Unholy

CHAPTER FOUR

15–28 Tarsakh, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

With his swarthy skin, the prisoner was evidently Rashemi, although if he'd ever been stocky, as his kind often was, hunger had whittled that quality away. He lay atop the torture rack with his arms pulled up behind him. To Malark Springhill, who fancied he might know more about how to destroy the human body than anyone else in Thay, its tradition of sophisticated cruelty notwithstanding, it was clear that the torture had already dislocated the prisoner's shoulders, and that his knee, hip and elbow joints had also started to come apart.

Still, the Rashemi had yet to provide any answers. It was an impressive display of defiance.

Malark turned the winch another eighth of a rotation. The prisoner gave a strangled cry, and something in his lower body tore audibly. The sweaty, bare-chested torturer, speckled with little scars where embers had burned him, tried not to look as if he resented an amateur usurping his function.

Malark leaned over to look the prisoner in the face. "I want the names of your fellow rebels."

The Rashemi croaked an obscenity.

Malark twisted the windlass a little farther, eliciting a gasp. "I know you've had contact with Bareris Anskuld. Tell me how to find him."

Although it didn't really matter if he did. Over the course of the past ninety years, Bareris and Mirror had done more than any of the other malcontents left in the realm to hamper Szass Tam's government, but even so, their efforts hadn't amounted to much. Still, Malark had been Bareris's friend, and given the chance, he would gladly rescue the bard from the vileness that was undeath.

That final iota of stretching had evidently rendered the captive incapable of verbal defiance, but, panting, he shook his head and clenched his jaw shut. Closed his eyes too, as though blocking out the sight of his tormentors and the dank, shadowy, torchlit dungeon would make his situation less real.

Malark wondered if one of the spells he'd mastered under Szass Tam's tutelage would loosen the Rashemi's tongue, then decided he didn't care. It didn't really matter if he unmasked a few more impotent rebels, either. In truth, the success of such efforts had never mattered, only maintaining the appearance that the ruler of Thay was preoccupied with the same sort of trivia as the average tyrant, and with the Dread Rings completed, even that necessity had all but reached an end.

So why not let this hero perish with his spirit unbroken, his secrets preserved? Why not grant him that greatest of all treasures, a perfect death?

Malark turned the wheel. "Talk!" he snarled, meanwhile silently urging, Don't. You only have to hold out a little longer.

"Master-" the torturer began.

Malark turned the wheel. "Talk!" Up and down the length of the rebel's body, joints cracked and popped as they pulled apart.

"Master!" the torturer persisted. "With all respect, you re giving him too much too fast!"

Doing his best to look as if the Rashemi's recalcitrance had angered him, Malark kept on twisting the winch. "Talk, curse you! Talk, talk, talk!"

The prisoner's spine snapped.

Malark rounded on the torturer. "What just happened?"

Once again, the fellow made a visible effort to cloak his irritation in subservience. "I'm sorry, Your Omnipotence, but his back broke. For what it's worth, he might live a little while longer, maybe even a day, and he won't enjoy it. But he can't talk anymore." He hesitated. "I tried to warn you."

"Damn it!" Still pretending to be furious, Malark ended the prisoner's ordeal by chopping his forehead with the blade of his hand. The blow broke the man's skull and drove scraps of bone into the brain within.

The torturer sighed. "And now he won't even suffer."

An impish urge took hold of Malark, and he glared at the other man. "This rebel possessed vital information, and now we'll never learn it. Szass Tam will hear of your incompetence!"

The torturer paled. Swallowed. "Master," he stammered, "I beg you, forgive my clumsiness. I'll do better next time."

Malark grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's all right, my friend, I'm only joking." He made a gold coin appear between his thumb and forefinger, one of the petty tricks that had come to amuse him since he'd mastered sorcery, and pressed it into the torturer's hand. "Have a drink and a whore on me."

The torturer stared after him in relief and confusion as Malark climbed the stairs connecting the pocket hell of the dungeon with the guard station overhead.

Outside the small keep, under a gray sky fouled with smoke and ash from one of High Thay's volcanoes, the Citadel went about its business. Much of the kingdom was desolate now, particularly in the highlands, but Szass Tam's capital city still thrived. Masons slowly carted blocks of marble and granite through the streets, eliciting shouted imprecations from the traffic stuck behind them. Legions of vendors cried their wares, and beggars their afflictions. The naked thralls in the slave markets shivered in the cold mountain air.

People scurried out of Malark's way, then peered curiously after him. He supposed it was only natural. He was, alter all, the only one of Szass Tam's zulkirs not Mulan nor even Thayan-born, the only one not undead, and the only one who customarily walked around without a retinue of lackeys and bodyguards.

He realized his station all but demanded the latter, but he just couldn't persuade himself to endure the inconvenience. Over the course of a long, long life, he'd discovered that clerks and their ilk rarely did anything for him that he couldn't do more efficiently and reliably for himself. And to say the least, a man who'd learned combat from the Monks of the Long Death scarcely needed soldiers to fend off footpads and assassins.

He turned a corner and the dark towers and battlements of the true Citadel, the fortress from which the surrounding city took its name, rose before him. Though Szass Tam had claimed it for his residence, he hadn't built it. The structure predated the founding of Thay itself and, according to rumor, was a haunted, uncanny place, with secrets still awaiting discovery in the caverns and catacombs beneath.

Malark had seen indications that rumor likely had it right, but it didn't much concern him. From his perspective, the important thing about the castle was that it was the focal point for the enormous circle of power defined by the Dread Rings, the place where a mage must position himself to perform the Great Work of Unmaking.

Pig-faced blood orcs, lanky gnolls with the muzzles and rank fur of hyenas, and stinking corpses with gleaming yellow eyes, soldiers all in Thay's Dread Legions, saluted Malark as he passed through the various gates and courtyards, and he acknowledged them all without breaking stride. He was eager to reach his quarters and resume his study of a certain grimoire Szass Tam had given him.

But when he saw the raven perched on his windowsill, a tiny scroll case tied to one of its claws, intuition told him the book would have to wait.

The huge keep at the center of the Citadel had a round, flat roof. The wind flapping his scarlet robes, Szass Tam floated some distance above it. The elevation afforded him a good view of both the city spread out below him and the peaks of the Thaymount beyond. And, his sight sharpened by magic, he looked for the flaws in everything he beheld.

It was easiest to find them in people, ugly in body with their legs too long or too short, their wobbling, sagging flab, their moles, rotting teeth, and general lack of grace. Ugly in spirit, too, squabbling, cheating, every word and deed arising from petty lusts and resentments. And even the few who could lay some claim to comeliness of person and clarity of mind carried the seeds of disease and decrepitude, senescence and death.

The peoples' creations were simply their own failings writ large. Some of the buildings in the city were filthy hovels, and even the finer ones often offended against symmetry and proportion or, in their ostentation, betrayed the vanity and vulgarity of their owners. All would one day crumble just as surely as their makers.

It was perhaps a bit more challenging to perceive the imperfections in the mountains, snow capped except for the fuming cones with fire and lava at their cores. Indeed, another observer might have deemed them majestic. But Szass Tam took note of the gaping wounds that were gold mines, and the castles perched on one crag or another. Men had marred this piece of nature, and even had it been otherwise, what was nature, anyway? An arena of endless misery where animals starved, killed, and ate one another, and, if they overcame every other obstacle to their survival, grew old and died, just like humanity. As they always would, until the mountains too wore away to dust.

Szass Tam turned his regard on himself. Except for his withered hands, he might look like a living man, and, with his lean frame, keen, intellectual features, and neat black goatee, a reasonably handsome one at that. But he acknowledged the underlying reality of his fetid breath, silent heart, and cold, leathery flesh suffused with poison. The idiot priests were right about one thing: Undeath was an abomination. He was an abomination, or at least his physical form was. He could scarcely wait for the moment when he would replace it.

A compactly built man in maroon and scarlet clothing climbed the steps to the rooftop. He had light green eyes and a wine red birthmark on his chin. In his altered state of consciousness, Szass Tam needed a moment to perceive the newcomer as anything more than another bundle of loathsome inadequacies. Then he recognized Malark Springhill and drifted back down to stand before him.

Malark bowed. "Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing."

"I was meditating," Szass Tam replied. "Preparing for the ritual. When the time comes, I have to be ready to let go of everything. If I feel even a flicker of attachment or regret, it could ruin the casting. So I'm cultivating the habit of viewing all things with scorn."

The outlander grinned. "I hope knowing me doesn't put you off your game. I mean, since I'm indisputably such a marvelous fellow."

Szass Tam smiled. "You've been a true friend this past century, I'll give you that. And I tell you again, I can recreate you in the universe to come."

"Then I'll tell you again, that's the last thing I want. I just want to watch death devour the world I know, and fall into darkness along with it."

"All right." Even after a long association, Szass lam didn't fully comprehend Malark's devotion to death, only that it had been the response of a mind ill-prepared to deal with the unique stresses of immortality. But he was willing to honor his wishes. "Did you come to consult me about something in particular?"

Malark's expression grew serious. "Yes. I've heard from my agent in Escalant. The zulkirs-the old ones in exile, I mean-intend to mount an invasion of Thay within the next few tendays."

Szass Tam blinked. "They can't possibly have amassed sufficient strength to have any hope at all of retaking the realm, or you would have learned about it before this. Wouldn't you?"

"I would, and they haven't. My man also reports that Aoth Fezim and his sellswords have hired on with Lauzoril and the others, and that Bareris Anskuld and Mirror slipped out of Thay to join the expedition."

Szass Tam shook his head at the perversity of fate. "If Anskuld and the ghost are there with Lallara and the rest, it can only mean one thing: they discovered what I'm about to do and rallied the rest of my old enemies to stop me."

Malark nodded. "That's my guess as well."

"I would very much like to know how they found out. Fastrin's book has been in my possession for a hundred years. Druxus never told anyone but me what was in it, and 1 never told anyone but you."

"Could the gods have played a part?"

"Except for Bane, they no longer have much reason to pay a great deal of attention to what goes on in Thay, and the Black Hand has given me a thousand years to do whatever I please. Still, who knows? 1 suppose at this point, the how of the situation is less important than what to do about it."

"Are you sure you need to do anything extraordinary? Thay is well protected, the Dread Legions stronger than any force your foes can field. The Dread Rings aren't just gigantic talismans; they're some of the mightiest fortresses in the East. The final preparations for the Unmaking will be ready in a matter of months or possibly even sooner. It seems to me that at this late date, it's impossible for anyone to stop you."

"I'd like to think so. Still, the zulkirs have powerful magic at their command, and in the old days, Anskuld, Fezim, and Mirror won victories that prolonged the war by years. So I want to crush this threat as expeditiously as possible, which means I want you to take an active part. It's the next best thing to doing it myself, and that isn't practical. I have to finish getting everything ready here."

To Szass Tam's surprise, Malark seemed to hesitate. It was even possible that a hint of distress showed through what was generally his impeccable poise.

Then the lich inferred the reason. "I swear to you," he said, "that when it's time to start conjuring, if you're still in the field, I'll fetch you. I told you you'll be at my side, and I keep my promises."

Malark inclined his head. "I know you do, Master. Please forgive me for imagining otherwise, even for an instant."

Szass Tam waved a dismissive hand. "It's all right. You've worked tirelessly for this one reward. In your place, if I suspected I might not receive it, I'd be upset too. Now, let's talk about how to make my old colleagues sorry they decided to revisit their homeland. How do you think they'll go about invading?"

A gust of cold wind tugged at Malark's sleeve, exposing a bit of the tattooing on his forearm. "They've held on to the Alaor since the end of the war," said the former monk, "presumably to facilitate an attack by sea, should they ever decide to make one."

"That's true, and just in case they ever did, we've built a formidable fleet. Do they have enough warships to contend with it?"

"Probably not."

"Then I predict they'll deploy their naval resources for what amounts to a feint. Meanwhile, the true invasion will come by land."

"If it does, it can't swing north through Aglarond. The simbarchs won't permit it. The zulkirs just fought a little war with them. That means they'll have to ford the River Lapendrar and come through Priador, almost within spitting distance of Murbant. That's good. We can harry them and slow their march to a crawl."

Szass Tam smiled. "There's another possibility. If I were the enemy, I'd come through the Umber Marshes."

Malark cocked his head, and his light green eyes narrowed. "Is it even possible to drag an entire army through there?"

"I've kept track of Captain Fezim's career, and he and his company have a reputation for traversing terrain that his foes, to their cost, believed impassable. Consider also that Samas Kul and the mages who serve him are capable of conjuring bridges out of thin air and turning ooze into dry, solid ground. Not every step of the way, of course-it's a big swamp-but they may be able to help the army over the most difficult passages."

"I suppose so," Malark said, "and if I were the enemy, I'd be thinking that Szass Tam might be reluctant to send one of his own armies into that pesthole of a swamp, and that it would have trouble locating my comrades and me even if he did. It would likewise occur to me that the marshes are big enough that it would be hard to predict exactly where we'd emerge. So with luck, we could at least make it into Thay proper without encountering heavy resistance."

"Exactly."

"So what do we do about it?"

"It might well be a waste of resources to send a conventional army into the fens, bur I can send other things. If the zulkirs overcome that obstacle, they'll likely make for the Dread Ring in Lapendrar and lay siege to it. You'll be there to aid in the defense."

Malark nodded. "It should be easy enough, considering that we have to hold out for only a relatively short time. But I do have a suggestion. I take it that Tsagoth is still in charge of the Ring in Tyraturos?"

"I'm certain, my lord spymaster, that you would have known within the day if I'd reassigned him."

"Well, I'd like you to reassign him now. Give him to me to fight in Lapendrar."

With reflexive caution, Malark took another glance around, making sure he was still alone. He was, of course. He was locked inside one of his personal conjuration chambers, with gold and silver pentacles inlaid in the red marble floor, racks of staves, cups, daggers, oils, and powders ready to hand, tapestries sewn with runes adorning the walls, and the scent of bitter incense hanging in the air.

He murmured words of power, pricked his fingertip with a lancet, and dripped blood onto the mass of virgin clay on the tabletop before him. Then, chanting, he kneaded those ingredients together with hairs, nail parings, and various bodily fluids. Magic accumulated, straining toward overt manifestation. It sent a prickling across his skin and made the shadows writhe.

As Szass Tam had taught him, he concentrated on what he was doing. Believed in the outcome. Willed it to happen. Yet even so, there was a small, unengaged part of him that reflected that while he should be able to perform this particular spell successfully, he'd never actually tried before, and it was supposed to be particularly dangerous.

Still, he didn't see a choice. He'd already had a plan of sorts, but it had been predicated on remaining in the Citadel awaiting an opportune moment to make his move. Now that the lich had ordered him forth, something more aggressive was required. And this scheme was the best he could devise.

He started shaping the clay into a crude doll. Suddenly, a pang of weakness shot through him, and his knees buckled. As he continued sculpting, the feeling of debility grew worse, as though his work was draining a measure of his life.

Was this supposed to happen? The grimoire hadn't warned of it.

Don't think about it! Focus on speaking the words with the proper clarity and cadence. On making the passes precisely and exactly when required.

A crazy titter sounded from thin air, the glee of some petty spirit drawn by the scent of magic. Malark raised his wand above his head and shouted the final words of his spell.

A flare of mystic power painted the room with frost. The doll swelled to life-size, becoming an exact duplicate of Malark right down to the wand, ritual chasuble, and the red and maroon garments beneath. The simulacrum drew up his legs and thrust them out again in a vicious double kick at his creator's ribs.

Malark only barely managed to spring back out of range. Grinning with mad joy, his twin rolled off the worktable, dropped into a fighting stance, and advanced.

"Stop!" Malark snapped. "I'm your maker and your master!"

The simulacrum whipped his ebony wand-a sturdy baton designed to double as a cudgel-at Malark's head. Malark swayed out of the way, but once again, it was close. He needed the weakness and sluggishness to go away, because his twin certainly didn't seem to be laboring under the same handicap.

But he did seem wild with fury. Perhaps he could be tricked. Malark raised his foot a little as if preparing a kick, then lashed out with his own wand, beat his opponent's weapon, and knocked it out of his grasp. The cudgel clattered on the floor. It was far from the most effective attack he could have attempted, but he was also hindered by the fact that he didn't want to kill or cripple his other self.

The simulacrum laughed as though the loss of his club was inconsequential, and perhaps it was. Throwing one combination after another, he came at Malark like a whirlwind, and his creator had little choice but to retreat.

As Malark did, though, he watched. No one, not even a Monk of the Long Death, could make so many attacks in quick succession without faltering or otherwise leaving himself open eventually.

There! The simulacrum was leaning forward, ever so slightly off balance, and as he corrected, Malark dropped his own wand, pounced, and gripped the other combatant's neck in a stranglehold.

At once Malark felt his adversary moving to break free of the choke, but he didn't attempt any countermeasures. Now that he was staring straight into the simulacrum's eyes at short range, it was time to stop wrestling and try being a wizard once again. Imagining the indomitable force of his will, embodied in his glare, stabbing into his double's head, he snarled, "Stop!"

The simulacrum convulsed, then stopped struggling. The rage went out of his light green eyes, and he composed his features. "You can let go now," he croaked, his throat still constricted by Malark's grip.

Malark warily complied, then stepped backward. His twin remained calm. Rubbing one of the ruddy handprints on his neck, the simulacrum said, "I'm truly sorry. But being born is a painful, disorienting thing. All those babies would lash out too if they had the strength."

Malark smiled. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"And you have to admit, from a certain perspective, this is a setback. For centuries, my dearest wish has been that there be none of me. Instead, the number has doubled."

"Only temporarily, and in the best of causes."

"Oh, I know. I know everything you do, including your plan. I go west to foil the invasion while you stay here, hide, and set a trap."

A patch of azure flame danced on the muddy, sluggishly flowing water, seemingly without having any fuel to burn. Evidently the Umber Marshes contained a tiny pocket or two of plagueland-territory where the residue of the Spellplague still festered-and Gaedynn had wandered into one of them.

He studied the blue fire with wary interest. Though he'd occasionally visited plagueland, he'd never actually seen the stuff before.

He would have been just as glad to skip the spectacle now. He fancied he'd feel at home in any true forest across the length and breadth of Faerun, but this rust-colored swamp was a different matter. He hated the way the soft ground tried to suck the boots off his feet and especially hated the clouds of biting, blood-sucking insects. Back in the Yuirwood, the elves had taught him a cantrip to keep such vermin away, but it didn't seem to work on these mindlessly persistent pests.

Yes, if there ever was a patch of land that ought to be scouted on griffonback, this was it-except that the thick, tangled canopy of the trees made it impossible to survey the ground from on high. So somebody had to do it the hard way.

He skulked onward, glancing back at the azure flames periodically, making sure they were staying put. So far, so good, but in Aoth's stories they'd raced across the land in great curtains, destroying everything they engulfed.

Gaedynn faced forward again to see a troll charging him, its long, spindly legs with their knobby knees eating up the distance. The man-eating creature was half again as tall as a human being, with a nose like a spike and eyes that were round, black pits. It had clawed fingers and a mouth full of fangs, and its hide was a mottled red-brown instead of the usual green, possibly to help it blend in with the oddly colored foliage of the marshes.

Perhaps that was why Gaedynn hadn't detected it sooner, expert woodsman though he was. Or perhaps the distractions of the blue fire and stinging insects were to blame. Either way, it was a lapse that could easily cost him his life. He snatched an arrow from his quiver, laid it on his bow, and then the troll was right on top of him.

On top and then past. It ran by without paying him any heed, soon vanishing between two mossy oaks.

Gaedynn exhaled. From one perspective, he'd had a narrow escape, but he didn't feel lucky just yet, because it had certainly appeared that the troll was running away from something. If so, what had put such a fearsome brute to flight?

Whatever it was, it could easily pose a threat to Gaedynn and his fellow scouts as well. He whistled a birdcall. Somewhere off to the left, invisible among the trees and thickets, an archer answered in kind. On his right, however, sounded only the tap-tap-tap of a drilling woodpecker and the plop of something jumping or dropping in water. He whistled a second time and still couldn't raise a response.

As Gaedynn paused to consider how to proceed, the scout on his left yelped. Gaedynn waited a moment, then whistled the signal, but this time, nobody answered.

Keeping low, trying to move fast but stealthily too, Gaedynn headed in the direction of the yelp. Listening intently, eyes constantly moving, he promised himself that nothing else would surprise him.

And nothing did, but it was close. Scuttling beside one of the ubiquitous channels, he glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye, pivoted, and found a red mass rearing over him like a wave about to break. The thing was big as a cottage, but its shapeless, essentially liquid nature had enabled it to ooze along under the surface of the murky water undetected.

Gaedynn retreated and shot the arrow he'd initially intended for the troll. It stuck in the middle of his attacker-which gave off the coppery smell of blood-but didn't even slow it down. The creature heaved and flowed after him.

Some of the special shafts Jhesrhi grudgingly enchanted for him might hurt the thing more, but it seemed a poor idea to stand too close while he tried them. He sprinted away from it.

Something tall as the troll but broader, its inconstant shape vaguely human but composed of filthy water, made a splashing leap from an algae-covered pool on his left and half ran, half flowed to intercept him. It reached with enormous hands-the left one had the fingers fused together, as though it wore a mitten-and he felt the cold, poisonous wrongness festering inside them. It was the same sick sensation he sometimes had when obliged to spend time around Mirror, only more intense.

He could only recoil from the new threat, even though it took him back toward the pursuing blood-thing. Meanwhile, the mud and dark, stagnant water vomited up other horrors, each made of liquid or muck. Glancing around, he realized he was surrounded.

Regretting the necessity, he pulled his one arrow of sending from its place and used the bodkin point to prick the back of his own hand. The world seemed to shatter and reassemble itself in an instant, and he found himself some distance to the west, where a squad of Khouryn's spearmen flailed their hands at mosquitoes while slogging and slipping their way along.

Sitting on a rotten stump, Aoth bit off a mouthful of biscuit. In truth, he was only a little hungry, but since the vanguard had to halt while its officers palavered, it made sense to eat. At least the bread was still relatively fresh. Like any veteran campaigner, he'd all too often been reduced to gnawing bread hard as stone and full of bugs.

"Can you guess," he asked, chewing, "exactly what you ran into?"

Gaedynn swallowed a mouthful of apple and tossed the core away. "Some of the creatures looked like water and earth elemental, but they had the feel of undead about them."

"They're both," Bareris said. Unlike his living comrades, he and Mirror hadn't bothered to sit or squat but rather stood just outside the circle. "In Thay, they call them necromentals. And the red thing was a blood amniote. It will drain your blood faster than a vampire, if it catches you."

Aoth snorted. "I see that even with Xingax slain and Szass Tam busy with greater matters, the necromancers are still making new toys."

"I'm afraid so," Mirror said. At the moment, he looked like a warped, dingy reflection of Khouryn. Aoth could tell it irritated the dwarf, though he was hiding his displeasure as best he could.

"Do you know how many there are?" asked Aoth.

Gaedynn shook his head. "I was a little too busy to make an accurate count.".

"I thought you were supposed to be a scout," Jhesrhi said in one of her rare attempts at humor. She lacked the knack for it, and as usual, nobody laughed.

"I wonder," said Aoth, "if these creatures simply escaped from their keepers and wandered into the swamp. The Thay I remember was already infested with such horrors, and since then, the necromancers have had a century of peace and supremacy to perform any crazy experiment that came to mind." He scowled. "But no. In all honesty, I doubt this is pure bad luck. Somehow, Szass Tam knows we're coming and has sent some of his servants to slow our progress."

"I can see them doing a good job of it," Khouryn said. He slapped his neck and squashed the insect that had landed there, just above his hauberk. The blow smacked flesh and made the links of mail clink. "They can dog us while hiding in water or mud. Pop out, kill a man or two, and disappear again."

"Do we have to keep going in this direction?" Jhesrhi asked.

"Yes," Bareris said. "The rebels who smuggle arms into Thay taught me that, unpleasant as it seems, this is one of the few 'good' paths across the marshes. We'd have to backtrack a long way to pick up another."

He didn't have to explain any further. They all knew that even under the best of circumstances, it would be an onerous chore getting an army on the march to suddenly reverse direction. Here in the bogs, with the thick vegetation inhibiting communication and the soldiers all but walking single file along the narrow trails, it would be a nightmare.

"The delay," said Aoth, "might actually give Szass Tam time to place forces all along the edge of the swamp to catch us coming out. And who knows, if we did shift to a different route, we might find these necromentals and whatnot guarding it as well."

Gaedynn scratched at the bump of an old insect bite on his cheek. His nail tore the scab, and a drop of blood oozed out. "So you're saying, we fight."

"Yes," Aoth replied.

Khouryn frowned. "The men will have a difficult time of it on this ground."

"Or contending with elementals," said Aoth, "if they don't command any form of magic, or at the very least, carry enchanted weapons. In addition to which, it's not certain Szass Tam's creatures would show themselves to an entire company obviously formed up for battle. So I propose that we-those of us in this circle and a few others-go forward, let the brutes accost us, and kill them ourselves."

Gaedynn grinned. "Sounds like a nice, suicidal way to spend an afternoon."

Jhesrhi Coldcreek lifted her staff high, murmured, and magic sent a colorless shimmer through the air. Then she cocked her head and squinted at the rust-colored poplars, mud, and channel of water before her. Bareris inferred that she'd cast a charm to sharpen her sight.

"See anything?" he asked.

"No." Judging from her clipped, cold response, she didn't much like it that, as the company proceeded forward, each member repeatedly swinging right or left to avoid water, mossy tree trunks, thick tangles of brush, and the more obvious patches of soft, treacherous ground, the two of them had ended up in proximity to one another.

"Neither do I," Bareris said. "Perhaps Aoth or one of the Burning Braziers can do better." The former could see all sorts of things with his spellscarred eyes, and the latter, successors to the warrior priests of Kossuth, god of fire, who'd accompanied the zulkirs into exile, knew spells specifically designed to reveal the presence of lurking undead.

Jhesrhi pushed a low-hanging branch out of her way. "I want you to know something. If this is all a trick, I'll destroy you."

Bareris frowned. "You mean, if Mirror and I are actually working for Szass Tam. If my mad tale about his wanting to end the world is really an elaborate ruse to lure his enemies back within his reach, because he feels the time has come to settle old scores."

The wizard's amber eyes narrowed. "You didn't have any trouble inferring the precise nature of my suspicions."

"Not because they're true; because they're obvious. I'd wonder the same thing in your place, particularly now that the necromentals have turned up on our route, almost as if someone told Szass Tam where to station them. But your captain vouches for Mirror and me. Trust his judgment, or, if you can't manage that, trust the vision that came to him while he was flying over Veltalar."

"I do trust Aoth Fezim. But I also know you're a bard. You can make people feel, think, and perhaps even see and remember whatever you want them to."

"I did do something like that to Aoth, once, a century ago." He remembered the guilt he'd subsequently felt for that betrayal, the pain of broken friendship, and his gratitude when the warmage eventually forgave him. "But it was a mistake, and I wouldn't do it again, even to strike a blow against Szass Tam. It's probably the only thing I wouldn't do."

She brushed gnats away from her face. "You don't have to convince me. I'm here. I'm following orders and doing my part. I just need for you to understand-"

"They're here!" called Aoth.

Bareris peered around and failed to spot whatever had alerted his friend. But a heartbeat later, the first of Szass Tam's creatures exploded up like geysers from muck and muddy water.

A Burning Brazier hurled a gout of holy fire at an undead earth elemental. It reeled backward, and Jet, who'd insisted on accompanying his master into battle, pounced on it. His aquiline talons and leonine claws tore away chunks of dirt as if he were a dog digging a hole. Aoth leveled his spear and pierced the necromental with darts of green light.

A second hulking creature made of mud swung an oversized fist at Mirror, who still resembled a shadowy parody of Khouryn. The ghost sidestepped and struck back with his weapon, which looked like Khouryn's urgrosh at the beginning of the stroke but turned into a sword before the end.

After that, Bareris couldn't watch any more, because what at first glance looked like a wall of dirty water erupted from a sluggish stream on his right and surged at him and Jhesrhi. He could make out the suggestion of heads and limbs amid the churning, surging liquid but couldn't tell just how many necromentals were actually rushing to attack, only that he and the wizard had drawn more than their fair share.

Infusing his voice with magic, he shouted. The sound blasted one necromental into a mist of sparkling droplets and blew away some of the liquid substance of another. Meanwhile, Jhesrhi chanted and pointed her staff. A flare of silvery power leaped from it and froze another pair of water creatures into ice. Off balance, one toppled forward onto its face.

Now that he and his ally had thinned the pack, Bareris saw there were two necromentals remaining, the one he'd wounded and another. And they were about to close the distance. He sprang forward to intercept them and keep them away from Jhesrhi, so she could cast her spells without interference.

He cut into a necromental's leg. It was hard to tell how badly he was hurting a creature made of water, but his blade, plundered from one of Szass Tam's fallen champions, bore potent enchantments, so it was presumably doing something. A huge open hand swung down at him. He dodged, and the extremity splashed apart against the ground. The droplets and spatters instantly leaped back together, reforming the hand.

Bareris dodged a blow from the other undead elemental, landed a second cut, and then something big and heavy-an attack he hadn't seen coming-smashed down on him, drenching him and slamming him to his knees. Water forced its way into his nostrils and mouth and down his throat like a worm boring into an apple.

The attack would have killed a living man. But while Bareris hated what his contact with the dream vestige had made of him, it had given him certain advantages. He was more resilient than a mortal warrior. Since he didn't need to breathe, he couldn't drown. And the poison touch of a fellow undead was innocuous to him.

He jumped back up, conceivably surprising the necromentals, and cut the one his shout had injured, distinguishable from the other because the magical assault had left it a head shorter. Retching water to relieve a painful pressure in his chest, and, more importantly, to recover the use of his voice, he whirled and dodged, thrust and cut.

The smaller necromental abruptly lost cohesion, its shattered form pouring to the ground like beer from an overturned tankard. That left him free to focus on the other.

As was Jhesrhi. She struck it with a blaze of fire that turned much of it into steam. Bareris snarled and commanded himself not to flinch or falter as the vapor scalded his face and hands. He supposed he should be glad that the mage had at least aimed high enough to avoid hitting him with the flame itself.

He whirled his sword in a horizontal cut through the necromental's belly. Jhesrhi chanted rhyming words with a sharp, fierce sound and rapid cadence. The undead water spirit started to boil, bubbles rising inside it. Bareris leaped back before the heat could burn him a second time.

The necromental stumbled around, pawing at itself, then broke apart like its fellow. Jhesrhi cried out.

For an instant, Bareris, still looking at the spot where the steaming remains of the necromental soaked the ground, imagined the wizard had crowed in triumph. Then he recognized the distress in her voice and pivoted.

Jhesrhi was reeling around in the midst of a dark, droning cloud, on first inspection no different from the swarms of mosquitoes that had tormented the living all the way through the swamp. But Bareris assumed the tiny creatures were actually another necromantic creation, capable of inflicting considerable harm.

It was a threat he couldn't dispatch with a sword, nor pulverize with a shout without battering the woman trapped in the midst of the cloud as well. As Jhesrhi fell to one knee, he coughed the last of the water out of his lungs and throat, sang a charm, and ran to her.

He'd cloaked himself in an enchantment designed to repel vermin, and as he'd learned over the years, it was never certain the magic would work on things the necromancers had made using bugs and the like for raw materials. This time, it did. Buzzing furiously, the mosquitoes flew away from him and Jhesrhi, and he shouted, a thunderous roar that obliterated the insects and blasted bark and dead branches from the oaks behind them.

He kneeled beside Jhesrhi. She seemed dazed though not unconscious, and she had little beads and smears of blood all over her body where the undead swarm had bitten her. He took her hand and sang a song of healing.

Her eyes shifted, focused on his face, and then she jerked her fingers out of his grasp. "Don't touch me!" she snarled.

"I don't need to anymore." He rose and lifted his sword. "You've done your part. Why don't you stay out of the rest of it?"

'"No. I can fight." With the aid of her staff, moving like an arthritic old granny, she clambered to her feet, then peered around. "Oh, no!"

Bareris looked where she was looking, at Khouryn and Gaedynn. Apparently the two had fought in tandem, the dwarf wielding his urgrosh to engage any foe that ventured into range while the archer kept his distance and loosed arrows. Judging from the vaguely man-shaped piles of earth littering the ground around them, it had been an effective strategy. Until now.

Red, liquid tendrils rose from the soft earth beneath their boots like grass growing tall in a heartbeat. The blood amniote had flowed and burrowed through the mud to surround and cage them. The tendrils branched and connected, forming an even more secure prison, and the suggestion of mad, anguished faces formed and dissolved in the surfaces so created. The undead ooze extruded a huge tentacle, raised it high, and lashed it down at Gaedynn.

Confined as he was, the bowman couldn't dodge. The attack swatted him to the ground, and, as the tentacle lifted again, blood burst from his skin and flew upward to add itself to the substance of the amniote. Jhesrhi gasped.

"Hit it with everything you have!" Bareris said. "It doesn't matter if I'm in the way!" If his blistered hands and face were any indication, perhaps he hadn't needed to tell her that, but it still seemed like a good idea. Her slightest hesitation could cost Gaedynn and Khouryn their lives.

He charged the blood amniote, singing even as he sprinted as only a war bard could. It was harsh music, full of hate, designed to bleed the strength from an opponent, and the first sting of it made the gigantic ooze stop flailing at its captives. Bareris closed the distance, slashed at the creature's flowing, foul-smelling body, and then it started hammering at him.

He dodged, cut, and sang his spell of grinding, relentless destruction. More faces appeared in the crimson, latticed mass, and it seemed that a female one mouthed his name. Lightning crackled, thunder boomed, and blasts of fire roared, he felt sudden heat and glimpsed flashes at the periphery of his vision, but Jhesrhi managed to hit the huge undead without striking him. He thought they might actually have the situation under control. Then, instead of lashing at him with an arm, the amniote simply fell at him like an avalanche or a breaking wave.

He couldn't dodge that. The great, formless mass of it slammed him down on his back, then reared above him. Pain, different and worse than the shock of impact he'd suffered an instant before, wracked him.

His heart didn't beat, and he didn't bleed when a blade cut him. He'd assumed he didn't have any blood the amniote could steal. But now skin and muscle split, and the veins beneath them ruptured. Brown powder swirled up from the wounds.

The blood amniote faltered like a man who had taken a bite of food and found it unexpectedly foul. Its liquid bulk shifted toward Gaedynn and Khouryn.

His whole body throbbing with pain, Bareris scrambled to his feet and gritted out the next line of the song. He cut through a section of the amniote's body, and his blade left a trail of scarlet droplets behind it.

The ooze-thing oriented on him again, rearing above him. Then it broke apart, its liquid remains drumming the earth.

Bareris staggered to Gaedynn and Khouryn. Jhesrhi came running too, and flung herself down beside the scout. Neither he nor the dwarf had flesh torn in the same way as Bareris's-perhaps their blood had come out their pores-but they both looked as if someone had dyed them crimson.

"Help them!" Jhesrhi snapped.

Bareris saw they were both still breathing. "I can keep them alive, but they need a real healer. Fetch a priest."

By the time the healer, a young Burning Brazier with keen, earnest features, finished his work, the battle was over, the necromentals and other horrors dispatched. The cleric eyed Bareris uncertainly, and the latter had a good idea what was going through his mind. On one hand, the priests superiors had trained him to despise and destroy the undead. But on the other, Bareris was manifestly an ally and a warrior who'd been fighting Szass Tam, the great maker and master of zombies, vampires, and their ilk, for a hundred years.

"I can try to help you too, if you want," the young man said at length.

"Thank you, but your magic wouldn't work on me." Bareris remembered how another Burning Brazier had labored in vain to save Tammith after one of Xingax's creations bit her head off. Like every memory of his lost love, it brought a stab of pain. "Anyway, my wounds will close on their own in a little while."

After the Brazier took his leave, Jhesrhi approached. Looking down a little, avoiding eye contact, she said, "I snatched my hand away from you."

"I remember."

"I would have yanked it away no matter who was holding it."

And evidently that was as much of an apology or an expression of acceptance and trust as Bareris was going to get. Which was fine. He didn't need Aoth's troops to be his friends. He just needed them to fight.