James Davis - Circle of Skulls

"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."