Unclean

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 fingering 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 recently 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."

She bowed and withdrew.

The unsatisfactory interview left Aznar feeling as restless and edgy as before, but perhaps he knew a way to lift his spirits. It had been a month since he'd visited Mari Agneh.

Though he didn't play with her as frequently-or, often, as elaborately-as in the first years of her captivity, she still amused him on occasion, which made her a rarity. Generally, the torment of a particular victim eventually came to seem repetitive and stale, at which point he consigned that prisoner to his or her final agonies and moved on to the next.

He supposed it was Mari's austere good looks and defiant spirit that he still found piquant, combined with the fact that she was nearly the first person of significance he'd punished after assuming the mantle of a zulkir. In her way, she was a memento of his ascension.

Smiling now, he rose, took up his staff of luminous congealed flame, and exited the private chamber into a larger hall where bodyguards, clerks, and other functionaries awaited his pleasure. He waved them off and tramped on alone, through one magnificently appointed space after another. His passage was a like a ripple in a pond, agitating everyone. Sentries came to attention and saluted, while everybody else groveled in the manner appropriate to his station.

Such displays became less frequent once he made his way to corridors that, while no less handsomely decorated, were smaller and less well travelled. From there, a concealed door admitted him to his private prison.

Mari gave him a level stare as he entered her cell. "I'm going to kill you tonight," she said.

It surprised him a little. She hadn't made that particular threat in quite a while, not since they'd proved her helplessness time and again.

"By all means, try," he answered. "It always made our times together that much more entertaining, but first, take off your clothes, and keep your eyes on me as you do it. I want you to see me seeing you."

She obeyed, as of course she had to. His magic left her no choice.

"Now crawl to me on your belly and clean my shoes with your tongue."

She did that, too.

"Now hug the whipping post." He wouldn't need to tie or shackle her to keep her there. His spoken will sufficed even for that.

He laid down his staff, took down the whip from its hook on the wall, and cut her back into a tidy Crosshatch of bloody welts. Though it was the least of his accomplishments, he'd always taken a certain satisfaction in his skill with a lash. He fancied that if he hadn't been born with a talent for magic, he could have been one of Thay's more successful slavers. Perhaps it would have been a less stressful and demanding existence than the life of a zulkir.

Mari invariably struggled against the need to cry out. Perhaps what remained of her warrior's pride demanded it, whereas he found pleasure in overcoming that resistance, striking for as long as it took to get her squealing like an animal.

Perhaps the day's worries and frustrations had wearied him more than he knew, for tonight, it seemed to take an unusually long time. He grew hot and sweaty, peeled off his crimson robe, and then the garments underneath, all the way down to his smallclothes.

Eventually Mari gave him a reaction, though not precisely the one he was expecting. Her shoulders began to shake, and she made a breathy, rhythmic sound. For a moment, he assumed she was sobbing then he realized that in reality, the noise was laughter.

He shook his head. He'd just been imagining she was the one plaything that would never break, and here was the first sign her sanity was crumbling at last. Life could be so drearily perverse.

"Turn around," he said, and she did. "Tell me what's so funny."

"The flogging doesn't hurt," she said, "not really, and you don't have any pockets anymore." She charged him.

Though she hadn't lifted her hand to him in quite some time, he was always watchful for it, always prepared, even in the deepest throes of lust, and it was no different now. "Stop!" he snapped.

She didn't stop. She raked her nails across his eye and punched him in the throat.

Half blind, half choking, he reeled back, then reflex took over. She was right, he'd divested himself of his protective talismans and the physical components required to cast many of his most powerful spells. He was the greatest master of Evocation in all Thay, though, and capable of creating many other effects by word and gesture alone. He croaked a word of power, jabbed out his hand, and bright globes of light burst in rapid succession from his fingertips. Swelling larger, they hurtled at Mari, each engulfing her in its turn, and with a deafening crackle, discharging the lightning that constituted its essence into her body.

Startled, hurt, Aznar had lashed out with one of the most potent attacks available to him, and he immediately realized the response was excessive. Such an abundance of magic he might have used to kill a giant or wyvern. In all likelihood, there wouldn't even be anything left of her body and not much left of the furniture either.

When he caught his breath, wiped the tears from his stinging eye, and blinked the blurriness out of the world, he saw that he was half right. The spell had blasted the whipping post and bed frame into smoking scraps of kindling. The blankets, pillows, and mattress were on fire, but Mari stood where she'd stood before, seemingly unscathed.

Unscathed but not unchanged. She had four arms, not two, and her smooth ivory skin had darkened and roughened into purple scales. Her eyes glowed red, and the bottom half of her face had lengthened into a muzzle complete with fangs.

It occurred to him that, except for her merely human stature and the fact that she was still manifestly female, she now resembled one of the demon guards stationed elsewhere in the palace. What did that mean? The order of Conjuration had supplied those demons. Was it possible Nevron had turned against him?

Mari gathered herself to spring, and Aznar realized he'd better put such speculations aside. He'd unravel the mystery of his captive's transformation in due course, but for now, what mattered was defending himself against her. It was obvious that in her altered condition, she no longer felt constrained to obey his commands.

Lightning hadn't harmed her, but maybe fire would. She lunged at him, and with a simple exertion of his will, he released the power bound in a tattooed glyph on his left forearm. It pained him like a bee sting, and Mari's entire body exploded into flame.

Plainly hurt, she staggered, and looking forward to watching her flounder, shriek, and burn, he stepped out of her blundering way.

She caught her balance and pivoted to threaten him anew. Two of her hands swiped at him with their talons. One grazed his shoulder and drew blood.

The blaze enshrouding her hand didn't sear him. He'd long since forged unshakable alliances with fire, acid, lightning, and cold, and Mari's claws scarcely broke his skin. Even so, he suffered a shock of weakness and dizziness. He swayed, and she nearly succeeded in catching him by the throat when she snatched for him again.

Retreating, he chanted while miming the making of a snowball and then the act of throwing it. Hurtling chunks of ice sprang into existence to batter Mari and knock her back a step, but they didn't put her down any more than the lightning and fire had. In fact, her corona of punishing flame was guttering out faster than it was supposed to, revealing only superficial burns that were already starting to heal.

Damn it, he needed the items cached in his robe. They were the keys to unlocking his most devastating spells, and apparently nothing less would serve to neutralize his foe. Unfortunately, Mari stood between the garment and himself. He had to get past her somehow and likewise obtain the additional moment he'd need to retrieve the garment and pull out one of the appropriate talismans.

With a wave of his hand, he filled the air with what was, to him, merely a tinge of gray. To any other eyes, though, it would seem impenetrable darkness. Mari snarled and rushed him, plainly seeking to catch him before he could shift away from the spot where she'd seen him last.

He whispered a word of power and whisked himself through space. Now that he was outside the clot of shadow, it was opaque to him as well, though he could hear Mari flailing around inside.

He picked up his robe. It was on fire from collar to hem, but not yet so badly burned that it would disintegrate if he tried to put it on, and he lifted it to do so. His hands would find his spell triggers far more easily if his pockets were hanging in their accustomed places about his body.

Mari sprang from the cloud of darkness. Obviously, she'd figured out Aznar was no longer inside. If only she could have stayed fooled for one more heartbeat! Then everything would have been all right.

She snatched, caught the robe in her claws, and for an instant, the two of them pulled on it like children playing tug of war. Alas, she was the stronger, and when the burning, weakened cloth ripped in two, the piece in her talons was by far the larger. Laughing, she shredded it, and crystals, medallions, and vials tumbled to the floor. Then she reached for Aznar, who, backing up until his shoulders banged against a wall, perceived that his paltry piece of the robe possessed at least a few pockets, though which ones, he couldn't tell. He stuck his hand in one at random and brought out a folded paper packet of powdered ruby.

It made him want to laugh, but there was scarcely time for that. He jabbered a rhyme and lashed the particles of red glittering dust through the air to explode into tiny sparks.

A cube with transparent crimson walls sprang into existence around the onrushing Mari. She slammed into the side of it and rebounded.

She'd charged so close to Aznar that when it popped into existence, the magical cage nearly trapped him as well by pinning him between itself and the wall behind him, but he sucked in his breath and managed to sidle free. Meanwhile, Mari attacked the enclosure with the frenzy of a rabid animal, repeatedly breaking and regrowing her talons.

"Strike at it all you like," Aznar Thrul panted. "It will hold. It will hold for days." Plenty of time for him to decide how best to chastise her and solve the puzzle of her metamorphosis.

For now, he required the aid of a healer to take away the sick feeling her claws had slashed into his flesh and strong drink to quiet his jangled nerves. He snapped his fingers to extinguish all the various fires then turned and exited the cell.

He was several paces down the corridor when four strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and forearms. He just had time to realize that, like many a true tanar'ri, Mari must also possess the ability to translate herself through space, then she yanked him close and plunged her fangs into his neck.

Tsagoth had tried to finagle a guard station close to Mari Agneh's hidden cell, so he'd have some hope of knowing when Aznar Thrul went to torture her. Unfortunately, though, he'd been unsuccessful, and when screams started echoing from that general direction, he had no idea whether they meant the former tharchion had struck at her captor at last or portended something else entirely.

He dissolved his body and reshaped it into the guise of a gigantic bat. Flight was often a faster, more reliable means of travel than blinking through space when he didn't know precisely where he was going. Wings beating, he raced through imposing chambers and hallways, over the heads of humans, orcs, and other folk who were, in many cases, either running toward or away from the source of the noise.

He rounded another corner, and free of her prison at last, Mari Agneh came into view. Tsagoth felt a strange, unexpected stirring of pride at the marvel he'd created. Painted with fragrant human gore-Aznar Thrul's, no doubt-from mouth to navel, she was a pitiful runt compared to any true blood fiend, but in every other respect, he'd succeeded in transforming a feeble, insignificant mortal into an entity like himself.

She was confronting four warriors, a trio of spearmen, and one swordsman clad in the more ornate trappings and superior armor of an officer. Dissolving his bat guise, Tsagoth started the shift to his more customary form. Generally speaking, it was more useful for combat.

Before he could enter the fray, Mari sprang and raked the guts out of a spearman. In so doing, she perforce turned her back on some of his allies, and another warrior drove his lance deep into her back. She scarcely seemed to notice. She whirled with such force that she jerked the weapon from his hands, grabbed hold of his head, and slammed him to the floor. Part of his face came away in her talons, and he didn't move thereafter.

The remaining spearman dropped his weapon and bolted. The officer, however, raised his sword to cut at Mari's head, and Tsagoth sensed potent enchantment seething in the gleaming gray blade. Perhaps Mari did too, for though she'd essentially ignored the spears, she now retreated and lifted a hand to ward herself.

The officer instantly spun his sword lower, extended the point, and exploded into a running attack. The move was all offense and no defense, arguably reckless in any situation and certainly so against an opponent as formidable as Mari, but it caught her by surprise, and the enchanted sword punched all the way through her torso.

Shouting, the warrior jerked his weapon free and raised it to cut. As it streaked down, she caught it in her two upper hands. The keen edge cut deep enough to sever one of her thumbs, but at least she kept it from cleaving her skull and brain.

She shifted closer to the swordsman and used her two remaining hands to gather him in. Then she plunged her fangs into his throat and sucked at the gushing wound.

All this, before Tsagoth could even complete his transformation and come to her aid. It made him feel even more gratified. He started toward her, and the mark on his brow gave him another twinge. He clawed it from existence, and his hide tickled as it immediately started to heal.

"I assume Aznar Thrul is dead," he said.

To his surprise, she failed to reply or acknowledge him in any fashion. She just kept guzzling blood. The prey in her grasp trembled, and his extremities twitched.

"Other people are coming," he said. "We can escape, but we should go now." She still didn't answer, so he laid his hand on her shoulder.

Snarling, she turned and knocked his arm away, and when he gazed into her glaring crimson eyes, he saw nothing of reason or comprehension there. It was as if she were a famished dog and he a stranger trying to drag her away from a side of beef.

As he'd warned her, humans were frail vessels to receive the power of a blood fiend, and her metamorphosis had driven her crazy. The only question was whether the insanity was permanent or temporary. If the latter, it might be worthwhile to try and see her safely through it.

Or not. When he heard shrill, excited voices and looked around, he saw a veritable phalanx of foes approaching, with men-at-arms around the edges of the formation and scarlet-robed wizards in the center.

It was possible that two blood fiends could defeat such a band, but Tsagoth saw little reason to make the experiment. His bemused interest in the odd hybrid entity he'd created and his casual notion that perhaps he ought to school her as his sire had mentored him lost their cogency when his own well-being was at issue. Now he only cared about extricating himself from this situation as expeditiously as possible.

The spear still embedded in her back, Mari helped him by whisking herself through space and ripping into the warriors in the front of the formation. The imminent threat riveted every foe's attention on her, and Tsagoth had no difficulty translating himself in a different direction without any of the warlocks casting a charm to hinder him.

He didn't shift as far as prudence alone might have dictated. At the last possible instant, he decided that, even if he was unwilling to stand with the savage, demented creature he'd created, he was curious to see how she would fare, so he contented himself with a doorway some distance away.

She fought well, slaughtering most of the warriors and two of the Red Wizards before one of the other mages showered her with a downpour of conjured acid. Her scales smoking and blistering, she fell, and eyes seared away, face dissolving, struggled futilely to rise. The warlock chanted and created a floating sword made of emerald light. The blade chopped and slashed repeatedly until she stopped moving.

Her destruction gave Tsagoth a slight twinge of melancholy, but only enough to season rather than diminish his satisfaction at the completion of what had proved an onerous chore. Glad that the system of wards protecting the fortress was better suited to keeping intruders out than holding would-be escapees in, he slipped through the net and into the night beyond.