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James Davis: Circle of Skulls

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James Davis Circle of Skulls

Circle of Skulls: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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"Leave this place and never return," he said loud enough for all to hear as he hurled the man through the curtain and stood aside as others slowly rose from their knees, unsure of what was happening. "Or stay and learn the full measure of the mistakes you have made."

The child-priest scowled angrily as the congregation rose and quickly shuffled through the curtains, none meeting Jinnaoth's gaze as they passed. A few cast aside their dirty robes, throwing them to the ground as they ran up the basement stairs. As the last footsteps faded away through the house above, Jinn faced the child and placed a hand upon his blade.

"They will return; they always do," the boy said, crossing his arms. "You accomplish nothing by coming here." "

"Perhaps you are right," Jinn replied, lowering his eyes menacingly, "but they shall not find you again to mislead them."

"You would kill a child?" the boy asked. "Is this what you are reduced to?"

"No, I'll not stain my hands with the blood of a child," Jinn said, stepping forward and drawing blade enough to shine in the candlelight, casting the reflection upon the child's face. "However, this child I see before me I recall being fished from a well more than a tenday ago, quite dead if memory serves."

The boy's blue eyes darkened to smoky pools of deep black. His arms lowered slowly, fingers curling like claws as a very unchildlike growl escaped his snarling lips.

Jinn smiled at the display, always enjoying the illusion's fall, when the predator was exposed and the acts of innocence fell away. Even among the order's mortal priests, he had found the beasts hiding beneath their robes, their true faces, full of vitriol and cowardice. It was that alone he had come to see, the last vestige of the Vigilant Order, a small but integral cult in the worship of Asmodeus, laid bare in the last pitiful temple to which they could lay claim.

"You play with fire, half-blood," the boy said, his voice deep and thunderous. "You have no idea-"

"I know to whom I speak," Jinn said, kneeling down and matching the fiend's rage-filled stare, then adding, "Belsharoth."

The child-devil drew away, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the sound of his name and looking intently into the golden gaze of Jinn.

"Irramael?" the boy asked hesitantly. "I watched you die."

"Aye, as have many others," Jinn said and stood, drawing his sword, an ancient blade stolen from the order years earlier. It pleased him to use the cult's tools against them. "And that name died over seven hundred years ago."

"Myth Drannor." Belsharoth smiled, small teeth protruding at odd angles as longer, sharper ones grew in to replace them. "Those were good days."

"And long behind you, it seems," Jinn added, gesturing to the cold, dusty chamber as he raised his blade threateningly. "Shall we continue?"

"I see little need," the devil said with a sigh, the skin along the right side of his face drooping, slowly sliding away. "You know I will not betray him."

"I must ask. Tradition demands it, especially now." Jinn took another step toward the devil, gold eyes flashing with hunger as the old question came to his lips, heart beating with faint hope that he might yet receive an answer. "Where is Sathariel?"

"He is beyond you. Better to seek a cleaner death with me," Belsharoth answered, his shoulders popping and shifting beneath a rubbery sheet of skin, tearing in places to reveal black scales and bony barbs, muscles rippling with a power that the illusion of the child could no longer contain. "I will merely break you, but him, the angel, he shall devour you."

Jinnaoth rushed forward and gripped the devil by the throat, hauling him into the air and slamming him against a fragile table covered in a bloodstained cloth, a meager altar to Asmodeus. Flesh squirmed and changed beneath his fingers as Belsharoth laughed, a hollow chuckle that shook his small frame.

"Then bring him!" Jinn shouted, struggling to hold the devil emerging from the child. "Have him kill me, rip me apart, devour me, but bring him to me!"

A small, freckled hand rose at Belsharoth's side, shaking and twisting unnaturally as if serpents coiled beneath his skin in place of muscle or bone. Daggerlike claws erupted from the fingertips, followed by a long, powerful arm that struck Jinn across the chest. He flew backward and slammed against the back wall of the chamber, though he swiftly rolled to a defensive crouch, ready for the devil to pounce.

"The Vigilant Order is fallen, Irramael," Belsharoth said, shaking his head in mock compassion, one black eye bulging from the child's face, a horned brow piercing through his hair. "It lost the favor of Asmodeus some time ago due to your efforts. Enjoy your victory and be pleased that your soul shall escape Sathariel's gut!"

The half-changed devil charged with a blinding speed, but Jinn was prepared, hurling a small vial from his belt that shattered on Belsharoth's broken face. Holy water steamed on the fiend's flesh, and he screamed, an unholy sound that sang in Jinn's blood like a trumpet of war.

Gods, he thought as age-old memories surfaced in the depths of his being. The trumpets, how I remember the trumpets!

Belsharoth turned away, momentarily blinded, but an inky darkness swirled into being behind him, and pale hands reached for him as he stumbled into a soft embrace. Mara appeared from the smoke, turning the thrashing devil around and whispering words of magic as she caressed the remaining thin wisps of orange-red hair atop his head. She smiled close to his pointed ear, her teeth yellowed and lionlike, her eyes burning like coals.

"Hush," she whispered as Jinn approached and tendrils of energy flowed from her fingertips, slowing Belsharoth's transformation and leaving him trapped between two awkward forms, neither recognizable. "Be still and parley with us."

The devil's spiny back arched as he attempted to resist her magic, mismatched eyes rolling ceaselessly, mouth working as he drew long breaths, trying to speak.

"Leave me be… traitorous hag," he wheezed, his voice also trapped, shifting between the thunderous tone of the devil and the sweet lilt of the young boy whose form he had stolen. "How much does he pay you? Allow me to make an offer…"

"He pays me in revenge," Mara said, smiling sweetly and licking her long incisors. "Do you propose there is commerce more appealing?"

"Enough," Jinnaoth said and knelt, leaning on the point of the stolen long sword, the silvered runes down its length glittering in the candlelight. Belsharoth squirmed a moment more then shuddered, falling into Maranyuss's grasp like a scolded child. Bloody tears welled in his horrible eyes and streamed across the two sides of his malformed face, an inexplicable sorrow twisting his features into a helpless look of pure hate.

"Kill me," the devil whispered through clenched fangs. "What you want… is not mine to give."

"Where is Sathariel?" Jinn pressed. "How do I find him? How do I summon him?"

"Fool," Belsharoth replied, a wave of renewed strength trembling beneath his flesh that caused Mara to hiss, straining to hold the fiend. "The angel is merely a means to an end… the First Flensing will come… no matter how you struggle against it."

"Flensing?" Jinn looked to Mara curiously, but her concentration was stolen by the effort of keeping the devil still, a battle she was quickly losing. "What is the Flensing?"

"None shall know when… or how… but it is near," the fiend replied, a barbed tail snaking out from his back, growing longer and lashing weakly.

Mara gasped, growling in frustration as the energy of her spell flickered like a dying lamp.

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