Unholy

CHAPTER THREE

13 Ches-4 Tarsakh, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

Bareris shrouded himself, Aoth, and Mirror in invisibility before they slipped from the house. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the watchers from shooting crossbows at them. Evidently, mindful of Aoth's considerable reputation as a warmage, the simbarchs had equipped their agents with charms that allowed them to see the invisible.

Aoth shifted his truesilver targe, and a quarrel glanced off it. Bareris sidestepped with preternatural quickness, and another bolt streaked past him. The bard drew breath, and Aoth saw the lethal intent in the set of his pallid features.

"Don't kill them!" said Aoth.

Bareris shrugged, then sang a melody soft and mild as any lullaby. The men in the shadows of the neighboring house collapsed. One snored.

Currently resembling a smeared caricature of Aoth wrought in glimmering smoke, Mirror bounded to the fallen spies. "One ran," he said and rose into the air, no doubt to hunt the man like a hawk seeking earthbound prey.

Bareris and Aoth trotted on toward the stable. "There was no need to kill them," said Aoth. "I knew you could stop them without it."

"If that is the way you prefer it, fine. But the fellow Mirror is running down won't be so lucky."

Smelling of feathers and fur, Jet waited beside his tack. "So I'm supposed to carry you and that, too," the griffon said.

"If you will," Bareris said. To Aoth's surprise, his friend's voice momentarily conveyed a hint of warmth or, conceivably, wistfulness. "I haven't flown on griffon-back in a long while."

Jet grunted. "Just make sure your touch doesn't poison me."

Aoth saddled his familiar with the unthinking deftness of long practice. He swung himself onto the griffon's back, Bareris mounted up behind him, and then Jet sprang forward, his aquiline forelegs and leonine hind ones thumping out the unique, uneven rhythm that every griffon rider knew. As soon as Jet cleared the doors, he leaped high, lashed his wings, and soared up over the rooftops toward the stars.

Mirror came flying to join them. Aoth didn't ask whether the ghost had actually needed to kill the fleeing crossbowman. He didn't particularly want to know.

Looking smaller astride a griffon than he did planted on his own two feet, Khouryn was the next to arrive. Then, one by one, the rest of Aoth's officers fell in behind their commander, forming a loose procession that stretched across the sky.

After his meeting with the Simbarch Council, Aoth had convened a meeting of his lieutenants in the back room of a seedy tavern in the heart of "old Velprintalar," the impoverished, decaying part of the city. In times past, the establishment sat on the harbor, as the dilapidated dock projecting out from it attested, but, thanks to the Spellplague, the retreating waters of the Sea of Dlurg had left it high and dry.

Goblets and tankards in hand, Aoth's lieutenants crowded into one side of the grubby room with its rickety chairs and smell of stale beer, puke, and piss and left the other half to the two undead strangers. That meant Aoth could see the embodiments of his present and those of his past arranged in two neat parcels. He felt a pang of resentment toward the latter and, knowing it was unfair, stifled it as best he could.

Lounging in a cloud of sweet cologne, one stocking orange and the other blue in the latest foppish style, auburn hair worn shoulder length, Gaedynn Ulraes took a sip of red wine, grimaced with exaggerated distaste, and set his cup aside. "Why does the emergency meeting spot always have to be somewhere disgusting?" he asked.

"I'm more interested in knowing why we're meeting," said Jhesrhi Coldcreek, her wizard's staff propped against her chair. The gold runes inlaid down its blackwood length complemented her tousled blonde curls, tawny skin, and amber eyes. "I thought the simbarchs liked us."

Aoth sighed. "They did, until I convinced them I'm not trustworthy."

Gaedynn arched an eyebrow his barber had sculpted into a fine line. "And how did you do that?"

Aided by Bareris, Aoth told the tale. His fellow sellswords reacted with astonishment but, to his relief, not overt disbelief. He supposed it was because they knew him better than the simbarchs did.

"In one respect," he concluded, "I guess I'm lucky. Our employers found my story so outrageous, it flummoxed them. Otherwise, they might have arrested me on the spot."

"Because," Jhesrhi said, "they think you intend to break our contract."

Aoth nodded. "And they're right."

Khouryn scowled. "You told me you never break a compact. That's what separates us from the scum. That's why I joined the Brotherhood of the Griffon in the first place."

Gaedynn grinned. "I thought it was to avoid having to stay home with that… remarkably articulate wife of yours." Jhesrhi shot him an irritated glance.

"I don't like it, either," said Aoth to the dwarf, "but I don't see a choice."

"Because these two dead men claim another dead man is going to lay waste to the whole world. Or our corner of it, anyway."

"I don't blame you if you can't believe it. You're all too young to have suffered through the Spellplague. But those of us who did know that at times, the world can be fragile as an eggshell. And I tell you again, I saw the devastation. In all our years together, have my visions ever turned out to be lies?"

"Not that I recall," Gaedynn said. "So it seems to me that, now that the Aglarondans have refused to heed your warning, the only sensible course of action is to flee west as fast as the wings of our steeds will carry us. But something tells me that's not what you have in mind."

"You're right," said Aoth. "With the simbarchs or without them, someone needs to try to stop Szass Tam."

"Possibly so," the foppish archer replied, "but even if it were feasible, I fight for coin, not noble causes."

"Would you fight for your life?" Jhesrhi asked. "Because that's what this is about. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it, too, but there it is."

"For what it's worth," said Aoth, "I'll do my best to make sure we collect pay and plunder for our efforts. Still, I won't blame anyone who opts to leave the Brotherhood. Fighting Szass Tam was a daunting undertaking when Bareris, Mirror, and I did it before. Considering that he's had a century to consolidate his hold on Thay, it can only be harder now."

Everyone sat and thought about it for a moment. Then Khouryn said, "I can't claim I truly understand any of this craziness, or to be happy about abandoning a nice, profitable, winnable campaign to go risk our lives in the foulest Hell-pit in Faerun. But you've always led us well, Captain. I'll stick with you and make sure the men who serve under me do the same."

"So will I," said Jhesrhi, and one by one, the other officers expressed the same resolve. Even Gaedynn, though he was last to commit. Aoth swallowed away a thickness in his throat and silently prayed to Kossuth that he wouldn't lead them all to their deaths.

"So what's the plan?" Gaedynn asked.

"The first step," said Aoth, "is to get away from here, before the simbarchs move to arrest me and detain the rest of you…"

Which was what they were attempting now.

The mercenaries had worked through the day and into the night, readying themselves for departure while trying to conceal their preparations from any outsider who might be watching. The next step was to reunite the men billeted in the city with the bulk of the company encamped outside, still without raising the alarm.

"I'm sorry," Bareris said abruptly.

"About what?" Aoth replied.

"I don't know how to behave like your friend anymore. Undeath withered that part of me."

Aoth sighed. "It started withering long before that, on the day you found out Xingax had turned Tammith into a vampire. If undeath changed who you are inside, it simply finished the job, and I'm sorry about that. Because I tried to help you grieve and move on, but I never found the right words or the right way."

"You hate being pulled back into this, don't you?"

"Yes. In Thay, my Rashemi looks made other Mulans view me with contempt. Out here in the rest of the world, they don't matter. In Thay, I was the servant of masters who cared nothing for my welfare. Here, I grovel to no one. In Thay, I lost my war, but I haven't lost one since, and my victories made me rich and respected.

"I think of all that," Aoth continued, "and I remember the horrors the necromancers sent to kill us, horrors that still trouble my sleep one night in three. You're damned right I don't want to go back."

"I hope you'll feel differently when we finally settle the score."

Aoth decided it would accomplish nothing to say that he never even thought in terms of there being "a score."

"Maybe so," Aoth said. "Now get ready. That's the west gate up ahead."

Veltalar wasn't a walled city, but it did have fortifications straddling the major roads into the city to control the flow of traffic. The west gate was one such barrier, perfectly positioned to keep an eye on the rows of tents comprising the Brotherhood's encampment.

It looked to Aoth as if there were extra sentries manning the battlements tonight, surely for that very purpose. He kindled silvery light in the point of his spear to make sure the other riders would know when Jet dived, then sent the griffon hurtling down at the gate.

Bareris sang, and though the magic wasn't aimed at him, Aoth's eyelids drooped and his limbs felt heavy. He gave his head a shake to rid himself of the lethargy, and some of the soldiers on top of the gate collapsed.

Jhesrhi swooped low, and her sleep spell picked off the warriors who'd resisted Bareris's enchantment. Still other men-at-arms ran from the base of the fortification, and Gaedynn and his mount plunged to earth to block their path. The archer shot an arrow imbued with a charm of slumber into the dirt at their feet, and they too dropped.

The other sellswords in the city, the ones who didn't have flying steeds, erupted from their hiding places and poured through the gate. The griffon riders flew over the portal, and they all rushed on to join their comrades in the camp.

Aoth was pleased to see the latter were ready to move. Everyone had his armor on, the griffons and horses were saddled, and the foot soldiers had their packs stuffed and ready to sling across their backs. Unfortunately, the company was leaving much of its baggage behind, but that couldn't be helped if they were to travel at maximum speed. In the paddock, a mule brayed as though protesting its abandonment.

Working in concert, Jhesrhi and Bareris cloaked the camp in illusion. For a time, the magic would make it look as if people were still moving around inside and would conceal the tracks the column left when it set forth.

Afterward, the master of griffons found a mount for Bareris, and he overcame its instinctual distrust of the undead by beguiling it with a song. Then the officers of the company convened for a final palaver.

"Are you sure," asked Aoth, "that you can lose a pursuing force in the Yuirwood?"

Gaedynn spread his hands as though amazed anyone would even ask. "Of course."

Jhesrhi scowled. "The Aglarondans will have elves to guide them."

Gaedynn was human. But he'd grown up among the elves of the Yuirwood, a hostage seized in a futile attempt to ensure his father's good behavior.

Gaedynn grinned. "That's fine, Buttercup. We'll play Foxes and Rabbits through the circles." He shifted his gaze back to Aoth. "Frankly, Captain, the person we ought to worry about is you. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure I don't," said Aoth, "but it's the only thing to do. Get the men moving, and if Tymora smiles, I'll see you in a tenday or two."

Sensing that he was ready to go, Jet sprang back into the air. Bareris followed, and Mirror, a faceless blot of aching wrongness more felt than seen in the dark, brought up the rear.

When Bareris had last seen Escalant, it had been a city in distress, crammed to overflowing with refugees and fearful that either Szass Tam or the Spellplague would destroy it. But as he surveyed the port from the air, it was plain the place had prospered in the intervening decades. Stevedores scurried to load or unload the dozens of merchant ships moored at the docks, while elsewhere, the sawmills, furniture manufactories, and slave markets were equally busy. It was no wonder the simbarchs wanted to add the town, along with the rest of the Wizard's Reach, to their own dominions.

He looked over at Aoth, flying on his left. "What now?" he asked.

The warmage smiled crookedly. "Look for the gaudiest, most ostentatious palace in town. It should be easy enough to spot."

With its high, gilded minarets and jeweled scarlet banners gleaming in the sunlight, it was. The travelers set down on the expanse of verdant lawn in front of the primary entrance. The high arched double doors were sheathed in gold as well. Unless they were gold through and through. Considering who lived here, anything was possible.

Bareris had given himself the appearance of life, and for a moment, the slaves who came to greet them didn't sense anything amiss. Then they noticed the shadow that was Mirror and faltered in alarm.

"It's all right," said Bareris, charging his voice with the power to calm and command. "We don't mean any harm. Simply tell your master that Aoth Fezim, Mirror, and Bareris Anskuld request an audience."

One of the servants scurried to deliver the message, and in time a dozen guards appeared to demand that the travelers surrender their weapons. They did, and the warriors escorted them into the presence of Samas Kul.

The archmage looked no older, but if possible was even more obese than Bareris remembered him, a heap of a man whose begemmed ornaments and gorgeous crimson robes failed utterly to render him any less repulsive. A small semicircular table sat just in front of his throne as if he were an infant or an invalid, while a bigger one farther away held enough food and drink to supply a banquet. Most likely, as in days of yore, he used magic to float viands from one surface to the other.

Statues-a dragon, a spider, a bear-wrought of various metals stood in alcoves along the walls: golems ready to spring to life if required. Despite these formidable protectors and the human guards who still surrounded Bareris, Aoth, and Mirror, Samas held a wand of congealed quicksilver in his pink, blubbery hand. Bareris supposed he could take the precaution as a sort of compliment.

The zulkir said, "You must be insane to come here."

"That," Aoth replied, "is a cold greeting for the legionnaires who saved your fleet and possibly even your life on the Alamber Sea."

Samas sneered. "You did render good service that night. But any gratitude you earned thereby, you forfeited when you deserted and took the whole of the Griffon Legion with you."

"Maybe that's fair. But when I discovered I was going to live a long time, I realized I didn't want to spend all those years bowing and scraping. And when I told the men of my intent, they agreed there was a better life to be had."

"A 'better life' that involved siding with the enemies of your own people!" Droplets of spittle flew from Samas's lips. "Of conspiring to overthrow all that remains of the Thay that was!"

"Yes, an offense for which you zulkirs tried to kill me. Nevertheless, here I stand before you, because none of that matters anymore. With your permission, we'll show you what does."

Bareris removed the red book from its pouch. "This belonged to Druxus Rhym. The simbarchs, for all their claims to arcane knowledge, considered it nonsense. But I trust that you, who presided over the Order of Transmutation, will see deeper."

Samas held out his hand. The book leaped out of Bareris's grasp and flew to the zulkir. Samas murmured a charm over it, perhaps checking to see if it was some sort of magical trap, then opened the cover.

"Where," Lauzoril asked, "are Aoth Fezim and his companions now?"

Seated on the other side of the red maple table, a piece of roast duck in one hand, a cup of apple-flavored liqueur in the other, and his several chins gleaming with grease, Samas had to swallow before he could answer. "I locked them up, but I haven't punished them in any way. I would have liked to, but under the circumstances…" He shrugged, and his rolls of fat flapped in a way that made his fellow zulkir think of avalanches sliding down a mountain.

A shrewish glint in her eye, Lallara rasped, "Why did we need a dead bard and knight to stumble across this wretched book a hundred years after Druxus's death? You were his successor. Didn't you have the sense to take an inventory of his possessions?" She looked wizened and frail, but Laurozil knew the appearance was deceptive. Like all of them, she'd used magic both to extend her life and to ward off the genuine disabilities of old age.

Samas's round, sweaty, hairless face turned a deeper, mottled red. "If you recall, those were tempestuous times. Naturally, I made some effort to take stock of what he'd left behind-"

"But if it wasn't made of gold, ablaze with magic, or edible, you assumed it couldn't be important."

Inwardly, Lauzoril sighed. Once again, it was time to intervene. It made him miss Dmitra Flass, who, though he'd resented her pretensions to leadership, had likewise exerted her influence to keep their deliberations from descending into useless acrimony.

"We all wish we'd uncovered this information earlier," he said, "but what matters is that we have it now. We need to focus on what to do about it."

"I suppose so," Nevron said. Like the other male zulkirs, he'd maintained the appearance of relative youth and had strong, ugly features that sneered more often than not. Most of his tattoos were portraits of demons and devils bound to his service, and the scent of brimstone clung to him. "If we're agreed that the book is anything to worry about. Are we?"

"It's difficult to evaluate whether the ritual could actually destroy one world and allow the mage to mold a new one from the ashes," Samas said. "To say the least, it seems unlikely. But I see little reason to doubt that it would kill everything for hundreds of miles around."

Nevron scowled. "I think so too."

"As do I," Lallara said.

"Then it's unanimous," Lauzoril said. "Still, just because Szass Tam could attempt the rite, with dire consequences, doesn't mean he necessarily will."

"Our spies," Nevron said, "confirm Anskuld's report. The lich built his new castles in the same shape as Druxus's drawing."

"But perhaps," Lauzoril said, "he's found a way to raise this particular form of power and turn it to some less ambitious project. He wouldn't be the first wizard who simply"-simply! — "aspired to claim a place among the gods."

Lallara cackled. "The Szass Tam I remember already thought he was a god, or as good as."

"True enough," Nevron said, "and let's not forget that gods can subjugate one another and even die. I've lost count of how many did so in the past century. No, it makes perfect sense that Szass Tam, arrogant, merciless whoreson that he is, would seek to become something greater."

Lauzoril reflected that in different circumstances, he might have needed to suppress a smile at hearing Nevron refer to anyone else as "arrogant" or "merciless." But nothing seemed very funny at the moment.

Samas guzzled from his cup. "But I wonder if the actual gods wouldn't stop him."

"Like they stopped the Spellplague?" Lallara asked.

"She's right," Nevron said. "No mortal understands the ways of the gods, no mortal can command them, and that means you can't depend on them."

"Then you're saying Captain Fezim and his friends are right," Samas said. "Other people need to stop Szass Tam, and since we're the only ones who know of the threat and take it seriously, it will have to be us."

"How?" Lallara asked. "The necromancers already defeated us once, when we commanded far greater resources than we do now. I know we've always prattled about reconquering Thay, but we never actually set about organizing an invasion, did we? Because we knew we wouldn't stand a chance."

"Maybe we don't have to retake Thay," Samas said. "The so-called 'Dread Rings' define a mystic pattern with the Citadel, where Szass Tam will perform the conjuration, at the center. And we can assume that, gigantic though it is, it's like any pentacle. Break any part of it, and the whole becomes useless. So all we need to do is seize a single fortress, neutralize its arcane properties with our own countermagic, and that will make the ritual impossible." He smiled smugly, and Lauzoril surmised that he'd enjoyed playing schoolmaster to the woman who so often mocked and fleered at him.

"Interesting," Lallara said. "I assume this is Captain Fezim's idea that you're passing along to us."

Samas glared.

"Wherever it originated," Lauzoril said, "it seems the most practical way-perhaps the only way-of addressing the problem,"

"It does," Nevron said, "but it ignores one important point. The Aglarondans are coming to drive us out of the Wizard's Reach, and if we take most of our troops and wander off to Thay, they'll succeed."

"Given what's at stake," Lauzoril said, "perhaps even that doesn't matter."

Nevron scowled. "It matters to me. I'm a zulkir, a lord among men, and I intend to remain one so long as I walk the mortal plane. The East can burn, the whole world can crumble, if that's what it takes for me to keep my lands and titles until the end."

Her eyes flinty, Lallara nodded. Samas said, "The Reach is all we have left."

Lauzoril realized he agreed with them. Their perspective was a subtle kind of madness, perhaps, but whatever it was, he shared it. "All right. First we push back the simbarchs, then we deal with Szass Tam. Maybe the former will be good practice for the latter. As far as I can see, that just leaves one more minor matter to decide here and now. What shall we do with Captain Fezim and his comrades?"

"What do you generally do with deserters?" said Nevron. "Execute them."

"They are the people who warned us of Szass Tam's scheme," Samas said.

Nevron smiled. "Which is to say, they've served their purpose."

"Perhaps not their entire purpose," Lallara said. "Remember the old days. When we scored a victory against Szass Tam, these warriors played a part as often as not. And from what I understand, Captain Fezim's mercenary company-the army he built around our old Griffon Legion-is on its way here. They're coming to help us invade Thay, but they may have second thoughts if they arrive to learn we tortured their commander to death."

"I suppose we would be stupid to cast away such a weapon," Nevron said, "but it galls to me to think of that insolent Rashemi going unpunished."

Lauzoril fingered his chin. "Well, how about this? Someone will have to bear the brunt of it when Aglarond attacks. Let it be the Brotherhood of the Griffon. If Fezim and his company perish, that's his punishment. If they survive, they can serve as our vanguard in Thay. And if they make it through that, then we can always butcher the traitor when we come home again."

As Aoth had anticipated, a substantial force or Aglarondans had chased the Brotherhood some distance into the Yuirwood before Gaedynn's maneuvering shook them off the trail. But even with elves and druids to aid their passage, the simbarchs had balked at the arduous task of bringing the whole of their armed might south through the dense forest with its dangerous patches of plagueland. Instead, they'd marched their forces east, to emerge from the fortified city of Glarondar onto the plains north of Escalant.

Aoth flew high above the field to inspect the Aglarondans in their battle array and the zulkirs' troops in their own formation. Bareris and Mirror accompanied him, but none of the other flyers. There was no reason to tire the griffons prematurely or to show the enemy just how many aerial cavalry there were, even though they'd had ample opportunity to learn before the Brotherhood switched sides.

Switched sides. Aoth tried to spit the unpalatable thought away.

He glanced over at Bareris, an uncanny ivory apparition astride his own griffon, its tawny wings gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. The bard's scowl suggested that his thoughts were bitterer than Aoth's.

"Cheer up," called Aoth. "The situation doesn't look all that bad."

"This is a waste of time," the bard replied. "We should already be in Thay." He nudged his mount with his knee and sent it winging to the left.

"It would be futile to go by ourselves," Aoth said, even though his fellow griffon rider was already out of earshot. "I'm doing the best I can, damn you."

Mirror floated closer. For Aoth, it was one of those moments when regarding the ghost actually was like peering into a warped and murky looking glass. "He knows that. But you have to admit, you would feel silly if, while we were busy fighting the simbarchs, Szass Tam performed his 'Great Work' and killed us all."

Aoth snorted. "Is that supposed to be funny? I don't think I've ever heard you try to joke before. You've come a long way."

"Some days are good, some, I'm as mad and empty as the day Bareris met me. But yes, I've emerged partway into the light, even as he's slipped farther and farther into darkness. At times I feel like some sort of vampire. As if I'm leeching his soul from him without even realizing it."

"I never knew you to fall prey to poetic fancies before, either." Aoth sent Jet swooping for a better look at some of the enemy's archers. "I'm sure your company has been as good for him as his has been for you. I suspect it's the thing that's kept him at least a little sane."

"I suppose it could be so." Mirror hesitated. "You were always a shrewd soldier. You do realize that, the way our side is formed up, a good many of the Aglarondans are going to end up hammering away at your Brotherhood. More than your fair share, I'd have to say."

Aoth snorted. "Nothing new about that. Lords don't pay good coin to sellswords only to hand the most dangerous jobs to their own vassals. And at least we are getting paid. I told the zulkirs the Brotherhood wouldn't fight otherwise."

Jet screeched. "It's starting."

Arrows rose from ranks of Aglarondan archers like a dark cloud. Gaedynn scrutinized the arc of the shafts as they reached the apogee of their flight. The enemy bowmen were reasonably competent. Of course, one would expect as much, considering how many of them had some measure of elf blood flowing in their veins.

Strong hands grabbed him by the arm and jerked him onto his knees. "Down!" Khouryn snarled.

I was getting around to it, Gaedynn thought.

The sellswords equipped with tower shields or targes raised them to ward themselves and their more lightly armored comrades. The arrows whined as they fell, then clattered against the defensive barrier. Here and there, a man screamed where a missile found a gap.

Behind the foot soldiers and archers, wings snapped and rustled as the griffon riders took to the air. Gaedynn wouldn't have minded going with them, but Aoth had decided that in this particular combat, he'd be more useful directing the archers on the ground.

So he supposed he'd better get to it. "Archers!" he bellowed.

"Remember who you're supposed to kill, and shoot them!"

His bowmen stood upright. Some of them loosed at their counterparts on the other side of the battlefield. Jhesrhi, who had a particular knack for elemental magic, augmented their efforts with an explosion of flame that tore a dozen Aglarondans apart. The remaining Brotherhood archers shot at enemy knights and officers, equestrian figures armored from head to toe, wherever they spotted them. Gaedynn took aim at a chestnut destrier and drove an arrow into its neck. It fell, catching its rider's leg between its bulk and the ground and, with any luck, crippling him. Not a chivalrous tactic, Gaedynn reflected, but then, he wasn't a chivalrous fellow.

Nevron smiled, savoring the sight of thousands of warriors striving to spill one another's blood, the deafening racket of the bellowed war cries and the shrieks of agony. Unlike his fellow zulkirs, he relished the perilous tumult of the battlefield. Indeed, it was still his dream to abandon the dreary mortal plane and, unlike any living human being before him, conquer an empire in the higher worlds. Regrettably, the chaos of the past century, as magic and the very structure of the cosmos redefined themselves, had persuaded him to bide his time.

The demons and devils that accompanied him everywhere, caged in rings, amulets, or tattoos, shared his exhilaration. They roared and threatened, begged and wheedled, in voices only he could hear, urging him to unleash them to join the slaughter.

Although the zulkirs had arranged their formation with the Brotherhood of the Griffon at the center, the natural focus for the Aglarondans' greatest efforts, there were plenty of the enemy to go around, and they were making a creditable attempt to strike at every target within reach. Thunderclaps boomed in a ragged volley, and five flares of lightning leaped forth at the zulkirs' right wing, where Nevron stood amid a circle of lesser Red Wizards.

The thunderbolts winked out of existence short of their targets. Standing some distance away, Lallara gave a brusque, self-satisfied nod that flapped the loose flesh dangling under her chin. The old hag might be abrasive and disagreeable in every conceivable way, but Nevron had to concede that, despite the appearance of decrepitude she'd allowed to overtake her, her command of abjuration, the magic of protection, remained as formidable as ever.

Something similar might be said of Lauzoril. He looked like a priggish clerk or bloodless functionary someone had dressed in the scarlet robes of an archmage as a joke. But when he murmured a spell and swirled his hands, enchantment, the magic of the mind, plunged a cantering troop of enemy horse archers into terror, and they wheeled and galloped back the way they'd come.

Golden greatswords clasped in their fists, a dozen crimson-skinned angelic warriors abruptly appeared more or less in the same place from which the thunderbolts had stabbed. Nevron surmised that, invisible behind the spear-and-shield fighters assigned to protect them, the same wizards who'd evoked the lightning were trying a different tactic.

In so doing, they'd strayed into Nevron's area of expertise. He decided it was his turn to demonstrate that the wizardry of Aglarond, its vaunted elven secrets notwithstanding, was no match for the darker arts of Thay.

As the angels charged, he snapped his fingers. Three obese figures shimmered into material existence around him, each twice as tall as a man, with a pair of horns jutting from its head and anguished faces pressing out against the skin from inside its distended belly. Nevron heard the faces wailing even over the ambient din of the battlefield.

Careless of the humans they trampled or knocked aside, the solamiths lumbered forward to intercept the archons. The demons tore hunks of flesh from their own bodies and threw them. The missiles exploded when they struck the ground, engulfing the angels in blasts of dark, somehow filthy-looking flame.

Aoth, Bareris, and Mirror waited for the rest of the griffon riders to join them in the air. Then Aoth swept his spear forward, signaling the attack.

His men shot arrows from the saddle. He rained down fire, lightning, hail, and acid, the spells of destruction that were a warmage's stock-in-trade. For an instant he remembered how, ashamed of breaking his pledge to the simbarchs, he'd done his best to sneak away from Veltalar without shedding Aglarondan blood. Well, the time for such squeamishness was past.

A long javelin-cast across the sky, Bareris rode singing, his long white fingers plucking the strings of a black harp. He was high enough above the ground that, were his music not infused with magic, no one below would even have heard him. But as it was, a company of enemy crossbowmen clutched at their ears, reeled, and fell. A couple tried to stab quarrels into their ears, while another drew his dagger and slashed his own throat.

Then Bareris oriented on a dead elf knight, a wealthy lord or mighty champion judging from the gore-stained magnificence of his trappings. The bard's song brought the corpse scrambling to its feet to drive its slender gleaming sword into another elf's back.

Meanwhile, the Aglarondans shot arrows and flares of magic at the foes harrying them from overhead. Trained to veer and dodge, the griffons avoided many such attacks, and their boiled-leather armor and natural hardiness protected them from others. When none of those defenses sufficed, a steed and its rider plummeted to smash against the ground.

Jet swerved suddenly. Aoth knew his familiar was evading and, since he himself hadn't detected an imminent threat, looked into the griffon's mind to find out where it was.

Above and to the right. He jerked around to see a trio of wasps as big as Jet himself diving at them, their wings a buzzing blur.

Jet couldn't wheel in time to bring his beak and talons to bear. It was up to Aoth. He burned one wasp to ash with a fan-shaped blaze of flame, but by then the other two were right on top of him. He drove his spear into one creature's midsection, channeled lethal force through the weapon, and the impaled wasp began to smoke and char. It clung to life, however, and jabbed its stinger at him repeatedly. He blocked the strokes with his mithral targe-each one slammed his shield arm back against his torso-but that left him with no hands or gear to ward off the third wasp hurtling at his head.

The third insect convulsed and, patches of its body withering and rotting, dropped. Still swinging his shadow-sword, Mirror chased the dying wasp toward the ground.

Though she never would have admitted it to any of her fellow officers-particularly Gaedynn-Jhesrhi lacked the almost preternatural ability to predict the surge and ebb of combat that Aoth and certain others sometimes displayed. Thus, even though she and her allies were expecting a great charge, she had no idea it was about to begin until the enemy bellowed and all plunged forward at once. Their running footsteps and galloping hoofbeats shook the ground beneath her boots.

Up until now, although skirmisher had traded blows with skirmisher, and some eager warriors had forayed back and forth, it had mostly been archers, crossbowmen, and spellcasters fighting the battle. Throughout this preliminary phase, the zulkirs' forces had labored to degrade the Aglarondans' ability to attack at range, and to harass the knights and lords waiting idly on their mounts. The goal was to goad them into the charge they had just now launched.

From the enemy perspective, the move no doubt made sense. They outnumbered the zulkirs' troops by a comfortable margin, and they had considerably more horsemen. They should be able to smash the Thayan formation.

But they assumed that because they didn't know that Jhesrhi, fat Samas Kul, and some of his underlings had arrived at the field before them and prepared the ground. They didn't know what magic their foes intended to unleash.

Or else they do know, Jhesrhi thought wryly, and they think they have a trick that trumps ours. If she'd learned anything since Aoth delivered her from servitude and gave her a place in the Brotherhood, it was that in war, nothing was certain.

She peered through the gap between the shields two warriors held to protect her. When she judged that the enemy lancers, pounding along in advance of a horde of foot soldiers, had come far enough, she chanted words of power.

Elsewhere in the zulkirs' formation, Samas Kul and the Red Wizards he commanded did the same. She could tell because so much magic, discharged at the same time and to the same end, darkened the air and made it smell like swamps and rot. The golden runes on her staff blazed like little pieces of the sun, and nearby, one of Gaedynn's archers doubled over and puked.

Then patches of earth turned to soft, sucking muck beneath the charging Aglarondans' feet.

Warhorses tripped and fell, pitching their riders over their heads or crushing them beneath their bodies. Even when a steed managed to keep its footing, it broke stride, which meant that an animal running behind it was likely to slam right into it. Rushing spearmen and axemen sank in ooze to their knees or waists, as though they'd blundered into quicksand. A few dropped completely out of sight. In just a few moments, the fearsome momentum of the charge disintegrated into agony and confusion.

For an instant, Jhesrhi felt a pang of something that might almost have been pity, but you didn't pity the enemy. You couldn't afford to. She flourished her staff and rained acid on three of the nearest Aglarondans. The knights and their mired horses screamed and thrashed.

Red Wizards hammered the foe with their own attacks. "Down in front!" Gaedynn shouted to anyone who wasn't an archer, and as soon as they had a clear shot, his men loosed shaft after shaft. Wheeling and swooping above the Aglarondans like vultures keeping watch on a dying animal, the griffon riders also wielded their bows to deadly effect.

By rights, that should have been the end of the battle. But perhaps the simbarchs' wizards cast countermagic that kept the trap from being as effective as expected. Or maybe sheer heroic determination was to blame. Either way, muddy figures floundered out of the ooze and ran onward.

Of course, the snare had done some good. It had killed some of the enemy and deprived the charge of whatever order it originally possessed. But there were still a lot of Aglarondans, their features were still contorted with rage, and if they overran the zulkirs' formation, they could still carry the day.

My turn at last, Khouryn thought. "Wall!" he bellowed. "Wall!"

His foot soldiers scrambled to form three ranks with himself in the center of the first. Everyone gripped a shield in one hand and a leveled spear in the other. The spears of the men in the back rows were longer than those of the fellows in front, so everyone could stab at once.

Khouryn had time to glance at the human faces to each side of him, and he felt satisfaction at what he saw: fear-that was natural-but not a hint of panic. They'd stand fast as he'd trained them to, as dwarves themselves would hold the line.

Howling, the first Aglarondans lunged into striking distance.

For a few heartbeats, the defense worked as theory said it should. Overlapping shields protected those who carried them and protected their neighbors, too. The bristling hedge of spears pierced foes reckless enough to come within reach, often before those warriors could even strike a blow.

But then, as so often happened, the work got harder. Aglarondans somehow sprang past the spear points, struck past the shields, and killed defenders, tearing gaps in the formation, even as the relentless pressure of their onslaught buckled the lines. Meanwhile, spears broke or stuck fast in corpses, and sellswords snatched frantically for their secondary weapons.

Khouryn was one of those whose spear stuck fast. He dropped it and his shield, too, and pulled his urgrosh off his back.

A white warhorse, its legs black with muck, cantered at him, turning so the half-elf on its back could cut down at him with his sword. Khouryn parried hard enough to knock the blade out of its owner's grip, then, with a single stroke, chopped the rider's leg in two and sheared into the destrier's flank. Rider and mount shrieked as one, and the steed recoiled.

Khouryn glanced around, making sure he was still more or less even with the soldiers to each side. To anyone but a seasoned warrior, it might have seemed that any semblance of order had dissolved into a chaos of slaughter, into the deafening racket of weapons smashing against shields and armor and the wails of the wounded and dying. But in fact, there was still a formation of sorts, and it was vital to preserve it.

He killed another Aglarondan, and more after that, until the gory urgrosh grew heavy in his hands, and his breath burned and rasped. The man on his left went down, and Gaedynn, who'd traded his bow for a sword and kite shield, darted forward to take his place.

Sometime after that, the enemy stopped coming. Peering out across the corpses heaped two and three deep in front of him, Khouryn saw the survivors fleeing north toward the safety of Glarondar. The Brotherhood's horsemen harried them along.

The last Khouryn knew, Aoth had been holding the cavalry in reserve. At some point, he must have ordered them forward, possibly to play a crucial role in foiling the Aglarondans' attack.

If so, Khouryn supposed he'd hear all about it later. For now, he was simply grateful for the chance to lower his weapon.

Nevron studied the fleeing Aglarondans for a time, making sure they had no fight left in them. Then he drew a deep, steadying breath. He'd need a clear mind and a forceful will to compel his demons and devils back into their various prisons. They were having a jolly time of it hunting enemy stragglers, torturing and killing Aglarondan wounded, and devouring elf and human flesh.

He was just about to start when Samas floated up in the huge, padded throne that spared him the strain of having to waddle around on his own two feet. "Should we chase the Aglarondans and finish them off?" the transmuter asked.

"No," Nevron said. "A wounded bear can still bite, and we need to conserve our strength if we're going to Thay. The simbarchs won't try to take the Reach again for a while. That will have to do."

"But if we don't come back to protect it, they'll take it eventually."

Nevron spat. "I realize the name of Samas Kul is synonymous with greed. But if you're dead, I doubt that even you will care what becomes of your dominions."