Bloodwalk

by James Davis

  “Elisandrya.”

  Quin whispered the word from the edge of the wall, and Eli reacted swiftly, pointing her bow at his silhouette. Recognizing him, she relaxed the weapon and breathed deeply, relieved to know she was not alone. His eyes were visible in the dark, she noticed, not glowing, but bright in some indescribable way.

  “We must move. I’ve found a building.”

  Eli nodded and followed him closely, trusting his sight but prepared to fire on any errant shadow foolish enough to come alive. As they made slow, stealthy progress, she saw that Quin favored his left side, as if injured. When he paused at a corner to survey the next length of ground, she questioned him.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “An old injury, nothing more. I’ll survive.”

  “We are likely surrounded, you know. I killed a shadow mastiff back there.”

  “I found two of them myself.”

  Quietly he crossed an open space to reach the next wall. She could see the outline of the temple now and scanned the courtyard for movement. She joined him at the wall and he motioned toward the doorway. Four shapes prowled there, sniffing the air, padding from one shadow to the next, waiting.

  They know, she thought. Where is their master, I wonder?

  As Quin peered around a corner, Eli heard the snap of a bowstring and saw the swift blur of an arrow just in front of Quin’s face. He flinched back, and a fine scratch appeared on the bridge of his nose. An inch or two more, and the missile might have blinded him, or worse. Curling his lip and gritting his teeth, he placed a hand on his sword and took a breath.

  “Stay close,” he said.

  He spun out in a crouch. Eli followed behind and fired in the direction of the unseen archer. She saw a dark figure disappear behind another wall, but nothing else of it before the shadow mastiffs charged from the darkness.

  She was startled at first when Quin drew his screaming blade and slew the closest beast, but she recovered quickly as another creature appeared in front of her. Two quick shots flew from her bow, one landing in the hound’s foreleg, slowing it, and the other piercing its neck. She and Quin circled back to back as they crossed the distance to the doorway of the temple.

  Two more mastiffs fell to her bow and Quin had just finished off a third when a winged figure presented itself from behind a cracked column. The tip of an arrow was aimed at them from a black bow.

  “Get down!” she yelled, and pushed toward the doorway.

  Eli fired at the figure and heard a satisfying yet ominous hiss as her shot drove home. An arrow flew high and bounced off the stone lintel above them as they ducked inside and ran down a short hallway. Eli fired a few more arrows behind them to discourage any pursuers.

  The hallway branched in two directions and opened into a large chamber beyond, lit with a smoldering green light. Satisfied their foes would not immediately follow, they entered cautiously to catch their breath and contemplate their next move.

  Elamiz stepped from behind a wall, scowling and enraged. In his fist was the bloodied arrow he’d removed from his wing. The hunter’s shot had been hasty but skilled. He could still smell her on the air, even through the strong wind and scent of old ashes all around. She was cornered, along with the stranger—the Hoarite whom Khaemil had sent him to find.

  He cursed the aasimar’s keen vision and lingered over the bodies of his fallen pets as the rest of the hounds gathered around him. Nine still survived. A small sacrifice if the promises of the Order were kept. Elamiz cared little for Derlusk or the eastern edges of Shandolphyn’s Reach. Dominion over the Savrathans would be satisfying enough—those who survived, that is.

  Around his wrist, Elamiz wore a cord of leather bearing a small whistle of polished onyx. Raising it to his lips, he blew three quick notes. Though too high for most ears, the mastiff pack responded immediately and encircled the temple entrance, sniffing and pawing at the ground excitedly.

  The faint whiff of fresh blood wafted from within the doorway. Elamiz smiled, forgetting his aching wing and relishing the taste in his mouth. Celestial blood, even that of a mixed breed, was a rare find for those of the Qurth.

  The temple’s high ceiling was lost beyond the light of two glowing orbs set near a crude altar. Their permanent magic still burned, long after the mage who lit them was lost to history. Quinsareth was thankful for the light, trusting their illumination better than his darkvision in this place. Curved stone pews surrounded a central column carved to resemble scales. In those rough-hewn seats were the bones of the faithful who’d come to worship whatever dark god had been courted in those hidden years. The skeletons were charred and ashy, curled in upon themselves in response to the flames that had devoured them.

  Not one of them lay near an exit. They had burned in their seats, unmoving save for twisting in the pain of a gruesome death.

  Quinsareth moved quickly through the chamber, looking high and low, searching for their next advantage. He considered the bones briefly, taking special note of their presence, and moved to the altar. It was bare stone, a flat rock set on a dais, similar to offering rocks he’d seen in more superstitious areas of the world. Primal gods, such as the one revered in this place, rarely accepted prayers and piety alone.

  Absently, Quin rubbed at his shoulder where the gnoll had bitten him the day before. His shadowalk had only partly healed the wound and it had begun to bleed, seeping from under his armor and staining the edges of his cloak. Kneeling to look more closely at the stone floor, he winced as his ribs ached with the motion. He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to ignore the pain, focusing on the task at hand.

  The altar was empty, and no bones of a leader lay with those of the doomed congregation. An idea began to form in his head as he examined the altar more closely. Memory guided his hands, but cynicism ruled his thoughts. Just beneath the slab, he found the edges of a raised stone set in the floor under the altar. Looking high above, he saw the bare ends of dangling chains in the darkness above.

  He saw that Eli had cautiously approached the central column. Noticing that the scale carvings wound upward like a serpentine tail, he followed it up. At its top was a thing from out of the strangest of dreams, of oldest times and faiths. Carved in midflight, he counted at least eighteen detailed wings, their feathers looking ready to rustle in the slightest breeze. The body of the thing was merely a vehicle to house the many wings, having no head, eyes, or mouth. Eli stood enraptured, staring in horror at the thing as if she knew its name and expected it to swoop down upon her in a fluttering mass of stone feathers.

  “Where is the cage?” Her whisper echoed through the room. Her eyes never left the stone beast.

  The sound of clicking claws echoed from the hallway. Instantly, Eli was torn from her reverie and nocked an arrow to her bowstring in the space of a single breath. She looked to Quin, who met her stare across the pews that separated them. He motioned with his head toward the statue of the winged creature above her.

  Nodding, she slung her bow over her shoulder, took the arrow between her teeth, and began to climb the snakelike tail to hide among the petrified wings.

  Quin watched from the cover of the offering stone as several more of the nigh invisible hounds prowled into the chamber from both exits. He counted five on the left and four on the right. He centered his breathing and slowed his thoughts, waiting for their mysterious master to arrive. Unconsciously, he counted in his mind, ticking off a random list of the pieces of the Fate Fall. He found it strange that he was doing it, that after so many years of traveling, the game would return to him again and again.

  Regardless, he made good use of the memory, his hand resting on the first stone, ready to tumble it into its brethren. The rest would fall as they would, and he would not regret the sequence, whatever it might reveal. This determination above all others hovered in his mind, for regret belonged to the Ghost and the Ghost destroyed all patterns that touched it.

  Just yards away, he spotted the shifting shadows of the nearing hounds, baring w
hite teeth as they rounded the edge of the sanctuary and noticed him. Their growls rumbled like hungry thunder as they smelled his blood. Their approach had been stealthier than he’d anticipated.

  Damn, he thought, the first stone goes to the dogs.

  Two arrows hissed into the growling darkness near him. One arrow cracked uselessly against the wall and the other brought a yelp of pain, causing a hound to appear. The green glow of the orbs highlighted its dark coat. Quin hoped more arrows would even the odds, but the clop of nimble hooves on stone announced Elisandrya’s greater concern. She turned quickly to face the threat.

  The winged creature leaped into the air, dodging Eli’s reflexive shot, and fired back. The fiend’s bow was now enveloped in an indigo flame, which it passed to the arrow it released. Eli ducked and the missile crumbled into a stone wing, leaving the lifelike feathers dusty and brittle in its wake.

  Bedlam was half drawn as Quin observed the quick exchange between Elisandrya and some sort of devilish satyr. Moving swiftly, he pressed the stone abnormality in the floor, hearing a satisfying click that confirmed his suspicions. He rolled backward and unsheathed Bedlam as the mastiffs came at him, snarling and drooling. He leaped to his right, meeting their charge and screaming a warning, menacing with the great blade as he deftly spun among them, disrupting their organized attack.

  Rusted pulleys spun among the rafters overhead, the ancient beams groaning under the weight of their descending burden. The whole building shook as its long-waiting task was demanded of it again. Two massive stone slabs lowered shakily on chains that snapped and popped. Dust shook from the ceiling as the entrance was sealed by the ancient device.

  Squinting his eyes against a century’s worth of dust, Quin realized the played stone may have been pure Luck. Squaring off against the pack, he hoped he was wrong, not wanting Luck to be played out just yet.

  He stabbed and slashed at the snapping hounds, wounding several but unable to land a solid blow among them. Frustrated, he edged the closing pack closer to the pews, keeping them at bay with the shrieking Bedlam. The blade’s pitch had lowered in an attempt to mimic the sounds of the surrounding beasts. It threatened them with their own growls and the sounds of gnashing teeth.

  He cast a quick glance at Elisandrya’s battle against the pack’s leader. Another of her shots missed as the fiendish satyr twirled in the air, but Quin could tell it was having trouble flying in the cramped loft of the sanctuary. It flapped its black wings furiously to stay airborne. Reaching the nearest pew, Quin leaned hard and jumped to stand on the wide stone seat. Without thinking, he’d used his left arm. He almost slipped as the pain in his ribs stabbed through his chest. One mastiff tried to take advantage of the moment and lunged in, too close. It caught Bedlam’s blade through its neck as Quin slashed the curved blade outward. Before its body hit the ground, Quin was running along the pew’s seat. He circled toward the flying archer with the vicious pack snapping at his heels.

  Finding cover in the wings of the statue, Eli ducked as another arrow hissed overhead. Quin ran at the satyr’s right, hoping to distract or injure it and afford Elisandrya a better shot. Seeing it more clearly, he could distinguish the fiendish qualities of the fey creature in great detail. It bore the curling ram’s horns of a satyr, but a second set sprouted behind the first. Black feathered wings held it aloft and glowing blue eyes aimed sorcerous arrows at Elisandrya. He’d faced devilish half-breeds before, but could only imagine this fey perversion as a child of rape.

  Quin jumped across the narrow aisle between the pews, slicing at the satyr’s legs as he passed. The fiend dropped sideways behind the blade’s arc and kicked Quin in the small of the back. The blow sent the aasimar sprawling to the floor, soon to be at the mercy of the chasing pack. Before the satyr could harry Elisandrya, Quin saw an arrow strike the fiend in the shoulder. The satyr spun downward to land face first on the floor. Two more arrows pierced his back, one lodging in his left wing joint. He howled in pain as the feathered limb fell crookedly to his side.

  The mastiffs scrambled and bit at one another as they fought for the prize of tearing into the fallen Hoarite first. Quin had rolled to a stop against the wall, enraged and in pain, but satisfied that his distraction had worked. Bedlam hummed on the floor just inches from his hand. Reaching for it, he felt the teeth of the lead mastiff seize his armored calf, squeezing so hard he feared the bone would break.

  Arrows tore into the hound and two others, bringing them down with precise shots into the bases of their exposed necks, causing the others to turn and leap into the sheltering shadows nearby.

  Quin took the satyr’s moment of pain to capitalize on Elisandrya’s well-timed barrage. Grabbing Bedlam, he thrust unmercifully into a hound nearby. He felt the pain of his aching ribs sharply as the stab landed. The skewered mastiff writhed a moment, biting at the growling metal in its side, then fell still.

  Pulling the blade free, Quin rose on his uninjured right leg. He held Bedlam out before him, almost daring the four retreating mastiffs to finish their attack. Their ears were laid back against their squat skulls and low growls rumbled in their throats, but they were wary of the bow behind them. A savageness gleamed in their eyes and Quinsareth matched it.

  Seeming to wait for their master’s next move, their ears suddenly rose, hearing a sound far above Quin’s range. Glancing up, he saw the satyr’s face glaring at him, a small whistle pinched between its sharp fangs.

  The mastiffs could not ignore the piercing command and leaped for the aasimar. Their master rose and fired at Elisandrya, the indigo arrow sizzling into stone, crumbling it at its touch. Though Elisandrya tried to return the favor, the satyr’s arrow had loosened a joint between two of the statue’s wings and they crumbled under her steadying knee. Her bow caught against another wing as she scrambled to grab hold of something. The bow fractured along its upper curve, unable to support her weight and sending her tumbling to the stone floor.

  Quinsareth roared in unison with Bedlam as he met the mastiffs, fighting against his pain and viciously cutting the hounds down. He summoned a reserve of strength he felt certain would be his last as he swung the arcane sword through heavy muscles and tough sinew. The spark of shadow within him felt pale and weak, at its limits. The last of the mastiffs broke through his attack and bore him down, landing with massive paws on his chest. The wind knocked out of him, Quin was still able to swing his shoulder and land Bedlam, shrieking, in the mastiff’s back before it could tear open his throat. His left hand pushed against the dog’s neck, holding back the snapping jaws as Bedlam did its work.

  Over the mastiff’s shoulder, he could see the satyr grinning cruelly, arrows still embedded in its back. It walked calmly past the unconscious Elisandrya at the base of the column to stand over the aasimar, pinned beneath the dead weight of the mastiff.

  Quinsareth watched dully as the satyr drew back the string of the black longbow and stared into his eyes down the arrow’s shaft. Nauseated, the aasimar contemplated the creature’s bright blue, almost human eyes, and would have laughed had he the strength for such cynicism. Those blue eyes widened in surprise, though, as the satyr’s bow arm went limp and he hissed a scream.

  The satyr turned and Quin saw Elisandrya gripping the bloodied arrow jutting from the fiend’s wing joint. She yelled viciously as she plunged her curved blade through its chest. The satyr gazed at her in shock and fell to his knees, slumping back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling above.

  Eli staggered over to Quin to shove the mastiff’s body from his torso, but he was already slipping away, unconscious, lost in the bittersweet memory of a child’s game.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The storm churned in the sky, growing wilder and more concentrated over the rune-covered tower. Those below ignored its fits and rages, oblivious to its lightning and waves of rain. Talmen and his followers carried out the commands of Morgynn in the name of Gargauth. The wizards and priests continued their labors, transforming the tower into the focal point of the
tempest, while Morgynn retired above, as close to that chaos as possible.

  Resting her head on her crossed arms on a cushioned divan, she was warmed by the dying embers of a brazier close by. She had brought with her across the Lake of Steam many of the luxuries she’d found in Innarlith. Apart from these amenities, the chamber remained unchanged, surprisingly intact and structurally sound despite the many years since it had last hosted guests.

  The bones of Jhareat’s combatants lay unmoved save for those that had cluttered the center of the room. Those had simply been shoved aside, enlarging the piles that lined the walls. The chamber was unnaturally quiet—the sounds of the storm were allowed in only when Morgynn permitted. As she rested, only a comfortable breeze passed through her wards on the window. All was still except for a single dancing shadow that flitted across the floor and walls.

  The dagger spun in the air, diving and rising again. Each graceful move sliced another red line across Morgynn’s lower back. She had been careless and angry in dispatching the hunters and chided herself for the brash attack. Her scars were nearly complete once more, cloaking her body in the Weave, which she wore more securely than clothing on her skin.

  Slowing its macabre work, the dagger inscribed one last rune like a signature, connecting the lines of the spell in a seamless knot of dormant power. It descended to rest between her shoulder blades. Morgynn sighed as she released the dagger from her will.

  The scent of cinnamon wafted from the cooling contents of the brazier, a spice she had grown fond of in Innarlith. Her eyelids fluttered as she stared at the tome in front of her, trying to put to memory those spells she would need in the coming days. Sleep came at unusually inopportune moments for her, stealing upon her waking mind and weary body after days of constant activity. She loathed that sleep and the dreams she relived over and over again.