"I'll find out what I can," she replied coldly, "but only until the eladrin can walk. I'll not stand around any longer while you blunder into the unknown."
"Fair enough," Jinn replied and headed for the door, the winter wind driving flurries of snow into the tower as he left her staring daggers at his back. Pulling his cloak tightly, he jogged out of the closed circle of buildings and held back in the shadows for a breath. Seeing no Watch patrols or shambling figures of the ahimazzi, he dashed down the street, keeping his eyes fixed on the sky as if the low, gray clouds would sprout black wings were he to look away.
Warm blood coursed through the body of a young man, sliding through muscle, turning along the curve of a strong bone, winding between tight lengths of tendon, and branching like a forest of crimson and blue trees rooted in a field of flesh. Each nuance of the city, the feel of stone beneath his hands and snow on his face, was a marvel to those housed within his mind.
The nine skulls ran him fiercely, leaping from one rooftop to the next, enraptured by their time back in a place of physical being, of pulsing hearts and base desires. Somewhere behind the burning green eyes and the shadowy shroud of the chosen body, the circle of skulls-once known simply as the circle of nine-still bickered and argued over details and trivialities, but in purpose they were of one mind and unified goal.
They followed a prayer-filled river of power, growing stronger with each step, fed by those who would assist them. One of them pressed forward, smiling with the young man's lips-and still able to taste the lust of Rilyana Saerfynn upon them-as they came within sight of the House of Loethe. Blood stained their borrowed hands, the earlier killing merely an appetizer for the meal to come.
They crawled slowly over an adjacent rooftop, tiles abrading the soft skin they wore. Pain was a novel experience, one nearly forgotten in the long years since being cursed to live as mere skulls of enchanted bone. Cuts and scratches burned on the skin, growing numb in the cold, which caused its own sort of pain, the dull ache of exposure. Each sensation they sipped at like fine wine, tasting and savoring the experience, and each anxious to claim their own bodies once again.
A familiar scent gave them pause, and their stolen throat loosed an uneasy growl. They searched the sky, looking for the black wings of the angel, Asmodeus's pet. The devil-god would not soon forget those who had betrayed him so long ago.
"He shall not win," they muttered, nine voices in concert. "Sea Ward shall become a graveyard long before he can think to make it his Hell."
Smiling, they slithered down the slope of the roof, sniffing the air and smelling blood, the taste of it on their tongue sending chills down their spine. Murmuring incoherently, the nine skulls each attempted to use the voice of the young man, absently arguing over the wisdom of their plan as they'd done for centuries. Several distrusted Archmage Tallus, others doubted his talent, and still others could not see anything beyond reversing the monumental failure of three centuries ago, at any cost.
"The angel will find us, usurp all that we have worked for!"
"Nonsense! Sathariel is as blind as his master. He has no power save that which he can steal, and we have hidden ours well enough for centuries."
"Tallus will fail. He hasn't the discipline to-!"
"He has the desire, the greed for our power. That will serve him and us."
"Too much greed. We have given him the last of our secrets."
"Then we shall be swift!"
The argument ended abruptly as their body leaped from the roof, landing nimbly in the Loethes' garden. Blood and salt and lust drew them to a servants' entrance, the scents of older times when magic was a full cup from which they drank deeply. They had served Mystra once, the goddess passing little judgment on her followers' morals and choices, no matter how dubious, yet they imagined even she had paled when she discovered their intent, despite their failure.
There was no goddess to stop them anymore, and only a vengeful devil of a deity was left to try, but he was young to his power. Time was on their side, but only if they struck soon and only if they gambled on an eternity of suffering.
A muffled chanting reached their ears from somewhere within the house, thrumming through the walls and caressing their body with promises of power.
"Delicious fools," they whispered. "They think they are honoring Asmodeus, calling upon him to visit their wealthy coven with dark blessings." Chuckling, they placed a smoke-shrouded hand against a hidden door and pushed. "No doubt they shall find themselves with Asmodeus in good time."
James P. Davis
Circle of Skulls
Jinn prowled the edge of an iron-and-stone wall cautiously, studying the darkened windows and quiet gardens of the Loethe family home. He knew nothing of them save for his brief encounter with the Lady Lhaerra at the Storm's Front tavern, yet the size of their estate suggested room enough for a large family. He paced quietly, trying to decide if he should enter immediately or wait for something to happen, not wishing to call attention to himself unless he had to. Mara had barely glanced at Tallus's notes; he could not deny the possibility that she had been wrong. Despite that, something about the high, stone walls and the garden's eerie silence felt right, tugging at him like the insistent pain of an aching tooth.
He stopped cold, a squeaking sound sending a chill down the back of his neck. It squelched for a breath then stopped, like the sound of a damp hand being dragged across a pane of glass. He searched the windows along the upper floor, squinting through the snow for the source of the noise. There were eight gabled windows, all in a row and all of them identical save for the last one on the western end. A streak of crimson blurred the otherwise spotless glass, the shape of little fingers easily made out above the red smear. The curtains waved, revealing a sliver of darkness and the unmistakable glow of burning green eyes.
He leaped the fence and sprinted through the garden, spying no guards to slow him as he approached the front door. In a brief moment of hope, he tried the handle, but the door was solidly locked. Abandoning convention, he dashed to the rounded eastern corner where tall windows outlined a large side room. He tried to peer inside but whirled around as footsteps crunched on frost behind him. A haggard, bent woman in torn robes stepped out from the shadow of a large tree, her dull, soulless eyes regarding him blankly. She raised the curved dagger in her left hand high as she shambled toward him, a stumbling half run that gave him little time for caution.
He drew his sword and smashed the window with its pommel, grateful as the glass shattered, unwarded by magic as Tallus's had been. He deflected the ahimazzi's clumsy slash and kicked her back before jumping through the window, briefly engulfed by thick curtains as his boots crunched on broken glass. The soulless woman recovered, and others of her kind appeared in the garden but would not approach the house, wandering back to their cold shadows.
Holding still behind the curtains for several breaths, Jinn waited for the inevitable rush of guards or the screams of frightened servants. Greeted by only the strangely quiet house and a meticulously clean ballroom, he crossed the tall room to a sweeping staircase on the southern wall. At the top of the stairs, still he found no signs of life-no lit lanterns or sounds of snoring from the long hallway on his right, no source of heat to keep away the night's chill as the family slept. His breath steamed in the half light of curtained windows in room after room, their doors left open. Empty bedrooms bore straightened, unused sheets. A small library's hearth held no glowing embers of a forgotten fire.
It was as though no one had lived in the house for years, and if not for the lack of dust, Jinn would have sworn that to be the case. Finally, at the end of the hallway, he pushed open a cracked door, a single room to suggest the house had been occupied at all. Several wooden toys were arranged neatly on low shelves, causing him to momentarily wonder at the lives of children, what it must have been like to have a mother and a father.
After several breaths he let his eyes wander to the streak of blood on the window, following its course down t
o the small body on the floor. Though partially covered in a stained sheet, the inflicted wounds needed no close inspection to identify. A scent of fear still hung on the air. He didn't turn to look at the other small bed against the west wall; he didn't have to.
Back in the hallway, before he could consider rushing downstairs, he found the ghostly glow of emerald flames flickering from within a shroud of shadow at the top of the steps. An unholy growl escaped the tortured throat of the skulls' stolen body as it disappeared down the stairs. Jinn gave chase, leaping over the banister and taking the stairs several at a time, though the skulls had already crossed the ballroom in a dark blur, wisps of shadow dissipating in their wake.
Cursing, he held back, crossing the ballroom slowly, feeling less on the heels of a mystical killer and more a rogue's mark being led into a trap. Silhouettes passed the windows outside, lit by streetlamps and wandering in the garden, surrounding the house with their dead eyes and curved knives.
Too late, he thought.
Peering around the corner, he found the green gaze of the skulls, waiting for him within a doorway. A deep, droning chant echoed from the dark as the skulls crept backward, descending into a hidden stairwell as if beckoning the deva to follow. Jinn hesitated, weighing his options as the chant grew louder, punctuated by throaty gasps and moans. The voices slid on the air as if wet and clinging, like the silvered trail of a slug given sound. Despite all, he could not resist his nature, pulled forward by the chant as easily as if they were trumpets calling him to war.
Stone faces, filled with the glowing light of guttering candles, were set in the stairway's single column as Jinn cautiously took the steps. He followed the edge of his blade inexorably down, imagining that the Abyss itself awaited him below. The night's chill was replaced by the cloying, damp heat of bodies pressed to exertion. Scents of blood and sweat grew stronger, more sour, as they mingled with the none-too-subtle smells of sex and death. It called to mind many such gatherings he had witnessed in recent years, the same stench embedded in the threads of the bloody cloth map he'd found a few days before.
He did not flinch or recoil from the scene that awaited him below, having grown sickeningly accustomed to the extremes that foolish people embraced to alleviate the daily routine of their lives. For the poor it was the hope of a richer life, for the empty a plea for a life worth more than the nothing they felt. For the wealthy, more often than not, simple boredom ensnared them in pits of perversion.
A wide, shallow basin of marble dominated the room, sloshing with oils and blood. Bodies slid and grasped at one another in the basin with toothy smiles and wild eyes, their limbs tangled and stained so much that the meeting of one body and the next was lost in the press. Each already bore a series of symbols, neatly carved down the center of the chest, though they remained alive and seemingly oblivious to the pain of their wounds. The chant came from those surrounding the basin, in dark blue, stained robes. The blue-robed people exulted in a chaotic song of magic, voices upraised, almost pious, as though in prayer.
Blood dripped over the bodies from a curved blade held in the skulls' possessed hand at the far end of the basin. Ephemeral tendrils of energy flowed from the cavorting congregation and into the flickering shadows of the skulls' body, their darkness rising and licking the air like black flame. They regarded Jinn casually, beckoning him with the stained blade.
"Come, deva," they said, their voices booming in the small room, sending ripples through the bare flesh before them. "We would have words with you."
Jinn heard them speak but did not register what they'd said for several breaths, blinking and seeing the chamber as if for the first time, a sudden silence falling over the repulsive spectacle. A stinking miasma of evil overcame him, assaulting his senses and summoning a righteous rage that burned in his gut. Several half-lidded gazes fell on him at once as his golden eyes flashed in anger, looking down on the victims for whose lives Quessahn had argued, defending their right to live, to be represented rather than ignored.
"Innocents," he spat. He raised his stolen blade and charged.
Quessahn leaned to her left with a held breath, placing weight on the leg and half expecting it to collapse beneath her. It didn't, though she winced at the dull pain that throbbed through the limb. As the last streaks of stars left her vision, she stood straight, determined to at least appear strong. Mara sat, her legs crossed, as she pored over the contents of the archmage's notes. The hag's glowing gaze illuminated each page in a dark shade of red that sent chills down Quessahn's spine.
The sight of the night hag, so engrossed in powerful, arcane secrets-old magic rewritten for a spellplagued world-alarmed her more than if Tallus himself had appeared to reclaim them. Keeping an eye on Mara, Quessahn located her ritual dagger and retrieved it, stifling a gasp of pain as she knelt. Slipping the blade beneath her cloak, she approached the night hag warily.
"We should go," she said but received no response. Mara continued turning pages, one clawed finger tracing line after line of handwritten text. "Mara?"
"Are you certain?" the hag asked, not looking up. "Or should I betray you and Jinn now and save myself the trouble of worrying over how to stab you in the back later?"
She closed the book loudly before Quessahn could respond and stood like an apparition in her dark, tattered robes, the archmage's book disappearing in their many folds. She fixed her pinpoint red eyes on the eladrin.
"Save us both the trouble," Quessahn replied. "I'm tired of keeping one eye over my shoulder, wondering when you'll turn on Jinn."
"But you should, my dear," Mara said, twisting a sparkling jade ring. Her form melted and shifted, returning to the guise of a human woman, the unassuming proprietor of an unassuming bookshop. "Just as I keep an eye on him, wondering when he'll be morally struck by the dark bargains he has made over the last few years and decide to start making amends for his misdeeds… on the point of a blade."
"Fair enough, then," Quessahn said. She limped toward the doors. "He'll need our help now."
"Yes, I'm sure he will," Mara said, but she did not follow, instead drawing several items from within her cloak. "So I think we shouldn't bother with limping through the streets. If I read correctly, he'll need our assistance directly."
"What does the book say?" Quessahn asked as she scanned through Mara's spell components.
"You're not being fair to him," Mara replied, ignoring the question as she drew a circle on the floor in blue chalk.
"W-what-?"
"You have something that he has never known: direct knowledge of one of his past incarnations," Mara said. "You look at his face and see another. You say his name, but it sounds unnatural and forced. And you seem to expect him to be the better man you once knew him to be, despite the fact that he, I believe you called him Kehran, is long dead."
"Do you read minds now as well?" Quessahn asked coldly.
"I didn't have to," Mara answered, completing the chalk circle and holding out her hand for the eladrin. "You wear your every emotion plainly. Jinn may not see it-or may not want to-but I do. Putting the pieces together was not too difficult."
"Why do you care?" she asked, hesitating before taking the hag's hand and entering the circle. "If your alliance with him is just a convenience, what do you care if I hide things from him?"
"I do not," Mara replied casually. "I merely point out that betrayals take many forms. While mine, if and when it comes, will be direct and likely bloody, it will be just another in a long line of righteous battles for the deva, but you… you have a grip on his heart, something intangible and lasting that could follow him through every life he lives until the end of creation itself."
"I–I didn't mean…," Quessahn stammered, taken off guard and stunned by the statement.
"It's all right," Mara said with a cruel, victorious grin. "Jinnaoth has little luck when it comes to matters of the heart. Do not think yours will be the first scar he has worn."
Mara whispered an arcane phrase, igniting the chalk circ
le to a bright, flaring blue that filled the rubble-strewn tower. Energy gathered around them, swirling faster and faster, and Quessahn's thoughts spun with the magical vortex. Blinking through the light of the ritual, she caught Mara's eye and tried to set aside her fear.
"What did you see in Tallus's book?" she asked absently as the hag watched the turning streams of blue with a practiced eye, waiting for the right moment to complete the spell.
"More than I expected," Mara answered. "And enough that I fear Jinn will find the Loethe family less than appreciative of his efforts to help them."
Her voice trailed off into a murmuring chant, one hand pressing into the swirl around them with precise gestures, directing the shape and flow as her words grew louder and more demanding. Quessahn felt the floor give way beneath her feet, but in the breath she might have clung tighter to Mara for support, the tower, and everything else, disappeared in a flash of blue.
THIRTEEN
NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)
Bloodstained hands clawed at the air as Jinn leaped over the hissing congregation, his blade curving a wide arc toward the shadowy neck of the green-eyed skulls. They reacted swiftly, deflecting his steel with their own, spatters of blood splashing Jinn's face at the brief contact of the blades. They traded blows, a blur of shining metal flashing between them as the dark ritual of the Loethes fell into chaos. Naked bodies slid across the marble, grasping for Jinn's boots as he maneuvered away from them, furiously slashing at the glowing gaze of the nine skulls, hidden behind the eyes of a stranger.
Nine distinct voices shouted curses from one rnouth, each interrupting the last, spewing incomprehensible venom at the deva. Their vitriol washed over him comfortably, feeling right and whole as he opposed an ancient evil on his own terms. He winced as a quick cut slipped through his defense, the warm ache of the cut feeding his bloodlust.
Circle of Skulls w-6 Page 15
