by James Davis
She lay awake all night, eventually rising, still wrapped in blankets, to pace the floor in front of the window. Each time she passed, the moonlight splashed blood across her hands.
Rough hands dragged her backward, clutching at her robes and prying the bloody dagger from her fingers. She studied her arms when the oracles finally released her, covered in blood. She felt older than she’d felt in the last several tendays. The faces that watched her bore a mixture of horror, pity, and anger. She sobbed and squeezed her eyes shut, wringing her hands in her robes and falling to the floor, choking out words past the lump in her throat.
“Make it go away, Nanna. I don’t want it.”
Behind her intended victim lay the young oracle’s savior. Pale, staring up with sightless eyes, Sameska could not remember her name. The girl had dived between the two, receiving the fatal wound in her throat that now flooded the marble with the high oracle’s crime. Looking over the girl’s shoulder, Morgynn crouched, like a cat waiting for a mouse to come out of its hole. Staring at the high oracle, she blankly observed the effects of what she had wrought in Sameska’s mind.
Morgynn studied the brave oracle’s lifeless body. She pursed her lips in disgust at such a selfless act, but was amused by the chaos of the scene. Sameska squirmed as Morgynn paced along her barrier’s edge, studying the dense network of Dethek runes that glowed brighter when she neared. Similar spells had been in place along the corridors and entrance to the sanctuary, dormant sentinels set against evil threats. They had been interesting puzzles, but less effective than these in the heart of the temple.
Smiling, she faced her captive audience, enjoying the variety of expressions on their faces. Defiance, fear, and hopelessness, she favored them all as validation of her existence. Whispers slipped among them, prayers to Savras to deliver them from evil. She paused in her pacing and looked around curiously as if staring through the walls at the whole of Faerûn.
“It’s not about good or evil,” she said, “higher powers or faith. None of it matters in the end. It’s about blood, who spills it and who owns it … that’s all.”
Drawing her dagger, she sliced a small cut in her left palm to match the wound on her right. Clasping them together, she willed her blood to flow for her magic. Although she had the knowledge and means to cast spells as other wizards did, she had no taste for their primitive ingredients. Bits of spider web or bat guano had their places in shaping the Weave, but the crimson stream of her own pulse brought the magic closer, made it more intimate. It was an arcane taboo that was regarded by some magic-wielders as a form of cannibalism.
They spend their lives fighting the magic, she thought, addicted to its power, but unwilling to risk their vanity or health, seeking out spells of long life or even immortality. They will never know what it means to be consumed.
The words of the spell were quick and simple, uttered and gone in a single short breath as she spread her hands apart. The blood from her palms flowed toward her fingertips, setting each alight with a red energy. Lowering her arms, she pointed each glowing finger at a design on the floor. Tracing them in the air, she followed their twisting threads until they met the barrier and passed beyond.
The energy of the spell throbbed through her arms, aching for release as she focused. Sighing, she let the magic fall, gently drifting to the floor like snowflakes. The marble darkened where it touched, slipping between the edges of the runes and hissing on contact. The glow flared and pulsated in tune to Morgynn’s will, growing and filling the room with a thundering hum that shook the floor. Minuscule cracks appeared in the marble. The oracles covered their ears and watched as light flowed through the patterns, inexorably following the whorls of the arcane alphabet toward them.
The hum reached a powerful crescendo, shaking the walls. Fractures appeared all over the chamber on Morgynn’s side of the barrier as the thin lines of light flashed and raced toward the warded wall of energy. The crimson bolts slammed into the barrier, crackling and straining against its resisting power. Morgynn stood back and watched as the oracles fought against the spell’s intrusion. She took care to note the patterns of the wards where they grew the brightest, memorizing the places of strength and contemplating how to weaken them.
Her mind drifted as she watched. Part of her imagined taking apart the temple’s magic, while the rest of her imagined conquest beyond this simple town and its troublesome soothsayers. She envisioned her Order of Twilight crawling across Shandolphyn’s Reach, her plague directed against Derlusk. She saw the Gargauthans inserting themselves in the port city, making way for her rule over the vast libraries within. Trade ships would become her secret armada, sailing the Lake of Steam to the cities along its coast, bringing them plague and inner turmoil, ripening them for her arrival.
Innarlith would be last, she decided. Ransar Pristoleph must know of her return long before her ships turn on his rule.
Idle thoughts faded as her spell died, having served its purpose, leaving the sanctuary in silence once more. She knew that nothing could be gained by wasting her magic on the oracles’ defenses. Those weaknesses she might have exploited were defended by strengths other than the pattern of woven runes. Briefly, she wondered if her coming had been foreseen when those runes were crafted. She smiled at the thought as she stared at the layer of fine dust on the floor and the weblike cracks through the walls.
“I am impressed, ladies,” she said suddenly, startling those whose ears still rung from the noise of the spell. “Though I trust none of you had a hand in their creation, the defenses here are quite astounding …”
She knelt and scooped up a handful of dust from the floor, letting it sift through her fingers before continuing.
“… if not for one minor flaw. This would be Rift marble, I assume? I’ve read about this, very strong and …” she looked up to the ceiling knowingly, “… heavy. It has traveled many miles to this place. Such a distance to serve as your tomb. You may keep your barriers and wards. Hold them as long as you are able. When I bring this temple down about your heads, your wall will be your only protection against being crushed.”
Turning to carry out her threat, Morgynn caught the sharp scent of moisture and blood on a chill breeze across her back. Facing the doorway, she glared at the figure that stood there, silhouetted in flashing lightning from the windowed corridors beyond. The scars across her body itched as she tensed. Several vile spells came to mind as her blooded eyes met his opalescent gaze.
He smiled grimly and broke the silence between them.
“Funny things, prophecies,” he said sardonically. “Sometimes they even come true.”
“I remember this,” Dreslya spoke under her breath, careful not to disturb the Ghedia’s chant as they sheltered in the stone hut.
They sat within the confines of a rough circle of grass blades, in the dark, only dimly aware of the battle and storm so dangerously close. Dres felt weak, lending her strength to Lesani, whose casting had seemed to go on for days. Time was lost to her, but Lesani’s voice made time, bringing images to her mind of a savage era. The rolling grasslands of the Shaar stretched out beneath her as she drifted with the chant. The smell of dry grass under a hot sun produced a primal awareness in her, a desire to hunt and ride free, to give thanks to the land as it gave her what she needed. And in her dreaming eye was the magic.
Pressed into the grass, overlaid with twigs forming symbols of the Dethek runes, was the most basic element of the Ghedia way: the circle.
Within the circle sat a hooded figure, chanting in Lesani’s voice with hands much like Lesani’s, but it was not her. The eyes were older, wiser, and more fierce than any she had seen. She sat across from the woman, this Ghedia of another time, alone on the wild grasslands, and watched as dark clouds rose in the north over a hazy red sunset.
On that horizon, rising from the grass, pulling themselves from the ground, were the shapes of massive beasts. So far away, Dreslya could not make out much detail in the strange creatures, save that they bore
manes of jagged spines and stood on six legs as they swiveled their ponderous bulks to face the circle.
The bearer of Lesani’s voice spoke then in the Shaaran tongue, one which Dreslya had not used often in her life, but knew well enough to understand.
“We bring the teeth of your forebears,” she said to the silent pack. Dreslya reached beside her to lift a bundle of large thorns tied with leather thongs. Each was the size of a large dagger and razor sharp.
“We call you from their womb and their grave,” Dreslya said, acting on blind instinct, unsure if the voice she heard was her own. The fierce Ghedia raised handfuls of dirt and grass.
“We ask that you honor us with your power. Aid us in defending our ancestral lands and we will ask of you no more.”
The strange beasts bristled their spiky manes and tossed their heads, posturing and pawing at the ground with trunklike forelegs ending in long claws. A note of alarm passed through Dreslya, and the Ghedia’s eyes widened in sudden fear. The beasts lowered their heads in a predatory crouch, looking like giant lions as they whipped their spined tails across the grass. The storm rose behind them, thundering and scorching the ground with lightning.
Dreslya’s sense of alarm faded as the creatures turned to face the storm and shook their bodies violently, producing a reedy hissing sound not unlike seeds in a thin gourd. The ground rumbled as they charged, moving away from the pair and into the darkness.
Lesani sighed and slumped forward, exhausted. Dreslya blinked several times, adjusting her eyes to the darkness of the hovel, disoriented and weak from the strange, but somehow familiar spell. The Ghedia had passed out and Dreslya tried to stand, but the ground still shook, vibrating beneath them as thunder rumbled outside.
The image of the Shaar remained in her mind, dreamlike and indistinct.
“I remember all of this,” she whispered, and though she did not know their true names, those beasts charging the horizon with whipping tails and spiny manes, she knew what the tribes knew, heard the name they were called out of fear and respect.
The word rested on her tongue, foreign and savage in the Shaaran language and no less so in its translation to Common.
“Battlebriar,” she said out loud and shivered, instinctively drawing her dagger. She touched Lesani’s unconscious face, then leaned back to rest and listen.
Makeshift barricades were erected near the center of town out of debris and anything that wasn’t nailed or mortared down. Archers climbed onto rooftops, exposed to the diving malebranche, but gaining vantage points from which to fire into the endless ranks of ravenous undead that threw themselves at any and all opponents. Quivers of arrows were blessed by the surviving oracles, and the hunter’s missiles sizzled into the writhing horde. The carrion stench of the steaming bathor wafted to those who waited their turns to face what were rumored to be the dead citizens of Logfell.
At first, Talmen had scowled in anger as the mounted hunters charged the rear of the advancing Gargauthans, but Morgynn’s creations kept the defenders well occupied. They dragged down prized steeds into the mud while wizard-priests hurled spells of fire and lightning. The malebranche took their share of the Savrathan warriors, plucking them from their mounts and slinging their bodies into the barricades at the front of the assault.
Though far too many of the skilled riders still circled the field with their deadly Shaaran bows, Talmen had to admit he’d underestimated Morgynn. Still close to the treeline, Talmen had little cause to use the command he’d been given over the bathor; simply willing them to attack had been enough. He typically did not favor the use of undead beyond menial tasks, favoring the more reliable minions of the Lower Planes to accomplish his martial goals. Gargauth’s time in the Lower Planes had been well spent before his exile to the natural world, and many devils aspired to be allies once his conquest was brought back to those infernal realms.
“And he will need rulers to leave here in his stead,” he mused aloud, admiring the graceful dive of a malebranche as it roared to rend another foe. Talmen blinked and the devil was gone. Something had happened to the beast, and an impact shook the ground and silenced the malebranche’s horrendous roar.
Peering through the rain and darkness, he caught a glimpse of a torn wing, thrashing against some strange beast in the sodden grass. A second impact thumped the earth, closer this time, and he froze, searching for the source of the sound and reaching for his mace as a spell came to mind. He became aware of a hissing noise in the rain. Looking to his left, he saw the thing’s shadow, prowling around the line of trees less than thirty paces away.
Every measure of the beast’s dark brown hide—what seemed to be vines and wood—was covered in thorns as long as swords and spears. The creature’s head was small in comparison to its body. As broad as it was tall, it had no visible mouth. Only the hissing of its bristling spines and its colossal mass had given any warning as to its approach.
He abandoned the thought of wielding a mace against the beast and loosed his spell, uttering the incantation breathlessly in sudden fear. A glowing globe of green energy flew from his hand and splashed against the battlebriar’s chest, sizzling and destroying several thorny spikes, but otherwise having no effect on the beast.
Talmen ran for the deeper forest, a safer place from which to conjure means of defeating these new arrivals. Relieved, he did not hear the beast pursue. He detected only the thrashing of its whiplike tail of barbs outside the tree line.
His relief disappeared as several blows landed across his back and legs. Puzzled at the sudden pain, he stumbled to a stop within sight of the Qurth’s impenetrable darker depths. Looking down, he saw the tips of the spikes and thorns that had impaled him. Falling to his knees and coughing up blood, his last thoughts were to wonder how they’d gotten there.
Morgynn felt the death of Malefactor Talmen. The magic in the scar she’d placed on his arm unraveled in her mind and fell silent. She barely blinked at the news, nor was she concerned with Khaemil’s likely death at the hands of the aasimar who faced her. They were unessential, replaceable, fodder for her ambitions.
She cocked her head to one side, considering the lone warrior. He wore confidence like a pair of comfortable shoes, standing before her with nothing but a sword and shield against her magic.
“You’re a ghost here, Hoarite,” she said, blood swirling in her eyes. “You serve no purpose except to die, to show these shivering witches what fools I’ve made of them. This battle is lost. This town is finished. I do not see a man who cares about these things in you.”
“Curious,” he replied, “that you would think I cared about what you saw in me.”
She raised an eyebrow at his response, flexing her long fingers in anticipation, spells hovering in her mind and flowing through her blood.
“As I said, a ghost that thinks it is a man,” she answered, eying the tip of his sword as he raised it slightly, observing the forward shift in his balance. “Come and see, then. I will show this wayward spirit to you.”
Choosing a spell as they circled one another, Morgynn envisioned violet flames consuming the aasimar, and wondered if he would scream.
Quinsareth’s shoulder pained him and the ancient shield on his arm vibrated in the presence of the sorceress. Bedlam hissed with the rain outside and growled with the thunder, but changed its tune to the subtler tones of Morgynn’s heartbeat as her anger pulsed outward. The taste of blood filled Quin’s mouth from the wound along his jaw.
He moved away from the door, creeping along the wall to stand before a large column. Morgynn’s voice barely scraped the surface of his thoughts. Watching her every move, he balanced Bedlam carefully, preparing to strike at a moment’s notice. Wind from the corridor kicked up small clouds of dust from the pulverized floor as he adjusted his stance. Shadows curled through his body, darkening his eyes as he summoned them.
Morgynn’s chant flowed across her tongue and lips. The standoff broken, Quin sprang toward her. Dark violet flames coursed across her arms, gath
ering at her fingertips before bursting out in a blast of pure cold fire. As the energy met him, Quin saw a brief flash shimmer around the edges of his shield.
The dark flames splashed across the shield, spilling around it in places but absorbing into the gleaming metal, leaving the aasimar unharmed. Stepping closer, he raised Bedlam to strike. Morgynn reacted quickly, stepping back on her right foot. Red scars along her collarbone flared to life at her touch and she raised her left arm as if to defend against his blade.
Bedlam rang across her wrist as if striking steel. Seeing his moment of surprise, she batted Bedlam aside. Hissing another spell, she thrust her right hand forward. A wave of invisible force erupted from her body in a wide circle. The dust billowed from the scoured marble floor and sent Quin flying back to crash into the base of the column he’d charged from.
Though aching all over, Quinsareth recovered quickly, forcing himself to roll forward into a crouch. Morgynn’s voice was already reciting another spell. Wary and uncertain of the shield’s abilities but emboldened by its power, he charged again. He knew he needed to reach the sorceress to have any chance of negating her arcane advantage. A few strides away from her, a gray fog materialized around him, enveloping him in a misty cloud that crackled with energy. Pain tore through his chest and legs as tendrils of fog lashed him, forcing him to stumble and fall to his knees.
Quin cried out, squeezing his eyes shut and struggling to breathe, every inch of his flesh feeling as if on fire. When he succeeded in breathing, the mist entered his lungs and burned him from within, spreading through his veins and into his heart.
Morgynn smiled at him and knelt. Through the haze of pain he watched as she studied the shield he wore. He realized she’d been surprised by its presence, another piece of Eli’s legend come true: spellcasters could not see the shield’s abilities until too late. The mist grew around him, struggling against the shield which could not consume all the magic that surrounded it. Quin’s stomach felt twisted as if his innards had declared war on one another. He felt brief moments of respite as the shield shook on his arm and spit bright globs of energy, but the artifact was unable to completely devour Morgynn’s fog.