NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)
The stolen blade shivered in his hand as he followed the stroke of the angel's sword, his death written on its edge. Though he had faced his ending a thousand times, instinct would not let him rest again so soon. The motions were reflex, written in hopeless thoughts on a battlefield whose name he could not recall. He had died that day with a glimmer of regret burned into his thoughts, a regret that moved his good leg and placed strength in his arm.
He hacked at Sathariel's blade, battering it aside as he lunged within the angel's guard and drove the steel of his stolen blade deep into Sathariel's chest. The shining sword screamed through the silvered armor. It burned and hissed through the angel as ethereal blood streamed from the injury.
Sathariel's sword clattered to the ground, and he gripped Jinn's shoulders, wings beating furiously in a panic to escape. The deva held on tightly, keeping the angel close as Sathariel howled in his ear, pulling him toward the iron railing. Glowing light poured from the wound as the angel's struggles slowed and grew sluggish. With a final beat of his massive wings, Sathariel fell.
Jinn collapsed at the edge of the roof, gripping the deep cut in his leg as the angel slumped upon the iron railing, his armor caught on rusted spikes, his wings stretched out, twitching as his life bled away. The deva held on to the hungry blade, clutching it fast and bearing witness to the long-sought death of his enemy.
"I do not envy you… deva," Sathariel rasped as ribbons of shadow bled from his body, drawn into the shining blade in his chest. "In victory I was to be rewarded… finished… a powerful vassal of a pleased god… but you… you must now go on…"
Jinn pulled close as the angel's voice grew weak, sparks of warm power racing through his sword arm.
"Why? What do you mean?" he asked.
"The contract… lies in your hand…," Sathariel replied, chuckling softly. "Forged when the world was young… a contract of steel… a bargain made between the forces of darkness and light… an invitation to Asmodeus…"
Jinn stared at the blade as it drank the angel's shadowy essence, devouring the darkness in his wings. It drew rivers of ethereal blood from the black pits of Sathariel's eyes. It glowed brighter with every strip of angelic flesh. Jinn released it and fell back, the horrid power still pulsing through his blood.
"You are now a balance… fulcrum between this world and a god's wrath…" Sathariel laughed again, writhing in pain. "Devils and angels will seek you out, deva! Your wars will never end! And every time… you must choose…"
The angel shook as he chuckled, weaker and weaker, his mighty wings shrinking to little more than feathered stumps of shadow. Jinnaoth felt the pain in his leg subside, the wound nearly closed by the sword's power, and a sickening hollow formed in his gut.
Nauseated, he looked away, staring into the crimson column of light and the burning clouds overhead, their fires already lessening as the angel died.
"Why do you tell me this?" he asked.
"Because… it pleases me to do so…," Sathariel answered. Then he shuddered violently, falling silent as his body fell apart, the remnants taken up by the wind in a cloud of ash, embers, and dissipating feathers.
The sword remained lodged in the silvered breastplate, and Jinn stared at it with a mixture of awe and terror. He touched its pommel once, and his mind was assaulted with a flash of power. It showed him images of the Astral Sea and a burning ocean of fire, veils of energy rippling across a spinning sphere of brilliant blues; rough browns; and drifting, white clouds-the very moment he had chosen to follow his gods into a world of flesh and blood.
He snatched his hand away from the sword, his wrist burning from the contact as he stood and limped away from the weapon. He clutched his arm close, cradling it as he retreated, leaving the sword behind and slowly descending a narrow stairway into the House of Thome.
Shattered glass crunched beneath their boots as Quessahn and Tavian ran up the length of Flint Street, slowing as they neared the House of Wonder and stopping short at the grisly scene that awaited them. Smaller tremors rumbled through the cobbles as they edged closer to the scattered bodies sprawled across the avenue, several grouped together near the mouth of Pharra's Alley. Quessahn counted almost two dozen, all of them in the dingy, stinking robes of the ahimazzi, their curved blades rattling on the ground as the street vibrated slightly then quickly ceased.
A peaceful silence once again fell over the darkened ward. Steam rose from the slowly cooling bodies as Quessahn stepped through and over them to peer into the alley.
"What in blazes is this? Did someone beat us to the punch?" Tavian grumbled, covering his nose and mouth, the stench of the soulless even more pungent in death.
"I don't think so," Quessahn replied as she glanced to the southern sky and pointed. The column of crimson light had disappeared, leaving only a sparkling cloud of blue, drifting in the wind as the roiling clouds fell apart and returned to their normal courses. The fires in the sky were gone, and the chilling mist returned, setting Quess to shivering even as a glimmer of hope warmed in her heart. "He must have done it," she whispered. "It must have been Sathariel himself… tied to the ritual somehow. The angel died and-"
"What in Torm's name are you babbling on about, lass?" Tavian asked and grasped her shoulder, shaking the daze from her eyes. "An angel? Rituals? You're not making any sense!"
"No, she is not," a voice added from the alley as a figure approached, two faintly glowing eyes accompanied by the tapping of a wooden staff. Quess flinched for a moment but calmed as the familiar wizard came into view, dark robes covered in ancient, barbaric runes and accented by guards of leather. Long braids covered his shoulders and he wore a strange, wavy-bladed sword at his side. His eyes, blue orbs of glowing ice set in a too-pale face, regarded Quessahn curiously. "However, I am eager to hear the tale of this night if you are willing to spare her for a moment or two, Commander."
"Master Bastun, I wasn't aware that you had returned from Shadowdale," Quess said, inclining her head slightly.
"Apparently not," Bastun replied.
"I'll do better than spare her for a moment," Tavian said, sheathing his sword. "I'll join you for a bit of a chat. Warden Tallmantle will want a full report, and my own curiosity will not easily be put to rest until the tale is told… well, at least this young woman's version of it, that is." The last he added with a narrowed glance at the eladrin before extending his hand to the wizard. "Well met, Master Bastun, was it?"
"It was-I mean, it is," Quessahn stammered, her tongue caught between her racing thoughts and her racing heart, keeping the southern sky in sight as she introduced the officer. "This is Commander Gravus Tavian. He was escorting me, that is, I was leading him-"
"Calm, child. There is time. Shall we go inside and warm ourselves?" Bastun said, placing an unnaturally cold hand upon her arm as he directed the officer toward the house gate.
"You read my mind, Master Bastun," Tavian replied. He shouted over his shoulder as they strode toward the gate, "Aeril! You enjoy the cold so much, keep this alley secure until I return."
Quessahn walked with them slowly, distracted as she stared at the sky in wonder, looking for Jinnaoth until Flint Street was out of sight. Even as she tried to arrange her thoughts, placing her experiences of the past two days in some kind of understandable order, she kept thinking of the deva.
For all that had passed between them, she longed to see him alive and well-and, almost shamefully, she hoped he felt the same.
Maranyuss spied upon the eladrin as she walked through the gate of the House of Wonder. Wizards filled the alley, pointing to the sky and discussing wild theories on what had just occurred in hushed voices.
Officers of the Watchful Order began gathering the magic-users in groups, questioning them as the Watch set out to return order to the ward.
The night hag stroked the ruby pendant around her neck, calming her greedy hunger for the skulls' souls, patient enough to wait until the excitement wore down. She smiled, despite herself, at the little victory they had achieved, though she would never admit such a thing to her strange allies.
"Interesting evening, eh?" Briarbones remarked as he shuffled up to her, leaning on a branch that served as a makeshift walking stick. "It is nice to be surprised every century or two."
"Surprised?" Mara asked.
"Well, it's not every day that a gruesome series of mass murders results in what some might construe as good news. Most end quite tragically, that is, if anyone survives to tell the tale at all," he answered. "Though, I must say I am curious to hear Jinnaoth's version of events."
"I'm sure you are. You knew about that sword he carried, didn't you?" Mara asked, her eyes flashing crimson through the illusory gaze she wore.
"I suspect I knew just as much as you did." Briar grinned slyly. "Much more than him, at any rate. I honestly thought it was just a myth, a bedtime tale for good little devils to hear upon their fiery pillows at night… but the deva would have thrown it away if we had told him."
"And we would all be dead," Mara added casually, not feeling too strongly one way or another about the prospect, but not disappointed at being counted among the living. "Do you suppose we were nobly withholding a secret? Or do we merely value our lives more than we do his?"
"Well, one doesn't grow as old as I am by acting overly noble," Briarbones replied. "Make of that what you will."
"I shall," she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his good arm as they strolled away from the suddenly crowded alleyway. Mara was somewhat troubled, considering the deva as a strange emotion flickered in her fickle heart, and she wondered at it, musing it to be some kind of caring or perhaps a less disdainful form of apathy. She marveled at the curiosity a breath before scowling. "I have spent far too much time among mortals."
"Yes," Briar agreed, hissing. "They tend to get under the skin after a few centuries, don't they?"
"Disgusting," she added.
"Is it the struggle, do you think?" the avolakia asked. "Watching them fight and scratch, clawing at one another and praying to any god that will listen, always crying for something better?"
"No, I think it's the hope," Maranyuss answered. "It's rather unique among them. Where I'm from there's precious little of it."
"There is a certain appeal to that as well," Briar added. "I'll never get used to the smell of them, though."