Intending to locate one of those doors, he turned, then heard his pursuers once more. They were manifestly closing in. Before, the noise they'd made had simply been a drone. Now he could make out some of the words that one orc was growling to another.
Bareris realized he didn't dare spend any more time in the tunnels looking for anything. He had to get out now, so he clambered out the window feet first.
He was no expert climber, and fatigue and the flare of cold had stolen a measure of his strength, but fortunately, the ancient builders hadn't polished the walls of the shaft smooth, or if they had, time had come along behind them and roughened them again. There were hand- and footholds to be had, and refusing to look down at the gulf yawning beneath him, the bard hauled himself upward.
Finally he reached one of the spiraling staircases. He dragged himself onto the steps, lay on his belly for a moment panting and trembling, then forced himself to rise and skulk onward.
In time he spotted a pair of human guards at the top of the steps. As best he could judge, no one had alerted them that an intruder had penetrated the catacombs below, for they appeared more bored than vigilant and were looking outward, not down the stairs.
Trying to be silent, Bareris drew his sword from beneath his robe and held it behind his back. Then he crept on.
Despite his efforts at stealth, one of the sentries apparently heard him coming. The warrior turned, and reacting to the sight of a red robe, he began to salute with his spear as the orcs at the portal had.
Then, his eyes widening, he exclaimed, "What's this?" and leveled the weapon.
Bareris charged, knocked the lance out of line with his sword, and drove the blade into the warrior's chest. Where it stuck fast as the other spearman attacked. Bareris let go of the hilt, twisted to avoid his adversary's thrust, grabbed him, and shoved him off the edge of the landing. Shrieking, the warrior plummeted down the well.
His pulse hammering in his neck, Bareris peered about. He was on top of a mountain, with brown, jagged peaks rising on every side to stab the overcast sky, and except for the subterranean city he'd just exited and a well-trodden trail running down the rocky slopes from the lip of the shaft, no sign of human habitation anywhere. He still suspected he was in the Sunrise Mountains, but he'd never even seen them before, and he knew that in fact, he could be anywhere.
At least he had the dawn to give him his directions. He'd head west, south, and/or downward, depending on which was most practical at a given moment, and hope to find his way to the Pass of Thazar or one of the eastern tharchs. He saw little choice but to try. By all accounts, a lone man couldn't survive in these mountains for long.
To his disappointment, the dead warrior at his feet wasn't carrying any food, but he did have a leather water bottle. Bareris appropriated that, his spear, and his cloak. Spring had come to the lowlands, but up here the wind whistling out of the north was cold, and the night would be colder still.
Once he'd outfitted himself as well as he was able, he trotted down the trail. It was the best way to distance himself from the wizards' stronghold, the fastest, easiest way to travel, but he'd need to forsake the path in just a little while, because his foes would come after him, and his only hope of evading them was to vanish into the trackless crags and gorges.
CHAPTER TEN
4–5 Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin
Aoth looked around the table at Nymia Focar, his fellow captains, and an assortment of high-ranking Burning Braziers and Red Wizards. Many of his comrades looked tired, and tight mouths and clenched jaws revealed the determination to participate in the council of war despite the ache of one's wounds. Yet everyone seemed happy as well, whether expansively or quietly, and the singing and whooping outside the hall mirrored the mood of satisfaction within.
It was the satisfaction that came with victory. Upon learning the undead had in fact assaulted the sizable town of Thazrumaros and overrun the eastern half of it, Nymia had hastily reunited the greater part of her army to attack the creatures in their turn, and though the battle had claimed the lives of a number of Thayan warriors, in the end, she'd prevailed.
Now the common soldiers were celebrating, drinking the town dry and bedding every woman who felt moved to so reward its saviors. Aoth wished he were reveling with them.
Leaning on a crutch, his leg splinted, an officer hobbled in and took the last available chair. The yellow lamplight gleaming on the rings in her ears and the stud in her nose, Nymia sat up straighter, tacitly signaling that she was ready to begin. The drone of casual conversation died.
"My good friends," Nymia said, "you scarcely need me to tell you what your valor has accomplished over the course of the past several days. I've just received a message from Milsantos Daramos, and he and his troops have been similarly successful, cleansing the southern part of Pyarados as we've cleansed the north."
Everyone exclaimed and applauded, and Aoth supposed he might as well clap with them. It was good news, as far as it went.
When they'd all had their fill of self-congratulation, Nymia continued. "It's plain that when we combine Thayan arms, Thayan wizardry, and Kossuth's holy fire, these ghouls and specters are no match for us, so I propose to finish destroying them as expeditiously as possible. It's time to join forces with Tharchion Daramos, drive up the Pass of Thazar, and retake the keep. I only need to know how soon your companies can be ready to march."
The war leaders began to discuss how many casualties they'd sustained, how much flour and salt pork and how many crossbow bolts remained in the supply wagons, and all the other factors that determined an army's ability to travel and fight. Maybe, thought Aoth, he should leave it at that.
For after all, every other face at the table was a long, fair-complexioned, indisputably Mulan visage. Every other captain had more experience as an officer. Every other wizard was a Red Wizard. Thus, it was unlikely that his opinion would weigh very heavily with anyone.
Still, he felt it was his duty to voice it.
He raised his hand to attract Nymia's attention. "Yes," she said, smiling, "Aoth, what is it?"
He found he needed to clear his throat before proceeding. "I'm concerned that when we talk about rushing up the pass as fast as we can, or of the enemy as if their final defeat were a certainty, that we aren't taking the threat seriously enough."
Nymia cocked her head. "I take it very seriously. That's why, after our initial setbacks, I recruited the help required to deal with it."
"I know, but there's still a lot we don't understand."
"Of course-exactly where the undead came from, and why they decided to descend on us now. Perhaps we'll find out in due course, but do we actually need to know to defeat them? Judging from our recent successes, I'd say no."
"With respect, Tharchion, it's more than that. I told you about the fall of Thazar Keep, and the priest who wielded so much power against the undead. None of the creatures should have been able to stand against him, yet something struck him down."
One of the senior Burning Braziers, a burly, middle-aged man with tattooed orange and yellow flames crawling up his neck, snorted. "Are you well-versed in the mysteries of faith, Captain?"
"No," said Aoth, "but I know overwhelming mystical force when I see it, whether the source is arcane or divine."
"What, specifically, was the source in this instance?" asked the fire priest. "Which god did this paragon serve?"
"Bane."
"Oh, well, Bane." The Burning Brazier's tone suggested that all deities other than his own were insignificant, and his fellow clerics chuckled.
Nymia looked at Aoth. She was still smiling, but with less warmth than before. "I understand why you're concerned, but we already knew the enemy has special ways of striking at our priests, and we've already taken special measures to protect them. Is there anything else?"
Just let it go, thought Aoth, but what he said was, "Yes. Have you noticed the particular nature of the creatures we've been fighting of late?"
Idly fi
ngering one of the bones comprising his necklace, Urhur Hahpet grinned and shook his head. "Unless I'm mistaken, they were undead, the very entities we set out to fight."
"At one point," Aoth replied, "you, my lord, asked me what could be learned by confronting our foes at close quarters instead of simply burning them from a distance. After pondering the matter, I'm now able to tell you. For the most part, the creatures we've been destroying were zombies, ghouls, and shadows. Nasty foes but familiar ones, and often plainly the reanimated remains of farmers, villagers, and even animals the marauders slaughtered, not members of the original horde."
Nymia frowned. "Meaning what?"
"That the work we've done so far was necessary, but we've yet to inflict much harm on our true foe. The marauders' strength is still essentially intact. They still have their nighthaunt, most of their skin kites, diggers, and quells, and the rest of the strange creatures we don't really know how to fight."
Nymia looked to the necromancers. "You're the authorities on these horrors. Is it possible Aoth is right?"
Urhur shrugged. "I agree, we've destroyed relatively few of the exotic specimens, but it's conceivable that Tharchion Daramos has encountered more of them and also that we overestimated their numbers to begin with." He gave Aoth a condescending smile. "If so, you're not to blame. It can be difficult for anyone not an expert to tell the various species of undead apart, and the terror and chaos of a massacre would impair almost anybody's ability to make an accurate count."
"My orcs fished some water ghouls out of the river," a captain said. "They count as 'exotic,' don't they?"
"I'd say so," Urhur replied. "At any rate, the essential point is this: Yes, we're facing a few rare and formidable creatures, but as Tharchion Focar said, we're prepared to deal with them. In the final analysis, no undead can withstand the magic specially devised to command or destroy its kind, or to give credit where it's due, Kossuth's fire, either."
"All I'm suggesting," said Aoth, "is that we proceed cautiously."
"We will," Nymia said briskly, "but proceed we must, and never stop until we've purged Pyarados of this plague, which brings us back around to the question of just how soon we can head into the pass."
Realizing it would be fruitless to argue any further, Aoth at last managed to hold his tongue.
After the council of war broke up, he tried to join the merrymaking in the streets, only to make the depressing discovery that it failed to divert him as in days of yore. Wondering why anyone ever aspired to become an officer, nipping from a bottle of sour white wine, he prowled aimlessly and watched other folk wallowing in their pleasures.
Finally, his meandering steps led him back to the home in which he and Brightwing were billeted. The griffon perched atop the gabled roof. When she caught sight of him, she spread her wings and half-leaped, half-glided down to the street. A stray mongrel that evidently hadn't discerned her presence hitherto yipped and ran.
"How did it go?" Brightwing asked.
Aoth grinned a mirthless grin. "About as well as I expected. Nymia's desperate to prove her competence and avert the zulkirs' displeasure. Everybody else is proud of himself for besting a terrible foe. Accordingly, no one was in the mood to hear that we've only won a few petty skirmishes, with all the battles that matter still to come."
Brightwing gave her head a scornful toss. "I don't understand how humans can ignore the truth just because it's unwelcome."
Aoth sighed. "Maybe the others are right and I'm wrong. What do I know anyway?"
"Usually, not much, but this time, you're the one with his eyes open. What will you do now?"
Aoth blinked in surprise at the question. "Follow orders and hope for the best. What else can a soldier do?"
"If he serves in the Griffon Legion, he can fly south and speak his mind to this Milsantos Daramos."
Aoth realized it could conceivably work. Pyarados was Nymia's domain to govern, but as tharchion of Thazalhar, Milsantos was her equal in rank, and since she herself had asked him to participate in the current campaign, they shared authority in the muddled fashion that, the war mage abruptly realized, had hampered Thayan military endeavors for as long as he could remember.
In this case, however, it might prove beneficial. If he could convince Tharchion Daramos of the validity of his concerns, the old warrior could then pressure his fellow governor to adjust her strategy, and it seemed possible if not probable that Nymia actually would heed him. Aoth had never met the man, but of all the tharchions, he had the reputation for being the canniest commander, and the most sensible in general.
Yet…
"I can't," he said. "Nymia Focar is my tharchion. It would be an act of disloyalty for me to run to another commander with my concerns. To the Abyss with it. This is a strong army and we'll win. We may pay a heavier price for our victory than Nymia anticipates, but we'll have it in the end."
Brightwing grunted, an ambiguous sound that might signify acquiescence, disapproval, or both at once.
Aoth resolved to put his misgivings out of his mind. "I wish I knew where Chathi's gone," he said.
"Why, nowhere," she replied.
He turned. The priestess stood in the house's doorway with a pewter goblet in either hand. She wore only a robe, open all the way down the front, though the night obscured all but a tantalizing suggestion of what the gap would otherwise reveal.
Aoth felt a grin stretch across his face. "I thought you'd be off somewhere celebrating with everybody else."
"I hoped that if I waited for you, we could have a sweeter time together. Was I wrong?"
"No," said Aoth, "you were right as blue skies and green grass." He strode to her, and enfolded in her arms, he did indeed succeed in forgetting all about the undead. At least for a while.
Though he'd known her for twenty years, Aznar Thrul had never beheld the face of Shabella, high priestess of Mask, god of larceny and shadow, and mistress of the thieves' guild of Bezantur. Every time he'd seen her, she'd worn a black silk mask and hooded gray woolen cloak over the rainbow-colored tunic beneath.
That, of course, was simply the way of the Maskarran, and it had never bothered him before. Now it did. What, he wondered, if this isn't the same woman with whom I've conspired for all these years? What if someone else, some agent of my enemies, killed her and took her place? Even if I unmasked her, I wouldn't know.
Trying to push such groundless fancies out of his mind, he scowled at her across the length of the small room he used for private audiences, and as a servant closed the door behind her, she bowed deeply, spreading the wings of her cape.
He left her in that position for several heartbeats, rather hoping it pained her middle-aged back muscles but knowing it probably didn't. Though she likely hadn't committed a robbery with her own hands in a long while, her position required her to train to maintain the skills and athleticism of an all-around master thief, and he had little doubt that she could still scale sheer walls and lift latches with the ablest burglars and stalk and club a victim like the most accomplished muggers.
"Get up," Aznar said at last. "Tell me what's happening in the streets." He already knew, but the question was a way of starting the conversation.
"The common folk," she said, "are celebrating the good news from Pyarados." As always, her soft soprano voice sounded gentle and wistful, belying the iron resolve and ferocity she displayed when circumstances warranted.
" 'The good news,' " he parroted. "Meaning what, precisely?"
"That the legions are pushing back the undead."
"In the opinion of the mob, who deserves the credit for their success?"
Most people hesitated before telling Aznar Thrul something he didn't want to hear. Shabella never did, and that was one of the things that made him if not like at least respect her.
"Szass Tam," she said, "who committed the order of Necromancy to the struggle, convinced Iphegor Nath to send the Burning Braziers, and armed the priests with their torch weapons."
"And who just rece
ntly saved the northern tharchs from a Rashemi invasion."
"Yes."
"Curse it!" Aznar exploded. "I don't care what the whoresons done. How can they make a hero of a lich?"
"We Thayans aren't a squeamish people," Shabella replied. "You Red Wizards made sure of that when you recruited orcs, zombies, and even demons to serve you. The commoners had little choice but to get used to them."
"Spare me your gloss on the history of the realm. Tell me who spreads these tidings through the alehouses and markets in a way that lionizes Szass Tam at the expense of everyone else who contributed to the victory."
"Agents employed by Dmitra Flass and Malark Springhill, most likely."
"If you know that, why haven't your cutthroats silenced them?"
"Because I don't really know, I simply infer. The taletellers are wily and my followers haven't yet identified them."
"Too busy skirmishing with the Shadowmasters?" he asked, referring to the one cartel of thieves that sought to supplant her and her organization.
"I have to address the problem," Shabella said. "I'm no use to you dead."
"Are you of any use currently? Perhaps your rivals wouldn't be so foolish as to give their business priority over mine."
"The local Shadowmasters are only one chapter of a greater network based in Thesk. Would it truly suit Your Omnipotence to have foreigners controlling all thievery south of the First Escarpment?"
"It might at least suit me to see someone else officiating in front of Mask's high altar, so get out of here and do what needs doing."
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