Circle of Skulls w-6 Read online

  Jinnaoth passed through the crowded circle, gesturing to a darkened alley just beyond the shouting and haggling. He and Mara slipped into the garbage-strewn alley, scattering rats before them, to find a plain wooden door. A small, crimson symbol had been painted in the top left-hand corner of the door, a mark for the number nine in an infernal language that few would recognize or even notice, a mark signifying a house devoted to Asmodeus.

  "Shall we proceed as usual?" Mara asked, a crimson light flashing in her dark eyes.

  "No, I'll go in first," he said, pulling back his hood.

  "They will not tell you what you want to know," Mara said. "You know this?"

  "I do," Jinn answered. "It doesn't change anything."

  "It never does," she grumbled and kept watch as he opened the door and stepped into the dark hallway beyond it.

  Jinn stood still for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the dusty, stale air of the old house. Mara's words echoed in his mind, as they always did when he faced the order, each time reminded of their devotion, of their willingness to die rather than betray their faith in Asmodeus. And each time Jinn gave them the chance, asking his questions even as they spit on his offers of mercy.

  Sighing, he opened his eyes and strode down the hall, searching the first room to the left for a mildewed carpet, which he kicked aside, revealing a trapdoor with a rusted iron latch. As he opened the door and stared down the dark stairway beneath, Jinn felt his blood rise, an ancient sense of duty pounding in his heart as he slowly descended, following the flickering light of a candle from somewhere below.

  Drifting through his thoughts were images of other temples, of high, stone columns and bloody altars, of marble floors and hellish statues. Each grander than the last, and all palaces compared to the kingdom of dust and rot beneath Trades Ward. The memories were fleeting and without context, like intricate paintings rather than anything he'd actually experienced, the legacy of a thousand lives swirling like dreams through his soul.

  Voices echoed from the bottom of the stairs, leading him to a heavy curtain through which shafts of yellow light breached moth-eaten holes. Peering through the holes, he saw several figures on their knees in a circular chamber, each in dark robes, their left sleeves marked with the crimson symbol of nine. Before them, his head bowed in prayer, stood a small child, a boy of seven or eight years with orange-red hair and pale, freckled skin, also wearing the garb of the Vigilant Order. Such corruption of the young was not uncommon, especially among the faithful of Asmodeus, the devil-god bearing a particular taste for the souls of the innocent. The boy's head rose, his blue eyes bright as he seemed for a moment about to speak, then he gasped quietly as Jinn parted the curtains and stared down the small congregation.

  The kneeling figures turned in confusion, looking nervously from Jinn to the child, most edging away from the intruder and eyeing the visible hilt of his sword. The boy merely tilted his head slightly, smirking beneath half-lidded, knowing eyes.

  "Have you come seeking forgiveness, old one?" the child asked sweetly, raising his hands in an attempt to calm his fearful gathering.

  Jinn ignored the boy, staring into the eyes of the robed figures, mostly human, men and women seeking some way out of their miserable lives and finding themselves in places darker than they'd ever imagined. They looked back into his golden eyes only briefly, seeing in them a sorrowful judgment that made them turn away, ashamed. Jinn pitied them, but only to a degree, knowing the precipice they stood upon all too well and fully aware of the choices that had brought them so low. None of them could truly know the nature, much less the name of the god they would serve, but there was an inkling, always a hint of darkness in the Vigilant Order, despite its beguiling promises.

  He sensed no evil in them, no malice or cruelty, only selfishness and greed, smoldering desires stoked to flames by desperate, silver-tongued devils scraping the dregs of society to maintain their Vigilant Order.

  He reached down, grasping the collar of a middle-aged man who cowered and raised his hands before his face, whimpering as Jinn leaned close.

  "Leave this place and never return," he said loud enough for all to hear as he hurled the man through the curtain and stood aside as others slowly rose from their knees, unsure of what was happening. "Or stay and learn the full measure of the mistakes you have made."

  The child-priest scowled angrily as the congregation rose and quickly shuffled through the curtains, none meeting Jinnaoth's gaze as they passed. A few cast aside their dirty robes, throwing them to the ground as they ran up the basement stairs. As the last footsteps faded away through the house above, Jinn faced the child and placed a hand upon his blade.

  "They will return; they always do," the boy said, crossing his arms. "You accomplish nothing by coming here." "

  "Perhaps you are right," Jinn replied, lowering his eyes menacingly, "but they shall not find you again to mislead them."

  "You would kill a child?" the boy asked. "Is this what you are reduced to?"

  "No, I'll not stain my hands with the blood of a child," Jinn said, stepping forward and drawing blade enough to shine in the candlelight, casting the reflection upon the child's face. "However, this child I see before me I recall being fished from a well more than a tenday ago, quite dead if memory serves."

  The boy's blue eyes darkened to smoky pools of deep black. His arms lowered slowly, fingers curling like claws as a very unchildlike growl escaped his snarling lips.

  Jinn smiled at the display, always enjoying the illusion's fall, when the predator was exposed and the acts of innocence fell away. Even among the order's mortal priests, he had found the beasts hiding beneath their robes, their true faces, full of vitriol and cowardice. It was that alone he had come to see, the last vestige of the Vigilant Order, a small but integral cult in the worship of Asmodeus, laid bare in the last pitiful temple to which they could lay claim.

  "You play with fire, half-blood," the boy said, his voice deep and thunderous. "You have no idea-"

  "I know to whom I speak," Jinn said, kneeling down and matching the fiend's rage-filled stare, then adding, "Belsharoth."

  The child-devil drew away, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the sound of his name and looking intently into the golden gaze of Jinn.

  "Irramael?" the boy asked hesitantly. "I watched you die."

  "Aye, as have many others," Jinn said and stood, drawing his sword, an ancient blade stolen from the order years earlier. It pleased him to use the cult's tools against them. "And that name died over seven hundred years ago."

  "Myth Drannor." Belsharoth smiled, small teeth protruding at odd angles as longer, sharper ones grew in to replace them. "Those were good days."

  "And long behind you, it seems," Jinn added, gesturing to the cold, dusty chamber as he raised his blade threateningly. "Shall we continue?"

  "I see little need," the devil said with a sigh, the skin along the right side of his face drooping, slowly sliding away. "You know I will not betray him."

  "I must ask. Tradition demands it, especially now." Jinn took another step toward the devil, gold eyes flashing with hunger as the old question came to his lips, heart beating with faint hope that he might yet receive an answer. "Where is Sathariel?"

  "He is beyond you. Better to seek a cleaner death with me," Belsharoth answered, his shoulders popping and shifting beneath a rubbery sheet of skin, tearing in places to reveal black scales and bony barbs, muscles rippling with a power that the illusion of the child could no longer contain. "I will merely break you, but him, the angel, he shall devour you."

  Jinnaoth rushed forward and gripped the devil by the throat, hauling him into the air and slamming him against a fragile table covered in a bloodstained cloth, a meager altar to Asmodeus. Flesh squirmed and changed beneath his fingers as Belsharoth laughed, a hollow chuckle that shook his small frame.

  "Then bring him!" Jinn shouted, struggling to hold the devil emerging from the child. "Have him kill me, rip me apart, devour me, but bring him to m
e!"

  A small, freckled hand rose at Belsharoth's side, shaking and twisting unnaturally as if serpents coiled beneath his skin in place of muscle or bone. Daggerlike claws erupted from the fingertips, followed by a long, powerful arm that struck Jinn across the chest. He flew backward and slammed against the back wall of the chamber, though he swiftly rolled to a defensive crouch, ready for the devil to pounce.

  "The Vigilant Order is fallen, Irramael," Belsharoth said, shaking his head in mock compassion, one black eye bulging from the child's face, a horned brow piercing through his hair. "It lost the favor of Asmodeus some time ago due to your efforts. Enjoy your victory and be pleased that your soul shall escape Sathariel's gut!"

  The half-changed devil charged with a blinding speed, but Jinn was prepared, hurling a small vial from his belt that shattered on Belsharoth's broken face. Holy water steamed on the fiend's flesh, and he screamed, an unholy sound that sang in Jinn's blood like a trumpet of war.

  Gods, he thought as age-old memories surfaced in the depths of his being. The trumpets, how I remember the trumpets!

  Belsharoth turned away, momentarily blinded, but an inky darkness swirled into being behind him, and pale hands reached for him as he stumbled into a soft embrace. Mara appeared from the smoke, turning the thrashing devil around and whispering words of magic as she caressed the remaining thin wisps of orange-red hair atop his head. She smiled close to his pointed ear, her teeth yellowed and lionlike, her eyes burning like coals.

  "Hush," she whispered as Jinn approached and tendrils of energy flowed from her fingertips, slowing Belsharoth's transformation and leaving him trapped between two awkward forms, neither recognizable. "Be still and parley with us."

  The devil's spiny back arched as he attempted to resist her magic, mismatched eyes rolling ceaselessly, mouth working as he drew long breaths, trying to speak.

  "Leave me be… traitorous hag," he wheezed, his voice also trapped, shifting between the thunderous tone of the devil and the sweet lilt of the young boy whose form he had stolen. "How much does he pay you? Allow me to make an offer…"

  "He pays me in revenge," Mara said, smiling sweetly and licking her long incisors. "Do you propose there is commerce more appealing?"

  "Enough," Jinnaoth said and knelt, leaning on the point of the stolen long sword, the silvered runes down its length glittering in the candlelight. Belsharoth squirmed a moment more then shuddered, falling into Maranyuss's grasp like a scolded child. Bloody tears welled in his horrible eyes and streamed across the two sides of his malformed face, an inexplicable sorrow twisting his features into a helpless look of pure hate.

  "Kill me," the devil whispered through clenched fangs. "What you want… is not mine to give."

  "Where is Sathariel?" Jinn pressed. "How do I find him? How do I summon him?"

  "Fool," Belsharoth replied, a wave of renewed strength trembling beneath his flesh that caused Mara to hiss, straining to hold the fiend. "The angel is merely a means to an end… the First Flensing will come… no matter how you struggle against it."

  "Flensing?" Jinn looked to Mara curiously, but her concentration was stolen by the effort of keeping the devil still, a battle she was quickly losing. "What is the Flensing?"

  "None shall know when… or how… but it is near," the fiend replied, a barbed tail snaking out from his back, growing longer and lashing weakly.

  Mara gasped, growling in frustration as the energy of her spell flickered like a dying lamp.

  Belsharoth smiled, the symmetry of his face more distinct, red eyes glowing bright as he added, "And this wretched city will know that my lord is coming."

  "Asmodeus," Jinnaoth whispered, wondering what horror he had stumbled upon.

  "Jinn!" Mara cried as the devil broke free, his true form bursting forth: a hulking beast of scales and bone spurs with a beard of tentacles writhing beneath his fang-filled mouth.

  Jinn rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the fiend's whipping tail, and rose to face the devil. Mara fell back against the wall, clutching her chest as she caught her breath. Jinn cursed and leaped at the devil, slashing madly to distract Belsharoth long enough for Maranyuss to regain her strength; he would likely need her magic. He twisted and turned through the devil's claws, dancing beneath its reach then lunging upward to open fresh wounds in its stomach.

  Belsharoth's clumsy attacks grew more precise, the effects of Mara's spell wearing off, and Jinn made one lunge too many, leaving an opening for the fiend. A claw closed around his leg, squeezing tightly and lifting him into the air. As he spun he tried to keep his focus, to lash at the arm holding him, but the devil kept him off balance long enough to hurl him against the far wall.

  The small chamber became a swift blur followed by a sudden stop. Stars streaked across his field of vision, and slow throbs of pain arced through his back. He blinked and fell forward on his hands and knees, barely aware that the devil had turned on Mara. Hellish shrieks filled the chamber as the pair tore at one another like animals. The scent of blood brought Jinn to his senses, and he found his sword.

  A glimpse of crimson streaking across Mara's forearms in little rivers brought him to his feet, and he charged back into the fray. In a breath Mara fell back, dissolving into smoky mist and leaving Belsharoth to pound only at the wall, clouds of dust and splinters of rotted wood surrounding him as he turned. Jinn jumped over the barbed tail as it swung toward him, turning as he landed to slice an arm's length from its end. Belsharoth seemed unbothered by the wound as they circled one another, the face-off drawing Jinn back to another confrontation with the devil from another time, another life.

  "You die again, half-blood," Belsharoth growled and pounced, claws outstretched, his hulking form enough to easily crush anything in its way, but Jinn saw his opportunity and rushed into the fiend.

  He accepted the deep wounds in his shoulder as he rolled beneath the fiend's right claw, gaining position to use Belsharoth's momentum against him. The point of his blade slipped beneath the mass of bone that served as the devil's rib cage, sliding through thick skin and dense muscle, scraping along the spined backbone to emerge from Belsharoth's back.

  "This isn't Myth Drannor," Jinn said as he twisted the blade and pulled, bracing his boot against the devil's right leg. The wound opened like a toothless grin, and Belsharoth roared, steaming blood pouring from his side. Before he could take breath to roar again or twist to dislodge the blade, blue fire arced through his chest, a bolt of lightning silencing his pain and throwing Jinn away from the thrashing fiend.

  Jinnaoth's hands tingled and shook, numb as the devil rolled onto his back, reaching blindly and kicking before falling still, a smoking hole in his chest filling the chamber with the scent of charred flesh.

  Mara knelt over the defeated fiend, tracing the edges of the wound with a deft hand, drawing little symbols in the air and smiling cruelly when the ritual was done. As Jinn sat forward, he watched her palm a small, red gem that she quickly placed in her purse.

  "We should be quick," she said, flinging droplets of blood from her claws. "That last roar may have drawn the Watch."

  "Right," Jinn replied and stood, pulling his sword from the devil's corpse before scanning the chamber, his eyes quickly falling on the stained tablecloth of the makeshift altar. He turned his head to the side, studying the shape of the dried blood in the cloth. "Flensing?" he asked.

  Mara shrugged, tending to the wounds on her arms, her face once again as human and soft as it had been outside.

  "Just one of their rituals, as far as I know," she answered, gesturing to Belsharoth. "Torture for those souls destined to serve as devils."

  Jinn lifted the tablecloth, narrowing his eyes as a familiar shape appeared in its stains like a map. A long and winding wall, dark drips serving as watchtowers, the spread of blood through the thick weave almost like streets. The undeniable shape of Waterdeep had been splashed into the cloth.

  "And as it might apply to a city?" he asked, raising the gruesome image for Mara's in
spection.

  "That would be… ambitious, to say the least," she said, pointing to the darkest splash on the cloth where all the others seemed to have flowed away from. "Something to do with Sea Ward perhaps?"

  Jinn sighed and rolled the cloth up, stuffing it into his belt as they exited the chamber and sought an alternate route back to the streets. His mind raced with possibilities, wondering what he could have missed in all his years of battling the Vigilant Order. But for one talkative devil, he might have thought his task complete.

  The memories brought back by Belsharoth were already fading, too vague and indistinct to hold on to, just another ripple in four thousand years of time's river. He disliked the term half-blood, though many with an idea of his true nature had used it to describe him. He had dreams occasionally of his second birth, ripped from the higher realms of the gods, forged into a body of blood and bone that he could never escape, to serve his lords in battle.

  They had called him a deva, an angel made flesh.

  Bright sunlight struck his face as Mara led him out the east side of the ramshackle home and down yet another street crowded with mortals ignorant of the wars that went on beneath their boots. Mara flashed him a smile as a patrol of Watchmen disappeared down the garbage-strewn alley. He eyed her warily, following her down twisting avenues back to her shop and the room he'd rented from her several years ago. She maintained her illusions of beauty among the citizens of Waterdeep, but he could see the face of the night hag she hid beneath her false green eyes, and he wondered if one day, despite their strange alliance, she would come to place his soul in one of her little red gems.

  He wondered, with a soul that had survived a countless number of deaths, if such a thing were possible.

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