The masked witches

TWO

Jet hadn t seen any of his own kind since departing Luthcheq, and the prospect of doing so pleased him. Although to give them their due, humans made for decent company. Indeed, he shared things with them that he never could with his less intelligent kin. But he also possessed nonhuman feelings and perspectives that even Aoth, with their psychic link, could only partly understand.

Spiraling out from Immilmar, Jet found a pride of griffons quickly enough, in a snowy field just north of town. But he also found the soldiers who were tending the beasts; their tents and the banner of Aglarond were planted in the frozen ground. Jet inferred that the simbarchs had dispatched an envoy and his escort to try to buy the wild griffons, and those folk had left their winged mounts just far enough out of town to spare them the constant temptation of horseflesh on the hoof.

As usual, Jet reflected sourly, Aoth had landed them in a situation that was proving to be more complicated than expected. He considered advising the war mage of his discovery, then decided that Aoth had probably already found out this particular bit of bad news for himself.

So Jet simply and mischievously screeched a greeting as he flew overhead. Griffons below cried in response and restlessly shook out their wings. Their keepers scurried about, calming them and making sure they wouldn t try to take flight and join their fellow in the sky.

Jet found the feral but ensorcelled griffons, the ones the Rashemi presumably meant to sell, prowling on the white hillsides farther to the east, or soaring and circling above them. His eyes widened at their numbers. It was astonishing that they d bred or been captured in such profusion, and he had little doubt that wizardry or the whim of a god was involved.

In any case, magic was surely responsible for holding them where they were. As Jet flew nearer, a kind of crackling rawness in the air prickled across his body, while colors brightened or dimmed from moment to moment. A human female in a green robe strolled fearlessly among the huge beasts on the ground. She lifted her masked face to watch his approach. Perhaps it was her task to renew the enchantment and keep it strong.

Jet wondered if he should turn around lest the spell snare him, too. But he didn t feel any compulsion trying to squirm into his mind. And besides, if the magic did take him prisoner, Aoth would surely set him free. He flew on for a closer look.

The witch didn t try to stop him. But one griffon gave a rasping scream, lashed his wings, and leaped up from the ground.

Thanks to Aoth s benign enchantments shaping him from the moment of conception, Jet was different than any normal creature of his kind. Not only was he more intelligent and capable of speech, he was bigger and stronger, with gleaming black feathers and fur and crimson eyes.

For the first time, Jet was looking at a griffon as extraordinary as himself. In fact, the other beast was even larger, with gold-striped wings and brilliant blue eyes instead of the usual yellow.

Since the Rashemi had just taken the beasts from the wild, Jet doubted that a spellcaster had altered the creature. Rather, the magic of that strange northern land itself where animals talked, and every creek, bush, and tree supposedly housed a guardian spirit must have shaped him into the superior being he was.

A superior being who didn t like Jet. Climbing to the same altitude, the gold griffon screamed again, and the rage and challenge in his cry were unmistakable.

Jet understood why. In the wild, griffons were often solitary except when mating or raising cubs. But in areas where game was plentiful, they sometimes formed prides. And of course when they served as mounts for aerial cavalry, they were obliged to live in groups.

In such situations, one griffon generally rose to dominance. And evidently the blue-eyed creature saw Jet the newcomer as a potential threat to his ascendancy.

Jet considered how best to respond. He was still pondering when Aoth spoke to him mind to mind.

We re flying east out of Immilmar, his master said. Come join us.

Stay in my head, said Jet, wheeling. Guide me to you.

I will, Aoth answered with a hint of humor, but I don t think you can miss us. It s quite a procession.

As Jet finished turning, the blue-eyed griffon screamed at what no doubt resembled a display of fear. Other beasts gave vent to their own rasping, scornful cries. Their wings snapped as they flew after him.

A wave of fury swept through Jet. He longed to turn again and prove his strength and courage by tearing the griffon with the gold-streaked wings to shreds. He could savage the whole pride if necessary, until the bloodied survivors cowered before him.

But that was a beast s impulse. Jet was more than a beast, and Aoth needed him. He raced onward. Unable to leave the confines of their invisible cage, the wild griffons soon gave up the chase.

Cera had grown accustomed to riding on Jet, but soaring along across the sky with only the wind supporting her was unsettling. Her body kept tensing, certain she was about to fall.

Her mind knew better, of course. Jhesrhi, who had at some point extinguished her mask of fire, might be a morose and taciturn companion and never more so than in recent weeks but she was still a faithful friend and a true adept at elemental magic. She wasn t going to drop anybody.

Cera tried to distract herself by looking around. Aoth was scowling, although probably not because he was worried about a fall. He had magic bound in a tattoo that would ensure a soft landing even if that happened. He just didn t like not being in control.

Vandar s beadwork vest fluttered and clinked faintly in the breeze. He had a clenched look that suggested he was afraid but determined not to show it. Or maybe he just didn t want to shudder and have his teeth chatter in the cold. For various reasons, his three companions were either impervious to winter s chill or could at least render themselves resistant. But the berserker had no such advantage. Cera murmured a prayer to the Keeper to warm him.

Farther away, the Storm of Vengeance swept along under sail, including the folding winglike constructions of canvas and wood now projecting from the sides of her hull. The skyship creaked and groaned like a common vessel at sea, and crewmen clambered as nimble as squirrels in her rigging. Mangan Uruk peered ahead from the bow, with Mario Bez at his side.

All around, to the right and left and above and below, twenty or so Aglarondans urged their griffons onward, with shouts and light taps from the butts of their lances.

By the Yellow Sun, it all made for a glorious spectacle. Cera didn t only love Aoth because her association with him had led her to wonders and excitement that, as a priestess in a quiet market town, she had never imagined she might experience. But she suspected that was a part of it, even though the wonders and excitement had a nasty habit of turning into terrifying danger.

Could she give all that up? Give him up? She didn t want to, but, because of the part she d played in destroying Tchazzar and driving out the wyrmkeepers, her peers might well seek to proclaim her sunlady of all Chessenta. That honor would tie her to the realm for the rest of her life, while the day was bound to come when Aoth and the Brotherhood of the Griffon would move on.

And if she was offered poor Daelric Apathos s office, what else could she think but that it was Amaunator s will? And such being the case, how could she justify turning her back on the god s plan for her?

Cera had agreed to accompany Aoth to Rashemen partly because she hoped the journey would somehow help her see her path clearly. And if not, at least it was another chance to be with him, to make memories she could cherish during what might be lonely years to come.

There! Aoth said, jarring her from her reverie. He pointed with his spear.

To the south stood a snow-shrouded stand of oaks and pines, like a detached bit of the great forest Ashenwood, visible as a distant dark mass. A couple of huts stood among the trees, and that was about as much detail as Cera could make out. She surmised, though, that Aoth had spotted signs of trouble, and that was why he was certain that was their destination.

Jhesrhi spoke words in what Cera assumed to be the language of the wind, and they swooped over the grove for a closer look. Flying felt even more like falling. But it only gave Cera a momentary twinge of fear, probably because she was too busy peering for actual danger.

Though she didn t see any, she did spot three witches and an enormous fox sprawled motionless in the cleared area in front of the huts. One of the women wore a white robe and a mask with a single horn jutting from the brow. She d apparently pledged herself to the goddess Mielikki, the Forest Queen. Another had on brown and green, and a circlet of little red rosebuds that must have flowered for her in the midst of winter to crown her as a hathran of Chauntea, the Earthmother. The last witch lay cloaked in black and silver and was likely a priestess of Sel ne, the Moonmaiden.

Cera at first thought that the fox had been one of the attackers, but she saw that it was facing away from the witches. Such being the case, it seemed more likely that the animal had come to harm trying to protect them.

Cera looked to Jhesrhi. Please, get me down there, she said. Someone might still be alive.

Unfortunately, no, Aoth said. But we ve learned all we can from up here.

On Jhesrhi s command, the wind let them plummet, slowing their descent at what seemed the last possible moment. Cera s boots settled lightly in the snow, and she could see what Aoth had observed from on high. The bodies before her were withered and twisted, and already stank of rot despite the cold. She sighed in pity and disappointment.

When she looked up from the corpses, Aoth, Jhesrhi, and Vandar were peering about, their weapons at the ready. Their priority was to scan for hidden foes, not to examine the fallen. That, Cera reflected, was the difference between truly warlike folk and one who no matter how many desperate exploits she survived would always be a cleric and healer in her innermost heart.

With rasping cries and the rustling of wings, the griffons and their Aglarondan masters descended. Less agile in flight, her canvas wings partly folded, the Storm of Vengeance was still maneuvering to land beyond the trees while gradually floating lower in the process.

The Aglarondan half-elf with the old white scar creasing his cheek and tugging slightly at the corner of his mouth glared at Aoth.

All of you, step away from there, he said.

No, Aoth replied. Not on your order. This isn t Aglarond, and you have no authority. If any of us does, it s the lodge master here, until Mangan Uruk touches down.

Vandar drew himself up straighter. That s true, he said. And I say we should be figuring out who committed this outrage, not bickering amongst ourselves.

Fine, the half-elf snapped. He turned to his men.

We ll work our way through the trees. See what you can find.

As the griffonriders moved off, their mounts prowling beside them like faithful hounds, Aoth gave Vandar a nod. Thanks for backing me up, he said.

The berserker shrugged. We agreed that, for the time being, we d help each other, he replied. I take it that Folcoerr Dulsaer doesn t like you.

Is that his name? asked Aoth. I broke a contract with Aglarond once and fought on the side of its enemy instead. I guess he hasn t forgotten.

And it doesn t shame you to admit it? Vandar asked, sneering.

You don t know anything about it, said Aoth. And anyway, it has nothing to do with what happened here. Let s work on understanding that. Tell me about that tree. Aoth pointed with his spear to indicate the one he meant.

It was a towering old oak, and Cera winced to behold its current state. The bark was flaking away, and patches of black, slimy rot were eating into the sapwood. The bare branches had twisted into unnatural shapes that reminded her of the contortions of the dead hathrans.

Vandar scowled. It was the reason this place was sacred, he said. The reason the witches dwelled here. A wise old spirit lived inside it. If the oak s been killed, I suppose the telthor has been, too. He extended his hand and touched his heart in what Cera took to be a sign of reverence.

So the point of all this was desecration, she said. The thought made her neck muscles tighten in anger.

Desecration and plunder, said Aoth. I doubt that all three of these women died without a wand or a staff in their hands. And you can see the huts have been ransacked.

What I don t see, Vandar said, are clear tracks of anyone but the hathrans and the fox.

I noticed that, too, said Aoth. There are spells to erase a human s tracks, but they run out of power after a while. That means the Aglarondans have the right idea. If we move out from this point, maybe we can pick up a trail. Cera, stay with me.

She snorted. I think I ve proved I can take care of myself.

Well, I think you left your mace and buckler attached to Jet s saddle, Aoth said. I understand you still have your magic, but even so, stick with me.

Yes, Captain, she replied, smiling.

At first, they didn t find anything but a dead, rotting owl possibly killed by a stray burst of the same malignancy that had slain the hathrans, the fox, and the sacred tree. But then Aoth oriented on a low, dark spot amid a tangle of roots, with a snow-covered hump in the ground behind it.

That s a hole, he said. And the lump behind it is some sort of old monument. See where the stonework shows through the overgrowth and the snow?

No, Cera said, but I m sure you do. Did something climb out of the hole or crawl into it?

That I can t tell. Any chance I can convince you to stay up here?

What do you think? She whispered a prayer and moved her hand in an arc. A golden glimmer ran through her yellow glove. When she entered the dark, the leather would shine with captured sunlight.

Stay close, then, Aoth said. He lowered himself onto his belly and squirmed through the curtain of roots. In another moment, his voice came back to her. I ve found some stairs, he called.

When Cera crawled through the roots, she saw steep, narrow steps descending into darkness beyond the reach of her conjured glow. Chunks of stone and bits of dirt littered the upper risers. Once, she surmised, a slab had capped the top of the stairway, perhaps covered with earth to keep it hidden. But something possibly simply the weight of time, or the slow insistence of the growing roots had broken it.

Ready? asked Aoth, keeping his voice low.

If you are, she replied.

Keeping his spear level, he headed downward. She followed.

The steps brought them to a place where one stone passage curved away to the right, its counterpart curved to the left, and a third one extended straight ahead. Rows of square slabs studded the wall, each graven with hieroglyphs that Cera couldn t read. But in some places, there were no such stoppers, just empty holes revealing sockets the approximate size and shape of coffins.

It s a tomb, Cera said.

I think so, said Aoth. An old one, though whether Nar, Raumathari, or something else, I don t know. Watch out for guardians and traps.

She did, but as it turned out, she needn t have bothered. If the dead had ever had a sentry, it had deserted its post or crumbled to dust along ago. Likewise, if there had ever been contrivances to drop an intruder into a pit or to pop a blade stabbing out of the wall, the mechanisms had stiffened and corroded into immobility.

The place turned out to be laid out in a circle, with two straight passages crossing in the center like the spokes of a wheel. At that hub, a sarcophagus carved with the form of a sleeping man in scale armor and an odd jagged crown reposed on a pedestal.

Aoth looked it over, then shrugged. If it s been opened recently, I can t tell it, he said.

So what do we have? Cera asked. Anything?

Not as far as I can see, he replied. There s nothing down here, and no way out except the way we came in. On top of that, we have to assume that the witches and the oak spirit knew the tomb was here and weren t worried about it. So by all indications, it had nothing to do with the attack.

Then let s go back up and see if anybody else has found anything, she said.

Good idea, he replied, starting toward the passage that ran back to the staircase. Suddenly he pivoted.

Her heart beat quicker, and she looked where he was peering.

What? she called.

He pointed with the spear. There, he said.

Three small vertical grooves had been carved above the arch that led to one of the other straight corridors. Glad that Aoth hadn t spotted a pouncing specter or something similar, Cera sighed and asked, What about them?

He shook his head. I don t know, he replied. But every other bit of carving we ve seen has been on either a slab or the sarcophagus there. These are the only marks on a plain patch of wall.

That is funny, she said. But you said yourself we don t even know who built this tomb. We certainly don t know what their traditions were. And we explored that passage the same as the others. There was nothing different about it.

True enough, he replied. Let s get out of here.

By the time they had crawled back out into the winter sunlight, the Storm of Vengeance had landed, and Mangan and Bez stood by the huts and the dead hathrans conferring with Dulsaer, Jhesrhi, and Vandar. With the snow crunching beneath his boots, Aoth brushed more of it off his chest and tramped to join the parley. Cera hurried after him.

Can t you wizards reveal the trail? the Iron Lord growled.

Jhesrhi shifted her grip on her new staff, a length of brass, graven with runes and octagonal in cross section. I can try, she said, but it will take me awhile, and I can t promise results. That kind of magic isn t my specialty.

Nor mine, said Bez, nor that of any mage aboard my ship. We re war wizards, not diviners.

If sorcery is of no use, Dulsaer said, pulling the wings of his leather fleece-lined cape together against the cold, then let s try thinking. The enemy likely moved and attacked by night. But it isn t night now, and they d be reckless indeed to wander around in open country in the daylight. Where could they hide?

Mangan frowned. The Ashenwood s the obvious place, he said. It s nearby, and a haunt for trolls and ettercaps, among other things.

From what I understand, the half-elf said, it s also dense enough that a band of warriors might reasonably hope to conceal themselves there. Thayan marauders, perhaps. He glanced in Aoth s direction.

Interesting notion, Aoth replied. Have you worked out how such raiders would stay hidden marching hundreds of miles north from the Gorge of Gauros?

Dulsaer scowled. I concede that a Thayan war party is only one possibility, he said. My point is this: My men and I can search for the enemy from the air. The fact that the branches have dropped their leaves should help considerably. He turned to Mangan. We ll find the killers, Highness, and punish them as they deserve.

Bez nodded. Naturally, the Storm will participate, too.

You ll discover, the Aglarondan said, that one skyship can t cover ground the way twenty griffonriders can.

Maybe so, the sellsword said, smiling, but at least I know I can count on you Aglarondans to summon me for the actual fighting. I mean, considering that His Highness is riding aboard my vessel. You surely aren t planning to attack without involving him.

Of course not, Dulsaer snapped.

Let s move out, Mangan said, and in another moment, Dulsaer and Bez were both bellowing commands. The other Aglarondans led their screeching griffons to spots where gaps in the branches overhead would make it easy to ascend. Several sellswords scrambled to collect the bodies of the hathrans and even the fox. The rest trotted for their ship.

Vandar rounded on Aoth and Jhesrhi. What are you waiting for? he asked. Call another wind.

Aoth shook his head. No need, he said. We re not going.

Vandar gaped at him. Why not? he asked.

Is it something to do with the tomb? Cera asked.

The markings?

Maybe, said Aoth. At that moment, a cloud blew across the face of the sun, and in the sudden dimness, his luminous blue eyes seemed to flare brighter. Maybe not. But I have a hunch or two. Everyone wonders how the killers departed without leaving a trail. But what if there s no trail because somehow, some way, they never left?

And we missed seeing them? Jhesrhi asked.

Is that possible with your truesight?

Even I don t see everything, said Aoth.

Anyway, ask yourself, what s the point of defiling a place of power?

Maybe just to spoil it for people you hate, Cera said. But sometimes to taint the power for use in a darker form of magic.

Right, Aoth said, nodding. So maybe, after Mangan and the others have gone away, and the sun sets, the killers will come out of hiding or sneak back to the grove if they really did withdraw to somewhere else to do that. We re going to be here to meet them.

Vandar scowled. I m not, he said.

That all sounded like so much guesswork for me. I m going with the others.

You can try to beg a ride, said Aoth, but I doubt you ll have any better luck than the Shou did. And even if someone takes pity on you, and even if the others actually locate the enemy, how will you show off your kind of prowess while the Aglarondans are loosing arrows and Bez s sellswords are hurling blasts of flame and lightning from on high? Staying here gives you a chance to prove your worth.

Glowering, Vandar stood and pondered. Eventually, he said,

I ll stay. But you d better be right.

A huge black shape plunged down from on high. Cera jumped, and Vandar jerked his javelin up over his shoulder for throwing.

What did I miss? Jet rasped.

Riding Jet above the grove, Aoth felt a chill. With a touch and a thought, he roused the magic of one of his tattoos. The result was only a feeble, fleeting pulse of warmth. He d invoked the enchantment too often. Its strength would renew itself, but not quickly enough to do him much good tonight.

You humans are so delicate, said Jet. He wheeled for another pass, and his ebony feathers reflected a glint of Sel ne s silvery light. It reminded Aoth of the Moonmaiden s servant lying twisted and rotting in her black and argent mantle, and he felt a stab of anger.

He supposed that was stupid if not downright unprofessional. After all, he d never even met the woman, and there couldn t be many people across the length and breadth of Faer n who d seen more slaughtered corpses than he had. But still, at that moment, the thought of a priestess slain by magic troubled him. Chathi had died that way.

He still missed her occasionally, even after a hundred years. He wondered if he would soon be missing Cera, too, once the other sunladies and lords decided to elevate her as she deserved. They were going to choose Daelric s successor at Greengrass, so

Motion in the trees below jolted him from his musings.

Darkness was nearly the same as light to him, while distance was far less of a hindrance than it was to other men. Still, trying to see through crisscrossed branches, and peering down from overhead, it was hard to make out much more than the tops of hoods. But over the course of several heartbeats, the details started coming clear.

Swaying and stepping in unison, as though to music only they could hear, a line of robed women was weaving toward the huts and the blighted tree. Given their location, it was conceivable they d crawled up out of the ancient tomb. Aoth found that possibility perplexing, but not as troubling as the fact that they were masked.

What in the name of the deepest Hell? he thought. Is there such a thing as an outlaw hathran? A traitor hathran?

Without a doubt, said Jet. Don t you know your own species?

Wolves prowled among the masked women. So did vague, flowing shapes like the shadows of wolves. Aoth s frown deepened. The phantoms reminded him of creatures he d fought during the War of the Zulkirs, darkness itself given form and a mockery of life by necromantic arts.

He tensed as the procession neared its destination. One petty drawback of inhumanly keen eyesight was that it was sometimes difficult to judge just how well a comrade had succeeded in concealing himself. Despite crouching behind cover and all but burying themselves in snow, Cera, Jhesrhi, and Vandar were plainly visible to him. He breathed a sigh of relief when none of the enemy paid them any attention. The witches seemingly had no idea that the clear patch of ground was surrounded.

They did set sentries, though, albeit in a haphazard fashion. The wolves, corporeal and otherwise, prowled, sniffed, and peered out into the trees. The witches Aoth counted thirteen altogether arranged themselves in a semicircle in front of the ruined oak and started a moaning incantation.

Aoth frowned, because the dismal wail had a muffled, faraway quality. Even as he listened, he could almost doubt that he was truly hearing anything at all, except, maybe, the beginnings of madness echoing inside his head. The air grew colder.

They re working necromancy right now, Aoth concluded. Or they re undead themselves.

Or both, answered Jet.

For a while, the masked women only moaned. Then they started making beckoning motions toward the tree, curling what Aoth now observed to be gray, shriveled fingers. The patches of rot seethed and bubbled, and the the whole oak writhed. More bark flaked from the trunk, and twigs fell from the branches.

Suddenly, a figure lurched from the tree like a drunkard stumbling over a rut in the street.

The entity was twice as tall as any of the undead hathrans for Aoth was virtually certain that s what they were and seemingly made of a blur of greenish phosphorescence. Or most of it was. As the oak had pockets of decay eating into it, the insubstantial giant had bits and patches of darkness blemishing its form.

The giant flailed its hand at the witches, but the blow passed harmlessly over their heads. The only effect was to cost Vandar s wise old spirit for that it surely was, not slain after all, but wounded and crippled its balance, and it dropped noiselessly to its knees. A couple of the flesh-and-blood wolves snarled, howling at its helplessness and humiliation. This display of cruel mirth led Aoth to consider the possibility that the beasts were actually werewolves.

One of the witches silenced them with a snap of her fingers before she and her sisters resumed their moaning. The patches of shadow inside the giant expanded, sending inky tendrils slithering through the glow, as the spirit hung its head and shuddered.

Aoth wondered how long to let the witches continue. He and his comrades were apt to learn quite a bit as they watched. Yet they couldn t allow the oak spirit to be killed, enslaved, or corrupted in some fundamental way.

He was still considering the matter when Vandar screamed a war cry that was a fair imitation of a griffon s screech, sprang up from under the pine where he d lain concealed, and charged. He d taken off his beadwork regalia, perhaps to not risk it getting damaged or bloodstained.

Startled, the witches and their four-footed servants froze for a moment. It gave the berserker who certainly appeared berserk at that moment a chance to land a cut to the head of one of the corporeal wolves. The beast fell down but rolled to its feet again, its resistance to common steel confirming Aoth s suspicion.

Idiot! said Jet with a snarl.

Aoth agreed. He hadn t been too worried about the undead witches superior numbers or their presumably potent magic to that point, because he d intended that he and his allies would make a coordinated surprise attack. But that couldn t happen anymore.

Of course, Aoth thought, some folk might say that the effects of Vandar s recklessness weren t all bad, because Vandar wasn t really a comrade. He was a competitor, and Aoth s mission would be that much simpler if the Rashemi didn t survive the consequences of his folly. But even as the thought flickered through his mind, he was already aiming his spear; and Jet, discerning his actual intent, was diving.

Aoth spoke a word of command, and darts of blue light hurtled from the head of his weapon into the body of the wounded werewolf. The shapeshifter collapsed, but unlike with Vandar s attack, didn t jump back up.

Staying crouched behind a pine tree, Jhesrhi made a jabbing motion with her staff. The brass glowed, and so did her golden eyes, while the evergreen boughs brushing against the metal charred. Flames leaped from the tip of an arcane weapon, annihilating one of the shadow wolves, then jumping to set a werewolf ablaze.

Cera stood straight up and stepped out into the open. Swinging her gilded mace over her head, she shouted, Your time is past!

Light flared around her, as though, in the middle of the night, she was nonetheless standing in sunshine. A shadow wolf lunging at Vandar s flank withered away to nothing, and several of the witches recoiled.

But one of the undead didn t flinch: a witch who had nearly completed a spell. Glaring in Vandar s direction, her voice rose on the final syllables of her incantation, as she brandished an orb of black crystal over her head.

Jet leveled out from his dive and hurtled at her. His talons slammed into her body, yanked her off her feet, and dragged her across the cleared area. In the process of tearing free, his claws ripped the witch apart.

With a reflexive stab of alarm, Aoth saw that Jet didn t have enough room to climb back up into the sky. The clear space wasn t long enough, and the familiar was going too fast.

Relax, said Jet. He furled his wings, and he and his master plunged to earth just a couple of paces shy of the tree with which they d been about to collide.

The griffon whirled to confront the foes rushing to attack. A ghostly wolf sprang, and he met it with a snap of his beak.

Unfortunately, the shadow beast s insubstantial nature protected it. It plunged right through the griffon s beak and sank its fangs into his chest. Thanks to their psychic link, Aoth felt the resulting burst of frigid pain.

But he couldn t afford to pay attention to it. He had to trust the griffon to deal with the close combat while he fought the witches hanging back to attack at range.

There were three of them. The one on the left wore brown robes and a wooden mask through which her milky eyes peered. She was pointing a dagger at him. The witch in the middle sported a black cloak and hood sewn with an over-layer of dangling bones. Her mask was a leering skull face that had evidently come from a real skull. In contrast to the others, the third witch had thrown back her cloak to reveal a spindly form clad only in a steel mask and a ragged, mold-spotted shift. Intricate tattooing crawled on every inch of her exposed gray skin.

All three were already chanting and sweeping their arcane foci through mystic passes. Aoth discharged another of the ones stored inside his spear.

A curtain of flying slashing blades flashed into existence and flew toward the trio. The witch with the milky eyes and the one cloaked in bones reeled out of the spell s effect with clothes and flesh tattered. The former s left arm hung useless, all but severed. But the tattooed hathran sprang clear like a cat, before any of the blades could touch her. She snarled the final word of her spell and clenched her fist.

A cloud of swirling vapor burst into existence around Aoth. His eyes burned, flooding with blinding tears. The same fire seared him from his nostrils and his lips all the way down into his chest. He coughed and choked, unable to catch his breath.

Aoth activated the tattoo he wore to counter poison, slapping at it through his mail. The burning abated for him, but he could still feel the echo of Jet s distress.

The griffon spread his wings, lashed them, and leaped, carrying them clear of the cloud. Shaking, he retched and spat.

Are you all right? asked Aoth.

Fine! the griffon said with a snarl. Just don t let them do it again!

Aoth could tell the griffon wasn t fine. He, himself, could barely breathe and barely see. But Jet was right. There was no time for anything but battle.

Blinking, Aoth cast about for the trio of undead hathrans. Residual sickness from the poison and dazzling flashes Jhesrhi and Cera fighting their own foes with conjured fire and sunlight made it harder to find them than it should have been. The first thing to catch his eye was a corpse lying in the fog cloud, slowly warping from wolf back into man, while a pair of lupine shadows charged out of the vapor after Jet. Vandar, painted with blood from at least two wounds, swung his sword and cut a hathran s neck.

Finally, Aoth located his particular foes in the flickering, lunging chaos. He leveled his spear and rattled off an incantation. A blast of wind sent the witch with the nearly severed arm staggering back amid the flying blades, still slashing away in the area where he d placed them. There came a rapid thunk-thunk-thunk as the magic hacked her to pieces.

One down! But at that same instant, the hathran with the mantle of bones thrust out her withered arm, and a ragged flare of darkness exploded from the tips of her jagged nails.

Aoth invoked the protective power of another tattoo. He didn t think there was anything else he could do. But though Jet was still half blind, defending by sheer instinct against shadow wolves that kept darting in, biting, and retreating, the griffon nonetheless perceived the witch s threat. With another great spring and beating of his wings, he leaped above the magic that, an instant later, splintered the front of the hut like a barrage of razors. And he landed right in front of the creature who d cast it.

The witch flourished her cape. Bones tore loose from it and battered Aoth like sling stones. Crying out at the pain, he charged his spear with destructive power and thrust.

The head of the weapon flared blue as it drove deep into the witch s chest. With a thunderous boom, force blasted out from the point of penetration and tore her body to shreds.

Jet whirled to confront the shadow wolves again. As he did so, Aoth glimpsed Cera hurling a shaft of light from the spherical head of her mace. Meanwhile, a second mace seemingly made of radiance and wielded by an invisible hand bashed a werewolf and held it away from her. Jhesrhi, standing straight and tall, had wrapped herself in blue and yellow flame from head to toe and was engaging the undead witches in a duel of spells.

Aoth located his remaining opponent just as the tattooed lines leaped from her flesh in a flying tangle. The leading edge of the spell s effect lashed him like whips before settling on him like a wire net.

The strands slithered around him and started to draw tight. He snarled words of power, and, straining against the constriction, sought to drag his hand through the proper mystic figure. The undead creature raised her hands high, her rotting skin hanging in rags freeing the tattoos that had all but flayed her. As she lashed her hands down, they blurred into the hands of a troll, too large for her arms, with greenish hide and long claws.

The hathran screamed and sprang over Jet s head. But at that instant, Aoth completed his counterspell. The animated mesh sizzled out of existence.

He snapped his spear into line and impaled the witch. He sent power surging through the weapon and blasted her apart.

He felt an instant of savage satisfaction. But the feeling crashed into dismay as Jet collapsed beneath him, and a feeling of cold, numb weakness flooded across their psychic link.

Aoth had to get out of the saddle lest he end up pinned under the griffon s body. He willed the straps holding him in place to unbuckle themselves, heaved himself clear, and slammed down into the snow.

At once, a hathran in a fanged, slant-eyed mask loomed over him, but Vandar rushed at her and distracted her. Aoth floundered to his feet and, furious at what the creatures had done to Jet, leveled his spear at the shadow wolves that were still tearing at the griffon.

The beasts rounded on Aoth and charged. He infused the head of his spear with blazing, crackling lightning and met the first with a thrust to the chest that burned the creature from existence.

The other lunged inside his reach and tried to snap its fangs shut on his arm. But although mere steel links couldn t have kept them out of his flesh, the enchantments bound in the metal did. Aoth dropped the spear, growled a word that concentrated stinging power in his fist, and hammered it down on the phantom creature s head. The creature withered away to nothing.

Aoth automatically cast about, making sure no new foe was advancing to attack him, then touched Jet s mind with his own. The familiar was alive but unconscious, and in urgent need of care.

Cera could provide it, but she, Jhesrhi, and Vandar were still fighting. Aoth pivoted and snarled incantations, scarcely pausing between one and the next, as he hurled darts of light and booming thunderbolts until every last hathran, werewolf, and shadow beast was gone.

Gasping and stumbling, Cera hurried to Jet s side. Vandar and Jhesrhi followed. The Rashemi looked shaky and spent with his rage having run its course, and he was finally feeling the effects of the superficial but bloody cuts in his scalp and forearm. Only Jhesrhi appeared untouched by all that had transpired as she snuffed her aura of flame.

What happened? Cera asked. She dropped to her knees beside the griffon that, even crumpled in the snow, made her look as small as a child by comparison.

The shadow wolves, Aoth said.

Will he be all right? Vandar asked.

You d better hope he will be, said Aoth.

Why in the name of the Black Hand did you attack before I gave the signal?

I don t take orders from you! Vandar snapped, before taking a breath. But understand, the fury is a gift of the spirits, and sometimes it takes us when they will it. I think maybe the oak telthor raised it in me because he couldn t have lasted much longer.

Aoth realized he d forgotten all about the ghostly giant. He glanced in the direction of the blighted tree and discovered the apparition had disappeared. I don t care about your stinking spirit, he said.

Enough! Cera said. Both of you, be quiet and let me work.

She whispered a prayer, and her hands glowed as she laid them on Jet s flank. She moved them to his neck specifically, to another spot where a shadow beast had bitten the griffon, Aoth surmised, although he didn t know how she could tell and did the same thing there. Then she infused the tip of a wing with Amaunator s healing light.

Gradually, the magic did its work. Aoth could feel the change in Jet as the oblivion of near-death gave way to ordinary sleep.

Aoth took a deep breath, then let it out again. You did it, he said. He s going to be all right.

I know, Cera replied, stroking Jet s head. Grunting, she tried to stand. Aoth helped her. She looked at Vandar and said, I have a little power left. Enough to tend you, too.

Do that, said Aoth. Then the two of you stay with Jet. Jhesrhi and I are going to go and check on something.

As he led her into the trees, the wizard said, I m glad Jet s going to live.

He s too cantankerous to die, Aoth replied. Do you ever wonder why no matter where we go anymore, we end up fighting the undead?

The bare hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Jhesrhi s mouth for a moment, then vanished. I take it we re going to see if they crawled out of the tomb you and Cera found, she said. Or if we can figure out where else they came from.

Yes, Aoth replied. Once again, some footprints would be helpful.

Jhesrhi shrugged. Undead, even the ones that still have a physical form, tend to be good at sneaking around, she said.

Werewolves, too, I imagine. They may not even have needed a spell to avoid making tracks.

That still doesn t explain why, if they came from outside the grove, Jet and I didn t see them when we were flying around above the treetops. Aoth said.

They reached the spot where the hole led into the tomb. Aoth crawled in, the gnarled roots catching on his clothing and in the links of his mail. Jhesrhi followed and set the head of her brass staff burning like a torch. They stalked on down the stairs, only to find the same vacant, echoing passages he and Cera had explored before.

And as before, he and his companion ended up in the hub by the sarcophagus when their search was done. He resisted a childish impulse to kick it.

Uramar studied the stocky, tattooed war mage with the luminous blue eyes and the tall, golden-haired elementalist with the fiery staff. It wasn t difficult. As people commonly reckoned distance, they were only a couple of paces away. In another, equally valid sense, they and their frustration occupied a completely different world.

From their remarks to one another, Uramar gathered that the frustration stemmed partly from the fact that the tattooed man was accustomed to seeing whatever existed to be seen. But at the moment, it was his misfortune to be looking for something invisible to any form of vision, even truesight.

Uramar s invisibility gave him an advantage. He could spring forth and strike by surprise. As his hands clenched on the hilt of his greatsword, an assortment of his broken souls whispered to him.

Kill them

It will be easy

Kill them, reanimate them, and then they can serve our cause

But as was often the case, other voices disagreed.

No. You saw how formidable they are

If there was only one, yes, but there are two

Don t risk giving away our secrets. A better opportunity will surely come along

For a moment, the clamor set pain throbbing in Uramar s temples, and he staggered a step and groaned. Then the contradiction resolved itself, and he knew that he should indeed wait.

Such being the case, there was no point in letting proximity to the mortals tantalize the more bloodthirsty parts of his nature any further. He turned and crept away. Instinct made him silent even though he knew that really, the folk behind him wouldn t notice even if he shouted at the top of his mismatched lungs.