"They were undefended and unprepared, a tempting target for a savage foe that did not fall easily." "You fought them?" "Yes, and I was nearly killed in the effort." She nodded thoughtfully, and though he waited for her to question him again, he hoped she wouldn't. She looked up at him, questions in her eyes, but he waited. He sought the words, the explanation she needed. Truthfully, he did not know the entire answer, only what he'd seen. The silence between them became ominous, and finally she pushed him to continue. "And Logfell?" He reached again for the brass handles of the temple doors. He sighed forcefully, grinding his teeth as his jaw tightened. "There is no Logfell." He uttered the words quietly, nearly a whisper, but they seemed to fill the world with their weight. "There was nothing left but dried blood and the body of a little girl." He saw her turn pale as the horror of his words settled in her gut. The realization was clear on her face, that Logfell's fate foretold the future of Brookhollow. "I'm sorry," he added. "There was no prophecy to save them, nor prophets to deliver it." "You're a liar," she said, but he saw the truth in her eyes. She wanted him to be a liar and he wished he was. She wiped the wetness from her eyes, her lip curled in anger.
"No. I'm sorry. The liar," she said as if confessing a long held secret, "has been here all along." She no longer looked at him, and he was thankful for that. He knew the look in her eyes. Blood hid in the future of her steady, blank stare, and he would leave her to what she must do. She turned toward the sanctuary, nodding sidelong at him-a solemn thanks before walking away. He threw open the doors, walked out into the driving rain and chill wind, and steadily made his way to the eastern gate. He splashed through the streets, the city's details blurred by sheets of rain, all blended together in grays and darker grays. He wasn't looking, didn't care, and wouldn't allow himself to feel any more than he already did. If nothing else, he thought, if my quarry has gone before I find Jhareat, then this city, its people, are bait. I'll know where to come back, to finish. The eastern gate was unbarred and it creaked as the wind pushed against it. Nearby, the light of a lantern illuminated a game of dice and cards. Hunters whose minds were clearly somewhere else sat around a table beneath the roof of an open stable. Their weapons leaned against the stable wall, but their eyes were alert, their faces nervous, anxious. Quinsareth almost blended into the scene of charcoal gray light and heavy rain, nearly invisible as he observed the undefended gate and distracted warriors.
Homes nearby were locked tightly with curtains drawn. Not a soul peered out the darkened windows at the storm, the hunters, or the empty streets. Between the gates, through the gap, he could see the darkness of the Qurth Forest waiting for him. He leaned against a wall in a narrow alley, staring at the puddles, the splashing rain, and the flashes of lightning. He felt the pit of his stomach grow cold as the shadows answered his silent call, filling his insides with ice and needles as they gathered. He did not open the shadow road right away, however, holding on to the power. Concern for Elisandrya held him in place. It is not my place, he thought, to stay here and die with these people, with her. He fought the selfish urge to turn around and return to the temple, to convince Eli to leave if no one else would. He knew she wouldn't listen, that she would rather stand alone and face what threatened her people and her home. He envied her. Pushing away from the wall, he walked to the center of the street and faced the gates.
Several of the gaming hunters noticed him then as he splashed through the rain. They narrowed their eyes at him, squinting through the storm suspiciously. Quinsareth noted that a few of them reached for their weapons resting against the wall. He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps there is hope yet," he whispered. Releasing the shadows, he watched the rain-filled air ripple with power as it was forced open, tearing wide to reveal his path. He focused on Jhareat, what he knew, what Eli had told him, and stepped forward, prepared to face the legend he'd heard in her voice. As the swirling black doorway pulled him in, he thought of her tale about Ossian and his shield. He walked the shadows alone this time and was more aware of their chill than before. In moments, he knew Brookhollow and Elisandrya were far behind him, left alone to await what fate had been made for them. He closed his eyes against the darkness and put a steady hand on Bedlam's dormant pommel, concentrating on the task that lay ahead, leaving behind what was beyond him. The void that was the shadow of the forest enveloped him, comforted him in nothingness as his steady stride devoured the distance to his destination. "There are no heroes in this tale, Elisandrya," he told himself, hearing his words echoing through the blurring shadows all around. "I'm sorry."
Morgynn gripped the sides of the wide wooden bowl set before her, tracing the designs on its sides with her thumbs and whispering their meanings as she awoke the device's power. Carved in the ancient days of the Nar Empire, legend held that it had been a gift to Goorgian from the Nentyarch of the time-a time long before the druids of the Great Dale took the title of Nentyarch for their own leaders. She admired the crimson stains of past use on its interior. Its bottom was set with a dark mirror, almost black, that reflected only shadows.
Khaemil walked into the chamber quietly, careful not to disturb Morgynn's casting. Morgynn saw his arrival but did not pause to admonish his poor timing. The words of her spell completed, Morgynn released her grip on the bowl and picked up her dagger. She opened a small wound in the center of her palm, allowing herself to bleed freely. Setting aside the knife, she picked up a stoneware pitcher of rainwater and began to pour its contents into the bowl, letting it mix with the blood from her palm. The bowl appeared no different once the spell was completed. She leaned on the table and peered into the depths of the pale red liquid, looking beyond the submerged dark mirror and willing the images to appear. Blurry shapes began to form, quickly growing more distinct. Morgynn sighed in satisfaction. Before long, sounds emanated from the bowl and the noise filled the chamber, amplified by her will. She felt Khaemil shudder. During his years of service and his time in the Nine Hells, she knew he'd been privy to the many sounds humans make when in pain, but the tortured voices of the bathor had few equals among his experiences. Their throats produced a cacophony of sounds that stemmed from a madness only the dead could comprehend. Morgynn's eyes closed and her head swayed as if hearing the hymns of a practiced choir. This was the sound of success, of victory. Though the lyrics lacked poetry, she knew no bard in all the Realms could have penned a greater tribute to her conquest.
Beneath their voices were the twitchings and thrashings of strained muscles and cracking bones as her army tore its way through the Qurth, heedless of the limitations of living anatomy. Lightning could not reveal them through the knotted trees. Thunder hid their cries and moans, their tearing of undergrowth as they progressed through the forest. Their steps were in tune to the rain, quick and scuttling, mindlessly hurried. Slack jaws opened and closed in a mockery of speech, physical habits that had no meaning or worth. Even the harmful plants of the forest recoiled from their nearly impenetrable, leathery skin, smooth and unnaturally pale. The few wounds they received opened briefly like puckered mouths, but would not bleed and closed again in a few heartbeats. The rain washed away grime and clumps of thinning hair, matting what remained to their necks and shoulders. An aura of heat surrounded them, feverish and sweaty, a fog of humidity created by their constant trembling movement, a blur of suffering and madness.
Those who followed watched in awe and revulsion, sensing a terror unlike any they had felt before. Constantly, they whispered prayers to their devil-god, praising his wisdom and power. Morgynn smirked as she watched through her scrying bowl. She allowed the wizard-priests their prayers and misguided praise, if only to keep them loyal, but wondered if even that vile god was capable of what she'd done, of what she'd birthed. "Impossible," she said aloud, startling Khaemil. "What do the gods know of mortality?" She sneered as she gazed, her face lit by a crimson glow, and mumbled her thoughts into the bowl, conversing with herself. Finally, Morgynn stepped back from the scrying bowl with look of contentment. The light of candles danced in her eyes as she turned to Khaemil. "Soon," she said. "Now, what news do you have?" "It is the tower, Lady," he began, measuring his words carefully. "The Gargauthans report that it is resisting their further attempts to strengthen the net of spells. The most recent runes, once written, begin to fade and must be applied again and again to maintain the magic's integrity." "And what cause do they suspect?" she asked, her voice perilously close to anger. "Only the tower itself," he answered.