by James Davis
Morgynn watched their progress, glancing at the fallen hunters with interest, eventually finding what she sought. Lying against a half-burned stable was a young warrior with striking green eyes and wavy brown hair. The blood mage extended a hand toward him, gesturing at his chest. She felt his slow heartbeat plodding toward death. Several bathor noticed him as well and crawled forward, splashing through the mud to claim their prize.
Morgynn approached the young man and waved a hand at the undead, sending them away with a glance. The bathor stopped, but could not tear their lifeless eyes away from the scene. Whimpering, they clawed at themselves as each puff of breath escaped the hunter’s lips. Morgynn knelt in front of the warrior, observing the wound in his stomach that gushed dark, almost black blood through his clenched fingers. His other hand gripped his weapon, the curved blade traditional to his order, but he was too weak to lift the sword.
“What is your name, boy?” she asked, laying a hand on his knee in a gesture of comfort.
He tried to speak but only coughed, his throat wet. After a second try, he answered weakly, “Arek.”
Morgynn heard him, but her mind was elsewhere. The young hunter’s blood flowed beneath her touch, a conduit showing her the battle within the city. Blood called to blood, forming a crimson map in her mind. One lonely trail stood apart from the others, moving swiftly under cover of darkness, hiding and running, then hiding again. She smiled and returned her gaze to the dying hunter.
“Well, then. Farewell, Arek.”
She crawled forward, over him then through him, merging with his flesh and fading to nothing. The impatient bathor loosed keening wails as they closed their circle and took what she’d denied them.
Lying in the guard tower, Elisandrya coughed, spitting blood and ash from her mouth. Rain washed over her and she flexed her muscles to warm them. She rubbed gingerly at her eyes, trying to restore her vision, blurred by smoke and unconsciousness. A heavy weight lay across her legs and she reached down to move it away. The coarse fabric of an ironvine cloak gave her pause. She raised herself to one elbow and blearily made out the fallen body of Zakar. From his appearance and clouded eyes, he was far beyond her help.
As she pulled herself free, she noticed the clouds of steam growing thicker. Water streamed down her face and neck. Listening, she tried to make out voices she could hear close by. Their words were soft and unintelligible, a mumbling she could not understand, but she was certain they were children. Nearly panicking at the thought of children caught in the battle, she quickly escaped from beneath Zakar. Inwardly, she apologized to the fallen hunter for the rough treatment of his remains as she scrambled to her feet.
Eli found her bow and glanced at the ruined, tumbled wall where the gates had been. She knelt at the wall’s edge to leap down and find the stranded children. Looking down, she stopped herself before jumping. Her gaze froze as she looked into the glistening eyes of several young boys, their cherubic faces ruined by a maze of bluish veins and trembling spasms. They whispered and mumbled horrible nothings as she stepped back from the edge. Her hand brushed against the arrow fletchings in her quiver as a low growl over her shoulder caused her to whip around.
Next to the watchman’s tower, the top of a ladder rested against the wall. On the battlement, she met the murderous stare of an armed gnoll. Eli nocked an arrow and fired. The missile found its mark, killing the beast. She heard it fall among annoyed yelps and growls from its fellows below. Behind her, the children scratched and wailed at the wall, climbing over one another to reach her even as more undead crowded toward the breach on her right.
Wildly, she looked about for some escape. Her eyes fell on the dropped horn of a crushed watchman, a victim of the flying devils. The signal for a charge by the riders at the north and south gates played in her mind. She rose to her feet and saw the raised axe of another gnoll as it ascended the ladder. A few feet away, another ladder slammed against the wall. The signal horn might as well have been leagues away as the situation worsened.
Taking a deep breath, she nocked an arrow and raised her bow alone.
“Sanctuary.” Sameska’s voice broke the awkward silence. She sat on the steps, her back to the altar, pointedly avoiding the sight of it and the rune circle.
“Means nothing,” she added, her tone full of venom and contempt.
The oracles who stayed behind to maintain the temple’s arcane defenses ignored her. They focused on protecting the center of their faith, the foundation upon which their way of life had been built. A few refused to take any action, still convinced of the prophecy, though they wondered at Sameska’s sanity.
The high oracle rocked back and forth slowly, holding her knees. Occasionally, she spoke to the semicircle of meditating young women around the altar’s edge. Mostly, she whispered to herself, trying to make sense of where her followers had gone wrong, how they had fallen away from her wisdom.
“They don’t see her coming,” she mumbled. “All of them throw away their faith and their lives for fear. I see her, I have seen her blood.”
She narrowed her eyes, peering suspiciously at the silent oracles.
They’ll see us all dead, they will, she thought. They defy me, defy the words of their own god.
She blinked away the pain in her eyes. The soft glow of the chamber’s wards seeped through her closed lids and she pulled her cloak’s hood lower. She viewed the intrusion of the light as an affront to her leadership. It showed disregard for her bloodline and the respect the name of her family deserved. She bit her lip in frustration.
“Wayward souls, all of them, hiding in the dark.” She stared at the floor. “It shall fall to me. I must protect them from themselves. What must I do?”
She looked up then, to the broken dome above. Chaos boiled beyond the gaping hole, turning and flashing in the clouds, growling through the thunder. Savras did not answer her. She flexed the chill fingers of her right hand. Hidden beneath her robes, she gripped the hilt of a bejeweled dagger.
Lowering her head again, still listening for an answer, she returned her attention to the oracles before her, to their still backs and exposed necks.
A thin trail of evaporating shadow clung to the edges of Quinsareth’s cloak. The shadow of Brookhollow slowly gained detail as his eyes adjusted to the real world. He had emerged just north of the writhing mob that pushed its way through the western wall of the city. Invigorated and nearly healed by the shadow road, he ran toward the city. Bedlam hummed in the rain, screeching at each blade of grass that brushed along its length.
His keen vision picked out a group of robed figures in devilish masks. Solemnly watching the grim procession of undead, the Gargauthans made their way around the north side of an abandoned watch tower.
The city was a blur of flame and smoke. Hellish beasts roared in the sky even as the dead wailed and screamed on the ground. Quin consciously controlled his breathing as he ran, remaining steady and calm, observing the details of the terrain. He knew he was no soldier. He had never fought against armies. Morgynn alone was his chosen enemy, chosen by the shadows and the will of Hoar, a will for vengeance. He thought of what Sameska had called him, morbidly remembering his own reply.
“I am the assassin,” he said under his breath. Some part of him rejected the concept, but the feel of a sword in his hand and his single-minded purpose drowned out the nobler parts of himself, putting them away until they could be afforded. “Only that and nothing more.”
His thoughts fell silent as a familiar cry seized his attention.
A gnoll howled as it fell from the tower, splashing to the ground near the priests. A handful of its companions had already met similar ends. The Gargauthans approached and circled around the bodies. Their voices intoned a deep spidery chant over the corpses as they summoned the power of necromancy to command the gnollish warriors to fight again.
Quinsareth sped forward, raising his sword as the first of the dead gnolls began to twitch in the mud. One of the Gargauthans heard the scream of Qu
in’s sword and looked up as it descended to cleave through his horned mask.
Baertah fell against a wall in the dark alleyway, gasping as warmth covered his flesh and a sudden pressure grew in his chest. The scents of cinnamon and rot filled his nose as his eyes failed, changing the gloom of the heavy clouds into impenetrable darkness. Blinded, he fell to his knees and whimpered, flinching as the ominous sound of beating wings passed over him. The warmth faded and his eyes adjusted to the dark. He blinked against the blur of the shadows, turning pale as he made out a familiar form standing over him.
“There’s my little failure,” Morgynn said, her voice sinuous and scolding, enveloping his fear in the intimate tones of a scorned lover. “What happened, I wonder? Not enough coin in your coffers, perhaps? The safety and rulership of Littlewater no longer desirable? Or maybe your abilities didn’t quite match your claims?”
Baertah was speechless, backing into the street on his hands and knees, slipping to his elbows in the rain. Morgynn stepped from the shadows, the flushed color of her skin fading from the bloodwalk that had carried her through the lord hunter. She studied him a moment, raising an eyebrow at his silence.
“What’s this? No excuses? No begging?” she asked, truly surprised. “If I didn’t already know you were a complete coward, I’d have thought you were being brave, Lord Hunter. I thought your betrayal admirable before, but now I see why the hunters defy you.”
“I-I’m sorry, Lady Morgynn,” he stammered while warily rising to his feet. “Please accept my—”
“Ah, there it is,” she said, amused. “Do not bother. I’ve heard your words on many tongues throughout the years and I still can’t understand the tastes that put them there. Let’s dispense with formality, shall we?”
Morgynn lightly touched the scars across her collarbone, shuddering as they burned away and released their power. Baertah was hurled into the air by her magic. Thrown down the street, he splashed in a crumpled heap on the cobblestones, the wind knocked from his lungs. He choked and struggled for air as he was lifted and thrown again, this time slamming against a wall and breaking his leg. She scowled at the need for such recreation, but Baertah was an ally courted by the fallen Mahgra and she was not surprised at the similarities between them. Both were vain and preening, and though the ogre had a streak of defiance, Baertah was little more than a fop.
She toyed with his body, carrying him closer and closer to the temple, battering his twisted limbs against any convenient obstacle. Only occasionally did he find the breath to scream. Even then, his voice was ragged and raw as if his throat had been scoured with gravel.
The battle raged far behind them. The sky was lit by the glow of distant fires when Baertah landed on his back only a few dozen paces from the temple’s doors. Morgynn dismissed her spell and walked over to straddle his legs, crouching over him and whispering in his ear.
Baertah’s eyes twitched behind bruised and broken skin. His jaw rested at an odd angle and several teeth hung in his gums by threads. A thin, wheezing breath escaped him and he coughed weakly as the rain spattered against the back of his throat.
“I will give you one last chance to redeem yourself, Lord Hunter,” she said, her eyes fixed on the front doors of the temple. She smiled cruelly as several guards stepped out of hiding with weapons drawn. She slid her dagger from its sheath and traced the scars along her left arm with the blade’s point. The runes squirmed to life as she chanted softly and placed a hand over the lord hunter’s bleeding lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Grnolls moved in single file down the north wall, eager to join the fray inside Brookhollow. Jagged battle-axes in hand, they growled at the frenzied waves of bathor below, pawing their noses and spitting at the stench of the undead.
Elisandrya fired a carefully aimed arrow into the throat of a gnoll as he scaled the wall, toppling him to join the others she’d felled. His companions ducked and quickly crawled into hiding. She screamed in protest as they escaped her bow, firing into the shields of the remaining pair. They waited for her bloodlust to wane or her attention to become distracted by the undead climbing the wall beside her.
Seeing the last of the pack loping out to join the battle, one of the gnolls edged forward with its shield raised. Closing the distance with her, he snarled, eager to meet her blade to blade. Elisandrya was tired and only dimly aware of the advancing gnoll. Over her shoulder, the sobs of the undead children neared the top of the wall. Tiny pale fingers, bleeding on the wet stone, gripped its edge.
Eli’s throat and nose ached from the cold air. The steady sound of rain on her hood made everything seem unreal, like a dream. A sense of doom fell over her as a pair of glossy eyes crested the wall. Loping footfalls turned her attention to the gnoll, axe held high, charging across the wall.
Her readied arrow slammed into the gnoll’s gut. He loosed a horrific howl but carried on, ignoring the pain. Behind the gnoll, Eli could still see the signal horn lying untouched at the dead watchman’s feet. It taunted her and she raised her bow to deflect the descending axe. The contact awakened her numb reflexes and sent shockwaves of pain through her stiff arms. She growled at the gnoll wildly, losing herself in what she believed would be the last moments of her life.
The gnoll grabbed her bow and pulled his axe back to strike again, baring his teeth. Eli stepped back on one foot and kicked at the arrow protruding from the gnoll’s abdomen. The wound gushed dark blood as he staggered back and released her bow, roaring in pain. Eli reached for her nearly empty quiver, and her leg was pulled out from under her.
Her back slammed against the battlement, jarring her neck as she kicked at the undead child that had grabbed her foot. The world spun before her eyes and freezing rain stung her face. Her mind reeled at the cacophony of sounds that pounded in her ears. The menacing growls of two gnolls echoed in her head as they approached her. Warily, they eyed the bathor that climbed and crawled over one another to reach her. She saw death in the eyes of the unfortunate child at her feet and screamed at it, challenging it as she kicked again and struggled to draw her sword.
Thunder crashed and the rain slackened. The wind slowed, but even as the thunder faded, a new voice picked up the sound. The thunder was echoed by a metallic hum. The injured gnoll, ducking behind its companion, snapped off the shaft of the arrow in its stomach. It looked up to view a man with fair skin splashed with blood and murderous pearly eyes. The beast was cut down by a green flashing blade and kicked over the side of the wall.
The other gnoll whirled at the noise. It sniffed the air and scowled at the scent of the cloaked warrior that faced him. A primal chill filled the warrior’s eyes and the growling sword he carried. The gnoll raised his axe and abandoned the fallen hunter to the undead, baring his teeth in challenge at the shadowy aasimar.
Eli freed her blade and hacked at the numerous arms yanking on her legs. The blood she drew hissed and burned on her leggings and boots, the smell caustic and nauseating. Another bathor, a woman, had crawled up the wall on Eli’s right and lay flat against the stone. The woman’s head and neck twisted from side to side as she pulled herself closer.
Looking down the wall, Eli watched the assimar approach the gnoll like a deadly dancer. Waves of fear emanated from Quin, a tide of terror that made her shiver.
Quinsareth stepped forward, turning to his right as the gnoll’s axe passed within a hand’s breadth of his face. He continued to spin, pushing his shoulder into the gnoll’s ribs and hooking his right leg behind his opponent. As the gnoll struggled to angle its axe at the aasimar, Quin grabbed the gnoll’s right arm and pushed as he spun again. He slammed Bedlam’s pommel between the beast’s shoulder blades, then followed the strike with Bedlam’s blade. He severed the stumbling gnoll’s right leg at the knee and left him to fall over the edge into the undead below.
Elisandrya’s sword arm was pinned, held down by the viselike grip of an undead woman who whispered nonsense as she dug her fingers into Eli’s flesh. The bathor’s touch sent arcs
of pain down Eli’s arm and across her chest. She fumbled with her left hand, searching for anything to beat the ghoulish woman away, refusing to give up.
The tortured moans of Eli’s attacker suddenly turned to shrieks. More sizzling blood spattered across Eli’s legs and face. Blue-green lightning flashed with each splash of putrid blood. A gloved hand seized her arm and suddenly she was being pulled across the wall. She watched as the woman, armless, squirmed and beat herself against the battlements before rolling into the masses at the wall’s edge.
Eli felt strong arms lifting her to her feet and she instinctively fought back. Flailing her fists, she tried to kick the legs out from under her captor. Turning, she raised a fist and saw Quinsareth’s face, grim and covered in blood. She almost fainted in relief, but he held her steady and lifted her chin, brushing his hand across the red welts that formed where the bathor’s blood had scalded her face.
“Will you be all right?” he asked with concern in his voice. He backed them toward the guard tower.
“I’ll survive,” she said, managing a smile as she met his gaze.
She was stunned by the depth of feeling his presence suddenly stirred in her. The battle was blocked from her senses for a few moments. Unspoken words hung in her mind, then fell to their deaths in the awkward silence between them. Eli’s eyes said things her mouth and lips could not.
In a daze, she stepped away from Quin and leaped up the steps into the guard tower. She retrieved the watchman’s horn and glared down upon the gruesome army that assaulted her home. The devil-masked Gargauthans kept a safe distance along the flanks of the advancing throng.
Taking a deep breath, she blew one long piercing note that carried across the whole of the city. Flaming arrows were fired high into the air from the north and south gates, signaling their receipt of the order. When Eli turned back, Quinsareth was gone. She caught sight of his shadow moving swiftly and with purpose along the north wall.
