Bloodwalk

by James Davis

  Kneeling, she took Zakar’s quiver of arrows and quietly promised him a warrior’s funeral. With the quiver slung over her shoulder, she followed the aasimar.

  The prized Shaaran warhorses stamped their hooves and shook their wild manes in the spacious stables reserved for the Hunters of the Hidden Circle. The warriors patted their mounts’ necks and whispered encouraging words in their ears. The horses were uncharacteristically jittery. The smell of smoke and decay in the air had reached them, and tension grew as they waited for the call to charge.

  Armor and weapons had been readied before the first sounds of battle, and the fray was still several blocks away, growing louder as it neared the stable. Some of the riders suspected that something horrible had happened, and the commanders were preparing to signal their own charge when the call came through the storm. The warriors’ hearts jumped as the wide stable doors opened.

  They rode hard, the surefooted warhorses pounding effortlessly through the mud. The two groups of mounted archers split, heading north and south. Once outside the city gates, they angled west with bows drawn. Exposed to the cruel elements, they breathed the fouled air like a drug, becoming intoxicated with bloodlust for the enemy. They spat the cold rain back into the faces of the clouds, reveling in the downpour. Their expectations of the battle were quickly rewarded as devils roared in the sky and gnolls howled and barked savagely from the walls.

  “Hush!”

  Sameska’s voice startled everyone in the sanctuary, echoing in the silence as all paid wary attention to the broken woman. Her head was cocked to one side, listening for something, her eyes closed against the light of the chamber’s runes. A few of the priestesses edged closer to Sameska, concerned and frightened by her behavior. They listened with her.

  Moments passed and they heard nothing. Shaking their heads, they whispered prayers for the high oracle’s broken mind. A slight gasp from the semicircle of oracles startled them again. Nerves were stretched taut as the evening wore on. Those present followed the oracle’s stare to the far wall.

  Several lines of runes had faded, and some had winked out altogether.

  “It is coming. She is closer now,” the high oracle muttered. Patches of the arcane architecture died before their eyes, dismantled and dispelled by unseen hands. An encroaching darkness crawled through the chamber little by little, leaving only a single light within the half-circle. The altar, the rune circle, and the dais of the high oracle became islands of misty light stranded in the dark. “She is here to fulfill the words of Savras, girls. To drown us along with the forest in her wake.”

  “Be quiet!” a young woman on her right said. Shaking, she searched the blackness outside the circle for movement. She held a dagger, the traditional weapon of Savrathans, close to her breast. Sameska scowled and clenched her own hidden blade.

  “Heed what she says, child,” Morgynn said as she stepped into the boundary of the circle’s glow. “There is a certain wisdom in madness that should not be dismissed so readily.”

  The oracles looked in horror upon the sorceress, her face like a portrait painted in blood on an ivory slate. Blood dripped from her fingertips, covering her arms up to her elbows. She noticed the oracles’ attention to the mess dripping from her hands and held them forward, palms up.

  “Fear not,” she said mockingly, “it’s not mine.”

  Quinsareth sheathed Bedlam and ran, avoiding the clash of forces in the streets and making his way toward the temple. He jumped off the wall before the gnolls spotted him. He had no time to relive his battle in Targris, and he struggled to keep Logfell from his thoughts as suffering wails and keening moans erupted from the undead, only blocks behind him. He focused on the rain, imagining himself weaving between the drops. He dashed between buildings like the lightning, becoming part of the storm and not the battle. The battle itself was beyond him now, beyond the works of a single warrior, and would play itself out as such.

  “Their fates must be their own,” he whispered under his breath. He slipped between darkened, undisturbed homes and past the smoldering, steaming remains of others. Inside himself, he could feel the lie even if he couldn’t admit it, but it was familiar and necessary to his task. It was a half-truth he maintained to keep moving, to stay focused. Nobility, he thought, forges more martyrs than it does victories.

  The malebranche passed overhead, intent on destruction and reveling in their play. Their nearness called to his blood. He buried deep his instinct for battle and wars fought long before the elven nations were born. He’d felt the same call in the High Forest near Hellgate Keep, the forests of Cormanthor near Myth Drannor, and in the snows and tundra of Narfell. This, too, he buried, though he absorbed that primal bloodlust for his own use, bending his celestial nature to his own ends and means.

  Seeing his objective ahead, he entered the last stretch of flooded street and crouched behind an overturned merchant’s chart, its single wheel turning lazily in the wind over loaves of sodden bread. The wide square before the Temple of the Hidden Circle was paved in cobblestones laid in concentric circles, their pattern highlighted by rivers of water that flowed between the cracks and reflected the lightning flashes.

  He needed no lightning to see the five figures standing in a line across the center of those circles of stones. All save one wore hunters’ armor and weapons. They did not move or blink; no puffs of breath steamed from their open mouths. Their bodies rippled and shimmered like mirages. What wounds they bore had ceased bleeding, open and empty.

  Narrowing his eyes, Quinsareth strode from his hiding place, in full view and no longer concerned with stealth. The glazed and lifeless eyes of the sentries had found him with preternatural senses that reached beyond darkness, rain, and man-made obstacles.

  The very fact that he lived had given him away.

  “This is foolishness, High Oracle. You know that, don’t you?” Morgynn asked while observing the translucent veil of force separating her from the oracles. “This barrier will not hold forever against me. Meanwhile, your people are dying as we speak.”

  Sameska did not answer. The other oracles stood ready to act, though Morgynn felt none of them were a match for her magic. Those who sat in the semicircle concentrated on their barrier all the harder. Though their minds focused on the magic, she could sense their fear. Something was hidden in that rhythm beneath their breasts, some secret they held from her. Curious, she raised her hands to test their barrier.

  Weaving her spell, she sent waves of light against the translucent veil of magic. Screaming as she pushed herself harder, she fought the combined wills of the oracles and the old magic they wielded. She stumbled backward as her spell failed and the light faded. Breathing heavily, she glared at her hands as if betrayed. She slowed her pulse and stretched her neck. Her muscles spasmed as she collected herself. “I can feel each of you,” she said quietly, her words amplified in the chamber. “You’re hiding something from me.”

  Sameska looked up then, peering at Morgynn over her shoulder, trembling. “Idiots!” Sameska hissed at them, but they ignored her still.

  Morgynn raised an eyebrow at her outburst and cast another spell, calling forth a sphere of mist above her palm which she hurled at the barrier. It burst in a puff of smoke and tendrils of shadow spread across the invisible wall like a web, probing at the magic. Morgynn touched the shadows with her fingertips, shutting her eyes and listening to the spell as it sang in her blood, feeding her what she wanted to know.

  “Calm yourself, dear Sameska,” she said as the shadowy web melted away, slowly retracing its course back to her outstretched hand. “I once knew an old woman, many years ago, whose faith had outgrown her humanity. In the end, she lost both.”

  She smiled grimly at the memory of her mother, disgusted by the similarities she saw in the high oracle. The shadows ceased their movements and froze at her will as she sensed something unexpected. The oracles’ heartbeats pounded in her mind, a cadence within the harmonies of the Weave that flowed through her, but anoth
er rhythm pulsed there as well. A multitude of hearts seemed to thunder together, dispersed and hidden.

  She dismissed the shadows and opened her eyes knowingly, realizing the true source of their fear and sickening righteousness. Demurely, she approached the centermost oracle and knelt down to speak to her eye to eye, only the shimmering veil of magic between them.

  “They’re hiding here, aren’t they?” she said, seeking some reaction in the young woman’s solemn expression. “Those too old or too weak to fight. You’re protecting them, hiding them somewhere in this place while you sit here and wonder if you’ve made the right decision. Defying prophecy, betraying the faith of your high oracle, and gambling with the lives of your people.”

  The oracle remained outwardly stoic, but Morgynn could feel her quickened pulse. She knew that if she had learned any lesson from her mother, it was that faith did not exist without doubt.

  Morgynn noted that Sameska watched the exchange with rapt attention.

  “It is a thin line you walk,” Morgynn continued, “between honor and oblivion. I have seen the Abyss where doomed souls go. I know the fate that awaits you there.”

  For a fleeting moment, Morgynn saw the oracle’s face flinch and relax, a hint of grudging resignation. She scowled as the girl tightened her fists and raised her chin, resolute and unmoving. Wordless, Morgynn stood, shaking with anger and backing away. She drew her dagger and gripped the blade as she summoned the words to another spell.

  Sameska, wild-eyed, leaned forward, gritting her teeth. The high oracle pulled a dagger from beneath her robes.

  “May Savras have mercy on your soul!” she cried, drawing everyone’s attention. Morgynn tilted her head and halted her spell, intrigued by this development as Sameska brandished the hidden blade and lunged for the young oracle’s throat.

  Misty blades flashed and rippled in the rain, driving Quinsareth back, hard pressed to deflect the attacks of the wraithlike creatures Morgynn had placed outside the temple. He cursed her name with each parry, spitting words that might have raised eyebrows even among the pirates and rogues of the Dragon Coast. The undead pressed on, nearly mindless but amazingly quick. Their bodies alternated between solid and ephemeral states. Their shifting had foiled Quin’s initial charge, Bedlam’s blade only serving to disrupt their spiritual forms harmlessly.

  With luck, he’d managed to fell two of them, swinging in anticipation of their attack and cleaving the things as they’d materialized. Though fallen, their forms still writhed on the ground, wailing as their semisolid bodies twisted and malformed. Their souls seemed bound to their dead bodies, wraiths bearing the cumbersome weight of undead flesh. The remaining three sentries worked in unison to break Quin’s swift defense and stab beneath his hissing blade.

  Quinsareth fought to control his breathing, reining in his anger as he skipped backward. He tried to recognize a cycle to his opponents’ unstable corporeality. Patterns rose and fell in his mind, found but quickly abandoned. He counted the breaths carefully, numbering each parry, deftly wielding the large shield and Bedlam as if they were a buckler and foil.

  Indeed, the unarmored opponent carried such a blade, looking more like a dandified fop than a warrior. The fop’s blade passed within a hair’s breadth of his neck as he arched backward to avoid the slice. Angrily, he began to count out loud, slowing his backward motion and quickening his defense.

  “One … two … three …” he breathed, then crouched, rolled forward, and slashed left and right. The hunters’ blades thrust harmlessly over his head as he carved through flesh and bone, crippling the two along their upper thighs. He knew he could not kill what was already dead, but he could slow them. He sought to immobilize them that he might bypass Morgynn’s guards and follow her into the temple.

  Leaning back on his left leg, he swept his right in a wide arc to trip the third sentry as it materialized, but he was a heartbeat too fast. His boot passed through the legs of the fop just before it took solid form, and its foil sliced down on Quin’s low position.

  Two arrows hissed into the dandy’s chest, followed quickly by a third that found its sword arm, halting the swing and burning its undead flesh. The creature reeled backward, wailing in agony. The pale shadow of its spirit clawed at the arrows, as if suddenly nailed to corporeality. Quinsareth rolled back to his feet, casting a glance over his shoulder to see Elisandrya nocking another arrow, a look of grim satisfaction on her face as she fired.

  The arcane missile seared into the fop’s neck, quieting its cries to a wet gurgle as it fell on its back, shaking as its spirit turned to a pungent, thick smoke and dissipated on the wind. The body left behind flopped in the rain like a landed fish gasping for air.

  Quickly scanning the area, Quin noted that the temple doors were unobstructed. Turning to Elisandrya, he could not read the strange look in her eye. Her defensive stance and firmly set jaw seemed at odds with her beauty, but at the same time complimented her strength. He could forget himself in her face, he realized, and he forced himself to turn away from her.

  In that moment, Eli’s eyes were eclipsed in a rushing darkness as chaos broke their brief glance. Quin found himself running toward her as time crawled and a black shape crashed to the ground near her. Through the rain, the scene was a blur of splashing water and massive leathery wings. A roar cut off Elisandrya’s yell of surprise, turning it into a sharp scream as she was slammed into the side of a building. The force of the blow cracked the wall and she crumpled to the ground.

  Quinsareth saw a flash of red as Bedlam took on the devil’s roar as its own. The battleworn beast turned and glared at the charging aasimar with burning coal eyes. One of its forward horns had been snapped off and several arrows protruded from its arms and chest. Thick, black blood oozed from wounds across its stomach and from rips in its wings. Its face was twisted into a mocking grin by a jutting, underslung jaw filled with fangs and two large tusks. Rain steamed as it poured over the devil’s hard skin, boiling in its hell-born heat.

  The malebranche roared weakly at the mocking sword. Wracked with pain from its injuries, it tried to turn and meet its enraged attacker. A massive fist crashed into Quin’s shoulder, sending waves of pain through his chest. He rolled with the blow, bringing Bedlam inside the devil’s reach. The beast snapped its head up, raking its single horn along Quin’s breastplate and cutting a jagged gash through the Hoarite’s jaw.

  Quinsareth, oblivious to the pain, swung his sword up in a vicious cut. Bedlam sliced off the remaining horn and bit deep into the side of the beast’s head. His arm ached with the impact, but Quin held on as Bedlam screamed and cut deeper. Burning in contact with its flesh, Bedlam howled until the devil’s struggles ceased.

  The aasimar jumped backward, wrenching his sword free as the hulking body of the malebranche slumped forward, shaking the ground with its weight. Its spilled blood hissed in the puddles, the sounds merging with the deluge. Quin’s shoulder stabbed with pain as he hobbled over to Elisandrya, his gut chilled with fear.

  Kneeling beside her, he inspected the deep gouges in her side. She gasped in pain as he pressed against them to slow her bleeding. Her eyes wide, she gulped for air and winced. Though relieved to see her conscious, she grabbed at his wrist before he could speak. He trembled as she slid her other hand across his cheek.

  “Go, finish it,” was all she said, her eyelids heavy as she released him. She pulled her cloak around herself tightly, but never looked away from him.

  Wordlessly, he nodded and stood, turning toward the temple doors. Her words and brief touch were seared into his mind, not for their sentiment or the feelings they conveyed, but for what he knew, in his heart of hearts. With or without her permission, whether or not he might have been able to heal her wounds, he’d have gone and left her anyway, to finish what he’d begun.

  And he hated himself for it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Splotches of red covered her hands and arms.

  She could feel herself screaming in the candlelight
, crying and trying to wipe the stains away, but they stubbornly remained. Her grandmother opened the bedroom door calmly and knowingly, waiting for the vision to pass, not wanting to interfere with the child’s destiny.

  In moments, the blood was gone as if blown away by her own breath, and she looked to her grandmother, the High Oracle of the Hidden Circle, with pleading in her eyes.

  “Make it go away, Nanna! I don’t want it!”

  The old woman merely crossed the room and sat by Sameska’s side, holding her hands and looking gravely into her eyes.

  “That I cannot do, Sameska. Would not if I could,” she said, her voice deep and comforting. “It is a blessing of Savras, to see that which will be. You have been chosen, just as your mother and I were chosen.”

  Chosen. She contemplated the word later as she slept, bundled in soft blankets against an early autumn chill. The visions had only recently begun, making her feel special at first, but then they had come more often. In quiet moments, in the middle of daily chores, and, that day, among her friends. She sobbed, still able to see the looks of horror on their faces as she’d rambled, telling each about the day they would die. Horror turned to anger and hatred, and the cruelty of children became isolation. She was hidden indoors to await her mother, still among her peers at the temple.

  Alone in her room, staring into the darkness, smelling the smoke of a cooling candle, she listened to the muffled voices of her mother and grandmother through the door. She drew up the stone cold courage of her mother and stoically pulled her arms out from beneath the covers, holding them up to the moonlight that shone through the dark curtains.

  It was there. She could not truly see it, the vision having passed, but the blood was still there. Imagining it across her hands and fingers, wrinkled and old as they’d been, she wondered at what she’d seen. Savras demanded truth in all things, an accounting of each vision or prophecy for all to hear. This one she had not told, not to Nanna or her mother. A sickening guilt had haunted her about the vision, for the blood was not hers, and she knew that someone had died.