chapter eleven

6–11 Marpenoth, the Year of Blue Fire

It gladdened Szass Tam to see the gates in the high black walls of Bezantur standing open, and the banners of the Order of Necromancy flying from the spires that rose above. He had a sudden foolish urge to spur his infernal steed with its jet black coat, iron hooves, and red eyes, gallop ahead of his army, and enter the city immediately.

It wasn’t an entirely mad idea. According to his scouts and seers, no one was left in the city with the will and the power to have any chance of harming him. But he was going to rule Thay in years to come. It would be politic to start out by entering the realm’s greatest city with the pomp appropriate to the new “regent.”

So he took the time to organize a procession, while his officers chafed at the delay, and he derived a bit of secret amusement from their restlessness. They believed he was wasting precious time, but that was because they didn’t understand just how much mystical strength the Black Hand had given him.

He’d already expended a goodly portion of it, and the rest had begun to slip away as he’d known it would. But he fancied he had enough left to bring his war to a satisfactory conclusion.

When everything was ready, he marched his army into the city with Malark Springhill, Homen Odesseiron, and Azhir Kren riding in places of honor just behind him. The streets echoed to the deafening chants that kept the blood orcs striding in unison, and to the huzzahs of the folk who lined the streets and leaned out of windows to wave little red flags and cheer for him.

Sometimes the cheering faltered, and when it swelled again, it had a forced quality to it. Szass Tam suspected that happened when the crowd caught sight of some particularly hideous or uncanny-looking horror, even though he hadn’t put a great many of his most alarming servants on display. Some were too gigantic to pass easily through the streets, some were invisible in the afternoon sunlight, and others had to hide from it lest it sear them from existence. Still, enough remained to daunt even a populace that had long ago accustomed itself to the fact that demons and undead served in the ranks of its armies.

Or perhaps the carrion stink of all the dread warriors and ghouls packed together was making people sick to their stomachs.

In any case, Szass Tam was realist enough to understand that few, if any of these supposed well wishers, had yearned to see him crush his rivals, although it was likely a number had prayed for someone to win and bring the long war to an end. They were cheering to convince him they’d only served the council because they had no choice, and therefore it would be pointless for their new overlord to punish them.

Comprehending their true motives didn’t vex him. He enjoyed the moment because it was a symbol of his victory. He didn’t need Bezantur to love him.

Triumphal processions through the city traditionally entered through the northeast gate, followed a circuitous route that took them past the major temples and Red Wizard bastions, and terminated in the plaza north of the Central Citadel. Szass Tam adhered to the custom and found Zekith Shezim waiting to greet him. His eyes and the jagged patterns of his tattooing as dark as his gauntlet and vestments, the high priest of Bane advanced, kneeled, and proffered a ring of iron keys.

They should properly have been keys to the Central Citadel, but Szass Tam, who’d seen the genuine items before, albeit not for ten years, recognized that they weren’t. His enemies had probably taken all the real ones when they fled.

No matter. This little ceremony was like the acclamation of the crowd. He could appreciate it for what it was.

He took the keys and said, “Thank you. Now stand, Your Omniscience, and rest assured, a bow will suffice in the future.”

Zekith rose stiffly. “Thank you, Your Omnipotence.”

Szass Tam smiled. “It occurs to me that I may need a new title. Every zulkir is ‘Your Omnipotence.’”

“On the other hand,” Malark said, “you’re the only one left.”

“Not yet,” said Szass Tam, “but with luck, soon.”

Zekith took a deep breath. “Master, I apologize. I tried to burn the fleet as you directed, but it didn’t work out.”

“It’s all right,” Szass Tam said. “When one arrow misses, you shoot another, and happily, my quiver isn’t empty yet. Now, I need someone to govern this place. Would you like to be autharch of Bezantur, with more honors to come if you do a good job?”

“I would.”

“Then you’ll need these.” Szass Tam handed back the keys. “Well, not really, but one good piece of mummery deserves another.”

“Yes, Your Omnipotence.”

“Your first task will be to see to the needs of my troops. Many have requirements and appetites that the citizens of Bezantur may find objectionable. But I want my warriors strong and satisfied that their commander takes good care of them. Up to a point, that means making sure no one interferes with them as they pursue their pleasures, but it would also be nice if the city was still standing tomorrow morning. Do you follow?”

“Yes, Master. I can strike the proper balance.”

“Then I leave the matter in your hands. My captains and I are going to look at the harbor.” He, Malark, the two tharchions, and an escort rode in that direction.

The waterfront still smelled of smoke, and small fires flickered here and there. The major conflagrations had reduced the vessels in dry dock to black, flaking shells, ready to crumble at a touch. The piers had burned until whatever remained of the walkways collapsed into the sea. Only the support posts remained, sticking up out of the waves.

Malark smiled a crooked smile. “I’m afraid there isn’t much harbor left to look at.”

Azhir glared at him. “Is that how you acquired your reputation for cleverness? By stating the obvious?”

Szass Tam had already noticed that the tharchion of Gauros resented his newfound amity with a man, who, until recently, had been one of their most troublesome foes. He wished he could convince her that Malark had no interest in usurping her position. Unfortunately, she scarcely would have found an honest explanation of the spymaster’s interests reassuring.

“Is this it, then?” Homen asked. He, too, disliked Malark, but he’d always been more adept at masking his emotions. “I don’t see so much as a serviceable rowboat. I suppose we could march west to Thassalen. We might find ships there. But even if the autharch lets us into the city without a fight, by that time, the council will be far away.”

“We aren’t going to Thassalen,” Szass Tam said. He turned to one of the mounted guards. “Tell my wizards to attend me.” The warrior saluted and pounded off, his horse’s hooves drumming on the pavement.

The mages were no doubt weary from so many days of travel, but they had the good sense to come running. Szass Tam called the necromancers forward and positioned them so as to define the vertices of a complex mystic sigil. Then he took his place at the center.

He summoned a staff made of the fused bones of drowned men, bound with gold salvaged from sunken ships, into his withered hands. He hadn’t had occasion to use the rod in over two hundred years, but perceived immediately that it was as potent as ever. He could feel the force inside it pulsing slow and steady as a line of rumbling breakers pounding at a shore.

He linked his consciousness to that of his subordinates. He chanted words of power, and they chorused the responses.

The feeble sunlight faded until it seemed that dusk had arrived early. The air grew cold. Then gray, shriveled heads bobbed to the surface of the harbor as sailors who’d fallen overboard and swimmers who’d ventured too far from shore responded to the necromancers’ call. There were scores of them in view, and Szass Tam could sense still others, too far out to be visible but waiting to serve him nonetheless.

Meanwhile, memories of ancient pain and hatred woke in the ooze on the sea floor, and there they would shelter until true night fell. But then, they too would slither forth to do his bidding.

When he’d summoned and bound all he could, Szass Tam changed his incantations and the ritual passes that accompanied them, altering the net that was his magic to gather a different catch. Before, he’d fished for the festering stains left by the deaths of men. Now he trawled for echoes of the extinctions of beasts.

The rotting carcass of a kraken shifted its tentacles and swam upward from the seabed. The bones of a colossal eel tumbled and slid through slime to reassemble its skeleton. Mad with the need for vengeance on wyrm slayers who were long since dust, the ghost of a sea dragon roared, and although no one standing beside the ruined docks could see or hear it, people cringed and cried out nonetheless.

Szass Tam lowered his staff. When the ferrule touched the ground, he suddenly felt so weak that he leaned on the instrument.

It was unexpected. Liches were supposed to be immune to fatigue. But this wasn’t ordinary weariness. He truly was nearing the end of the Black Hand’s gift of power, and he realized that once it was gone, he’d be weaker than normal for a time. Perhaps it took a portion of his own strength to contain Bane’s energies safely until required, and then turn them to their proper purpose.

He was glad the weakness lasted only a moment. It was poor practice for a lord to allow his vassals to catch him looking vulnerable.

“You’ve raised a fair number of drowned men and dead sea creatures,” Malark called. “But not enough, I think, to destroy the council’s fleet.”

“I’m not done,” Szass Tam said.

He dismissed his necromancers. They were too spent to assist any further. Then he called forth any other sorcerers capable of helping with his next effort, which was to say, every Red Wizard who’d defected from the order Mythrellan and Dmitra had commanded in their turns, and anyone else possessing a working knowledge of the same discipline.

He arranged them in a different pattern, then switched the bone staff for one made of moonlight, shadow, shimmering desert air, and fancies plucked from a madman’s mind, all bound together. He led his assistants in another series of elaborate, contrapuntal invocations.

Darkness swirled on the water. By degrees, it sculpted itself into solid shapes and froze into solidity, until it became a fleet of warships floating at anchor, their hulls and sails black with scarlet trim and accents.

Szass Tam grinned at Malark, Homen, and Azhir. “I realize we didn’t make enough vessels to carry the entire army. But, with the warriors we can take onboard, the ones who’ll swim alongside, and those who can fly, do you think we now have sufficient strength to sink our foes?”

Homen smiled. “Your Omnipotence, I believe we do.”

The world tilted and spun. Szass Tam staggered. This time, if he was to remain upright, he had to lean heavily on his staff, and not just for a moment either. He growled a word of power whose virtue was to lend stamina to a flagging body and clarity to a beleaguered mind, and his dizziness abated.

Malark, Azhir, and Homen all ran to him, the fleet-footed former monk outdistancing the others. Despite his chagrin at having his appearance of majesty compromised, Szass Tam felt touched by what at least gave the impression of genuine concern. It warmed him in a way that all the cheering in the streets had not, and reminded him that the future, glorious as it would be, would come at a certain poignant cost.

“Are you all right?” Malark asked.

“I’m fine,” Szass Tam said.

“Maybe you should rest.”

“No. Perhaps I’ll want to by and by, but for now, I’m more than strong enough to do what needs doing. Which is raise a storm at sea to slow the council’s flight. Our fine new ships, zombie sea serpents, and what have you won’t do us any good if we can’t catch our quarry.”

He turned, scrutinized the sorcerers who waited to assist him, and called forth those with power over the weather.

Whenever Thessaloni Canos looked around the deck of Samas Kul’s floating seraglio, she had to suppress a sneer. She hated the lewd gilded carvings, the companionways broad and easy to negotiate as any staircase on land, and every other detail where the shipwrights had forsaken spare, efficient utility in favor of luxury and opulent display.

But the ridiculous vessel seemed to have become a flagship of sorts. Samas had entertained his fellow zulkirs onboard shortly after setting sail, and that had put them in the habit of gathering here to confer. Thessaloni simply had to make the best of it.

With her trident dangling in her hand, she waited for the mage-lords to arrive, prowling the decks and trying to look past the ship’s annoying toys and fripperies and determine how her captain ought to handle her in a fight. How nimbly could the ship maneuver, and how many archers could stand and shoot from the forecastle?

Meanwhile, Aoth Fezim, who’d carried her to the ship on the back of his griffon, descended to the galley, procured two hams, and watched with his luminous blue eyes as his steed snapped them down. Sailors watched, too, curious but keeping their distance as if they feared the beast might eat them next. Cold drizzle spattered down from a charcoal-colored sky, and the sea was choppy. The wind moaned out of the west.

The archwizards all appeared within a few heartbeats of one another. Samas crept on deck looking pale, shaky, and unshaven, as if he’d had a difficult night and had only just risen from his berth. Lauzoril and Lallara simply popped out of nowhere, and Nevron arrived riding a creature resembling a gigantic two-headed canary. When he dismounted, the thing turned into yellow vapor, which flowed into a brass ring on his left hand like steam retreating back into a kettle.

Aoth approached the zulkirs, came to attention, and saluted. Thessaloni climbed down from the bow and did the same. “Masters,” she said.

Lallara looked Samas up and down, smirked, and said, “Aren’t you treating us to another lavish breakfast this morning? More pork loin with green pepper sauce, perhaps? I do hope that enormous belly isn’t queasy.”

The transmuter scowled at her. “I hope you know how much I despise you.”

“I do. It lifts my spirits whenever I think of it.”

“We didn’t come here for bickering and japes.” Lauzoril turned to Thessaloni. “What’s our situation?”

“I’ll let Captain Fezim tell you,” Thessaloni replied. “He and his men are the ones who’ve been aloft this morning, scouting.”

The short, burly legionnaire cleared his throat. “We lost three ships, either because the storm sank them or because it blew them so far away that we can’t locate them.”

Nevron shrugged. A smell of smoke and burning clung to him. Thessaloni had first met him aboard a ship under her command, and she recalled how the odor had alarmed her until she realized where it originated. “Three isn’t so bad,” the conjuror said.

“I agree,” Thessaloni said, “but you haven’t heard everything yet.”

“The storm damaged a number of ships,” said Aoth, “and the crews are making repairs. I’m no mariner, but I’ll try to give you the details if you want them.

“The bad weather scattered the fleet as well. It will take some time for it to gather back together. But the really bad news is that the necromancers are chasing us. Somehow, they put their own fleet in the water. They’ve also got undead sea creatures swimming among their vessels, and skin kites and such flying above them.”

“Damn Szass Tam!” Nevron snarled. “Can we make it to the Alaor before he catches up with us?”

“No,” Thessaloni said. “The storm blew us east of the islands. The necromancers would intercept us en route.”

“I thought we brought the priesthood of Umberlee along with us,” Lallara said. “Someone remind me, what use are they, if they can’t bend the wind and the tides to our advantage?”

“You Masters obviously comprehend mystical matters far better than I,” Thessaloni said, “but as I understand it, Szass Tam’s spellcasters are still wrestling with ours for control of the weather, and at the moment, the enemy is having more success than we are.”

Lauzoril cocked his head. “Could Szass Tam catch us if we headed farther east and south?”

Thessaloni felt a stab of annoyance at the obvious tenor of his thought and did her best to mask her feelings. “Possibly not, Your Omnipotence. Not soon, anyway.”

“But then what?” Lallara asked. “Do we beg for sanctuary in Mulhorand? Do you imagine they love us there, and will give us estates to rule? I think I can guarantee you a chillier reception. We have to reach the Alaor and the colony cities and confirm our mastery of them if we’re to have any sort of lives at all.”

Thessaloni had never liked Lallara. Why would anyone feel fondness for a woman who went out of her way to be waspish and obnoxious? But she liked her now.

Samas articulated the logical corollary to Lallara’s observation. “If that’s still our objective, then we need to fight. Can we win?”

“Yes,” Thessaloni said.

Lauzoril gave her a skeptical frown. “You seem very sure of yourself.”

“I am.” It was an exaggeration, but she’d long ago learned that few things were more useless than a captain who dithered and hedged. “Masters, with all respect, over the years I’ve built you the best navy in eastern Faerûn. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, because, the Bitch Goddess knows, for the past decade the fleet has had little to do. You’ve been fighting a land war, and our only tasks have been to intercept smugglers trying to convey supplies and mercenaries to Szass Tam, and to discourage raiders hoping to take advantage of the weakness of a Thay divided against itself.”

She smiled. “But by the Bitch’s fork, it’s a sea war now, and your sailors are eager to prove their mettle. We don’t care what fearsome powers Szass Tam possesses, or how many orcs, zombies, and whatnots are riding on his black ships. They’re landlubbers, and we’re anything but. Give me leave to direct the battle as I see fit, and I promise you victory.”

The zulkirs exchanged glances, and then Samas smiled. “That makes me feel a little better.”

When she sensed that the sun was gone, Tammith arose from the hold to find the griffon riders trying to saddle their mounts. The beasts were skittish, fractious, and liable to screech and even snap. They were creatures of mountain and hill, and according to Brightwing’s grumbling as translated by Aoth, they didn’t like the crowding, the rolling deck, the expanses of water to every side, or any other aspect of the sea voyage.

But Brightwing possessed enhanced intelligence and a psychic link with her master, and Bareris had used his music to forge a comparable bond with Winddancer. No doubt for those reasons, the two officers had succeeded in preparing their steeds for battle in advance of the soldiers under their command. Now they stood in the bow gazing west, where the sky was still red with the last traces of sunset. Looking like the champion he’d been in life, Mirror hovered behind them.

Tammith judged that it would be easier to float over the mass of irritable griffons and their riders than to squirm her way through them, so she dissolved into mist. The transformation dulled her senses, but not so much as to rob her of her orientation, particularly with the forbidding pressure of the sea defining the perimeter of the deck as plainly as a set of walls. She flowed over the heads of beasts and legionnaires and congealed into flesh and bone at Bareris’s side. He smiled and kissed her, and she resisted the impulse to extend her fangs, nibble his lips, and draw blood to suck.

“I thought I might wake to find you fighting,” she said, “or even that the battle was already over.”

Bareris grinned. “That’s because you haven’t fought at sea. It takes at least as long for fleets to maneuver for position as it does with armies on land.”

“But it won’t be long now,” Mirror said. The sword in his scabbard disappeared, then reformed in his hand, the blade lengthening like an icicle. A round shield wavered into existence on his other arm.

Aoth nodded and hefted his spear. “It’s time to get into the air.”

“I wish I could fly with you,” said Tammith to Bareris. “It bothers me that we won’t be together.”

“That would be my preference, too,” he said. “But I’ll be most useful riding Winddancer, and we all need to do our best if we’re going to smash through Szass Tam’s fleet. So—one last fight, and then it’s on to the Wizard’s Reach and safety.”

She smiled. “Yes, on to Escalant. Just be careful.”

“I will.” He squeezed her hands, and then he and Aoth strode back to their steeds.

The survivors of the Griffon Legion leaped into the sky with a prodigious clatter and snapping of wings. Mirror floated upward to join them on their flight.

Night could blind an army or a fleet, sometimes with fatal consequences. Accordingly, the council’s spellcasters sought to illuminate the black, heaving surface of the sea by casting enchantments of illumination onto floats, then tossing them overboard. But the results were only intermittently useful. As often as not, the glowing domes revealed only empty stretches of water, and when they showed more, the necromancers were apt to cast counterspells to extinguish them. Nevron donned a horned, red-lacquered devil mask invested with every charm of augmented vision known to the Order of Divination, and it gave him a far superior view of what was transpiring.

It wasn’t an especially encouraging view, consisting as it did of dozens of black ships crewed by rotting corpses, gleaming wraiths soaring above the masts, and skeletal leviathans swimming before the bows, all rushing to annihilate the council and its servants. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of fear.

But a true zulkir—as opposed to useless pretenders like Kumed Hahpret and Zola Sethrakt—learned not merely to conceal such weakness but to expunge it as soon as it appeared. Nevron quashed the feeling by reminding himself that it was his destiny to reign as a prince in one of the higher worlds. This little skirmish was merely practice for the infinitely grander battles he would one day fight to win and keep his throne.

When he was certain he was his true self, all foxy cunning and steely resolve, he pivoted toward the other conjurors on the deck. “Now,” he said. “Bring forth your servants.”

His minions hastened to obey him—some by chanting incantations, some by twisting a ring or gripping an amulet—and demons, devils, and elemental spirits shimmered into view until the deck and the air overhead were thick with them, and the warship reeked of sulfur. An apelike bar-luga slipped free of its summoner’s control long enough to grab a sailor and tear his head off.

Most of Nevron’s followers had called the entities with whom they’d dealt most frequently—the same spirits they would have summoned on land, and that was all right. Most of the creatures could reach the enemy by flying or translating themselves through space. But Nevron knew how to bring forth and control every extradimensional creature the Order of Conjuration had ever catalogued, and he suspected that denizens of the infernal oceans might prove even more useful in this particular confrontation.

He chanted and, infuriatingly, nothing happened. The blight afflicting magic had ruined his spell. Some of the entities caged in the talismans he carried laughed or shouted taunts. He gave them pain enough to turn their mockery to screams, then repeated the incantation.

Forces wailed and shimmered through the air, and then the patch of sea directly beneath him churned as a school of skulvyns materialized. Lizardlike with black bulging eyes and four whipping tails, the demons raised their heads and looked to him for instructions. Other Red Wizards, sailors, and even spirits started drawling their words and moving with languid slowness as the hindering aura emanating from the swimming creatures took them in its grip.

Nevron told the skulvyns who and what to destroy, then recited a second incantation. A gigantic wastrilith appeared in the sea, its mass displacing enough water to rock the ship. The demon resembled an immense eel with a vaguely humanoid upper body, round amber eyes, and a mouth full of fangs. Nevron didn’t have to speak to it out loud, because wastriliths could communicate mind to mind. When it learned what he required of it, it roared with glee and hurtled toward one of the black ships. It reared, spewed, and raked the enemy vessel’s main deck with a stream of seawater heated hot enough to scald. Blood orcs screamed.

All right, Nevron thought. It appeared that his wizardry was working properly again, so perhaps it was time to attempt something challenging. His grating words of command cracked the planks under his feet and made the people around him cringe, even though they couldn’t understand them. A sailor’s nose dripped blood. The spirits locked in Nevron’s rings and amulets howled and gibbered in fear.

The myrmixicus’s arrival triggered a sort of purely spiritual shock that staggered nearly everyone, as if the mortal world itself were screaming in protest at having to contain such an abomination. Like the wastrilith, the demon resembled an enormous eel but was even bigger. Its head was reptilian. Beneath that were four arms, each wielding a scythe, and below those, six tentacles. Its tail terminated in a lamprey mouth.

Nevron sent it at the black ships, and a zombie kraken swam to intercept it. The undead creature threw its tentacles around the tanar’ri and dragged it toward its beak. Except for making sure that its arms didn’t become entangled, the myrmixicus didn’t resist. It wanted to close, and when they came together, it hacked savagely, shredding its foe into lumps of carrion.

Then it resumed its swim toward the enemy fleet. A ghostly dragon, a vague shape made of sickly phosphorescence, rose from the depths to challenge it.

Nevron realized the wizards around him had fallen quiet. He looked around and discovered his followers watching the myrmixicus in awe and fascination.

So had he, for a moment, but that wasn’t the point. “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Do you think this is a pageant being staged for your amusement? Keep conjuring, or you’re all going to die!”

The ghost of a woman, slain by torture from the look of her, flew at Aoth and Brightwing. The mouth in the phantom’s eyeless face gaped as if the hapless soul had died screaming, and burns and puncture wounds mottled the gaunt, naked form from neck to toe. Its limbs flopped as though suspension or the rack had separated the joints.

Aoth tried to throw flame from the head of his spear. Nothing happened.

The ghost reached out to plunge its tattered fingers into his body. Brightwing swooped and passed under the insubstantial figure.

Certain the ghost would give chase, Aoth twisted around in the saddle and tried again to summon flame. To his relief, a fan-shaped blaze of yellow fire leaped from his weapon to sear the spirit.

But though its entire form contorted like a sketch on a sheet of crumpling parchment, it wasn’t destroyed by the fire. It kept hurtling forward and thrust its hand into Brightwing’s backside just above the leonine tail. She screamed, convulsed, and fell. Anchored to the griffon’s body, the ghost snatched at Aoth, its skinny arm stretching like dough.

Aoth jerked his upper body away, leaning over Brightwing’s neck, and although it came so near he felt the sickening chill of it, the ghost’s hand fell short. He drove his spear into its chest, snarled a word of power, and channeled destructive force into the weapon.

The ghost dissolved. Brightwing spread her wings and arrested her plummet.

“Are you all right?” Aoth asked.

“Yes,” Brightwing croaked, her voice more crow than eagle.

He studied the black, suppurating sore where the phantom had wounded her. “Are you sure?”

“I said yes!”

“All right, but let’s take a moment to catch our breaths.”

The griffon veered, climbed, and carried him to a clear section of sky. Aoth took the opportunity to study the battle raging around and beneath them.

His fire-touched eyes could see nearly everything clearly, even at a distance and in the dark, but at first he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make sense of it all. So much was going on.

Swimming devils and zombie leviathans tore at one another.

Archers and crossbowmen shot their shafts. Ballistae threw enormous bolts, and mangonels, stones. Wizards hurled bright, crackling thunderbolts and called down hailstones.

Galleys and cogs maneuvered, seeking the weather gage or some comparable advantage. One vessel drove its ram into the hull of another. Dread warriors flung grappling irons, seeking to catch hold of a nearby ship and drag it close enough to board. Aquatic ghouls tried to clamber onto what had been a fishing boat, with nets still lying around the deck, while legionnaires jabbed at them with spears.

Fighting from one of the largest warships, Iphegor Nath and some of the Burning Braziers alternately hurled holy fire at enemy vessels and at any particularly dangerous undead that wandered within range. Suddenly, quells appeared among them, shifted through space by the wizards in their midst. Shadowy figures in swirling robes, glowing mystic sigils floating in the air around them, the apparitions were capable of sundering a priest from the source of his power. Warrior monks, the Braziers’ protectors, charged the quells with burning chains whirling in their hands.

Aerial combatants soared, wheeled, and swooped around the sky. A balor struck at spectres with its fiery sword and whip. Half a dozen griffon riders loosed arrow after arrow at a skirr, one of the huge, mummified, batlike undead, while dodging and veering to keep clear of fangs and talons.

Gradually, Aoth sorted it all out, or at least he thought he had. It seemed to him that up in the air, neither side had gained the advantage, which meant that the flyers stayed busy with one another. They couldn’t do much to exploit their elevated position to threaten the ships below.

The same was true of the swimming horrors. They seemed equally matched, and as long as that held true, they wouldn’t pose much danger to either fleet.

But happily, not every part of the battle reflected the same furious, lethal stalemate, with men, orcs, and conjured creatures struggling and perishing without tipping the balance one way or the other. In the ship-to-ship combats, the true heart of the conflict, the council was faring better than its foes.

Szass Tam had as many ships as his rivals, vessels filled with formidable undead monstrosities, but as Thessaloni Canos had predicted, their crews didn’t handle them well. The council’s vessels came at the enemy ships from behind or amidships, and only grappled them when it was to their advantage.

The necromancers’ thaumaturgy was more reliable than that of their fellow Red Wizards, but combined, the powers of the other orders were more versatile. In addition, they had all the priests they’d evacuated from Bezantur—servants of Kossuth, Mask, Cyric, Umberlee, and every other Thayan god except Bane—backing them up with their own kind of magic.

By the Great Flame, Aoth thought, am I truly seeing this? Has Szass Tam overreached at last? He remembered all the times when the zulkir of Necromancy had feigned weakness to lure his foes, then snapped a trap shut around them, and was afraid to believe what he was seeing.

Then one of the black ships faded into a vague shadow of itself. Another abruptly went flat, like a paper cutout standing upright on the surface of the sea.

At first Aoth surmised that the necromancers aboard the two vessels had activated some sort of defensive enchantments. But then Brightwing said, “What are you peering at?”

“Two of Szass Tam’s ships look different. Can’t you see it?”

“No.”

After another moment, Aoth couldn’t, either. The two vessels appeared normal.

But that didn’t matter. He suddenly thought he understood the meaning of what he’d observed, and if so, perhaps the council could maintain its edge no matter what tricks Szass Tam held in store.

“Find Lallara,” he said.

The zulkir of Abjuration rated an even larger and more formidable ship than Iphegor Nath, and was accordingly easy to locate. When Brightwing dived out of the night sky, voices cried the alarm. Crossbowmen in the high sterncastle raised their weapons, and Red Wizards, their wands and staves. For an instant, Aoth was sure that his eagerness to share his discovery would be the death of him.

Fortunately, Lallara screamed, “Stop, you idiots!” Her minions froze.

Brightwing landed in the sterncastle between the archwizard and the parapet. She did so lightly, but even so, the planking groaned beneath her weight. “Thank you, Mistress,” said Aoth.

“What do you want?” Lallara said.

“I’ve observed something. We wondered where Szass Tam got a fleet, and now I know. He created the black ships with illusion magic. They aren’t entirely real.”

Lallara spat. “Nonsense. If that were true, I’d be able to tell. Or the diviners would. Or the illusionists. But no one else has discerned such a thing.”

Aoth took a breath. “Your Omnipotence, there’s something I haven’t told you. The blue fire in my eyes gives me absolute clarity of vision. So if I’ve ever accomplished anything of note in the service of the council, if I’ve ever given sound advice, then please, heed me now. Because if the black ships are made of illusion—”

“Then a circle of abjurers should be able to cast counterspells to expunge them from existence,” Lallara snapped. “I don’t need you to instruct me in basic magical theory.” She called for several lesser wizards to attend her, and they came scurrying.

Lallara arranged them in a circle with herself at the center, directed their attention to the nearest black ship, and started a long incantation with an intricate structure and rhyme. Her assistants chimed in on the refrain. Aoth, whose system of battle magic concentrated on attacks and was mostly devoid of feats of abjuration, felt lost immediately.

But he had no trouble comprehending the results of their effort. The dark ship abruptly vanished, dumping the dread warriors and necromancers aboard into the sea.

He knew the abjurers wouldn’t be able to make all the enemy vessels disappear. Some would prove impervious to their magic, especially if Szass Tam himself had taken part in their creation. Still, Aoth had given his allies a potent new weapon.

“Well done,” he said.

Lallara turned and glared at him. “Why are you still here? Your place is with your men, if you’re not trying to shirk the fight.”

He sighed. “I’m on my way.”

“No, wait. Fly to the senior illusionists and tell them what you told me. They may be able to unmake the black ships as well.”

Standing in the prow of his flagship, his staff of drowned men’s bones in his hand, Szass Tam gazed over the water and smiled. “I should have made a greater effort to win Thessaloni Canos over to my side. Or had her assassinated.”

“If it’s hopeless,” Malark said, “I recommend you pull your ships out of combat before you lose any more soldiers. The skeleton sea serpents and their fellows can cover our retreat.”

“I think not.”

“You’ve already won the war.”

“But if I kill my fellow zulkirs tonight, or failing that, send their treasure and followers to the bottom of the sea, I can rest secure in the knowledge I won’t have to fight another. And the battle is far from lost. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the trump up my sleeve.”

“Are you still strong enough to use it?”

“Let’s find out.” Szass Tam focused his awareness on the air above an empty stretch of water and murmured words of power. Frost crept across the railing in front of him, and the remaining flesh on a dread warrior’s frame liquefied all at once, leaving it a figure of dripping bone.

The roundship’s task had been to transport the Griffon Legion, and now that Aoth and his command were in the air, not many soldiers were left aboard. Thus, although the crossbowmen shot at any target of opportunity, the sailors were doing their best to keep the vessel out of the thick of combat.

It was only prudent, but it frustrated Tammith. The smell of blood hung on the wind, enticing her, drying her throat, and causing her fangs to extend. She longed to be on one of the pairs of grappled ships, where she could fight, kill, and drink until her appetites were satisfied.

In lieu of that, she’d obtained her own crossbow, but killing someone at range was a poor substitute for tearing him apart with her sword or fangs, not that she often hit her mark in any case. She possessed preternatural senses and physical prowess, but no training in the use of that particular weapon.

She pulled the trigger, the crossbow clacked, and the bolt flew too low, imbedding itself in the ebony hull of an enemy galley. She hissed and reached for another. Then someone shouted.

Tammith pivoted. A dead man was climbing out of the water onto the stern. A haze hung in the air around it.

She grinned. The zombie had no blood to slake her thirst, but at least she’d have the satisfaction of cutting it up. Or she would if her shipmates didn’t dispatch it first, for a single animated corpse shouldn’t pose much of a threat. She dropped her crossbow and drew her blade.

The men closest to the undead newcomer stumbled, retched, and fell. Whatever was afflicting them, it rendered them incapable of defense, and, its bare fists striking with bone-shattering force, the creature had no difficulty breaking their backs and skulls. Two crossbow bolts plunged into its torso, but it didn’t even seem to notice.

Tammith charged.

The haze surrounding the dead man was cold and wet, and as soon as she entered it, a burning tightness ripped through her chest. She couldn’t breathe, as if her lungs were full of water and she was drowning.

But a vampire had no need to breathe. She clamped down on her irrational terror, raised her off hand to signal her comrades to stay away—she doubted she could speak coherently with the choking fullness in her mouth and lungs—and rushed the zombie.

The creature evidently hadn’t realized she too was undead, because her immunity to its lethal aura seemed to take it by surprise. When she thrust her sword at its chest, it tried to parry with its forearm, but was too slow. The blade plunged through soft, rotten tissue, scraped a rib, and pierced the heart.

But it wasn’t the mortal injury she’d hoped for. Without even faltering, the creature shoved itself farther onto the blade, closing the distance, then whipped a punch at her head. She ducked and scrambled backward, yanking the sword free as she retreated.

For the next few moments, she and the zombie traded attacks. The creature had yet to connect, but as strong as it was, it might only need to hit her once to incapacitate her, and then smash her bones while she was helpless. She cut and pierced it repeatedly, but the wounds weren’t slowing it down. In fact, some were starting to close. Her foe possessed a gift of quick healing akin to her own.

It was also inching the duel toward the bow of the ship, and she thought she understood the reason. It wanted to engulf the other mortals in its drowning effect. Then she’d have to slay it quickly if she wanted her allies to survive. She’d need to fight more aggressively and take chances, and that might finally give the creature the opportunity to get its hands on her.

If you want aggression, Tammith thought, I’ll give it to you. She exploded into a cloud of bats.

It hurt to transform so quickly, and hurt again when each of her creatures felt the strangling weight of water in its lungs. The bats were more primal, more creatures of instinct, than she was in human form, and a fresh surge of terror threatened to overwhelm them. But the part of her that was shadowy overmind, the guiding consciousness they shared, resisted.

The bats hurtled at the zombie. It caught one in each hand, squeezed and crushed them, and all the survivors felt the death agony, but that couldn’t balk them either. Two others landed on the creature’s face and clawed out its eyes.

Then all the surviving bats flew away and whirled into a single form again. That didn’t quell the pain, but Tammith had to ignore it. Because, orienting on the rustle of wings, her foe lurched around to confront her with slime seething in the orbits of its deliquescing face. Its new eyes had nearly formed already.

She bellowed a battle cry and cut at its neck.

Its head tumbled free of its shoulders. The body collapsed, then crawled after its severed portion. Tammith ran to the head, snatched it up, and hurled it over the rail. The body stopped moving, and the cold, wet haze evaporated.

Tammith surveyed the deck. More men were alive than otherwise, but the survivors were simply standing and gawking. “Get back to your duties!” she rasped. “Sail the ship and watch for other enemies!”

Most of them scrambled to obey, but one youth stayed huddled on the deck, weeping and gasping as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

Tammith strode over to him. “Get up. You’re all right now.”

He just stayed where he’d fallen, his shoulders shaking, and she experienced a spasm of contempt. He was a coward, and useless. Or rather, useful only as a source of blood. If she drained him, the throbbing pain inside her would ease more quickly.

She jerked him to his feet, tilted his head back to expose the throat, and in so doing, got a good look at his tear- and snot-streaked face. He was even younger than she’d imagined, and, judging from his lack of any uniform or insignia, not a member of the zulkirs’ navy, just a fisherman’s son or trader’s cabin boy they’d pressed into service to help with their escape.

Shame rose inside her. It didn’t extinguish her thirst, but it counterbalanced it. She stared into the youth’s eyes and said, “Calm down. Everything’s fine.”

He blinked and smiled, then stiffened. A bat far larger than the ones she could become swooped over the deck and then melted into a towering, four-armed figure with crimson eyes and a lupine muzzle. “Good evening, Captain Iltazyarra,” Tsagoth said. “I’ve been hunting you for a while.”

Aoth watched in dismay as the dream vestige came streaming and boiling from empty air. He could hear its myriad voices moaning and whimpering even from high above.

“You didn’t think we were going to get through the fight without seeing that thing again, did you?” Brightwing asked. The undertone of stress in her voice revealed that the wound she’d received from the ghost was still paining her.

“I hoped so, but maybe the zulkirs can handle it this time. I know they talked about how to do it. Our job is to keep our troops away from it.” He flew around bellowing a warning, and other griffon riders took up the call in turn.

Although perhaps it wasn’t necessary. The dream vestige had manifested just above the water and there it floated still, either because that was where Szass Tam wanted it or because it judged it would catch more prey there. Tentaclelike extrusions groping for any sentient swimming or flying creature unfortunate enough to be within reach, it streamed forward and engulfed one of the council’s war galleys. When it flowed on, no one was left on deck.

The Red Wizards and the priests of Bezantur counterattacked with every form of magic at their disposal. Hurtling sparks exploded into blasts of flame at the center of the cloud. Thunderbolts pierced it, and howling winds shoved at it. Two of the largest conjured entities Aoth had ever seen, both eel-like with vaguely human upper bodies, spat their breath weapons, then swam in to rip with fang, claw, and scythe before dissolving in the dream vestige’s misty embrace.

Aoth told himself that his allies must be hurting the thing. Whether alive or undead, no being was entirely impervious to harm. But they weren’t causing enough damage to stop it.

It devoured the crew of a second ship.

“Take me nearer,” said Aoth.

“Are you joking?” Brightwing replied. “If the thing doesn’t grab us and eat us, a stray lightning bolt will fry us.”

“I trust you to dodge the dangers.”

“Thanks so much.”

“I need to look at the fog up close. If I do, I might see something nobody else can see.”

“I think I liked you better blind.” Brightwing furled her wings and dived.

They swooped over Szass Tam’s servant with the height of a tall ship’s mainmast separating them from the top of the billowing vapor. It wasn’t nearly enough separation to keep them safe. Composed of writhing, mewling shadows all ragged and intertwined, columns of mist shot up and lashed at them. Angled upward, a lightning bolt stabbed out of the cloud just in front of them and burned an afterimage across Aoth’s vision. An elemental in the form of a towering, roaring waterspout, a rudimentary face repeatedly forming and disappearing in the swirl, rushed toward them. Brightwing veered constantly, striving to evade whatever threat was closest without running straight into another.

When they finished running the gauntlet, they were above the necromancers’ fleet, but the threat implicit in that seemed almost trivial compared to what they’d just endured. “Did you get what you wanted?” the griffon asked.

“No,” Aoth said. “Do it again, but fly lower.”

Brightwing laughed. “Of course. Why not?”

As they skimmed just above its surface, the fog-thing tried even harder to seize them, and since its extrusions didn’t have to shoot far, the griffon had less time to dodge. Blasts of flame seared and dazzled them, and Aoth’s thoughts threatened to shatter into panic and confusion. The latter resulted from too much magic unleashed in too small a space and in too short a time, straining the foundations of reality itself.

He struggled to ignore the distractions and look, although the cloud streaking by just under Brightwing’s talons and paws was so palpably vile that he wanted to cringe and avert his gaze. Murky, tangled, inconstant figures crawled over and over one another like a nest of snakes. Mouths gaped and twisted, and shredded fingers clutched and scrabbled.

One of the dream vestige’s arms leaped up directly in front of Brightwing. She veered, but Aoth saw that she had little chance of avoiding it. Then an ammizu, a squat, bat-winged devil with a face like a boar, dived at the necromancers’ servant and the misty tentacle twisted away from the griffon to snatch for the baatezu.

The shadowy vapor below gave way to black water. In another moment, Aoth and Brightwing hurtled beyond the dream vestige’s reach.

“I’m not doing it a third time,” Brightwing rasped.

“I wasn’t going to ask. Take me back to Lallara.”

“It seems,” Tammith said, “that you’re a bad loser.”

Tsagoth laughed. “Not really. I rather admire the way you tricked me. I’m here because Szass Tam ordered me to seek you whenever my other duties permitted. You could consider it a compliment of sorts that he took special notice of your departure.” He vanished.

Tammith had been expecting such a trick. She whirled and swung her sword in a horizontal cut at the level of Tsagoth’s belly.

But the attack fell short. She assumed he’d position himself close enough to attack instantly, without the necessity of stepping in, but she’d been mistaken.

He sprang at her before she could recover. She flung herself to one side, and three of his snatching hands closed on empty air. The fourth, however, grabbed her shoulder, yanked, and came away with flesh, leather, and lengths of rattling chain clutched in the talons.

She cried out at the burst of pain but couldn’t allow it to slow her. Tsagoth pivoted toward her, and she heaved her blade into line. He halted rather than risk impaling herself on her point, and she retreated farther away from him.

She’d kept herself alive for at least another moment, but that was all. She had no hope of winning. She still carried the hurt the zombie had given her, Tsagoth had just injured her a second time, and he overmatched her in any case.

But if she couldn’t prevail, she might still survive. She couldn’t turn into bats and flee over open water, but he wouldn’t be able to harm her if she melted into mist, and so, although the savage part of her protested, she willed the transformation.

Pain stabbed into her back. She lost control of the change, and her form locked into solidity again.

In fact, she lost control of everything and couldn’t move at all. Her legs buckled beneath her, dropping her to her knees. She would have fallen farther, but something was holding her up. Her head lolled backward, and then she could see it. At some point, Tsagoth had used his hypnotic powers on one of the sailors, who now crept forward and thrust a spear into her back.

The mortal had done a good job of it, to penetrate her mail and plunge the lance in deeply enough that the wooden shaft transfixed her heart. That was why she couldn’t move, and likely never would again.

Tsagoth advanced and reached for her head, probably to tear or twist it off. Then a thunderous shout staggered the blood fiend and flayed flesh from the upper part of his body. Winddancer and Bareris plunged down on top of him. The griffon’s talons impaled Tsagoth, and his momentum smashed him down onto the deck.

Tsagoth heaved himself onto his knees, tumbling his attackers off of him. He scrambled upright, and gathered himself to spring before Winddancer found his footing or Bareris could shift his sword to threaten him. Then Mirror, resembling a sketch of Bareris wrought in smoke and starlight, flew down on his flank. The ghost cut, and his intangible blade sheared into Tsagoth’s torso. The blood fiend staggered.

Attacking relentlessly, the newcomers pushed Tsagoth down the deck toward the stern. Bareris slipped off Winddancer’s back, ran to Tammith, shoved the unresisting sailor away from her, and, grunting, pulled the spear out of her back.

As soon as he did, her mobility returned. She felt an itching across her body and realized that, with a length of wood jammed in her heart, she’d already started to rot. Now the process was reversing.

Bareris threw the spear over the side. “I have to fight.”

She bared her fangs and stood up. “So do I.”

She expected him to protest that she ought to keep away from Tsagoth, at least until her wounds closed, but he didn’t. Something in her manner must have told him he couldn’t dissuade her. He simply turned and advanced on their foe, and she glided after him.

Bareris didn’t try to climb on Winddancer’s back, nor, biting and clawing, did the griffon need a rider to encourage him to fight. Battling in concert, the four of them—bard, beast, ghost, and vampire—harried Tsagoth, each defending when the blood fiend oriented on him and attacking from the side or rear when their adversary sought to rend a comrade.

By degrees, they slashed Szass Tam’s agent into a patchwork of gaping wounds, and dark sores erupted where Mirror’s sword had penetrated. The fiend couldn’t heal them fast enough, and Tammith prayed that he was too lost to battle rage to realize that his only hope was to translate himself through space to safety.

His wolfish muzzle partly sliced from the rest of his head, he leered at her as if he’d read her mind, as if to promise that he wouldn’t leave with the matter between them unresolved. Then he charged her.

That action required him to abandon any attempt at defense, and Bareris, Mirror, and Winddancer all cut deep. But Tsagoth didn’t drop, the reckless tactic caught Tammith by surprise, and she couldn’t dodge in time. The blood fiend grabbed her and bulled her onward. They smashed through the rail and plummeted into the sea.

The circle of abjurers recited the final line of their incantation, and power whined through the air. Some of the shrouds attached to the foremast snapped. But the cloud-thing across the water continued devouring every sentient being it could seize, exactly the same as before.

Aoth was disappointed, but not surprised. Lallara and her subordinates had tried thrice before with the same lack of success.

The zulkir pivoted and lashed the back of her hand across a female Red Wizard’s mouth. Her rings cut, and the younger woman flinched back with bloody lips.

“Useless imbeciles!” Lallara snarled. Then she looked at Aoth, and, to his amazement, gave him a fleeting hint of a smile. It was the first such moment in all his years of service. “There. That made me feel a trifle better, but it didn’t help our situation, did it?”

“No, Your Omnipotence. I guess it didn’t.”

“Then it’s time to go. Would you care to accompany us? Perhaps you’ve earned it, even if this last piece of information—or alleged information—you brought me is worthless, too.”

“Mistress, is it possible that if you and the other zulkirs all combined your powers—”

“I think not, and for all we know, the others have already transported themselves to safety.”

“Surely it wouldn’t take long to find out for certain.”

She scowled. “The dream vestige has turned the tide in Szass Tam’s favor, and our fleet is going to lose. I don’t like it either, but that’s the way it is. Now, do you want to live?”

“Yes, Mistress, very much. But I have griffon riders in the sky.”

She looked up, then snorted. “By my estimation, not many, not anymore.”

“Still.” He swung his leg over Brightwing’s back.

Tammith and Tsagoth splashed down into the dark water, and it paralyzed her as completely as the spear, even as it ate at her like acid. As they sank deeper, the blood fiend clawed and bit at her eroding flesh.

Something else plunged into the sea. Her eyes were burning like the rest of her, but she could make out Winddancer’s talons ripping at Tsagoth, and Bareris’s sword stabbing repeatedly.

The blood fiend vanished.

The weight of Tammith’s mail dragged what was left of her deeper amid a cloud of corruption. Now she was beyond Winddancer’s reach. Her fingers corroded to nothing, and her sword fell away.

Bareris dived after her, seized her, and struggled to swim upward. She herself wasn’t weighing him down. She scarcely had any weight left. Her mail and his brigandine were the hindrances.

She felt relieved when her chain shirt slipped off the wisp of mush she’d become, and he finally started to make headway toward the air above. She couldn’t have borne it if he’d drowned.

But it was too late for her, and probably that was for the best. Now she couldn’t hurt him anymore. She wished she could tell him so, and then blackness seemed to rise like a great fish from the gulf beneath her and swallowed everything.

Sopping wet, the wind chilling him, Bareris stood at the rail and stared out at the night. Illuminated by the flickering glow of burning ships and flares of mystic force, the battle raged before him on the sea and in the sky, and he knew he could make sense of it if he wanted. But he couldn’t muster any interest.

Why did I swim to the surface? he wondered. What was the point? Why can’t I find the courage to dive back in?

Wings snapped and fluttered behind him. He assumed it was Winddancer trying to dry her feathers until Aoth’s voice said, “I expected to find you aloft directing the men.”

Bareris took a breath, then reluctantly turned to face his comrade. “I was. Then I saw Tsagoth fighting Tammith. He was pressing her hard.”

Aoth closed his smoldering eyes as if in pain. Perhaps he’d just realized that Tammith was nowhere to be seen, or maybe he surmised her fate from Bareris’s manner. “My friend, I’m truly sorry.”

“So am I,” Mirror said.

For some reason, their sympathy infuriated Bareris, but he realized in a dim way that he ought not to let his anger show. “Thank you,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.

“If I were you,” Aoth said, “I’d just want to stand here and grieve. But you can’t. The battle’s going against us. Lallara’s fled already, and maybe the other zulkirs, too. I don’t know how many griffon riders are still alive, but we need to collect them and try to lead them to safety. On the wing, if we think land is close enough, and aboard this vessel otherwise.”

Bareris drew breath to say, Go without me.

But Mirror spoke first. “I thought we were winning.”

“We were,” said Aoth, “but then Szass Tam unleashed the dream vestige, and for all their theorizing and preparations, the Red Wizards can’t stop it. I thought I’d discovered something that would help them, but it was no use, either.”

“What was it?” Mirror asked.

Aoth made a sour face. “The souls that make up the cloud are in torment, tangled together as they are, trapped in a kind of perpetual nightmare, and they hate one another even more than they hate the rest of the world. Much as they hunger to eat the living, they’re even more eager to lash out at their fellows, but something about their condition—some binding Szass Tam created, perhaps—prevents it. I hoped knowing that would give the Red Wizards an opening, but …” He shrugged.

Bareris wasn’t making any effort to attend to Aoth’s explanation. The dream vestige no longer interested him, or so he imagined. Yet even so, his friend’s words evoked an idea, and an urge to do something more than “stand here and grieve.”

“It might be a weakness we can exploit,” he said. “I’m going to try.”

Aoth scowled. “I told you, Lallara and her circle had the same information, and they couldn’t slay the thing. Neither can Iphegor Nath and the other high priests.”

“That may be,” said Bareris. “But no one weaves magic to spark or twist emotion better than a bard.” And he believed at that moment, he understood suffering and hatred as well as any singer ever born.

“Is this just a fancy way of committing suicide?” Aoth demanded. “I ask because it won’t end your pain, or send you to rejoin Tammith. You’ll be stuck inside that thing, sharing its agony, forever.”

“I promise, my goal is to destroy it.”

“Let him try,” said Mirror to Aoth. “You’d do the same if you believed you had any chance of succeeding.”

Aoth snorted. “After watching Lallara abandon the fleet to its fate? Don’t count on it.” He turned his head toward Bareris. “But all right. I won’t stand in your way.”

“Thank you.” Bareris looked around at some of the surviving sailors and called for them to lower a dinghy. Since the dream vestige wasn’t far away, he saw no reason to take Winddancer close enough for the cloud-thing to grab.

“I’ll come with you,” Mirror said.

“No, you won’t. You can’t sing spells or row a boat, so you truly would be risking your existence for no reason whatsoever, and that would trouble me.”

The ghost lowered his head in acquiescence.

It didn’t take the mariners long to put the dinghy in the water, or for Bareris to climb into it. He nodded to his comrades, then rowed toward the dream vestige.

Nothing molested him. Except for mindless things like zombies and their ilk, even Szass Tam’s other minions were trying to stay clear of the fog-thing, and so they made no effort to intercept a boat headed toward it.

When he was close enough, he started to sing.

He sang of loving Tammith more than life itself and losing her over and over again. Of hating the world that inflicted such infinite cruelty, and despising himself still more for his failure to shield his beloved from its malice. Of the insupportable need to attain an end. He took rage and grief, guilt and self-loathing, and sought to forge them into a sword to strike a blow against Szass Tam and to aid his friends.

The dream vestige extended a murky arm. He kept singing. The groaning, whispering swirl of shadowy figures engulfed him and hoisted him into the air.

The phantoms slithered around him like pythons trying to crush him. Their jagged fingers scratched and gouged. Shocks of fear and cold jolted him, and he felt some fundamental quality—the boundary that made him a separate entity, perhaps, as opposed to just one more helpless, crazed component of the fog—rotting and dissolving.

Rotting and dissolving as Tammith had, turning to scum and nothingness in his embrace. He focused on that and it gave him the strength to force out another note and another after that, to keep trying to enflame the dream vestige’s wrath and self-hatred until they were strong enough to burst any constraint.

Samas Kul decided it was time to go. But he didn’t share his conclusion with the transmuters who’d had the honor of journeying with him aboard his own ship, and they kept hurling spells at the enemy.

They were useful followers. He was genuinely fond of some of them. But they weren’t made of gems and gold, and it was their bad luck that a spell of translocation could shift only so much weight.

Hoping that no one would notice his absence for at least a little while, he descended a companionway, murmured a word of opening, and entered his luxurious cabin inside the sterncastle.

A stack of chests stood in the center of the space. They couldn’t contain the whole of Samas’s liquid assets—the entire ship scarcely sufficed for that. But they did represent a significant portion of them, holding as they did, rare mystical artifacts and his finest gems.

He regretted it bitterly that henceforth, he wouldn’t be any sort of sovereign lord. But at least he’d still be the richest man in the East and perhaps all Faerûn.

He removed a scroll from within his robe, unrolled it, and drew breath to read the trigger phrase of the magic bound in the ink and parchment. Then voices clamored overhead.

In itself, that wasn’t unusual. People had been yelling all night when some threat or target drew near. But this time, the noise had an excited, almost exuberant quality that piqued his curiosity. He decided it wouldn’t hurt to delay his departure long enough to determine what all the fuss was about.

He slipped out of the compartment and felt the locking ward seal it behind him. He walked to the rail to peer across the waves at whatever had manifestly riveted everyone else’s attention.

It was the dream vestige. The cloud was churning, thinning, shrinking, drawing in on itself. He recited a rhyme to enhance his vision, and then he could see why. The shadows that comprised it were clawing at one another. To some degree, they always had, but now it mattered. They were ripping each other to bits.

Samas murmured an incantation that would allow him to communicate with Thessaloni Canos aboard her war galley. For a moment, he actually glimpsed her, breathing hard with a bloody cut just beneath her left eye. “Do you see what’s happening to the dream vestige?” he asked.

If his voice, sounding from the empty air, startled her, he couldn’t tell. She answered immediately, and her manner was crisp. “Yes, Your Omnipotence.”

“If the entity shrivels up and dies, can we salvage this situation?”

“Yes.”

Feeling like a dauntless warrior in a ballad, Samas squared his shoulders. “All right, then, Tharchion. Let’s do it.”

The fleets battled through the night, and for most of it, Malark couldn’t tell who was winning. It was too dark, the conflict was unfolding over too wide an area, and too many of the combatants were entities whose capabilities he didn’t understand.

But he realized the truth when Szass Tam stopped brandishing his staff and chanting words of power to flop down atop a coil of rope and slump forward. The lich looked as spent as any mortal laborer after a hard day’s toil.

Malark squatted down on the ink black deck beside him. Up close, he noticed that the lich stank of decay more than on any occasion he could recall. “They beat us, didn’t they?” he whispered, making sure that no one else would overhear the question.

Szass Tam smiled. “Yes.” He nodded toward the east, where the strip of sky just above the horizon was gray instead of black. “Dawn is coming to exert its usual deleterious effect on our troops. I’ve expended all the power Bane gave me, and my own magic, too. Of course, I could still call any number of arcane weapons and talismans into my hands, but none of them would change the outcome.”

“So what do we do?” Malark asked.

“Precisely what you in your wisdom suggested earlier. We withdraw our remaining ships while our swimming and flying warriors cover the retreat.” Szass Tam struggled to his feet. Suddenly he held a scroll in his withered fingers. “I’ll send shadows of myself to the various captains to inform them of the plan.”

“We can communicate with bugle calls,” Malark said. “You don’t have to strain yourself any further.”

“I suppose not,” Szass Tam answered. “But I’m their leader and I’d prefer they hear the bad news directly from me, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.”

Aoth, Brightwing, and Mirror flew back and forth across the slate gray sea, edged with silver where the wan sunlight caught the crests of the waves. Corpses, arrows, and scraps of charred and shattered timber, the detritus of the battle just concluded, floated everywhere. The council’s ships were dots dwindling in the west.

Aoth knew he should give up and return to his own vessel before it sailed farther away. He was exhausted, and through their empathic link, he could feel that Brightwing was wearier still. How could it be otherwise, considering that she was wounded and had carried him around all night?

Yet for once she performed her task without grousing, even though he sensed she considered it futile. Bareris had destroyed the dream vestige, but had almost certainly perished in so doing. It was doubtful his friends could even recover his body. It could have dissolved in the fog-thing’s grip, or sunk to the bottom, or a current could have swept it far away.

Aoth was just about to abandon the search when he spied a pale form bobbing in the chop. Responsive to his unspoken will, Brightwing swooped lower. Bareris was floating face down, but Aoth recognized him anyway, perhaps by the uncommon combination of a lanky Mulan frame and longish hair.

Aoth rattled off an incantation. Bareris floated up out of the water. Brightwing flew past him as slowly as she could, and Aoth snatched hold of him and hauled him onto the griffon’s back.

Bareris’s ordeal had dissolved his armor and clothing and bleached his skin and hair chalk white. It had also stopped him breathing and stilled his heart.

All his friends could do was carry him back to the roundship and then make ready to give him to the sea all over again, this time with the proper observances and prayers. Aoth couldn’t find a priest of Milil, god of song, so one of the Burning Braziers agreed to officiate.

They packed a dingy with inflammables to make a floating pyre, then laid Bareris inside it. They were just about to light it and set it adrift when the bard opened eyes turned black as midnight.