Bloodwalk

by James Davis

  Wild thoughts swirled in her mind, unbidden, crashing into each other and rebounding with ever more questions and doubts concerning her prophecies. The voice in which she had spoken two nights ago made her shudder each time she remembered it, feeling like a violation of her will, but at the same time it was the truest sign of her ability as the high oracle.

  “Savras spoke through me. Used me as his instrument,” she said to herself over and over, but the words felt hollow. She wrung her hands almost constantly, the tactile sensation a welcome balm in a world that seemed to be slipping away with each passing moment.

  The blood-stained statue of Savras had been covered with a black cloth, the body of Nivael burned in secret outside the walls of the city so as not to incite panic in the commoners. The statue stood like a black shadow of death over her shoulder, drops of blood still visible on its exposed, sandaled feet. Its image was burned in her mind and she had avoided looking at it directly since it had been obscured, but beneath the cloth she knew his eye was trained upon her.

  Thus she also avoided the spells she had cast the day nightmares had begun, afraid to call upon the All-Seeing One. The screams and terror of Logfell and Targris still filled her waking moments. She had no wish to see again what could not be changed. The burning eyes of the Hoarite, as he fought viciously against the incursion at Targris, stared at her from memory, accusing in a righteous blend of light and dark. His sorcerous blade called her name as it cut and screamed, swathed in the blood of enemies she’d had no power against.

  She feared the pain of experiencing what could be the rage of the All-Seeing One, but more so, she feared his silence. A solemn and unwanted judgment awaited her in the old power of the circle. Skirting its edges and blocking her view of the statue with a raised hand, she made for the darkness of the alcove behind the altar.

  With one hand on the curtain, she paused as a sudden and inexplicable concern stole over her, as if she’d blinked and missed providence standing before her like a moment of pure and clear destiny. It was a familiar feeling, that uncanny notion of something greater taking place. One she’d thought lost many years ago.

  She rushed into the alcove and down the hallway to the Council Chamber. With a whisper and a wave, she lit several candles, an effortless trick so reflexive that she couldn’t recall when she had last laid hands on a torch, lantern, or candle. Kneeling before the scrying pool, she called a spell to mind and spoke the words breathlessly, fearful for several moments that even arcane sight might fail her, but the water’s surface rippled and changed, obeying her magical command.

  Images blurred and shifted as she searched the city streets outside, unsure of what she might find and uncertain that her instincts were not hindered by lack of sleep and the evil so close to Brookhollow. So obsessed in her search had she become that when the center of the pool darkened and clouded, she thought the storm clouds themselves had descended to lay siege. Only when the inky fog dispersed did she make out a familiar cloaked figure revealed in the heart of the shadow. Eyes of pearly white shone from beneath a heavy gray cowl and gripped her soul in talons of ice even as the image faded.

  “He is here!” she said, covering her mouth as if betrayed by her own voice. She shook, trembling as vision became reality somewhere outside the temple doors.

  She stood and walked back to the sanctuary, straightening her robes and hair to face this warrior of shadow, this ghostwalker of Hoar. She stood upon the dais behind the altar, expecting the doors of the sanctuary to burst open at any moment. She could not tear her eyes away from them.

  A draft played at the edges of the old tapestries as candles wavered and dimmed. Footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond the doors, carrying with them the unknown and the knowing eyes that chastised everything she struggled to hold together. She must succeed in this, she knew. She must stand and face what fate had wrought for her, whether prophecy or nightmare.

  The door opened and a howling wind entered, snuffing the candles and leaving two lone torches to light the sanctuary. Filing into the room, several oracles had come to attend the evening’s council. They were shocked to find Sameska waiting for them, standing at the center of the dais as if prepared to speak. Huddling together in the chill, they stood confused, waiting in the high oracle’s eerie silence.

  One of them moved to close the door and quell the wind of the storm, but stopped short as she reached for the handle. She backed away slowly, frightened of the figure that sauntered in surrounded by a billowing gray cloak that resembled nothing less than tattered wings. The oracle joined her sisters, who had also moved away from the doors, gathering at the far edge of the dais and beseeching Sameska in whispered voices to escape, to run away.

  The high oracle could not hear them, could not heed their unintelligible warnings as she was trapped by his eyes. The opalescent globes were shot through with black tendrils of swirling darkness, like ink dripped in milk. All she could manage was a staying hand for her followers, several of whom had begun to ascend the steps to lead her away. Her gesture was command enough and she was thankful, as her voice might have failed her. She wished to present no weakness before this walking killer from her dreams.

  It came as no surprise when Elisandrya Loethe appeared in the doorway as well.

  Dreslya sat in quiet meditation. She tried to calm her shattered nerves and focus her energies toward some spell, some magic that might penetrate the mysterious fog that obscured all vision into the forest and the evil entrenched in its depths. Her earlier sorrow had given way to anger and frustration at being unable to deal firsthand with the dangers that threatened the Reach.

  Nivael had delivered the message of her sister’s likely death. Dreslya felt compelled to do what Elisandrya might have done in her place, though it pained her to resist the desires of Savras as told by the high oracle.

  For Sameska, she felt nothing but pity. The mad look in the high oracle’s eyes had convinced her that the prophecy had driven Sameska mad, unstable with fear and anxiety over the terrible visions and words of the All-Seeing One. Never before had such a prediction shaken the church so, and Sameska was searching for enemies and heretics on all sides. Dreslya knew something had to be done, even if it meant her own death.

  Elisandrya’s sacrifice deserved at least that much.

  Her mother’s old spellbook lay at her side, its pages yellowed and the cover well worn, but the magic within was as potent as the day the ink had first been set to paper. The scrying she intended to cast was more powerful than any she’d done before. She hadn’t had the need for such spells in the past, but her skill was more than she needed for the task.

  Several oracles already believed she would succeed Sameska when the time came, but Dreslya took their praise in stride. She had not joined the faith to become its leader, but to honor the tradition, as had her mother.

  She lit a candle on the windowsill and sat on the edge of her bed, closing her eyes and calling the words of the spell to the forefront of her mind. Out of habit she prefaced the spell by whispering a small prayer to Savras. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her will to speak the words of magic that would carry her sight beyond the walls of the temple to find the source of the threat that hung over them.

  The breath was forced from her body as a bright and shining light burst behind her eyes, letting loose a dam of power that flooded through her mind. Her spell was lost, forgotten as she fell limply backward into the gentle grip of something unfamiliar. She tried to resist for a moment, frightened and unsure of what was happening, but she felt no pain and sensed no threat. Her breathing slowed as she gave in to the experience, accepting it. A peaceful warmth covered her body then, even as terrible visions began forming among her thoughts.

  “Your people are dying, Sameska.”

  Quin’s voice was a mere whisper, but it carried unnaturally above the raging storm outside. Sameska set her lips in a thin line and narrowed her eyes, fighting the fear that radiated from him in waves. He enjoyed her obvious discomfort.


  “In this chamber,” she said, “you shall refer to me as High Oracle.”

  “In this chamber,” he replied, “I shall speak as I wish.”

  The oracles gasped at his audacious words, though several of them seemed intrigued by the scene that was playing out before them. They eyed him curiously in a manner he was accustomed to, though it was not altogether comfortable. Outwardly he ignored them, but in truth he despised their quiet perusal and hoped the power of his shadow led them to believe he was nothing less than a demon. He further confounded their judgment of his humanity as he pushed the hood from his head and let it rest upon his shoulders. His pale eyes found each of them as he swept his gaze across the group.

  He wondered, briefly, if unfolding events would lead him to kill them and their high oracle.

  “Why have you come here?”

  Sameska’s question disrupted his dark thoughts, and he shook off pondering what blood would be spilled to end his time in this affair. He had no desire to harm any of them, only the determination to do so if warranted.

  “I assumed you might tell me, Lady Prophet.” He smiled as he answered, though venom dripped from his words. “Your prediction seems certain about leaving your people defenseless, but it is lacking in details where I am concerned, eh?”

  The high oracle flushed in anger and held her breath as his hand brushed against Bedlam’s pommel. Though she was a mystery to him, she played to his suppositions easily.

  “You have no right, warrior, to come in here and demand anything of me or my people!”

  His smile disappeared.

  “It seems I have every right, prophet! I have come here of my own accord. I have heard prophecy that labels me a savior, and I see a people who are aware of a coming destruction and do nothing!”

  “This is who we are!”

  “No!” His voice thundered through the room. “This is who you were. According to your own words, should I fail or walk away, your people will be obliterated!”

  Elisandrya gasped behind him. He regretted the effect his words might have on her, but he could not allow the truth of the matter to be obscured by Sameska’s righteousness. Should he choose to abandon this prophecy, then by her own words, Brookhollow would be destroyed. Deep down, he felt a spike of shame. Should that occur, he would mourn only one death among those many.

  The long silence that followed felt like eternity, filling the sanctuary with its heavy import. Quin studied Sameska and noticed several oracles seemed intrigued by his argument rather than frightened. They nodded and looked to her for a response.

  “You bring only disrespect into this temple, Elisandrya,” Sameska said, ignoring Quin. “You tamper with prophecy and now seem shocked when your actions succeed?”

  “You have not addressed his argument, High Oracle.” Eli’s gaze became steel and she stepped away from Quin. He could see the look of betrayal dawning in her eyes. “What of his choice?”

  “Savras provides,” Sameska began through clenched teeth. “Your presence here confirms his wisdom, his sight. We do not rely on your goodwill, Hoarite and have no faith in coincidence. Such is our way.”

  Quin shook his head, smiling bitterly as he looked at the floor.

  “Yes, I know. I’ve heard this before.”

  Quin remembered that old man, standing in Targris beside the smoking ruin that had been the center of the town’s faith. Under normal circumstances, he imagined their dogma might have merit, but death had infected that equation. In light of the prophecy and what he believed to be its purpose, he could not help but think they deserved what fate had in store for them.

  “You cannot see because you are blind to the hidden circle around us all,” Sameska said in a condescending tone. “Ripples of action preclude each moment and affect all whom we touch. If you could see just one ripple, you might see them all and what is to come.”

  Quin raised his head and met her eyes again in defiance.

  “I have seen what prophecy accomplishes,” he said, hardening his gaze. “In Logfell. In Targris. Do these circles reach only as far as the edge of your own safety, prophet?”

  Sameska’s eyes widened in fear and she shook her head as he spoke the names of those towns aloud. She looked away, breaking the stare between them. Her demeanor collapsed, leaving her looking as old and lost as her advanced years. Her voice, when it returned, cracked and shook, but conveyed her words clearly to all.

  “You are an assassin, Hoarite. A killer without conscience who hunts for justice at the whim of a bitter god.” She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Your judgment carries no weight here.”

  “Agreed,” he said matter-of-factly, stepping closer to her. “Now tell me all that you have seen, that I might finish my hunt and leave this place.”

  She stared a moment longer into his opal eyes. He gave back nothing but nonchalant acceptance of what she had obviously intended as an insult. He had no illusions about his place in the world. Though uncertain at times as to what his conscience would or would not accept, he felt sure he could endure her hasty judgment without shame.

  “The Tower of Jhareat in the Qurth forest,” she responded weakly. “There awaits a sorceress in blooded robes with a host of unseen creatures at her command. I felt their presence, nothing more. They have lain there several days at least.”

  She hung her head as she said the last, as if divulging the last of her secrets. He expected the full sum of her secrets remained hidden, but he had what he needed and cared little for the rest.

  Quinsareth stood a moment longer, anger and pity in his eyes, then turned and walked out without a word. Elisandrya followed. He could hear her purposeful stride gaining on him. He quickened his step as much to escape the temple as to avoid the look he imagined in her eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wait!”

  Elisandrya yelled against the storm’s fury, roaring through the open doors of the temple. Quinsareth would not listen, intent on leaving and tired of talk. He’d had enough exchanges in the last few days to realize he had forgotten himself. He had become involved, and it threatened to compromise his judgment. His business was in the Qurth, in Jhareat. For learning that one fact, he was thankful for this diversion to Brookhollow. The sooner done, the sooner he could go.

  “Stop, dammit!”

  Elisandrya grabbed his arm before he could step out the doors, her tone angry and desperate. Reflexively he reached for Bedlam and met her eyes. His hand never touched the blade, nor had he wanted to, but her eyes tore into him more effectively than any sword. In her eyes he saw a person he admired, a person he might have aspired to be like, who knew the difference between hope and despair and strove to act on that knowledge. He saw the humanity he had abandoned and the will to do good he had dismissed as the dreamings of wide-eyed children beset by the evils of the world.

  He was crushed in her stare.

  “An assassin, then? Is that all?”

  He pulled away and turned, closing the heavy doors and shutting out the storm. They could hear the echo of the sanctuary doors slamming shut. The silence that followed was almost humbling. Alone in the small foyer, surrounded by high windows and flashes of lightning, they stared at each other, emotions unbalanced by uncertainty and the presence of each other.

  “Well?”

  Eli’s question hung between them.

  “An assassin is a better man than I, Elisandrya. An assassin acts on behalf of his employer and receives good coin. I act only on behalf of the dead and receive little more than good riddance.”

  “I don’t believe that. We saw each other plainly in those shadows you call a road. The dark of that place could not hide the good I saw in you.”

  “A mere trick of blood. I bear the curse of any aasimar who desires to walk a normal life, to be human …” He searched her stare, seeking understanding. “To have a choice.”

  She didn’t respond, softening her stare a little. He didn’t watch her long, afraid to see any glimmer of the pity to whic
h he had no right. Instead, he walked into a patch of darkness, untouched by the few weak torches that lit the room. He looked up at the windows and watched as clouds churned and spat white fire, growling as they deluged the city with rain. Inwardly, he sought a truce between what he knew and what he felt. Quin struggled to reconcile his level of involvement with this woman and what he must do.

  “Tell me about the Tower of Jhareat,” he asked nonchalantly. “I gathered from Sameska’s words that it is well known in this region?”

  Eli stared into the distance, her thoughts miles away from his question. Pulling herself back, she answered. “That tale is from the end of the Calishite rule over the Border Kingdoms, and Shandolphyn’s Reach in particular,” she said, still staring blankly. “It begins with the death of a young woman.

  “Her name was Zemaan. Captured and forced into slavery by the Calishite wizards who ruled Jhareat, she was the lover of a young Shaaryan warrior called Ossian. Many Shaaryans met the same fate as she, being fodder for the Calishites. It is said that Ossian swore an oath and vowed to destroy Jhareat. Many laughed at his wild boast, but the shamans of his tribe were not so dismissive.

  “The tales are numerous about Ossian’s exploits in gathering the scattered tribes over the following years, leading them into attacks against the eastern edges of the empire.

  “The heart of the story is about Ossian’s love for Zemaan and a powerful shield he wore into battle. Forged by Shaaryan shamans for his crusade, it protected him against the Calishites’ magic. Its powers were invisible until tested, and then it was too late.

  “The only thing the shield would not let Ossian hide was the love in his heart. Its face, which had been blank until he touched it, bore the image of Zemaan, so his enemies could see what he fought for.

  “His war against the Calishites came to Jhareat, and the shamans and warriors of the Shaar caused a slave rebellion within the city. As his fellow tribesmen died around him, and protected against the wizards’ spells, Ossian slew the lord sorcerer of Jhareat, fulfilling his oath and dying soon thereafter.