James Davis: Circle of Skulls

"Dason! What is the matter?" she asked.

High above them the towers of the House of Wonder stood silent sentinel in the mist, dark windows eyeing them coldly as they hurried along. Past the tall, iron gates of the house courtyard, Dason could make out the glow of Flint Street.

"No time for ghosts," he said, pushing at her arm, though she resisted slightly and tried to turn around.

She caught sight of the strangers and quickly fell in step with him. The figures had formed a line across the mouth of the alley, their glittering eyes visible through the mist and snow. "Mayhap they're harmless, but I'm of no mind to take a chance."

"Too late," Alma said quietly and stopped short.

"What-?" Dason began, but a shooting pain stabbed through his temples and silenced him, dropping him to one knee and leaving him gasping for air. Confused, eyes watering, he raised his head as an ethereal green glow rose from the cobbles. Deep, hollow voices chanted at the edges of a ghostly circle that grew brighter by the moment. The icy breeze grew colder still.

Alma dug her fingers into Dason's arm, trying desperately to lift him from the ground but unable to tear her eyes away from the circle of green mist as floating skulls, wreathed in emerald flames, coalesced in the mysterious vortex.

"Dason? Dason!" she repeated as the skulls rose to roughly the height of a man's shoulders, bobbing gently in the air and swaying as they chanted harsh syllables that droned and echoed through the alley. Dason could not answer her, could barely stand as the pain in his temples came again, increasing in intensity until he thought his head would burst. For half a breath, he thought he might wake up, sweating in the midst of some horrible nightmare, but the ground felt too real beneath his hands, his sword too cold in his fingers, Alma's fear reaching out to him like a tangible force.

Panicked, he tried to stand, stumbling against Alma as the nine hollow-eyed skulls regarded him blankly, grinning liplessly at his plight.

"Go!" he managed through clenched teeth. "Run!"

He turned away from the skulls, looking over Alma's shoulders to the line of figures blocking their path. His breath caught in his throat as another figure descended from above on graceful, black wings, trailing long wisps of smoky shadow. Black eyes that should have been hidden by the mist and distance stared him down with a soul-chilling power that turned his blood to ice.

"What's wrong with your eyes?" Alma cried, backing away from him.

Dason's legs trembled and he tore his gaze away from the winged figure, his mind reeling with pain as he saw the fear in Alma's eyes, saw his own eyes reflected in hers: twin orbs of glowing green flame. His arms spasmed and fresh pain flowered in his head as he raised his sword arm, unable to stop the ascent of his blade, as though it had become a sudden traitor to his will. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, and he felt as though he were falling. Hollow voices filled his thoughts, mumbling and muttering as exhaustion flooded his senses.

"Dason, what's wrong? What are you doing?" Alma asked, her voice barely reaching him through the pain and the dark. Steel flashed before his eyes and he fell into a deep peace, where he dreamed of skulls and the black eyes of a dark angel.

Rough hands shook Dason awake where he lay frozen on the damp cobbles of the alley. Blearily he opened his eyes and squinted into the green light of a Watch patrol lantern. Relief flooded through him at the sight of it, and he tried unsuccessfully to sit forward, but a strong hand held him down and rolled him onto his side.

Several figures were in the alley, slowly pacing and pointing at something he could not see. Dason blinked fiercely to make out details as the officers talked among themselves in hushed voices, glancing at him with hard looks, some shaking their heads.

A white shoe lay nearby, modestly heeled and embroidered in silver, a dark splash of rust staining the toe. Fear shot through him like a lightning bolt. Beyond the shoe a bare foot pointed up, a graceful leg covered in white cloth, also embroidered and also stained in splashes of reddish brown. A knot formed in his throat, painful and thick, choking off his breath as he tried to sit up. The effort afforded him only a brief glance of crimson and white, of sightless eyes turned toward the sky and a pale hand sliced from palm to wrist.

"Hold still, boy!" a voice said. Rough hands jerked his wrists behind him and tied them together with a short length of coarse rope.

"No," he croaked, his thoughts racing as more uniformed men approached. One held a bloody rapier in his gloved hand.

"Murder weapon here, sir," the man said, stepping past Dason with the blade.

"No," Dason said louder, his throat aching with the effort. His hands felt sticky, his breath tasted of blood and bile as he wheeled wild eyes from one officer to the next.

"Quiet, boy!" The rope around his wrists cinched tight. Hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. He struggled away from them, trying to see Alma, hoping to see some spark in her eye, some look telling him that all would be fine, that she would call upon him in the morning. He would forgo his visit with her uncle Allek to spend the day with her, Westwall be damned.

He saw naught in her gaze but death and more blood than any man should see upon the face of the woman he loved. The unseen hands pulled him away, shook him hard. Other hands grabbed his elbows, hauling him to his feet.

"No!"

NIGHTAL 19, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

Jinnaoth made slow progress through the noisy streets and crowded merchant stalls of Trades Ward. Myriad scents wafted from food-laden carts, open tavern doors, and alleys piled high with refuse. The smell of hundreds of souls, bartering, shouting, singing, and fighting, filled the air with an unmistakable aroma of city life, yet even among so many, Jinnaoth stood apart and watched. He kept his hood low and his eyes forward, a long greatcoat held tightly against the chill in the air.

Children ran through the streets, jostling their way through the crowds, playing and staring at newcomers in strange clothes or at mercenaries' swords with wide-eyed awe. Hands were slapped away from tantalizing merchandise as one group of children was scattered by a shouting merchant. A thin, dark-haired boy chanced a look over his shoulder, laughing at the red-faced man as he ran headlong into Jinnaoth. The boy stumbled backward and started to run the other way when he looked up and froze in Jinnaoth's gaze. He stammered something unintelligible and shook his head weakly, caught in the flashing glitter of two golden eyes.

Without a word, the boy ran off, pointing and whispering conspiratorially to his friends as they ducked into the opening of a nearby alley, poking their heads out to stare as Jinnaoth turned. He was accustomed to such reactions, earning far more than his fair share of curious onlookers whenever an errant breeze blew his hood back, exposing deep black hair and pale skin adorned with dark and sinuous patterns. Most mistook the symbols that crawled across his neck and left cheek as tattoos, symbolic markers of one faith or another.

He never bothered to correct them.

It had been some time since he'd braved the busy city streets during the day, preferring to conduct his business under cover of night. He squinted up at the pale disk of the sun and leaned into the corner of a large tavern hall, shielding himself against a cold breeze as he waited, watching the crowd for familiar faces. Most took no note of him at all, just another stranger on an avenue filled with strangers, but some paused to look his way, fixing him with dark stares before melting back into the press of bodies, sensing his otherworldly nature even as they hid their own behind masks and illusions. At one time he'd have felt duty-bound to expose and challenge such beasts in hiding, but times had changed-he had changed-and after several millennia, he had learned the wisdom of patience and the advantage of being discreet.