Bloodwalk by James P. Davis

His celestial blood screamed for action, moved him to descend on these brigands and beasts. He waited, fighting himself as he focused on Hoar’s blessing. The double lives of everything around him were visible, the real and the halo of shadows that flickered behind it all.
    He closed his eyes to the flames and attempted to block out the screams and weeping that reached him. He knew he could do nothing for them now but wait for early morning. He held on to his emotions, gathered them, sharpening the edge of his desires, molding them into the forms of the predators below.
    Quinsareth knew that in spite of everything—all that he’d done, all that he’d seen, and all that he might have once held himself to be—he was as much the killer as any of them.
     

     
    Dark clouds obscured the dim light of early morning. Gaining strength, thunder rumbled in the distance, lost in the trees of the Qurth Forest that filled the southern horizon. The twisted branches danced in the wind, as if reveling like savages around a growing fire. Small fishing boats in the town’s harbor were tossed in the wild waves of the Lake of Steam.
    Mahgra watched it all and smiled, his bejeweled tusks bared as he swept his gaze across the main street from the doorstep of the mayor’s home. The mayor himself was long dead now, covered in the bloody sheets of his own bed, a diversion for Mahgra’s cruelty while he awaited the report of his gnoll warriors.
    He had thrown back his hood and heavy robes in order to inspire fear in his captives as well as to satisfy his own sense of vanity. Mahgra was rare among his kind, born with an affinity for magic that was reflected in his strange appearance. His skin was a deep shade of blue and covered with tattoos, both tribal and arcane. Small ivory horns protruded from his forehead, and his eyes were orbs of solid black, matching his well-groomed long hair, a banner of shadow across his shoulders, flowing in the wild winds of the storm.
    Gathered before him in the central square were the residents of Targris, guarded by gnolls wielding swords and axes. Others of their kind roamed the empty streets, ransacking homes for valuables and weapons.
    The gnolls were edgy and anxious, only barely held in check by Gyusk, their commander and Mahgra’s second. Gyusk was the fiercest of them, his fiendish parentage giving him a semblance of royalty among their tribe. His green eyes, common among his race, glowed with a hellish light. Mahgra valued his shrewd mind and keen control over the hyena-faced warriors.
    Seeing that matters were in control, the ogre turned his thoughts to the Qurth Forest and wondered when the messenger might arrive with new orders, though he loathed Morgynn’s silver-tongued lapdog, Khaemil. The sibilant tones of the shadurakul’s voice were enough to drive the ogre mage mad at times. He could already imagine the smell of wet dog Khaemil would invariably bring with him. He brushed at his cloak absently as if to ward off even the idea of the aroma.
    Rain began to fall, the heavy clouds finally releasing their long-held burden, drops hissing in the dying embers of destroyed houses and the defiled remains of the oracles’ temple. The sound added to Mahgra’s mood and brought him back from the depth of his thoughts, back to the situation at hand. Gyusk loped forward, as formally as his slightly hunched form would allow, to stand before the ogre commander and await his attention.
    Mahgra looked down into the dim light of Gyusk’s eyes, almost daring the gnoll to report anything contrary to the success he demanded.
    “Have your warriors finished their sweep?” His voice boomed over the noise of the storm, a second thunder that sent the gathered townsfolk to shaking as they huddled together on the cobblestones of the square.
    “Yes, Lord Mahgra, but we’ve collected only a few trinkets of any value.” Gyusk’s voice was growling and deep as he haltingly spoke in the common tongue that Mahgra preferred