He was sure he had no hope of defending himself against Tammith and Xingax simultaneously. He had to neutralize one of them fast, before either realized he’d shaken off the effect of the fetus-thing’s poison gaze, and unfortunately, Tammith was both the more immediate threat and the one within reach of his sword.
Despite what she’d become, striking the blow was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he wanted to survive and do so as a living man, not an undead monstrosity, so he leaped to his feet and drove his sword into her stomach.
The stroke would have killed any ordinary human, if not instantly, then after a period of crippling agony, but if the tales he’d heard were true, a vampire would survive it. He prayed it was so, and he prayed too that the wound would incapacitate her long enough to make a difference.
He yanked his sword free of her flesh, and she doubled over clutching at the gash. Making sure he didn’t look up and meet Xingax’s gaze again, he dashed for the doorway. The catwalk banged as the giant zombie lumbered after him.
The huge corpse had longer legs than he did. Aware that he was running short of spells, he nonetheless sang a charm to quicken his stride. It might be the only hope he had of keeping ahead of his pursuers.
Of course, it likely wouldn’t be long before he blundered into some of Xingax’s allies, at which point the fetus-thing would yell for them to stop him. Then, with new foes in front of him and his current ones pounding up behind, it would make no difference how fast he could run.
He halted, lifted his head, and shouted. The blast of sound jolted and splintered the section of catwalk immediately in front of the huge zombie. Its next heavy stride stamped a hole in the weakened planks, and then it crashed through altogether, carrying its rider along with it.
The two creatures slammed down hard in a clattering shower of broken wood. Bareris didn’t expect the fall to destroy the zombie outright, but he dared to hope he’d damaged it and maybe slain the feeble-looking Xingax.
The zombie tried to rise and the whelp slipped from its shoulders. Evidently he couldn’t hold on anymore. The undead giant fell back on top of him when one of its legs buckled beneath it.
Bareris could scarcely believe how well the trick had worked. How lucky he’d been. He sprinted on, found a staircase, climbed to the catwalks, and headed for the portal. He’d just promised Tammith he wouldn’t leave her here, but the plain truth was now he had to get away or die, quite possibly when she murdered him herself. He vowed to himself that he’d return and next time rescue her. Somehow. Somehow.
His guts churned, his vision blurred, and a pang of headache jabbed through his skull. Something was making him ill. He cast about for the source of his distress and saw nothing.
He recalled his orc informant warning him that a person needed protection merely to come into proximity with Xingax. Could that possibly be what ailed him? If so, where was the whelp? A sudden blast of cold coated the right side of his body with frost and chilled him to the core. He’d seen battle mages conjure such attacks. Shaking, he looked for cover and found none within reach. He turned to see where the magic had originated.
Visible now, Xingax floated in empty air a few yards away from the catwalk. Obviously, the fall hadn’t killed him, and he didn’t actually need the zombie to carry him around. He certainly hadn’t had any difficulty catching up to Bareris.
Stricken as he was, the bard almost looked into the abomination’s eyes before recalling he mustn’t. At the last possible instant, he averted his gaze.
Not that it was likely to matter. He’d drained his reserves of magic nearly dry, and his twisted little infant’s mouth leering, Xingax was hovering out of reach of his blade. From that position, the fetus-creature could throw spell after spell without fear of effective reprisal.
Bareris could only think of one ploy to attempt, and it was nowhere near as clever as breaking the catwalk had been. In fact, it was as old as any trick in the world, but it would have to serve. He allowed himself to collapse onto the walkway and lay motionless thereafter.
A wary foe might suspect he was merely feigning death or unconsciousness and continue smiting him at range. If Xingax took that tactic, he was finished.
But maybe the abomination wouldn’t be that cautious. He seemed smugly confident of his own powers and likewise devoted to his work. He might be reluctant to kill Bareris here and now and settle for reanimating him as a zombie when it could still be possible to turn him into a more powerful undead.
I’m helpless, Bareris thought. Sick. Frozen. Dead. Just come closer and you’ll see.
As if heeding his silent entreaties, Xingax floated over to hang directly over him. One larger and set higher than the other, his dark eyes squinted.
Striving to deny sickness and injury their grip of him, bellowing a war cry to infuse himself with vigor and resolve, Bareris sprang to his feet. Still doing his best to avoid looking into Xingax’s eyes, he cut open the creature’s chest.
Xingax gave an ear-splitting screech like the cry of the baby he so resembled. Bareris slashed away a flap of flesh from one of the creature’s cheeks.
The fetus-thing started to fly away from the catwalk. Bareris lunged and caught the dangling length of cold, slimy umbilicus. It threatened to slide out of his fingers, but he clamped down tight, twisted it around his wrist, and held Xingax in place as if the latter were a dog straining at a leash.
He kept on cutting and thrusting. Xingax hurled another blaze of chill from his small, decaying hands, but Bareris discerned his intent, twisted aside and evaded the worst of it then retaliated by lopping off one of the outthrust extremities at the wrist. His next cut sliced the smaller of the creature’s eyes.
The whelp screamed and vanished, leaving a segment of gray rotting birth cord behind in Bareris’s fingers. His final wail echoed.
Fearful that his foe had simply become invisible once more, Bareris pivoted and slashed at the air all around him. His blade failed to find a target, and in another moment, he realized he felt better. Xingax truly had departed, evidently translating himself instantaneously through space and taking his aura of sickness along with him.
Unfortunately, that didn’t fix the chill burns on Bareris’s skin. With luck, his healing songs would keep the injured patches from turning into genuine frostbite and gangrene, but he didn’t have the magic or time to spare to attempt it now. He cast away the section of umbilicus, brushed rime from his garments, and strode in the direction of the portal, until he heard a commotion up ahead.
Then he realized that Xingax, surmising his foe would make for the magical gate, had transported himself there when he fled, where he’d no doubt arranged for some of his minions to guard the portal with special care while the rest scoured the catacombs for the man who’d maimed him.
Bareris struggled to suppress a surge of panic, telling himself there had to be another way out of here, wherever here was. He just had to find it.
He threw away his cloak. At a distance, the brown mantle was probably more conspicuous than the bloody rent in his robe. He hid his sword and sword belt beneath the voluminous crimson garment. Then he hurried away from the sound of the searchers and toward a portion of the maze of vaults and tunnels he had yet to explore.
Eventually he spotted a subtle change in the ambient illumination up ahead. He rounded a corner and saw a trapezoidal opening with a ray of wan light shining through. Puzzling as it seemed, given his near-certainty that he was underground, the wizards’ lair possessed a window after all.
He lowered himself from the catwalk by his hands, dropped, stuck his head out the opening, and then he understood. The vaults were adjacent to a wide cylindrical shaft plunging deep into bedrock. He’d heard stories of an ancient people who’d excavated well-like fortresses in the Sunrise Mountains. Apparently they’d dug out at least one city as well, constructed on a grander scale, and he was standing in it. The morning sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to shine straight down into the central vacancy, but even so, the light re
flecting down from the gray clouds revealed other windows, as well as doorways connecting to chiseled balconies and staircases.
Intending to locate one of those doors, he turned, then heard his pursuers once more. They were manifestly closing in. Before, the noise they’d made had simply been a drone. Now he could make out some of the words that one orc was growling to another.
Bareris realized he didn’t dare spend any more time in the tunnels looking for anything. He had to get out now, so he clambered out the window feet first.
He was no expert climber, and fatigue and the flare of cold had stolen a measure of his strength, but fortunately, the ancient builders hadn’t polished the walls of the shaft smooth, or if they had, time had come along behind them and roughened them again. There were hand-and footholds to be had, and refusing to look down at the gulf yawning beneath him, the bard hauled himself upward.
Finally he reached one of the spiraling staircases. He dragged himself onto the steps, lay on his belly for a moment panting and trembling, then forced himself to rise and skulk onward.
In time he spotted a pair of human guards at the top of the steps. As best he could judge, no one had alerted them that an intruder had penetrated the catacombs below, for they appeared more bored than vigilant and were looking outward, not down the stairs.
Trying to be silent, Bareris drew his sword from beneath his robe and held it behind his back. Then he crept on.
Despite his efforts at stealth, one of the sentries apparently heard him coming. The warrior turned, and reacting to the sight of a red robe, he began to salute with his spear as the orcs at the portal had.
Then, his eyes widening, he exclaimed, “What’s this?” and leveled the weapon.
Bareris charged, knocked the lance out of line with his sword, and drove the blade into the warrior’s chest. Where it stuck fast as the other spearman attacked. Bareris let go of the hilt, twisted to avoid his adversary’s thrust, grabbed him, and shoved him off the edge of the landing. Shrieking, the warrior plummeted down the well.
His pulse hammering in his neck, Bareris peered about. He was on top of a mountain, with brown, jagged peaks rising on every side to stab the overcast sky, and except for the subterranean city he’d just exited and a well-trodden trail running down the rocky slopes from the lip of the shaft, no sign of human habitation anywhere. He still suspected he was in the Sunrise Mountains, but he’d never even seen them before, and he knew that in fact, he could be anywhere.
At least he had the dawn to give him his directions. He’d head west, south, and/or downward, depending on which was most practical at a given moment, and hope to find his way to the Pass of Thazar or one of the eastern tharchs. He saw little choice but to try. By all accounts, a lone man couldn’t survive in these mountains for long.
To his disappointment, the dead warrior at his feet wasn’t carrying any food, but he did have a leather water bottle. Bareris appropriated that, his spear, and his cloak. Spring had come to the lowlands, but up here the wind whistling out of the north was cold, and the night would be colder still.
Once he’d outfitted himself as well as he was able, he trotted down the trail. It was the best way to distance himself from the wizards’ stronghold, the fastest, easiest way to travel, but he’d need to forsake the path in just a little while, because his foes would come after him, and his only hope of evading them was to vanish into the trackless crags and gorges.
chapter ten
4–5 Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin
Aoth looked around the table at Nymia Focar, his fellow captains, and an assortment of high-ranking Burning Braziers and Red Wizards. Many of his comrades looked tired, and tight mouths and clenched jaws revealed the determination to participate in the council of war despite the ache of one’s wounds. Yet everyone seemed happy as well, whether expansively or quietly, and the singing and whooping outside the hall mirrored the mood of satisfaction within.
It was the satisfaction that came with victory. Upon learning the undead had in fact assaulted the sizable town of Thazrumaros and overrun the eastern half of it, Nymia had hastily reunited the greater part of her army to attack the creatures in their turn, and though the battle had claimed the lives of a number of Thayan warriors, in the end, she’d prevailed.
Now the common soldiers were celebrating, drinking the town dry and bedding every woman who felt moved to so reward its saviors. Aoth wished he were reveling with them.
Leaning on a crutch, his leg splinted, an officer hobbled in and took the last available chair. The yellow lamplight gleaming on the rings in her ears and the stud in her nose, Nymia sat up straighter, tacitly signaling that she was ready to begin. The drone of casual conversation died.
“My good friends,” Nymia said, “you scarcely need me to tell you what your valor has accomplished over the course of the past several days. I’ve just received a message from Milsantos Daramos, and he and his troops have been similarly successful, cleansing the southern part of Pyarados as we’ve cleansed the north.”
Everyone exclaimed and applauded, and Aoth supposed he might as well clap with them. It was good news, as far as it went.
When they’d all had their fill of self-congratulation, Nymia continued. “It’s plain that when we combine Thayan arms, Thayan wizardry, and Kossuth’s holy fire, these ghouls and specters are no match for us, so I propose to finish destroying them as expeditiously as possible. It’s time to join forces with Tharchion Daramos, drive up the Pass of Thazar, and retake the keep. I only need to know how soon your companies can be ready to march.”
The war leaders began to discuss how many casualties they’d sustained, how much flour and salt pork and how many crossbow bolts remained in the supply wagons, and all the other factors that determined an army’s ability to travel and fight. Maybe, thought Aoth, he should leave it at that.
For after all, every other face at the table was a long, fair-complexioned, indisputably Mulan visage. Every other captain had more experience as an officer. Every other wizard was a Red Wizard. Thus, it was unlikely that his opinion would weigh very heavily with anyone.
Still, he felt it was his duty to voice it.
He raised his hand to attract Nymia’s attention. “Yes,” she said, smiling, “Aoth, what is it?”
He found he needed to clear his throat before proceeding. “I’m concerned that when we talk about rushing up the pass as fast as we can, or of the enemy as if their final defeat were a certainty, that we aren’t taking the threat seriously enough.”
Nymia cocked her head. “I take it very seriously. That’s why, after our initial setbacks, I recruited the help required to deal with it.”
“I know, but there’s still a lot we don’t understand.”
“Of course—exactly where the undead came from, and why they decided to descend on us now. Perhaps we’ll find out in due course, but do we actually need to know to defeat them? Judging from our recent successes, I’d say no.”
“With respect, Tharchion, it’s more than that. I told you about the fall of Thazar Keep, and the priest who wielded so much power against the undead. None of the creatures should have been able to stand against him, yet something struck him down.”
One of the senior Burning Braziers, a burly, middle-aged man with tattooed orange and yellow flames crawling up his neck, snorted. “Are you well-versed in the mysteries of faith, Captain?”
“No,” said Aoth, “but I know overwhelming mystical force when I see it, whether the source is arcane or divine.”
“What, specifically, was the source in this instance?” asked the fire priest. “Which god did this paragon serve?”
“Bane.”
“Oh, well, Bane.” The Burning Brazier’s tone suggested that all deities other than his own were insignificant, and his fellow clerics chuckled.
Nymia looked at Aoth. She was still smiling, but with less warmth than before. “I understand why you’re concerned, but we already knew the enemy has special ways of striking at our priests,
and we’ve already taken special measures to protect them. Is there anything else?”
Just let it go, thought Aoth, but what he said was, “Yes. Have you noticed the particular nature of the creatures we’ve been fighting of late?”
Idly fingering one of the bones comprising his necklace, Urhur Hahpet grinned and shook his head. “Unless I’m mistaken, they were undead, the very entities we set out to fight.”
“At one point,” Aoth replied, “you, my lord, asked me what could be learned by confronting our foes at close quarters instead of simply burning them from a distance. After pondering the matter, I’m now able to tell you. For the most part, the creatures we’ve been destroying were zombies, ghouls, and shadows. Nasty foes but familiar ones, and often plainly the reanimated remains of farmers, villagers, and even animals the marauders slaughtered, not members of the original horde.”
Nymia frowned. “Meaning what?”
“That the work we’ve done so far was necessary, but we’ve yet to inflict much harm on our true foe. The marauders’ strength is still essentially intact. They still have their nighthaunt, most of their skin kites, diggers, and quells, and the rest of the strange creatures we don’t really know how to fight.”
Nymia looked to the necromancers. “You’re the authorities on these horrors. Is it possible Aoth is right?”
Urhur shrugged. “I agree, we’ve destroyed relatively few of the exotic specimens, but it’s conceivable that Tharchion Daramos has encountered more of them and also that we overestimated their numbers to begin with.” He gave Aoth a condescending smile. “If so, you’re not to blame. It can be difficult for anyone not an expert to tell the various species of undead apart, and the terror and chaos of a massacre would impair almost anybody’s ability to make an accurate count.”
“My orcs fished some water ghouls out of the river,” a captain said. “They count as ‘exotic,’ don’t they?”
“I’d say so,” Urhur replied. “At any rate, the essential point is this: Yes, we’re facing a few rare and formidable creatures, but as Tharchion Focar said, we’re prepared to deal with them. In the final analysis, no undead can withstand the magic specially devised to command or destroy its kind, or to give credit where it’s due, Kossuth’s fire, either.”
Unclean: The Haunted Lands Page 20
