Unclean: The Haunted Lands

by Richard Lee Byers

  Its rotten wings so full of holes it was a wonder it could stay aloft, the animated corpse of a giant bat flew at Aoth and Brightwing. He decided not to waste a spell on it. He was likely to need every bit of his magic to deal with more formidable foes. Availing himself of their empathic link, he silently told Brightwing to destroy the bat. As the two closed, and at the last possible moment, the griffon lashed her wings, rose above the undead creature, and ripped it with her talons. The bat tumbled down the sky in pieces.

  Meanwhile, Aoth cast about for other foes. They were easy enough to find. Brandishing his lance, shouting words of power, he conjured blasts of flame to burn wraiths and shadows from existence until he’d cleansed the air in his immediate vicinity. That afforded him a moment to look and see how the battle as a whole was progressing.

  It appeared to him that he and his fellow griffon riders were at least holding their own in the air, while their comrades on the ground might even be gaining the upper hand. Archery had inflicted considerable harm on the advancing undead, and the efforts of the clerics were even more efficacious. Standing in relative safety behind ranks of soldiers, each in his or her own way invoking the power faith afforded, priests of Bane shook their black-gauntleted fists, priestesses of Loviatar scourged their naked shoulders or tore their cheeks with their nails, and servants of Kelemvor in somber gray vestments brandished their hand-and-a-half swords. As a result, some of the undead cringed, unable to advance any further, while others simply crumbled or melted away. Several even turned and attacked their own allies.

  It’s going to be all right, Aoth thought, smiling. I was a craven to imagine otherwise. But Brightwing, plainly sensing the tenor of his thought, rapped, “No. Something is about to happen.”

  She was right. In the midst of the Thayan formation, wherever a group of priests stood assembled, patches of air seethed and rippled, then new figures exploded into view. They were diverse in their appearance, and in that first chaotic moment, Aoth couldn’t sort them all out, but a number were mere shadows. Others appeared similarly spectral but with blazing emerald eyes, a murky suggestion of swirling robes, and bizarrely, luminous glyphs floating in the air around them. Swarms of insects—undead insects, the griffon rider supposed—hovered among them, along with clouds of sparks that wheeled and surged as if guided by a single will. Figures in hooded cloaks, evidently the ones who’d magically transported their fellow creatures into the center of their enemies, immediately vanished again, perhaps to ferry a second batch.

  Aoth had reported that the undead host included at least a few spellcasters, but even so, no one had expected any of their foes to possess the ability to teleport themselves and a group of allies through space, because, as a rule, the undead didn’t, and they hadn’t revealed it at Thazar Keep. Thus, the maneuver caught the Thayans by surprise.

  Yet it didn’t panic them. The priests wheeled and rattled off incantations or invoked the pure, simple power of belief to smite the newcomers.

  Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

  Shadows pounced at the priests, sparks and insects swarmed on them, and they went down. Warriors struggled to come to their aid, but there were stinging, burning clouds to engulf them as well, and phantoms to sear them with their touch, and in most cases, they failed even to save themselves. Meanwhile, the bulk of the undead host charged with renewed energy to crash into the shield wall of the living, which immediately began to deform before the pressure.

  Perhaps, Aoth thought, he could aid the clerics. He bade Brightwing swoop lower, but instead of obeying, the griffon lashed her wings and flung herself straight ahead. A moment later, something huge as a dragon plunged through the space they’d just vacated. Aoth hadn’t sensed the creature diving at them. He was grateful his familiar had.

  The thing leveled out, turned, and climbed to attack again. It was yet another grotesquerie the likes of which Aoth had never encountered before, a creature resembling a giant minotaur with bat wings, fangs, and clawed feet instead of hooves, its whole body shrouded in mummy wrappings.

  Brightwing proved more agile in the air and kept away from the enormous thing while Aoth blasted it with bright, booming thunderbolts and darts of light. The punishment stabbed holes in it and burned patches of its body black, but it wouldn’t stop coming.

  Then Brightwing screeched and lurched in flight. Aoth cast about and couldn’t see what ailed her. “My belly!” she cried.

  He leaned far to the side, relying on the safety straps to keep him from slipping from the saddle. From that position, he could just make out the greenish misty form clinging to her like a leech, its insubstantial hands buried to the wrists in her body, her flesh blistering and suppurating around them.

  The angle was as awkward as could be, and Aoth was afraid of striking her instead of his target, but he saw no choice except to try. He triggered the enchantment of accuracy bound in one of his tattoos, and his forearm stung as the glyph gave up its power. He charged his lance with power and thrust.

  The point caught the phantom in the flank, and it shriveled from existence. Freed from its crippling, excruciating embrace, Brightwing instantly furled her wings and dived, seeking to evade as she had before.

  She failed. The bandaged horror missed the killing strike to the body it had probably intended, but one of its claws pierced her wing.

  The undead creature scrabbled at her, trying to achieve a better grip and rend her in the process. Beak snapping, she bit at it. Shouting in fury and terror, Aoth stabbed with his lance.

  Finally the huge thing stopped moving. Unfortunately, that meant it fell with its talon still transfixing the griffon’s wing, and she and her rider plummeted along with it. For a moment, they were all in danger of crashing to the ground together, but then Brightwing bit completely through the claw, freeing herself. Wings hammering, shaking the severed tip of the talon out of her wound in the process, she leveled off.

  Aoth peered about. It was too late to help the priests. They were gone, yet the Thayans on the ground had at least succeeded in eliminating the undead from the midst of their formation, and mages and warriors, all battling furiously, had thus far held back the rest of the undead host. For the next little while, as he and his injured mount did their best to avoid danger, he dared to hope the legions might still carry the day.

  Then the surface of the Thazarim churned, and hunched, gaunt shapes waded ashore. They charged the Thayan flank.

  Aoth cursed. He knew of lacedons, as the aquatic ghouls were called. They were relatively common, but so far as he’d ever heard, they were sea creatures. It made no sense for them to come swimming down from the Sunrise Mountains.

  Yet they had, without him or any of the other scouts spotting them in the water, and swarms of undead rats had swum along with them. Like a tide of filthy fur, rotting flesh, exposed bone, and gnashing teeth, the vermin streamed in among the legionnaires, and men who might have stood bravely against any one foe, or even a pair of them, panicked at the onslaught of five or ten or twenty small, scurrying horrors assailing them all at once.

  It was the end. The formation began to disintegrate. Warriors turned to run, sometimes throwing away their weapons and shields. Their leaders bellowed commands, trying to make them retreat with some semblance of order. Slashing with his scimitar, a blood-orc sergeant cut down two members of his squad to frighten the rest sufficiently to heed him.

  “Set me down,” said Aoth.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Brightwing replied.

  “I won’t take you back into the middle of that, hurt as you are, but none of the men on the ground is going to escape unless every wizard we have left does all he can to cover the retreat.”

  “We haven’t fallen out of the sky, have we? I can still fly and fight. We’ll do it together.”

  He discerned he had no hope of talking her out of it. “All right, have it your way.”

  Brightwing maneuvered, and when necessary, she battled with talon and beak to keep them both alive. He used every spell
in his head and every trace of magic he carried bound in an amulet, scroll, or tattoo to hold the enemy back. To no avail, he suspected, because below him, moment by moment, men were dying anyway.

  Then, however, the morning brightened. The clouds turned from slate to a milder gray, a luminous white spot appeared in the east, and at last the undead faltered in their harrying pursuit.

  Ysval could bear the touch of daylight without actual harm, yet it made his skin crawl, and soaring above his host, the better to survey the battle, he stiffened in repugnance.

  Some of his warriors froze or flinched, their reaction akin to his own. Specters faded to invisibility, to mere impotent memories of pain and hate. Still other creatures began to smolder and steam and hastily shrouded themselves in their graveclothes or scrambled for shade.

  Ysval closed his pallid eyes and took stock of himself. His assessment, though it came as no surprise, was disappointing. For the moment, he lacked the mystical strength to darken the day a second time.

  The nighthaunt called in his silent voice. He’d made a point of establishing a psychic bond with each of his lieutenants and so was confident they’d hear. Sure enough, the ones who were still functional immediately moved to call back those undead so avid to kill that they’d continued to chase Tharchion Focar’s fleeing troops even when their comrades faltered.

  Once Ysval was certain his minions were enacting his will, he swooped lower, the better to provide the direction the host would require in the aftermath of battle. Several of his officers saw him descending and hurried to meet him where, with a final snap of his wings, he set down on the ground.

  He gazed at Shex, inviting her to speak first, in part because he respected her. In fact, though blessedly incapable of affection in any weak mortal sense, he privately regarded her as something of a kindred spirit, but not because they particularly resembled one another.

  Like himself, she had wings and claws, but she was taller, tall as an ogre in fact, and her entire body was a mass of peeling and deliquescent corruption. Slime oozed perpetually down her frame to pool at her feet, and even other undead were careful to stand clear of the corrosive filth.

  No, Ysval felt a certain bond with her because each of them was more than just a formidable and genuinely sentient undead creature. Each was the avatar, the embodiment, of a cosmic principle. As he was darkness, so she was decay.

  At the moment, she was also unhappy. “Many of our warriors can function in the light,” she said in her slurred, muddy voice. “Let those who are capable continue the pursuit. Why not? The legionnaires won’t turn and fight.”

  They might, he replied, if they think it’s the only alternative to being struck down from behind. He’d noticed that even many undead winced and shuddered when he shared his thoughts with them, but she bore the psychic intrusion without any sign of distress. We’ve won enough for one day. We’ve dealt a heavy blow to the enemy, and the pass, our highway onto the central plateau, lies open from end to end.

  Which meant that for a time at least, the host would disperse to facilitate the process of laying waste to as much of eastern Thay as possible. In a way, it was a pity. It had been millennia since he’d commanded an army, and he realized now that he’d missed it.

  Still, raiding, slaughtering helpless humans and putting their farms and villages to the torch, was satisfying in its own right, and he had reason for optimism that the army would join together again by and by. It was just that the decision didn’t rest with him but with the master who’d summoned him back to the mortal realm after a sojourn of ages on the Plane of Shadow.

  Shex inclined her head. Viscous matter dripped from her face as if she were weeping over his decision. “As you command,” she said.

  Her sullen tone amused him. I promise, he said, there’s plenty more killing to come. Now, see to the corpses of the tharchion’s soldiers. The ghouls and such can feed on half of them, but I want the rest intact for reanimation.

  chapter five

  25 Mirtul, the Year of Risen Elfkin

  Surthay, capital of the tharch of the same name, was a crude sort of place compared to Eltabbar, and since the town lay outside the enchantments that managed the climate in central Thay, the weather was colder and rainier. Even murky Lake Mulsantir, the body of water on which it sat, suffered by comparison with the blue depths of Lake Thaylambar.

  Yet Malark Springhill liked the place. At times the luxuries, splendors, and intricacies of life at Dmitra Flass’s court grew wearisome for a man who’d spent much of his life in the rough-and-tumble settlements of the Moonsea. When he was in such a mood, the dirt streets, simple wooden houses, and thatch-roofed shacks of a town like Surthay felt more like home than Eltabbar ever could.

  That didn’t mean he could dawdle here. He didn’t understand the urgency of his errand, but his mistress seemed to think it important and he didn’t intend to keep her waiting any longer than necessary. He’d finish his business and ride out tonight, and with luck he could complete the wearisome “Long Portage” back up the First Escarpment before the end of tomorrow.

  He headed down the rutted, dung-littered street. This particular thoroughfare, a center for carnal entertainments, was busy even after dark, and he made way repeatedly for soldiers, hunters, fishermen, pimps, and tough-looking locals of every stripe—for anyone who looked more dangerous and intimidating than a smallish, neatly dressed, clerkish fellow armed only with a knife.

  Only once did he resent stepping aside, and that was when everyone else did it too, clearing the way for a legionnaire marching a dozen skeleton warriors along. Malark detested the undead, which he supposed made it ironic that he owed his allegiance to a princess who in turn had pledged her fealty to a lich, but serving Dmitra Flass afforded him a pleasant life and plenty of opportunity to pursue his own preoccupations.

  He stepped inside a crowded tavern, raucous with noise and stinking of beer and sweaty bodies. A legionnaire turned and gave him a sneer.

  “This is a soldier’s tavern,” he said.

  “I know,” Malark replied. “I came to show my admiration for the heroes who saved Surthay from the Rashemi.” He lifted a fat purse and shook it to make it clink. “I think this is enough to stand the house a few rounds.”

  He was welcome enough after that, and the soldiers were eager to spin tales of their valor. As he’d expected, much of what they told him was nonsense. They couldn’t all have slain Rashemi chieftains or butchered half a dozen berserkers all by themselves, and he was reasonably certain no one had raped one of the infamous witches.

  Yet it should be possible to sift through all the boasts and lies and discern the essence of what had happened buried beneath.

  Malark listened, drew his inferences, and decided further inquiries were in order, inquiries best conducted elsewhere and by different methods.

  Stiffening and swallowing, he feigned a sudden attack of nausea and stumbled outside, ostensibly to vomit. Since he left his pigskin pouch of silver and copper coins behind on the table, he was reasonably certain no one would bother to come looking for him when he failed to return.

  He found a shadowy recessed doorway and settled himself to wait, placing himself in a light trance that would help him remain motionless. Warriors passed by his hiding place, sometimes in groups, sometimes in the company of painted whores, sometimes young, sometimes staggering drunk. He let them all drift on unmolested.

  Finally a lone legionnaire came limping down the street. By the looks of it, an old wound or fracture in his leg had never healed properly. Though he was past his prime, with a frame that had once been athletic and was now running to fat, he wore no medallion, plume, or other insignia of rank, and was evidently still a common man-at-arms.

  He didn’t look intoxicated, either. Perhaps he’d just come off duty and was heading for the same soldier’s tavern Malark had visited.

  In any case, whatever his business, he appeared perfect for Malark’s purposes. The spy waited until the legionnaire was just a few pac
es away, then stepped forth from the shadows.

  Startled, the legionnaire jumped back, and his hand darted to the hilt of his broadsword. Then he hesitated, confused, perhaps, by the contradiction between the menace implicit in Malark’s sudden emergence and the innocuous appearance of his empty hands and general demeanor. It gave the spy the opportunity to step closer.

  “What do you want?” the soldier demanded.

  “Answers,” Malark replied.

  That was apparently enough to convince the warrior he was in trouble. He started to snatch the sword out, but he’d waited too long. Before it could clear the scabbard, Malark sprang in and slammed the heel of his hand into the center of the other man’s forehead. The legionnaire’s leather helmet thudded, no doubt absorbing part of the force of the impact. Not enough of it, though, and his knees buckled. Malark caught him and dragged him into the narrow, lightless space between two houses.

  When he judged he’d gone far enough from the street that he and his prisoner would remain unobserved, he set the legionnaire down on the ground, relieved him of his sword and dirk, and held a vial of smelling salts under his nose. Rousing, the warrior twisted away from the vapors.

  “Are you all right?” Malark asked, straightening up. “It can be tricky to hit a man hard enough to stun him, but not so hard that you do any real harm. I like to think I have the knack, but armor makes it more difficult.”

  “I’ll kill you,” the soldier growled.

  “Try if you like,” Malark said and waited to see if the prisoner would dive for the sword or dagger now resting on the ground beyond his reach or attack with his bare hands.

  He opted for the latter. Wishing the space between the buildings weren’t quite so narrow, Malark nonetheless managed to shift to the side when the captive surged up and hurled himself forward. He tripped the legionnaire then, while the other man was floundering off balance, caught hold of his arm and twisted, applying pressure to the shoulder socket. The warrior gasped at the pain.