Bloodwalk

by James Davis

  “When I first sent my agents into this land, they told me of the Oracles of the Hidden Circle and the powerful divinations and prophecies of which they were capable. Then they told me of High Oracle Sameska and I chose to study her from a distance. The old woman’s thirst for power and influence was admirable and her control over her subjects was impressive, but her relationship with her god had dwindled almost to nothing. So, in her quiet moments alone, trying desperately to renew her faith and maintain her position among the oracles,” Morgynn looked at Quin mischievously, “I gave Savras back to her. I shaped the landscape of my dominion over this Reach by eliminating the one threat that might have seen me coming.

  “And you—well, you should have moved on after slaying Mahgra. Your part in the prophecy was to make it more palatable.” She stood close to him, looking him up and down again. “Allowing room for hope makes it easier to keep a victim lying still, don’t you agree?”

  Once again, Quin looked away from Morgynn, staring into shadows that played along the floor, contemplating how he might escape his magical bonds and slay the haughty sorceress and her sharp-toothed servant. She spun away from him and lit several more candles close to the wooden bowl of reddish water.

  The sudden light filled the spaces between the bones, bringing Quin’s attention back to the chamber. His eyes rested on something shining beneath the remains of Jhareat’s fallen combatants. A strange glow burned there that belied the rust and corrosion of the ruined weapons around it.

  “Ah,” Morgynn’s voice was low and sonorous, filling the room as she watched the images in the bowl with rapt attention. “It begins even now.”

  An incessant chant echoed from the bowl, crawling through Quin’s ears as he recalled Elisandrya telling him the legend of Jhareat’s fate. Though he’d dismissed the tale as fanciful before, now he wondered. Thunder rumbled and shook the floor as he studied what appeared to be the exposed corner of a truly remarkable shield.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The wind felt alive, tearing at heavy cloaks and twisting around the hunters upon the west wall, threatening to toss them aside like weightless trifles in its fury. Many gripped the battlements as they waited to see the source of the deep chant that emanated from the trees, growing stronger by the heartbeat. One by one, pale faces began to emerge between the trunks, indistinct and blurry through the rain, but staring with bright, hungry eyes.

  A cluster of trees shook violently and unholy roars pealed from the darkness. The sounds of the unseen beasts bespoke of huge throats and myriad imagined monsters in the minds of Brookhollow’s defenders. Their grim reverie was interrupted, however, by a new chant that arose behind them, within the walls. Surprised faces turned in time to watch a solemn procession of the Ghedia walking toward the wall, their outstretched hands glowing deep green with summoned power.

  The old language of the Shaar, intermingled and woven into their casting, was seldom heard among the border towns and evoked images of rolling grasslands and ritual hunting grounds. Few among the defenders had ever seen such a sight. The legends and tales of older times were told often enough to stir the blood with memories of savage warriors and proud leaders. The burgeoning fear was quelled by the chant of the Ghedia, and weapons were turned to face the unknown enemy.

  Elisandrya leaped up a ladder, climbing quickly to stand by the stoic Zakar, who greeted her with little more than a silent nod. Breathing heavily, Eli unslung her bow and stood fast, ready to give face and form to those who would threaten her home. The concept of home struck her strangely at that moment. For so long, she had only run away from and denied her place in Brookhollow. Now, after so many years, the town was all she had, her only connection to a family destroyed by the ambitions and fears of an old woman.

  Three of the Ghedia accompanied Lesani to the old gates. Completing a spell, they pressed their hands upon the wood, compelling the magic to fill its length and width, pushing power through its depth until the walls shook with force. The whorls and knots in the gate faded and thickened, groaning as they grew as strong and dense as stone, a barrier even a giant might not easily fell.

  The other shamans divided into two groups. Standing an arm’s length from one another, they did the same for the wooden and stone walls. They called roots from the ground to brace the battlements in a grip that creaked mightily as it took effect. Once-loose stones were wrapped in an immovable embrace, cracks sealed themselves, and thick masses of tough vines braced the edges along the ground. Mud bubbled and churned under the strain, but the thick clay beneath held strong.

  Atop the wall, Eli watched as figures bearing devilish faces, like stylized helms or masks, appeared in two groups along the treeline. They stood far beyond bow range, and their droning chant drifted just beneath the sounds of thunder and rain. Bows were immediately trained in the spellcasters’ direction, waiting for their advance, but the priests did not move. Eli wondered at their strategy, but at a nudge from Zakar, she turned to the stretch of woods between the two groups. A steamy mist had begun to slide from the brush beneath the trees.

  The first tortured scream burst from the forest, clear and horrendous. Lightning flashed as the first of the undead tore through the briars and bushes. Its movements were awkward and unnaturally quick. Bare white flesh was crisscrossed with bright red splotches and branching veins. The wet ground steamed where the creature stood, shaking with uncontrollable spasms, swaying to some unknown cadence. Its bright eyes rolled in sunken sockets, while its mouth worked at some attempt to speak or shriek. Taut, quivering muscles and an obviously broken arm collected themselves and stilled. The thing rested its suffering gaze on the wall ahead and those standing upon it. Cruel purpose defined its visage. A mournful wail escaped its slack-jawed mouth and wisps of steam tumbled past its crimson gums in a mockery of true breath.

  The forest came alive as more of them joined the first. Focusing their ghoulish stares on the living defenders, they gave voice to some wordless pain. Hundreds gathered at the edge of the forest and at least as many still ripped and tore at the foliage behind them.

  Several hunters retched, emptying their stomachs over the wall as the scent of boiling blood wafted by on the wind. Others looked away from the once-human faces of the macabre assemblage and swiftly prayed for a peaceful end, a deliverance from such a fate. Many were thankful for the downpour that washed away most of the undead stink and left the smell of fresh rain. Some, Eli noticed, openly wept tears of a sorrowful rage, a saddened anger that was beyond mere words or reasoning. Of those undead who were familiar to her, all hailed from Logfell in the north.

  Beside her, Zakar looked to the sky, squinting past the rain and searching the clouds. He nudged her arm with an elbow and Eli followed his gaze. Only then did she hear a strange, steady noise through the rain. Her eyes widened as the sound registered in her brain. She caught a glimpse of a dark shape, diving and turning through the sky on massive beating wings.

  “The sky! Watch the sky!” she yelled, turning left and right, making sure that bows were up and spears were close at hand. The clouds churned above, easily hiding more of the flying creatures—several wing beats could be heard when Eli listened for them. She drew her bowstring back, an arrow already nocked and ready to let fly. One of the winged beasts was getting closer. Zakar cried out, his booming voice in her ear. She turned to match his aim.

  It banked low, a dark silhouette of horns, batlike wings, dangling clawed arms, and burning feral eyes barely a heartbeat away. Arrows bounced off its tough gray hide and it roared in annoyance. The sound drowned out everything else, making even the thunder seem gentle. Zakar cursed as his arrow failed to puncture the devil’s wing. Eli exhaled and loosed her own arrow, watching its flight, sucking in a breath as it bounced off a claw, useless.

  Her field of vision became a blur of movement. Chaos erupted as the hunter to her left screamed and a splash of warmth washed across her face. The smell of blood and smoke, like burning rocks, filled her nose. She raised her bow, coveri
ng her face as the beast’s lashing tail swung toward her. The bow splintered in her hand and the tail slammed into her chest. A multitude of streaming stars danced before her eyes as she fell from the wall.

  “Look at them. Bows and blades against magic and death.” Morgynn watched the battle’s first moments dispassionately. “Pitiful. Their savage shamans summon wood and grass against me.”

  Quin barely heard the sorceress’s words, his mind clinging to the dim hope that escape might still be possible. The spell had numbed his limbs, but his thoughts raced. Examining his surroundings, he searched for any advantage in the range of his limited vision. Each time he did so, his eyes came to rest on the gleam of polished metal beneath the bones. Eli’s tale had flashed through his mind so many times that he’d come to call a nearby skull Ossian. But the dim hope of the shield was too fantastic and out of reach.

  Not yet, Ossian, he thought. I’m not quite there yet.

  Morgynn pulled herself closer to the images taking shape in the ripples of rain and her own blood. Concentric circles spread across the bowl’s surface. Quin saw the scars along her arms and shoulders squirm slightly, vibrating in tune to her tapping against the sides of the bowl.

  A tightness slipped into Quin’s chest and his temples throbbed as warmth radiated from Morgynn. His breathing became shallow and quick. Tiny lances of pain stabbed at the back of his eyes.

  “You can feel it, can you not? Her power, her blood calls to your own.” Khaemil had quietly come to stand behind him, whispering as they both watched Morgynn in the throes of her magic. “She is no longer human, barely a woman anymore. She is the spell itself, a pulse in the Weave. You have accepted a fool’s errand, sweetblood.”

  The tower shook again, this time more violently. Cracks appeared along the ceiling and walls. Morgynn’s strange influence disappeared from Quin’s body. He breathed as deeply as he could. The surreal silence of the storm outside added to the sense of vertigo and nausea he felt as the sorceress calmed and stood straighter.

  Khaemil walked around Quin to observe the battle. Morgynn patted Khaemil’s arm and turned back toward Quinsareth. He noticed that the bowl still revealed the battle, even without Morgynn’s concentration. He committed that fact to memory and braced himself for her attention.

  “It appears you have failed them, aasimar, or perhaps just her. Yes, you have failed her,” Morgynn said, her nonchalant tone needling, seeking some weakness in Quin’s blank opal eyes. “The false prophecy has come true and the Hidden Circle shall fall. Their only hope lies in the nightmares of an old woman.”

  She reached for his face with a graceful hand, whispering words of magic that tingled across his skin as she rested a single fingernail on his lower lip. Her eyes were solid orbs of reddish black. Her voice, when she spoke again, echoed itself, each syllable chasing itself as it passed her lips.

  “Speak, once more before you die. Let me hear you as I end you.”

  He felt his jaw loosen again, felt his throat rush with blood as the power to speak was restored to him. His muscles tightened, blood pounded in his ears, and he tried not to think of the death Morgynn had in mind for him. He felt as if he were boiling inside, or at least beginning to. Summoning the will to form words beyond the pain of her touch, he spat them through clenched teeth. He stared defiantly into twin pools of blood that darkened as he watched.

  “Prophecy or not, witch,” he began as spasms rolled through his chest and the cloying taste of copper spread across his tongue, “I am here!”

  Morgynn tilted her head and smiled. The words of a spell rose to her lips just as Khaemil’s voice interrupted her. The alarm in his deep baritone drew her attention reluctantly away from the aasimar’s impending fate.

  “Lady Morgynn, something is wrong.” His eyes, reflecting the crimson glow of the scrying waters, looked to her in concern. “The bathor are not moving.”

  Zakar yelled orders above the sounds of battle. Archers ducked and continued to pepper the massive devils with their arrows, distracting them as the Ghedia cast spells from behind the wall. Tiny bright blue spheres burst across the devils’ wings and chests, singeing where they touched and causing roars of pain that deafened all within earshot. Lesani took a handful of acorns from a pouch in her robes. Chanting the magic to change them into lightning missiles, she hurled them into the face of a diving devil.

  The beast shook its horned head madly, nearly blind, and crashed into the top of the wall. Tumbling over the side, it screeched and clawed at its scorched flesh.

  Armored men in dark robes and masks advanced from the enemy flanks. They guarded other men in similar garb, whose hands waved and voices chanted. Several had attempted to burn the gates and walls with balls of flame, to no avail. Zakar scowled as arrows fell just short of the spellcasters, stopped by an invisible barrier of whistling wind.

  “This is a wizard’s battle, not a warrior’s!”

  Another roar turned him around to see one of four devils hovering over a mass of upturned spears, looking for a place to land inside the walls. More of the Ghedia’s ensorcelled acorns and seeds deterred the beast.

  Elisandrya disappeared as the devils pressed their attack. A few hunters cast worried glances behind the wall, seeking her in the mud and rain. Zakar yelled to them.

  “The time for honoring the dead will come,” he bellowed. “Now is the time to avoid joining them!”

  In a brief moment of silence between thunder and crackling spells, the gentler tones of a soft sound arose—something familiar and rhythmic, lost again as disorder resumed. Zakar turned at the sound. Something caught his eye, but he was forced to turn back. Firing an arrow beneath a passing devil, he cursed as it ignored the slight scratch and flew upward to dive again.

  Elisandrya choked on rain as she gazed up at the battle through blurry eyes. Lightning blinded her and mud sucked at her body, foiling her weak attempts to pull herself up. She’d barely seen whatever had thumped her from the wall, but she was determined to face it again. A stabbing pain in her chest forced her to lie back in the mud for a few breaths.

  Arms grabbed her shoulders, dragging her as she gasped for air. Her breath, knocked from her lungs by the devil’s fearsome tail and her fall, came back slowly. Consciousness came and went. The stars faded from her eyes and left her nearly blind, wondering if she would recover. Blackness gave way to dazzling light, then streaks of blue flashing into the air nearby. She blinked and cautiously inhaled, wincing at the pain in her chest.

  A strange sound filled her ears, like a singing chant, a choir of voices speaking spidery words and harsh syllables. A hazy figure appeared before her, looking down and saying something unintelligible. Hands pressed against her stomach and warmth flowed through them. A burning passed through her torso, removing her pain and soothing her shaken nerves. The figure spoke again, becoming more distinct and more familiar, the voice making sense as it called her name.

  “Eli! Are you all right? Eli!”

  Dreslya! Eli thought, then pushed herself up. Her chest felt numb, but she was otherwise uninjured. Her sister helped her to stand and embraced her shoulders. Several hunters ran past the pair, shouting for reinforcement on the right. Devils pounded against the thickened walls, the impact of their fists shaking the ground but having little effect.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Dres cried in Eli’s ear then released her, looking about as the battle against the devils raged and spells were cast by the Ghedia. “We had to wait. It was the only way!”

  Elisandrya looked about and saw the assembled oracles. A dozen of them stood in a circle, holding hands and lost in concentration, chanting softly and straining with the effort. Their white robes were wet and stained with mud, and they shivered in the cold, but they held their arcane rhythm. A dozen more stood close by, watching the sky warily with solemn attention.

  “And Sameska? What of her, Dres?”

  Dreslya nodded toward the temple, her face dark and expressionless.

  “She hides there with
several others. They stayed with her to keep the wards and protections of the temple active. She refuses to protect herself,” she looked to Eli, a tone of contempt in her voice as she added, “or is no longer capable.”

  Elisandrya nodded grimly, understanding, but was pleased that the oracles had joined them in defending the city. She was elated that her sister was among them. She squeezed her hands together, rubbing her left hand that ached from the bow being wrenched from her grasp.

  “Here,” Dreslya said. Taking a wrapped bundle from her shoulder, she handed it to Elisandrya. “I had a feeling you might need this.”

  Beneath the layers of wet cloth, Eli discovered the strong, dark shaft of a long bow. Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld the familiar runes etched in the wood alongside depictions of Shaaran steeds racing down its length. Rain chased the symbols and pictures, bringing them to life in her hands. Twelve years had passed since she’d last seen the bow. She recognized it as if it had been only yesterday when she and Dreslya had quietly packed it away.

  “Make father proud,” Dreslya said to her before joining the oracles in the circle.

  Elisandrya held the bow in trembling hands, hesitant at first, but then reached into a leather pouch on her belt for a bowstring. Skillfully, she braced the weapon behind her left knee and strained to bend the shaft, stringing the bow with the deft speed of a trained soldier. She nocked an arrow and splashed through the street to stand with Lesani near the rear of the wall’s defenses.

  She cast one last look at her sister before danger loomed on black leather wings. The devil’s sharp, curving horns swung left and right, batting away hurled spears. It rested menacing red eyes on the tiring Ghedia. Eli saw smoking wounds across its thickly muscled chest and arms. It dived again, roaring in imminent victory over the Shaaryan druids. Elisandrya fired her bow. The arrow’s flight was quick and nearly invisible, embedding in the devil’s exposed chest.