Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [117]
Snatching his talisman, Talmen gathered his robes and made his way to the south flank, where an equally exasperated lieutenant awaited his arrival. The lieutenant's horned silver helm reflected the last sputtering drops of flaming rain as he nodded.
"Nothing, Malefactor," he said, answering Talmen's unspoken question. "We have reached a stalemate."
"Yes," Talmen answered, disgusted. "Easy victory indeed, eh? Well, no matter. Let's test them more directly. Send forth the gnolls on the north side."
"The gnolls, sir? They are too few! They'll be cut down before they even reach the wall, much less the top of the battlements!"
"I'm willing to sacrifice the smell of wet dog in order to see something set foot on that field before we're forced to retreat!" Talmen's anger burst forth as he shoved the lieutenant into the mud, fully prepared to kick the life out of the man, but he stopped at the intrusion of a voice into his enraged thoughts.
"There will be no retreat, Malefactor."
He froze at the sound of her voice, gasping as his scar flashed with pain and an unexpected warmth flooded his body. He smelled her before he saw her. The cloying scents of cinnamon and blood filled his nose even as delicate, pale arms stretched from his chest, sheathed in blood that receded as they pushed through him. The pain in his arm subsided, and when he looked up, Morgynn was there, surveying the field. Her cold red eyes spilled blood onto her cheeks, squirming and trailing across her skin. Her gaze lingered on the bathor, halted at the edge of an invisible barrier and steaming in the chill rain.
She turned to Talmen, who quavered under her stare.
"The oracles, my lady," was all he could manage as her pulsing aura enveloped him.
The wind picked up again, growing wilder still, whipping cloaks and robes in a frenzied gale. Morgynn stood unaffected by the icy blast, not a single raven strand of hair or fold of her crimson robe defying her as she walked past Talmen toward the frozen bathor.
Again her voice invaded his mind, her simple command leaving him near exhausted and full of dread as roars of pain echoed from the skies above the city's walls.
"Ready yourselves. Prepare to advance," she said, and disappeared among the twitching bodies of her mindless creations.
* * * * *
Morgynn wove in and around the bathor, petting their skin. They took no notice of her presence, though their feverish trembling increased as she passed among them. She made her way to the center of the mindless horde. Exulting in the pulse of the Weave, hundreds of heartbeats long past death's door resounded in her senses like the drums of a long-sought conquest.
She imagined the oracles, hiding behind their walls, defying all she laid before them through the voice of Sameska.
"So fragile they must be," she said contemplatively. "Such precious things they sacrifice to make up for their lack of wisdom. So naive."
Making her way to the front of the crowded field of undead, she raised her fingers, tapping at the air. Imagining the Weave as an instrument, she tuned its fine threads, infusing the air with the sorcery she would exult in releasing. The gates of Brookhollow were visible to her, glowing slightly in her ensorcelled vision, her blooded eyes making out the faint dweomers of pale magic defending the walls.
"Borrowed power. Nature cannot give you the protection you seek, little Ghedia," she shouted, striding ahead of the bathor. "Power must be taken and commanded, not asked for!"
Easily within range of the archers, several arrows