by James Davis
The dirt beneath him shook and he rolled forward instinctively, swinging Bedlam behind him at a clawlike root that snatched at his cloak. The blade hissed, mimicking the dryads’ voices as it sliced through the pale wood, leaving a smooth stump that oozed a thick red sap. The voice called Myrrium howled in agony from the trees above and she crashed through the branches toward the near-blind aasimar.
Quin rolled again, barely missing the screeching Myrrium as she landed. He continued to blink, rubbing his eyes with his free hand and gradually clearing more of his vision. Holding Bedlam before him, he studied his attackers, fiendish orphans of the Qurth Forest. The Fate Fall hovered in his mind, a ghostly sense of strategy collecting his thoughts.
Myrrium’s eyes burned a dark yellow, no longer hidden behind the guise of sweet blossoms as Aellspath had done. Her face and skin were grained and knotted like the wood of the trees she lived in, a pale ash-gray. Tiny white fangs protruded from black gums as she crawled closer, favoring her left shoulder where a small wound had opened, bleeding the same thick red sap the root had.
Quin backed away slowly, waiting for the dryad to spring forward. He felt the roots of another oak behind him. Myrrium hummed as she crawled. The sweet tones of her song tried to calm his nerves, urging him to lay down his weapon and be as among friends. Shaking his head, fending off the dryad’s spell to charm him, he lashed out, hacking at the trunk of the oak behind him. Myrrium winced as that oak began to bleed, halting her spell as Oerryn screamed in pain and appeared above Quinsareth.
He heard claws scratching against wood and glanced upward, catching only a brief glimpse of long black hair made of vines shading the orange light of fiendish eyes. He leaped sideways to avoid Myrrium’s sudden charge. Both dryads stalked him, gnashing their teeth and tearing small ruts in the ground where their long claws touched. They continued their song, though its notes were harsher now, more insistent. Bedlam matched the sound discordantly, which helped Quin resist its call.
He backed away and the dryads herded him toward the middle tree. Though he considered turning the tables and attacking, he could not locate their absent sister. Aellspath had disappeared in the confusion.
Closer and closer he edged toward Aellspath’s tree. The dryads’ wounds bled freely, as did the tree and the root protruding from the ground. He was familiar with the fey creatures and their connection to the oaks in which they lived, though he’d never faced the creatures in battle. He raised Bedlam again, threatening the nearest oak. The sisters tensed, looking for Aellspath to come to her own defense. Quin raised an eyebrow at their reaction, flashing them his feral smile and preparing to strike.
Aellspath swam through the wood, flying through the bark and barreling into Quin’s side. She shrieked words of magic as they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Both were instantly blinded as her spell created a globe of impenetrable darkness around them.
Myrrium and Oerryn flinched backward to the edge of the darkness, listening to the struggles of the two within, waiting to witness the victor’s emergence. Myrrium giggled nervously at Aellspath’s frenzied screams of rage. Oerryn simply hid behind her thick hair, gnawing at the woody strands and wringing her gnarled hands feverishly.
In the dark, Quin fought to maintain his hold on Bedlam while attempting to fend off the claws and teeth of the enraged dryad. The darkness was calming to him, helping him to focus as an older instinct took over, the power of a birthright long denied. His knuckles brushed against a fist-sized stone as they rolled and he grasped at it, digging it from the moist dirt of the grove. The dryad’s claws raked his upper arm as he diverted his attention.
Ignoring the pain, he did not call upon cold shadows to assist him but instead summoned the warmth of light. His hand grew hot as celestial blood rushed to answer the call, filling the rock with the bright and banishing light of day. Aellspath recoiled, hissing, as she was blinded by the sudden light. Her darkness melted swiftly away amid the beams that streamed through Quin’s fingers.
Quinsareth took advantage of her confusion and planted a boot in her stomach, pinning her to the ground before she could scuttle away to her protective tree. He deftly brought Bedlam’s tip to rest on her throat, eliciting a moan of pain from the fiendish dryad. Though forged in magic long ago by a mad wizard, Bedlam had been blessed by the hand of a god who’d taken pity upon the wizard. No mark or symbol identified the divine benefactor, but the holy touch was unmistakable, steaming as it burned against the dryad’s neck.
Myrrium and Oerryn froze, squinting in the light. Oerryn moaned softly, the sound of her magic worming into Quin’s mind and causing him to press Bedlam harder into Aellspath’s neck. Frantically, the defeated dryad screamed to cease her sister’s dangerous meddling. “Be silent, you fool!”
The moaning stopped and Quin breathed easier, staring into the dryad’s green orbs.
“Good girl,” Quin said, adjusting his stance to deal with the stand-off more comfortably.
“If you kill me, they will kill you, sweetblood!” Aellspath hissed.
“Possibly, but their victory cries will ring hollow in your dead ears,” he jested back.
Aellspath considered this, apparently not as confident in her sisters as she boasted. “What do you want?”
“The Tower of Jhareat,” he answered. “Where is it?”
“You seek the red sorceress and her priests? Certainly no sweetblood is a minion of that one? Tell her we kept our bargain. No one would suspect an aasimar to serve such an evil!”
“I serve only myself. This red sorceress will greet me with as much warmth as you three have.”
Aellspath pointed an overlong finger in the direction of the ruined tower. “That way, sweetblood, and good riddance to you and the witch.” Then she added, after a moment’s thought, “Beware the priests that ring the tower and their pets in the field of stone.”
Quinsareth relaxed Bedlam’s pressure on her throat but kept the blade close, curious about the dryad’s volunteered advice. “Helpful now, are we?”
“We share an enemy in the blood-witch, aasimar, that is all. This forest is ours to rule, not hers!”
Quinsareth was quiet for a moment, turning the gleaming stone end over end in his palm as he thought. Looking over his shoulder in the direction the dryad had indicated, he saw nothing but thick tangles of trees, bloodthorns, and razorvines. He considered the obstacles he’d face once he reached the ruins. He turned back to Aellspath, who writhed beneath Bedlam’s touch.
He withdrew Bedlam from the dryad’s throat, keeping it a hand’s breadth away but sparing her the pain of its blessed blade. “Perhaps we might help one another,” he offered mysteriously. The game piece he imagined tumbled through his thoughts, bearing the symbol of the Bargain.
The dryad, relieved by the absence of the sword, narrowed her emerald eyes and met his white gaze. “What do you propose, sweetblood?”
A gleaming black spider crawled cautiously across the window sill, pausing to inspect the pale obstacle of Morgynn’s still hand. It reached out tentatively with its forelegs, tapping her skin lightly, testing the surface before continuing its slow progression. A short jump brought it to land on the knuckle of her index finger. Several black eyes glittered as it inspected this new terrain, searching for food.
She did not notice the intrusion, lost in thought, miles away from the tower she stood in and the battle she awaited that danced in the scrying bowl. The world in the bowl swirled and rippled, still displaying her last viewing despite her lack of concentration. Goorgian, who’d crafted the scrying bowl, was a mysterious figure in Nar’s past, thanks in large part to such magic. Never leaving his fortress, he’d been able to send his magic across great distances. He preferred to watch the world pass him by, even up to that moment when the armies of Raumathar had come marching across the horizon.
The spider crawled cautiously, feeling the surface of her skin grow warm as an unseen current flowed beneath its feet. Her pulse quickened and still she did not move, b
ut the spider grew agitated as its new perch twitched. Feeling threatened, its fangs glistened with venom and its rose on its hind legs in a defensive posture, turning in tight circles.
Slowly the spider’s world calmed, the soft ground it stood upon grew still and cooled.
“Peskhas,” Morgynn whispered, and the spider’s body stiffened and instantly turned to ash. With a quick puff of breath, it crumbled and blew away, joining the dust on the floor.
She turned and found Khaemil still guarding the doorway, though his eyes were closed and his lips whispered silent prayers. She did not begrudge his loyalty to Gargauth, but it annoyed her nonetheless. She was not accustomed to placing her faith in the gods or anything else except herself and the magic. Her servants’ worship and granted powers were tools to her, nothing more.
Walking back to the reddened waters of the wooden bowl, she gazed into the black mirror at the bottom. “Ravahlas su geska,” she muttered, and watched the liquid’s surface boil and waver, casting shadows upon the mirror below. It pulsed in tune to her heartbeat, sensing her will and forming images to satisfy what she desired.
The scene changed and the silhouette of Brookhollow’s walls coalesced, tinged in the crimson of the blooded water. Narrowing her eyes, the walls loomed into view, pulling near to the gates her forces would soon push through to gut the city. She bared her teeth as she noticed tiny figures moving along the crude battlements, carrying bows and spears. She searched their ranks, focusing on faces that were blind to her spying eyes. Those faces were set in determination—and some fear, she noted with slight satisfaction.
“Fear drives them to stand and fight, regardless of faith,” she whispered. “I underestimated their instinct for survival.”
Viewing their numbers for a few moments more, she leaned back and smiled despite her irritation. Khaemil had ceased his meditations and turned to watch her as she spread her hands over the bowl, creating ripples in the water’s surface with her fingertips. Her eyes, sparkling with cruelty, met his steady gaze.
“Their warriors stand against us to defend the city,” she said and he stood straighter, hefting his mace as if the battle were merely yards away. “Worry not, dear one. Their oracle witches do not stand with them.”
He eased his stance but stepped closer, watching as the bowl began to glow with a red light. Morgynn lifted the carved box of bone that contained the secrets of her plague. She dispelled the seal on its lid and gently took the yellowed scrolls from within, tracing her thumbs over the arcane letters and symbols written on the parchments.
Leafing carefully through the brittle pages, she pulled one free and sighed in anticipation. Blood flooded to her fingertips, attracted to the magic that tingled along her arms in the scroll’s presence. Her eyes became deep crimson orbs as she summoned the spell to her lips.
The scene in the bowl changed again. Gone were Brookhollow’s walls, replaced by the marbled floors of the Hidden Circle’s sanctuary. She smiled. No god interrupted her view of the sanctuary, no divine protection repelled her power. The image grew darker, the distorted and nightmarish forms of several figures moved in and out of view.
“The oracles will not act against their god’s wishes,” she said, slightly amused while choosing from among the shifting silhouettes. Her voice hollowed and hummed with power. “I will make sure they do not.”
Dreslya stepped lightly, pushing through the gathered oracles who whispered and pointed. All were aware of her recent exile from such gatherings. Sameska paused in her speech extolling the virtues of those who refused to join the rebellious hunters at the eastern gate. The high oracle glared down upon this intrusion of her sanctuary, this interruption of her audience. Dreslya glared confidently back, just for a moment, before ignoring Sameska and turning to gather the attention of her fellow oracles.
She ascended the lowest step of the dais to address the others, but before she could speak, Sameska gripped her shoulder tightly in aged fingers of rigid iron. “You are unwanted in this chamber, child. Join your sister at the gates.” She turned to the oracles. “Share in her blasphemy and none of you will darken this church’s doorstep again!”
Dres calmly removed Sameska’s hand from her shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to show the high oracle that her touch would not be tolerated again.
“For many months we have been without prophecy, relying on minor divinations and fethra petals to guide our lives. For a tenday or so, we have suffered the blush, watching loved ones succumb to fever and bleeding sores.” She paused to allow her words to sink in. “And only two days ago, we were warned of approaching evil. Have you not wondered why prophecy did not come sooner?”
A few in the hushed crowd gasped at Dreslya’s open defiance of Sameska’s authority, but to the high oracle’s growing irritation, many listened closely, while still others nodded quietly.
“Your words ring hollow, Dreslya Loethe. The plague, the storms, and the Hoarite have all come in accordance with the will of Savras and his divine wisdom. Do you now question the prophecy that unfolds before your very eyes?”
Dreslya turned and raised her emerald eyes to look upon Sameska as one might view a stubborn child. Her own recent visions gave her new understanding of the high oracle, erasing the old woman’s façade of power and control, replacing it with a priestess full of fear and spite. She pitied Sameska, but tempered her pity with anger and concern for her people.
“I do not question Savras or his will,” she began, her voice uncharacteristically strong and clear. “I question the shepherd of his temple, the seer that might destroy us all.”
Sameska narrowed her eyes, speechless before this confirmation of betrayal within her own temple. Her anger seethed and boiled as the audience of oracles murmured and watched in shock.
Before the high oracle could respond, a cracking sound drew all eyes to the ceiling and the glass dome above. Spider web fractures crawled through the glass like slow lightning captured in myriad colors. The largest cracks, near the center, grew dark and more defined as they began to bleed.
The water’s surface bubbled and steamed as Morgynn chanted the words on the scroll. She stirred the bowl with a finger, churning the images into a swirl of shapes and colors. Beyond the sound of her own voice and the blood pounding in her ears, she could hear the dim buzz of words echoing from the scrying bowl—words that changed to screams as her magic took shape in the sanctuary.
Each shard of glass tumbled end over end in slow motion as she completed the first portion of the spell. She chanted, watching the reflections of the gathered oracles scattering in the flashing mirrors of the shattered dome. Her hands turned and pushed against the air, shaping the spell and focusing it. The mind of the creature she summoned was dull and shiftless, a slave to her will. Its airy body spun, snatching the shards from the air, making them one with its body.
A single shard caught the reflection of her chosen victim and froze in the tempest of falling glass. She stood alone, dark-haired with pale skin, a single pulse growing stronger as the spell gripped her heart and mind in its vile embrace. The blush was weak in her, only the root of the infection that would make her vulnerable to the spell Morgynn wove. Her blood-born voice roared in the girl’s ears as the magic was completed.
The blood magus released the bowl from her power, panting and wringing her hands as the magic drained from her body. The scroll had burned away, leaving only a thin dusting of gray ash coating her hands. Gooseflesh rose and fell in waves across her flushed skin and she steadied herself before returning her gaze to the water.
“My lady.” Khaemil’s voice rang with concern as he stared out the tower’s window into the darkness of the field and forest beyond. “Something is happening outside.”
He held his mace in a tight grip, squinting to make out movement near the forest’s edge and growling absently through slightly bared fangs.
Morgynn barely heard his voice above the torrent of her own heartbeat and was annoyed at the intrusion on her moment of pleasu
re. She watched the reflection in the bowl as her magic took effect, then reluctantly turned away from the image to join Khaemil at the window.
In the rippling waters of the scrying bowl, the young savant stared blindly into a twisting cyclone of crimson razors with eyes that grew clouded with red as cold sweat poured down her face and neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Most of the oracles retreated to the edges of the chamber, screaming and praying for release from the magic that descended from the ceiling. A glittering whirlwind of spinning glass forced the shards to crash into one another, pulverizing them into a fine dust of flying razors. Sameska took faltering steps backward, her mumbled prayers for forgiveness lost in the tempest of wind and glass.
Startled at first, Dreslya gathered her wits and concentrated to think of a spell to counter the intruding magic. She dropped her bundle to the floor and gripped her holy symbol tightly before her. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead as she watched one ensorcelled savant walk closer and closer to the falling doom of shredding glass. If the other oracles would add their power to mine, we might have a chance, she thought in despair. But most still accepted the prophecy and would not violate its edict.
The wheeling cloud centered itself over the ancient rune-inscribed circle of before the altar, the sacred place of the high oracle where the most powerful visions had been born in ages past. Large chunks of glass fell from the tempest’s center, shattering as they crashed to the stone of the circle, covering it in sharp slivers. Something about the whirlwind’s movement nudged Dreslya’s memory and she quickly realized that the thing was not merely a magical wind, but an air elemental.
