Bloodwalk

by James Davis

  The malebranche pulled back, furiously flapping and grasping at the arrow’s shaft as it howled in pain. A cheer rose up from the hunters at the sight of the wounded beast, but quickly died as three more devils flew overhead, roaring exultantly with the thunder as the pouring rain turned into fire.

  Morgynn pushed Khaemil away from the bowl. He winced at her touch, and Quinsareth felt his magical bonds loosen. With a quick and furious glance from the canomorph, the spell tightened again.

  Despite the magic, Quin still found himself able to speak and move his head. The pain Morgynn had induced in him had faded at her release. Her touch would have been enough to kill, he realized. He stretched his jaw, tasting the warmth of blood on his lips.

  “There they are,” Morgynn said, studying the Savrathans in the scrying bowl. “They defy their own edict now, working against my prophecy.”

  Morgynn’s eyes still swirled with living blood. Her hands gripped the small table, shaking it with fury though her expression and voice never changed, never lapsed into the rage that seemed to flood her senses.

  “They can do little harm now, Lady Morgynn,” Khaemil ventured. “Foresight cannot help them now.”

  “True,” she snapped. “However, this does not quell their potency against the bathor, does it?”

  Her brief control of her anger crumbled. She gripped the wooden bowl and hurled it at Khaemil, splashing him with the crimson waters. Khaemil raised his arms, but otherwise did not move, remaining still and avoiding Morgynn’s accusing stare. Quin winced to see the bowl’s visions banished. The game seemed at a stalemate, his options evaporating with each moment.

  Quinsareth’s voice broke the silence.

  “It’s a funny thing, prophecies,” he began, smiling freely at Morgynn’s tantrum. Her head slowly turned at his interruption. “Sometimes they come true.”

  She did not reply to the aasimar, but neither did she look away as she spoke again, quiet but commanding. “Deal with your mistake, Khaemil. End it. I will go and correct its consequences.”

  Before the shadurakul could protest, Morgynn strode forward into him, melding into his flesh and disappearing through his blood. In a blink she was gone, leaving Quin to wonder in awe at the gruesome trick. He did not know how she had done it, but he had no doubts as to where she had gone.

  A low, grumbling growl rolled from Khaemil’s throat as he beheld the aasimar. Long fangs grew in the canomorph’s mouth, and he bared them. He hefted the mace at his side and stalked toward Quin. The chamber shook again, the storm’s violence threatening to bring the tower down on their heads. Quin’s bonds felt as strong as ever. Bedlam lay far out of reach, useless, and the game tumbled on in his mind. The only piece left, seemingly as useless as his sword, was the shield.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The canomorph’s magic was insidious and subtle, leaving no scars or bloody wounds in its wake, only the memory of one pain and the continuous anticipation of the next. Quin’s mind reeled, becoming more and more detached from the pain. He had been burned with invisible flames and sliced by blades that only his mind could give form and substance.

  Through it all, through pain and paralysis, he could not summon or even fathom the rage he’d expected. It seemed to him that Khaemil carried rage for them both. He had been the canomorph’s failure in Morgynn’s eyes, the reason for whatever punishment the blood-witch had in store. So Khaemil drew out Quin’s pain, keeping him alive to exorcize his rage. Both of them expected death in one form or another, one sooner, the other later.

  The tower shook with each peal of thunder, rattling the bones and shaking dust from the ceiling. Only a blur of twisting wind, filled with lightning, could be seen through the small window. Whatever remained of the storm’s power was just enough to keep it going.

  One by one, the game pieces fell away in Quin’s thoughts. He fought the urge to retreat into those memories of childhood. He wanted to be aware, strengthening his will on the present.

  He had strained his muscles almost to exhaustion trying to break the bands of force that held him tight, to no avail. His only freedoms were to see and to speak, neither of which were useful under the circumstances. He had been at the mercy of boundless rage before on the long roads he’d traveled across Faerûn, and found it distasteful to witness such pursuits once more.

  Khaemil growled and snarled as he cast, flinging Quin’s mind into illusory landscapes filled with keening phantoms, then dismissing the images to deliver more direct torments. In the brief respite between spells, Quin allowed himself to respect Khaemil’s instinct for torture. A man could live for tendays, even months, in such intricate and carefully doled out pain.

  Only the occasional trembling of the tower, cracks widening along its walls, let them both know that such time would not be afforded to them. Khaemil would have to finish his games soon enough, lest the crumbling tower give in to the chaotic storm outside and crush them both.

  The canomorph circled the aasimar as he contemplated the theme of each spell. Quin watched his face each time, seeing the familiar visage of a fellow killer, an assassin hired on faith to deliver bloody sermons to one’s enemies. Through the fog of pain, Quin contemplated scenarios of escape, miracles beyond hope by which he might slay this dark preacher of vile magic and follow Morgynn to Brookhollow. Occasionally his eyes drifted to Bedlam, still lying on the floor, so close to the strange shield beneath the bones.

  He focused on the dormant blade, the dull shine of its screaming steel. Something stirred in his stomach, rising to pound in his heart and remind him of aching limbs still frozen in magic. Fresh pain surged as daggers of air pushed through his legs and knees. Nerves screamed in his brain for movement, a primal instinct to resist or flee, fight or run. He found anger again as he imagined his fingers closing on Bedlam’s hilt. He longed to wield the blade and teach Khaemil his own form of vengeance, a lesson that, once dealt, could not be unlearned or ever put to use again.

  Khaemil crossed in front of him again and he studied the heavy black mace in the shadurakul’s hands, gripped tightly and held close. The tower shook again, and only the canomorph’s magic kept him standing. A gamble eased into his mind comfortably, the intricacies of the game spinning once again. He had little to lose, and only one piece of the pattern was left unplayed. He listened carefully, counting the canomorph’s rhythmic step, and summoned his voice through a raw and scratchy throat.

  “Dog,” he said, coughing slightly with the effort, but not so much that he did not hear Khaemil stop to listen, just a stride away behind his left shoulder.

  “What’s that, sweetblood? Some plea for mercy, perhaps?”

  He leaned closer, almost half a head taller than Quin, eagerly listening to catch the sweet sound of begging from his captive. Quin smiled slyly, choosing the words of his own spell, far more primitive than Khaemil’s chanting or prayers, but just as effective.

  “Dead dog,” he continued. “Nothing more pitiful than watching the kicking and scratching of a dying dog beaten by its own master. Least of all one like you, that doesn’t even know it yet.”

  Quin braced himself, daring to place hope in the rage that he attempted to evoke. It was a simple kind of magic, targeting pride, and he knew that even devils—especially devils—valued a certain amount of pride.

  The effect was immediate. Quin heard robes rustle and a deep breath being inhaled. He squeezed his eyes shut in the instant that the mace slammed into the backplate of his armor. The solid pain of the impact was refreshing as he was thrown to his right, a physical pain more easily accepted than that induced by magic.

  His legs fell across the flat of Bedlam’s blade. His torso crashed into the heap of bones, shattering old skulls and rib cages. His right arm, outstretched and bound by the spell of paralysis, fell flat on the face of the hidden shield. Sudden and unmistakable warmth washed over his body. He flexed his fingers and gripped the shield’s edge, careful to hide the movement from the seething Khaemil. Patterns of stones spiraled and
flourished in his mind, the game restored by the simple Shield. Such was the Fate Fall, that even gods could not thwart the smallest details.

  A feral smile graced Quin’s features as he quietly gave thanks to the foresight of long dead Shaaryan wizards and the legends they spawned. The grinning skull he’d dubbed Ossian lay nearby, and he was suddenly curious to observe the shield, to see the face of the fallen warrior’s love, Zemaan. His left hand was only inches from Bedlam’s hilt and once again, he counted the steps of Khaemil’s familiar stride approaching from behind.

  The hunters worked feverishly to man the walls and fight growing fires inside the city. Some covered themselves as best they could with their ironvine cloaks, protected from the falling flames but unable to see the enemy clearly. The sky was brilliantly lit, as if the stars themselves fell from the sky to burn and destroy the city. Puddles of water hissed and boiled as globs of fire landed in the streets. Steam filled the air, rain vaporizing before it reached the ground. Black smoke billowed from empty homes as they were set ablaze.

  Lesani was exhausted from fighting the flying devils and ducked beneath a slate overhang not touched by the flames. The devils reveled in the fiery rain, taking advantage of blind archers and crushing them in powerful claws or impaling them on their curved horns. The ravaged bodies of the fallen landed among their fellows with sickening splashes in the mud, broken harbingers of the horrifying fate that flew overhead.

  The magic of the Ghedia was cut to half, as many of the shamans turned to the wounded, leaving only handfuls of the druids to dispel the rain of fire. Their voices shouted words of magic above the noise of storm and battle, raising clouds of icy mist over the defending forces. The fires hissed and fizzled in the cold white fog, creating havens of safety for the hunters and oracles.

  Elisandrya ran from shadow to shadow, ducking as devils swooped by, the leathery beasts snatching up those too slow to avoid them. Their victims’ screams trailed off into the sky then stopped abruptly. Eli ran to join Zakar, silently thanking the wisdom of the Ghedia for summoning the cold clouds over the wall. Zakar’s face was grim when she reached the battlements, but he raised an eyebrow in surprise when he saw her alive. “Still kicking, are we?”

  “Just enough,” she replied, and scanned the field below, glowing in the falling flames, her eyes stopping on the mass of undead, halted by some invisible line beyond the trees. “Should we summon the mounted warriors? Try to harry their flanks and stop these damnable spells?”

  “Not yet,” Zakar answered. “They have no flanks to speak of, really. They’d pull back into the forest and leave our men exposed and vulnerable. Spells from within and those devils above—it’d be a massacre. There, look.”

  He pointed to the southern fringe of the enemy line, where the spellcasting ranks were thickest. Though some wore robes, others were fully armed and armored, bearing strange symbols on breastplates or tabards.

  “Priests, most likely,” he said. “From the masks, I’d guess they follow Gargauth the Exile. Our arrows can’t reach them—or they could, if they weren’t scattered by this foul wind.”

  “Dreslya and the oracles—they’ll think of something.”

  “The oracles? Well, they’d better be quick. Much more of this and we’ll end up looking like that poor lot.” He gestured toward the stilled masses of bathor, intensely staring and eerily quiet. “Only without the walking around part, Savras willing.”

  Beyond the edge of the forest, beyond the mob of suffering bathor, a single figure sat in silence, fighting to put right all that had gone wrong. On his knees, Talmen held the symbol of Gargauth on its silver chain, praying for the god’s blessings. Every breath that passed was a strategic moment lost, a chance for the oracles and the Shaaryan Ghedia to collect themselves and resist him further. Rain dripped from branches as the storm grew stronger, water pouring across his mask and down his neck. He lowered his arms as dark energy crept from the talisman of his god, encircling his body in a crackling black cloud.

  He placed the symbol in the mud and whispered the final syllables of his spell, watching as the cloud shifted and swirled around him. The mist rushed forward, covering the ground and slipping between the bodies of the twitching undead. Where the smoky tendrils of magic touched, the ground blackened. Plants rotted at their roots and exuded a stench of death worse than a disturbed grave. Driven by his will, the fog spread through the vile host. Desecration settled over the area, a dark energy that gave purpose and movement to the undead, strengthening them and their ties to the magic that made them.

  The scarred symbol on his arm throbbed with the renewed pulse of the bathor and he cried out, sharing their infinite pain for heartbeats that seemed to stretch into lifetimes. Through it all, he rejoiced in Gargauth’s power and raised his scar high, commanding with his will for the undead to advance. Though the nearest few moaned and pushed against their fellows, clawing deep gouges in their backs, the force still did not move.

  Exasperated, Talmen fumed and cursed, rising to his feet and staring daggers through the trees at the immovable gates and unbreached walls of Brookhollow. He imagined the oracles, safe and sound, thwarting his army with magic he’d been assured would be absent from the walls and field. The malebranche wheeled in the skies, delivering death in spurts, but the Ghedia were constant in their defense, even placing magic on the bows and spears of warriors. Blazing blue arrows trailed across the sky, causing the malebranche to screech in pain when they struck home. Though far from mortally wounded, the tough hides of the devils were unexpectedly vulnerable, and their attacks were less effective without support from the ground.

  Snatching his talisman, Talmen gathered his robes and made his way to the south flank, where an equally exasperated lieutenant awaited his arrival. The lieutenant’s horned silver helm reflected the last sputtering drops of flaming rain as he nodded.

  “Nothing, Malefactor,” he said, answering Talmen’s unspoken question. “We have reached a stalemate.”

  “Yes,” Talmen answered, disgusted. “Easy victory indeed, eh? Well, no matter. Let’s test them more directly. Send forth the gnolls on the north side.”

  “The gnolls, sir? They are too few! They’ll be cut down before they even reach the wall, much less the top of the battlements!”

  “I’m willing to sacrifice the smell of wet dog in order to see something set foot on that field before we’re forced to retreat!” Talmen’s anger burst forth as he shoved the lieutenant into the mud, fully prepared to kick the life out of the man, but he stopped at the intrusion of a voice into his enraged thoughts.

  “There will be no retreat, Malefactor.”

  He froze at the sound of her voice, gasping as his scar flashed with pain and an unexpected warmth flooded his body. He smelled her before he saw her. The cloying scents of cinnamon and blood filled his nose even as delicate, pale arms stretched from his chest, sheathed in blood that receded as they pushed through him. The pain in his arm subsided, and when he looked up, Morgynn was there, surveying the field. Her cold red eyes spilled blood onto her cheeks, squirming and trailing across her skin. Her gaze lingered on the bathor, halted at the edge of an invisible barrier and steaming in the chill rain.

  She turned to Talmen, who quavered under her stare.

  “The oracles, my lady,” was all he could manage as her pulsing aura enveloped him.

  The wind picked up again, growing wilder still, whipping cloaks and robes in a frenzied gale. Morgynn stood unaffected by the icy blast, not a single raven strand of hair or fold of her crimson robe defying her as she walked past Talmen toward the frozen bathor.

  Again her voice invaded his mind, her simple command leaving him near exhausted and full of dread as roars of pain echoed from the skies above the city’s walls.

  “Ready yourselves. Prepare to advance,” she said, and disappeared among the twitching bodies of her mindless creations.

  Morgynn wove in and around the bathor, petting their skin. They took no notice of her presence, though
their feverish trembling increased as she passed among them. She made her way to the center of the mindless horde. Exulting in the pulse of the Weave, hundreds of heartbeats long past death’s door resounded in her senses like the drums of a long-sought conquest.

  She imagined the oracles, hiding behind their walls, defying all she laid before them through the voice of Sameska.

  “So fragile they must be,” she said contemplatively. “Such precious things they sacrifice to make up for their lack of wisdom. So naive.”

  Making her way to the front of the crowded field of undead, she raised her fingers, tapping at the air. Imagining the Weave as an instrument, she tuned its fine threads, infusing the air with the sorcery she would exult in releasing. The gates of Brookhollow were visible to her, glowing slightly in her ensorcelled vision, her blooded eyes making out the faint dweomers of pale magic defending the walls.

  “Borrowed power. Nature cannot give you the protection you seek, little Ghedia,” she shouted, striding ahead of the bathor. “Power must be taken and commanded, not asked for!”

  Easily within range of the archers, several arrows arced through the air toward her. Raising her arms in front of her, she balled her left hand into a tight fist and traced the ridges of her knuckles with her right. Muttering her spell, she stopped within a hundred paces of the gates. She watched the arrows as they sailed toward her, holding her fist tighter as they neared.

  “Invesas!”

  She opened her fist as she finished the incantation. A dozen arrows, a heartbeat from striking her, froze in midair. The magic, once released, pulsed outward audibly. The tall grass was bent away from her in a wide circle and even the rain stopped, streaming around the perimeter of her invisible sphere. Her body rose, lifting her feet from muddy puddles.

  More arrows were loosed as she chanted again, and several were caught in the sphere’s edges. With one hand, she pointed to each of the frozen missiles caught by her magic, surrounding them in a ghostly light. Frost formed on their heads and along their shafts. More arrows, still streaking toward her, were deflected along with the rain, splashing into the grass. Her skin tingled with power, her blood burned, and her cheeks grew slick as blood spilled over her eyelids and writhed into arcane symbols in tune with the discordant tones of her voice.