Except that then, the crone’s smile twisted into a scowl. “Wait,” she said.
“Wait,” said Szass Tam, and the trio of vampiric knights he’d brought with him halted at the intersection of five tunnels. Narrowed eyes slightly luminous in the gloom, alert for any sign of their quarry, the blood-drinkers peered down the shadowy passages.
Szass Tam dropped to one knee and sketched a triangle on the floor with a withered fingertip. His digit left a trail of red phosphorescence behind. When completed, the glowing arrowhead spun around. And kept on spinning, endlessly, until its maker snorted in mingled annoyance and amusement and wiped it from existence.
“Did you pick up the demon’s trail?” a vampire asked.
“No,” said Szass Tam, rising. “Whatever it is, it knows enough sorcery to cover its tracks.”
“Well, don’t worry, Your Omnipotence, we’ll find it.”
In another time, the warrior’s expression of loyalty and confidence might have elicited Szass Tam’s favor. But now that he’d trained himself in scorn, he nearly sneered at the vampire’s sycophancy. But there was no need to show his disdain and several good reasons not to, so he simply chose a corridor at random and headed down it. His bodyguards prowled along behind him.
After a while, they came to an alcove containing a shrine to a minor godling, a psychopomp and guardian of tombs, who’d died thousands of years before. Something had smashed the statue’s avian head and the inscription on the pedestal beneath.
“Has anyone reported this?” Szass Tam asked.
“No, Master,” the same vampire told him.
“It’s recent damage, then.” Which meant the demon might still be in this part of the subterranean complex. Perhaps where divination had failed, luck had succeeded.
Szass Tam touched the topaz set in one of his rings and wrapped himself in an almost invisible haze that would deflect a blow like plate armor. Then something jolted him and sent him staggering.
“Master!” said the talkative vampire. “Are you all right?”
Szass Tam regained his balance. “Yes.” For an instant, he’d wondered if the demon had leaped out of nowhere and struck him, wondered, too, if an earthquake had rocked the Citadel and the mountain and catacombs beneath, but now he could tell that neither was the case. Rather, he’d experienced a purely psychic shock.
Unfortunately, that didn’t make the situation any better. Indeed, it was nearly as bad as it could be.
He brandished his staff. “I have to leave you.”
“Should we—,” began the knights’ spokesman. Then magic whined through the air, enfolded Szass Tam in its grip, and translated him to the apex of the keep.
Attuned as he was to the gigantic instrument he’d created, he’d felt it when one of the Dread Rings broke. Now that he was on the roof, at the very hub and linchpin of the dark circle, he could tell with certainty that, as he’d guessed, it was the fortress in Lapendrar that had surrendered its essential nature. Impossible as it seemed, his enemies must have prevailed against Malark, Tsagoth, and all the castle’s other defenders. Now the symbol Szass Tam had defined on the face of Thay was warping, collapsing like a spiderweb with a critical anchoring strand severed.
The terrible irony was that Szass Tam had elaborated on the pattern in Fastrin’s book and had built more Dread Rings than its ancient author suggested. He’d judged that in an endeavor like the Unmaking, one couldn’t have too much power. But now, the loss of one perhaps unnecessary castle threatened to render all the others useless.
At first, no matter how he strained, he couldn’t think of a thing in the world to do about it. Finally he closed his eyes. Centered himself and fought for calm. He was Szass Tam, and he didn’t panic. He wouldn’t panic now.
When he felt ready, he considered the problem anew with all the cold objectivity he could muster. And saw something he hadn’t realized before.
The sigil the Dread Rings defined could never exist again—not in the conventional, three-dimensional world. But there were many more dimensions than that, even if people couldn’t ordinarily perceive them. Were it otherwise, the mortal plane and all the higher and lower worlds wouldn’t be able to coexist.
He dropped his staff to clatter on the roof and summoned a different one, fashioned of clear crystal, into his hand. Once, it had belonged to Yaphyll, the greatest seer he’d ever known; he’d found it sealed in a secret vault in the Tower of Vision after the zulkirs had abandoned Bezantur. It was the best tool he possessed for what he had in mind, which was no guarantee that it was powerful enough.
He brandished the glittering staff and recited words of power, and an image of the realm’s plains, plateaus, and mountains, the rivers, lakes, and seashore appeared floating in the air before him. Black dots designated the Dread Rings and the Citadel.
He spoke again, and the map shifted, although no one else would have seen it alter. That was because Szass Tam now viewed it in four dimensions, in a manner foreign to normal human perception.
And the experience was all but intolerable, like looking directly at the sun. As a necromancer, Szass Tam was used to contemplating the bizarre, the hideous, and the paradoxical, but even so, this view spiked pain through his eyes and deep into his head.
He forced himself to keep peering anyway, until he had the information to make his calculations. Which revealed that four dimensions were not enough.
So he called for five and let out an involuntary groan. Five were much worse than four, exponentially worse, perhaps. And five weren’t sufficient, either.
So it was on to six, and then seven. Whimpering, shuddering, and jerking uncontrollably, he wondered if the mere act of observation could kill a man, even if the fellow was already dead. Given what he was suffering, he suspected it could, but even so, he refused to relent. He’d always known he was risking his existence by undertaking the Great Work, and if he perished now, so be it.
Eight dimensions. Then nine. And nine were enough. When he took the proper two-dimensional cross section of that curved and infinitely complex space, the surviving Dread Rings and his present location fell into the proper positions relative to one another.
He raised all his personal power and likewise tapped the reservoirs of mystic energy that were the Rings themselves. He wielded the magic like a scalpel, first cutting the tainted bonds that linked the healthy Rings to the ruined one. Then he destroyed the remaining ties.
The Dread Rings immediately threatened to fall out of harmony, to lose their fundamental relationship with one another. Szass Tam locked them in temporary correspondence through sheer force of will. Next, using his power as if it were an etcher’s diamond-tipped stylus, he inscribed new paths between them, connections that ran through nine dimensions and the empty places between the worlds.
When he finished the new pattern, it demonstrated its viability by flaring to life, not with light but with pure power, perceptible as such to a mage’s senses. Szass Tam immediately willed the nine-dimensional map to vanish, then, his strength spent, collapsed. His eyes and head blazed with agony, but he smiled anyway.
chapter ten
21–25 Mirtul, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)
It isn’t possible,” said Samas Kul. Disappointment hadn’t robbed him of his appetites, as the buttered roll in his meaty hand and the crumbs scattered down the front of his gorgeous robes attested. But it seemed to Aoth that though the archmage ate and drank as ceaselessly as ever, there was a sullen quality to it instead of the usual gusto. “Break a pattern and you rob it of its arcane virtues. Every apprentice knows that.”
“What a pity,” Lallara drawled, “that Szass Tam isn’t an apprentice.”
Samas glared at her. “Do you understand how he did it?”
“No,” Lallara said, “but the other Dread Rings are still functional, and so is the device they comprise. We’ve all verified it. So it’s time to stop whining that ‘it isn’t possible’ and figure out what to do next.”
Aoth agreed wit
h her. He just hoped there was something to do and that someone would have the cleverness and the will to propose it. He wouldn’t have wanted to bet on it.
The Dread Ring of Lapendrar possessed all the amenities of any great castle, including a hall equipped with a round oak table and chairs where lords and officers could palaver. It was here, beneath hanging black-and-scarlet banners adorned with skulls and other necromantic emblems, that the zulkirs, Bareris, and Aoth had assembled for a council of war. And when the sell-sword captain looked around at his companions, it appeared to him that weariness and discouragement had set their stamps on every face.
Or rather, every one but the bard’s. Bareris’s expression was just as it had been for a hundred years, joyless and haggard but keen as a blade. Aoth had the odd and vaguely resentful thought that for his friend, it was a good thing their plan had failed. Now he had a better excuse to go on hating and fighting.
Everyone sat silently for several heartbeats. Then Samas’s throne floated back from the table. “That’s it, then. I have treasure to move out of Escalant. I assume the rest of you have your own arrangements to make.”
Aoth didn’t realize he was going to jump up out of his chair. It just happened, and the seat overturned to bang on the floor behind him. He leveled his spear and said, “You’re not running. Not unless we all decide it’s the only thing to do.”
Samas’s face turned a deeper red, and inside its yards of jeweled vestments, his gross body seemed to swell like a frog’s. “Are you truly mad enough to try to dictate to me?”
Aoth smiled. “Why not? We’re co-commanders, remember? Besides, our cause is too important, and too many of my men gave their lives to get us this far.”
“This is on your own head, then.” Samas’s quicksilver wand writhed out of his sleeve and into his hand like a snake. “Which would you prefer: to turn to smoke or to live on as mindless worm?”
“Surprise me.” Aoth roused the power in his spear, and the point glimmered.
“Don’t,” Lauzoril said, sounding no more forceful than a priggish tutor reproving unruly children. But his voice carried a charge of coercion that balked Aoth—and Samas, too, evidently—like a dash of ice-cold water in the face.
And a good thing, too, for in the aftermath, Aoth realized he didn’t truly want to fight Samas, and not because he feared him. The past century had taught him more combat magic than the zulkirs likely comprehended even now. But no matter who won, the duel would accomplish nothing. It was just that Aoth was frustrated, and, selfish and arrogant as they were, the archmages made tempting targets at which to vent his feelings.
He set his spear on the tabletop and inclined his head in the implication of a bow. “Master Kul, I apologize. Obviously, it isn’t my place to give you orders. But I ask you to stay at least until we all finish our talk. Surely you can afford that much time.”
“Yes,” Nevron said, “stay. We insist.”
Samas looked around the table, and then his throne floated back to its original position, settling to the floor so gently as to be silent despite its grandiose size and the bulk of the man inside it. Aoth sat back down in his own chair.
Samas took a long drink from his silver goblet. “All right, then. Someone convince me we have something sensible to talk about. Can we seize control of a second Dread Ring?” He glowered at Aoth, and the other zulkirs turned to him as well.
Aoth sighed. “It’s unlikely. We lost too much of our strength taking this one. To be honest, we might find it difficult even to reach another Ring. The only way to do it is to march deeper into Thay, and we’re almost certain to encounter resistance along the way.”
“Then there isn’t anything to discuss, and this is just a waste of time.”
“Not necessarily,” Bareris said.
Aoth felt a flicker of hope. “Do you have an idea?”
“It’s not a new one,” Bareris said, “but it fits the situation. If we can’t destroy the weapon, we have to destroy the creature who intends to wield it.”
Nevron snorted. “Assassinate Szass Tam, you mean. You’re certainly right that it’s not an original notion. Over the decades, I’ve sent scores of demons and devils to do the job. The Church of Kossuth emptied out its monasteries dispatching Black Flame Zealots. And all to no avail.”
“What,” replied Bareris, “if all of you—or rather, all of us—were the assassins, and we took the lich by surprise? Wouldn’t we have a reasonable chance of overwhelming him, and then finding the vessel where he stores his soul to keep him from rising again?”
“Yes,” Lallara said, “and perhaps if we had a net with a long enough handle, and the strength to lift it, we’d have ‘a reasonable chance’ of scooping stars down from the sky too. But there’s no way to take Szass Tam unawares, perhaps no way to get close to him at all. The Citadel is too well guarded, and you can’t translate yourself into it.”
“What,” Bareris asked, “if you already had an ally inside, he had some ability to open portals in space, and he tried to help you come through? Do you think that the four of you, working in concert, could overcome the wards then?”
Lauzoril frowned and laced his fingers together. “Possibly.”
“Do we have such an agent in place?” Samas asked.
“Not yet,” Bareris said.
“Then what’s the point of speculating?”
“Somehow, I’ll get myself inside.”
“Frankly,” Lauzoril said, “that seems unlikely. I’m not sure you could penetrate the defenses even in times of peace, and surely, by now, Szass Tam and his lieutenants are aware of our presence in the realm. They’re watching us in one fashion or another.”
“I assume so,” Bareris said. “That’s why I want the army to head for another Dread Ring just as if we actually believed we could lay siege to it successfully. That should mask our true intentions and rivet the foe’s attention on you. Meanwhile, Mirror and I will sneak into High Thay by ourselves.”
“So,” Samas said, “we zulkirs march deeper and deeper into enemy territory, fighting for every mile, lingering dangerously close to the site from which Szass Tam will ultimately send forth waves of death magic. All in the hope that you’ll eventually contact us and tell us that somehow, against all rational expectation, you’ve figured out how to get us into striking distance of the lich.”
Bareris smiled. “Pretty much.”
“Preposterous.”
“I don’t particularly like it, either,” said Aoth. Indeed, it pained him to imagine the punishment the Brotherhood of the Griffon would endure; only the vision of all-encompassing destruction he’d seen over Veltalar could have induced him to subject them to such an ordeal. “But so far, it’s the only plan we’ve got.”
“That isn’t so,” Samas said. “We zulkirs can be far from here in a heartbeat. You griffon riders also have a good chance of getting clear. If you’re concerned about the rest of your troops, then find the coin to put them aboard fast ships, and even they may get away.”
“But what if there isn’t any such place as ‘clear’ or ‘away’? What if Szass Tam truly can kill the whole world?”
Samas sneered. “If you understood magic as we do, you’d realize that’s impossible.”
“You all thought it was impossible for the lich to continue with one Ring destroyed too, and look how that worked out. Don’t try to tell me you’re certain of his limits.”
The obese transmuter opened his mouth, then closed it again. In fact, it appeared that Aoth had succeeded in silencing all four zulkirs, for a moment anyway, and despite the circumstances, he found it rather satisfying.
Then Lauzoril said, “Still, if it’s a choice between sitting peacefully in Waterdeep and gambling that the tide of death won’t reach that far, or staying here fighting the worst the necromancers can throw at us, knowing that at any moment, the Unmaking could commence just a few hundred miles from our location … well, you see my point.”
“I do,” said Aoth. He reminded himself not
to speak of all the innocent lives that would be lost if the zulkirs abandoned them to their fate, because he knew his former masters wouldn’t care. Indeed, such an appeal was likely to stir their contempt. “But I thought you all decided that the Wizard’s Reach is worth fighting for.”
“We did fight for it,” Samas said. “We did everything practical. Now it’s time to regroup. Maybe the Reach will survive, for despite your pretensions to prophecy, Captain, we still don’t actually know that Szass Tam’s ritual will do anything at all. And if the Reach does perish, at least we’ll still have our lives, much of our wealth, and our magic. In time, we’ll acquire new dominions.”
“Then run,” said Aoth. “By all the Hells, you did it in Bezantur ninety years ago. I don’t know why I expected any better of you this time around.”
Nevron glared. “Be careful how you speak to us.”
“To the Hells with that and with you,” Aoth snapped. “Of course, we all see that this is a desperate situation, but you’re supposed to be zulkirs of Thay. The greatest of wizards, and warlords on top of that. Bareris is offering you a chance, however dangerous, to take revenge on the creature who betrayed you and cast you down from your high estate, and to reclaim your mastery of the realm. But you’re too cowardly to take it. You’d rather play it safe!”
Nevron scowled but found nothing to say in return. For a moment, neither did anyone else. Then Lallara looked to Bareris and asked, “Do you truly believe you can find a way inside the Citadel?”
“I’ve spent decades slipping in and out of places the necromancers believed impregnable,” the bard replied. “So why not Szass Tam’s own house?”
“Why not, indeed?” she answered. “All right, I’ll go along with your scheme. It’s idiotic, but I won’t have it said of me that I ran like a rabbit whenever the lich waggled that stupid beard of his in my direction.”
“I’ll stay too,” Nevron said, “because I am a warlord, Captain, with a destiny of conquest greater than you can comprehend. Maybe it’s time I start acting the part.”
The Haunted Lands: Book III - Unholy Page 17
