by James Davis
Most of the defenders ceased firing, seeing the futility of their attacks. Only slightly disappointed, Morgynn twirled her hands, and the arrows in her sphere of magic turned in time to her will, redirecting themselves toward the gates. The burning white arrows slowly spun in midair as she raised her right hand, curled in a tight fist.
She held the magic for several breaths, biting her lip on the final word, tasting it on her tongue like a snowflake in a Narrish blizzard. Her temples throbbed and sweat beaded on her forehead. Steam billowed from her mouth as she whispered the syllables and opened her fist.
“Veseras ingellas.”
The captured arrows streaked forward, trailing wispy lines of frost as they sped toward the gates. Archers dived from the walls while others braced for impact against the battlements. Morgynn slowly exhaled the breath that carried the last of her spell. She brought to mind another, dismissing the last in favor of the next.
Such precious things, she thought, as the arrows struck home.
Elisandrya cursed as she ran along the wall with Zakar just steps behind. The relentless devils had ascended to greater heights, and a red-robed woman was approaching the gates. The archers closest to her had watched as their arrows failed, as the grass around the woman had writhed in rhythm to the sound of an echoing heartbeat. Many had almost cheered when they’d seen blood running down the wizard’s face, certain that an arrow had found its mark. The hunters had paled as they’d learned otherwise.
The first of the glowing arrows struck as Eli leaped toward a short stairway leading to the guard tower. Sharp and stinging, the sound was quickly followed by dozens more. She landed hard, jarring her elbow on a middle step. Zakar landed beside her. The storm raged overhead, infected by some unknown chaos, and they waited for the attack to stop. Sitting up, Eli peered over the side of the wall.
Several arrows struck the walls, with the rest burying themselves in the gates. Each disappeared in a puff of white mist, leaving a frosty mark where they’d landed. An uncomfortable silence fell as the hunters studied the inner walls, wondering if the defenses of the Ghedia had repelled the wizard’s attack. Curious as well, Eli pulled herself up and leaned over to see the inside of the gates. At first nothing seemed amiss, but then the white tips of the arrows, hissing and steaming in the rain, released the magic that imbued them.
Her eyes widened, imagining the force that had driven the arrowheads completely through the enchanted gates. The ice on the arrows melted before her eyes, leaving the shafts fully exposed. A cracking noise split the air and Zakar swore behind her. She turned and joined him at the battlements, her stomach sinking as she saw white sheets of ice growing from the tiny holes in wood and stone. The pounding rain fed the ice, freezing in a multitude of tiny drops.
Frost formed on the wet planks around Eli’s feet as the voice of the red sorceress rose again in the dissonant drone of another spell.
Khaemil’s reflection was a dark blur on the polished surface of the shield, silhouetted before the dazzling lightning outside the window. Quin watched as his tormentor raised an arm, the mace clutched in his hand. At the zenith of the swing, Quin pushed up on his hands and kicked Khaemil’s knee out from under him.
Khaemil gasped in shock and fell to his other knee. Quinsareth picked up Bedlam, the noisome blade instantly springing to life in a blend of thunder and wolfish growls. He flipped the shield up on its edge, scattering bones and dust to the floor, and slid his arm through the braces. He spun around to face the canomorph as tremors shook the tower.
Wooden beams creaked below and both combatants felt the floor tilt. Water dripped through the ceiling as the structure shuddered beneath its own weight. Khaemil bared his fangs. Rising to his feet and stepping backward, he raised the mace in both hands and spat out the words of a spell. Quinsareth took faltering steps forward, the stone floor splitting between his boots. The pain of Khaemil’s torture still filled his body, but survival pushed him on. Holding the shield before him, he was surprised at its lightness. Strangely, the shield seemed to pull him forward, reacting to the Gargauthan’s voice and drawing its new bearer closer to the spellcaster.
The shadurakul’s voice roared to a crescendo and several smoky black swords materialized in the air around him. At his command, the ghostly blades darted forward to assault the aasimar. A sound like tearing metal rang in their ears as the ethereal blades sank into the shield. Even those aimed at Quin’s legs were pulled upward to meet the shield’s face. All were swallowed into the steel, the sound of their destruction clanging in Quin’s head. The shield’s braces tightened around his arm, fitting to his grip as if pleased.
Catching his balance on the tilted floor, Quinsareth charged forward to meet Khaemil’s grimace. Bedlam wailed through the air and crashed into the haft of the canomorph’s mace. Quin pushed against Khaemil’s strength. He smiled wickedly as the weapons scraped against one another, Bedlam drawing a deep gouge in the mace’s haft. Khaemil pushed back, cursing as Quin ducked the shove and let him stumble forward.
He’s too strong for his own good, Quin thought, and stepped sideways, making a show of raising the growling sword high. Khaemil reacted quickly, bringing his mace to bear against the intended cut, but Quinsareth spun to his right instead. The shield slammed against the Gargauthan’s weapon and extended Khaemil’s reach for a heartbeat or two.
Bedlam screamed downward in that moment, shearing through the canomorph’s wrist and neatly severing his hand. Khaemil roared in pain as the mace clattered to the floor along with the lost hand. He drew the stump of his wrist to his chest, squeezing it tightly as blood streamed across his robes. His sharp teeth clenched as he mumbled through them in a grating language, cursing in one of the many tongues of the Lower Planes. He stepped back from the aasimar, who calmly observed the shadurakul’s disfigurement. Khaemil’s face twisted in agony, his features blending with those of the shadow mastiff that hid beneath his humanoid façade. Narrowing his pearly eyes, Quin’s stare was every bit the match for the predatory gleam of his opponent.
The tremors repeated more violently than before, as if some crucial support had been removed. The tower stood at the mercy of the chaos of magic outside. Khaemil stumbled as he walked backward, falling to his knees. The shadows flooded Quin’s body at his slightest call, his eyes murky with their color after only a few blinks.
“I spare you your mistress’s beating, dog!” he shouted. “I shall collect my fee from her directly!”
He kicked Khaemil full in the chest, sending the shapechanger backward against the window sill. The mortar crumbled weakly under the impact, stones shifting under his weight. Ancient stones and shadurakul were snatched away, tumbling into the whirlwind of the hungry storm. Khaemil’s screams were quickly lost in the gales and ripping lightning. Rain poured in through the yawning hole in the wall and seeped between the cracks in the stone beneath Quin’s boots.
Stepping away from the gaping hole, Quin caught sight of movement to his right and saw himself reflected in a tall silver mirror. The shield he carried wore the profile of a proud Shaaryan woman with fiery hair and blazing eyes. The face of Ossian’s lover faded slightly as he watched, the image rippling through the metal by some strange power. He nodded quietly to the image of Zemaan before the mirror was tossed by the wind to shatter on the floor.
He closed his eyes and willed forth the shadow road, turning translucent and blurry as it accepted him. Behind him, the tower collapsed stone by stone, burying the bones and legends it had kept secret for centuries under a mound of ruin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lightning forked wildly over the city, setting fires, deafening those too close, and killing those it touched. The roars of eager devils in the clouds were joined by the howls of bloodthirsty gnolls waiting for a breach to open in the walls. The hyena-faced brutes’ eyes glowed in the tall grass, just beyond the hunters’ deadly arrows. Gargauthan warriors gathered in front of the war wizards among them. Like armored devils, they watched Morgynn’s spel
lcraft through masks frozen in toothy snarls and leering skull grins.
Sheets of rain and icy wind never touched the blood mage within the invisible sphere she’d woven. She hovered inside it, just above the muck and mud.
Morgynn drew her dagger and sliced open the palm of her right hand. Holding the wound high, she willed her blood to drip freely. The blood was caught by her spell, collecting into a perfect sphere drop by drop. Her breath spun the red orb in place, enchanting and boiling it as she deftly directed the spin with her dagger.
The globe grew to the size of a fist, glowing with an inner, flickering light, and she let the sphere rest on the tip of her dagger. Through its glossy translucence, she admired the burning image of the crimson city captured in the spinning globe.
“Open them,” she told it. “Bring them my blessings.”
She blew on the sphere and sent it flying. It swelled as it neared the gates, gathering a tail of red flames as it grew larger and faster. She watched as warriors jumped and skipped away from the death she sent to them, abandoning their walls and shouting unintelligible curses. Morgynn imagined she heard swift and whispered prayers as well, but these were only a faint descant above the orchestra of storm, magic, and the pulse of the Weave.
The red fireball exploded like a dying star as it made contact in the center of the gates. Shattering ice disintegrated the walls embedded with frozen sorcery. The force and heat of the impact spread outward, burning everything in its path. Weapons and objects were charred or melted. The living were burned from within. Infused by Morgynn’s blood, they twisted unnaturally in bloody flames before falling still. Those outside the blast watched with eyes watering from the incredible heat. Noses stung with the smell of char and cooked flesh. Even the freezing rain and biting winds could not quell the flames. Warily, the hunters raised their weapons at billowing clouds of smoke and steam. Some broke ranks and ran ahead of the racing cloud, slipping in puddles and falling over those in their path. All knew that the gates were gone and that the true battle was upon them.
Morgynn’s heart skipped a beat, shock passing through her body as a wave of brief freedom shook the bathor behind her. A series of spasms rolled through the undead host and she felt her muscles flutter and quake, responding to the mindless will of her creations. She exhaled, closing her eyes and willing them to advance, but they did not move.
She screamed in rage, arching her back and raising her voice to a thunderous roar. The gnolls ceased their howling and covered their canine ears, yelping in pain. Even the malebranche paused as her voice reached them, feeling the tingle of magic itching across their hides. Out of breath, she inhaled and lowered her head, curling her lip as she observed the gaping hole in the wall where the gates had been, where her minions should be crawling and clawing their way into the city at her command.
“Nothing,” she muttered, “only little deaths and—”
She stopped, detecting the lilting tones of the oracles. Their prayers and spells rose unhindered, drifting through the dissolving cloud of her destructive spell. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she flexed her right hand, opening the fresh wound on her palm.
Blood pooled in the jagged fissure and she whipped her arm left and right, spattering the grass and mud with crimson drops. Sheathing her dagger, she dipped into a small pouch, grasping a fistful of black insect wings. She crushed them in her fist and muttered quick words over them.
“Ixelteth suranyat!”
The dried wings turned to fine dust, released to the wind as she opened her fist. The sooty cloud peppered the ground around her, hissing where it met the waiting droplets of her blood. Each drop turned solid and bulbous. Clusters of pale pink sacs formed, splitting open soon after, hatching hundreds of writhing red larvae. The larvae split open as well, giving birth to shiny crimson wasps on buzzing black wings.
She held her arms out lovingly and several insects landed on her fingertips and wrists. They crawled across her skin on thin, chitinous legs.
“Seek them out,” she whispered to them. “Sting their wretched tongues and fill their mouths with wings.”
The swarm gathered and flew at her command, buzzing through the rain like a red mist to find the source of their mistress’s displeasure.
Dreslya could not take her eyes from the smoking remains of the gates and those unlucky enough to have been caught in the blast. Black water, thick with ash, streamed along the street and around her feet. Several times, Lesani held her back from searching through the ash and char to find Elisandrya.
“Mourning will come,” she said to the oracle, “but not now.”
Dres gasped at the words, a lump forming in her throat. Her vision from earlier had carried voices and snippets of conversation drifting in and out of focus. The vision had been a warning, showing her the consequences of inaction. She remembered Lesani’s voice telling her of mourning, but she had thought the Ghedia spoke of the coming sunrise, of hope, not the death of her sister.
Lesani took her by the arm, leading her away from the defenders. The Ghedia searched inside empty doors and dark windows, though Dres did not know why. She followed in a daze, her eyes burning, trying to summon the courage to look away from the clouds of steam on the western end of Brookhollow. She tried to focus on the present despite the uncertainty of her vision. Rain soaked her robes and hair, and a numbness from the cold crept through her hands.
“Here!” Lesani shouted over a fresh round of monstrous thunder, pointing to the doorway of a stonework hovel. Low and sturdy, it stood abandoned and lifeless. “Come, I need your help!”
“Yes, you do,” Dres mumbled, confused. Cold and shivering, she was having greater difficulty discerning between present and future. “I mean, I know. At least I think I know.”
As the pair ducked inside, Lesani cleared a space on the floor, pushing a modest table and chairs against the wall. She took several items from hidden pouches within her robes and sat cross-legged on the floor. Dres wandered to the lone window. Facing north, she could no longer see the steam and smoke, but she could smell them.
“Sit down, Oracle,” Lesani said, the edge in her voice catching Dreslya’s attention. “Elisandrya is a great warrior. I do not doubt you may see her again, but I need you here and now.”
Dreslya turned away from the window and the sounds of battle. At Lesani’s gesture, she sat across from the Ghedia. Though focused on the items she laid out in front of her, even Lesani glanced up at the window, like Dreslya, when the thunder died. In that moment of silence, filled only with falling rain, horrendous screams echoed through the streets. A furious buzzing filled the quiet. This, too, Dreslya remembered, and she paled in fear.
Sudden and untamed chaos jolted Morgynn’s body as the bathor were released from the oracles’ spell. She lowered her protective bubble, her feet dipping into the mud as the sensation overwhelmed her. Hundreds of feverish pulses rivaled the fury of the storm, drowning out all else. She stood still as the undead surged around her. Unnatural heat drew beads of sweat across her brow and down her back. She dismissed her protective sphere, allowing the rain and wind to cool her.
Searching left and right, over the backs of the hunched bathor, she watched as the Gargauthans advanced alongside the tortured throng of her creations. She stood quietly as they raced past her toward the ruined wall.
“Prophecies be damned, now,” she said. “This is the beginning of my vision, my Order of Twilight. Woe to those who stand against it.”
She fell into step with the undead. Magic itched along her arms to the tips of her fingers. Rain flowed in rivulets across her scars, following their patterns before dripping to the ground. Her crimson gaze fixed on the Temple of the Hidden Circle, and on the pitiful old woman who cowered within. A moment later, the broken gates became the vision she’d imagined. The bathor crowded into Brookhollow, pushing debris and bodies aside in their haste.
Drawing closer, she saw that beyond the destruction, Brookhollow’s defenders had rallied admirably. They presented
an impressive wall of flesh for her bathor to rend and tear. Bows and spears were prepared to meet her horde.
They fired arrows first, piercing the pale skin of the bathor with no visible effect. The undead did not bleed or scream in pain. A few paused and stared curiously at the feathered sticks that seemed to spring from them. Flickers of intelligence hung like cobwebs in the attics of their eroded minds, but they soon pushed forward, shaking off confusion.
Long spears stood propped between the archers, ready for combat face to face, and the bathor sprang forward mindlessly, some impaling themselves. They ran down the hafts of the spears, skewering themselves through their abdomens or chests to claw at their shocked opponents. Horrified, archers and spearmen dropped their weapons, drawing swords and axes more suitable for close combat. The bathor knew only claws and teeth, and a single-minded urge to kill what they no longer understood.
The heat surrounding Morgynn’s horde burned eyes and lungs. The carrion stench forced more than a few weak-stomached defenders away to retch and cough. Some averted their eyes, afraid of seeing a relative or friend among the undead. Most held their ground and fought, and many defenders died in the first few moments.
The bathor were relentless, wailing horribly and dragging down the weak. They spat boiling blood on their victims, scalding skin as they tore at exposed throats. Slowly, the defenders were pushed back, making way for impossible numbers of feral opponents.
