The Jewel of Turmish (21 page)

Stuttering a surprised oath, the bartender stumbled

back, but Borran Kiosk was on the man like a hawk taking a dove. Whirling, noticing the other men and women in motion around the room, the mohrg drove the splintered end of the mop handle through the bartender’s chest. Flesh and bone gave way to the unforgiving blow, and the wooden shaft split the man’s heart in two.

“Die, darkspawn!” the dwarf woman yelled as she raced across the room with her battle-axe raised.

With superhuman speed, Borran Kiosk evaded the dwarfs blow. The axe sliced through the air, dragging the woman forward a half step. Before she could recover her balance, Borran Kiosk seized the back of her head in one hand and her chin in the other. He wrenched her head and felt her skull separate from her spine with a sudden snap.

The dwarfs eyes widened in disbelief as she died.

Gleeful, Borran Kiosk savored the woman’s death for a moment, holding her sagging body upright by her head without effort. He watched the life drain from her eyes and rejoiced in the savage jealousy that had filled him since he’d clawed his way free of the first grave to hold him captive.

Movement to the left alerted Borran Kiosk and gave him only a moment’s warning. Spinning, the mohrg watched as the black-clad elf rose to his feet. His voice rang out with words in a tongue Borran Kiosk didn’t recognize. As the words tumbled from his hps, the elf pointed.

Something blurred through the air before Borran Kiosk, and he felt an incredible agony rip into him. His knees weakened and even his supernatural vision wavered and filled with whirling black comets. Screaming, the mohrg forced himself to remain standing.

The elf murmured again, and the other men in the tavern stood back and watched, holding their weapons before them. When the elf gestured again, a flaming arrow leaped from his fingers.

Twisting with uncanny speed and grace, Borran Kiosk dodged the spell. The flaming arrow struck the wall behind him, scorching the impact area and leaving smoldering ruin in its wake. Concentrating on the elf, wondering if he

was part of the damned Emerald Enclave, Borran Kiosk spoke his own spell and pointed toward the elf.

The magical energy spewed through Borran Kiosk’s palm and became a windstorm in front of him. Another gesture sent the windstorm toward the elf. Howling winds tore through the tavern’s interior, extinguishing candle flames and knocking over chairs and tables.

The howling windstorm struck the elf before he could move or defend himself. When the winds slammed into the elf, they lifted him from his feet and hurled him back through the window overlooking the street. Glass shattered and the thin panes crumpled and tore loose. Arms flailing, the elf screamed and tried to catch the sides of the windows. Before he could get a strong grip, he was blown through the window and vanished.

Still in motion, Borran Kiosk scooped the battle-axe from the floor. The wall where the elf s spell had struck burst into flame. Light and smoke filled the small tavern. A crossbow bolt tore into the priest’s robes and slammed against the mohrg’s pelvic bone. Setting himself, Borran Kiosk unleashed his tongue.

The thick, purple appendage sped across the room and ripped through the guts of the woman who’d fired the crossbow. Once his barbed tongue had penetrated its target, Borran Kiosk whipped his head back. His tongue opened the woman’s midsection like an overripe tomato and spilled her entrails before her.

Screaming, dying, the woman dropped.

Borran Kiosk pulled his tongue back into his skull. He listened in satisfaction to the dying woman’s pain-filled screams and pleas for help. It had been so long since he’d heard someone beg for her life … he’d missed the sound.

“Run!” one of the sailors cried, shoving the man in front of him toward the door.

Borran Kiosk leaped in front of the door. The mohrg drew the battle-axe back, fitting both hands around the handle. He swung, slicing the axe in a transverse sweep across the sailor’s body.

The sailor fell in halves, a horrified look frozen on his

features. Before the next sailor could pull back, Borran Kiosk raised his captured battle-axe dripping with gore and brought it down again, cleaving the sailor’s head from crown to chin. He lashed out with the tongue again, spearing the remaining sailor through his open mouth and tearing his brain out the back of his skull.

Sadistic glee filled Borran Kiosk as he turned on the last living person in the tavern. The woman cowered against the back wall, trapped by another wall on one side and the fire from the elf s spell on the other.

She sobbed and wailed, and the shrieks were a joyful noise to Borran Kiosk. Walking toward her, he dragged out the enjoyment. Torture, if there were time yet remaining before the city watch arrived, would be a welcome diversion.

“Stay away!” the woman shrilled. She held her empty hands up before her.

Borran Kiosk cocked his head, surveying her.

“No! Please don’t kill me!” She shrank down, dwindling to a kneeling position with her arms wrapped around her head. She kept her eyes averted from his skull, but looked at his skeletal feet covered in blood.

Stopping just out of the woman’s reach, Borran Kiosk gazed down at her and said, “Do you know who I am, woman?”

“Yes.”

“What is my name?”

The woman shook her head, gasping in painful fear.

Borran Kiosk opened his jaws and let his tongue spill out. The dripping purple appendage coiled like a restless snake as it approached her. The mohrg relished the taste of the woman’s fear, so palpable through the tongue. Some of his other senses, and the pleasures of the flesh, had been taken from him or dulled by the magic that brought him back to unlife, but they had been replaced by the ability to taste another’s fear. For Borran Kiosk there was no finer elixir.

“If you know my name,” the mohrg said, “say it. Spare your life a little longer.”

He caressed her cheek with the bloody tongue, leaving smears in its wake.

The woman trembled, gasped, and cried. Tears tracked her face, and the mohrg tasted the sweet salt of them.

“Your death,” Borran Kiosk promised her, “is a certainty. It can be the most horrible thing you’ve ever been through, or it can come so fast you’re not even aware of it. The choice is yours.”

“I don’t want to die.”

Grabbing the woman’s hair, Borran Kiosk yanked her head back up at him.

“Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

“My name,” Borran Kiosk commanded, shaking her head.

Coughing and hacking, eyes blurred with drink and tears, the woman said, “Borran Kiosk.”

“And you remember me?”

“I’ve heard tales of you since I was a little girl,” the woman said. “I never thought you were real—only something made up to frighten children.” She wailed, “Gods help us if you are real.”

“I am real,” Borran Kiosk declared, pressing his fleshless face close to hers. “I am real and I am come back from the icy pits where the priests of Eldath kept me. I am come back for my vengeance.”

Holding a hand up before her face, the woman wept and trembled.

Borran Kiosk laved the tears from her cheeks with his bloody tongue, tracking her face and marking her features with grotesque patterns.

“Do you want to live, woman?”

She hesitated, and he knew she thought he was trying to torture her further by giving her false hope. Light from the flames clinging to the wall danced over her face and sparked highlights from her hair.

“Answer me,” Borran Kiosk said. “Would you live if you could?”

“Yes. Gods help me for being so weak.” Borran Kiosk touched the woman’s face with his hand and said, “Then I shall let you live.”

An uncontrollable shiver ran through the woman. “Thank you! Gods bless you for that!”

“Only one god has blessed me,” Borran Kiosk said. “I will do Malar’s work to bring this city to its knees. Aye, and even the whole of the Vilhon Reach if the Beastlord should choose to put that within my grasp.”

The fire clinging to the wall crept closer to them, and Borran Kiosk could feel it soaking into his bones.

“You will let me go?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Borran Kiosk said, turning his grim visage on her, “but your life comes with a price.”

“Anything, Lord Kiosk.”

The woman bowed her head, flinching from the flames that licked too close. Outside, through the open window, thunder echoed along the street as a man’s voice took up a harsh cry of warning. The dead elf had not gone undiscovered long.

“Tell them,” Borran Kiosk said, “that I am coming for them. Do you understand?” The woman nodded.

“Tell them that I will not rest this time until all of Alaghôn is within my power.” Releasing the woman, Borran Kiosk took a step away and said, “Now go.”

Fear held the woman in place, and she only trembled.

Borran Kiosk grabbed the woman by the arm and yanked her to her feet. He shoved her toward the door near the dead sailors.

She stumbled and almost fell, but she kept her balance and ran toward the door. Her hands wrapped around the back of her head, as if afraid he would strike her with his tongue. She disappeared through the door and her footsteps rang on the stairs.

“Help!” she screamed. “Someone help me! He’s killed everyone!”

Satisfaction filled Borran Kiosk as he surveyed the burning and bloodied ruin of the tavern. Even before he’d been reborn as a mohrg he’d burned with hatred. As a living man he’d stalked and killed dozens of men, women, and children of all races. He’d been careful, but in the end

the city watch had gotten him. After he’d been humiliated in court, then executed in public and buried, he’d risen, undead and vengeful. Whatever had compelled him to kill while he’d still been human had only grown in power since his rebirth.

Going to each of those he had slain, Borran Kiosk put his hands upon them and spoke the words that would bind them to him should they rise again—and they would rise, he knew, as long as the townsfolk didn’t destroy the bodies.

He gazed at the corpses, wondering if enough people would believe the woman he’d spared to make the families of the dead let the bodies be destroyed. He thought perhaps they might, but it didn’t matter. If these and the dead priests weren’t to be the first of his new army, then there would be others.

He crossed to the smashed window and looked down. Rain swirled in, riding the harsh storm winds and drenching him anew. He braced himself on the broken sill, gazing down at the body of the elf clad in black.

“A monster!” the woman screamed out in the street.

A man had seized her, thinking maybe that she was too drunk to know what she was doing.

” ‘Ere now,” the man said, folding the woman into his large arms and keeping her from striking him. “An’ tell ol’ Kafeer some’at’s the matter.”

“Borran Kiosk,” the woman yelled. “He’s back. He told me to tell everyone.”

She turned and pointed back up at the tavern.

Knowing he was backlit by the flames claiming the tavern, Borran Kiosk raised his hand and revealed his skeletal arm beneath the stolen priest’s robes. Lightning flared, and his arm burned brilliant white from the reflected glare.

A group of soldiers dressed in the colors of Alaghôn’s city watch rounded the corner. A commander astride a war-horse led them, matching his mount’s speed to the men slogging through the water-covered street.

“Where away?” the commander demanded. He carried his sword naked in his fist, the polished steel catching

flickers from the lightning and the colored lanterns of the businesses still open at the late hour.

“There!” the woman screamed again, pointing at the tavern window where Borran Kiosk stood.

Heeling his restless mount, the iron-shod hooves ringing against the cobblestones, the commander glanced up at the tavern. He pointed with his sword and shouted, “Get that man down from there!”

The guardsmen hastened to do as the commander ordered, falling into a two-by-two column.

Borran Kiosk’s tongue writhed in hungry glee as he watched the warriors start across the street.

“Are you that confident, Borran Kiosk?”

Wheeling, the mohrg turned to face the speaker. His tongue flexed before him, ready to spring and pierce.

Framed by the doorway leading to the stairs, glistening from the rain that clung to his skin in the firelight, a small woman watched Borran Kiosk. Her simple brown breeches and green shirt showed no insignia nor gave any indication of her station. Beneath her hood, unbound black hair surrounded her gaunt, pinched face, emphasizing her deep-set white opal eyes.

If Borran Kiosk had not felt the woman’s eyes on him, he would have sworn she was blind. He considered killing her outright but held himself at the last moment, giving in to curiosity. Whatever she was, alive though she may be, the scent around her didn’t taste as human as it should have.

Turning his attention back to the approaching city guard, Borran Kiosk spoke words of power then pointed toward the street. A wall of violet flames sprang up from the cobblestones and darted around the larger puddles. Water hissed, spreading clouds of steam, and the heat drove the guardsmen back.

“Send for a watch wizard!” the commander roared, taking a firm hand with his nervous mount.

One of the guardsmen took off at once.

Ts this what you think you should do, Borran Kiosk?” the woman asked amid the harsh yells of the guardsmen and gawkers below. “Squander

the second chance Malar has given you to wreak havoc among your enemies?”

“Have a care, woman,” Borran Kiosk replied.

He sensed the woman walking closer to him, and he was amazed at her lack of fear. Gathering his energies, the mohrg gestured again. He watched as a shadow blurred the area in front of the watch commander.

The man screamed and swung at the air with his sword. His hoarse voice scared the men in his group, dividing their attention between him and the wall of twisting violet flames that gave off searing heat.

“What does he battle?” the woman asked, peering over Borran Kiosk’s shoulder.

“His own fear,” Borran Kiosk replied. “The spell I employed gave form to his private aberrations.”