Undead

CHAPTER SEVEN

26 Kythorn-11 Flamerule, the Year of Blue Fire

Nymia Focar ran her gaze over the mounted knights lined up before her, their lances rising straight and high, their fierce chargers standing submissive to their masters' wills, with scarcely a snort, a head toss, or the stamp of a hoof. She could scarcely help noticing which of the faces framed in the steel helms were particularly handsome, or wondering who might prove exceptionally virile if summoned to her tent. A woman had her appetites.

But Nymia indulged them at night. It was morning now, and she had an army to lead to its next engagement. If the gods continued to smile on her, that would yield its own satisfactions.

After the host that marched north from Zolum divided, she'd led her troops up the narrow strip of flatland between Lake Thaylambar and the foothills of the Sunrise Mountains, then west into Delhumide. So far, she'd encountered only feeble resistance, and had high hopes of taking Umratharos before Midsummer.

Satisfied with her inspection, she waved her arm, wheeled her destrier, and rode toward the road. Hooves clattered and harnesses jingled as her horsemen started after her, and a phalanx of spearmen took a first marching stride in unison. Griffons shrieked and lashed their wings, taking to the air.

Then a black bird swooped down from the sky, its plumage glinting in the morning sunlight. Nymia reined in her steed and raised her hand. Her army stumbled to a halt.

Many army commanders used pigeons as messenger birds, and accordingly, their foes watched for the creatures and shot them. That was the reason that Dmitra Flass-or her outlander lieutenant-had trained ravens to perform the same task. The birds had a touch of magic in them, and weren't limited to flying to and fro from set locations. They could locate an army in the field or even a specific individual.

One of Nymia's aides held out his arm. The raven landed on his wrist like a falcon. He untied the miniature leather scroll case on the bird's leg and proffered it to Nymia.

She unscrewed the cap and magic swelled the tube to its natural size. She shook out the parchment and unrolled it.

The message read:

As you are surely aware, Kethin Hur was not present at the battle for the Keep of Sorrows, nor is he participating in the present campaign. He claims his strength is needed to guard his southern border and make sure the Mulhorandi don't invade while we Thayans are busy fighting one another. But my sources report signs he's secretly massing troops in the northernmost lands of his domain.

The council wouldn't approve of me telling you this. They want you focused on laying waste to Szass Tam's territories. But I thought you should know. In days to come, remember who did you a favor.

Malark Springhill had neither signed the message nor spelled out the reason Nymia ought to be concerned, but he hadn't needed to. She understood. While she was busy fighting in the North, Kethin Hur, the governor of Thazalhar, meant to raid into Pyarados, pillaging and perhaps even seizing land.

Grasping and treacherous though he was, he wouldn't have dared attempt such a thing in peacetime. But amid the chaos spawned by war, blue fire, and earthquakes, he was all too likely to succeed.

Nymia had to thwart the whoreson. But could she, when the zulkirs themselves had ordered her north?

She wished Aoth were present to counsel her. Over the years, he'd offered consistently good advice, and she'd regretted sending him to Bezantur for vivisection. But his life hadn't seemed worth an argument with Dmitra Flass.

What might he say if he were with her? Maybe that a high-ranking officer had no choice but to follow the commands of her masters, but enjoyed some discretion as to precisely how to obey. If Nymia split her army in two and left a portion of it to fight in Delhumide, she could maintain she'd prosecuted her part in the master strategy with all due diligence.

And if that wasn't good enough for the zulkirs, she'd say she was sick, had needed to return to Pyarados, and could hardly travel without a proper escort. Or, she could claim she had reason to believe Kethin Hur had aligned himself with Szass Tam. By the Black Flame, that might even be true! It made more sense than if he'd decided to raid a neighboring tharch without a powerful ally backing his play.

Anyway, she'd solve today's problem today, and figure out how to appease the council later. Because for her, the real point of the war wasn't to decide if one archmage or several would rule Thay, but to protect her own station and possessions. Nothing else mattered half as much.

She spent most of the morning dividing her army and its provisions in two and instructing Baiyen Tabar, who looked less than eager to assume command of the troops she was leaving behind. In truth, Nymia didn't blame him. He wouldn't have enough men to be confident of accomplishing the tasks the zulkirs had set him-or rather, her.

But she could scarcely acknowledge she might be abandoning him to defeat and destruction. Instead she promised rich rewards for the victories she professed to be certain he would win. She pledged, too, to return as soon as she could, then marched the best of her warriors south.

The sky was the color of slate as the Gray Archers, or what was left of them, laid their comrade on the pyre. Cremation wasn't one of their customs, but during their years in Thay, they'd learned not to bury anyone even if he hadn't perished at the hands of a vampire or something similar. With the power of necromancy rampant in the land, the corpse was all too likely to dig its way out of the grave and start slaughtering its former friends.

"Damn it," Darvin Redfox whispered, "we can't even send our dead to the Foehammer in the way they would wish."

Taller than he and snub-nosed, her chestnut hair gathered in a long braid, Lureene Pinehill was both his lieutenant and his lover, but generally didn't allow the intimate side of their relationship to show in her public behavior. Now, however, she gave his hand a surreptitious squeeze. "Tempus will welcome him anyway."

"I hope so." The torch dropped onto the oil-doused wood, and flame crackled upward. "And the rest of us, too, when our time comes."

"That won't be anytime soon. The sickness has run its course. Evendur was the first case in several days, and he'll also be the last. You'll see."

"I hope so," Darvin repeated. To take back Nothos, a mostly ruinous town in northern Lapendrar, the mercenary company had needed to destroy a garrison of necromancers and dread warriors. With the wizards' magic weakened, the Gray Archers succeeded, but afterward, sickness broke out among the ranks, possibly a result of close contact with the undead.

"I think you're tired," Lureene said.

"I am. Tired of fighting ghouls and wraiths, and of serving lords who traffic with demons and feel only contempt for anyone who isn't both Thayan and Mulan."

"Do you want to seek employment elsewhere? I'm sure someone is fighting a war in some other part of Faerыn."

"I'd love it, but how would we get there? With the earth shaking and the blue fires burning, it's difficult enough to march overland. Can you imagine how dangerous it must be to travel by sea? No, we're stuck here." He spat. "People say the world's ending. If so, I guess it doesn't matter anyway."

"When the funeral's over, you're coming to my tent. I know how to brighten your mood."

But it seemed she wouldn't have the chance. When the fire had had its way with the dead Gray Archer, and the company priest finished the final prayer, several of the men accosted Darvin. He inferred that they too must have been conferring in hushed voices as they watched the body burn.

"Captain." Squinting Aelthas said, "Sir. Sorry to bother you, but the money didn't come again today."

"I know," Darvin said. He'd been assured their pay would follow them north, but it was a tenday late.

"You know we're not shirkers or cowards, Captain. We've followed you into all nine kinds of Hell. But if the council of zulkirs isn't going to pay us, what's the point?"

Darvin groped for the right words to persuade the men to be patient. Then, it was as if something turned over in his head, and he decided he was out of patience himself. "Fortunately, there's an easy remedy," he said. "Collect our wages from the town."

Lureene pivoted toward him, her brown eyes narrowed. "Are you sure that's wise? By the looks of it, this place has been sacked already."

"Then the people should be used to it."

"I don't think we're supposed to mistreat them. The zulkirs want Lapendrar-"

"We're not mistreating them. We're charging a fair price for ridding their settlement of undead. Now stop blathering and organize the collection!"

Her mouth tightened. "Yes, sir."

He felt a pang of guilt for snarling at her, but he'd never been one for apologies, and so he didn't tell her he was sorry. Not even late that night, when a burgher had broken her arm with a club and the riot was well under way.

The dead griffon scarcely had any flesh left, let alone feathers. Yet its rattling wings carried it through the air, because that was the unnatural nature of undeath.

Bareris was no necromancer. But over the years, as his bardic powers increased and his mood grew ever bleaker, he'd discovered that his music could reanimate dead bodies. With mounts in scarce supply, he'd used the talent back in Xingax's stronghold to create one more. It was carrying Tammith, too, strapped to its skeletal form and shrouded in black cloth to ward her from the sun.

He peered through the gathering twilight at the plains of Tyraturos stretched below. Soon it would be time to set down and make camp, and Tammith would wake. He smiled at the prospect of seeing and touching her again. His throat tingled.

Then he spied a deep gorge splitting the earth, and the legionnaires milling around on the far side of it. Their banners bore the eight-pointed crimson star device of the council, as well as the Black Hand of Bane.

Dimon's troops, more than likely. Evidently they'd been heading north and had been unpleasantly surprised to find the chasm barring the way.

Clearly, they wouldn't be marching any farther until morning, and Bareris supposed he and his men might as well share their camp. Using magic to project his voice, he called to them that he and his companions were Nymia Focar's men, then blew a signal on his trumpet to convey the same message.

Meanwhile, his undead steed carried him over the wound in the earth. When he was directly above it, he gasped.

Something huge was climbing out of the depths, a mass of writhing tentacles with bulging eyes and circular orifices, alternately expanding and puckering, down the length of the arms. Blue fire flickered around it and allowed it to sink the tips of its arms into the stony wall, which they penetrated as easily as a knife cutting butter.

It was the most grotesque thing Bareris had ever seen. He couldn't even tell what sort of creature it had been before the blue flame transformed it. Perhaps it hadn't been alive at all. Maybe the wave of chaotic power had made it out of rock, earth, and air, or nothing at all.

Whatever it was, it had nearly reached the top of the crevasse, and by ill fortune, none of the legionnaires were looking over the edge. Bareris bellowed a warning.

It came too late. The creature heaved itself over the edge of the rim and flailed its tentacles. The blows bashed men to the ground or hurled them through the air. But more often than not, what actually killed them was the blue flame playing around the entity's body. When it touched them, they melted.

Bareris hoped that after slaying its first several victims, the creature would stop to slurp up the remains. It didn't. Motivated by fury rather than hunger, it crawled toward more of Dimon's soldiers.

It was fast, too. Panicking, jamming and tangling together, knocking one another down, some legionnaires might escape, but not many.

Bareris sang a song of lethargy. The creature slowed, moving more sluggishly than before.

"Hit it!" he called to the other griffon riders. "But stay high enough that it can't snatch you out of the air."

His men loosed arrows. The Burning Braziers hurled sprays of fire, or conjured flying hammers wreathed in yellow flame. He slammed the creature with the force of a thunderous shout.

Was any of it doing the beast harm? The thing was so bizarre that he couldn't tell. But the barrage distracted it. It left off pursuing the men on the ground to grope impotently at the attackers harassing it from on high.

Or perhaps not so impotently after all. Without warning, it shot up into the air.

If it could fly all along, Bareris wondered why it had climbed to the top of the chasm. It made no sense, but then, nothing associated with the blue fire did.

He wheeled his mount to keep beyond the creature's reach, but the skeletal griffon didn't respond quickly enough. A tentacle whipped around its neck, shattering naked vertebrae, and hung there in a loop. Blue fire ran up the arm toward the steed and its rider as though following a trail of oil.

Bareris chanted words of power, undipped the strap holding Tammith to the saddle, and grabbed hold of her shroud. The azure flame leaped at him just as he sang the final note. The world seemed to break apart, and then he was standing on the ground with his legs still spread as though straddling a mount. Tammith fell to the ground at his feet, her weight jerking his hand down with her. The folds of the shroud separated. Smoke billowed forth, and Bareris cried out in horror.

But Tammith wasn't burning up. The sun had already dropped out of sight, and she'd turned to mist to extricate herself from her cloth cocoon. The swirls of fog congealed into human form.

"What's going on?" Tammith asked.

Bareris pointed. "That."

The creature had scattered the griffon riders. Perhaps thinking that now they'd leave it alone, it plummeted, and jolted the earth when it slammed down. It then heaved itself toward him, Tammith, and Dimon's men, crawling and lashing its tentacles as fast as it had originally. The curse of slowness had worn off.

Tammith smiled, revealing upper canines extending into fangs. "I'll stop it."

"No. Stay back. The blue fire can destroy anything, even a vampire."

"Then I'll make sure it doesn't touch me." She exploded into a cloud of bats.

The winged beasts hurled themselves at the oncoming giant. Dodging the sweeps of its tentacles, they caught hold of them in their claws and sank their fangs into them. Bareris couldn't tell if the immense horror had any blood for them to suck, but he was sure Tammith was using the cold malignancy of her touch in an effort to drain its life away.

He, too, did his best to kill it. He wanted to charge and fight near her with his sword, but the better tactic was to stand back and use magic. So he battered the horror with shout after shout and spell after spell.

As Tammith had promised, at first the bats took flight whenever blue flame flowed or leaped close to them, but then she failed to notice a flare until it was too late. The blaze engulfed a bat, and it burst in a sort of fiery splash. Bareris winced.

Then the gigantic creature collapsed, its dozens of arms flopping to the ground and beginning to liquefy. A putrid stench suffused the air.

Bareris hadn't been able to tell which attacks had truly hurt it, and he couldn't tell which had killed it, either. Perhaps none of them. Possibly the beast had borne some fundamental flaw in its anatomy that kept it from living very long.

The surviving bats took flight from the rotting tangle, then whirled together. Tammith wasn't marked or bleeding, but she stumbled.

Bareris ran to her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "I will be. That was close. When the fire took a portion of me, it felt as if it was going to jump to all my bodies. But somehow I pushed it back."

"You really didn't have to charge and attack."

"As far as that's concerned, when you moved us, you didn't have to drop us between the creature and the soldiers of Tyraturos. Neither one of us is responsible for looking after them."

"I suppose that's true." They each had acted as instinct prompted, which suggested that, whatever she believed, not all her urges were selfish and cruel.

The captain of Dimon's legionnaires came trotting up to them. He hadn't observed the final phase of the fight in any detail, and he stopped short when he noticed Tammith's alabaster skin, the subtle luminescence in her dark eyes, and the fangs still furrowing her lower lip. Before the war, he might have felt a personal aversion to vampires, but he would have accepted their presence in the army as a matter of course. Now, he feared that any such creature served Szass Tam.

"It's all right," Bareris said, investing his voice with a dash of magic to calm and convince. "Captain Iltazyarra is on our side."

The other commander took a breath. "Of course. Please, forgive my moment of confusion. To tell you the truth, I'm still rattled from seeing that beast tear into us. I don't know what we would have done if you griffon riders hadn't happened by."

You would have died, Bareris thought. "We were glad to help."

"Can you help some more? I've got soldiers who fled and are still running, not realizing the creature is dead. Can your fellows catch up with them and herd them back?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." The officer shook his head. "By the Hand, what a mess! This route was supposed to be clear. A wave of blue flame must have carved the gorge and created the beast just a short time ago."

Bareris frowned, then shrugged. "I suppose."

Long before his superiors in the Order of Conjuration commanded him to serve with the army, Thamas Napret had become accustomed to the groans and whimpers of injured men. A Red Wizard couldn't climb the ladder of his hierarchy without hearing such noises frequently.

Yet now they seemed like a reproach, and distracted him from his contemplation of the stars. He rose, picked up his staff with its inlaid runes of gold, and walked away from the camp.

He didn't go far. Some of Szass Tam's warriors might still be lurking around, and even if not, wild kobolds and goblins sometimes crept down from the Sunrise Mountains to forage and raid in the wooded hills of Gauros. He put a few paces between himself and the nearest of his associates, then sat down on ground carpeted with dry pine needles, crossed his legs, and sank into a meditative trance. Perhaps the gods-assuming that any were left alive-would reveal how things had gone so horribly wrong.

Dmitra Flass had ordered their small band to inflict as much harm on Gauros as possible, and in truth, it didn't take a huge army to burn farms and villages and overrun tax stations in the sparsely settled tharch, especially when Azhir Kren and the majority of her troops were fighting elsewhere. The ability to move fast and vanish into the forests kept the southerners safe from retaliation.

Or at least it had for a while. Then a force of howling blood orcs and yellow-eyed dread warriors descended on them under cover of night. Taken by surprise, Thamas and his allies had nonetheless managed to repel the attackers, but they'd lost half their number in the process, with several more likely to succumb to their wounds before the end of the night.

It shouldn't have happened. They'd covered their tracks and hidden themselves well, as always. Even skilled manhunters-

Thamas sensed rather than heard a presence at his back, and twisted his head around. Gothog Dyernina and two soldiers had crept up behind him. Gothog was half Rashemi and half orc, as his pointed ears and protruding lower canines attested. As far as Thamas was concerned, such creatures had no business commanding, but as the war killed Mulan officers, it provided opportunities for the lower orders to rise from the ranks, and over time, he'd gotten used to Gothog, too.

Which didn't mean he wanted the lout interrupting him when he was trying to concentrate. "What is it?" he asked.

"I want to know," Gothog said, "why you didn't warn me the enemy was coming."

"Because I'm not a diviner," Thamas said. "I'd like to know why your scouts and sentries didn't spot them."

"Right," Gothog said, "you're a conjuror. But it didn't do us a lot of good during the fight, did it? At first, you didn't do anything. Then, when you finally whistled up that big three-headed snake, it attacked our own men."

"It destroyed several of our foes first, and I sent it back to the Abyss as soon as I lost control. I explained this to you. The mystical forces in the cosmos are out of balance. Until that changes, wizardry won't be as reliable as it ought to be."

Gothog grunted. "Maybe that was the problem, or maybe you didn't really want to fight."

"Are you stupid? Why wouldn't I, when the northerners were trying to kill me, too?"

"Were they?"

Thamas decided he no longer felt comfortable sitting on the ground with the half-orc and the legionnaires looming over him. He drew himself to his feet. "Exactly what are you insinuating?"

"Maybe the enemy found us because someone called them to us. Maybe it was you."

"That's ridiculous! Where did you come up with such an idea?"

"A magus wouldn't have much trouble passing messages to the enemy. You have spells that let you talk over distances. You'd only need to sneak off by yourself for a moment, and here you are again, alone among the trees."

"Did I look like I was doing anything sinister? I was just sitting!"

"I don't take much pleasure in this." Gothog took hold of the leather-wrapped hilt of his scimitar, and the blade whispered out of the scabbard. The other soldiers readied their broadswords. "You always made it plain you think I'm dirt, but you helped me win gold and a captaincy, too. I wish you were still helping. The Horde Leader knows, we'll likely need a sorcerer's help to get us out of Gauros alive. But I can't trust you anymore." He and his companions stepped forward, spreading out as they did so.

Thamas stood frozen, losing a precious moment to shock and bewilderment. Then he hastily retreated. "This is crazy! I'm no traitor, and besides, I'm a Red Wizard! You scum can't touch me!"

"Oh, I think I've just been handed the authority," Gothog said, "but you're right, why put it to the test? I'll just say you died fighting Azhir Kren's warriors, and nobody will ever know any different."

You're the one who's about to die, Thamas thought. You should have struck me down before I realized I was in danger.

Because he'd long ago prepared for a moment of ultimate peril like this. He needed only to speak a name and a certain alkilith, a formless demon made of oozing filth, would appear to serve him for thirteen of his heartbeats.

"Shleeshee!" he cried. Magic whined through the air, and he sensed power shifting in his staff, making the top half feel heavier than the bottom. Then the pole exploded. Splinters stung his cheek and forehead, and he flinched.

Nothing else happened.

Thamas whirled, ran, and smashed into the trunk of a pine tree he hadn't realized was directly behind him. He rebounded, then a blade bit into his back.

Malark sauntered among the rooftop mews, inspecting them. From a certain perspective, it was a waste of time. He knew he'd find the cages clean and the food and water bowls filled. But the stooped, white-haired Rashemi who took care of the ravens liked to have his diligence perceived and commended.

"Everything looks fine," Malark said. He tossed a silver coin, and the aged servant caught it deftly. "Go have some breakfast, and a bottle of wine later on."

The Rashemi grinned, bowed, and withdrew. Humming, Malark took out the first of the scroll cases he'd brought to the roof and touched it with an ebony wand. He reflected that one of the nice things about magic was that one often needn't be a wizard to use an enchanted tool.

The wand shrank the leather tube to a fraction of its former size. Malark opened a cage, removed a raven, set it on a perch, and fed it a scrap of fresh meat. Then he tied the tiny scroll tube to its foot. Well accustomed to the process, the bird suffered it without protest, merely cocking its head and regarding its master with a black and beady eye.

Malark was sure he was alone on the roof. Even so, he took a glance around before whispering, "Find Szass Tam."

The raven spread its wings and took flight, soaring over the spires and battlements of the Central Citadel, then the myriad houses and temples beyond.

Malark shrank another scroll and bade a raven carry it to Kethin Hur. Then footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and Aoth climbed onto the roof. The glow of his azure eyes in their framework of fresh tattooing was more noticeable in dim light, but perceptible even now.

"Good morning," Malark called. "You look well."

Aoth smiled. "A lot better than I would if not for you."

Malark waved a dismissive hand. "You already thanked me for that. We don't have to keep talking about it."

"If you say so."

"Did you come to watch the sun rise over Loviatar's Manor? If so, you're doomed to disappointment. It's another gray day."

"Another gray and hungry year, I imagine, unless the zulkirs can finally wrest control of the weather away from Szass Tam. But to answer your question, no. I came for a couple of those." He nodded toward the box of scrolls.

Malark's awareness sharpened, and he began to breathe slowly and deeply, as the Monks of the Long Death trained themselves to breathe in the moments prior to combat. "I don't follow."

"Before Nymia promoted me, Brightwing and I carried a lot of messages. We might as well carry some more."

Feeling relieved, Malark smiled. "You're bored hanging around Bezantur?"

"Yes. Really, I'm itching to take back command of my legion, but I can't do that until several pieces of it return from their various errands." His mouth twisted. "If they return."

"I admit, much of the news, as it filters in, isn't as good as we'd hoped."

"It was for a little while, but now we hear of defeat after defeat and setback after setback. You're the spymaster. Do you understand what's going wrong?"

Malark shrugged. ''We knew it would be perilous for our armies to take the field under current conditions. And that the necromancers were still formidable even with their powers weakened. But I still believe the decision to take the offensive was a sound one. We still have reason to hope for victory."

"I'm glad to hear you think so. Now, will you trust me with a dispatch or two?"

"Certainly." Fortunately, many of them were inconsequential. Malark didn't really think Aoth would succumb to idle curiosity, open a message, and read it along the way. Though far from stupid, the griffon rider was also a straightforward fellow with ingrained habits of military discipline. But it was best to be safe.

Malark looked down and rummaged in the box of scrolls. Aoth gasped.

Once more poised to kill if necessary, Malark turned around. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Aoth said. "My eyes just gave me a twinge." He rubbed them. "They still ache every once in a while."

"Are you sure you want to take on this duty?"

"Oh, yes." The war mage hesitated. "But I'll tell you what. To start with, give me something that's going to Pyarados. It's a short trip there and back."