Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [25]
"I should like to punish you for what you've done to my allies, little one. But I have more pressing business, alas."
He raised the magical glaive high overhead.
Quinsareth did not wait for its descent. Springing forward at the startled ogre mage, he buried Bedlam in the giant's gut.
Mahgra bellowed in pain as the blade screamed inside him. He batted at the desperate aasimar with a clublike fist.
Quinsareth's arm nearly broke against the ogre's blow. He heard several ribs crack as he landed on his back and rolled onto his stomach. He watched as Mahgra tried unsuccessfully to pry Bedlam from the grievous wound. Each time he pulled, the blade grew louder and twirled like an auger to dig deeper.
Steam rose in clouds behind the howling ogre. Quinsareth saw that the glaive had been dropped and forgotten by the ogre wizard. Ignoring the pain in his arm and chest, he rose on all fours to help the ogre remove the embedded Bedlam. He stood and charged, drawing Mahgra's attention.
A spell leaped to the ogre's lips as he tenaciously cast through the pain, rage carrying him through the syllables and gestures of his most familiar spell. Quinsareth was ready this time and dived forward as a lightning bolt streaked over his head. It singed the trailing edge of his waterlogged cloak and ripped painfully down his spine.
He grabbed Bedlam's hilt before Mahgra could react. Roaring through gritted teeth, Quin pulled the blade free and swung wildly upward. He felt only brief resistance as it sliced nearly halfway through the ogre's throat. Rain and hot blood spilled down on the ghostwalker as Mahgra gurgled for air, trying to bring forth another spell despite his severed windpipe and tattered vocal cords.
Quinsareth stumbled backward, his face a mask of feral pain as he watched the ogre mage crash to the ground. Rolling thunder emphasized the ogre's fall, and the wind mocked his last gurgling breath. Satisfied that the ogre would not stand again, Quin sagged. Dropping limply to his knees, he languidly watched the blood of the wizard trickle away in the pounding rain.
* * * * *
The temple in Brookhollow was silent and still, disturbed only by distant thunder from the northwest. The storm had at last broken, and the citizens were grateful it had done so elsewhere. Enough trouble and dire news had affected their lives in the last few tendays, indeed in the last several months.
The blush had not yet taken a strong hold this far south, but it would. Only time stood between them and epidemic. The Temple of the Hidden Circle had been quiet, doling out only what minor divinations might reveal. The lesser oracles did their best, but growing whispers and rumors surrounded the subject of Sameska.
Dreslya was still awake when the thunder began and the horizon was lit by flashes of faraway lightning. She'd sent riders out to gather the Hunters of the Hidden Circle, warriors of Savras and champions of his church. The other oracles would be informed as they awoke for morning prayers and the breaking of their fasts.
Sameska's look and words haunted her.
After revealing nothing for months, for nearly a whole year, the high oracle called a meeting of the Hidden Circle. Dreslya knew something was wrong; something horrible hid in autumn's early chill and the gathering black clouds. She had never stepped within the rune circle itself, but she felt the changes in Brookhollow and in Sameska. Faith in the wisdom of Savras was all that held her together.
"His plan will be revealed as he sees fit, no sooner," she told herself several times throughout the night, wondering what would come next.
CHAPTER SIX
They gathered in the fog, riding across sodden ground in heavy cloaks and grim moods. Their mounts were bred from the horses of the Southern Shaar, a powerful