The Jewel of Turmish

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fear dried Druz's throat and locked her breath in her lungs as she watched the skeleton continue to force its way from its unmarked grave. Instinct made her reach for Tymora's coin tied at her neck. The skeleton lay still for a moment after it had crawled from the ground. One of the wolves, emboldened by the skeleton's apparent helplessness, crept closer. Snarling black lips twitched back from white teeth. With a growl, the wolf launched itself at its intended prey. The wolf's teeth grated against the mud-slick bones. Orange light flared in the hollows of the skeleton's eyes. It moved, snapping like a trap. The bony hand curled into a fist and jerked around like a mallet, cutting through the air. Almost too quick for the eye to follow, the skeletal fist crashed into the wolf's skull. The animal collapsed, its skull destroyed. Lurching, the skeleton forced itself to its feet and swayed in the storm winds. Ignoring the rest of the wolves, the skeleton turned its attention to the cave. Druz drew herself farther back into the cave, aware that it wouldn't do any good. The fire was all the skeleton needed to see to know that the cave was occupied. She tightened her grip on her sword and asked Tymora's blessing. Glancing over her shoulder, she said to the bear, "We've got trouble." The bear shook himself then rose from the floor. Hunkered below the cave's low ceiling, the bear crept forward, snuffling for a moment, then cocking his head and loosing a fierce growl. The skeleton strode from the tree line without hesitation. Clods of mud mixed with grass and tree roots dropped out of the skeleton's ribcage. Taking a two-handed grip on her sword, Druz glanced at the bear and said, "Go get it." The bear growled again and dropped to all four feet, and retreated to Haarn's side. "Damn it," Druz swore, stepping up to block the way. The cave that had offered them shelter from the rain had become a deathtrap. Lightning flashed again, setting the jeweled shape in the skeleton's ribcage blazing with ruby light. The skeleton spread its arms as it neared. Druz made herself breathe and thought, What is it about this damned druid that seems to draw so much bad luck? She was certain that had Haarn been awake he'd doubtless wonder the same thing about her. She set herself and got ready to swing, but just before she committed herself, the skeleton stopped. The grim jaws closed and resumed their mirthless grin. Relaxing, the raised arms clacked against the mud-smeared ivory thighs. Orange glow dimming in the eye hollows, the skeleton turned and walked away. Druz released a sigh of relief, but she didn't relax until the skeleton abandoned the washed-out game trail and vanished into the forest. Even then, she stood at her post for several more long minutes until the stinging rain propelled by the cold storm winds drove her inside to the deeper shelter of the cave. Frightened and near exhaustion, she sat with her back to the cave wall and kept watch over the entrance. The campfire flickered at the corner of her vision as she fought to keep her eyelids open. When she closed them, intending to rest for only a moment, sleep claimed her.

Wrapped in bloody priest's robes and shrouded in the night, Borran Kiosk walked Alagh?n's streets once more. Hunger and madness warred within him as what he saw conflicted with what he remembered.

Eldath's priests had trapped him for years. He had the sense of that from the changes in the city around him. Once familiar, Alagh?n had grown yet imploded as well. New buildings, taller and grander, stood where claptrap buildings once teetered. In other parts of the city, once grand buildings had been left to decay like bad teeth.

The storm continued to crackle and spit around him. Water sluiced through the uneven cobblestones and poured down the pitted iron grates to the sewers that ran beneath the city and out into the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Borran Kiosk walked with purpose. His skeletal feet clacked against the stones and splashed through the water. A passing wagon, laden with workers fresh up from the dockyards where men still labored to unload a ship, splashed muddy water over him. He kept walking, ignoring the dull, distant cold.

The deep, abiding hatred Borran Kiosk had for living men-and elves and dwarves and the rest-squirmed through the empty space where his stomach had once been. Even though he'd been without a stomach for years, he'd never lost the sense of it.

As he walked, the hate festering inside him, he gazed in at taverns and inns still open to the late-night trade from the docks. Even over the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves, he heard the laughter and conversations of the living. Their simpleminded joy, their very ignorance of his passage, angered him more.

He gave in to that anger, turning his steps toward a small tavern. The tavern was on the second floor, squeezed between storage space for the two shops on either side of it.

A fat dwarf with a dark beard guarded an iron-barred doorway. As Borran Kiosk neared, the dwarf came to attention. He kicked the big head of the double-bitted battle-axe at his feet, causing the heavy weapon to revolve in his palms and come to a natural grip in both his hands. The dwarf tried a grin, but his eyes remained hooded and wary.

"Hail and well met, traveler. Judgin' from the cut o' yer robes, ye've been up that well-known crick an' back down again, ye have."

Borran Kiosk said nothing. The wind slapped at the hood of his robe, but left it in place.

"Gonna cost ye a silver or two to get in," the dwarf warned. He shifted the battle-axe, his callused fingers rasping against the hand-tooled wood. "An' I'm gonna have to see the color of it afore I let ye in."

Without breaking stride, Borran Kiosk opened wide his jaws and spat out the long purple tongue. At that distance there was a chance the dwarf could have evaded the attack, but Borran Kiosk's tongue caught the dwarf flat-footed. The hard cartilage smashed through the dwarf's throat, tearing through the flesh with ease. Knocked backward, the dwarf slammed up against the iron-barred door blocking access to the stairs. The dwarf's face flexed as he tried to scream, but the sound died unborn in his mangled throat.

Borran Kiosk withdrew his tongue and caught the dwarf's falling body with one hand. The salty sweetness of the dwarf's blood filled the mohrg, taking the edge off his hunger. Borran Kiosk tossed the dwarf's corpse away. He tried the iron-barred door but found it locked. Bracing himself, the mohrg gripped the iron bars and yanked.

Metal screeched as the iron bars pulled free of their moorings. Ignoring the possibility that anyone had heard the door rip loose, Borran Kiosk flung the door aside and strode into the darkened chamber. From above, the sound of revelry continued unabated. The mohrg followed the steps up, lusting after the life that filled those voices.

At the top of the stairs, he gazed through a wide doorway into the tavern proper. Dim light glowed through dingy lantern glass and scarcely made a dent in the shadows that filled the room.

Scarred and dark, the bar ran the room's length against the opposite wall. A fat human with a curly wheat-colored beard leaned on the bar and talked with a dwarf woman showing considerable years. Three men dressed in the torn clothing of sailors talked at one of the half-dozen tables scattered across the middle of the room. An elf dressed all in black sat at a table by himself, fingers twining around a glittering silver dagger resting point-down on the table top. Two women, both showing signs of a hard night's work, sat listless and uncaring, not interested in attracting the attention of potential customers.

It was, Borran Kiosk reflected, the dregs of night. Creatures of flesh and blood slowed during these hours, but the mohrg felt stronger than ever.

The bartender glanced at the new arrival. His head was a massive boulder set atop the broad mountains of his shoulders.

"Something I can do you for, friend?"

Pulling himself up in disdain, feeling the thick purple tongue moving with anticipation in his body, Borran Kiosk stepped into the room. The dead priest's robes whirled around him and dripped scarlet-tinted water onto the hardwood floor.

"Maybe you should have stayed in the hallway a little longer," the bartender growled, "instead of coming into my place and making a mess of it."

He reached for a mop leaning against the wall behind him and came around the bar. The dwarf woman said something too low for Borran Kiosk to hear, but she laughed at her own wit and reached for the schooner of ale before her.

"Aye, Serrim," the bartender said, "an' I'll thank ye to keep such comments to yerself." He glanced back at Borran Kiosk. "An' if ye've come to sup here, friend, ye're a mite too late, ye see. The victuals has all been put away for the e'ening."

"What there was of it," the dwarf woman agreed.

The bartender stopped in front of Borran Kiosk and un-limbered his mop.

Borran Kiosk stood his ground. Though his emotions weren't the same as they had been before his transformation, he still felt a twinge of anticipation.

"Mayhap ye'd care to move them big feet of yers," the bartender suggested as he mopped toward the mohrg.

"No," Borran Kiosk said.

Stooping, the bartender peered toward the mohrg's concealed face. "What did ye say, little man?"

With brazen boldness, Borran Kiosk reached up and swept the hood back from his head.

"No," Borran Kiosk repeated.

He knew even the dim lighting would reveal his flesh-less face and hollow-socketed skull. He didn't care what he looked liked. That such a sight caused fear in those who still had blood coursing through their veins served him well.

"What the hell are ye?" the bartender asked in a hoarse voice. His eyes rounded in fear as he stumbled back a step.

"Kiosk!" the dwarf woman croaked, spewing ale. "Borran Kiosk! He's returned!" She hefted a battle-axe from the floor beside her.

If Kiosk had possessed lips, he would have smiled. Though he was certain he'd been gone a long time, his name and deeds had been remembered.

"Yes," the mohrg spat, "I am Borran Kiosk. Fear me."

The bartender lashed out with the mop, trying to push Borran Kiosk away. The mohrg reacted with blinding speed. Before his transformation he'd been a warrior as well as a mage, and though the men he raised from the dead did not retain their memories, he had.

The rain-drenched robes whirled as Borran Kiosk spun. He knotted a hand into a hammer-like fist, caught the broom in his other hand, and snapped the end of the mop off. Before the collection of dirty rags fell to the floor, he stepped in, pulled the mop across his body, and brought his fist back up. The mop handle snapped again, leaving the bartender with only a precious few inches jutting from his hands.

Stuttering a surprised oath, the bartender stumbled back, but Borran Kiosk was on the man like a hawk taking a dove. Whirling, noticing the other men and women in motion around the room, the mohrg drove the splintered end of the mop handle through the bartender's chest. Flesh and bone gave way to the unforgiving blow, and the wooden shaft split the man's heart in two.

"Die, darkspawn!" the dwarf woman yelled as she raced across the room with her battle-axe raised.

With superhuman speed, Borran Kiosk evaded the dwarf's blow. The axe sliced through the air, dragging the woman forward a half step. Before she could recover her balance, Borran Kiosk seized the back of her head in one hand and her chin in the other. He wrenched her head and felt her skull separate from her spine with a sudden snap.

The dwarf's eyes widened in disbelief as she died.

Gleeful, Borran Kiosk savored the woman's death for a moment, holding her sagging body upright by her head without effort. He watched the life drain from her eyes and rejoiced in the savage jealousy that had filled him since he'd clawed his way free of the first grave to hold him captive.

Movement to the left alerted Borran Kiosk and gave him only a moment's warning. Spinning, the mohrg watched as the black-clad elf rose to his feet. His voice rang out with words in a tongue Borran Kiosk didn't recognize. As the words tumbled from his lips, the elf pointed.

Something blurred through the air before Borran Kiosk, and he felt an incredible agony rip into him. His knees weakened and even his supernatural vision wavered and filled with whirling black comets. Screaming, the mohrg forced himself to remain standing.

The elf murmured again, and the other men in the tavern stood back and watched, holding their weapons before them. When the elf gestured again, a flaming arrow leaped from his fingers.

Twisting with uncanny speed and grace, Borran Kiosk dodged the spell. The flaming arrow struck the wall behind him, scorching the impact area and leaving smoldering ruin in its wake. Concentrating on the elf, wondering if he was part of the damned Emerald Enclave, Borran Kiosk spoke his own spell and pointed toward the elf.

The magical energy spewed through Borran Kiosk's palm and became a windstorm in front of him. Another gesture sent the windstorm toward the elf. Howling winds tore through the tavern's interior, extinguishing candle flames and knocking over chairs and tables.

The howling windstorm struck the elf before he could move or defend himself. When the winds slammed into the elf, they lifted him from his feet and hurled him back through the window overlooking the street. Glass shattered and the thin panes crumpled and tore loose. Arms flailing, the elf screamed and tried to catch the sides of the windows. Before he could get a strong grip, he was blown through the window and vanished.

Still in motion, Borran Kiosk scooped the battle-axe from the floor. The wall where the elf's spell had struck burst into flame. Light and smoke filled the small tavern. A crossbow bolt tore into the priest's robes and slammed against the mohrg's pelvic bone. Setting himself, Borran Kiosk unleashed his tongue.

The thick, purple appendage sped across the room and ripped through the guts of the woman who'd fired the crossbow. Once his barbed tongue had penetrated its target, Borran Kiosk whipped his head back. His tongue opened the woman's midsection like an overripe tomato and spilled her entrails before her.

Screaming, dying, the woman dropped.

Borran Kiosk pulled his tongue back into his skull. He listened in satisfaction to the dying woman's pain-filled screams and pleas for help. It had been so long since he'd heard someone beg for her life

… he'd missed the sound.

"Run!" one of the sailors cried, shoving the man in front of him toward the door.

Borran Kiosk leaped in front of the door. The mohrg drew the battle-axe back, fitting both hands around the handle. He swung, slicing the axe in a transverse sweep across the sailor's body.

The sailor fell in halves, a horrified look frozen on his features. Before the next sailor could pull back, Borran Kiosk raised his captured battle-axe dripping with gore and brought it down again, cleaving the sailor's head from crown to chin. He lashed out with the tongue again, spearing the remaining sailor through his open mouth and tearing his brain out the back of his skull.

Sadistic glee filled Borran Kiosk as he turned on the last living person in the tavern. The woman cowered against the back wall, trapped by another wall on one side and the fire from the elf's spell on the other.

She sobbed and wailed, and the shrieks were a joyful noise to Borran Kiosk. Walking toward her, he dragged out the enjoyment. Torture, if there were time yet remaining before the city watch arrived, would be a welcome diversion.

"Stay away!" the woman shrilled. She held her empty hands up before her.

Borran Kiosk cocked his head, surveying her.

"No! Please don't kill me!" She shrank down, dwindling to a kneeling position with her arms wrapped around her head. She kept her eyes averted from his skull, but looked at his skeletal feet covered in blood.

Stopping just out of the woman's reach, Borran Kiosk gazed down at her and said, "Do you know who I am, woman?"

"Yes."

"What is my name?"

The woman shook her head, gasping in painful fear.

Borran Kiosk opened his jaws and let his tongue spill out. The dripping purple appendage coiled like a restless snake as it approached her. The mohrg relished the taste of the woman's fear, so palpable through the tongue. Some of his other senses, and the pleasures of the flesh, had been taken from him or dulled by the magic that brought him back to unlife, but they had been replaced by the ability to taste another's fear. For Borran Kiosk there was no finer elixir.

"If you know my name," the mohrg said, "say it. Spare your life a little longer."

He caressed her cheek with the bloody tongue, leaving smears in its wake.

The woman trembled, gasped, and cried. Tears tracked her face, and the mohrg tasted the sweet salt of them.

"Your death," Borran Kiosk promised her, "is a certainty. It can be the most horrible thing you've ever been through, or it can come so fast you're not even aware of it. The choice is yours."

"I don't want to die."

Grabbing the woman's hair, Borran Kiosk yanked her head back up at him.

"Please. Please don't hurt me."

"My name," Borran Kiosk commanded, shaking her head.

Coughing and hacking, eyes blurred with drink and tears, the woman said, "Borran Kiosk."

"And you remember me?"

"I've heard tales of you since I was a little girl," the woman said. "I never thought you were real-only something made up to frighten children." She wailed, "Gods help us if you are real."

"I am real," Borran Kiosk declared, pressing his fleshless face close to hers. "I am real and I am come back from the icy pits where the priests of Eldath kept me. I am come back for my vengeance."

Holding a hand up before her face, the woman wept and trembled.

Borran Kiosk laved the tears from her cheeks with his bloody tongue, tracking her face and marking her features with grotesque patterns.

"Do you want to live, woman?"

She hesitated, and he knew she thought he was trying to torture her further by giving her false hope. Light from the flames clinging to the wall danced over her face and sparked highlights from her hair.

"Answer me," Borran Kiosk said. "Would you live if you could?"

"Yes. Gods help me for being so weak."

Borran Kiosk touched the woman's face with his hand and said, "Then I shall let you live."

An uncontrollable shiver ran through the woman. "Thank you! Gods bless you for that!"

"Only one god has blessed m, e" Borran Kiosk said. "I will do Malar's work to bring this city to its knees. Aye, and even the whole of the Vilhon Reach if the Beastlord should choose to put that within my grasp."

The fire clinging to the wall crept closer to them, and Borran Kiosk could feel it soaking into his bones.

"You will let me go?" the woman asked.

"Yes," Borran Kiosk said, turning his grim visage on her, "but your life comes with a price."

"Anything, Lord Kiosk."

The woman bowed her head, flinching from the flames that licked too close. Outside, through the open window, thunder echoed along the street as a man's voice took up a harsh cry of warning. The dead elf had not gone undiscovered long.

"Tell them," Borran Kiosk said, "that I am coming for them. Do you understand?"

The woman nodded.

"Tell them that I will not rest this time until all of Alagh?n is within my power." Releasing the woman, Borran Kiosk took a step away and said, "Now go."

Fear held the woman in place, and she only trembled.

Borran Kiosk grabbed the woman by the arm and yanked her to her feet. He shoved her toward the door near the dead sailors. She stumbled and almost fell, but she kept her balance and ran toward the door. Her hands wrapped around the back of her head, as if afraid he would strike her with his tongue. She disappeared through the door and her footsteps rang on the stairs. "Help!" she screamed. "Someone help me! He's killed everyone!" Satisfaction filled Borran Kiosk as he surveyed the burning and bloodied ruin of the tavern. Even before he'd been reborn as a mohrg he'd burned with hatred. As a living man he'd stalked and killed dozens of men, women, and children of all races. He'd been careful, but in the end the city watch had gotten him. After he'd been humiliated in court, then executed in public and buried, he'd risen, undead and vengeful. Whatever had compelled him to kill while he'd still been human had only grown in power since his rebirth. Going to each of those he had slain, Borran Kiosk put his hands upon them and spoke the words that would bind them to him should they rise again-and they would rise, he knew, as long as the townsfolk didn't destroy the bodies. He gazed at the corpses, wondering if enough people would believe the woman he'd spared to make the families of the dead let the bodies be destroyed. He thought perhaps they might, but it didn't matter. If these and the dead priests weren't to be the first of his new army, then there would be others. He crossed to the smashed window and looked down. Rain swirled in, riding the harsh storm winds and drenching him anew. He braced himself on the broken sill, gazing down at the body of the elf clad in black. "A monster!" the woman screamed out in the street. A man had seized her, thinking maybe that she was too drunk to know what she was doing. " 'Ere now," the man said, folding the woman into his large arms and keeping her from striking him. "An' tell ol' Kafeer some'at's the matter." "Borran Kiosk," the woman yelled. "He's back. He told me to tell everyone." She turned and pointed back up at the tavern. Knowing he was backlit by the flames claiming the tavern, Borran Kiosk raised his hand and revealed his skeletal arm beneath the stolen priest's robes. Lightning flared, and his arm burned brilliant white from the reflected glare. A group of soldiers dressed in the colors of Alagh?n's city watch rounded the corner. A commander astride a war-horse led them, matching his mount's speed to the men slogging through the water-covered street. "Where away?" the commander demanded. He carried his sword naked in his fist, the polished steel catching flickers from the lightning and the colored lanterns of the businesses still open at the late hour. "There!" the woman screamed again, pointing at the tavern window where Borran Kiosk stood. Heeling his restless mount, the iron-shod hooves ringing against the cobblestones, the commander glanced up at the tavern. He pointed with his sword and shouted, "Get that man down from there!" The guardsmen hastened to do as the commander ordered, falling into a two-by-two column. Borran Kiosk's tongue writhed in hungry glee as he watched the warriors start across the street. "Are you that confident, Borran Kiosk?" Wheeling, the mohrg turned to face the speaker. His tongue flexed before him, ready to spring and pierce.