James Davis - Bloodwalk

Dreslya could not take her eyes from the smoking remains of the gates and those unlucky enough to have been caught in the blast. Black water, thick with ash, streamed along the street and around her feet.

Several times, Lesani held her back from searching through the ash and char to find Elisandrya. "Mourning will come," she said to the oracle,

"but not now." Dres gasped at the words, a lump forming in her throat.

Her vision from earlier had carried voices and snippets of conversation drifting in and out of focus. The vision had been a warning, showing her the consequences of inaction. She remembered Lesani's voice telling her of mourning, but she had thought the Ghedia spoke of the coming sunrise, of hope, not the death of her sister.

Lesani took her by the arm, leading her away from the defenders. The Ghedia searched inside empty doors and dark windows, though Dres did not know why. She followed in a daze, her eyes burning, trying to summon the courage to look away from the clouds of steam on the western end of Brookhollow. She tried to focus on the present despite the uncertainty of her vision. Rain soaked her robes and hair, and a numbness from the cold crept through her hands. "Here!" Lesani shouted over a fresh round of monstrous thunder, pointing to the doorway of a stonework hovel. Low and sturdy, it stood abandoned and lifeless.

"Come, I need your help!" "Yes, you do," Dres mumbled, confused. Cold and shivering, she was having greater difficulty discerning between present and future. "I mean, I know. At least I think I know." As the pair ducked inside, Lesani cleared a space on the floor, pushing a modest table and chairs against the wall. She took several items from hidden pouches within her robes and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Dres wandered to the lone window. Facing north, she could no longer see the steam and smoke, but she could smell them. "Sit down, Oracle,"

Lesani said, the edge in her voice catching Dreslya's attention.

"Elisandrya is a great warrior. I do not doubt you may see her again, but I need you here and now." Dreslya turned away from the window and the sounds of battle. At Lesani's gesture, she sat across from the Ghedia. Though focused on the items she laid out in front of her, even Lesani glanced up at the window, like Dreslya, when the thunder died.

In that moment of silence, filled only with falling rain, horrendous screams echoed through the streets. A furious buzzing filled the quiet. This, too, Dreslya remembered, and she paled in fear.

Sudden and untamed chaos jolted Morgynn's body as the bathor were released from the oracles' spell. She lowered her protective bubble, her feet dipping into the mud as the sensation overwhelmed her.

Hundreds of feverish pulses rivaled the fury of the storm, drowning out all else. She stood still as the undead surged around her.

Unnatural heat drew beads of sweat across her brow and down her back.

She dismissed her protective sphere, allowing the rain and wind to cool her. Searching left and right, over the backs of the hunched bathor, she watched as the Gargauthans advanced alongside the tortured throng of her creations. She stood quietly as they raced past her toward the ruined wall. "Prophecies be damned, now," she said. "This is the beginning of my vision, my Order of Twilight. Woe to those who stand against it." She fell into step with the undead. Magic itched along her arms to the tips of her fingers. Rain flowed in rivulets across her scars, following their patterns before dripping to the ground. Her crimson gaze fixed on the Temple of the Hidden Circle, and on the pitiful old woman who cowered within. A moment later, the broken gates became the vision she'd imagined. The bathor crowded into Brookhollow, pushing debris and bodies aside in their haste. Drawing closer, she saw that beyond the destruction, Brookhollow's defenders had rallied admirably. They presented an impressive wall of flesh for her bathor to rend and tear. Bows and spears were prepared to meet her horde. They fired arrows first, piercing the pale skin of the bathor with no visible effect. The undead did not bleed or scream in pain. A few paused and stared curiously at the feathered sticks that seemed to spring from them. Flickers of intelligence hung like cobwebs in the attics of their eroded minds, but they soon pushed forward, shaking off confusion. Long spears stood propped between the archers, ready for combat face to face, and the bathor sprang forward mindlessly, some impaling themselves. They ran down the hafts of the spears, skewering themselves through their abdomens or chests to claw at their shocked opponents. Horrified, archers and spearmen dropped their weapons, drawing swords and axes more suitable for close combat. The bathor knew only claws and teeth, and a single-minded urge to kill what they no longer understood. The heat surrounding Morgynn's horde burned eyes and lungs. The carrion stench forced more than a few weak-stomached defenders away to retch and cough. Some averted their eyes, afraid of seeing a relative or friend among the undead. Most held their ground and fought, and many defenders died in the first few moments. The bathor were relentless, wailing horribly and dragging down the weak. They spat boiling blood on their victims, scalding skin as they tore at exposed throats. Slowly, the defenders were pushed back, making way for impossible numbers of feral opponents. Morgynn watched their progress, glancing at the fallen hunters with interest, eventually finding what she sought. Lying against a half-burned stable was a young warrior with striking green eyes and wavy brown hair. The blood mage extended a hand toward him, gesturing at his chest. She felt his slow heartbeat plodding toward death. Several bathor noticed him as well and crawled forward, splashing through the mud to claim their prize. Morgynn approached the young man and waved a hand at the undead, sending them away with a glance. The bathor stopped, but could not tear their lifeless eyes away from the scene. Whimpering, they clawed at themselves as each puff of breath escaped the hunter's lips.

Morgynn knelt in front of the warrior, observing the wound in his stomach that gushed dark, almost black blood through his clenched fingers. His other hand gripped his weapon, the curved blade traditional to his order, but he was too weak to lift the sword. "What is your name, boy?" she asked, laying a hand on his knee in a gesture of comfort. He tried to speak but only coughed, his throat wet. After a second try, he answered weakly, "Arek." Morgynn heard him, but her mind was elsewhere. The young hunter's blood flowed beneath her touch, a conduit showing her the battle within the city. Blood called to blood, forming a crimson map in her mind. One lonely trail stood apart from the others, moving swiftly under cover of darkness, hiding and running, then hiding again. She smiled and returned her gaze to the dying hunter. "Well, then. Farewell, Arek." She crawled forward, over him then through him, merging with his flesh and fading to nothing.

The impatient bathor loosed keening wails as they closed their circle and took what she'd denied them.

Lying in the guard tower, Elisandrya coughed, spitting blood and ash from her mouth. Rain washed over her and she flexed her muscles to warm them. She rubbed gingerly at her eyes, trying to restore her vision, blurred by smoke and unconsciousness. A heavy weight lay across her legs and she reached down to move it away. The coarse fabric of an ironvine cloak gave her pause. She raised herself to one elbow and blearily made out the fallen body of Zakar. From his appearance and clouded eyes, he was far beyond her help. As she pulled herself free, she noticed the clouds of steam growing thicker. Water streamed down her face and neck. Listening, she tried to make out voices she could hear close by. Their words were soft and unintelligible, a mumbling she could not understand, but she was certain they were children. Nearly panicking at the thought of children caught in the battle, she quickly escaped from beneath Zakar.