Bloodwalk (31 page)

Bobbing slightly, teetering from left to right along what could have been an invisible horizon, were tiny lights, some closer and closing, others following behind. Some would blink out for a few moments and reappear, closer and more distinct as if jumping across miles in the space of a few heartbeats. Small flickers of green flame, swinging in time to a steady march, all converged toward the walls of Brookhollow.

“Should we sound the alarm, Lady Elisandrya? Prepare for battle?” The young watchman was shaking, though from fear or cold she could not tell.

“Not yet.” Something was familiar about those green flames, and her brief vision a few moments ago did not fully explain the faint memory those lights sparked within her. “Wait until we can assess what we’re actually seeing, then gauge the threat and decide.”

The watchman nodded though he clearly disagreed. He was not a hunter, as Eli could see from his armor and bearing, but one of the city watch, a volunteer from among Brookhollow’s citizens. She was glad to know that not everyone had abandoned the hunters for defying the oracles, and clapped the young man on the shoulder in reassurance, flashing him a calm smile and nodding.

The nearest flame winked out, then reappeared less than a hundred yards from the gates. Those on the wall could make out the robes and cloak of a figure walking against the wind and rain, holding a crooked staff from which hung a lantern, swinging in step and radiating a flickering emerald light. Eli immediately recognized the garb of the Ghedia, the light and dark brown robes of the druidic shamans that wandered the Reach.

Stepping within the light of the hooded lanterns of the watchmen, the figure pulled its hood back slightly, revealing a wrist that bore several bone and wood bracelets. Eli was pleased to see the stoic face of Lesani. She patted the watchman on the shoulder and ordered the signal for “all is well.” Two sharp notes issued from the horn, followed by a mumbling curiosity from the warriors below.

Eli called down to the gatekeepers. “Open the gates!”

“No need!” came Lesani’s quick reply, the accent of the Shaaran tongue thick in her speech. The Ghedia approached the gate and stroked the old wood, tracing the grain with a practiced hand and whispering a familiar spell. The gate rippled at her touch, the wood responding to the wild nature of her magic. Lesani turned and planted the crooked staff in the thick mud, leaving a green beacon for the others following in the darkness. Stepping over the iron braces across the lower portion of the gates, she melded through the awakened wood. The druid looked into the astonished eyes of the gate guards and smiled. “Save your arms for your weapons. No need to make a fuss over me.” She glanced up on the wall. “Elisandrya!”

Eli leaped down the ladder to embrace her old friend. “It is good to see you, Lesani,” she said over the surprised Ghedia’s shoulders. “It has been too long.”

“No such thing as too long or too short, child. We meet when and where we are supposed to.” She stood back and held Eli’s shoulders, then took a cursory look around. “Though I admit I’m glad we meet in this world rather than the next, considering the times.”

Elisandrya’s smile waned slightly. Lesani’s words weighed heavily on the hunter’s shoulders. They stepped away from the gates, arm in arm, pulling hoods and cloaks tighter against the rain to speak of recent events.

“When the blush first came in the north, I thought little of it. Plague comes and goes—it is the way of things.” Lesani’s voice took on the tone of long-past nights spent around the Ghedia campfires, telling tales of dangerous times. Eli shivered, remembering the dark morals of many of those stories. “But this time, the storms began, the cold winds. Early autumns have been known, even winters, but nature seemed too much at war with itself.

“My auguries showed dark magic at work, a prophecy of ending.” She looked at Eli from within her hood, rain dripping from its edges. “That seeing brought me here, Elisandrya, and as many of my order who would follow. What is happening here?”

Eli stared at Lesani’s wise face, hearing the words from someone she trusted. Ending. She looked around at warriors huddled against the rain, facing a storm that hid whatever evil crawled toward the walls. She stared at the locked doors and shadowed faces of those who refused to take part in their defense.

“A prophecy has been given to us,” she began, but she felt contradiction blurring the lines of what she’d seen and what she knew. She shook her head, trying to put the words together. “No, not a prophecy. Something else. Something wrong.”

Lightning raced above them. Lesani waited patiently, her eyes understanding. Eli felt comfort in those eyes, knowing that all she’d ever been was known to that wise countenance.

“Sameska lied to us. To me,” she said, borrowing the confidence she saw in Lesani. “She gave us a prophecy that told us to lie down, to do nothing and that all would be well. Before this vision, Targris was attacked and Logfell had already fallen.” Her eyes darkened, looked knowingly into Lesani’s as she repeated the word. “Before.”

“Ah,” Lesani nodded, realization hardening her features. “A vision out of joint, like your parents.”

Eli stared at those who stood with her, controlling the rage she felt at hearing another confirm her own knowledge. Lesani did not push the subject, for which Eli was grateful. They’d had that conversation many times in years past.

Both considered the import of the other’s tale while more of the Ghedia gathered around them, stepping through the gates and exchanging greetings with one another. More than twenty nomadic shamans arrived, with several more still making their way toward Brookhollow. They awaited the attention of their sister Lesani, who was the initiator of the green flame.

Lesani quietly apologized that so few of the Ghedia had gathered, remarking that many still held ancient grudges against the Savrathan bordertowns.

“I understand,” Eli replied. “We are glad to accept any assistance at all. We still haven’t heard anything from the oracles themselves.”

“In your youth, I remember, you wouldn’t have wished to hear another word from those oracles ever again,” Lesani said, pulling her hood back to meet Eli’s gaze despite the rain. “I imagine it is more your sister that concerns you.”

Elisandrya nodded. She hadn’t mentioned Dreslya, still hoping her sister would appear to stand with her.

“I’m worried about Dres, I admit.”

“Now that’s odd. As I recall, Dreslya was the worrier.” Lesani smiled. “Should I speak with this Sameska? Perhaps she can be persuaded to see things differently?”

Eli’s face darkened and she looked at the ground, avoiding the looming silhouette of the temple to her right.

“That would be wasted breath, I’m afraid,” she said coldly. “Sameska is lost to a madness of fear. Seeing a Ghedia in the temple might serve only to strengthen that fear.”

“I see,” Lesani replied, then added, “I’m sorry, Eli. I should have listened with better ears when you were younger. You were right, then and now. Take strength from that.”

Lesani turned to address her sisters. Elisandrya walked to the nearby street corner, staring toward the eastern gates though she could not see them, and felt ashamed for her people. She imagined how they must look in the eyes of the Ghedia, whose forebears had counseled long ago against the evils of abandoning the tribal lifestyle of the Shaar for this northern stretch of land.

As she stood in the pounding rain, staring sightlessly east, an odd noise filled the air. Quiet, almost whispering at first, it began to grow, droning deeply in her ears and filling her heart with a primal dread that chilled far more than any wind or rain. On the heels of the noise, three sharp horn blasts echoed through the storm once again, this time from the west, causing her stomach to lurch as the horn’s urgent call faded.

“Let him answer, Khaemil,” she said without looking at her servant. “I’m curious to hear his thoughts.”

Quin felt his jaw loosen as Khaemil whispered and altered the spell that held him, allowing him to speak. He saw the anxious look in Morgynn’s eyes, waiting for him to ask with baited breath for her secrets and intrigues. He didn’t much care, but her talkativeness kept her focused on him so he decided to play along.

“The plague, perhaps? Or the storm? Your secrets aren’t very well hidden.”

Morgynn smiled all the wider, enjoying herself. “I suppose I could have been more subtle concerning the blush and the storms, but I really saw no need in the end.” Her matter-of-fact tone was confident and proud as she continued. “I thought you might have guessed it all by now. You see, I am the prophecy.”

Quin narrowed his eyes at her words, curious at this strange news, but not truly surprised. The ramifications of her claim, however incredulous, reverberated in his mind.

“When I first sent my agents into this land, they told me of the Oracles of the Hidden Circle and the powerful divinations and prophecies of which they were capable. Then they told me of High Oracle Sameska and I chose to study her from a distance. The old woman’s thirst for power and influence was admirable and her control over her subjects was impressive, but her relationship with her god had dwindled almost to nothing. So, in her quiet moments alone, trying desperately to renew her faith and maintain her position among the oracles,” Morgynn looked at Quin mischievously, “I gave Savras back to her. I shaped the landscape of my dominion over this Reach by eliminating the one threat that might have seen me coming.

“And you—well, you should have moved on after slaying Mahgra. Your part in the prophecy was to make it more palatable.” She stood close to him, looking him up and down again. “Allowing room for hope makes it easier to keep a victim lying still, don’t you agree?”

Once again, Quin looked away from Morgynn, staring into shadows that played along the floor, contemplating how he might escape his magical bonds and slay the haughty sorceress and her sharp-toothed servant. She spun away from him and lit several more candles close to the wooden bowl of reddish water.

The sudden light filled the spaces between the bones, bringing Quin’s attention back to the chamber. His eyes rested on something shining beneath the remains of Jhareat’s fallen combatants. A strange glow burned there that belied the rust and corrosion of the ruined weapons around it.

“Ah,” Morgynn’s voice was low and sonorous, filling the room as she watched the images in the bowl with rapt attention. “It begins even now.”

An incessant chant echoed from the bowl, crawling through Quin’s ears as he recalled Elisandrya telling him the legend of Jhareat’s fate. Though he’d dismissed the tale as fanciful before, now he wondered. Thunder rumbled and shook the floor as he studied what appeared to be the exposed corner of a truly remarkable shield.

The wind felt alive, tearing at heavy cloaks and twisting around the hunters upon the west wall, threatening to toss them aside like weightless trifles in its fury. Many gripped the battlements as they waited to see the source of the deep chant that emanated from the trees, growing stronger by the heartbeat. One by one, pale faces began to emerge between the trunks, indistinct and blurry through the rain, but staring with bright, hungry eyes.

A cluster of trees shook violently and unholy roars pealed from the darkness. The sounds of the unseen beasts bespoke of huge throats and myriad imagined monsters in the minds of Brookhollow’s defenders. Their grim reverie was interrupted, however, by a new chant that arose behind them, within the walls. Surprised faces turned in time to watch a solemn procession of the Ghedia walking toward the wall, their outstretched hands glowing deep green with summoned power.

The old language of the Shaar, intermingled and woven into their casting, was seldom heard among the border towns and evoked images of rolling grasslands and ritual hunting grounds. Few among the defenders had ever seen such a sight. The legends and tales of older times were told often enough to stir the blood with memories of savage warriors and proud leaders. The burgeoning fear was quelled by the chant of the Ghedia, and weapons were turned to face the unknown enemy.

Elisandrya leaped up a ladder, climbing quickly to stand by the stoic Zakar, who greeted her with little more than a silent nod. Breathing heavily, Eli unslung her bow and stood fast, ready to give face and form to those who would threaten her home. The concept of home struck her strangely at that moment. For so long, she had only run away from and denied her place in Brookhollow. Now, after so many years, the town was all she had, her only connection to a family destroyed by the ambitions and fears of an old woman.

Three of the Ghedia accompanied Lesani to the old gates. Completing a spell, they pressed their hands upon the wood, compelling the magic to fill its length and width, pushing power through its depth until the walls shook with force. The whorls and knots in the gate faded and thickened, groaning as they grew as strong and dense as stone, a barrier even a giant might not easily fell.

The other shamans divided into two groups. Standing an arm’s length from one another, they did the same for the wooden and stone walls. They called roots from the ground to brace the battlements in a grip that creaked mightily as it took effect. Once-loose stones were wrapped in an immovable embrace, cracks sealed themselves, and thick masses of tough vines braced the edges along the ground. Mud bubbled and churned under the strain, but the thick clay beneath held strong.

Atop the wall, Eli watched as figures bearing devilish faces, like stylized helms or masks, appeared in two groups along the treeline. They stood far beyond bow range, and their droning chant drifted just beneath the sounds of thunder and rain. Bows were immediately trained in the spellcasters’ direction, waiting for their advance, but the priests did not move. Eli wondered at their strategy, but at a nudge from Zakar, she turned to the stretch of woods between the two groups. A steamy mist had begun to slide from the brush beneath the trees.

The first tortured scream burst from the forest, clear and horrendous. Lightning flashed as the first of the undead tore through the briars and bushes. Its movements were awkward and unnaturally quick. Bare white flesh was crisscrossed with bright red splotches and branching veins. The wet ground steamed where the creature stood, shaking with uncontrollable spasms, swaying to some unknown cadence. Its bright eyes rolled in sunken sockets, while its mouth worked at some attempt to speak or shriek. Taut, quivering muscles and an obviously broken arm collected themselves and stilled. The thing rested its suffering gaze on the wall ahead and those standing upon it. Cruel purpose defined its visage. A mournful wail escaped its slack-jawed mouth and wisps of steam tumbled past its crimson gums in a mockery of true breath.