor and turned to leave the chamber. Every oracle watched her go, still shaken and contemplating her words. Sameska stared wildly at the glowing walls of the chamber, as if unseen judgment lurked in the spiraling patterns around her.
The ground rumbled and trees swayed as the foliage parted at the forest’s edge, a dark tunnel yawning through the Qurth’s ravenous undergrowth. Quin charged toward the gray darkness at the end of the path, deftly keeping his balance as the earth threatened to throw him down among the writhing tendrils of bloodthorns.
Bedlam pealed a low scream amid bending wood and falling leaves. Its wail echoed down the wooded corridor, seeking wild freedom at its end. Massive shapes rose and fell in the darkness along the path, crashing through the forest and matching Quinsareth’s speed.
At the tunnel’s end, through the misty fog in the clearing beyond, Quin detected several pairs of cruel white eyes surrounding the dim silhouette of a forlorn tower. They were the eyes of the dead in the field of stone the Pale Sisters had warned him about, the pets of the blood-witch. As he neared the forest’s edge, he heard the tortured shrieks of undead beasts summoning him to their playground. Bedlam changed its tune to match their challenge and Quin smiled, giving in to the wild of the shadows in his blood.
He leaped into open air above a steep incline, the forest exploding on either side of him in a hail of dirt, rock, and shattered wood. The long reach of the Pale Sisters’ magic commanded the vines and roots that surrounded him. Twisting and lashing outward, they grew, summoning even more from deep beneath the field of stone. A wave of vines rippled across the ground and Quinsareth landed in the clearing between them. Running with Bedlam, he was ready to cut down anything that intruded upon the forged path.
The white eyes of fiendish ghouls surged forward to meet the charge, cackling and moaning in hellish madness as the aasimar neared. They bounded across the field, their bestial voices quickly turning to roars of rage as a thick mass of vines snatched them from their strides. The ghouls fell, entangled by the Pale Sisters’ thorny minions, and were crushed against the hard ground and broken stone of the field. All around Quin, the undead were caught in the Pale Sisters’ embrace, and still their network of vines and roots grew, pushing ahead of him in a wall of living foliage.
One fortunate ghoul landed safely on Quinsareth’s clear path, hissing and lashing its long, smoke-tipped tongue as it loped toward him on back-swayed legs. It stared at him with blind eyes, tasting the air and smelling his scent. Quin steadily continued, staring the beast down and studying its strange movement. His hand tightened on Bedlam’s hilt.
The ghoul pounced into the air, thrusting its head forward to reveal yellowed fangs and proboscis tongue. Quin stepped onto a large block of crumbled stone and jumped. Reversing his grip on Bedlam, he swung the blade forward to slam its pommel into the ghoul’s jaw. The creature bit off its own tongue as its mouth slammed shut. The monster’s head flew backward, snapping bones, and its long claws scratched and grasped at Quin’s armor as they collided in midair. Blindly, it sought soft flesh to rend as the pair descended to the stony ground.
The aasimar ignored the ghoul’s futile attempts to harm him. He continued his assault by sliding Bedlam’s shrieking blade into the undead’s emaciated torso. As the ghoul’s back slammed to the ground, Quin rolled and thrust Bedlam up into the creature’s chest. Regaining his footing, he turned to see the growth of a shorter tongue in the ghoul’s mouth. Its claws scratched at the sword holding it in place, hissing as the metal rejected its fiendish touch. Quin sidestepped the flailing claws and withdrew the blade, spinning it to cleave the beast’s skull and cease its shrieking cries.
The Pale Sisters’ roots continued to surge, trapping the last of the Gargauthans’ minions before quieting their entangling vines to a shuddering stop. Quin renewed his charge as the sound of a droning chant filled the air ahead of him. Ascending a low, fallen battlement, he stared down at the base of the tower to see hellish masks staring back—the gathered wizard-priests, surrounded by the black haze of spells inscribed on the tower’s walls.
Wind and thunder formed a ceiling for the scene, punctuated by the muffled cries and impotent rage of ghouls trapped beneath the Pale Sisters’ heavy foliage.
“I will deal with him,” Khaemil said, turning for the door as the aasimar became visible among the crawling tentacles of vine and wood. Morgynn seized his
arm, stopping him. Her fingernails pierced his skin as she watched the Hoarite’s charge toward the tower and witnessed the insolence of the defiant Pale Sisters as they assisted the lone warrior. Khaemil winced at the wounds she made, but did not move.
She watched the scene with a mixture of subdued anger and fascination. Unblinking, Morgynn studied his foolhardy attack with calm eyes. Her fingers dug deeper into the shadurakul’s forearm, setting his blood on fire with the heat of roiling rage. He struggled to remain quiet, turning his attention to the aasimar. Morgynn released him at length, caressing his bloody wounds and keeping a hand on his massive shoulder.
“No,” she said. “Let’s have a closer look at him.”
“But the priests below,” he protested. “Surely they—”
“He might find a way to destroy them,” she purred, a cruel curiosity in her voice. “They’ve performed their duties well enough. They can be spared now.”
“And the storm?”
“Will last long enough with or without them!” she snapped, irritated by his questioning. “You have little faith in your Gargauthan brethren, Khaemil. Is that a flaw, or wisdom?”
The shadurakul did not answer, and Morgynn’s attention remained on the field below. Her eyes danced as the warrior cut down the ghoul with his screaming blade. She enjoyed the weapon’s discordant voice and bloody work in the aasimar’s quick hands. She turned from the window and released Khaemil’s shoulder, flexing her fingers and stretching her neck pleasurably.
“No,” she said again, staring nonchalantly into the piles of bones and skulls around her chamber. “We will meet this Hoarite and have a good look at him. Before we ruin him.”
Half a dozen Gargauthans joined blackened hands, weaving a spell to protect the tower from the aasimar and his unlikely allies. Quinsareth made no move to stop them, keeping their attention and hoping his alliance with the dryads had not yet ended. The net of vines in his wake was still and quiet, only brown leaves fluttering in the cold wind.
Deliberating quickly, he cursed himself for a fool. Too far from the priests to interrupt their chant, he was forced to rely on the fickle fey trio to honor a bargain made in mutual distrust. He braced himself to drop behind the stone he stood on, counting on the fallen block to protect him from whatever magic was being cast. Then his sharp eyes spotted movement on the ground near the priests’ feet.
Tiny, dark green shoots sprouted and curled upward, unnoticed by the chanting priests. A carpet of new growth spread amid the spellcasters, hidden beneath their robes and twisting around their shoes. One by one, the tendrils brushed against skin, startling their victims and choking off the chanting. The priests frantically clawed at green thorns scraping against their flesh and tightening around their ankles and calves.
Relieved, Quinsareth watched, giving the Pale Sisters their due and allowing them their vengeance.
Several priests fell to the ground, roaring in frustration as their legs were wrapped together. Others, more level-headed, attempted to summon spells and prayers to dispel the wild plants. At the sound of hoarse voices rising to chant anew, the ground tore apart beneath them.
Vines and roots as thick as small trees burst from the dirt and cracked stone, shaking even the ruined wall on which Quinsareth stood. Priests screamed as several were impaled on roots and lifted into the air, only to stop suddenly as they were slammed back to the dirt. The rest became hopelessly entangled, thorny tendrils wrapping around their heads and crushing their masks, silencing their spells in a gagging vice.
Quinsareth skirted the edges of the Pale Sisters’ chaos. He made his way to the open doorway at the base of the tower and ignored the eerily quiet work of the dryads. Faintly, he could hear their songs inside the tangle of roots and limbs. Though their magic was directed elsewhere, Quin felt a familiar peace steal over him briefly. He stopped at the doorway, glancing sidelong into the newborn thicket. The dryads flowed through the network of wood, their bodies sinuously melding in and out of roots, visiting each victim in turn.
Their bare bodies were hideously beautiful, lithe and graceful as they quietly stalked their helpless prey. Aellspath saw him pause and she smiled cruelly, winking her flowered eyes at him. The ease with which Quin felt he could succumb to their charms frightened him and jolted him out of his dangerous musing. He darted inside and ran to the stairs, eager to be away from the soothing voices and to finish his business above.
The tower was silent inside. Quin ascended the stairway warily but swiftly, expecting danger to come howling from the decayed building’s hiding places. Nothing came to reward his alertness, which only made him more aware of his surroundings. Most of the inner chambers he passed were rotted through, wooden floors gaping with holes, some with no floors at all.
Near the top he could see the stone ceiling of the highest room and the soft glow of candlelight through an open door. With Bedlam ready, he took a shallow breath. Feeling the ice of shadows pulsing through his body, he prepared to face the source of the dark call he’d felt outside the Red Cup less than a tenday ago.
He smiled a killer’s grin and rushed the last few steps, entering the chamber with Bedlam before him. A woman sat calmly watching him, reclined upon a red-cushioned divan. Her dark eyes reflected the light of many candles, and her pale skin was radiant in their glow as she seductively rose to a sitting position and crossed her long legs, studying him. Dark red lips curved upward in amusement as something shifted in the deep darkness behind her.
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hooded 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.