Circle of Skulls

SEVENTEEN

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

Jinn awoke to the fading voices of the whisperers as they passed through Seawind Alley and away to unknown places. Unintelligible words drifted at the edges of a blurry dream, and he wondered for a moment what they had said to him, but the dream was gone, and only the stale scents of the sewer remained. Though Briarbones's lair sat at the top of an incline and remained fairly dry, the worst of the extensive maze of sewers flowed a mere short walk away. Jinn had no fear of his clothes becoming soiled, but he wondered if his nose would ever recover.

Quessahn slept in the corner opposite him, eyes darting beneath their lids as her breath came shallowly, her dreams not yet done with her. Mara snored lightly against the far wall, wrapped in her dark robes, barely a large smudge of shadow, more a stain than a slumbering hag.

Jinn started at the approach of something from the south, a dry, slithering sound echoing through the tunnel. Briar's multifaceted eyes broke through the faint light from the surface entrance first, turning on their stalks before withdrawing. Jinn could hear the avolakia changing in the dark and sat up from the wall.

"Do not cover yourself for my sake," he said, and the noises stopped. "I've lived with illusions long enough."

"I suppose you have," came the old man's voice, his face appearing in the light. "But I much prefer to speak like this, it seems more… polite than forcing words into someone's head."

The old man smiled and hobbled into the dry chamber, placing a small chapbook on the table and glancing at Quess and Mara before turning to Jinn.

"I have located the last of the bloodlines. They are safe now but not for long," he said, patting the chapbook lightly. "The Watch has almost tripled since this morning. The broadsheets were filled with tales of last night's murders, and the streets have become somewhat empty of most intelligent folk since. But the patrols can only do so much with what information they have, and if we attempt to tell them

…"

"They'd take you in," Quessahn said, rubbing her eyes as she awoke. "They'd question you, lock you up, and by the time they realized you were telling the truth-"

"It would be all over," Mara supplied, the dark smudge of her body still against the wall though her crimson eyes glowed from beneath a tattered fold of her robe.

"Indeed," Briar said. "But whether we inform the Watch or not, their numbers will certainly stand in the way of anything we have planned. Speaking of… what do we have planned?"

Jinn stood and stretched, gathering his thoughts as everyone looked to him for an answer. For his own part, he knew what he needed to do; he'd mulled it over several times while trying to sleep in the uncomfortable lair of the avolakia. The grim surroundings and grave sentinels just beyond the pale shadows a few strides away had served only to cement his intention.

"What do you know of the House of Thorne?" he asked Briar.

The avolakia's face split into a curious grin. "Roses on the window, roses on the wall," Briar replied in the sing-song voice of a child and touched a gnarled finger to an old map upon the wall, the spot ominously smudged by his fingertip. "It once belonged to the Thorne family, and no one else for a full season in the three centuries or so since. Over two dozen bodies were found in the basement, the Thornes' included. They say that even after several paintings and remodelings, you can still see the old blood everywhere, as though the house were haunted by it."

"That's where he-I mean, they, will be," Jinn said.

"You are sure?" Mara asked as she unfolded from her dark corner.

"I am. It's likely they'll be there tonight, or if not, then I'll get to the house first," he answered.

"We will get there first," Quessahn added defiantly.

Jinn made as if to reply, but at sight of the determination in her eyes, he let the words die on his tongue, glad she was as willing as he to face the unknown but still troubled by the idea that she did so for the wrong reasons.

"I'll take care of the children," Mara stated, and Jinn nodded, sharing the worried look that flashed in Quess's eyes but having no time to question the hag's loyalty. Whatever Mara had in mind, the last of the skulls' bloodlines would be well out of their reach. He shut out the imagined details of what the hag was capable of and would curse himself for a fool later if need be. Better a handful of possible deaths than a ward full of bodies.

"We should at least wait for dark to-" Briarbones began then paused, his neck craning forward as he edged closer to the tunnel beyond the chamber. He sniffed the air and snarled, a screeching series of clicks and chirps escaping his open mouth. A dozen or so pairs of dead eyes turned to the avolakia, glittering in the dark before shuffling away. Briar turned, a feral look in his eye. "Something is coming. I don't know how many, but it's more than we need to deal with if we have more important things to do."

Jinn could hear them faintly, somewhere in the dark. Soft whimpers and moans echoed through the tunnels, accompanied by heavy, splashing steps.

"The ahimazzi," he muttered. "Quickly, we should get to the surface and lay low until nightfall. The soulless aren't bright, but they can overwhelm us with numbers."

The groans grew louder as the avolakia's zombies met the oncoming mob, the dull sound of fists smacking loudly in the tunnels accompanied by the scrape of curved knives on dry flesh and unfeeling bone. Jinn took the ladder swiftly, shoving the surface cover aside and helping the others out, keeping a careful watch for passing patrols as they escaped. The deva cursed quietly, wishing he'd had time to question Briarbones about the stolen sword at his belt and its strange hunger for Sathariel's blood.

The sounds of battle below were muffled as Briar slid the surface door back into place.

"They'll not stop," Jinn said. "They have no choice."

"Neither do we, apparently. That is if we, or anyone else for that matter, desire to draw breath tomorrow morning," Briar replied, appearing uncomfortable in the alley, nervous and fidgeting in the dim light of late afternoon.

"We'll split into pairs," Jinn said. He turned to Mara, the hag's face already hidden behind a smiling illusion, her arm gently but firmly within the elbow of Briarbones. "Find the children and guard them well, if not for their sakes, then-"

"For my own," Mara supplied mockingly and added with her knowing smile, "I am well aware of the consequences, deva, but as a self-serving creature of some taste, I am also aware of the rewards. I look forward to the dark souls you promised me."

"Very well. Good hunting," he replied reluctantly, far more trustful of the hag in the heat of battle than hidden away with the lives of children in her care. In the end he had only her greed to rely on.

"And to you," she replied and pulled Briar at her side, the pair whispering as they made their way out of the alley, to anyone else appearing as nothing more than a young woman escorting her elderly father.

Jinn turned to Quessahn, the previous night's confrontation hanging between them like a ghost, haunting the eladrin's eyes and inspiring the deva to keep moving. They exited the alley, racing against the sunset, Jinn's heart pounding in time with his boots, anxious for the battle to come.

Only a few candles were lit as darkness neared, scattered windows glowing dimly like faded stars as the destitute and soulless, the ahimazzi, were roused from their mindless wanderings. They shuffled shyly, hiding from the orange and purple twilight, averting their gazes from those few impoverished souls who rushed home and barred their doors.

A storm of whispers slithered through the streets, reaching the ears of bodies without reason, sparking their bestial minds to recall their duties. They followed, grasping at the whispers, their own voices, as if they would be reunited with what had been stolen. Souls upon souls wailed in their minds, spirits bound in the pit of Sathariel's gut, and the ahimazzi gathered to one another, all bound for the same destination.

A few of their number were called away, crawling into the steaming sewers, blades bared and growling like animals. Others were roughly pulled aside and questioned by men in dark uniforms, weak eyes burned in green-tinted lantern light, tongues answerless to shouted questions and harsh commands. They were released at length, shoved to the walls, unable to speak of their misery or purpose, their faraway souls unwilling to give up on the hope for reunion-for the warmth of living flesh.

They scattered slowly as uniformed men attempted to follow them, fragmenting their numbers and wandering aimlessly until they could slip unnoticed into darkened alleys and answer their master's call.

Dark feathers only they could see teased them from above, half a wing fluttering over a steepled roof, a black claw clutching a tall spire, as the angel led them on ever faster, ever more determined to obey. Dim memories flickered in their brains as they drew close to something familiar, intangible flashes of power radiating outward in wide circles. They gasped and moaned as they drew closer, hands grasping at iron bars tipped with sharp, decorative blooms. Matted vines of dry thorns pulled at their robes and dug into their skin, an untended garden of dull greens and browns crawling over everything within the open gates. The ahimazzi wept without sorrow, dirty hands reaching for the dark walls of the small manse beyond the fence.

From somewhere beyond they could hear the faint tap-tapping of a gnarled, wooden staff and muffled chants underground. High above it all, their souls called to them in pain, promising an end, redemption for their failures. They turned their backs to the iron fence, crouching low, their rusty blades in hand. They waited in silence, the remnants of the Vigilant Order, to defend and to witness all that they were promised by the silvered tongue of an angel.

His black wings flapped slowly overhead, a single herald to a dark host their order had invited in ages long past. In the silent streets of Sea Ward, the roaring waves of the Sword Coast thundered like the armies they had once imagined, answering the call of the Flensing to come.

Jinn stared through a pane of glass dripping with rain, watching as the ahimazzi gathered within the circle of homes and businesses across the street, hiding outside the gates of the House of Thome. Dark spires rose from the corners of its flat roof, gables along the sides, the windows blackened and stained by neglect. Amid the bright homes around it, it stood like an architectural cancer, fouling the order of an otherwise typical neighborhood.

The mansion Jinn stood within was empty, its owners packed and evacuated long before gateclose. A useless exodus, he reasoned, for the victims had been chosen long before their own births, taken-save for a precious few-all before the sun had risen, the slain bloodlines of nine men too greedy for life to die, too hungry for immortality to let blood relation stand in their way.

"They should have torn it down more than a century ago," Quessahn said from the shadows behind him.

"They couldn't. It was a fascination, a whispered story for their parties. Passed along like a secret," Jinn replied. "Besides, the skulls would have protected it, kept it safe until all was prepared for their working."

"Perhaps they might have hired a gardener, then," Quessahn muttered as she bent to her task, surrounding herself with spell components and an old scroll. She began to draw on the floor of the living room, the chalk giving off a bitter scent that mingled with that of dried petals and leaves as she prepared her ritual, the strange magic of a new age. "Do you trust her? Mara, I mean."

"I trust her to be what she is. I believe greed will keep her actions in line with ours, if not her intentions," Jinn answered as he waited for the last of the sunset to leave the ward in darkness. Quessahn did not reply, but he knew she wasn't convinced and he could not blame her, for he had his own doubts. "Do you trust the avolakia? Briarbones?"

"Until he grows bored, yes, I do," she said, the scrape of chalk on smooth stone accompanying her words. "He is very old and not afraid of death in the least. As long as there is something to interest him, to engage his voracious curiosity, he shouldn't feel the need to create something interesting. Luckily I think the whisperers of Seawind Alley should keep him occupied for decades at least."

"I doubt he will be easily bored tonight," Jinn said quietly.

"Do you really think Callak Saerfynn is involved in all of this?" she asked. "He has wealth, status-such as it is-and wants for nothing

…"

"I imagine to some, the more gold one has, the less valuable it seems. To a few, immortality would be beyond value, even worth the life of a sister," he answered absently, musing as he studied the dark house and the dirtied host surrounding it.

"I guess those that don't have immortality-" Quessahn began then stopped abruptly, falling silent, her ghostly reflection in the window casting nervous glances at Jinn as she focused on the arcane circle drawn around her.

Jinn hesitated as he considered the door mere strides away, part of him already outside and retreating from the ghosts of his previous life, another part holding him still, waiting for her to speak again, to say things he had no right to ask of her.

He managed a single step, his hand rising to take the handle.

"I buried him," she said, her voice faltering slightly. "I… I don't know if that means anything to you, but you-I mean, Kehran-you both…" She sighed loudly and slumped, shaking her head as he turned to face her. "Gods above, but this is strange."

"Go on," Jinn said, unsure if he said it out of pity or just for himself, but he wanted to hear her, needed to hear her.

"He fought like you, endlessly. It was hard to keep him still most days," she said. "But for a time, he did stand still and we had a life together, deep in the High Forest. He had what, for him, passed for peace, like he had escaped something, and for almost a year, he was a different person." A brief smile crossed her face, disappearing as quickly as it had come. "But in the end, it called him back, his drive to fight, to chase down the memory of old causes and raise a standard against… Well, good and evil meant different things to him.

"We argued the last time I saw him alive, and I told him not to go, but…" Her voice broke and she breathed deeply, maintaining her composure. "I found his body the next day and buried him that evening."

Drops of rain tapped on the doorstep and on the grass outside, dripping from the trees outside as mist gathered in their branches and ran down the bark like tears. Jinn stared at the eladrin, her brief tale a unique experience for him, as though he'd witnessed his own funeral. He took the doorknob in his hand and turned it once.

"You're not really hunting Sathariel, are you," she said. It was a statement, almost an accusation, rather than a question. "He's just a means to an end, your connection to Asmodeus."

Jinn did not reply, for there was no need. He could not deny what was in his heart, what festered in the deepest parts of himself.

"Do you think to kill a god?" she asked quietly. "Or do you hope he has the power to kill you, to truly end you?"

"I don't know," he said, considering his answer carefully. "There is a reason, I suppose. For the cycles in the world, death and rebirth, over and again. They have a meaning, as if we are all being prepared for something, either glory or death or both." He shook his head and swore under his breath. "But damned if I'll ever understand it."

He opened the door and looked out across the street, silhouettes of the ahimazzi merging like the dark shape of a single crouched beast, their daggers its rusty teeth, their tattered robes its filthy mane.

"Be careful," he said to her as he stepped outside, leaving her to her ritual and praying that she would survive what she had planned.

"See you soon," she replied. He closed the door behind himself and made his way through the garden, sword drawn to challenge the many-eyed beast that awaited him-as they always did, time and again. He did not shout or flourish his sword in a duelist's manner, though his heart raced to meet them and to clip the wings of their dark master.

Tavian's boots scuffed loudly in the empty streets, a patrol at his back as night settled into the alleys and dark avenues of Sea Ward. He had often wished to escape the bureaucracy of his command and put heels to the cobbles, but he'd never imagined he would regret that selfish desire. They carried their lanterns high along lines of dark street lamps, a casualty of the curfew and of the lamplighters' fear after the morning's news had spread to the other wards. Foolhardy gawkers and would-be adventurers were stopped and questioned before being sent away, though Tavian knew they would attempt to slip back in, to make a name for themselves or hire themselves out to nobles amassing armies of bodyguards.

The Watch commanders, fearing an increased lack of trust in their officers, had called for reinforcements to patrol until the ward's matters could be settled. Investigators had been summoned, and the details of the killings, such as they were, were under review. Already they had found odd notations and inconsistencies in the recent logs.

Primary among them was a sizable donation to the local Watch by the slain Loethe family, a donation recorded and signed for yet long since disappeared.

As much as he could, Tavian had defended Allek Marson to his superiors, proclaiming him to be a good man in unusual circumstances, but as evidence mounted and changed by the bell, he found he could no longer trust his own report of the man. He'd known Allek to be honest and trustworthy, an efficient officer if ever there was one, though he could not deny the growing sense that the fallen rorden had been manipulated and used. Worse still was the idea that Allek had allowed himself to be treated that way, pawn to a foul plot and seduced by something he could not turn down.

As rumors spread through the ranks, more and more patrols frequented the perimeter of the House of Wonder, suspicious of the magic-users within. Tavian imagined any sleeping wizards within would dream of armies on the march, such was the foot traffic outside their courtyard. The Watchful Order had been summoned to question the wizards, much to the discomfort of many of Sea Ward's regular officers, rumors of foul magic abounding in the tales of the murders. Tavian had never had much trouble with wizards, but somewhere in the ward, he smelled magic at work, as if it were on the air, worming itself into the cracks and gutters, making ready for some final act to unfold.

A shrill scream pierced the streets, echoing through the lofty spires. He stopped his men in their tracks, listening as it faded in the distance. Tavian held a gloved hand up, his breath steaming as they waited for the scream to repeat and give them a direction. His heart pounded and he wondered, after all the reports, what bloody scene might await them. The scream came again, and he dropped his fist, leading the patrol west and north to the disturbance.

Pale green light swung from one building to the next as the officers ran, breath steaming in puffs behind them as they turned a corner and found a woman, frantic and leaning out from a second-story window, wailing and pointing. Her face was white as a ghost, and masculine hands held her shoulders as she struggled, grasping for something unseen.

Half of Tavian's patrol entered the home as he directed the others to secure the entrances, confused bodyguards reluctantly making way, their eyes also on the rooftops. Signal horns blared short notes in quick succession at Tavian's back as he stood in the middle of the street, following the wild-eyed stare of the woman to the rooftops across the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. A single plume of smoke drifted from a lone chimney as drizzle swirled in the light of the Watch lanterns, but naught else caught his eye that might have caused such a stir.

He wandered down the street, following the roof line, squinting in the dark. The woman's cries quieted some as his officers reached her, though she remained at the window, speaking hysterically. At the end of the street, Tavian sighed and shook his head. Turning back, he paused, breath catching in his throat as a blot of shadow shifted above him at the base of a cold chimney. He froze, staring at the spot for what seemed an eternity before two red eyes blinked open and glared at him from the dark. In that hellish light, he could make out long, gangly arms wrapped around a struggling bundle, held close in a cloud of wavering shadows.

Tavian's sword was halfway drawn, his signal horn barely from his belt, when the thing leaped into the air, tattered, black robes spread wide around it like the wings of a diseased crow. It landed on a wall across the street, flattening to the surface and crawling up like a spider as he loosed a strident call from his horn. The thing leaped again, almost gliding from one building to the next, nearly invisible against the sky.

"Mystra's bones!" he swore and stumbled back, waving his men on as they rushed to answer his call. "Eyes up high!" he shouted, pointing at the last place he'd seen the thing.

"A child, sir!" Aeril said, skidding to a stop at his side. "She says it took a child!"

"Bloody bones," he whispered, unblinking as he searched the northern skyline and waved Aeril to be silent.

"What is it, sir?" Aeril asked, catching his breath. "The woman said she caught just a glimpse before-"

"Hush, man!" Tavian demanded, listening, though only the wind could be heard for several breaths. Men shouted down the street, their boots echoing around the next corner, lanterns casting dancing shadows as they searched. Other horns echoed through the ward, other patrols seeking assistance, likely with the homeless vagabonds who'd wandered into the ward in mysterious numbers seemingly overnight. He cursed, sheathing his sword as the rest of the patrol caught up to him. He raised a hand to direct them north with the others, but the command was cut off by another scream, distant and pealing, from several blocks away. "There!" he said. "Move! Now!"

They ran west, signal horns calling to the other patrols though Tavian did not expect a swift answer, rushing through the cold night, chasing after shadows and screams.