Prophet of the Dead botg-5

by Richard Lee Byers

  Shaugar hitched his three-eyed mask up slightly so he could scratch the gray-stubbled chin beneath. “They already did crumble the main gate, and according to your orc friend, we’re doing a miserable job of building barricades. He says drunken goblins could do better.”

  “Some of the enemy will charge in that way, and we’ll need men in place to oppose them. Still, that will be a feint. The main assault will come here, where the dead think it will surprise us. But now that we know, we’re going to surprise them instead.

  Right?”

  Shaugar squared his shoulders. “Right. As long as we make our preparations in time. Now that we know where they need to work, I’ll round up the right people for the job.”

  Once he turned his thoughts to the problem, Dai Shan realized one sure way to kill each of his intended victims without the other overhearing or chancing on the scene at an inopportune moment. He needed to begin with Vandar and dispose of the berserker while the two of them were wandering the dark maze.

  As they were currently. Vandar was in the lead and, now that days of shared effort and hardship had dulled the edge of mistrust, didn’t appear to suspect anything amiss. Conditions were essentially ideal, and it only remained for Dai Shan to choose a method of execution.

  His style of magic could confuse, hinder, or even harm a target, but the effects were variable. When a caster was particularly unlucky, his spell simply served to warn an adversary that he was under attack. Whereas one murderous blow, properly administered to an unsuspecting victim already conveniently within striking distance, would likely resolve the confrontation in an instant.

  Dai Shan rolled his shoulders, inhaled through his nostrils, and exhaled through his mouth. He visualized himself lunging and driving his fist into the vertebrae at the top of Vandar’s spine.

  Vandar halted abruptly, just before the spot where a weathered-looking statue of skeletal Jergal, depicted writing with a quill at his desk, sat at the intersection of two vault-lined passages. “Hold up,” he whispered.

  “What is it?” Dai Shan answered just as softly, meanwhile setting aside his homicidal intent for at least a moment or two. It would be poor timing to strike down the berserker just as more hostile shadow creatures came scuttling out of the dark. The Rashemi’s back would still be there for the breaking after the skirmish was through.

  “Something’s coming,” Vandar said, “something different or bigger than what we’ve grown accustomed to, or at least I think so. I can’t see or hear it, but my spear and sword sense it, and the knowledge is bleeding across to me.”

  Dai Shan took that somewhat unlikely sounding assertion at face value. During their association in the fortress and the maze, he’d seen evidence that Vandar had a spiritual link to the red weapons somewhat like his own connection to the shadows he created to serve him.

  “Take the torch,” Dai Shan said, “and fall back. Find a space to duck into. We don’t want whatever’s coming to spot the light.”

  In normal, natural gloom, said creature or creatures might well have noticed it even so. But the murk in the labyrinth was thick and hungry enough to make hiding the torch feasible.

  “What about you?” Vandar asked.

  “Someone-specifically, the man who can see in darkness-needs to spy and find out what’s coming. Please, go. I’ll call out to the valorous warrior if I need him.”

  Vandar retreated. Dai Shan evoked a curtain of his own kind of darkness between the two of them to further mask any trace of torchlight. Then he applied himself to peeking around the corner.

  At the periphery of his vision, the Scribe of the Doomed twisted his skull face ever so slightly in his direction. At the same time, it occurred to Dai Shan that if he climbed up on the pedestal and examined the marble parchment, he’d find his own name inscribed thereon.

  But all that, he insisted to himself, was only the labyrinth playing tricks on his mind. The morbid influence of the place was so pernicious that even a Shou gentleman versed in the ways of darkness occasionally fell prey to it. Only his patron spirits knew how a primitive clod like Vandar clung to sanity. Perhaps dullness was actually an advantage.

  The murk in the distance seethed as something advanced. Voices murmured too faintly for Dai Shan to have any hope of making out the words. The maze muffled sound as relentlessly as it did light, seemingly seeking to impose both the deafness and the blindness of the tomb on those who ventured inside.

  Still, voices! Dai Shan had only a limited understanding of the half-formed vermin that prowled the endless tunnels, crypts, and skyless graveyards of the labyrinth, but he would have wagered his chances of inheriting his father’s position that the filthy things couldn’t talk. That was one trait distinguishing them from a good many of the true undead.

  Even though Dai Shan had watched a couple of the undead foes of Rashemen flee into the maze when the battle for the Fortress of the Half-Demon went against them, he’d assumed the vast majority had perished and their conspiracy was therefore at an end. But suppose that wasn’t true. What if the berserkers and stag men had only eradicated one contingent of a larger force? By the black mask, that might be part of the reason Bez had been unable to take the wild griffons. Not only had the Halruaan himself not ended the menace, no one had.

  If so, then Dai Shan still had allies after all.

  Or did he? He’d made his bargain with Falconer, and the reanimated Nar had unquestionably perished. Jet had shared the tale of his destruction on one of the infrequent occasions when he wasn’t too morose for conversation. And without the demonbinder to vouch for him, wouldn’t the undead slaughter Dai Shan out of hand?

  Perhaps not. Not if he sent Vandar on ahead to face the creatures and then helped them strike the berserker down to demonstrate his true sympathies. Even if it didn’t work, the Rashemi would at least be dead, and Dai Shan would be far enough away from the ghouls and zombies to escape by leaping from shadow to shadow.

  He turned and crept toward Vandar’s hiding place.

  Stripped to the waist, Aoth finished his climb up the stairs to the ledge and, with a grunt, set the anvil he was carrying in a gap at the top of the makeshift rampart. Below him on the floor of a spacious, high-ceilinged cave the Old Ones used as a foundry, masked enchanters crooned incantations that made asymmetrical patterns of blue and silver light flow out around their feet. The designs then disappeared over the course of several heartbeats, seeming not to fade so much as to sink into the granite like water seeping into parched earth.

  Swiping sweat from his face and arching his back to pop the threat of stiffness out of it, Aoth thought that the men working magic had it easy. But he didn’t know how to do what they were doing, and the important thing was that all the defenders appeared to be making acceptable progress at their tasks.

  Such being the case, he judged the work could spare him for a moment. He reached out to commune with Jet.

  The first impressions to jump across the psychic link were pain, frustration, and the fear of being earthbound, weak, and useless forevermore. Then, with a surge of irritation, the griffon sought to lock those feelings away where even his master couldn’t perceive them.

  Jet lay on the battlements of the Fortress of the Half-Demon looking west at the gleaming frozen surface of Lake Ashane. The wind whistling out of the north chilled the burned, half-healed parts of him where feathers and fur had yet to grow back. Everything’s the same, he said, meaning Vandar and Dai Shan had still found no trace of Jhesrhi and Cera.

  They’ll turn up, Aoth replied.

  I should be in the maze searching, the familiar said. I’m ready, but Dai Shan claims I’m not. Remind me again why I’m still not supposed to kill the little snake.

  Aoth responded: Because he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a healer to tend you, he’s supposed to send a shadow to Immilmar as soon as he recovers the strength, and when the time is right, I want to kill him. Now, before long, the undead are going to break in where I am, and the Old Ones and I are preparing
. Look through my eyes as I walk the caves. Tell me what you think.

  The griffon snorted. Trying to convince me I’m still useful?

  I have a tough fight ahead of me, and you know as much about siege craft as I do. You could come up with a trick that hasn’t occurred to me. So are you going to help me, or would you rather just lie around and sulk? Aoth asked.

  Jet answered: Sulk. But it would be bad for both our reputations if I let you die in a stupid little scrape in the middle of nowhere.

  And as Aoth prowled through the caves, the familiar did indeed offer a worthwhile notion or two. Aoth ended his inspection in the chamber that already had a shattered gate. In charge of the mundane side of the preparations there, Orgurth shouted obscene insults at a couple of youths who’d failed to perform some task to his satisfaction.

  I like the orc, said Jet.

  Aoth smiled and replied, You would. But yes, he’s all right. He’ll make a good sergeant. So: I think we’ll be ready come tonight. Do you agree?

  Jet did agree. Aoth felt it immediately, without the griffon even needing to articulate the words. But then came a flicker of doubt.

  What is it? Aoth asked.

  You’ll be ready, said Jet, if the other side waits until tonight.

  They’re undead, Aoth replied.

  Many of them are constructs. And as far as the undead ones are concerned, how much is the daylight going to bother them once they’re inside the mountain? Jet asked.

  Scowling, Aoth hurried to the barricade of rubble the Old Ones had built across the mouth of the cave. Keeping low, he peered out at the saddle, the smashed golems and corpses the tumbling boulders had left in their wake, and the foes that had survived the unexpected barrage.

  At first glance, the Raumvirans didn’t appear to be doing much of anything except holding their positions and enduring the wan winter sunlight as best they could. But far back from the front ranks, the ghoul with the pearl in her eye socket and the glittering mites crawling in the folds of her robe was conferring with a couple of her lieutenants while drawing in the snow at her feet with a staff. Moving without perceptible haste, animate corpses shambled around inspecting automatons, sometimes herding them a bit closer or a little farther from the next construct in line. They also spoke to other zombies that eventually then adjusted a shield on a withered arm or loosened a sword in its scabbard.

  In short, the creatures were preparing to attack, but in so leisurely a fashion that the Old One’s sentry, who was of course well aware that up until now the attackers had been active by night and passive by day, didn’t even recognize the threat. In its essence, what was occurring was a tactic Aoth himself had used countless times: Lead the enemy to expect one thing, then do something different.

  He felt an urge to snarl at the lookout beside him as viciously as Orgurth was still berating his workers. But that would be unfair. Of the two of them, he was the professional soldier who’d convinced the Old Ones to accept him as their commander, and if the Raumvirans were on the verge of outwitting their foes, it was his fault.

  But thanks to Jet, maybe he could still turn things around. He spotted Kanilak brandishing a staff with a tuft of owl feathers on the end, grabbed him by the shoulder in mid-incantation, and hauled him over to Orgurth so he could talk to both of them at the same time.

  “The undead aren’t going to wait for nightfall,” he said. “They could come at any moment, and we have to change our plans accordingly. Do whatever you can to finish quickly so we’ll have some defenses in place when they burst in.”

  Orgurth gave a brusque nod. “Got it.” He pivoted and started shouting.

  Kanilak’s brown eyes were wide inside his mask. “But the traps you wanted. It’s just not possible to set those quickly. The magic-”

  “You’re an Old One of the Silverbloods!” Aoth snapped. “You told me that like it meant something. Well, here’s your chance to prove it.”

  With that, he dashed on toward the foundry.

  Vandar disliked skulking in the dark. Whatever was coming up the passage, he’d rather charge to meet it with his torch blazing in one hand and the red sword gleaming in the other.

  Yes, the red sword. His mental picture of himself fearlessly confronting the foe served to remind him of his fey blade and spear’s particular qualities, and then he belatedly recognized their hunger for battle and glory fanning his impatience. Even after all this time, it could be difficult to discern that inner nudging. Maybe that was because it so often encouraged him to do what he was naturally inclined to do anyway.

  Still, he thought, scowling, he had to keep his head, because he already had reason to regret succumbing to the sword and spear’s urgings. Not that he was sure good would have come of responding to Cera’s cry for help on the day they stormed the fortress. Indeed, it seemed more likely that he would simply have failed to find any trace of her. Yet it was possible everything could have been different. She, Jhesrhi, and even Aoth might have been present to help when the Storm of Vengeance attacked. The brothers of the Griffon Lodge might still be alive.

  Dai Shan interrupted Vandar’s self-reproach by peering into the narrow space between two tombs, into which the Rashemi had wedged himself. “It’s a pair of zombies approaching,” the outlander said, “or possibly ghouls. Some sort of corporeal undead anyway.”

  Vandar felt his pulse quicken. The warm tingle of excitement in his weapons quickened too. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Surely, survivors of the force your lodge and the Stag King’s retainers destroyed in the fortress.”

  Vandar frowned. “They might know something about what became of Cera and Jhesrhi, and we might be able to make them tell us.”

  “Indeed,” Dai Shan murmured, “ ‘make’ being the critical term in the mighty warrior’s formulation.”

  “If it’s just a couple of walking corpses,” Vandar said, “you and I have bested worse since we started roaming around in here. We can take them by surprise when they reach the statue of Jergal.” He scowled. “No, curse it, the torchlight will still give me away.”

  Dai Shan took a moment to think, then answered, “I can share my knack for seeing in the dark with you. Please close your eyes.”

  With a twinge of reluctance, Vandar obeyed. Dai Shan whispered words that, although the berserker had no idea what they meant, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. On the final syllable, the Shou touched a fingertip to each of his eyelids.

  When that light pressure ended, Vandar opened his eyes and glanced around. “Nothing looks different.”

  “It will when you leave the torch behind. Come. We should take our positions.”

  Dai Shan turned out to be correct. The curtain of shadow the Shou had conjured blocked the firelight, and after the wavering yellow glow disappeared, Vandar could still see. In fact, he could see a little farther than before, although he’d lost every trace of color, with even his crimson weapons turning gray. The change made the maze’s riotous jumble of morbid carvings look even ghostlier, if such a thing was possible.

  Bending low, Dai Shan scurried around Jergal’s statue. Presumably, he took up a position at the mouth of the passage on the other side, although, with the sculpture in the way, Vandar couldn’t actually see him anymore. The Rashemi occupied the corresponding position on his own side and peeked around the corner.

  Swaying, lurching figures were now visible, although Vandar still couldn’t make out exactly what manner of creature he was about to ambush. Maybe Dai Shan’s magic granted a keener form of dark sight to a shadow adept than to an ordinary person. But whatever the approaching beings were, the fey weapons were eager to assail them. The sword hilt and the shaft of the spear seemed to shiver in his hands.

  Although the undead moved quietly, the moment came when Vandar heard their footsteps scuffing on the floor. Then two withered corpses with foxfire in their sunken eyes shuffled into view.

  Vandar stepped and thrust with the spear. The weapon punched through the knee of the
nearer undead. The creature toppled, but it had a naked scimitar in its clawlike hand and slashed at its attacker at the same time. Vandar parried with the fey sword, spun the parry into a bind, and tore the blade from his opponent’s grip. The scimitar flew through the air to clank down on Jergal’s desktop.

  There. That was one dread warrior crippled and disarmed for questioning. Letting go of the spear, Vandar turned to see if Dai Shan needed help dealing with the other and only then perceived the long-hafted war hammer sweeping down at his head.

  The second zombie had had no difficulty rushing in on his flank because Dai Shan had never engaged it. In fact, Vandar still didn’t see the Shou trader at all.

  Vandar leaped backward and, as the hammer stroke fell short, saw more shapes rushing up the passage. The undead he’d so confidently attacked had been forerunners scouting ahead of a larger band, and just as he was simultaneously comprehending that and cutting at the hammer-wielding zombie’s neck, Dai Shan called out from somewhere behind him.

  “Noble undead, the barbarian is Vandar Cherlinka, a champion of Rashemen and your enemy! I’ll help you kill him!” The Shou rattled off an incantation.

  The red sword tore the hammer zombie’s rotting head tumbling from its shoulders, and then the world went black. As Vandar realized Dai Shan had ripped away the gift of dark sight he’d bestowed previously, something clamped around his ankle.

  Booms and crashes echoed through the caverns. So did crackling, thunderclaps, and screams.

  Old Ones looked in the direction of the noises. On the other side of the foundry, one masked Rashemi jerked around and spoke to another. Aoth couldn’t catch the fellow’s words, but he didn’t need to.

  “Hold your positions!” he called, not just to that particular mage but to everyone. “I know how all the commotion sounds, but I guarantee you, only a few of the enemy have come in the other way. Orgurth and our other friends can handle it. Most of the creatures will break in this way, and we need to be here to handle them.”