POW P+S
ASSASSiN BlADES
BlindWAter CongregAtion enCAmPment,
northern Bloodstone mArChes
The night sky was black and vast, pitted with the pinpricks of a thousand stars. Only the towering stone structures of the sacral vaults stood out against the dome, their shadowed forms flickering with the light of row upon row of candles fashioned from animal fat. Their great stone wheels had cut deep gouges into the earth. In the morning those wheels would carry the massive constructs on their final stretch of the journey and into the heart of slaughter.
Calaban had spent the better part of the evening preparing the vaults for their role in Barnabas’ great ceremony, invoking rites and directing others to wash the altars with the blood of sacrifices. Now, with everyone joining Barnabas and Jaga- Jaga in the revel at the camp’s center, he slipped away from prying eyes to attend to his own preparations. He moved to the edge of the camp, beyond the reach of the torchlight, and withdrew from his satchel a skull and a clattering mass of slender bones fixed to a central cord made from intestines. The ribs and finger bones numbered in the dozens, each taken from a separate victim. They fell in cascading layers that spanned the length of the cord like a crooked spine. A human skull missing the lower jaw topped the morbid creation. The uppermost layers of small bones disappeared into the cranium, and the string emerged from a small hole in the top. Calaban held the totem suspended from one clawed hand and tapped it with the other so it dangled and spun before his yellow eyes. He had put considerable effort into its construction beyond the acquisition of materials, and looking at the runes etched on each bone sent a shiver of pleasure down the bokor’s spine. Barnabas’ preparations for ascension were all but complete, but so too were Calaban’s own plans. He never thought the deranged Barnabas could gain so much power so quickly, yet here they were.
Calaban heard soft footfalls in the dark and whirled to see the decayed form of Maelok close by. As always, the dreadbound appeared devoid of emotion, a dry husk walking among the living.
“You!” Calaban hissed at the animated corpse, agitated at being startled from his contemplation. He often forgot about Maelok entirely when he wasn’t giving him commands, and he rarely considered the dreadbound beyond the degree to which one might think of a tool. Now, however, Calaban thought he sensed a glint of emotion, and he traced Maelok’s stare to the bone totem. Recognition or even hatred flickered behind Maelok’s eyes, and then it was gone.
A cacophony of guttural roars sounded in the distance as the throng of gatormen at the camp’s center responded to some declaration made by Barnabas. The congregation was eager for
at hand, they were consumed by excitement for the looming battle. Still, Calaban kept his gaze on Maelok, searching for anything that might confirm the fleeting emotion.
“You know who this is for, don’t you?” Calaban lofted the totem above his head and watched Maelok’s face. In life Maelok had been a powerful bokor, Calaban’s greatest rival, and in death he knew the totem that bound his own spirit to Calaban’s service. He would apprehend the purpose of the assembled bones, yet the dreadbound’s eyes remained dead and expressionless. Calaban recalled how Maelok had fallen under his power, and he felt a twinge of an unfamiliar sensation—regret. “Perhaps you were right, when you were alive. Maybe if we had stood together against Barnabas, I would not need to stand alone against him now. I was short- sighted. I did not think he could succeed.”
Calaban heard another set of footfalls, and he hastily stowed the totem before Jaga-Jaga emerged from the darkness. An undead tatzylwurm coiled about her body, hissing at Calaban as she approached.
“Grave Walker,” Jaga-Jaga said in greeting. “You have done fine work on the vaults. The congregation owes much to your skill.”
“Your efforts are equally admirable,” Calaban said smoothly. On another occasion he might have offered some criticism, but with his plans underway it was important to remain gracious. He had resented the death charmer’s involvement in his affairs since she pledged her service to Barnabas. Her words did not conceal her true purpose. He recognized her desire to pry into his doings, but Calaban would not expose his secrets.
She said, “The eve of battle is upon us. Will you not join the celebration? Tomorrow we feast on the fallen. Kossk will be watching.”
“I have final preparations to attend to,” Calaban said, speaking a half-truth. “I will celebrate once tomorrow’s work is done.” “As you wish,” Jaga-Jaga said, turning away. “I will let Barnabas know you are too busy to answer his summons and witness his final steps to godhood.”
Calaban hissed, unable to hide his frustration. Never did she cease to manipulate the situation to her own ends. Yet even as his temper flared, he thought of the totem and its imminent use. “Tell Barnabas I will join him shortly.” Jaga-Jaga paused as though she might say something more and then disappeared into the dark. Calaban watched her go, then looked to Maelok, who stared with the same expression, blank and unreadable.
“Soon,” Calaban said, retrieving the totem from the satchel.