Bloodwalk (39 page)

Talmen ran for the deeper forest, a safer place from which to conjure means of defeating these new arrivals. Relieved, he did not hear the beast pursue. He detected only the thrashing of its whiplike tail of barbs outside the tree line.

His relief disappeared as several blows landed across his back and legs. Puzzled at the sudden pain, he stumbled to a stop within sight of the Qurth’s impenetrable darker depths. Looking down, he saw the tips of the spikes and thorns that had impaled him. Falling to his knees and coughing up blood, his last thoughts were to wonder how they’d gotten there.

Morgynn felt the death of Malefactor Talmen. The magic in the scar she’d placed on his arm unraveled in her mind and fell silent. She barely blinked at the news, nor was she concerned with Khaemil’s likely death at the hands of the aasimar who faced her. They were unessential, replaceable, fodder for her ambitions.

She cocked her head to one side, considering the lone warrior. He wore confidence like a pair of comfortable shoes, standing before her with nothing but a sword and shield against her magic.

“You’re a ghost here, Hoarite,” she said, blood swirling in her eyes. “You serve no purpose except to die, to show these shivering witches what fools I’ve made of them. This battle is lost. This town is finished. I do not see a man who cares about these things in you.”

“Curious,” he replied, “that you would think I cared about what you saw in me.”

She raised an eyebrow at his response, flexing her long fingers in anticipation, spells hovering in her mind and flowing through her blood.

“As I said, a ghost that thinks it is a man,” she answered, eying the tip of his sword as he raised it slightly, observing the forward shift in his balance. “Come and see, then. I will show this wayward spirit to you.”

Choosing a spell as they circled one another, Morgynn envisioned violet flames consuming the aasimar, and wondered if he would scream.

Quinsareth’s shoulder pained him and the ancient shield on his arm vibrated in the presence of the sorceress. Bedlam hissed with the rain outside and growled with the thunder, but changed its tune to the subtler tones of Morgynn’s heartbeat as her anger pulsed outward. The taste of blood filled Quin’s mouth from the wound along his jaw.

He moved away from the door, creeping along the wall to stand before a large column. Morgynn’s voice barely scraped the surface of his thoughts. Watching her every move, he balanced Bedlam carefully, preparing to strike at a moment’s notice. Wind from the corridor kicked up small clouds of dust from the pulverized floor as he adjusted his stance. Shadows curled through his body, darkening his eyes as he summoned them.

Morgynn’s chant flowed across her tongue and lips. The standoff broken, Quin sprang toward her. Dark violet flames coursed across her arms, gathering at her fingertips before bursting out in a blast of pure cold fire. As the energy met him, Quin saw a brief flash shimmer around the edges of his shield.

The dark flames splashed across the shield, spilling around it in places but absorbing into the gleaming metal, leaving the aasimar unharmed. Stepping closer, he raised Bedlam to strike. Morgynn reacted quickly, stepping back on her right foot. Red scars along her collarbone flared to life at her touch and she raised her left arm as if to defend against his blade.

Bedlam rang across her wrist as if striking steel. Seeing his moment of surprise, she batted Bedlam aside. Hissing another spell, she thrust her right hand forward. A wave of invisible force erupted from her body in a wide circle. The dust billowed from the scoured marble floor and sent Quin flying back to crash into the base of the column he’d charged from.

Though aching all over, Quinsareth recovered quickly, forcing himself to roll forward into a crouch. Morgynn’s voice was already reciting another spell. Wary and uncertain of the shield’s abilities but emboldened by its power, he charged again. He knew he needed to reach the sorceress to have any chance of negating her arcane advantage. A few strides away from her, a gray fog materialized around him, enveloping him in a misty cloud that crackled with energy. Pain tore through his chest and legs as tendrils of fog lashed him, forcing him to stumble and fall to his knees.

Quin cried out, squeezing his eyes shut and struggling to breathe, every inch of his flesh feeling as if on fire. When he succeeded in breathing, the mist entered his lungs and burned him from within, spreading through his veins and into his heart.

Morgynn smiled at him and knelt. Through the haze of pain he watched as she studied the shield he wore. He realized she’d been surprised by its presence, another piece of Eli’s legend come true: spellcasters could not see the shield’s abilities until too late. The mist grew around him, struggling against the shield which could not consume all the magic that surrounded it. Quin’s stomach felt twisted as if his innards had declared war on one another. He felt brief moments of respite as the shield shook on his arm and spit bright globs of energy, but the artifact was unable to completely devour Morgynn’s fog.

“A spell eater,” Morgynn said as Quinsareth fought to crawl out of the painful mist on his hands and knees, refusing to release his hold on Bedlam. “Well, then. We shall have to feed it.”

The darkness faded and Quin’s muscles relaxed all at once, released from the wracking pain. Looking up, he braced his sword arm to stand, and Morgynn cast yet another spell. Blood spilled across her face in two thin lines. As it reached her lips, her hands drew circles in the air. The air around them became charged with acute heat. A ring of blackened electricity coalesced around her at arm’s length, spinning as it sparked and rumbled. Quin choked on the scent of burning ozone as streaks of crimson wound themselves into the spell. Rising to one knee, he held the shield before him. Briefly, he wondered if the shield’s last bearer, Ossian, had died in such a stance, and he dimly hoped the shield would protect him.

Black lightning crackled into several bolts from the ring of magic and disappeared into the shield face. A palpable aura grew around the edges of the shield as it fought to consume the black bolts. The barrage continued until the shield’s aura was nearly palpable. The dark energy of the lightning spilled over and seared Quin’s flesh, raising bloody welts along his arm and neck.

Quinsareth, numb with pain and moving only on instinct, tried to stand. The burning metal of the shield grew heavy on his arm as the last of Morgynn’s bolts crashed against it. His only impulse was to keep going. His grip on Bedlam’s hilt felt unbreakable, and all of his will was intent on bringing the weapon to bear, though his arm felt nearly useless.

Morgynn watched casually as he staggered to his feet. Cold air stung his wounds, bringing a fresh pain that threatened to fell him again, but he mastered his balance and cleared the chaos from his mind. He accepted the pain, but could not fathom the notion of defeat.

This is all that I am, he thought, this is all that there is. Pain and bitter victory. She was right, I know what I am.

“Prophecy’s hero still stands,” Morgynn purred and glanced at the oracles behind her. “I am only now aware of the treasure you are, pretty one. Your blood will consummate my victory here, finally serving a purpose for your wretched existence. You are nothing but another door, for which death gave me a key.”

He remembered her passage through Khaemil, recalled her blood merging with the canomorph’s as she had disappeared. Her road was paved in blood, just as his was in shadows. The differences and similarities between them flashed in his head as patterns of Fate Fall tipped inexorably to their ends. The game was almost over and he was defeated. She would use his blood and he would watch the oracles die at her hands.

Maybe this was meant to happen, he thought. Maybe I will walk away, my mission fulfilled.

She walked toward him and he knew, looking into her eyes, that this was not true. He could blame the false security of prophecy for Morgynn’s victory, but it had been her false prophecy that had brought him here. He clutched at the one option available to him, the only strategy in the Fate Fall that could make a difference.

“I know what I am,” he finally replied, his voice weak and croaking with pain.

He slowly raised Bedlam and turned the blade inward, holding it to his own throat. His eyes, still darkened with shadow, dared her to move even if his painfully tortured voice could not vocalize the threat.

“Death does not come so quick, Hoarite,” she said menacingly, walking toward him and closing the short distance. “Not while I wish otherwise.”

She threw herself at him, her fingertips reaching for his chest to initiate the bloodwalk and bypass the oracles’ barrier. He felt the pull of her blood and faintly heard her pulse echo in his ears, merging with the sound of his own.

He gripped Bedlam and did not move.

“You were right,” Quin whispered as the shadows within him flared to life. His body faded into an airy nothing, ethereal and bloodless. Morgynn gasped, passing through him harmlessly and stumbling to her hands and knees on the rough marble floor. Hearing her fall, he dismissed the shadows. Becoming solid again, he spun around, exerting the last well of strength he’d clung to. “I am a ghost.”

Bedlam sliced cleanly through the fallen sorceress’s neck, leaving only a thin red line that refused to bleed for several heartbeats. She tried to cry out, but could not find her breath. Unaware that her voice had become merely a stain on Bedlam’s blade, Morgynn’s mouth opened and closed weakly. Her call to his blood was severed—only a fading echo of her pulse shuddered through his body. A single drop of her blood spattered to the floor, followed quickly by her head.

He looked away as Morgynn’s body slumped to the floor and, without emotion, faced the horrified oracles. Glaring at each of them, his pale eyes rested longest on Sameska, who simply shook her head, avoiding his gaze. Bedlam’s tip wavered as if he thought to raise it again, wondering if his work was not quite done. Turning around, he limped wordlessly out of the temple and into the dying storm.

The remainder of the long night passed in chaos. Morgynn’s undead creations, the bathor, turned on one another in a frenzy of violence at the moment of her death. Tied by mystic threads to her blood, the faint control they had over their own actions was lost. The hunters, depleted in number and struggling to maintain the defensive barricades, watched in sickening horror as the walking dead tore each other apart, trying to reach the now stilled hearts that no longer denied the death of their bodies.

The Gargauthans were scattered and forced back by the feverish undead, unable to assert control over them. As they retreated from the bathor’s madness, they were met by the stalking battlebriars standing over the steaming corpses of the malebranche. The Order of Twilight’s battle began anew, this time fighting to escape its own failure. Mounted hunters harried the wizard-priests from outside the ensuing battle, chasing the handful that escaped into the Qurth as others transported themselves by spell or scroll.

Sensing defeat, the gnoll warriors took advantage of the disorder to loot empty homes of valuables, pausing only occasionally to battle groups of hunters along the walls. Taking what they could carry and abandoning their dead, they scaled the walls, skirting the wailing bathor and deserting their allies.

The storm calmed to a gentle rain as the heavy clouds thinned. Thunder eased to a soft growl as the lightning retreated to the ruin from which it had been birthed. The lack of thunder was unfortunate for those who sat listening to the ravages of the undead. Screams of unintelligible nonsense were so much the louder in the quiet left in the storm’s wake. Warriors openly wept over fallen comrades. Those who hailed from the northern edges of the Qurth filed away to sit and stare at the white walls of the temple. They tried not to think of those relatives and friends they’d known in Logfell, hoping not to see familiar faces among the maddened bathor.

The morning sun, when it came, was boon and bane for the weary defenders of the small city, illuminating the death and destruction that had been brought to them. Grassy fields with streaks of brown among the green waved in the gentle breezes of early autumn, under the first sunlight in several days. The topsoil dried and cracked in the heat of an awakening day. Empty farms, quickly abandoned for safer ground only days ago, greeted swift messengers dispatched to other towns to seek help.

Those from Splondar arrived first, empty-handed and full of dread. They were joined later by riders from Sprynt of the Blacksaddle Barony: a lone hunter rode flanked by several soldiers of the Barony, clad in their blued chainmail with surcoats bearing a lone white turret on a black field.

The defenders they met at the southern gates eyed them warily. Relations with Blacksaddle had been strained for years. The soldiers bore orders from Lord Marshal Gurnd of Sprynt to inform the defenders of a detachment of troops en route to Brookhollow. The men-at-arms paled as they observed the throng of twitching and writhing bodies massed in the center of town, nodding absently as the events of the battle were told by tired voices.

The wounded were gathered in the cobbled courtyard of the temple after the temple itself overflowed with the injured. Those citizens too old or too young for battle, hidden in the chambers beneath the temple, walked among the fallen and dying, searching for loved ones under the bright noonday sun.

Dreslya found Elisandrya that morning, unconscious and grievously wounded, and moved her to her own quarters within the temple. She spent much of the day with Eli, dressing her wounds and watching over her. She had no wish to face Sameska or the oracles, preferring to leave that task for the next day, after her sister woke and her emotions cooled.

The sunset, when it came, was viewed with trepidation by those who witnessed it.

Quinsareth leaned against the wall in the dim candlelight of a temple corridor, staring at the door across from him. Ossian’s shield felt heavy on his arm, a sudden weight that had burdened his mind since the battle with Morgynn. Upon awakening in an abandoned home, he’d looked upon the face of the shield several times before finally entering the temple and finding his way to this door. Though she didn’t know it, Elisandrya had told him the tale of the shield over and over in his mind, the legend of Ossian and his love. Zemaan’s face, wavering when he’d found the shield in Jhareat’s tower, had faded entirely during the battle. What remained was something for which he had no words or explanation.