Prophet of the Dead botg-5

by Richard Lee Byers

  The blow slapped Jet sideways and stunned him for an instant, and when he looked for the gold, the creature was no longer in front of him. He cast around and located his opponent just as the telthor swooped in from the right.

  The gold’s talons stabbed into Jet’s back, then, one foot at a time, released and grabbed anew as he shifted his orientation. The telthor likely wanted to align himself in such a way that he could snap his beak shut on his opponent’s neck.

  Jet lashed his wings, tucked his beak down against his chest, and flipped himself and the gold upside down. They tumbled earthward like a stone.

  Probably still trying to bring his beak to bear, the griffon chieftain clung to Jet for a moment longer. Then, however, he sprang away to keep himself from slamming to the ground along with his foe.

  Jet wrenched his body into the proper attitude for flight, resumed beating his wings, and pulled out of his fall. But in the process, he once again lost track of the gold.

  Instinct screamed that he should veer to the right. He did, and, talons outstretched, the telthor hurtled past him.

  Jet raced after the gold, and now it was the griffon king’s turn to dodge back and forth. Jet managed to claw the end of a wing anyway, and then the gold spun away from him.

  The telthor started to climb away from the wide-eyed, upturned faces of Cera, Jhesrhi, Vandar, Yhelbruna, and the other humans standing in the snow. Jet climbed with him, and, as they spiraled around one another, peered to see how much harm he’d inflicted.

  Lots. An ordinary griffon might not even be able to fly with wings so torn and bloody.

  Whereas Jet was in better shape. The gold had torn up his back, but the initial strike hadn’t had the momentum of a long dive behind it, and in the moments thereafter, his adversary had been more interested in turning around to use his beak than continuing to rip with his claws.

  I’m winning, Jet concluded. I’m stronger and faster than a stinking telthor, and I’m tearing him to shreds. The realization filled him with exultation.

  But the gold wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Blue eyes blazing, he screamed his rage.

  And that, Jet decided when his surge of savage satisfaction subsided, was unfortunate. He’d kill the gold if necessary, but he didn’t actually want to. Should he survive, the telthor would be one more attacker to send against the undead, and besides, Jet respected his ferocity.

  Still, even wounded, the king griffon was so formidable that if Jet didn’t simply strive for the kill, he could still lose the fight and his own life with it. He tried to think of a tactic that would serve his need and resisted the temptation to consult with Aoth. His master was watching the combat unfold through his eyes and would surely help in any way he could. But Jet had resolved that he’d fight this fight alone.

  At first, no idea came to him, and as the telthor circled to attack, he resigned himself to ending the stubborn creature’s life. Then, however, a notion popped into his head.

  He flew at the oncoming gold, then abruptly lashed his left wing less vigorously than the right, as though the wounds on his back were hindering him. The uneven beats turned his progress into an awkward wobble.

  Eager to take advantage of his seeming distress, the gold drove at him even faster. At the last possible instant, Jet swooped beneath his foe’s gaping beak and outstretched talons with what he hoped sounded like a rasp of tortured effort.

  He kept right on swooping too, as if he no longer cared about anything but fleeing. The telthor wheeled and plunged after him.

  The color of the sky danced from azure to iris and back again. The prickling in the air turned to fiery stinging where it jabbed into Jet’s open wounds. But he didn’t care because, behind him, the gold shrieked in agony when, forgetful of everything but the desire to pursue his adversary, he plunged into Yhelbruna’s zone of forbiddance.

  Jet wheeled. The king griffon was doing the same, but more slowly. Bigger than his foe, he had more momentum to contend with, and the ongoing torment inflicted by Yhelbruna’s magic made him flounder.

  But he’d still get clear in a few breaths unless Jet prevented it. Lashing his wings as fast as ever in his life, he gained just enough altitude to plunge onto the gold’s back. There, he bit down hard enough to penetrate the feathers on his foe’s neck and draw blood from the hide beneath.

  The gold’s wings buffeted Jet’s flanks, and the rest of his body thrashed and flailed. But with hathran magic assailing him, he couldn’t dislodge his adversary.

  Jet bit down harder, and then he could taste blood as well as smell it. I’ll take your head if you force me to, he thought. I’m done playing with you.

  The gold gave a different cry than before, this one mournful and resigned. It was surrender, but Jet watched him anyway as he let go and sprang away to make it easier for both of them to fly. Normal griffons didn’t lie, but he couldn’t be sure about a telthor.

  But evidently neither the Earthmother, the Forest Queen, nor the Moonmaiden had gifted the gold with that particular human propensity because he labored clear of the punishing magic and then swooped earthward as he was supposed to. All the common griffons descended too, to submit to their new chieftain.

  Licking blood from the edges of his beak, Jet wondered how he was going to convey the relatively complex commands he’d have to give them in the battle to come. He assured himself he’d manage somehow. For the first time in a while, he felt certain of his ability to accomplish anything he set his mind to.

  8

  The wild griffons were the first to spot Aoth and Jet winging in from the south. Still seemingly exhilarated by their liberation from the hathrans’ cage, they screeched, swooped, wheeled, and flew along beside them. Aoth wondered if it perplexed them that their new leader carried a human on his back.

  Their commotion alerted the folk down on the ground, where the Storm of Vengeance sat and gleaming golems stood motionless in the snow. Aoth’s lieutenants-for so he chose to consider them, whatever opinions any of them might hold on the matter-assembled to hear what he had to report. Cera’s pretty, round face beamed up at him; Orgurth gave him a grin; and Jhesrhi offered what he’d come to think of as her frown of welcome. Bez wore a crooked, ironic smile; and Vandar, who stood well removed from the Halruaan, a scowl; while Yhelbruna and Shaugar’s masks hid their expressions.

  With a final snap of his wings, Jet set down. As Aoth swung himself off the familiar’s back, Vandar asked, “What did you find out?”

  “Quite a bit,” Aoth replied. “The Urlingwood may be the crux of everything, but scouting it from the sky was the simplest chore I’ve done since coming to Rashemen. The enemy wasn’t watching for anyone to come spying from on high.”

  “They likely don’t see much reason for vigilance,” Cera said. “As far as they know, Aoth Fezim never returned from the North Country, and they’ve either lured all the hathrans and warriors in Immilmar and Urling away to the south, turned them, killed them, or simply fooled them into believing everything’s all right.”

  Aoth smiled. “Good appraisal. We’ll make a sellsword of you yet.” He realized his throat was dry and unclipped the water bottle from his belt. “Mind you, some spy in the capital could have noticed the Storm of Vengeance departing and sent word of it, but maybe that message is still on its way. If so, we should move fast.”

  “We can if you’ve discovered the information we need,” Yhelbruna said. As usual, her voice was as cold as the wind whistling out of the north, but Aoth had to give her credit. As he understood it, she’d singlehandedly killed the pair of assassins Bez sent after her and didn’t care that, to cope with the present crisis, Old Ones had left their caves without permission and all manner of males were about to invade the sacred forest. Evidently there was more behind her leather mask than condescension.

  “I have,” he answered, then took a swig of icy iron water. “We’ll find the bulk of the enemy, including all the ones who really matter, in or near the stand of very old weir trees just west of the center of
the wood.”

  She nodded. “That comes as no surprise.”

  “Well, this last bit of intelligence might, and unfortunately, it’s not good news. In toward the weirs, the forest gets darker, enough so that Jet and I saw vampires and wraiths slinking around in the gloom. We’ll have to contend with them even though we’re going in by day.”

  “I brought Amaunator’s light into the deathways,” Cera said. “If need be, I can carry it back into the Urlingwood too.” She smiled at Yhelbruna. “Although I’d welcome help from any hathrans or Old Ones who offer devotions to the Yellow Sun.”

  “You’ll have it,” Yhelbruna said. “But Captain Fezim is correct. It is by no means ‘good news’ that the Shadowfell is already overlapping the heart of the forest in such an overt way. It indicates the balance of forces has tilted even farther than I expected.”

  Vandar started to raise his hand as though to squeeze Yhelbruna’s shoulder but then appeared to remember that such familiarity, however kindly intended, might be deemed disrespectful. He contented himself with saying, “We’ll go in at first light, and by the end of the day, the durthans, skeleton snakes, patchwork men, and whatever will all be gone. Then you’ll heal the forest, and that will be that.”

  “I hope so,” she replied, and Aoth thought he detected a hint of gratitude in her tone. But her voice reverted to ice when she turned her head to speak to the circle at large. “There’s one more thing I need to say. This is a battle for the soul of Rashemen, and we won’t risk annihilating it ourselves in the course of striving to save it. No matter how dire the need may seem, no one will fight using fire magic. Is that understood?”

  “I assume that order is directed to me most of all,” Jhesrhi said. “Don’t worry. I know other spells.”

  A wisp of steam rose from the puddle of melted snow around her boots.

  People sometimes claimed that any man who dared enter the Urlingwood would instantly fall over dead. Vandar had never credited that tale and certainly didn’t now that he and his companions had Yhelbruna’s blessing to purge the forest of evil. Still, he felt a twinge of anxiety as he stalked into the trees and wondered how many of the Old Ones, and of the berserkers he, Yhelbruna, Cera, and Jhesrhi had managed to assemble on the sly, were similarly uneasy.

  At any rate, once they were all inside, that tiny worry fell away, leaving him free to fret over more legitimate concerns. At the moment, Aoth was flying above the treetops. So was Bez, not that any Rashemi would take orders from him, regardless. That left Vandar to command the warriors on the ground.

  He wondered if he was he up to the task, whether he would lead them all to their deaths as he had his lodge brothers.

  Hanging at his side, the red sword whispered to assure him his worries were nonsensical, that he was a great hero headed for a glorious victory, and it would have eased him to give himself over to its encouragement. It was heartening to be reminded that he possessed such powerful magic, and he only wished he still carried the crimson spear as well.

  Still, he mustn’t simply succumb to the blade’s influence. If he let the fey weapon’s confidence become his own, so too would its recklessness and battle lust, and he and his comrades wanted to advance as far as possible by stealth.

  Suddenly, striding beside him, Yhelbruna raised her hand. “Stop,” she whispered.

  Vandar obeyed. So did all the folk and jointed automatons marching beside and behind them. Apparently she’d used magic to make the soft command audible to all.

  He scanned the white snowdrifts and black tree trunks and limbs ahead. Had he and his allies arrived at the periphery of the unnatural twilight? He couldn’t tell. Even denuded of their leaves, the weave of branches overhead was thick enough to block a goodly portion of the silvery winter sunlight in a purely natural fashion.

  He did know he couldn’t see any particular reason for the halt. “What is it?” he murmured from the corner of his mouth.

  “I sense dark fey,” she answered. “The durthans’ allies, most likely, but perhaps I can still persuade them to let us pass without a fight.” She eased a bluewood wand from a sheath on her belt, and, waving it lazily back and forth, crooned words as soft and soothing as a lullaby.

  Although he wasn’t the target, mere proximity to the casting made Vandar yawn and even quelled the impatience of the red sword flickering at the back of his mind. He thought that surely the magic must be lulling the fey as well. Then he spotted a subtle disturbance in the snow before him. Something was crawling underneath it.

  He bellowed, “Look down!” At the same time, he grabbed Yhelbruna and spun her behind him. As he turned back around, the fey burst up from the blanket of frozen white.

  To his surprise, they weren’t any kind of snake but rather whipping tangles of briar with twisted little faces glaring from amid the thorny stalks. They stood as tall as a man when they finished rearing up.

  Vandar’s rage took hold of him without needing to call it, and he stabbed with the javelin a fellow berserker had loaned him. The weapon gashed and nearly split a stalk, but more briars whipped around the shaft and kept him from pulling it back. He let go of it and snatched for his sword hilt. In his head, the blade crowed with delight.

  As it cleared the scabbard, briars cocked themselves backward. Guessing what was about to happen, he almost dropped into a defensive crouch before remembering his body was shielding Yhelbruna’s. He contented himself with jerking up his arm to protect his face.

  The briars whipped forward and threw thorns like miniature darts. Fortunately, his boiled leather vest and thick woolen sleeves kept all but a couple from piercing skin.

  He sprang at the pair of briar fey in front of him and started slashing lengths of them in two. They lashed back at him, and he ducked and dodged. Thorns dragged across his armor, snagging then popping free.

  He cut into the gnarled face of the fey on his right, and the creature wailed; gave a rattling, clattering shudder; and stopped moving. He pivoted to attack the one on his left in similar fashion but discovered Yhelbruna was already pointing her wand at it. The tip of the arcane weapon pulsed with azure light, and the bramble-thing slumped back down in the snow.

  With no more foes in reach of his sword, Vandar pivoted for a look at the rest of the battle. Several briar fey were still attacking the vanguard of the war band, and not everyone was coping as well as he and Yhelbruna had. Men wrapped in ever-tightening loops of bramble struggled futilely as rows of sliding thorns caught and ripped their skin.

  At the moment, Vandar was riding his anger and not the other way around, and perhaps for that reason, he saw what needed to be done. “Golems!” he shouted. “Let the golems kill them!” Thorns wouldn’t do much harm to living metal and stone.

  Somewhere behind him, Shaugar echoed his command. Steel wolves and big bronze cats sprang forward.

  Meanwhile, Vandar scrutinized the landscape beyond the immediate threat. Nasty as they were, a few briar fey had no hope of defeating a force as sizable as his. Maybe a durthan’s orders or an overwhelming hatred of mankind had prompted them to attack even so, but he feared the purpose was to keep him and his comrades occupied while a different creature carried a warning to the main body of the enemy.

  After a moment, he spotted the sentry, a dark, spindly thing springing from tree to tree. Ignoring the scarlet blade’s throb of protest, he dropped the sword in the snow and sought to rip his javelin from the dead fey’s twisted hold. Stickers pricked him as the weapon pulled free, but he didn’t pay any heed to that either.

  By the time he cocked the javelin over his shoulder, the sentry was all but out of range and on the very brink of vanishing into tangled branches and dimness. But he used the imminence of its escape to make his berserker wrath blaze even hotter, and as he did, he threw.

  The javelin caught the dark fey in mid-spring and stabbed into its torso. It fell to the ground, and for a breath or two, its long limbs twitched, while blood black as ink stained the snow beneath it. Then it rotted away to
nothing, and only the instrument of its death and the filthy blotch remained.

  Vandar looked around. As he’d hoped, once they engaged, the automatons had made short work of the remaining thorn fey. He let go of anger and shivered as lightheadedness and a pang of nausea took its place.

  Then Yhelbruna touched his face, and the sickness disappeared.

  “I don’t want you weak,” she said, “not even for a moment. From this point forward, every step will be more dangerous than the one before it.”

  As Uramar and his patrol-an assortment of doomsepts, other phantoms, and ghouls-ranged the deeper reaches of the forest, many of his broken souls luxuriated in the gloom. For as every undead learned, darkness could be more than the absence of light. It could be pleasurable and invigorating, a condition in which death waxed strong and life guttered, and that was the sort of murk Lod, Nyevarra, and the other undead durthans were calling into the mundane world.

  Those who truly understood the implications assured Uramar the gathering dark meant Rashemen was soon to fall, and naturally, he was glad. Yet the prouder and more bloodthirsty aspects of his complex identity also felt a little wistful. He’d been essential while he was creating and recruiting undead, fighting battles, and Lod was still on the other side of the western sea. But since leading the last little feint of a raid along the River Rasha and then returning to the Urlingwood via the deathways, he hadn’t had much to do.

  He knew his idleness was only temporary. Once the Eminence of Araunt controlled its own country, other conquests would follow and require the efforts of every warrior. But in the meantime, he’d assuage his restlessness by patrolling, and never mind that, after his comrades’ efforts at subversion and misdirection, and with dark fey sentries standing watch farther out toward the edges of the wood, such vigilance was almost certainly superfluous.