Wrapped in bloody priest's robes and shrouded in the night, Borran Kiosk walked Alagh?n's streets once more. Hunger and madness warred within him as what he saw conflicted with what he remembered.
Eldath's priests had trapped him for years. He had the sense of that from the changes in the city around him. Once familiar, Alagh?n had grown yet imploded as well. New buildings, taller and grander, stood where claptrap buildings once teetered. In other parts of the city, once grand buildings had been left to decay like bad teeth.
The storm continued to crackle and spit around him. Water sluiced through the uneven cobblestones and poured down the pitted iron grates to the sewers that ran beneath the city and out into the Sea of Fallen Stars.
Borran Kiosk walked with purpose. His skeletal feet clacked against the stones and splashed through the water. A passing wagon, laden with workers fresh up from the dockyards where men still labored to unload a ship, splashed muddy water over him. He kept walking, ignoring the dull, distant cold.
The deep, abiding hatred Borran Kiosk had for living men-and elves and dwarves and the rest-squirmed through the empty space where his stomach had once been. Even though he'd been without a stomach for years, he'd never lost the sense of it.
As he walked, the hate festering inside him, he gazed in at taverns and inns still open to the late-night trade from the docks. Even over the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves, he heard the laughter and conversations of the living. Their simpleminded joy, their very ignorance of his passage, angered him more.
He gave in to that anger, turning his steps toward a small tavern. The tavern was on the second floor, squeezed between storage space for the two shops on either side of it.
A fat dwarf with a dark beard guarded an iron-barred doorway. As Borran Kiosk neared, the dwarf came to attention. He kicked the big head of the double-bitted battle-axe at his feet, causing the heavy weapon to revolve in his palms and come to a natural grip in both his hands. The dwarf tried a grin, but his eyes remained hooded and wary.
"Hail and well met, traveler. Judgin' from the cut o' yer robes, ye've been up that well-known crick an' back down again, ye have."
Borran Kiosk said nothing. The wind slapped at the hood of his robe, but left it in place.
"Gonna cost ye a silver or two to get in," the dwarf warned. He shifted the battle-axe, his callused fingers rasping against the hand-tooled wood. "An' I'm gonna have to see the color of it afore I let ye in."
Without breaking stride, Borran Kiosk opened wide his jaws and spat out the long purple tongue. At that distance there was a chance the dwarf could have evaded the attack, but Borran Kiosk's tongue caught the dwarf flat-footed. The hard cartilage smashed through the dwarf's throat, tearing through the flesh with ease. Knocked backward, the dwarf slammed up against the iron-barred door blocking access to the stairs. The dwarf's face flexed as he tried to scream, but the sound died unborn in his mangled throat.
Borran Kiosk withdrew his tongue and caught the dwarf's falling body with one hand. The salty sweetness of the dwarf's blood filled the mohrg, taking the edge off his hunger. Borran Kiosk tossed the dwarf's corpse away. He tried the iron-barred door but found it locked. Bracing himself, the mohrg gripped the iron bars and yanked.
Metal screeched as the iron bars pulled free of their moorings. Ignoring the possibility that anyone had heard the door rip loose, Borran Kiosk flung the door aside and strode into the darkened chamber. From above, the sound of revelry continued unabated. The mohrg followed the steps up, lusting after the life that filled those voices.
At the top of the stairs, he gazed through a wide doorway into the tavern proper. Dim light glowed through dingy lantern glass and scarcely made a dent in the shadows that filled the room.
Scarred and dark, the bar ran the room's length against the opposite wall. A fat human with a curly wheat-colored beard leaned on the bar and talked with a dwarf woman showing considerable years. Three men dressed in the torn clothing of sailors talked at one of the half-dozen tables scattered across the middle of the room. An elf dressed all in black sat at a table by himself, fingers twining around a glittering silver dagger resting point-down on the table top. Two women, both showing signs of a hard night's work, sat listless and uncaring, not interested in attracting the attention of potential customers.
It was, Borran Kiosk reflected, the dregs of night. Creatures of flesh and blood slowed during these hours, but the mohrg felt stronger than ever.
The bartender glanced at the new arrival. His head was a massive boulder set atop the broad mountains of his shoulders.
"Something I can do you for, friend?"
Pulling himself up in disdain, feeling the thick purple tongue moving with anticipation in his body, Borran Kiosk stepped into the room. The dead priest's robes whirled around him and dripped scarlet-tinted water onto the hardwood floor.
"Maybe you should have stayed in the hallway a little longer," the bartender growled, "instead of coming into my place and making a mess of it."
He reached for a mop leaning against the wall behind him and came around the bar. The dwarf woman said something too low for Borran Kiosk to hear, but she laughed at her own wit and reached for the schooner of ale before her.
"Aye, Serrim," the bartender said, "an' I'll thank ye to keep such comments to yerself." He glanced back at Borran Kiosk. "An' if ye've come to sup here, friend, ye're a mite too late, ye see. The victuals has all been put away for the e'ening."
"What there was of it," the dwarf woman agreed.
The bartender stopped in front of Borran Kiosk and un-limbered his mop.
Borran Kiosk stood his ground. Though his emotions weren't the same as they had been before his transformation, he still felt a twinge of anticipation.
"Mayhap ye'd care to move them big feet of yers," the bartender suggested as he mopped toward the mohrg.
"No," Borran Kiosk said.
Stooping, the bartender peered toward the mohrg's concealed face. "What did ye say, little man?"
With brazen boldness, Borran Kiosk reached up and swept the hood back from his head.
"No," Borran Kiosk repeated.
He knew even the dim lighting would reveal his flesh-less face and hollow-socketed skull. He didn't care what he looked liked. That such a sight caused fear in those who still had blood coursing through their veins served him well.
"What the hell are ye?" the bartender asked in a hoarse voice. His eyes rounded in fear as he stumbled back a step.
"Kiosk!" the dwarf woman croaked, spewing ale. "Borran Kiosk! He's returned!" She hefted a battle-axe from the floor beside her.
If Kiosk had possessed lips, he would have smiled. Though he was certain he'd been gone a long time, his name and deeds had been remembered.
"Yes," the mohrg spat, "I am Borran Kiosk. Fear me."
The bartender lashed out with the mop, trying to push Borran Kiosk away. The mohrg reacted with blinding speed. Before his transformation he'd been a warrior as well as a mage, and though the men he raised from the dead did not retain their memories, he had.
The rain-drenched robes whirled as Borran Kiosk spun. He knotted a hand into a hammer-like fist, caught the broom in his other hand, and snapped the end of the mop off. Before the collection of dirty rags fell to the floor, he stepped in, pulled the mop across his body, and brought his fist back up. The mop handle snapped again, leaving the bartender with only a precious few inches jutting from his hands.
Stuttering a surprised oath, the bartender stumbled back, but Borran Kiosk was on the man like a hawk taking a dove. Whirling, noticing the other men and women in motion around the room, the mohrg drove the splintered end of the mop handle through the bartender's chest. Flesh and bone gave way to the unforgiving blow, and the wooden shaft split the man's heart in two.