Unclean: The Haunted Lands

by Richard Lee Byers

  Dmitra surveyed the zulkirs seated around the table. It seemed to her that every face betrayed worry, no matter how the mage lords tried to mask it, and why not? They all had plenty to worry about.

  “Your Omnipotences,” she said, “thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “You should thank us,” Samas Kul said, round face and fat neck a mottled red, “for by the Golden Coin, I don’t know why I came. Some of us listened to you before, and as a result we’re at war with Szass Tam!”

  “Whereas if we hadn’t heeded,” Lallara snapped, waspish as ever, “the lich would be king already.”

  “That might be better than the alternative.”

  “No,” said Nevron, glowering and smelling of sulfur, “it’s not. I will never bend my knee to Szass Tam. I’d sooner drown the entire realm in hellfire.”

  Yaphyll’s lips quirked into an impish smile. “It would be nice if we could chart a middle course. A tactic that avoids both surrender and ash.”

  “Your loyal servants in the Griffon Legion,” Dmitra said, “are doing their best to hinder Szass Tam’s advance. Unfortunately, a number of other companies are dawdling when they should be rushing to prepare for war. In some cases, they fear to take sides in a quarrel among zulkirs. In others, they’re contemplating fighting for the lich.

  “You have similar problems among the nobles and commoners,” she continued. “Many are loath to exert themselves or make any sacrifices to assist the defense. Some merely await the opportunity to work against you as spies and saboteurs.”

  “We already knew Szass Tam did an exemplary job of endearing himself to the masses,” Nevron growled. “Do you have a remedy?”

  “I hope so, Your Omnipotence,” Dmitra replied. “You six must forsake the seeming security of your castles and speak directly with lesser folk: the captains, the lords, and whomever.”

  Nevron glared at her. “You mean plead for their help?”

  “Of course not. You are their masters, now and forever. The problem is, so is Szass Tam. You need to loom as large in their thoughts as he does, so command them as always, but do it in person. Don’t count on them to obey your deputies with the same diligence and alacrity they’d show to you.”

  Samas Kul snorted. “I don’t have the proper physique for chasing frantically about the realm.”

  “Perhaps you should consider turning into something leaner,” Yaphyll replied. “That’s what transmutation’s all about, or so I’m told.”

  “In truth, Your Omnipotence,” Dmitra said, “I didn’t envision you doing a great deal of traveling. With an army marching against it, its tharchion and the commander of its legions assassinated, and the Shadowmasters still lurking about to hinder efforts at defense, nowhere in the realm needs more sorting out than Bezantur. You’re the zulkir who lives there and heads up the guild that made the city rich. You can set matters right if anyone can, but not by hiding behind fortress walls.”

  “Walls have their uses,” Lauzoril said in his usual prissy, tepid manner. “Szass Tam or his proxies have murdered two zulkirs already. Now you propose that the rest of us expose ourselves unnecessarily.”

  “Understand,” said Mythrellan, her body patterned in brown and tan diamonds like snakeskin, “we have reason to fear traitors even within the ranks of our own orders. But I don’t suppose I have to explain that to you.”

  “I infer,” Dmitra said, “you’re alluding to the fact that though I’m an illusionist, for a long while I gave my greatest loyalty to Szass Tam instead of your exalted self. What can I say, except that I recall a time when you too were pleased to have him as an ally.”

  Yaphyll chortled. “As were Lallara, Samas, and I, so let’s forgo deploring old miscalculations and address current needs, to which end I’ll say I believe Dmitra Flass is right. Whatever our concerns about our personal safety, we need to take the southern tharchs in hand while we still can.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so,” Dmitra said, “for I have even more to recommend.”

  Samas Kul snorted. “What else can there be?”

  “You’re all used to Szass Tam working through agents and subordinates. As you do. As lords everywhere do. But I know him, and I promise you that when his army undertakes a major battle, he’ll fight alongside his vassals. Obviously, his wizardry will all but guarantee a victory—unless we have archmages fighting on our side, too.”

  The zulkirs exchanged glances. Dmitra felt as if she could read their thoughts. None was especially eager to risk himself on a battlefield, where, if Lady Luck turned against him, even the most formidable spellcaster could fall. Their underlings were supposed to face such hazards for them. But chiefly they all flinched from the prospect of a duel of spells with Szass Tam. The lich was their superior, and whether or not any of them would ever concede it aloud, they knew it.

  The moment stretched on until Lallara suddenly banged her fist on the table. “Damn us for cowards! It’s six against one, isn’t it?”

  Yaphyll grinned. “It is, and I think that if we’re sensible, we must either fight as hard as we can or flee into exile. I’m not disposed to the latter. I just refurnished the south wing of my palace.”

  “Fine,” Samas Kul spat. “I’ll tend to Bezantur and all the rest of it, but it’s a bitter jest that I finally rise to be a zulkir, and then, instantly, everything turns to dung.”

  Dmitra could see they were all of one mind, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her masters cared for nothing but their own self-interest, which meant their brittle accord could fracture at any time, but for the moment at least, they’d follow where she led.

  For the time being, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. Bareris supposed that was good. It wouldn’t wash the pigment off his face or the faces of his companions.

  Unfortunately, his garments were already soaked, and a letup in the downpour couldn’t stop him feeling cold nor exhausted. The days and nights of flying and fighting almost without sleep had taken their toll. He crooned a restorative charm under his breath, and a tingle of vitality and alertness thrilled along his nerves.

  Off to the north of the enemy encampment, light flashed, dazzling in the night. Aoth and Brightwing had swooped in to cast their fire magic. The supply wagons were as wet as everything else, and Aoth hadn’t been certain the spell would actually suffice to set them ablaze, but the wavering yellow glow persisted, proof that he’d succeeded. Horses screamed, and men clamored.

  With luck, the fire had distracted everyone, even sentries. Bareris, Malark, and ten comrades, all clad in the trappings of the enemy and each with gray stain on his skin and streaks of amber phosphorescence above his eyes, jumped up from their hiding places and sprinted toward the perimeter of the camp.

  They got inside without anyone raising an alarm, and then they were just zombies shambling mindlessly about, waiting for some necromancer to command them. At least that was how it was supposed to look.

  Several enemy legionnaires stood babbling and gawking in the direction of the fire. Bareris and his companions circled to take them from behind. He eased his sword from its scabbard and slid it into a warrior’s back. Malark broke a man’s neck with a gentle-looking thump from the heel of his hand.

  Somebody saw and yelled a warning. Northerners scurried to grab their weapons and shields. Bareris and his comrades slaughtered several more, then it was time to go. Their disguises wouldn’t bear scrutiny for long, nor could they hope to stand against all the foes within easy reach of them. They cut their way clear and fled back into the night toward the spot where their griffons—and Malark’s flying horse—waited to bear them to safety.

  The loss of supplies should hinder the enemy a little. The confusion and dismay arising from the perception that some of their own undead warriors had rebelled might flummox them yet a little more. Anything to delay the advance for even another dozen heartbeats.

  For one terrifying instant, Aoth dreamed he’d fallen from Brightwing’s back, then woke to find it so. Fortunately, however, in
reality, he hadn’t been riding her across the sky but using her for a pillow, and she’d dumped his head and shoulders onto the cold, wet ground when she sprang to her feet. Now she stood staring into the trees and the darkness like a hound on a point.

  Stiff, sore, and grainy-eyed, Aoth grabbed his lance and clambered upright. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” the griffon replied. “Something terrible.”

  A shadow appeared between two oaks. “That’s rather harsh.”

  Aoth borrowed Brightwing’s eyes so he too could see in the dark, and the murky figure became a gaunt, dark-eyed man. The newcomer walked with a straight, unadorned ebony staff, and the fingers peeking from the sleeves of his wizard’s robes were shriveled and flaking.

  For a heartbeat, Aoth could only stand and stare, frozen by the certainty his life had come to an end. Then he started to level his spear and drew breath to chant. He was a warrior and could at least go down fighting.

  “Don’t!” Brightwing screeched. “He isn’t attacking!”

  Szass Tam smiled. “Your familiar has good instincts, Captain Fezim. At the risk of sounding immodest, I’m … formidable. When I kill with my own hands, the victim tends to be a fellow archmage, a demigod, or a whole army. Anything less is scarcely worth the bother, which is not to suggest that your brave and resourceful company doesn’t merit some sort of attention.”

  Aoth swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’d like a parley with you and your fellow officers.” Szass Tam gestured toward the heart of the grove, where the exhausted griffon riders had camped in the evidently vain hope the trees would conceal them from hostile eyes. His sleeve slipped down toward his wrist, revealing more of his withered hand. “Will you grant me safe conduct?”

  “Yes,” said Aoth.

  He felt as if he were still mired in a dream, and it was somehow impossible to say anything else. He led Szass Tam toward his slumbering, snoring comrades. Brightwing followed, positioning herself behind the lich so she could pounce on him if it became necessary to protect her master, even though Aoth could feel she shared his conviction that Szass Tam could crush them like ants whenever he chose.

  Szass Tam surveyed the sleeping men and griffons. “Do you want to wake them or should I?”

  “I’ll do it,” Aoth replied. “Get up, everyone!” The mundane quality of the words made the moment feel that much more unreal.

  Men groaned and rolled over, rubbed their eyes and threw off their covers, then faltered as Aoth had done when they saw who’d tracked them down. Rather, all but one of them did. Bareris leaped up, drew his sword, and sprang, all in a single blur of motion. Aoth lunged to interpose himself between the bard and Szass Tam but saw he wouldn’t make it in time.

  Bareris’s sword flashed at the necromancer’s head, and Szass Tam caught in his hand. The enchanted weapon should have cut the skeletal fingers off, but instead, Aoth saw some sort of malignancy flash up the blade. The sword shattered, and Bareris crumpled.

  Sword in hand, vaguely resembling Aoth at this particular moment, Mirror streaked at the lich. Szass Tam simply looked at the ghost, and Mirror froze into a statue of shimmer and murk.

  Warriors snatched up their weapons, and griffons gathered themselves to spring. They were all afraid of Szass Tam, but now that a fight had broken out, none intended to stand idle while the lich struck down their comrades. Nor, for that matter, did Aoth. He charged his lance with power.

  Szass Tam flourished his staff. Patterns of rainbow-colored light shimmered into existence around his body, then flowed into another configuration, and another after that. The ongoing process was fascinating, so much so that despite the urgencies of the moment, Aoth could only stand and stare. No doubt his comrades felt the same compulsion.

  “I entered your camp under sign of truce,” Szass Tam said, “and this swordsman and the ghost had no right to attack me. Even so, I’ve done them no permanent harm. Now will you grant me the parley I seek, or should I smite you all while you stand helpless?”

  It was difficult even to think, let alone talk, while transfixed by the shifting lights, but Aoth managed to force the words out. “You can have your talk. No one else will raise his hand to you.”

  “Good,” said the necromancer, and his halo faded away. “Now, who are your fellow officers?” The folk in question stepped forward, some only after a moment’s hesitation. Szass Tam gestured to a patch of clear ground a few yards away. “It looks as if we have room to sit and talk over there. Shall we?”

  The officers exchanged looks then moved in the direction the zulkir had indicated. Aoth surmised that the situation felt as surreal and impossible to control to them as it did to him. He started after them.

  “Help me over there,” Bareris croaked.

  Aoth snorted. “You already had your chance to be stupid.”

  “If you gave Szass Tam a truce, I was wrong to break it, and I’m sorry, but I have to hear what he has to say.”

  “Don’t make me regret it.” Aoth hauled Bareris to his feet, draped the bard’s arm across his shoulders, and essentially carried him to the clear spot. As far as he could see, Bareris didn’t have any actual wounds. Szass Tam had simply burned away his strength.

  The necromancer smiled sardonically as Aoth set Bareris back down on the ground. “I trust the inclusion of this gentleman won’t prevent us from enjoying a civil conversation.”

  “He’ll behave himself,” said Aoth. He paused, waiting for somebody senior to himself to assume the role of chief spokesman for the Griffon Legion, then he realized no one else intended to put himself forward. “What is it you want to say to us, Your Omnipotence?”

  “I suppose,” the lich replied, sitting cross-legged on the grass like any ordinary person, “I should begin by congratulating you. Your campaign of harassment slowed my army sufficiently to achieve your purpose.”

  Despite his fear of the lich, Aoth felt a pang of satisfaction. “So you won’t take Bezantur without a hard fight.”

  “Alas,” said Szass Tam, “I won’t take it at all, at least not this month nor the next. My fellow zulkirs have a sizable force maneuvering to intercept me, and they’re reportedly willing to commit their own persons to the battle. I’d have to fight them with the Lapendrar at my back, hindering my retreat if I should need to make one, and even if I won, Samas Kul has Bezantur ready to resist a siege. All things considered, my tharchions and I believe the superior strategy is to withdraw.”

  “Then we won,” said Malark.

  Of them all, he seemed most at ease in the lich’s presence, perhaps because, serving as Dmitra Flass’s lieutenant, he’d seen the creature often. Or maybe it was simply because few things seemed to daunt or even surprise him.

  “In a sense,” said Szass Tam, “but it’s time to consider what you’ve won. By balking me, you’ve simply condemned Thay to a long war instead of a short one, a protracted struggle as destructive as only the wizardry of archmages can devise. That’s of little practical consequence to me. I’ll still win in the end, and immortal as I am, I’ll have all the time I need to rebuild. But I would have preferred to spare humbler folk the miseries that now await them.”

  Aoth shrugged. “I don’t know about any of that. I just know we had to follow our orders and do our duty.”

  “Why,” asked Szass Tam, “do you believe your duty lies with the other zulkirs instead of me?”

  “That,” said Malark, smiling, “is a good question, Your Omnipotence, for obviously, nothing you’ve done is illegal, treasonous, or wrong. It can’t be, because a zulkir’s will is itself the definition of what’s proper.”

  “As I recall,” Szass Tam said, “you hail from the Moonsea. Perhaps it amuses you to mock our Thayan way of thinking.”

  “By no means,” said Malark. “I simply meant to convey that I follow your logic. I recognize your authority is as legitimate as the council’s, and the choice between you is essentially an arbitrary one.”

  “Then why not join me
,” said the lich, “and undo a portion of the harm you’ve caused? You could. You could strike a crippling blow before the council realizes you’ve switched sides, and afterward I’ll treat you well. You’ll hold high honors in the Thay to come, whereas if you cleave to your present course, you’ll only reap disaster and defeat.”

  “That may be,” said Malark. “I certainly wouldn’t wager against you, Your Omnipotence, but even knowing the decision’s not particularly sensible, I prefer to oppose you.”

  Szass Tam cocked his head. “Why?”

  “Without intending any insult, I have to confess the undead repulse me. Everything should live and die in its season, so I’m not partial to the idea of a lich king, and likewise not averse to the idea of this long war you promise. It promises to be quite a spectacle.”

  “I’m against you, too,” said Aoth, though the words made him feel as if he were slipping his neck into a noose. “I swore my oath to Nymia Focar, so if she stands with the council, so do I.” He hesitated. “Actually, there’s more to it than that. I saw what your undead raiders did in Pyarados to the ‘humbler folk’ you say you’d like to spare. I saw the torches explode in the hands of the priests who trusted you, and it all just sticks in my craw a little.”

  “I regret those deaths,” said Szass Tam, “but they were necessary to further a greater good.”

  “What ‘greater good?’” Aoth demanded. “You already ruled Thay, or near enough. The other zulkirs followed your lead more often than not. Why must you wear an actual crown even if it brings ruin on the land?”

  Szass Tam hesitated. “It’s a little complicated.”

  “Not for me,” Bareris gritted. “Your servants destroyed the woman I loved and hundreds of innocents like her. You made yourself the enemy of your own people, and we’d all be crazy to give you our trust or fealty ever again.”

  “You gentlemen disappoint me,” said the lich. “Is there none among you with any breadth or clarity of thought? Does it truly matter if a few peasants perished a day or a decade early? Everyone suffers and dies in the end, and the world rolls on just the same without him. That’s the sad, shabby way of things as they are.” He looked at Bareris. “In a year or two, you’ll forget all about this lass you think you adored.”