Prophet of the Dead botg-5

by Richard Lee Byers

  Jhesrhi blinked. “Wait. This Lod was-or is-on the other side of what, the Sea of Swords? Or the Great Sea?”

  Sarshethrian smiled. “The former, although it wasn’t always so. Once, the continent on which he dwells occupied another world called Abeir. But then the cosmic upheaval you call the Spellplague uprooted it and dropped it in this world.”

  “Like Tymanther,” Jhesrhi said. The same thing had happened to Medrash and Balasar’s home.

  Knowing such was the case, she didn’t find Sarshethrian’s tale to be unbelievable so much as exasperating. Didn’t Faerun have enough homegrown horrors and would-be conquerors without new ones slithering onto the scene from faraway places no one ever even heard of?

  “Yes,” the pale creature said, “not that it particularly matters. What does is that once again, I kept my word. Lod got the magic he wanted, and when his fellow undead realized the future he promised was actually possible, they rallied to his banner.” His mouth twisted. “All my pledges fulfilled, I awaited the homage he’d promised in return.”

  “But you’d misread him,” said Cera. She sat down with her back against the dark hexagonal slab sealing a tomb, pulled off her helmet, and blotted the sweat on her round, flushed face with a kerchief. “He’d learned to hate servitude while wearing the yoke of his first master. He never intended that he or his disciples would accept a new one.”

  Sarshethrian gave her a sour look with his single eye. Then: “It’s a pity you weren’t there, sunlady. I could have profited from your insights, for you understand Lod perfectly. When he judged that he had all he needed from me, he and his followers lured me into a trap to kill me.

  “In the battle that followed, I lost my eye, the use of my arm, and a portion of my mystical strength. But I survived, and I managed to flee deep into the deathways where the traitors couldn’t find me.”

  “And now you waylay Lod’s agents whenever you catch them traveling the maze,” Jhesrhi said.

  Sarshethrian nodded. “For the time being, it’s as much as I can do. I didn’t just lose my eye. Lod took it and keeps it submerged in venom. The curse weakens me.”

  “Which is why you sought allies,” Cera said.

  “But why Rashemen?” Jhesrhi asked. “Is Lod already the undisputed master of this Abeir place?”

  “No,” the fiend replied. “But I already explained how the deathways render distance and natural barriers meaningless. It’s not much more difficult for the Eminence of Araunt-Lod’s conspiracy-to undertake a campaign in Faerun than it is to pursue their schemes in Dusklan or Marrauk, and Rashemen has two qualities that make it attractive.”

  Jhesrhi cocked her head. “It’s poor and backward, certainly, and those qualities ought to make it an easy conquest. But the Thayans have never found it so.”

  Sarshethrian smiled. “What I was getting at is that it’s the country where the mortal and fey worlds mingle more than any other. I don’t know why, and at this point, neither does Lod. But he no doubt believes that given time and free rein, he can wring unique and potent magic from the land, and I imagine he’s right.

  “It’s also a country that shares a border with those Thayans you mentioned, folk governed by necromancers and undead grandees who have good reason to be content with the world as it is. Lod will never free every zombie and wraith from bondage or persuade every vampire and lich to join him as long as Thay stands as an alternative to his vision. Control of a neighboring land will help him pursue the task of bringing it down.”

  Remembering what it was like to fight the legions of Thay with their well-trained troops, formidable mages, and tamed demons, Jhesrhi smiled a crooked smile. “I wish him luck with that.”

  “But it doesn’t matter whether he could ultimately defeat Thay,” Cera said. “It’s Rashemen we need to protect.” She shifted her gaze to Sarshethrian. “And you claim it’s still in danger?”

  “Yes,” the one-eyed creature replied. “Most of the leaders of the undead fled via the deathways from the Fortress of the Half-Demon to another citadel at a place called Beacon Cairn. I don’t know what their next move will be-clairvoyance has its limits-but in their place, I’d take full advantage of the fact that the Rashemi believe the threat is over.”

  Cera lowered her gilded helmet back onto her disheveled golden curls and clambered back to her feet. Her mail clinked.

  “All right, then,” she said. “We fought for you, and you told us what we need to know. We appreciate it. Now please send us back to Rashemen, and that will conclude our bargain.”

  Sarshethrian smiled. “I’m afraid not, sunlady. I told you I keep my promises, and I do, but it appears you misunderstood the terms of the agreement.”

  Jhesrhi scowled, warmth flowed inside her arm, and ripples of flame ran along her staff. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that by itself, this one little skirmish was insignificant. I need you to fight for me until we do some real damage. Until I’ve exacted revenge and made Lod repent of his ingratitude. It’s only then that I’ll send you home.”

  2

  Aoth reined in his stolen piebald horse and looked for any sign of pursuit. He didn’t see any, just the column of smoke rising from So-Remas’s castle to mingle with the fumes from all the volcanoes that combined to foul the sky. The fire he’d started in the undead wizard’s apartments had evidently spread.

  “Nobody was very fond of So-Remas,” said the orc, now clad in plundered clothing and scraps of armor and awkwardly sitting his own stolen white mare. Like most orcs, he’d apparently been infantry, not cavalry, before his fall from grace. “And we left a fair amount of confusion behind us.” He grinned at the memory. “Still, eventually, somebody will likely get on our trail, or at least spread the word that a crazy bandit-wizard and a runaway slave are on the loose.”

  A crazy bandit-wizard, Aoth reflected. One of his foremost anxieties on finding himself back in Thay was that everyone would recognize him, but his companion manifestly didn’t. Maybe the tale of the Brotherhood’s invasion hadn’t spread as far as he’d imagined. Maybe those in authority hadn’t allowed it to, considering that the legions wouldn’t come off very well in the telling.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the orc.

  “Orgurth. Yours?”

  “Aoth.” Whether most people hereabouts had heard of him or not, Aoth saw no reason to push his luck by giving his full name, especially since he was already stuck with displaying his distinctive luminous blue eyes and mask of facial tattooing.

  “May the Sleepless One strengthen Aoth’s arm and send him worthy enemies to smite,” Orgurth said with a gruff and unexpected courtliness.

  “May the Sleepless One sharpen Orgurth’s scimitar and send it worthy heads to cleave,” Aoth replied.

  Orgurth’s piggy eyes widened in surprise that his companion knew the correct response. But Aoth had been fighting alongside and against orcs for a hundred years. It was no great marvel that he’d picked up something of their customs.

  “Now we’re proper comrades,” he continued, “but maybe only until the point where our paths will split.”

  Orgurth tugged at the buckled straps securing a pauldron to his shoulder. Made for a larger warrior, and a human one at that, the armor wasn’t going to fit perfectly no matter how many times he adjusted it. “Why would they?” he asked.

  “Because we’re an odd pair. We might attract less attention each traveling alone. And because it’s possible that if a tharchion or someone like that hears my description, the patrols and taxstation guards will become a lot more interested in catching me than you.” Aoth figured he owed the orc that much of the truth.

  Orgurth leered. “You must be quite a villain.”

  Aoth grinned back. “You’re not the first person to say so. So what’s it going to be?”

  “I’ll stick with you. The way I see it, there’s something to be said for going unnoticed, but more for having a partner who can throw lightning into the teeth of those who do take an interest. Where do
you think we ought to head?”

  “That’s another thing. I have to head for the Citadel. It’s a dangerous choice, but I’m hoping it’s also my quickest way back to Rashemen, and I have urgent business there.”

  “That suits me. I’ve had my fill of Thay.”

  “It’s settled, then. Let’s put some more distance between us and the castle, then find a spot where we can get off the trail and stop for a while without anybody seeing us.”

  “Why, do you need a rest already? I thought the potion fixed you.”

  “It did. But I need to talk to my other partner, and I’d just as soon not try to manage a horse at the same time.”

  As he drowsed by the crackling campfire, Jet thought that in ordinary circumstances, the tiny portion of scrawny rabbit in his belly would likely only have sharpened his hunger. Yet he wasn’t hungry at all.

  Maybe it was because he felt so wretched and weary. Dai Shan had regained consciousness, but like Vandar, Jet hadn’t even dredged up the will to question him yet. He doubted he was capable of listening to the glib Shou’s prattle, sorting his lies from truth.

  Or maybe it was because he was dying, and if so, there was a part of him, a part he’d never imagined existed until today, that wished he could just get on with it.

  Then a voice spoke inside his head. You’re awake.

  Suddenly alert, Jet reached across their psychic link to peer through Aoth’s eyes. The human was sitting on a log in a clearing with an orc and a pair of horses tied to scrub pines. Mountains rose on all sides, some of them volcanoes. Several were smoking and a couple were rumbling and spilling lava down their sides. The snow on the ground was gray with ash.

  You’re on the Thaymount, said Jet, as astonished as he was appalled.

  Unfortunately, yes. Aoth reached back across their mystical bond, and the familiar felt something else that was new, an impulse to flinch from his rider’s inspection. He wondered if this was the useless human emotion called shame.

  Whatever it was, he sensed Aoth’s horror and pity, and that only made the feeling burn hotter. But at least Aoth was matter of fact when he continued speaking:

  I was hoping you would fly me out of here. But apparently that couldn’t happen for a while.

  I’m sorry.

  It’s all right. I’ll find another way north. You concentrate on recovering.

  If I can. The statement slipped out seemingly of its own accord, before Jet knew he was going to say it.

  Of course you can! You’re stronger than any ordinary griffon. I know. I enchanted you to be that way when you were still in your mother’s womb.

  I hope so.

  Besides, Cera’s magic will heal you if she’s there. Is she? Jet could feel the anxiety underlying the question.

  No. Delivering the bad news felt like another failure. I’d better tell you everything I know about what happened after you passed through the arch into the dark. He did so with a combination of language and flashes of images from his memory.

  By the time he finished, Aoth’s worry had warped into anger. And Dai Shan is there with you, right now?

  Yes. Jet turned his head so that Aoth could see the Shou through his eyes. Singed, blistered, and stinking of combustion and blood, portions of his garments burned away, Dai Shan looked far different than the dapper emissary to the Iron Lord’s court, but his self-possession remained intact. Apparently engaged in the practice humans called meditation, he sat with legs crossed, palms up, and eyes closed.

  Your suspicions were correct, said Aoth. He-or his avatar-tricked Jhesrhi, Cera, and me into going into the shadow maze so he could get rid of us. He tried to murder me, he stranded the others, and maybe he knows how to get them back. You have to question him right away.

  Jet found that his own anger gave him the strength to heave his aching body up off the ground. He lunged, shoved Dai Shan onto his back, and held him there by pressing an eagle-clawed forefoot down on his chest.

  “Ah,” Dai Shan wheezed, breathless with a griffon’s weight squashing him. “I infer that the fierce prince of the skies wishes to resume the conversation that Captain Bez’s fireball cut short.”

  Red spear in hand, Vandar rose heavily. “I guess it’s time.”

  “I defer to your judgment,” the merchant said. “Yet I fear the results will prove disappointing. As I was about to explain previously, by chance, I discovered some of the more formidable undead fleeing into a hidden labyrinth. I likewise discerned how to pursue them. I shared the information with Captain Fezim and his friends, and we gave chase. Unfortunately, the creatures realized someone was on their trail and set a trap. In the battle that ensued-”

  Jet silenced him by pressing down harder. “Don’t lie. Captain Fezim is here. He’s in my head.”

  “Then he must have found a way to return to the mortal plane.” Dai Shan smiled up into the griffon’s eyes. “Congratulations, sagacious warlord. I should have expected nothing less. Yet I’m perplexed. If you’re already in communication with your steed, why does he need to hear the tale of our adventure from me?”

  We need to know how you really unlock the magical arches, said Aoth.

  Jet relayed the question.

  “Of course,” said Dai Shan. “I pray my friends will forgive both my obtuseness and my decision to reserve that information a little while longer. Until the desire for retaliation has lost its primacy.”

  Jet pressed harder. “Now.”

  “Please consider,” Dai Shan wheezed, “that until we make our way back to the Fortress of the Half-Demon, we won’t have access to any magical arches, anyway. Consider too, that if you kill me, you’ll forfeit the other forms of assistance I can provide.”

  “Meaning what?” Vandar asked.

  “I have some training in the chirurgeon’s art, even though I’ve always employed it to conduct interrogations not unlike this one rather than to heal. Moreover, when my father told me he was sending me to Rashemen to procure griffons, I learned what I could on that subject. My inquiries included having a sage instruct me on their anatomy.”

  Jet realized an instant after the fact that he’d stopped pressing down so hard.

  Dai Shan gave him a little nod. “I see the valiant lord of the clouds understands. In the absence of priestly healing, some skilled and knowledgeable soul must set that broken wing. Should that occur, and Tymora smiles, you may eventually fly again. Whereas if it heals as it is, such an outcome is precluded.”

  “I want to see you strong and hale,” said Vandar to Jet. “I want to bring Cera and Jhesrhi back too. But how can we trust this dastard?”

  “It will be a pity if you can’t, lodge master,” Dai Shan replied. “For I have something to offer you as well.”

  Vandar scowled. “What’s that?”

  “As Captain Fezim learned and his shrewd familiar now understands, I have the ability to create surrogates for myself. Regrettably, not at the moment. My injuries diminish my mystical capabilities. But when I’m sufficiently recovered, I can conjure such an entity, and it can race to Immilmar more quickly than we three invalids could hope to make the journey. And we need a messenger to go to the Wychlaran and the Iron Lord, do we not, to warn that the most dangerous undead escaped and to denounce Mario Bez.”

  What do you think? asked Jet, trying not to let his desperate, selfish hope communicate itself from mind to mind.

  Aoth’s answer came with a tinge of bitter frustration, but it also came at once. What choice do we have? Let the little weasel live for now.

  Nyevarra led her sisters through the arch with a certain sense of relief. Under Uramar’s tutelage, she’d learned that so long as they knew their route, undead could traverse the deathways without incident more often than not. Yet it was also true that the maze had its perils, and some who entered never emerged.

  Glancing around, she found herself in a vault behind a wrought-iron gate. Stone sarcophagi rose from the floor, and cobweb-shrouded jars and urns reposed in niches in the walls. For another momen
t, the arched doorway opened on the deathways with their crawling, smothering gloom and mad profusion of morbid sculpture. Then the charm of opening ran its course, and space on the other side of the arched doorway wavered into a somewhat more ordinary sort of place, filled with gloom but only the natural kind, and with painted hathran symbols defacing the pentacle mosaic on the floor.

  It was the symbols that proved beyond doubt that Nyevarra and her sisters had reached their proper destination. She whispered a cantrip. The lock in the gate made a crunching sound, and, with a squeal, the grille swung open.

  Nyevarra and the other durthans swung wide to avoid the pentacle. She had no doubt the sigils would hold their prisoner as they had for centuries, but still, why rouse the demon, especially when stealth was essential? They didn’t want the fiend’s agitation to communicate itself to some sensitive soul in the castle above.

  After several turns, a staircase rose to a wall of sandstone blocks. Nyevarra murmured a charm, tapped the barrier with her staff of oak-the antler weapon was too unusual an instrument for someone who wished to be inconspicuous-and, scraping against one another, three loose stones floated free of the matrix. They hovered while the witches clambered through the hole, and then the stones replaced themselves.

  Now that Nyevarra and her companions had reached the storerooms, her inhumanly keen hearing could hear drunken male voices roaring out an obscene song somewhere on the ground floor of the citadel. Despite herself, she hesitated, then noticed some of the others doing the same.

  “Don’t worry,” she told them-and herself too, she supposed. “This will work. Because the hathrans have no idea that Falconer’s accomplice opened a path for us.”

  And it turned out she was right. As she and the others strode through the ground floor of the massive keep, berserkers and lesser folk cleared out of their way and stood respectfully until they passed. Even when they encountered a hathran, the other wise woman simply gave them a casual nod. Aided by enchantment and the natural tendency of folk to see what they expected to see, the masks and voluminous robes of witches concealed the telltale marks of undeath.