Bloodwalk (27 page)

Elisandrya’s voice was strong, angry, and inspiring. Zakar nodded, smiling grimly. Arek looked to his fellows and all seemed to be in awkward agreement.

In moments, the gates were barred and weapons were retrieved. Zakar and several others ran to secure the south and north gates and rally their brethren to the defense of the city.

Nary a soul, beset by plague, storm, and threat of imminent death, refused the call. Over fifty hunters had arrived at the eastern gate to find Elisandrya Loethe standing on the wall, vigilantly waiting, staring into the darkness beyond. Still more arrived as time wore on. Warriors came to claim an honor in death they might have missed in surrender. None questioned whether they might die, but rather how they would meet their end.

As more hunters arrived, Eli could hear them, feel them pointing up at her. Having begun this revolt, she was looked to as its commander. Shaken by the responsibility at first, she soon became comfortable giving orders. Zakar, whose booming voice carried much farther than her own, gladly assisted her.

All the while, her eyes never left the forest for long.

She wished Quinsareth could see them. She hoped Sameska watched from her temple. She hoped it would all be enough.

A familiar voice shouted from behind her. She and Zakar turned to see Lord Hunter Baertah pushing through the crowd of warriors. Clearly enraged, Baertah growled through clenched teeth at the hunters who cleared a path for him. Eli could not hear what he said, but as the men looked up to her position, she knew this moment was bound to come sooner or later.

As their eyes met, Eli smiled slightly and leveled her gaze on the manicured fop of Littlewater. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she descended to meet Baertah on even ground. The crowd of hunters parted as the two neared each other. Lightning split the sky.

“Blasphemy!”

Baertah spat the word through the rain. Elisandrya waited calmly, glaring as the lord hunter approached her. She saw no rapier at his belt, no sign that he might be ready to face a true enemy, much less draw weapons in battle.

“All of you! Lay down your arms and return to your homes! The high oracle’s edict forbids this!” He pointed at Eli with a trembling finger. “And arrest her for inciting a riot!”

“No!” Eli shouted. “Stand and defend your homes or die in them!”

No one moved, glancing at the adversaries in turn. Baertah narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, standing nose to nose with Eli, who did not budge. “You would let them die in vain?”

“Sameska is mad, lost in delusions,” Eli replied in even tones. “I would let them die with honor, defending that which her prophecy would destroy.”

He stepped back a half pace, staring in disbelief at her words and beckoning with a hand to the hunters behind him, who still had not budged.

“Just who do you think you are?” he asked, incredulous.

“I am a Hunter of the Hidden Circle. A warrior sworn to live and die in service to Savras and those faithful to him.” Her voice lowered to a harsh growl. “Who do you think you are?”

Baertah looked over his shoulder, frustrated that no one had yet obeyed his commands. Turning back to Eli, he growled in reply, loud enough for all to hear. “I am the lord hunter! And I want this yelping bitch in chains before …!”

He never saw the fist that found his jaw, only the spinning clouds overhead as his neck snapped backward. The barest hint of pain began to lance through his face as his back met the ground, splashing and sprawling in the mud like a rag doll.

Elisandrya did not stop to watch him gasp for lost breath. She ascended the ladder to the top of the wall and resumed her vigil. No one helped Baertah to stand, all going solemnly back to their tasks of mounting the city’s defenses. More than a few found a moment to smile.

Dreslya walked with the slow gait of one who could not feel the floor beneath her feet. She felt the world tilting against her, could hear her own thoughts berating her as a foolish girl acting beyond her station in life.

But she continued anyway.

Dreslya had pulled back her straight, raven-black hair. Beneath the hem of her robes she wore sturdy leather boots instead of the sandals typically worn in the temple. The dagger in her belt felt strange against her hip, but its weight was comforting. She held a long, wrapped bundle in her arms gently, almost reverently, cradling it against her shoulder.

The sanctuary doors, lit by candlelight, loomed larger than they had ever seemed before. Shadows danced across the carvings of various stylized eyes, the traditional symbols of the All-Seeing One. Her mind raced through a hundred different scenarios of what might occur beyond those doors, all of them disastrous failures.

But she continued anyway.

A phantom sense of purpose pushed her on. Despite the doubt in herself, she struggled to trust her faith. Sameska’s prophecy echoed in her mind, the words burned in her memory. That haunting voice trailed behind her, whispering in her ear, buzzing along her spine, and clawing at her robes. But a new voice had joined the chorus, far louder and more honest than Sameska had ever dreamed to be.

Just steps away from the door, she stopped, breathing deeply. For so long, she’d been the dutiful servant, the attentive and quiet student of faith. The silver ring on her hand glinted as the candle’s glow touched it. She stared at the simple band, gathering herself to shatter the silence she’d clung to in safety.

She knew the prophecy would come to pass that night, unfurling its dark promises at the gates of the city. The sight of Savras would reveal its secrets and hidden meanings, ripples in the surface of time and chance.

The prophecy will prove true, she thought, like nothing we could have imagined.

Raising a hand, she whispered the words to a minor spell. The locks and seals on the door released at her command. She exhaled a deep breath and reached for the handle.

“Nothing is as it seems,” she whispered to herself fearfully, and entered the sanctuary.

Water reached the forest floor in a steady drip from the canopy of branches above. Dead leaves, early harbingers of winter, pooled the rain in brown cups, the overflow soaking the dark soil beneath. A mist flowed like a smoky river between the trees, climbing their trunks and then breaking like waves to curl back down into the current.

Bedlam’s voice sang like the raging storm, flashing through the whipping tendrils of bloodthorns that sought Quin’s legs. The ground was soaked in the sticky black ichor of the thirsty plants, their vines writhing and curling in on themselves at his feet. Pale snakes with multifaceted eyes slithered away as the sheltering bloodthorns were cut down. Insects with reptilian tails and eyes buried themselves beneath the leaves.

Panting and backing away from the high wall of brush and deadfall, Quinsareth eased Bedlam’s roar to a dull, metallic growl. The carnivorous plants pulled their vines back into the folds of thick roots and fallen limbs, displaying prominently their bright red berries in an effort to lure the aasimar closer again.

Quinsareth ignored the fruit and the sweet aroma it produced, taking the moment to scan his surroundings. The shadowalk was rarely accurate, even when he knew his destination well, but through the thick woods of the Qurth, he could see nothing of the tower he sought. Only a low hum that might have been a voice or a trick of the wind gave him any sense of direction.

Careful to skirt the edges of the bloodthorn and razorvine patches, he wound an uneven and slow path toward the sound, keeping his grip on Bedlam tight and his senses alert for the dangers that surrounded him. The sound grew louder, becoming more high pitched as he neared, picking out the notes in an unfamiliar tune. He stopped and looked closer, peering through the trees with his special dark-seeing vision.

He could make out the edges of a small clearing just past the trunk of a large tree with unusually pale bark. The strange song drew him closer. The tension in his muscles faded as the smell of wildflowers wafted toward him on the whistling wind. Shaking his head, trying to shove away the unnatural calm that settled over him, he crouched lower and knelt at the perimeter of the inviting grove.

Three white oak trees dominated the clearing, their ivory branches gently swaying overhead. The scene was like a dream, so unusual and peaceful in such a dark and forbidding forest. The song was disorienting and Quin leaned forward, falling to his knees as he gazed on the beauty he found. Some part of him struggled to resist, maintaining his grip on the oddly quiet Bedlam, but he could not fathom why he might need a weapon in this place.

His head swam and swayed with the branches, in tune with the lilting and otherworldly song. Words began to form in the music, as if the leaves were speaking, hissing in the wind and whispering in his ear.

“So lost he is, Myrrium.”

“Yes, Oerryn, so far from home.”

“What do you think, Aellspath?”

Quin fought to keep his eyes open, rolling them from left to right, seeking the source of the dry, whispering voices. The grove became a blur of white wood and bone-yellow leaves. A shape began to form in the center most tree. The surface of the trunk shifted and flowed like liquid to reveal misty white arms and an indistinct but beautiful face, framed by pale yellow locks of vines and leaves. The figure’s milky skin was smooth and bare, unmistakably feminine as it crawled demurely toward him. Shimmering green eyes opened and closed like living flowers, capturing his will in a net of inescapable beauty and dark promise.

Her full lips moved out of sync with her voice, which was deeper and more lustful than the others.

“So beautiful he is. We must keep him, my sisters.”

The grove grew darker as the plants and bushes closed together, sealing the clearing from the forest. The voices sighed in contentment as they viewed their catch. Aellspath smiled coyly and bit her lower lip with sharpened teeth as she reached out for the aasimar’s arm.

Quin’s breath was ragged and shallow, and he was only dimly aware of Bedlam’s ponderous weight in his right hand.

Aellspath hissed pleasurably as she scraped her clawed fingertips across Quin’s shoulder guard and down to his gauntlet. Her fingers crept casually toward his wrist to gently remove the glowing blue-green sword from his clenched fist. As she gently pried at his fingers, an errant claw brushed Bedlam’s hilt, eliciting a hissing reply from the arcane weapon.

The dryads’ enchanting song faltered as Aellspath gasped and recoiled from the sword. Quinsareth blinked, exhaling, as warmth flooded his paralyzed form. His vision was blurry but his will to live became razor sharp. He swung Bedlam wildly in front of him, cursing as the hazy form of the dryad ducked and scuttled backward on spindly, emaciated arms and legs.

The dirt beneath him shook and he rolled forward instinctively, swinging Bedlam behind him at a clawlike root that snatched at his cloak. The blade hissed, mimicking the dryads’ voices as it sliced through the pale wood, leaving a smooth stump that oozed a thick red sap. The voice called Myrrium howled in agony from the trees above and she crashed through the branches toward the near-blind aasimar.

Quin rolled again, barely missing the screeching Myrrium as she landed. He continued to blink, rubbing his eyes with his free hand and gradually clearing more of his vision. Holding Bedlam before him, he studied his attackers, fiendish orphans of the Qurth Forest. The Fate Fall hovered in his mind, a ghostly sense of strategy collecting his thoughts.

Myrrium’s eyes burned a dark yellow, no longer hidden behind the guise of sweet blossoms as Aellspath had done. Her face and skin were grained and knotted like the wood of the trees she lived in, a pale ash-gray. Tiny white fangs protruded from black gums as she crawled closer, favoring her left shoulder where a small wound had opened, bleeding the same thick red sap the root had.

Quin backed away slowly, waiting for the dryad to spring forward. He felt the roots of another oak behind him. Myrrium hummed as she crawled. The sweet tones of her song tried to calm his nerves, urging him to lay down his weapon and be as among friends. Shaking his head, fending off the dryad’s spell to charm him, he lashed out, hacking at the trunk of the oak behind him. Myrrium winced as that oak began to bleed, halting her spell as Oerryn screamed in pain and appeared above Quinsareth.

He heard claws scratching against wood and glanced upward, catching only a brief glimpse of long black hair made of vines shading the orange light of fiendish eyes. He leaped sideways to avoid Myrrium’s sudden charge. Both dryads stalked him, gnashing their teeth and tearing small ruts in the ground where their long claws touched. They continued their song, though its notes were harsher now, more insistent. Bedlam matched the sound discordantly, which helped Quin resist its call.

He backed away and the dryads herded him toward the middle tree. Though he considered turning the tables and attacking, he could not locate their absent sister. Aellspath had disappeared in the confusion.

Closer and closer he edged toward Aellspath’s tree. The dryads’ wounds bled freely, as did the tree and the root protruding from the ground. He was familiar with the fey creatures and their connection to the oaks in which they lived, though he’d never faced the creatures in battle. He raised Bedlam again, threatening the nearest oak. The sisters tensed, looking for Aellspath to come to her own defense. Quin raised an eyebrow at their reaction, flashing them his feral smile and preparing to strike.

Aellspath swam through the wood, flying through the bark and barreling into Quin’s side. She shrieked words of magic as they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Both were instantly blinded as her spell created a globe of impenetrable darkness around them.

Myrrium and Oerryn flinched backward to the edge of the darkness, listening to the struggles of the two within, waiting to witness the victor’s emergence. Myrrium giggled nervously at Aellspath’s frenzied screams of rage. Oerryn simply hid behind her thick hair, gnawing at the woody strands and wringing her gnarled hands feverishly.