James Davis - Circle of Skulls

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.

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

Jinnaoth crossed the street, his step quickening as the ahimazzi rose to face him. Their curved blades formed a jagged ring around the iron fence they guarded, a robed garden of rusty thorns to match the one at their backs. Several separated from the mob to meet his charge. He gripped his sword tightly, holding it low and back, a spark of primal bloodlust in his eyes as he swung and severed the first left hand that stabbed for him. He shoulder blocked another out of his way and kicked as he turned and slashed again, some part of his ancient soul taking over, directing his blade to the brute-force tactics of a battlefield rather than the finesse of single combat.

The soulless were quicker than normal, grunting and excited as they came for him, but there was no skill in their attacks, using only the press of numbers in their attempts to subdue him. He butchered the handful that rushed him, cutting them down like beasts and leaving them to flounder on the cobbles, clumsy daggers scraping weakly at his boots and tearing at his cloak. He cursed and swore at them in ancient languages, the tongues of the warrior spirits that surged through his veins, as gore covered his blade and splashed across his clothes.

His blood burned at the brief victory, eyes blazing as he turned to the dozens that remained, a stinking, unworthy host, an insult to the long road he had walked to face Sathariel. Pawns and fools of a cult that gave their lives no value, death was a blessing for the mindless existence they had earned. Their eyes regarded him blankly, thin lines of drool and froth dripping on their robes as their teeth gnashed and they growled like animals.

Whispering a prayer for their pitiful lives, he cleaved into the mass like a madman, cutting their throats and kicking them down as curved blades sought his flesh from all sides. He cleared a small circle in their midst, slowing as they pressed closer, roaring as the ground grew slick and uneven with blood and bodies. A dirty blade glanced along his collarbone, fingernails dug into his wrist and scratched at his scalp. They pulled painfully at his hair and tugged at the end of his cloak, but he kept cutting and stabbing, using the bodies of a few to trip up several more.

Losing himself in dull pains and bloodlust, the memories of more than a thousand battles raged in his mind. Each cut he suffered was echoed by grievous injuries from past lives, each wound he inflicted joined thousands more, and each life he took was added to the bloody path of his immortal soul. He whispered long-forgotten conversations as he pushed forward, arguing with dead generals and reciting eulogies from funeral rites no longer observed, in empires that no longer stood.

Flesh and bone split open like mouths at his blade's touch, spilling red secrets. Jinn stumbled forward and slashed instinctively, dried leaves and thorny vines falling to his feet. He whirled to see the open gate, finally at his back, and braced himself for the ahimazzi as they crowded the iron fence line. He spat at them, but they did not follow, their toes scarcely crossing the garden's edge before pulling away.

Lowering his sword, he spat again, the soulless either refusing to enter the garden or prevented from doing so. The evening grew quiet again save for the muffled groans and soft gurgles of the dying ahimazzi, their last breaths steaming around the soiled feet of the mob. Jinn stretched and caught his breath, wincing as little wounds and gouges stung with pain, none of them serious enough to warrant immediate attention but enough to itch beneath his clothes and leather armor. Exhaling, he released the savage spirit that had possessed him.

He wiped blood from his face and turned toward the house, slowing his racing pulse as he crossed the threshold of the open door. Every surface within was covered in patches of dark browns, moldy stains, and creeping vines that bristled with thorns. He proceeded cautiously at first, but as he prowled the dusty hallways and rooms of broken furniture, a sense of familiarity overcame him, as if the house had been waiting for him.

Shadows moved silently ahead of him, featureless silhouettes watching but not threatening as he searched for the basement doorway. Sernitransparent, the ghosts, little more than persistent fetches, followed his progress, peering at him from darkened comers and long halls. He eyed them curiously, pitying them for the deaths that tied them to the property but wary of lingering too long in their presence lest he wake the reasonless anger of the dead.

The basement door had been left open, a black pit at the back of a small servants' kitchen. He descended the stairs, sword drawn. The musky scent of decay wafted up from the oddly warm chamber below. The walls were covered in dark handprints, all in pairs and all displaying only nine fingers.