Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [114]
Quinsareth's voice broke the silence.
"It's a funny thing, prophecies," he began, smiling freely at Morgynn's tantrum. Her head slowly turned at his interruption. "Sometimes they come true."
She did not reply to the aasimar, but neither did she look away as she spoke again, quiet but commanding. "Deal with your mistake, Khaemil. End it. I will go and correct its consequences."
Before the shadurakul could protest, Morgynn strode forward into him, melding into his flesh and disappearing through his blood. In a blink she was gone, leaving Quin to wonder in awe at the gruesome trick. He did not know how she had done it, but he had no doubts as to where she had gone.
A low, grumbling growl rolled from Khaemil's throat as he beheld the aasimar. Long fangs grew in the canomorph's mouth, and he bared them. He hefted the mace at his side and stalked toward Quin. The chamber shook again, the storm's violence threatening to bring the tower down on their heads. Quin's bonds felt as strong as ever. Bedlam lay far out of reach, useless, and the game tumbled on in his mind. The only piece left, seemingly as useless as his sword, was the shield.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The canomorph's magic was insidious and subtle, leaving no scars or bloody wounds in its wake, only the memory of one pain and the continuous anticipation of the next. Quin's mind reeled, becoming more and more detached from the pain. He had been burned with invisible flames and sliced by blades that only his mind could give form and substance.
Through it all, through pain and paralysis, he could not summon or even fathom the rage he'd expected. It seemed to him that Khaemil carried rage for them both. He had been the canomorph's failure in Morgynn's eyes, the reason for whatever punishment the blood-witch had in store. So Khaemil drew out Quin's pain, keeping him alive to exorcize his rage. Both of them expected death in one form or another, one sooner, the other later.
The tower shook with each peal of thunder, rattling the bones and shaking dust from the ceiling. Only a blur of twisting wind, filled with lightning, could be seen through the small window. Whatever remained of the storm's power was just enough to keep it going.
One by one, the game pieces fell away in Quin's thoughts. He fought the urge to retreat into those memories of childhood. He wanted to be aware, strengthening his will on the present.
He had strained his muscles almost to exhaustion trying to break the bands of force that held him tight, to no avail. His only freedoms were to see and to speak, neither of which were useful under the circumstances. He had been at the mercy of boundless rage before on the long roads he'd traveled across Faerыn, and found it distasteful to witness such pursuits once more.
Khaemil growled and snarled as he cast, flinging Quin's mind into illusory landscapes filled with keening phantoms, then dismissing the images to deliver more direct torments. In the brief respite between spells, Quin allowed himself to respect Khaemil's instinct for torture. A man could live for tendays, even months, in such intricate and carefully doled out pain.
Only the occasional trembling of the tower, cracks widening along its walls, let them both know that such time would not be afforded to them. Khaemil would have to finish his games soon enough, lest the crumbling tower give in to the chaotic storm outside and crush them both.
The canomorph circled the aasimar as he contemplated the theme of each spell. Quin watched his face each time, seeing the familiar visage of a fellow killer, an assassin hired on faith to deliver bloody sermons to one's enemies. Through the fog of pain, Quin contemplated scenarios of escape, miracles beyond hope by which he might slay this dark preacher of vile magic and follow Morgynn to Brookhollow. Occasionally his eyes drifted to Bedlam, still lying on the floor, so close