Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 20
“Is that so? I shall get to the truth of the matter,” the master said. He leaned back into his pillow, closing his eyes. “I can feel the power of the wraith even now. Its flies buzz at the edges of my land. Hold on while I grasp one.”
Lenui edged over to Bryon. “Just how far can his gall-durn magic reach, anyway?”
The half-elf shrugged. “A few miles in any direction when he’s really concentrating. It lessens when he tries to control things. The bigger the mind a creature has, the more power it takes to control.”
“So that goblin of yers?” Lenui asked.
“Chi-Chi? He can get pretty mean if Porthos isn’t calming him, but he isn’t fully being controlled. He just showed up on the land one day and he’s kind of become a servant of sorts,” Bryon replied.
Porthos breathed in suddenly, frowning in discomfort. His eyes stayed closed. “I see it now. You’re right. This is big, far larger than anything I expected. It is very difficult not to be noticed . . .”
His voice trailed off and the room fell silent. No one dared speak for several moments, all of them waiting on the master’s next words. There was a thumping sound from within the house.
“What’s he doing?” Lenui whispered.
Bryon shook his head, his hand gripping the master’s naming dagger. “I’m not sure, but I think he’s used that fly as a gateway. He’s sent part of his mind through to get a better look at the wraith. It’s taking a lot of his power to do so. He’s lost hold on some of the animals around the house.”
Porthos’ lips moved again. “Ohh . . . Why, I can tell right away, now that I know to look for it. The style of her bewitching. The flavor of her thoughts on the magic. She hasn’t changed.”
“Who?” Bill asked. “Who is she?”
The master didn’t answer, his corpselike face pinched in concentration. “And that red tint . . . I’ve only seen that once before, but she’s bolstered her spirit power with blood magic. Of course, that vile creature! She’d have to do that to control so immense a power. I shall try to learn more.”
Bryon pushed away from the wall. “His heart’s beating way too fast. I’m afraid his body can’t handle this.”
“We have to let him try,” Bill said.
Porthos gasped again. “She is on alert. I must flee before I’m seen.” Seconds later, his eyes opened, a look of fear on his face. He looked around the room as if unsure where he was. A smile reached his thin lips. “I escaped unseen.”
“Then she don’t know you was lookin’?” Lenui asked.
“She knows someone was poking around,” Porthos said, “But she doesn’t know who they were or what exactly they learned.”
“Who is she?” Bill asked again.
The master blinked at him. “It is not good news I’m afraid. She is Cassandra. David’s Priestess of War.”
“Oh hell,” Bill said, his shoulders slumping.
“The Priestess of War?” Lenui said in disbelief. His thoughts were haunted as he thought back to that day two hundred years before. “I thought I’d killed her.”
“So did we all,” Bill said.
The ancient man grimaced as he tried to sit up. “Bryon, pack us for a journey. If they are going to fight Cassandra, they will need my help.”
“No, they won’t.” Bryon gave Lenui a pointed look. “No, you won’t. He’s not going to survive a journey to the top of the mountains. I’d be surprised if he could handle a horse ride across the lawn. Look at him! It’s been six months since I’ve been able to get him to climb out of bed.”
Bill sighed. “He’s right. Porthos, I’ll admit, when we came here, I was hoping you would be able to join us, but I can see that it isn’t possible now.”
“Bryon,” said the old master, managing to get up on one elbow. “I know that I am feeble and I know that you haven’t seen me at my peak. But I was named at the Bowl of Souls. That means I have responsibilities.”
Porthos held out his left hand palm up, displaying his naming rune. It was wide and flat and firm on his palm. As shriveled as the rest of his body was, that was the palm of a man in his prime. “The journey will be difficult, but they will need me if they are to reach their goal undetected. Cassandra will not be expecting me.” He smiled. “Besides, I have you. Use your blessing magic to bolster my withered bones. I’ll make it.”
Bryon glared. “Even if I was able to keep you alive long enough for you to get close enough to help them in this fight, facing this thing would kill you. All you did was take a peek and it nearly gave you a heart attack!”
“Then I’ll die,” Porthos said. “I’m not looking forward to the experience, but if I were to die that way? Fighting for the principles of the Bowl? That would be nice. Much better than falling asleep one day and not waking up.”
Grumbling, Bryon walked to the side of the bed and helped the old man sit up. He sat behind him and pressed his knee into the old man’s back while pulling on his shoulder. There was a series of pops and Porthos groaned with a mix of pain and relief. Lenui couldn’t see the flows of the blessing magic Byron had used, but he could see the results. The ancient man’s back straightened and a bit of color came back into his face.
Bryon grasped Porthos’ arm and lifted it up, forcing his shoulder into full rotation. The half-elf shook his head. “This is a long shot. I could reinforce your joints and blood vessels. Straighten your back every morning. Still, I doubt you’d survive a journey. A horse ride would break you to pieces!”
“That’s okay. He won’t need to ride,” said Bill, nodding as he gained confidence in his plan. “He can lay on my bed in the wagon.”
“So you’ll be joinin’ the rest of us beggars on the ground, then?” Lenui asked, folding his arms in surprise.
“I’ll be fine,” Bill said. He took the pack off of his back and pulled out a jar in some kind of knitted cozy. “And I believe this should help even more. Olives from Kyrkon’s own vineyard.”
“That could do it,” Bryon said, scratching his head. “Pure elf magic.”
The old man smiled and held the jar close. His eyes welled with tears. “She has forgiven me then. Bryon, open them for me.”
Lenui smiled as the man placed one of the ripe brown fruits into his mouth, tears dripping down his wrinkled cheeks. Then his smile faded. “Somethin’s been ticklin’ my brain. Somethin’ you said earlier. You said that the Priestess of War’s been usin’ blood magic. How? She was human last I heard.”
The old man swallowed and pulled another plump olive from the jar with trembling finger. “Yes, well that will be a problem we’ll need to face. Her spirit magic has been tainted red and that can only mean one thing. Cassandra has been drinking the blood of elves.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Black Lake didn’t act like water. It didn’t ripple with the breeze. The edges of the cliff face surrounding it weren’t reflected on its surface. The lake was, in fact, not truly a liquid at all, but a flowing mass of larvae and decaying organic matter with the consistency of hot tar.
The blackness absorbed the light that shone on it and, instead of rippling in the breeze, it shuddered slightly like the skin of a pudding. Every once in a while, the stillness of the lake was disturbed, its surface swelling and shifting as some monstrous form contorted within its depths.
The air above the lake was filled with shifting swarms of flies that weaved with the currents produced by the lake’s heat. The shoreline was covered with hundreds of corpses, lying in an unmoving state. The dead came from many races, most of them goblinoid, but there were also a mix of humans and members of the blood magic and demon races, along with more strange and exotic beasts whose lives had been taken by the lake’s evil.
Normally, the heat and flies would equal a quick deterioration of the dead, but the corpses rotted very slowly. The larvae that infested them retarded the decay of the bodies and kept the connective tissues firm, keeping them useful to the evil power that dwelled at the lake’s bottom.
The Black Lake’s surface bulged again not far from the shoreline as a rounded shape emerged. A glistening sludge-covered thing, looking as if it were made from the essence of the lake itself, stepped up onto the shore. It was about the height of a man, but bulky, the details of its form obscured by the blackness that weighed it down.
The corpses lying on the shore stirred, some of them lifting their heads to watch as it moved up the slope past them with heavy ponderous steps. The thing moved up the one clear pathway between the dead, headed towards the large rock building that protruded from the side of the cliff wall.
The building was tall and square with smooth walls that looked as if they were formed from a single sheet of rock. It’s door was a flat sided boulder and the building was topped with a slanted roof that pointed towards the lake. A steady stream of smoke belched from the single chimney that protruded from the roof’s highest point.
The lake thing stepped onto the flat rocky porch and waved a dripping arm. The heavy boulder rolled back from the building’s entrance and the thing made its ponderous way inside. As soon as it passed through the doorway, the boulder rolled shut behind it.
Inside was a stark entryway. Lit with glow orbs, its only decoration was a box full of ash. The thing made to move towards the open doorway beyond, but stopped in the center of the room.
Slowly, the sludge rolled off of the creature in great clumps. Emerging from the blackness was the Priestess of War, hooded and covered by a red cloak. She stepped over the pile of putrid blackness on the floor around her and called out with a firm voice.
“Vastyr. I return.”
Cassandra threw back her cloak to reveal a woman clad in armor. Her breastplate was polished, but glowed a dull black with earth magic. Her waistline and thighs were girded with studded leather. Plates of runed steel covered her shoulders, but her muscular arms were bare, revealing pale skin covered with scars and protective tattoos. Her boots were made of an exotic type of avian leather, the toes of which were tipped with curved talons.
The priestess wore an open-faced helmet that clung tightly to her head, a round jade stone resting across the center of her forehead. Her skin was pale, her lips black. She had a youthful face that would have been beautiful if not for the many scars that marred her brow, nose and jawline. Most prominent was a horrific scar that curved down her right cheek, pulling down her lower eyelid. This was the result of a wound that had blinded her right eye, leaving it pupilless and white.
The Priestess of War, was proud of her scars. Each one was proof of an escape from death. Early on, David had prophesied that she would not be killed by a mortal warrior, but only by a wizard. Therefore, in her centuries of life, she had never allowed a wizard to heal her. She had relied on surgeons and the life magic of elves to heal her wounds.
“Vastyr!” she repeated irritably. He usually did not make her call twice.
“I am sorry, Priestess. I was indisposed,” said a soft male voice.
Vastyr was an elf. Tall, lithe, and fair, his head was topped in a tumble of blond curls, he was dressed in the robes of a Khalpan servant. His garments were gray and simple, but made of elegant materials, a sign that she doted on him. He glanced at the pile of sludge on the floor and wrinkled his nose in distaste. He gave her a hopeful look.
The elf hated the stench of the black lake and the evil that inhabited it. Since their arrival, he had rarely left the house. Not that she blamed him. This sort of evil was the antithesis of the life magic of his race. Still, he was a servant. Servants shouldn’t be so squeamish.
“You forget your place,” Cassandra said reproachfully. “One day I shall make you clean it with your bare hands, maggots or no.”
Grunting, she sent out a surge of air magic, causing the sludge to roll into a neat ball. She then sent threads of fire into the core of it, burning the ball to ash. Cassandra let the ash fall to the floor. “There. Tidy up.”
“Yes, Priestess,” the elf said with a deep bow. He pulled a broom out from behind the doorway and began to sweep the ash.
Vastyr was the only servant she kept at her side and truly the only one she needed. The orcs that were her laborers were fully under her power and slept in the various caves around the mountainside along with any other creatures that she thought were more useful alive than fed to the lake.
The priestess unpinned her cloak and draped it over her arm, then walked through the doorway. The great room beyond took up the bulk of the building. Light orbs lit the expanse and the walls were covered in elaborate sculpture work she had done with her magic while bored. Its rock floor was covered with animal skins and a great fireplace sat at one end.
She walked to the front of the fireplace where her favorite hound was sleeping in front of the fire. He was lying on a rug made from an unfortunate member of his kind that had tried to bite her. Raj, an alpha lupero with a stripe of black fur down the center of his forehead, looked up at her approach and wagged his tail. She scratched his head.
“Are you recovered, Raj? Ready to serve me again?”
Raj had come back to her from this last battle sorely wounded, many of his pack dead. She had underestimated the threat posed by that large ogre tribe and the odd combination of leaders that defended it. That wouldn’t happen again. She approached her throne.
This was where Cassandra did most of her work. Her throne was carved from the wood of a Valaeh tree and studded with stones that amplified the range of her spirit magic. Standing next to the throne was a large chest made of magically reinforced wood and bound with iron.
Cassandra threw her cloak over the back of the throne and removed the key to the chest from a necklace around her neck. She went to one knee and opened the lid. Inside were her greatest treasures. Some of them were powerful magical items, but most were trophies. Souvenirs plucked from the hands of dead enemies.
Resting atop a tidy pile of broken naming daggers was a long box covered with bewitching runes. She took it out and sighed regretfully before opening it. Inside was a long curved dagger made of black iron and stained with the blood of centuries of sacrifices. In its pommel was a cluster of jade stones, each one a spirit magic transmitter of great power.
This was Celos the Jade Dagger, one of six daggers forged by the Dark Prophet himself and tied to his soul. It was a powerful artifact and rightfully hers as one of his high priestesses. The moment the box was opened she could feel its power assaulting her mind.
The dagger had not always affected her this way. At one time, her dedication to the Dark Prophet and naming at the Dark Bowl had made her immune to its powers. But the deadly injury that had destroyed her right eye and removed her from the great war had changed that. The part of her soul bound to the Dark Prophet had been damaged. Ever since that day the presence of the dagger tugged at her memories, making her forgetful, even losing her sense of self.
Cassandra shut the box and let out a slow breath. The jade stone in her helmet had once been strong enough to protect her mind, but the effect of the dagger’s magic had only increased as each of its sister daggers were destroyed. The Prophet had found and destroyed the last of them recently and ever since then, even her helmet was unable to stop the effects completely.
Gritting her teeth in determination, she closed the chest and stood, the runed box gripped tightly in her hands. Cassandra sat in her throne, feeling the magic of the jewels boosting her strength. Then she removed her helmet, exposing tightly cropped ebony hair marred only by one wide streak of gray.
Vastyr rushed to her side, taking her cloak from the arm of the throne where she had tossed it earlier. “Cassandra, must you?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. The elf really shouldn’t have called her by name, but over the years she had come to allow him some slip of decorum, at least when they were alone. “I have no choice in the matter. Without the dagger I cannot reach the Master.”
That had been another side effect of the soul-damaging wound. The only time she could hear the Dark Voice was when the dagger was clutched in her hands. While she was connected to her master, the dagger could not harm her, but there was always a time just before and just after, that she was vulnerable.
Vastyr hung her cloak in its proper place, then came up behind her. The elf placed his hands on either side of her head and began rubbing her temples. “But must you speak with Him again so soon? I don’t like what the dagger does to you.”
The strength of his fingers created a marvelous pressure, easing a slight headache she hadn’t even known she’d had. She enjoyed it for a few brief moments before slapping his hands away. “You forget your place! I am His Priestess of War. I speak with him when I must! Now go. I shall call for you when I need your presence.”
Vastyr bowed, his face unreadable. “Yes, Priestess.”
Cassandra watched as he retreated to the kitchen, then looked at the palm of her right hand. She switched to spirit sight and watched her dark naming rune swirl into existence. Taking a deep breath, she opened the box.
The dagger attacked at once. Rage and the desire to kill filled her mind. Her eyes fell on Raj, who was still reclining in front of the fire. The lupero was watching her eagerly. It knew these emotions intimately and waited for instruction. She reached into the box with her right hand and grasped the dagger, fully intending to rush over to the beast and kill it.
“Calm yourself, Cassandra,” said the Dark Voice.
The urge to kill left her and her sense of self returned. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to her connection with her Master. I am calm, David.
Cassandra always received a sort of thrill when calling her god by his true name. Only his high priestesses were allowed to do so. It was a sign of his respect for her that made her zeal to please him all the stronger.
“Good. Report.”
There was another attempt at intrusion last night. I chased the wizard away before he was able to discover anything, she replied. The fact that the wizard had come as close as he had was a frustration for her.
“This was the same wizard as last time?”
I was not able to see into his mind, but I believe so. That bonding wizard. Her lupids had been so close to finding and killing him. That rogue horse would have led them right to its master. If only that ogre mage had not intervened.
