"Sathariel," Jinn whispered, thoughts racing as he tried to fathom what business had been conducted in Allek's home, scarce hours after the rorden had been slain.
"Bloody Mystra," Quessahn swore, regaining her balance. Then she froze as a whimpering groan, guttural and plaintive, echoed from somewhere downstairs.
Jinn drew his sword, his instincts proving honest on at least one undeniable fact.
They were not alone.
Harsh-worded rhymes drifted in the air as Tallus chanted, slowly turning a short length of ash wood between his fists. Standing in the dark at the back door of Allek's home, he strained to pull the magic into shape, smiling in triumph at each victory, each curve or bend that formed to his will. The energy swirled around him tentatively, like an animal fearing a trap. He had read accounts of magic use before the Spellplague and pitied those who had drawn upon the well-ordered threads of the old Weave, as if magic were an instrument waiting for simple breath to give it life. They hadn't suffered for the Art, hadn't wrestled the raw energy of magic into a usable shape with mere words and willpower. He saw achievement of the Art as a crucible and many of those who had once been long lived upon the magic of the past were long dead due to the storm of magic that he had learned to command.
With a final phrase, the first spell was complete, and he stepped back, grinning as an oily sheen crawled over the windows and doors of the Marson house, sealing it such that his next spell would eliminate the loose threads Rorden Allek had invited into Sea Ward.
You're wasting time, Archmage, the angel said in his mind. Tallus sneered.
"The skulls are well tended," he replied, returning his attention to the spell at hand. "And I shall gain from them all I need soon after midnight."
Truly? Sathariel said. The winter air grew colder, numbing Tallus's hands. The angel's shadow fell upon the house, wings outstretched, his face like a smooth, black mask haloed by an ebony flame. I wonder, who is betraying whom?
"What do you care? We shall both have what we want!" Tallus spit back, growing tired of the angel's meddling and thinking he would have rather dealt with Asmodeus directly.
Take care, Archmage, that the skulls do not get what they want. The angel descended, his black eyes hovering inches from Tallus's face. Or you shall share in their punishment.
"You flatter me," Tallus said. "I would not dare attempt to fool a god as they once did."
Mind your tongue! Sathariel's voice tore through his mind like lightning, ripping through his confidence and racking his body with pain. He fell to his knees, breathless and clutching at his chest. Have some respect or the only immortality you shall receive will be in the burning pits of Nessus. Now finish this petty business, and do not try my patience further!
Cold wind rushed around Tallus, whipping at his robes as Sathariel left him gasping and shaking. Grunting with effort, he raised the ash wood, turned it once more between his fists, and chanted the last of his ritual. As the wood rotted and crumbled in his grasp, he threw it against the back door and fell forward, cursing as the pain faded from his chest and lirnbs. Rising slowly on his hands and knees, he spied the pale, wide-eyed face of his apprentice watching him from the bushes along the side of the house.
"Quit cowering, Gorrick," he said, clearing his throat and regaining his voice. He brushed the rotted wood from his hands and nodded in satisfaction, done with the deva and the eladrin. Leaning on his staff, he scowled as Gorrick fell into step at his side and prepared himself for the rest of the evening's work and for dealing with the circle of skulls. Though they had been weakened by the Spellplague, he knew his acting could not fool them for long. If he gave the circle of skulls cause to sense his duplicity, all would be lost. "Tell the others to ready themselves; then return to my tower. I have important work for you."
"Yes, Archmage," Gorrick said, grinning and placing a Winterfirst mask over his face before setting out to begin the last rites.
Tallus watched him go then limped slowly out to the street, heading home and taking a peculiar interest in his own weaknesses, his aching joints and untrustworthy pulse, forging a memory of them that would make his victory all the sweeter.
"Important work indeed," he muttered.
Quessahn flinched at the sound of a chair sliding across the wood floor. She stared down into the inky dark of the stairway, her moon elf eyes strangely unable to penetrate shadows that ebbed and flowed like water. Jinn stood still as a statue, sword drawn and listening intently, his gold eyes narrowed to tiny glints of light in the faint glow of the lantern. Closing her eyes, she pressed her palms to her head, shutting out the echoing sounds and sights from her previous ritual, the screams of a thousand souls in torment attempting to shatter the calm she would need in the next few moments.
The spells slowly overtook the visions, their singsong rhymes setting her at ease as she whispered their ancient names, calling upon the mystical sources that fueled her magic. A hand fell on her arm, and she looked up, her flesh tingling at the contact as she saw the question in Jinn's eyes. She nodded, waving her hand to signal that she was fine as she crept back into the bedroom and pulled back the curtains from the window. Her reflection stared back at her, illuminated by the weak lantern light. The glass was cold and clammy, black as fresh tar, and though the latch was unlocked, it resisted her attempts to open it. Desperate, she smashed the pommel of her dagger into the window, cursing as the spiderweb of cracks slowed and reversed itself, repairing the damage.
"We're trapped," she whispered.
"And something is down there," he added.
"Not someone?" she asked.
"No," he answered as a chill breeze blew up the stairs, bringing with it a stench of decay that burned her nose and made her stomach turn. The smell seemed to seep through the wood, hissing through the walls as an unintelligible murmur came from the bottom of the stairs.
"What is it?" she managed, covering her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to block the smell.
"It's here," he said.
In the shadows at the base of the stairway, the shape of a figure coalesced in the dark, a black silhouette in the shadow so faint that Quessahn suspected she could have imagined it. The mere sight of it chilled her skin, and her breath came in steamy puffs as the figure half crawled up the bottom steps in nervous twitches. She stepped back as Jinn raised his sword, a spell on her lips as she brandished her ritual dagger and noticed movement to her right.
The lantern's light shrunk as a patch of shadow on the bedroom wall darkened, spreading like a mold stain and slowly taking shape. A masklike face of deepest black pressed through the wall with crude gouges for eyes and a pitlike mouth twisted in quiet suffering. A thin, emaciated arm stretched through the plaster, reaching for her as the thing's hollow eyes found her.
A shock wave of icy energy gripped her chest, and she fell back, her heart thumping painfully as the thing's torso flowed through the wall. Its ghostly face drooped, a theater mask of sorrow, as it moaned in hunger. Her hands seemed unnaturally pale as she raised them, turning her dagger in a graceful curve as the rhyme of the spell poured from her cold lips, pulling raw magic to her fingertips and shaping it into a searing light that blazed across the room.
The thing hissed in pain as the light crashed into its chest. It writhed and beat at the walls, the light spreading across its body, its flesh rippling as it pulled back into the wood and plaster.