Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [102]
"No," she said. "Let's have a closer look at him."
"But the priests below," he protested. "Surely they-"
"He might find a way to destroy them," she purred, a cruel curiosity in her voice. "They've performed their duties well enough. They can be spared now."
"And the storm?"
"Will last long enough with or without them!" she snapped, irritated by his questioning. "You have little faith in your Gargauthan brethren, Khaemil. Is that a flaw, or wisdom?"
The shadurakul did not answer, and Morgynn's attention remained on the field below. Her eyes danced as the warrior cut down the ghoul with his screaming blade. She enjoyed the weapon's discordant voice and bloody work in the aasimar's quick hands. She turned from the window and released Khaemil's shoulder, flexing her fingers and stretching her neck pleasurably.
"No," she said again, staring nonchalantly into the piles of bones and skulls around her chamber. "We will meet this Hoarite and have a good look at him. Before we ruin him."
* * * * *
Half a dozen Gargauthans joined blackened hands, weaving a spell to protect the tower from the aasimar and his unlikely allies. Quinsareth made no move to stop them, keeping their attention and hoping his alliance with the dryads had not yet ended. The net of vines in his wake was still and quiet, only brown leaves fluttering in the cold wind.
Deliberating quickly, he cursed himself for a fool. Too far from the priests to interrupt their chant, he was forced to rely on the fickle fey trio to honor a bargain made in mutual distrust. He braced himself to drop behind the stone he stood on, counting on the fallen block to protect him from whatever magic was being cast. Then his sharp eyes spotted movement on the ground near the priests' feet.
Tiny, dark green shoots sprouted and curled upward, unnoticed by the chanting priests. A carpet of new growth spread amid the spellcasters, hidden beneath their robes and twisting around their shoes. One by one, the tendrils brushed against skin, startling their victims and choking off the chanting. The priests frantically clawed at green thorns scraping against their flesh and tightening around their ankles and calves.
Relieved, Quinsareth watched, giving the Pale Sisters their due and allowing them their vengeance.
Several priests fell to the ground, roaring in frustration as their legs were wrapped together. Others, more level-headed, attempted to summon spells and prayers to dispel the wild plants. At the sound of hoarse voices rising to chant anew, the ground tore apart beneath them.
Vines and roots as thick as small trees burst from the dirt and cracked stone, shaking even the ruined wall on which Quinsareth stood. Priests screamed as several were impaled on roots and lifted into the air, only to stop suddenly as they were slammed back to the dirt. The rest became hopelessly entangled, thorny tendrils wrapping around their heads and crushing their masks, silencing their spells in a gagging vice.
Quinsareth skirted the edges of the Pale Sisters' chaos. He made his way to the open doorway at the base of the tower and ignored the eerily quiet work of the dryads. Faintly, he could hear their songs inside the tangle of roots and limbs. Though their magic was directed elsewhere, Quin felt a familiar peace steal over him briefly. He stopped at the doorway, glancing sidelong into the newborn thicket. The dryads flowed through the network of wood, their bodies sinuously melding in and out of roots, visiting each victim in turn.
Their bare bodies were hideously beautiful, lithe and graceful as they quietly stalked their helpless prey. Aellspath saw him pause and she smiled cruelly, winking her flowered eyes at him. The ease with which Quin felt he could succumb to their charms frightened him and jolted him out of his dangerous musing. He darted inside and ran to the stairs, eager to be away from the soothing voices and