Bloodwalk by James P. Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

Twilight.
    Grinning, he approached the steps of a manor near the center of town, the home of some sort of leader, who peered out from behind sheer curtains in a darkened window. As a well-ordered chaos erupted in the streets and homes behind him, Mahgra called terrible spells to his smiling lips and met that fearful gaze behind such fragile and decadent glass.
    The look in Morgynn’s eyes—the sneer on Khaemil’s face—their whispers and insults end now, he thought, as anger flared within him. All debts are paid, on my part at least.
    Thunder rumbled overhead, the first sign of the storm that came not from the sea as the wind and clouds foretold, but from the forest. Distant lightning silhouetted flailing branches and illuminated curls of smoke as a long-held peace burned amid yelping howls from gnollish throats.
     

     
    Sameska was forced to watch as her people suffered the attack. She screamed at the destruction of the temple by beasts and scavengers, but she could not look away. The force that held her was beyond resistance and full of what she felt was the wrath of Savras for her disservice, his punishment for her lack of humility. She pleaded with her god, begging to be shown how to stop this chaos, this betrayal of those who trusted in the oracles.
    Savras did not answer. Something was wrong, horribly wrong, and she did not know what to do or how to make herself heard. She felt herself growing weak, her body crying out for her return, and she fought the urge to release her spell, afraid that Savras might abandon her completely should she give up. Yet the power that held her, that guided her spell, relaxed its grip on her floating form, and its waning strength eased her will to hold on.
    Her vision became blurry. Smoke, flame, screams, and bestial howls merged as she limply floated on a phantom wind, losing her magic and beginning the fall that would bring her home.
    Just as blackness crept into her sight, the shadows parted, and a warrior stepped out of the darkness. The warrior was shrouded in mist, exuding a bright light but surrounded by ghostly specters. Silhouetted by a winding road of shadows, his opalescent eyes smoldered in the dark. Lightning flashed across the clouds above him, a bright and terrible glow that faded quickly.
    The image of the almost-translucent warrior held fast in her thoughts as her journey fell away and the weight of her gasping body returned. What was this man? Why had he come, this traveler of shadow roads? She’d felt the inherent goodness in the spectral light that surrounded him, along with the chill of the place he’d come from.
    She fainted, her thoughts becoming dreams. Nightmares revisited all that she had seen, colored with the horror of what she’d felt, all of it ending with the vision of the ghostwalker who walked the road of shadows.
     

     
    Through drifting smoke, Quinsareth appeared in folds of shadow, looking down on the burning town of Targris dispassionately, fully expecting the nature of what awaited him, if not the method. He trembled in rage as the scene and its payback became clear to him. Hoar was strict about the protocols of his followers: swift vengeance, violence returned in the manner it was given, whether the intentions were good or evil. Such abstract notions meant little to Hoar. Injustice was the true foe, and all manner of beings, from goodly king to cruel tyrant, were capable of committing the offense. Though the good men Quin had faced may have regretted their hypocrisy, only fear had introduced them to the truth of what they’d done. True evil, in his experience, was at least honest in its intentions.
    He was no priest or cleric. He held no services, taught no wayward souls. He had no temple to conduct such teachings in. His church was the road, his offerings were of blood, and his prayers were dark, silent, and infrequent.
    Sitting down with his legs crossed, Quinsareth watched as Targris was subdued. He smelled the smoke and watched the fires.