"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.