Circle of Skulls w-6 Read online

  Circle of Skulls

  ( Waterdeep - 6 )

  James P. Davis

  James P. Davis

  Circle of Skulls

  PROLOGUE

  NIGHTAL 18, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

  Dason stood at the corner of Diamond Street, knees slightly bent, one arm held at his back, the other resting lightly upon the pommel of a well-notched rapier. He scanned the wide avenue, the very picture of a steady soldier at the forefront of danger. At length, he peered over his shoulder with a grin, raising a sly eyebrow to the young woman waiting several paces behind him. She returned his grin from over crossed arms.

  A slight breeze sent snow swirling through the streets, gusting through the night's shadows and dancing in the yellow-orange glow of the street lamps. The days were getting colder, and many inhabitants of Sea Ward had already become scarce after sundown, leaving the chillier evenings to those with the hot blood of youth.

  Clearing his throat, Dason straightened and waved the woman forward with a dramatic bow. He didn't have to see her face to know she would be smiling broadly and stifling a laugh at his heroic antics, placing a graceful hand over her mouth to hide the expression lest she encourage him to greater shows of bravado.

  "Milady," he intoned deeply as she passed, unfolding his tall frame. "The way is clear."

  "Indeed, young Master Dason," she replied with no small amount of humor as an older woman waddled toward them, burdened by a heavy sack thrown over her shoulder. "Clear as market at highsun, would you say?"

  Dason smiled sheepishly as they turned up the street, making way for the old woman who seemed in a bit of a hurry, unlike him and Alma, who'd made the journey from North Ward last far longer than perhaps it should have. He brushed a few flakes of snow from his shoulder and fell into step beside Alma, straightening his back and attempting to appear more important next to his noble charge. Though he had dressed well for the evening, he was no match for the Lady Marson, a vision in silver-embroidered white, a soft cloak of fine fur resting across her shoulders and folded with her arms against the evening's chill.

  "I daresay that I judged the way clear of danger, fair lady, not inhabitation," he said, smiling and nodding to the old woman as she passed, though his smile faded a bit at the manic look in the woman's eye, quick breaths steaming from beneath her piled-high scarf. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the lane a bit more closely, careful not to alarm Alma unnecessarily, but his jesting caution put aside for the moment.

  "Ah, I see, Master Dason," she said and patted his hand gently, her touch nearly derailing his attempt to find what might have alarmed the old woman so. Little shocks traveled up his arm from where Alma's fingertips had brushed against his wrist. He nodded sagely, speechless as he focused and listened for any disturbance. Though Sea Ward was relatively quiet at night and usually well patrolled by the Watch, he hadn't seen a single patrol since they'd crossed into the ward three blocks back. Alma had attended a gathering at the Raventree Manor and Dason insisted she have an escort to and from her outings among the other nobles and wealthy families of Waterdeep. Even on nights she spent alone, he would engineer some excuse to come calling.

  Alma never questioned his devotion to the task, enjoying the company of a childhood friend, though he was neither a noble nor wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. As they'd matured such differences rarely mattered, the fine line between friendship and something more blurring each time they were together. She had sought out his company more frequently in the past few tendays, the unexplained disappearance of her parents leaving her alone in a large home with naught but the remaining servants to see to her well-being.

  "Shall we take the long way 'round again tonight?" Alma asked, breaking his concentration, but not before he spotted what appeared to be movement in the shadows of the next intersection, clinging close to the high walls.

  "Not tonight, I'm afraid. I…" Dason paused, still not wishing to alarm her and unsure of his own growing sense of unease. "I must be awake early on the morrow. Your uncle has promised me a tour of the Westwall prior to my training with the Watch."

  "Ah, it would be just like Allek to ruin a perfectly good evening," she replied.

  "Mayhap, but he worries about you, as do I. Has there been any news of your parents?" Dason asked, spying glittering pinpoints of light among the trees near Ivory Street ahead. Swiftly he turned Alma's elbow to the western side of the street and cast a quick glance south, still hoping to catch sight of Watch lanterns approaching or passing through. Though he was handy with a blade, there was no reason to risk a confrontation if help were nearby.

  "Allek doesn't say much really: 'They're doing all they can.' 'I'll be the first to know.' But I can't help wondering if he knows more, if perhaps he's protecting me from something?" Alma's voice lowered in thought. Dason knew the subject was difficult for her, but she'd not spoken at all the first few days after they'd gone missing, terrified of what might have happened.

  Dason eyed the well-lit entrance to an alley along the south wall of the Saerfynn Manor and directed them toward it. The figures among the shadows of the east wall were unmoving but surely watching as he and Alma evaded them. He gripped his sword tightly, leading Alma ahead of him and wishing he had eyes in the back of his head.

  "Rorden Allek is a keen-minded man. If anyone can find your parents, it's him," Dason replied and glanced back to see if they'd been followed. The alley closed around them and the evening's mist seemed thicker between one street lamp and the next. Dason held Alma's elbow a little tighter, drawing her close and no longer hiding his concern as he made out the shape of a figure leaning against a darkened wall.

  "I know this place, Dason. I've heard stories-" Alma stopped, noticing the figure as well and gasping as it shuffled from its place and into a patch of light. Unwashed hair hung in thin strands around the man's unshaven face, wild, bright eyes peering at them from beneath a bushy brow. Dason angled them away from the wretch, the stench of the transient's torn, unwashed robes particularly sharp and pungent. One unsteady step set him leaning closer toward them, and Dason braced himself, drawing half a hand of his blade from its sheath.

  "Move along, saer," he said forcefully, affecting his best version of the typical Watch order to such interlopers in the wealthier neighborhoods of the city.

  The man straightened and paused, raising an eyebrow at the couple then wordlessly scanning the area with a confused expression. Dason noted a strange symbol, faded and worn, on the man's left sleeve.

  "Aye, young master," the man replied in a whispering, wheezing voice with a feral smile of yellowed teeth, his pale eyes flashing dully as he bent forward in a graceful, mocking bow. "I cry your pardon."

  Dason relaxed only when the strange man had continued on several paces behind them, though he kept a white-knuckled grip on his rapier as he recognized the alley. Its far end opened onto Flint Street and the House of Wonder, a place of wizards that few save other magic-users ever visited, and in alley along its side, beneath the house's looming towers, ghosts were said to dwell.

  '"Tis Pharra's Alley," Alma said breathlessly, her eyes wide with excitement.

  "I am sorry," Dason said, "perhaps we should not have come this way."

  "Nonsense," Alma replied, pulling him toward the House of Wonder with a mischievous grin. "No harm done and perhaps we shall spy a ghost or two."

  "Forgive me if I'm not as eager to-" Dason cast one more look over his shoulder, just to be sure the transient had moved on, and his breath caught in his throat. A dozen similar figures stood at the alley's edge. He drew his sword and hurried Alma along.

  "Dason! What is the matter?" she asked.

  High above them the towers of the House of Wonder stood silent
sentinel in the mist, dark windows eyeing them coldly as they hurried along. Past the tall, iron gates of the house courtyard, Dason could make out the glow of Flint Street.

  "No time for ghosts," he said, pushing at her arm, though she resisted slightly and tried to turn around.

  She caught sight of the strangers and quickly fell in step with him. The figures had formed a line across the mouth of the alley, their glittering eyes visible through the mist and snow. "Mayhap they're harmless, but I'm of no mind to take a chance."

  "Too late," Alma said quietly and stopped short.

  "What-?" Dason began, but a shooting pain stabbed through his temples and silenced him, dropping him to one knee and leaving him gasping for air. Confused, eyes watering, he raised his head as an ethereal green glow rose from the cobbles. Deep, hollow voices chanted at the edges of a ghostly circle that grew brighter by the moment. The icy breeze grew colder still.

  Alma dug her fingers into Dason's arm, trying desperately to lift him from the ground but unable to tear her eyes away from the circle of green mist as floating skulls, wreathed in emerald flames, coalesced in the mysterious vortex.

  "Dason? Dason!" she repeated as the skulls rose to roughly the height of a man's shoulders, bobbing gently in the air and swaying as they chanted harsh syllables that droned and echoed through the alley. Dason could not answer her, could barely stand as the pain in his temples came again, increasing in intensity until he thought his head would burst. For half a breath, he thought he might wake up, sweating in the midst of some horrible nightmare, but the ground felt too real beneath his hands, his sword too cold in his fingers, Alma's fear reaching out to him like a tangible force.

  Panicked, he tried to stand, stumbling against Alma as the nine hollow-eyed skulls regarded him blankly, grinning liplessly at his plight.

  "Go!" he managed through clenched teeth. "Run!"

  He turned away from the skulls, looking over Alma's shoulders to the line of figures blocking their path. His breath caught in his throat as another figure descended from above on graceful, black wings, trailing long wisps of smoky shadow. Black eyes that should have been hidden by the mist and distance stared him down with a soul-chilling power that turned his blood to ice.

  "What's wrong with your eyes?" Alma cried, backing away from him.

  Dason's legs trembled and he tore his gaze away from the winged figure, his mind reeling with pain as he saw the fear in Alma's eyes, saw his own eyes reflected in hers: twin orbs of glowing green flame. His arms spasmed and fresh pain flowered in his head as he raised his sword arm, unable to stop the ascent of his blade, as though it had become a sudden traitor to his will. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, and he felt as though he were falling. Hollow voices filled his thoughts, mumbling and muttering as exhaustion flooded his senses.

  "Dason, what's wrong? What are you doing?" Alma asked, her voice barely reaching him through the pain and the dark. Steel flashed before his eyes and he fell into a deep peace, where he dreamed of skulls and the black eyes of a dark angel.

  Rough hands shook Dason awake where he lay frozen on the damp cobbles of the alley. Blearily he opened his eyes and squinted into the green light of a Watch patrol lantern. Relief flooded through him at the sight of it, and he tried unsuccessfully to sit forward, but a strong hand held him down and rolled him onto his side.

  Several figures were in the alley, slowly pacing and pointing at something he could not see. Dason blinked fiercely to make out details as the officers talked among themselves in hushed voices, glancing at him with hard looks, some shaking their heads.

  A white shoe lay nearby, modestly heeled and embroidered in silver, a dark splash of rust staining the toe. Fear shot through him like a lightning bolt. Beyond the shoe a bare foot pointed up, a graceful leg covered in white cloth, also embroidered and also stained in splashes of reddish brown. A knot formed in his throat, painful and thick, choking off his breath as he tried to sit up. The effort afforded him only a brief glance of crimson and white, of sightless eyes turned toward the sky and a pale hand sliced from palm to wrist.

  "Hold still, boy!" a voice said. Rough hands jerked his wrists behind him and tied them together with a short length of coarse rope.

  "No," he croaked, his thoughts racing as more uniformed men approached. One held a bloody rapier in his gloved hand.

  "Murder weapon here, sir," the man said, stepping past Dason with the blade.

  "No," Dason said louder, his throat aching with the effort. His hands felt sticky, his breath tasted of blood and bile as he wheeled wild eyes from one officer to the next.

  "Quiet, boy!" The rope around his wrists cinched tight. Hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. He struggled away from them, trying to see Alma, hoping to see some spark in her eye, some look telling him that all would be fine, that she would call upon him in the morning. He would forgo his visit with her uncle Allek to spend the day with her, Westwall be damned.

  He saw naught in her gaze but death and more blood than any man should see upon the face of the woman he loved. The unseen hands pulled him away, shook him hard. Other hands grabbed his elbows, hauling him to his feet.

  "No!"

  ONE

  NIGHTAL 19, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

  Jinnaoth made slow progress through the noisy streets and crowded merchant stalls of Trades Ward. Myriad scents wafted from food-laden carts, open tavern doors, and alleys piled high with refuse. The smell of hundreds of souls, bartering, shouting, singing, and fighting, filled the air with an unmistakable aroma of city life, yet even among so many, Jinnaoth stood apart and watched. He kept his hood low and his eyes forward, a long greatcoat held tightly against the chill in the air.

  Children ran through the streets, jostling their way through the crowds, playing and staring at newcomers in strange clothes or at mercenaries' swords with wide-eyed awe. Hands were slapped away from tantalizing merchandise as one group of children was scattered by a shouting merchant. A thin, dark-haired boy chanced a look over his shoulder, laughing at the red-faced man as he ran headlong into Jinnaoth. The boy stumbled backward and started to run the other way when he looked up and froze in Jinnaoth's gaze. He stammered something unintelligible and shook his head weakly, caught in the flashing glitter of two golden eyes.

  Without a word, the boy ran off, pointing and whispering conspiratorially to his friends as they ducked into the opening of a nearby alley, poking their heads out to stare as Jinnaoth turned. He was accustomed to such reactions, earning far more than his fair share of curious onlookers whenever an errant breeze blew his hood back, exposing deep black hair and pale skin adorned with dark and sinuous patterns. Most mistook the symbols that crawled across his neck and left cheek as tattoos, symbolic markers of one faith or another.

  He never bothered to correct them.

  It had been some time since he'd braved the busy city streets during the day, preferring to conduct his business under cover of night. He squinted up at the pale disk of the sun and leaned into the corner of a large tavern hall, shielding himself against a cold breeze as he waited, watching the crowd for familiar faces. Most took no note of him at all, just another stranger on an avenue filled with strangers, but some paused to look his way, fixing him with dark stares before melting back into the press of bodies, sensing his otherworldly nature even as they hid their own behind masks and illusions. At one time he'd have felt duty-bound to expose and challenge such beasts in hiding, but times had changed-he had changed-and after several millennia, he had learned the wisdom of patience and the advantage of being discreet.

  Bells struck the hour, their ringing echoing across the city, declaring it one bell past highsun, and as if on cue, he stood straight and spied Maranyuss making her way toward him, a splash of striking green upon the day's otherwise gray palette. Tall, with chestnut hair that she wore bound in a long braid, Mara's soft features and shapely hips garnered her many a lingering stare. Her green dress, of fine make and decorat
ed in lacy gold, clung to her like a living thing as she passed men who would elbow their companions and nod approvingly, though few ever approached her.

  Fewer still were even able to ask her name or speak when they did work up the courage to face her dark eyes and withering stare.

  Jinnaoth could not help but smile at such displays, wondering if there ever existed the man who might win her attention-and sorely pitying the poor soul if he did exist. Mara scowled disapprovingly at him as she crossed the street, as if reading his thoughts. He quickly hid his grin. He'd grown comfortable with Mara over the years, but he was ever cautious not to offend her too seriously, and he suspected she was already in foul mood enough for one bright day.

  "I do not like this, Jinn," she said, little storms brewing in her eyes. "Too many people, too much light."

  "It's just one day," he replied and stepped into the street, setting a steady pace toward the far end of the markets. "Let's make it a good one."

  "And your source, she is reliable?" Mara asked as she stared down a small man hawking his wares. He nervously turned away, choosing instead to bother a well-armored dwarf.

  "As much as any," Jinn answered and nodded toward a large dirt circle of gathered carts, scents of meat pies and livestock emanating from the area. "She was a servant girl, recently in the employ of the order. An employment that we played a part in ending, but enough gold can do wonders for hard feelings."

  In truth the girl took some time in being convinced. Her fear of the Vigilant Order was paralyzing, but her growing fear of Jinnaoth swiftly overcame her hesitancy. She'd been drawn in by the order's wealth and promises, a typical tactic that made most forgo any idea of questioning the source of such assurances. Behind smiles, coin, and lavish mansions, they hid their ancient truths, tapping into the essence of the Hells themselves for the sake of a world made over in the dark vision of an ambitious god. One servant girl had stood quaking in Jinn's golden gaze, imagining the horrors she would endure for betraying her cruel masters and comparing it against an ancient rage that had forced the order into hiding.