The Haunted Lands: Book II - Undead

by Richard Lee Byers

  Ironically, Szass Tam did see, but he wasn’t inclined to chat about it. “I am Szass Tam, whose name inspires fear in every world, and I don’t tolerate interlopers in my sanctum. Will you leave, or must I punish you?”

  “I see you’re a great wizard,” said the reaper, “but are you great on behalf of chaos, or great in the service of order?”

  “It isn’t your place to try to take my measure.”

  “You’re mistaken. It’s exactly my place, although I admit, the task is difficult. You sow chaos with every move you make, and yet I sense the goal of all your scheming is law transcendent.”

  Szass Tam felt an unaccustomed pang of genuine alarm. Exactly how much did the reaper perceive? Too much, he feared, for him to rest easy if he merely drove it from his presence. “You are my window,” Szass Tam said, “and you will open wide. Wide enough to pass my enemy through.”

  The reaper took a stride and entered the mortal realm. Having made up its mind that Szass Tam was a considerable force for order, it had no choice but to try to slay him.

  But now that Szass Tam had drawn it within range of his most potent magic, he had no intention of giving it a fair chance to do so. He flourished his staff and spoke a word of command.

  A form like an eagle made of dazzling white light leaped from the end of the staff, the visible manifestation of a spell crafted specifically to annihilate undead. The blazing raptor plunged its talons into the reaper’s naked rib cage and disappeared, leaving the skeletal assassin unharmed. Like so many spells that Szass Tam had attempted of late, the magic had twisted awry.

  Its ragged black cerements swirling around it, the reaper swung its scythe. Szass Tam leaped out of range and the dark blade streaked by him, leaving ripples of distortion in its wake.

  Szass Tam spun his staff through another pass. Eight orbs of blue-white light flew from the weapon, accompanied by the smell of thunderstorms. The spheres struck the reaper in quick succession, each discharging its power with a blinding flash and a crackle.

  The servant of chaos stumbled backward, and portions of its filthy cerements caught fire. But the barrage didn’t blast it to splinters as it should have. As soon as it ended, the thing rushed in for another strike.

  Szass Tam attempted another retreat and backed into a worktable. The scythe spun at him and he hurled himself to the side. The black blade sheared through a bronze statuette of Set, a serpent-headed Mulhorandi god of magic. The stroke liquefied it, and it splashed into droplets and spatters.

  As he scrambled backward, distancing himself from the reaper, Szass Tam could only infer that the random fluctuations in mystical forces had rendered his staff and its stored magic useless. He had no way of knowing if any of his other spells would work any better, or even if he’d have the chance of find out. Evoking an effect from the ether required more time and precision than releasing one already stored, and an aggressive attacker like the reaper could make it impossible for a wizard to conjure successfully.

  As the creature rounded on him, he focused his thoughts on the red chalk. It was still enchanted, and still responsive to his unspoken will. He bade it hurtle at the reaper to scribble on its bony face and crown.

  With luck, the unexpected harassment would distract the reaper for a precious moment, until it decided that the chalk was insignificant. Without waiting to see if the trick would work, Szass Tam reached for one of his many pockets. He snatched out a tiny ball of compressed bat droppings and sulfur, flourished it, and rattled off the first words of an incantation.

  The reaper stopped swiping at the chalk and charged its animator. That was unfortunate. It meant Szass Tam wouldn’t be able to smite the creature with the crude magic he was creating without catching himself in the effect. But he didn’t abandon the effort. He had to put the reaper down before it hit him with its scythe.

  A spark streaked from his outstretched hand and hit the reaper’s sternum. It exploded into a blast of crimson fire.

  The detonation threw Szass Tam backward and the heat seared his body, particularly the parts that still had flesh. But liches were preternaturally resistant to harm, and he also carried a ward against flames. Thus, though the blast tore much of his robe away, it left his limbs in place. In fact, it didn’t even stun him.

  He reeled, caught his balance, and came on guard in a wizard’s fighting stance, staff gripped to conjure, strike, or parry as needed. As it turned out, he didn’t need to do anything. When the blaze subsided, scraps of bone and tatters of burning garments littered the floor. Only the scythe remained intact, its blade warping and melting the granite on which it rested.

  Szass Tam drew a deep breath. Without actually needing to breathe, he couldn’t truly feel winded, but even after centuries of undeath, the old, useless habits of mortality sometimes manifested.

  That had been too close, and it infuriated him. An archmage should have little trouble coping with an entropic reaper, fearsome as the creatures were to lesser folk, and yet the entity might easily have slain him.

  But there was no point in bemoaning his weakness. He’d do better to ponder what he’d discovered.

  When intricate magic had failed, his instincts had prompted him to resort to a basic evocation of elemental force. That succeeded, and he thought he knew why. The Red Wizards had developed their art to a level lesser mages could scarcely imagine. Their spells incorporated all sorts of sophisticated shortcuts and enhancements. But those features achieved their efficacy by exploiting the subtle interplay of the forces comprising the Weave.

  With the Weave annihilated, those same mechanisms had become a hindrance. Szass Tam’s spells could no longer tap into all the elements they required to work. Trying to perform magic that way was like attempting to carry water in a bucket with a hole in the bottom.

  Of course, most enchantments took advantage of the Weave to one degree or another, and until the realm of magic stabilized, even a basic spell might run afoul of the same problem. But it wouldn’t happen as often.

  So long as Szass Tam acted in accordance with this new limitation, he might be able to function effectively. And if he shared his insights with his necromancers, they too—

  He sighed. No. For the most part, they couldn’t, not anytime soon, because they weren’t immortal archmages with his breadth and depth of learning. Most of them had only ever studied Thayan thaumaturgy, and it would take time to retrain them. By then, his rivals, wielding the brute strength of their legions, might gain such a decisive advantage that even sorcery couldn’t counter it.

  He had to find another way to stave off defeat, and after a time, an idea occurred to him. It would require another divination, and he summoned a blue crystal globe into his hand. For the time being, he’d had his fill of opening windows into the infinite.

  The world of mortal men in general, and of warriors in particular, was good for Mirror. It filled him like water filled a cup, or perhaps it unblocked a spring of essence that welled up inside him. Either way, it dulled the ache of emptiness.

  Yet despite its solace, he sometimes felt obliged to let go of it. He needed to step into a place that, he’d posited, on one of the rare occasions when his thoughts were clear enough for such conjectures, existed only within himself. In effect, he turned himself inside out like a pocket.

  Whatever and wherever the place was, it was dangerous, for so far as he’d ever discovered, nothing existed there but a cold whisper of wind that rubbed away at everything his commerce with the material world had given him. For that reason, he never stayed long. He opened himself to its corrosive power then hastily retreated, like a man fingering a sore tooth then snatching his hand away.

  Yet now he tarried, for instinct told him there truly was something to find, something the living world could never provide. And though he had no idea what it was, if he recovered it, perhaps he could mend an ill and wash away dishonor.

  So he took a stride and then another, fading with every pace.

  The wings of her many bodies beating, Tamm
ith peered into the darkness. She, Bareris, and a half dozen griffon riders were scouting ahead of the combined hosts of Eltabbar, Tyraturos, and Pyarados, looking for signs of the enemy, the blue fire, or any hazards the flames might have created.

  It had certainly passed that way, scouring away vegetation and sculpting the earth into spires and arches. Eviscerated, virtually pulverized, the remains of a herd of cattle littered a field. A single survivor dragged itself along, lowing piteously.

  Even for a vampire, it was unpleasant to see nature herself tormented in this fashion. Baring her many fangs, Tammith sought to snarl the feeling away.

  A griffon screeched. “What’s that?” its rider called.

  It’s just Solzepar, fool, Tammith thought, right where it’s supposed to be. She could make out the dark shape of the town below, at the point where the road north from Zolum intersected the great highway called the Eastern Way.

  On first inspection, it looked as if the wave of blue fire had missed Solzepar, for there was the town, still standing. Then a great crashing and crunching sounded from the midst of the shops and houses. It was like the start of another earthquake, but few of the structures and trees were swaying.

  An island of earth and rock within the city rose from its surroundings like a cork popping out of a bottle. A wooden house straddled the edge and the separation tore it in two. The half that ascended disintegrated, raining boards and furniture onto the part below.

  The chunk of earth rose high before slowing to a stop, and Tammith saw it was the latest addition to an archipelago of small floating islands ripped from the town below. A number of them supported buildings that were still intact.

  The vampire realized she’d done the griffon rider an injustice by deeming him a fool. It was this prodigy, not the mere sighting of Solzepar, that had elicited his outcry.

  Bareris climbed high enough to inspect the islands from above. Tammith and the other scouts followed. No lights burned in any of the houses—nor, she realized, in any of the parts of Solzepar that remained earthbound—and she didn’t see anyone moving around.

  “Fall back and descend,” Bareris ordered. He seemed to speak in a normal tone, but his bardic skills projected his voice across the sky.

  The scouts touched down several hundred paces from the edge of the town, in a field where the new spring grass had taken on a crystalline appearance, gleaming in the moonlight. Averse to having such uncanny stuff beneath its feet, one griffon clawed chunks of earth away.

  Tammith’s bats whirled around one another, and she shifted to human form. When she did, Bareris’s appearance stung her somehow. He looked haggard, fierce, and sad at the same time. She reminded herself she didn’t care. Creatures like her were incapable of it.

  “Well,” Bareris said, “we see them. The question is, what to make of them? Captain Iltazyarra, did you hear anything about floating rocks before you fled the Keep of Sorrows?”

  “No,” she said.

  “That’s too bad. Malark’s people haven’t reported anything about them, either.”

  “We know the blue fire passed this way,” another soldier said, unclipping a waterskin from his saddle. “Maybe it went through Solzepar, changed the ground somehow, and now we get … this.”

  “That’s a reasonable guess,” Bareris said, “for it certainly seems as if the flame can do anything. But up until now, everything that has been changed or destroyed has been affected immediately, at least as far as we know. But we have to consider the possibility that a contingent of necromancers is creating hanging islands.”

  “Because they know our army is coming this way,” Tammith said.

  “Yes. And since we would pass under their aerial stronghold, the enemy could rain destruction on our heads.”

  The soldier who’d spoken before wiped his mouth and stuck the stopper back in his waterskin. “If we’re worried about it, the army can just steer clear of them.”

  “We can,” Bareris said, “but only by leaving the road, which slows the march. The tharchions won’t do that unless it’s proven to be necessary. It’s our job to determine whether it is.”

  “Does that mean prowling around on top of the rocks?” another warrior asked.

  “Yes,” Bareris said, “but maybe not all of them. One of the larger fragments has a walled stone house on it, grander and more defensible than the buildings on any of the others. It’s the structure I’d occupy if I were going to install myself up there, and it’s where we’ll begin our search. Up!” He kicked his mount in the flanks, and it spread its wings and sprang into the air.

  They all climbed above the island, then spiraled down toward it. When they landed in the courtyard, symbols graven above the door became visible, stylized representations of a lightning bolt, a snowflake, and other emblems of elemental forces with a hand hovering above as if to manipulate them all. The place was, or had been, a chapterhouse of the Order of Evocation.

  “This,” said Bareris, “looks like an ideal place for necromancers to set up shop.” He swung himself off his griffon and his subordinates dismounted. Tammith changed to her human form.

  Bareris climbed the steps to the sharply arched door and tried the handle. “Locked,” he said.

  “Perhaps by enchantment,” Tammith said.

  “With luck, it won’t matter.” He sang, and his magic set sparkling motes dancing in the air. Tammith remembered how amazed he’d been the first time he’d sung and produced not merely melody but a green shimmer and the scent of pine, the moment when he’d discovered he was a true bard. Once they realized what it meant, she’d felt just as elated.

  She wished she’d died then, or during one of the happy times that followed. Any time, really, before he made up his mind to sail away and seek his fortune.

  He twisted the handle and the door creaked open on blackness. He drew his sword and sang luminescence into the blade. The steel shined with a white light brighter and steadier than the flicker of any torch.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “Let me take the lead,” Tammith said. “My senses are sharper, and I can withstand attacks that would kill a mortal.”

  He scowled as if he found the suggestion distasteful, but he said, “All right. Just don’t range too far ahead. We’re stronger if we stay together.”

  Beyond the door was a spacious entry hall, its appointments reflecting the luxury Red Wizards took for granted. The walls rose the full three-story height of the house, to one railed gallery, then another, and finally to a stained-glass skylight.

  Nothing moved—nothing but the intruders and their long black shadows flowing across the walls. The house remained silent. But Tammith smelled tears, mucus, sweat, and the sour stink of fear. It was the way her prey often smelled when they realized she was about to feed on them.

  “Someone’s here,” she said. She led her companions up two flights of stairs to the upper gallery, then opened the door to a small, sparsely furnished chamber with a narrow bed. A servant’s quarters, or perhaps an apprentice’s. The thump of a racing heart led her to the wooden chest by the wall.

  The box wasn’t very big. The lanky Mulan boy in the patched red robe surely hadn’t found it easy to fold himself compactly enough to fit inside. When Tammith lifted the lid, he yelped and goggled up at her.

  “Easy,” Tammith said, “we’re friends, here to help you.”

  “It’s true,” Bareris said, stepping beside her. “We serve the council, not Szass Tam. Come out of there.” He reached to help the lad up.

  Instead of taking the proffered hand, the boy pulled his own in closer to his chest. “I can’t. It isn’t safe. I haven’t heard them in a while, but I know they’re still here.”

  Bareris shot a glance at one of his men. The legionnaire nodded and positioned himself at the door.

  “It’s all right,” Tammith told the apprentice, “we’ll protect you. Please, stand up.” She locked eyes with him and stabbed with the force of her will.

  The youth’s resistance crumbled
, and he suffered her to lift him out of the chest. Still, his eyes rolled and he trembled, so frightened her powers couldn’t numb him.

  “Tell us who you’re hiding from,” Bareris said. “Is it northerners?”

  “Northerners?” The apprentice shook his head.

  “Who, then?” Bareris persisted. “Does this have something to do with the blue fire?”

  The boy closed his eyes and tears oozed out from under the lids. “Yes. Some of the folk ran away, but the wizards cast the runes and said the flames would miss the town. They laughed at the people who ran!”

  “But the flames didn’t miss,” Tammith said.

  “No. I don’t know if the wave split in two or what, but suddenly the fires were here. Some of the mages translated themselves away to safety, but most of us didn’t know how. Travel magic’s not a part of evocation. And those who knew didn’t bother to carry the rest.

  “It hurt when the wave swept through. It was like drowning in pain and glare. But afterward, everything seemed the same, and we laughed and cheered, even after we realized no one else was rushing into the streets to do the same. Because we’d survived, even if the rest of Solzepar hadn’t. We decided the wards bound into the foundations of the house had saved us.”

  “But they hadn’t,” Bareris said.

  “No,” the novice said. “In time, it occurred to us that we ought to let our superiors know we were still alive, but that the rest of the town was likely dead. We had an enchanted mirror in our library that allowed us to communicate from afar, and we all gathered around it. And that was when the spells came alive.”

  Tammith didn’t understand. Judging from Bareris’s frown, he didn’t either. “What spells?” he asked.

  “The spells in the scrolls and books on the shelves,” the apprentice said. “I don’t know how else to put it. They jumped out all at once, crazy jagged forms whirling around us, all flashing or rimmed with blue. Then one of them, some sort of frost, poured itself into Mistress Kranna’s eyes.”