Undead hl-2

by Richard Lee Byers

  Or at least it had for a while. Then a force of howling blood orcs and yellow-eyed dread warriors descended on them under cover of night. Taken by surprise, Thamas and his allies had nonetheless managed to repel the attackers, but they'd lost half their number in the process, with several more likely to succumb to their wounds before the end of the night.

  It shouldn't have happened. They'd covered their tracks and hidden themselves well, as always. Even skilled manhunters-

  Thamas sensed rather than heard a presence at his back, and twisted his head around. Gothog Dyernina and two soldiers had crept up behind him. Gothog was half Rashemi and half orc, as his pointed ears and protruding lower canines attested. As far as Thamas was concerned, such creatures had no business commanding, but as the war killed Mulan officers, it provided opportunities for the lower orders to rise from the ranks, and over time, he'd gotten used to Gothog, too.

  Which didn't mean he wanted the lout interrupting him when he was trying to concentrate. "What is it?" he asked.

  "I want to know," Gothog said, "why you didn't warn me the enemy was coming."

  "Because I'm not a diviner," Thamas said. "I'd like to know why your scouts and sentries didn't spot them."

  "Right," Gothog said, "you're a conjuror. But it didn't do us a lot of good during the fight, did it? At first, you didn't do anything. Then, when you finally whistled up that big three-headed snake, it attacked our own men."

  "It destroyed several of our foes first, and I sent it back to the Abyss as soon as I lost control. I explained this to you. The mystical forces in the cosmos are out of balance. Until that changes, wizardry won't be as reliable as it ought to be."

  Gothog grunted. "Maybe that was the problem, or maybe you didn't really want to fight."

  "Are you stupid? Why wouldn't I, when the northerners were trying to kill me, too?"

  "Were they?"

  Thamas decided he no longer felt comfortable sitting on the ground with the half-orc and the legionnaires looming over him. He drew himself to his feet. "Exactly what are you insinuating?"

  "Maybe the enemy found us because someone called them to us. Maybe it was you."

  "That's ridiculous! Where did you come up with such an idea?"

  "A magus wouldn't have much trouble passing messages to the enemy. You have spells that let you talk over distances. You'd only need to sneak off by yourself for a moment, and here you are again, alone among the trees."

  "Did I look like I was doing anything sinister? I was just sitting!"

  "I don't take much pleasure in this." Gothog took hold of the leather-wrapped hilt of his scimitar, and the blade whispered out of the scabbard. The other soldiers readied their broadswords. "You always made it plain you think I'm dirt, but you helped me win gold and a captaincy, too. I wish you were still helping. The Horde Leader knows, we'll likely need a sorcerer's help to get us out of Gauros alive. But I can't trust you anymore." He and his companions stepped forward, spreading out as they did so.

  Thamas stood frozen, losing a precious moment to shock and bewilderment. Then he hastily retreated. "This is crazy! I'm no traitor, and besides, I'm a Red Wizard! You scum can't touch me!"

  "Oh, I think I've just been handed the authority," Gothog said, "but you're right, why put it to the test? I'll just say you died fighting Azhir Kren's warriors, and nobody will ever know any different."

  You're the one who's about to die, Thamas thought. You should have struck me down before I realized I was in danger.

  Because he'd long ago prepared for a moment of ultimate peril like this. He needed only to speak a name and a certain alkilith, a formless demon made of oozing filth, would appear to serve him for thirteen of his heartbeats.

  "Shleeshee!" he cried. Magic whined through the air, and he sensed power shifting in his staff, making the top half feel heavier than the bottom. Then the pole exploded. Splinters stung his cheek and forehead, and he flinched.

  Nothing else happened.

  Thamas whirled, ran, and smashed into the trunk of a pine tree he hadn't realized was directly behind him. He rebounded, then a blade bit into his back.

  Malark sauntered among the rooftop mews, inspecting them. From a certain perspective, it was a waste of time. He knew he'd find the cages clean and the food and water bowls filled. But the stooped, white-haired Rashemi who took care of the ravens liked to have his diligence perceived and commended.

  "Everything looks fine," Malark said. He tossed a silver coin, and the aged servant caught it deftly. "Go have some breakfast, and a bottle of wine later on."

  The Rashemi grinned, bowed, and withdrew. Humming, Malark took out the first of the scroll cases he'd brought to the roof and touched it with an ebony wand. He reflected that one of the nice things about magic was that one often needn't be a wizard to use an enchanted tool.

  The wand shrank the leather tube to a fraction of its former size. Malark opened a cage, removed a raven, set it on a perch, and fed it a scrap of fresh meat. Then he tied the tiny scroll tube to its foot. Well accustomed to the process, the bird suffered it without protest, merely cocking its head and regarding its master with a black and beady eye.

  Malark was sure he was alone on the roof. Even so, he took a glance around before whispering, "Find Szass Tam."

  The raven spread its wings and took flight, soaring over the spires and battlements of the Central Citadel, then the myriad houses and temples beyond.

  Malark shrank another scroll and bade a raven carry it to Kethin Hur. Then footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and Aoth climbed onto the roof. The glow of his azure eyes in their framework of fresh tattooing was more noticeable in dim light, but perceptible even now.

  "Good morning," Malark called. "You look well."

  Aoth smiled. "A lot better than I would if not for you."

  Malark waved a dismissive hand. "You already thanked me for that. We don't have to keep talking about it."

  "If you say so."

  "Did you come to watch the sun rise over Loviatar's Manor? If so, you're doomed to disappointment. It's another gray day."

  "Another gray and hungry year, I imagine, unless the zulkirs can finally wrest control of the weather away from Szass Tam. But to answer your question, no. I came for a couple of those." He nodded toward the box of scrolls.

  Malark's awareness sharpened, and he began to breathe slowly and deeply, as the Monks of the Long Death trained themselves to breathe in the moments prior to combat. "I don't follow."

  "Before Nymia promoted me, Brightwing and I carried a lot of messages. We might as well carry some more."

  Feeling relieved, Malark smiled. "You're bored hanging around Bezantur?"

  "Yes. Really, I'm itching to take back command of my legion, but I can't do that until several pieces of it return from their various errands." His mouth twisted. "If they return."

  "I admit, much of the news, as it filters in, isn't as good as we'd hoped."

  "It was for a little while, but now we hear of defeat after defeat and setback after setback. You're the spymaster. Do you understand what's going wrong?"

  Malark shrugged. ''We knew it would be perilous for our armies to take the field under current conditions. And that the necromancers were still formidable even with their powers weakened. But I still believe the decision to take the offensive was a sound one. We still have reason to hope for victory."

  "I'm glad to hear you think so. Now, will you trust me with a dispatch or two?"

  "Certainly." Fortunately, many of them were inconsequential. Malark didn't really think Aoth would succumb to idle curiosity, open a message, and read it along the way. Though far from stupid, the griffon rider was also a straightforward fellow with ingrained habits of military discipline. But it was best to be safe.

  Malark looked down and rummaged in the box of scrolls. Aoth gasped.

  Once more poised to kill if necessary, Malark turned around. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," Aoth said. "My eyes just gave me a twinge." He rubbed them. "They
still ache every once in a while."

  "Are you sure you want to take on this duty?"

  "Oh, yes." The war mage hesitated. "But I'll tell you what. To start with, give me something that's going to Pyarados. It's a short trip there and back."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  19 Flamerule-14 Eleasias, the Year of Blue Fire

  Wearing a murky, wavering semblance of his true face, Mirror trailed Bareris into the griffons' aerie. Now that the bard had returned, the ghost meant to resume his practice of following him around.

  Bareris saluted and stood at attention, and Aoth left him that way for a long breath. Eventually, he said, "I'm taking back command of the Griffon Legion."

  "Of course." Bareris smiled. "If you recall, I predicted you would."

  "Cordial words can't mend our friendship," Aoth snapped. "Not even if you sweeten them with magic."

  Bareris's mouth twisted. "I wasn't. I won't do that ever again. I was wrong to do it before, and I'm ready to leave the legion if that's what you'd prefer."

  "Does anything remain for you to leave?" Aoth waved his spear at the many vacant cavelike stalls and the wounded griffons occupying others. The sharp smell of the salves used to treat the animals' gashes and burns blended with the normal cat-and-bird stink of the aerie.

  "Captain, it's true I lost mounts and riders. But we succeeded in killing Xingax and destroying his manufactory."

  "Which is all that matters, isn't it? Your revenge."

  "I won't deny feeling that way. But destroying Xingax was the task our masters set me."

  Aoth sighed and felt a little of his anger seep out of him. "You're right, it was. And fortunately, you didn't take the whole of the legion with you to High Thay. Maybe, when the rest return from Delhumide, it will turn out there are enough left to lead. But considering the tidings of late, I wouldn't count on it."

  Bareris frowned. "It is much worse than I thought it would be. I understood the hazards, but still, I never imagined the campaign would go so badly."

  "Has it occurred to you that there might be a reason? A reason beyond the obvious, I mean."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Aoth took a breath. "When I was blind, I told you I occasionally glimpsed things invisible to normal sight. Now that I can see properly again, that's even more true. I can see in the dark, or through a blindfold. When an illusionist casts a glamer, I see it, but I also see through it."

  "That… sounds useful."

  "Once in a while, I also see signs. After you tampered with my mind, I saw you dangling a puppet made in my image, and when the guards came to march me to my death-"

  "Someone ordered your death?"

  Aoth waved the interruption away. "I saw knives in their hands. Not long ago, I saw Malark's face turn into a naked skull."

  Bareris hesitated. "And you thought, a skull to signify allegiance to Szass Tam, or that Malark's a deadly menace to our cause? Mightn't it simply mean that he's a skilled fighter and assassin? You and I have seen the proof of that, time after time."

  "Yes. So this new sight of mine didn't need to conjure a phantasm to tell me."

  "You're assuming you understand how it works, and that it works efficiently. You could be mistaken."

  "Maybe."

  "Why would Malark, of all people, turn traitor ten years in? He stood with us when we defied Szass Tam himself. He kept the lich from taking Bezantur in the first tendays of the war."

  "I don't know. I've always trusted him, and I'd like to go on doing it. I mentioned I was nearly killed. The zulkirs hit on the idea of vivisecting me to learn more about the blue fire. I wouldn't be here if Malark hadn't interceded. I feel like a filthy traitor myself just for suspecting him of treachery."

  "But you saw his face turn into a skull."

  "That's only part of it. Short of a zulkir, who's the one person who, if he turned traitor, could do the most to ruin our campaign? Our spymaster, the grand collector of information and disseminator of orders and intelligence. He could reveal all our plans and the disposition of our forces to Szass Tam. Steer our troops into ambuscades, or into the path of the blue fire. Sow rivalry and mistrust among our officers. Kossuth knows, they're all jealous of their positions as it is."

  Bareris fingered his chin. "I'm still not convinced, but we did run into an interesting situation on the flight home."

  "What?"

  "Some of Dimon's troops expected to march over clear terrain, but instead found their way blocked by a new chasm and an abomination that climbed out of it. They assumed that the blue fire had passed by recently. But the griffon riders had spent the day flying high enough to see a long way, and we hadn't spotted any blue flame."

  "So it's possible Malark deliberately guided Dimon's soldiers into difficulty."

  "I suppose. But why are you telling me this? Take your suspicions to the zulkirs."

  Aoth scowled. "I can't. I mean, I won't accuse a friend unless I'm certain. I especially don't want to do it when it's my sight that put my thoughts running in this direction."

  "I understand. You barely escaped being vivisected. If they learned that you've acquired extraordinary abilities, they might insist on slicing you up after all."

  "Yes. And if that weren't bad enough, I also have to recognize that Dmitra Flass values Malark, trusts him as much as any zulkir ever trusts anyone. She has reason. He saved her life at the Keep of Sorrows."

  "So you can't denounce Malark, at least not yet, but you can't forget what you've seen, either. You'll need proof, and you must be telling me because you want my help. Why? I mean, why me?"

  It was a good question. Aoth supposed it was because even though Bareris had betrayed him once, in the decade leading up to that moment of treachery, he'd been as faithful a comrade as anyone could want. No matter how grim and morose he became, how utterly indifferent to his own well-being, he'd always given his utmost when Aoth needed him.

  But Aoth didn't want to acknowledge that out loud. "I'm asking you because you owe me," he said. And that was true as well.

  "I do," Bareris said, "and of course I'll help you, even to spy on another friend. But I hope you turn out to be wrong."

  "So do I." Aoth hesitated and tried to rein in his curiosity, but didn't quite manage it. "You're… different. This Tammith. Even changed, she's what you need?"

  Bareris smiled a smile that conveyed happiness and rue in equal measure. "In life, she was a river. Undeath has dried her to a trickle. But after ten years in the desert, a man will weep with gratitude at any taste of water."

  Pyras Autorian, tharchion of the Thaymount, had a meadow outside his castle walls. Working under Szass Tam's supervision, twenty necromancers drew a broad and intricate pattern in yellow powder on the flat, grassy field, then set the stuff on fire to burn the design into the ground.

  Long-necked and weak-chinned, Pyras watched the process from a chair his slaves had fetched. An awning protected his pasty skin from the feeble sunlight leaking through the cloud cover. He plainly wanted to ask what was going on, but couldn't quite muster the nerve.

  His restlessness amused Szass Tam, but that wasn't the reason he opted not to explain. Though timid and dull-witted, Pyras had served him to the best of his ability for a long while. It would be shabby to repay him with an explanation that would only make him more uncomfortable.

  The necromancers positioned and consecrated the altar stones inside the pattern with meticulous care. By the time they finished, the sun had set.

  Szass Tam turned to Pyras. "Now," he said, "we need the slaves."

  He focused his will, and after a moment, dread warriors marched a score of naked slaves out of the castle gate and over the drawbridge. The zombies' amber eyes shone in the gloom.

  When the thralls beheld the pentacle and altar stones, and realized what lay in store, some tried to run. Dread warriors clubbed them senseless and dragged them onward.

  Pyras cleared his throat. "You know, Master, slaves are valuable."

  Szass Tam wished
he could offer a reassuring smile, but he was still lacking a face capable of such nuances. "I promise that in days to come, you won't regret the loss. Now I must ask you to excuse me. It's time for me to take a more active role."

  He rose and walked to the center of the mystic figure, while dread warriors shackled weeping slaves on top of stones, and the necromancers took up their ritual daggers. When the zombies finished their task, they cleared out. The wizards looked to Szass Tam like a choir awaiting a downbeat from its conductor.

  He called a staff of frigid petrified shadow into his bony hands, raised it high, and spoke the initial words of the lengthy incantation. Chanting in unison, the lesser Red Wizards supplied the counterpoint and made the first cuts.

  The slaves screamed louder. Szass Tam amplified his voice to keep it audible above the din. His followers needed to synchronize their declarations with him. If the timing was off, the ritual could escape his control, with fatal consequences.

  In fact, that could happen anyway. His powers were diminished, wizardry itself had become slippery and undependable, and he was undertaking something he'd never attempted before.

  If even a zulkir felt a hint of apprehension, he could only imagine how nervous the lesser wizards must be. Since the ritual had nothing to do with necromancy, they must truly feel they were treading on alien, treacherous ground. Yet no one could have read it in their demeanors, and he was proud of their discipline.

  Gradually, shadow flowed, and a sickly green shimmer danced in the air. Disembodied voices whispered and sniggered, and a vile metallic taste filled Szass Tam's mouth. Invisible but perceptible to the wise, a metaphysical structure took form, a little at a time, like a stone hall constructed without mortar. Szass Tam could feel that the slightest misstep would bring it crashing down. But it didn't fall-the elements were in perfect balance.

  Perceiving what he perceived, his assistants smiled. Then triumph turned to puzzlement when the slaves expired, their killers recited the last lines they'd been schooled to say, and nothing happened. The power they'd raised was like a bow, bent but not released.