chapter nine
21 Eleasias–15 Eleint, the Year of Blue Fire
Aoth peered at the faces looking back at him. At first he didn’t recall them. He only had a sense that he should. Then one, a ferocious countenance comprised of beak, feathers, and piercing eyes, evoked a flood of memories and associations. “Brightwing,” he croaked.
The griffon snorted. “Finally. Now maybe I can have my lair all to myself again.” She nipped through the rope securing Aoth’s left wrist to the frame of the cot.
He saw that his associates had actually tied him to a bed in the griffon’s pungent stall. Shafts of moonlight fell through the high windows. Tammith’s skin was white as bone in the pale illumination. Mirror was a faceless smudge.
“How are you?” Bareris asked.
“I’m not crazy anymore, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do you remember what happened to you?”
“Part of it.” Some kind of spirits had attacked him, not spilling his blood but seemingly ripping away pieces of his inner self. He’d fallen unconscious, and when he awoke, he was like a cornered animal. He didn’t recognize anyone or understand anything. He thought everyone was trying to hurt him, and fought back savagely.
The healers had tried to help him, but at first their magic hadn’t had any effect. Then someone had hit on the idea of housing him with his familiar, in the hope that proximity to the creature with whom he shared a psychic bond would exert a restorative effect.
Maybe it had, for afterward, he grew calmer. He still didn’t recognize his companions, but sometimes his fire-kissed eyes saw that they meant to help and not harm him. During those intervals he was willing to swallow the water, food, and medicines they brought, and to suffer the chanted prayers and healing touch of a priest without screaming, thrashing, or trying to bite him.
The recollection of his mad and feral state brought a surge of shame and horror, as well as fear that he might relapse. Sensing the tenor of his thoughts, Brightwing grunted. “Don’t worry, you’re your normal self again, for what little that’s worth. I can tell.”
“Thank you. I suppose.”
The griffon bit through the other wrist restraint. His limbs stiff, Aoth sat up and started untying the remains of his bonds. His minders had used soft rope, but even so, his struggles had rubbed stinging galls into his wrists and ankles.
As he dropped the last piece of rope to the floor, the final bit of the jumbled puzzle locked into place. “Malark!” he said. “Did you get him?”
“No,” Bareris said.
“Curse it! Why did I bring you into this in the first place? What good are you?”
Even as he spoke, Aoth realized he was being unfair. But he didn’t care. He’d been crippled and humiliated twice, once by blindness and once by madness, an enemy had escaped, and the false friend who’d tampered with his mind was a convenient outlet for his frustrations.
Bareris frowned. “I’m sorry Malark got away. But at least you unmasked him. He can’t do any further harm.”
“You offered to leave the Griffon Legion,” Aoth replied. “It’s time for you to do that.”
“No,” Mirror said.
Aoth turned his head just in time to see the ghost’s blur of a face sharpen into a kind of shadow-sketch of his former self—a lean, melancholy visage, an aquiline nose, and a mustache.
“I know I owe you,” Aoth said, “and I know you’ve taken Bareris for your friend. May he prove more loyal to you than he did to me. But—”
“We champions of the order are one,” Mirror said. “What stains one man’s honor tarnishes us all, and by the same token, a companion can atone for his brother’s sin. I helped you. Accordingly, our code requires you to forgive Bareris.”
Aoth shook his head. “We aren’t your ancient fellowship of paladins or whatever it was. I’m a Thayan, and we don’t think that way.”
“We are who we are,” Mirror said, “and you are who you are.”
Even by the ghost’s standards, it was a cryptic if not meaningless declaration, yet it evoked a twinge of muddled, irrational guilt, and since Aoth was truly the injured party, he resented it. “The whoreson doesn’t even care whether I forgive him or not. If you understand anything about him, you know he only cares about his woman.”
“That isn’t true,” Tammith said. Her voice had an odd undercurrent to it, as if echoing some buried sorrow or shame. “He always valued his friends, even when grief and rage blinded him to his own feelings, and now his sight is clearer.”
Aoth glowered at Bareris. “Why are you standing mute while others plead for you? You’re the bard, full of golden words and clever arguments.”
“I already told you I’m sorry,” Bareris said, “and I truly want your forgiveness. But I won’t plead for something to which I have no right. Hold a grudge if you think you should. Sometimes a wrong is bitter enough that a man must. Nobody knows that better than I.”
Brightwing spread her rustling wings, then gave them an irritated snap. “Either forgive him or kill him. Whatever will stop all this maudlin blather.”
Aoth sighed. “I’m just getting up off my sickbed. I’ll need a bath and a meal before I feel up to killing anyone.” He shifted his gaze to Bareris. “So stay in the legion if you’d rather.”
Bareris smiled. “I would. Thank you.”
“What’s been going on while I was insane?”
“The zulkirs are convening another council of war. You recovered just in time to attend.”
“Lucky me.”
Nevron gazed at his fellow zulkirs—prissy, bloodless Lauzoril, gross, bloated Samas Kul perpetually stuffing food in his mouth, and all the rest—and suffered a spasm of loathing for each and every one of them.
Nothing unusual in that. He despised the vast majority of puny, muddled human beings. In general, he preferred the company of demons and devils. Even the least of them tended to be purer, grander, and certainly less prone to hypocrisy than the average mortal. He often entertained the fancy of abandoning the blighted realm that Thay had become and seeking a new destiny in the higher worlds. What a glorious adventure that would be!
But it could also prove to be a short one. Nevron was a zulkir and confident of his own mystical prowess. But he also comprehended, as only a conjuror could, what awesome powers walked the Blood Rift, the Barrens, and similar realities. He would have to confront them with comparable capabilities if he was to establish himself as a prince among the baatezu or tanar’ri.
Which, he supposed, was why he tarried where he was, learning and inventing new spells, crafting and acquiring new talismans, and impressing new entities into his service. It was the most intelligent strategy, so long as he had the judgment to recognize when he’d accumulated enough. Otherwise, preparation could become procrastination.
Dmitra Flass clapped her hands together to call the assembly to order. The percussive sound didn’t seem louder than normal, but was somehow more commanding, as if she’d used her illusionist abilities to enhance it in some subtle way. They were all gradually figuring out how to make their spells reliable in the dreary new world Mystra’s death had spawned.
The company fell silent, zulkirs and lesser folk alike, but the response seemed slower and more grudging than on previous occasions. Nevron wondered if Dmitra perceived the challenge apparent in the rancorous stares of several of her peers.
“We’re here—” she began.
“To decide our next move,” Lallara snapped. “We know. You don’t have to begin every council by harping on the obvious.”
“In fact,” Nevron said, “you don’t have to begin them at all.” A fiend bound in the iron bracelet he wore around his left wrist whispered to him, encouraging him, as it often did when he said or did anything that smacked of malice or conflict.
Dmitra arched an eyebrow, or rather, the smooth stretch of skin where an eyebrow would be if she hadn’t long ago removed it. “Someone must preside, and we seem to have slipped into the habit of letting the task fall to me.”
“Well, perhaps we should slip out of it,” Lallara said. “I’m not fighting Szass Tam just to see someone else set herself above me.”
“That was never my intention,” Dmitra said.
Nevron sneered. “Of course not. But it’s inevitable that the one who presides over our deliberations exerts a degree of leadership, and perhaps you aren’t the best choice for the role, considering the damage Malark Springhill did.”
Dmitra sighed. “We all opted to trust Malark.”
“But he was your servant,” Nevron said, “and thus, your responsibility.”
Dmitra waved a dismissive hand adorned with ruby rings and long crimson nails. “Fine. You guide the discussion. What does it matter, so long as we confer to some intelligent purpose?”
Her quick acquiescence caught Nevron by surprise, and the spirit in the bracelet sniggered at his fleeting confusion. Through an exertion of will, he afflicted it with pain, and the laugh became a scream, another sound that only he could hear.
“As you wish,” he said. Since she’d plainly wanted to preside herself, Lallara gave him a glower, not that it differed appreciably from her usual clamp-mouthed, venomous expression. “This is the situation. We’ve sent a host of messengers—ravens, griffon riders, spirits, and others—racing around to countermand the false orders and refute the fraudulent intelligence Malark Springhill transmitted, and to find out exactly what lies he disseminated.”
Dmitra smiled her radiant smile. “Thanks be to the High One,” she drawled, “that the zulkir of Conjuration isn’t wasting our time harping on the obvious.”
The devil Nevron carried in the heavy silver ring on his left thumb murmured to him, imploring him to unleash it to punish the bitch for her mockery, and he wished that it were practical. Yes, he was saying what everyone already knew, but he had to launch the discussion somehow, didn’t he?
“Once we determined what falsehoods Springhill uttered,” he continued, “we could try to figure out why. The reason for some of it was obvious. He steered companies into traps, or to destinations that served no military purpose, or sowed suspicion and disaffection in the ranks. But he also sought to shift all our forces off the plain where the road heads up the Third Escarpment to Thralgard Keep.”
His wobbling chins speckled with sugar glaze, Samas Kul swallowed a mouthful of pastry. “Szass Tam’s army just retreated into High Thay. This makes it sound like they’re ready to come down again.”
“Which doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Lauzoril said. “He withdrew because the disaster at the Keep of Sorrows weakened him even more than us. Granted, with Springhill’s aid, he’s managed to stall and hurt us since, but not so severely as to shift the balance back in his favor.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Nevron said. “However …” he turned his gaze on Nymia Focar.
The tharchion of Pyarados looked uncomfortable at becoming the center of attention, and that was as it should be. Her withdrawal from Delhumide had been one of the more damaging missteps of the past several tendays.
She cleared her throat. “My flying scouts confirm that Szass Tam is massing troops in and around Thralgard Keep.”
“Perhaps,” Lauzoril said, “the necromancers are simply protecting the route we’d need to use if we tried to climb up after them.”
“I doubt it,” Dmitra said. “The original garrison at Thralgard was already adequate for that purpose.”
The zulkir of Enchantment frowned and made a tent of his long, pale fingers. “Let’s say you’re correct. What’s Szass Tam’s objective?”
“Eltabbar, most likely,” Dmitra said, plainly referring to the capital city of her tharch. “He’s tried to take it repeatedly, because it hinders him moving troops in and out of High Thay, and because it poses a constant threat to any enemy host fighting in the lands to the south of it.”
“Can Eltabbar withstand another siege?” Nevron asked. A demon, a spirit of war caged in an amulet dangling on his chest, stirred restlessly at the thought of such battle. Its agitation made the bronze medallion grow warm, and sent a sort of shiver across the psychic link that it shared with Nevron.
“A short one, perhaps,” Dmitra said. “Last year’s harvests were so meager that we don’t have a great deal of food stored away, and, going by past experience, the necromancers will seed the lake with lacedons to make fishing hazardous. But in any case, I don’t want to defend against a siege. I want to meet Szass Tam’s legions as they descend from the heights.”
“Because the road down is narrow,” said Thessaloni Canos, “and they can come only a few at a time.” Tall even for a Mulan woman, the governor of the island tharch known as the Alaor and Thay’s most capable admiral, she had a pleasant face, hooded green eyes, and weather-beaten skin. She wore scale armor and ornaments of coral, pearl, and scrimshaw, and her tattooing followed the same aquatic motif.
Dmitra gave Thessaloni a smile and a nod. “Exactly so. Obviously, it would be even better if the necromancers were clambering uphill, but we should still enjoy a tactical advantage.”
Samas Kul grunted. It made his jowls quiver. “What happened to isolating High Thay and its legions? I liked that plan.”
Lauzoril pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose you can isolate them if they’re absolutely resolved to come down. Not until you push them back up again.”
“We could if we destroyed the roads that connect the Plateau of Ruthammar with the lands below,” Samas said. “I’ve been pondering the problem. The evokers could send a vibration through the cliffs to break them apart, or the conjurors could summon a host of earth elementals.”
“But we won’t,” Nevron said. “We won’t attempt anything that ambitious and accordingly hazardous while sorcery is unreliable. If you think it’s a good idea, then you transmuters give it a try. Turn the slopes under the roads into air. Just don’t whine to me when the magic rebounds on you and obliterates your followers instead.”
Samas pouted. “All right. If you think it’s impractical, I withdraw the suggestion.”
“The question we need to answer,” Nevron said, “is why would Szass Tam make this particular move now? Why does he imagine it will work? Does he believe he can march his army down the Third Escarpment without us noticing?”
Aoth Fezim lifted his hand.
The griffon rider had botched the attempt to apprehend Malark Springhill, but he was also the man who’d discovered the spymaster’s treason in the first place. Nevron supposed that on the whole, he was less useless than many of the weaklings and imbeciles assembled in the council chamber. “Yes, Captain?”
“I guarantee you, Your Omnipotence, the necromancers see our scouts in the air. They realize they can’t head down without us knowing. What they hope is that they can bring up troops from the Keep of Sorrows to secure the base of the descent, or, if we get there first, to attack our flank while we’re trying to kill the warriors coming down from the heights.”
“I see that,” Lauzoril said. “Still, why attempt such a risky ploy now? Szass Tam can’t possibly have rebuilt his strength already.”
“Desperation?” Dmitra said. “He is weaker now than at any time since the war began, and Eltabbar is a big city. If he takes it, he can slaughter the populace and turn them into walking dead to replace the troops he’s lost.”
Lallara laughed a nasty laugh. “Didn’t we already sing this song earlier this year? Oh joy, oh joy, through impatience, desperation, or whatever, the lich has miscalculated at last. Let’s commit our strength and crush him. Except that it didn’t turn out that way. We walked into a snare, and only the coming of the blue fire saved us from utter defeat.”
“No one respects Szass Tam’s brilliance more than I,” Dmitra said. “But we can’t be afraid to try to outthink him, nor to act decisively when we see an opportunity.”
“I’m not afraid,” Lallara snapped. “But we lost plenty of men at the Keep of Sorrows, and more when your servant wrecked the subsequent campaign. Perhaps it’s time to assume a defensive posture and rebuild our own strength.”
“It’s already summer,” Dmitra said. “In essence, you’re talking about finishing out the year with another series of inconsequential moves and countermoves. While Thay starves and the necromancers rebuild their own legions with warriors who have no need to eat. While the realm burns and shakes to pieces, and we do nothing to arrest the destruction because we’re too busy prosecuting a war we’re unable to end.”
“We don’t know,” Samas said, “how much longer the blue fires will burn and the earth will shudder. It could all stop tomorrow.”
“And it might not.”
“I think,” Nevron said, “that we should allow Szass Tam to squander resources he can ill afford in what will surely prove a futile attempt to take Eltabbar.” And if by chance the lich did overwhelm it, at least the loss would injure Dmitra more than the rest of them. “Meanwhile, we’ll retake the rest of the tharch, lay waste to Delhumide, and relieve the city if necessary.”
“So do I,” Lallara said. “For once, let’s not do the stupid thing.”
Samas Kul nodded. “Once we pacify the far north, we can bring all our strength to bear to deal with the armies of High Thay and the Keep of Sorrows.”
As Nevron had assumed they would, Zola Sethrakt and Kumed Hahpret chimed in to support the majority point of view. With luck, it meant that henceforth, he would exert the greatest influence over the council, and he gave Dmitra a gloating smile. She responded with a slight and somehow condescending shake of her head, as if to convey that he was a fool to worry about precedence when it was essential that they make the right decision.
For a moment, he felt a pang of foreboding, but the feeling faded quickly. He and the others were making the right decision. She was the one who was misguided, and even if she weren’t, a man’s own position and power were never irrelevant to any deliberation.
“It seems we have a plan,” he said. “It only remains—”
A shimmer of yellow flame crawling on his crown and shoulders, Iphegor Nath rose from his seat. “I’ve already explained,” he said, “that the Firelord wishes us to assail the necromancers relentlessly.”
“As we will,” Nevron said, “but guided by a prudent strategy.”
“If you mean to pass up an opportunity to smash the legions of High Thay—”
“They’ll die before the walls of Eltabbar,” Nevron said. “Now then. We always benefit from your wisdom, Your Omniscience, but the rulers of Thay have made their decision. That means your role is to determine how your church can best support our strategy.”
“Is that my role, also?” asked a sardonic masculine voice. Nevron turned his head to see Dimon stand up.
The tharchion’s utterance caught Nevron off guard. Iphegor Nath was at least the head of a church that had proved an invaluable resource in the struggle against the necromancers. It was understandable, if not forgivable, if he sometimes addressed the zulkirs as an equal. Dimon was a lesser priest of a different faith and a governor, beholden to the council for his military rank. It was absurdly reckless for him to take an insolent tone.
“If I were you, Tharchion,” Nevron said, “I’d sit back down and hold my tongue.”
“No,” Dimon said. “I don’t believe I will.”
“So be it,” Nevron said. He released the entity bound in his silver thumb ring like a falconer tossing a goshawk into the air.
The devil was an advespa, a black wasp the size of a bear, with a hideous travesty of a woman’s face and scarlet striations on its lower body. Beating so fast they were only a blur, its wings droned, and even the other zulkirs recoiled in their chairs. Its body cast a smear of reflection in the polished surface below it as the thing shot down the length of the long red table.
But Dimon didn’t cringe. Rather, the pale priest with the twisting blue veins vivid in his shaven crown laughed and stretched out the hand wearing the black gauntlet.
It seemed a useless gesture, an attack easily evaded by a creature as nimble as an advespa on the wing. But Dimon somehow contrived to seize the devil at the point where its head fused with its thorax, and to hold on to it.
The advespa’s raking, gouging claws ripped his face, vestments, and the flesh beneath. Its abdomen rocked back and forth like a pendulum, repeatedly driving its stinger into the cleric’s chest.
Dimon kept on laughing and squeezing the juncture of his attacker’s head and body, sinking his fingers deeper and deeper. Until the creature convulsed, he jerked his arm back, and the advespa’s head with its antennae, mandibles, and harpy face ripped away from the rest of it. The carcass thumped down on the tabletop in a splash of steaming ichor.
Dimon’s reedy Mulan frame became bulkier, and flowing darkness stained him. In other circumstances, Nevron might have assumed it was the effect of the poison the wasp devil had injected. But the blackness tinged tattered clothing as well as torn flesh, and even if it hadn’t, all the bound spirits Nevron kept ready to hand were clamoring, some terrified, some transported by demented ecstasy.
In another few moments, Dimon was virtually all shadow, although Nevron could make out a glint of eyes, the gleam of the jewels now encrusting the gauntlet, and the static curves of clothing turned to plate. “Do you know me?” the tharchion asked, and though his voice was soft and mellow, something about it lanced pain into a listener’s ears.
Nevron took a breath. “You’re Bane, Lord of Darkness.” He rose, but resisted the craven urge to bow or kneel, prudent as it might have been. He’d decided long ago that a true archmage must never abase himself before anyone or anything, self-proclaimed deities included. Much as he hated Szass Tam, it was the one point on which they’d always agreed.
“Yes, I am,” said Bane. “You mages have done a fair job of sealing your citadel against spiritual entities you don’t summon yourselves, but you can’t lock out a god, and the bond I share with my faithful servant provided a convenient way in.” He stroked his temple—Dimon’s temple—rather like a man petting a dog.
“To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Nevron asked.
“I’m tired of your sad little war,” the Black Hand said. “It drags on battle after battle, year after year, ruining a realm we gods of shadow raised up to dominate the east.”
Lauzoril rose from his seat. When it splashed, the advespa’s inky gore had spattered his scarlet robes. “Great Lord, we’re doing our best to bring the conflict to a conclusion.”
“Then your best is pathetic,” said Bane. “Seven archmages against one, seven orders of wizardry against one, the rich and populous south against the poor and empty north, and still, Szass Tam holds you in check for a decade.”
“It isn’t that simple,” Lauzoril said. “At the moment, we don’t have a zulkir of Divination, and over time, wizards of every order have defected …” His voice trailed off as he realized that it might not be an ideal moment for his usual practice of fussy, argumentative nitpicking.
Dmitra rose. “Great One, we accept your rebuke. Will you instruct us how we might do better?”
Bane smiled. Nevron couldn’t see the expression, but he could feel it, and although it conveyed no threat in any immediate sense, something about it was disquieting even to a man accustomed to trafficking with the most hideous denizens of the higher worlds.
“You already know the answer,” said the god, “for you proposed it yourself. Fight Szass Tam when he descends from High Thay, and that will settle the war. All the northern tharchs will lay down their arms if you slay their overlord.”
Nevron felt a strange mix of disgust and hope. Ever since Dmitra’s ascension to the rank of zulkir, he’d chafed under her pretensions to leadership. The revelation of Malark Springhill’s treason had called her judgment into question, and he’d exploited the situation to pull her off her pedestal and claim the chieftain’s role for himself.
But only for a tantalizing moment, because this meddling god had lifted her up again. Nevron could see it in the expressions of the other zulkirs. Arrogant though they were, when a deity invaded their council chamber to recommend they reverse a decision, it made an impression.
And there was no point swimming against the tide, especially if it would carry them all to victory. “Lord Bane,” Nevron said, “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’ll do as you direct. We pray you’ll give us your blessing and your aid.”
“Wherever men shed one another’s blood,” and Bane, “there will you find me.”
The darkness suffusing the Black Hand’s form drained away, and then he was merely Dimon once again. The wounds the advespa had given him hadn’t bled while he was possessed, but they gushed blood now, and he pitched forward. His head cracked against the edge of the table, then he crumpled to the floor.
Her black and white ornaments clinking, Zola Sethrakt shifted her chair to take a better look at the fallen priest. “He’s dead,” she said, and Nevron supposed that, worthless as she often proved to be, she was necromancer enough to be right about that, anyway.
After scouting throughout the morning, surveying the way ahead for the troops on the ground, Aoth, Bareris, and Mirror lit on a floating island to rest. The griffon riders dismounted, and Aoth peered over the edge of the floating chunk of soil and rock at a landscape of chasms, ridges, and twisting, leaning spires of stone stretched out far below. The earthbound portion of the council’s legions struggled over the difficult terrain like a column of ants. Even with his fire-touched eyes, he couldn’t see anything else moving.
He’d imagined that over the course of the past decade, he’d seen his homeland reduced to a wasteland, but he’d been mistaken. This was a wasteland, viewed through a lens of nightmare.
“It looks as if we already fought the war to a bitter end,” he murmured, “or the gods waged a final, world-killing war of their own. Like we’re an army of ghosts, damned to march through an empty land forever.”
Strands of his blond hair stirring in the wind, Bareris smiled. “You should leave morbid flights of fancy to us bards.”
Aoth grunted. “I’m just getting over being insane. I’m entitled to be a little moody.”
“Fair enough. Still, the war isn’t over, but it soon will be. According to you, Bane said so himself.”
“That’s right, but he never came right out and promised we were going to win it, or that he was going to do anything out of the ordinary to help us. What he did was let his own priest drop dead when he was through wearing him like a festival mask. I felt awe when he manifested among us—how could you not? But even so, I don’t know that I trust him.”
Bareris shook his head. “I wish I’d seen him. I’m sure it would have given me inspiration for a dozen songs. But if you don’t trust the Black Hand, put your faith in Kossuth, or our own prowess.”
“Because we’re so mighty? That army marching down there is big, but not as big as it was last summer.”
“If we’re mightier than Szass Tam’s legions, that’s all that matters. And despite your grumbling, I guess we both believe the south can win, because otherwise, why stay and risk our necks? You’ve considered running, and I confess, now that I have Tammith back, I have, too.”
“Since I recovered my sight, I’ve thought of many reasons to stay, but I’m not sure that any of them make sense, or is the real reason. Maybe I’m still here simply because it’s my fate.”
“Or perhaps those magical eyes of yours peeked into the future and saw Aoth the tharchion, lounging on a golden couch with concubines feeding him apricots.”
Aoth’s lips twitched into a smile. “Maybe.” It seemed unlikely, but he appreciated his friend attempting to brighten his mood.
And he supposed Bareris truly was his friend. He’d agreed to allow him to remain in the Griffon Legion to stop everyone blathering at him, but he hadn’t believed he could ever feel as easy with the bard as he had before. Yet it hadn’t taken him long to slip back into old habits of camaraderie.
Perhaps it was because, since Tammith’s return, Bareris truly seemed a changed man. Or maybe Aoth simply lacked the knack for clinging to old hatreds and grudges, because he hadn’t come to resent serving under Nymia, either. He didn’t actually trust her, but then, he never had.
He chuckled. “Maybe it’s true, what folk have told me all my life. Maybe I’m really not much of a Mulan. I’m definitely not made of the same stuff as Nevron or Lallara.”
Bareris cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s not important. Ready to go?”
They flew onward. A line of blue fire glimmered far to the east.
Bareris woke from the foulest of nightmares, the one in which, as he had in real life, he beheaded Tammith and hacked her skull to pieces.
For a moment, he was the man he’d been until recently, anguished and bereft. Then he remembered that Tammith was back. He stopped gasping, his heartbeat slowed, and he rolled over in bed to face her.
The army had reached Tyraturos at midday. Part of the city lay in ruins, its once-teeming barracoons, markets, and caravanserais largely empty. Hunger and disease marked the faces of the people in the streets. But even so, it had been a relief just to see that the place was still here. No tide of blue flame had melted it away, nor had any earthquake knocked it flat.
Bareris had secured lodging at an inn, where the proprietor’s obsequious desire to please masked a dogged determination to sell travelers every conceivable amenity at inflated prices. Since that was just as it would have been in better times, Bareris found it heartening as well. As he drifted off to sleep, he decided he’d told Aoth the truth: Their homeland was wounded but still lived. They could still save it.
But no such comforting reflections came to him now. Rather, Tammith’s absence filled him with foreboding.
He told himself his anxiety was absurd. Tammith was a nocturnal creature. It made sense that she’d grow restless simply lying next to him after he fell asleep.
Still, his instincts told him to find her. He pulled on his clothes, buckled on his weapons, and plucked a tuft of bloodhound fur from one of the pockets sewn into his sword belt. He swept it through an arcane pass, sang a charm, then turned in a circle.
The magic gave him a sort of painless twinge when he was facing southwest. If she was in that direction, it meant she’d left the inn. He did likewise, striding through the rows of legionnaires snoring in the common room.
Selûne had already forsaken the sky, clouds masked the stars, and the streets were all but lightless. Bareris crooned a second spell to give himself owl eyes. Yet even so, at first all he saw was a man in ragged clothing, a beggar, most likely, sprinting. Then a shadow pounced on the fellow from above, dashing him to the ground. When the dark figure lifted its head and its black tresses parted to reveal its alabaster face, Bareris saw that it was Tammith. At once she skittered back up the side of a building like a spider. The beggar peered wildly around, but failed to spot her, and, judging by appearances, he had only the vaguest idea of what was happening to him. Shaking, whimpering, he climbed to his feet and ran again. Tammith crawled above him, keeping pace.
“Stop!” Bareris shouted. “Leave him alone!”
Tammith leaped down on the beggar and grappled him from behind. He tried to tear himself free, and she dug her slim white fingers into him until the pain paralyzed him. She peered at Bareris over her captive’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You shouldn’t hurt him,” Bareris said. “He’s a subject of the zulkirs, not one of Szass Tam’s rebels.”
“He’s a Rashemi pauper, and I’m a captain in the council’s legions. I can do anything I want to him, and no one will care.”
He knew she was right, but it was ghastly to see her this way. “You started out as a Rashemi pauper, and you’ve endured mistreatment in your time.”
She laughed, exposing her extended fangs. “All the more reason to make sure that from now on, I’m the snake and not the rabbit.”
He gazed into her dark yet chatoyant eyes. “Please. As a kindness to me, let the poor man go.”
She glared, then shoved the man away. He staggered, caught his balance, and bolted.
“Thank you.” Bareris walked toward her. “If you need blood, you’re welcome to more of mine.” His throat tingled in anticipation.
“No. It wouldn’t be safe. In fact, you shouldn’t come any closer or touch me.”
He kept walking. “You won’t hurt me. But if you don’t want to drink from me, use one of the prisoners.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s not that I’m thirsty. I want to hunt.”
Apparently, he thought, that involved playing with her prey like a cat with a mouse, and murdering the unfortunate wretch at the end of it, but he kept the observation to himself. He didn’t want to reproach her and feed the shame he sensed seething inside her. “We’ll be fighting soon. Then you’ll have plenty of people to kill.”
“The problem is that I want to kill.”
“It’s not a problem for me. We acknowledged that we’ve both changed, but we also agreed we can still love one another.”
“You believe that because you don’t truly comprehend. You imagine that at bottom, I’m still the same girl you loved when we were young. The bloodthirst is like a fever that recurs from time to time, and can be managed when it does. But the vampire is my true self. Everything that reminds you of times past, everything human, is just a surface, like glaze on a pot. That’s why, when Aoth was in danger, I couldn’t find it in myself to care, even though he’s your friend. I need to go away before I hurt you.”
“No.” He took her hand. She shuddered, but didn’t jerk it away. “The fact that you don’t want to harm me shows who you really are.”
“What I really am is dead. We so-called undead feel the weight of that truth every moment of our existence, no matter how much blood we drink or how frantically we mimic the passions and ambitions of the living to convince ourselves otherwise.”
“Not dead—merely changed, and after the war, we’ll scour all Faerûn to find a way to change you back. For all we know, the answer is waiting for us in one of Szass Tam’s grimoires. Anyway, no matter how long it takes, I’ll stay with you and help you govern your urges, and you won’t ever turn on me. We’ll be together and we’ll be happy.”
She sobbed and threw her arms around him. “I’m going to be the death of you.”
He stroked her hair. “I know better.”
Murmuring words of power, Dmitra formed a huge griffon, its fur scarlet and its feathers a gleaming copper, out of magic and imagination. It was a compliment to the riders who would escort her aloft, and no one could deny they deserved it. The Griffon Legion had fought valiantly for ten years, as the depletion of its ranks and the lean, haggard faces of the survivors attested.
Because wizardry had grown fickle, the spell began to warp. The transparent, partially materialized griffon grew deformed, one leg and one wing shortening to stubs, a fecal stink filled the air, and Dmitra felt the sudden imbalance of forces like the throb of a toothache.
She chanted more vehemently, demanding that the cosmos bow to her will. The red griffon flowed back into the shape she intended, became opaque, and started moving. It shook out its wings and the feathers rustled.
Dmitra swung herself onto its back and it sprang into the air. Her bodyguard followed her skyward.
For a pleasant change, the heavens were mostly blue and the sun was shining. The Third Escarpment towered to the west, with the gray walls and turrets of Thralgard Keep guarding the summit and the road switchbacking its way down the crags. Some of Szass Tam’s troops—living orcs and zombies, most likely, creatures that could bear daylight even if they disliked it—had begun the lengthy descent.
To the south, the force from the Keep of Sorrows stood in its battle lines. The council had arranged its infantry in what amounted to a three-sided box, with one side facing the bottom of the zigzagging road, one opposing the enemy on the plain, and the third placed to prevent the warriors from the keep from flanking them. Reserves—horsemen, mostly—waited inside the box to rush where they were needed.
Dmitra looked over at Aoth Fezim. Employing a petty charm that would enable them to talk without strain despite the space separating them, she asked, “What do you think?”
Aoth hesitated. “Well, Your Omnipotence, we can be glad of a couple things. We reached the bottom of the road and got ourselves in formation before the necromancers actually did come down, and before the troops from the Keep of Sorrows got here to claim the ground ahead of us. Also, it’s still a decent field for fighting. No blue fire has washed through to carve it into ridges and chasms.”
“What are you not glad about?” she asked.
“Ideally, you never want the foe coming at you from two directions at once.” Aoth stroked the feathers on his griffon’s neck. “Also, as the warriors from High Thay come down the road, they’ll be like men on the battlements of a castle. They’ll have the advantage of height, and rain arrows and magic down on us.”
Dmitra smiled. “So remind me again why it’s a cunning scheme for us to make a stand here.”
“Because you said so, Your Omnipotence, and then a god appeared to second your opinion.”
“True. But do you see any additional reasons for optimism?”
“Yes. We outnumber the enemy, and Szass Tam won’t have many bowmen on the slopes. Undead archers do exist, but the necromancers design most of their creations for close combat. And since they’ll most likely attack at night, so they can use all their troops, the darkness will spoil the aim of even a dread warrior or an orc beyond a certain distance.
“Also,” Aoth continued, “we’re going to harry them as they come down. We griffon riders will handle part of it. The bastards won’t have the advantage of height on us. And I’m told you Red Wizards will make the descent as hellish as possible. You’ll conjure hail and wind, and send demons to tear the ghouls apart as they creep along.”
“That all sounds promising. But I wonder if we might fare even better if we attacked the force from the Keep of Sorrows immediately.”
“I wouldn’t, Mistress. You can’t be sure how long it will take the warriors from Thralgard to come down the road, so you can’t be certain of defeating the troops from the Keep of Sorrows and getting your men back into formation fast enough to meet them. Szass Tam may have brought his men up from the south hoping he could use them to lure us out of position.”
She nodded. “True, and even if we did manage to win the first battle and reform our lines in time, we’d already be tired heading into the next confrontation. Better, then, to hold where we are.”
“I think so, Your Omnipotence.
“You know, if I were Szass Tam, now that we’re down here eager to receive him, I’d simply decline the invitation. He doesn’t have to advance. Even the force from the Keep of Sorrows isn’t quite committed. They could scurry back to their fortress to fight another day.
“But I guess Szass Tam will come. The Black Hand promised he would. I just don’t see why he should, and that worries me.”
Despite Bane’s assurances, Dmitra realized it troubled her as well.
The orders Szass Tam’s lieutenant had given to Harl Zorgar sounded simple enough: Hurry his band of blood orcs down the mountainside until they found a place that provided a suitable platform for shooting down at the southerners, and where the road was wide enough for the rest of the army to continue descending while they did it.
But it wasn’t simple. The steep, zigzagging highway was sufficiently wide for caravans, but nowhere truly broad enough to accommodate an army attempting to traverse it in a fraction of the time that safety or sanity would require. Often, the constant pressure from behind shoved Harl along too relentlessly even to look for a suitable archer’s loft. It was all he could do to keep his feet, avoid being trampled, and keep his warriors together. If he hadn’t been able to bellow as loud as only a blood orc sergeant could, he wouldn’t have had much hope of accomplishing the latter.
Then a white bolt of lightning leaped up from the ground to strike on the slopes below. The southerners had started fighting, and after that, everything became even more dangerous and confused. Finally, when he’d nearly blundered past it, Harl spied a place where the road bulged outward in a sort of overhang. It even had a low parapet of rough, piled stone to protect bowmen from missiles flying up from below, and to keep the warriors streaming along behind them from jostling them over the edge.
“Here!” he roared. “Here, you fatherless, chicken-hearted bastards! Come here!”
His followers had to struggle through the press, but, one and two at a time, they shoved their way to him, fell in line, and strung their yew bows.
He counted to make sure he had everybody, came up one short, and realized that at this point he could do nothing about it. He strung his own bow and looked out at the empty space before him and the ground below. The griffon riders, he decided. “Shoot the griffons!”
He heard a strangled cry. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of his archers topple forward over the parapet.
He pivoted just in time to see a murky ghost drive its insubstantial scimitar into a second orc’s torso. For a moment, it looked like the ghost of an orc itself, and then it melted into the semblance of a human with a beak of a nose and a long mustache. A round shield appeared on its arm, and its curved blade straightened.
Frozen with shock, Harl didn’t understand where it could have come from. Then he saw that its intangible feet were in the ground. Perhaps it had hidden in the rock.
The ghost cut down another archer, and that jarred Harl out of his immobility. “Necromancer!” he bellowed. “We need a necromancer!” But no Red Wizard appeared to intervene.
Another orc fell. His mouth dry, Harl realized that if anybody was going to save the rest of the archers, it would have to be him. He wore an enchanted blade, which meant he had at least a forlorn hope of slaying a ghost.
He dropped his bow, drew his scimitar, screamed a war cry, and charged.
The ghost shifted out of his way and stabbed him in the side. A ghastly chill burned through him. He staggered on, and the top of the parapet banged him just below the knee. He pitched over it and plummeted.
The dread warrior no longer recalled the name it had borne as a living man. Sometimes it didn’t even remember it had ever had one. But in its fashion, it still understood the ways of war, and it knew it and its companions were taking a big chance charging at the jutting spears and overlapping shields of the enemy.
But it didn’t care, because it was incapable of fear. It simply wished to kill or perish. Either would satisfy the cold, irrational urges that were all that remained of its emotions.
Arrows thudded into the gray, withered zombies on either side, and a few of them fell. Priests spun burning chains and called to their god, and other dead men burst into flame.
Their numbers diminished, the rest ran on. The dread warrior threw itself at the enemy. Spears jabbed at it, and one punched into it despite its coat of mail. But it didn’t catch it anywhere that could destroy, cripple, or immobilize it. It simply pierced its side, near the kidney, and the dread warrior tore free with a wrenching twist of its body.
Then it smashed at the southerners with its battleaxe. They caught the blows on their shields, but the force jolted them backward, indenting the battle line. The dread warrior lunged into the breach and kept chopping.
It killed two foes. The legionnaires were no match for it now that it had penetrated their protective wall, and their spears were awkward weapons in close quarters.
Then a black-haired woman with alabaster skin scrambled out of the darkness. “Keep the line!” she cried, revealing the fangs of a vampire. “I’ll deal with this thing!”
The dread warrior cut at her neck, and she ducked beneath the blow. Her sword sliced her opponent behind the knee.
It didn’t hurt. Nothing ever did. But suddenly the dead man’s leg wouldn’t support it anymore, and it pitched sideways.
Her sword split its skull before it even finished falling. As its awareness faded, it heard cheering, and realized the first assault had failed.
It was, Bareris reflected, regrettable that all the warriors of High Thay didn’t have to use the road to descend to the plain below. But as ever, Szass Tam had his share of flying servants.
Bareris’s new griffon, Winddancer, beat his wings, climbed above the flapping rectangle that was a skin kite, caught the undead in his talons, and ripped it apart with claw and beak. Bareris hadn’t noticed the creature closing with them. He was glad his steed had.
Then something else swooped down the cliff face from on high. Its form was shadowy, and even with augmented sight, Bareris could barely make out its twisted skull face in the dark. But every griffon rider in the vicinity knew of it instantly, because it screamed, and its keening evoked a surge of unreasoning panic. The legionnaires’ winged mounts wheeled and fled.
Bareris quashed his own terror by sheer force of will, then started singing a battle anthem to purge the emotion from the minds of his comrades and their steeds. Even then, Winddancer still wouldn’t fly nearer to the deathshrieker, as such wailing phantoms were called, until Bareris crooned words of encouragement directed specifically at him.
As they hurtled toward it, the deathshrieker oriented on them, and its cry focused on them as well. It stabbed pain in Bareris’s ears, beat at him like a hammer, and triggered a fresh spasm of terror and confusion. He defended with his own voice, singing a shield to block raw violence and pain, adding steadiness and clarity to counter fear and madness.
After what seemed an eternity, the deathshrieker’s wail faded, leaving Bareris and his mount unharmed. He sang a charm to cloak Winddancer and himself in a deceptive blur, and then another spell that made the roar of the battle fall silent.
He rarely considered casting an enchantment of silence on himself, because it would prevent him from using any more magic. But over the past ten years, he’d learned a good deal about Szass Tam’s more exotic undead servants, including the fact that silence wounded a deathshrieker.
Winddancer carried him close enough to strike, and Bareris pierced his foe with the point of his spear. While the enchanted weapon likely hurt the phantom, it was the absolute quiet that made it convulse.
It tried to flee from the excruciating silence, but Winddancer stayed with it. The griffon had shaken off his dread, and now his savage nature ruled him. He wanted revenge on the adversary that had hurt and discomfited him.
Bareris kept thrusting with the spear. Finally the deathshrieker turned to fight and plunged the intangible fingertips of one raking hand into Winddancer’s beak. The griffon froze and began to fall, but at the same instant, Bareris drove his spear into the spirit’s torso again. The deathshrieker withered from existence. Its jaws gaped wide as if it was voicing a final virulent wail, but if so, the silence warded its foes from the effect. Winddancer lashed her wings and arrested her fall.
Twisting in the saddle, Bareris looked around and didn’t see any immediate threats. Good. He and Winddancer could use a few moments to catch their breath, and if his aura of quiet dropped away during the respite, so much the better. It was only a hindrance now.
He urged his mount higher for a better look at the progress of the battle. At first, he liked what he saw. Despite everyone’s best efforts, some of the High Thayans on the road were reaching the field at the base of it, but only to encounter overwhelming resistance when they did. Meanwhile, the legionnaires from the Keep of Sorrows assailed the southerners’ formation but had failed to break it. Rather, they were beating themselves to death against it like surf smashing to foam on a line of rocks.
Its leathery wings flapping, a sword in one hand and a whip in the other, a gigantic horned demon flew up from the ground. A halo of scarlet flame seethed around its body.
The balor’s sudden appearance didn’t alarm Bareris. He assumed that a conjuror had summoned it to fight on the council’s side, and indeed, the tanar’ri maneuvered close to the crags as though seeking adversaries worthy of its lethal capabilities.
But as it considered where to attack, the wavering red light emanating from it illuminated sections of the road. As a result, Bareris realized for the first time just what a gigantic host of undead was swarming down from the heights.
With wizardry undependable, how had the necromancers created so many new servants? Where had they obtained the corpses? Had they butchered every living person left in High Thay?
This is how it starts, Bareris thought. This is how Szass Tam has always liked to fight. He makes you think you’re winning, gets you fully committed, and then the surprises start.
So-Kehur and Muthoth had armored themselves in enchantments of protection, and their personal dread-warrior guards stood in front of them in a little semicircular wall of shields, mail, and withered, malodorous flesh. Yet even so, an arrow droned down from on high to stick in the ground a finger-length from the pudgy necromancer’s foot.
“We’re too close,” So-Kehur said. He heard the craven whine in his voice and hated it.
His wand gripped in his good hand, Muthoth, predictably, responded with a sneer. “We have to be this close, or our spells won’t reach the enemy.”
“What spells?” So-Kehur said, although it wasn’t a reasonable comment. After Mystra’s death, he’d scarcely been able to turn ale into piss, but when Szass Tam force-fed his followers insights into the changing nature of the arcane, he’d more or less recovered the use of his powers.
But as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t worth it. He’d never liked knowing that the lich had constrained his will. It bothered him even though he’d always had better sense than to flout his zulkir’s wishes and so rouse the magic. But having Szass Tam shove knowledge straight into his mind was a more overt violation, and thus considerably more odious. Along with a vague but sickening feeling that a wisp of the mage’s psyche remained in his head, spying on him and polluting his own fundamental identity, the new lore rode in his consciousness like a stone.
But the howling, crashing terror of the battlefield, with quarrels and arrows flying and men and orcs falling dead on every side, was worse. I never wanted to be a necromancer in the first place, So-Kehur thought, or any kind of wizard. My family pushed me into it. I would have been happy to stay home and manage our estates.
Horns blared, sounding a distinctive six-note call. “It’s time,” Muthoth said. He sounded eager.
So-Kehur wasn’t, but he knew his fellow mage was right. No matter how frightened he was, he had to start fighting.
He shifted forward and the two guards directly in front of him started to step apart. He clutched their cold, slimy forearms to keep them from exposing him. “I only need a crack to peek through!” he said.
So that was what they gave him. He picked a spot along the enemy’s battle line and started chanting.
Stripped of the cunning shortcuts and enhancements that were the craft secrets of the Order of Necromancy, reduced to its most basic elements, the spell seemed an ugly, cumbersome thing. But it worked. A blaze of shadow leaped from his fingertips to slice into two southerners in the front rank. They collapsed, and so did other men behind them.
Muthoth snarled words of fear, and several men in the enemy formation turned tail, shoving and flailing through the ranks of their companions. A sergeant, failing to understand that the afflicted men had fallen victim to a curse, cut one down for a coward and would-be deserter. Muthoth laughed and aimed his wand.
Other flares of power, some luminous, many bursts of shadow, blazed from the ranks of the legionnaires from the Keep of Sorrows, and from up and down the crooked length of the path that climbed to High Thay. When they realized their adversaries were casting more spells than they had before, the council’s sorcerers intensified their efforts as well. But as often as not, their magic failed to produce any useful effects, or yielded only feeble ones. Whereas nearly all the necromantic spells performed as they should, and many hit hard.
A pair of Red Wizards—conjurors, judging from the cut of their robes and the talismans they wore—appeared in the mass of soldiery opposite So-Kehur, Muthoth, and the troops surrounding them. They looked old enough to have sons So-Kehur’s age, and were likely genuine masters of their diabolical art. Reciting in unison, somehow clearly audible despite the din, they chanted words in some infernal tongue, and So-Kehur cringed at the grating sound and the power he felt gathering inside it.
Muthoth hurled flame from his wand. It burned down some of the council’s soldiers, but the conjurors stood unharmed at the center of the blast. They shouted the final syllables of their incantation.
Nothing happened. No entity answered their call, and the sense of massing power dwindled like water gurgling down a drain.
So-Kehur’s fear subsided a little, and he realized he’d better not permit the conjurors to try again. He jabbered an incantation of his own. A cloud of toxic vapor materialized around the southern wizards, and they staggered and crumpled to the ground.
I beat them, So-Kehur thought. I was sure they were going to kill me, but I was better than they were. Muthoth grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder without a trace of mockery or bullying condescension, as if, after all the years of shared danger and effort, they were truly friends at last.
So-Kehur decided the battlefield wasn’t quite as horrible a place as he’d imagined.
Perched on a round platform at the top of Thralgard Keep’s highest tower, Szass Tam peered into a scrying mirror to track the battle unfolding in the gulf below. Sometimes he simply beheld the combatants. At other moments, glowing red runes appeared as one or another of the ghosts bound to the looking glass offered commentary.
Lacking mystical talents of his own, Malark sat on a merlon with his feet dangling over the crags and peered down at what he could make out of the struggle. Szass Tam doubted that was a great deal. The night was too dark, and everything was too far away.
“I see more flickers and flashes,” Malark said, “than I did a while ago. It’s like looking at fireflies, shooting stars, and heat lightning all dancing in a black sky together.”
“My wizards,” Szass Tam said, “are showing the council what they can actually do.”
“Can they do enough? Are you going to win?”
“It might be sufficient, but I’m not finished. The Black Hand lent me even more power than I expected, and I mean to use it.”
“Then you’re going to raise the force you told me about. Are you sure that’s wise?”
Szass Tam chuckled. “Sure? No. How can I be, when, to the best of my knowledge, no magus has ever roused such an entity before? It’s possible that Bane understands my ultimate intentions, and gave me the strength to try precisely so I’d overreach and destroy myself. He is a god, after all. I suppose we have to give him credit for a measure of subtlety and discernment.”
“Then maybe you should refrain.”
“No. Call me smug, but I like my chances. Besides, if I shrink from attempting this, how will I ever muster the courage to perform the greater works to come?”
“Fair enough. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you, but no.”
“In that case …” Malark hesitated.
Szass Tam smiled. “You’d like my help to reach the battlefield quickly.”
“Yes, if you can spare the magic. So many interesting things are happening below that it would grieve me to stand aloof.”
Szass Tam plucked a little carved bone from one of his pockets, swept it through a mystic pass, and whispered an incantation. Shadow swirled in the air overhead and gathered into the form of a gigantic bat.
The beast’s rotting wings gave off a carrion stink. It furled them and landed on a merlon, its talons clutching the block of stone.
“It will obey your commands,” Szass Tam said, “and carry you wherever you want to go.”
“Thank you.” Malark swung onto the bat’s back and kicked it with his heels. It hopped off the merlon and glided over the battlefield.
Szass Tam hoped Malark would be all right. It was pleasant having a confidant again. At one time, Dmitra had played that part, but he hadn’t been able to confide his grandest scheme to her. She wouldn’t have reacted well, and he’d assumed that no one ever could. He didn’t believe in fate, but even so, it almost seemed like destiny had brought a former monk of the Long Death into his orbit.
But Malark had served his purpose. He didn’t actually matter anymore. Szass Tam had far more urgent matters to concern him, and it was time to address them. He summoned one of his favorite staves and raised it over his head.
“What’s this?” Brightwing asked. Aoth looked where she was facing, then cried out in shock.
A prodigious mass of fog spilled down the cliffs like a slow waterfall. Anguished faces appeared—stretched, twisted, and dissolved amid the vapor. A chorus of faint voices, some moaning, some gibbering, others laughing, emanated from it.
It was some form of undead, though it was far more gigantic than any creation of necromancy Aoth had ever seen. But it wasn’t the size of it that dismayed him. It was the enormous might and insatiable hunger his fire-touched eyes saw burning inside it. “We’re in trouble,” he said.
Brightwing laughed. “No! Look! It’s all right.”
The fog hung over the crags like a curtain, and where the swirling vapor intersected the road, insubstantial tentacles writhed from the central mass to snatch for the orcs and ghouls scrambling on the slopes. The creatures they engulfed convulsed and dissolved into nothingness.
If the mist-thing simply continued attacking Szass Tam’s army, all would be well. But then, though it continued to reach for the occasional luckless northerner like a man plucking berries from a bush, it floated lower.
It splashed at the foot of the crags and drifted outward. Its path carried it across the clump of northerners who’d managed to reach the bottom and keep themselves alive once they got there, but straight at the southern army as well. Panicking, some of the council’s legionnaires threw down their weapons and turned to flee.
“Griffon riders!” Aoth bellowed. “Kill it!” He and Brightwing dived at the fog-thing. He pointed his spear and hurled a burst of flame into the heart of it. His men shot arrows.
The entity responded by snatching for them with lengths of its vaporous body. It hadn’t reached nearly so far before, and the attack caught Aoth by surprise. A frigid column of shadowy, babbling faces engulfed him.
His thoughts shattered into confusion. He suddenly knew without questioning that his psyche and flesh were about to crumble, and then his attacker would absorb the residue.
Screaming, Brightwing lashed her wings and carried them free of the fog. Gasping, peering around, Aoth saw that other griffon riders hadn’t been as lucky. Mired in writhing pillars of murk, they and their mounts disappeared. Meanwhile, as far as he could tell, their assault hadn’t injured the mist-entity in the slightest.
It flowed toward the mass of the southern army, devouring men and the conjurors’ demonic warriors as it went. Only zombies, skeletons, and golems—mindless things—endured its touch with impunity.
Malark sent the zombie bat swooping low over the southern army. It was a reckless thing to do, but no arrows or thunderbolts came flying up to strike him or his steed. The enemy was too busy fighting the force from the Keep of Sorrows and goggling at the fog-thing seething toward them from the foot of the cliff.
Malark spied Dmitra conferring with several illusionists, the lot of them amid a contingent of bodyguards. It was too bad her minions hadn’t fled and left her unattended, but he’d cope.
The bat furled its wings and plunged to earth in front of the zulkir and her entourage. Someone cried out, and guards hefted javelins.
Malark swung himself down from his mount. “Your Omnipotence.” He bowed.
Dmitra shook her head. “I wondered if you were insane to betray me. Now I know you must be, to do so and then return.”
Malark smiled. “I’m sure it looks that way. You’re an archmage, and you and your servants have me outnumbered. Even worse, Szass Tam’s creation is advancing on our location. If I don’t finish my business and get away quickly, it will eat me as readily as it would you.”
“What is your business?” Dmitra asked.
“Knowing me for as long as you have, I thought you might have guessed already.”
“I have an idea. Did you come to keep me from trying to destroy the creature?”
“Not exactly.”
“To switch sides again?”
“No, I’m where I belong. But you, Mistress, were always generous to me in your fashion. I’ve always liked you. I want to repay your kindness by giving you a better death then you’d suffer with your body and mind breaking apart in the fog-thing’s grip. In particular, I hope to spare you the ugliness of undeath, either as one small part of that abomination yonder or as a lich under Szass Tam’s control.”
Dmitra laughed a little puff of a laugh. “It sounds as if you’re challenging me to a duel.”
“You could put it that way.”
“But that implies some sort of equality where none exists. I’m a zulkir of Thay, and you’re a treacherous worm. Kill him!”
Legionnaires threw their javelins. Malark sidestepped some and batted one away with his forearm. He waved the giant bat forward.
The zombie was clumsy crawling on the ground. But its sheer bulk, gnashing fangs, and long flailing wings made it formidable. It bobbed its head and bit the top of a warrior’s skull off, and Malark dashed forward.
A soldier tried to thrust a broadsword into his belly. He twisted out of the way, caught his opponent’s outstretched arm, and spun him around to slam into one of his comrades. Tangled together, they fell with a clash of armor. One of the lesser illusionists rattled off rhyming words of power, and Malark chopped her across the throat before she could finish. Another stride brought him within striking distance of Dmitra.
She gave him a radiant smile.
He felt himself falling, suffered a pang of alarm, and then his eyes flew open. He realized he’d dreamed of plummeting and then awakened.
Disoriented, he looked around. He and Dmitra were sitting on the roof of a tower in her palace in Eltabbar. A carafe held red wine to fill the golden goblets, trays offered lobster, oysters, beef skewers, grape leaves, figs, sweetmeats, and other delicacies, and a scarlet awning provided shade in the midst of amber sunlight. Slaves hovered at a discreet distance.
Beyond the red marble balustrade and the walls of the castle, the city murmured, its voice arising from teeming streets and bustling markets. To the west, south, and east were green fields, and to the north, Lake Thaylambar, reflecting the clear blue of the sky. Sailboats and galleys dotted the surface.
It occurred to Malark that the vista was as lovely as any he’d seen in all his centuries of protracted life. Then, belatedly, he realized Dmitra was speaking to him. He resolved to pay attention and catch the sense of whatever she was saying, but she reached the end too quickly and then watched him, awaiting his response. He tried to think of something to say, but he was still muddled, and nothing came.
Dmitra laughed. “I thought you dozed off.”
“I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
“No need. You went without sleep for a tenday to find out what Nevron and his followers are up to. You can go to bed if you like.”
He took stock of himself and decided he didn’t need to. He didn’t feel exhausted so much as bewildered. He remembered spending days without sleep to spy on the Order of Conjuration, but had the crazy sense that it had happened years ago. “Thank you, Your Omnipotence, but I’m all right.”
She cocked her head. “‘Your Omnipotence’? Have you promoted me to zulkir? I fear Mythrellan won’t approve.”
He blinked. “Didn’t Mythrellan die during the war?”
“What war?”
“The one the rest of you zulkirs are waging against Szass Tam.” The one that had come close to transforming Thay into a desert, although no one could have told it from looking out over Eltabbar on such a warm, clear summer afternoon.
Dmitra shook her head. “I think you must have dreamed a very strange and vivid dream. I, alas, am simply a tharchion. I give my allegiance to Szass Tam, and since you serve me, so do you. There isn’t any war among the zulkirs unless you count the usual endless politicking and intrigue to steer the realm in one direction or another.”
“I … all right.”
“I insist you go and rest. I’ll have someone escort you.” She crooked a finger, and two slaves came scurrying.
He felt a twinge of alarm, but knew that was senseless. The men were just thralls, cowed and subservient. They had no particular reason to hurt him and wouldn’t dare to try even if they did. Nor did they possess the weapons or martial skills they’d need to have any hope of succeeding.
He stood and suffered them to close in around him. Dmitra smiled at him from her couch.
Something about her smile was ever so slightly wrong. Perhaps it held a hint of malice or triumph. Whatever it was, it reminded him she was an illusionist, and prompted him to exert his will to try to see clearly.
The world darkened abruptly as the semblance of day she’d created in his mind gave way to the reality of night. The men he’d mistaken for slaves were legionnaires about to plunge their swords into his body.
He thrust his stiffened fingers into their throats, one hand for each, and lunged, bulling his way between them. Dmitra was standing on the other side. Her eyes widened in dismay.
Though he didn’t see a telltale glimmer or anything comparable, he had no doubt she had defensive enchantments in place. He bellowed to focus every iota of his strength and spirit, and punched at her heart.
He felt ribs break. The shards had nowhere to go but into the pulsing organ behind them, and she fell backward.
It was a perfect death, for she’d perished wielding the art and guile that defined her. Malark felt the mix of exultation and envy that transported him on such rare occasions.
But he had no time for contemplation. He had other foes to fight. He pounced, grabbed the ruby amulet dangling on the Red Wizard’s chest, and gave it a jerk that snapped the illusionist’s neck.
Bareris had exhausted his bardic powers, and he had a single arrow left. Seeking an appropriate target, he peered at the ground.
The fog-entity wasn’t a logical choice. Even magic didn’t seem to hurt it, although given its amorphous nature, it was difficult to be sure. If anyone had wounded it, the steady growth it experienced as it absorbed victim after victim likely offset the damage.
He spied an orc nocking an arrow. Judging from its position on the battlefield, it had come from the Keep of Sorrows. Like the rest of its comrades, it was keeping its distance from the fog-thing. But as the southern army fell back before the entity and its formations disintegrated, the orc and its fellows were shooting foes who blundered within easy reach of their weapons.
Bareris let his own arrow fly before the orc finished aiming. The missile punched into the warrior’s neck just above its shoulder, and it staggered. It lost its grip on its bowstring, and its shaft flew wild.
Another orc shouted and pointed, and arrows hurtled up from the ground. Winddancer raised one wing, dipped the other, veered, and dodged the missiles. But one came close enough to tear a feather from the griffon’s wing, and Bareris realized his mount was as weary as he was.
It’s time to go, he thought, but couldn’t make himself give Winddancer the appropriate command. Not yet. He wouldn’t flee until he was certain the situation was as bleak as it seemed. He made the griffon climb for a better view of the battleground.
Large as an army itself, the cloud of gibbering, keening faces extruded arms that dissolved one southerner after another, although Bareris wasn’t certain why it bothered. All it really needed to do was flow forward and engulf the council’s warriors to obliterate them. The dread warriors inside it swung their axes and jabbed with their spears, dispatching anyone lucky or hardy enough to survive the vapor’s touch.
Until the fog-thing rippled, churned, and contracted in on itself, uncovering the marching corpses and skeletons. It shrank to a writhing point, then vanished entirely.
Bareris shook his head in amazement. If the thing was gone, perhaps that meant the southern army might yet prevail.
But no. When he studied the field, the last dogged trace of hope withered inside him.
The remnants of the southern army were too few, too disorganized, and too demoralized. They only wanted to run away. Whereas Szass Tam had succeeded in bringing enormous numbers of undead down from the top of the plateau. They and their comrades from the Keep of Sorrows had arranged themselves in well-defined battle lines and in the proper positions to assail their foes from three sides at once.
Aoth had been right to mistrust Bane. The council had lost the battle, and its agents had no choice but to run until the sun rose to slow pursuit. Only those possessed of horses or capable of flight were likely to last that long.
Bareris was grateful that Tammith could fly. Praying she still survived, and that she could somehow find him before dawn, he turned Winddancer south.