The masked witches botg-4

by Richard Lee Byers

  Cera looked to Jhesrhi. Please, get me down there, she said. Someone might still be alive.

  Unfortunately, no, Aoth said. But we ve learned all we can from up here.

  On Jhesrhi s command, the wind let them plummet, slowing their descent at what seemed the last possible moment. Cera s boots settled lightly in the snow, and she could see what Aoth had observed from on high. The bodies before her were withered and twisted, and already stank of rot despite the cold. She sighed in pity and disappointment.

  When she looked up from the corpses, Aoth, Jhesrhi, and Vandar were peering about, their weapons at the ready. Their priority was to scan for hidden foes, not to examine the fallen. That, Cera reflected, was the difference between truly warlike folk and one who no matter how many desperate exploits she survived would always be a cleric and healer in her innermost heart.

  With rasping cries and the rustling of wings, the griffons and their Aglarondan masters descended. Less agile in flight, her canvas wings partly folded, the Storm of Vengeance was still maneuvering to land beyond the trees while gradually floating lower in the process.

  The Aglarondan half-elf with the old white scar creasing his cheek and tugging slightly at the corner of his mouth glared at Aoth.

  All of you, step away from there, he said.

  No, Aoth replied. Not on your order. This isn t Aglarond, and you have no authority. If any of us does, it s the lodge master here, until Mangan Uruk touches down.

  Vandar drew himself up straighter. That s true, he said. And I say we should be figuring out who committed this outrage, not bickering amongst ourselves.

  Fine, the half-elf snapped. He turned to his men.

  We ll work our way through the trees. See what you can find.

  As the griffonriders moved off, their mounts prowling beside them like faithful hounds, Aoth gave Vandar a nod. Thanks for backing me up, he said.

  The berserker shrugged. We agreed that, for the time being, we d help each other, he replied. I take it that Folcoerr Dulsaer doesn t like you.

  Is that his name? asked Aoth. I broke a contract with Aglarond once and fought on the side of its enemy instead. I guess he hasn t forgotten.

  And it doesn t shame you to admit it? Vandar asked, sneering.

  You don t know anything about it, said Aoth. And anyway, it has nothing to do with what happened here. Let s work on understanding that. Tell me about that tree. Aoth pointed with his spear to indicate the one he meant.

  It was a towering old oak, and Cera winced to behold its current state. The bark was flaking away, and patches of black, slimy rot were eating into the sapwood. The bare branches had twisted into unnatural shapes that reminded her of the contortions of the dead hathrans.

  Vandar scowled. It was the reason this place was sacred, he said. The reason the witches dwelled here. A wise old spirit lived inside it. If the oak s been killed, I suppose the telthor has been, too. He extended his hand and touched his heart in what Cera took to be a sign of reverence.

  So the point of all this was desecration, she said. The thought made her neck muscles tighten in anger.

  Desecration and plunder, said Aoth. I doubt that all three of these women died without a wand or a staff in their hands. And you can see the huts have been ransacked.

  What I don t see, Vandar said, are clear tracks of anyone but the hathrans and the fox.

  I noticed that, too, said Aoth. There are spells to erase a human s tracks, but they run out of power after a while. That means the Aglarondans have the right idea. If we move out from this point, maybe we can pick up a trail. Cera, stay with me.

  She snorted. I think I ve proved I can take care of myself.

  Well, I think you left your mace and buckler attached to Jet s saddle, Aoth said. I understand you still have your magic, but even so, stick with me.

  Yes, Captain, she replied, smiling.

  At first, they didn t find anything but a dead, rotting owl possibly killed by a stray burst of the same malignancy that had slain the hathrans, the fox, and the sacred tree. But then Aoth oriented on a low, dark spot amid a tangle of roots, with a snow-covered hump in the ground behind it.

  That s a hole, he said. And the lump behind it is some sort of old monument. See where the stonework shows through the overgrowth and the snow?

  No, Cera said, but I m sure you do. Did something climb out of the hole or crawl into it?

  That I can t tell. Any chance I can convince you to stay up here?

  What do you think? She whispered a prayer and moved her hand in an arc. A golden glimmer ran through her yellow glove. When she entered the dark, the leather would shine with captured sunlight.

  Stay close, then, Aoth said. He lowered himself onto his belly and squirmed through the curtain of roots. In another moment, his voice came back to her. I ve found some stairs, he called.

  When Cera crawled through the roots, she saw steep, narrow steps descending into darkness beyond the reach of her conjured glow. Chunks of stone and bits of dirt littered the upper risers. Once, she surmised, a slab had capped the top of the stairway, perhaps covered with earth to keep it hidden. But something possibly simply the weight of time, or the slow insistence of the growing roots had broken it.

  Ready? asked Aoth, keeping his voice low.

  If you are, she replied.

  Keeping his spear level, he headed downward. She followed.

  The steps brought them to a place where one stone passage curved away to the right, its counterpart curved to the left, and a third one extended straight ahead. Rows of square slabs studded the wall, each graven with hieroglyphs that Cera couldn t read. But in some places, there were no such stoppers, just empty holes revealing sockets the approximate size and shape of coffins.

  It s a tomb, Cera said.

  I think so, said Aoth. An old one, though whether Nar, Raumathari, or something else, I don t know. Watch out for guardians and traps.

  She did, but as it turned out, she needn t have bothered. If the dead had ever had a sentry, it had deserted its post or crumbled to dust along ago. Likewise, if there had ever been contrivances to drop an intruder into a pit or to pop a blade stabbing out of the wall, the mechanisms had stiffened and corroded into immobility.

  The place turned out to be laid out in a circle, with two straight passages crossing in the center like the spokes of a wheel. At that hub, a sarcophagus carved with the form of a sleeping man in scale armor and an odd jagged crown reposed on a pedestal.

  Aoth looked it over, then shrugged. If it s been opened recently, I can t tell it, he said.

  So what do we have? Cera asked. Anything?

  Not as far as I can see, he replied. There s nothing down here, and no way out except the way we came in. On top of that, we have to assume that the witches and the oak spirit knew the tomb was here and weren t worried about it. So by all indications, it had nothing to do with the attack.

  Then let s go back up and see if anybody else has found anything, she said.

  Good idea, he replied, starting toward the passage that ran back to the staircase. Suddenly he pivoted.

  Her heart beat quicker, and she looked where he was peering.

  What? she called.

  He pointed with the spear. There, he said.

  Three small vertical grooves had been carved above the arch that led to one of the other straight corridors. Glad that Aoth hadn t spotted a pouncing specter or something similar, Cera sighed and asked, What about them?

  He shook his head. I don t know, he replied. But every other bit of carving we ve seen has been on either a slab or the sarcophagus there. These are the only marks on a plain patch of wall.

  That is funny, she said. But you said yourself we don t even know who built this tomb. We certainly don t know what their traditions were. And we explored that passage the same as the others. There was nothing different about it.

  True enough, he replied. Let s get out of here.

  By the time they had crawled back out into the winter sunlight, the S
torm of Vengeance had landed, and Mangan and Bez stood by the huts and the dead hathrans conferring with Dulsaer, Jhesrhi, and Vandar. With the snow crunching beneath his boots, Aoth brushed more of it off his chest and tramped to join the parley. Cera hurried after him.

  Can t you wizards reveal the trail? the Iron Lord growled.

  Jhesrhi shifted her grip on her new staff, a length of brass, graven with runes and octagonal in cross section. I can try, she said, but it will take me awhile, and I can t promise results. That kind of magic isn t my specialty.

  Nor mine, said Bez, nor that of any mage aboard my ship. We re war wizards, not diviners.

  If sorcery is of no use, Dulsaer said, pulling the wings of his leather fleece-lined cape together against the cold, then let s try thinking. The enemy likely moved and attacked by night. But it isn t night now, and they d be reckless indeed to wander around in open country in the daylight. Where could they hide?

  Mangan frowned. The Ashenwood s the obvious place, he said. It s nearby, and a haunt for trolls and ettercaps, among other things.

  From what I understand, the half-elf said, it s also dense enough that a band of warriors might reasonably hope to conceal themselves there. Thayan marauders, perhaps. He glanced in Aoth s direction.

  Interesting notion, Aoth replied. Have you worked out how such raiders would stay hidden marching hundreds of miles north from the Gorge of Gauros?

  Dulsaer scowled. I concede that a Thayan war party is only one possibility, he said. My point is this: My men and I can search for the enemy from the air. The fact that the branches have dropped their leaves should help considerably. He turned to Mangan. We ll find the killers, Highness, and punish them as they deserve.

  Bez nodded. Naturally, the Storm will participate, too.

  You ll discover, the Aglarondan said, that one skyship can t cover ground the way twenty griffonriders can.

  Maybe so, the sellsword said, smiling, but at least I know I can count on you Aglarondans to summon me for the actual fighting. I mean, considering that His Highness is riding aboard my vessel. You surely aren t planning to attack without involving him.

  Of course not, Dulsaer snapped.

  Let s move out, Mangan said, and in another moment, Dulsaer and Bez were both bellowing commands. The other Aglarondans led their screeching griffons to spots where gaps in the branches overhead would make it easy to ascend. Several sellswords scrambled to collect the bodies of the hathrans and even the fox. The rest trotted for their ship.

  Vandar rounded on Aoth and Jhesrhi. What are you waiting for? he asked. Call another wind.

  Aoth shook his head. No need, he said. We re not going.

  Vandar gaped at him. Why not? he asked.

  Is it something to do with the tomb? Cera asked.

  The markings?

  Maybe, said Aoth. At that moment, a cloud blew across the face of the sun, and in the sudden dimness, his luminous blue eyes seemed to flare brighter. Maybe not. But I have a hunch or two. Everyone wonders how the killers departed without leaving a trail. But what if there s no trail because somehow, some way, they never left?

  And we missed seeing them? Jhesrhi asked.

  Is that possible with your truesight?

  Even I don t see everything, said Aoth.

  Anyway, ask yourself, what s the point of defiling a place of power?

  Maybe just to spoil it for people you hate, Cera said. But sometimes to taint the power for use in a darker form of magic.

  Right, Aoth said, nodding. So maybe, after Mangan and the others have gone away, and the sun sets, the killers will come out of hiding or sneak back to the grove if they really did withdraw to somewhere else to do that. We re going to be here to meet them.

  Vandar scowled. I m not, he said.

  That all sounded like so much guesswork for me. I m going with the others.

  You can try to beg a ride, said Aoth, but I doubt you ll have any better luck than the Shou did. And even if someone takes pity on you, and even if the others actually locate the enemy, how will you show off your kind of prowess while the Aglarondans are loosing arrows and Bez s sellswords are hurling blasts of flame and lightning from on high? Staying here gives you a chance to prove your worth.

  Glowering, Vandar stood and pondered. Eventually, he said,

  I ll stay. But you d better be right.

  A huge black shape plunged down from on high. Cera jumped, and Vandar jerked his javelin up over his shoulder for throwing.

  What did I miss? Jet rasped.

  Riding Jet above the grove, Aoth felt a chill. With a touch and a thought, he roused the magic of one of his tattoos. The result was only a feeble, fleeting pulse of warmth. He d invoked the enchantment too often. Its strength would renew itself, but not quickly enough to do him much good tonight.

  You humans are so delicate, said Jet. He wheeled for another pass, and his ebony feathers reflected a glint of Sel ne s silvery light. It reminded Aoth of the Moonmaiden s servant lying twisted and rotting in her black and argent mantle, and he felt a stab of anger.

  He supposed that was stupid if not downright unprofessional. After all, he d never even met the woman, and there couldn t be many people across the length and breadth of Faer n who d seen more slaughtered corpses than he had. But still, at that moment, the thought of a priestess slain by magic troubled him. Chathi had died that way.

  He still missed her occasionally, even after a hundred years. He wondered if he would soon be missing Cera, too, once the other sunladies and lords decided to elevate her as she deserved. They were going to choose Daelric s successor at Greengrass, so

  Motion in the trees below jolted him from his musings.

  Darkness was nearly the same as light to him, while distance was far less of a hindrance than it was to other men. Still, trying to see through crisscrossed branches, and peering down from overhead, it was hard to make out much more than the tops of hoods. But over the course of several heartbeats, the details started coming clear.

  Swaying and stepping in unison, as though to music only they could hear, a line of robed women was weaving toward the huts and the blighted tree. Given their location, it was conceivable they d crawled up out of the ancient tomb. Aoth found that possibility perplexing, but not as troubling as the fact that they were masked.

  What in the name of the deepest Hell? he thought. Is there such a thing as an outlaw hathran? A traitor hathran?

  Without a doubt, said Jet. Don t you know your own species?

  Wolves prowled among the masked women. So did vague, flowing shapes like the shadows of wolves. Aoth s frown deepened. The phantoms reminded him of creatures he d fought during the War of the Zulkirs, darkness itself given form and a mockery of life by necromantic arts.

  He tensed as the procession neared its destination. One petty drawback of inhumanly keen eyesight was that it was sometimes difficult to judge just how well a comrade had succeeded in concealing himself. Despite crouching behind cover and all but burying themselves in snow, Cera, Jhesrhi, and Vandar were plainly visible to him. He breathed a sigh of relief when none of the enemy paid them any attention. The witches seemingly had no idea that the clear patch of ground was surrounded.

  They did set sentries, though, albeit in a haphazard fashion. The wolves, corporeal and otherwise, prowled, sniffed, and peered out into the trees. The witches Aoth counted thirteen altogether arranged themselves in a semicircle in front of the ruined oak and started a moaning incantation.

  Aoth frowned, because the dismal wail had a muffled, faraway quality. Even as he listened, he could almost doubt that he was truly hearing anything at all, except, maybe, the beginnings of madness echoing inside his head. The air grew colder.

  They re working necromancy right now, Aoth concluded. Or they re undead themselves.

  Or both, answered Jet.

  For a while, the masked women only moaned. Then they started making beckoning motions toward the tree, curling what Aoth now observed to be gray, shriveled fingers. The patches of r
ot seethed and bubbled, and the the whole oak writhed. More bark flaked from the trunk, and twigs fell from the branches.

  Suddenly, a figure lurched from the tree like a drunkard stumbling over a rut in the street.

  The entity was twice as tall as any of the undead hathrans for Aoth was virtually certain that s what they were and seemingly made of a blur of greenish phosphorescence. Or most of it was. As the oak had pockets of decay eating into it, the insubstantial giant had bits and patches of darkness blemishing its form.

  The giant flailed its hand at the witches, but the blow passed harmlessly over their heads. The only effect was to cost Vandar s wise old spirit for that it surely was, not slain after all, but wounded and crippled its balance, and it dropped noiselessly to its knees. A couple of the flesh-and-blood wolves snarled, howling at its helplessness and humiliation. This display of cruel mirth led Aoth to consider the possibility that the beasts were actually werewolves.

  One of the witches silenced them with a snap of her fingers before she and her sisters resumed their moaning. The patches of shadow inside the giant expanded, sending inky tendrils slithering through the glow, as the spirit hung its head and shuddered.

  Aoth wondered how long to let the witches continue. He and his comrades were apt to learn quite a bit as they watched. Yet they couldn t allow the oak spirit to be killed, enslaved, or corrupted in some fundamental way.

  He was still considering the matter when Vandar screamed a war cry that was a fair imitation of a griffon s screech, sprang up from under the pine where he d lain concealed, and charged. He d taken off his beadwork regalia, perhaps to not risk it getting damaged or bloodstained.

  Startled, the witches and their four-footed servants froze for a moment. It gave the berserker who certainly appeared berserk at that moment a chance to land a cut to the head of one of the corporeal wolves. The beast fell down but rolled to its feet again, its resistance to common steel confirming Aoth s suspicion.

  Idiot! said Jet with a snarl.

  Aoth agreed. He hadn t been too worried about the undead witches superior numbers or their presumably potent magic to that point, because he d intended that he and his allies would make a coordinated surprise attack. But that couldn t happen anymore.