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  The gnolls closed swiftly and he reached the center of the group, dodging and tumbling past clumsy attacks. Those attacks were made clumsier by freezing hands and shadow-born fear. Quinsareth quickly parried two blades that came close and rolled into a somersault to leap at the center gnoll. The beast yelped and tried to avoid the madman, but Bedlam sliced through the gnoll’s shoulder and bit deep into its collarbone. Quinsareth used the bone as a fulcrum in a tumbling jump. Flipping over the screaming gnoll’s head, he landed in front of the startled but ready Gyusk.

  They exchanged quick blows, blades ringing in a blur of steel and rage. Behind Quin, the other gnolls turned to catch up to the ghostwalker. Quinsareth pushed Gyusk’s blade back just enough to land a kick into the gnoll commander’s jaw. Gyusk staggered briefly, spitting teeth, and Quin spun to meet those behind him. Swinging a leg low to unbalance the stunned commander, Quin sent Gyusk splashing into the mud.

  Two of the five remaining gnolls closed again, unconcerned for their leader. The other three, one of them bleeding, held back, clearly fearful of the thinning odds against them. Gyusk spat and sputtered on the ground behind Quin, slowly pushing himself up and searching the puddles for the hilt of his sword.

  Quinsareth engaged the advancing pair. The fight had carried him closer to the frightened townsfolk, and he could hear the sobbing of widowed wives and the screams of inconsolable children above the clash of steel on steel. He fought harder, stalled briefly by the synchronized blades of the pair of gnolls. He held his ground patiently, waiting for the proper opening and listening carefully for the commander to rise or for the ogre to approach.

  He landed two quick slices on the gnolls as he heard the growl of Gyusk behind him. Bedlam hummed a shrill warning as the injured pair yelped and hopped backward, beyond the reach of the biting blade. Quin spun, kicking Gyusk in the jaw again before the big gnoll could rise. Spotting the gnoll’s greatsword, Quinsareth lowered into a crouch on one leg, the other kicking the loose sword away, flipping it into a deeper puddle at the street’s edge.

  He thrust Bedlam forward and leveled his piercing stare, testing the resolve of the gnolls. The bold pair stood bleeding from the deep wounds that had flayed open their furred jowls. They tilted their heads oddly, protecting their aching wounds from the stinging rain, but held their ground warily. Quin was amused by their newfound respect for the long reach and sharp edge of the eager Bedlam.

  He gave them his feral smile once again, his ghostly face spattered with the blood of many gnolls. Bedlam, reacting to the thoughts of its master, gave a terrifying screech, mimicking the pained howls of the hyena warriors as rain dripped pink from its bloodied edge.

  Before Quinsareth could renew his wild attack, powerful arms grabbed him from behind, pinning his own arms to his sides. Determinedly, he maintained his grip on the hilt of the still-howling Bedlam. Gyusk had recovered swiftly and taken advantage of Bedlam’s screams to surprise the ghostwalker. The gnoll bit deeply into Quinsareth’s shoulder and neck, piercing easily through the heavy cloak and leather armor.

  Quinsareth gritted his teeth in pain and frustration, but remained focused on the two gnolls who now grinned as only their hyena faces could, more gruesome for their bleeding jaws and the bloodlust in their flashing eyes. Swaggering, they approached the helpless warrior, one raising a blade to cut Quinsareth’s throat, the other drawing back to slice open his belly.

  The trio of cowardly gnolls stood at the edge of the street, yipping and gnashing their teeth in anticipation of the easy kill.

  Sameska trembled as she dreamed of savage teeth and violent battles. The temperature in the sanctuary had cooled despite what should have been a warm autumn morning. Her sweat felt like beads of ice on her delicate flesh. Her breath came in small, white puffs that were borne away by the swirling energies of the magic around her prone form.

  Through a haze of misty images, the ghostwalker of her visions fought on, battling the grotesque, vile creatures that had so brutally taken the town of Targris. Or so she thought, still unable to focus through the dreamlike state as her body slumbered and her consciousness struggled to make sense of the nightmare. Her ears were full of the sounds of thunder, growling, and metal clashing metal.

  Death cries howled around her and the rain washed across her in the dream sight, a cloud of reds and pinks, blurring her view of the scene. Between waves of falling rain and flashes of lightning, she saw the ghostwalker. Oozing light and shadow, both had become strong and battled within him for control. Sameska stared into the glowing green eyes of a fiendish creature, a warrior gnashing wicked fangs, but beyond all this, at the edges of the terrible battle, she sensed magic.

  It stood like a tempest of living spells, watching and waiting, filled with anger and brutish rage. It had no form in those few moments when she glimpsed its presence, but it dominated the field of battle with a darkness of coiled power.

  In that moment, Sameska could feel herself murmuring a soft prayer to Savras, begging for the safety of this ghostwalker who battled between light and dark. Then she realized he had come on her behalf, a gift from Savras to protect them all from evils that would come. The thought was fleeting and uncertain, but she clung to it in fear and weeping confusion.

  She could do nothing else as the thunder pounded in her brain and the phantom rain threatened to drown her in the dream. Gasping and coughing, she fell further into the trance, unable to escape, trapped between dreaming and the shadows of unreadable prophecy.

  Steel blades reflected lightning as they cut through the rain, rushing toward the immobilized Quinsareth. He did not struggle against Gyusk’s thick arms and massive strength in that heartbeat before death. He merely whispered a quiet word, a focus for the power he summoned from within himself, and vanished.

  Gyusk stumbled forward as the weight of his opponent left his locked arms. The gnoll aiming for Quinsareth’s stomach snarled and pulled back his thrust, scraping his sword across Gyusk’s studded vambraces. The other gnoll had been too zealous in his thrust and ran his blade through the side of Gyusk’s unprotected neck, losing the weapon as the gnoll commander spasmed in surprise and jerked backward. His glowing eyes flared and widened, and he fell to his knees, clawing at the mortal wound and the sword embedded there. He tipped forward, kicking at the ground, then lay still.

  Mahgra straightened, raising an eyebrow, certain only moments ago that the sport was ended. He looked around, as did the five gnolls, searching the rain for a glimpse of their enemy. The ogre raised the heavy glaive at his side, gripping the weapon tightly.

  The gnolls did not notice a misty form that gathered behind them, taking shape and gaining mass as Quinsareth’s ethereal body returned to solidity. The gnoll closest to him turned, catching a faint sound like wolves howling, before Bedlam removed his head.

  The others flinched and turned but Quinsareth was already among them, swinging the heavy blade like a steel ribbon of screaming light. He stepped straight into the pair of his would-be assassins, who’d raised blades high to cut Quinsareth down. Instead, both dropped their weapons, Bedlam’s howl muffled and gurgling as it ran the gnolls through.

  Another gnoll scrambled to ready his weapon, but Quinsareth kicked and side-stepped, and with a backhand swing sent another head to the puddles.

  The last gnoll, still bleeding, made a decision quickly and was already running past the captive townsfolk, preferring to brave the storm and the shame of defeat rather than the ghostly warrior and the screaming blade.

  Quinsareth had barely turned his attention to the ogre when his vision was suddenly filled with bright blue light and his body was hit with the concussive force of Mahgra’s spell. The ogre mage bared his ivory teeth and tusks as lightning arced from his outstretched hand, launching Quinsareth’s body into the air to crash against the side of a nearby cottage.

  The townsfolk began screaming and rising from the cobblestones, no longer threatened by the gnolls and overcome with fear of the devilish ogre. Parents gathered their
children, soaked and shivering, to run and scatter from the mystical battle.

  Quinsareth hit the ground face first. Pulling himself up on hands and knees, he gasped at the searing pain that burned behind his eyes and throughout his muscles. Tiny arcs of electricity raced along his arms and disappeared into the puddle he’d landed in. Bedlam had sailed free of his grip when he hit the wall of the cottage but lay within reach, rippling the surface of a puddle into concentric rings as it hummed in a childlike rage.

  Quin’s eyes, aching, began to clear. The burning in his muscles dissipated and he flexed his fingers in the water, regaining feeling in them. A slight resistance to electricity accompanied his angelic and unnerving eyes, but the ogre’s powerful bolt had caught him off guard. The game was always unpredictable, but few stones could change its course as could the one called Magic.

  The blue-skinned ogre approached with an arrogant swagger, smiling and gloating at his fallen foe, spinning the rune-covered glaive casually as rain hissed and steamed on the vile blade.

  A wizard, Quinsareth thought. That explains much, but does me little good if I lie down and die now.

  He winced as he rose to one knee, reaching behind him and grasping Bedlam’s hilt, assured by the confidence in the ogre’s eyes. The ogre clearly felt he had the advantage and was taking his time with his kill. This beast no doubt had a common ogre’s penchant for cruelty.

  “You fought well, little one. Your tricks were entertaining, to say the least.” Mahgra’s booming voice carried easily across the noise of the storm. His large fingers absently traced several symbols on the head of the glaive as he added distractedly, “I can show you true magic, better than phantoms and parlor tricks.”

  Quinsareth jumped at the ogre, closing the distance in a heartbeat and slashing at the steaming glaive. He disrupted Mahgra’s spell but landed no blow. Mahgra gripped the glaive rigidly, blocking Bedlam’s wailing edge with his strength as he whispered another spell. The arcane words flowed like a dark song in Quin’s ears.

  Unable to overcome the ogre’s strength, Quinsareth rolled beneath it, twisting and slashing across Mahgra’s massive rib cage. Ducking beneath the behemoth’s left arm, he turned to complete another cut along the ogre mage’s back.

  Mahgra merely turned as he completed his incantation, nonplussed by the pain of Quinsareth’s attacks.

  The magic was invisible, but it fell on Quinsareth’s shoulders like a crushing weight, pushing him to his knees and squeezing his body like a closed fist. Stars erupted before his eyes as he struggled to breathe. The spell continued, worming across his skin and up his neck, clawing at the edges of his skull and scraping at his thoughts.

  He closed his eyes tightly and called on the shadows, fighting the invasive spell and resisting its urges to submit and give up his spirit. The shadows answered, bolstering his will and disassembling the unseen power around him.

  As the pressure eased, Quinsareth doubled over, feigning defeat but carefully watching the rippling reflection of the mage standing over him in the rain. He waited for an opening. Mahgra laughed, a hideous roar that hurt Quin’s ears, but the ghostwalker resisted the urge to cover them and maintained his submissive posture.

  “I should like to punish you for what you’ve done to my allies, little one. But I have more pressing business, alas.”

  He raised the magical glaive high overhead.

  Quinsareth did not wait for its descent. Springing forward at the startled ogre mage, he buried Bedlam in the giant’s gut.

  Mahgra bellowed in pain as the blade screamed inside him. He batted at the desperate aasimar with a clublike fist.

  Quinsareth’s arm nearly broke against the ogre’s blow. He heard several ribs crack as he landed on his back and rolled onto his stomach. He watched as Mahgra tried unsuccessfully to pry Bedlam from the grievous wound. Each time he pulled, the blade grew louder and twirled like an auger to dig deeper.

  Steam rose in clouds behind the howling ogre. Quinsareth saw that the glaive had been dropped and forgotten by the ogre wizard. Ignoring the pain in his arm and chest, he rose on all fours to help the ogre remove the embedded Bedlam. He stood and charged, drawing Mahgra’s attention.

  A spell leaped to the ogre’s lips as he tenaciously cast through the pain, rage carrying him through the syllables and gestures of his most familiar spell. Quinsareth was ready this time and dived forward as a lightning bolt streaked over his head. It singed the trailing edge of his waterlogged cloak and ripped painfully down his spine.

  He grabbed Bedlam’s hilt before Mahgra could react. Roaring through gritted teeth, Quin pulled the blade free and swung wildly upward. He felt only brief resistance as it sliced nearly halfway through the ogre’s throat. Rain and hot blood spilled down on the ghostwalker as Mahgra gurgled for air, trying to bring forth another spell despite his severed windpipe and tattered vocal cords.

  Quinsareth stumbled backward, his face a mask of feral pain as he watched the ogre mage crash to the ground. Rolling thunder emphasized the ogre’s fall, and the wind mocked his last gurgling breath. Satisfied that the ogre would not stand again, Quin sagged. Dropping limply to his knees, he languidly watched the blood of the wizard trickle away in the pounding rain.

  The temple in Brookhollow was silent and still, disturbed only by distant thunder from the northwest. The storm had at last broken, and the citizens were grateful it had done so elsewhere. Enough trouble and dire news had affected their lives in the last few tendays, indeed in the last several months.

  The blush had not yet taken a strong hold this far south, but it would. Only time stood between them and epidemic. The Temple of the Hidden Circle had been quiet, doling out only what minor divinations might reveal. The lesser oracles did their best, but growing whispers and rumors surrounded the subject of Sameska.

  Dreslya was still awake when the thunder began and the horizon was lit by flashes of faraway lightning. She’d sent riders out to gather the Hunters of the Hidden Circle, warriors of Savras and champions of his church. The other oracles would be informed as they awoke for morning prayers and the breaking of their fasts.

  Sameska’s look and words haunted her.

  After revealing nothing for months, for nearly a whole year, the high oracle called a meeting of the Hidden Circle. Dreslya knew something was wrong; something horrible hid in autumn’s early chill and the gathering black clouds. She had never stepped within the rune circle itself, but she felt the changes in Brookhollow and in Sameska. Faith in the wisdom of Savras was all that held her together.

  “His plan will be revealed as he sees fit, no sooner,” she told herself several times throughout the night, wondering what would come next.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They gathered in the fog, riding across sodden ground in heavy cloaks and grim moods. Their mounts were bred from the horses of the Southern Shaar, a powerful breed coveted in many places across the Realms for their speed and stamina. These warriors, expert riders and archers, came in ones and twos to the gates of Brookhollow. The Hunters of the Hidden Circle arrived to heed the call of the high oracle, to gather and bear witness.

  Such a call they had not received for as long as any of them cared to remember. By tradition, none would enter until all were accounted for. They called out their names to the gate master as they arrived, some embellishing their names with titles, boasts of recent victories, or family legacies. The majority remained silent and calm, patiently suffering the soft patter of a sprinkling rain.

  Their numbers were large when judged against the small towns they protected, Brookhollow being the most populous as it was the home of the primary temple. Among this elite group rode the standard bearers, seven in all, wielding long spears with loops of braided rope hanging from their blades. The ropes were knotted four times along their length, the hunter’s symbol for the Hidden Circle. The knots represented the four precepts of their faith—the past, present, future, and fate.

  Hanging within each braid was a single dried fethra flower, it
s bell upside down in the belief that the blessing of Savras would pour out and give them luck in battle. The standards held no individual markings, no sign of clan or leadership. This was a new tradition and belied those ancient times when the hunters were of the Shaaryan tribes and fought amongst themselves for position and status. The lack of decoration made them all equal and reminded them of their oaths of service and the humility of their chosen profession.

  Each hunter wore traditional archer’s armor. The primary piece was a shoulder and arm guard called an eshtahk, made of layers of lacquered leather and decorative cloth. The opposite arm required free movement for drawing arrows from back-slung quivers. This side was protected by a special cloak woven from wool and the fibers of the ironvine plant that grew on the southern borders of the Qurth Forest. The cloaks were flexible but resistant to the bloodthorns and razorleaf bushes that thrived in the forest. They’d even been known to deflect a blade now and then, though this was often attributed to the oracles who blessed the garments.

  Dreslya Loethe stood on the wall with the gate master, prepared to officiate the gathering. In truth, she awaited the arrival of her younger sister, Elisandrya. Some said the Loethe sisters would be the next high oracle and lord hunter, though only out of earshot of Sameska, who discouraged such wild rumors.

  Dreslya grew more and more impatient, hurriedly acknowledging the calls from below with a sign of welcome as the other hunters announced themselves. She knew Eli was prone to tardiness, but she worried all the same. She did not understand her sister’s love for the open plain and always tried to hide her concern when they met—with little success. Ever since the loss of their parents, Dreslya had withdrawn to service in the church and Eli had run wild, sparked by wanderlust and a sense of adventure inherited from their late father. They spoke little of their lost parents, though the subject seemed to hang between them like a net of thorns.