Circle of Skulls

TWENTY-ONE

NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

Jinn fell back, circling the rooftop as Sathariel whirled around him, a blur of black wings and flashing silver. Each strike of the angel's blade against his own resonated like a thunderclap, threatening to break his bones. Centuries of endless battle echoed through him, every identity he'd ever lived fought with him, making him quick and strong. Four thousand years of experience directed his blade, but it was not enough.

Pain shot through his right elbow as Sathariel pounded on his blade, steel grating loudly as their swords met, squealing as they parted. Jinn spun from the slash, whirling to deflect the next, searching for an opening, but the angel turned as well, thrusting from his side. Leaning back from the blow, Jinn caught the edge of the roof and glanced down upon the street below and the battle lines being drawn between the Watch and the ahimazzi. The iron railing stopped his fall but kept him still as the angel's blade cut a thin line across his chest. Blood blossomed on his tunic as he rolled away, his blade raised to meet Sathariel's charge, but the angel was gone.

He winced at the stinging pain in his chest, turning slowly and listening. The stolen sword writhed in his grip, turning with him as if it conducted its own hunt. Instinct told him to hurl the weapon away, somehow repulsed by its mysterious power, but he had no other options, preferring a potentially cursed blade to the suicidal prospect of fighting the angel barehanded.

The air thumped behind him, and he spun, immediately deflecting the long, silver blade aimed for his stomach but thrown off balance. Sathariel's fist crashed into his face, and stars exploded behind his eyes. His sword licked out, slashing at where the angel had been then reversing its course, chasing the feathery wisps of shadow in Sathariel's wake. Blood streaming from his nose, he turned, cutting at anything that moved, trying to focus his eyes as he regained his balance.

"You were tricked into coming here, deva," Sathariel said, his voice thundering from all directions. "Led here, step by step, as you fought through the ranks of the Vigilant Order, seeking vengeance even as you grew ever colder to the lost love that began this journey. I knew you would succeed where others had failed. I knew you would bring me the circle of skulls."

"Never!" Jinn screamed, spitting blood. "I will never give them to you! I baited you here with them! I used you!"

"A delusion, Jinnaoth," the angel replied. "Your single-minded pursuit blinded you, made you see what I wanted you to see. My trail of bread crumbs, as you called it. And here you are, bleeding, flailing about, and well out of your depth."

"No," Jinn muttered under his breath.

"My offer still stands. You may take Variel, perhaps even your elf, and leave this place, a fair exchange," Sathariel said, the beating of his wings somewhere close by.

"And leave Waterdeep to you? To drag the Hells' influence into the streets?" Jinn asked. "I think not."

"Think at what you might gain, deva. One small sacrifice, one section of this city devoted to Asmodeus, could begin the war you've always wanted. Think of it! A final war. An end to thousands of years of searching, battle after battle without an end in sight," the angel said, appearing at the northern end of the roof, wings outstretched between the spires, bright sword held low.

Nausea gripped Jinnaoth as he considered the idea, attracted to the thought of a last war, being a soldier, knowing that every kill and little victory would stand and last. Then shame flooded through him, and he banished the thought, his very soul shaken by the prospect of dealing with a minion of Asmodeus.

"This is the final war."

"I assure you, it is not." Sathariel chuckled. "This is one man's pathetic last stand-"

"Every day!" Jinn shouted, raising his blade, his golden eyes blazing with fury. "Every day for thousands of years, every fight, every stolen crust of bread, every murderer brought to justice, every innocent slain! This is the final war. It rages through time and needs no arrogant god or even his silver-tongued angel to set boundaries upon when it ends, least of all a simple soldier like myself!"

"You are beaten. I spoke true when I said I would rip the information from your mind!" The angel growled and charged, crossing the distance between them in a half a breath. Their blades clashed twice, then locked, steel grinding on steel, as Sathariel pressed his strength against Jinn's. The angel's wings beat furiously as he pushed Jinn's back to a crumbling spire. His free hand rose and clutched the deva's head.

Icy tendrils wormed across Jinn's scalp as he struggled to push the angel away, the stolen blade squirming in his hand, shaking like a caged beast begging to be set free. Power flowed from the weapon into his arm, and he felt some strength returning, but he could not contest the angel's power. With a gasp of horror, he felt a single cold tendril slip into his thoughts and drag the location of the skulls' souls from his mind.

The house shook as the tendril withdrew. Red light flared through the sky as the angel's icy eyes gleamed in victory-the last component of the terrible prophecy within his grasp.

"You played your part well, deva," Sathariel whispered as he pulled his hand away from Jinnaoth's scalp. "I will let you live, a reward for your fine service."

Jinn pushed on the silver blade of the angel, breathless and enraged. A curious glow rose between them, and the angel's wings slowed their pressing beat. Tiny sigils flared on the edge of Jinn's stolen blade, throbbing as the angel prepared to leave, angling his body to take flight even as he held Jinn against the spire. As soon as the silver blade's pressure lessened, Jinn shoved, bursting with speed as the black wings turned and twisted.

The glowing sword became a blur as he chased the angel backward, sparks flying as they dueled, Sathariel just one misstep away from escaping. Jinn roared as he fought, heartbeats slipping by faster and faster, everything he'd ever battled for sliding away from him. Unnatural swiftness infected his blade and rushed down his arm. He didn't care where the sword had come from, why the Vigilant Order had guarded it, or even why he had chosen to steal it from them in the first place. It had shed the blood of the order well, and he was determined to sheath it in the heart of the angel.

With a deft twist of his body, Sathariel slid to the side, and Jinn stumbled forward, though he managed one last arcing slash, quick as a striking snake, before the angel could get away. Sathariel howled in pain as he ascended into the sky.

For half a breath, Jinn felt overwhelming despair crush him to his knees, defeated and used as the angel escaped. But before he could draw breath or curse all the gods he could name, a peculiar rush of alien power overcame him and left him gasping for air. Strange energy flowed through him, burning from the sword in his hand. Warm and quiet, it soothed his rage into a tranquil calm, the likes of which he had not experienced for many years.

He raised the sword, eyeing the smear of crimson on the steel as it dripped and fell, dissipating before it touched the rooftop-the ethereal flesh and blood of an angel.

He stood as the sword brightened, nearly invisible sigils along its length gleaming in the scarlet column of light. Blue spheres whispered around him as they rose from the house, reflected on the edge of the sword. As Sathariel's blood flowed down the edge, strange patterns were revealed, sigils that burned themselves into his mind. Somewhere, in the eldest of his forgotten memories, a fragment of his soul read the language on the blade and felt its ancient power.

Images of the Astral Sea flashed through his thoughts, and he recalled a time long before flesh and blood, when powerful laws were spoken to those angelic beings serving at the pleasure of the gods.

"Sathariel," he shouted, his voice full of command. He raised the glowing blade, speaking the divine words written in flowing script on the guard as if he had spoken them a hundred times. "By Zaphkiel the Watcher and Dumariel of the Eleventh Hour, and by all the lost gods of Mulhorand, I bind thee, dark spirit! And I command you… to stand!"

The angel, little more than a distant blot against the clouds, paused and turned.

"You do not want this, deva," the angel replied, speaking as though next to Jinn, growling in his ear. "You would be better served dying or running for your life, but this-"

"Silence!" Jinn roared and held the blade higher, its light shining on Sathariel's silvered armor and sword.

"You do not know what you do, nor do you have any idea what you wield. Drop that blade and leave this place, and I shall forgive this sickening offense. You cannot survive this," the angel said, an edge of anger creeping into his thunderous words.

"I have outlived gods, Sathariel. I intend to outlive yours, and by all the souls in the Astral Sea, I shall outlive you!" Jinn cried. His sword blazed in his hand, and his golden eyes shone with the terrible brilliance of the angel he once was. "Now stand!"

"This is your choice, deva? You make it freely, then?" Sathariel asked, drifting closer, returning to the rooftop, bound by ancient laws and mortal magic.

"It is and I do," Jinn replied.

"The choice is made. Let the contract be decided," the angel intoned, his voice ominous and formal.

Sathariel charged, eerily silent as Jinn rushed to meet him.

Rilyana raised her hands, exultant as the ritual circle brightened, long arcs of magic flashing through the runes in the floor. Quessahn shielded her eyes and backed away from the circle, watching in horror as power flowed through the room and spun around the small pedestal at its center. The ground quaked as blue motes of bright light ascended from the wooden chest, each one whispering or moaning as they turned in languid circles. The remnants of dead vines at the room's perimeter twisted and turned green, sprouting dark red roses.

"Now!" Rilyana cried. "The deva is dead, and I shall never die!"

She paced around the pedestal, crimson energy eddying around her ankles, blue lights spinning from the grisly box, but Rilyana appeared no different than before.

She turned on the pedestal, eyes narrowed, lips trembling in anger as she searched for something. Her hands shook as she ground her teeth, seething as she waited, staring at the burns on her arms, feeling the bruises on her face. She traced the sigils upon the chest and scratched at her wrist, drawing thin lines of blood that she stared at in horror.

"Mortal…?" she said. "Nothing! What is this?"

"Something wrong?" Quessahn asked, rising to one knee and wincing at the effort.

"What did you do?" Rilyana growled.

"I studied the notes of Archmage Tallus. And I'm fairly certain you need this," Quessahn said and produced the bloodstained finger of the wizard in her palm.

"Thieving whore!" the human shouted and rushed at the eladrin.

Quessahn allowed Rilyana two strides before lifting her dagger and willing the spell within it to be freed. A curling stream of darkness shot from the end of the blade, eel-like and screeching as it connected with Rilyana's chest. The human's eyes widened as she fell back, crimson stains blossoming around the tentacle as it drained the blood from her body. She wrestled with the black eel, screaming as it pressed her to the ground.

The taste of blood, salty and metallic, filled Quessahn's mouth as she held on to the dagger and the writhing ebony rope. Several cuts on her arms disappeared, bruises faded, and her breath came easily as the spell fed upon Rilyana's pulse, passing the energy back through the eladrin's blade. Stronger, she stepped into the ritual circle as the shadowy eel faded, leaving the human pale and tired.

"You've taken more lives than I care to count. I thought it was about time you gave a little life back," Quess said.

"Parlor tricks, elf," Rilyana grumbled as she tried to stand. "I have studied magic since I was eleven years old. I will show you real power!"

"When you were eleven, I was one hundred and fifty. Yet it seems I learned all I needed to defeat you within the last two days," Quessahn countered, squeezing tightly the cold finger of the archmage, her thoughts whispering his name as Rilyana rose to a low crouch.

The human gasped as a hand wrapped around her ankle and pulled. She fell forward, scrambling to free herself, kicking and screaming as the body of Tallus crawled on top of her legs and pulled himself onto her back. Quessahn stepped back from the spectacle as nine bloody fingers wrapped around Rilyana's throat and tightened in a murderous embrace.

"You should have studied more," Quess said as the human's face turned dark red, straining for air and scratching at the stone floor. The eladrin held up the severed finger, recalling the words of Maranyuss from the candlelit gloom of the Pages Curious bookshop. "The souls are bound in the left ring finger, and the bodies are either abandoned… or controlled."

A hideous croak escaped Rilyana's lips as the last bit of precious air she could manage left her. Her eyes bulged unnaturally, her face contorted in desperate rage for a moment before her eyelids went slack. Her throat bent forward with a sickening, muffled crunch that sent shivers down Quessahn's spine. She dropped the archmage's finger, letting his body fall limp on top of Rilyana's.

She stared at the wooden chest and the pedestal for long moments, a brief hope fading as the ritual continued to spin and growl with power. Lashing out, she shoved the wooden chest from the pedestal. It crashed to the stone floor, scattering its morbid contents across the rune-carved circles, yet the ritual continued. Her thoughts raced, searching the room for something, anything that might end the spell before it was too late.

"Perhaps I should have studied more," she muttered, cursing as another tremor flowed outward from the pedestal. As dust fell from the ceiling, she looked up, and the turning blue motes of light, each a stolen soul, continued to rise into the floor above, to join the crimson column of light that had haunted her vision. "I can't stop it now."

Abandoning the ritual, she ran up the stairs, fresh strength flowing through her body as she made her way through the House of Thorne, vibrant red roses leading the way.

She dashed out of the shaking house and into a garden full of unseasonable green and deep red blooms. Skidding to a stop before the gate, she drew her dagger at the sounds of battle erupting in the streets. The Watch had engaged the ahimazzi mob, the Watchful Order at their backs, each trying to get closer to the glowing House of Thorne.

Above her the brilliant column of crimson light pulsed, the starlike souls drifting below the clouds. Flames erupted in the spinning, unnatural storm, though fire did not rain from the sky as in her vision. She flinched as a black wing appeared over the side of the roof and stumbled back, steel ringing through the air.

"Jinn is still alive," she said. "But if Sathariel knows where the skulls' souls are hidden…"

The ahimazzi numbers pressed hard against the Watch, pushing to escape the closed circle of homes in the direction of Feather Street-roughly three blocks away from Pharra's Alley and the nine souls Sathariel so desperately hunted.

Shouts erupted from the shadows of the far street as more lights appeared around the corner, bright lanterns shining green through tinted glass. The officers engaged the ahimazzi in strict lines, spreading out to fight the shambling men and women. Horns blared through the night air, calling for reinforcements as the Watchful Order hurled spells into the soulless crowd.

Quessahn cursed despite the Watch's efforts, knowing that there were other soulless in Sea Ward and fearing they might be caught too late. She ran toward the battle, following the sound of an authoritative voice from among the ranks of the Watch. Incantations slithered across her body as she ran, an inky darkness manifesting around her, cloaking her from sight and muffling her footsteps. She slipped through the soulless, slashing indiscriminately as she made her way through the press of stinking bodies, not stopping until she had breached the edge of the fight.

Dismissing the spell, she approached an aging Watchman.

"Officer! Good sir!" she panted, getting his attention before drawing too close.

"What-?" the Watchman turned, sword in hand, a tall, lean man with gray streaking his dark brown hair and peppering his thick mustache. He lowered the blade slightly, glancing at the fight. "Good gods, lass! Get out of here before you get skewered. I nearly gutted you myself! Can't you see we're a bit engaged at the moment?"

"Indeed, sir," she replied. "But I need your help! I can't explain right now, but unless you want this night to get any worse, we need to protect Pharra's Alley!"

"What do you know about 'this night,' eh?" he asked, blowing his horn again and grinning as another patrol arrived. "I've half a mind to have you taken in for questioning. Unless you want to spend the night in a cell, I suggest you let us work!"

Quessahn swore under her breath, having no time to explain herself.

"I was a friend to Rorden Allek Marson," she called over the din of shouts and clashing blades. "And if you have any respect for his memory at all, you will-"

"I patrolled with Allek Marson for five years!" he growled, fire in his sharp eyes. "And I'll not have some fey lass with a fancy dagger in her belt question my loyalty to the man, gods rest his poor soul!"

"Good! Then follow me and keep the bastards responsible for his death from killing anyone else!" she countered angrily, matching his stare.

He bristled for a breath, glancing between her and the battle behind them, then nodded reluctantly.

"Aeril!" he shouted, turning a startled young officer around. "Grab one of those patrols and follow me." The man saluted and ran ahead of the arriving patrol, waving them to a stop. "Naaris, hold this line! Warden Tallmantle has more patrols en route from Worth Ward. And take one of these rabid derelicts alive if possible!"

"Now, lass," he said, turning back to Quessahn and striding north. "Commander Gravus Tavian at your service, at least until I find out what's going on, then I'm likely to have you arrested by morning. Sound fair?"

"Quessahn Uthraebor," she replied, "not 'lass,' and if we are alive by morning, I will count myself lucky to sleep for several days in one of your cells!"

Jinn felt a new strength flowing through his arms as he bashed Sathariel's sword aside and ripped a burning gash through the angel's breastplate. Sathariel roared in pain and drove the deva back, scoring a jagged cut on his arm. Jinn ignored the wound. Sathariel seemed weakened. Perhaps the stolen sword had evened the ground between them. He tumbled out of the path of the angel's blade and into a defensive crouch.

His body tensed like a spring as he jumped again, clashing with the angel in midair. He remembered things, envisioning the battles he had fought in the palaces of demon princes and on the scorched fields of lost Mulhorand. His thirst for vengeance was gone, and he embraced that quiet part of his heritage that had always urged him to fight, to the exclusion of all else, as a mortal angel drenched in the bloody business of a greater good. He had forgotten much of that, caught up in the daily lives and trials of mortals, and it had taken a mysterious blade stolen from his enemy to remind him.

It crashed against Sathariel's varnbrace, leaving scorch marks where it touched the silver armor and drawing wispy streams of ethereal blood in its wake. Though he exulted in the blade's power, a lingering suspicion of the blade made the steel feel strange in his hand. Though he felt he had stolen it of his own free will, he feared other forces were at work.

"Fool of dead gods," Sathariel rumbled as they traded blows relentlessly. "You have no idea what you have involved yourself in!"

The silver blade whistled by Jinn's ear, drawing sparks on the iron railing as he ducked and thrust at the angel's arm. Sathariel's quick blade slapped his strike aside.

"I've always been here. It was never my place to understand or question the desires of the gods," he replied, rolling away from the edge of the roof.

A silver blur followed him as Sathariel whirled, slashing in a wide arc. Jinn stopped and braced himself, sword raised to block the angel's blow and wincing at the force behind it.

"Then you are ignorant as well as a fool," the angel thundered, "and that blade you wield has suffered many such fools. They died well before drawing my blood, and they died gladly, I assure you."

Jinn glanced at the shining sword then cursed as Sathariel took advantage of his distraction, opening a deep cut in his side and reopening the wound he'd suffered from Lucian Dregg. The pain was fleeting, overcome by the stolen sword's curious hunger and old power. He pressed back, parrying the angel's blade and opening a sister wound in Sathariel, dragging the length of his sword through the angel's side. Steel crashed between them, but neither called out in pain, unwilling to give the other the satisfaction.

The sky was alive with dancing lights and rolling fire. Whispers and wails surrounded them even as the streets below echoed with battle. Dark clouds roiled in wide circles, thundering though the rain had stopped. Tremors rumbled from the abandoned house. Though he battled relentlessly, the stolen sword fought with a passion of its own. It squirmed in his grip, the sensation sickening, but he could not release it, did not dare try. He clung to the steel and prayed he had made the right decision, prayed for his very soul.

Striking low and spinning to his right, Jinn nimbly avoided a killing blow, but Sathariel rushed forward, slamming into the deva with his armored shoulder. Jinn stumbled back, deflecting another fatal slash but taking a deep cut across the back of his leg in return. He fell to one knee, gritting his teeth against the pain, and tried to rise but faltered, pain shooting up the side of his body like fire.

He watched helplessly as the angel drew close and stared at the blade as though it had betrayed him. Heart pounding in his chest, Jinn raised the sword, determined to fight from the ground if he had to, though the hopelessness of his resolve sat bitterly in his thoughts. He had experienced a thousand deaths, both spectacular and mundane, but as he looked into the twinkling blue lights of the angel's pitted eyes, he saw something different. His rage battled with a faint hope as he spoke.

"This sword… this choice I've made," Jinn said, gasping. "Will I die? Truly die?"

"None can know, deva. The contract has never been answered before," Sathariel replied, his sword rising.

"Contract?" Jinn asked, his eyes fixed on the silver blade over the angel's shoulder, his thoughts racing as a hundred battles came to mind, a hundred deaths flashing through his soul, each life fading with the same wish, for one more chance to relive the moment.

"No time for that now. Farewell, Jinnaoth. You should never have come to this world," Sathariel replied, his voice ominously gentle.

The silver sword fell, its arc mirroring that of a hundred others, an executioner's strike, clean and perfect.