Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 3
“Snaaakess,” Fist said in slow motion, pleading to Justan. “Heeellp!”
This is just a dream, Fist, Justan said patiently, his arms folded. Sorry, but I need you to wake up. Something horrible has happened.
The sorrowful feeling coming from Justan’s thoughts jolted through to Fist and he realized that he had let the dream take over. The sluggishness disappeared. “Justan, is that really you and not part of my dream?”
It is, Justan replied. He held out his hand.
Fist reached out to him and the snakes weren’t there anymore. The moment their hands touched, the dream faded from his mind. Fist became aware of the hard ground beneath the thin layer of his bedroll. He could hear Maryanne’s soft snore nearby and could feel the weight of Rufus’ heavy arm over him.
Fist muted those sensations and focused on his connection with Justan through the bond. I am sorry, Justan. I was trying to reach you a while ago and while I was waiting I must have fallen asleep.
It was a long day. We just now stopped for a few hours of sleep ourselves, Justan said. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow, though. I needed to talk to you.
Once again, Fist was overwhelmed by the weary sadness that filled Justan’s thoughts. The ogre was afraid to learn what he had to say. I have a lot to tell you, too, but what happened? Did someone . . . He hesitated to say the word die, but that was definitely the feeling he was getting.
I-I . . . Justan hesitated, unable to form his thoughts into words and Fist’s heart sank. I’ll just show you.
Justan’s memories flowed into Fist’s mind. He saw the two massive armies facing each other. He saw the small platform in the middle of the small marsh at the center of the valley where Jhonate’s father was meeting with the Gnome Warlord to decide whether there would be peace or war.
Aldie led Justan away from the valley and Fist’s heart leapt as Talon came into view. She’s back? Fist feared that Deathclaw’s sister had killed someone close to them. What was she doing in Malaroo?
Just watch, Justan replied and the memory continued.
Fist watched with awe as Justan used his sword to try and heal Talon’s insanity. Then Justan’s focus shifted to the treachery occurring at the armies’ center. Chaos erupted as the ancient troll behemoth rose from the ground beneath the armies and men were swallowed right and left. Thousands of lives were lost right before Justan’s eyes.
When it was over, Fist’s mind was just as numb as Justan’s had been. So many gone. Fist didn’t know most of the people personally. Justan had spent more time with the victims of the massacre. But he had known Djeri the Looker. Fist had spent several nights on guard duty with Lenny’s nephew and had liked him.
And Aldie, Justan said. I didn’t see it myself, but I heard. He was helping evacuate the valley and was pulled underground.
Fist winced. Sir Lance’s son had been so brave during the war. For him and Djeri to die in a foreign land in a war that wasn’t theirs? Horrible.
There were so many lost that the remainder of the army has been in confusion. Since we stopped, Xedrion has had his officers put together a list of those missing. The number keeps growing, Justan sent and his sorrow turned to rage as he added, and it’s all because that gnome was in league with Mellinda.
That last thought pierced through the haze in Fist’s mind. But that can’t be true.
And yet, it is. Somehow she survived our attack in the Dark Forest and found a new body, Justan said, sending the images he had pulled from Talon’s mind. Fist, she has the Rings of Stardeon. She must be more powerful than ever.
But, Justan, Mellinda is here, Fist said. Locksher saw it. That’s what I was going to tell you tonight.
It was Justan’s turn to be stunned. How is that possible?
Fist sent his memories through the bond and told Justan about their mission to the Black Lake and how it had grown in size and the number of infested monsters had increased. He showed Justan how Locksher had allowed himself to become infested so that he could follow the evil magic to its source.
He discovered that it was Mellinda’s power, Fist explained and repeated what Locksher had said, telling Justan that when Jhonate had hewn Mellinda’s soul in two, her power had found a way to escape into two orange moonrat eyes that had been left behind in the mountains. Her evil is what created the larvae. It worked a lot like the way she made the moonrats.
Justan digested all that Fist had shown him. Then what you’re facing is her power only? None of her old intelligence is behind it?
That is what Locksher sensed when he was communicating with it, Fist replied. The way the wizard had explained it, this was just the abscess that had grown from Mellinda’s soul as she had accumulated more and more evil power over the centuries. Her intelligence was gone.
And Locksher thinks that the Dark Prophet has taken control of this power? Justan asked.
He said that this is the part of Mellinda that was connected to the Dark Bowl. It was running wild and the Dark Prophet sent one of his servants to take charge. This had made the evil more dangerous than before. Now the larvae had more of a purpose than to mindlessly breed and control the living. This servant is using some kind of red spirit magic to make Mellinda’s power do his will.
Red spirit magic? Justan hadn’t heard of that before. Every spirit magic he had seen had been white, black, or gray.
Dark red, Fist replied. He hadn’t seen it himself but that was how Locksher had described it.
Justan considered it for a moment. I’ll have to ask Beth or Tolynn if they know what that color means.
Locksher thinks that this person is probably one of the Dark Prophet’s old soldiers or priestesses, Fist added. She was really powerful. We barely escaped.
It had been the storm that saved them. It had been a harrowing ride away from the lake for the four of them clinging to Rufus’ broad back. The thickly falling snow had obscured their escape, but the mysterious woman had come after them, blindly lashing out with air magic in a vicious attack. Wind whipped at them with the fury of winter’s last gasp.
Rufus’ climbing skill had been sorely tested. The rogue horse nearly fell several times. The ice and slush that clung to the mountainside was treacherous and that was before their enemy sent out vibrating strands of earth magic. Tremors shook the cliff face. Rocks loosened from beneath his hands and he had been forced to make several ill-advised leaps.
For his passengers, the experience had been terrifying. If Locksher hadn’t used air magic to lash everyone to Rufus’ back, surely some of them would have fallen to their deaths. As it was, all of them had been battered and bruised by the constant jerking about. Rufus himself had fractured a wrist after one particularly long fall and Fist had needed to repair it through the bond before they continued on.
Did Maryanne ask my great grandmother if she recognized the woman? Justan asked.
She was going to, but I fell asleep before she had time to tell me what she found out, Fist replied. Mistress Sarine’s bonds had given her an extraordinary lifespan. She had been one of the Prophet’s companions during the war two hundred years ago. If their new enemy was one of the Dark Prophet’s priestesses she should recognize her.
Okay, let me know what you find out tomorrow night, Justan replied and Fist felt the bonding wizard’s weariness overtake the bond again.
I will, Fist said. A feeling of guilt surged within him. The evil he faced in the mountains seemed small compared to the importance of the events Justan faced. Justan . . . I am sorry that I was not able to be there with you.
Don’t be, Justan assured him. I can see now that we are both where we need to be. Your mission is every bit as important as . . . His thoughts brightened as an idea occurred to him. Fist, maybe more help is coming than you know. Before he left, the Prophet told Tarah Woodblade he had somewhere else important to be. Somewhere where major players needed his help. Maybe he’s coming to you.
Really? Fist replied, hope stirring in his chest. If the Prophet came surely everything would all end up alright.
I don’t know it for sure, but it makes sense now that we know the Dark Prophet has taken control of the Black Lake, Justan pointed out. And even if the Prophet isn’t coming, the news of what Locksher learned today should force the Mage School and Academy to get moving up there.
I hope so, Fist said somewhat doubtfully. They certainly had been dragging their feet so far. It was mainly the Mage School Council that was slowing things down. The Academy wasn’t prepared to move on their own.
I should go now, Justan said and Fist felt him yawn through the bond. Xedrion will want to continue our march soon and I should sleep as much as I can.
Okay. Justan . . . Tell Jhonate I am sorry about her siblings.
I will, Fist. We’ll talk again tomorrow.
As always, Fist replied. It was their common goodbye at the end of the night, yet Fist felt a twinge of sadness every time Justan’s presence faded.
Fist’s awareness of the world around him increased as his thoughts retreated from the bond. He could hear the distant sound of ogres at campfires, but everyone in their own camp seemed to be asleep. His body was still tired and sore and he tried to drift back to sleep himself, but his mind was too active after all that Justan had shown him.
Fist carefully lifted Rufus’ heavy arm off of his chest. Fist hoped not to wake him, but rogue horses were notoriously light sleepers. The intense core of energy that powered them meant that they needed very little rest, but Rufus had used an immense amount of power the day before. To his relief, the ape-like beast simply rolled to his back with a grunt and kept sleeping.
Fist turned to his other side and reached out to gently nudge the gnome sleeping next to him. “Maryanne,” he whispered.
Her snore stopped mid-breath and she cracked an irritated eye at him. “Huh?”
“I just finished talking to Justan,” he replied, feeling a bit guilty for waking her.
She let out a soft groan and rolled to face him. “And?”
“And . . .” He grimaced. “I wanted to know what Sarine told you.”
She sighed. “Sorry. It’s just that I feel like I was tied up in a sack and beaten by a dozen orcs.”
“Sorry,” Fist said, well aware of the beating they had all taken earlier that day. “Do you want me to heal you?”
“You do know how to make me tingle in all the right places.” Maryanne gave him a tired smile. “But no. I’ll be fine. What did your bonding wizard have to say?”
Fist briefly told her about the disastrous events in Malaroo. “He says that the woman leading those troll people was Mellinda.”
She frowned. “Impossible.”
“That’s what I told him,” Fist said. “But the people that saw her swore it was true.”
“Sure is something strange going on there,” Maryanne said.
“Did you ask Mistress Sarine about that red spirit magic Locksher saw?” Fist asked.
“Yeah. That concerned her. She said she was going to look into it,” Maryanne replied. “Sarine was pretty distracted, though. She said the Prophet showed up at the Mage School today raising holy hell.”
“Really?” Fist said with a grin. “Justan said John might be coming up here to help us!”
“I don’t think so,” she said regretfully. “He was mainly mad at them because they hadn’t done the ceremony to call a new head wizard. He told them to get off their butts and start making decisions and then he left.”
Chapter Two
Darlan stopped in the middle of the Grand Hallway, her eyes drawn to the wall where the portal to the Academy stood. The portal was currently closed. An incredibly detailed mural depicting an open portal was painted in its place. The painter who had created it had used magic to create phosphorescent pigments that gave it a quite realistic glow. Too realistic in Darlan’s mind.
The mural had been painted just after the War of the Dark Prophet, not many years after the portal had first been created. The story was that one of the council members felt that the inactive lodestones looked ugly sitting on the bare wall when the portal was not open. They decided to employ a mage from the Alberri Mage School who was well renowned for his talents. He got carried away.
She wondered if any of the wizards who had authorized the mural all those years ago had understood how bad of an idea it ended up being. Perhaps they found it humorous. During the decades when the portal had originally been open, it had been embarrassingly common occurrence for people to walk right into the wall not realizing the portal was closed. From the grumbles Darlan had heard since the portal’s recent reopening, it had become an issue again.
Darlan shook her head and turned away. Rolling her eyes at the mural wasn’t why she had come down this hallway. The Prophet had left instructions.
John’s visit to the Mage School’s High Council had not been a pleasant one for any of the Council members. He had scolded them as a parent might scold children. For a group of respected and established wizards, that was a hard thing to swallow.
Darlan in particular had taken his anger quite personally. When he had started in on the others, she had folded her arms and nodded in agreement. Then he had turned his gaze on her and she had realized that she was being lumped in with the rest of them. Darlan was used to dealing out scoldings, not receiving them. It had been several hours since he left and her skin still tingled from the tension that had been in the room.
She strode down the hallways of the Rune Tower, the frown on her lips startling silent the few students that crossed her path. It had been strange to see a look of fury on John’s face. Whenever she had seen the Prophet in the past he had been so calm and in control. Even during the war he hadn’t acted this much under stress. It was as if he had barely been able to keep himself in check.
Briefly, she wondered what would happen if he ever did lose control. With his raw power would he have been able to strip them of their magic? Strike them dead with a look? She rubbed away the goosebumps that raised on her arms at the thought of it.
At any rate, John had been well within his rights to bring up the issues he had. The Prophet had orchestrated the founding of the Mage School thousands of years ago himself, directing the wizards of the time in building a place of learning that could house the Bowl of Souls. He was not an active member on the council, and technically they didn’t have to obey his demands, but they had to listen. It was written in the school’s bylaws. He had their ears whenever he wished it.
Sighing, Darlan walked towards the far side of the wide hall, her eyes focused on the door that led up to the Hall of Majesty. That was her destination. At that moment it was the last place she wanted to go. She frowned at the anxiety that rose within her chest at the thought of going up there.
Darlan threw open the door and started inside. She was one of the most powerful wizardesses of her time. She had spent nearly a century of her life at this school and had stood near the Bowl of Souls many times. There was no reason for her to feel anxious about approaching it now. Nevertheless, by the time Darlan started up the curving staircase, her stomach was a roiling sea of nerves.
She hadn’t climbed five steps before the door opened behind her and a matronly voice called out, “Wait, Dear! I need to speak with you on the way.”
Darlan winced and paused so that her grandmother could catch up to her. She had chosen this route specifically because it was less often taken. Sarine was on the short list of people she had most wanted to avoid along the way.
Darlan glanced back at the woman and gave her a polite smile. “Mistress Sarine.”
Sarine climbed the stairs quickly, deceptively spry for her age. Darlan was unsure exactly how old she was. Her hair was gray and simply coiffed, tied in a long braid behind her head, and she had a pleasantly plump face. In fact, if not for the vibrant energy in her eyes, she looked like a woman that would be more at home rocking by the fire than traipsing up and down the staircases of the Mage School.
Sarine shot Darlan a brief frown as she arrived on the step below her. “I thought we were past that, Dear.”
“Grandmother, then,” Darlan said, then nodded at Sarine’s bonded elf who was trailing behind her. “Sir Kyrkon.”
Kyrkon nodded back at Darlan, an amused expression on his narrow face. Amusement seemed to be the elf’s default expression whenever Darlan was conversing with her grandmother. She often wondered if she should be offended by that. He had no business looking amused at the moment. Not when his bonding wizardess was using him as a pack animal.
The named elf warrior was following behind Sarine carrying a large bag full of colorful yarn and knitted goods. The woman was always knitting. Darlan understood the appeal somewhat. She had become somewhat of a seamstress in her years away from the school. But there was a time and a place for that sort of thing and the setting didn’t seem to matter to Sarine. Even at council meetings, she would sit a bit back from the table, a ball of yarn in her lap, her needles clicking away. Darlan wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been knitting while climbing the stairs.
No sooner had the thought passed through her mind, then Kyrkon held out a pair of needles, a length of knitted fabric already hanging from them. Sarine reached back and took them from him, only glancing down at the needles briefly to remember where she was in the pattern.
Repressing a snort, Darlan turned away from her and continued slowly up the staircase, the sound of her grandmother’s needles ticking away behind her.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Dear. Knitting helps me keep my thoughts in order,” Sarine said, following a couple steps behind her.
“I wasn’t-.”
“Don’t deny it. I could practically hear your eyes rolling in their sockets,” Sarine claimed. “You always do that when I knit in meetings.”
Darlan opened her mouth to give Sarine her real opinion on the matter, but stopped herself. No sense starting an argument in the stairwell. She changed what she was going to say. “So . . . last night after the meeting. You ran after John. Did you catch up to him?”
