Circle of Skulls w-6

by James P. Davis

  "I trust her to be what she is. I believe greed will keep her actions in line with ours, if not her intentions," Jinn answered as he waited for the last of the sunset to leave the ward in darkness. Quessahn did not reply, but he knew she wasn't convinced and he could not blame her, for he had his own doubts. "Do you trust the avolakia? Briarbones?"

  "Until he grows bored, yes, I do," she said, the scrape of chalk on smooth stone accompanying her words. "He is very old and not afraid of death in the least. As long as there is something to interest him, to engage his voracious curiosity, he shouldn't feel the need to create something interesting. Luckily I think the whisperers of Seawind Alley should keep him occupied for decades at least."

  "I doubt he will be easily bored tonight," Jinn said quietly.

  "Do you really think Callak Saerfynn is involved in all of this?" she asked. "He has wealth, status-such as it is-and wants for nothing

  …"

  "I imagine to some, the more gold one has, the less valuable it seems. To a few, immortality would be beyond value, even worth the life of a sister," he answered absently, musing as he studied the dark house and the dirtied host surrounding it.

  "I guess those that don't have immortality-" Quessahn began then stopped abruptly, falling silent, her ghostly reflection in the window casting nervous glances at Jinn as she focused on the arcane circle drawn around her.

  Jinn hesitated as he considered the door mere strides away, part of him already outside and retreating from the ghosts of his previous life, another part holding him still, waiting for her to speak again, to say things he had no right to ask of her.

  He managed a single step, his hand rising to take the handle.

  "I buried him," she said, her voice faltering slightly. "I… I don't know if that means anything to you, but you-I mean, Kehran-you both…" She sighed loudly and slumped, shaking her head as he turned to face her. "Gods above, but this is strange."

  "Go on," Jinn said, unsure if he said it out of pity or just for himself, but he wanted to hear her, needed to hear her.

  "He fought like you, endlessly. It was hard to keep him still most days," she said. "But for a time, he did stand still and we had a life together, deep in the High Forest. He had what, for him, passed for peace, like he had escaped something, and for almost a year, he was a different person." A brief smile crossed her face, disappearing as quickly as it had come. "But in the end, it called him back, his drive to fight, to chase down the memory of old causes and raise a standard against… Well, good and evil meant different things to him.

  "We argued the last time I saw him alive, and I told him not to go, but…" Her voice broke and she breathed deeply, maintaining her composure. "I found his body the next day and buried him that evening."

  Drops of rain tapped on the doorstep and on the grass outside, dripping from the trees outside as mist gathered in their branches and ran down the bark like tears. Jinn stared at the eladrin, her brief tale a unique experience for him, as though he'd witnessed his own funeral. He took the doorknob in his hand and turned it once.

  "You're not really hunting Sathariel, are you," she said. It was a statement, almost an accusation, rather than a question. "He's just a means to an end, your connection to Asmodeus."

  Jinn did not reply, for there was no need. He could not deny what was in his heart, what festered in the deepest parts of himself.

  "Do you think to kill a god?" she asked quietly. "Or do you hope he has the power to kill you, to truly end you?"

  "I don't know," he said, considering his answer carefully. "There is a reason, I suppose. For the cycles in the world, death and rebirth, over and again. They have a meaning, as if we are all being prepared for something, either glory or death or both." He shook his head and swore under his breath. "But damned if I'll ever understand it."

  He opened the door and looked out across the street, silhouettes of the ahimazzi merging like the dark shape of a single crouched beast, their daggers its rusty teeth, their tattered robes its filthy mane.

  "Be careful," he said to her as he stepped outside, leaving her to her ritual and praying that she would survive what she had planned.

  "See you soon," she replied. He closed the door behind himself and made his way through the garden, sword drawn to challenge the many-eyed beast that awaited him-as they always did, time and again. He did not shout or flourish his sword in a duelist's manner, though his heart raced to meet them and to clip the wings of their dark master.

  Tavian's boots scuffed loudly in the empty streets, a patrol at his back as night settled into the alleys and dark avenues of Sea Ward. He had often wished to escape the bureaucracy of his command and put heels to the cobbles, but he'd never imagined he would regret that selfish desire. They carried their lanterns high along lines of dark street lamps, a casualty of the curfew and of the lamplighters' fear after the morning's news had spread to the other wards. Foolhardy gawkers and would-be adventurers were stopped and questioned before being sent away, though Tavian knew they would attempt to slip back in, to make a name for themselves or hire themselves out to nobles amassing armies of bodyguards.

  The Watch commanders, fearing an increased lack of trust in their officers, had called for reinforcements to patrol until the ward's matters could be settled. Investigators had been summoned, and the details of the killings, such as they were, were under review. Already they had found odd notations and inconsistencies in the recent logs.

  Primary among them was a sizable donation to the local Watch by the slain Loethe family, a donation recorded and signed for yet long since disappeared.

  As much as he could, Tavian had defended Allek Marson to his superiors, proclaiming him to be a good man in unusual circumstances, but as evidence mounted and changed by the bell, he found he could no longer trust his own report of the man. He'd known Allek to be honest and trustworthy, an efficient officer if ever there was one, though he could not deny the growing sense that the fallen rorden had been manipulated and used. Worse still was the idea that Allek had allowed himself to be treated that way, pawn to a foul plot and seduced by something he could not turn down.

  As rumors spread through the ranks, more and more patrols frequented the perimeter of the House of Wonder, suspicious of the magic-users within. Tavian imagined any sleeping wizards within would dream of armies on the march, such was the foot traffic outside their courtyard. The Watchful Order had been summoned to question the wizards, much to the discomfort of many of Sea Ward's regular officers, rumors of foul magic abounding in the tales of the murders. Tavian had never had much trouble with wizards, but somewhere in the ward, he smelled magic at work, as if it were on the air, worming itself into the cracks and gutters, making ready for some final act to unfold.

  A shrill scream pierced the streets, echoing through the lofty spires. He stopped his men in their tracks, listening as it faded in the distance. Tavian held a gloved hand up, his breath steaming as they waited for the scream to repeat and give them a direction. His heart pounded and he wondered, after all the reports, what bloody scene might await them. The scream came again, and he dropped his fist, leading the patrol west and north to the disturbance.

  Pale green light swung from one building to the next as the officers ran, breath steaming in puffs behind them as they turned a corner and found a woman, frantic and leaning out from a second-story window, wailing and pointing. Her face was white as a ghost, and masculine hands held her shoulders as she struggled, grasping for something unseen.

  Half of Tavian's patrol entered the home as he directed the others to secure the entrances, confused bodyguards reluctantly making way, their eyes also on the rooftops. Signal horns blared short notes in quick succession at Tavian's back as he stood in the middle of the street, following the wild-eyed stare of the woman to the rooftops across the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. A single plume of smoke drifted from a lone chimney as drizzle swirled in the light of the Watch lanterns, but naught else caught his eye that might have cause
d such a stir.

  He wandered down the street, following the roof line, squinting in the dark. The woman's cries quieted some as his officers reached her, though she remained at the window, speaking hysterically. At the end of the street, Tavian sighed and shook his head. Turning back, he paused, breath catching in his throat as a blot of shadow shifted above him at the base of a cold chimney. He froze, staring at the spot for what seemed an eternity before two red eyes blinked open and glared at him from the dark. In that hellish light, he could make out long, gangly arms wrapped around a struggling bundle, held close in a cloud of wavering shadows.

  Tavian's sword was halfway drawn, his signal horn barely from his belt, when the thing leaped into the air, tattered, black robes spread wide around it like the wings of a diseased crow. It landed on a wall across the street, flattening to the surface and crawling up like a spider as he loosed a strident call from his horn. The thing leaped again, almost gliding from one building to the next, nearly invisible against the sky.

  "Mystra's bones!" he swore and stumbled back, waving his men on as they rushed to answer his call. "Eyes up high!" he shouted, pointing at the last place he'd seen the thing.

  "A child, sir!" Aeril said, skidding to a stop at his side. "She says it took a child!"

  "Bloody bones," he whispered, unblinking as he searched the northern skyline and waved Aeril to be silent.

  "What is it, sir?" Aeril asked, catching his breath. "The woman said she caught just a glimpse before-"

  "Hush, man!" Tavian demanded, listening, though only the wind could be heard for several breaths. Men shouted down the street, their boots echoing around the next corner, lanterns casting dancing shadows as they searched. Other horns echoed through the ward, other patrols seeking assistance, likely with the homeless vagabonds who'd wandered into the ward in mysterious numbers seemingly overnight. He cursed, sheathing his sword as the rest of the patrol caught up to him. He raised a hand to direct them north with the others, but the command was cut off by another scream, distant and pealing, from several blocks away. "There!" he said. "Move! Now!"

  They ran west, signal horns calling to the other patrols though Tavian did not expect a swift answer, rushing through the cold night, chasing after shadows and screams.

  EIGHTEEN

  NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

  Jinnaoth crossed the street, his step quickening as the ahimazzi rose to face him. Their curved blades formed a jagged ring around the iron fence they guarded, a robed garden of rusty thorns to match the one at their backs. Several separated from the mob to meet his charge. He gripped his sword tightly, holding it low and back, a spark of primal bloodlust in his eyes as he swung and severed the first left hand that stabbed for him. He shoulder blocked another out of his way and kicked as he turned and slashed again, some part of his ancient soul taking over, directing his blade to the brute-force tactics of a battlefield rather than the finesse of single combat.

  The soulless were quicker than normal, grunting and excited as they came for him, but there was no skill in their attacks, using only the press of numbers in their attempts to subdue him. He butchered the handful that rushed him, cutting them down like beasts and leaving them to flounder on the cobbles, clumsy daggers scraping weakly at his boots and tearing at his cloak. He cursed and swore at them in ancient languages, the tongues of the warrior spirits that surged through his veins, as gore covered his blade and splashed across his clothes.

  His blood burned at the brief victory, eyes blazing as he turned to the dozens that remained, a stinking, unworthy host, an insult to the long road he had walked to face Sathariel. Pawns and fools of a cult that gave their lives no value, death was a blessing for the mindless existence they had earned. Their eyes regarded him blankly, thin lines of drool and froth dripping on their robes as their teeth gnashed and they growled like animals.

  Whispering a prayer for their pitiful lives, he cleaved into the mass like a madman, cutting their throats and kicking them down as curved blades sought his flesh from all sides. He cleared a small circle in their midst, slowing as they pressed closer, roaring as the ground grew slick and uneven with blood and bodies. A dirty blade glanced along his collarbone, fingernails dug into his wrist and scratched at his scalp. They pulled painfully at his hair and tugged at the end of his cloak, but he kept cutting and stabbing, using the bodies of a few to trip up several more.

  Losing himself in dull pains and bloodlust, the memories of more than a thousand battles raged in his mind. Each cut he suffered was echoed by grievous injuries from past lives, each wound he inflicted joined thousands more, and each life he took was added to the bloody path of his immortal soul. He whispered long-forgotten conversations as he pushed forward, arguing with dead generals and reciting eulogies from funeral rites no longer observed, in empires that no longer stood.

  Flesh and bone split open like mouths at his blade's touch, spilling red secrets. Jinn stumbled forward and slashed instinctively, dried leaves and thorny vines falling to his feet. He whirled to see the open gate, finally at his back, and braced himself for the ahimazzi as they crowded the iron fence line. He spat at them, but they did not follow, their toes scarcely crossing the garden's edge before pulling away.

  Lowering his sword, he spat again, the soulless either refusing to enter the garden or prevented from doing so. The evening grew quiet again save for the muffled groans and soft gurgles of the dying ahimazzi, their last breaths steaming around the soiled feet of the mob. Jinn stretched and caught his breath, wincing as little wounds and gouges stung with pain, none of them serious enough to warrant immediate attention but enough to itch beneath his clothes and leather armor. Exhaling, he released the savage spirit that had possessed him.

  He wiped blood from his face and turned toward the house, slowing his racing pulse as he crossed the threshold of the open door. Every surface within was covered in patches of dark browns, moldy stains, and creeping vines that bristled with thorns. He proceeded cautiously at first, but as he prowled the dusty hallways and rooms of broken furniture, a sense of familiarity overcame him, as if the house had been waiting for him.

  Shadows moved silently ahead of him, featureless silhouettes watching but not threatening as he searched for the basement doorway. Sernitransparent, the ghosts, little more than persistent fetches, followed his progress, peering at him from darkened comers and long halls. He eyed them curiously, pitying them for the deaths that tied them to the property but wary of lingering too long in their presence lest he wake the reasonless anger of the dead.

  The basement door had been left open, a black pit at the back of a small servants' kitchen. He descended the stairs, sword drawn. The musky scent of decay wafted up from the oddly warm chamber below. The walls were covered in dark handprints, all in pairs and all displaying only nine fingers.

  At the base of the stairs, along the south wall, sat a dusty, old chair, and in it he spied a figure sprawled across its arms. A shock of blonde hair rested across the stained cushion. He crept across the room and knelt cautiously, reaching for the pale hand of Rilyana Saerfynn. She stirred at his touch and moaned, rubbing her eyes as he stood and surveyed the large chamber. A single candle was set in a wall sconce on the north wall, but all else was cloaked in clinging darkness.

  "Rilyana!" he whispered as loudly as he dared.

  Her eyes fluttered open, finding him and appearing confused. She had several bruises on her arms, and dried blood covered the left side of her face.

  "Wake up. You need to get out of here quickly!"

  "Jinnaoth?" she mumbled and sat up, yawning lazily. "Haven't seen you since the fire at the tavern."

  Jinn half spun at the sound of rough breathing in the dark, a rasping, hungry noise that set his nerves on edge. He grabbed Rilyana's arm and hauled her up, placing his sword between them and the thick shadows. He had no time to coddle privileged young women. He could feel the cloying presence of some dark power gathering in the basement.

  "Ge
t out of here!" he said, wide eyed as he searched the dark end of the chamber, trying to pierce the veil of shadows and wondering where Rilyana's brother would be hiding. "Now!"

  "Oh, Jinn," she said, and she laid a hand upon his, her fingers soft on his skin. "No, I don't think so."

  A shock of alarm ran through his body as he reversed his grip on the sword and turned half a breath too late. He felt a rush of hot breath on his cheek as she whispered an arcane syllable, her lips brushing against his ear as a sudden thrust of force slammed into his side. The candle became a blurry streak as he was hurled across the room and slammed against the far wall. The breath was knocked from his lungs, and he gasped like a landed fish, flopping onto his side and wincing at the pain he felt there. Candles bloomed to life across from him, haloed through the haze of fading pain as he coughed, slumped over in a dirty corner.

  Silhouettes passed through the semicircle of light, one graceful and surefooted, the other hunched and leaning, the tap-tap of a wooden staff preceding each step. He shook his head and cursed, trying to sit up as the face of the archmage grew more distinct, the shadows curling away from him and Rilyana like thick smoke. As they did, Jinn noted the sprawled form on the floor before them, the battered and bruised body of Callak Saerfynn.

  "We heard your battle outside, deva," Tallus said, his voice weak but mocking. "A glorious tribute of blood, I must admit, but surely you did not think to catch us unawares, eh?"

  The wizard stood before a stone pedestal in the center of several concentric circles, similar to those in the archmage's tower, covered in overlapping symbols and glyphs that squirmed with power. Jinn merely glared at Tallus and rose to a crouch, pulling his sword behind him, prepared to make the wizard's once-apparent death a painful fact.