Bloodwalk

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alone. Mile after mile had passed and Elisandrya had not seen a soul. Littlewater was far behind her, and an invisible dawn was fast approaching. She searched the eastern horizon for cracks in the cloud cover, seeking some sliver of elusive morning. Morningstar was slowing beneath her. His muscles trembled with wear, his breathing became more audible. She feared the Ghedia's magic of speed had taxed him more than she'd expected. The ground was soaked with rain. Lightning lanced overhead, its branches stretching for miles, well beyond the perimeter of the powerful, southward-moving tempest. Her stiff muscles complained, aching and demanding rest despite her willpower. With a gentle tug and a tap on Morningstar's sides, Eli slowed him to a walk.

The sudden silence that fell in the absence of his hoof beats was oppressive. Her pulse pounded in her ears, an almost deafening cadence that rattled her eyes as heavy lids tried to steady them. Resentment floated in her thoughts, of herself, of Rhaeme, and of Sameska. I should have gone into the forest with Rhaeme, she thought. This is a fool's errand, chasing ghosts and the fears of an old woman. Her head lolled back and she reached up to hold the threaded fethra around her neck, beseeching Savras one last time, one more chance. Then might she turn back to find Rhaeme's tracks and join him as she should have in the forest. "Savras, I was blind-" the prayer passed listlessly across her lips, dry despite the damp all around her, and she could not finish. A wave of slumber rolled through her body and jolted her mind with an answer to her summons for aid. The vision was quick but awoke her in an instant of shock. Wings, hundreds of wings flapped noiselessly in a small cage. A beast of feathers and wingtips, raging against the enclosed space, fluttered in her mind's eye. Shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, the image faded, but remained burned on her memory. "What could it mean?" she asked aloud. Morningstar huffed and snorted at her. "I wasn't actually asking you, Star." As the vague vision played through her mind, rolling in the miasma of lost sleep, a tiny pinpoint of light became visible ahead. It winked like a firefly in the charcoal darkness that ruled the Reach. Her hands immediately reached to touch the pommel of her sword, the bow at her back, and the stiff feathers on the arrows hanging across her shoulder. Though reassured of her own preparedness, the sense of alert brought her to full consciousness. Bandits were not unknown to lie in wait for merchants and lone travelers, but she had seen few of their like on this, the lesser used Low Road. Angling toward the dancing light of the distant campfire, she straightened herself into the stance of a hunter. Exuding authority outwardly, she was inwardly enthralled by the many-winged beast in the cage in her head. Savras was rarely clear, but he was never arbitrary in those insights he gifted to his faithful. Briefly, she wished Dreslya had come with her, but touching her sword's hilt once again, she was grateful to be alone. The monster of wings continued to flutter and beat against its prison. Unexplained and unavoidable, the sound of its freakish limbs matched the pounding in her ears.

Khaemil knelt on the cracked flagstones of what had once been a courtyard. His bare arms hung loosely at his sides, palms up, in a mood of quiet meditation and supplication. He was not as knowledgeable in magic as Morgynn, nor so dutiful in prayer as Talmen, but Gargauth heard his call and answered his loyal servant. Though he'd served many lords and minor powers in Avernus, he had taken to Gargauth the Exile quite readily upon being summoned to the Realms. Though Morgynn's face had been the first he remembered seeing, it was Gargauth's essence that drew him to stay in the world, to serve so strange a mistress. At first this had been by request, but Khaemil became enamored of Morgynn over time, trusting in the devil-god's instinct about her. In the midst of his concentration, heat flushed his black skin, rising to a boil within him like a fever. Morgynn burned her way into his bloodstream, angry and prepared to tear her way out as she'd done with the first hunter she'd killed. It was not mercy that stayed her intention. Touching fresh air beyond his body, she emerged, fingertips and arms followed by the rest of her in a wet, warm rush. She stood before Khaemil, quietly at first, stoic as he matched her gaze. He noticed the small wound on her left arm. It did not bleed, nor did it pain her, but it displayed her current mood. His moment of quiet meditation and prayer ended as she cast cold eyes on his kneeling form. "Your crusader is neither gone nor dead. The Hoarite travels south even now, no doubt hiding in his shadows. Why is this, Khaemil?"

"I-I do not know, my lady, but surely-" "They are looking for him!"

Her anger was born anew as she witnessed his stammering and confusion.

"Their hope gives them courage, makes them move beyond their walls, scouring our forest and riding north in search of the phantom!"

Khaemil could only bow his head in failure. Sharp claws tore into his palms and she smelled his infernal blood dripping to the ground. The aasimar would be a greater nuisance than she'd expected, more tenacious than others who walked the Hoarite roads. "He will be dealt with directly, my lady, along with any who seek him." "See to it." She turned as she said the last, looking to the tower and picturing the tiny box that lay within her chambers. The scroll within that ancient box, the Word of Goorgian, amended and altered in her own handwriting, would call its unholy plague again. The wards and protections of the Temple of the Hidden Circle were nothing to her. By proxy, she knew its secrets. Whispering, she added, "I will deal with the oracles."

One of the secrets of the Temple of the Hidden Circle were its hidden chambers, rooms all but forgotten except in time of need. For the past few tendays, the oracles and younger priestesses, acolytes known as savants, frequented the chambers out of mercy and duty. On the backside of the temple, in the Gardens of Thought, a spiraling stairway led down to these places, growing full with the weak and diseased. Though still in its infancy this far south, the blush had taken its toll on old and young alike. The rooms were kept dark, since the disease made the eyes sensitive to light and would form welts and rashes on the skin when exposed to brightness. Shuttered lanterns provided a dim glow by which caregivers could see and move from cot to cot, and victim to victim. The smell of close, feverish bodies was overcome by incense and the scent of fethra leaves as they boiled to make a broth that eased pain and fever and seemed to stave off the worst of the symptoms. Delusional cries sometimes echoed down the corridors, carried by the curving walls and acoustics of the temple's architecture. Each cry found a fearful ear somewhere in the temple's silence, waiting in the dark for the storms to pass and for the deliverance of Savras's prophecy. The newest patient in these suffering chambers was the young oracle stricken during the gathering.

In her panic, Nivael had run from the gathering, frantically trying to stem the steady flow from her nose. She'd felt the fever but could not accept her own sickness. She collapsed in her small room, covered in her own blood. No one had sought her out, most still weighing the import of Sameska's prophecy and her edict of inaction against the encroaching evil. Waking early and feeling little rested, Nivael had gone about her duties in the quarantined room. There, she stumbled and fell as the blush closed its grasp on her health. Her heart pounded and she breathed hoarsely, trying to cry out, but her voice was inaudible. Her throat was wet and tasted of blood. She didn't know how much time had passed while she lay there, delusional among the others.

Eventually a surge of strength filled her limbs, tensing them in spasms she could not control. Gnashing her teeth, her eyes rolled back in her head and her body heaved itself from the floor. She felt that she was dreaming and let go of her will, half-conscious and unaware of her wild charge at the wooden double doors. Her impact reverberated through the halls. Oracles and lingering hunters raised their heads in alarm, wondering what fresh terror came upon them. Nivael could see the walls and floor of the temple passing beneath her bare feet, almost in slow motion, as if she floated rather than ran headlong toward the sanctuary. Her face was hot. The chill of the stone floors could not quell the heat of her blood as it again poured from her nose, and soon her mouth and eyes. An impossible strength sent her flying through the heavy doors of the sanctuary, gurgling a weary groan as she did so. High Oracle Sameska, Lord Hunter Baertah, and several other oracles looked on in shock as Nivael made her way toward the altar, her arms outstretched. Dreslya raised a hand to her mouth as she saw the state her friend was in, covered in blood and swaying in a trancelike stagger. No one moved, afraid to go near this walking plague, the blush in a form and face of one of their own. Nivael stopped before the altar, standing on the top step of the dais, on even footing with the marble statue of Savras that stared calmly beyond her. Baertah raised a perfumed handkerchief to his nose as Nivael's stained hands gripped the shoulders of the statue.

Rust-colored claws touched the image of their god. She turned reddened eyes on the small congregation and her voice spoke of its own accord.

She could hear herself and wondered when this horrible dream might end. Blackness clouded the edges of her vision. "Those who resist shall die. All of these are dead. It is done." At those words, Nivael fell in a heap at the foot of the statue. As the others watched, the base of the statue cracked-a line webbed upward along the figure until two thin branches touched his peaceful eyes and gushed forth tears of blood. Dreslya gasped as Nivael's words echoed in the chamber. Those who resist… All of these are dead. She reached carefully into a pocket of her robe and her fingertips brushed the edges of Elisandrya's letter. Dimly, at the edge of her attention, someone screamed, but no one approached Nivael's limp body or the horrifying spectacle of the bleeding statue.

Morgynn gently closed the lid of the box and rested her hands upon it, mumbling the words of the warding spell to keep it safe. The secrets of the plague, written by the archmage Goorgian centuries ago and improved upon by herself, lay within. Admiring the skeletal carvings on its surface, she placed it upon the table with her other possessions. She descended the stairs in a mixed mood, feeling lighter as the threads of the Weave responded to her presence, but more determined than ever not to leave anything to chance. Talmen waited outside as Khaemil returned from an excursion to the forest. Talmen's eyes sparkled within his bony mask, detecting her look of command and standing up straighter as she approached. Khaemil appeared pleased with himself, possibly eager to deliver good news to make up for his previous failure. Looking upon them both, she realized more than ever the scope of her own destiny. From the east came a resounding rush of need that filled her being, and she smiled at the eagerness of those dreadful creatures that awaited her command. She could sense their masses, shaking with uncontrollable desire, unfounded animosity held in check only by her will. Their sightless eyes glittered like a thousand stars, a ribbon of diamonds beseeching her to grace them with her wishes. They were so much more pliable, so much more useful, than they'd been in life. "Soon," she whispered, her voice unheard as thunder crashed in the distance. It echoed in the droning chant of the Gargauthans at their task behind her. "What would you have of us, Morgynn? The tower is nearly perfect, our control of the storm is unquestionable." Talmen's words brought her back from her silent connection with her creations. "Begin preparations for the attack.

Have your followers summon what aid they can to bolster our forces.

Call upon your own allies in the Lower Planes and make them ready."

While Talmen bowed in affirmation, Morgynn turned her attention to Khaemil, raising a brow to emphasize her unspoken question and expectation of his success. "Our allies within the forest move even now, my lady. They promise the death of the Hoarite and the Savrathan by this evening or sooner." "Well done." Turning back to Talmen, she reached out to him, pointing with a red-nailed finger and whispering words of magic. Heat radiated down her arm as the spell grew, and the air became thick and wavered like a mirage around it. The wizard-priest did not move. Her eyes, black with rushing blood, met his. "Hold out your arm." Talmen rolled back the sleeve of his robe to expose his forearm, and she stretched her smoldering hand to touch his skin. Like a brand, the heat scorched him. Thin lines of fire trailed from her fingertip across his arm, emblazoning a symbol of magic on his flesh. The smell of burning skin filled the air and Morgynn could imagine the look on Talmen's face beneath the mask. She enjoyed his discomfort far too much. When she pulled away, a blackened rune was left on his right forearm. Talmen studied the symbol curiously, then looked to Morgynn for explanation. "This symbol will allow you to command those in the forest-the bathor, our hungry children, harvested from the undug graves of our enemies," she said, though it was partially a lie. The scar was capable of more than she let on.

"Disobey or betray me, and the magic in the scar will lead them to you tirelessly. Do not test their willingness to serve." She knew that no such thought lurked in his mind, but when called to arms, she doubted his enthusiasm. The scar would cement his role in the battle to come and ensure that his followers were committed alongside him. The idea of the coming conflict stirred her blood and she anxiously turned toward the tower. Final preparations loomed and she was not content to let the Weave rest for long while there was work to be done. She called out, for all to hear, as she walked. "Kavak bura sek liras.

Furthad vel jerand, sul vel yefa. Sakrah suv awaret vel ros mar kellet dur." She spoke in Old Nar, the words of an inscription found on the walls within the Pit of Goorgian shortly after her return so many years ago. In the common tongue, it roughly meant, "Call our powers to bear. Summon and gather, arm and prepare. Twilight comes to wake us and raise our standard there." Talmen ran his left hand over the scars on his arm, repeating the ancient words of the Order to himself quietly, reverently. Like a whisper in her ear, Morgynn listened to him. The scar on his arm told her his thoughts, sending her his words when she wished. "Brookhollow will fall," he said confidently, "then the whole of the Shandolphyn and the Border Kingdoms beyond. By Gargauth, be it so." "Indeed," she answered softly, smiling.

Quinsareth sat shivering by his campfire. Still aching from half-healed wounds, he had dozed off more than once. Sleep did not remain long as the trees of the Qurth, maybe a half-mile away, swayed in the wind with noises unlike anything he'd ever heard from a natural forest. He'd traveled through many lands and seen many forests, even those that thrived in the north around the Dalelands and the Moonsea.

Through them all, he'd slept comfortably in the warrior's rest, that half-sleep of soldiers and wanderers that broke at sounds of danger.

The Qurth, though, held a menace all its own, almost a sentience, and his weary mind could not abide letting down its guard for long. That same awareness had picked out the regular rhythm of horse's hooves plodding through the muddied grassland. Nonchalantly, he raised an arm across his knees, blocking the fire's light so his natural darkvision could focus on the approaching visitor. He saw a beautiful woman astride a dark stallion riding toward his camp. Her hands held the reins at an angle that suggested a simple traveler, but her stance in the saddle was straight and strong and her hips swayed with the steed in the manner of a practiced rider, possibly a warrior. As she came closer, he could see the curve of a long bow over her shoulder, confirming his guess. She stopped just outside the firelight and held up her right palm, a gesture denoting a lack of hostility in most civilized lands. Quin lowered his head as if tired and looked away from the low fire, shielding his eyes for the moment. "Well met, stranger," she said casually, though he detected a tension in her voice. "Well met," he replied. "Do I camp on owned land? If so, I shall move on with all due speed." "No, sir. These are free lands, such as they are of late. I merely hoped I might share the warmth of your camp. I have ridden all night and seek a moment of rest." Quin was surprised at her manner of speech, as he had been several times since entering the Border Kingdoms. Tales abounded of a land rife with war and bickering over land, with cutthroats and thieves around every bend in the road, but the formality of their language and use of the common tongue belied these wild rumors for the most part. "By all means, be welcome." In truth, Quin did not wish to entertain visitors, but he required information. He had suspicions about this woman warrior and her arrival out of the darkness on an empty road in troubled times. He felt sure there was more to her journey than casual travel. She dismounted gracefully, removing a well-worn pack from the saddle. Her mount lowered his head and began to graze on the hardy, wet grass, nosing the blades aside to reach the shallow puddles of water standing on the soaked ground. The woman wore armor, an archer's style guarding the bow arm but leaving the other free to draw arrows from the low-slung quiver he spied near her hip. He wondered bemusedly at himself a moment, taking stock of the situation. A beautiful woman wanders into my camp and I spend my time studying her weapons and armor, scrutinizing the cut of her jaw. He smiled at the thought. What a tragic life this is at times. Turning, she spread a small blanket and sat cross-legged across from him. "I am Elisandrya Loethe of Brookhollow. Forgive my rudeness for not saying so before." "You may call me Quin," he said at length. "I am from many places, truth be told." It occurred to Quin that he'd said that same phrase a thousand times or more in his travels. Almost by instinct, it had become a part of him to lie. He'd not uttered his true name to a soul in over seven years. He did not lament the fact, really, but he'd rarely considered his own comfort with the falsehood. As she warmed her hands, it seemed she struggled to see his face without appearing overly curious. He wondered at what she saw, imagining how he looked after the last few days. Though self-conscious about his eyes, he cared little about his outward appearances. Keeping his eyes hidden, he studied her back, wondering at that searching look in her eyes. What was she after?

"Well met, Quin. What brings you to these roads?" The question sounded casual, but again he sensed a searching tone in her voice, something beyond small talk. Another lie he'd grown attached to over the years was on the tip of his tongue, when a strange sound caught his attention. It stood out starkly from the wind and distant trees. Its familiarity froze his heart, and he snapped his head up, his muscles taught and ready to spring. His visitor, too, heard the noise and spun, but not before catching a glimpse of Quin's face. Her double-take at the sight of his eyes was more than telling. He had no more time to dwell on her intentions, and he focused on the darkness beyond the fire's light. The grazing horse grunted and whinnied loudly as the first arrow struck his shoulder, followed by several more, whooshing out of the darkness and the surreal morning mist. The horse jumped forward, but was hit again. Missiles buried themselves in his neck and chest, the well-aimed shots of a practiced bow hunter.

"Morningstar!" Elisandrya screamed in rage as she whirled to stand, her blade drawn in one quick pull. Morningstar fell heavily, thrashing in the mud before succumbing to the fatal wounds and releasing a shuddering final breath. Quin was on his feet but had not yet drawn Bedlam. Looking down, he realized the fire made them both open targets for whoever hid in the thick mist between them and the forest. Lacking the time to put it out, he yelled to his new acquaintance. "We must leave! We can't fight them here!" She hesitated, aware of the flame's betrayal but unable to draw her eyes away from the fallen horse. Quin took several long steps out of the light's range, waiting a few heartbeats to see if Elisandrya would join him. There was no time to mourn horses, and he wouldn't get killed awaiting an impromptu funeral. Finally, she turned away, and they sprinted into the dark as more arrows landed in the mud where they'd stood. The damp ground was like a sponge sucking at their boots and forcing them to push on harder. Quin veered toward the dark silhouette of a ruin he spotted, like so many he had seen in the past few tendays. "No," Elisandrya panted as they ran. "Go around it. We'll wait for them on the other side." "We need cover from those arrows! Inside those walls we stand a better chance." "Those are the ruins of Char… they're cursed.

They are… forbidden!" Quin contemplated her words and admitted inwardly that she might know more about the local landmarks. An eerie howling erupted from behind them, quickening their stride and erasing any doubt in Quin's mind. Cursed, haunted, or worse, the ruins were their only option. "Get over it," he growled and pushed on. Elisandrya matched his stride. His survival instinct shut out distrust of this stranger for the time being. He focused on reaching defensible ground, but he could not forget the look on her face when she'd witnessed his eyes. It was not the shock of something horrible that she'd registered. It was as if she'd expected to see them. As the ruins grew closer, Quin rested his hand on Bedlam's pommel and conjured the familiar game in his mind. He could not picture what stone those rusted gates might represent, and he considered the possibilities. An image of the Ghost came to mind-not for death, as many had played the piece, but worse: regret.