James Davis: Circle of Skulls

"Anything," they repeated in unison, their hollow voices small and desperate, dripping with a sickening weakness that Mara could almost taste. Her stomach growled and she bared her lionlike teeth, whipping stringy, black hair from her dark-skinned brow.

"Let me think," she replied slyly as a strange, distant wailing echoed from the ground.

The green flames of the circle flared brightly, roaring into an emerald pyre and turning the night into a pale, glowing day. Curses and shouts filled the circle as the remaining five manifested, spitting and burning with unparalleled fury. Mara backed away, smiling as they spun on one another, three hundred years of ruined work seeming to drive them entirely mad. She bowed mockingly as she retreated into the shadows but paused as an ominous tremor rumbled through the streets.

Her smile faded as thunder growled overhead in clouds that spun in slow, unnatural circles. Flashes of muted, orange flame hid behind the strange storm, and despite all, Mara sighed in brief contentment, recalling the tempests that would roar over the landscapes she'd once walked centuries ago. Strident horns echoed through the deserted avenues of Sea Ward as the Watch responded, booted feet on the march and drawing near as the circle of skulls fell eerily silent.

Their empty eyes fell on her, green fires flickering, mirroring the swinging lanterns of the Watch patrols.

"Enjoy this moment while you can, hag," they grumbled. "You have written the beginning of the end. The angel's prophecy will come. Our wrath is nothing next to what awaits you now."

Mara regarded them curiously then turned south, shivering despite herself as she imagined Jinnaoth facing down Sathariel. A thin column of pale crimson light, barely more than a staining mist, rose into the sky above the city. Another tremor rumbled beneath her feet, and shadowy figures turned a corner nearby, heading in her direction with lanterns blazing. Shouts echoed from within the House of Wonder as her illusion faded away. Robed figures streamed into the House's courtyard, drawn to the green flames of the skulls.

She twisted the silver ring on her hand, hiding herself in perfect illusion, and grinned at the circle of skulls, her arms crossed as they faded from sight, their green flames swirling into the cobbles. Fingering a large, ruby pendant around her neck, she eyed the last of the Nine's jade fire hungrily, eager to claim their souls.

"No, my friends. The angel has not claimed his prize. Not just yet," she whispered as she quickly melted into the alley's shadows.

Watchmen raced down Flint Street, pointing to the sky and blowing their horns as wizards gathered in the courtyard of the House of Wonder, their eyes fixed on the clouds, mouths agape in mystified awe.

Jinn's heart pounded in time with the thunder, impatience trembling in his blood. Raindrops slid down the length of his stolen sword as pale red light emanated from the edges of the roof, rising toward the sky. He stood upon the House of Thome as though he'd been there for millennia, waiting for Sathariel to scent the knowledge he carried, to answer a call to battle issued years ago, shouted over the corpse of the woman Jinn loved.

Four steepled spires rose from the corners of the wide, flat roof, the remnants of a long-forgotten garden staining the wood and stone beneath his boots. Fragments of centuries-old pottery littered the edges of an iron railing that was loosely strung with wispy, abandoned webs. He eyed the dried, silk-wrapped husks of flies and mosquitoes, his thoughts drifting to ancient fields of war as the streets below shook with tremors.

A familiar warmth throbbed from the grip of his sword, rising through the steel arid worming into his flesh like a living thing. Spikes of brief pain arced though his limbs as the steel vibrated in his grasp, a burning sensation that flooded into his mind with bloody thoughts and terrible hatred. The blade glimmered as he turned it over, studying the tiny, sparkling runes along the edge, their strange shapes and designs reaching for some lost piece of his soul. Though he could not read them or determine their origins, they flashed through his mind, burned into his memory like the script of a hallowed scroll.

The sword tugged at his wrist, and he turned, already picking out the regular beat of powerful wings through the whistling wind. Silvered armor glinted in the orange light of the fire curling through the clouds. Sathariel approached and Jinn clenched his jaw, holding the strange energy that boiled through his spirit at bay, bargaining with the stolen blade and promising blood in exchange for patience. Threads of gleaming silver in a mass of shadow distinguished themselves between the spires at the far end of the roof as the angel drew closer, wispy feathers like flames in silhouette at the edges of his wings. He held a long, curved blade of serrated steel at his side as he hovered between the spires, his cold, black eyes fixed on the deva.

"I know, Sathariel. I know where they are," Jinn said, holding his ground though every fiber of his being screamed to be loosed upon the angel.

"I suspected as much," Sathariel replied. "And my offer? You have come to accept it?"

"You know better than that," Jinn answered. "I followed your trail of bread crumbs, found this house, Archmage Tallus, Rilyana Saerfynn. I did all that you expected me to do, just to summon you here, to have this moment."

"And Variel?" the angel asked. "What of her soul? Shall she die with me on the point of your sword?"

"She made a choice," Jinn said coldly. "It was the wrong one."

"Indeed. I could rip the secret from your mind, deva. Leave you here to watch, helpless," Sathariel responded, pinpoints of blue light flashing in his black eyes.

"Then I pray you be quick about it. I have been waiting far too long," Jinn growled, raising his sword. The steel hummed, pulsing like a second heart.

"An eternity," the angel replied.

Sathariel charged, his eyes little more than streaks of blue light, twin stars falling toward Jinn's eager sword.

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

Jinn fell back, circling the rooftop as Sathariel whirled around him, a blur of black wings and flashing silver. Each strike of the angel's blade against his own resonated like a thunderclap, threatening to break his bones. Centuries of endless battle echoed through him, every identity he'd ever lived fought with him, making him quick and strong. Four thousand years of experience directed his blade, but it was not enough.

Pain shot through his right elbow as Sathariel pounded on his blade, steel grating loudly as their swords met, squealing as they parted. Jinn spun from the slash, whirling to deflect the next, searching for an opening, but the angel turned as well, thrusting from his side. Leaning back from the blow, Jinn caught the edge of the roof and glanced down upon the street below and the battle lines being drawn between the Watch and the ahimazzi. The iron railing stopped his fall but kept him still as the angel's blade cut a thin line across his chest. Blood blossomed on his tunic as he rolled away, his blade raised to meet Sathariel's charge, but the angel was gone.

He winced at the stinging pain in his chest, turning slowly and listening. The stolen sword writhed in his grip, turning with him as if it conducted its own hunt. Instinct told him to hurl the weapon away, somehow repulsed by its mysterious power, but he had no other options, preferring a potentially cursed blade to the suicidal prospect of fighting the angel barehanded.

The air thumped behind him, and he spun, immediately deflecting the long, silver blade aimed for his stomach but thrown off balance. Sathariel's fist crashed into his face, and stars exploded behind his eyes. His sword licked out, slashing at where the angel had been then reversing its course, chasing the feathery wisps of shadow in Sathariel's wake. Blood streaming from his nose, he turned, cutting at anything that moved, trying to focus his eyes as he regained his balance.