Circle of Skulls w-6

by James P. Davis

  Dismissing the spell, she approached an aging Watchman.

  "Officer! Good sir!" she panted, getting his attention before drawing too close.

  "What-?" the Watchman turned, sword in hand, a tall, lean man with gray streaking his dark brown hair and peppering his thick mustache. He lowered the blade slightly, glancing at the fight. "Good gods, lass! Get out of here before you get skewered. I nearly gutted you myself! Can't you see we're a bit engaged at the moment?"

  "Indeed, sir," she replied. "But I need your help! I can't explain right now, but unless you want this night to get any worse, we need to protect Pharra's Alley!"

  "What do you know about 'this night,' eh?" he asked, blowing his horn again and grinning as another patrol arrived. "I've half a mind to have you taken in for questioning. Unless you want to spend the night in a cell, I suggest you let us work!"

  Quessahn swore under her breath, having no time to explain herself.

  "I was a friend to Rorden Allek Marson," she called over the din of shouts and clashing blades. "And if you have any respect for his memory at all, you will-"

  "I patrolled with Allek Marson for five years!" he growled, fire in his sharp eyes. "And I'll not have some fey lass with a fancy dagger in her belt question my loyalty to the man, gods rest his poor soul!"

  "Good! Then follow me and keep the bastards responsible for his death from killing anyone else!" she countered angrily, matching his stare.

  He bristled for a breath, glancing between her and the battle behind them, then nodded reluctantly.

  "Aeril!" he shouted, turning a startled young officer around. "Grab one of those patrols and follow me." The man saluted and ran ahead of the arriving patrol, waving them to a stop. "Naaris, hold this line! Warden Tallmantle has more patrols en route from Worth Ward. And take one of these rabid derelicts alive if possible!"

  "Now, lass," he said, turning back to Quessahn and striding north. "Commander Gravus Tavian at your service, at least until I find out what's going on, then I'm likely to have you arrested by morning. Sound fair?"

  "Quessahn Uthraebor," she replied, "not 'lass,' and if we are alive by morning, I will count myself lucky to sleep for several days in one of your cells!"

  Jinn felt a new strength flowing through his arms as he bashed Sathariel's sword aside and ripped a burning gash through the angel's breastplate. Sathariel roared in pain and drove the deva back, scoring a jagged cut on his arm. Jinn ignored the wound. Sathariel seemed weakened. Perhaps the stolen sword had evened the ground between them. He tumbled out of the path of the angel's blade and into a defensive crouch.

  His body tensed like a spring as he jumped again, clashing with the angel in midair. He remembered things, envisioning the battles he had fought in the palaces of demon princes and on the scorched fields of lost Mulhorand. His thirst for vengeance was gone, and he embraced that quiet part of his heritage that had always urged him to fight, to the exclusion of all else, as a mortal angel drenched in the bloody business of a greater good. He had forgotten much of that, caught up in the daily lives and trials of mortals, and it had taken a mysterious blade stolen from his enemy to remind him.

  It crashed against Sathariel's varnbrace, leaving scorch marks where it touched the silver armor and drawing wispy streams of ethereal blood in its wake. Though he exulted in the blade's power, a lingering suspicion of the blade made the steel feel strange in his hand. Though he felt he had stolen it of his own free will, he feared other forces were at work.

  "Fool of dead gods," Sathariel rumbled as they traded blows relentlessly. "You have no idea what you have involved yourself in!"

  The silver blade whistled by Jinn's ear, drawing sparks on the iron railing as he ducked and thrust at the angel's arm. Sathariel's quick blade slapped his strike aside.

  "I've always been here. It was never my place to understand or question the desires of the gods," he replied, rolling away from the edge of the roof.

  A silver blur followed him as Sathariel whirled, slashing in a wide arc. Jinn stopped and braced himself, sword raised to block the angel's blow and wincing at the force behind it.

  "Then you are ignorant as well as a fool," the angel thundered, "and that blade you wield has suffered many such fools. They died well before drawing my blood, and they died gladly, I assure you."

  Jinn glanced at the shining sword then cursed as Sathariel took advantage of his distraction, opening a deep cut in his side and reopening the wound he'd suffered from Lucian Dregg. The pain was fleeting, overcome by the stolen sword's curious hunger and old power. He pressed back, parrying the angel's blade and opening a sister wound in Sathariel, dragging the length of his sword through the angel's side. Steel crashed between them, but neither called out in pain, unwilling to give the other the satisfaction.

  The sky was alive with dancing lights and rolling fire. Whispers and wails surrounded them even as the streets below echoed with battle. Dark clouds roiled in wide circles, thundering though the rain had stopped. Tremors rumbled from the abandoned house. Though he battled relentlessly, the stolen sword fought with a passion of its own. It squirmed in his grip, the sensation sickening, but he could not release it, did not dare try. He clung to the steel and prayed he had made the right decision, prayed for his very soul.

  Striking low and spinning to his right, Jinn nimbly avoided a killing blow, but Sathariel rushed forward, slamming into the deva with his armored shoulder. Jinn stumbled back, deflecting another fatal slash but taking a deep cut across the back of his leg in return. He fell to one knee, gritting his teeth against the pain, and tried to rise but faltered, pain shooting up the side of his body like fire.

  He watched helplessly as the angel drew close and stared at the blade as though it had betrayed him. Heart pounding in his chest, Jinn raised the sword, determined to fight from the ground if he had to, though the hopelessness of his resolve sat bitterly in his thoughts. He had experienced a thousand deaths, both spectacular and mundane, but as he looked into the twinkling blue lights of the angel's pitted eyes, he saw something different. His rage battled with a faint hope as he spoke.

  "This sword… this choice I've made," Jinn said, gasping. "Will I die? Truly die?"

  "None can know, deva. The contract has never been answered before," Sathariel replied, his sword rising.

  "Contract?" Jinn asked, his eyes fixed on the silver blade over the angel's shoulder, his thoughts racing as a hundred battles came to mind, a hundred deaths flashing through his soul, each life fading with the same wish, for one more chance to relive the moment.

  "No time for that now. Farewell, Jinnaoth. You should never have come to this world," Sathariel replied, his voice ominously gentle.

  The silver sword fell, its arc mirroring that of a hundred others, an executioner's strike, clean and perfect.

  TWENTY-TWO

  NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

  The stolen blade shivered in his hand as he followed the stroke of the angel's sword, his death written on its edge. Though he had faced his ending a thousand times, instinct would not let him rest again so soon. The motions were reflex, written in hopeless thoughts on a battlefield whose name he could not recall. He had died that day with a glimmer of regret burned into his thoughts, a regret that moved his good leg and placed strength in his arm.

  He hacked at Sathariel's blade, battering it aside as he lunged within the angel's guard and drove the steel of his stolen blade deep into Sathariel's chest. The shining sword screamed through the silvered armor. It burned and hissed through the angel as ethereal blood streamed from the injury.

  Sathariel's sword clattered to the ground, and he gripped Jinn's shoulders, wings beating furiously in a panic to escape. The deva held on tightly, keeping the angel close as Sathariel howled in his ear, pulling him toward the iron railing. Glowing light poured from the wound as the angel's struggles slowed and grew sluggish. With a final beat of his massive wings, Sathariel fell.

  Jinn collapsed at the edge of the r
oof, gripping the deep cut in his leg as the angel slumped upon the iron railing, his armor caught on rusted spikes, his wings stretched out, twitching as his life bled away. The deva held on to the hungry blade, clutching it fast and bearing witness to the long-sought death of his enemy.

  "I do not envy you… deva," Sathariel rasped as ribbons of shadow bled from his body, drawn into the shining blade in his chest. "In victory I was to be rewarded… finished… a powerful vassal of a pleased god… but you… you must now go on…"

  Jinn pulled close as the angel's voice grew weak, sparks of warm power racing through his sword arm.

  "Why? What do you mean?" he asked.

  "The contract… lies in your hand…," Sathariel replied, chuckling softly. "Forged when the world was young… a contract of steel… a bargain made between the forces of darkness and light… an invitation to Asmodeus…"

  Jinn stared at the blade as it drank the angel's shadowy essence, devouring the darkness in his wings. It drew rivers of ethereal blood from the black pits of Sathariel's eyes. It glowed brighter with every strip of angelic flesh. Jinn released it and fell back, the horrid power still pulsing through his blood.

  "You are now a balance… fulcrum between this world and a god's wrath…" Sathariel laughed again, writhing in pain. "Devils and angels will seek you out, deva! Your wars will never end! And every time… you must choose…"

  The angel shook as he chuckled, weaker and weaker, his mighty wings shrinking to little more than feathered stumps of shadow. Jinnaoth felt the pain in his leg subside, the wound nearly closed by the sword's power, and a sickening hollow formed in his gut.

  Nauseated, he looked away, staring into the crimson column of light and the burning clouds overhead, their fires already lessening as the angel died.

  "Why do you tell me this?" he asked.

  "Because… it pleases me to do so…," Sathariel answered. Then he shuddered violently, falling silent as his body fell apart, the remnants taken up by the wind in a cloud of ash, embers, and dissipating feathers.

  The sword remained lodged in the silvered breastplate, and Jinn stared at it with a mixture of awe and terror. He touched its pommel once, and his mind was assaulted with a flash of power. It showed him images of the Astral Sea and a burning ocean of fire, veils of energy rippling across a spinning sphere of brilliant blues; rough browns; and drifting, white clouds-the very moment he had chosen to follow his gods into a world of flesh and blood.

  He snatched his hand away from the sword, his wrist burning from the contact as he stood and limped away from the weapon. He clutched his arm close, cradling it as he retreated, leaving the sword behind and slowly descending a narrow stairway into the House of Thome.

  Shattered glass crunched beneath their boots as Quessahn and Tavian ran up the length of Flint Street, slowing as they neared the House of Wonder and stopping short at the grisly scene that awaited them. Smaller tremors rumbled through the cobbles as they edged closer to the scattered bodies sprawled across the avenue, several grouped together near the mouth of Pharra's Alley. Quessahn counted almost two dozen, all of them in the dingy, stinking robes of the ahimazzi, their curved blades rattling on the ground as the street vibrated slightly then quickly ceased.

  A peaceful silence once again fell over the darkened ward. Steam rose from the slowly cooling bodies as Quessahn stepped through and over them to peer into the alley.

  "What in blazes is this? Did someone beat us to the punch?" Tavian grumbled, covering his nose and mouth, the stench of the soulless even more pungent in death.

  "I don't think so," Quessahn replied as she glanced to the southern sky and pointed. The column of crimson light had disappeared, leaving only a sparkling cloud of blue, drifting in the wind as the roiling clouds fell apart and returned to their normal courses. The fires in the sky were gone, and the chilling mist returned, setting Quess to shivering even as a glimmer of hope warmed in her heart. "He must have done it," she whispered. "It must have been Sathariel himself… tied to the ritual somehow. The angel died and-"

  "What in Torm's name are you babbling on about, lass?" Tavian asked and grasped her shoulder, shaking the daze from her eyes. "An angel? Rituals? You're not making any sense!"

  "No, she is not," a voice added from the alley as a figure approached, two faintly glowing eyes accompanied by the tapping of a wooden staff. Quess flinched for a moment but calmed as the familiar wizard came into view, dark robes covered in ancient, barbaric runes and accented by guards of leather. Long braids covered his shoulders and he wore a strange, wavy-bladed sword at his side. His eyes, blue orbs of glowing ice set in a too-pale face, regarded Quessahn curiously. "However, I am eager to hear the tale of this night if you are willing to spare her for a moment or two, Commander."

  "Master Bastun, I wasn't aware that you had returned from Shadowdale," Quess said, inclining her head slightly.

  "Apparently not," Bastun replied.

  "I'll do better than spare her for a moment," Tavian said, sheathing his sword. "I'll join you for a bit of a chat. Warden Tallmantle will want a full report, and my own curiosity will not easily be put to rest until the tale is told… well, at least this young woman's version of it, that is." The last he added with a narrowed glance at the eladrin before extending his hand to the wizard. "Well met, Master Bastun, was it?"

  "It was-I mean, it is," Quessahn stammered, her tongue caught between her racing thoughts and her racing heart, keeping the southern sky in sight as she introduced the officer. "This is Commander Gravus Tavian. He was escorting me, that is, I was leading him-"

  "Calm, child. There is time. Shall we go inside and warm ourselves?" Bastun said, placing an unnaturally cold hand upon her arm as he directed the officer toward the house gate.

  "You read my mind, Master Bastun," Tavian replied. He shouted over his shoulder as they strode toward the gate, "Aeril! You enjoy the cold so much, keep this alley secure until I return."

  Quessahn walked with them slowly, distracted as she stared at the sky in wonder, looking for Jinnaoth until Flint Street was out of sight. Even as she tried to arrange her thoughts, placing her experiences of the past two days in some kind of understandable order, she kept thinking of the deva.

  For all that had passed between them, she longed to see him alive and well-and, almost shamefully, she hoped he felt the same.

  Maranyuss spied upon the eladrin as she walked through the gate of the House of Wonder. Wizards filled the alley, pointing to the sky and discussing wild theories on what had just occurred in hushed voices.

  Officers of the Watchful Order began gathering the magic-users in groups, questioning them as the Watch set out to return order to the ward.

  The night hag stroked the ruby pendant around her neck, calming her greedy hunger for the skulls' souls, patient enough to wait until the excitement wore down. She smiled, despite herself, at the little victory they had achieved, though she would never admit such a thing to her strange allies.

  "Interesting evening, eh?" Briarbones remarked as he shuffled up to her, leaning on a branch that served as a makeshift walking stick. "It is nice to be surprised every century or two."

  "Surprised?" Mara asked.

  "Well, it's not every day that a gruesome series of mass murders results in what some might construe as good news. Most end quite tragically, that is, if anyone survives to tell the tale at all," he answered. "Though, I must say I am curious to hear Jinnaoth's version of events."

  "I'm sure you are. You knew about that sword he carried, didn't you?" Mara asked, her eyes flashing crimson through the illusory gaze she wore.

  "I suspect I knew just as much as you did." Briar grinned slyly. "Much more than him, at any rate. I honestly thought it was just a myth, a bedtime tale for good little devils to hear upon their fiery pillows at night… but the deva would have thrown it away if we had told him."

  "And we would all be dead," Mara added casually, not feeling too strongly one way or another about the prospect, but not disappointed at be
ing counted among the living. "Do you suppose we were nobly withholding a secret? Or do we merely value our lives more than we do his?"

  "Well, one doesn't grow as old as I am by acting overly noble," Briarbones replied. "Make of that what you will."

  "I shall," she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his good arm as they strolled away from the suddenly crowded alleyway. Mara was somewhat troubled, considering the deva as a strange emotion flickered in her fickle heart, and she wondered at it, musing it to be some kind of caring or perhaps a less disdainful form of apathy. She marveled at the curiosity a breath before scowling. "I have spent far too much time among mortals."

  "Yes," Briar agreed, hissing. "They tend to get under the skin after a few centuries, don't they?"

  "Disgusting," she added.

  "Is it the struggle, do you think?" the avolakia asked. "Watching them fight and scratch, clawing at one another and praying to any god that will listen, always crying for something better?"

  "No, I think it's the hope," Maranyuss answered. "It's rather unique among them. Where I'm from there's precious little of it."

  "There is a certain appeal to that as well," Briar added. "I'll never get used to the smell of them, though."

  EPILOGUE

  NIGHTAL 26, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

  The street below Pages Curious was as busy as ever as Jinnaoth stood by his window, staring out through the narrowed curtains. A blur of people rushed by beneath his golden gaze, though, day by day, he found himself looking for only one among the crowds. Since returning he had slept little and eaten less, troubled each day he walked the city streets, wondering when the moment he both feared and desired would come-and receiving his answer early in the morning, when the broadcriers began hawking stories of angels and bloody murders.

  As the sun set and shadows lengthened, he saw her face in the crowd, pushing her way through the heavy traffic before gateclose. A large bag was slung over