Prophet of the Dead: Forgotten Realms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Aoth gave a nod to all the folk looking back at him and his companions. “Well,” he said, “here we are, no thanks to this creature. Let’s find out why she came here to bother you.”

  Watching out lest she suddenly twist her head and bite him, he pulled the gag away from Pevkalondra’s mouth. She spit viscous gray fluid and licked her shriveled lips with a long, pointed tongue. For some reason, the latter action thickened the dry-rot stink of her.

  “I won’t tell you anything,” she said, “until you promise me my freedom.”

  “Done,” said Aoth.

  Some of the Old Ones exclaimed in dismay. Seated on the third tier up, owl mask set aside—likely because it chafed the bruised, swollen right side of his face—Kanilak yelled, “That thing led the attack on the caverns!”

  “Yes,” said Shaugar, seated a level higher with Pevkalondra’s wand in his hand, “and it’s undead on top of that. Its very existence offends the spirits and the Three themselves.”

  “She offends me too,” Aoth replied. “But we need to know what she can tell us. Because up in the North Country, my comrades and I believed we ended a threat to Rashemen. But plainly, the menace isn’t over.” He looked to Pevkalondra. “Isn’t that so, Raumviran?”

  The pearl in her eye socket glimmering, Pevkalondra sneered back at him. “I told you what I require,” she said. “For obvious reasons, I require it from these barbarians as well.”

  Orgurth snorted. “Stinky, I don’t see how you can ‘require’ much of anything. Like I already told the captain, I can make you talk.”

  “Maybe,” said Aoth, “but maybe not. I’ve heard of undead yielding under torture, but also of those that never did. Their pain and fear aren’t necessarily like ours.”

  “We could try,” said an Old One in a mask like the gnarled face of a tree spirit ringed with stubby twigs.

  “I know you’ve lost friends,” said Aoth. “I understand the wish to avenge them. But think of the welfare of your country and your own welfare in particular. There could be more Raumvirans in the Running Rocks, and if so, you need to know.”

  “I don’t like it,” Shaugar growled, “but the Silverbloods owe you, Captain, and you have a point.” He glowered at the ghoul. “We Old Ones promise to release you and give you a day to clear out of our territory in exchange for answers to our questions. Start with the one Captain Fezim just raised. Are we still in danger?”

  “No immediate danger,” Pevkalondra said. “No more than the rest of the Rashemi.”

  “Convince us,” said Aoth. “What were you and your raiders doing here?”

  The Raumviran hesitated, not, he sensed, because she was concocting a lie but rather because the answer was somewhat complicated.

  “Do you understand,” she asked at length, “that undead from an unknown land far to the west of Faerûn have come to Rashemen?”

  “I do now,” Aoth replied. Speaking through Jet, Jhesrhi and Cera had explained it to him. “The emissaries reanimated Raumvirans, Nars, durthans, and the Firelord knows what else to create a force capable of subjugating Rashemen.”

  “Yes,” Pevkalondra said, “and then our confederacy explored various ways of achieving its purpose. One such option was via a straightforward military campaign, but your victory at the Fortress of the Half-Demon led Uramar—the chief envoy from the Eminence of Araunt—to decide to pursue a different scheme he hatched with Nyevarra, a durthan, instead.

  “The plan,” the ghoul continued, “gave a central role to witches, and thereafter, Uramar concentrated on reanimating more of them. He ignored Raumvirans, even though we’d sustained heavy losses in the battle. His disregard made it clear my folk were destined for only a minor role in the Rashemen to come.”

  “Unless,” said Aoth, “you did something to increase your power and prestige.”

  “Yes. So I cast around to determine how to accomplish that, and I discovered hathrans weren’t the only mages who in one fashion or another support the Iron Lord. The Old Ones were up here in the mountains, and I hoped that if I led a war band to destroy them, one enclave after another, my efforts would demonstrate the worth of Raumathari wizardry and arms.”

  “And if they didn’t,” said Orgurth, “you’d still have all the enchanted weapons and talismans you’d looted. If it came to it, you could make this Ura-something show you respect.”

  “Exactly,” said the ghoul.

  Orgurth leered. “Too bad it didn’t work out.”

  “So you’re telling us,” said Aoth, “that yours was the only band of undead raiding in these mountains?”

  “Yes,” Pevkalondra answered. “All the durthans and such are pursuing Uramar’s scheme.”

  Aoth nodded. “Fair enough. And now let’s talk about that. What is the cursed scheme?”

  The ghoul grinned, likely because she was anticipating the effect her next words would have. “Corruption. First and foremost, of the Urlingwood itself, the sacred earth Rashemi so revere. The durthans apparently know how to tilt the balance of forces centered there to strengthen their witchcraft and the dark fey while weakening the hathrans and their particular allies. The overt conquest of Rashemen will be a trifling matter after that.”

  Seemingly astonished, the Old Ones stared down at her. Then Shaugar said, “Nonsense! If the durthans knew how to do such a thing, they would have done it during the Witch War of old.”

  “They couldn’t,” Pevkalondra said. “The hathrans guarded the heart of their power too well.”

  “And do you think they’re any less vigilant now, mere tendays after you and your undead friends were committing atrocities throughout the land?”

  “Yes, because a traitor opened a magical gateway into the Iron Lord’s castle itself.”

  “Dai Shan,” said Aoth, his fingers tightening on his spear. He thanked Kossuth, Amaunator, Tymora, and any other deity who might conceivably have had a hand in Cera and Jhesrhi successfully killing the little snake, but a part of him would always regret he hadn’t done the job himself.

  “Yes,” Pevkalondra said, still grinning, “and that and the new powers undeath conferred on the durthans enabled them to subvert and weaken first our foes in Immilmar and then in the Urlingwood itself. They killed hathrans, donned their masks, and impersonated them. Vampires turned or enslaved other defenders of the old order, while ghosts possessed still more. A plague of treachery, torpor, and muddled wits swept through the covens, the Huhrong’s Citadel, and the lodge houses, and as a result, the forest is already under our control.”

  “You’re lying!” Kanilak spit. “Nothing’s weakening our magic. It’s as strong as ever.”

  Pevkalondra inclined her head. “True enough, boy, as my soldiers and I discovered to our cost. But in your crude way, you Old Ones are like Raumvirans. You’re makers, and your magic derives more from the mind and less from the soul. In retrospect, it makes sense that your power might stand strong for a while longer than that of your mistresses.”

  The ghoul turned her stained, jagged grin back on Aoth. “So you see,” she said, “I’ve lost a battle, but you’ve lost the war. The Eminence of Araunt has occupied the ground it needs to ensure its triumph and neutralized all who might have broken its hold in time.”

  Aoth considered the situation and decided it justified Pevkalondra’s confidence. Indeed, because she didn’t know Lod himself had come to Rashemen to speed the dark rituals along to their fruition, the Eminence’s position was even stronger than she realized.

  “The Black Flame burn me,” he said, “if I ever travel without my own army again. If I walk down to the corner for a mug of beer, the entire Brotherhood of the Griffon is going with me.”

  “Then you admit defeat,” Pevkalondra said.

  Aoth smiled back at her, and something in his expression made her give a tiny start, predatory monstrosity though she was. “Well, no,” he answered, “I wouldn’t say that.”

  He pivoted back toward the Old Ones. “You heard,” he said. “Your country’s enemies hav
e deprived it of its usual cadre of protectors. We have to assemble a new one quickly to drive the vermin out of your sacred wood. Obviously, that effort starts with you. How soon can you be ready to march?”

  For a heartbeat, no one answered. Then a man in a wolf mask said, “We can’t just do that because we want to. We can only leave the Running Rocks if the hathrans command it.”

  “Stinky just told you,” Orgurth said, “the witches can’t command it. They’re dead, addled, or too stupid to see what’s falling apart right in front of them.”

  “Still,” Shaugar said, “our vows are vows, and even if we did break them, no man is allowed in the Urlingwood.”

  Orgurth shrugged. “Once you start breaking rules, what’s the difference if it’s one or two?”

  An Old One in an iron T-shaped mask that left his cheeks and the corners of his mouth uncovered said, “To break our oaths would disgrace us. To defile the Urlingwood—”

  “It’s being defiled now!” Aoth shouted. “How can you let that happen and still tell yourselves your vows and your religion count for anything? I’m an outlander—Abyss, I’m one of the Thayans you Rashemi all despise—and I don’t claim to understand your ways. But if it were my sacred forest, I’d save it and worry about getting punished for disobeying orders afterward. That’s what loyalty and duty mean to me!”

  For a moment, the Old Ones were quiet again. Then Shaugar said, “But the ghoul was right. We are crafters first and foremost, and you saw how many of our staves and amulets we’ve already emptied of magic.”

  “I’ve also seen plenty of intact Raumviran golems still standing around in the foundry,” Aoth replied. “Old Ones put them to sleep, and you can wake them too.”

  “Some acts of creation,” quavered a stooped figure on the uppermost tier, an Old One in every sense of the term, “work in accordance with Nature, while others mock it. Our tradition—”

  “So you break three rules!” Orgurth said, “to save your holy trees!”

  “Yes,” said Shaugar, a hint of grim humor in his voice, “to save the ‘holy trees.’ ” He rose and turned so that, for a moment at least, he looked each of his fellow enchanters in the eye. “Our friends are right. We can’t sit idly by while the undead take over Rashemen even if the Wychlaran burn us all in wicker cages afterward. So: who’s coming with me?”

  “I will!” Kanilak said.

  “And I,” said a big man in a long-eared rabbit mask that presumably didn’t look as comical to his fellow Rashemi as it did to Aoth.

  One by one, all the others agreed to march, although in some cases with manifest reluctance or windy—and likely specious—discourses on how precedent or the exact wording of their laws and vows might after all permit them to do as they intended. The lawyering made Aoth seethe with impatience, but he tried not to show it.

  When all the talk was finally through, and most of the enchanters were headed out to prepare for the journey, Shaugar came down to the floor of the amphitheater. “Thanks for your support,” Aoth told him. “Can I hope the part about wicker cages was an exaggeration?”

  Shaugar snorted. “You were right before. You really don’t understand Rashemen. But you were also correct that we mustn’t worry about that now. As we head north, we’ll pass near a couple other Old One villages. We can ask them to join us.”

  Pevkalondra laughed. “You still won’t have enough men to stop what’s happening in the forest.”

  “We’ll see,” said Aoth. “It may be that I can scare up a few more.”

  “Either way,” Orgurth said, “I’m tired of listening to Stinky, here, jeer at us. I’ve also gone too long in my new life as a sellsword without picking up any plunder.”

  He turned, grabbed Pevkalondra’s ocular between thumb and forefinger, and yanked. The pearl jerked free, trailing the thin prongs of metal that had zigzagged back into her head. They came out with bits of rotten matter clinging to them, and the ghoul screamed.

  “See?” asked Orgurth, making a casual attempt to wipe the decay off on his sleeve. “I told you I could have made her talk.”

  * * * * *

  The durthans were performing their rites in a stand of towering, many-branched weirwood trees. It was one of the most sacred places of power in the Urlingwood, yet even so, permanently tilting the balance of dark and light in all Rashemen was proving to be a long and arduous process requiring night after night of chanted prayers and incantations around the greenish fire.

  Although things were moving a little faster now that, with matters elsewhere under control, Nyevarra was leading the rituals. The Stag King’s antler staff had turned out to be a potent talisman for strengthening the conjurations.

  She was spinning it through a complicated figure that made the bonfire blaze higher when, her mystical perceptions heightened by the ceremony, she sensed entities possessed of considerable supernatural power approaching in the night. She used a hand signal to warn her sister witches a pause was necessary, and they all stopped chanting on the same word, at a point that kept the forces they’d raised from bursting free of the metaphysical structures meant to channel and contain them.

  Nyevarra and the other durthans then turned to await the newcomers. Some witches gasped or exclaimed when their fellow ghouls and specters marched out of the dark.

  There were many creatures in the column formidable enough to merit such expressions of admiration and respect. But Nyevarra had no doubt that it was the singular entity crawling in the lead who’d riveted everyone’s attention.

  The upper part of him was the top portion of a human skeleton. At the waist, those bare bones fused with an enormous, scaly serpentine body like a dragon’s tail. She knew from the description Uramar had given her that this was Lod, but even if she hadn’t, she would have assumed as much from the exceptional wizardly strength she sensed inside him.

  She left the circle to greet him and his companions. Swaying slightly from side to side, he loomed over her, and she felt small and vulnerable. Making sure that didn’t reveal itself in her stance or voice, she said, “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Lod replied. “You must be Nyevarra. Uramar’s messenger told me you’re the one who worked out how best to conquer this realm.”

  Nyevarra smiled behind her mask. “It was my notion. But every durthan is aiding in the effort.”

  Lod nodded. “I like it that you’re willing to share the credit. It reflects the spirit of fellowship our cause requires.” He peered over her head in the direction of the green fire. “But plainly, our arrival interrupted your labors. Will you take them up again? It would be a privilege to observe.”

  Nyevarra blinked. “Right now? You’ve traveled a long way.”

  “Yes. But as you’ve surely discovered, one of the many benefits of undeath is being impervious to fatigue.”

  “In that case, please, come to the fire.”

  After another series of complex invocations, the durthans came to a planned halt; undead might be tireless in the general course of things, but any witch performing a lengthy ritual was well advised to pause from time to time to refocus her will. At that point, curious to hear his opinion, Nyevarra looked up at Lod.

  “Remarkable,” the bone naga said. “Until Uramar relayed your plans, I would never have dreamed such a thing was possible. Still, I have lore of my own, and with your permission, I believe I can speed things along.”

  “I’m eager to see what you have in mind.”

  “Then when everyone is ready, I’ll take the lead while you and your sisters make the ritual responses. I’m only going to change your incantations a little, so you won’t have any difficulty following along.”

  In a sense, that proved to be true. But in the aggregate, the small changes—an arcane gesture performed with extra slashing vehemence, an alteration in the cadence of a phrase, the substitution of one name of power for another—made a considerable difference. Attuned to the magic, Nyevarra could perceive it transforming the Urlingwood in ways it hadn’t hitherto.
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  The fire turned from green to a gray so deep it was nearly black, and in some indefinable but ghastly fashion, the crackling alternately suggested sobbing and laughter. A darkness deeper than natural night thickened in the air.

  Tendrils of rot snaked through one of the weir trees, riddling the heartwood in an instant. Farther away, oaks and pines perished of the same cankerous affliction.

  Earth shifted and clenched like a miser’s fist, and the spring water that had bubbled up to feed a frozen brook could no longer find its way to the surface.

  A bear sleeping in its burrow whimpered and thrashed as a new deformed head—three-eyed, with crooked jaws and jagged, oversized fangs—sprouted from its shoulder. But the natural head didn’t truly wake until the freakish one started eating it.

  There was still a part of Nyevarra, the part that recalled life as a dutiful young hathran, that winced at the accelerated corruption and desecration. But the rebel and vampire that naive girl had become rejoiced. Before, she’d estimated that her rituals would make her and her allies invincible near the time of the spring thaw. But with Lod’s aid, it should require only another tenday or two.

  * * * * *

  Vandar felt a surge of happiness as, riding the giant hawk Jhesrhi had conjured to carry him, he gazed down on Immilmar from the air. After all the dangers and horrors he’d encountered in the north, home had never looked more inviting.

  Or at least that was the case until his eyes fell on the peaked roof of the Griffon Lodge. Even on this frigid winter day, no smoke rose from the chimney, and why would it? The building stood empty as it would until someone new took possession of it.

  Vandar averted his eyes, and in so doing, turned them toward the lake. The Storm of Vengeance was sitting on the shore.

  Grief and guilt gave way to rage, and had he known how, he would have turned his steed toward the skyship. Because he didn’t know how to steer the giant hawk, he could only wait as his bird, Jhesrhi’s, and Jet, who was carrying Cera, swooped down to light in the snow in front of Witches’ Hall.