James Davis: Circle of Skulls

"Keep your condemnations," she said. "Unless I'm mistaken, your ritual is not yet complete, and death still hangs over your head as well."

"Momentarily, I assure you," the human replied. "Once Sathariel takes the souls of the Nine, you shall see more clearly, and your deva will die… again."

"You're scared. You tried to kill Jinnaoth despite Sathariel's warning. If he is to deliver the circle of skulls to the angel, why would you try to stop him?" Quessahn said as she stepped closer to the crimson light of the circle, seeing the fear hiding in Rilyana's eyes.

"Be quiet," Rilyana growled, her hands steaming with magic.

"Afraid the angel might forget about you, eh?" Quessahn asked.

"Be quiet!" the human shouted, spheres of burning ice erupting from her palms.

Quessahn threw herself to the side, dodging the worst of the spell but caught by stinging shards of frost as the spheres exploded behind her. Ice rattled against her metal skin, testing the remaining strength of the protective spell and cutting her where it had become weak. She rolled forward into the crimson light, chanting as she turned and uttered a fiendish name to complete her spell. Sparks leaped from her runic dagger, fluttering on the air and growing. Batlike wings sprung from small, burning bodies, and the fiery imps screeched, instantly turning on Rilyana and surrounding her.

They scorched her with tiny claws and bit at her flesh as she swatted at them and fell back, stumbling over the body of Archmage Tallus as she fought to escape them. Quessahn scrambled to her feet and approached the chest. Pale, desiccated fingers filled the container, each surrounded by a soft blue glow. A single bloody digit on top still bore fresh blood, the finger of the archmage, she surmised. Ancient runes covered the chest, mysterious yet familiar, in patterns more akin to the old magic of more than a century gone.

"This can't be," she said in disbelief. "Mystra's Weave is gone, the ritual would never work! The magic must be here, in this house. It's been waiting for this!"

"Clever." Rilyana muttered an incantation.

Quessahn felt her body grow lighter. The black steel on her hands melted away, revealing bruised skin and bloodied knuckles beneath. A wave of nausea left her dazed as the magic steel was dispelled, and she shivered as cold air hit her naked skin. She leaned on the pedestal and the chest, sickened further by the feel of cold flesh beneath her hands. Rilyana rushed forward and punched Quessahn, sending her sprawling to the floor. The spinning energies of the ritual streamed around her body as she gasped for air, shaking her head and rubbing her jaw.

"The skulls were once priests of Mystra, but they betrayed her, called upon Asmodeus, and promised their souls to him. He gave them a part of his power, an exchange that they betrayed in the end, though ultimately they failed. The immortality they sought became undeath, a curse. But they still had the archdevil's power, and their spell, their grand ritual, was left here, carved into a forgotten basement floor, waiting for their return," Rilyana said, studying the wooden chest, as if making sure the eladrin had not somehow fouled the magic.

"In exchange for what? What did the skulls offer Asmodeus?" Quess asked, crawling onto her side and spitting blood. She knew the answer, having made her own dark pacts in recent years, but she wanted to keep the human talking and confident.

"Their souls, obviously, but also an invitation, one that they had no intention of fulfilling, but an invitation nonetheless. One that Asmodeus now wishes to answer," Rilyana answered, kneeling before the injured eladrin.

"The prophecy…," Quess whispered, one fist clenched around something cold and soft.

"Clever again," Rilyana replied, returning to the pedestal. "The skulls receive the damnation they deserve, Sathariel completes the prophecy, and I finish the ritual, joining him in immortality."

Quessahn crawled out of the ritual circle and rose on her hands, panting from the effort. She clutched one fist to her stomach as if in pain. Rilyana did not follow, hurled no more spells, and seemed to pay her no mind as she attended to the ritual's progress.

"Why are you telling me this?" Quessahn asked nervously, drawing the human's attention away from the chest.

"Isn't that how this all works?" Rilyana asked, smiling. "First I break your body; then I break your spirit. Besides, what fun is all this work without an audience?"

"I can still fight you," Quessahn replied angrily.

"Indeed you could," the human said, "but to what end?"

Quessahn stared at the woman for a breath before lowering her gaze. Pain wracked her limbs, and she felt brittle, like the bed of a dried river, wasted by floods of magic without rest. Stealthily she turned her hand up in her lap and opened her fist slowly to see the severed finger she'd stolen from the chest. Its blue glow gone, congealed blood stained her palm as she looked up, noting sluggish movement near Rilyana's foot.

"A bloody end," she replied at length and steeled herself to open the dam again, willing the first trickles of magic to well agonizingly in her mind.

Pain flowed through the skulls as they struggled to stand, Callak's legs failing as his suppressed mind grew stronger with every breath. They cursed in unison as the avolakia slithered out of the illusory skin of the old man, its alien form half hidden in shadow, tentacles writhing with a hideous grace. Green light glowed from its circular maw of hooks and tiny teeth, belching forth a wave of hissing liquid that flooded toward the skulls, spattering and popping across Callak's body.

Arguing among themselves, the five skulls remaining in the man's body managed to roll Callak's body beyond the widening pool of acid, one arm flailing madly as their legs twitched. The scent of burning flesh stung their sensitive nostrils, and bile rose in Callak's throat, an unfamiliar sense of nausea twisting in the body's gut.

Effram fumed as the others succumbed to mortal pain, howling as acid chewed through muscle and soft tissue, tendrils of foul smoke rising from the wounds. He could see the huddled children, pressed into a far comer of the room, staring at him with wide eyes beneath a painting of Callak Saerfynn as a young man. Taking control, Effram issued a swift chant and raised Callak's arm as silvery bolts of force ripped into the avolakia's body, leaving gaping wounds that wept with sickly yellow fluid.

But the beast merely twisted, undulating its quivering, boneless body until the bleeding stopped, its tentacled maw already screeching an arcane counterspell. Effram responded quickly, but the other skulls panicked, attempting to wrest away his control of Callak's body even as waves of mortal fear rose from the recesses of the man's mind. Effram's efforts faltered, his spell ruined in a stream of spewing gibberish, Callak's tongue useless as their cooperation fell apart. He could only watch as sheets of black flame rushed toward them.

They screamed together, the dark energy searing flesh and spirit alike as they were hurled against the wall, paralyzed and fighting to keep Callak's emotions at bay. His body twitched and thrashed against the wall, a broken puppet. The avolakia slithered nearer, multifaceted eyes turning among his many tentacles as he addressed them. His voice thundered through the space they occupied in Callak's mind, his tone soft and sinuous.

Hold still. This will only hurt for a moment.

"What do you want?" Effram shouted desperately as the others cursed, screaming in fury, everything they had worked for within sight, within reach, just a simple blood-letting away from their grasp, but still so far away, like a nightmare. "Tell us and it is yours! Anything!"

"Anything?"

Maranyuss grinned as she circled around the four skulls, limping and exhausted as thick smoke drifted through the scorched alley. Her hands flinched reflexively as the skulls withdrew from the edges of their circle, gathering together. She narrowed her crimson eyes and held her breath, suspecting a trick, but heard nothing but the wind whistling through the long alley, fluttering the tattered ends of her dark robes. She cast a furtive glance toward the House of Wonder, eyeing the courtyard through the gates and expecting her illusion to fall at any moment, exposing the battle and summoning the Watchful Order.