James Davis: Bloodwalk

Inwardly, she apologized to the fallen hunter for the rough treatment of his remains as she scrambled to her feet. Eli found her bow and glanced at the ruined, tumbled wall where the gates had been. She knelt at the wall's edge to leap down and find the stranded children.

Looking down, she stopped herself before jumping. Her gaze froze as she looked into the glistening eyes of several young boys, their cherubic faces ruined by a maze of bluish veins and trembling spasms.

They whispered and mumbled horrible nothings as she stepped back from the edge. Her hand brushed against the arrow fletchings in her quiver as a low growl over her shoulder caused her to whip around. Next to the watchman's tower, the top of a ladder rested against the wall. On the battlement, she met the murderous stare of an armed gnoll. Eli nocked an arrow and fired. The missile found its mark, killing the beast. She heard it fall among annoyed yelps and growls from its fellows below. Behind her, the children scratched and wailed at the wall, climbing over one another to reach her even as more undead crowded toward the breach on her right. Wildly, she looked about for some escape. Her eyes fell on the dropped horn of a crushed watchman, a victim of the flying devils. The signal for a charge by the riders at the north and south gates played in her mind. She rose to her feet and saw the raised axe of another gnoll as it ascended the ladder. A few feet away, another ladder slammed against the wall. The signal horn might as well have been leagues away as the situation worsened.

Taking a deep breath, she nocked an arrow and raised her bow alone.

"Sanctuary." Sameska's voice broke the awkward silence. She sat on the steps, her back to the altar, pointedly avoiding the sight of it and the rune circle. "Means nothing," she added, her tone full of venom and contempt. The oracles who stayed behind to maintain the temple's arcane defenses ignored her. They focused on protecting the center of their faith, the foundation upon which their way of life had been built. A few refused to take any action, still convinced of the prophecy, though they wondered at Sameska's sanity. The high oracle rocked back and forth slowly, holding her knees. Occasionally, she spoke to the semicircle of meditating young women around the altar's edge. Mostly, she whispered to herself, trying to make sense of where her followers had gone wrong, how they had fallen away from her wisdom. "They don't see her coming," she mumbled. "All of them throw away their faith and their lives for fear. I see her, I have seen her blood." She narrowed her eyes, peering suspiciously at the silent oracles. They'll see us all dead, they will, she thought. They defy me, defy the words of their own god. She blinked away the pain in her eyes. The soft glow of the chamber's wards seeped through her closed lids and she pulled her cloak's hood lower. She viewed the intrusion of the light as an affront to her leadership. It showed disregard for her bloodline and the respect the name of her family deserved. She bit her lip in frustration. "Wayward souls, all of them, hiding in the dark." She stared at the floor. "It shall fall to me. I must protect them from themselves. What must I do?" She looked up then, to the broken dome above. Chaos boiled beyond the gaping hole, turning and flashing in the clouds, growling through the thunder. Savras did not answer her. She flexed the chill fingers of her right hand. Hidden beneath her robes, she gripped the hilt of a bejeweled dagger.

Lowering her head again, still listening for an answer, she returned her attention to the oracles before her, to their still backs and exposed necks.

A thin trail of evaporating shadow clung to the edges of Quinsareth's cloak. The shadow of Brookhollow slowly gained detail as his eyes adjusted to the real world. He had emerged just north of the writhing mob that pushed its way through the western wall of the city.

Invigorated and nearly healed by the shadow road, he ran toward the city. Bedlam hummed in the rain, screeching at each blade of grass that brushed along its length. His keen vision picked out a group of robed figures in devilish masks. Solemnly watching the grim procession of undead, the Gargauthans made their way around the north side of an abandoned watch tower. The city was a blur of flame and smoke. Hellish beasts roared in the sky even as the dead wailed and screamed on the ground. Quin consciously controlled his breathing as he ran, remaining steady and calm, observing the details of the terrain. He knew he was no soldier. He had never fought against armies. Morgynn alone was his chosen enemy, chosen by the shadows and the will of Hoar, a will for vengeance. He thought of what Sameska had called him, morbidly remembering his own reply. "I am the assassin," he said under his breath. Some part of him rejected the concept, but the feel of a sword in his hand and his single-minded purpose drowned out the nobler parts of himself, putting them away until they could be afforded. "Only that and nothing more." His thoughts fell silent as a familiar cry seized his attention. A gnoll howled as it fell from the tower, splashing to the ground near the priests. A handful of its companions had already met similar ends. The Gargauthans approached and circled around the bodies. Their voices intoned a deep spidery chant over the corpses as they summoned the power of necromancy to command the gnollish warriors to fight again. Quinsareth sped forward, raising his sword as the first of the dead gnolls began to twitch in the mud. One of the Gargauthans heard the scream of Quin's sword and looked up as it descended to cleave through his horned mask.

Baertah fell against a wall in the dark alleyway, gasping as warmth covered his flesh and a sudden pressure grew in his chest. The scents of cinnamon and rot filled his nose as his eyes failed, changing the gloom of the heavy clouds into impenetrable darkness.

Blinded, he fell to his knees and whimpered, flinching as the ominous sound of beating wings passed over him. The warmth faded and his eyes adjusted to the dark. He blinked against the blur of the shadows, turning pale as he made out a familiar form standing over him.

"There's my little failure," Morgynn said, her voice sinuous and scolding, enveloping his fear in the intimate tones of a scorned lover. "What happened, I wonder? Not enough coin in your coffers, perhaps? The safety and rulership of Littlewater no longer desirable?

Or maybe your abilities didn't quite match your claims?" Baertah was speechless, backing into the street on his hands and knees, slipping to his elbows in the rain. Morgynn stepped from the shadows, the flushed color of her skin fading from the bloodwalk that had carried her through the lord hunter. She studied him a moment, raising an eyebrow at his silence. "What's this? No excuses? No begging?" she asked, truly surprised. "If I didn't already know you were a complete coward, I'd have thought you were being brave, Lord Hunter. I thought your betrayal admirable before, but now I see why the hunters defy you." "I–I'm sorry, Lady Morgynn," he stammered while warily rising to his feet. "Please accept my-" "Ah, there it is," she said, amused. "Do not bother. I've heard your words on many tongues throughout the years and I still can't understand the tastes that put them there. Let's dispense with formality, shall we?" Morgynn lightly touched the scars across her collarbone, shuddering as they burned away and released their power. Baertah was hurled into the air by her magic. Thrown down the street, he splashed in a crumpled heap on the cobblestones, the wind knocked from his lungs. He choked and struggled for air as he was lifted and thrown again, this time slamming against a wall and breaking his leg. She scowled at the need for such recreation, but Baertah was an ally courted by the fallen Mahgra and she was not surprised at the similarities between them. Both were vain and preening, and though the ogre had a streak of defiance, Baertah was little more than a fop. She toyed with his body, carrying him closer and closer to the temple, battering his twisted limbs against any convenient obstacle. Only occasionally did he find the breath to scream. Even then, his voice was ragged and raw as if his throat had been scoured with gravel. The battle raged far behind them. The sky was lit by the glow of distant fires when Baertah landed on his back only a few dozen paces from the temple's doors. Morgynn dismissed her spell and walked over to straddle his legs, crouching over him and whispering in his ear. Baertah's eyes twitched behind bruised and broken skin. His jaw rested at an odd angle and several teeth hung in his gums by threads. A thin, wheezing breath escaped him and he coughed weakly as the rain spattered against the back of his throat.