The Haunted Lands: Book III - Unholy

by Richard Lee Byers

  It took a while longer to bring the conversation to an end. But finally, by pleading fatigue and promising to continue arguing later, Aoth managed it. He installed Bareris and Mirror in a vacant room and then retired to his own bedchamber.

  Only to find that, even though he truly was tired, sleep eluded him. After tossing and turning for a time, he rose, dressed, and tramped out to the stable behind the house in the hope that flying would relax him.

  When he opened the door, Jet sprang down from the hayloft in which he’d taken up residence. The griffon’s plumage and fur were both black as midnight. Even in the shadowy interior of the building, his scarlet eyes glittered in his aquiline head.

  Jet screeched. “You fought a battle without me!”

  Aoth didn’t bother asking how his familiar knew. He could have smelled the scent of battle on his person or glimpsed a memory of the recent combat across the psychic link they shared.

  “It wasn’t by choice.” He lifted Jet’s saddle off its rack and slung it over his back. “Would you condescend to try a less violent form of exercise?”

  Jet tossed his head. “Better than nothing, I suppose.”

  The morning sun was bright, but the air was cold. The seasons were just turning, and winter hadn’t wholly surrendered its grip. Aoth activated the enchantment bound in one of his tattoos, and warmth flowed through his body. He then surveyed the clouds, looking, as was his unthinking habit, for signs of how and when the weather meant to change.

  “I think we’ve seen the last of the snow,” said Jet.

  Aoth grunted.

  “You’re in a cheery mood.”

  “The zulkirs’ assassins killed Quamara to clear a path to me.”

  “That’s annoying.”

  “That’s one word for it. Then two old friends turned up just in time to save my life. It turned out they’d come to ask for my help, and I said no.”

  Jet beat his sable wings and climbed higher. “I’m not surprised. You always say no to me.”

  “Because you always ask to eat horses that don’t belong to us. But Bareris and Mirror—” His words caught in his throat as death appeared in the east.

  He thought immediately of the curtains of blue fire the Spell-plague had sent sweeping through the land, but this was different and worse. This force was invisible, but he could tell from the swath of devastation that it stretched at least as far as the eye could see. And it left nothing but dust in its wake.

  The brown, snow-capped peaks of the Tannath Mountains crumbled. The countless trees of the Yuirwood bowed as a great wind caught them and stripped them of their leaves, and then they dissolved. To the north, the advancing line of obliteration drank the waters of the Sea of Dlurg. The water that had yet to disappear surged as though eager to meet its end.

  But strangely, all the annihilation happened quietly. The raging winds didn’t tumble Jet across the sky, nor did Aoth choke on billowing dust. Because, he realized, this wasn’t really happening. Not yet.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Jet.

  “Take a look.” Employing their mental link, Aoth allowed his mount to see what he was seeing.

  Just in time to witness the destruction of Veltalar. The decaying slums of the old city, the wide boulevards and lofty towers of the new, and the green stone Palace of the Simbul itself broke apart with as little fuss as the mountains and forest had.

  A second wave of destruction swept out of the east, cutting deeper into the ground that the first one had already scoured to bedrock. Aoth thought of concentric ripples spreading out from a pebble tossed in a pond, and then the vision ended as suddenly as it began.

  “Wind and sky!” said Jet. It was the first time that Aoth had ever heard him sound shaken. “What was that?”

  “The call to arms,” said Aoth. “Damn it to the deepest Hell!”

  Some of the members of the Simbarch Council were human; some, slender elves with pointed ears, vivid green eyes, and a lack of facial hair; and some, mixtures of the two. All were proud aristocrats and accomplished spellcasters, which didn’t keep them from eyeing a pair of undead strangers with a certain wariness. They tried to hide it, but every bard learned to size up an audience.

  One of the elves, her long tresses shimmering black and her skin nearly as white as Bareris’s own, gave Aoth a cool stare. “Captain, when you asked for a meeting, we didn’t realize you intended to bring such … unconventional companions along with you.”

  “I know, Lady Seriadne,” Aoth replied, “just as I know that here in Aglarond, you mistrust the undead. To tell you the truth, my life has given me abundant reason to mistrust most of them myself. But Bareris Anskuld and Mirror are old comrades of mine. I vouch for them, and you need to hear them. They’ve come to warn us all of a terrible danger.”

  “All right,” said a human with a neatly trimmed gray goatee, who wore mystic sigils subtly incorporated into the complex beadwork pattern adorning his doublet. “Let’s hear it.”

  Peering up at the simbarchs seated along the two tiers of their gleaming oak dais, Bareris told his tale with all the eloquence he could muster; but even so, skepticism congealed in every face. He felt a desperate urge to use magic to sway his listeners, but he knew the attempt could only lead to disaster. It was inconceivable that fifteen strong-willed folk wise in the ways of sorcery would all succumb to his spell, and those who retained clear heads would likely realize what he’d tried to do.

  Maybe, he thought, Aoth can convince them. He’s a living man with a good reputation, and they evidently trust him. They wouldn’t have hired him otherwise.

  But in fact, the warmage’s testimony didn’t help. Indeed, when he described the vision that had overtaken him while he was flying above the city, it paradoxically seemed to reinforce the simbarchs’ judgment that Bareris’s story was nonsense. Bareris gathered that Aoth had never before told them about his augmented sight and, glowing eyes or no, it seemed suspicious that he claimed such a miraculous ability only now, when necessary to buttress his argument.

  “So that’s how it is,” Aoth finished. The flat note in his voice revealed that he, too, realized they’d failed to convince. “Bareris and Mirror asked me to commit the Brotherhood of the Griffon to their cause, but we all know that one company of sellswords has no hope of stopping Szass Tam’s scheme. The armed might of Aglarond, however, is a different matter.”

  The mage with the gray beard—whose name, Bareris gathered, was Ertrel—made a spitting sound. “When the lich made himself sole ruler of Thay, the East trembled. Everyone expected him to launch wars of conquest against his neighbors. But it never happened. Instead, he contented himself with making his own people’s lives miserable and with building gigantic monuments to himself, and thank Sune for it. I can’t think of anything stupider than provoking him now that he’s finally lost interest in plaguing us.”

  “Lord Ertrel,” said Bareris, “with respect, I explained: those ‘monuments’ are the structures Druxus Rhym sketched in the book.”

  “Yes,” Ertrel said, “you did. But I fancy I’m a reasonably learned mage, and the ideas in your odd little book seem like so much gibberish to me.”

  Other simbarchs murmured in agreement.

  “You just skimmed a few lines,” Bareris said, “while you listened to me talk at the same time. Perhaps if you truly studied the volume, you’d feel differently.”

  Ertrel shrugged. “I doubt it.”

  “My lords,” said Aoth, “I share your skepticism that any mortal, or any creature born mortal, could bring about the end of all things. It’s a ridiculous notion on the face of it. But unlike you, I know Szass Tam—”

  “Knew him a hundred years ago, you mean,” another human simbarch interjected.

  “—and I promise you, he’s the one person in Faerûn arrogant and selfish enough to try, if he believed he’d emerge from the holocaust greater than the greatest god. And even if his experiment fails utterly, what will that matter to us if it kills us all in the process?”


  “As you prophesy it will,” Seriadne purred.

  “Yes. I told you: I saw it happen.”

  “That must have been quite a spectacle.”

  Aoth took a deep breath. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Here’s what I believe: The rivals Szass Tam drove out of Thay settled in the Wizard’s Reach, territory that rightfully belongs to Aglarond. We of the council think it’s time to reclaim it and have hired you to help us.

  “But perhaps,” the black-haired elf continued, “we should have looked elsewhere for additional swords and spears. Because you too are a Thayan in exile, aren’t you, Captain? In fact, if the stories are true, the zulkirs would never even have reached their new home if you and Bareris Anskuld here hadn’t played a crucial role in defeating the armada that pursued them over the sea.”

  “Our old loyalties,” said Aoth, “have nothing to do with the current situation. We both left the service of the zulkirs a long time ago.”

  “But what if you’re feeling nostalgic,” Seriadne asked, “or the zulkirs simply promised you more gold than we did? Then you might concoct a tale to convince us to change our plans. If it worked, it would be an elegant solution. After we smashed our army to pieces against the rock that is Thay, we wouldn’t be able to mount an invasion of the Reach for a good long while.”

  “I give you my word,” said Aoth, “it’s not like that.”

  “I hope not,” Ertrel said. “As sellswords go—which isn’t far in this regard—you have a reputation for honest dealing. Can we take it, then, that you still intend to abide by the pledge you gave us?”

  Aoth hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You’ll go where we send you and fight those we tell you to fight?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then however you came by these absurd worries, put them aside. We simbarchs give you our word: no wizard could raise the kind of power you describe, and if Szass Tam truly imagines otherwise, we should all rejoice that the Terror of the East has gone senile.”

  chapter three

  13 Ches–4 Tarsakh, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

  Bareris shrouded himself, Aoth, and Mirror in invisibility before they slipped from the house. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the watchers from shooting crossbows at them. Evidently, mindful of Aoth’s considerable reputation as a warmage, the simbarchs had equipped their agents with charms that allowed them to see the invisible.

  Aoth shifted his truesilver targe, and a quarrel glanced off it. Bareris sidestepped with preternatural quickness, and another bolt streaked past him. The bard drew breath, and Aoth saw the lethal intent in the set of his pallid features.

  “Don’t kill them!” said Aoth.

  Bareris shrugged, then sang a melody soft and mild as any lullaby. The men in the shadows of the neighboring house collapsed. One snored.

  Currently resembling a smeared caricature of Aoth wrought in glimmering smoke, Mirror bounded to the fallen spies. “One ran,” he said and rose into the air, no doubt to hunt the man like a hawk seeking earthbound prey.

  Bareris and Aoth trotted on toward the stable. “There was no need to kill them,” said Aoth. “I knew you could stop them without it.”

  “If that is the way you prefer it, fine. But the fellow Mirror is running down won’t be so lucky.”

  Smelling of feathers and fur, Jet waited beside his tack. “So I’m supposed to carry you and that, too,” the griffon said.

  “If you will,” Bareris said. To Aoth’s surprise, his friend’s voice momentarily conveyed a hint of warmth or, conceivably, wistfulness. “I haven’t flown on griffon-back in a long while.”

  Jet grunted. “Just make sure your touch doesn’t poison me.”

  Aoth saddled his familiar with the unthinking deftness of long practice. He swung himself onto the griffon’s back, Bareris mounted up behind him, and then Jet sprang forward, his aquiline forelegs and leonine hind ones thumping out the unique, uneven rhythm that every griffon rider knew. As soon as Jet cleared the doors, he leaped high, lashed his wings, and soared up over the rooftops toward the stars.

  Mirror came flying to join them. Aoth didn’t ask whether the ghost had actually needed to kill the fleeing crossbowman. He didn’t particularly want to know.

  Looking smaller astride a griffon than he did planted on his own two feet, Khouryn was the next to arrive. Then, one by one, the rest of Aoth’s officers fell in behind their commander, forming a loose procession that stretched across the sky.

  After his meeting with the Simbarch Council, Aoth had convened a meeting of his lieutenants in the back room of a seedy tavern in the heart of “old Velprintalar,” the impoverished, decaying part of the city. In times past, the establishment sat on the harbor, as the dilapidated dock projecting out from it attested, but, thanks to the Spellplague, the retreating waters of the Sea of Dlurg had left it high and dry.

  Goblets and tankards in hand, Aoth’s lieutenants crowded into one side of the grubby room with its rickety chairs and smell of stale beer, puke, and piss and left the other half to the two undead strangers. That meant Aoth could see the embodiments of his present and those of his past arranged in two neat parcels. He felt a pang of resentment toward the latter and, knowing it was unfair, stifled it as best he could.

  Lounging in a cloud of sweet cologne, one stocking orange and the other blue in the latest foppish style, auburn hair worn shoulder length, Gaedynn Ulraes took a sip of red wine, grimaced with exaggerated distaste, and set his cup aside. “Why does the emergency meeting spot always have to be somewhere disgusting?” he asked.

  “I’m more interested in knowing why we’re meeting,” said Jhesrhi Coldcreek, her wizard’s staff propped against her chair. The gold runes inlaid down its blackwood length complemented her tousled blonde curls, tawny skin, and amber eyes. “I thought the simbarchs liked us.”

  Aoth sighed. “They did, until I convinced them I’m not trustworthy.”

  Gaedynn arched an eyebrow his barber had sculpted into a fine line. “And how did you do that?”

  Aided by Bareris, Aoth told the tale. His fellow sellswords reacted with astonishment but, to his relief, not overt disbelief. He supposed it was because they knew him better than the simbarchs did.

  “In one respect,” he concluded, “I guess I’m lucky. Our employers found my story so outrageous, it flummoxed them. Otherwise, they might have arrested me on the spot.”

  “Because,” Jhesrhi said, “they think you intend to break our contract.”

  Aoth nodded. “And they’re right.”

  Khouryn scowled. “You told me you never break a compact. That’s what separates us from the scum. That’s why I joined the Brotherhood of the Griffon in the first place.”

  Gaedynn grinned. “I thought it was to avoid having to stay home with that … remarkably articulate wife of yours.” Jhesrhi shot him an irritated glance.

  “I don’t like it, either,” said Aoth to the dwarf, “but I don’t see a choice.”

  “Because these two dead men claim another dead man is going to lay waste to the whole world. Or our corner of it, anyway.”

  “I don’t blame you if you can’t believe it. You’re all too young to have suffered through the Spellplague. But those of us who did know that at times, the world can be fragile as an eggshell. And I tell you again, I saw the devastation. In all our years together, have my visions ever turned out to be lies?”

  “Not that I recall,” Gaedynn said. “So it seems to me that, now that the Aglarondans have refused to heed your warning, the only sensible course of action is to flee west as fast as the wings of our steeds will carry us. But something tells me that’s not what you have in mind.”

  “You’re right,” said Aoth. “With the simbarchs or without them, someone needs to try to stop Szass Tam.”

  “Possibly so,” the foppish archer replied, “but even if it were feasible, I fight for coin, not noble causes.”

  “Would you fight for yo
ur life?” Jhesrhi asked. “Because that’s what this is about. I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it, too, but there it is.”

  “For what it’s worth,” said Aoth, “I’ll do my best to make sure we collect pay and plunder for our efforts. Still, I won’t blame anyone who opts to leave the Brotherhood. Fighting Szass Tam was a daunting undertaking when Bareris, Mirror, and I did it before. Considering that he’s had a century to consolidate his hold on Thay, it can only be harder now.”

  Everyone sat and thought about it for a moment. Then Khouryn said, “I can’t claim I truly understand any of this craziness, or to be happy about abandoning a nice, profitable, winnable campaign to go risk our lives in the foulest Hell-pit in Faerûn. But you’ve always led us well, Captain. I’ll stick with you and make sure the men who serve under me do the same.”

  “So will I,” said Jhesrhi, and one by one, the other officers expressed the same resolve. Even Gaedynn, though he was last to commit. Aoth swallowed away a thickness in his throat and silently prayed to Kossuth that he wouldn’t lead them all to their deaths.

  “So what’s the plan?” Gaedynn asked.

  “The first step,” said Aoth, “is to get away from here, before the simbarchs move to arrest me and detain the rest of you …”

  Which was what they were attempting now.

  The mercenaries had worked through the day and into the night, readying themselves for departure while trying to conceal their preparations from any outsider who might be watching. The next step was to reunite the men billeted in the city with the bulk of the company encamped outside, still without raising the alarm.

  “I’m sorry,” Bareris said abruptly.

  “About what?” Aoth replied.

  “I don’t know how to behave like your friend anymore. Undeath withered that part of me.”

  Aoth sighed. “It started withering long before that, on the day you found out Xingax had turned Tammith into a vampire. If undeath changed who you are inside, it simply finished the job, and I’m sorry about that. Because I tried to help you grieve and move on, but I never found the right words or the right way.”