Jinn hid a smile and eased himself forward once again, sword rising. Sathariel had shown his hand, using lies to tell the truth, illusions of sincerity to display his true desires. Though Jinn saw through the angel's double-speak, he would allow the deception and use it to his advantage.
"Let me consider your offer. Just release the girl," he said evenly, just desperate enough to sound genuine as he took a careful step forward, his sword responding with renewed waves of fury that banished all traces of hope of seeing Variel again.
"Of course, take your time, deva," Sathariel replied and let the rope slide through his fingers.
Jinnaoth dashed across the room, leaping for the rope as his blade cut a wide arc through where the angel had been. A blur of wings and shadow streaked into the air, disappearing through the window with a thunderous roar of beating wings. A step too late, Jinn cursed, the rope slipping through his fingers. Unbalanced, he tried to turn as the girl fell from the rafters, but could not reverse his momentum.
Her body made no sound as it struck the floor, and the rope faded into an insubstantial mist, leaving only a dirty dress, settling lightly, the angel's illusion revealed. The stolen blade fell still in Sathariel's absence, leaving Jinn light-headed and flushed. He leaned on the cushioned chair for long moments, staring at the place where Sathariel had sat, disgusted at how close he'd been but still heartened by the small measure of control he'd earned by the confrontation.
He knew the angel sought to use him. And Jinn decided that he would allow himself to be used. But the next time he encountered the angel, he planned to have his own stolen souls to barter with.
Commander Tavian strolled down Mendever Street amid long shadows stretched between shafts of yellow-gold morning light. Broadsheet criers ran excitedly through the streets, taking their corners for the midmorn rush, fresh broadsheets slung under their shoulders after selling through the early editions. The smell of baking bread, made sharp by the cold snap in the air, wafted everywhere, mingling with the familiar scents of the city.
Tavian drew his heavy cloak tight over his shoulders, suppressing a shiver and casting a withering glance at the nigh-ineffectual sun. He much preferred the spring and summer, never quite getting the knack for the winter patrol. He sneered as Swordcaptains Aeril and Naaris rounded a corner after him. Aeril drew in a long breath and rubbed his hands together, practically ignoring the warm cloak hanging loosely over his shoulder.
"Fine day, Comma-eh, Tavian," Aeril remarked as they avoided the thicker traffic of Mendever Street.
"Cold day, Aeril. Bitter, bright, and spiteful day," Tavian replied, keeping an eye peeled for more of the ward's Watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rorden
Dregg in the press of bodies passing by. "I trust our other men have their orders?"
"Aye, sir-I mean, yes, they've been instructed to observe and report only," Naaris answered. "Though I have a feeling even if we were in full uniform, we might not be noticed…"
He gestured west, but Tavian was well ahead of the observant officer, noting the carriages lined up along two estate walls, some already laden with locked chests. Servants worked feverishly, hauling various items back and forth through the gates as hired guards stood by. Tavian had been told that once, well before the Spellplague, Sea Ward during winter was a veritable ghost town, nobles and the wealthy abandoning the area for homes elsewhere. The howling winter wind off the shoreline was not entirely unbearable, but those with enough gold had never had to bear what they could afford to avoid. In more recent times, the practice was mostly unheard of, especially among the newer families, not as loose with their coin as in times past.
Others with coin to spare seemed intent on staying put, their hired bodyguards reporting for duty and standing sentinel at ornate gates.
At the corners of the next intersection, two crowds had begun to gather, pausing to talk in low voices as the shouts of competing broadsheet criers echoed above the din of business as usual.
"Eighteen massacred in Sea Ward!" one cried.
"Wealthy blood on Sea Ward streets!" another added as customers crowded the lads, each vying to read the scandalous headlines first. Dozens were sold in a matter of breaths, the smiling boys stuffing coins into their satchels. Buyers stood by in small groups, poring over the tale and conferring with worried faces before racing away, lost in the tide of crowded streets.
"Torm's blessed fist!" Tavian swore quietly. He clapped Aeril on the shoulder. "Buy one of those broadsheets before they're all gone!" he said, backing out of the street. He crossed his arms as more full carriages rolled by, wealthy socialites riding with their valuables. "What in the Abyss is going on?"
At a second glance, as he absorbed the shouted headlines, he noted the lack of patrons in the eating establishments and the concerned looks of other shop owners as potential customers passed them by with barely a glance. Such was the frantic pace of it all that Tavian half expected to find similar scenes playing themselves out all across the city, business as usual forgotten in the mad dash to escape being the next victim or, he mused, the rush to gawk at the next body found.
Aeril returned, winding through the crowd, already reading the broadsheet.
"Two families slaughtered last evening, sir," he said, scanning the print for details. "The Loethes of Ivory Street and the Sedras Family off of Breezes Cut, along with six as of yet unidentified men in Watch uniforms. The bodies were marked up, but Watch commanders have made no comment yet on the details of the crimes or any possible suspects."
"So much for keeping this quiet," Tavian grumbled, absently tugging at the end of his beard. "Go. Get your uniforms and a sharp blade. Sea Ward is out at least one patrol; we can help with that. We'll gather the others at midday and have the Watchful Order in the ward by gateclose."
"Lucian Dregg appears to be missing, sir," Naaris said, reading over Aeril's shoulder. "He was last seen outside the Loethe manse, dueling an unusual man in the street."
"Well, it's not all bad news, then," Tavian replied under his breath. "Off you go. Meet back here within half a bell."
The swordcaptains joined the tide of bodies as Tavian lingered, carefully crossing the street, drawn by the sound of children. As worried parents oversaw the packing of their carriages, the children played in the street, turning in circles and singing within the imposing and jagged shadow of an older house, nearly overgrown by the creeping vines of a once-impressive garden.
Tavian shivered as they sang.
Roses in the garden, roses in the hail,
Roses on the window, roses on the wail,
Roses 'round your neck, nine sterns shorn,
Roses on the floor in the House of Thorne!
SEVENTEEN
NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)
Jinn awoke to the fading voices of the whisperers as they passed through Seawind Alley and away to unknown places. Unintelligible words drifted at the edges of a blurry dream, and he wondered for a moment what they had said to him, but the dream was gone, and only the stale scents of the sewer remained. Though Briarbones's lair sat at the top of an incline and remained fairly dry, the worst of the extensive maze of sewers flowed a mere short walk away. Jinn had no fear of his clothes becoming soiled, but he wondered if his nose would ever recover.
Quessahn slept in the corner opposite him, eyes darting beneath their lids as her breath came shallowly, her dreams not yet done with her. Mara snored lightly against the far wall, wrapped in her dark robes, barely a large smudge of shadow, more a stain than a slumbering hag.
Jinn started at the approach of something from the south, a dry, slithering sound echoing through the tunnel. Briar's multifaceted eyes broke through the faint light from the surface entrance first, turning on their stalks before withdrawing. Jinn could hear the avolakia changing in the dark and sat up from the wall.
"Do not cover yourself for my sake," he said, and the noises stopped. "I've lived with illusions long enough."
"I suppose you have," c
ame the old man's voice, his face appearing in the light. "But I much prefer to speak like this, it seems more… polite than forcing words into someone's head."
The old man smiled and hobbled into the dry chamber, placing a small chapbook on the table and glancing at Quess and Mara before turning to Jinn.
"I have located the last of the bloodlines. They are safe now but not for long," he said, patting the chapbook lightly. "The Watch has almost tripled since this morning. The broadsheets were filled with tales of last night's murders, and the streets have become somewhat empty of most intelligent folk since. But the patrols can only do so much with what information they have, and if we attempt to tell them
…"
"They'd take you in," Quessahn said, rubbing her eyes as she awoke. "They'd question you, lock you up, and by the time they realized you were telling the truth-"
"It would be all over," Mara supplied, the dark smudge of her body still against the wall though her crimson eyes glowed from beneath a tattered fold of her robe.
"Indeed," Briar said. "But whether we inform the Watch or not, their numbers will certainly stand in the way of anything we have planned. Speaking of… what do we have planned?"
Jinn stood and stretched, gathering his thoughts as everyone looked to him for an answer. For his own part, he knew what he needed to do; he'd mulled it over several times while trying to sleep in the uncomfortable lair of the avolakia. The grim surroundings and grave sentinels just beyond the pale shadows a few strides away had served only to cement his intention.
"What do you know of the House of Thorne?" he asked Briar.
The avolakia's face split into a curious grin. "Roses on the window, roses on the wall," Briar replied in the sing-song voice of a child and touched a gnarled finger to an old map upon the wall, the spot ominously smudged by his fingertip. "It once belonged to the Thorne family, and no one else for a full season in the three centuries or so since. Over two dozen bodies were found in the basement, the Thornes' included. They say that even after several paintings and remodelings, you can still see the old blood everywhere, as though the house were haunted by it."
"That's where he-I mean, they, will be," Jinn said.
"You are sure?" Mara asked as she unfolded from her dark corner.
"I am. It's likely they'll be there tonight, or if not, then I'll get to the house first," he answered.
"We will get there first," Quessahn added defiantly.
Jinn made as if to reply, but at sight of the determination in her eyes, he let the words die on his tongue, glad she was as willing as he to face the unknown but still troubled by the idea that she did so for the wrong reasons.
"I'll take care of the children," Mara stated, and Jinn nodded, sharing the worried look that flashed in Quess's eyes but having no time to question the hag's loyalty. Whatever Mara had in mind, the last of the skulls' bloodlines would be well out of their reach. He shut out the imagined details of what the hag was capable of and would curse himself for a fool later if need be. Better a handful of possible deaths than a ward full of bodies.
"We should at least wait for dark to-" Briarbones began then paused, his neck craning forward as he edged closer to the tunnel beyond the chamber. He sniffed the air and snarled, a screeching series of clicks and chirps escaping his open mouth. A dozen or so pairs of dead eyes turned to the avolakia, glittering in the dark before shuffling away. Briar turned, a feral look in his eye. "Something is coming. I don't know how many, but it's more than we need to deal with if we have more important things to do."
Jinn could hear them faintly, somewhere in the dark. Soft whimpers and moans echoed through the tunnels, accompanied by heavy, splashing steps.
"The ahimazzi," he muttered. "Quickly, we should get to the surface and lay low until nightfall. The soulless aren't bright, but they can overwhelm us with numbers."
The groans grew louder as the avolakia's zombies met the oncoming mob, the dull sound of fists smacking loudly in the tunnels accompanied by the scrape of curved knives on dry flesh and unfeeling bone. Jinn took the ladder swiftly, shoving the surface cover aside and helping the others out, keeping a careful watch for passing patrols as they escaped. The deva cursed quietly, wishing he'd had time to question Briarbones about the stolen sword at his belt and its strange hunger for Sathariel's blood.
The sounds of battle below were muffled as Briar slid the surface door back into place.
"They'll not stop," Jinn said. "They have no choice."
"Neither do we, apparently. That is if we, or anyone else for that matter, desire to draw breath tomorrow morning," Briar replied, appearing uncomfortable in the alley, nervous and fidgeting in the dim light of late afternoon.
"We'll split into pairs," Jinn said. He turned to Mara, the hag's face already hidden behind a smiling illusion, her arm gently but firmly within the elbow of Briarbones. "Find the children and guard them well, if not for their sakes, then-"
"For my own," Mara supplied mockingly and added with her knowing smile, "I am well aware of the consequences, deva, but as a self-serving creature of some taste, I am also aware of the rewards. I look forward to the dark souls you promised me."
"Very well. Good hunting," he replied reluctantly, far more trustful of the hag in the heat of battle than hidden away with the lives of children in her care. In the end he had only her greed to rely on.
"And to you," she replied and pulled Briar at her side, the pair whispering as they made their way out of the alley, to anyone else appearing as nothing more than a young woman escorting her elderly father.
Jinn turned to Quessahn, the previous night's confrontation hanging between them like a ghost, haunting the eladrin's eyes and inspiring the deva to keep moving. They exited the alley, racing against the sunset, Jinn's heart pounding in time with his boots, anxious for the battle to come.
Only a few candles were lit as darkness neared, scattered windows glowing dimly like faded stars as the destitute and soulless, the ahimazzi, were roused from their mindless wanderings. They shuffled shyly, hiding from the orange and purple twilight, averting their gazes from those few impoverished souls who rushed home and barred their doors.
A storm of whispers slithered through the streets, reaching the ears of bodies without reason, sparking their bestial minds to recall their duties. They followed, grasping at the whispers, their own voices, as if they would be reunited with what had been stolen. Souls upon souls wailed in their minds, spirits bound in the pit of Sathariel's gut, and the ahimazzi gathered to one another, all bound for the same destination.
A few of their number were called away, crawling into the steaming sewers, blades bared and growling like animals. Others were roughly pulled aside and questioned by men in dark uniforms, weak eyes burned in green-tinted lantern light, tongues answerless to shouted questions and harsh commands. They were released at length, shoved to the walls, unable to speak of their misery or purpose, their faraway souls unwilling to give up on the hope for reunion-for the warmth of living flesh.
They scattered slowly as uniformed men attempted to follow them, fragmenting their numbers and wandering aimlessly until they could slip unnoticed into darkened alleys and answer their master's call.
Dark feathers only they could see teased them from above, half a wing fluttering over a steepled roof, a black claw clutching a tall spire, as the angel led them on ever faster, ever more determined to obey. Dim memories flickered in their brains as they drew close to something familiar, intangible flashes of power radiating outward in wide circles. They gasped and moaned as they drew closer, hands grasping at iron bars tipped with sharp, decorative blooms. Matted vines of dry thorns pulled at their robes and dug into their skin, an untended garden of dull greens and browns crawling over everything within the open gates. The ahimazzi wept without sorrow, dirty hands reaching for the dark walls of the small manse beyond the fence.
From somewhere beyond they could hear the faint tap-tapping of a gnarled, wooden staff and muffled chants underground. H
igh above it all, their souls called to them in pain, promising an end, redemption for their failures. They turned their backs to the iron fence, crouching low, their rusty blades in hand. They waited in silence, the remnants of the Vigilant Order, to defend and to witness all that they were promised by the silvered tongue of an angel.
His black wings flapped slowly overhead, a single herald to a dark host their order had invited in ages long past. In the silent streets of Sea Ward, the roaring waves of the Sword Coast thundered like the armies they had once imagined, answering the call of the Flensing to come.
Jinn stared through a pane of glass dripping with rain, watching as the ahimazzi gathered within the circle of homes and businesses across the street, hiding outside the gates of the House of Thome. Dark spires rose from the corners of its flat roof, gables along the sides, the windows blackened and stained by neglect. Amid the bright homes around it, it stood like an architectural cancer, fouling the order of an otherwise typical neighborhood.
The mansion Jinn stood within was empty, its owners packed and evacuated long before gateclose. A useless exodus, he reasoned, for the victims had been chosen long before their own births, taken-save for a precious few-all before the sun had risen, the slain bloodlines of nine men too greedy for life to die, too hungry for immortality to let blood relation stand in their way.
"They should have torn it down more than a century ago," Quessahn said from the shadows behind him.
"They couldn't. It was a fascination, a whispered story for their parties. Passed along like a secret," Jinn replied. "Besides, the skulls would have protected it, kept it safe until all was prepared for their working."
"Perhaps they might have hired a gardener, then," Quessahn muttered as she bent to her task, surrounding herself with spell components and an old scroll. She began to draw on the floor of the living room, the chalk giving off a bitter scent that mingled with that of dried petals and leaves as she prepared her ritual, the strange magic of a new age. "Do you trust her? Mara, I mean."
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