Richard Lee Byers

Prophet of the Dead

Prologue

Of course you can’t,” said a deep, silky voice; Jhesrhi Coldcreek cast around in vain to find the source. “How can Amaunator shed his light on secrets in a place where the Yellow Sun never shines?”

Cera Eurthos’s conjured glow faded, and darkness shrouded the chilly crypt with its mad jumble of funerary carvings. The stag men turned this way and that, the bells in their antlers chiming.

Jhesrhi called for fire. It leaped forth from the core of her, flowed down the inside of her arm, and sprang forth from the head of her brazen staff. She felt satisfaction that the thing that had spoken, whatever it was, couldn’t smother her power.

But then it came out of the dark, and dread pierced her like a knife. She flinched back a step, and so did her companions. Her gilded mace clutched in her hand and blond curls sticking out from under the rim of her helmet, Cera let out a gasp.

The newcomer was seven feet tall, with bone-white skin and clothing so dark that Jhesrhi could only half make out the intricate folds and embroidery. Once, he might have been handsome in the way of a corpse embalmed and displayed with consummate art and care, but since then, something had ripped his left eye from its socket and scarred the skin around it. The same calamity, presumably, had shriveled and twisted his left arm into a useless stick he held pressed to his chest.

The pale being stood and surveyed the two women and the half-dozen stag men with a kind of insouciant poise. His disfigurements notwithstanding, he might even have seemed elegant if not for the corona of shadow that surrounded him like a tattered, billowing cloak. The tendrils of darkness reached and coiled constantly, like starving creatures groping and snatching for morsels of food.

Jhesrhi’s heartbeat throbbed in her neck, and she gritted her teeth to hold in a whimper. She told herself that, although apparently a powerful fiend or undead, this one-eyed filth was surely no more formidable than Tchazzar or other foes she’d faced. But that rational thought didn’t help.

Because the dread she felt wasn’t natural. It was the result of some supernatural influence the creature was exerting. She rattled off a charm of warding, but it failed to clear her head.

“Fall down and wait." it said. “Otherwise, I’ll devour you, body and soul, and the scraps of you I leave on my plate will rise up to serve me in pain and shame forever.”

He ambled forward, still with the casual self-assurance of a dandy strolling in a garden. But the tatters of shadow stretched and lashed in a frenzy, like twenty blades cutting and stabbing at once.

The stag men didn’t grovel; most likely, because the pale creature hadn’t spoken in Elvish, they didn’t even understand what he’d demanded. But they couldn’t bear to stand and fight him either. They bolted for one of the several arches connecting the vault to other portions of the maze.

Meanwhile, Cera stayed put, but not, Jhesrhi suspected, because she was bravely holding her ground. It was because fear had petrified her.

Jhesrhi was in essentially the same condition, but instinct suddenly told that she didn’t have to be. She could burn the terror out of herself.

She drew more flame from deep inside and sent it pulsing through her veins and licking along her nerves. The fear melted away.

His writhing, whipping shadow tentacles almost within snatching distance, the pale man halted and studied her. He nodded with what looked like patronizing approval.

Jhesrhi felt an urge to burn the superior smile off his face without another moment of delay, but the stag men had nearly reached the exits. She couldn’t let them lose themselves in the labyrinth.

She thumped her staff on the floor, and fires leaped up to block the arches. Cloven hooves clattering on the limestone floor, the fey warriors floundered to a stop just short of incineration.

“Get back here!” she shouted in her halting Elvish. “We can kill the wretch if we stand together!”

Their initial panic startled out of them, the stag men obeyed. Jhesrhi still didn’t understand why she-out of all the humans they’d met of late-was the one who seemed special to the stag men, but here was another reason to be glad of it.

The one-eyed creature’s smile widened. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Yes,” Jhesrhi said. She pointed her staff, chanted words of power, and hurled fire from the head. The flare spread out as it traveled to engulf the pale man from head to foot.

It rocked him back a step, and for a moment, he stood swaying in the midst of the roaring blaze. Then the shadow tentacles shot out from inside the flame. Some had caught fire and burned away to nothing. But others coiled around to pick at the jet of flame like craftsmen removing cracked or faded stones from a mosaic.

The blast winked out of existence. Worse, the disruption of the magic spiked pain through the center of Jhesrhi’s forehead. She cried out and felt wetness spill from her nostrils onto her upper lip.

The stag warriors scrambled to interpose themselves between her and the pale man then hesitated, reluctant to brave the cloud of jagged, snatching darkness to strike at the target in the middle. One fey cast his spear, and lengths of shadow caught it and snapped it in two. Plainly hoping the tendrils couldn’t strike where the creature couldn’t see, another stag man circled behind him and charged. Blackness caught the fey, tore his belly open, and dropped him in a pile of his own guts. Then the pale man resumed his advance.

Jhesrhi forced herself to focus despite the lingering pain. She spoke to the stone in the floor, and it resisted her will like every element but fire resisted her in this dead and hateful place. So she snarled her command and reinforced it with a clanking blow of her staff.

The stone under the pale man cracked open, swallowing his forward foot, then slammed shut on his ankle. He shouted and lurched off balance, the joint bending in a way it shouldn’t.

Jhesrhi scrambled toward a spot from which she could throw lightning without hitting any of the stag men. Just before she reached that location, the white-faced creature spoke a word that stabbed inside her head and reverberated there, swelling louder with each instant. Her body turned cold and stiff and then soft and slimy as rot corrupted it. Insects crawled and bored to get at the putrescence.

She prayed the semblance of death was only an illusion, but even if it was, it was unbearable. She screamed for fire to envelop her and burn the curse away.

It did, lingering and cloaking her just as her foe’s mantle of writhing shadow covered him. But the purging took too long. By the time she regained control of herself, the pale man had extracted his foot from the crack and advanced on her. She was down on one knee with murky tentacles threatening her from every side.

She doubted her adversary would allow her time for even the simplest of spells, but she had to try. She sucked in a breath, and then bright, warm light leaped across the chamber.

Hobbling, the pale man recoiled and, in so doing, pulled the dark tendrils away from Jhesrhi. Chanting a battle hymn, her round, normally merry face as grim as Jhesrhi had ever seen it, Cera stalked after the creature with the glowing head of her mace held high. She hadn’t really been paralyzed with terror after all, or if she had been, it hadn’t lasted. She’d used the past several moments to draw more power from her god despite the impediment of being trapped in this perpetually benighted world of the deathways.

The pale man stopped retreating. “Enough,” he said.

But the sunlady plainly didn’t think so because her light shone even brighter, and quivering with rage and loathing, Jhesrhi agreed. She drew flame from the void for the hottest, most explosive blast yet, one that would reduce her enemy to wisps of drifting ash if she were to succeed. The power so filled her that it suddenly became difficult even to think of anything else, her anger, fear, and other concerns melting together into a joyful, ferocious urge to burn.

Sudden and fast as a pouncing cat despite the broken ankle, the pale creature rushed the nearest stag man. Jagged shadow clutched the fey, immobilized his sword arm, and hoisted him off his feet.

“Stop fighting,” the enemy said. “Otherwise, your warrior dies. Either I rip him apart or your flame hits the both of us. It’s your choice.”

Jhesrhi frowned in perplexity. She understood the literal meaning of the words, but she was not clear why the one-eyed man imagined they could possibly deter her. Fortunately, she didn’t need to understand. She rattled off the first words of an incantation in one of the hissing, crackling languages of the Undying Pyre.

The sunlady’s head snapped around in her direction. “Jhesrhi, no!” the priestess yelled.

Apparently, the sunlady was deterred. Why? And come to think of it, what was the short, plump woman’s name?

Jhesrhi knew she ought to remember, and it bothered that she couldn’t. She strained to do so, and then, abruptly, everything came clear, including the fact that a sellsword was supposed to be loyal to her comrades.

“I’m all right,” she gasped. “I promise not to hurt him if he lets the stag man go.”

“Fair enough,” the creature said. He dropped the fey, and at the same time, a psychic pressure abated. Jhesrhi hadn’t quite been conscious of it before, but its departure came as a relief nonetheless. She surmised that the foe had dissolved the enchantment intended to strike terror into the hearts of all who beheld him.

Yet the sight of him still made her skin crawl. There was a fundamental vileness about him beyond anything his physical appearance could explain, like he was the walking embodiment of some hideous disease.

“Go away,” Cera said, her voice tight. Her mace was still glowing, just not as brightly.

The pale man smiled. “It would be sad for all of us if I did. We need each other.”

Dangling from Jet’s talons, Dai Shan saw streaking thunderbolts and orbs of red and yellow light burst into being. They’d been darts and balls of coal when they leaped from the ballistae and catapults of the Storm of Vengeance, but magic had transformed them in mid-flight.

Many of the attacks fell short or flew wide of the mark, but one looked like it was coming straight at its target. As Dai Shan started to warn Jet, the black griffon lashed his wings and veered. He’d already spotted the threat and was dodging.

Successfully too. Jet got them safely out of the way, and while Dai Shan had by no means forgotten that Aoth Fezim’s familiar was his captor, not his ally, for a moment, he felt an appreciation that bordered on camaraderie.

Then the missile made an impossible hairpin turn. Dodging again, Jet dived, but the luminous missile hit him anyway and exploded with a flash and a boom that smashed Dai Shan’s wits into stupefied confusion.

Perhaps it was the hot pain that roused Dai Shan, for when his thoughts snapped back into focus an instant later, he was on fire, as was Jet, who was no longer flying but rather dropping like a stone.

If the plummeting griffon carried Dai Shan all the way to the ground, the impact would unquestionably kill him. Fortunately, Dai Shan knew a spell to arrest his descent if only he could separate himself from the winged steed. Blocking out the pain of his charring skin, he tore at the eagle claws gripping his shoulders.

To no avail. Jet had been holding him tightly even before the fiery missile struck them. When the flame burst over him, he’d apparently gripped even tighter, convulsively, driving his talons into Dai Shan’s flesh.

Dai Shan jabbered a word of power and infused the griffon’s body with the magic he’d originally intended for himself. Then he willed Jet to rise, not fall.

That didn’t happen. The beast’s weight and momentum were too much for the enchantment to overcome. But perhaps the fall slowed somewhat, or at least stopped accelerating.

Yet even if it had, that wasn’t enough to guarantee the drop, or Jet’s weight smashing down on top of Dai Shan, wouldn’t still kill him. “Fly!” he shouted, jabbing at the underside of the griffon’s body with his fingertips. “Wake up and fly!”

Jet gave a rasping cry and unfurled his fiery wings. That didn’t stop them falling either. It turned a straight drop into a diagonal, but they were still rushing at the ground.

Dai Shan felt a scream pressing for release and clenched himself to hold it in. If these were his final moments, that made it all the more important to comport himself like a Shou gentleman and his father’s son.

The ground was hard but not as hard as he’d expected, and it splashed over him afterward, all but burying him. He realized Jet had steered the two of them into a snowdrift, and then darkness swallowed him.

“What do you mean?” Jhesrhi asked, pulling her aura of flame back inside herself and wiping at her nosebleed. “And who are you?”

“Sarshethrian,” the pale man said.

The name meant nothing to her. She glanced at Cera. The priestess shrugged to convey the same lack of recognition.

“Well, there’s a blow to my pride,” the one-eyed creature said, “but no matter. May I ask your names?”

Jhesrhi hesitated, pondering if there was a reason to refuse to answer or to lie. But Cera answered at once: “My friend is Jhesrhi Coldcreek, a wizard and officer in the Brotherhood of the Griffon,” she declared. “I’m Cera Eurthos, sunlady of Soolabax in Chessenta.”

“And unless I’m mistaken,” Sarshethrian said, “you’re both trapped here in the deathways, with scant hope of ever seeing either your sellsword company or your temple again. That is, unless we come to an arrangement.”

“No,” Cera said.

Jhesrhi frowned. “Hold on. What kind of an ‘arrangement’?”

The pale man smiled. “I’m glad one of you is sensible. Together, you wield fire and the sacred light of the Yellow Sun, and those are the ideal weapons to smite some former friends of mine. Help me pay them the wages of ingratitude, and when we’re done, I’ll return you to your own world.”

“No,” Cera repeated. “Leave us alone or take the consequences.”

Sarshethrian sighed. “I suppose I evoked this truculence by testing your abilities. But the test is over. Let’s converse like reasonable beings. I’m not asking you to kill anyone you don’t already want to kill anyway. My enemies are yours.”

“Give or take a couple who may have run away,” Jhesrhi said. “We-and our allies-just finished defeating our enemies in the Fortress of the Half-Demon.”

The pale creature chuckled. “You were meant to believe that. In truth, all your most important enemies are still alive-well, undead, but you know what I mean. They’ll pursue new designs while Rashemen sleeps, imagining itself secure, and before the thaw, they’ll bring her down.”

“If that’s true,” Cera said, “then thank you for the warning. Now leave us.”

“Cera,” Jhesrhi said, “I need to talk to you in private.”

She told the stag warriors to watch Sarshethrian. Then she and the priestess retreated to the cracked, chipped spot on the wall where they’d worked their unsuccessful divinations.

“Why are you acting this way?” Jhesrhi asked.

Cera scowled. “I don’t know exactly what that thing is. But it’s a great evil, and the sort of entity clerics of the Yellow Sun are sworn to oppose with all their strength.”

Jhesrhi glanced to make sure Sarshethrian wasn’t getting up to mischief. He wasn’t. He was just watching them with a crooked smile that reminded her momentarily of Gaedynn.

“Is he more evil than the zulkirs of the Wizard’s Reach,” she asked, “or Tchazzar? Because the Brotherhood worked for them.”

“That’s nothing to boast of,” Cera snapped. Then she took a deep breath in a visible effort to calm down. “Forgive me, Jhesrhi. I don’t look down on the Brotherhood for anything it’s done. You know that. But there’s a difference between serving even the wickedest human being and an undead or a fiend. Demons and devils are nothing but evil in a way mortals never can be. When you look at Sarshethrian, don’t you feel the difference?”

“Of course,” Jhesrhi said. “It makes my guts cramp. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know how to get out of here. Do you?”

Cera hesitated. “You’re a master wizard, and I’m the high priestess of my temple. We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m a master elementalist,” Jhesrhi said. “I couldn’t open a way out of Shadow when I was stuck in it before, and you’ve never mentioned being an experienced traveler of the planes. There’s no guarantee we can do it, and certainly none that we can do it quickly. What if Rashemen fell to the undead because you were too squeamish to do what’s necessary to get back there and warn everybody? Wouldn’t that be the real sin against Amaunator?”

Cera sighed. “When did you become so glib?”

“I’m not. I’m just talking sense. If you won’t bend for the Rashemi, how about Aoth? He’s lost in here too.”

And Cera loved him. As did Jhesrhi, for that matter, although not in the same way. To her, Aoth was the savior who’d rescued her from a hellish captivity and been her friend and mentor ever since.

“All right,” the sunlady said. “If Sarshethrian will help us find Aoth, I’ll agree to the bargain.”

With the folding vanes extended from its hull, the Storm of Vengeance resembled a dragon gliding in the morning sky, and like a dragon, the vessel rained destruction on the berserkers and stag warriors on the snowy ground beneath it. Death came in bursts of foul-smelling smoke and barrages of hailstones hard and sharp as arrows.

Vandar stared up at the skyship. It wasn’t any fear of death that held him transfixed, but rather, horror at his catastrophic misperception. Mario Bez and his sellswords were the prophesied threat from the air, not Aoth, Jet, Cera, and Jhesrhi.

Now that it was too late, it was all so clear. Well, most of it. He still couldn’t fathom what had brought the Halruaan mercenaries north to the Fortress of the Half-Demon when they weren’t even supposed to know about the Griffon Lodge’s expedition.

Exhausted and in many cases wounded, the brothers of the lodge and their stag-man allies nonetheless fought back, sometimes struggling up out of litters to stand with their comrades. Javelins and arrows flew up at the winged ship with its horned and bare-breasted she-demon figurehead. The former fell short. A few of the latter arced high enough, but actually hitting any of the tiny figures on deck was an all but impossible shot.

The folk on the ground needed magic to fight magic, and perhaps they would have had it … if Vandar hadn’t turned his back when he heard Cera crying for help in the maze of dungeons beneath the Fortress.

But Vandar had, and so he reached down inside himself for his rage. That preternatural ferocity would do nothing to help him reach the foes aboard the skyship. The cowardly scum might even find it comical. But he was the master of a berserker lodge, and he meant to die like one.

The fury welled up, and then everything exploded in a dazzling flash. The world seemed to jump, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled in the snow.

Dazed, the rage knocked out of him, he lifted himself on one elbow and beheld the twisted, smoking forms of half a dozen of his brothers. Someone aboard the Storm of Vengeance had hurled a thunderbolt or some similar arcane attack. Vandar had been just far enough away from the point where it struck to escape death.

He looked around and saw that most of his comrades were dead. The aerial warship had passed overhead and was coming about for a second pass at those who were left.

He heaved himself to his feet, brandished the red spear over his head, and willed the rage to return. Then, at his feet, a voice croaked, “No.”

The thunderbolt had burned away most of the speaker’s beard and hair and charred his features black. Still, Vandar recognized Raumevik, who’d once tutored him in the mysteries of the lodge. No one would have blamed the venerable old man if he’d stayed warm by his hearth instead of marching off to one more war. But Raumevik insisted on accompanying his brothers, and it had brought him to his death.

“Don’t call the anger,” Raumevik said. “Don’t stay here and throw away your life. Run!”

Those were the last words Vandar would have expected to hear a celebrated berserker speak, and he had no idea how to answer. He simply gaped in amazement.

“You don’t have to let the cowards win,” the old man said through gritted teeth. “You can avenge the lodge. But only if you live!”

Vandar felt a sort of wordless psychic urging from the red metal spear and sword he’d taken from the fey mound. The enchanted weapons too, wanted him to survive to seek revenge.

He turned to the few berserkers and stag warriors who were still on their feet. “Run!” he bellowed, waving his spear in the hope that the fey, who didn’t understand human speech, might nonetheless take his meaning. “I swear, we’ll kill them another day, when our weapons can reach them!”

The stag men bolted, the bells in their antlers chiming. A couple of humans did too, but the rest were lost to snarling, glaring bloodlust, biting the rims of their shields and gashing their cheeks and arms in impotent rage.

Given time, their lodge master might have calmed them, but there was no time. Despising himself for it, Vandar ran and left them to their fate.

His feet crunched in the snow, and the cold air rasped in and out of his nose. Behind him, magic roared and crackled, and men screamed.

Glancing around, he saw that at least those who’d fled were spreading out, which meant the skyship couldn’t chase everyone at once. Surely at least one person would escape to denounce Bez’s treachery.

Suddenly, Vandar sensed-or maybe it was the red weapons warning him-danger over his head. He threw himself down in the snow, rolled, and glimpsed four hooves galloping in empty air. The churning equine legs extended from a hairless torso mottled with sores.

Then the flying creature hurtled past. As Vandar scrambled to his feet, the creature plunged to earth and wheeled to face him.

Vandar supposed his assailant was the netherworld’s notion of a centaur. The upper body sprouting where a horse had its neck was essentially human except for the long horns curling up from the brow. Spiky plate armor protected the manlike parts and the equine back, and the demon gripped a lance in both hands.

Vandar heard more screaming. Although he didn’t dare look away from the demon in front of him to check, he inferred there were more of the fiends. One of the mages aboard the skyship had summoned them to catch survivors on the ground faster than the vessel could come about and pursue.

The demon centaur charged.

Vandar poised the red spear as though he meant to hold his position. Then, when the point of the lance, engraved with a rune and shimmering with enchantment, was just an arm’s length from his chest, he sprang to the side. As the fiend thundered by, he thrust the spear at its flank.

He was trying for the exposed leprous flesh of its belly, but he aimed too high. Fortunately, the crimson weapon punched right through the creature’s armor.

The demon’s forward progress ripped the spear from Vandar’s hands as it plunged by. The creature staggered a step, and he hoped to see it fall, but it recovered instead and whirled around. Snarling words in some grating Abyssal language, it dropped the lance and yanked a flail loose from the place where it hung on its armor.

Meanwhile, Vandar snatched out the red sword, and he and the centaur fiend began to circle.

Vandar told himself to be patient and wait for an opportunity, even though he needed to finish this fight before the skyship drew near. He likewise instructed himself to resist his natural impulse and not go berserk, lest he find himself incapable of flight when the combat was through.

The flail whirling through the air, its chain links clattering, the demon rushed him. Vandar ducked and felt the breeze as the knobbed iron ball whipped over his head. He leaped up and thrust at the fiend’s upper body. His point punched through its breastplate to pierce the spot where human beings carried their hearts.

Vandar assumed that was the end of it, especially when the manlike part of the creature convulsed. But the horse half reared to batter with its front hooves.

Caught by surprise, he nonetheless tried to wrench himself aside. One hoof grazed his temple anyway, and stunned, he reeled backward. Mincing on its hind legs, the hellish centaur pursued to pummel him some more.

Vandar roared his dazed slowness away, got his feet under him, and cut. The red sword sheared into the spot where an earthly horse kept its heart. The demon toppled forward, and Vandar jumped out of the way to keep it from slamming down on top of him.

He studied it for a moment to be sure it was finished. It was. He grinned with a satisfaction that lasted only for as long as it took him to look around.

Just as he’d feared, the fight had taken too long. The Storm of Vengeance had finished coming about, and it was flying straight at him.

Seeking cover, he cast around and found nothing that would hide him from hostile eyes or protect him from a fiery blast or a burst of acid. He jerked the red spear out of the demon’s side and resumed running across the snow-covered scrubland.

A thumping sound and a truncated shriek tempted him to glance over his shoulder, but he didn’t need to look to know the skyship was steadily closing the distance. It could fly faster than any man could run, even someone with enchanted weapons lending him strength and endurance.

So maybe Vandar should turn, give himself over to the fury, throw his spear at his enemies, and die like a berserker after all. Maybe perishing alongside the lodge brothers he’d led so disastrously was preferable to the guilt and grief of surviving.

He was still considering it when he glimpsed a different whiteness in the vista before him, a flat, gleaming ribbon winding its way through the snowy, uneven ground and the leafless brush with its burden of icicles. It was a frozen tributary of Lake Ashane, a largish stream or small river he recalled crossing on the march north.

He raced onto the ice and stabbed it repeatedly with the spear. Every thrust penetrated, but each jabbed only a little hole, not the big one he required. Meanwhile, the winged shadow of the Storm of Vengeance came gliding over the snow, and he caught the voices of the officers and crew calling to one another. It sounded like they were enjoying the massacre.

A missile thudded down in the stone beside the little river, then burst into green vapor that streamed out in all directions. Vandar closed his eyes, held his breath, and asked his griffon totem for strength.

None of it helped very much. The toxic fumes still seared him outside and in but only for a heartbeat. Then, finally, a sizable piece of ice shattered beneath him, and he plunged through the opening.

The water washed away the poison clinging to his skin, cooled the burning sting of it, and for an instant, felt wonderful. Then a shock of bitter cold pierced him to the core.

Someone-poor Raumevik, perhaps-had once told Vandar that if a man fell through the ice, he could find an inch or two of air caught between the frozen surface and the water beneath. He floundered upward, and sure enough, there it was. Face tilted up, he gasped some in and got water along with it. He coughed the frigid liquid out and inhaled again.

He struggled to hold his body in the same life-saving attitude as the current carried him along. Meanwhile, the chill numbed him and leeched his strength. It would kill him if he stayed submerged for long, but if he emerged too soon, the sellswords would spot him and drop more lethal magic on his head.

The worst thing about it was that he had no way of telling how far from the skyship he’d traveled. The thick ice above his face was more opaque than otherwise, dusted with drifts of snow.

Soon, though, his ongoing debilitation reached a point where the location of his human foes became irrelevant. Instinct screamed that if he didn’t escape the river immediately, it was going to kill him.

There were tangles of fallen branches on the bottom of the river. They’d bumped and snagged his legs as the current swept him downstream. He waited until he felt the next, then groped and fumbled at it with his feet. They caught in it to anchor him in one place.

Then he attacked the ice as he had before, jabbing it with the spear, but this time, the thrusts were so feeble that most of them didn’t even poke through. He’d waited too long to try getting out. Which meant he was failing his murdered lodge brothers again by letting Bez’s perfidy go unpunished.

That thought was insupportable. Despite his numbed debility, it brought the rage howling forth from the place where it lived inside him, and he attacked the ice with one final burst of energy.

Long cracks snaked through the ice, and then chunks of it tumbled down around him. He tossed the spear up out of the hole, caught the edges, and strained to haul himself out of the water.

For a moment, the task was beyond him. Then, grunting and gasping, he dragged himself up onto his belly and lay shuddering, too spent even to raise his head and see if the skyship was close by or not.

Crouching inside the frigid tomb, his neck throbbing, Aoth Fezim gritted his teeth against the pain and reached out with his thoughts. Jet! Talk to me! I need you.

But the griffon didn’t answer, and it was conceivably just as well. Aoth could feel that his familiar was alive but too deeply unconscious for his master’s psychic call to rouse him. He was also suffering pain so fierce that a trace of it even tainted that profound slumber. Something had hurt him badly, and he likely needed to rest.

Still, if they couldn’t communicate, Aoth had no way of finding out if Cera and Jhesrhi had escaped the otherworldly maze, knowing the current situation at the Fortress of the Half-Demon, or discovering whether anything else was happening in Rashemen. He slammed his fist down on his knee, and sharper pain stabbed through his neck. It made tears spill from his eyes.

The pain also reminded him that he needed to address his own immediate problems. Otherwise, nothing happening hundreds of miles to the north was likely to matter, at least not to him.

He could tell his neck was getting worse. Pain jabbed and scraped at him with every move he made. He wouldn’t be able to do anything else to help himself until he obtained healing, and the only place to seek it was inside the keep a stone’s throw away from the crypt.

He felt singularly unready to go exploring. He’d expended too much of his magic fighting the undead in Rashemen. Even the petty enchantments bound in his tattoos, on which he generally depended to stave off pain, chill, and fatigue, were inert.

Still, waiting and resting seemed the poorer option. What if he did and his condition so deteriorated that he couldn’t move at all? In his years as a legionnaire and sellsword, he’d seen plenty of untreated wounds and injuries that steadily worsened over time.

Stifling a groan, he clambered to his feet and crept back to the wrought-iron gate he’d broken previously. Looking for sentries, or anyone who might cry an alarm, he peered out at the graveyard with its drifts of gray, sooty snow, the courtyard beyond, and the high walls and battlements enclosing it all.

Nyevarra trailed along and watched with a jaundiced eye as Pevkalondra conducted a tour of the cold, echoing, and palely phosphorescent vaults and tunnels under Beacon Cairn. A pearl gleamed in the left orbit of the ghoul’s withered, flaking face, tiny silver scorpions crawled like fleas in the folds of her faded velvet gown, and she stank of rot. It all made her affecting the manner of a house-proud hostess particularly grotesque.

As the reanimated Raumviran clapped her hands, a metal arachnid fell from the hem of her sleeve and scuttled back toward the pointed toe of her shoe. Then a steaming, clinking bronze crayfish the size of a plow horse crawled through a doorway in the right-hand wall. It stank of oil, and its pincers opened and closed repeatedly with a smooth metallic noise like the sliding sound of scissors.

“Impressive,” Uramar said. Hulking, misshapen, and mottled, the patchwork warrior had a hole in his mail shirt that exposed the gray flesh beneath where Aoth Fezim’s spear had pierced him, but the wound didn’t appear to trouble him. Nyevarra felt renewed appreciation for his strength and wondered again how his cold blood tasted. Perhaps, once they’d conquered Rashemen, she could coax him out of his shyness and find out.

“There are dozens more,” Pevkalondra said. “You simply have to reanimate enough of my countrymen to control them to best effect. Then, my lord, I’ll give you the victory the idiot Nars threw away in the Fortress.”

Nyevarra chuckled. “Is that the story we’re telling now, since Falconer isn’t here to speak up for himself and his folk?” The Nar demonbinder was the one true leader of the conspiracy who’d fallen to the enemy.

The Raumviran glared with her single eye. Or perhaps the pearl glared too. It seemed to shine brighter than before.

“The Nar’s inability to defend himself,” she said, “simply proves my point.” She turned back to Uramar. “Raise Raumvirans. Raise all you can find. After the debacle in the Fortress, you need a new army, and I promise you one that will win.”

“When the war is over,” Nyevarra said, shifting her grip on the antler-axe she’d taken from the fallen Stag King, “and the realm is full of Raumvirans with only a sprinkling of durthans, Nars, and travelers from Uramar’s country, I wonder just who will actually rule. What sort of land it will be.”

Uramar frowned. Like every other expression that played across the blaspheme’s lopsided face, it had an uneven quality to it.

“Within the Eminence,” he said, “all undead are equal.”

He appeared to believe that lofty sentiment too. But Nyevarra had a more realistic perspective, and she intended to make sure that, although perhaps swearing abstract fealty to some distant authority, it was she and her sisters who would truly control Rashemen. It had always been a unique land of witches and fey, and so it must remain, even if the witches were ghosts and vampires, and the spirits were greedy and cruel. The thought of mechanical insects and other such unnatural contraptions infesting the lonely hills and sacred forests was loathsome to her.

“Of course,” she said. “You’ve explained as much, my friend. It’s just that old habits of thought die hard. Still, the truth is, we don’t need an army of the sort Lady Pevkalondra describes. What we need is all the durthans we can muster.”

The ghoul made a spitting sound. “You really think this feckless scheme will work?”

“It isn’t ‘feckless.’ It’s cunning. Although it doesn’t surprise me that a relic of a vanquished, vanished realm can’t tell the difference.”

“Enough!” Uramar said. It truly seemed to upset him when his allies bickered. Perhaps, in his distant homeland, the Eminence stood united in perfect amity, although given what Nyevarra knew of human-and undead-nature, she doubted it.

“We’ll proceed with the strategy we all agreed on,” the patchwork swordsman continued. “Despite any second thoughts you may be having, Lady Pevkalondra, I still think it’s a good one. But you’re right that we need to rebuild our force of arms in case the plan goes awry. We’ll be vulnerable until we do. So of course we’ll reanimate more of your folk, more durthans too, and everybody else who can be of use. And we’ll ask for fresh help from Nornglast.” He paused to survey them both. “Does that satisfy you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Pevkalondra gestured her companions onward. “Come this way, and I’ll show you one of the largest Raumathari war devices ever made. It slaughtered hundreds of Nars in its day.”

“That sounds fascinating,” Nyevarra drawled. “But I must go and prepare to begin the real work of conquest.” She gave Uramar a smile, squeezed his forearm, and turned away.

As she walked along, the butt of the antler weapon clicking of the floor, she hoped she remembered her way out of the maze of tunnels. It would mar the insolent effect of her departure if she had to come back and ask for directions.

1

Aoth didn’t see anyone moving around the courtyard. He supposed he had the cold and the early hour to thank.

From his limited vantage point inside the tomb, he couldn’t see anybody on the walls either, but assumed there was probably a sentry or two up there somewhere, maybe sheltered in the corner turrets. With any luck at all, though, they’d be peering outward, not in.

Next, he looked for religious symbols in the ornate, soot-blackened stonework or any other sign that suggested the location of a chapel. For healing was the province of clerics even when, as was likely in the nightmarish land Szass Tam had made of Thay, the priests in question were dreadmasters of Bane, Lord of Darkness.

But Aoth failed to spot a shrine. A wry smile tugged at his lips when it occurred to him that, for a man whose vision was sharper than a griffon’s, he was doing a poor job of finding anything he looked for.

In fact, it would be unfortunate but not surprising if there were no shrine. Most of the lords with citadels in High Thay were Red Wizards, and in his experience, such folk, devoted as they were to esoteric knowledge, often had little use for faith.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled and tasted of burning sulfur, the taint of the volcanoes whose smoke also darkened the sky. He swung open the creaking iron gate and, trying to stay low, hobbled across the graveyard.

He didn’t like it that he was leaving tracks in the snow, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just have to hope nobody would take any notice of them.

By the time he reached the keep, the pain in his neck had spread across his shoulders, all the way down his back, and into his hips, making all the muscles ache and bunch. Struggling to block the clenching torment out, he tested one of the lesser doors.

It was unlocked, and when he cracked it open, there was no one in view on the other side, just a kind of vestibule with five doorways around the walls. Maybe, he told himself-unconvincingly-his luck was finally changing. The Smiling Lady knew it was past time.

It was somewhat warmer indoors, although still chilly and drafty in the part of the castle where its master likely never ventured and the humble folk who saw to his comforts lived and toiled. Those servants and slaves had risen with the dawn to take up their tasks, and Aoth scurried past doorways and crouched behind barrels to keep them from spotting him.

Eventually, he found a small storeroom containing only dusty, cobweb-shrouded crates that, plainly, no one cared about anymore. The space was beyond easy earshot of the chambers where yawning servants were starting the day’s baking, mending, and washing, yet not so distant that there was little hope of anyone wandering by. He limped inside and stood beside the door where no one would see him.

After that, time dragged, slowed by the pain and anxiety that were gnawing away at him. Finally, he heard footsteps padding along. Just a single pair if he could trust his ears. He waited for them to pass by, then stepped out into the passage.

As he hoped, he was looking at only one creature, a stooped, olive-skinned orc dressed in rags. The marks of multiple floggings, some ridged and old, others raw and recent, showed through the rips in the slave’s shabby tunic.

Aoth didn’t know all the ways Thay had changed since Szass Tam became its sole master-and deeply regretted that he wasn’t being allowed to preserve his ignorance-but in the homeland of his youth, pig-faced brutes like the one before him had mostly been soldiers, not common thralls. Maybe the orc had started out that way but then so disgraced himself that his master reduced him to bondage.

“Turn around slowly,” Aoth growled in his best menacing cutthroat voice, “and don’t cry out.” And as the orc pivoted, Aoth tried to look like the war mage and sellsword captain who’d slain dragons and devils in his time and not like the creeping invalid that fearsome fellow had become.

His superficial appearance might help. He still had his squat, muscular frame, his leveled spear and armor, and luminous blue eyes framed in their mask of tattooing. It might take a keen observer to see past all that to the pain and weakness underneath.

The orc had had his tusks pulled, maybe because he’d been in the habit of biting and goring with them. He glowered at Aoth with a certain caution but no overt fear. It all reinforced the sellsword’s suspicion that the creature had once been a man-at-arms.

Aoth jerked his head toward the little storeroom and tried not to react to the resulting stab of agony in his neck. “In there. Fast.”

The slave obeyed, and Aoth closed the door behind them. “Whose castle is this?” he asked.

“Lord So-Remas.”

The name meant nothing to Aoth. “A Red Wizard?”

“Yes.” The orc’s piggy, bloodshot eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know whose fortress you sneaked into?”

Aoth sighed. “It’s a long story. Does So-Remas have a healer who attends him?”

The orc grunted. “He doesn’t need one. He’s undead.”

Curse it! “Then who tends the members of the household when they fall sick?”

“If it’s somebody So-Remas cares about, he gives him a potion to drink. The rest of us just either get well or die.”

Aoth frowned, considering. Healing elixir was valuable, all the more so in a remote fastness where it was apparently the only magical remedy available. “Where does your lord keep his jewels and talismans and such?”

The orc snorted. “You think he’d tell somebody like me?”

Aoth raised the spear a hair to remind the thrall of the threat it represented. “I think you at least have a guess, and I recommend you share it. As soon as you stop helping me, you become a problem with an obvious solution.”

The orc sneered. “But maybe not an easy one. Not for a human standing funny and sweating rivers even in this cold, a human who tells me straight out that he needs a healer.”

Aoth stared his captive in the face. “If you want to try me, go ahead.”

After a long moment, the orc broke eye contact. “What for? Out of loyalty to the master who treats me so well?” He spit.

“Then stop posturing and tell me where he keeps his treasure.”

“In his chambers, I guess. I don’t know where else it would be.”

“Does he sleep during the day?”

“Mostly. I think. I mean, he doesn’t have to. I’ve seen him when the sun is up. But not very often.”

Aoth frowned. “I guess that will have to do. Take me to his quarters. Choose a route where people won’t see us this time of day.”

As they climbed a steep, narrow set of back stairs, and his neck and back fairly screamed with the punishing exertion, Aoth said through gritted teeth, “Exactly what kind of undead is So-Remas?”

The orc shrugged. “I’m not a necromancer. I don’t know all the different kinds.”

“Is he solid or shadowy? Man-shaped or otherwise? What does he eat or drink?”

“He looks like a white-faced, shriveled-up, dead old man. He eats and drinks the same things as living people do. Just, not much.”

Not a vampire or a specter, then. That was good as far as it went, but it left plenty of other nasty creatures that So-Remas could be.

“Quiet, now,” the orc continued. “We’re almost there.”

They stepped from the stairs onto a landing on one of the uppermost floors of the keep. Ornately carved with scenes of a handsome young wizard slaying cloud giants, raising a tempest, and commanding the obedience of groveling pit fiends-a highly embellished depiction of So-Remas’s early career, most likely-the double doors to the master’s apartments were locked.

Drawing on his dwindling store of arcane power, Aoth inserted the tip of his spear into the keyhole and whispered a charm. The point pulsed with green light, and the lock clicked open.

He cracked the door and peeked in at a chamber with drawn curtains and closed shutters behind them. The space would have been entirely dark if not for the red embers glowing in the hearth. But he didn’t need good light-or any light-to discern the high-backed leather chairs, lanceboard table, and collection of ancient Mulhorandi coins, curios, and sculpture. The air smelled of both dry rot and the floral perfume the undead nobleman apparently used in an effort to mask his stink.

There was a bookshelf built into the wall. It didn’t hold enough volumes to fill it, and that was by design. A square of minute cracks outlined the empty section and a hint of silvery phosphorescence crawled on top of it.

Tiptoeing, Aoth led the orc inside, eased the door shut behind them, and then crossed to the hidden panel. He tried to slide and then push it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

The slave was plainly nervous with his owner sleeping in the next chamber, but even so, curiosity or skepticism prompted him to whisper, “How do you know anything’s there?”

Aoth pointed to his lambent eyes. His truesight would have found a mundane lock as easily as the cracks if there had been one. Unfortunately, though, So-Remas had secured the panel with enchantment. That was the source of the argent glimmer.

Maybe Aoth’s charm of unlocking would work as it had before, but maybe not. He’d match his thunderbolts and showers of acid against those of any wizard short of Szass Tam, but the spell of opening wasn’t a part of the potent system of battle magic he’d mastered as a youthful legionnaire. It was just a trick he’d picked up in the years since, and he wasn’t proficient with it.

Still, he’d have to pit it against So-Remas’s ward. He couldn’t simply smash through the panel for fear of waking the mage.

He whispered the words and touched his spear to the surface much as he had before. The panel didn’t move.

Maybe pain was interfering with his concentration. He took several long, slow breaths and tried to exhale it from his body, then focused his will anew and made sure to murmur the words with the exact cadence and pronunciation they required.

The panel still wouldn’t move.

“Come on!” whispered the orc.

Aoth tried again. And thrice more.

Then the double doors to the landing crashed open, and two spearmen in mail and crested helmets rushed into the room. An instant later, So-Remas, withered, bone-white, and milky-eyed, his mostly bald skull sporting white hair like dandelion fluff, stepped to the threshold of his bedchamber. The nightshirt and nightcap lent a grotesque and even comical note to his appearance, but there was nothing funny about the slim ebony wand in his clawlike hand.

Cera felt taut as a bowstring while Sarshethrian stood motionless-well, except for the constant stirring of his ragged corona of shadow-and seemingly entranced. For the moment, eager hope trumped the loathing the demon’s proximity engendered.

“The darkness is responding to him,” murmured Jhesrhi, standing at her side with the top of her brazen staff burning like a torch and the stag men hovering close. “I see the ripples, and I hear the voices.”

“Good,” Cera said, and in her thoughts, she prayed to Amaunator even though she could barely sense him.

For her, that, not the gloom, the cold, or even the knowledge of being lost and trapped, was the greatest horror of this place: It attenuated her link to the god to whom she’d pledged her life and soul. If it frayed away entirely, it was hard to imagine she could withstand the loss.

Sarshethrian turned his gaze on the mortals. “Your friend Aoth is gone.”

Cera felt a jolt of alarm. “What do you mean?”

The creature shrugged. The shoulder of the uninjured arm hitched up and down normally while the other barely twitched. “He may have found a way out of the deathways by himself, although I very much doubt it. Someone else may have removed him. He may have been alive or dead when it happened. All I know is, he isn’t here anymore.”

Jhesrhi scowled. “You’re sure?”

“Well, admittedly, my kingdom is extensive. In theory, if the man traveled a very long way in just a short time … I’ll tell you what. I want us all to be friends, so I’ll keep checking from time to time as we move about. But for now, let’s tentatively agree that one provision of our bargain has been fulfilled.”

“Not by you,” Cera said. “You didn’t help him.”

“And as yet,” the fiend replied, an edge coming into his voice, “you haven’t done anything to help me either. So be happy you got what you wanted and let it go at that.”

“We’ll honor our contract,” Jhesrhi said. “And the more we know about what’s going on, the better we can help you.”

Sarshethrian smirked. “And the more likely it is that you can find your own way home?”

“I thought you claimed we’d never figure it out, no matter what,” Cera said.

The pale creature chuckled. “A fair touch, sun priestess. I did, and I do.” He glanced around, found a black marble sarcophagus with a lid carved in the form of a sleeping lady holding a lily to her chest, and perched on the edge. Then he waved the humans to the stone coffin opposite it. “So make yourselves comfortable and ask your questions.”

Jhesrhi seated herself, and after a moment’s hesitation, Cera did the same, although it felt strange and wrong to flop down casually across from the demon when, in any sane world or set of circumstances, she’d be scourging it with the radiance of the Yellow Sun and a chant of exorcism.

“I want to know three things,” Jhesrhi said. “What is this place, what are you, and who are our mutual enemies?”

Sarshethrian nodded. “Let me tell you a story that will explain all of that by the time it’s through.

“At the beginning-my beginning,” the creature continued, “I came into being in this place. Perhaps it came into existence at the same instant, or perhaps it existed before me. I can’t be certain. All I can say is that so far as I’ve ever been able to determine, no one ever heard of it before I appeared to claim it for my own.

“I also don’t know how long I’ve wandered here. How could I? At first, nothing changed to mark the passage of time, and I didn’t even know what time was. But gradually, language and knowledge formed inside me like a pearl accreting in an oyster.

“Eventually, they prompted me to attempt to define myself. Was I perhaps a devil, or maybe a demon? It didn’t appear so, not in the technical sense, anyway, for although I still didn’t fully comprehend the nature of my home-it’s difficult to take the true measure of a place when you’ve only ever seen it from the inside-it didn’t seem to be a part of the Hells or the Abyss either.”

“Get to the point,” Cera said.

Sarshethrian snorted. “A priestess should be more interested in mysteries. Don’t you realize you’re receiving a bona fide myth no cleric of the light has ever heard before? But never mind. I promise, I am coming ‘to the point.’

“Although I might not have been precisely a baatezu or a tanar’ri, I had quite a bit in common with them, both in terms of my abilities and my awakening desires. And because the latter were cravings I could never satisfy in isolation, I strived ever harder to understand the nature of my home and how it could be made to connect to the greater universe I sensed around it.”

“And eventually, you found out it could connect through tombs and crypts,” Jhesrhi said.

Sarshethrian nodded. “Exactly. Perhaps because it’s a kind of reflection or echo those places strike in Shadow. Or maybe because it’s the perfect, reified idea that every vault and mausoleum in the mortal world expresses in its own limited way … but I’m forgetting that the sunlady is impatient with metaphysics.”

Or you want to make sure you don’t let slip anything that might help us escape, Cera thought.

“Suffice it to say,” the pale fiend continued, “in time, I learned how to step from my world into the funerary places of yours, only to discover I could venture no farther. A realm so full of life was inhospitable to me and would remain so unless I persuaded some of the indigenous creatures to worship me and so provide me with a foothold.”

“And because you could only make your presence felt in tombs,” Cera said, “the only ‘indigenous creatures’ you could talk to were undead.”

Sarshethrian inclined his head. “Exactly so. At first, no one was particularly interested. The lowliest lacked the wit to understand me. Others were content with their existences or skeptical of my ability to improve their circumstances, and perhaps reasonably so. I soon realized it’s fairly common for fiends to try to entice ghouls and wraiths into their service.

“But I persevered and eventually stumbled on a being so desperate for companionship that he was willing to listen to anything and everything I had to say. His name was Lod. Once, he was one of the serpent folk called nagas, and in undeath, he retained all the vast intelligence he’d enjoyed in life. That intellect notwithstanding, the necromancer who reanimated him could think of no better use for him than to seal him up alone in a crypt to guard the grave goods for eternity, and he found the solitude and tedium hellish. He would have done anything to escape them.”

“And so you had your first disciple,” Jhesrhi said. The flames dancing on the head of her staff further gilded her blond hair and tawny skin.

“Yes,” Sarshethrian said, “and I made good on all my promises. Together, we devised magic to break the mystical chains that held him to his endless task, and then to help achieve his grander dreams.”

Cera felt another twist of loathing down in her stomach. “ ‘Grander dreams’ that led to a menace nobody ever heard of attacking Rashemen?”

“Yes,” Sarshethrian said. Then he broke off talking and sat up straight. It reminded her of a hound reacting to a noise its masters couldn’t hear.

“What is it?” Jhesrhi asked.

“I feel them,” the demon said, hopping down from the sarcophagus, “here inside the deathways, and that means the rest of the story can wait. You don’t have to know who they are to kill them.”

Vandar had no doubt that it was only the preternatural vitality he drew from the red weapons that had enabled him to pull himself from the frozen river, and he suspected it was all that was keeping him alive now. But the magic had its limits. Shivering, teeth chattering, he felt colder than ever in his life, and the pale sun in the gray sky seemed to mock him with its lying promise of warmth.

But it did reveal the Fortress of the Half-Demon, visible as a dark nub on the northern horizon, and the sight helped to keep him trudging onward. In the castle, he’d surely find dry clothes, provisions, and a room where he could build a fire and rest out of the snow and the frigid, whistling wind for as long as it took to recover his strength.

Then he’d run to Immilmar as fast as his legs and his rage could carry him, and if the Three truly cared about justice, he’d arrive in time to catch Mario Bez and his sellswords.

Numb feet sliding, he labored to the top of the next rise. Half buried in snow, two more dark objects lay in the hollow before him.

For a moment, in his weariness, he failed to recognize them as anything more noteworthy than the brush, evergreens, and other stunted trees dotting the snow. Then a long, mottled limb, some patches of hide charred black and others glistening raw with a few feathers still clinging to them, rose sluggishly and flopped back down.

Startled, Vandar jumped and leveled the crimson spear. But neither the creature with the burned wing nor what he now recognized to be a man lying beside it moved any farther.

By the rose and scythe, was Vandar looking at Jet and Aoth Fezim? How had they vanished from the Fortress only to reappear out here, and what disaster had befallen them?

Vandar hurried down the slope. When it noticed his approach, the winged creature struggled to its feet, snow spilling from its back and flanks as it did. For an instant, the berserker still wasn’t sure he was looking at Jet. The griffon was too badly burned over too much of his body, and his halting, palsied movements in no way reflected the strength and speed of the beast that had accompanied Vandar and his brothers on the march north. But the smoldering blood-red eyes were still the same.

“What happened?” Vandar asked.

“Bez,” Jet rasped.

“I suspected as much. He attacked the lodge too. I may be the only one left.” Vandar pivoted. “Is Aoth …?” He faltered when he saw that the burned man half hidden in snow wasn’t the Thayan after all but rather Dai Shan. Somehow, despite the lodge’s efforts at secrecy, every contender for the wild griffons had found his way north, not that the Shou had any reason to be glad he’d undertaken the journey.

“Captain Fezim’s alive,” said Jet, “somewhere. I can feel him across our link. But he’s busy, and it could make the danger worse if I distract him. We’ll talk when he’s safe. Or if that imp”-the griffon stabbed his beak in Dai Shan’s direction-“wakes up first, maybe he can tell me where Aoth is.”

“I understand you want to find him,” Vandar said, “but once you do, you need to carry both of us back to Immilmar. It’s our best hope of reaching Bez before he claims his prize and disappears into the south.”

Jet laughed. The sound had always been so bloodcurdlingly harsh that it had taken Vandar a while to realize what it was, but now it held a bitter note that was new.

“I’ve always known that humans are blind and stupid,” the griffon said, “but you take the prize. Open your eyes and look.”

With a grunt, he extended his wing as far as he evidently could, which was about halfway. It bent in places and at angles where it shouldn’t, and in two spots, jagged bone stuck out through the skin.

“I can’t fly anybody anyplace,” the griffon said.

“Curse it!” Vandar said. “But all right. I was going to trek back to Immilmar on foot, and if I still have to, I will. But first, I’m going to double back to the Fortress. You might want to follow and lay up there for the time being. Good luck.”

Vandar turned away and took five crunching steps in the snow. Then Jet said, “Berserker.”

Vandar looked around. “Yes?”

“I don’t know if you think of us of the Brotherhood as your rivals or your comrades. You humans have a way of complicating everything that should be simple. If we’re your rivals, then leave. But if we’re your friends …” The familiar faltered in the manner of a proud creature unaccustomed to needing to ask for anything. “I told you I can’t fly. Truly, I’m so weak, I can barely stand, and without my feathers, I’m nearly frozen through. If you go, I’ll die, and the merchant too, not that he matters.”

Inside, Vandar flinched. “The warriors of the lodge were my brothers. The Halruaans murdered them.”

Jet nodded. “Go get your revenge, then.” He lowered himself back down into the snow.

Vandar tried to turn away once more. Plainly, avenging the lodge was the honorable course. Even Jet realized it and had just acknowledged as much.

And yet …

Jet was a griffon, the lodge’s totem in the flesh.

And believing himself justified, Vandar had turned his back on the outlanders once already, and it was possible that if he’d chosen otherwise, his brothers would still be alive.

Moreover, if he focused his attention inward, he could feel the wordless nudging of the fey spear and sword, strangely warm in his hand and on his hip, urging him on toward the possibility of battle, vengeance, and, perhaps still, even glory. The effect was subtle because it merely reinforced his own innate desires. Yet it was an influence nonetheless, and though he prized the virtues of the weapons as much as ever, he was learning to question the inclinations of the strange sentience that had tangled itself with his own like ivy wrapped around a post.

He heaved a sigh. “I have flint and steel, and there’s wood about. We can make a fire and find something to eat, and then, when you’re up to it, we’ll hike back to the fortress together.”

Aoth leveled his spear, and even that simple action made his neck, shoulders, and back spasm. He rattled off words of command, and the shriveled mage in the nightcap and nightshirt did the same, meanwhile sketching isosceles triangles with his wand. The ebony rod left streaks of amber phosphorescence in the air.

Aoth finished first, only because he’d opted for a simpler spell. Darts of blue light hurtled from the spear and pierced the undead wizard’s scrawny torso. Lord So-Remas cried out and flailed, his casting ruined short of completion.

Running footsteps pounded. All but certain he was moving too slowly to keep the two onrushing guards from driving their weapons into his body, Aoth blundered around to face them.

He was right. If he’d had to protect himself, he would have been too late. But the orc had picked up a small table, and now he heaved it at the soldiers. The improvised missile bashed one guard and made him stumble. Startled, his comrade balked too.

Aoth pulled his short, heavy sword from its scabbard and tossed it to the orc, who caught it deftly by the hilt. It wasn’t much to hold off two armored spearmen, but it was better than nothing, and handing it off was all Aoth had time to do. He had to use his magic-or what was left of it-to fight the most dangerous foe.

He wrenched himself back toward the doorway to the bedchamber and found the Red Wizard had already shaken off the effects of the darts of light. Worse, he was already chanting a new incantation, one that made a sickly green glow flower in the depths of his sunken eyes and branch out through the veins in his temples to his hairless crown.

Aoth started a spell of his own, but this time, So-Remas finished first. He flicked the ebony wand in an arc that ended with it pointing straight at his opponent. Shedding its clattering pieces, the lanceboard table leaped into the air and flew at Aoth.

He tried to dodge and gasped at the resulting stab of agony. The table slammed into him and knocked him onto the floor, and that double jolt was just as excruciating.

He curled up and tucked his head as, prompted by So-Remas’s wand, more objects flew at him. Struggling to keep to the proper cadence despite the punishment, Aoth gritted out another spell and jabbed with his spear on the final syllable.

A red spark shot from the point to strike at the undead mage’s feet. There, it exploded into a fiery blast that knocked the wizard backward and filled the doorway with a hissing sheet of flame.

Gasping, Aoth hoped that was the end of it, and for a heartbeat, it appeared to be. He was about to turn and see how the orc was faring when So-Remas strode back through the fire. Either he was innately impervious to it, or he carried some talisman that made him so.

The undead noble flicked his wand up and down. The animated game table hammered Aoth like a boot stamping repeatedly on an insect.

Aoth struggled to think of a counterstroke he might conceivably accomplish despite the ongoing torment and his depleted powers. The drawn curtains with the shuttered windows behind them caught his eye.

The orc had said that on rare occasions, he’d seen his master when the sun was out. But that wasn’t the same as saying that he’d seen the undead creature in the sunlight, and Aoth was going to gamble that the thrall had meant the former but not the latter, and that there was a reason for it.

He thrust his spear at a window and shouted a word of command. Raw force leaped from the weapon to tear down the drapes, shatter the greenish panes behind them, and smash open the shutters on the other side of those.

A shaft of daylight shined in and caught So-Remas in its center. The undead shrieked and burned, his desiccated skin and the withered flesh inside charring like paper, the purifying power of the sun achieving what Aoth’s burst of arcane fire hadn’t.

Aoth dredged up the concentration for a little more magic. It helped that, now that So-Remas had lost his focus, the lanceboard table had stopped battering him. Aoth cast more glowing darts, and they and the sunlight together were enough. The Red Wizard pitched forward onto his face. By now, he was mostly bare bone, which burned to coals and then to ash like the rest of him.

It occurred to Aoth that if Cera were here, she’d say her god had looked out for him. That in turn made him remember that, as far as he knew, she and Jhesrhi were still trapped in the dark maze. Somehow, he had to get them out!

But he couldn’t think about that now. Aoth twisted around and saw that the spearmen had backed the orc against a wall.

Fortunately, they’d turned their backs on Aoth to do it. With his teeth gritted, he crawled close enough to drive his spear up between one soldier’s legs.

The gelded man whimpered and, knees buckling, collapsed. The other warrior’s head jerked in his wounded comrade’s direction. Risking everything on an all-out attack, the orc lunged and slashed. The remaining guard fell backward with blood pumping from a gaping wound in his neck.

Aoth looked around to make sure there were no other immediate threats. He noticed the orc doing the same.

“Thanks,” Aoth gasped.

The slave shrugged. “I had to fight, or they would have tortured me to death for helping you. It wouldn’t have mattered that you forced me.” He leered a crooked leer. “Although there was more to it. I wanted to kill them.”

“You need to break open the secret panel. Fast, before more guards show up. I’d do it, but I’m not sure I can stand back up.”

The orc attacked So-Remas’s hiding place. The enchanted sword cracked and crunched through the wood in what Aoth knew to be a matter of moments even though it felt like a cruelly long time to him.

The thrall handed him a silver bottle. “This is the stuff.”

Clumsy with pain and eagerness, Aoth fumbled out the stopper and took a long pull of the tasteless, lukewarm elixir inside. He felt the vertebrae in his neck shift, but without discomfort. In fact, all the cramping, throbbing soreness was fading away from his neck all the way down to his rump. He let out a long sigh of relief.

He would have been happy to sit and savor his liberation from torment. But he and the orc weren’t out of danger yet, and although he’d recovered his physical strength, his mystical power would return only with rest. He jammed the stopper back in the bottle, scrambled up, and hurried to So-Remas’s hiding place.

“What else have we got?” he murmured to himself.

Fortunately, there was something, a long, thin, golden-hilted poniard of an athame. He snatched the ritual dagger from its sheath, and knowledge of its attributes poured into his mind. So-Remas had bound spells in it just as Aoth himself was accustomed to store magic in his spear.

He judged that it would do. In fact, it should do nicely. When more of So-Remas’s soldiers charged into the room, he met them with a nasty smile and a shriek of focused, bone-shattering sound.

The ambush started well. Sarshethrian, his newfound human and stag-man allies, and his shadowy slaves had caught the undead wayfarers by surprise and slaughtered several in the first few moments. Then, however, the creatures of the Eminence of Araunt started fighting back and maneuvering through the darkness, until Jhesrhi suddenly caught a whiff of something putrid.

She spun around. Somehow, two withered ghouls with luminous green eyes had gotten behind her, and now they were rushing in with needle fangs bared and jagged claws poised to rake and tear.

She felt a surge of loathing, less at the foulness of the undead creatures or the danger they represented-although that was there too-than at the prospect of being touched by anything even remotely manlike. She made a slashing motion with her staff and hurled a fan-shaped blaze of flame into the ghouls’ rotten, vaguely canine faces. They fell down, burning and thrashing.

Bells chimed. She looked to her flank and found one of the stag men there. He’d been scrambling to intercept the ghouls, and her flare had nearly hit him too. Maybe he was urging her to be more careful, although because she didn’t understand the language of the bells, and the expression on a stag warrior’s long, narrow face with its brown eyes and dusting of down never changed, it was impossible to tell for certain.

Cera cried, “Keeper! Keeper!” throughout the fight. She’d been invoking her god all along, but now there was a shrill note of desperation in her voice.

Jhesrhi turned. A misty, faintly luminous figure covered in gashes and puncture wounds was floating toward the sunlady. A flying mace made of golden light bashed at the ghost, and brandishing the identically shaped weapon of metal and wood in her hand, Cera sent flares of radiance stabbing through it. But the attacks didn’t stop it.

A shredded face oozing into visibility on the wavering blur that was its head, the ghost grinned and plunged an incorporeal hand into Cera’s shoulder. She cried out and reeled backward.

Jhesrhi hurled more flame from her brazen staff. The flare caught the phantom and burned it from existence.

Which didn’t mean she’d acted soon enough. She glanced around to make sure nothing was about to attack her, then rushed to her friend.

To her surprise, Cera recoiled. “You’re on fire!” the sunlady gasped.

Jhesrhi realized it was so. She must have cloaked herself in flame without realizing it at the same moment she used it to strike at the ghouls.

With a little irrational twinge of reluctance, she pulled the fire back inside herself, and the chilly gloom of the deathways became oppressive once more. But that didn’t matter. Cera did.

“Are you all right?” Jhesrhi asked.

Cera took a breath. “I will be,” she said, pain in her voice. “Once we’re out of here. Is the battle over?”

Jhesrhi looked around and decided that it was. All the undead travelers made of solid flesh were down, and the wraiths and such were gone, incinerated, exorcised, or otherwise expunged from existence. Sarshethrian’s servants, murky forms that resembled rats, leeches, centipedes, and beetles to the extent they resembled anything, were slinking away down various passages, while, lengths of shadow lashing around him, the fiend himself repeatedly kicked a fallen skeletal swordsman.

Jhesrhi recognized the phenomenon from her years on battlefields across northeastern Faerun. The fight had ended too quickly to suit Sarshethrian. He was still full of aggression and was expending the spiteful energy as best he could.

Still, there was something comical if not contemptible about watching a self-styled archdevil comporting himself like a child in the throes of a tantrum. It reminded her of Tchazzar’s excesses, and she made a little spitting sound, softly enough that she didn’t expect him to hear.

He did, though, and, his halo of shadow drawing in its ragged tendrils and groping and coiling in a less agitated fashion, left off abusing the dead thing to turn and give her a sardonic smile. “I take it you think I’ve forgotten my dignity.”

Jhesrhi shrugged. “Do you care?”

“Yes. I told you, I want the three of us to be friends. And when you hear the rest of the story I started earlier, perhaps you’ll be more inclined to forgive my … excitement.”

I doubt it, Jhesrhi thought, but there was no point to saying it aloud and annoying him any further. She and Cera still needed his good will.

“I told you how I freed Lod the bone naga from his endless servitude.” Sarshethrian sat down atop a granite urn in the midst of several mangled, reeking corpses like that was the most natural place in the world to take his ease. Maybe for him it was. “And how his personal liberation inspired him to dream bigger dreams.”

“Yes,” Jhesrhi said. Finally, she thought, they were coming to it. Sarshethrian was about to explain exactly who was attacking Rashemen.

“Lod envisioned a great fraternity of the undead,” Sarshethrian said. “It would find those who were thralls and set them free. It would take those condemned to mindlessness and lift them into sentience. Ultimately, it would set the undead above the living to hunt wherever, however, and whomever they wished, without fear of retaliation.”

“And you agreed to help him accomplish all that as well,” Cera said, an edge of disgust in her voice.

“Yes, of course,” Sarshethrian said. “To that end, we invented more new wizardry, unearthed ancient secrets, and I taught him to traverse the deathways. My home, you see, was a web of secret paths that would enable him to go virtually anywhere to recruit new followers, instruct old ones, and reach any living realm he wished to assail, even one on the far side of an ocean.”

Jhesrhi blinked. “Wait. This Lod was-or is-on the other side of what, the Sea of Swords? Or the Great Sea?”

Sarshethrian smiled. “The former, although it wasn’t always so. Once, the continent on which he dwells occupied another world called Abeir. But then the cosmic upheaval you call the Spellplague uprooted it and dropped it in this world.”

“Like Tymanther,” Jhesrhi said. The same thing had happened to Medrash and Balasar’s home.

Knowing such was the case, she didn’t find Sarshethrian’s tale to be unbelievable so much as exasperating. Didn’t Faerun have enough homegrown horrors and would-be conquerors without new ones slithering onto the scene from faraway places no one ever even heard of?

“Yes,” the pale creature said, “not that it particularly matters. What does is that once again, I kept my word. Lod got the magic he wanted, and when his fellow undead realized the future he promised was actually possible, they rallied to his banner.” His mouth twisted. “All my pledges fulfilled, I awaited the homage he’d promised in return.”

“But you’d misread him,” said Cera. She sat down with her back against the dark hexagonal slab sealing a tomb, pulled off her helmet, and blotted the sweat on her round, flushed face with a kerchief. “He’d learned to hate servitude while wearing the yoke of his first master. He never intended that he or his disciples would accept a new one.”

Sarshethrian gave her a sour look with his single eye. Then: “It’s a pity you weren’t there, sunlady. I could have profited from your insights, for you understand Lod perfectly. When he judged that he had all he needed from me, he and his followers lured me into a trap to kill me.

“In the battle that followed, I lost my eye, the use of my arm, and a portion of my mystical strength. But I survived, and I managed to flee deep into the deathways where the traitors couldn’t find me.”

“And now you waylay Lod’s agents whenever you catch them traveling the maze,” Jhesrhi said.

Sarshethrian nodded. “For the time being, it’s as much as I can do. I didn’t just lose my eye. Lod took it and keeps it submerged in venom. The curse weakens me.”

“Which is why you sought allies,” Cera said.

“But why Rashemen?” Jhesrhi asked. “Is Lod already the undisputed master of this Abeir place?”

“No,” the fiend replied. “But I already explained how the deathways render distance and natural barriers meaningless. It’s not much more difficult for the Eminence of Araunt-Lod’s conspiracy-to undertake a campaign in Faerun than it is to pursue their schemes in Dusklan or Marrauk, and Rashemen has two qualities that make it attractive.”

Jhesrhi cocked her head. “It’s poor and backward, certainly, and those qualities ought to make it an easy conquest. But the Thayans have never found it so.”

Sarshethrian smiled. “What I was getting at is that it’s the country where the mortal and fey worlds mingle more than any other. I don’t know why, and at this point, neither does Lod. But he no doubt believes that given time and free rein, he can wring unique and potent magic from the land, and I imagine he’s right.

“It’s also a country that shares a border with those Thayans you mentioned, folk governed by necromancers and undead grandees who have good reason to be content with the world as it is. Lod will never free every zombie and wraith from bondage or persuade every vampire and lich to join him as long as Thay stands as an alternative to his vision. Control of a neighboring land will help him pursue the task of bringing it down.”

Remembering what it was like to fight the legions of Thay with their well-trained troops, formidable mages, and tamed demons, Jhesrhi smiled a crooked smile. “I wish him luck with that.”

“But it doesn’t matter whether he could ultimately defeat Thay,” Cera said. “It’s Rashemen we need to protect.” She shifted her gaze to Sarshethrian. “And you claim it’s still in danger?”

“Yes,” the one-eyed creature replied. “Most of the leaders of the undead fled via the deathways from the Fortress of the Half-Demon to another citadel at a place called Beacon Cairn. I don’t know what their next move will be-clairvoyance has its limits-but in their place, I’d take full advantage of the fact that the Rashemi believe the threat is over.”

Cera lowered her gilded helmet back onto her disheveled golden curls and clambered back to her feet. Her mail clinked.

“All right, then,” she said. “We fought for you, and you told us what we need to know. We appreciate it. Now please send us back to Rashemen, and that will conclude our bargain.”

Sarshethrian smiled. “I’m afraid not, sunlady. I told you I keep my promises, and I do, but it appears you misunderstood the terms of the agreement.”

Jhesrhi scowled, warmth flowed inside her arm, and ripples of flame ran along her staff. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that by itself, this one little skirmish was insignificant. I need you to fight for me until we do some real damage. Until I’ve exacted revenge and made Lod repent of his ingratitude. It’s only then that I’ll send you home.”

2

Aoth reined in his stolen piebald horse and looked for any sign of pursuit. He didn’t see any, just the column of smoke rising from So-Remas’s castle to mingle with the fumes from all the volcanoes that combined to foul the sky. The fire he’d started in the undead wizard’s apartments had evidently spread.

“Nobody was very fond of So-Remas,” said the orc, now clad in plundered clothing and scraps of armor and awkwardly sitting his own stolen white mare. Like most orcs, he’d apparently been infantry, not cavalry, before his fall from grace. “And we left a fair amount of confusion behind us.” He grinned at the memory. “Still, eventually, somebody will likely get on our trail, or at least spread the word that a crazy bandit-wizard and a runaway slave are on the loose.”

A crazy bandit-wizard, Aoth reflected. One of his foremost anxieties on finding himself back in Thay was that everyone would recognize him, but his companion manifestly didn’t. Maybe the tale of the Brotherhood’s invasion hadn’t spread as far as he’d imagined. Maybe those in authority hadn’t allowed it to, considering that the legions wouldn’t come off very well in the telling.

“What’s your name?” he asked the orc.

“Orgurth. Yours?”

“Aoth.” Whether most people hereabouts had heard of him or not, Aoth saw no reason to push his luck by giving his full name, especially since he was already stuck with displaying his distinctive luminous blue eyes and mask of facial tattooing.

“May the Sleepless One strengthen Aoth’s arm and send him worthy enemies to smite,” Orgurth said with a gruff and unexpected courtliness.

“May the Sleepless One sharpen Orgurth’s scimitar and send it worthy heads to cleave,” Aoth replied.

Orgurth’s piggy eyes widened in surprise that his companion knew the correct response. But Aoth had been fighting alongside and against orcs for a hundred years. It was no great marvel that he’d picked up something of their customs.

“Now we’re proper comrades,” he continued, “but maybe only until the point where our paths will split.”

Orgurth tugged at the buckled straps securing a pauldron to his shoulder. Made for a larger warrior, and a human one at that, the armor wasn’t going to fit perfectly no matter how many times he adjusted it. “Why would they?” he asked.

“Because we’re an odd pair. We might attract less attention each traveling alone. And because it’s possible that if a tharchion or someone like that hears my description, the patrols and taxstation guards will become a lot more interested in catching me than you.” Aoth figured he owed the orc that much of the truth.

Orgurth leered. “You must be quite a villain.”

Aoth grinned back. “You’re not the first person to say so. So what’s it going to be?”

“I’ll stick with you. The way I see it, there’s something to be said for going unnoticed, but more for having a partner who can throw lightning into the teeth of those who do take an interest. Where do you think we ought to head?”

“That’s another thing. I have to head for the Citadel. It’s a dangerous choice, but I’m hoping it’s also my quickest way back to Rashemen, and I have urgent business there.”

“That suits me. I’ve had my fill of Thay.”

“It’s settled, then. Let’s put some more distance between us and the castle, then find a spot where we can get off the trail and stop for a while without anybody seeing us.”

“Why, do you need a rest already? I thought the potion fixed you.”

“It did. But I need to talk to my other partner, and I’d just as soon not try to manage a horse at the same time.”

As he drowsed by the crackling campfire, Jet thought that in ordinary circumstances, the tiny portion of scrawny rabbit in his belly would likely only have sharpened his hunger. Yet he wasn’t hungry at all.

Maybe it was because he felt so wretched and weary. Dai Shan had regained consciousness, but like Vandar, Jet hadn’t even dredged up the will to question him yet. He doubted he was capable of listening to the glib Shou’s prattle, sorting his lies from truth.

Or maybe it was because he was dying, and if so, there was a part of him, a part he’d never imagined existed until today, that wished he could just get on with it.

Then a voice spoke inside his head. You’re awake.

Suddenly alert, Jet reached across their psychic link to peer through Aoth’s eyes. The human was sitting on a log in a clearing with an orc and a pair of horses tied to scrub pines. Mountains rose on all sides, some of them volcanoes. Several were smoking and a couple were rumbling and spilling lava down their sides. The snow on the ground was gray with ash.

You’re on the Thaymount, said Jet, as astonished as he was appalled.

Unfortunately, yes. Aoth reached back across their mystical bond, and the familiar felt something else that was new, an impulse to flinch from his rider’s inspection. He wondered if this was the useless human emotion called shame.

Whatever it was, he sensed Aoth’s horror and pity, and that only made the feeling burn hotter. But at least Aoth was matter of fact when he continued speaking:

I was hoping you would fly me out of here. But apparently that couldn’t happen for a while.

I’m sorry.

It’s all right. I’ll find another way north. You concentrate on recovering.

If I can. The statement slipped out seemingly of its own accord, before Jet knew he was going to say it.

Of course you can! You’re stronger than any ordinary griffon. I know. I enchanted you to be that way when you were still in your mother’s womb.

I hope so.

Besides, Cera’s magic will heal you if she’s there. Is she? Jet could feel the anxiety underlying the question.

No. Delivering the bad news felt like another failure. I’d better tell you everything I know about what happened after you passed through the arch into the dark. He did so with a combination of language and flashes of images from his memory.

By the time he finished, Aoth’s worry had warped into anger. And Dai Shan is there with you, right now?

Yes. Jet turned his head so that Aoth could see the Shou through his eyes. Singed, blistered, and stinking of combustion and blood, portions of his garments burned away, Dai Shan looked far different than the dapper emissary to the Iron Lord’s court, but his self-possession remained intact. Apparently engaged in the practice humans called meditation, he sat with legs crossed, palms up, and eyes closed.

Your suspicions were correct, said Aoth. He-or his avatar-tricked Jhesrhi, Cera, and me into going into the shadow maze so he could get rid of us. He tried to murder me, he stranded the others, and maybe he knows how to get them back. You have to question him right away.

Jet found that his own anger gave him the strength to heave his aching body up off the ground. He lunged, shoved Dai Shan onto his back, and held him there by pressing an eagle-clawed forefoot down on his chest.

“Ah,” Dai Shan wheezed, breathless with a griffon’s weight squashing him. “I infer that the fierce prince of the skies wishes to resume the conversation that Captain Bez’s fireball cut short.”

Red spear in hand, Vandar rose heavily. “I guess it’s time.”

“I defer to your judgment,” the merchant said. “Yet I fear the results will prove disappointing. As I was about to explain previously, by chance, I discovered some of the more formidable undead fleeing into a hidden labyrinth. I likewise discerned how to pursue them. I shared the information with Captain Fezim and his friends, and we gave chase. Unfortunately, the creatures realized someone was on their trail and set a trap. In the battle that ensued-”

Jet silenced him by pressing down harder. “Don’t lie. Captain Fezim is here. He’s in my head.”

“Then he must have found a way to return to the mortal plane.” Dai Shan smiled up into the griffon’s eyes. “Congratulations, sagacious warlord. I should have expected nothing less. Yet I’m perplexed. If you’re already in communication with your steed, why does he need to hear the tale of our adventure from me?”

We need to know how you really unlock the magical arches, said Aoth.

Jet relayed the question.

“Of course,” said Dai Shan. “I pray my friends will forgive both my obtuseness and my decision to reserve that information a little while longer. Until the desire for retaliation has lost its primacy.”

Jet pressed harder. “Now.”

“Please consider,” Dai Shan wheezed, “that until we make our way back to the Fortress of the Half-Demon, we won’t have access to any magical arches, anyway. Consider too, that if you kill me, you’ll forfeit the other forms of assistance I can provide.”

“Meaning what?” Vandar asked.

“I have some training in the chirurgeon’s art, even though I’ve always employed it to conduct interrogations not unlike this one rather than to heal. Moreover, when my father told me he was sending me to Rashemen to procure griffons, I learned what I could on that subject. My inquiries included having a sage instruct me on their anatomy.”

Jet realized an instant after the fact that he’d stopped pressing down so hard.

Dai Shan gave him a little nod. “I see the valiant lord of the clouds understands. In the absence of priestly healing, some skilled and knowledgeable soul must set that broken wing. Should that occur, and Tymora smiles, you may eventually fly again. Whereas if it heals as it is, such an outcome is precluded.”

“I want to see you strong and hale,” said Vandar to Jet. “I want to bring Cera and Jhesrhi back too. But how can we trust this dastard?”

“It will be a pity if you can’t, lodge master,” Dai Shan replied. “For I have something to offer you as well.”

Vandar scowled. “What’s that?”

“As Captain Fezim learned and his shrewd familiar now understands, I have the ability to create surrogates for myself. Regrettably, not at the moment. My injuries diminish my mystical capabilities. But when I’m sufficiently recovered, I can conjure such an entity, and it can race to Immilmar more quickly than we three invalids could hope to make the journey. And we need a messenger to go to the Wychlaran and the Iron Lord, do we not, to warn that the most dangerous undead escaped and to denounce Mario Bez.”

What do you think? asked Jet, trying not to let his desperate, selfish hope communicate itself from mind to mind.

Aoth’s answer came with a tinge of bitter frustration, but it also came at once. What choice do we have? Let the little weasel live for now.

Nyevarra led her sisters through the arch with a certain sense of relief. Under Uramar’s tutelage, she’d learned that so long as they knew their route, undead could traverse the deathways without incident more often than not. Yet it was also true that the maze had its perils, and some who entered never emerged.

Glancing around, she found herself in a vault behind a wrought-iron gate. Stone sarcophagi rose from the floor, and cobweb-shrouded jars and urns reposed in niches in the walls. For another moment, the arched doorway opened on the deathways with their crawling, smothering gloom and mad profusion of morbid sculpture. Then the charm of opening ran its course, and space on the other side of the arched doorway wavered into a somewhat more ordinary sort of place, filled with gloom but only the natural kind, and with painted hathran symbols defacing the pentacle mosaic on the floor.

It was the symbols that proved beyond doubt that Nyevarra and her sisters had reached their proper destination. She whispered a cantrip. The lock in the gate made a crunching sound, and, with a squeal, the grille swung open.

Nyevarra and the other durthans swung wide to avoid the pentacle. She had no doubt the sigils would hold their prisoner as they had for centuries, but still, why rouse the demon, especially when stealth was essential? They didn’t want the fiend’s agitation to communicate itself to some sensitive soul in the castle above.

After several turns, a staircase rose to a wall of sandstone blocks. Nyevarra murmured a charm, tapped the barrier with her staff of oak-the antler weapon was too unusual an instrument for someone who wished to be inconspicuous-and, scraping against one another, three loose stones floated free of the matrix. They hovered while the witches clambered through the hole, and then the stones replaced themselves.

Now that Nyevarra and her companions had reached the storerooms, her inhumanly keen hearing could hear drunken male voices roaring out an obscene song somewhere on the ground floor of the citadel. Despite herself, she hesitated, then noticed some of the others doing the same.

“Don’t worry,” she told them-and herself too, she supposed. “This will work. Because the hathrans have no idea that Falconer’s accomplice opened a path for us.”

And it turned out she was right. As she and the others strode through the ground floor of the massive keep, berserkers and lesser folk cleared out of their way and stood respectfully until they passed. Even when they encountered a hathran, the other wise woman simply gave them a casual nod. Aided by enchantment and the natural tendency of folk to see what they expected to see, the masks and voluminous robes of witches concealed the telltale marks of undeath.

The durthans reached the bailey and then the outer gate. It was closed, but the sentries scurried to open it for them, and then Nyevarra beheld Immilmar laid out before her with its ancient, steep-roofed lodge houses rising from the snow and golden firelight shining through the windows. To her surprise, the sight transfixed her and swelled a lump in her throat.

It wasn’t all sacred ground the way the Urlingwood was. But on a more mundane level, it, too, was the heart of Rashemen, the focus of her ambitions, and a place she’d loved ever since she’d first beheld it as a hathran in training. It was also a place that, once it became clear that the durthans’ rebellion was going to fail, she’d believed she’d never see again.

“Are you all right?” one of her sisters asked.

She sighed. “Yes, and we should keep moving. Come on.”

As she led the others through the town, she spied and listened for the signs of ritual. With the wind whistling out of the north, blowing fresh snow from the clouds that mostly obscured the stars, it was a cold night, but still, at one or another of Immilmar’s shrines, there would be witches performing some nocturnal ceremony. There always were.

Before long, she spotted a gleam of yellow fire amid a stand of oaks. The light flickered as figures passed in front of it, walking or dancing around the blaze in a circle. Female voices sang.

Nyevarra raised her hand to halt her comrades. Then they all stood and listened until she’d identified the musical incantation.

When she did, she smiled behind her new leather mask. The hathrans were performing one of the routine rites in honor of the spirits of fertility currently sleeping away the winter like bears. In theory, the ceremony encouraged the entities to wake on time to start the spring.

So Nyevarra and her sisters needn’t worry about disrupting some mighty work of high magic and the potentially explosive consequences that might ensue. That made things simpler.

Still, she spent a while longer crooning her own words of praise and friendship to the spirits of earth, air, flame, and tree the hathrans’ ritual had roused or attracted. She didn’t want them taking the enemy’s side or carrying tales afterward.

For a moment, some of the spirits recoiled from the energies of undeath they felt seething inside her. But they were creatures of magic, and the proper forms placated them. When she was sure they would see what was about to happen as natural and unremarkable, like vines strangling a tree or wolves running down a deer, she motioned the other durthans forward.

The half dozen hathrans had reached a point in the ceremony that required them to take a single solemn step in their circuit around the fire at the end of every line of song. A couple of the mortals glanced at Nyevarra and her sisters as they entered the trees but, seeing nothing amiss, didn’t interrupt the rite with greetings or questions.

Nyevarra suspected she wouldn’t have recognized any of the hathrans even if they hadn’t been masked and hooded. She had, after all, lain dead for decades before Uramar used the magic of the Eminence to call her from her grave. But she was still able to pick out the oldest and thus, in all likelihood, the most powerful. A priestess with a special bond to Selune, the hathran in question had gray hair sticking out over the top of her pale wooden crescent-shaped mask.

Nyevarra waited until the woman’s slow progress around the fire brought her within easy reach. Then she dropped her staff and pounced.

A crescent of pearly phosphorescence glimmered into existence between her prey and her. It looked as insubstantial as mist, but it felt as solid as stone when she slammed into it and rebounded.

Worse, it didn’t disappear after that first impact either. It kept right on floating in the air to protect Selune’s servant. Nyevarra darted to the right in an effort to get around it, but the defense shifted with her.

Meanwhile, the hathran lifted her staff to the night sky and rattled off words of power. Other voices recited other incantations, and one screamed for an instant before something cut the sound off abruptly, but Nyevarra couldn’t look around to see exactly what everyone else was doing. She needed to stay focused on her particular target.

A shaft of pearly light flashed down from the heavens into the hathran’s staff, and her body lit up from within with the same power. She stretched out her other arm, and a beam like a silver sickle slashed from her fingertips.

Nyevarra leaped to the side. The light grazed her shoulder anyway, and though it didn’t cut her like a blade of common steel, pain ripped through the point of contact and a bit of her substance swirled away as mist, without her willing the transformation.

No vampire could suffer such an assault without yearning to strike back, and Nyevarra was no exception. With the moon shield still blocking her and so precluding the use of fang and nail, she clamped down on the urge to hurl lightning or frost. She wanted the hathran alive.

She swayed away from a second sweep of the arc of pale light, dived, grabbed her staff to aid in her spellcasting, and rolled back to her feet. Despite the exigencies of her situation, for an instant, she rejoiced once again in the catlike nimbleness that undeath had bestowed.

She hissed rhyming words in an old Draconic dialect. The moon sword swept low, and she leaped above the stroke without botching her incantation. On the final syllable, she jabbed with the staff as though with a spear.

The glowing shield disappeared.

Instantly, Nyevarra once again discarded her staff, ripped off her mask, and rushed the hathran. Her fangs ached with the need to pierce a vein. Just in time, she realized the mortal was still aglow with white light, and although she considered herself as true a witch as when she was alive, it still might not be prudent to drink in that argent power right along with the human’s blood.

She punched at the hathran’s jaw, and her knuckles cracked the white wooden mask. The mortal witch fell on her rump, and when she lost her concentration, both the pale light inside her and the luminous sickle winked out of existence.

Nyevarra dived on top of the hathran and shoved her down on her back. She tore off the mortal’s mask to expose a plain, square face with finely etched laugh lines, tore aside her cowl too, to finish baring the throat, and then struck like an adder.

For a heartbeat, the hathran struggled. Then she subsided into somnolence, and Nyevarra reveled in the greedy ecstasy of feeding.

It would be so easy to lose oneself and guzzle more and more, especially when the prey had stirred her passions by resisting, indeed, had actually succeeded in wounding her, so she needed blood to stop hurting and recover the full measure of her strength. But she had no idea what else was going on or what danger might even now be preparing to strike at her, and so she forced herself to lift her head and look around.

All was well. Her companions had overwhelmed the lesser hathrans, and apparently without making enough of a stir to alarm anybody else. Nyevarra couldn’t see or hear any sign that anyone was venturing out into the frigid dark to investigate, and she sensed that the assembled fey had watched the fight with a certain curiosity but without caring who won, like men might watch a dogfight.

She looked back down at the priestess of the moon and had to clench herself against the impulse to drink more from the two oozing punctures in her neck. She took a steadying breath, gripped the dazed hathran by her bruised chin, and turned her head so they were looking into one another’s eyes. Then, putting the full force of her will into it, she used her gaze to reinforce the compulsions her bite had already instilled.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Fy … Fyazel,” the hathran whispered.

“And mine is Nyevarra. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fyazel. And you must be pleased to know me, because I’m your whole world now. You’ll love and obey me like you would the mother of your birth, your mothers in witchcraft, and the Moonmaiden herself. Tell me you understand.”

Fyazel swallowed. “Yes. You’re Mother … and Selune … love and obey …”

“Very good, daughter.” Nyevarra climbed off the fallen mortal. “When the weakness passes, you can stand up. Just don’t be alarmed at anything you see. Everything is exactly as it should be.”

So it was. The other vampires were binding the wills of their own new hathran slaves. Because their ability to walk in the sun made it feasible for them to impersonate living witches for extended periods of time, ghouls stripped corpses of their masked, hooded cloaks and other regalia and used charms to clean and mend the bloody rents. Abandoning solid form, or the illusion of it, a leering ghost streamed and swirled into the body of a woman who babbled prayers for deliverance and thrashed in the grips of her undead captors until the possession was complete.

Nyevarra smiled because here was the true beginning of the conquest of Rashemen. From this modest start, she and her sisters would spread their influence through the Wychlaran, the Iron Lord’s court, and the Urlingwood itself, and when their work was finished, the reign of the durthans would begin. Several decades later than originally planned, but the important thing was that it would last forevermore.

Dai Shan knotted the final strip of torn banner, then cocked his head and contemplated his work.

“Well?” Vandar asked.

“I trust the mighty lodge master-”

“My lodge is dead!”

Pleased that the subtle gibe had scored, Dai Shan bowed. “I beseech your pardon for my clumsy speech. I trust the mighty warrior understands that my formal training didn’t encompass griffons. Still, I see reason for hope that I’ve splinted the wing properly. If adjustments are necessary, perhaps Jet himself can guide my efforts when he awakens.”

His fortitude and pride notwithstanding, Aoth Fezim’s steed had lost consciousness midway through Dai Shan’s ministrations. From the Shou’s perspective, it had come as something of a relief. Jet was no mere beast, yet he could display a beast’s ferocity, and Dai Shan had feared that his painful ministrations might elicit a reflexive snap of the griffon’s beak or a slash of his talons.

“All right.” Vandar used the red spear to gesture to the doorway, and a glint of reflected firelight slid along its gleaming length. “Now show me how to open the hidden maze.”

“Noble chieftain, it will be my honor to help you achieve your purposes as expeditiously as may be. Still, is it wise to wander off and leave Jet unattended, particularly when you and I are likewise hurt and exhausted?”

“We can’t leave Cera and Jhesrhi trapped if there’s a chance of getting them out. Move.”

“As you wish.”

Dai Shan had employed his mystical disciplines to diminish the pain of his burns and bruises. Still, he ached as he and Vandar exited the chamber they’d commandeered and descended into the dungeons underneath the ground floor of the Fortress of the Half-Demon. He took care that neither the discomfort nor the resentment it engendered showed in his carriage or his face. The dignity of a Shou gentleman required nothing less.

The appearance of placid serenity could also cause an adversary to relax his guard, and should that occur, perhaps Dai Shan could spin around and rip away the spear the barbarian held poised at his back.

But no. The moment might come when he could rebuke Vandar’s disrespect as it deserved, but for the moment, it would behoove him to remember that he was the one who was injured and that he might actually need the berserker’s help to survive in this pile and the frozen wilderness beyond.

Vandar found a torch to light their way through the depths. Dai Shan could have seen perfectly well without it. That much shadow magic remained to him even in his depleted state. But why say so? The less the barbarian knew about his capabilities, the better.

After the battle for the fortress, the victors had removed human and stag-man bodies for a mass funeral pyre, but the corpses of hobgoblins, trolls, zombies, and even demons still littered the passageways. Picking his way through the mangled remains, Dai Shan led Vandar to a place where a secondary passage ran away from the primary one. The arch at the start of it had three vertical notches at the top.

To Dai Shan’s surprise, Vandar glowered at their surroundings. For some reason, he recognized the spot, and being here apparently stirred an unpleasant memory. “Open it,” he snapped.

Dai Shan briefly considered misdirection to conceal the actual procedure. After all, the trick had worked on Aoth and his compatriots. But they hadn’t expected that particular kind of treachery. Whereas, after hearing the Thayan’s story as relayed by Jet, Vandar surely was on the lookout for it.

So Dai Shan extended three fingers and made a vertical clawing motion. The act was simplicity itself, but it transformed the space beyond the archway.

Where a single passageway had extended to the limits of one’s vision, it now forked, while walls that were formerly smooth and featureless sported a wild profusion of sculpted funeral processions, wreaths, skulls, and other images of mourning and mortality. The darkness itself seemed thicker and, even to a master of shadows, subtly unquiet and malign, like the petals of a carnivorous plant waiting to close on prey. For all his dour toughness, Vandar sucked in a breath at the transformation.

Dai Shan made a second clawing motion, and the tunnel reverted. “You see?” he asked. “I promised to tend the griffon, and I did. I pledged to teach you how to unlock the undead’s hidden paths, and now I’ve done that as well. So dare I hope that the fearless champion is coming to trust me? After all, we have far more reason to join forces and seek bloody vengeance on Mario Bez than to harbor grudges against one another.”

Vandar sneered. “Open up the maze again and show me where you abandoned Cera and Jhesrhi. Then maybe I’ll start trusting you.”

Dai Shan turned his hands up. “Would that I could. But it wasn’t really I who led the ladies, Aoth, and the fey through the arch. It was one of my shadows, lamentably acting on its own initiative and with a shadow’s ruthlessness, and as soon as it entered what I take to be the peculiar demiplane before us, I lost my psychic connection to it.”

Vandar slashed at the air, and the undead’s branching tunnel reappeared. “Then we’re just going to have to hunt for the place. You keep leading the way.”

“With the utmost admiration for your zeal to aid the sunlady and the fire wizard, may I remind you once again that Jet is alone, unconscious-”

“Go!”

Dai Shan bowed slightly and headed for the arch. The air on the other side was cold and stale, and the darkness leeched the brightness from Vandar’s torch until it burned scarcely brighter than an ember.

The gloom smothered sound as well. When Vandar shouted the names of Cera and Jhesrhi, his voice seemed feeble, and the echoes died quickly despite all the stone.

The undead’s tunnels were a somber chaos of sandstone, granite, basalt, and marble, of sarcophagi inside tombs inside greater vaults. Even the most open spaces, graveyards full of worn, leaning headstones and black lakes where moored long-ships awaited lifeless passengers and the touch of a cleric’s torch, lay under arched ceilings instead of open sky.

The maze ran on and on too, branching constantly, until it came to feel impossible and vaguely nauseating that anything so seemingly artificial, so excavated, built, and sculpted, could be so vast. Finally, Dai Shan turned and, as expected, found the red spear still pointed at his torso.

“It would be prudent to turn back,” he said.

“No,” Vandar replied.

“I trust the stalwart warrior realizes how deeply I respect his devotion to his comrades. Still, we’ve found no trace of them, and your torch has burned halfway down. As it stands, we’ll need a modicum of luck to make it back to the mortal world before it dies.”

The Rashemi’s square jaw clenched. “We don’t have to make it all the way back to where we started. We saw other arches and doorways with the three scratches.”

“Which could lead anywhere. As we’ve learned, one of them stranded Captain Fezim in High Thay, and they could deposit us someplace even less convenient. I respectfully urge the valiant swordsman to think.” For once in his ignorant, brutish life.

Vandar scowled. “All right. We’ll go back for now. But I’m not giving up.”

“I never imagined you would.”

Toward the end of the trek back, Vandar’s guttering torch shed scarcely any light. At its dimmest moments, it brought no more sense to the world than the spots and swirls a man saw when he closed his eyes and pressed on the lids.

It was at such a moment that Dai Shan sensed something trailing them back in the murk where the torchlight didn’t reach. The thing was moving so silently that even Vandar’s sharp ears evidently didn’t hear it, but Dai Shan’s hard-earned kinship to darkness enabled him to detect it like a spider feeling vibration in its web.

He turned and found the annoying crimson spear still ready to spit him. “Far be it from a simple merchant,” he said, “to teach a veteran warrior his craft. Yet you might want to point that implement in the opposite direction.”

Vandar glared, but then something in Dai Shan’s voice or manner must have convinced him he ought to pay heed. He pivoted, Dai Shan stepped up beside him, and they faced the blackness together. Yet even so, their stalker nearly took them by surprise.

One moment, Dai Shan sensed it lurking beyond the torchlight. The next, it was gone, replaced by a feeling of pouncing, hurtling motion-a sensation that made no sense whatsoever, considering that no form remained to be in motion.

It took a critical instant, but then Dai Shan realized what he was perceiving. The stalker was translating itself from one patch of darkness to the next. It was magic he could perform himself when he was up to it, but he hadn’t had occasion to observe it from the outside since his youthful training with the shadow masters.

Even as a boy, he hadn’t needed his teachers to explain how to use the spell to best advantage. It had been immediately apparent to him that only a dunce would leap in front of his foes when he could spring in behind them instead.

Dai Shan spun back around to find that the stalker was indeed behind him. Its black shape was a writhing, lashing confusion in the gloom. It could have been a huge, misshapen beetle standing on its hind legs, or perhaps a giant centipede rearing up like a serpent.

Whatever its true form, if it even possessed one, it snatched with several jointed limbs simultaneously. One hooked Vandar’s neck and jerked him flailing backward.

Meanwhile, Dai Shan dodged one such attack, brushed aside another, and stopped a third by catching the skinny limb in his hands. As he started to snap it in two, the contact seared him like the touch of cold metal, and when he completed the action, the sections of broken leg stuck to his fingers. He lashed his arms and flung them loose but lost skin in the process.

More limbs reached for him. He blocked or evaded them as well, but they kept him on the defensive and held him away from the creature’s body. He rattled off words of command that would have cowed any shadow entity he’d raised up himself but had no effect on the murky thing before him.

Something on the floor made a strangled grunt of effort. He looked down and saw that the stalker had pulled Vandar off his feet, hooked him with several of its limbs, and was dragging him forward. His face a mask of fury, the Rashemi struggled to break free but, even berserk, couldn’t manage it.

Dai Shan stamped on the shadow’s limbs, breaking them. The effort made it more difficult to defend against attacks directed at himself, and after another moment, one such snagged his thigh, and the curved claw at the end of the stalker’s arm caught in his flesh. Dai Shan reached to yank it out, and a different thin, articulated limb hooked his wrist.

At the same instant, Vandar bellowed and surged up off the floor. With all the momentum of its brawny, lunging wielder behind it, the red spear plunged through the whipping, snatching, raking limbs to pierce the murky form from which they emanated.

The stalker floundered backward, for an instant, dragging Dai Shan with it. Then, however, it let him go, even the claw caught in the meat of his thigh somehow slipping free.

Or maybe it melted away because the creature was no longer in front of its human foes. Perhaps Vandar’s spear thrust had destroyed it utterly, or perhaps it had vanished to safety in the same way it had leaped in to attack.

Once he was satisfied that the shadow beast was really gone, Vandar panted and leaned on his spear. For a few moments at least, he’d be weak and sick now that the battle fury had run its course.

The Rashemi’s manifest vulnerability made Dai Shan reconsider disposing of him. But nothing fundamental had changed, so the Shou retrieved the fallen torch instead and offered it to his companion.

Vandar grunted. “What was that thing?”

“Some manner of shadow, but unfortunately, one unresponsive to my particular art. The entities I command are animate darkness first and foremost. Our attacker had too much of death-or undeath-in its essence.”

The berserker mulled that over in what was no doubt a futile attempt to understand. Then he said, “You saved my life.”

“If I’m not mistaken, we saved each other’s, and why would we not? In our present circumstances, survival is our first concern.”

“No,” Vandar said, scowling. “Finding Cera and Jhesrhi is our first concern. That, and killing Mario Bez. Help me do those things, and I’ll let you survive.”

Dai Shan had heard offers of truce couched in more amiable terms. But he took it as a positive sign that as they resumed their trek, Vandar no longer held the red spear poised for a thrust at his spine.

3

A thunderstorm was blowing in from the west, and the first flickers of lightning, rumbles of thunder, and cold drops of rain were making the novices uneasy. Each of the little girls was supposed to be trying to commune with the spirit residing in a tree of her choice, but their focus was manifestly wavering as first one and then another glanced around at the shelter the row of lean-tos would afford. Finally, plump, apple-cheeked little Hulmith, who was always the most willful, started in that direction.

“Stop,” Yhelbruna said.

Hulmith froze. Willful she might be, but all the girls were at least a little in awe of their new teacher, the hundred-year-old hathran who figured in so many tales and rumors.

“Why are you giving up on the exercise?” Yhelbruna asked. “Are you afraid of getting wet?”

Hulmith hesitated. “I don’t want to get hit by lightning.”

A couple of the other girls nodded.

“You won’t,” Yhelbruna said, “not here.” She waved her hand in a gesture meant to encompass not just the clearing but the Urlingwood in its entirety. “This is the most sacred earth in all Rashemen. It protects us as we protect it. And to be worthy protectors, you must learn to rejoice in Nature in all its aspects. Everyone, come out from under the branches and lift your faces to the sky. Welcome the storm just as you offered your friendship to the souls of the trees.”

The girls obeyed. Some, however, did so with a trudging reluctance that irked Yhelbruna. She reminded herself that so long as she was young in body, she didn’t want to turn into a grumpy, impatient old crone in spirit, even though she occasionally found the pretense useful.

“Cheer up,” she coaxed, removing her brown leather mask. “This isn’t a punishment. If you give yourself over to it, it will lift up your hearts.”

Certainly, it had always lifted up hers. All her life, she’d loved the cleansing tumult of a storm, and as the lightning flared and the hammering rain stung her upturned face, she felt the old familiar exultation. It gratified her to peek around and see the same joy flowering in the faces of her charges.

Then the clearing blazed white and thunder boomed at the exact same instant. Dazzled, blinking, Yhelbruna saw Hulmith collapse in a steaming heap.

For an instant, she simply gaped at the sheer impossibility of what had just happened while the other girls goggled in horror. Then she started toward Hulmith and her students fled screaming toward the lean-tos.

As if the frantic scrambling had provoked the storm to further malice, more thunderbolts flared down from the clouds. Blasted, more girls burned and fell.

Yhelbruna raised her staff high and cried out to the spirits of the earth, trees, and air. Like much of a hathran’s magic, the spell blended prayer and subtle coercion into a spell capable of calming any entity a witch was likely to encounter within the borders of the holy forest.

But this time, it didn’t work. Raging and hateful, the fey to whom she spoke spurned her flattery and defied her commands with a vehemence that made her head throb. A numbing tingle surged up her legs.

With a gasp, she sat up in her bed. Twisted and tangled, her blankets lay on the floor, and she was cold. But cold was better than lightning-struck, or standing over the bodies of lightning-struck children, and she sighed and slumped to realize the ordeal had only been a nightmare.

Then something boomed, and the heart jolting in her chest, she jumped.

Scowling, she pulled on her mask, rose, moved to the window, and opened the shutters. Wings extended, red and yellow flags flapping, the Storm of Vengeance was flying in from the north. After another moment, one of the enchanted ballistae on its deck hurled a thunderbolt flashing and banging across the blue morning sky.

Mario Bez and his sellswords hadn’t raised such a commotion on the previous occasions when they’d flown into Immilmar. It was a display they’d likely reserved to proclaim themselves victorious.

Yhelbruna felt a twinge of regret. Although her office required impartiality, in her secret heart, she’d hoped Vandar would beat out Bez and his other rivals in the competition for the wild griffons.

But the thing that truly mattered was if someone had ended the threat the undead posed to Rashemen. So, laying her personal feelings aside, she dressed quickly, gripped her staff, and then took a moment to settle dignity and reserve about her like an extra cloak. With that accomplished, she left the whitewashed longhouse that was the Witches’ Hall.

She wasn’t the only one braving the early morning chill. Dozens of curious folk were heading for the spot on the lakeshore where the sellswords customarily set down. Their feet crunched in the snow, and their breath steamed, reminding Yhelbruna momentarily of Hulmith’s body smoking in the dream.

Maybe conversation would distract her from such unpleasant images. She cast around and found Fyazel tramping toward the frozen lake. For some reason, the priestess of Selune was wearing a different mask than usual, a full moon instead of a crescent, but after long years of acquaintanceship, Yhelbruna had no difficulty recognizing her from the way she carried herself.

“Good morning, Sister,” she said.

Fyazel turned. The brown eyes behind the white wooden mask blinked twice, almost as if she didn’t recognize the woman who’d addressed her.

“Are you all right?” Yhelbruna asked.

Fyazel’s eyes narrowed and appeared to focus. “Fine! It’s just that I was up all night communing with the Moonmaiden. Now I have this racket waking me with the dawn.”

They walked on together until they spied brawny, bearded Mangan Uruk striding along with his iron circlet on his head and a number of his warriors hurrying to keep up with him. It might have better befitted the dignity of the Iron Lord to wait for Bez to come to him, but curiosity had evidently superseded protocol.

With a trace of amusement, Yhelbruna realized the same could be said of her. She was likewise an important personage, yet she too, had proved too eager to learn what was happening to stand on ceremony.

She and Fyazel joined the Iron Lord’s party as was their due, and he and the other warriors bowed to them. Then they all continued onward and reached the frozen lake just in time to see the Storm of Vengeance float to earth. The wings folded against the hull as the crewmen cranked the windlasses, while other sellswords worked on deck to lower the sails.

A rope ladder tumbled over the side of the skyship. Mario Bez swarmed down it as nimbly as a squirrel. A middle-aged man who wore his graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, he had a strong, shrewd face marred by a bumpy beak of a nose. As usual, he’d dressed in the red and yellow that were his company colors and armed himself with a rapier and main gauche. The blades were enchanted; they were not only weapons but tools for conjuring as well.

Bez bowed low with a sweeping flourish of his arms that he’d likely learned in some southern court. “Majesty,” he said. “High Lady. I come with good news and a trophy or two as well.”

He waved to the ship. Some of his men lowered sacks on ropes. Others clambered down the ladder to catch the bags and carry them forward.

“If I may?” he asked, and when the Iron Lord inclined his head, the sellswords dumped the contents of the sacks in the snow.

People gasped and flinched, and Yhelbruna understood why. Many of the severed heads were hideous, decayed and deformed, but beyond that, in their plenitude, they radiated a sort of spiritual vileness sufficient to grate on the nerves of even the least sensitive.

Yet the trophies were harmless and inert, dead now in every sense of the word, and she wondered why the sight of them failed to move her to happiness, relief, gratitude, or any emotion Bez might reasonably have expected.

“I could have brought troll and hobgoblin heads too,” the outlander said. “But I figured these were the ones that mattered.”

Yhelbruna supposed they were, indeed. The sellswords had collected the putrescent heads of zombies; the fanged, vaguely canine heads of ghouls; and the naked skulls of animate skeletons, all festering with the lingering residue of undeath. The mercenaries also had the vulturine head of a vrock and the broad, scaly one of a hezrou.

Mangan stooped to inspect the demon heads more closely. It was likely that, despite a lifetime of combat, he’d never seen such entities before. As he straightened up again, he said, “Tell me the tale.”

Bez grinned. “Gladly, Majesty. With the resources at my disposal, I eventually tracked the raiding parties that have been plaguing Rashemen back to their secret stronghold. As it turned out, they’d established themselves in an old castle in the north. I believe your sagas call it the Fortress of the Half-Demon. There, as I mentioned, they were building a genuine army, with goblin-kin and their ilk rallying to their banner. Fortunately, their plans hadn’t progressed so far that the Storm couldn’t put a stop to them, and the creatures won’t bother you again.”

Mangan smiled, sincerely enough but with a hint of rue. “It must have been a glorious battle. I wish I’d been there. Congratulations.” He offered his hand, and Bez shook it.

“I congratulate you as well,” Yhelbruna said. “But why were the undead rising in the first place? What was behind it?”

The Halruaan shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea. My commission was to exterminate the creatures, and I did. Now that the crisis is over, perhaps you and the other wise women can look into the underlying cause.”

“I’m sure they can,” Mangan said. “But first, we’ll have feasting and games to celebrate your victory.”

“Thank you,” said Bez. “You honor us. But I hope that first before anything, I can claim my prize. This morning, if possible.”

The Iron Lord cocked his head. “Right now, in other words? Surely you and your warriors are tired.”

“Of course,” Bez replied. “But we traveled far in the dead of winter to obtain the griffons. Then we fought what turned out to be a challenging little campaign across the length and breadth of this land. In our place, wouldn’t you be eager for your reward, no matter how weary you were?”

“I suppose so,” Mangan said. He turned to Yhelbruna. “Are you prepared to work your part of the magic?”

She hesitated for a heartbeat without quite knowing why. Then she told him, “Yes.”

“Then I guess we’re all going to hike a little farther in the snow.”

Some of Bez’s sellswords joined the procession as it headed northeast. Yhelbruna recognized Melemer, a sly-looking little tiefling warlock with stubby horns, yellow eyes, and a cabalistic ring on every finger; Olthe, a priestess of Tempus the Foehammer as broad-shouldered and burly as many a berserker; and Sandrue, a plump, jolly-looking fellow with a scraggy, goatish beard, who, as his belt of pouches for spell components and the bronze sickle hanging from it attested, was versed in both arcane and druidic mysteries. He was the beast master Bez was counting on to control the griffons well enough to get them back to Yaulazna for proper training.

As they all left Immilmar behind, Yhelbruna asked, “Where’s Dai Shan? Didn’t he accompany you the last time you flew out of town?”

Perhaps, for an instant, a subtle tightening of Bez’s mouth bespoke irritation, but then his face was all affability again, a mask as effective in its way as any witch’s. “If we weren’t all friends here, I might almost wonder if you hathrans spy on your guests.”

“You can understand why we’d take an interest in those on whom we depended to perform a vital task.”

“Of course. And unfortunately, that’s the part of my news that isn’t joyous. The Shou perished during the battle. When I have a chance, I’ll inform his retainers and write a letter of condolence for them to take back to his kin.”

“What about Captain Fezim, the sun priestess, and the wizard? And Vandar Cherlinka and the Griffon Lodge? They all ventured forth to find and destroy the undead too, but they haven’t returned.”

Bez shook his head. “I wish I knew, but we saw no trace of them. It’s unfortunately possible the undead killed them before the Storm found and destroyed the creatures in their turn, but I hope not. I hope they’re simply wandering the countryside trying to pick up a trail and will turn up in due course.”

The rasping cry of a griffon split the frigid air. A number of the creatures were circling within their invisible cage, a weave of magical compulsions constraining them to a certain patch of hilly ground. The bell jar-like space was as huge as Yhelbruna and her sister witches had been able to make it, but it was still obvious the magnificent creatures hated their confinement, and even knowing that she’d acted in accordance with the will of the Three, seeing their restlessness gave her a twinge of guilt.

The hathran currently watching the beasts wore a white robe trimmed with green and a silver mask with a single short horn jutting from the center of the forehead to signify her devotion to the Forest Queen. Dispensing with decorum like everyone else this morning, she hurried to greet the procession with the several berserkers Mangan had assigned to attend her striding along behind.

“We all saw the skyship and heard the thunderclaps,” she said. “Is it time?”

Yhelbruna supposed that with Mario Bez right beside her, the only courteous answer was yes. Still, some grudging impulse made her say, “We’ll find out,” instead.

She glanced around, but as she’d expected, the particular griffon she sought wasn’t one of the few on the ground. She peered up at the creatures soaring and circling overhead until she made out one that gleamed like gold in the sun.

She pointed to it. “That one is the leader. Control him, and you control the pride. Well enough to take them south, anyway.”

The beast master nodded. “I understand.”

“I hope so. I imposed my will on him when Vandar and I found him in the High Country, and my magic has controlled him ever since. I’ll have to loosen my bonds so you can create yours.”

“That shouldn’t pose a problem.”

“One more thing. The golden griffon is a telthor-a spirit animal, and sacred to the goddesses. I understand the requirements when one lays an enchantment on any creature. Yet even so, it would be blasphemous for you to use a spell that inflicts pain or reflects a lack of reverence.”

Sandrue pulled the bronze sickle from the loop that attached it to his belt and hefted it for her inspection. “My lady, I understand that among your folk, the men don’t study spellcasting. But I wouldn’t have this instrument if I weren’t an initiate in mysteries comparable to your own.”

“So let’s get on with it,” said Bez.

With an effort of will, Yhelbruna thrust the nagging reluctance out of her mind and so achieved the pure intent magic demanded. She locked her gaze on the golden griffon and chanted while shifting her staff from side to side in choppy mystic passes.

As the incantation proceeded, the completion of each rhyme removed another bit of compulsion from the golden griffon’s mind like she was picking stitches out of a piece of sewing. The invisible cage would still confine the telthor because that was an enchantment she and other hathrans had laid on the ground itself, but in other respects, he was becoming increasingly free to act in accordance with his instincts.

Or rather, he would have if she were the only person working magic. But to give him his due, Sandrue started conjuring exactly when she would have chimed in herself, and brandishing the sickle, murmuring contrapuntally, he replaced her coercions with his own.

She finished her working, and he finished his own a few breaths later by slashing the sickle through the air, pressing the flat of the curved blade to his lips, and then touching it to his heart. Then he screeched like a griffon himself.

The pride leader answered, furled his wings, and swooped toward the ground.

People cringed or cried out, partly because a dangerous animal was plunging down at them, but also because, once he came close enough, it didn’t take a hathran to recognize how marvelous he was.

It wasn’t just the golden plumage, unique as that was among the brown- and bronze-feathered kindred. It was the blazing sapphire eyes and his hugeness. With the possible exception of Aoth Fezim’s steed-the product, Yhelbruna had gleaned, of arcane tampering over multiple generations-she’d never seen a griffon so manifestly graced with preternatural strength and vigor.

The telthor lit in the snow fifteen paces in front of Yhelbruna, Sandrue, and the people clustered behind them. The blue eyes glared, and for a moment, like mice frozen in front of a cat, no one moved or made a sound.

Then Sandrue smiled and said, “You honor us, hunter. What’s your name, I wonder?”

“Whatever I decide to call him,” said Mario Bez.

Sandrue hesitated, plainly torn between the wish to avoid irritating his commander and the need to assert his own esoteric expertise. “Such a special creature already has a true name-”

“Fine,” said Bez. “Puzzle it out and let me know. Meanwhile, is it safe to approach him?”

“It should be,” Sandrue replied.

“Good.” The sellsword captain eased forward. “Griffon, we’re going to have some wonderful times together. People tell me your kind relish horseflesh. Well, we’re going to lands where horses-”

The golden beast crouched as though poising himself to spring. At the same instant, Yhelbruna had a sudden sense of bonds slipping and dropping away. Overhead, other griffons called to one another.

Registering the change in the pride leader’s stance, Bez halted. “Is it still safe?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the beast.

“No,” Sandrue said. “Back away-”

With a snap of his wings, the golden griffon pounced.

Bez leaped to the side. Yhelbruna rattled off the first words of a spell.

Splashing up snow, the golden griffon thumped down beside the sellsword captain and spun toward him. Bez was snatching for his rapier but didn’t have it out yet and likely wouldn’t be able to dodge again with the huge beast right on top of him.

But as the golden griffon started to snatch with his talons, Yhelbruna finished her incantation and jabbed her staff at the beast.

Discernible even in the sunlight, seeming for an instant to set the snow on fire, glare burst into being around the griffon, and the telthor faltered and screeched. Likewise caught in the effect, Bez was probably just as dazzled but had the presence of mind to retreat, finish drawing his sword, and point it at the beast. A coating of frost flowed into existence from the base of the long, narrow blade to the point.

A second griffon hurtled toward the folk on the ground. Melemer snarled grating words of power in some demonic tongue, and a javelin made of red-hot iron shimmered into being in his hand. Gripping it without apparent discomfort, he cast it, and it streaked upward and completely through the plunging animal’s wing. The griffon screamed and leveled off.

Apparently Bez had recovered enough of his sight to make out what had just happened. “Curse it, no!” he bellowed. “Don’t hurt the beasts!” Meanwhile, though, he kept his rapier pointed at the golden griffon and drew his dagger as well. Little flares of lighting arched and crackled up and down the smaller blade.

Understandably, with more griffons orienting on the folk on the ground, folk they suddenly felt free to treat as enemies and prey, nobody else was much more inclined to heed Bez’s command than he was acting in accordance with it himself. The Iron Lord whipped out his sword, and his honor guard did the same. Homely, mannish Olthe lifted her battle-axe.

Not that any of it was likely to matter very much. Mangan and his warriors were formidable, and Yhelbruna assumed that Bez and his underlings were too. But they hadn’t been prepared for this, and the griffons had them considerably outnumbered.

The golden griffon pivoted in her direction, and she chanted another spell. The creature crouched and spread his wings, but before he could spring, she reached the end of her incantation, jabbed with her staff, and a huge spider web flickered into existence to cover the beast and hold it to the ground. The mesh appeared a strand at a time but all in the blink of an eye, as though an invisible arachnid were weaving it fast as lightning.

Yhelbruna immediately began another incantation, this one intended to begin reinstating the coercions she’d removed only moments before. Meanwhile, the golden griffon strained, biting, lashing his wings, and heaving back and forth, and his sharp beak and prodigious might snapped the sticky strands of webbing two and three at a time.

She could tell the telthor would break free before she completed even a frantic, abbreviated version of the first of the spells that had bound it before. But as the last of the webbing parted, Fyazel extended an oaken wand and shouted words of command.

Despite her desperate circumstances, Yhelbruna felt a flicker of surprise. Every spellcaster had a unique style, and over the course of many years and group workings, she’d become familiar with Fyazel’s. Although she couldn’t say precisely what, something about the other hathran’s delivery seemed different.

But then again, she and Fyazel had never been together in a life-or-death emergency before, and the important thing was that the priestess of the moon was trying to help. Yhelbruna wrenched her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

On the final syllable of Fyazel’s spell, gray vapor puffed into being around the golden griffon. The mist dispersed instantly, but, stunned, the telthor faltered long enough for Yhelbruna to complete her own magic. The golden griffon let out a screech and stood rigid and shuddering.

She restored her original coercions one at a time, linking and layering them as though she were weaving another sort of web. It was only when she felt the strands draw tightly that she dared to look away and see what else was going on.

To her relief, the other griffons had broken off the attack. But three of the curious folk who’d wandered forth from Immilmar to witness the claiming of the beasts lay in pieces in patches of bloody snow. So did a griffon, at Mangan’s feet. All of it was a waste, a tragedy, and an affront to the deities who’d given the winged creatures to Rashemen in anticipation of its hour of need.

Bez peered around the same way Yhelbruna was, making sure the fight was really over. Then, scowling, his face a mottled crimson, he advanced on Sandrue.

“Captain!” the beast master said. “Please! I’m sorry!”

The sellsword captain took a long breath. Sparks danced and crackled on the main gauche.

Then he said, “The hathran, prompted by a very proper regard for the griffon and all he represents, instructed you to be gentle with him. But what if you’re less gentle? Will you then be able to do your job?”

If Sandrue hesitated, it was only for an instant. “Yes, Captain.”

Bez turned to Mangan and gave him an apologetic smile. “Well, then, Majesty, it seems the course is clear.”

“No,” Yhelbruna said.

The sellsword frowned. “Lady, with respect, you were the one who set the price for the griffons, and my men and I have paid it. I’m sure neither the Wychlaran nor the Iron Lord are so dishonorable that they’d try to renege on the agreement, no matter what measures are required to fulfill it.”

“You misunderstand,” she said. “There was nothing wrong with Sandrue’s magic. It failed because the spirits wouldn’t allow it to succeed. And that can only be because the threat to Rashemen isn’t over.”

“That’s preposterous,” Bez replied. He shifted his gaze back to Mangan. “I brought you proof of my victory. Surely a warrior found it convincing even if a priestess doesn’t.”

Mangan scowled and scratched at his close-cropped black beard with its sprinkling of white. “Hathran, do you actually hear the spirits telling you the danger isn’t over? Or are you guessing?”

Yhelbruna hesitated. “I’m interpreting what we all just experienced.”

“Then … you know I respect you, and where this matter is concerned, I’ve done what you wanted at every step along the way. But now, Captain Bez has a point. Perhaps fair dealing requires us to release the griffons even if it requires some rough handling for our guests to take possession.”

“ ‘Rough handling’ or no, the druid will fail as he failed before.”

“Maybe not if you don’t use your own magic to thwart him,” Bez said, and then, before she could respond: “I apologize. That was a rude and, I’m sure, baseless thing to say. But, Iron Lord, all I ask is that Sandrue be allowed another try.”

“If he is,” Yhelbruna said, “it’s likely more people and griffons will die, and we’ll be flouting what we now discern to be the will of the Three.”

“What you claim to ‘discern,’ ” little Melemer murmured, just loud enough to make himself heard while still pretending he didn’t mean to be.

Frowning, Mangan wiped the blood from his broadsword. It was his way of giving himself a moment to ponder, and Yhelbruna had an unpleasant feeling she knew where his deliberations were leading.

She supposed she could simply order him to do what she wanted. She was a Witch of Rashemen, and generally deemed one of the wisest and most powerful. In theory, she stood above any male.

But in practice, matters weren’t always that simple. Every Rashemi, including herself, respected Mangan, and in the matter of the griffons and the menace of the undead, she’d consistently overruled his seemingly sensible advice. She didn’t want to appear unreasonable and high-handed yet again. She needed his respect if they were to work together to protect the land.

So she too, pondered, and then something occurred to her, or perhaps some kindly spirit whispered in her ear. “I just realized something curious,” she said.

“What?” the Iron Lord replied.

“Captain Bez told us about the great battle he fought. But I don’t see any wounds on him or any of these sellswords. I didn’t notice any on those we left back in town either. Or scars on the hull of the skyship.”

Mangan’s brow furrowed. “Now that you mention it, neither did I.”

Bez smiled. “You can attribute that to the advantages afforded by a flying vessel with enchanted artillery and a complement of spellcasters. We can rain destruction on foes who often have no way of striking back. It’s not a particularly sporting way to fight, but as I’m sure Your Majesty will agree, war isn’t a game.”

“I’ve been to war myself,” Yhelbruna said, “so I certainly agree. Just as I’m sure the Iron Lord will agree that creatures ensconced in a castle like the Fortress of the Half-Demon would, if bombarded from above, take shelter inside the donjons and dungeons. Even the crew of a skyship would have to come down to earth and fight them at close quarters to really clean them out.”

Bez shrugged. “My men are good at their work, and I remind you again, High Lady, you’re the one who told everybody else your goddesses and spirits wanted this chore attended to. Perhaps they graced us with their blessings.”

Mangan sheathed his sword, and the cross guard clicked against the gold at the mouth of the scabbard. “We’ll do this. Captain, you and your men will take the rest you acknowledge you need. Yhelbruna will further inquire into the will of the spirits through prayer and ritual. I’ll find out if any reports come in from the countryside to indicate that there are still undead running loose. And we’ll see where we are a few days hence. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Yhelbruna said.

Bez smiled a crooked smile. “It seems I have little choice.” He blew on the forte of his rapier blade, and the coating of frost melted in a puff of steam.

A populous town stood around the base of the ancient fortress called the Citadel to serve the needs of those who dwelled therein, but the cobbled streets, slippery with filthy slush, seemed half-deserted after sundown. That was because sentient undead, an accepted element of society in the Thay of Aoth’s early years but the true elite in the realm that had arisen in the wake of the Spellplague, stalked the night in plenitude while mortals with weak nerves or good sense stayed behind closed doors.

Still, it wasn’t passing within a few paces of the creatures’ withered, linen-wrapped, or alabaster faces that made Aoth edgy. He’d grown grimly accustomed to the undead in all their eeriness fighting the War of the Zulkirs, and he’d slipped incognito into a fair number of enemy towns and strongholds in his time. It was the proximity of the Citadel itself-its tallest spire stabbing the night sky like a blade-that wore on his nerves.

He scowled and told himself to calm down. He didn’t even know that Szass Tam was in residence. The lich could be anywhere in Thay or in all of Faerun, for that matter, and even if he was nearby, he surely had better things to do than cast around for an enemy who shouldn’t have been anywhere near his dominions in the first place.

Still, one of Faerun’s preeminent wizards might possess occult means of sensing all sorts of things. And when Szass Tam had set about the final slaughter of his foes, Aoth was the one fish who’d slipped the net.

The blurry, luminous ghost of a young woman silently sauntered toward Aoth and Orgurth. At first, like a sleepwalker, the phantom seemed oblivious to their presence. Then, suddenly, she rounded on them, and her transparent face brightened with an exaggerated smile of surprise and delight. She opened her arms, inviting an embrace.

Aoth felt a lustful urge to kiss her. He touched one of his tattoos through his mail, and the resulting tingle of protective magic cleared his head. Orgurth, however, started forward.

For want of a subtler remedy, Aoth grabbed the orc and shook him. Orgurth struggled for a moment and then relaxed in his grip.

That still left the problem of the ghost, who, in this new Thay even more than in the old, was free to chastise commoners who refused her attentions in any way she liked. Fortunately, though, she simply laughed-her mirth was silent, but Aoth could feel it chiming in his head-and drifted on her way.

“By the Black Hand,” Orgurth growled. “What was it going to do to me?”

Aoth shrugged. “Age you a thousand years? Eat your soul? Something unpleasant. Keep moving.”

They prowled onward, and then he felt Jet’s mind reaching out across the hundreds of miles separating them. It wasn’t an ideal time for a palaver, but he was eager for one anyway. Because of his injuries, the griffon had recently spent so much time sleeping that their communication had been infrequent.

Dividing his attention, still watching the street for danger, Aoth answered, I’m here. How are you?

As I’ve told you. The burns are healing slowly. In their way.

Aoth frowned at the sense of despondency underlying the words. Weeping Ilmater, what’s the matter with you? You’ve been wounded before.

Not like this, and when it was bad, I always reached a healer quickly. If it turns out I’m never going to fly-

Curse it, just stop! We’ll get you healed, and meanwhile, you just have to put up with the pain and be my eyes, ears, and voice in Rashemen. Now stop whining and tell me what’s going on.

It took Jet a moment to answer, but when he did, he sounded a little more like himself. Vandar and Dai Shan go into the maze twice a day. They still haven’t found any trace of Jhesrhi or Cera. I need to start searching too.

Only when you’re ready.

If Jhesrhi and your mate need me-

I know how you feel. But they can take care of themselves, and you can’t do anybody any good by setting back your recovery.

You don’t know what it’s like to just lie here-

Yes, I do. From back when the Blue Fire blinded me, before my eyes adjusted. So I’ll say it again: stop whining. Tell me about Dai Shan. Has he raised a shadow and sent it running back to Immilmar?

Not yet, Jet answered. He claims that even before we were wounded, he stretched that particular talent to the breaking point. He says that if he tried to use it again right now, he might become one of the “Shadowless,” whatever that means.

A patrol of zombie warriors with glowing amber eyes came marching down the street. Aoth and Orgurth ceded them the center of the street, and the creatures only gave them a cursory glance before continuing on their way.

At the same time, Aoth continued his psychic conversation: Well, Dai Shan’s messenger likely doesn’t matter anymore anyway. By now, Bez has probably taken charge of the griffons and flown south, in which case, our revenge will have to wait. Maybe, come spring, we can find out who the Storm of Vengeance is fighting for and sell the Brotherhood’s services to the other side. Then we’ll kill the treacherous son of a dog on the battlefield.

If I hadn’t provoked him into casting fire at me, or done a better job of dodging-

Stop it! You haven’t done anything idiotic, and neither have I. We’ve just had rotten luck. But I’ll be with you soon-in fact, I’m working on it now-and then we’ll put everything right. Understand?

Jet hesitated, and Aoth could feel the griffon’s urge to make a sardonic reply. But what he said was, Yes.

Good. Rest now, and we’ll talk again later.

He and Jet allowed their psychic linkage to attenuate, although it didn’t break entirely, as it never could so long as they were both alive and in the same world. He could still sense the griffon’s presence in somewhat the same way that, if he chose to pay attention to it, he could feel his right hand at the end of his arm.

“Bad news?” Orgurth murmured. He’d learned to recognize when Aoth was communing with his distant familiar, and apparently he’d also marked a grim cast to his companion’s expression.

Aoth had avoided confiding much information or even his full name to Orgurth lest even a runaway slave succumb to the temptation to betray a notorious enemy of the realm to the authorities in hopes of a lavish reward. Still, the colloquy with Jet had left him with feelings that needed to come out somehow.

“One of my best friends,” he growled, “is so badly hurt he fears being crippled forevermore, and he’s coping with the prospect about as well as you or I would in his place. My foster daughter and the woman I love are caught in a magical trap. A foe is making off with a treasure that’s rightfully mine. So yes, I think you could fairly say the news is bad.”

Orgurth grunted. “Well, then, we’d better go set it all to rights.”

It was the same confident attitude-indeed, couched in almost the same words-that Aoth had sought to convey for the sake of Jet’s morale, and being on the receiving end of the same treatment tugged a smile out of him. “True enough. Or at least I’d better. You’re still free to go your own way.”

The orc snorted. “And where would that way lead, I wonder, the whipping post, the rack, or the gallows? Maybe all three!”

“Well, there is that. And for what it’s worth, when we’re clear of Thay, you’ll be better than free. I can make you a soldier again. If that’s what you want.”

Orgurth grinned. “In that case, why are we dawdling?”

In fact, they weren’t. But while still trying to look like innocent folk abroad on legitimate business, they were approaching the chapterhouse, a four-story stone structure at the end of a dead-end street, with a certain circumspection. It would have been foolish to approach a structure full of Red Wizards in any other way.

The chapterhouses of Aoth’s youth had served the needs of one or another of the orders of Red Wizardry. The one ahead had been the property to the Order of Conjuration, as the reaching and beckoning hand symbols carved above the arched front entrance attested.

And the summoners, creators, and their brothers would no doubt claim exclusive rights to it still, except that the orders and the specialized studies that supported them had passed into memory when the Spellplague changed the nature of magic itself. Now all Red Wizards held all chapterhouses in common as sanctuaries where they could fraternize with their own kind, collaborate on projects of mutual interest, or secure accommodations free of charge when traveling from one place to another.

Steady magical illumination shined through the translucent horn windows to gleam on snow gray from a fall of ash. Hoping any observer would take them for some Red Wizard’s bodyguards, Aoth and Orgurth tramped across the little yard but veered off from the high bronze door with its stylized representations of flame, cold, wind, and other fundamental forces. No one would think it odd if mere men-at-arms who weren’t presently attending their master used the servants’ entrance around back.

Somebody was likely watching that door to make sure no one came in who wasn’t supposed to. But a person had to move through the darkness along the side of the house to pass from the front to the back, and like the facade, the side had a row of windows in it.

Some of those glowed as well, and muffled snatches of conversation, laughter, and even a mournful song with harp accompaniment leaked through from the other side. Two windows, though, had only gloom and silence behind them.

But unfortunately, as Aoth and Orgurth drew near, intricate designs of scarlet phosphorescence abruptly shined from the light and dark casements alike. The phenomenon looked like threads of fire had started burning inside the horn panes themselves.

Oblivious to the radiant sigils, Orgurth raised a hand to the first of the dark windows. “Don’t touch it!” whispered Aoth. “There’s a glyph.”

Orgurth snatched his hand back, then spit in the snow. “Here’s an idea. How about if you and your truesight don’t wait till the last instant to warn me next time?”

“I spoke up the moment it appeared.”

“If you say so. So what about the glyph? Can you get us past it?”

Aoth grunted. “You’ve already seen this isn’t my specialty. But I recognize the ward. I’ve breached it before. We’ll see what happens.”

He released a bit of the power he’d recently restored to his spear, murmured words of negation, and scratched a sign of his own on the casement Orgurth had nearly touched. The razor-sharp enchanted spearhead marked the horn as easily as a quill writing on parchment, and the red glyph deformed as the lines composing it writhed like spasmodic snakes, then vanished entirely.

“That wiped it away,” he said. “Now I just need a second charm to make the casement unlatch itself.”

Orgurth frowned. “That didn’t work so well on So-Remas’s secret cupboard.”

“True. But your former master’s approach to foiling thieves was to hide and lock up his valuables very well. The mage who enchanted these windows thought it would be more amusing to burn a burglar’s hands off. Now that we’ve eliminated that snare, we could probably just pry the casement open. But why risk the noise?” He whispered a charm, spun his hand in a flourish that ended with a twist like he was turning an invisible key, and the window popped open just a little.

Aoth put his eye to the crack and peered into a dark, unoccupied room containing a stained table with built-in manacles, a cold hearth with a rack of pokers and branding irons next to it, and shelves laden with thumbscrews, flaying knives, choke pears, and similar implements. Faded paintings of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, smiled from the walls.

Aoth glanced back at Orgurth. “It looks like you get that trip to the torture chamber after all. But if Lady Luck smiles, only for as long as it takes to cross the room.”

Ever since she was a little girl, Cera had liked staring into a fire and looking for pictures in the flames. Perhaps it reflected her affinity for that greatest of fires, the sun itself.

Even under normal circumstances, the pastime could produce a sort of trance. And when a twinge in her thigh, the result of sitting cross-legged for too long on cold, hard stone, recalled her to her senses, she realized she’d lost all track of how long she’d been watching the halo of blue and yellow flames flickering around Jhesrhi’s body.

That was worrisome-no sane person would want to lose awareness of her surroundings in an environment as dangerous as the deathways-but more worrisome still was the fact that when she grunted and stretched out her leg, Jhesrhi, sitting with her back against an intricately carved marble bier and her brazen staff cradled in her fiery hands, didn’t react in any way.

“Jhesrhi?” Cera asked.

The wizard still didn’t respond, although her corona of flame nearly gave the illusion of movement even as it set shadows dancing.

“Jhesrhi, please, talk to me.”

But the tall woman didn’t speak, and Cera abruptly recalled another childhood memory. When she was eight, she and her friends had stood and watched a merchant’s house burn down. One of the things that had impressed her was the way the blaze devoured it more or less from the inside out, leaving the hollowed-out shell that was the exterior for last.

She wondered if she was looking at a similar process now.

No, surely not! But still, it suddenly felt imperative to rouse Jhesrhi without further delay, and as an alternative to sticking her hand into the other woman’s corona of flame, she poked her in the ribs with the butt of her gilded mace.

Jhesrhi didn’t react.

Truly worried now, Cera pulled the cork from her water bottle and dashed the contents into Jhesrhi’s stern but lovely face. The liquid sizzled and puffed into steam.

Awareness surged back into the mage’s expression. Unfortunately, rage arrived with it and she bared her teeth in a snarl. She raised her staff, and flame roared up from the head of it.

Cera scrambled backward. Alarmed by the sudden motion, the bells in their antlers chiming, stag men scrambled up and then hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

Jhesrhi floated to her feet like a wisp of ash wafting up from a bonfire. She drew breath, perhaps to begin an incantation.

“Don’t!” Cera said. “It’s me!”

Jhesrhi’s golden eyes widened. Then the flame on the end of her staff burned lower, while those cloaking her body went out entirely. The dwindling of the light made the darkness draw in like a fist closing.

“I’m sorry,” Jhesrhi said. “For a moment, I … did you throw water on me? You shouldn’t have. The fire didn’t like it.”

“You were in a daze-for a while, we both were-and I couldn’t wake you. I was worried.”

“Then I don’t blame you, but … never mind.”

“We need light”-by the Keeper, how they needed it! — “but I don’t want you to squander all your strength making it. I can do my share.”

“When you conjure sunlight, it truly does use up some of your magic. Whereas when I just let the fire come out of me, it makes me feel better.”

“So would wine, but you wouldn’t drink yourself insensible with enemies nearby, and this maze is as dangerous as any battlefield. If we don’t keep our wits about us, it will hurt us.”

“Why, sunlady, what a distressing thing for an honored guest to say about my home.”

Startled by the new voice, Cera jerked around. Sarshethrian sauntered out of the darkness.

As always, his vileness set her teeth on edge, and her separation from the Yellow Sun, barely discernible even as a spiritual presence, made his proximity even harder to bear. But on this occasion, curiosity distracted her somewhat from her reflexive loathing. That was because he had a prisoner tangled in the cloud of his writhing shadow tentacles, which were apparently capable of hauling such a burden along without slowing or otherwise inconveniencing him.

The captive was a ghoul, with the gaunt, stooped frame; gray, rotting flesh; and protuberant, fanged jaws of his kind. But unlike the average graveyard scavenger, he wore a clean leather jerkin, breeches, and boots fit for a courtier. A curved line of oblong silver studs defined a reversed S shape above his heart.

“This,” Sarshethrian said, “is Gosnorn, an old acquaintance of mine who joined the Eminence of Araunt early on, long before Lod decided to betray me. He’s a resourceful fellow, and so his master uses him to carry messages.”

“Messages to and from Rashemen?” Cera asked.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Sarshethrian said. “We’ll know when he sees fit to enlighten us.”

Gosnorn made a savage, snapping, flailing attempt to rip his captor with fang and claw, but the shadow bonds kept him from even getting close. “I won’t tell you anything!” he snarled.

“Oh, I think you might,” Sarshethrian answered. “You must have noticed that my new allies here differ considerably from the vermin who caught you. The woman with the mace is a servant of one of those ‘gods’ you’ve surely heard tell of. She can make holy sunlight shine anywhere, even here. Her friend with the staff has a similar connection to fire. All of which is my roundabout way of saying that if you thought your numb, dead flesh could withstand any excruciation I could bring to bear, you were mistaken.”

Cera glowered at the fiend. “Hold on. Jhesrhi and I aren’t torturers. That was never part of the bargain.”

Sarshethrian sighed. “Must I argue with you about every little thing? If you encountered a ghoul wandering around in your own world, you’d smite it without a second thought.”

“I’d lay it to rest as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t cause it needless suffering.”

“Well, then, let me put it to you this way. How badly do you want to help Rashemen? Or return there before your bond to Amaunator rots away entirely, and your mind and spirit rot along with it? Because actually, you were right before. Mortals don’t belong in the deathways and can’t afford to bide here for long.”

Jhesrhi stepped forward with flame dancing on her hand and flowing on up her staff. “You don’t have to do it, Cera. I will.”

She probably could too, and perhaps without it troubling her conscience. Aoth commanded the Brotherhood of the Griffon with a disdain for gratuitous cruelty that he chose to think of as “professionalism.” Still, Cera was certain that, first as the child slave of marauding giants and then as a sellsword, Jhesrhi had watched if not conducted torture before.

Yet eager as she was to be excused, Cera didn’t want Jhesrhi tormenting the ghoul in her place, especially if it wouldn’t bother Jhesrhi. The thought of the wizard feeling nothing as Gosnorn shrieked and thrashed, or perhaps if she even enjoying the dance of the flames, was disquieting.

“Thank you,” Cera said, “truly. But if it must be done, I’ll do it. Maybe divine magic will get it done faster.”

Sarshethrian leered. “Excellent. Then perhaps the fey can hold Gosnorn while we question him.” He likely didn’t want to be close to the ghoul while Cera evoked the Keeper’s light lest it sear him as well.

Jhesrhi spoke to the stag men in Elvish. They gingerly approached the pale demon in his haze of writhing, ragged shadow; gripped Gosnorn; wrestled him down on top of a sarcophagus; and held him spread-eagled.

Cera told herself she had to do what she was about to undertake for the sake of countless decent, living people, and had to do it too, to be reunited with Aoth. She silently asked the Keeper’s forgiveness, anyway then poised her mace over Gosnorn’s body.

“Please,” she said. “Just tell us. Spare yourself the pain.”

The undead messenger spit at her, but thick and brown in the wavering light of Jhesrhi’s fire, the spittle fell short.

“Do your worst, sunlady,” Gosnorn said, and sarcasm turned the title into a jibe. “By all means, do it to oblige one who’s more of a foe to your kind and your god than I’ll ever be.”

Cera took a breath, then reached out through what felt like an infinity of frigid darkness for the warmth and light of the Yellow Sun. It was difficult to draw down even a modest amount, but in this grim circumstance, maybe that was good. She didn’t want to unleash too much power at once and burn the prisoner to ash.

The spiky gilded head of the mace glowed from within, and even that was enough to make Gosnorn avert his face and close his sunken eyes. When she sent the magic blazing down at him, he howled and bucked, and the stag men nearly lost their grips on him. Mottled with spots of rot and mold, his skin smoked and charred.

He cursed and reviled her afterward, though, and for several flares after that, until his hide was riddled with black-edged holes, the air stank of burned flesh, and she felt too sick to her stomach and full of self-hatred to continue. Then she realized he’d finally stopped straining to break free of the stag men and spit sludge onto her vestments. Instead, he was simply shuddering.

“Now then,” Sarshethrian said as, his withered arm cradled to his chest, he approached the prisoner, “tell us all about it.”

Gosnorn hesitated. “Promise to set me free.”

The pale man gave Cera a crooked smile. “I thought you had him convinced, but I see I’m too impatient. Please, continue your ministrations.”

“No!” Gosnorn said. “I’ll tell! It’s Lod! I’m supposed to tell Uramar the prophet is coming to Rashemen!”

His single eye widening, Sarshethrian hesitated. For the first time since he’d accosted Cera and Jhesrhi, the fiend seemed genuinely surprised, if not astonished.

After a moment, he said, “You can’t mean across the ocean by ship and then overland. That would take forever. If he wanted to come, Lod too, would journey via the deathways.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s how I know you’re lying! He hasn’t entered my domain since the night I escaped his death trap. He’ll send fools like you to sneak and scurry through, run his errands, and perish when their luck runs out, but he’s too cowardly to come himself.”

Despite the agonies he’d undergone and the pain that surely lingered, Gosnorn managed another snarl. “He’s not a coward! He’s our champion! Our liberator!”

“What a sad misreading of history. But I don’t suppose it’s worth the time to rebut it. We should stick to the business at hand. Convince me that Lod is on his way. Otherwise, this lady will bring back the sunlight.”

The ghoul hesitated, then said, “He doesn’t tell me everything.”

Sarshethrian nodded. “I realize that.”

“Still, some of it’s not hard to figure out. Faerun is a whole new continent for the Eminence to conquer, and the way I understand it, Rashemen is a special part of Faerun. The fey are stronger there, and if we take control of the place and combine its magic with our own, we’ll have a mighty weapon.”

“In other words,” Jhesrhi said, “Lod has decided the mission there is so important that he ought to oversee it in person.” Consideration of a would-be conqueror’s strategy appeared to have focused her mind. Her speech was as quick and her manner as brusque as they’d been during the campaign to conquer Thesk.

Cera looked to Sarshethrian. “What do you think now?” she asked. “Does it sound any more plausible?”

The lord of the deathways cocked his head and stroked his chin in contemplation while his corona of ragged shadow whipped and coiled. At length, he said, “You know, I believe it does. Rashemen surely is important to Lod, and if I must be honest, his agents like Gosnorn slip through the deathways safely more often than not. I can imagine him deciding to run the risk.”

“So we ambush him,” Jhesrhi said.

Sarshethrian smiled. “My very thought.”

Stretched human skins decorated the walls of the game room, and someone had covered each with elegant calligraphy. Reading one, Aoth discovered the biography of a clerk who’d sought to embezzle funds from the quarrying business owned by a certain Red Wizard. The account was full of extravagant praise for the thief’s cleverness and audacity.

A second skin related the tale of a smith who’d maintained a secret shrine to Kossuth in his home. Here, the ironic expressions of admiration centered on the martyr’s piety and courageous determination to follow the faith of his forefathers.

Aoth too, offered to the Lord of Flames on occasion, and the mockery made him scowl. Then Orgurth, who was watching the door, murmured, “A wizard’s coming.”

Aoth turned, bowed, and kept his hooded head lowered thereafter. In Thay, a land where a fair number of folk bore a trace of inhuman blood, his luminous blue eyes were less noteworthy than in many another realm. Still, it was far from impossible that some observant and well-informed mage would recognize the notorious “traitor” Captain Fezim, especially if allowed a good look at his tattooed face.

The creature in the doorway was a shriveled mummy whose pungent cologne couldn’t quite mask the underlying smells of embalmer’s spice and dry rot. His frayed, stained wrappings made an odd contrast to the gaudiness of his bejeweled crimson robes.

“What are you doing?” the mummy asked, his voice an uninflected croak.

Aoth gestured with his spear to indicate the skins. “These are funny, Master.”

The dead mage cocked his head, and his neck creaked. “You can read the epitaphs?”

“I know enough words to understand the joke.”

“Hm.” The mummy turned and proceeded down the hallway.

Orgurth waited until he judged that the undead had shambled out of earshot. Then he whispered, “I take it the skins won’t help us.”

“No.”

“Then why waste time on them?”

“The writing could have been spells, like on a scroll. I couldn’t know until I checked. Now we can move on.”

When they did, their explorations proved as nerve-wracking and frustrating as before. They kept running into Red Wizards and their underlings. So far, everyone had either ignored them or given them a casual nod, but it might only take one busybody asking which particular mage they served to reveal they were intruders.

Meanwhile, they were often unable to search the most promising chambers. A well-stocked library was a case in point. Aoth was all but certain that if he only could spend sufficient time perusing the volumes on the shelves, he’d find a solution to his problem. But that was out of the question so long as a red-clad, shaven-headed man and woman were busy reading and scratching notes.

Another chamber, this one considerably smaller than the library, contained a faceless mannequin standing on a pedestal. The figure wore faded vermillion garments that might once have belonged to some eminent Conjuror. A harness of crossed belts secured folded silvery, batlike wings to its back.

Wings. But only a single set. Not intending for Orgurth to notice, Aoth gave him a wry sidelong glance.

“What?” whispered the orc.

“Nothing. Come on.” He led the way out of the memorial and toward a staircase.

“Is this a good idea?” Orgurth murmured.

Aoth shrugged. “That depends on what you mean by ‘good.’ We’ve searched all the promising-looking parts of the ground floor that we can get at. But we can hope one of the Reds left magic that will help us in his room. If someone catches us rummaging around, though, we likely won’t be able to bluff our way out of it.”

“Maybe we should just grab a mage, put a blade to his throat, and force him to help us.”

Aoth smiled. “I thought of that. But not every wizard knows the secret of instantaneous travel. Otherwise, I’d know, and we wouldn’t be in this fix. So if we’re reduced to making that move, pray we guess correctly.”

He felt exposed climbing the stairs. But he’d previously noted various sorts of folk, not just Red Wizards, ascending them, and he and Orgurth did the same without anybody accosting them.

On the second floor as on the first, hallways lined with doors ran away from the central staircase in four directions. But unlike the ground floor, no one was in sight, and only a few pearly, fist-sized orbs in sconces glowed to relieve the gloom. As far as Aoth was concerned, both changes were improvements. The dimness was no hindrance to his fire-kissed eyes and shouldn’t bother an orc either. But it might keep a Red Wizard or servant from spotting the interlopers at a distance.

He picked a hallway at random, and he and Orgurth prowled along, testing doors. About half were locked, and some of the unlocked ones granted admittance to rooms that were manifestly vacant. But other open chambers contained signs of occupancy such as trunks; rumpled bedclothes; or a naked, unconscious slave sprawled on the floor with puckered fang marks on her neck. Perhaps the wizards in residence were making the declaration that no thief would be foolish enough to pilfer from them.

Aoth hoped to prove them mistaken. But he left stray coins and baubles where they lay and noted with approval that Orgurth did the same, although the runaway slave did guzzle the last mouthfuls of wine from any dirty goblets he came across.

In one room, the searchers discovered a wooden sarcophagus inlaid with gold that looked ancient enough to date back to the days when the Mulhorandi had ruled Thay. Aoth’s truesight immediately spotted a hidden drawer built into the base.

He slid it out to reveal a book bound in musty-smelling purple leather. His pulse quickened, and he whispered a spell of comprehension and riffled through the pages.

Then he scowled. Because the volume was the grimoire he’d anticipated but didn’t contain the magic he needed. He dropped it back in the drawer and resisted an urge to slam the compartment shut.

“Don’t wizards usually carry all their really good magic on their persons?” Orgurth asked.

Aoth likewise reined in the impulse to answer sharply. “Sometimes. Not always. Don’t give up hope yet.”

They finished investigating the open rooms in that hallway and proceeded to the next. Midway down, they found ironbound double doors with the words KEEP OUT scratched on them in sloppy characters and a sigil made of linked triangles inscribed with more exactitude underneath. To Aoth’s eyes, the figure glimmered green with the power it held.

“Interesting,” he said. “Everything else in the house is as handsomely and carefully made as one would expect. But someone in a hurry both sealed and defaced this door, and no one since has seen fit either to breach the seal or even repair the damage to the finish. I wonder why.”

Orgurth grunted. “Break in and find out. At least it’ll make a change from ransacking bedchambers.”

Aoth recited his spell of opening. The glow of the ward didn’t so much as flicker, and when he pushed on the doors, they didn’t budge.

Footsteps thumped and voices echoed up the stairwell. When the folk ascending reached the second floor, they could easily glance down the hallway and see two figures lurking in front of a forbidden room where humble soldiers had no business.

The prudent course might be to hide and come back later. But Aoth suspected he might finally be on the brink of gaining access to something useful, and he was reluctant to turn away.

For after all, even hiding was no guarantee of safety. The chapterhouse was crawling with enemies who could stumble across him and Orgurth at any moment, no matter where they went to ground.

He jammed the point of his spear into the crack between the doors and, with a muttered word of command, charged the weapon with raw, destructive force. Then, using the spear like a pry bar, he threw his weight against the shaft.

Overwhelmed by the opposing power, the glow in the carved ward winked out of existence, and the doors lurched apart. Unfortunately, they did so with a cracking sound.

Aoth and Orgurth scrambled through, pulled the doors shut after them, and stood with weapons ready to attack anyone who followed them in. But nobody did, nor did Aoth detect voices raised in alarm. If the folk on the staircase had even heard the doors snap open, they must not have thought anything about it.

When he was satisfied such was the case, he turned to see what was behind him. His eyes widened.

Inlaid in the center of the floor was a detailed map of Faerun surrounded by a complex circular design. Their maker had no doubt fashioned each precisely, but later on, the floor had rippled and flowed, stretching, bending, and breaking the shapes and lines.

By the looks of it, the distorting effect had originated in the center of the map and spread outward. It hadn’t quite reached the painted text on the left wall or the stained-glass window in the back one. Dull with night, the latter depicted a Red Wizard flying with the aid of silver wings.

“Do you know what we’re looking at?” Orgurth asked.

“I think so,” Aoth replied. “In its day, the discipline of conjuration encompassed shifting oneself through space, and the Conjurors who occupied this chapterhouse created a portal for the purpose. But when the Spellplague struck, Blue Fire must have erupted through this gate, as it did so many-I recognize the warping effect-and someone sealed the room for safety’s sake. Later, folk saw the hurried warning he scratched as a piece of history, and that’s why-”

“Why they left it. I understand. But are you saying we found what we need?”

“Maybe. The Blue Fire isn’t burning in here anymore, the system of battle magic I studied involves quite a bit of conjuration, and the instructions for using the gate are there on the wall. All those things are good.

“But I was never a Conjuror or privy to the craft secrets of any order of Red Wizardry,” Aoth continued. “Magic itself has changed since the time the portal was made, the geography of Faerun has changed, and you can see for yourself how the Blue Fire damaged the design. Those things are bad.”

Orgurth grunted. “But you’re going to try to take us through, anyway.”

“It’s the best chance we’ve found so far. Keep watch.”

The triggering incantation seemed relatively straightforward. Unfortunately, the instructions for the mystic passes meant to accompany the recitation were vaguer, although it was possible a member of the Order of Conjuration wouldn’t have found them so.

Aoth made his best guess at what the author had intended to convey. He considered too, what embellishments he might add to reinforce the spell and so compensate for the damage to the design. Such improvisation added to the risk that translation might not just fail to work at all but go somehow horribly awry, but in his judgment, it was necessary.

When he felt ready, Aoth faced the portal. He thrust his spear at the ceiling and said, “The world is thought. I turn it in my mind and bring the Fortress of the Half-Demon-”

Clinking and chiming, the stained-glass window climbed down from its frame. In the process, its component pieces shifted, turning it into a flat but roughly manlike shape by the time it reached the bumpy floor. It raised hands with the fingers aligned for cutting and slicing and, still tinkling, started forward.

Aoth had never encountered such a creation before but took it for some manner of golem. Presumably the Conjurors had stationed it here to keep intruders like him from using their precious portal, and one had to give a password or some such to keep it quiescent.

He wished he’d noticed it before. But in its previous shape, it had looked exactly like any ordinary stained-glass window, and perhaps because it had stood dormant for so long, it hadn’t had even a hint of power gleaming inside it. In the face of such perfect camouflage, even truesight sometimes failed.

Hoping to melt the oncoming construct without making too much noise, Aoth hurled a burst of fire from his spear point that made Orgurth cry out and jump away. The golem, however, advanced through the flare without even faltering. For the moment it lasted, the fire simply brought the colors of the figure’s component pieces to vivid, glittering life.

The golem raked with a spindly arm, and Aoth caught the stroke on his targe. The impact made a cracking noise, but to his disappointment, the claws didn’t break off.

Meanwhile, Orgurth circled behind the golem and swung his scimitar at its leg. That produced a similar glassy clashing sound but didn’t damage the guardian either.

Aoth blocked another slash of the figure’s talons and riposted with a jab to its torso. His spear popped a trapezoidal piece of crimson glass out of the matrix. But when he snatched the weapon back from the hole he’d made, the surrounding segments shifted to seal it, and the golem kept attacking as relentlessly as before.

Aoth faked left, dodged right, and retreated toward the empty window frame, which had cold air blowing through it. The maneuver flummoxed the golem for only an instant before it turned and pursued, but it gained him enough time and distance to attempt another spell.

He rattled off words of power, and a whine shrilled from the head of his spear. Orgurth’s face twisted in discomfort even though he wasn’t the target of the focused noise.

The golem’s body rattled, and it staggered. Some of its component pieces cracked, while others shattered. When the howl died, though, it was still standing, and more motion ran through it as, once again, the remaining bits drew together to close its wounds.

Orgurth cut at the golem’s flank. Still indifferent if not oblivious to the orc’s attacks, the glass figure kept pursuing the mage who’d roused it. When it caught up, it raked with both hands at the same time.

Aoth caught one attack on his shield and sent it glancing harmlessly away. He also sought to simultaneously deflect the golem’s other set of talons with his spear arm and drive home a thrust.

The glass claws skipped along the links of his mail shirt, snagged, tore through, and sliced into his forearm. But at the same instant, the spear punched through what might by default be deemed the construct’s face.

With a crash, the entire golem shattered, and Aoth averted his face and shielded his eyes to keep flying glass from blinding him. When he looked again, his foe was a litter of shards and grit on the floor.

With the certainty that the fight was over, pain woke in his forearm. For want of a better remedy-such as Cera’s healing touch-he tapped one of his tattoos. The throbbing ache subsided, and the bleeding slowed.

Orgurth waved his curved blade to indicate the remains of their opponent. “That was noisy.”

“Too noisy.” Aoth raised his spear and recited his augmented version of the spell on the wall.

Argent light shimmered along the curves of the magic circle. With a wizard’s sensibilities, he sensed the gate starting to open. But he also felt it stop an instant later, like a warped door jamming in its frame.

He cursed and then heard voices clamoring elsewhere in the building.

Orgurth pointed at the empty window frame. “We’re only on the second floor.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you jumped and ran,” Aoth replied. “But with some tinkering, I still might be able to make the portal work. Especially with a comrade to keep the enemy from interfering while I try.”

For a heartbeat, Orgurth looked at Aoth as if he were crazy. But then he laughed and said, “Why not? Is it any stupider than believing I could make it out of town alive or survive a hunt through the mountains?” Orgurth took a fresh grip on his scimitar.

Pevkalondra had stationed a skeleton to watch for Uramar’s return via the deathways. Thus, she knew to come and find him immediately after his arrival.

But as she peered in at him from the doorway of the vault he’d taken for his personal quarters, she wondered if impatience was leading her into a gaffe. The undead were mostly impervious to fatigue in the human sense, and she certainly wouldn’t have expected the hulking swordsman to fall prey to it. Yet he sat slumped, his big, mismatched hands with their old stitches, mottled skin, and crooked fingers massaging his temples. Perhaps casting the secret spells of the Codex of Araunt tired him in a way mere physical exertion couldn’t.

As she hovered, he looked up and saw her. So it was too late to go away and come back later. But at least he gave her a smile, a stained, lopsided leer that would likely have petrified a mortal.

“My lord,” she said, curtsying. The spreading of her skirt made the tiny silver scorpions clinging to the velvet scuttle around.

“My lady,” he said. “Come in.”

She did. “How are things in Immilmar?”

His smile widened. “Everything’s going perfectly. With every night that passes, Nyevarra and her sisters replace more of the living or enslave them. Meanwhile, no one suspects a thing.”

Pevkalondra smiled like she thought that was wonderful news. In a way, it was, but the current situation had undercurrents that a traveler from beyond the western ocean was ill equipped to recognize.

“If everything’s well in hand,” she said, “then I hope you can find the time to wake more Raumvirans into undeath. After you’ve had a chance to refresh yourself, of course.”

Uramar hesitated. From his manner, one might have inferred he was listening to a voice only he could hear, but Pevkalondra didn’t sense any ghostly or demonic presences lurking in the crypt.

At length, he said, “My friend, you have my word, I’ll attend to it as soon as possible. But you’ll recall we’ve decided we’re not going to seize Rashemen through open warfare. We’ll accomplish it through subversion and magic with the durthans taking the lead. So for now, it makes sense for me to concentrate on reanimating more of them. That way, the work can proceed even faster.”

“No matter how smoothly things are going at the moment, your Eminence of Araunt will never achieve its grand design for Faerun without an army like the one we Raumvirans can provide.”

“I understand, and your folk will rise. Please, just be patient a little longer.”

“Of course, my lord, and thank you. I’ll leave you to your rest.” She gave him another curtsy and withdrew.

Afterward, as she stalked through the vaults, she wished she had someone to rend with her claws or set on fire with her sorcery. She settled for kicking a construct in the shape of a chimera that, because no one had commanded it to do anything, was standing motionless as a steel statue. The resulting clang echoed away through the dark.

Curse Uramar, anyway!

He truly seemed to believe all undead would dwell as equals and friends in the Rashemen to come. But would the durthans share power if they were many and the Raumvirans few? If they were the ones who’d conquered the land while Pevkalondra and her folk stood idle? She wouldn’t do it in their place!

And as if the durthans weren’t problem enough, Uramar had reanimated filthy Nars as well. Pevkalondra had no doubt that in any internecine conflict, the eternal enemies of Raumathar would back the witches and hope to be rewarded for it afterward.

There was only one answer. Raumvirans had to contribute to the conquest of Rashemen, whether Uramar approved or not, and in so doing, increase their strength to the point where no “ally,” no matter how greedy or covertly inimical, would dare to deny them their due.

Fortunately, Pevkalondra knew where to go to achieve those goals. And while Uramar, for all his prating about fellowship and equality, had yet to share all the arcane wisdom of Lod, she had gleaned how to reach the proper vicinity via the deathways.

She spied a Raumathari soldier with phosphorescent yellow eyes and the long gash that had no doubt been his death wound splitting his withered chest. He sat honing his halberd with a whetstone until, noticing her as well, he rose and came to attention.

“Ready our troops and as many constructs as we can manage,” she told him. “We have an errand.”

Orgurth positioned himself in front of the double doors, just off center enough that, if Lady Luck smiled, a person pushing one open wouldn’t see him for an instant, and just far enough back that neither panel swinging inward would block his path to the foe. Then, swallowing away a dryness in his throat, he waited.

Meanwhile, Aoth moved into the corner, where no enemy could target or even see him before entering the room, which, of course, he was counting on Orgurth to prevent. There, the mage whispered rhymes and twirled his spear.

With a snort, Orgurth reflected that some things never changed. Orc warriors drew the hard, dangerous jobs, and human wizards pulled the easy ones. But he didn’t mind. However long the odds, he was facing them with a scimitar in his fist and a brigandine on his back, and he owed that to his fellow fugitive.

Footsteps thumped down the hallway, and it belatedly occurred to Orgurth that the searchers might pass right on by the portal room. After all, if no Red Wizard had been inside for the better part of a century, maybe no one remembered the window golem or would understand the significance of the crash of breaking glass.

But that didn’t turn out to be the case. The footsteps halted on the other side of the doors, and people whispered to one another. Somehow, perhaps because a wizard had turned his magic to the purpose, the newcomers were able to tell where the disturbance had originated.

Both doors suddenly swung inward. Orgurth bellowed the booming war cry of a blood orc, the roar that made lesser warriors falter and freeze on the battlefield, and rushed the figures clustered in the opening.

He slashed over the top of a shield and sliced the cheeks and nose of a fellow orc from ear to pointed ear. The warrior fell backward and into a comrade. Orgurth pivoted, feinted high, and cut low into a second target’s knee. The wounded leg buckled, and that guard, a human, dropped.

Unfortunately, Orgurth couldn’t take everybody by surprise. The two remaining guards-more humans, one male and one female-came on guard. The man feinted repeatedly to hold Orgurth’s attention while the woman sidled to flank him.

They were no doubt competent and dangerous in their own right, but more dangerous still was the hairless, scarlet-robed man hastily backing away behind them. Orgurth couldn’t afford to let the mage stay beyond the reach of his scimitar and cast spells with impunity.

He sprang forward and caught the female warrior’s sword stroke on his shield. The other guard’s blade thumped his shoulder. It hurt, but his sudden move had thrown off the male warrior’s aim, and the clumsy cut failed to penetrate the reinforced leather of his armor.

Still charging, Orgurth slammed his shield into the woman, knocked her down, and ran on without paying any attention to whether he was trampling her or not. The only thing that mattered was that he now had a clear path to the mage.

The stoop-shouldered, slightly paunchy Red Wizard, however, was already chanting a spell, and when Orgurth rushed him, he lashed a talismanic orb of mottled brownish crystal back and forth and recited faster. A whip made of crimson light crackled into being in his free hand, and he snapped it at Orgurth’s ankles.

Orgurth leaped over the stroke. The mage released the conjured whip, and floating, it whirled, preparing to make a second attack all by itself.

Ignoring it, Orgurth charged on and cut at its maker. The Red Wizard dodged with surprising nimbleness and grabbed for his attacker’s throat. A fanged mouth opened in the palm of his pale, ink-stained hand.

Orgurth twisted out of the way and lopped the hand off. His blood spurting from the stump, the wizard gasped and froze. Orgurth followed up with a cut to the chest, and his adversary toppled backward.

Orgurth whirled. The red whip had vanished, but the remaining guards were nearly on top of him. He lifted his shield to block a head cut from the woman and slashed at the man’s arm at the same time the guard was hacking at him.

Orgurth’s stop cut landed, and perhaps for that reason, the human’s attack flashed harmlessly past him. He split the man’s skull, pivoted in time to block when the woman tried a thrust, and leered at the fear flowering in her face. He feinted to the outside, cut to the inside, and she too, went down.

By the Unsleeping Eye, it felt good to kill! So good that it was hard to imagine he’d endured the years of slavery without his spirit starving away to nothing inside him.

But there was no time to stand and relish the recovery of his true self. Down by the stairwell, likely drawn by the noise of the fight, another group of enemies emerged from a different corridor. The half dozen guards were gaunt corpses with lambent amber eyes, and the wizard striding stiff-legged behind them was the mummy who’d spoken to Aoth about the flayed skins.

Without the advantage of surprise, Orgurth had no hope whatsoever of charging all the way down the hall and cutting his way through six undead bodyguards to reach their master without giving the mummy abundant opportunity to throw spell after spell at him. Instead, he whirled and dashed for the room with the map. Behind him, the wizard croaked a rhyme.

Orgurth scrambled through the double doors. An instant later, thunder boomed, brightness flashed through the opening behind him, and a crash announced the damage when the conjured lightning bolt blasted the wall at the far end of the corridor.

Aoth was still murmuring and spinning and jabbing his spear around. The only change Orgurth could see was that the point of the weapon was now glowing blue, just like the human’s eyes in their mask of tattooing.

Orgurth wanted to ask if that meant Aoth was making headway but feared to distract him. So he simply faced the doorway, steadied himself, and caught his breath.

The thump of hurrying footsteps announced the dread warriors. As soon as they advanced into view, Orgurth sprang at them. He had to hold the doorway, and if he didn’t let them push him back, maybe their shriveled, stinking bodies would shield him from their master’s magic.

He cut into a zombie’s chest. The resulting injury would have finished any living opponent, but the walking corpse cut back at him, and he blocked the stroke with his shield.

A second dread warrior moved to flank him. Bellowing, Orgurth split its skull, and it dropped.

But at the same time, his first foe came at him hard, trying to push him back. Its fellows maneuvered to do the same.

Even so, slashing furiously, defending frantically, he held his ground for another moment or two. Then, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a mace hurtling at his head.

It was too late to swing his shield into position to catch the blow. He had to parry with his scimitar, and the resulting jolt loosened his grip on the hilt. He didn’t quite drop the weapon, but as he fumbled to regain a proper hold, the enemy’s onslaught drove him backward, and the dead men pursued him into the chamber.

Then Aoth appeared beside him. The head of his spear burning like a torch, he lashed the weapon from right to left and hurled an arc of flame into the dread warriors’ withered faces, balking them.

“Get on the map!” said Aoth. “Put at least one foot on Rashemen!”

Slashing and jabbing, the two fugitives retreated, and the zombies followed. Orgurth was too busy fending them off to look down and see where Rashemen was, but Aoth somehow found an instant to grab him by the shoulder and jerk him to what was presumably the right spot.

Meanwhile, the mummy stalked into the room behind his guards. He pointed the slender ebony wand in his brown, gnarled hand.

“We go to the Fortress of the Half-Demon!” said Aoth, and at the same instant, a jagged darkness leaped from the tip of the undead wizard’s weapon.

4

The world exploded into meaningless flecks of light and shadow. Aoth had the sensation of falling but, assuming the feeling even corresponded to anything real, couldn’t tell whether he was plummeting headfirst, feet first, or some other way.

No wonder I never get around to learning how to do this, he thought. I always hate it.

Then, suddenly, up was up, down was down, and he had solidity beneath his feet. He didn’t have his balance, though, and had to stumble two steps through the snow before he caught it.

He looked around and was relieved to see Orgurth was with him. Unfortunately, that appeared to be the only thing that had worked out as intended.

The Fortress of the Half-Demon was nowhere in view. What was even more disheartening was that the ancient Nar stronghold sat in the relatively flat wasteland that was Rashemen’s North Country, whereas Aoth was standing in the mountains. Some mountains, somewhere. Somewhere that Jet and the entrance to the otherworldly trap that had swallowed Cera and Jhesrhi were not.

He gripped his spear and felt the power inside it stir in response to his urge to vent his frustration on a pine, an outcropping, or some other target within easy reach. Then he noticed Orgurth’s expression.

Like many orcs of Aoth’s acquaintance, the runaway slave seemed to make it a point of honor not to act impressed by much of anything, certainly anything a “puny” human being could do. But at the moment, he was regarding Aoth with a touch of awe in his brutish face.

“You really did it,” Orgurth said. “We’re out.”

Were they? Aoth looked around and registered that none of the surrounding peaks was sending up a plume of smoke, nor did the wintery air smell of fire and ash. They weren’t on the Thaymount anymore, which meant that for all practical purposes, they weren’t in Thay. The only other mountain range even partly in Szass Tam’s domain was the Sunrise Mountains on the eastern border, and it was virtually uninhabited.

“Yes,” Aoth said, the orc’s happiness slightly dulling the bite of his own disappointment, “we’re out. You’re free.”

“Thanks to you,” Orgurth said.

“Not really. We’re comrades, we helped each other, and that’s all that need be said. Except that if you want me to make you a soldier again, we can go ahead and formalize that.”

The orc made a show of looking around. “I like the sound of it, but I don’t see an army.”

“Sadly, neither do I. But my full name is Aoth Fezim-”

Orgurth’s eyes widened. “The sellsword?”

“That’s me. Do you want to join the Brotherhood of the Griffon? Will you obey orders and follow the rules?”

“Yes, I swear!”

“Then you’re in.” Aoth sighed. “It will mean more once we join the company back in Chessenta.”

“I’m guessing that will be a while. First, you need to get back to this ‘Fortress of the Half-Demon,’ your familiar, and all the rest of it.” Orgurth cocked his head. “Why aren’t we there already?”

Aoth shrugged. “Because the portal was damaged. Or I didn’t embellish the original incantation properly. Or we shouldn’t have had dread warriors standing inside the circle when we traveled. Or the mummy threw disruptive magic at us right there at the end. It could have been any of those things. Truly, we’re lucky we didn’t end up at the bottom of the sea or scattered in pieces across the length of the continent, although I’m having trouble feeling lucky at the moment.”

Orgurth grunted. “However you feel, we won’t know how to get to your fortress until we figure out where we are now.”

“I was just about to work on that.”

Aoth studied the constellations with blue Karpri and green-brown Chandos wandering among the starry pictures. Then he reached out for Jet and felt that the griffon was asleep.

Aoth resisted the temptation to wake him and ask if Cera and Jhesrhi had turned up. The wounded familiar still needed his rest, and all his master truly required at the moment was a sense of direction.

“I think,” he said, “that if Tymora gave us even the hint of a smile, the gate tossed us in the right direction, just not far enough. If so, we may be in a part of Rashemen called the Running Rocks.”

“So what do we do, Captain?”

“We hike north.”

Tangled helmthorn shrouded the base of the dead tree, and Nyevarra touched her fingertip to one of the long black stickers that gave the shrub its name. Even though she hadn’t applied any pressure at all, a bead of blood welled forth, and she laughed. It was wonderful that the thorn could be so sharp!

The tiny wound healed instantly, and she wandered on toward a stand of shadowtop trees looming against the night sky. Their strength and wordless, inhuman wisdom made her lightheaded.

Simply seeing Immilmar had delighted her, but that joy was nothing compared to the rapture of walking in the Urlingwood again. She felt like she could drift on forever, deeper and deeper into the forest and the green heart of the sacred.

But that, of course, was nonsense. The spirits intended her for greater responsibilities and a more complicated existence than those of a common witch, and even had it been otherwise, vampirism came with its own perspective and imperatives.

To work, then. Shaking her head to rid it of the residue of the dreamlike state that had briefly overtaken her, she headed east.

She soon spied a clearing, a fire-built only of deadwood, she was certain-and the masked, robed women gathered around it. Such circles tended to attract the same celebrants ritual after ritual but generally welcomed any hathran who cared to take part.

This one proved to be no exception, and once the other witches had greeted a wandering sister, they returned to the business of minor blessings, consecrations, and offerings to the fey. Nyevarra, meanwhile, studied them.

Who commanded powerful magic, and who would be easy to overcome? Who could be enslaved, and who should be removed and impersonated? She mostly had it figured out when Yhelbruna walked out of the trees and into the firelight.

Nyevarra had to hold herself steady. She believed that even without the Stag King’s antler staff in her hand, she could defeat Yhelbruna in a fair fight. But that was scarcely what would ensue if the newcomer revealed an undead durthan’s true identity to all these other hathrans.

Fortunately, Nyevarra told herself, it wasn’t going to come to that. She’d hidden herself behind a new wooden mask, clean new garments, and charms of deception, and clever and powerful though Yhelbruna was, she had no reason to suspect the presence of an enemy here at the fire.

So Nyevarra joined the other witches as they gathered around their famous elder sister to welcome her. And, in fact, Yhelbruna treated Nyevarra like just another member of the coven.

When the amenities concluded, Yhelbruna pulled off her brown leather mask to reveal a youthful, heart-shaped face with a prominent nose. The apple cheeks and a general impish quality were at odds with her reputation for severity, but her frown was not.

“Sisters,” she said, “I’m sure you have your own purposes and your own workings to undertake tonight, and I apologize for diverting you. But I need your help.”

Two fools spoke at once to say that the circle would like nothing better than to aid her.

Yhelbruna smiled. “Thank you. I assume you’ve all heard what’s going on in Immilmar. There’s reason to doubt that the mercenary Mario Bez has truly ended the threat of the undead marauders as he claims, and Mangan Uruk asked me to determine the truth through divination.” She took a breath. “Unfortunately, so far, the signs have been ambiguous if not nonsensical.”

Yes, thought Nyevarra, because my allies and I have gone to considerable trouble to muddy the mystical waters.

“But until now,” Yhelbruna continued, “I’ve only tried in Immilmar. Tonight, I’m going to try here with your power and wisdom buttressing my own. I’m also going to approach my task by a different path. Together, we’ll summon one of the winds that sweep across the North Country and ask it what happened on the day when Bez claims to have taken the Fortress of the Half-Demon.”

Nyevarra’s fangs ached, trying to lengthen as they did in response to any threat. The Urlingwood was on its way to becoming a somewhat different place, but unfortunately, that process had just begun. Yhelbruna was quite correct that the sacred forest would still strengthen her magic, and in addition, questioning the proper spirit of the air might indeed garner information that straightforward augury had not. The durthans had no measures in place to protect against that.

And just to make the situation even worse, not one of the other witches in the circle was a disguised durthan or one of their mind-bound thralls. Nyevarra was going to have to subvert the ritual all by herself and do it without getting caught.

Well, so be it, then. As the witches took up positions around the crackling yellow fire, she made sure she placed herself between two of the youngest and least experienced. They were less likely to detect her exerting a corrupting influence.

Yhelbruna slipped her mask back on and then raised her staff. In response, the fire leaped higher. Spilling snow, a rustling ran through the branches overhead as small spirits and fey oriented on her. Even the towering oaks and shadowtops seemed to lean over slightly for a better view, although in a purely physical sense, that was an illusion.

“Hail Akadi!” Yhelbruna said.

“Hail Akadi!” the other witches echoed.

“Hail to the Queen of Sky Home, the Lady of the Winds!”

“Hail to the Queen of Sky Home, the Lady of the Winds!”

“In her name …”

Hastily considering tactics, Nyevarra decided the contrapuntal structure of the summoning could work to her advantage. If she wanted to maintain her masquerade, she had no choice but to give the responses. But when Yhelbruna was speaking, she could do the same, so long as she whispered softly enough that no one would overhear.

“Night winds,” she breathed. “Winter winds. Tempests and plague winds. All you restless wanderers who harry mortals for sport. Whichever of you can hear my words, in the names of the Destroyer and the Mistress of Disease, attend me!”

By the time she finished that much of her invocation, murmuring it a phrase at a time as the ceremony allowed, the forces everyone was raising for one purpose or another had set the air in the vicinity moaning, howling, and gusting crazily. The branches overhead rattled constantly, and cloaks and robes flapped and fluttered. The bonfire whipped back and forth, while flecks of snow blew off the ground.

With magic well and fully roused, this contest had now become a race, and even though Yhelbruna had all the other witches aiding her, Nyevarra thought she had a fair chance of winning it. The hathrans were trying to find one particular spirit and draw it miles to the south, whereas Nyevarra was willing to settle for any wind of a suitable temperament, and thanks to her and the other durthans, there were already more of such entities lurking in the forest than there used to be.

Suddenly, freezing air brushed her mouth like a kiss. She might have cried out and recoiled if she still had a living woman’s susceptibility to cold. Then the same breeze insinuated itself inside her hood to play around her ear.

“ ‘Restless wanderers who harry mortals for sport,’ ” whispered a husky feminine voice. “Perhaps I should continue the sport with you.”

“I’m no mortal,” Nyevarra whispered back. “In fact, if I’m perceiving you clearly, you and I are somewhat alike.”

“You flatter yourself. No woman of flesh and blood, even cold flesh and stolen blood, can claim to be more than a feeble mockery of me.”

“A ‘feeble mockery’ who pulled you to me like a fish on a line. Now that you’re here, I’d prefer to speak in terms of friendship and barter, as befits a witch treating with a spirit. But I’m prepared to resort to torment and compulsion if necessary.”

Beneath her robes, cold air slid over her skin like the elemental was assessing for itself just what punishments and coercions she might be capable of. Then, caressing Nyevarra’s ear again, she asked, “What do you want?”

“Yhelbruna, there, aims to summon a wind. I want to give her one and then make her sorry she asked.”

The spirit hesitated. “I’ve heard of Yhelbruna.”

“Whatever you’ve heard, surely she too is ‘feeble’ compared to a princess of Sky Home.”

“You mock me, but you’re right. Still, if I kill someone humans consider mighty, what will you give in return?”

“Soon, my sisters and I will rule Rashemen. Then I’ll sacrifice someone to you at the start of every tenday for a year.”

“I want them big and strong,” the spirit replied. “No children and no sick, old codgers either.”

“Done.”

The elemental rose into the air, and perhaps as a way of announcing itself, descended again as a screaming whirlwind that spun bits of snow and broken twigs around and around. Assuming they’d accomplished their purpose, the witches stopped chanting. Nyevarra grinned to see that even Yhelbruna was taken in.

“We thank you for answering our call,” the senior hathran said. “It’s urgent that we discover-”

The spirit gathered itself into the hazy, transparent shape of a floating woman. Suddenly, the eyes in its blur of a face flared red, and it struck at Yhelbruna with its open hand. The harmless-looking slap triggered another shriek of wind.

Caught by surprise, Yhelbruna still almost managed to speak a word of warding. But the elemental’s blow caught her and slammed her backward.

Other hathrans raised their wands and talismans and cried the opening words of spells of slaying and banishment. Spinning, the spirit raked them with its burning crimson gaze, and they froze in terror.

Ideally, the breathdrinker should then have gone after Yhelbruna without another instant of delay. But, succumbing to its urges in a way any vampire would recognize, it grabbed one of the paralyzed women, tore her brazen mask off, and kissed her.

The hathran flailed, struggling to break free, but not for long. It took her attacker only a few heartbeats to suck all the breath from her lungs.

Its thirst assuaged, the breathdrinker whirled back toward Yhelbruna, and Nyevarra was glad to see that the latter lay motionless on her back in a snowdrift. Apparently that initial blow had landed hard.

Amid another howl of wind, the breathdrinker sprang in Yhelbruna’s direction. Some of the other hathrans cried words of power to protect their fallen sister.

But those hathrans lacked Nyevarra’s extensive experience in battle, and when, still whispering, she rattled off a spell to counter their efforts, she finished ahead of them. Terror jolted them and in some cases made them recoil from the breathdrinker, while even those whose wills were strong stumbled over their incantations. Nyevarra could feel their half-made magic dissolve.

But as the breathdrinker plunged down at Yhelbruna, the hathran’s eyes popped open. Yhelbruna spoke a word of power and jabbed her staff at her foe.

A streamer of snow leaped up from the ground and in the process hardened from powder into ice. Pointed and straight, its base frozen to the ground, it jutted upward at the perfect angle to catch the elemental.

Stabbed through the torso, the breathdrinker slid partway down the icicle spear. Screaming in the way a wind screams, it thrashed but seemed unable to free itself. An ordinary spike wouldn’t have impaled a creature made only of air and malice, but the magic infusing this one accomplished what mere solid matter couldn’t.

Yhelbruna scrambled back from her foe. Its misty arm stretching, the breathdrinker struck another howling, openhanded blow. But the hathran did something to ward herself-even Nyevarra couldn’t tell what, though she felt power surge at the living witch’s behest-and the blast of air simply failed to find its target.

Chanting, Yhelbruna spun her staff and then jabbed with it. Darts of emerald light leaped from the head to riddle the spirit’s form, blinking out of existence as they hurtled through.

With another shriek, the breathdrinker resumed its whirlwind form as snow spiraled up from the earth. The frozen spike shattered, freeing it, and it gathered itself into its transparent, red-eyed feminine form once more.

Yhelbruna started reciting another spell and shifting her staff back and forth in time to the cadence. The breathdrinker shot forward and slapped.

The witch sidestepped, and once again, the spirit’s blow didn’t quite connect. But it did tear the staff from Yhelbruna’s hands, and Nyevarra grinned because that ought to be good enough. It should ruin the spell the hathran was attempting to cast, and with the enraged breathdrinker right on top of her, she didn’t have time for a second try.

Except that the loss of the staff didn’t spoil the casting. Yhelbruna didn’t stumble over the incantation, and she moved her empty hands like a weaver working at a loom, improvising a conclusion to the pattern the rod had begun.

Snow exploded up around the breathdrinker and, in that same instant, hardened into an enormous hand of ice. The clawed fingers grabbed the spirit and squeezed.

Shrieking, the breathdrinker became invisible. Perhaps that was an instinctive response, but the defense couldn’t help it when the hand already had it in its grasp.

Next, Nyevarra sensed the elemental trying to blow out through the cracks between the fingers, then seeking to become a whirlwind and shatter its prison, but the strength of Yhelbruna’s spell prevented either. The hand kept squeezing until the howling died, and the breathdrinker with it.

A hathran in a white unicorn mask hurried toward Yhelbruna. “Are you all right?” Mielikki’s servant asked.

“Yes.” Not even bothering to retrieve her staff, Yhelbruna strode past the other witch to the woman the spirit had drained of breath.

Kneeling, Yhelbruna held her hand in front of the fallen hathran’s nose and mouth and touched her fingertips to the side of her neck. Then she sighed and closed the corpse’s eyes. “Go to our mothers, Sister. Blessed be.”

As she rose again, the other witches clustered around. “What happened?” whined one of the younger ones.

“I don’t know,” Yhelbruna answered, and for once, a trace of distress compromised that steely voice. “I don’t understand why the wind was angry.”

If not for the need to keep up her impersonation, Nyevarra might have slumped and heaved a sigh of relief. It was regrettable that the breathdrinker hadn’t succeeded in putting an end to Yhelbruna, but if the hathran didn’t comprehend what had gone awry, then things were still under control.

“I don’t know why a number of things aren’t happening as they should or just seem off,” Yhelbruna continued, and already she was all cold strength once more. “But I’m going to find out.”

And left to her own devices, she just might. She could conceivably have figured it out this very night, or at least taken one step closer to the truth, if she and Nyevarra hadn’t ended up in the same circle, and no one could count on that kind of luck all the time.

Which meant Yhelbruna still needed to die. But Nyevarra hesitated to make a second attempt on the foul woman’s life herself. Loath as she was to admit it, the most formidable hathran of them all might survive again and in the process discern who was attacking her.

Unfortunately for Yhelbruna, though, Nyevarra saw an alternative.

Aoth reflected that if he’d wanted to clamber up and down mountains in the cold wind and the snow, he wouldn’t have become a griffon rider.

Still, it would have shamed him to grouse aloud. He had tattoos to warm him, stave off fatigue, and blunt hunger pangs. Orgurth didn’t, yet the green-skinned warrior wasn’t complaining.

The orc did grunt in surprise, though, when the trail they were following took them to the crest of a ridge where the snow bore a plenitude of tracks. A number of folk-or a number of somethings-had marched along the trail from south to north.

“Well,” said the orc, “I guess we’re not the only people in these wretched peaks. Maybe they’ll share their rations and their fire …” His voice trailed off as he registered something in Aoth’s expression. “But you’re thinking they won’t.”

“I’m thinking they won’t.” Aoth led Orgurth forward and pointed with his spear to something few folk would have spotted at a glance but that his fire-kissed eyes had noted immediately. “Look at this pair of tracks. The one boot looks like it had a big hole in it, and the other foot, the unshod one, might have been left by partly naked bone. What leaves prints like that?”

“Zombies.”

“Right. And this wasn’t the only one.” He stooped, picked up a decayed, frozen, broken-off toe, proffered it for the orc’s inspection, and tossed it away.

“So has Thay sent troops over the border,” Orgurth asked, “or are these more of the undead you fought at your Fortress of the Half-Demon?”

“The latter.” Aoth indicated deep marks shaped like cloven hooves and the clawed feet of reptiles as well as a tiny spitter of oil. “Constructs made these tracks. Lots of constructs. There may have been more of them traveling in the column than there were undead.

“And some of our enemies in the castle used constructs against us,” he continued. “As wizards go, I’m a poor student of history, but I believe those particular ghouls and such were reanimated Raumvirans.”

“So you and your friends didn’t really end the threat to Rashemen.”

“Apparently not.” That might conceivably mean Mario Bez hadn’t managed to steal the wild griffons after all. But it might also mean Cera, Jhesrhi, and Jet were in even more danger than Aoth had imagined.

“But I wonder,” he said, “what the undead are doing here. As far as I know, the Running Rocks are pretty much uninhabited. I suppose the creatures could be maneuvering to attack Immilmar. But with the dark maze at their disposal, they shouldn’t need to pop out so far to the east and drag their war band through this terrain to accomplish that.”

“Unless you want to look for a different path north,” Orgurth said, “we’re going to be following them. Maybe we’ll see for ourselves what they’re up to.”

Keeping an eye out for rearguards, foragers, and the like, they did travel in the enemy’s footsteps. And before the sun reached its zenith, they started to hear a crashing at regular intervals, the noise echoing from somewhere up ahead.

“That’s a siege engine,” said Aoth, and Orgurth nodded. During his time as a legionnaire, the orc too, had likely heard a catapult or the equivalent battering relentlessly at a gate or section of wall. The slow but steady beat was the giveaway.

Later, well past midday, yet another impact triggered cries of excitement. Whatever barrier the undead had been assailing, it had just fallen.

As the sun disappeared behind the peaks to the west and the western sky turned red, Aoth reluctantly concluded that he and Orgurth weren’t likely to lay eyes on the battle before nightfall, and it would be stupid to push on after. They’d do better to focus on looking for a sheltered spot to camp, fuel for a fire, and something to eat.

Then, however, the trail curved around a mountainside to a place where a slope ran down to the long, broad saddle connecting the peak they were on to the one adjacent. Slipping and sliding, the undead and constructs had descended onto the ridge and taken up positions threatening the other mountain, or, more specifically, the cave mouths among the crags.

Granite panels or plugs sealed all the openings but one, and although Aoth had no difficulty recognizing the gates for what they were, they blended so well with the surrounding stone that he was impressed the undead had spotted them. They had, though, and over the course of the day, smashed one of the barriers to pieces.

Maybe hoping to undertake emergency repairs, men in masks appeared in the cave mouth. Undead archers drew their bows, and wizards lifted their wands and staves. A barrage of arrows and ragged shadow drove the defenders back.

“What do you see?” Orgurth asked. The action was too far away for even an orc to make out anything much with the light failing.

“Things I don’t understand,” Aoth replied. “I judged from the different styles of weapons, armor, and magic at the Fortress of the Half-Demon that my comrades and I were fighting a mixed force of reanimated Rashemi, Nars, and Raumvirans. The band below us is all Raumvirans.”

Orgurth shrugged. “Maybe after your victory, Raumvirans are all that are left.”

“I guess it’s possible. But here’s what’s really strange. The defenders up there in the caves are men in masks. Male hathrans. Except there’s no such thing.”

“That you’ve heard of.”

“Right. That I’ve heard of.” For a moment, Aoth felt profoundly tired of this backward land and its secrets.

“Well, whoever and whatever they are, what do we do now?”

Aoth wanted to say they’d keep heading north. He was as eager as ever to reach the Fortress of the Half-Demon, and with the undead down on the saddle conducting their siege, the way lay open.

But was that the right move?

He was no healer to aid in Jet’s recovery. Vandar and even Dai Shan were already venturing into the dark maze at regular intervals to search for Cera and Jhesrhi. If Aoth did reach the ruin, it would only be after tendays of travel, and once there, what was he likely to accomplish?

But suppose he took a hand in the confrontation fate had placed before him. He’d be doing what he’d promised the Wychlaran and the Iron Lord he’d do and in the process might uncover some genuine answers at last. And if the masked men were some sort of hathran, they might have magic to speed him on his way.

“We’re going to help break the siege,” he said, “and hope the folk in the caves make it worth our while.”

The berserker of the Owlbear Lodge scowled and jumped up from the bench. His thoughts sluggish with ale and firewine, Mario Bez tried to puzzle out how he might have given offense, then realized he’d already forgotten what he’d just said.

He also realized he didn’t care. He supposed the barbarians had been friendly to invite men of the Storm of Vengeance into their hall to drink with them, but as far as he was concerned, this oaf was being friendlier still by offering him the chance to vent his frustration with all things Rashemi.

He rose in his turn, and other men on both sides leaped up as well. Hands reached for sword hilts and axe handles, and, starting to invoke the rage that was their gift, berserkers gave the unmistakable cry, half hoot and half roar, of their totem animal.

The imminence of a general melee jolted Bez’s thinking into a belated clarity. Once someone spilled blood, there’d be no stopping it; he and his crewmen were outnumbered, and even had it been otherwise, he had nothing to gain and much to lose by falling out with his hosts.

“Stop!” he bellowed. “This is between this lad and me!” Then he removed his rapier and main gauche and laid them on the table amid the tankards, goblets, pitchers, and bottles.

The fellow he’d evidently insulted-a typical Rashemi warrior, dark-haired, scarred, burly, and of no more than medium height-set his hand-axe and dirk aside as well. Then the two of them moved to a clear space while other people turned to watch.

Bez started to circle, but the berserker apparently wasn’t a believer in taking one’s time and feeling out the opponent before attacking in earnest. No doubt hoping to overwhelm Bez in an instant, he bellowed and rushed in.

That kind of explosive aggression could be effective, but it couldn’t startle a seasoned sellsword into passivity. Bez twisted out of the way and drove a fist into the Rashemi’s kidney as he blundered past.

The berserker grunted, spun, and flung out his arm. The backhand blow clipped Bez in the temple but not quite hard enough to make him falter. He stepped in close and whipped his elbow into the Rashemi’s face. The man stumbled back a step.

Bez then punched him in the jaw, and that stung worse than the blow he’d taken to the head. His knuckles throbbed. But the Rashemi went down.

Bez almost succumbed to the urge to kick and stamp on him, but that too, might have had unfortunate consequences. Instead, he waited for the berserker to shake off his daze, then offered him a hand up.

The Rashemi smiled ruefully and accepted the gesture of renewed good fellowship, and the spectators cheered. Bez acknowledged their approval by grinning, waving, and clapping his erstwhile adversary on the shoulder.

Then the door at the end of the lodge hall opened, and as the assembled warriors noticed the figure framed in the opening, they fell quiet.

The new arrival was a hathran with staff in hand and layers of robe and mantle shrouding her form. Her polished wooden mask was a bland abstraction of the female face, expressionless except, perhaps, for the hint of an ambiguous smile at the corners of the mouth.

Which was to say, she looked little different than the other witches Bez had seen since landing in Rashemen. He couldn’t make out why, as he regarded her, he felt a chill. Maybe just because of the cold night air blowing in around her.

She met his gaze and crooked her finger.

Still uneasy, wondering what this portended, he grabbed his weapons and buckled them on. Melemer and Olthe looked up at him, asking without words if he wanted them to accompany him or do anything in his absence. He shook his head and then followed the masked woman out the door.

It was late, and a whistling wind tumbled fresh snow out of the north. As he and his companion strolled south toward the little river that wound through the center of town, they appeared to have the night to themselves.

“You blundered your way into that predicament back there,” the witch said after a while, “but you extricated yourself deftly too.”

He snorted. “Were you peeking in the window?”

“I see that despite the excitement,” she said, “you’re still a little drunk. Otherwise, I trust, you wouldn’t speak to a hathran disrespectfully. Give me your hand.”

Wondering if she intended to rap his knuckles like he was a naughty child, he obeyed, and she clasped his hand in her own. Her touch was so cold, it startled him, though once again, he supposed he could attribute that to the general chill in the air. Her skin was nearly as white as the snow spilling from the heavens and blanketing the town.

She murmured a charm, and his thoughts quickened, while a hint of numbness fell away from his limbs. He had still been a little tipsy, even if he hadn’t realized.

Releasing his hand, she asked, “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we can confer like intelligent folk.”

“About what? Who are you?”

“Someone who hates seeing the champion of Rashemen cheated of his just reward.” They rounded a huddle of trees, sacred, in all likelihood, to some spirit or fey, and one of the old wooden bridges arching over the river came into view. She pointed with her staff and said, “Let’s talk in the center of that. The view is so pretty.”

And nobody, thought Bez, would be able to sneak up on them and eavesdrop.

The butt of her staff clicked on the planks, and the frozen river gleamed gray with Selune’s light. They stood at the railing and looked west, toward the point where the watercourse emptied into the lake, although Bez couldn’t quite see that far in the dark.

“Now you can introduce yourself properly,” he said.

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “That would be unwise.”

He cocked his head. “You’ll pardon a soldier’s bluntness if I say secrecy doesn’t inspire trust.”

“How much do you know about the history of Rashemen, Captain? The last time the learned sisterhood split into factions, the consequences were grim. No witch would want to be accused of fomenting another such schism.”

“And yet you are?”

The masked woman hesitated in the manner of one choosing her words judiciously. “You’ll have heard tell that Yhelbruna is well over a hundred years old.”

“Yes, although not the reason for it.”

“A gift from some fey, I believe. She doesn’t talk about it. But all you need to know is that long-lived isn’t the same as immortal. Her powers and judgment are finally failing.”

“What a shame. But how can you tell?”

“You know the Iron Lord told her to perform divinations to establish the truth of your report. Has she reported back?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Because she can’t make the rituals work. In fact, when she tried in the Urlingwood, the magic went horribly wrong, and another hathran died as a result.”

“Again, I offer my regrets.”

“As far as her judgment is concerned,” the priestess continued, “surely you don’t need me to convince you she’s grown peculiar and obdurate, as old people sometimes do. There was no sane reason to hold up your reward.”

Bez turned toward her, brushed snow off the railing, and rested one elbow on the spot he’d cleared. “If others think the way you do, then why not divest the old girl of her responsibilities-gently and respectfully, of course-and pack her off to enjoy a well-earned retirement?”

“Some would not agree with me. Yhelbruna’s past achievements blind them to the current sad reality. And even if everyone did …” The hathran sighed. “An outlander like you once told me we Rashemi are slaves to our traditions, and I see now there’s truth in that. Yet it’s dangerous for the land to have a failing mind in charge. And you, Captain, will never have your due now that, by whatever perverse, suspicious reasoning, she has decided you don’t deserve it. Whereas if the ‘old girl’ no longer stood in your way …”

Bez shook his head in amazement. “You’re asking me to kill her?”

“It’s your trade, isn’t it?”

“War is my trade, and as a general rule, it’s neither good for business nor particularly safe for sellswords to turn on their employers. Besides, mightn’t Mangan and the other hathrans take Yhelbruna’s bloody corpse as evidence the undead aren’t really gone?”

“Then don’t bloody it. Make it look like her tired old heart simply stopped beating, or she broke her neck in a fall. Or make sure the body’s never found. My friends and I can put about the suggestion that, upset over what happened in the Urlingwood, she went into seclusion to pray. The point is that when she’s no longer around to object, Mangan will give you the griffons.”

Bez grinned. “And some other hathran will have to rise from the ranks and take command.”

“I told you, my concern is for my country, not my personal ambitions.”

“Certainly.” Standing up straight again, he pondered her proposal.

Obviously, it carried an element of risk, but so did simply waiting around in Immilmar. The berserkers of the Griffon Lodge, their deer-man allies, Dai Shan, and Aoth Fezim’s familiar were all safely dead, but he couldn’t be quite as certain about the Thayan himself, or Jhesrhi Coldcreek and Cera Eurthos. Unlikely as it seemed, they could conceivably still turn up, or some busybody could discover by some other means that Mario Bez wasn’t really the savior of Rashemen but rather the man who’d slaughtered its true benefactors to steal the credit.

He drew breath to give his companion his answer, and then his eyes widened in surprise.

Apparently, as he’d deliberated, he’d briefly lost track of anything other than his own musings. In that moment, the witch had disappeared.

He looked at both ends of the bridge and all around. He still couldn’t see any cloaked and hooded figures, just a stray wisp of mist curling over the ice.

He snorted, mildly amused but annoyed as well. He preferred being the trickster, not the dupe, and it nettled him that the witch believed she could read him so well that she needn’t wait for a verbal reply.

Still, it wasn’t worth fretting over. Especially when there was work to be done, or rather, assigned.

He tramped back to the Owlbear Lodge, where all was now raucous conviviality, with some men booming out a song and other stamping, whirling, and tossing their blades back and forth in a sword dance. Looking in the doorway, he beckoned Melemer and Olthe forth as the witch had beckoned him.

The little warlock possessed a deviousness that lent itself well to assassination. The battleguard was a more forthright personality, but she’d follow Melemer’s lead if Bez told her to, and to say the least, it seemed unlikely that Yhelbruna could withstand both of them.

One of the constructs was a long-armed, short-legged giant with a bestial face that reminded Aoth of demons he’d fought in the past. Leaning forward on its knuckles, it had been standing motionless ever since he and Orgurth had first peered down at the Raumathari war band. But now, abruptly, gleaming in the starlight, it stood up straight and held out an upturned hand. Something black began to accumulate there either created in every sense of the word or drawn from elsewhere.

“There we go,” Aoth murmured.

“What?” Orgurth replied.

“I’ve identified their siege engine. Apparently, it needed to renew its power, but now it’s ready to resume the bombardment.”

“The undead already made one breach. I expected them to charge it already.”

“So did I. They generally don’t hesitate to make a run at the living. But their tactics are sound. The more holes they poke, the harder it becomes for the defenders to block them all.”

The orc grunted. “So you want to stop the statue?”

“Yes.”

Ever since Aoth had decided to intervene in the siege, he’d been looking for a way to make a difference. For all his toughness, Orgurth was just one warrior, and while Aoth wielded potent magic, he was just one war mage against a small army no doubt made up in part of others with comparable skills. He would, moreover, have only one chance to attack by surprise. Afterward, attempting any sort of aggressive action without falling victim to an overwhelming reprisal would be more difficult.

It made sense to use that chance to destroy the enemy’s most powerful weapon. If Tymora smiled, he might even surprise the Raumvirans controlling the construct and destroy them as well.

“How are you at walking like a dead man?” he asked.

Orgurth eyed him. “Are you joking?”

“I’ll need to use a more powerful spell than I can throw from this far away, and truly, the trick should work. This is an empty wasteland. The Raumvirans have no reason to expect any foes to come sneaking up behind them, and even if they do have lookouts posted, the average dread warrior isn’t all that observant.”

“You never told me what being a Brother of the Griffon pays. I hope it’s a lot.”

Orgurth tugged his cowl down to shadow as much of his face as possible. Then he practiced a stiff-legged walk and gave an experimental moan.

Aoth winced. “Don’t make noise. You don’t sound right. Sway and lurch a little, but don’t overdo it.”

He adjusted his own hood as the orc had. Then he and Orgurth clambered down the slope and trudged on toward the ranks of the enemy.

As he’d hoped, none of the foe paid the newcomers any attention. All the Raumvirans, or at least all the common zombies and walking skeletons, were watching the Rashemi stronghold with the single-minded patience of the dead.

While he and Orgurth made their approach, the black substance finished congealing in the metal giant’s palm, forming a ball so round and smooth that any artilleryman would have gladly loaded it into an onager or mangonel. The construct cocked its arm, whipped it forward, and stepped, just like a human being would, to put all his strength behind a throw.

The missile flew not at one of the sealed cave mouths but at the breached one where, no doubt hoping darkness would afford a measure of protection, masked Rashemi were stacking pieces of stone. Their half-finished barricade shattered, and those struck by flying rock cried out.

The construct resumed its previous stance. Another orb began to form in its palm.

But, Aoth resolved, it was never going to get the chance to throw it. Judging that he and Orgurth had sneaked close enough, he whispered an incantation.

The head of his spear glowed green. He extended his arm, and power leaped forth in a thin beam that caught the construct in the center of its back.

Unfortunately, to no effect. The steel figure, if steel was indeed what the giant was made of, should have crumbled into particles finer than the finest dust, but instead it stood unscathed.

Still, someone noticed the momentary flare of emerald light. Several figures stood around the feet of the construct, and despite the intervening distance, one of them, a female ghoul with a glimmering pearl in one eye socket and something tiny-lice? maggots? — crawling in the folds of her gown, oriented on Aoth. Her clawed, withered hand snatched a wand from a sheath on her belt.

Aoth pointed his spear and, still whispering in the increasingly forlorn hope that he wouldn’t rouse foes closer to hand, rattled off words of power.

Whirling blades of silvery light shimmered into existence in the air around the ghoul sorceress and her companions. They didn’t even scratch the construct’s legs, but they repeatedly chopped undead flesh and bone. The punishment might not suffice to destroy the Raumvirans, but it should at least prevent them from taking offensive action while they floundered clear of the effect.

Once again, Aoth hurled the pure chaotic essence of destruction at the construct. Meanwhile, Orgurth lunged into the path of an onrushing skeleton that had spotted the source of the green ray and hacked its skull off the top of its spinal column.

As before, the construct took no harm from Aoth’s attack. Now safely beyond the spinning blades, the ghoul sorceress brandished her wand and snarled words in a language Aoth didn’t recognize.

The meaning became clear, though, when the metal giant pivoted in his direction and charged, swinging itself on its long arms like a man on crutches. It picked up speed with every stride.

Aoth considered his options. Cold? Flame? A thunderbolt? Any of them might work. None was a good bet considering that the construct had already proved impervious to one of the most devastating attacks in his arsenal.

He turned and ran.

Orgurth sprinted after him. “The slope’s that way!” the orc cried, pointing with his scimitar.

“I know.”

More undead scrambled to intercept them as they neared the drop at the eastern edge of the saddle. Orgurth hacked the legs out from under another skeleton. Aoth drove his spear into a dread warrior’s chest, sent power surging through the weapon, and blasted its torso to scraps of rot and bone.

He spun around a few paces from the drop-off. “Keep the undead away from me,” he said.

“Fair enough.” The orc brandished his scimitar at the oncoming construct. “As long as you keep that thing away from me.”

“I’m working on it.” Aoth started an incantation, whipped his spear up and down like a drumstick in time to the cadence, and for an instant wondered once again how Jhesrhi was faring. She could cast this particular spell better than he could. But in her absence, he’d have to make do.

Orgurth cut to the chest, and a zombie dropped. Then, three times as tall as a man, the construct caught up to the sellswords.

Still reciting his incantation, Aoth dodged out of its way and was disappointed but unsurprised when it blundered past him but then managed to stop instead of charging right over the edge of the cliff. It was reasonably nimble for something so huge and heavy, and besides, when was anything ever that easy?

The construct turned and swiped at him with one of those long arms, and he leaped back just in time to keep its open hand from smashing him to pulp. As he recited the final words of his spell, he raised his spear over his head, reversed his grip on it, and stabbed it down through the snow into the frozen, rocky earth beneath.

Heaving the ground up and down, waves swept out from the point of penetration as if the saddle were a pool of water and Aoth had just dropped a boulder into it. Even knowing what was coming, he staggered and barely managed to keep his footing. Orgurth snarled a startled obscenity as he did fall down.

Meanwhile, poised at the very brink of the drop-off, towering, ponderous, the construct tottered back and forth, back and forth … but didn’t topple over.

As the jolting in the ground subsided, Aoth could see the automaton settling and recovering its balance. It raised its arm for another blow.

Aoth stepped back into the distance so the steel giant wouldn’t have to move away from the edge. As, still not quite balanced, it started its swing, he thrust his spear at the ground under its feet and shouted a word of destruction.

The word roared forth as a blast of focused sound that shattered the dirt and rock under the construct and splashed the rubble out into empty space. The steel giant reeled backward and plummeted out of sight.

Aoth resisted an impish desire to stand and listen to it crash and clang its way down the mountainside. Wasting even a moment was inadvisable.

Although, he didn’t think he and Orgurth were in insurmountable trouble. Everything had happened so quickly that many of the Raumvirans likely still didn’t realize they had foes in their midst, and the unexpected earthquake should have thrown those who did understand into disarray.

Whereas Aoth had more magic already selected for the casting. With luck, he and the orc should be able to retreat unharmed and lose themselves in the darkness.

Then, however, the saddle shook again. Stumbling, Aoth peered around but didn’t see the ghoul sorceress or anyone else casting the same spell he had. Apparently, his original magic had further weakened preexisting faults in the bedrock.

Rumbling, more snow and earth crumbled over the edge. Worse-much worse-it also poured down into a crack that started opening at the brink and knifed its way inward, cutting across Aoth’s intended line of retreat.

Standing where he was, even he couldn’t see how deep the new crevasse was, but it was plainly deeper than a ditch. Deep enough that he and Orgurth couldn’t just hop in and scramble right out the other side. He turned, taking stock of where the enemy was and what the enemy was doing, and realized he and his comrade had only one recourse.

“This way!” he said. He ran toward the caves, and Orgurth followed. Arrows rained down around them, and blue and scarlet rays stabbed in their direction.

Halting and turning when necessary, Aoth cast spells of his own. A burst of conjured sunlight seared and dazzled powerful undead and burned common zombies and skeletons to ash. A wall of fire leaped up to hold back other foes.

Flames didn’t stop the constructs, though. Either leaping over the luminous yellow barrier or simply plunging straight through, they raced after the fugitives like hounds coursing after a pair of stags.

By the time Aoth and Orgurth ran into the clear space the Raumvirans had left between their front ranks and the mountain fastness, the automatons were closing fast. Aoth wondered if he should stop, turn, and throw another spell. It might cost him his life, but maybe the orc at least would reach the open cave mouth.

Then, however, his fire-kissed eyes saw a sudden glimmer of power run through the peak before him. It looked like water flowing through a network of tiny cracks, and when it finished defining itself, he also discerned the first infinitesimal shifting in the bulging masses of stone it had outlined.

The constructs swept toward Aoth and Orgurth in a converging wave of sculpted blades, fangs, talons, pincers, and stingers, of jointed metal, wood, ceramic, and even stone. Then the face of the Rashemi’s mountain refuge, or a fair portion of it, anyway, dropped away from the granite underneath. Banging and crashing, enormous and unnaturally smooth and round-to make them roll better, no doubt-the dislodged boulders cascaded onto the saddle and tumbled onward.

Aoth and Orgurth stopped running toward the stones and poised themselves to dodge. But Aoth couldn’t see any spaces to dodge into. The boulders were like an onrushing wall.

He drew breath for another magical bellow. Maybe the blast would bump one or two of the boulders off course and make a space.

Then, however, one stone veered sharply to the left, and the one beside it flew off the ground in an arc that would take it safely over the warriors in front of it, in each case, for no apparent reason. Aoth wondered if an earth spirit was steering the boulders.

It was a night for cacophonies, and the crashing as the tumbling stones slammed into the constructs was the most deafening yet. When Aoth yelled for Orgurth to start running again, he could barely hear himself for the din.

As they clambered up the steep slope that led to the open gate, masked men appeared in the opening and brandished wands and staves. Other portals opened, and similar figures appeared in those as well. Thunderbolts and orbs of flame blazed from the ends of the magical weapons. Fortunately, like the leaping boulder, the attacks passed over Aoth and Orgurth’s heads to strike at the Raumvirans.

Hands grabbed the sellswords and hauled them into the cave mouth and to safety. A cave dweller in a leather owl mask trimmed with real feathers regarded the newcomers and said, “The avalanche was our best defense, and we were saving it for just the right moment.” His tenor voice sounded young and pugnacious, but maybe he was just afraid.

“Easy, Kanilak,” said a Rashemi in a wooden mask carved to put a third eye in the center of his forehead. His voice was deeper and older. “We likely weren’t going to get a better moment than when all those constructs charged within range.”

“Still,” Kanilak said, “these two had better be worth it.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Orgurth said, “seeing as how now we’re trapped in this hole with the rest of you.” He gave Aoth a sour look to convey that he knew whose fault that was.

5

Darkness blinded Jhesrhi, and the cold made her shiver. Occasionally, she thought she heard one of Sarshethrian’s enormous “vermin” shift position, but the tiny sounds might simply be one of her stag warriors moving slightly or even her own pulse beating in her ears.

Still, it made her skin crawl to imagine that one of the shadow-beasts might actually touch her before she realized it was there, and that in turn made the urge to summon a protective mantle of flame from the core of her that much harder to resist.

Formerly, the irrational impulse to call fire had resided in the staff she’d carried away from Mount Thulbane, but when she’d sacrificed the weapon to steal Tchazzar’s breath and strength, it had truly become a part of her.

It was unhealthy to give herself over to the impulse, though, or at least Cera seemed to think so, and it was certain that showing a light would alert the enemy to their presence. So Jhesrhi endured feeling vulnerable and the general unpleasantness of the deathways as best she could by thinking of Aoth, Khouryn, and Gaedynn, her cherished comrades from the Brotherhood.

She wondered if Gaedynn was still keeping company with the fashionable Chessentan lady he’d met at a ball. The woman was nice enough, but still, even though, in a vague, abstract sort of way, it shamed her, Jhesrhi found herself imagining how fire might flow along the folds and through the layers of one of the noblewoman’s elaborate silk and fur ensembles.

“They’re coming,” Sarshethrian whispered abruptly. The sound startled Jhesrhi and made her jump even though he’d told her he’d magically project his voice to warn her when battle was imminent. “Prepare yourself.”

She closed her eyes, murmured rhyming words, and touched a fingertip to each eyelid on the final syllable. When she opened them, she could see, albeit with colors faded to shades of gray and not as far as she could have with the aid of light. She could, of course, have enjoyed the benefit of the enchantment all along but hadn’t wanted to waste the power required to keep renewing it.

She was sitting on the ground with her back against a black marble mausoleum carved with an elaborate scene of Kelemvor judging the dead. Its antennae twitching, a thing like the shadow of an enormous cockroach crouched to her left. She rose and crept to the right to peek around the side of the tomb.

She was on a hillside in the largest space she’d yet seen in the sometimes claustrophobic vaults and tunnels that made up the deathways. Predictably, the space was a graveyard complete with twisted, leafless trees and wilted wreaths. All the tombs and monuments were black.

Thanks to Gosnorn’s information and the manner in which it jibed with his own knowledge of his dominions, Sarshethrian had been certain Lod would pass through here on his way to Faerun and Rashemen, and now Jhesrhi saw for herself that it was so. Like most any warlord marching through dangerous territory, the leader of the Eminence of Araunt was traveling in a column with his followers arranged protectively around him.

Prompted both by her martial training and natural curiosity, Jhesrhi first picked out Lod himself, and her eyes widened in surprise. The few bone nagas of her experience had been simply and precisely that, the naked, reanimated skeletons of enormous snakes with skulls nearly the same shape as those of human beings. The master wizard who’d woken Lod, though, had crafted something unique.

The commander of the Eminence was a divided being like a centaur. His maker had reshaped the top part of him into something very like the skeletal remains of the top half of a human being, arms, hands, and all. The bottom part remained overtly reptilian, but longer and heavier than one would expect of even a naga, the bones still sheathed in muscle and scales with a ridge of jagged spikes along the top. Jhesrhi wondered if she was actually looking at something that had once been a dragon’s tail.

Lod rode coiled on a cart drawn by a dozen scarred, gaunt, and filthy naked living men. According to Sarshethrian, the slaves had once been necromancers who’d made thralls of the undead.

Next, Jhesrhi identified the bone naga’s spellcasters, pallid vampires and withered liches walking with staves in hand and amulets hanging from their necks. She and her allies needed to neutralize them quickly, or at least keep them too busy defending themselves to do the same for their leader.

Finally, she looked over the men-at-arms, particularly the undead of two sorts she’d never encountered before even when fighting Szass Tam’s legions. The floating entities called direhelms were the top halves of suits of plate armor animated by the spirits resident within. Doomsepts were groups of seven luminous phantoms that fought as one and apparently were a single being in some metaphysical sense.

All things considered, the column looked formidable even in comparison to the horde of shadow creatures Sarshethrian had assembled to lie in wait for it. Jhesrhi hoped the maimed fiend was right that her powers and Cera’s would tilt the balance in their favor.

Once again, tinged with hatred and eagerness, Sarshethrian’s voice whispered from the empty air: “Now.”

Jhesrhi clothed herself in flame. It felt so good, so right, that for a moment, pleasure burned every other thought right out of her head.

Then, however, she remembered her purpose. Declaiming words of power, she jabbed with her brazen staff and cast a fiery missile at Lod. Elsewhere, her ordinarily merry voice vibrant with the loathing she felt for the deathways and all they contained, Cera recited a prayer that enveloped a portion of the column in searing sunlight. Sarshethrian’s creatures exploded from their hiding places.

The sellswords of the Storm of Vengeance and Aoth Fezim and his companions had all flown to Rashemen to negotiate for the wild griffons. Lacking such a convenient option, the Theskians had trekked across the frozen surface of Lake Ashane, and for the most part, had done so on foot or driving sleighs and dogsleds. Dai Shan, however, had ridden on a sizable magically propelled “ice barge” that sat on its runners at the end of the one of the docks toward the south end of town. A single lamp burned on the bow of the barge, perhaps to assure Yhelbruna that someone really was waiting onboard, while a rope ladder dangled over the side. She walked out onto the pier and, clamping her staff awkwardly under her forearm, began to climb.

During the day, someone had left a message addressed to her tacked beside the entry to the Witches’ Hall. Reading it, she’d discovered that her anonymous correspondent was one of Dai Shan’s underlings, who claimed his master had left instructions for him to carry out in the event he failed to return from his expedition on Mario Bez’s skyship.

To that end, the Shou needed to speak with Yhelbruna, and because that entailed an element of danger, he wished to do so secretly. Would the learned sister please meet him aboard the ice barge when Selune had passed her zenith?

On one level, Yhelbruna hadn’t much appreciated being presented with yet another mystery. Of late, she’d been contending with a surfeit. Yet the parchment, calligraphy, and phrasing were all recognizably Shou, and it would have been just like cagey, slippery Dai Shan to put a contingency plan in place to make sure Bez wouldn’t profit from betraying him. If so, what she learned tonight might finally prove to Mangan Uruk’s satisfaction that the Halruaan had no right to take the griffons.

Gripping the railing, she stepped up onto the barge’s broad, flat deck. Several low, almost hutlike structures stood along its length, but all were dark except for the captain’s cabin in the stern, where a hint of light leaked through the cracks around the hatch.

Yhelbruna walked to the cabin and knocked. No one answered.

“Hello?” she called. Still, nobody replied.

She tried to twist the brass handle. The hatch was locked.

Suddenly, belatedly, she sensed she was in danger. She whirled and spotted a small, shadowy figure at the other end of the barge. His several rings glowed as he spun his hands through mystic passes. So did the yellow eyes under his stubby horns.

He could only be Melemer, Bez’s warlock lieutenant. He’d evidently pilfered Shou parchment and forged a message cunningly conceived to lure Yhelbruna into a trap.

But he was going to regret his cleverness. However adept he was at his arts, she’d had a hundred years to practice her own, and after she rendered him helpless, he could tell her what had really happened in the north.

Gripping her staff with both hands, holding it parallel to the deck, she thrust it forth to symbolize forbiddance and defense. She asked the spirits and fey who were her special allies to lend her their strength. Magic sparkled like powdered emeralds in the air around her.

But something was wrong. She could feel at once that the defense was weak. And when Melemer finished his casting, a tendril of sickly amber phosphorescence shot up from the deck beneath her feet. Twisting around her like a vine strangling a tree, it wrapped itself as tightly as any rope or chain and hoisted her off her feet. Its malignancy burned her wherever it touched, even through her robes, and made her guts cramp with sudden nausea.

As she retched bile into her mask, Melemer advanced and started a second incantation.

In one instant, everything was dark and quiet. Then the world exploded into blinding glare and hot pain. The shock of it made Lod give a screeching hiss and throw his head back, but the glyphs of protection graven inside his ribs and picked out in subtle variations of gray among his scales helped him recover quickly.

Once he did, he discerned that something had thrown fire at him! Vampires and liches who’d been walking near his cart were frantically trying to extinguish their burning garments, while the draft animals harnessed closest to the cart sprawled charred and smoking in the traces.

As soon as he’d taken all that in, he heard a female voice declaiming spells that made patches of radiance bright as summer noon light flare into being up and down the length of the column. No, actually, it was worse than simple sunlight. Lod was a creature of Abeir, and for all his erudition, Faerun’s “gods” and their mortal agents were a mystery to him. But he knew enough to recognize “holiness” when it stung him like a thousand needles.

He’d expected the deathways to present certain hazards, but certainly not flame, the sun, and divine wrath. For one more muddled, dazzled instant, he imagined he was fighting an army of Rashemi, that they’d somehow learned of the Eminence and its plans and moved to oppose him here before he could even reach their country.

Then, though, he saw beyond the flame and the light to what was scuttling in the darkness and almost laughed in relief at the teeming shadow creatures. Because if he was mainly dealing with those, he was fighting Sarshethrian, even if the would-be patron devil of the undead had somehow induced mortal spellcasters to join his cause.

That meant Lod’s grand design was still on track. He just needed to deal with a pest left over from long ago. Fortunately, he’d known it might come to this, and he fancied he was ready.

First, though, he’d better address the complication posed by the mortals. He wouldn’t be able to devote his full attention to Sarshethrian while someone was trying to set him on fire or, worse, purge undeath itself from his body. He peered around.

Although she was using a tomb on the slope to the column’s left for cover, he spotted the wizard as soon as she leaned out from behind it to hurl another incendiary spell at him. Her aura of flame made it easy.

It also made him wonder, even as he hissed a word of warding, swiped at the air, and sent the hurtling spark veering off course, if she was truly human after all. To his arcane perceptions, she looked like mortal flesh and blood but somehow like an elemental as well. Perhaps she was some manner of hybrid.

Not that it mattered at the moment. He leaned down from his cart, gripped a still-befuddled vampire by the spiky pauldron on his shoulder, and pointed. “The mage is there! See the firelight? Kill her!”

The vampire hastily chose others to join him in the endeavor, and they headed up the hillside together. Sarshethrian’s murky, half-formed servants scurried forth by the dozen to oppose the undead on foot, but the ones in the air-be they blood drinkers shapeshifted into bats; levitating direhelms; or translucent, faintly luminous wraiths-had a clearer path to their objective.

Satisfied, Lod next sought the priestess. He’d already noted she was operating on the column’s right flank so she and the wizard could harry it from two directions simultaneously. But at first, he still had difficulty pinpointing her exact location because, unlike her partner, she had the good sense not to kindle light in her own immediate vicinity.

Fortunately, though, it was impossible for anyone to repeatedly channel the purifying, life-giving power of the sun without it standing out in a world where that force was entirely alien. To his mystical sensitivities, the spot where she was invoking her deity throbbed like a rotten tooth.

Lod sent a second squad of his followers driving in the cleric’s direction. Then he cast around for Sarshethrian himself.

But this time, he couldn’t find what he was seeking. The fiend was evidently well hidden and content for the moment to let his minions do the fighting.

Lod might have done the same in his place. The shadow beasts were low, mindless things, but formidable in their way, and they outnumbered the warriors and mages of the Eminence. It made tactical sense to simply throw them at the column until they wore it away.

That was why Lod couldn’t allow the battle to continue in that fashion. He reached into his robe, brought out a crystal vial, and, murmuring words of excoriation and compulsion, focused his malice on the eyeball suspended in the cloudy liquid within.

Melemer finished his incantation and flicked the fingers of one hand at Yhelbruna. His various rings glowed brighter, and bitter cold jolted her, for an instant effacing the pain of the luminous tendril that bound her and dangled her above the deck.

The tiefling stopped advancing, tilted his head, and studied her. “Heart not giving out yet?” he said. “Well, it wouldn’t, would it? Not if all the stories about you are true.” He started another spell.

Yhelbruna exerted her will to shut out the pain of her bonds and likewise to believe that, despite its shocking impotence moments ago, her magic was strong. She whispered an incantation.

Melemer finished his spell first. Black worms writhed into existence down the length of her body.

But before they could start burrowing into her flesh, she completed her spell of liberation, and it twisted Melemer’s magic to her own purposes. The soft, squirming creatures gnawed at her glowing bonds instead of her, and the vinelike spiral flickered into nonexistence as it came apart.

The worms likewise falling away and vanishing, Yhelbruna dropped back onto the deck. She tried to stay upright but, unable to catch her balance, banged down on one knee. That too, was going to hurt when pain slipped past the barrier she’d raised against it.

Melemer’s chatoyant eyes goggled at her. Then he snatched the long knife from his belt and rushed her.

She knew she wasn’t ready to withstand him with magic or her rusty quarterstaff skills either. She scrambled to her feet, dashed to the rail, and swung herself over. The dagger made a whizzing sound as it slashed past, just shy of her flesh.

The barge stood tall on its runners. Yhelbruna snapped a word that should have slowed her fall. Again, magic flowed sluggishly, weakly, in answer to her call. She landed with a thump but at least didn’t break or sprain anything or crash right through the ice.

She scurried into the pool of shadow under the barge’s hull. That would keep Melemer from throwing spells at her from up on deck. Then she heard the warlock whistle.

She felt a renewed pang of desperation because the whistle was surely a signal. He’d had one or more confederates waiting to cut her off if she managed to escape the barge or decided at the last moment not to board in the first place. Thus, she was in even greater peril than she’d imagined.

She didn’t know why her magic was feeble-some hostile enchantment centered on the barge, perhaps-and didn’t have time to try to figure it out. But maybe she could transcend the debilitating influence in the moment she did have.

She peered out at Selune trailing her haze of glittering tears across the western sky. One of the Three was looking down on her, and the Three had never failed her.

Then she considered the lake, frozen over now but still teeming with fish, fey, and spirits beneath its covering of ice. Like the favor of the goddesses, the life of the lake was a well of power she could draw from at need, even if the pulse of that vitality suddenly felt faint and faraway. Surely that was only an illusion.

Something thumped down on the ice and roused her from her effort to center herself. Peering, she saw that Olthe, the burly sellsword priestess of Tempus, had jumped down from the dock.

The battleguard spotted Yhelbruna too. Spinning her axe and tossing it from hand to hand, she advanced and said, “Come out from under the boat, hathran. Let’s finish this.” Her melodious alto voice was a surprise issuing from that homely, sneering face and mannish frame.

But what was the point of talking now or of the flashy display with the axe, for that matter? Yhelbruna thought she knew. Reciting under her breath, she edged forward like she did indeed intend to come out into the open and accept Olthe’s challenge. When she reached the last line of the incantation, though, she spun around.

For an instant, she saw nothing but ice and wondered if she’d guessed wrongly. Then a dozen batlike shreds of shadow swooped down, swirled together, and became a small horned figure ideally positioned to attack her from behind if she were still facing the other way.

She spit the final words of her spell. In an instant, brambles grew from the side of the ice barge-let’s see how Melemer liked being bound! The thorns ripped his flesh as the briars snaked and crisscrossed around him, and the warlock screamed.

Yhelbruna jerked back around. Olthe had stopped advancing and started praying, chopping the air with her axe in time to the words.

Recognizing the spell, Yhelbruna threw herself sideways. A vertical bolt of flame surged down through the spot she’d just abandoned. It blasted through the bottom of the barge and smashed and melted a steaming hole in the ice.

The heat seared Yhelbruna too, in the instant before she floundered out of range, but not severely enough to balk her. She stabbed her staff at Olthe, and with a boom, a dazzling flare of lightning leaped forth and stabbed into the battleguard’s torso.

Somehow remaining upright despite the slipperiness of the ice, Olthe danced a twitching, lurching dance for the moments the magic lasted. Then, her body smoking, she toppled forward.

Yhelbruna pivoted. Melemer was still tangled in the briars but no longer shrieking and struggling. Before the woody bonds stopped growing, thorns had lodged in the corners of his mouth and stretched it wide. The grimace might almost have looked comical if stickers hadn’t ended up in his eyes as well.

Yhelbruna took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Controlling one’s breathing was supposed to promote calmness, but she started trembling with reaction anyway.

She wished she could pause where she was and wait for her nerves to settle, but it wasn’t possible. Now that she knew for a fact that Bez and his sellswords were dastards, she needed to make sure Mangan’s guards took them into custody forthwith.

As she tried to work out how best to accomplish that, she registered the burning foulness in her mouth. She bared her face and did her best to spit the taste of bile away, then strode back to shore, scooped up a handful of snow, and used it to scour the vomit from inside her mask.

Sarshethrian advanced but not witlessly. He did so amid another wave of scuttling shadow creatures and wrapped in supernatural defenses. Even at a distance, Lod could feel the extra power pulsing inside the fiend’s ragged shroud of murky tentacles.

Lod’s followers lunged forward to meet the onrushing vermin. Each of his comrades, he believed, certainly every direhelm, doomsept, specter, or vampire, was more than a match for any one of Sarshethrian’s minions. But superior numbers might still overwhelm the Eminence in the end.

Except that Lod didn’t intend to let it come to that. He crawled down from his cart, slithered toward the ranks of undead fighting savagely to hold back the shadow creatures, and refocused his will on the eye floating in the vial.

Sarshethrian’s voice sounded from the empty air. “The eye has power over me in your world, not in mine. Especially now that I’ve taken measures against it.”

“It pulled you out of your hiding place,” Lod replied. The charm Sarshethrian had cast to facilitate communication would carry his words to the demon as well.

Sarshethrian laughed. “I was coming out anyway. I want a good view of your final moments.”

“I’m afraid your days of viewing anything are over.” Lod hissed an incantation and clenched his fist around the vial, shattering the crystal and crushing its contents.

Sarshethrian cried and clapped his hand to the eye that was still in his head.

Lod reared up on his coils so he could cast further spells at the fiend without the combatants on the ground between them getting in the way. The potential drawback was that by rising higher, he also made himself a better target for any hostile entity on the battlefield. But as quick glances confirmed, the wizard and priestess were busy fighting the undead he’d sent against them, and Sarshethrian’s flying servants, murky things like enormous, malformed flies, were less of a threat. When one oriented on him, he spoke a word of power, pointed, and tore it apart with darts of crimson light.

Then he plucked a black pearl wrapped in a filigree of true-silver wire from one of his pockets, brandished it over his head, and chanted a spell of binding. Argent power flared from the talisman to the blinded, staggering Sarshethrian, whereupon the fiend cried out and vanished. Lod’s bony fingers felt a throb of presence like sudden added weight within in the gem.

He laughed, and then a blow from behind shattered his scapula and raked on down to snap several ribs as well.

Lod wrenched himself around. Neither trapped in the pearl nor even eyeless, although black ichor did streak his pallid cheek, Sarshethrian was floating in the air just a couple of yards away, close enough that his shadow arms could easily whip across the intervening distance. Several shot out at once.

Lod swayed backward atop his reptilian coils. One tentacle still caught the hand containing the evidently useless pearl and jerked it off his wrist. A second lashed around a floating rib and snapped it loose. But the others fell short and failed to envelop him utterly as Sarshethrian plainly intended.

The fiend flew closer to press the attack. Still twisting, dodging, Lod hissed a word of slaying.

That worked, at least to some degree. Sarshethrian went rigid as venom, virulent as the bites of a dozen adders, streamed through his veins.

After an instant, mobility returned, and the fiend sneered and reached anew. By that time, though, the end of Lod’s tail was hurtling down at him.

The blow smashed Sarshethrian to earth. Lod snarled a word of constraint to keep his foe from shifting through space and so slipping out from under the weight and pressure of his lower portion.

An instant later, though, Sarshethrian’s shadow arms curled to slash at the member holding him down. Chunks of bloodless, leathery tissue flew through the air, and bone showed through the gashes where it had been. At the same time, the fiend spit three words, and Lod had a dizzying sensation of spinning upward as his psyche began to separate from his body.

He snarled an incantation of defense and clutched with his remaining hand to symbolize the act of clinging to what was his. He had to grip so tightly that he cracked his own finger bones, but the counterspell worked. His essence locked down into his physical form again.

As it did, he saw that Sarshethrian had nearly wriggled out from under what was left of his tail. Shrieking, Lod charged his hand with the essence of sharpness, whipped his upper body downward like a common serpent striking at prey, drove his fingers through the fiend’s torso, and nailed him to the ground.

That gave the shadow arms another chance to assail the more human portion of him, but instinct, or perhaps simply an irresistible fury, told him to keep attacking, not pull back. As tentacles hooked in his eye sockets, the corners of his jaw, around vertebrae and ribs, and pulled in opposing directions, he sent more of the pure lethal idea of venom pulsing down his arm and out the fang his hand had become.

Sarshethrian’s one dark but lustrous eye opened wide. The shadow arms faltered, frayed, and attenuated into something as insubstantial as mist.

I know what you’re thinking, Lod silently observed, meanwhile infusing his foe with even more poison. This can’t be happening. Because you’re the god of your own little world, and I’m just an artificial thing, a slave, doomed and forgotten until you set me free. But your notions are out of date. I long ago surpassed you.

Sarshethrian tried again to rend Lod with his shadow arms. For a moment, the bone naga could feel their touch, but it was light and soft as feathers. Then the lashing tentacles vanished entirely, and the fiend blackened, shrank, and twisted like a mortal burning to death.

Once he was certain Sarshethrian was truly gone, Lod pulled his hand from the devil’s corpse and wished he could linger over it and savor the moment. But his disciples, his brothers and sisters in undeath, deserved better of him. He reared up and looked around to see how they were faring.

The answer was, about as well as he’d had any right to hope. They’d suffered losses holding back the shadow creatures, but hold them back they had. And with their master slain, Sarshethrian’s minions were abandoning the battle. Big as bears, malformed fleas hopped toward the openings in one of the walls that bounded the vault containing the graveyard. Although vague and murky to begin with, the giant rats became more shapeless still as they simply melted into the dead grass and dark earth under their paws.

Satisfied, Lod recited a spell of restoration. His severed hand and the rest of his lost bones floated up into the air and converged on him to fuse themselves back into place. New gray flesh smeared itself across the wounds in his tail like butter spread by an invisible knife.

His cloak fastened, his collar upturned, and his plumed, broad-brimmed hat tugged down, Mario Bez stepped out of the turret with its cramped spiral staircase onto the wall-walk of the Iron Lord’s castle. Despite his bundling up, the bite of the cold night air made him stiffen and want to go right back inside.

That might be a good idea anyway. The point of spending the evening in the citadel was to be seen by as many Rashemi of consequence as possible. That way, even if they later tumbled to the fact that someone had killed Yhelbruna, they’d be that much more likely to assume that heroic Captain Bez, who mere days ago had delivered their land from the menace of the undead, couldn’t possibly be involved.

But curse it, Melemer or Olthe should have reported by now. Bez peered west across the peaked rooftops of Immilmar in an effort to make out some hint of what had happened, or was currently happening, aboard Dai Shan’s ice barge.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t, and he certainly wasn’t going to stroll right up to the killing field. But to have a hope in the Hells of seeing anything, he was going to have to get closer.

Fortunately, the Storm of Vengeance currently reposed on the lakeshore not too far north of the barge. And no one should think it strange if a conscientious captain paid a nocturnal visit to his vessel to make sure the lookout was awake and all was in order.

Bez stepped into a crenel and jumped far enough out that he needn’t worry about scraping any part of himself against the castle wall. Then he spoke the word of gentle falling that every skyship wizard learned, or at least every one with any sense.

He touched down so lightly that he might have been another snowflake adding to the white blanket on the ground. Then, shivering, he strode toward the shore and the docks until an unexpected sight stopped him in his tracks.

Torches burned aboard the Storm, and the wavering light just sufficed to reveal that the men holding them were berserkers of the Owlbear Lodge. His hosts and drinking companions of three nights past had evidently forced their way aboard, likely killing or taking the crewman on watch prisoner while they were about it.

It could only mean Yhelbruna had survived the attempt on her life. Now she was rousing any Rashemi warriors within reach to seize the Halruaan sellswords and the vessel that might otherwise have afforded them a means of escape.

Bez pulled off his hat and tossed it away. He hadn’t seen any Rashemi wearing one like it, and its shape might make him conspicuous even in the dark. Unfastening his cloak to facilitate access to his blades, he turned and strode south, parallel to the lakeshore. He was even colder now but, intent on the business at hand, only noticed in an abstracted and occasional sort of way.

For the capital of such a poor and backward land, Immilmar was well supplied with inns, and all the crew of the Storm had sought lodgings in one or another of them. Such accommodations provided a welcome change from the cramped quarters aboard the skyship, and Bez had hoped spreading some coin around would endear him to the locals and make them more inclined to offer him the griffons.

He, his officers, and his spellcasters had all taken rooms in Blackstone House, purportedly the finest inn in town, and the one scrap of luck Tymora had allowed him on this disastrous night was that it was close by. Catering to outlanders who arrived by boat, it too, sat near the lakeshore midway between the Storm and Dai Shan’s barge.

Bez studied the structure. No one appeared to be lying in wait outside, and despite the shuttered windows, he could just make out the mournful voice of a minstrel serving up a tragic ballad within.

By the looks of it, Bez had reached the inn ahead of the enemy. Still, his heart beat faster, and his hands fairly tingled with the urge to draw his weapons, until he stepped through the door into the light, warmth, and cheer of the common room and knew for certain he hadn’t just walked into a snare.

The ballad sobbed to an end, and the audience clapped and tossed a few coppers into the wooden bowl at the scruffy singer’s feet. Meanwhile, Bez headed for the Storm’s third mate, a white-headed, sour-faced old wizard and artilleryman named Uregaunt.

Thanks be to the Foehammer, despite the pewter cup and firewine bottle in front of him, the old man didn’t appear drunk. Evidently marking something grim in Bez’s manner, he asked, “What is it, Captain?”

“The crew needs to assemble outside, and right now. Get everyone up and moving. But don’t attract any more attention than you have to.”

“Got it.” Uregaunt rose and headed for the table where two sellswords were throwing dice with a pair of Dai Shan’s retainers.

With a twinge of regret for the possessions he was abandoning in his room, Bez stalked back outside to stand watch. Almost immediately, three Rashemi loped out of the dark. Embroidered, embossed in leather, or picked out in beadwork, images of stag heads and stylized designs representing racks of antlers identified each as a member of the Great Stag Lodge.

Bez was sure Yhelbruna meant to turn out the Great Stag Lodge-along with every other lodge and the garrison of the Iron Lord’s citadel-in force. She must have encountered these three berserkers abroad in the night as she was making her rounds and sent them on ahead to keep an eye on Blackstone House.

But they weren’t content to settle for spying now that they beheld the commander of their enemies standing right in front of them. They bellowed and shuddered, invoking their empowering rage in a heartbeat as only veteran berserkers could, and charged.

Bez retreated and snatched out his rapier and main gauche. Ice flowed down the long blade, and the promise of lightning glowed and buzzed in the shorter one. Snarling a rhyme, he thrust with the sword.

Materializing in midair, fist-sized hailstones hammered down on the onrushing berserkers. One Rashemi pitched forward onto his face in the snow with blood welling from his scalp. The other two staggered but kept coming, spreading out to flank Bez in the process. Apparently their rage didn’t preclude the use of basic tactics.

Still giving ground, Bez rattled off another incantation. On the final syllable, he whipped his rapier down pommel-first as if he were bashing an opponent with it.

Several cracks sounded in quick succession as bones snapped inside a second Rashemi’s body. The berserker fell and tried to jump back up again immediately, but despite his furious determination, pain turned the effort into floundering failure.

Bez discerned he didn’t have time for a third spell. The remaining berserker was about to close with him. It seemed unfair that the Rashemi could run so fast even in the snow.

But since he could, Bez might as well turn it against him. He retreated two more steps, then lunged, explosively reversing direction with a facility and sense of timing that, he fancied, would have satisfied the most demanding fencing master.

Any opponent who was rushing forward would have had difficulty avoiding such an attack, and the frost-coated rapier stabbed deep into the berserker’s chest. As his knees buckled, the Rashemi tried to strike back with his broadsword, and Bez parried with the main gauche. The impact jolted and stung his arm, but all that mattered was that he stopped the cut, and his opponent wouldn’t be making another. The berserker finished collapsing to his knees, flopped over onto his side, and lay there, shuddering and coughing up blood.

Bez freed the rapier and dispitched the warrior with the several broken bones. Otherwise, the man might eventually have started yelling for help. But he left the unconscious Rashemi with the gashed and battered head alone. He had nothing personal against the fellow, and nobody was paying for his death.

A few moments later, Uregaunt led other crewmen, some still adjusting their garments, blinking, and yawning, out of the inn. The old wizard looked at the bodies lying in the snow and shook his head. “We’re neck deep in the cesspit, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Bez said. “We need to haul the rest of the crew out of the other inns, or at least collect as many as we can. We’re racing the men who are on their way to arrest them.”

“Understood,” Uregaunt said. “Then rendezvous aboard the ship?”

Bez sighed. “No. The barbarians secured the Storm first thing. We’ll go to ground in the Ashenwood.”

There to struggle for food and warmth in unfamiliar country in the dead of winter while contending with the trolls, owlbears, and other predatory creatures that reportedly infested the forest. Bez thought of the witch who’d lured him into this predicament and yearned to slide his rapier into her heart.

Jhesrhi had observed before the battle started that Sarshethrian had more troops that would perforce fight on the ground than minions capable of flight. So when Lod sent a portion of his forces streaming up the slope at her, she directed her fiery attacks at the enemies in the air. The stag men followed her lead and, the bells in their antlers chiming, loosed arrows at floating direhelms, winging vampire bats, and ghosts with wavering, faintly luminous forms that trailed out behind them like the tails of shooting stars.

It was a joy to burn them. Aoth had trained Jhesrhi always to reduce an enemy to helplessness as quickly and safely as possible, and in the back of her mind, she still remembered the principle. But the idea seemed inconsequential measured against the delight of wielding flame. Rather than desiring a deft, efficient victory, she almost wished the fight would never end.

The swords in its gauntlets poised to slash, a direhelm swooped down on her. She jabbed with her staff, and a bolt of fire roared out and blasted the animated plate into twisted scraps of steel.

Then something prodded her in the ribs. Startled and suffering a surge of the usual revulsion at being touched, she jerked around and nearly hurled flame at the stag man who’d risked his longbow to reach into her fiery halo and poke her. He nodded furiously to ring his antler bells. Perhaps, in his agitation, he’d forgotten she didn’t know how to interpret the sound.

But she did understand to look where he was pointing. She turned back around and registered that her shadowy defenders had begun to abandon her. An antlike thing with five legs on one side of its body and two on the other wheeled and scuttled past her and on up the hill. The murky, flat-looking body of a two-headed grub crumpled in on itself until nothing remained.

Similar desertions were in progress all across the battlefield-presumably because Lod was looming triumphant over Sarshethrian’s black, shriveled remains.

Jhesrhi understood what it all meant but still didn’t want to stop blasting away at the undead now poised to overwhelm her. So strong was the desire that she wasn’t even certain that she could stop.

Then she spotted flashes of light on the other side of the path Lod and his followers had taken into the graveyard. Cera was over there and no doubt rapidly losing her shadowy allies too.

Just as Jhesrhi realized that, a phantom plunged down at her. The oversized mouth in its blur of a face gaped open as if it were giving vent to an endless silent scream.

She swung her staff to attack the specter, but though she moved quickly, her self-appointed follower was faster still. The stag man leaped and batted at the apparition with his bow.

The stave whizzed through the phantom’s insubstantial form without resistance. The undead thrust its clawlike hands into the stag warrior’s torso, and the fey withered.

Jhesrhi burned the specter into nothingness a scant instant later. But her burst of flame arrived too late to save the stag man’s life. He fell to the ground with a final jangle of bells in a rotting heap.

Jhesrhi felt a pang of sorrow that cleared her head, and as it did, she realized she couldn’t simply abandon the stag warrior’s fellows to die. She looked around for them.

But even though they’d never willingly go far from her in the midst of battle, she couldn’t find them. That could only mean they’d already fallen too.

Poor creatures, giving their lives for a loyalty she’d neither sought nor understood. She promised herself she’d avenge them.

But first she had to help Cera, and though it had become her most powerful weapon, fire alone couldn’t do it. If she simply tried to burn her way to the priestess, the enemy would surely surround and overwhelm her.

Hissing words of power in one of the tongues of the Undying Pyre, she spun her staff over her head. A ring of towering flames leaped up around her. Her foes would assume she meant the heat to hold them back, and in fact, she did. But she also wanted the bright cylinder to block their view of what she’d do next.

She spoke to the air in a soft, whistling language, and at once sensed its spiteful reluctance to heed her. In her own world, the spirits of the elements were generally happy to do her bidding, but here in the deathways, everything but fire was apt to balk.

Her voice swelling from the whisper of a breeze to the howl of a gale, she snarled words of chastisement, and the air yielded to her will. It caught her and lifted her hurtling toward the black circle at the top of her roofless tower of flame.

As she shot out into the open, she looked hastily around for flying undead poised to assail her but didn’t spot any. As best she could judge, all the other combatants were well below her, and she supposed she owed Lady Luck an offering of thanks for the height of the ceiling.

She skimmed along just underneath it as she hurtled in Cera’s direction and then over the embattled sunlady. She didn’t want any of the creatures assailing her comrade to observe that she could fly.

She set down behind a mausoleum with a sculpture of Chauntea holding a bouquet of roses in her arms on the roof. The goddess of the earth’s bounty looked strange, a mockery of herself, rendered in obsidian black.

At once, the wind tried to take its leave. Snapping a word of command to let it know she still required its services, Jhesrhi kept it fluttering around her as she ran in Cera’s direction.

A doomsept swept in on her flank, and she lashed her staff at it and set it ablaze. That balked six of the conjoined spirits, but the seventh kept coming and hacked at her with a battle-axe made of sickly greenish light.

She dodged, and the stroke just missed, although even its proximity made her head throb and her sight break up into meaningless spots for an instant. She started to strike back with her own weapon, but then the apparition finished burning away to nothing.

She rushed on to Cera’s side. The priestess was holding back a vampire with a ray of sunlight cast from her gilded mace. The creature’s pasty features became more and more bestial as divine power burned a cavity in its torso. Unfortunately, though, Cera was so intent on that task that she didn’t appear to notice that a direhelm was on the verge of slipping past the flying mace that was bashing dents in its metal body to attack her.

Jhesrhi slashed at the air with her staff. A sword of fire sprang into being to fight alongside the mace of light and help keep the animate plate armor where it was.

“Thanks,” Cera gasped. “Lod killed Sarshethrian. The shadow beasts-”

“I know,” Jhesrhi snapped. “We need the brightest, hottest light you can make, right now.”

Raising her mace as if she had a daytime sky and not darkness and stone above her, Cera called out to Amaunator. Spinning her staff, Jhesrhi conjured another cylinder of flame around the both of them. Holy light and fire exploded into being, each overlapping and reinforcing the other.

Jhesrhi spoke to the wind, and it shot both mortals toward the ceiling of the vault. Cera gave one startled yelp but held her peace thereafter.

Prompted by its summoner’s unspoken will, Jhesrhi’s elemental servant set her and the priestess down by an arch that opened on a tunnel, at a spot removed from what remained of the battle. Still capable of seeing without the light that would have otherwise given away their location, she put the end of her staff in Cera’s hand and led her down the passage.

When she was reasonably certain nothing was pursuing them, the wizard said, “There’s a sarcophagus in an alcove on the right. Sit. Rest.”

Panting, her round face sweaty, Cera groped her way to the granite seat. Feeling as spent as the sunlady looked, Jhesrhi flopped down next to her. They’d both fought hard and cast powerful magic, and even her newfound affinity with fire didn’t allow her to throw burst after burst without the exertion eventually taking a toll.

“Well,” Cera said after a while, “I told you allying with a demon lord was a bad idea.”

Flying over Immilmar in bat form, Nyevarra watched in disgust as warriors streamed out of the lodges and the Huhrong’s Citadel to round up the Halruaans. For the most part, the berserkers were a step behind their quarry, and Mario Bez succeeded in collecting the greater part of his crew and leading them south. But who cared? What mattered was that Yhelbruna was still alive.

What kind of sellswords, Nyevarra wondered bitterly, couldn’t trap and murder one old woman, especially one whose magic was starting to falter? Admittedly, she’d known going in that Bez was lying about his part in the siege of the Fortress of the Half-Demon, but still, given his reputation, she’d had every right to assume he and his company were up to the task she’d set them.

She would have liked to chase after the idiot herself, drink him dry, and then tear off his head to ensure he wouldn’t rise. But she had something more important to do.

The scheme she and Uramar had devised after the traitor Dai Shan opened a portal into the Iron Lord’s dungeons was brilliant even if she was vainglorious to think so. Not only would it overthrow the hathrans, it would leave the durthans preeminent in their own country, with Raumvirans, Nars, and strangers from beyond the sea playing only peripheral roles.

But until it was well advanced, the ongoing subversion would be a powerful yet vulnerable strategy, relatively easy to thwart if a foe discovered what was going on. Concerned that Yhelbruna might accomplish precisely that, Nyevarra had sought to remove her from the lanceboard. Unfortunately, the botched attack had almost certainly made the hathran even more curious about what had happened in the north and more wary where her own safety was concerned. A second murder attempt was almost certain to fail.

Yet Nyevarra still needed to ensure the success of her plan, and if she couldn’t do it by arranging the death of an old enemy, she needed to get at someone else at the very heart of power. She winged her way to the Iron Lord’s castle and flowed and swelled back into human form atop the flat, snowy roof of the central keep.

Then, setting her staff aside, she climbed down the granite wall headfirst toward a certain row of narrow, shuttered windows. Mangan Uruk’s apartments lay behind them.

As best she could determine at a glance, nothing protected the openings except the iron shutters themselves. But instinct told her not to trust that first impression. She whispered an invocation to fey with a knack for revelation, pledging tribute in the form of the plucked eyes of five mortals if her allies would only see fit to open her own.

Sigils-Chauntea’s roses, sheaves, and scythes; Mielikki’s unicorn head; Selune’s moon in all its phases; and a number of others-flared into radiant golden life atop the black metal rectangles, and Nyevarra flinched. Had she tried to pass them, they would have reduced her to nonexistence because, although the defensive magic infusing them would have inconvenienced any dark fey, wicked spirit, or fiend, its particular target was the undead.

Nyevarra supposed some cautious witch had placed the wards here when Uramar and Falconer had started feeling out Rashemen’s defenses by the straightforward method of marauding. She recited a counterspell to scour the metal clean, but the signs shined on as brightly as before.

Maybe Yhelbruna herself had emplaced the protections before her power began to attenuate. The wretched things were certainly virulent enough to represent the elder hathran at her best, which was to say, strong enough that Nyevarra doubted her own ability to dissolve them in a reasonable amount of time.

That meant Nyevarra had to outfox their maker. She had to do or be what that witch hadn’t had the foresight to guard against, and in fact, that might be possible.

She and Uramar had encountered a demon called an ekolid in a Nar tomb complex, and when she’d drunk some of the creature’s blood, she’d nearly turned into something resembling an ekolid herself. The blaspheme had saved her from that fate, but the infection, if that was the proper term, still lay dormant inside her. She knew because she was sometimes a demon in her dreams.

If she could rouse that potentiality without permitting it to overwhelm her essential identity, Mangan Uruk’s protections might not recognize her as undead. She might be able to wriggle past them.

She murmured charms to bolster her will and sense of self. Then she reached inside her psyche to the strangeness imprinted there. You want to be me, she thought. I invite you to try. Come steal me if you can.

Her head filled with the droning of wings and a sense of unspeakable vileness. The buzzing told her the only escape from the foulness was to become it.

Her skull ached as, grinding, it changed shape. Her vision altered as new eyes popped into existence. Serrated mandibles protruded above them.

“No,” she gritted. “I am Nyevarra, a witch of Rashemen. You, creature, are a wart. A scar. Just a tiny blemish I picked up along the way.”

By degrees, her body reverted to its normal state. She realized she’d started growing membranous wings when they retracted into her back.

All right, she thought. She’d subdued the ekolid, but its taint was still wakeful; it made her feel feverish and lent a surreal quality to her perceptions. She didn’t know if it was wakeful enough to fool the sigils, but she was going to find out.

She melted into mist. The fluidity of shapeshifting encouraged the ekolid to make another try to impose its guise on her fundamental nature, and she wrestled it into submission once again. Then she flowed into the crack where a shutter met the wall.

Agony ripped through her as though the Great Mother’s scythe, the Forest Queen’s scimitar, and the Moonmaiden’s mace were slashing and pounding her all at once. The torment went on and on, threatening to eclipse awareness of everything else, even the reason for it and the only way to bring it to an end.

But Nyevarra refused to lose cognizance of those truths. Even with torture addling her, she kept writhing forward for what felt like tendays of effort.

Finally, the last trailing curl of mist floated clear of the window. Congealing into solidity again, she thumped down on the floor, lay shuddering, and waited for the residual pain to fade and her strength to return.

Then came the soft, short rasping sound of someone hastily drawing a blade. Startled, Nyevarra looked up.

She’d felt like it was taking an eternity to enter the chamber, and plainly, it really had taken longer than anticipated. For the Iron Lord had had time to abandon the pursuit of Mario Bez and return to his quarters while she was working on it.

Even sitting in the dark, Cera could feel Jhesrhi give her a sour look. Perhaps before attempting to lighten the mood, she should have remembered that the sellsword, for all her good qualities, mostly lacked a sense of humor. A flaw no doubt exacerbated by the fact that at the moment, there truly wasn’t much of anything to laugh about.

“With Sarshethrian dead,” Jhesrhi said, “we’re back where we started: trapped.”

“Could we spy on Lod and his creatures?” Cera asked. “Just watch and see how they open a door into Rashemen?”

“We’ll have to try if we can’t think of a better plan,” the wizard replied. “But it won’t be easy. The undead know we survived. They’ll be on the lookout for us. And what if we need to be up close to really see how to control the arches?”

Cera shifted uncomfortably on the hard stone surface beneath her, removed her helmet, and ran her fingers through her sweaty, tangled curls. “Maybe,” she said reluctantly, “I do know another way.”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s say I’m a sunlady who allied herself with Sarshethrian because even that was better than letting the undead overrun Rashemen.”

“You are, give or take.”

Cera smiled for an instant. “Yes, but bear with me. I’m a sunlady. You, however, are a fire spirit Sarshethrian bound into his service, and when he died, you regained your freedom. Now you want to escape the deathways, and Lod’s the one who can let you out. In exchange, you’ll help him conquer Rashemen. Ordinary mortals, after all, are nothing to you. To prove your good faith, you’ll give him the prisoner you captured: me.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, I’m plainly a human being, not an elemental.”

Cera took a moment to choose her next words carefully. “Of course you’re human, but since you stole Tchazzar’s might, you’re also … special. Why do you think the stag men gave you their allegiance? Because they were fey, and you looked like a mighty fey or spirit to them.”

“I … it doesn’t matter. Because the scheme would also require me to deceive Lod, and I’m a bad liar.”

“How long did you keep Tchazzar beguiled?”

“He was mad and blind with, well, lust.” Jhesrhi’s emphasis bespoke her revulsion. “The bone naga won’t be.”

“But you have moments when you think a fire’s thoughts, and human concerns recede. I’ve seen it. And like any wizard, you know how to manipulate the state of your own consciousness. Be living fire when you approach Lod. Then he won’t see the emotions that would give you away.”

“Like being upset at the prospect of what’s going to happen to you? Because it will be bad. Even if I can convince the undead to make common cause with a creature of fire, they won’t be kind to a cleric of the Yellow Sun.”

“I’ll count on your glibness to convince them I’ll be more useful alive than dead.”

“I already told you, I don’t have any glibness.”

“Well, even if they kill me, it’s better for one of us to escape than neither. Someone has to find Aoth, stop the undead, and pay back that little turd Dai Shan. Don’t you think?”

Jhesrhi sat in silence for a few breaths. Then: “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” It was the best chance, for Jhesrhi if not for her. “Just promise me one thing. If they don’t only kill me, if they turn me into one of them, burn me up if you possibly can.”

“I’ll try to keep it from coming to that.”

“I know you will.” Cera put her helmet back on. “We should hurry back and find them while we can. Amaunator grant they haven’t moved on already.”

“They haven’t,” Jhesrhi answered, her garments rustling as, presumably, she too stood. “Unless it needs to run away, every war band, even an undead one, bides to rest and put itself back in order after a battle.”

Threatened with a hand-and-a-half sword in the grip of one of Rashemen’s greatest warriors, Nyevarra reflexively sought to spring to her feet. But weakness made her flounder and nearly fall back down again.

That was bad. But her vampiric strength would return, and in the meantime, maybe she could stall. Her sudden appearance in the Iron Lord’s personal chambers was understandably alarming, but even so, in her mask and vestments, she looked like an ordinary hathran.

“Majesty,” she began.

Mangan Uruk called up his rage without any of the shuddering, stamping, howling, gnawing on a shield rim, petty self-mutilation, or other tricks required by less accomplished berserkers. Only a sudden wild light in his eyes afforded even an instant’s warning as he sprang and slashed at Nyevarra’s neck.

Somehow, she twisted out of the way of the cut, and as she did, she discerned the reason for the failure of her deception. Her right hand was as it ought to be, but the left had warped and darkened into a cloven stump like the terminus of a wasp’s leg. It was as if the ekolid had concluded it could never possess her and so had spitefully betrayed her to her foe.

Reckless but preternaturally strong and fast, Mangan immediately pivoted and cut a second time. Nyevarra dodged, but less successfully. The blade sliced her shoulder, pulled free, and whirled down for a stroke to the guts.

Instinct told her she wouldn’t be able to dodge that one either. Blocking out the belated flare of pain in her shoulder, she snarled a word of warding and made a pushing motion with her good hand. With a clang, the bastard sword rebounded from the invisible shield she’d conjured to deflect it.

This, she realized, was the way to survive. A physical assault stirred her predatory instincts and made her want to answer in kind, but she wouldn’t be a match for Mangan until her strength returned, and conceivably, not even then. She had to oppose him with witchcraft, one difficulty being that, while he was intent on slaughtering her, she couldn’t achieve her purpose if she killed him, visibly wounded him, or even made sufficient noise to alarm people elsewhere in the fortress.

Mangan sidestepped and cut at her head. She jumped back out of range without an inch or an instant to spare, kept on retreating, rattled off words of power, thrust her good hand at him, and simultaneously puffed out her breath at his face.

He faltered as the stream of noxious fumes engulfed him, but only for a heartbeat. Then, shaking off the nausea, he rushed her again.

Curse it! Another hastily conjured shield kept his blade from driving home, but she couldn’t count on that trick working every time, nor did she want anyone to take note of the recurring clash of steel. She chanted and swirled her hands in the air.

To her dismay, the ekolid hand, if it even could be described as such, turned out to be awkward. It was attached to a wrist of sorts, but the joint didn’t bend in precisely the way a human wrist did, and for a second, Nyevarra felt the pattern of force she was weaving threatening to dissolve. But she spoke her words of power even more insistently and made reinforcing flourishes with her human hand, and that compensated for the fumbling of the demon limb.

Like the curtains of soft, subtle lights that sometimes danced in the northern sky, color rippled into existence between her and the berserker. The flowing phosphorescence was beautiful, and despite his fury, Mangan hesitated to gawk at it.

But as before, it was plain the spell would hold him only for a moment. His jaw clenched, and his grip on his sword hilt tightened as he started to break free.

Risking an attack, one she almost certainly couldn’t avoid since she’d be moving right into it, Nyevarra stepped into the center of the luminous haze. To her relief, Mangan didn’t slash or stab at her. But he would in another instant unless she forestalled it.

She grabbed his head between her two hands and stared into his eyes. Her conjured light had muddled him. Perhaps, in so doing, it had opened a breach in his psychic defenses through which a vampire’s power of command could stab to more permanent effect.

For a moment, he shuddered. Then he let out his breath in a long sigh, and his sword arm relaxed and hung at his side.

Nyevarra had him, and the instant she knew it, she felt the urge to feed. It would pay him back for hurting her and help her heal more quickly too.

But it was one thing to drink the blood of common hathrans who went around muffled in robes and masks and were unlikely to attract undue attention even if their habits and demeanors changed a little. It would be a different matter to prey on the Iron Lord himself. If Mangan Uruk looked pale and started squinting and flinching at the sunlight, someone-such as Yhelbruna-might well notice.

And besides, Nyevarra didn’t need to turn the warlord into a genuine thrall, gratifying though that would have been. She only needed him to commit a single error in judgment when the occasion arose for him to do so.

She told him what she wanted and made sure he understood. Then she ordered him to forget ever meeting her.

Now all that remained was to head back to Beacon Cairn via the deathways and tell Uramar what he needed to do to make her scheme work out as planned. Smiling, she melted into mist and then put on solidity once more. Her smile widened when she saw that the last transformation had restored her altered hand to normal.

Jhesrhi cloaked herself in flame for the hike back to the cemetery. That way, Lod and his creatures wouldn’t think she was trying to sneak up on them, and Cera, looking cowed and fearful, her mace, shield, and helmet left behind, had light to see by.

Even after Jhesrhi’s previous exertions, calling the fire in her core to come out and dance had been relatively easy. What was difficult was maintaining the dual consciousness her masquerade required.

She needed to be as ruthless and uncaring as flame. Otherwise, her lies wouldn’t fool a creature as cunning as Lod must surely be. But underneath the mask of fire, the human Jhesrhi needed to remember she was lying and maintain ultimate control.

And while she was keeping the balance, neither allowing human worry and loathing for the undead to dampen the flame nor permitting the inner blaze to spread to her affection for Cera and her other friends and burn that loyalty away, she also had to scan the gloom ahead. It wouldn’t do for an undead to spring out of hiding and drive filthy, jagged talons or a blade forged of shadow and disease into her heart before she even had a chance to start talking.

She fancied that she managed to stay vigilant. Still, several paces into the graveyard, it was Cera, a sworn foe of the undead possessed of a certain intuitive sensitivity to their presence, who suddenly stopped short. She didn’t cry a warning, though. That would have undercut the pretense that she and Jhesrhi were no longer on the same side.

Their flowing, inconstant forms lending a deceptive appearance of slowness to their movements, seven luminous bluish phantoms sprang from the tombs nearest the two women to surround them. Jhesrhi spoke words of power, and a circle of flame leaped up around her and Cera.

She sensed that if she chose, she could make the ring expand and sweep over the sentries. In fact, it took willpower to resist the impulse. Both sides of her nature wanted to succumb-the fire because it lived to burn whatever it could, and the human because the apparitions were menacing and vile.

Still, resist she did. “I don’t want to fight. I want to talk to your leader. As a show of good faith, I brought you a present.”

On the final word, she gave Cera a prod with her burning staff. With luck, it looked like she didn’t even care if she set the priestess on fire, although in reality, her control over the flames kept Cera’s garments from catching.

The seven transparent, wavering sentries moaned and whispered an answer in unison. They must actually be a single entity, a doomsept. “Give her to us, then.”

“I’ll hand her over when I talk to Lod. Is that all right? If not, I can burn you up like I already burned up many of your comrades, then vanish away to safety like before.”

The doomsept thought it over for a moment. Then the seven phantoms said, “Come.”

Jhesrhi dispelled the circle of flame with a sweep of her staff and gave Cera another jab in the back with it, and they followed the apparitions deeper into the graveyard.

As they proceeded toward the central path, loping ghouls and skeletons with glowing eye sockets joined the procession. Maybe the stinking things were curious, or perhaps they wanted to be in striking distance in case it turned out that Jhesrhi had actually returned to renew hostilities. Either way, there were soon enough of them to make retreat problematic if not impossible.

Still, peering around to assess the state of their expedition as best she could, Jhesrhi noted with satisfaction that there weren’t as many as there used to be. With her aid and Cera’s, Sarshethrian had done considerable harm to the Eminence’s forces even though he’d lost the battle in the end.

Still, like mortal soldiers in the wake of a battle, some of the undead that had suffered harm were merely wounded, not destroyed. To facilitate their recovery, creatures with necromantic skills brought pools of black liquid malignancy bubbling up from the graveyard earth; their fellow horrors either drank from them or splashed the foulness on their injuries. Meanwhile, Lod had sacrificed the surviving cart slaves to restore burned and mangled vampires, and the gaunt, naked mortals shivered and twitched as two or three blood drinkers battened on each.

Except for the damage to his charred and tattered robe, Lod himself was intact again already, every broken human-looking bone back in place and the burns and gashes in the long scaly tail erased. He sat coiled in the bed of his wagon, the better, perhaps, to oversee his company as it dealt with the aftermath of combat.

He cocked his fleshless skull of a head as he peered down at Jhesrhi and Cera. “The two of you fought well today. Too well to expect anything but vengeance if you fell into our hands.”

Jhesrhi gave Cera a poke with the staff. “This one deserves it. She fought of her own free will. I didn’t.” She proceeded to tell the tale the sunlady had concocted.

When she finished, Lod simply stared down at her for a while. A wizard’s instincts warned her he was using some occult means of perception in an attempt to examine her essence. I’m fire, she told herself, fire, ready to incinerate any dead, filthy thing that displeases me, and she gazed back at him unflinchingly.

At last he said, “You don’t look exactly like an elemental.” And all around her, anticipating that he was about to give the order to attack, direhelms, zombies, and wraiths gathered themselves to lunge and pounce.

“I admit,” Jhesrhi said. “My mother was human. But she burned to death giving birth to me, and afterward, my efreet father took me to raise. He taught me to hate the cold, wet, mortal part of me, and with his help, I reforged it into something stronger.”

“Congratulations,” Lod replied, a note of irony in his slightly sibilant voice. “Undead too, occasionally have to work to slough off clinging vestiges of the lesser beings we started out as. But that doesn’t change the fact that fire and our kind are natural enemies.”

“Sharp steel harms living warriors,” Jhesrhi answered. “That doesn’t stop them from wielding axes and swords, and in my time, I’ve known liches and the ghosts of mages to wield flame. I’d wager you yourself have a fire spell or two in reserve for when fire is exactly the right weapon for the occasion. If not, you’re a fool.”

The bone naga chuckled. “Perhaps I do at that. Yet even if so, should I trust living, thinking fire not to betray me?”

“I don’t deny I view your kind with distaste. But my current predicament obliges me to overlook that. Does my gift do nothing to prove my sincerity? The clerics of Amaunator stand in opposition to your kind more than any fire spirit ever could.”

Lod’s lower body shifted position, the coils sliding. “It is a nice gesture. Under other circumstances, I’d punish the woman properly to avenge those who burned when she called the daylight. But important matters await my attention in Rashemen, so I suppose we only have time for a little torture before the kill.” Swaying, he leaned out over the edge of the cart to scrutinize Jhesrhi even more closely. “That is what you expected, isn’t it?”

Be fire, Jhesrhi reminded herself, and when she replied, her voice was steady. “Do what you please. It doesn’t matter to me. But I don’t know how detailed your knowledge of affairs in Faerun is. Your prisoner is Cera Eurthos. She’s the lover of Aoth Fezim, a sellsword captain hired to fight your forces. She’s also one of the principal candidates for the head of the church of the Yellow Sun in the land of Chessenta. You might find she’s more useful to you alive.”

“Hm. That does seem possible. And I confess, I know little about gods and divine magic and such, and I need to remedy that. Perhaps a priestess can instruct me.”

“No,” Cera said. “I won’t help you in any way.”

“Oh, I trust you will,” Lod said, “starting right now.” He turned to the vampires, who, Jhesrhi now observed, had at some point risen from the drained, lifeless bodies of the slaves. “Who’s still thirsty?”

Leering, mouths smeared with red, three of the pallid undead started forward. Cera stepped back, drew breath, and raised her hand to what, in a sane, living world, would have been a sky. She had, Jhesrhi knew, intended to play the helpless prisoner whatever transpired, but the threat of the vampires’ attentions was so repellent that instinct had taken over.

Lod spoke a word of chastisement, and even though Jhesrhi wasn’t the target, it made her body feel as if it were vibrating. Cera cried out and fell to her knees.

The vampires closed with her an instant later and threw her down on her back. Their white fingers ripped away mail and the leather underneath to expose flesh. Then the creatures bent down and bit.

“Try not to kill her,” said Lod. Swaying, he alternated between watching his followers feed and watching Jhesrhi.

Be fire, she thought, and anger and horror dwindled from her awareness as though they’d burned away.

Apparently that was good enough for Lod. For after a while, he said, “I have had reports from Rashemen, of course. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be going there. But please, my new friend, tell me everything you know.”

6

The pearly, seemingly sourceless glow of enchantment gleamed on swords, spears, shields, staves, wands, and crystal. The fine workmanship would have been apparent to anyone, but Aoth’s fire-kissed eyes could also discern the force of enchantment pent inside the articles.

Orgurth peered around the spacious, high-ceilinged cave, part forge, part conjuring chamber, and part armory, and said, “Well, all this should help, shouldn’t it?”

“It might,” Aoth replied.

After a round of introductions and explanations, Shaugar-the older cave dweller in the three-eyed wooden mask who’d helped haul Aoth and Orgurth to safety-and Kanilak had taken their new allies on a tour of their cavern home. The older man didn’t seem to resent the lack of gushing optimism in Aoth’s reply. But the youth glared like the owl whose visage he wore.

“No one crafts more powerful talismans than the Silverbloods!” he said.

Aoth supposed that within the borders of Rashemen, that might be true. As it turned out, the Wychlaran reserved all the mystic arts to their own sex except for the creation of magical weapons and tools. Males with a talent for wizardry or commerce with the divine could use their skills in that arena, but only if willing to join one of the groups of “Old Ones” sequestered in the Running Rocks. The Silverbloods were one such group.

It seemed like a dismal sort of life to Aoth, but so far, he hadn’t noticed any indication that the male spellcasters chafed at their subservience to the hathrans or their obligatory seclusion. Of course, the undead Raumvirans outside their granite gates had given them other things to think about.

And unfortunately, despite Kanilak’s touchy pride in the potency of Silverblood magic, the contents of the armory weren’t likely to solve the problem. Not by themselves, at any rate. Aoth took a moment to frame an explanation that, he hoped, would avoid giving further offense.

“I see the quality of your craftsmanship,” he said. “But many of these articles aren’t finished.” And thus, not as formidable as they ought to be. “If they were, you would have shipped them off to the hathrans and the Iron Lord’s warriors already.”

“We may have time to finish some,” Shaugar said. “If the siege drags on.”

“It won’t,” Aoth replied. “We slowed the enemy down when we destroyed their stone thrower. But it won’t keep them out for long.”

As though to validate his assertion, a boom reverberated through the caves, and the floor shivered. An undead mage had cast destructive magic at one of the stone seals.

“We also,” Aoth continued once the echoes died away, “have to face the fact that we don’t even have enough fighters to use all the weapons at the same time.”

The Silverbloods were apparently one of the largest enclaves of Old Ones. That, combined with their level of expertise, was likely why the Raumvirans had decided to attack them. But even so, there were only a few dozen of them.

“Then each of us,” Kanilak said, “will empty one talisman of power, then switch to another.”

Aoth nodded as he might have to a raw recruit on the training field, where even painfully obvious thinking warranted encouragement. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. Still, we’ll have the problem that constructs are sometimes resistant to spells. I’m an accomplished war mage, but if you were watching, you saw I couldn’t just dissolve the stone thrower. I had to chuck it over a cliff and let the violence of the fall destroy it.”

Orgurth grinned an ugly grin. “Then it’s hopeless.”

“No,” Aoth said. “Because useful as they are, automatons have their limitations too, and we’re going to exploit them.”

“Hold on!” Kanilak said. “You aren’t the leader here! You’re just a stranger we took in for kindness’s sake when you were running for your life!”

“That’s true,” Aoth replied. “But even if you’ve never heard of me, I’ve been commanding armies for a hundred years. I know how to be a war leader. Do you need one?”

The young man hesitated. “At moments when all Rashemen was in danger, the hathrans called the Old Ones forth. And we fought well!”

“I believe it,” Aoth replied. “But did Old Ones plan strategy and direct the battles, or did you simply play the roles the witches and lodge masters assigned to you?”

Shaugar put his hand on Kanilak’s shoulder. “Go easy, son. Captain Fezim’s not belittling the Silverbloods, and obviously, if we don’t like his plan, we won’t follow it. But considering that we haven’t even managed to come up with one of our own, it makes sense to at least hear his thoughts.”

“Thank you,” said Aoth. “One of a golem’s weaknesses is that it’s a made thing. That’s never helped me much because I’m not a maker. I can turn a weapon stronger and sharper and store power inside it, but that’s all. You fellows, though, are master enchanters, and I assume those who make can unmake.”

Now it was Shaugar’s turn to hesitate. “It’s an interesting notion,” he said at length, “but no Old One has ever crafted anything like those metal beasts outside.”

“You must animate something,” Aoth replied. “The underlying principles will be the same. And you don’t even have to disable the automatons permanently. If you can just cripple or confuse them for a few heartbeats, that should be good enough.”

“How’s that?” Orgurth asked.

“Because most of the enemy are constructs. I don’t know why it’s that way. There wasn’t any shortage of actual ghouls and such garrisoning the Fortress of the Half-Demon or raiding elsewhere in Rashemen, for that matter. But still, we don’t have that many reanimated Raumvirans to contend with, especially because the tumbling boulders squashed some.”

“And without the Raumvirans to control them,” Kanilak said, “the golems don’t count for anything!” The possibilities inherent in the notion had finally purged the belligerence from his tone.

“That’s right,” said Aoth. “It will work if we can control the timing and flow of the action so that, when the automatons fail, the undead are where we can get at them.” He looked to Shaugar. “What do you think?”

“I think,” said the man in the three-eyed mask, “you should come tell the others what you just told us.”

The wordless psychic call came midway through Dai Shan’s watch, and so eagerly had he awaited it that he nearly responded straightaway. But his father had taught him-sometimes with his fist or his cane-that a Shou merchant lord always thought before he acted, and a moment’s reflection sufficed to convince him he shouldn’t simply abandon sentry duty. As the grisly detritus throughout the fortress attested, the North Country was full of trolls and similar dangers, and he, Vandar, and Jet had no way of sealing up the Fortress of the Half-Demon to prevent incursions from the benighted wilderness outside.

And even had it been otherwise, he didn’t want his companions in adversity to decide he was behaving suspiciously.

Thus, he waited for Jet to lumber up the steps to the battlements above the gate to relieve him. As he’d half expected, the surly beast ignored his greeting. Nothing made the griffon resent his current inability to fly more keenly that having to negotiate the often cramped and narrow castle stairways.

Dai Shan descended to the courtyard with its litter of broken golems and frozen corpses, an assortment of the latter missing their heads for a reason he had yet to understand. Glancing upward to make sure Jet wasn’t watching him instead of the snowy wasteland beyond the walls, he slipped into what had once been a stable. The enclosure had a couple of mangled corpses of its own, both, by the look of them, zombies before Aoth and Vandar’s warriors hacked and battered them to pieces.

The Shou slipped into one of the stalls, where neither Jet nor Vandar would see him simply by peering through the doorway. Then he sat down cross-legged on the frozen dirt floor with its scatter of ancient rotten straw, breathed slowly and deeply, and emptied his mind of everything but his purpose.

When he felt himself centered, poised, his consciousness leaped from his body to hurtle south like an arrow. After an instant of exhilarating, almost dizzying lightness, he suddenly stood between a whitewashed longhouse with the heads of dragons, unicorns, and hounds carved into the eaves and a smallish amphitheater dug out of the ground.

His return to Immilmar was possible because he’d previously created a shadow and sent it on ahead of him. He’d initially told Jet and Vandar the truth when he’d said he’d exhausted the capacity to spawn such servants, but he’d lied when claiming it had yet to renew itself. For why should his rivals share in whatever knowledge he garnered?

Unfortunately, it had taken the phantom a while to make the trek, for, tireless as it was, it hadn’t been able to travel by day. Nor had that been its only deficiency. Its thoughts murky and inhuman-stupid, if the truth be told-it hadn’t known any better than to lurk near the Witches’ Hall, the one place in the capital where someone was most likely to detect it.

But apparently, nobody had, and now that Dai Shan had inhabited it, obliterating its own identity in the process, he wouldn’t linger. He whispered a charm to cloak himself in darkness, then skulked away.

As he neared a little stand of oaks, he caught rhyming words and registered a sort of rhythmic pressure impinging on his arcane sensitivities. He paused and peered because he recognized the voice. It was Yhelbruna herself working magic alone in the freezing night.

Or trying, anyway. Dai Shan couldn’t identify the language she was speaking. Some tongue of the Feywild, perhaps. But as a mage of sorts in his own specialized fashion, he recognized the strident insistence in her tone. It was the way ritual casters sounded when their magic was failing, when the spirits ignored them and reality balked at bending to their will.

Yet this was the most celebrated hathran in Rashemen struggling to exert power in what was surely a consecrated and thus conducive spot. Her current lack of success was accordingly strange, so strange Dai Shan felt tempted to continue spying.

He wouldn’t, though, because time was short. He needed to stick to his plan, and besides, even if she was having an off night, no one was more likely to take notice of him than the witch in the leather mask.

He prowled on to Blackstone House, a shabby excuse for an inn but the best the Rashemi capital had to offer and the establishment where he’d secured accommodations for himself and his retainers. He surveyed what the rough exterior timber wall afforded in the way of hand- and toeholds, and then he clambered upward.

Halfway to the shuttered window that was his destination, he realized he didn’t actually know if his followers still occupied the rooms on the other side. They might have gone home to Thesk after his disappearance, especially if Bez had reported him dead.

Oh, well, if someone other than a Shou responded to his tapping, Dai Shan could likely still elicit information somehow and ensure his informant’s silence afterward as well.

As it turned out, though, it was moon-faced, round-shouldered Cheng Lin who hesitantly opened the shutters and goggled out. “Master!” he yelped.

Inwardly, Dai Shan winced at the volume of his retainer’s voice, the naked astonishment in his expression, and, well, everything raucous and raw. With attendants of this caliber, was it any wonder he had to do everything himself?

“My dutiful helper,” he said. “It gladdens me to find you and the others faithfully awaiting my return.” The gods forbid they should actually have gotten up off their arses and come looking for him. “Perhaps you’ll do me the profound favor of stepping back from the window.”

“Yes, Master!” the other Shou answered, and Dai Shan climbed inside.

As his master’s major domo on the road, Cheng Lin had his own little private room. A couple of Shou voices murmured on the other side of the door, but they didn’t sound excited. Apparently no one else had heard the functionary squawk.

“Captain Bez told everyone you died in the fighting,” Cheng Lin said.

“How kind of the illustrious soldier to mention me. I imagine it was in the course of laying claim to the griffons.”

Dai Shan pulled the shutters closed, making the room darker, so dark, in fact, that the shroud of shadow that still clung to him all but smothered the glow of the little oil lamp altogether. The scant light remaining just barely gleamed on the tusks and glass eyes of the stuffed boar’s head on the wall.

“He didn’t,” Cheng Lin said. “I mean, he tried to take the griffons, but the main witch, that Yhelbruna, wouldn’t let him.”

Dai Shan felt a surge of excitement potent enough that habit alone might prove insufficient to preserve his composure. He took a breath and made a deliberate effort to steady himself.

“Then, if I understand my loyal assistant correctly, the beasts remain unclaimed in their invisible birdcage.”

Cheng Lin nodded, his double chin wobbling. “Yes.”

“In that case, please relate all that’s occurred hereabouts since the brave captain was generous enough to grant me passage aboard his skyship.”

Cheng Lin obeyed in a somewhat disjointed, backfilling fashion, but still, the tale of Bez’s disappointment, botched assassination attempt, and subsequent flight emerged clearly enough. At the end, the pudgy servant said, “I wrote to your father to tell him of your death. I mean, your supposed death. I had no reason to doubt what the southerner said.”

Dai Shan’s thoughts turned to three of the dozens of empty-hand techniques he’d mastered-the first, a blow with the heel of the palm to the base of the nose; the second, a chop to the throat; and the third, a stab to the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. Any one of them would kill Cheng Lin instantly.

“That was exactly the right thing to do,” he said. “I commend my retainer on the diligence with which he attends to his responsibilities. Has my lord father’s answer arrived?”

“Not yet, Master.”

“When it does, you will of course understand that because he wrote based on false information, we can only truly serve him by disregarding instructions to return home or do anything else that would preclude the completion of our errand. And to avoid confusing those less discerning than yourself, you won’t disclose that such invalid orders even exist.”

Cheng Lin hesitated. “Master, our lord, your father, has always said that when he gives a command-”

“He expects unconditional obedience. As well he might, given that for longer than either you or I have been alive, he’s been the most frightening man in Thesk. Still, he is in Thesk, while duty has led you to a land less civilized. Perhaps, paragon of prudence that you are, you should ask yourself who’s the most frightening man in Rashemen.”

Cheng Lin swallowed. “Master, naturally, as always, I depend on you for guidance as to how I may best serve our house.”

“Which is why I trust my wise aide above all others and will always reward his fidelity as it deserves.”

“Thank you, Master.” Cheng Lin paused in the manner of one deliberating whether to speak further or hold his peace. In the end, reticence yielded to curiosity. “May I ask, then, if we’re aren’t going home even if our lord orders us back, what are we going to do?”

What, indeed? If not for the indignity implicit in acknowledging perplexity to someone as lowly and lacking in grace as Cheng Lin, Dai Shan might have conceded that his was an excellent question.

Dai Shan had to obtain the wild griffons to pull ahead of his brothers in their lifelong competition to be proclaimed their father’s heir. And at least now he’d learned the beasts were still outside Immilmar and discovered what else was going on.

Still, what could he do? If he revealed himself and laid claim to the griffons, Yhelbruna would be no more inclined to believe him than she had Bez. Less, considering that Dai Shan hadn’t even led a war party of his own into the north. Falconer and the rest of his undead confederates, who’d promised him the winged creatures in exchange for his treachery, were gone. And without such formidable assistance, he and his handful of Shou had no hope of making off with the beasts either by stealth or force of arms.

What, then, did that leave? Dai Shan didn’t know-yet-so he supposed that for the moment, he’d do well to focus on the one aspect of the situation that was already clear.

After the victory at the Fortress of the Half-Demon, Vandar Cherlinka did have a legitimate claim on the wild griffons. So did Aoth Fezim. The latter had apparently emerged from the dark maze somewhere far away. Jet, who sensibly still didn’t trust Dai Shan, declined to divulge his master’s precise whereabouts, but the familiar could speak for the war mage by virtue of their mystical bond.

It followed, then, that Dai Shan could allow neither Vandar nor Jet to return to Immilmar. He thanked his patrons in shadow that, never injured as badly as the griffon to begin with, he’d recovered more quickly.

Still, even impaired, the beast was dangerous. So, in his dense barbarian way, was Vandar, and he’d never been seriously hurt in the first place.

Plainly, the killings would take some doing, but Dai Shan could manage them. He simply needed to take each of his victims by surprise at a time and place that would preclude the others noticing any subsequent commotion.

“Just bide here for now,” he told Cheng Lin, “and don’t tell anyone of my visit. My time in your company is drawing short, but I’ll return soon in a more permanent sort of way.”

Cheng Lin grinned. “I thought I was talking to one of your shadows.”

Dai Shan could only deplore the overt display of self-satisfaction. Still, perhaps the man wasn’t a complete idiot after all.

Dai Shan bade him farewell and then separated himself from the vessel he’d inhabited as easily as he might have flipped off a loose mitten. And like a mitten that no longer had a hand inside it, what remained of the shadow collapsed into formlessness on its way to nonexistence.

Dai Shan sensed but didn’t actually witness the final obliteration, even though the whole process only took a heartbeat. By then, he was back in the stable.

Graven with arcane sigils on the side facing inward, the granite slab could lock in place or swing like an ordinary gate on hinges, depending on the requirements of the moment. Aoth’s fire-kissed eyes could make out the silvery web of potentiality that accomplished those functions but not how it operated.

Fortunately, they could likewise discern the newer patterns of malignancy festering inside the rock like aneurysms waiting to rupture, and that magic he did understand. It fell within his field of expertise.

He motioned to the gate with the head of his spear. “The undead mean to come through here.”

“Are you sure?” Shaugar asked. “They’ve thrown thunderbolts and such at all the entries.”

“So would I in their place. Such a bombardment makes it harder for the defenders to decide where you really mean to breach, and if you do manage to knock something down, you can always adjust your plans accordingly. They didn’t blast through, though, and in the midst of all the distractions, someone has done a masterful job of rotting out this particular chunk of stone. It’ll crumble when the Raumvirans want it to.”

Shaugar hitched his three-eyed mask up slightly so he could scratch the gray-stubbled chin beneath. “They already did crumble the main gate, and according to your orc friend, we’re doing a miserable job of building barricades. He says drunken goblins could do better.”

“Some of the enemy will charge in that way, and we’ll need men in place to oppose them. Still, that will be a feint. The main assault will come here, where the dead think it will surprise us. But now that we know, we’re going to surprise them instead.

Right?”

Shaugar squared his shoulders. “Right. As long as we make our preparations in time. Now that we know where they need to work, I’ll round up the right people for the job.”

Once he turned his thoughts to the problem, Dai Shan realized one sure way to kill each of his intended victims without the other overhearing or chancing on the scene at an inopportune moment. He needed to begin with Vandar and dispose of the berserker while the two of them were wandering the dark maze.

As they were currently. Vandar was in the lead and, now that days of shared effort and hardship had dulled the edge of mistrust, didn’t appear to suspect anything amiss. Conditions were essentially ideal, and it only remained for Dai Shan to choose a method of execution.

His style of magic could confuse, hinder, or even harm a target, but the effects were variable. When a caster was particularly unlucky, his spell simply served to warn an adversary that he was under attack. Whereas one murderous blow, properly administered to an unsuspecting victim already conveniently within striking distance, would likely resolve the confrontation in an instant.

Dai Shan rolled his shoulders, inhaled through his nostrils, and exhaled through his mouth. He visualized himself lunging and driving his fist into the vertebrae at the top of Vandar’s spine.

Vandar halted abruptly, just before the spot where a weathered-looking statue of skeletal Jergal, depicted writing with a quill at his desk, sat at the intersection of two vault-lined passages. “Hold up,” he whispered.

“What is it?” Dai Shan answered just as softly, meanwhile setting aside his homicidal intent for at least a moment or two. It would be poor timing to strike down the berserker just as more hostile shadow creatures came scuttling out of the dark. The Rashemi’s back would still be there for the breaking after the skirmish was through.

“Something’s coming,” Vandar said, “something different or bigger than what we’ve grown accustomed to, or at least I think so. I can’t see or hear it, but my spear and sword sense it, and the knowledge is bleeding across to me.”

Dai Shan took that somewhat unlikely sounding assertion at face value. During their association in the fortress and the maze, he’d seen evidence that Vandar had a spiritual link to the red weapons somewhat like his own connection to the shadows he created to serve him.

“Take the torch,” Dai Shan said, “and fall back. Find a space to duck into. We don’t want whatever’s coming to spot the light.”

In normal, natural gloom, said creature or creatures might well have noticed it even so. But the murk in the labyrinth was thick and hungry enough to make hiding the torch feasible.

“What about you?” Vandar asked.

“Someone-specifically, the man who can see in darkness-needs to spy and find out what’s coming. Please, go. I’ll call out to the valorous warrior if I need him.”

Vandar retreated. Dai Shan evoked a curtain of his own kind of darkness between the two of them to further mask any trace of torchlight. Then he applied himself to peeking around the corner.

At the periphery of his vision, the Scribe of the Doomed twisted his skull face ever so slightly in his direction. At the same time, it occurred to Dai Shan that if he climbed up on the pedestal and examined the marble parchment, he’d find his own name inscribed thereon.

But all that, he insisted to himself, was only the labyrinth playing tricks on his mind. The morbid influence of the place was so pernicious that even a Shou gentleman versed in the ways of darkness occasionally fell prey to it. Only his patron spirits knew how a primitive clod like Vandar clung to sanity. Perhaps dullness was actually an advantage.

The murk in the distance seethed as something advanced. Voices murmured too faintly for Dai Shan to have any hope of making out the words. The maze muffled sound as relentlessly as it did light, seemingly seeking to impose both the deafness and the blindness of the tomb on those who ventured inside.

Still, voices! Dai Shan had only a limited understanding of the half-formed vermin that prowled the endless tunnels, crypts, and skyless graveyards of the labyrinth, but he would have wagered his chances of inheriting his father’s position that the filthy things couldn’t talk. That was one trait distinguishing them from a good many of the true undead.

Even though Dai Shan had watched a couple of the undead foes of Rashemen flee into the maze when the battle for the Fortress of the Half-Demon went against them, he’d assumed the vast majority had perished and their conspiracy was therefore at an end. But suppose that wasn’t true. What if the berserkers and stag men had only eradicated one contingent of a larger force? By the black mask, that might be part of the reason Bez had been unable to take the wild griffons. Not only had the Halruaan himself not ended the menace, no one had.

If so, then Dai Shan still had allies after all.

Or did he? He’d made his bargain with Falconer, and the reanimated Nar had unquestionably perished. Jet had shared the tale of his destruction on one of the infrequent occasions when he wasn’t too morose for conversation. And without the demonbinder to vouch for him, wouldn’t the undead slaughter Dai Shan out of hand?

Perhaps not. Not if he sent Vandar on ahead to face the creatures and then helped them strike the berserker down to demonstrate his true sympathies. Even if it didn’t work, the Rashemi would at least be dead, and Dai Shan would be far enough away from the ghouls and zombies to escape by leaping from shadow to shadow.

He turned and crept toward Vandar’s hiding place.

Stripped to the waist, Aoth finished his climb up the stairs to the ledge and, with a grunt, set the anvil he was carrying in a gap at the top of the makeshift rampart. Below him on the floor of a spacious, high-ceilinged cave the Old Ones used as a foundry, masked enchanters crooned incantations that made asymmetrical patterns of blue and silver light flow out around their feet. The designs then disappeared over the course of several heartbeats, seeming not to fade so much as to sink into the granite like water seeping into parched earth.

Swiping sweat from his face and arching his back to pop the threat of stiffness out of it, Aoth thought that the men working magic had it easy. But he didn’t know how to do what they were doing, and the important thing was that all the defenders appeared to be making acceptable progress at their tasks.

Such being the case, he judged the work could spare him for a moment. He reached out to commune with Jet.

The first impressions to jump across the psychic link were pain, frustration, and the fear of being earthbound, weak, and useless forevermore. Then, with a surge of irritation, the griffon sought to lock those feelings away where even his master couldn’t perceive them.

Jet lay on the battlements of the Fortress of the Half-Demon looking west at the gleaming frozen surface of Lake Ashane. The wind whistling out of the north chilled the burned, half-healed parts of him where feathers and fur had yet to grow back. Everything’s the same, he said, meaning Vandar and Dai Shan had still found no trace of Jhesrhi and Cera.

They’ll turn up, Aoth replied.

I should be in the maze searching, the familiar said. I’m ready, but Dai Shan claims I’m not. Remind me again why I’m still not supposed to kill the little snake.

Aoth responded: Because he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a healer to tend you, he’s supposed to send a shadow to Immilmar as soon as he recovers the strength, and when the time is right, I want to kill him. Now, before long, the undead are going to break in where I am, and the Old Ones and I are preparing. Look through my eyes as I walk the caves. Tell me what you think.

The griffon snorted. Trying to convince me I’m still useful?

I have a tough fight ahead of me, and you know as much about siege craft as I do. You could come up with a trick that hasn’t occurred to me. So are you going to help me, or would you rather just lie around and sulk? Aoth asked.

Jet answered: Sulk. But it would be bad for both our reputations if I let you die in a stupid little scrape in the middle of nowhere.

And as Aoth prowled through the caves, the familiar did indeed offer a worthwhile notion or two. Aoth ended his inspection in the chamber that already had a shattered gate. In charge of the mundane side of the preparations there, Orgurth shouted obscene insults at a couple of youths who’d failed to perform some task to his satisfaction.

I like the orc, said Jet.

Aoth smiled and replied, You would. But yes, he’s all right. He’ll make a good sergeant. So: I think we’ll be ready come tonight. Do you agree?

Jet did agree. Aoth felt it immediately, without the griffon even needing to articulate the words. But then came a flicker of doubt.

What is it? Aoth asked.

You’ll be ready, said Jet, if the other side waits until tonight.

They’re undead, Aoth replied.

Many of them are constructs. And as far as the undead ones are concerned, how much is the daylight going to bother them once they’re inside the mountain? Jet asked.

Scowling, Aoth hurried to the barricade of rubble the Old Ones had built across the mouth of the cave. Keeping low, he peered out at the saddle, the smashed golems and corpses the tumbling boulders had left in their wake, and the foes that had survived the unexpected barrage.

At first glance, the Raumvirans didn’t appear to be doing much of anything except holding their positions and enduring the wan winter sunlight as best they could. But far back from the front ranks, the ghoul with the pearl in her eye socket and the glittering mites crawling in the folds of her robe was conferring with a couple of her lieutenants while drawing in the snow at her feet with a staff. Moving without perceptible haste, animate corpses shambled around inspecting automatons, sometimes herding them a bit closer or a little farther from the next construct in line. They also spoke to other zombies that eventually then adjusted a shield on a withered arm or loosened a sword in its scabbard.

In short, the creatures were preparing to attack, but in so leisurely a fashion that the Old One’s sentry, who was of course well aware that up until now the attackers had been active by night and passive by day, didn’t even recognize the threat. In its essence, what was occurring was a tactic Aoth himself had used countless times: Lead the enemy to expect one thing, then do something different.

He felt an urge to snarl at the lookout beside him as viciously as Orgurth was still berating his workers. But that would be unfair. Of the two of them, he was the professional soldier who’d convinced the Old Ones to accept him as their commander, and if the Raumvirans were on the verge of outwitting their foes, it was his fault.

But thanks to Jet, maybe he could still turn things around. He spotted Kanilak brandishing a staff with a tuft of owl feathers on the end, grabbed him by the shoulder in mid-incantation, and hauled him over to Orgurth so he could talk to both of them at the same time.

“The undead aren’t going to wait for nightfall,” he said. “They could come at any moment, and we have to change our plans accordingly. Do whatever you can to finish quickly so we’ll have some defenses in place when they burst in.”

Orgurth gave a brusque nod. “Got it.” He pivoted and started shouting.

Kanilak’s brown eyes were wide inside his mask. “But the traps you wanted. It’s just not possible to set those quickly. The magic-”

“You’re an Old One of the Silverbloods!” Aoth snapped. “You told me that like it meant something. Well, here’s your chance to prove it.”

With that, he dashed on toward the foundry.

Vandar disliked skulking in the dark. Whatever was coming up the passage, he’d rather charge to meet it with his torch blazing in one hand and the red sword gleaming in the other.

Yes, the red sword. His mental picture of himself fearlessly confronting the foe served to remind him of his fey blade and spear’s particular qualities, and then he belatedly recognized their hunger for battle and glory fanning his impatience. Even after all this time, it could be difficult to discern that inner nudging. Maybe that was because it so often encouraged him to do what he was naturally inclined to do anyway.

Still, he thought, scowling, he had to keep his head, because he already had reason to regret succumbing to the sword and spear’s urgings. Not that he was sure good would have come of responding to Cera’s cry for help on the day they stormed the fortress. Indeed, it seemed more likely that he would simply have failed to find any trace of her. Yet it was possible everything could have been different. She, Jhesrhi, and even Aoth might have been present to help when the Storm of Vengeance attacked. The brothers of the Griffon Lodge might still be alive.

Dai Shan interrupted Vandar’s self-reproach by peering into the narrow space between two tombs, into which the Rashemi had wedged himself. “It’s a pair of zombies approaching,” the outlander said, “or possibly ghouls. Some sort of corporeal undead anyway.”

Vandar felt his pulse quicken. The warm tingle of excitement in his weapons quickened too. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Surely, survivors of the force your lodge and the Stag King’s retainers destroyed in the fortress.”

Vandar frowned. “They might know something about what became of Cera and Jhesrhi, and we might be able to make them tell us.”

“Indeed,” Dai Shan murmured, “ ‘make’ being the critical term in the mighty warrior’s formulation.”

“If it’s just a couple of walking corpses,” Vandar said, “you and I have bested worse since we started roaming around in here. We can take them by surprise when they reach the statue of Jergal.” He scowled. “No, curse it, the torchlight will still give me away.”

Dai Shan took a moment to think, then answered, “I can share my knack for seeing in the dark with you. Please close your eyes.”

With a twinge of reluctance, Vandar obeyed. Dai Shan whispered words that, although the berserker had no idea what they meant, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. On the final syllable, the Shou touched a fingertip to each of his eyelids.

When that light pressure ended, Vandar opened his eyes and glanced around. “Nothing looks different.”

“It will when you leave the torch behind. Come. We should take our positions.”

Dai Shan turned out to be correct. The curtain of shadow the Shou had conjured blocked the firelight, and after the wavering yellow glow disappeared, Vandar could still see. In fact, he could see a little farther than before, although he’d lost every trace of color, with even his crimson weapons turning gray. The change made the maze’s riotous jumble of morbid carvings look even ghostlier, if such a thing was possible.

Bending low, Dai Shan scurried around Jergal’s statue. Presumably, he took up a position at the mouth of the passage on the other side, although, with the sculpture in the way, Vandar couldn’t actually see him anymore. The Rashemi occupied the corresponding position on his own side and peeked around the corner.

Swaying, lurching figures were now visible, although Vandar still couldn’t make out exactly what manner of creature he was about to ambush. Maybe Dai Shan’s magic granted a keener form of dark sight to a shadow adept than to an ordinary person. But whatever the approaching beings were, the fey weapons were eager to assail them. The sword hilt and the shaft of the spear seemed to shiver in his hands.

Although the undead moved quietly, the moment came when Vandar heard their footsteps scuffing on the floor. Then two withered corpses with foxfire in their sunken eyes shuffled into view.

Vandar stepped and thrust with the spear. The weapon punched through the knee of the nearer undead. The creature toppled, but it had a naked scimitar in its clawlike hand and slashed at its attacker at the same time. Vandar parried with the fey sword, spun the parry into a bind, and tore the blade from his opponent’s grip. The scimitar flew through the air to clank down on Jergal’s desktop.

There. That was one dread warrior crippled and disarmed for questioning. Letting go of the spear, Vandar turned to see if Dai Shan needed help dealing with the other and only then perceived the long-hafted war hammer sweeping down at his head.

The second zombie had had no difficulty rushing in on his flank because Dai Shan had never engaged it. In fact, Vandar still didn’t see the Shou trader at all.

Vandar leaped backward and, as the hammer stroke fell short, saw more shapes rushing up the passage. The undead he’d so confidently attacked had been forerunners scouting ahead of a larger band, and just as he was simultaneously comprehending that and cutting at the hammer-wielding zombie’s neck, Dai Shan called out from somewhere behind him.

“Noble undead, the barbarian is Vandar Cherlinka, a champion of Rashemen and your enemy! I’ll help you kill him!” The Shou rattled off an incantation.

The red sword tore the hammer zombie’s rotting head tumbling from its shoulders, and then the world went black. As Vandar realized Dai Shan had ripped away the gift of dark sight he’d bestowed previously, something clamped around his ankle.

Booms and crashes echoed through the caverns. So did crackling, thunderclaps, and screams.

Old Ones looked in the direction of the noises. On the other side of the foundry, one masked Rashemi jerked around and spoke to another. Aoth couldn’t catch the fellow’s words, but he didn’t need to.

“Hold your positions!” he called, not just to that particular mage but to everyone. “I know how all the commotion sounds, but I guarantee you, only a few of the enemy have come in the other way. Orgurth and our other friends can handle it. Most of the creatures will break in this way, and we need to be here to handle them.”

Standing beside Aoth, Shaugar called, “Captain Fezim knows what he’s talking about!” Then, in a voice so low that only the man next to him could hear, he added, “I hope.”

Aoth’s troops did stay where they were, although their restlessness grew increasingly apparent, and why wouldn’t it? Every reverberating cry could be a friend dying, a comrade reinforcements might have saved, and although the enchanters claimed they knew how to fight, they surely hadn’t learned to accept the occasional necessity of such losses as sellswords did. When the second gate finally crashed and clattered to rubble, Aoth felt a surge of relief that it had happened before his own plan could fall apart.

He slapped his arms and chest, activating the magic in his tattoos to enhance his strength, quickness, and endurance. Then, like huge living toys of hinged metal and stone, the first constructs charged into the foundry.

The layout of the caves was such that, having breached the gate they did, the enemy had to pass through this chamber, and in Aoth’s professional judgment, the space ought to serve for a killing box. Ledges partway up the walls afforded the defenders the advantage of height, and the carved stairs that ran up to them were steep, narrow, and thus easily defended.

At first, the scuttling golems, and then the undead rushing in behind them, didn’t even appear to notice the men crouching behind the improvised and uncompleted battlements. And despite their edginess, the Old Ones, the Pure Flame warm them, didn’t lash out as soon as the first foes came into view. As instructed, they awaited Aoth’s signal.

When the floor below was teeming with foes, Aoth leaped up, pointed his spear, and snarled a word of power. A red spark shot from the point down at the pale, robed figure of an undead wizard, and, if Tymora was smiling, one of the Raumvirans skilled at managing constructs. With a boom, the streaking point of light exploded into a flash of flame that tore the creature limb from limb. It half ripped the head from an articulated bronze panther too, and the golem froze. But other constructs engulfed by the blast weathered it unscathed.

Rising from behind the makeshift parapets to the extent necessary, Old Ones called words of command and lashed wands, staves, and orbs through mystic passes. The blue and argent figures they’d created previously glowed to life atop or just inside the floor.

A steel minotaur and a ceramic preying mantis lurched into immobility. A thick-bodied giant of stone with golden eyes pivoted ponderously and slammed its fist down on top of a skeleton, shattering the undead from the top of its skull all the way down to its pelvis. Yellow light flickered over a two-headed iron mastiff, and then its metal body burst into flame.

So, despite the frantic haste and improvisation with which the Rashemi had completed them, the snares were working, but not on every automaton. Some of the ones on the floor simply seemed impervious, while none of the flyers were falling out of the air. All the golems still capable of purposeful action turned to assail the ledges, and their undead masters were right behind them.

Aoth looked over his section of battlement and saw a man-sized, eight-legged contraption like a mix of rat and spider climbing the wall. It noticed him too, and spit dark liquid straight up at him. He recoiled and avoided the spew. The drops that splashed down on the parapet sizzled and smoked, and the fumes smelled hot and vile.

A moment later, the golem’s spidery front legs hooked the top of the barrier, and then the rat head appeared. Aoth drove his spear between its jaws and released some of the power stored in the weapon. The resulting white flash blew the steel skull apart, and what remained of the automaton lost its grip and fell away.

Toward the back of the attackers, the ghoul with the pearl in her eye socket aimed her wand at him. He dropped back down behind the parapet for a moment, and when he peeked over it again, she’d turned away to find another target.

That was her mistake. But before Aoth could take advantage of it, he sensed danger on his flank. He whirled to confront it and found himself looking into dark, lustrous eyes in a narrow bone-white face. Except that an instant later, that countenance was neither long and thin nor pallid, anymore. It was Cera’s round, mischievous face, bronzed by the sun she served and adored, and after all the time apart, all the days and nights anguishing over her fate, all he wanted in the world was to kiss her.

But a war mage, especially one whose fate it seemed to be to frequently battle undead, learned to defend against psychic intrusion, and Aoth spoke a word of liberation and visualized a symbol of clarity by pure trained reflex. And as the illusion fell away, he thrust his spear into the vampire’s chest and conjured sunlight from the head of the weapon. The creature screamed as holes opened in her flesh, beams of radiance leaped forth, and the magic ate her from the inside out.

Aoth turned and destroyed a swooping eagle-sized dragonish construct made of silver and leather by riddling it with darts of green light. And that, it appeared, had been the last foe striving to kill him. Most likely, something else would try in another moment, but meanwhile he could take a breath and assess the progress of the battle as a whole.

Along the ledges, Old Ones hurled power as savagely and relentlessly as possible. A few, using their affinity with the divine, scourged the undead with beams and bursts of holy light. More relied on the products of their particular arts, swapping one talisman for another when the first ran dry.

As Aoth had expected, some of the unfinished weapons failed to function properly even once. An Old One tried three inert wands in succession before simply throwing his weight against the section of rampart in front of him, toppling it and dumping the pieces on the brass centipede that had been on the verge of crawling over it. One of his fellows pointed a crystal-bladed dagger at something on the cavern floor, and instead of ice forming around the target, it surged backward from the cross guard and encased his arm to the elbow.

At a few spots, other automatons and undead had succeeded in flying or climbing onto the ledges like the vampire Aoth had destroyed, and there, Old Ones threw down wands and staves and snatched up blades. A broadsword burned like dry wood, only without being consumed, and a pair of hand-axes roared like bears as their wielder chopped at a hovering wraith.

Despite failing talismans and foes that managed to make it to the high ground, Aoth judged that he and his comrades might actually be winning, if only gradually and by the slimmest of margins. Then, however, a glowing line or glyph at a time, the figures on the floor began to dim, and as they deteriorated, inert constructs started to stir, while others that had been acting erratically remembered their proper functions.

Aoth turned to Shaugar. “I see the problem!” the Old One snapped.

“Then fix it!”

“I’m trying!” With the tip of his staff, Shaugar drew a glowing blue pentagram on the air. “But the spells have already held longer than I expected!”

For a moment, Aoth had no idea what to do about that. Then he spotted the ghoul with the pearl in her eye socket again.

She was standing behind a brass and steel centaur that was shuddering in the middle of one of the fading magical figures. Surely to quicken its return to functionality, she was chanting and tapping the automaton with her wand.

Recalling how she’d brandished the same arcane implement to send the stone thrower after him, Aoth pointed with his spear. “I think that creature’s wand helps her direct and repair the golems,” he said to Shaugar. “If you had it, would that help you?”

“How should I know?” the Rashemi replied. “Maybe.”

“Keep working!” Aoth scrambled to the top of makeshift parapet and jumped.

For one instant, swallowed by the cold darkness of the maze, betrayed by a comrade whom, despite his better judgment, he’d started to trust, held in place with dozens of undead rushing up the passage at him, Vandar froze. Then a flash of the anger that was the source of a berserker’s prowess jolted his mind into motion once again.

When it did, he realized the thing gripping his ankle could only be the hand of the zombie he’d crippled previously. The creature had crawled over and grabbed him.

Guessing at how it lay on the floor, he hacked at it, then tried to yank his leg loose. After a moment of resistance, it came free all at once, sending him staggering off balance to bang the backs of his thighs into Jergal’s pedestal. He could still feel leathery fingers wrapped around his ankle, though. The zombie’s forearm must have pulled apart at the point where the fey sword had cut it. Vandar kicked and shook the severed hand loose.

Then, praying he wouldn’t slam into a wall or trip over something, he ran at the spot where, he believed, the entrance to the side passage containing his torch ought to be. He seemed to take too many strides and had nearly decided he’d somehow gone wrong when he plunged through Dai Shan’s conjured curtain of shadow. Although the wavering amber light was guttering, the brand was still burning.

All right. Grab it and … then what?

Vandar thought he had two advantages that might, if the spirits favored him, allow him to make it back to the Fortress of the Half-Demon alive. He was a fast runner and, after days of exploration, knew this part of the maze well. But he’d never shake pursuers off his tail if he carried a light to draw them after him.

Yet if he couldn’t see, his plight would be even more hopeless. With a curse and a pang of bitterness not far short of despair, he stooped and reached for the torch. But just before he could grasp it, his awareness fixed on the sword he carried in his other hand.

The fey weapons never spoke to him with language. But from time to time, they communicated in their own fashion, and now, prompted, he realized, by the blade, he remembered how they’d sometimes sensed things he didn’t and shared that awareness with him.

The sword conveyed that it could do so again, only in a more constant and detailed way. It could serve as his eyes in the darkness if he permitted it.

Yes, he thought, I permit it, and the grotesque stonework of the maze flowed into view around him.

And as his bond with the red sword deepened, new thoughts sprang into his head. Now that he could see, he didn’t even need to flee. He could go back, slaughter the filthy things that were coming after him, and win the greatest victory of his or any Rashemi’s life. The desire to do so was entirely consonant with the swaggering pride and contempt for danger that defined being a berserker.

But did they really? Vandar remembered wise old Raumevik urging him not to throw his life away when he still had his lodge brothers to avenge. He remembered too, how the need to be deemed a great warrior worthy of the wild griffons had led him to ignore Cera’s cries.

Curse it, no! he thought. I’m not going to go berserk, fight a fight I can’t win, and die for nothing! I’m the master of my rage and, sword, the master of you too!

A feeling of insistence inside his head abated. He felt free to run if that was what he truly wanted. But plainly, he couldn’t leave a weapon as precious as the spear behind. He turned and started back toward Jergal.

Then he heard the telltale clinking of armor as the creatures wearing it trotted forward. The rest of the undead were now so close that he likely couldn’t go back for the spear without coming face-to-face with them.

Still, without consciously willing it, he advanced another step.

I’ll drop you, he silently promised the sword. I’ll take my chances with the torch, and nobody will ever use you to fight anything ever again. You’ll lie here alone in the dark forever!

His mind truly cleared, or at least he thought so. He had a sense of the sword yielding like a stubborn and misbehaving dog finally cowering in the face of its master’s anger.

Hoping the blade hadn’t taken too long to capitulate, Vandar whirled and ran.

By thought alone, Aoth released the power pent in one of his tattoos, and as a result, he fell slowly, meanwhile rattling off an incantation.

Many of the Raumathari automatons were still either frozen or doing pointless things such as rolling over and over or trying to walk through walls, although probably not for much longer. And the majority of the constructs and undead that did constitute potential threats were too busy assailing their chosen targets on the ledges to notice Aoth drifting toward the floor. Still, three shriveled spearmen with foxfire eyes and flaking skin rushed at him, and a phantom in the form of crucified little girl floated in their wake. The cross and nails were absent, but the apparition had holes in her outstretched hands and crossed feet, and although her translucent face was a mask of uncomprehending anguish, her giggling echoed in Aoth’s head.

Until, just as his boots touched the floor, he finished his incantation and jabbed with his spear. Then spinning blades of blue light whirled into being to chop the zombies into chunks of rot and bone and her into wisps of phosphorescence.

Weaving his way past a frozen iron boar with textured bristles, a bronze squidlike thing with twitching tentacles, and even a gaudily painted wooden jester slumped like a marionette with cut strings, Aoth headed for Pearl-eye. Then he glimpsed motion at the periphery of his vision.

He spun to find a pair of shadows lunging at him straight through the body of an oversized bronze jackal. He met one with a thrust of his spear and positioned his targe to block the other’s outstretched hands.

The spear pierced the first, and it dissolved. The other splashed into shapelessness against the shield, its insubstantial form held back not by the steel but by the enchantments bound inside it.

At once, the apparition sent a dozen wispy lengths of itself curling around the rim of the targe like jellyfish tendrils. One brushed Aoth’s elbow, and a jolt of cold pain sent the muscles on either side into spasms.

He charged the point of his spear with chaotic power and simply slapped it against the shadow’s back. The undead vanished, and metal clanked when the weapon struck the shield.

He pushed on and came up behind a vampire wizard casting fire at some of the Old Ones. He killed the new blood drinker as he had the previous one, only by surprise, and as conjured daylight ate the undead from within, Aoth saw that the thing’s wand looked a lot like Pearl-eye’s. He grabbed the implement, tossed it up at the nearest ledge, and kept moving without waiting to see if any of the Rashemi caught it.

A metal manticore abruptly lurched into motion, and Aoth aimed his spear at it. But, maybe still not entirely free of the waning effect of the Old Ones’ snares, the leonine, bat-winged automaton simply paced across his path without seeming to perceive him.

When it moved on by, however, with its spike-tipped tail curled up off the floor, it became clear that at some point, Pearl-eye had become aware that Aoth was stalking her. At the moment when the manticore’s progress had hidden her from view, she’d appeared intent on reactivating golems and striking at the men on the ledges, but now the wand in her gray, outstretched hand pointed at him, and pale light seethed at the tip.

He dodged right, the same direction the manticore was going, and then a serpent made of sizzling lightning leaped from the end of the wand. Its strike missed, but not by much, and in the instant before it blinked out of existence, its mere proximity made his muscles burn and clench.

Fortunately, the restorative power of a tattoo quelled the pain, and then, once again, he had the manticore between him and the ghoul. Now what? It had to be a move she wasn’t expecting to offer any hope of ending the duel quickly.

Still moving with the manticore, using it for cover, he discarded his shield so he’d have at least one hand free. Then he ran at the golem, jumped, and tried to scramble over its hindquarters.

The automaton’s back stood as tall as he was. The surface was rounded and smooth, and just as he was clambering up, the razor-edged wings gave a clattering flap. He had to snatch his head sideways to keep one wing from slicing his face to the bone.

Then he had his balance, his feet under him, and he could tell Pearl-eye hadn’t spotted him. She was watching for him to reappear at one end of the manticore or the other, not over the top of it.

He hurled darts of emerald light. They were far from his most destructive spell effect, but they couldn’t possibly damage the wand, and when they pierced her withered, rotting form, she staggered. He jumped off the manticore’s back and charged her.

But she recovered and scrambled backward before he could close. Her retreat took her out of the foundry proper and back into the section of cavern that connected to the shattered gate.

For a moment, Aoth imagined that might work to his benefit because she was separating herself from her allies. Then, removed from the crippling influence of the Old Ones’ wards against constructs, the silver mites clinging to the folds of her robe seethed into motion.

Jhesrhi thought that if she’d been at the head of the column, she might have done something. Somehow whisked Vandar out of sight before any of the undead spotted him, blasted Dai Shan as soon as he called out, and justified the precipitous action afterward.

But Lod traveled in the middle of the procession, and he’d wanted her company. Thus, when things started happening in the darkness up ahead, it caught her by surprise. And with the bone naga’s followers clogging the passage, she still had no way of aiding Vandar with her magic.

But maybe she could keep Dai Shan from exposing her masquerade. Once again bringing the uncaring savagery of her fiery self to the fore, she looked up at Lod, who, with his wagon slaves now dead, was slithering along with his skull nearly brushing the ceiling.

“I know the man who shouted,” she said. “He’s one of the foremost obstacles to your plans. Let me kill him.”

Swaying slightly, fleshless head tilted, Lod studied her. Then he said, “It sounds like the human wants to talk. If I draw him in close and then don’t like what he has to say, it will be easy to destroy him.”

“He’s a master of shadow and trickery. He might find it possible to escape even you. But let me burn him right now, before he realizes you’ve decided on his death, and-”

“You don’t really believe he could slip away from me and all our comrades too? You want to kill him immediately for some other reason. What is it? Do you hate him? Are you worried that if I don’t send you after him right now, it won’t be you who ends up taking his life?”

“Something like that.” Even as she spoke the words, Jhesrhi knew they weren’t a particularly useful lie. But she was at a loss for anything else to say.

Lod chuckled. “I promise that if I order his death, you can slay him in the manner of your choosing. For now, though, let’s hear him out.” He looked down the passage, which was now less jammed with doomsepts, direhelms, and the like. Apparently, Vandar had fled, and a number of the undead had chased after him.

“I’m coming forward,” called Lod. “If you’re a friend, do the same.”

“Does the august lord,” Dai Shan replied, “pledge that neither he nor his stalwart warriors will harm me?”

“I do.” Lod glanced down at Jhesrhi. “Don’t worry. We of the Eminence don’t consider a promise to a living human binding.”

As they headed up the passage, Jhesrhi imagined lashing out with flame, freeing Cera, and fleeing with her. But such a desperate ploy would never work.

She had no idea if she was a match for Lod, and even if she was, it didn’t mean she could incapacitate him and all the other undead in the immediate vicinity with a single spell.

She likewise didn’t know Cera’s precise location, only that the sunlady was somewhere toward the rear of the procession. She did know that when she’d last seen her, her comrade had been stumbling along white-faced between two zombies too weak and dazed even to walk without her captors holding her up.

But suppose, despite all those impediments, Jhesrhi and Cera did somehow manage to break away. Then they’d still be trapped in the deathways just as they were now, and it was worse than unlikely that anyone else would happen along to unlock the way out.

Thus, Jhesrhi saw no choice but to walk peacefully into a parley with Dai Shan and hope that, somehow, her lies came out more convincing than whatever the Shou had to say.

She, Lod, and the undead naga’s attendants soon arrived at an intersection of passageways where a statue of Jergal sat writing at a desk and two slain zombies lay on the floor. One of them had Vandar’s spear sticking through its knee. The red metal gleamed, reflecting the little fire burning atop her staff.

Lod cast around, then fixed his attention on the corridor to the left. “I assume when I see a blind made of shadow,” he said, “that someone is hiding behind it.”

Dai Shan stepped out of the darkness. His eyes widened ever so slightly, but otherwise, his face was the usual pleasant, imperturbable mask.

Jhesrhi’s fiery and human sides united in the wish to see him burn, and she had to clench herself to refrain from striking at him. She steadied herself with the reflection that, if things went considerably better than expected, she might be able to force him to tell her what had become of Aoth.

The Shou bowed and said, “The serpent lord is as majestic as he is unique to my experience. Is it possible he commands the entire fellowship of the undead that my poor departed friend Falconer served so ably?”

“The Eminence of Araunt has no commander,” Lod replied. “All who belong are equal. Still, someone had to create it, and someone has to guide the campaigns that will fulfill its destiny.”

“I have every confidence the visionary before me is equal to the task. How strange, then, to find him in the company of Jhesrhi Coldcreek, and she with her mouth ungagged and her staff in her unbound hands. Perhaps, for all his wisdom, he doesn’t realize she’s one of his most formidable and determined enemies.”

“I’ve explained,” Jhesrhi said, “that I served the cause of Rashemen under magical duress. How, merchant, do you justify yourself? Moments ago, you said you’d kill Vandar Cherlinka. Well, if your word is any good, where is he?”

Dai Shan gave a slight nod. “Although her motives are suspect, the clever mage poses a fair question. I believed I could render Vandar helpless, but somehow-”

“Liar!” Jhesrhi snarled. “You let him escape because the two of you together are attempting some sort of trick. Lod, the man before you is Dai Shan. He and Vandar are two of the four champions who promised the hathrans they’d do their utmost to slaughter your people. I was there. I witnessed it.”

“Is this true?” asked Lod, swaying. “Are you Dai Shan?”

The merchant bowed. “I am, and please, accept my apologies. It appears that sojourning in a backward land has had a deleterious effect on my manners. I should have introduced myself to the noble prophet straightaway.”

Lod looked down at Jhesrhi. “Despite Sarshethrian’s interference, messages did travel back and forth between Nornglast and Rashemen, and thus I recognize the name Dai Shan. He made possible the strategy that will break the witches, and for that reason among others, I consider his claims more credible than yours.”

Jhesrhi had no idea what it was that Dai Shan had supposedly done to aid the undead, but now that it was too late, she realized she’d never had any hope of emerging from this parley with Lod still trusting her. She raised her staff and drew breath to call for an expanding circle of flame.

Something slammed into the back of her head, smashing her thoughts into incoherence and pitching her onto her knees. Then other blows pummeled her. The brazen staff slipped from her hand to clank on the floor, and the flames on the end went out. Her mind followed them into darkness.

The silver mites poured off Pearl-eye’s robes like water. Though he was still a dozen strides away, Aoth’s spellscarred eyes discerned that the tiny things were metal scorpions. Then several of them started swelling larger.

Aoth had no idea how big they might grow and didn’t want to find out. Nor did he care to spar with them while the ghoul sorceress stood back and cast spells at him. He set the whole length of his spear aglow with power and kept right on charging.

A scorpion the size of a dog scuttled at him, and he thrust the spear through its head. A cat-sized one arched its stinger to drive it into his leg, and he slammed the butt of his weapon down on its back and smashed it. Grown large as a donkey, pincers scissoring, a third rushed in on his flank, and triggering one of the spells stored in the spear, he blasted it apart with a flare of lightning.

He raced on toward his true foe over a glinting carpet of the scorpions that were still tiny. Then pains like stabs from red-hot needles assailed his legs, and staggering, he belatedly realized the little golems might well be more dangerous than the big ones.

A moment after the pain came a wave of dizziness and weakness. He thumped his chest, rousing a tattoo that warded him against poison. That helped him catch his balance, but now the relentless fiery jabbing was torturing his torso as well as his legs.

The ghoul snarled an incantation, pointed her wand at him, and the desperation in his mind threatened to balloon into utter panic. She threw a fear spell! he told himself, and understanding what was happening inside his head helped him cling to the ability to think.

Despite the ongoing torment, he managed to gasp out a spell of his own, and a halo of whispering yellow flame cloaked him from head to toe. It didn’t hurt him-he only felt a pleasant warmth-or his gear and clothing either. But the stabbing stopped as the blaze destroyed the tiny automatons that had been skittering under his garments like fleas.

He still hadn’t entirely shaken off the effect of the venom but knew he couldn’t let that slow him down. He rushed on toward Pearl-eye.

She still had the wand aimed, and tatters of darkness leaped from the tip to lash at him. He wrenched himself to the side, and they missed.

Then, finally, the ghoul was in reach of his spear. Still luminous with power, the weapon punched deep into her midsection.

She screeched and convulsed. He used the spear to heave her down on her back, then spoke the first of the words that would make sunlight shine from the head of the weapon to burn her guts. She was tough-otherwise, the first spear thrust would have finished her-but even so, a trick that could destroy a vampire would likely dispose of her as well.

And he wanted to. But then the war leader part of him-the part he’d trained always to deliberate and make the results of its deliberations heard no matter how the anger and fear that combat engendered distracted him-suggested that bringing her wand to Shaugar would take precious time, and then the Rashemi would need more to figure out how to use it. It might well be more time than the defenders had left.

But Pearl-eye was right here at Aoth’s feet, and she already knew how to employ the wand.

He spoke the next word of the daylight spell and sensed the magic accumulating and eager for release. The ghoul plainly felt it too, and clenched herself against the flare of agony to come.

“Do you want to go on existing?” asked Aoth.

Surprised, she peered up at him, then asked, “What do I have to do?”

“Turn all the golems inert.”

“Without them, the rest of my band will die!”

“It’s them or you. Choose. Now.”

She shuddered. With anger, he sensed, not pain or fear. “Curse you. I need to be within sight of the devices.”

“Then get up.”

“Your spear is still in my belly!”

“Where it will stay. We’ll sidle along like crabs.”

Jet watched Aoth chase down a ghoul through the midst of a larger battle and yearned to help. But he seemed to be paralyzed like many of the automatons caught in the glowing pentacles. Or perhaps he was some sort of ghost, bodiless, capable of perception but nothing more.

Ultimately, he saw with relief-albeit relief tinged with an underlying bitterness-that his master didn’t need his help. He captured the ghoul with the pearl in her eye socket and forced her to deactivate all the golems. After that, the masked men on the ledges made short work of the rest of the undead attackers, and their victorious cheers echoed through the caverns.

The shouting woke Jet, or so it seemed, woke him to the ache of his wounds and the winter sunlight shining down on the section of the wall-walk he’d chosen for his nap. Then he realized the dream had been a bit muddled but essentially true, a vision of Aoth’s recent struggle slipping across their psychic bond.

He prepared to reach out with his thoughts, make absolutely sure Aoth was all right, and ask what the war mage meant to do next. Then a shout rang up from the courtyard. This, he realized, was the noise that had actually woken him.

He peered down. Red sword in hand, Vandar was running toward the steps that ran up to his location. Something was manifestly wrong, but for another moment, Jet couldn’t tell what it was.

Then undead erupted from the doorway into the central keep. Some were loping ghouls and running skeletons. Others were entities unlike any Jet had ever seen, animate suits of half plate floating through the air. All were in pursuit of the berserker.

What had the idiot human done? How had he managed to go looking for Jhesrhi and Cera and come back with dozens of angry phantoms and living corpses chasing after him?

Shaking off his astonishment, Jet realized that at the moment, how didn’t matter. What did matter was that there were too many foes for him and Vandar to fight by themselves, and no refuge in the ruined castle that, even if they could reach it, would keep the creatures out for long.

That left only one recourse. Straining because his injuries had made him stiff and the angle was awkward, Jet clawed and bit at his splint and the bindings holding it in place.

Dai Shan had said that despite a month of recuperation, his wing wasn’t ready. If so, would trying to use it prematurely cripple it for all time?

No, no need to worry about that, because if Jet couldn’t use it now either the undead or a second fall would kill him, and by all the winds that blew, if that happened, so be it. At least the waiting and fretting would be over!

Using his beak, he ripped away the last strip of cloth and shook his wing out. It throbbed and stank too. Pus seeped from raw spots where feathers had yet to grow back. But at least he could move it.

Panting and soaked in sweat, Vandar scrambled onto the wall-walk, whirled, and slashed the fey broadsword in a horizontal arc. The ghoul that had been about to cut him down from behind toppled off the steps and out of sight with its mold-spotted head half severed.

“Get on my back!” Jet rasped.

Vandar glanced around. “You’re sure?”

“Do you have a better plan? Move!”

The Rashemi ran to him and clambered on. Even the paltry weight of a human being produced a fresh pang of pain.

But Jet didn’t let that slow him down. He lunged at the parapet, leaped atop a crenel, and bounded on out into space.

And his outstretched pinions transformed what would otherwise have been a plummet into a level glide. He lashed them and began to climb.

Every wing beat hurt, and flight was a labored, awkward progress. But he was flying, and he rejoiced.

He wheeled and beheld a couple of the animate suits of half-plate floating after him. Uselessly. Despite his weakened condition, they weren’t flying fast enough to catch him.

Still, he wheeled, lashed his wings, and hurled himself at the closest. It attempted to swing a broadsword at him, and he caught its weapon arm in one set of talons and its helmet head in the other.

The armored phantom pulled apart in his grasp. He dropped the pieces to clatter on the ground, turned to avoid flying over the courtyard-there might be archers and spellcasters down there by now-and drove onward.

“Another man might ask what the point was of pausing to kill that one creature,” Vandar said, still breathing heavily. “But I’m a berserker. I understand.”

Jet didn’t bother answering. He was busy peering ahead for a place of concealment he could reach before his strength gave out.

7

Over the course of her long life, Yhelbruna had listened to countless messengers standing outside Witches’ Hall to request that she and her sisters attend the Iron Lord. Such callers were always respectful, but in subtle ways, their manner varied.

Generally, the messengers were extremely deferential, conveying that their master understood the hathrans would come if and when they pleased. But if a matter was urgent, and particularly if it pertained to the Iron Lord’s primary role as warlord, then his emissaries communicated that urgency. While still asking for assistance with all the rhetorical flourishes protocol required, they nonetheless made it clear that the Iron Lord expected representatives of the Wychlaran to attend him without delay.

The messenger that had arrived this afternoon had been of the latter variety. Still, Yhelbruna had expected to find Mangan Uruk inside the castle. Instead, he stood in the courtyard amid scurrying, shouting warriors, some of them his own personal retainers, others carrying shields painted with stags, snow tigers, and other totems of Immilmar’s berserker lodges.

Spying the half dozen hathrans entering through the gate, he waved to them. “Over here!”

The hathrans advanced, the warriors made way for them, and, when they reached him, Mangan bowed.

“What is all this?” Yhelbruna asked.

“I’ll let him tell you,” Mangan said. He held out his arm, and, its little brown-feathered body translucent in the winter sunlight, a wren fluttered down to light on his wrist.

Yhelbruna felt a pang of dismay. Despite all the distracting commotion, she ought to have sensed the presence of a spirit animal. It was one more indication that her mystical strength was waning.

“I am Rosesong!” chirped the wren. “I live in Belvata!”

“Yes,” Mangan said. “Please, tell the learned sisters what you told me.”

“I am Rosesong! I live in Belvata! Dead things came in the night! They killed men and women! They killed chickens and pigs! Hathran Yulzel sent me to fetch help! I am Rosesong! I live in Belvata!”

“Thank you, friend,” Mangan said. The phantom bird leaped off his wrist and fluttered up toward the battlements.

The Iron Lord then gave Yhelbruna a wry smile. “So you see, hathran, you were right. Whatever may have happened in the North Country, the threat from the ghouls and wraiths is not over, and I have to go end it once and for all. I’ll need witches to help me, and naturally, I’d like the aid of wise Yhelbruna most of all.”

She took another look around the crowded courtyard with its men tying bundles on braying donkeys; whining, sparking grinding wheels sharpening blades; and all the rest of its bustling, noisy preparations. “It looks like you’re taking every warrior you can lay your hands on.”

“As I said, we’re going to put an end to this menace as fast as possible, and the way to do that is to bring all our strength to bear.”

“I see the logic. But Belvata is a small village.” To be precise, it was a hamlet on the far side of the River Rasha a hundred miles to the south. “If a great host of undead raided it, how likely is it that anyone would have survived to send word?”

For a moment, a hint of something less cordial, a flicker of impatience, perhaps, showed through Mangan’s smile. “You listened to Rosesong. He’s a brave, loyal creature, but I doubt he has the wits to give us a more detailed explanation of what happened. Maybe only a few undead, scouts or foragers or whatever, turned up in Belvata. The fact remains that of late, no one has sighted any of the vile things anywhere else. Accordingly, I have to assume they’ve all moved south.”

Yhelbruna frowned. “That’s not as logical. What if-”

“Curse it!” Mangan exploded. “Enough of this!”

Startled for a moment, Yhelbruna could only stare, and in that instant, the Iron Lord appeared to realize he’d overstepped. He bowed a second time and far more deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I revere the Wychlaran. I’ve spent my life serving you to the best of my ability. You know that.”

The apology, offered to placate an anger Yhelbruna hadn’t actually experienced, made her feel tired and lonely. Still, she replied with the austere composure Rashemen expected of her.

“But? You’ve already made it plain you have a grievance. You might as well go on and tell me what it is.”

Mangan took a breath. “As you wish. Before, I praised your wisdom. That was flattery, meant to quell any hard feelings that may have risen between us. The truth is, lately, you’ve been wrong at least as often as you’ve been right.”

“Tell me how.”

“I told you from the start that I could destroy the undead. It’s the Iron Lord’s responsibility, and the Wychlaran handed me the office, so your sisterhood must believe I can handle it. But you, hathran, insisted the spirits wanted me to sit by the fire while others, outlanders, mostly, fought my battles for me. And how did that work out? Folcoerr Dulsaer and his Aglarondans died. So, apparently, have Vandar Cherlinka and the Griffon Lodge, Aoth Fezim and his companions, and Dai Shan. The filthy Halruaans ended up trying to murder you and did kill others as they fled the city. Meanwhile, the undead are still roaming free, butchering folk who look to the Huhrong’s Citadel for protection!”

Yhelbruna didn’t know how to answer. It was an unaccustomed feeling and one she disliked. “I can’t deny the truth of any of that.”

“Then please, give me your blessing to go fight for Rashemen in the way I think best! Better still, come along and help!”

Well, why not?

As she’d just confessed, Mangan’s indictment of her was fair. Her plan for destroying the undead had failed. Indeed, now that none of her supposed champions remained, her scheme seemed not just wrongheaded but preposterous.

Perhaps the spirits no longer guided her decisions. Maybe she was simply imagining their promptings as she finally slipped into senescence, her mind and magic failing together.

But she didn’t feel senile. And no one could deny that the wild griffons and their golden telthor leader were a miracle, a gift from the Three intended for a special purpose, and she and Vandar were the ones who’d brought them down from the High Country.

Besides, Mangan’s decision to take every available warrior and rush south just felt rash and reckless. Unfortunately, Yhelbruna could see she had no hope of talking him out of it and knew she’d reached the point where she could no longer command him. Her judgment in this matter was no longer credible, and other witches, maybe the very hathrans at her back, would speak up to countermand her orders.

The only thing Yhelbruna could control was her own actions. “I’m sure many of my sisters will march with you,” she said. “But I have other matters to which I must attend.”

Mangan sighed, and she sensed his mingled disappointment and disgust. “I understand, and I certainly wouldn’t want to take you away from anything important.” He shifted his gaze to the witches behind her. “Learned sisters, if any of you intend to come south and help the brave men who fight in your name, I could use your advice and magic starting right now.”

Yhelbruna had in effect been dismissed. That feeling too, was both unfamiliar and unwelcome, but circumstances obliged her to tolerate the disrespect. Rebuking the Iron Lord when he was in the midst of readying his troops for war would only make her look petty and petulant, childish in the erratic, snappish way of an addled old woman.

Afterward, restless, she wandered the snowy streets of Immilmar. Even with all the warriors at the citadel, and the excited little boys peering in the gate to observe as much of the muster as they could, no one could honestly say the rest of the town seemed deserted. A dog barked, the smell of baking bread wafted from a kitchen window, and, his hammer tapping, a carpenter replaced a plank on one of the bridges. Still, under the surface, Yhelbruna’s surroundings felt strange, desolate, or even ominous for no reason she could define.

Is it really all just me, she wondered, then scowled and doggedly told herself it wasn’t. She turned back toward the Witches’ Hall to attempt what she already sensed would prove to be yet another opaque if not nonsensical divination.

Cera stumbled along in a blur of misery, chiefly aware of the ragged, slimy touch of the dead men supporting her and the even filthier feeling of contamination inside her.

Then, however, she felt a release, like someone had lifted a crushing weight off her or removed strangling hands from her neck. The relief was only partial if not marginal, but it sufficed to quicken her thoughts.

Not wanting her captors to realize she had in any measure recovered, she glanced around through half-lowered eyelids. By the feeble greenish luminosity of a phantom floating along ahead of her, she discerned that the endless profusion of tombs and sarcophagi had given way to a more normal sort of tunnel.

Combined with the feeling of relief, the change in her surroundings revealed that she and her captors had just emerged from the deathways! And even through all the stone and earth that still separated her from its light, she could faintly sense the Yellow Sun above her. She felt like laughing and weeping at the same time and clenched herself lest she do either.

In due course, her captors marched her up to what she recognized as the entrance hall of the primary keep of the Fortress of the Half-Demon. The sooty opening where Jhesrhi had burned away the doors was unmistakable. So were the hacked and blasted bodies.

Some of the undead were outside in the courtyard amid a litter of those frozen corpses. Lod and Dai Shan were looking out the doorway and conversing, and Cera strained to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“How much of a problem are they likely to be?” the bone naga asked.

“I doubt the griffon can fly very far,” Dai Shan answered, “which means they won’t make it out of this wasteland quickly. Still, if the sagacious champion of the undead can see a way to complete his conquest expeditiously, it might be well to do so.”

“I can,” Lod replied, swaying. “The strategy Uramar devised is clever, and I came to Rashemen because I can move it along even faster. The Codex of Araunt contains magic germane to the purpose.”

“But has anyone set the scheme in motion in the first place?” With a slight wave of his hand, Dai Shan indicated the bodies sprawled in the snow outside. “The learned prophet sees that circumstances here are as I reported. Your enemies took the Fortress of the Half-Demon, and it may be that Uramar and all his lieutenants lie among the slain.”

“I doubt it,” Lod said, “considering they had the option to retreat into the deathways when it became necessary. My judgment and instincts alike tell me we’ll find Uramar at Beacon Cairn.”

“I fervently hope so. Shall we go there, then?”

Cera realized that to “go there” would mean a return to the deathways, and in her brittle state, the prospect nearly maddened her. She struggled against the urge to try to yank away from the zombies and run.

“Yes,” said Lod, “but not quite yet. My folk fought a hard battle before we encountered you, and though we don’t suffer fatigue or pain exactly as mortals do, a period of recovery is still advisable. We’ll move on at midnight.”

“And-if the mighty and honorable naga lord will forgive me for seeking absolute clarity on the point-if I continue making myself useful, when the Eminence of Araunt rules Rashemen, I can take the wild griffons and depart in peace?”

“Of course,” said Lod, “I promise.”

With that, the undead began to make themselves at home, although they didn’t all simply flop down and rest. Lod slithered forth with half a dozen followers to explore the castle, scavenge equipment, and see if he did recognize any of the mangled corpses littering the battleground. Ghouls set about lighting a fire in a cold hearth and dragging goblin bodies close to it to thaw.

At which point, Cera’s guards hauled her away through the keep until they found what they evidently considered a suitable chamber. There, they dumped her on the cold, hard, grimy floor and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind them.

She told herself that where securing prisoners was concerned, the mute, dull-witted things could have learned a precaution or two from Halonya’s wyrmkeepers. But when she struggled and failed to clamber to her feet, she realized weakness was likely to hold her every bit as well as locks and iron bars.

But she couldn’t let it. Her desperate plan had gotten Jhesrhi and her out of the deathways even if it had done so in about the most unfortunate way imaginable. Now they had to finish their escape.

On the far wall, stout shutters sealed windows scarcely wider than arrow loops. At a couple of points, lines of pale light showed where the ironbound wooden panels fit imperfectly against the stone.

Cera crawled forward. The trailing scraps of her torn mail scraped against the floor.

She couldn’t see precisely where the light shone down. There wasn’t enough of it to make a brighter spot amid the gloom. But she felt it when it touched her.

The sensation, however, was not what she’d anticipated. Ever since she was a little girl, even before she realized her calling, she’d loved the warm caress of sunlight. Now it stung, and she-or rather the pollution inside her-wanted to flinch from it like a parasitic grub squirming away from a healer’s forceps.

But she didn’t flinch. She stayed where she was and fixed her eyes on the luminous cracks, keeping them there even when her head began to throb.

I accept the pain, she thought. It’s like a cauterizing iron searing infection out of me. And while it does, I pray for my god to reveal himself.

The discomfort faded, and the gloom and the massive structure around her faded with it, until she was floating in a sky of flawless blue, gazing into the heart of the Yellow Sun. All around her, though she couldn’t actually see them, she had a sense of wheels meshing and turning one another with utter smoothness and regularity. It was like the world’s most accomplished dwarf artisans had assembled to build the largest, most intricate, and most finely crafted mill in all creation.

Gradually, Amaunator’s radiance warmed and cleansed her, and her perception of the perfect order that was as intrinsic to his nature as the daylight soothed her with the promise that all things, no matter how seemingly discordant, resolved themselves into harmony in the end. Her communion with him was so blissful that a part of her could have basked in it forevermore. But Jhesrhi needed her, and so, after a time, she mustered the will to abandon the rapture of pure contemplation for more practical concerns.

“I have to go back,” she breathed, “to bring more of your grace to the world, and for that, I need my magic. Please, help me.”

She felt a pulse of reassurance that, now that she was out of the dark maze and purged of the taint of incipient vampirism as well, she could channel the god’s power as readily as ever. Then she was back on the floor.

For a moment, she lay relaxed and almost mindlessly serene in the afterglow of her meditation. Then she realized the light leaking through the cracks was dimmer than before.

She didn’t know how long her trance had lasted, but obviously, long enough for the westering sun to travel some distance across the sky. It would be dark soon, and once it was, the undead would be more active and alert.

She tried to rise, and as before, found herself clumsy and feeble. Her communion with the Keeper had revitalized her spiritually but hadn’t restored the physical vigor exsanguination had cost her.

Because, she supposed, she could attend to that herself. She murmured a prayer and felt a warm tingling as light poured into the core of her and made her body glow from within. Inside the blood-spotted rents in her mail and the padding beneath, the fang marks dwindled and disappeared.

She tried again to stand and did so without difficulty. She crept to the door, pressed her ear against the panel, listened, and heard nothing. Unfortunately, that was no guarantee of safety. The undead were notoriously quiet. She took a breath, gripped the handle, and jerked the door open.

As she’d feared, one of the zombies that had tossed her into the room was still standing and staring at nothing just outside. She supposed she was lucky it wasn’t both of them, although she would have felt luckier still if she had a weapon, a shield, and intact armor, or, as long as she was wishing, Aoth and twenty stalwart Brothers of the Griffon surrounding her.

Because she didn’t, she hopped back as the dead man lurched around to face her and slashed with his sword. The cut fell short, and she swept her hand in an arc that evoked the sun’s path from horizon to horizon. “The Keeper grant you peace,” she said.

Golden light shone through the air, and the living corpse crumbled into dust. A bit of it wafted into Cera’s nose and made her want to sneeze. The creature’s blade clanked on the floor, and its brigandine thumped down with it.

Well, Cera thought, that worked out. Especially if no other creature had noticed the holy light flashing out the doorway or the noise the falling sword and leather armor had made.

Deeming it better than nothing even though her clerical training had only encompassed the use of a mace, she picked up the blade. Then she peeked out the door. To her relief, no other undead horror was shambling or floating in her direction. Not yet, anyway.

Now, where was Jhesrhi? Was it possible Lod’s followers had taken the same casual approach to imprisoning the mage that they had to containing Cera?

Perhaps. They’d apparently assumed Cera’s vampire bites rendered her helpless, and from listening to them talk, she knew they’d beaten Jhesrhi senseless after Dai Shan exposed her deception. They’d also placed the wizard in some sort of restraints. They might well believe she was helpless too.

If so, Jhesrhi might be nearby. The undead might not have felt the need to haul her back down to the dungeons and lock her up properly either.

Cera stepped out into the corridor and headed in the opposite direction from the spaces near the primary entrance where many of the undead were taking their ease. To her relief, most of the doors she came to were open, which made checking the various rooms easier, and the traces of light leaking in from outdoors at various points alleviated the gloom just enough for her to grope her way along.

But the feeble illumination didn’t reveal everything, and it was a sunlady’s instincts, not Cera’s eyes, that abruptly gave her a sense of insatiable hunger and boundless hatred rushing out of the dark.

She jumped back and said, “Amaunator!” The Keeper’s power flowed into the core of her, then streamed down her arm to set her stolen sword aglow.

The brightness revealed a ragged shadow with a twisted smudge of a face. The Keeper’s light balked it, but Cera suspected the magic would hold it back for only an instant. Then it would either come back on the attack or raise the alarm.

She hurriedly recited a prayer and tapped the shining sword against the floor. Some of the holy light leaped from the steel to the stone, surging outward from the point of contact to form first a circle and then rays emanating from it.

In an instant, the rays shot out far enough that the wraith was floating just above them. Assailed by the sun symbol’s power, the phantom convulsed and frayed away to nothing.

All right, Cera thought, panting, I had a guard outside my cell. Let’s see if the ghost was lurking here because it was keeping an eye on Jhesrhi.

She cautiously opened a closed door. Gagged with a metal contraption bolted around her head, her hands shackled behind her, the wizard lay on the floor.

Cera smiled with a jubilation that immediately gave way to concern when Jhesrhi failed to react to her appearance. The priestess hurried over to her friend and knelt down beside her.

Thanks be to the Keeper and all the kindly powers, Jhesrhi was still breathing, but that was about all that could be said. She was too profoundly unconscious to stir even when Cera spoke to her, and when the priestess gently lifted the lids of her amber eyes, the pupils were different sizes. Blood matted her hair, and her tawny skin was a patchwork of bruises, scrapes, and scratches. One leg bent between the knee and ankle, and, not content merely to shackle a mage’s wonder-working hands, the undead had broken every one of her fingers.

Cera recited a healing prayer, reached out to Amaunator for all the power she could draw, laid her hand on Jhesrhi’s shoulder, and sent the pure essence of life and health streaming into her stricken comrade’s body. A few of Jhesrhi’s contusions faded, and her leg shifted and clicked as it sought to mend the break. But the wizard didn’t wake.

Cera prayed a second time. Cuts closed and, with a soft but wince-inducing grinding, the fingers of Jhesrhi’s left hand straightened. But she still didn’t rouse.

Like every practitioner of the healing arts, Cera had learned early in her career that some hurts were beyond remedy, but by the Yellow Sun, these hurts were not going to be among them! She took several deep, slow breaths to center herself.

Then Dai Shan said, “I admire both the sunlady’s resilience and her devotion to her friend.”

Cera jerked around. The little Shou was standing in the doorway.

“Nonetheless,” he continued, “I must regretfully request that she distance herself from Lady Sir Jhesrhi and the sword as well.”

Instead, Cera snatched up the blade and scrambled to her feet. “Stay back,” she said.

“I wish I could, but such forbearance would be contrary to my interests. It’s beneficial for the sapient prophet of the dead to hear from others that I was of service, but it can only enhance his gratitude to observe my diligence on behalf of his cause firsthand. That’s why I came to check on you, and I trust he’ll be happy I did.”

“He won’t be grateful no matter what you do.”

Dai Shan slightly inclined his head. “That sad possibility has occurred to me. Still, at the moment, the mighty king of serpents represents the only possible path to the wild griffons. What can a sensible man do but walk it, at least until a better course reveals itself?”

Cera shook her head. “But you’ve seen the undead up close. You’ve felt how they poison the world just by being in it. How can you bring yourself to side with them?”

“The virtuous sunlady deems them wicked and unnatural, and who could refute her assessment? Yet dividing all things into good or evil, salubrious or abominable, is but one way of considering the world. I classify things according to whether they aid or hinder the interests of the House of Shan and my advancement within it.”

“On the inside, you’re like an undead yourself.”

“Whereas on the outside, the brave priestess is gripping her sole weapon in a way that bespeaks a lack of experience in its use. I promise that if you let it fall, I won’t hurt you any further, and neither, I think, will Lod, provided you freely answer his questions. He’s curious to learn all that a priestess of Faerun can-”

Cera threw the sword.

Dai Shan likely didn’t expect her to use it in such an unconventional fashion, but he had no difficulty contending with the inept attack. He flicked his hand and knocked the blade tumbling to the side.

In the instant that required, though, Cera called out to Amaunator, drew down more of his might, and stamped her foot. Another sun symbol flowered beneath it, the rays stabbing out across the floor. Dai Shan gasped and stiffened.

She rattled off a second spell, mimed the act of striking with a weapon, and as the sun symbol faded, a mace made of yellow glow burst into being. With a thought, she sent it flying at Dai Shan.

But as she did, she saw he was reciting too. Then the room went black, darkness smothering even the luminescence of her conjured weapon. She made the mace swing anyway, but it didn’t connect.

Dai Shan had dodged it, and suddenly, instinct screamed that, blind though she now was, Cera needed to change position. She stepped back and to the left, and something, the Shou’s fist or foot, no doubt, slammed into her side.

The impact hurt, sent the breath whooshing out of her, and knocked her stumbling. If it had caught her squarely, or landed on a spot her torn mail didn’t cover anymore, it likely would have crippled her or worse.

She brought her conjured mace streaking back across the room for another blind attack. As it missed, she heard Dai Shan murmur two words in a language she didn’t recognize, a Shadow tongue, perhaps, and then sensed it when he snatched the magical weapon out of the air and snapped it like a twig.

Once again, though, at least the product of one spell had occupied him long enough for her to gasp out another. Light glowed from her right hand to counter the darkness he’d summoned and restore her sight.

Unfortunately, she could discern little cause for hope in what vision revealed. She was certain the power of the sun symbol had in some measure hurt Dai Shan, but no one could tell it from the smooth, subtle way he eased closer. Meanwhile, her side was throbbing, and when she twisted the wrong way, an even fiercer pain ripped through her.

She retreated, and, still in no hurry, he came after her. She realized he was backing her into a corner.

She raised her hands to face level as though to fend him off. Perhaps they, and the light shining from the right one, would keep him from observing her mouth was moving.

Alas, no. Evidently realizing she was whispering a spell, he lunged, faked a punch to the stomach that drew her guard down, then smashed the true attack into her face. She reeled, and suddenly the whole world seemed to ring like a giant bell, although simultaneously, everything was utterly silent.

Still, she forced out the last word of her incantation. The rays of another sun symbol flared out across the floor.

She discovered she hadn’t lost her hearing after all when Dai Shan stiffened and made a little grunting sound. After that, though, he seized her and tumbled her off her feet. Spinning around behind her, he pressed his forearm into her throat and choked her.

“The valiant sunlady should take pride in her prowess,” he said as she pawed in a futile attempt to break his hold. “Had we begun our contest at opposite ends of a sunlit field, the outcome might have been different. But close quarters and darkness favored me.”

Cera’s head swam, and the chamber grew dimmer. Until Jhesrhi’s body burst into flame, and the willowy mage started to struggle to her feet.

Because Amaunator’s magic was not merely potent but versatile. Channeled in the proper form, like the sun symbols, it could smite foes and revive friends simultaneously, and, to maximize her chances of surviving a fight against a strong and cunning adversary, Cera had so evoked it.

Startled or at least distracted, Dai Shan eased the pressure on Cera’s throat, and she sucked in a breath. The Shou thrust out one arm at Jhesrhi and murmured the first word of an incantation. Dark streaks ran through his outstretched hand as though the bones were in some sense glowing through the skin, but radiating shadow instead of light.

Cera jammed her head backward into his jaw. She was no brawler and felt at once that she hadn’t connected hard or squarely. But the impact sufficed to make him stumble over his recitation, and the shadow power accumulating inside his hand dissipated with the attack uncast.

Jhesrhi finished clambering up, and, with a roar, her halo of flame flared hotter. As Cera cringed, the wizard’s shackles and gag softened and sagged like dough. She stripped away the manacles, then jerked off the cruel-looking device that had cut the corners of her mouth, and finally spit out a stray bit of red-hot metal.

Fortunately, that burst of hotter fire lasted only a moment; Cera doubted she could have endured its searing proximity much longer. As it subsided, Jhesrhi swayed.

Dai Shan sprang up and rushed her. Evidently he was willing to risk punching or kicking through the weaker flame that still shrouded her slender form, if that was what it took to strike her down.

Cera swung her arm backward to trip the merchant as he dodged around her. But he sprang over her out-flung limb and charged onward.

Jhesrhi recited, and fresh blood trickled from her raw mouth. She gestured with swollen, crooked fingers. Meanwhile, she retreated, one step, two, and then her back was against the wall.

Dai Shan plunged into striking distance. His hand leaped, but then a red spark streaked at him as well. A dazzling, booming blast of flame engulfed both him and Jhesrhi.

When the flash faded, Cera, blinking, saw the sellsword was unharmed. Whereas what remained of Dai Shan lay burning on the floor.

Jhesrhi rounded on Cera. She raised her hands as though she meant to cast another spell.

“It’s Cera!” the priestess gasped. “Aoth and I are together! You remember!”

Jhesrhi faltered. “Yes. Sorry!”

“Don’t be.” Sucking in a hissing gasp at a fresh twinge in her side, Cera rose. “You saved us. Well, partly. Let me finish healing you so you can do the rest.”

“You’re all blistered, and your nose is broken.”

Cera wished the wizard hadn’t mentioned any of that, for now she felt those pains too. “It’s not important. Just stifle your halo of flame.”

Now that Jhesrhi was conscious, it wouldn’t do to administer the Keeper’s healing grace via a touch. The sellsword couldn’t bear it. But Cera wanted to get as close as possible.

Jhesrhi frowned as though the request warranted suspicion. But then she gave her head a little shake, and her cloak of flame vanished. She circled around Dai Shan’s still-burning body to meet Cera in the center of the room.

Cera drew down more of Amaunator’s light and, with an arcing gesture of benediction, sent it shining into the wizard’s body. Scratches and bruises faded.

Then zombie warriors appeared in the doorway, while a luminous phantom flowed through the wall beside it. The booms of the fiery blasts Jhesrhi had conjured had no doubt brought them rushing to investigate.

Cera hurled the Keeper’s power and burned the first ones to nothingness. Meanwhile, Jhesrhi recited with what, under the circumstances, felt like maddening slowness, articulating crunching, grinding, ponderous words that a person unschooled in earth magic could never even have pronounced.

More undead sought to enter the room, and with her dwindling store of power, Cera threw them back. The wall behind her scraped, banged, and let in a frigid breeze, as, obeying Jhesrhi’s command, it opened to provide an exit. That felt as if it were taking forever too.

Jhesrhi spoke moaning, whistling words. Cera glimpsed motion at the corner of her vision, turned, and saw the specter that had somehow penetrated her magical defense reaching out with shadowy hands to seize her. Then, howling, the wind picked her up and whisked her beyond the phantom’s reach.

In its haste, the wind banged her shoulder against the side of the breach as it carried her through, but all she cared about was that it was outdistancing the specter streaming in pursuit. She and Jhesrhi soared high above the fortress into a deep blue sky that glowed red on the western horizon. The frozen surface of Lake Ashane reflected a trace of the heavenly colors.

After the cold, lifeless darkness of the deathways and the predation of the vampires, the snowy twilit wilderness seemed like the loveliest sight Cera had ever seen, and despite her lingering pains, as she and Jhesrhi flew southward, she imagined she could scarcely feel any happier. Then a huge, black shape swooped down beside her. “About time you showed up,” it rasped.

“Jet!” said Jhesrhi an instant before Cera would have joyfully exclaimed the same. “How is it you’re still here?”

“Because Vandar and I stayed in the fortress to search for the two of you,” the griffon replied. “After he ran into the undead coming up out of the dungeons, we had to flee, but we didn’t go far. And for the last little while, I’ve been flying around, keeping an eye on the place to make sure the ghosts aren’t still chasing us. How is it you’re here?”

“The same undead Vandar encountered had taken us prisoner,” Jhesrhi said. “But we managed to escape.”

“Where is Vandar?” Cera asked. “Is he all right?”

“Yes,” said Jet, his voice even gruffer than usual. “He’s on the ground right now, because it hurts me to carry a rider. Aoth said that you, sunlady, would help me with that.”

“You’ve spoken with Aoth?” Cera said. “He made it out of the dark maze too?”

“Yes,” Jet replied. “After we set down, the two of you can talk to him too. I’ll pass the words back and forth. Just try not to gush, weep, or coo. I have enough ailing me without getting sick to my stomach.”

For once, Aoth’s preternaturally keen sight blurred, and his eyes felt wet. He realized he was on the verge of tears and at once felt a twinge of Jet’s disgust.

That disgust was half feigned, but still, the familiar had a point. A war captain couldn’t bask for long in sentiment, let alone give the impression of weakness, when he had important tasks to perform. Aoth took a deep, steadying breath, then turned to face Orgurth squarely.

“Good news?” asked the orc. He had a bloodstained dressing on his neck where an automaton had clawed him. Had the strike landed just a little differently, it either could have sliced his windpipe or slashed an artery, but he seemed to regard the actual wound as a trifle.

“The best,” Aoth replied. “Jet found Jhesrhi and Cera alive and well.”

Orgurth grunted. “That is good, when all your friends make it back from the battle alive.”

Aoth had the feeling Orgurth was remembering some sorrow from his own past and wondered if the orc was ever going to tell him why he’d been cast out of the legions and condemned to slavery. It plainly hadn’t been for cowardice.

With a leer, Orgurth appeared to cast off the grip of somber recollection. “Still,” said the orc, “you’re wrong. The best news would be your friends are alive and your enemies are dead.”

Aoth smiled. “True. Let’s go work on the second part of that.”

They found Pevkalondra, as the ghoul sorceress had named herself, where and how they’d left her, in a sort of natural alcove, bound hand and foot and gagged. With her filthy yellow fangs, she could likely have chewed the gag to shreds if she’d decided to, but she also had an “Old One”-actually, another keen young novice like Kanilak-hovering over her with an axe to chop her if she showed any sign of attempting to cast a spell.

Orgurth cut her feet free and hoisted her up. Then he, the Rashemi, and Aoth marched her to the large cave, an amphitheater somewhat like the one outside the Witches’ Hall in Immilmar but with the tiers of seats shaped from stone rather than dug out of the earth, where the rest of the Old Ones awaited them.

Most of the seats were occupied. The Old Ones had taken casualties during the final stage of the siege, but fewer than Aoth had privately expected. Even if they spent their days kowtowing to the hathrans, the enchanters hadn’t been bragging when they claimed to know how to fight.

Aoth gave a nod to all the folk looking back at him and his companions. “Well,” he said, “here we are, no thanks to this creature. Let’s find out why she came here to bother you.”

Watching out lest she suddenly twist her head and bite him, he pulled the gag away from Pevkalondra’s mouth. She spit viscous gray fluid and licked her shriveled lips with a long, pointed tongue. For some reason, the latter action thickened the dry-rot stink of her.

“I won’t tell you anything,” she said, “until you promise me my freedom.”

“Done,” said Aoth.

Some of the Old Ones exclaimed in dismay. Seated on the third tier up, owl mask set aside-likely because it chafed the bruised, swollen right side of his face-Kanilak yelled, “That thing led the attack on the caverns!”

“Yes,” said Shaugar, seated a level higher with Pevkalondra’s wand in his hand, “and it’s undead on top of that. Its very existence offends the spirits and the Three themselves.”

“She offends me too,” Aoth replied. “But we need to know what she can tell us. Because up in the North Country, my comrades and I believed we ended a threat to Rashemen. But plainly, the menace isn’t over.” He looked to Pevkalondra. “Isn’t that so, Raumviran?”

The pearl in her eye socket glimmering, Pevkalondra sneered back at him. “I told you what I require,” she said. “For obvious reasons, I require it from these barbarians as well.”

Orgurth snorted. “Stinky, I don’t see how you can ‘require’ much of anything. Like I already told the captain, I can make you talk.”

“Maybe,” said Aoth, “but maybe not. I’ve heard of undead yielding under torture, but also of those that never did. Their pain and fear aren’t necessarily like ours.”

“We could try,” said an Old One in a mask like the gnarled face of a tree spirit ringed with stubby twigs.

“I know you’ve lost friends,” said Aoth. “I understand the wish to avenge them. But think of the welfare of your country and your own welfare in particular. There could be more Raumvirans in the Running Rocks, and if so, you need to know.”

“I don’t like it,” Shaugar growled, “but the Silverbloods owe you, Captain, and you have a point.” He glowered at the ghoul. “We Old Ones promise to release you and give you a day to clear out of our territory in exchange for answers to our questions. Start with the one Captain Fezim just raised. Are we still in danger?”

“No immediate danger,” Pevkalondra said. “No more than the rest of the Rashemi.”

“Convince us,” said Aoth. “What were you and your raiders doing here?”

The Raumviran hesitated, not, he sensed, because she was concocting a lie but rather because the answer was somewhat complicated.

“Do you understand,” she asked at length, “that undead from an unknown land far to the west of Faerun have come to Rashemen?”

“I do now,” Aoth replied. Speaking through Jet, Jhesrhi and Cera had explained it to him. “The emissaries reanimated Raumvirans, Nars, durthans, and the Firelord knows what else to create a force capable of subjugating Rashemen.”

“Yes,” Pevkalondra said, “and then our confederacy explored various ways of achieving its purpose. One such option was via a straightforward military campaign, but your victory at the Fortress of the Half-Demon led Uramar-the chief envoy from the Eminence of Araunt-to decide to pursue a different scheme he hatched with Nyevarra, a durthan, instead.

“The plan,” the ghoul continued, “gave a central role to witches, and thereafter, Uramar concentrated on reanimating more of them. He ignored Raumvirans, even though we’d sustained heavy losses in the battle. His disregard made it clear my folk were destined for only a minor role in the Rashemen to come.”

“Unless,” said Aoth, “you did something to increase your power and prestige.”

“Yes. So I cast around to determine how to accomplish that, and I discovered hathrans weren’t the only mages who in one fashion or another support the Iron Lord. The Old Ones were up here in the mountains, and I hoped that if I led a war band to destroy them, one enclave after another, my efforts would demonstrate the worth of Raumathari wizardry and arms.”

“And if they didn’t,” said Orgurth, “you’d still have all the enchanted weapons and talismans you’d looted. If it came to it, you could make this Ura-something show you respect.”

“Exactly,” said the ghoul.

Orgurth leered. “Too bad it didn’t work out.”

“So you’re telling us,” said Aoth, “that yours was the only band of undead raiding in these mountains?”

“Yes,” Pevkalondra answered. “All the durthans and such are pursuing Uramar’s scheme.”

Aoth nodded. “Fair enough. And now let’s talk about that. What is the cursed scheme?”

The ghoul grinned, likely because she was anticipating the effect her next words would have. “Corruption. First and foremost, of the Urlingwood itself, the sacred earth Rashemi so revere. The durthans apparently know how to tilt the balance of forces centered there to strengthen their witchcraft and the dark fey while weakening the hathrans and their particular allies. The overt conquest of Rashemen will be a trifling matter after that.”

Seemingly astonished, the Old Ones stared down at her. Then Shaugar said, “Nonsense! If the durthans knew how to do such a thing, they would have done it during the Witch War of old.”

“They couldn’t,” Pevkalondra said. “The hathrans guarded the heart of their power too well.”

“And do you think they’re any less vigilant now, mere tendays after you and your undead friends were committing atrocities throughout the land?”

“Yes, because a traitor opened a magical gateway into the Iron Lord’s castle itself.”

“Dai Shan,” said Aoth, his fingers tightening on his spear. He thanked Kossuth, Amaunator, Tymora, and any other deity who might conceivably have had a hand in Cera and Jhesrhi successfully killing the little snake, but a part of him would always regret he hadn’t done the job himself.

“Yes,” Pevkalondra said, still grinning, “and that and the new powers undeath conferred on the durthans enabled them to subvert and weaken first our foes in Immilmar and then in the Urlingwood itself. They killed hathrans, donned their masks, and impersonated them. Vampires turned or enslaved other defenders of the old order, while ghosts possessed still more. A plague of treachery, torpor, and muddled wits swept through the covens, the Huhrong’s Citadel, and the lodge houses, and as a result, the forest is already under our control.”

“You’re lying!” Kanilak spit. “Nothing’s weakening our magic. It’s as strong as ever.”

Pevkalondra inclined her head. “True enough, boy, as my soldiers and I discovered to our cost. But in your crude way, you Old Ones are like Raumvirans. You’re makers, and your magic derives more from the mind and less from the soul. In retrospect, it makes sense that your power might stand strong for a while longer than that of your mistresses.”

The ghoul turned her stained, jagged grin back on Aoth. “So you see,” she said, “I’ve lost a battle, but you’ve lost the war. The Eminence of Araunt has occupied the ground it needs to ensure its triumph and neutralized all who might have broken its hold in time.”

Aoth considered the situation and decided it justified Pevkalondra’s confidence. Indeed, because she didn’t know Lod himself had come to Rashemen to speed the dark rituals along to their fruition, the Eminence’s position was even stronger than she realized.

“The Black Flame burn me,” he said, “if I ever travel without my own army again. If I walk down to the corner for a mug of beer, the entire Brotherhood of the Griffon is going with me.”

“Then you admit defeat,” Pevkalondra said.

Aoth smiled back at her, and something in his expression made her give a tiny start, predatory monstrosity though she was. “Well, no,” he answered, “I wouldn’t say that.”

He pivoted back toward the Old Ones. “You heard,” he said. “Your country’s enemies have deprived it of its usual cadre of protectors. We have to assemble a new one quickly to drive the vermin out of your sacred wood. Obviously, that effort starts with you. How soon can you be ready to march?”

For a heartbeat, no one answered. Then a man in a wolf mask said, “We can’t just do that because we want to. We can only leave the Running Rocks if the hathrans command it.”

“Stinky just told you,” Orgurth said, “the witches can’t command it. They’re dead, addled, or too stupid to see what’s falling apart right in front of them.”

“Still,” Shaugar said, “our vows are vows, and even if we did break them, no man is allowed in the Urlingwood.”

Orgurth shrugged. “Once you start breaking rules, what’s the difference if it’s one or two?”

An Old One in an iron T-shaped mask that left his cheeks and the corners of his mouth uncovered said, “To break our oaths would disgrace us. To defile the Urlingwood-”

“It’s being defiled now!” Aoth shouted. “How can you let that happen and still tell yourselves your vows and your religion count for anything? I’m an outlander-Abyss, I’m one of the Thayans you Rashemi all despise-and I don’t claim to understand your ways. But if it were my sacred forest, I’d save it and worry about getting punished for disobeying orders afterward. That’s what loyalty and duty mean to me!”

For a moment, the Old Ones were quiet again. Then Shaugar said, “But the ghoul was right. We are crafters first and foremost, and you saw how many of our staves and amulets we’ve already emptied of magic.”

“I’ve also seen plenty of intact Raumviran golems still standing around in the foundry,” Aoth replied. “Old Ones put them to sleep, and you can wake them too.”

“Some acts of creation,” quavered a stooped figure on the uppermost tier, an Old One in every sense of the term, “work in accordance with Nature, while others mock it. Our tradition-”

“So you break three rules!” Orgurth said, “to save your holy trees!”

“Yes,” said Shaugar, a hint of grim humor in his voice, “to save the ‘holy trees.’ ” He rose and turned so that, for a moment at least, he looked each of his fellow enchanters in the eye. “Our friends are right. We can’t sit idly by while the undead take over Rashemen even if the Wychlaran burn us all in wicker cages afterward. So: who’s coming with me?”

“I will!” Kanilak said.

“And I,” said a big man in a long-eared rabbit mask that presumably didn’t look as comical to his fellow Rashemi as it did to Aoth.

One by one, all the others agreed to march, although in some cases with manifest reluctance or windy-and likely specious-discourses on how precedent or the exact wording of their laws and vows might after all permit them to do as they intended. The lawyering made Aoth seethe with impatience, but he tried not to show it.

When all the talk was finally through, and most of the enchanters were headed out to prepare for the journey, Shaugar came down to the floor of the amphitheater. “Thanks for your support,” Aoth told him. “Can I hope the part about wicker cages was an exaggeration?”

Shaugar snorted. “You were right before. You really don’t understand Rashemen. But you were also correct that we mustn’t worry about that now. As we head north, we’ll pass near a couple other Old One villages. We can ask them to join us.”

Pevkalondra laughed. “You still won’t have enough men to stop what’s happening in the forest.”

“We’ll see,” said Aoth. “It may be that I can scare up a few more.”

“Either way,” Orgurth said, “I’m tired of listening to Stinky, here, jeer at us. I’ve also gone too long in my new life as a sellsword without picking up any plunder.”

He turned, grabbed Pevkalondra’s ocular between thumb and forefinger, and yanked. The pearl jerked free, trailing the thin prongs of metal that had zigzagged back into her head. They came out with bits of rotten matter clinging to them, and the ghoul screamed.

“See?” asked Orgurth, making a casual attempt to wipe the decay off on his sleeve. “I told you I could have made her talk.”

The durthans were performing their rites in a stand of towering, many-branched weirwood trees. It was one of the most sacred places of power in the Urlingwood, yet even so, permanently tilting the balance of dark and light in all Rashemen was proving to be a long and arduous process requiring night after night of chanted prayers and incantations around the greenish fire.

Although things were moving a little faster now that, with matters elsewhere under control, Nyevarra was leading the rituals. The Stag King’s antler staff had turned out to be a potent talisman for strengthening the conjurations.

She was spinning it through a complicated figure that made the bonfire blaze higher when, her mystical perceptions heightened by the ceremony, she sensed entities possessed of considerable supernatural power approaching in the night. She used a hand signal to warn her sister witches a pause was necessary, and they all stopped chanting on the same word, at a point that kept the forces they’d raised from bursting free of the metaphysical structures meant to channel and contain them.

Nyevarra and the other durthans then turned to await the newcomers. Some witches gasped or exclaimed when their fellow ghouls and specters marched out of the dark.

There were many creatures in the column formidable enough to merit such expressions of admiration and respect. But Nyevarra had no doubt that it was the singular entity crawling in the lead who’d riveted everyone’s attention.

The upper part of him was the top portion of a human skeleton. At the waist, those bare bones fused with an enormous, scaly serpentine body like a dragon’s tail. She knew from the description Uramar had given her that this was Lod, but even if she hadn’t, she would have assumed as much from the exceptional wizardly strength she sensed inside him.

She left the circle to greet him and his companions. Swaying slightly from side to side, he loomed over her, and she felt small and vulnerable. Making sure that didn’t reveal itself in her stance or voice, she said, “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Lod replied. “You must be Nyevarra. Uramar’s messenger told me you’re the one who worked out how best to conquer this realm.”

Nyevarra smiled behind her mask. “It was my notion. But every durthan is aiding in the effort.”

Lod nodded. “I like it that you’re willing to share the credit. It reflects the spirit of fellowship our cause requires.” He peered over her head in the direction of the green fire. “But plainly, our arrival interrupted your labors. Will you take them up again? It would be a privilege to observe.”

Nyevarra blinked. “Right now? You’ve traveled a long way.”

“Yes. But as you’ve surely discovered, one of the many benefits of undeath is being impervious to fatigue.”

“In that case, please, come to the fire.”

After another series of complex invocations, the durthans came to a planned halt; undead might be tireless in the general course of things, but any witch performing a lengthy ritual was well advised to pause from time to time to refocus her will. At that point, curious to hear his opinion, Nyevarra looked up at Lod.

“Remarkable,” the bone naga said. “Until Uramar relayed your plans, I would never have dreamed such a thing was possible. Still, I have lore of my own, and with your permission, I believe I can speed things along.”

“I’m eager to see what you have in mind.”

“Then when everyone is ready, I’ll take the lead while you and your sisters make the ritual responses. I’m only going to change your incantations a little, so you won’t have any difficulty following along.”

In a sense, that proved to be true. But in the aggregate, the small changes-an arcane gesture performed with extra slashing vehemence, an alteration in the cadence of a phrase, the substitution of one name of power for another-made a considerable difference. Attuned to the magic, Nyevarra could perceive it transforming the Urlingwood in ways it hadn’t hitherto.

The fire turned from green to a gray so deep it was nearly black, and in some indefinable but ghastly fashion, the crackling alternately suggested sobbing and laughter. A darkness deeper than natural night thickened in the air.

Tendrils of rot snaked through one of the weir trees, riddling the heartwood in an instant. Farther away, oaks and pines perished of the same cankerous affliction.

Earth shifted and clenched like a miser’s fist, and the spring water that had bubbled up to feed a frozen brook could no longer find its way to the surface.

A bear sleeping in its burrow whimpered and thrashed as a new deformed head-three-eyed, with crooked jaws and jagged, oversized fangs-sprouted from its shoulder. But the natural head didn’t truly wake until the freakish one started eating it.

There was still a part of Nyevarra, the part that recalled life as a dutiful young hathran, that winced at the accelerated corruption and desecration. But the rebel and vampire that naive girl had become rejoiced. Before, she’d estimated that her rituals would make her and her allies invincible near the time of the spring thaw. But with Lod’s aid, it should require only another tenday or two.

Vandar felt a surge of happiness as, riding the giant hawk Jhesrhi had conjured to carry him, he gazed down on Immilmar from the air. After all the dangers and horrors he’d encountered in the north, home had never looked more inviting.

Or at least that was the case until his eyes fell on the peaked roof of the Griffon Lodge. Even on this frigid winter day, no smoke rose from the chimney, and why would it? The building stood empty as it would until someone new took possession of it.

Vandar averted his eyes, and in so doing, turned them toward the lake. The Storm of Vengeance was sitting on the shore.

Grief and guilt gave way to rage, and had he known how, he would have turned his steed toward the skyship. Because he didn’t know how to steer the giant hawk, he could only wait as his bird, Jhesrhi’s, and Jet, who was carrying Cera, swooped down to light in the snow in front of Witches’ Hall.

As soon as their riders dismounted, the two huge raptors dissolved into wind, moaning and flinging up snow for a moment, and then they were gone. Vandar started westward.

“Stop!” Cera said. “I saw the ship too, but you can’t just run off by yourself.”

“She’s right,” rasped Jet. Frequent applications of Cera’s healing sunlight had strengthened him and improved his appearance, although black feathers and fur had yet to cover over every patch of ugly scarring. “I’ve got a score of my own to settle, and if things were different, I’d come along and help you. But we have a plan in motion. A plan to rescue your miserable excuse for a homeland.”

Vandar hesitated and felt the red sword at this side urging him on to battle and revenge. And as he’d learned to his cost, when he felt the fey weapon goading him toward one course of action, that in itself was reason enough to at least consider doing the opposite.

“All right,” he growled. “I’ll wait.” He marched up to the hathrans’ house and pounded on the door.

A coltish novice in a simple cloth half mask answered, goggled at Vandar and those clustered behind him, and, when Vandar made his wishes known, scurried off to fetch Yhelbruna.

“You realize,” said Jet, “by now, the great hathran could be possessed or a vampire’s thrall herself.”

“If she is,” Cera said, “I’ll know.”

“So will I,” said Vandar. Yhelbruna had allowed him to meet the real woman hidden behind the leather mask and cold, mysterious demeanor only once, after they’d encountered the undead hag and goblins in the High Country, but it had left him with a vivid sense of who she truly was.

Vivid enough that he sensed the happiness the sight of him inspired when his companions almost certainly did not. “You’re alive,” she said.

“So is Captain Fezim,” said Jhesrhi, a new and hastily carved ash staff in her hand. She’d enchanted it as she did her clothing to keep it from charring in her grip. “Whatever Mario Bez may have told you.”

“We found out Bez is a liar,” Yhelbruna said. “Still, when you failed to return from this alleged battle at the Fortress of the Half-Demon, we had no choice but to assume the worst.”

“Aoth is looking through my eyes and listening through my ears right now,” said Jet. “He’ll speak through me too when he needs to. Take a walk with us, hathran. We need to talk where spies can’t overhear, and we’re short on time.”

“As you wish,” the witch replied. She turned and stepped out of the doorway for a moment, and when she reappeared, she wore a green hooded cloak and carried a staff of her own in her hand.

As they all wandered toward a little stand of trees to the west of the hall, Jhesrhi began to relate all that she and her comrades had discovered. Apparently, life as a sellsword had taught her to report clearly and succinctly, for it took her only a little time to lay out the facts as best they understood them.

“So you see,” she concluded, “at this point, we don’t know who among the hathrans and the Iron Lord’s warriors has been compromised and who hasn’t. But if Yhelbruna and Cera work together, the two of you should be able to identify at least some folk who are still trustworthy and free others from the undead’s influence. The troops you muster will rendezvous with the Old Ones south of the Urlingwood, and then we’ll all assault the wood together.”

Yhelbruna shook her head. “No. That won’t work.”

Vandar took a breath. “As you heard, the Old Ones understand they’re breaking their vows, and we all know men are barred from the forest. But-”

“Rose and scythe!” Yhelbruna snapped. “Do hathrans truly seem like such mad tyrants that you imagine I care about any of that when the soul of the land itself is in jeopardy? The wizard’s proposal won’t work because this Eminence of Araunt is a move ahead of us. Again. A few of their creatures revealed themselves on the southern shore of the River Rasha, and Mangan Uruk rushed forth to chase them with every witch and berserker he could find. I imagine we can still collect a smattering of reinforcements between here and Urling, but not in the numbers you were hoping for.”

Everyone was glumly silent for a moment. Then Cera said, “All right, but let’s think this through. The undead’s plan is based on stealth and trickery for good reason. We destroyed much of their strength at the Fortress of the Half-Demon, and Pevkalondra threw away more when she detached the Raumvirans from the rest of the creatures’ army and led them to defeat. Lod sought to bring reinforcements, but Sarshethrian’s ambush killed at least half of those. Maybe we aren’t at as much of a disadvantage as we think.”

Yhelbruna stopped and pondered, meanwhile idly poking holes in the snow at her feet with the lead tip on the butt of her staff.

“That all makes sense on its own terms,” she said eventually, “and now that I understand what’s been weakening my witchcraft, true hathrans can take countermeasures. But the enemy’s witchcraft is gaining strength, and with the Urlingwood falling into shadow, I guarantee you dark fey are assembling to support their old allies and ensure their ascendancy in the new Rashemen.”

Cera scowled. “I didn’t endure Sarshethrian’s foulness and vampires sucking my blood just to hear our cause is hopeless.”

“Aoth says it isn’t,” said Jet. “He wants to know, how did Yhelbruna come to realize Mario Bez is a liar, and why is the Storm of Vengeance still in Immilmar?”

Vandar’s jaw muscles clenched.

Even without the aid of a saddle and tack-Jet’s accouterments had burned away when the orb of fire blasted him-Aoth felt good hurtling along on griffon-back once more, with a cold wind in his face, a blue sky and wispy cirrus clouds above, and the tangled branches of a forest below. His pleasure would have been even keener if he hadn’t felt the ache in the griffon’s wings. Jet had pushed himself hard to fly to the Running Rocks, collect his master, and carry him to the Ashenwood, leaving Orgurth to shepherd the Old Ones the rest of the way north.

I’m fine! snarled Jet across their psychic link. Clearly, the bond had enabled him to perceive Aoth’s concern in the same way Aoth had registered his pain. Exercise is what I need to recover the last little bit of my strength. I only wish I was exerting myself for a sensible reason.

Do you want to win or not? Aoth replied.

Jet gave a disgusted rasp. It was a noise he made when he recognized his rider was right but was unwilling to admit it straight out. If you think I’m unhappy, wait until you see Vandar.

Vandar disagrees with one of my ideas? How surprising.

Jet laughed a screeching laugh, and they flew onward.

The trees grew thickly in the Ashenwood, and Aoth assumed those he sought knew something about how to hide. But fortunately, the ashes and aspens had shed their leaves, and he had his fire-kissed eyes and Jet’s sharp senses to foil attempts at concealment. He was confident they’d find their quarry if they simply kept looking, and toward twilight, he spotted a man with black side whiskers and grubby red and yellow clothing trying to dig and chop roots from the frozen earth while a skinny, shivering fellow dressed in the same colors stood watch with a crossbow cradled in his hands.

Unfortunately, the sentry was looking around at ground level, but not higher. Perched in the branches above him and his comrade, three rusty brown ettercaps, their forms an angular mix of human and spider, were drawing glistening white strands from their spinnerets. When they had enough webbing, they’d drop it to snare their prey.

Aoth was still pondering how best to handle the situation when Jet furled his wings and dived. Maybe he wanted to prove he was as capable of maneuvering among and, when necessary, smashing right through branches as he’d ever been.

Thanks to their mystical connection, Aoth knew which ettercap Jet was targeting. He pointed his spear, spoke a word of command, and hurled darts of blue light at the other two.

Then he and Jet were plunging through the canopy, branches cracking beneath them like a drumroll. The ettercap the griffon had chosen looked up in reaction to the noise, then flexed its four hind limbs and tried to spring aside.

With a flick of his wings, Jet compensated and crashed down on the spidery hunter anyway. His talons punched through shell into the flesh beneath, and the branch on which the ettercap had been perching snapped as well.

They all plunged on earthward together. Jet lashed his wings to slow their descent and landed without giving his master much of a jolt. His weight drove his eagle claws even deeper into the ettercap, though, and through their bond, Aoth felt the creature convulse and then stop moving as its body squashed.

Aoth glanced up. His magic hadn’t killed either of the other ettercaps, but they were fleeing, scurrying and leaping from branch to branch and tree to tree.

He then pointed his spear at the foragers, both of whom were frozen with shock, and set the point of the weapon aglow with an intimidating display of power.

“Hello,” he said. “Do you know me? If not, you surely remember my steed. Which of you vermin shot him out of the sky?”

“Not me!” babbled the man who’d been digging the roots. “Not either of us!”

“No matter,” said Jet. “You were all trying. That’s why I couldn’t let the ettercaps have you.” Making a show of it, he pulled his gory talons from the carcass beneath him.

“Please!” said the root digger. “It wasn’t personal. Our captain ordered us to shoot, and we obeyed. You’re sellswords. You know how it is!”

“We do,” said Aoth. “Just like we know it’s bad for a mercenary company’s reputation to let anybody attack it without reprisal. But fortunately for you, the man we really came to see is Mario Bez. If you take us to him, you just might live to see the moon rise.”

Both foragers seemed cowed and eager to cooperate. Still, Aoth made sure the failed sentry pointed his crossbow away from his captors and uncocked it slowly.

Meanwhile, he dismounted. Jet was always happy to carry him through the air, but not when they were on the ground. It was beneath his dignity to perform the function of a common beast of burden.

They ordered their captives to walk in front and watched them for signs of mischief. But the foragers led them straight to their camp and without trying to warn their comrades that enemies were approaching. That, however, didn’t keep the other sellswords from snatching for their weapons when Aoth and Jet came into view.

“Easy!” said Aoth. “If we wanted to kill you, we would have attacked from above in the dead of night. Half of you would have died in your sleep.”

“And if one of you raises a weapon or starts jabbering a spell,” Jet rasped, “these two idiots we caught will die right now. Then Captain Fezim and I will slaughter the rest of you.”

A bit of broken twig caught in the grizzled hair that now hung loose, not gathered in his customary ponytail, Mario Bez smiled. “I don’t take that threat lightly. The two of you wouldn’t be here now if you weren’t every bit as tough as the stories say. But if it is just the two of you dropping by, I’m fairly certain my crew and I can cope with you.”

“Even if you’re right,” Aoth replied, “you wouldn’t all live through it. And those who did wouldn’t be any better off than they were before.”

Bez raised an eyebrow. “Whereas …?”

“The undead didn’t all perish in the Fortress of the Half-Demon. In fact, the ones that remain are a bigger problem than anybody realized. You’ll hear the details if we come to an agreement, but the nub of it all is that Rashemen still needs you to do the job you promised to do in the first place.”

“In exchange for what? At this point, I assume Yhelbruna wouldn’t stand for Halruaans claiming any of the wild griffons, no matter how much we contributed to the solution of her problem.”

“In exchange for safe passage out of the country.”

Bez snorted. “Not exactly a generous offer for professionals of our caliber.”

“Your other option is to go on hiding here like the common outlaws the Rashemi now consider you to be. How’s that working out?” Aoth waved his spear to indicate the haggard faces and crudely constructed lean-tos he saw before him. “Do you like sleeping rough in the cold of a northern winter? Anybody sick yet? Are you finding plenty to eat? Just how often do you run into ettercaps and trolls? I hear the Ashenwood is crawling with them.”

Bez glowered. “I won’t insult your intelligence by saying we don’t find our situation challenging. But after what’s happened, it’s difficult to believe Yhelbruna and the Iron Lord would let us depart in peace no matter what.”

Jet made a spitting noise that was half screech as well. “Liars always have trouble believing other folk are telling the truth.”

“You’re right,” said Aoth. “But maybe Captain Bez senses there’s something I haven’t mentioned. And if we’re going to sneer at him for being the lying, traitorous turd he is, then maybe I shouldn’t hold any information back.”

Bez’s hand had shifted to the hilt of his main gauche. Evidently, he didn’t appreciate being likened to dung. “By all means,” he said through gritted teeth, “enlighten me.”

“You understand the locals have cause to dislike you,” Aoth replied, “but you don’t realize just how much of your treachery has come out. Vandar Cherlinka survived your attack to reveal you and your crew murdered his lodge brothers.”

For a heartbeat, Bez looked taken aback. Then he chuckled. “I can see how that looks bad.”

“Still, I told you the truth. Rashemen’s need is such that if you help now, Yhelbruna swears by the Three that each and every one of you will receive a pardon for his misdeeds. But for you, Captain, that won’t be quite the end of the matter. You and I may think of this land as backward, but it understands dueling as well as Chessenta, Impiltur, or any civilized realm you care to name. And before you take your leave, one of the folk you’ve wronged will call you out.”

“Are you referring to yourself?”

“I don’t know for certain, but I hope so.”

“Then perhaps it would be better to kill you here and now.”

“Better for whom? It’s only you who will have to fight the extra fight. No one will bother your men.”

A white-haired, sour-faced man with a wand tucked in his broad yellow belt cleared his throat.

Bez’s eyes flicked to the side to see who’d spoken, then immediately returned to Aoth. “Uregaunt,” he said. “What is it?”

“We’re sellswords,” the old mage said. “We follow a leader because it’s in our interest, not because he’s some halfwit inbred nobleman or somebody like that. Starving here in the snow is not in our interest.”

Bez smiled a smile so crooked it fell just short of being a sneer. “So you’re telling me if I don’t accept Captain Fezim’s offer, you’ll desert.”

“I’m saying I’ve watched you win plenty of fights. I’ll wager you can win one more.”

“Or,” Aoth said, “I suppose that if you’re afraid, you could even refuse to duel. But I wish you luck commanding sellswords or attracting contracts when word of that gets around.”

“I’m not afraid,” Bez said, “just examining all possibilities. You’d do the same in my place.”

“So is that a yes?” asked Aoth.

Bez snorted. “It is, curse you to the Hells. I assume you understand that to fight to best advantage, my crew and I will need the Storm of Vengeance.”

“I do,” said Aoth. He paused, giving the Halruaan a breath to examine what he must imagine to be the possibilities of that. Then: “That’s why Jhesrhi and Yhelbruna are busy carving runes in the hull. If you attack us once you’re in the air, or try to fly away without meeting your obligations, it will be your turn to burst into flame and fall out of the sky.”

The tent still held the heat of Cera’s conjured sunlight long after the glow had died away. She supposed it retained the heat of the three bouts of lovemaking too. At any rate, she was warm enough, but a mix of tenderness and worry still prompted her to snuggle even closer to Aoth’s naked body.

She hadn’t meant to wake him, but his luminous blue eyes opened in the gloom, and then he kissed her. “Ready for another tumble?” he asked.

“That would be lovely if you can manage it. One more. After that, it will be dawn and my time to pray.”

“Then let’s have at it. I know you can’t keep Amaunator waiting, and I don’t want him interrupting me in the middle.” He caressed her breast and made it tingle.

Good as it felt, she put her hand on his to stop it moving. “We’ve been too hungry for one another’s touch to talk much. Before we start in again, and then have to get up and be about our business, I just … well, I want you to know the deathways were bad for me, worse, even, than for Jhesrhi, because they all but cut me off from the Yellow Sun. It was partly the hope of finding you again that kept me from breaking down.”

“Only partly?”

“Be grateful an impious cutthroat rates even that high.”

“That sounded witchy. Yhelbruna and her kind are a bad influence … But, darling lass, if you insist on talking seriously, then I guess I should take a turn. I missed you too. Enough that I realized something.

“You can’t turn down being sunlady of Chessenta if your peers elect you to the office,” he continued. “Being a priestess is your calling. And I can’t give up being a wandering sellsword. That’s mine. But I swear by the Pure Flame, we won’t lose one another. At the moment, I have no idea how to make things work, but we’ll find a way.”

“I want that too. Perhaps we can figure it out after we defeat the undead.”

She’d intended to sound confident, but his lambent eyes narrowed. “Are you scared we won’t? Mario Bez has the scruples of a starving rat, but he has no play except to deliver on his promise. Neither he and his men, the Old Ones, nor I have gone into Immilmar, so Lod’s agents in town haven’t seen us and can’t have sent word to him that we’re lurking about. If Lady Luck smiles, we’ll catch the undead by surprise.”

“I’m more worried about Jet’s part of the plan.”

“Because he hasn’t healed?”

She sighed. “It’s difficult to answer that. He’s done all the healing the Keeper’s light could promote, given that I wasn’t able to tend him until days after he was injured. But he should take more time to rest. Are we sure this is a wise idea?”

Aoth grunted. “It’s difficult to answer that. Taking on undead and dark fey, we’re likely to need all the strength we can muster.”

“But will it even work? Yhelbruna said the Three would incline the wild griffons to serve those who defeat the undead. So far, no one truly has.”

“Which means that at this point, goddesses and spirits don’t figure in, and in the absence of their prompting, the griffons will act in accordance with their nature. That’s to follow the leader of the pride, and if Jet defeats the golden beast, he’ll be the leader.”

“But the golden beast’s no ordinary griffon. It’s a telthor.”

“And Jet’s the product of enchantments I cast not just on him but his bloodline going back for generations.”

“I’m not concerned because I underestimate him. It’s because I care about him and know you love him.”

Aoth snorted. “If I ever said such a thing to him, he’d mock me forever after. But you’re right, I do, and I argued when he broached his scheme on the journey back from the Ashenwood. But maybe he needs this fight to test himself. He doesn’t want to go on living except in the knowledge that he’s still as strong as ever.”

Cera frowned. “That’s foolish and arrogant too.”

“For a human being, maybe, but that’s not what he is.”

“No,” she said, trying to banish worry from her tone, “he’s the mighty, fearless creature who fought Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos, and obviously, he’ll be fine. So we’ll stop fretting over him and conclude our reunion properly.” She lifted her hand from his and glided her fingertips down his stomach.

The golden griffon was soaring high above the hilly ground north of Immilmar. Jet flew in at a higher altitude still. It would be foolish to cede the advantage of the high air before the duel had even begun.

As he made his approach, he felt an impulse to take stock of his wings and see if they were aching even a little, but he thrust the urge away. Whether he was hale or still impaired, it was too late to worry about it now.

A prickly sensation, almost stinging but not quite, danced over his body, and the blueness of the sky brightened and darkened from one moment to the next. He’d experienced the same phenomena on his previous visit. He was crossing the intangible barrier the hathrans had established to contain the feral griffons. Fortunately, because the original spell hadn’t targeted him, it had no power to keep him out.

Their feathers bronze and brown in the sunlight, common griffons flew toward him. They might well remember seeing him before, and on that occasion, he’d fled from them, or so they would have believed. They likely expected him either to do the same again or set down on the ground in submission.

Instead, he shrieked a challenge that caused the wild griffons to assess his attitude, size, and manifest strength anew. Then they all veered off in various directions, declining a confrontation and in the process clearing an expanse of empty air between him and their golden leader.

The king griffon was even larger than Jet, and no scarring or bald patches marred his plumage and pelt as they gleamed like polished metal in the sun. Now that his followers had failed to dominate the newcomer, he deigned to take notice of Jet himself. Opening his beak, he gave a piercing scream of his own to demand deference.

Jet simultaneously circled right and climbed even higher, the start of a corkscrew path that might allow him to plunge down at the golden griffon from above and with the wind at his back. His actions conveyed his defiance as clearly as any cry, and, pinions beating, blue eyes glaring, the other beast began maneuvering too.

Perhaps because he’d been restlessly flying around and around his invisible cage for so long and knew the space inside so intimately, the gold beast almost immediately found a fast-flowing updraft. The vertical current flung him upward, and in a moment, he possessed the high air. Jet realized he had little hope of reaching the same height swiftly enough for it to matter even if he exerted himself to the utmost.

But it might serve him well to pretend that was what he was doing. So he beat his wings and climbed like a dunce while the king griffon made a lazy-looking circle and positioned himself to dive.

The gold then hurtled downward. Jet kept climbing as if he had yet to perceive the threat or as if he were suicidal.

When the telthor had nearly plunged into striking distance, he gave a scream intended to petrify his prey. Jet, however, took the shriek as his cue to raise one wing, dip the other, and, with the agility Aoth’s prenatal enchantments and a lifetime of aerial combat had produced, dodge out from underneath the gold’s talons.

The gold plummeted through the space he’d just vacated, and now Jet was the one who held the high air and had his talons positioned to stab and seize. He furled his wings and dived after his foe.

The griffon chieftain zigzagged, trying to evade. Steadily closing the distance, Jet compensated as necessary and reached to catch the muscles bunching between the gold’s wings.

An instant before Jet’s talons could strike home, the telthor dodged a final time. Instead of plunging down on his foe’s back, Jet caught the middle of his right wing. Well, that ought to be good enough.

Jet’s aquiline claws clenched in flesh. He raked with his leonine hind legs and lowered his beak to bite. Then the pinion to which he clung lashed with startling violence and flung him off.

Jet snapped his own wings in an effort to close and grab hold once more. But he was too eager, lunging before he’d quite recovered full control of his body. Jet couldn’t dodge when, flinging blood, his foe’s faintly striped golden wing flapped and struck the side of his head.

The blow slapped Jet sideways and stunned him for an instant, and when he looked for the gold, the creature was no longer in front of him. He cast around and located his opponent just as the telthor swooped in from the right.

The gold’s talons stabbed into Jet’s back, then, one foot at a time, released and grabbed anew as he shifted his orientation. The telthor likely wanted to align himself in such a way that he could snap his beak shut on his opponent’s neck.

Jet lashed his wings, tucked his beak down against his chest, and flipped himself and the gold upside down. They tumbled earthward like a stone.

Probably still trying to bring his beak to bear, the griffon chieftain clung to Jet for a moment longer. Then, however, he sprang away to keep himself from slamming to the ground along with his foe.

Jet wrenched his body into the proper attitude for flight, resumed beating his wings, and pulled out of his fall. But in the process, he once again lost track of the gold.

Instinct screamed that he should veer to the right. He did, and, talons outstretched, the telthor hurtled past him.

Jet raced after the gold, and now it was the griffon king’s turn to dodge back and forth. Jet managed to claw the end of a wing anyway, and then the gold spun away from him.

The telthor started to climb away from the wide-eyed, upturned faces of Cera, Jhesrhi, Vandar, Yhelbruna, and the other humans standing in the snow. Jet climbed with him, and, as they spiraled around one another, peered to see how much harm he’d inflicted.

Lots. An ordinary griffon might not even be able to fly with wings so torn and bloody.

Whereas Jet was in better shape. The gold had torn up his back, but the initial strike hadn’t had the momentum of a long dive behind it, and in the moments thereafter, his adversary had been more interested in turning around to use his beak than continuing to rip with his claws.

I’m winning, Jet concluded. I’m stronger and faster than a stinking telthor, and I’m tearing him to shreds. The realization filled him with exultation.

But the gold wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Blue eyes blazing, he screamed his rage.

And that, Jet decided when his surge of savage satisfaction subsided, was unfortunate. He’d kill the gold if necessary, but he didn’t actually want to. Should he survive, the telthor would be one more attacker to send against the undead, and besides, Jet respected his ferocity.

Still, even wounded, the king griffon was so formidable that if Jet didn’t simply strive for the kill, he could still lose the fight and his own life with it. He tried to think of a tactic that would serve his need and resisted the temptation to consult with Aoth. His master was watching the combat unfold through his eyes and would surely help in any way he could. But Jet had resolved that he’d fight this fight alone.

At first, no idea came to him, and as the telthor circled to attack, he resigned himself to ending the stubborn creature’s life. Then, however, a notion popped into his head.

He flew at the oncoming gold, then abruptly lashed his left wing less vigorously than the right, as though the wounds on his back were hindering him. The uneven beats turned his progress into an awkward wobble.

Eager to take advantage of his seeming distress, the gold drove at him even faster. At the last possible instant, Jet swooped beneath his foe’s gaping beak and outstretched talons with what he hoped sounded like a rasp of tortured effort.

He kept right on swooping too, as if he no longer cared about anything but fleeing. The telthor wheeled and plunged after him.

The color of the sky danced from azure to iris and back again. The prickling in the air turned to fiery stinging where it jabbed into Jet’s open wounds. But he didn’t care because, behind him, the gold shrieked in agony when, forgetful of everything but the desire to pursue his adversary, he plunged into Yhelbruna’s zone of forbiddance.

Jet wheeled. The king griffon was doing the same, but more slowly. Bigger than his foe, he had more momentum to contend with, and the ongoing torment inflicted by Yhelbruna’s magic made him flounder.

But he’d still get clear in a few breaths unless Jet prevented it. Lashing his wings as fast as ever in his life, he gained just enough altitude to plunge onto the gold’s back. There, he bit down hard enough to penetrate the feathers on his foe’s neck and draw blood from the hide beneath.

The gold’s wings buffeted Jet’s flanks, and the rest of his body thrashed and flailed. But with hathran magic assailing him, he couldn’t dislodge his adversary.

Jet bit down harder, and then he could taste blood as well as smell it. I’ll take your head if you force me to, he thought. I’m done playing with you.

The gold gave a different cry than before, this one mournful and resigned. It was surrender, but Jet watched him anyway as he let go and sprang away to make it easier for both of them to fly. Normal griffons didn’t lie, but he couldn’t be sure about a telthor.

But evidently neither the Earthmother, the Forest Queen, nor the Moonmaiden had gifted the gold with that particular human propensity because he labored clear of the punishing magic and then swooped earthward as he was supposed to. All the common griffons descended too, to submit to their new chieftain.

Licking blood from the edges of his beak, Jet wondered how he was going to convey the relatively complex commands he’d have to give them in the battle to come. He assured himself he’d manage somehow. For the first time in a while, he felt certain of his ability to accomplish anything he set his mind to.

8

The wild griffons were the first to spot Aoth and Jet winging in from the south. Still seemingly exhilarated by their liberation from the hathrans’ cage, they screeched, swooped, wheeled, and flew along beside them. Aoth wondered if it perplexed them that their new leader carried a human on his back.

Their commotion alerted the folk down on the ground, where the Storm of Vengeance sat and gleaming golems stood motionless in the snow. Aoth’s lieutenants-for so he chose to consider them, whatever opinions any of them might hold on the matter-assembled to hear what he had to report. Cera’s pretty, round face beamed up at him; Orgurth gave him a grin; and Jhesrhi offered what he’d come to think of as her frown of welcome. Bez wore a crooked, ironic smile; and Vandar, who stood well removed from the Halruaan, a scowl; while Yhelbruna and Shaugar’s masks hid their expressions.

With a final snap of his wings, Jet set down. As Aoth swung himself off the familiar’s back, Vandar asked, “What did you find out?”

“Quite a bit,” Aoth replied. “The Urlingwood may be the crux of everything, but scouting it from the sky was the simplest chore I’ve done since coming to Rashemen. The enemy wasn’t watching for anyone to come spying from on high.”

“They likely don’t see much reason for vigilance,” Cera said. “As far as they know, Aoth Fezim never returned from the North Country, and they’ve either lured all the hathrans and warriors in Immilmar and Urling away to the south, turned them, killed them, or simply fooled them into believing everything’s all right.”

Aoth smiled. “Good appraisal. We’ll make a sellsword of you yet.” He realized his throat was dry and unclipped the water bottle from his belt. “Mind you, some spy in the capital could have noticed the Storm of Vengeance departing and sent word of it, but maybe that message is still on its way. If so, we should move fast.”

“We can if you’ve discovered the information we need,” Yhelbruna said. As usual, her voice was as cold as the wind whistling out of the north, but Aoth had to give her credit. As he understood it, she’d singlehandedly killed the pair of assassins Bez sent after her and didn’t care that, to cope with the present crisis, Old Ones had left their caves without permission and all manner of males were about to invade the sacred forest. Evidently there was more behind her leather mask than condescension.

“I have,” he answered, then took a swig of icy iron water. “We’ll find the bulk of the enemy, including all the ones who really matter, in or near the stand of very old weir trees just west of the center of the wood.”

She nodded. “That comes as no surprise.”

“Well, this last bit of intelligence might, and unfortunately, it’s not good news. In toward the weirs, the forest gets darker, enough so that Jet and I saw vampires and wraiths slinking around in the gloom. We’ll have to contend with them even though we’re going in by day.”

“I brought Amaunator’s light into the deathways,” Cera said. “If need be, I can carry it back into the Urlingwood too.” She smiled at Yhelbruna. “Although I’d welcome help from any hathrans or Old Ones who offer devotions to the Yellow Sun.”

“You’ll have it,” Yhelbruna said. “But Captain Fezim is correct. It is by no means ‘good news’ that the Shadowfell is already overlapping the heart of the forest in such an overt way. It indicates the balance of forces has tilted even farther than I expected.”

Vandar started to raise his hand as though to squeeze Yhelbruna’s shoulder but then appeared to remember that such familiarity, however kindly intended, might be deemed disrespectful. He contented himself with saying, “We’ll go in at first light, and by the end of the day, the durthans, skeleton snakes, patchwork men, and whatever will all be gone. Then you’ll heal the forest, and that will be that.”

“I hope so,” she replied, and Aoth thought he detected a hint of gratitude in her tone. But her voice reverted to ice when she turned her head to speak to the circle at large. “There’s one more thing I need to say. This is a battle for the soul of Rashemen, and we won’t risk annihilating it ourselves in the course of striving to save it. No matter how dire the need may seem, no one will fight using fire magic. Is that understood?”

“I assume that order is directed to me most of all,” Jhesrhi said. “Don’t worry. I know other spells.”

A wisp of steam rose from the puddle of melted snow around her boots.

People sometimes claimed that any man who dared enter the Urlingwood would instantly fall over dead. Vandar had never credited that tale and certainly didn’t now that he and his companions had Yhelbruna’s blessing to purge the forest of evil. Still, he felt a twinge of anxiety as he stalked into the trees and wondered how many of the Old Ones, and of the berserkers he, Yhelbruna, Cera, and Jhesrhi had managed to assemble on the sly, were similarly uneasy.

At any rate, once they were all inside, that tiny worry fell away, leaving him free to fret over more legitimate concerns. At the moment, Aoth was flying above the treetops. So was Bez, not that any Rashemi would take orders from him, regardless. That left Vandar to command the warriors on the ground.

He wondered if he was he up to the task, whether he would lead them all to their deaths as he had his lodge brothers.

Hanging at his side, the red sword whispered to assure him his worries were nonsensical, that he was a great hero headed for a glorious victory, and it would have eased him to give himself over to its encouragement. It was heartening to be reminded that he possessed such powerful magic, and he only wished he still carried the crimson spear as well.

Still, he mustn’t simply succumb to the blade’s influence. If he let the fey weapon’s confidence become his own, so too would its recklessness and battle lust, and he and his comrades wanted to advance as far as possible by stealth.

Suddenly, striding beside him, Yhelbruna raised her hand. “Stop,” she whispered.

Vandar obeyed. So did all the folk and jointed automatons marching beside and behind them. Apparently she’d used magic to make the soft command audible to all.

He scanned the white snowdrifts and black tree trunks and limbs ahead. Had he and his allies arrived at the periphery of the unnatural twilight? He couldn’t tell. Even denuded of their leaves, the weave of branches overhead was thick enough to block a goodly portion of the silvery winter sunlight in a purely natural fashion.

He did know he couldn’t see any particular reason for the halt. “What is it?” he murmured from the corner of his mouth.

“I sense dark fey,” she answered. “The durthans’ allies, most likely, but perhaps I can still persuade them to let us pass without a fight.” She eased a bluewood wand from a sheath on her belt, and, waving it lazily back and forth, crooned words as soft and soothing as a lullaby.

Although he wasn’t the target, mere proximity to the casting made Vandar yawn and even quelled the impatience of the red sword flickering at the back of his mind. He thought that surely the magic must be lulling the fey as well. Then he spotted a subtle disturbance in the snow before him. Something was crawling underneath it.

He bellowed, “Look down!” At the same time, he grabbed Yhelbruna and spun her behind him. As he turned back around, the fey burst up from the blanket of frozen white.

To his surprise, they weren’t any kind of snake but rather whipping tangles of briar with twisted little faces glaring from amid the thorny stalks. They stood as tall as a man when they finished rearing up.

Vandar’s rage took hold of him without needing to call it, and he stabbed with the javelin a fellow berserker had loaned him. The weapon gashed and nearly split a stalk, but more briars whipped around the shaft and kept him from pulling it back. He let go of it and snatched for his sword hilt. In his head, the blade crowed with delight.

As it cleared the scabbard, briars cocked themselves backward. Guessing what was about to happen, he almost dropped into a defensive crouch before remembering his body was shielding Yhelbruna’s. He contented himself with jerking up his arm to protect his face.

The briars whipped forward and threw thorns like miniature darts. Fortunately, his boiled leather vest and thick woolen sleeves kept all but a couple from piercing skin.

He sprang at the pair of briar fey in front of him and started slashing lengths of them in two. They lashed back at him, and he ducked and dodged. Thorns dragged across his armor, snagging then popping free.

He cut into the gnarled face of the fey on his right, and the creature wailed; gave a rattling, clattering shudder; and stopped moving. He pivoted to attack the one on his left in similar fashion but discovered Yhelbruna was already pointing her wand at it. The tip of the arcane weapon pulsed with azure light, and the bramble-thing slumped back down in the snow.

With no more foes in reach of his sword, Vandar pivoted for a look at the rest of the battle. Several briar fey were still attacking the vanguard of the war band, and not everyone was coping as well as he and Yhelbruna had. Men wrapped in ever-tightening loops of bramble struggled futilely as rows of sliding thorns caught and ripped their skin.

At the moment, Vandar was riding his anger and not the other way around, and perhaps for that reason, he saw what needed to be done. “Golems!” he shouted. “Let the golems kill them!” Thorns wouldn’t do much harm to living metal and stone.

Somewhere behind him, Shaugar echoed his command. Steel wolves and big bronze cats sprang forward.

Meanwhile, Vandar scrutinized the landscape beyond the immediate threat. Nasty as they were, a few briar fey had no hope of defeating a force as sizable as his. Maybe a durthan’s orders or an overwhelming hatred of mankind had prompted them to attack even so, but he feared the purpose was to keep him and his comrades occupied while a different creature carried a warning to the main body of the enemy.

After a moment, he spotted the sentry, a dark, spindly thing springing from tree to tree. Ignoring the scarlet blade’s throb of protest, he dropped the sword in the snow and sought to rip his javelin from the dead fey’s twisted hold. Stickers pricked him as the weapon pulled free, but he didn’t pay any heed to that either.

By the time he cocked the javelin over his shoulder, the sentry was all but out of range and on the very brink of vanishing into tangled branches and dimness. But he used the imminence of its escape to make his berserker wrath blaze even hotter, and as he did, he threw.

The javelin caught the dark fey in mid-spring and stabbed into its torso. It fell to the ground, and for a breath or two, its long limbs twitched, while blood black as ink stained the snow beneath it. Then it rotted away to nothing, and only the instrument of its death and the filthy blotch remained.

Vandar looked around. As he’d hoped, once they engaged, the automatons had made short work of the remaining thorn fey. He let go of anger and shivered as lightheadedness and a pang of nausea took its place.

Then Yhelbruna touched his face, and the sickness disappeared.

“I don’t want you weak,” she said, “not even for a moment. From this point forward, every step will be more dangerous than the one before it.”

As Uramar and his patrol-an assortment of doomsepts, other phantoms, and ghouls-ranged the deeper reaches of the forest, many of his broken souls luxuriated in the gloom. For as every undead learned, darkness could be more than the absence of light. It could be pleasurable and invigorating, a condition in which death waxed strong and life guttered, and that was the sort of murk Lod, Nyevarra, and the other undead durthans were calling into the mundane world.

Those who truly understood the implications assured Uramar the gathering dark meant Rashemen was soon to fall, and naturally, he was glad. Yet the prouder and more bloodthirsty aspects of his complex identity also felt a little wistful. He’d been essential while he was creating and recruiting undead, fighting battles, and Lod was still on the other side of the western sea. But since leading the last little feint of a raid along the River Rasha and then returning to the Urlingwood via the deathways, he hadn’t had much to do.

He knew his idleness was only temporary. Once the Eminence of Araunt controlled its own country, other conquests would follow and require the efforts of every warrior. But in the meantime, he’d assuage his restlessness by patrolling, and never mind that, after his comrades’ efforts at subversion and misdirection, and with dark fey sentries standing watch farther out toward the edges of the wood, such vigilance was almost certainly superfluous.

Up ahead, something gleamed for a moment among a stand of oaks. He squinted and made out a steel centipede as long as four horses standing nose to tail, crawling at right angles to his path, which was to say, toward the weir trees where the rites of shadow were underway. Other figures were stalking along with it.

Uramar smiled. To say the least, he hadn’t liked abandoning the Fortress of the Half-Demon, but he’d found the Raumvirans’ unexpected departure from Beacon Cairn equally troubling. He’d feared they’d come to harm, do something to give away the Eminence’s plans, or even outright betray their undead kindred.

But evidently none of those things had come to pass. Because the centipede was a Raumathari automaton, and that meant Pevkalondra and her people had thought better of their fit of pique and come to rejoin their comrades.

Uramar drew breath to call out a greeting. Then one of his more cautious souls snapped, “Don’t! Be certain first!”

“Yes,” added another inner voice, one of the jocular, japing ones, “you might as well. You’re out here to play watchdog, aren’t you?”

Uramar raised his hand to signal his companions to halt, then stalked forward, taking momentary satisfaction in the silence of his approach. The necromancer who’d created him had assembled his massive, crooked body for strength, not agility and certainly not for stealth. But in the years since his liberation, he’d learned to compensate for his hugeness, deformities, and limp.

He peeked around a mossy tree trunk. His eyes widened, and a dozen inner voices clamored at once to explain the import of what he beheld.

They didn’t need to. He understood. The golems were indeed of Raumathari manufacture. He recalled seeing some of them in the vaults where their creators had kept them. But the folk marching along with the constructs weren’t Pevkalondra and her retainers. They were living berserkers, hathrans, and men in masks, along with the sun priestess who’d destroyed Falconer and the fire mage who’d contended with Nyevarra.

“How did they get past the fey?” asked one of Uramar’s souls.

But he didn’t have time to speculate or curse the durthans’ longtime allies for being less capable than they were supposed to be. He turned and crept back to the rest of the patrol.

“The folk up ahead are an enemy war band,” he whispered, “headed straight for the weir tress. Our troops outnumber them, but if the living take them by surprise, it could still be bad. Zashtyne.”

“Yes,” moaned a gray, wavering, all-but-faceless blur.

“Fly to Lod and warn him. The rest of us will delay the enemy and buy our comrades time to get ready to fight.”

Zashtyne hurtled away. The rest of the patrol awaited Uramar’s further commands. In their various fashions, they all looked resolute despite the long odds, and he felt a pang of pride in them. They embodied the truth of Lod’s teaching that the undead were higher, worthier beings than the mortal husks from which they rose.

Waving his hand, he bade them spread out so no blast of flame or rain of acid could target too many at once. Then he drew his greatsword from the scabbard on his back, charged, and his fellows exploded into a headlong dash along with him. They wouldn’t close the distance before the living noticed them coming, but with luck, they might get close.

His soul fragments shouted war cries or gave advice. One piece of the latter was to shroud himself in what was, for the living, crippling cold, and he willed the force to leap forth from inside him.

The patrol was twenty strides from the foe when the fire wizard spotted them and shouted an alarm, whereupon a bronze sphinx with brass joints and copper highlights pivoted and bounded at Uramar. He wondered if some knowledgeable foe was making sure he battled one of the constructs, for neither his aura of chill nor the life-drinking magic bound in his sword were likely to inconvenience it.

All right, then, he thought, I’ll do this the hard way.

The sphinx’s hinged jaw opened, and without breaking stride, it roared. The sound ripped through Uramar’s head, and a couple of his inner voices wailed. But most of the pieces of his mosaic self held fast against terror.

He faltered, though, just as if he were afraid, and waited for the sphinx to spring. When it obliged, he dodged to the side and cut at its neck.

Metal crashed as steel cracked bronze. The stroke fell well short of decapitating the automaton, though, and it spun around to face Uramar anew. At the same instant, golden light, painful like a bee sting, flashed at the corner of his vision. The sun priestess was channeling the power of her deity.

Uramar had hoped some of his warriors would reach her and the wizard before they could start casting spells. But things plainly hadn’t worked out that way, and he needed to deal with the sphinx before he’d have any hope of striking down the southerners himself.

The automaton lunged at him, and he cut at it. With a trickiness he hadn’t expected of a mindless thing-maybe its new master was operating it like a puppet-the sphinx stopped short and swiped at his blade with its paw.

Metal rang once more as the blow connected and nearly tore the weapon from his hands. Intent on reaching him before he could grip the hilt securely again, the sphinx pounced, and he spun aside.

As he did, he glimpsed a specter in flight, its arms and fingers stretching as it rushed the tall, slender wizard. She pointed her staff at it, and the end of the weapon and her long yellow hair both burst into flame. Then, however, all the fire went out as quickly as it had erupted, and she hurled darts of crimson radiance instead.

Uramar barely dodged the sphinx’s spring, and as a result ended up too close to cut at his foe. But as one of his voices needlessly reminded him, that didn’t mean the weapon was useless. He hammered the pommel down on the automaton’s spine with all his strength.

The sphinx lurched off balance, froze for an instant, then pivoted. Uramar hopped back and so avoided a snap of its bronze fangs.

At that moment, undeterred by his mantle of cold, a Rashemi warrior with a battle-axe rushed in his flank. Without taking his eyes off the sphinx, Uramar jabbed his sword to the side and caught the berserker in the neck. It would have been a lethal stroke even with an ordinary weapon, but in this case, the Rashemi withered and died before he could even slip off the point, let alone bleed out.

Meanwhile, the golem lunged, but it was no longer as fast and agile as before. Uramar retreated, shifted the greatsword back in front of him, and swung it down at the top of the sphinx’s half human, half leonine head.

The blade split its target all the way down to the mouth. The automaton collapsed in a rattling heap.

Uramar yanked the sword free and pivoted to locate the sun priestess. There she was, casting spells behind the protection afforded by two warriors made of light. He started toward her, but another golem, the enormous centipede he’d noticed at the start, interposed itself between them.

As he fought to demolish that construct, he caught more glimpses of the rest of the battle. His comrades were perishing one by one, vanquished by superior numbers.

Was it possible they’d delayed the living long enough? Some of the soul fragments thought yes, others no, but perhaps it didn’t matter anyway. Berserkers and golems were maneuvering to cut off any possible retreat.

So be it, then. Maybe the necromantic secrets of the Codex of Araunt would one day reanimate Uramar and his comrades anew. If not, he was willing to die the final death for the cause he held dear.

He sheared the centipede’s front legs out from under it, then smashed its head when it tipped off balance. By that time, though, more foes were converging on him, and he couldn’t see any of his allies anymore.

He wished he hadn’t been so awkward and shy when Nyevarra offered her affection.

And at that instant, as if his thoughts had brought her, she appeared beside him in a puff of displaced air, her tarnished silver mask on her face and the Stag King’s antler staff in her left hand. She took hold of his forearm with her right hand and rattled off rhyming words of power.

The world seemed to shatter into sparks, and he had a sensation of hurtling motion, although without being able to tell if he was falling or streaking along like an arrow. The feeling only lasted for an instant, though, and then his surroundings reassembled themselves into stable, coherent forms as abruptly as they’d burst apart.

Only now they were different surroundings. He and the vampire stood amid the towering weir trees, where everyone was rushing around preparing for battle.

“Zashtyne made it here,” he said, “and then you came for me.”

“We need you,” she said, her fingertips lingering on his biceps. “Are you ready to take on the mortals in a fair fight?”

He smiled at her. “I am.”

When Aoth Fezim and Jet swooped toward the deck, men scattered. And they kept their distance thereafter from the black griffon’s smoldering red eyes, beak, and talons.

It was the natural, prudent reaction, but Bez had no intention of looking intimidated in front of his own crew and aboard his own vessel, even if he was the Halruaan the beast-and his master-genuinely hated. Thus, he strode closer to the newcomers, past masts, rigging, catapults, ballistae, and the cranks that controlled the Storm of Vengeance’s folding wings, and said, “I saw flashes and heard cries filtering up through the tree limbs. So I know our allies on the ground skirmished with more of the enemy. Were you able to make out any of the details?”

“Yes,” said Fezim, “and unfortunately, the durthan who wields the Stag King’s staff appeared and whisked the patchwork swordsman I told you about to safety.”

“So now the rest of the undead and dark fey know we’re coming.”

“At least we got close to the weir trees, and Vandar and the others are moving up fast. They may engage before Lod and his creatures finish putting themselves in order. But we’re not going to take them by complete surprise like we wanted.”

Bez grinned. “Not complete surprise. But still.”

“Right. Our part of the plan hasn’t changed. We’ll give the fight on the ground a little time to get going. Make the undead think what they see before them is all they have to deal with. Then, on my signal, we flyers will hit them from above. You’ll see gaps in the canopy you can shoot through. Just remember that specters and such can fly too. You need to be ready to repel boarders.”

“We are,” said Bez. “May the Foehammer guide your spear, Captain.” He grinned. “Until we finish with Lod.”

Fezim smiled back. “And may Lady Luck smile on you for exactly the same amount of time.”

Jet gave a rasping cry, pivoted, leaped over the gunwale, lashed his wings, and climbed. Meanwhile, watching, Bez thought, I shot you down once, griffon, and from much farther away.

For although Fezim might believe his fellow mercenary commander had no choice but to do as he was told, in fact, a clever man could almost always find options, and the present situation was no exception.

Fezim and an undetermined number of his allies could set the Storm ablaze merely by speaking a certain phrase. But suppose Bez killed the Thayan with a single stroke while his friends were busy fighting on the ground, then simply sailed away. He might get a long head start before Jhesrhi Coldcreek and the others were free to pursue or even realized what had happened.

But another grating screech and a winged shadow sliding across the deck reminded him Jet was far from the only griffon in the air, and the huge black beast was now the chieftain of the others. If Bez struck at Jet, the rest might all attack the skyship.

Well then, what if, instead of killing Fezim and making a run for it, Bez fought the battle through on the undead’s side? Dai Shan had formed an alliance with them. Why shouldn’t another living man do likewise?

Because that strategy brought him right back around to the problem of the runes. Only an idiot would gamble that he could betray his fellow sellsword captain, then linger in the vicinity, and every one of Fezim’s friends would die before a single one of them got around to reciting the trigger words to destroy the Storm.

And even though Bez possessed magic that would enable him to survive the blast, and even though he could recruit new followers, such a calamity simply couldn’t be allowed. Built with arcane secrets lost when the Spellplague devastated the Halruaa of old, the skyship was irreplaceable.

So perhaps after all he had no satisfactory options. He turned and noticed Uregaunt standing by a chute used to roll enchanted missiles over the side and an open crate of such sigil-inscribed iron and ceramic orbs. The old artilleryman was watching him with a sardonic expression that suggested he’d guessed the direction of his commander’s thoughts.

Bez snorted. “Perhaps I was a bit rash when I claimed we were the saviors of Rashemen. Now it appears we’re obliged to make good on that.”

“I figured,” Uregaunt said. He picked up a clay ball, set it behind the gate in the top of the chute, spit on it, and drew a four-pointed star with the spittle and a callused fingertip. For a moment, the trails of moisture sizzled and steamed.

By the time Cera and her comrades came in sight of the main force of undead, it was dark as night, and the air stank of decay. A foul taste in her mouth kept coming back no matter how many times she spit it away, and her skin crawled.

On Vandar’s command, she and her allies had finished their approach at a run. Such recklessness apparently didn’t trouble berserkers or even Old Ones and hathrans, but it had certainly made her nervous.

She could tell haste had paid off, though. Some of the living corpses and such were still scrambling and lurching around in seeming confusion, while the Rashemi hadn’t entirely forsaken tactics or organization. She and the hathrans had warrior and golem protectors arrayed around them. Unless the fight went badly, she might not even require her borrowed mace and targe.

She still wished she had her lost gilded weapon, symbolic as it had been of the Keeper’s power. But she could do without it. If she’d learned anything in the past few tendays, it was that her god stood with her always, in the deepest darkness and the most dire circumstances, and it was time to demonstrate that blessed truth to the unnatural horrors before her.

As berserkers roared their battle cries and charged the foe, she raised the mace over her head and recited a prayer. The gloom and the stench of decay thickened around her, and for a moment, she feared she might grow faint or vomit. But she didn’t. She kept her voice steady and her will focused.

A shaft of golden radiance stabbed down from overhead to set the mace aglow. She swung the weapon at the enemy, and the captured sunlight leaped forth in a flash. An enormous bat-a vampiric shapeshifter, she assumed-vanished in a puff of flame. Wraiths shredded as though invisible razors were slicing them. Even dark fey, rat-sized flying men with several black bulging eyes and veined transparent wings, flinched from the flare.

The flash also revealed, if only by failing to penetrate it, the cloud of seething murk at the very center of the stand of weir trees. It felt like an open wound in the skin of the world, or perhaps the fang embedded in such a wound to inject the venom that was Shadow.

In other words, it was the visible manifestation of the enchantments the durthans had been casting to tilt the balance of primal forces at play in Rashemen. It was a foe that, as much as any jagged-fanged ghoul, misty wraith, or even Lod himself, the land’s defenders needed to destroy.

And Cera couldn’t tackle that holy task from across the battlefield.

She turned to her nearest guardian, Aoth’s new sellsword Orgurth. “Can we fight our way forward?” she asked.

The orc grinned. “Probably not, but let’s try.”

The urge to hurl fire at the foe hammered inside Jhesrhi like a frantic heartbeat, all the more insistent because, even before crippling Tchazzar, she’d generally wielded flame against the undead. She was having trouble even thinking of other spells.

But now that she’d returned to the mortal world, all four elements were her friends, and by the Seven Stars, she’d cast the magic she needed to cast! A direhelm flew down at her, and she spoke to the wind. A spirit of the air seized the animate suit of half-plate and swept it away, crashing it into one tree trunk after another as it gradually came apart.

Zombies with lambent amber eyes circled to flank berserkers too busy slashing and chopping at ghouls to notice. Jhesrhi pointed her staff and recited as quickly as was possible in one of the ponderous languages of Root Hold. Rumbling, the patch of earth beneath the zombies tilted, one end rising and the other sinking, tumbling them backward and half burying them in the snow that slid along with them.

The dead men were still clumsily trying to stand back up when Jhesrhi spotted Cera and her bodyguards advancing and led her own squad forward to support her. Her blood felt deliciously hot pumping through her veins, and scowling, she willed it cool again.

The unnatural gloom felt nasty enough to set a person’s teeth on edge. Yet Yhelbruna took a certain perverse pleasure in experiencing it for what it was, and particularly in working magic despite its almost conscious efforts to break her concentration with twinges of fear and nausea and block her links to the fountainheads of her power. For now that she understood what plagued her, she could cope.

So, too, could the entities rushing to answer her call. Driven into hiding or dormancy as the durthans corrupted the natural balance of light and dark in the Urlingwood, they were eager to retaliate now that true hathrans were rallying them.

An ancient pine that had uprooted itself and taken on a crudely human form to march to war wrestled a dark fey much like itself. Meanwhile, smaller combatants scurried away from the giants’ many-toed feet to keep from being trampled.

A maiden made of water spoke in a voice like a gurgling brook and compelled a warrior made of ice to melt into liquid too. They embraced, kissed, and merged into a single rippling form that poured down into the snowy ground and vanished an instant later.

Rearing on its hind legs, a huge black bear beheaded a walking corpse with a swipe of its paw. A pace or two away, a more ethereal telthor, a semitransparent woodpecker, lit on a ghoul’s head and pecked. The undead scavenger howled and flailed at the bird, but its clawed hands slapped right through its small assailant without knocking it away.

Smiling, Yhelbruna raised her staff and centered herself anew. So far, she’d called only bright fey and spirits native to the world of mortal men. But despite the hindrance of the darkness, her summonings were working well enough to suggest she could draw allies from the Feywild as well.

But as she spoke the first words of such a calling, cold pain stabbed between her ribs. She looked down just in time to behold the shadowy suggestion of an arrow sticking out of her side before it disappeared.

She was certain she hadn’t taken a mortal or even debilitating wound, not given her inherent mystical resilience, and not from such a weapon. But as she struggled to cast off the shock of it, seven phantom warriors, their inconstant shapes blurred and tangled into a single cloud of twitching faces and murky blades, swept at her.

A steel automaton in the shape of a wild boar stopped one murky figure with a slash of its tusks. An Old One cast darts of white light from a brazen gauntlet to obliterate another. Snatching for the wand she’d sheathed to more easily manipulate her staff, Yhelbruna shouted a word of power. A scythe-like curve of congealed moonlight flowed into existence before her, then slashed in a horizontal arc.

The attack caught an apparition with a short, curved blade in either hand, and it faltered just like a living man whose guts suddenly threatened to slide out the rip in his belly. But either leaping over the strike or ducking under it, the other four aspects of the doomsept avoided harm.

And now they were all around Yhelbruna, shadowy axes poised to chop and short swords ready to thrust. Could she destroy them all before one of them cut her down? She doubted it, but she could at least make them pay for her death. She thrust her wand at the ghost directly in front of her.

A crackling bolt of lightning leaped from the tip of the weapon. Pierced through, her target twisted like a cloth wrung by unseen hands and disappeared.

At the same instant, Vandar rushed in and dispitched another phantom with a slash of the red sword. The last time Yhelbruna had caught sight of him, he’d been berserk fighting at the very forefront of the attack. Judging from the ferocity manifest in his twisted face, rage still possessed him, yet even so, he’d noticed her peril and raced to help her.

Without pausing, he pivoted toward another phantom just as it was starting to swing its axe at him. Though he surely perceived the threat, he didn’t jump back or even dodge. He simply cut with catlike quickness and trusted his stroke to land first.

It did. And when the scarlet blade sliced into the ghost, it and its hurtling axe disappeared.

That fortunate attack still left one aspect of the doomsept unscathed. Yhelbruna spun in a swirl of cloak, seeking it, and found it just as darts of blue light pierced it and made it boil and smoke into nonexistence. Wheeling overhead on Jet’s back, eyes glowing, Aoth saluted her and Vandar with a dip of his spear before turning to find his next foe.

At the same time, following their new king Jet’s lead, the wild griffons came swooping and diving into battle. The golden telthor plunged down on a lich with a pair of dragon fangs raised above his head in invocation. The impact all but smashed the skeletal wizard flat, and when his hands convulsively gripped the talismans, the edges cut his leathery fingers off.

Screeching, other griffons tore holes in a shield wall of zombie spearmen, then climbed and wheeled for a second pass. Booming thunderbolts and missiles that burst into corrosive vapor when they hit the ground rained down as even the dastards aboard the Storm of Vengeance began to play their parts in Aoth’s strategy.

Yhelbruna supposed she’d better keep playing hers as well. As she considered what spell to cast next and where to cast it, Vandar fixed on a white-faced vampire warrior whose sword and chin alike were wet with blood. The berserker screamed like a griffon and charged.

A company of bright fey was advancing, or at least Lod assumed the score of warriors and the two sorceresses in their midst were fey. They looked like elves might look if some whimsical power whittled them even skinnier, painted their skins with faint striations, and replaced their hair with tufts of leaves. As if to give the lie to their spindly, fragile appearance, they bore outsized, two-handed cleaverlike weapons that few human beings could have wielded with any semblance of grace or skill.

They evidently had faith in their prowess, for despite Lod’s daunting appearance, they were coming on without hesitation. He rebuked their arrogance by hissing a word that stabbed pain through their eyes and struck them blind. Only temporarily, but they were still stumbling around in the snow, calling out to one another, and wiping bloody tears when skeletons came running to cut them down.

It was a satisfying moment. But any pleasure Lod might otherwise have taken in it withered when he twisted away to survey the battle as a whole.

Rashemen was supposed to be easy prey, backward to begin with, witless and feeble now that the Eminence had rotted it from within. Yet somehow the allegedly befuddled, broken realm had mustered a formidable little army and had known exactly where to send it.

The Eminence hadn’t lost the resulting battle yet. But it very well might. Lod assumed that he, who had, after all, bested Sarshethrian, was more than a match for any single combatant among the foe. But even he couldn’t be everywhere buttressing every part of the defense at once.

Nor was the ambient darkness likely to take up the slack. It hindered the living to an extent, but not enough now that they understood its toxicity.

If only he and the durthans could have continued their rites uninterrupted for a few more days! Then no amount of defensive charms or sheer determination would have saved the attackers from weakening and ultimately strangling on the gloom.

But what, Lod wondered abruptly, if he and his comrades didn’t actually need a few more days? For safety’s sake, wizards customarily performed their greatest works with protracted, painstaking care. But the present enterprise was already well advanced with mystical safeguards in place. Surely, at this point, competent spellcasters could pick up the pace.

He cast around, spotted Nyevarra sweeping her antler-topped staff through looping mystic passes, and crawled in her direction. On the way, he observed the sun priestess and fire mage who’d escaped from the Fortress of the Half-Demon fighting their way forward.

He supposed the two women had overheard too much while in captivity, that the hathrans and such were here because they’d guided them here, and felt a vicious urge to pause and strike the escapees down. He didn’t, though. He kept moving.

Unfortunately, no matter how single-minded he was, he couldn’t stop the enemy from assailing him and slowing his progress. Sheltered behind golems and spearmen, a hathran chanted and brandished a scythe at him. Growing out of empty air, rose vines wrapped around him, binding him, the thorns jabbing into his scales and even the naked bones of his upper body. Meanwhile, the perfume of the crimson flowers filled his head and made it swim.

He snarled words of negation and reprisal. The vines vanished, and staggering, the witch yanked up her mask to retch squirming maggots into the snow.

An iron ball arced out of the sky. He caught it, chanted to it, released it, and it flew back up into the air, reversing its trajectory to burst at its point of origin.

Finally, he reached Nyevarra. The durthan was reciting what he recognized as a summoning spell even though he couldn’t tell precisely what she was calling. More useless fey, most likely. Nearby, Uramar was conferring with a lich whose shriveled face and limbs were furry with grave mold.

For a moment, gazing down at the hulking blaspheme and the little witch in her mask of blackened silver made Lod feel as disgusted as he had peering across the battlefield at the sun priestess and fire mage. And why shouldn’t it? Wasn’t Uramar and Nyevarra’s bungling equally responsible for this crisis?

Well, perhaps not equally, and in any case, the two were his undead kindred, and he needed them. With an effort, he put aside the impulse to blame.

Nyevarra finished her spell, and half a dozen big, vulturine entities flapped out of nowhere to assail a griffon. She then turned and peered up at Lod.

“Well done,” he said. “But I need your help with a special task.”

“Anything,” she replied.

“We need to pull the breach wider. Let Shadow flood through until our magic is invincible and our enemies sicken and die.”

Nyevarra hesitated. Then: “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Of course you can! You’re powerful, and so is the staff you carry. And I’m going to help.”

“You don’t understand. Adjusting the balance with a measure of care is one thing. But we don’t dare just unleash death and decay on the Urlingwood to do absolutely anything they want. There needs to be a living forest when our conquest is over.”

“There probably will be, and even if there isn’t, Rashemen will still hold power for the Eminence to harness.”

“We can win this fight without risking the soul of the land!”

“You led troops during your mortal existence. You should know how to assess the progress of a battle. Take a look at this one and then tell me you’re certain of victory.” He gestured toward the frenzied confusion of griffons screeching, berserkers shouting, blades clashing on shields and the stone and metal flanks of golems, and flares of magic banging and shrilling.

Nyevarra hesitated again, and then Uramar, who must at some point have finished palavering with the lich, diffidently rested a big, mottled hand, all crooked, ill-matched fingers and old but still prominent suture scars, on her shoulder.

“I know you didn’t want to,” the blaspheme said, “but you need to choose. What are you first and foremost, a witch of Rashemen or an undead of the Eminence? If the answer is witch, then put the survival of the forest ahead of all else. Just don’t expect any mercy for your forbearance if the hathrans defeat you yet again. They’ll slay you just like they did the first time.

“But if the answer is an adherent of the Eminence,” Uramar continued, “then do whatever it takes to ensure our victory. You’ll crush your old enemies and rule as one of the great powers of Rashemen forever after, beloved by all who matter for what you gave to our cause.”

Nyevarra stood and pondered for a moment. Then she shifted her grip of the antler-staff and drew herself up straight.

“It seems,” she said, grim humor in her voice, “that my innermost self is a vampire. And you can’t get blood from trees.”

The skeletal wizard in the rotting, tattered robes reminded Aoth unpleasantly of Szass Tam, but fortunately, wasn’t proving to be nearly as strong a combatant. When the lich cast a flare of jagged shadow, Jet veered and dodged it, and when Aoth riposted with a thunderbolt, the twisting shaft of radiance tore the undead apart.

His legs clamped around Jet-by the Black Flame, he missed his saddle-Aoth cast around for another target and spied wraiths and direhelms rising through the air, likely to attack the Storm of Vengeance. To give Bez credit, he and his crew were inflicting considerable harm on the undead and dark fey on the ground.

Aoth decided to blast the ghostly boarding party before they could reach their objective, and discerning his intent through their psychic bond, Jet lashed his wings and climbed. Then, however, a jab of pain in the pinion he’d broken made the familiar falter. Aoth started to ask if Jet was all right, but a cramp in his guts and a surge of irrational fear turned the question into a gasp.

In a paradoxical way, Aoth’s sudden distress was actually reassuring. Jet’s old injuries weren’t troubling him because they’d healed imperfectly. Rather, both he and his master were experiencing a mystical assault.

But the unfortunate thing was that, as Aoth realized when he slapped a tattoo to release its bracing magic and then looked around, everyone else on the hathrans’ side was suffering it too. A griffon screamed and veered away from the vulturine thing it had been swooping to seize in its talons. Kanilak froze until Shaugar grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shake. Even berserkers balked.

It’s the dark, said Jet. It’s curdling or something.

Aoth realized that must be so. He looked at the patch of ground at the center of the stand of weir trees and saw the gloom there had grown even deeper, so murky and festering-foul, it reminded him of the deathways, although it still offered no bar to his fire-kissed sight. The female durthan with the Stag King’s antler-axe-Nyevarra-was in the middle of it, as were a couple other undead witches and, rearing above creatures of merely human stature, Lod himself.

Standing a little closer to the thick of the battle, his gore-streaked two-handed sword canted on his shoulder, the patchwork man-Uramar-was shouting. Aoth had no hope of making out what the blaspheme was saying over the general din. But he was likely ordering any ally who could hear him to fall back and form up to protect the spellcasters behind him. At any rate, that was what various undead were doing.

Aoth scowled at his failure to secure the cursed area straightaway. But he knew little about the kind of ritual magic that had sullied it, and even Yhelbruna, who claimed to understand it, hadn’t anticipated that if they so desired, the undead witches could accelerate the ongoing contamination.

But maybe Jhesrhi and Cera had sensed the danger, for they and their squads of protectors were already headed for the weirs. But they’d never punch through the ranks of the enemy without support.

Responding to his master’s thoughts, Jet abandoned his pursuit of the phantoms rising toward the skyship and hurtled toward the towering sacred trees. He likewise gave a rasping cry that brought wild griffons streaking after him.

Meanwhile, Aoth cast a charm to amplify his voice. “Push for the weirs!” he bellowed to his soldiers on the ground, and an enormous mink looked up and nodded to show it understood.

Cera had long since discovered she’d been too optimistic at the start of the battle. Although Orgurth and her other defenders were fighting savagely to hold back the foe, she’d still needed to wield her mace as a warrior would, often enough that scraps of rotting flesh and strands of greasy hair clung to the stubby spikes.

Swaying, an animate corpse with its nose and most of its left profile rotted away stumbled between two golems busy with other foes. Reluctant to expend any of the Keeper’s light on a single such brutish creature, Cera waited for the zombie to swing its war hammer, then sidestepped and blocked with her shield.

The blow banged on the hide-and-wooden targe and jolted her arm but didn’t hurt her. She swung low and smashed the zombie’s knee, and it pitched forward. She then bashed it in the nape of the neck, and it fell on its ruined face in the snow.

At the same instant, she glimpsed motion at the corner of her vision. She turned. Just a stride away, a ghoul was rushing her with jagged claws outstretched. Fortunately, Orgurth lunged to intercept it, cut, and split its skull. The ghoul dropped.

The orc grinned at Cera. “Are you close enough yet?” he shouted, making himself heard over the din of battle.

“A little farther!” Her answer made her feel guilty. People were dying to help her push forward.

Orgurth’s leer stretched wider. “Why not?” He turned back toward the enemies still separating them from the weir trees and then snarled an obscenity. Because Uramar himself was leading a dozen floating direhelms right at them.

In a sudden surging confusion, two of the flying suits of half-plate assailed Orgurth, and to dodge the initial slashes of their swords, he sprang to the side. Other direhelms engaged golems and berserkers. Somehow, in an instant, all Cera’s protectors were busy fighting for their own lives, and Uramar had a clear path to her.

Fine, she thought. A blaspheme was a target worthy of her deity’s wrath. She raised her mace to the sun shining above the filthy darkness and started a prayer to smite him.

Then, however, her focus shattered into terror and bewilderment, and her half-finished invocation forgotten, she recoiled. Only for a moment, and then a cleric’s trained will allowed her to shed the effects of what had no doubt been an adversary’s spell. But that was time enough for Uramar to lumber into striking distance.

As he did, bitter cold, fiercer by far than the natural chill of this winter day, stabbed into Cera like a knife. She gasped, and her whole body clenched, rendering her incapable of prayer, raising her targe, or offering any other sort of defense. Uramar swung his greatsword high to split her head.

Then, missing her by no more than a finger length, Jet swooped over her head, and his talons punched into the blaspheme’s chest. Wings lashing, the black griffon-and Aoth astride his back-climbed and carried Uramar into the air.

Other griffons dived at more of the foe a heartbeat later. Berserkers, golems, bright fey, and telthors rushed up to reinforce Cera’s original bodyguards. Teeth chattering with the aftereffects of Uramar’s frigid aura, she decided she truly was going to reach where she needed to be. And then, with Amaunator’s help, she’d vindicate the faith of those who fought and fell to get her there!

Through their psychic bond, Aoth could feel the deadly chill that emanated from Uramar’s body assailing Jet. And the griffon must have likewise sensed his concern.

I’m not some dainty human, Jet snarled. I can take a little cold.

You can’t take even a scratch from a life-stealing blade, Aoth replied. Just drop him. If the fall doesn’t kill him, I’ll blast him.

I’m gripping him so he can’t use the sword. I want to pull him apart and pop his stitches.

Aoth opened his mind to Jet’s perceptions so completely that it was like the griffon’s body was his own. And then he realized Jet was right. The familiar was able to withstand the chill, and with both arms grinding together in one set of talons, Uramar truly was helpless.

All right, Aoth agreed, kill him. But when he shifted back to his own body’s senses, Aoth regretted saying it.

Because twisting atop the thick, scaly coils of his lower body, Lod was tracking Jet’s course through the air. Lod’s fleshless jaw worked, and his naked phalanges crooked, forming a series of conjuring signs.

Aoth couldn’t tell what spell the leader of the Eminence of Araunt was casting, but he expected he and Jet needed to dodge it and the griffon would require every iota of his speed and agility to do so. Unfortunately, intent on the struggling foe in his claws, Jet hadn’t even noticed the threat.

Drop him! Aoth ordered. And see what I’m seeing!

Jet did both things at once; Aoth’s sense of communion pulsed stronger as, for an instant, his steed looked through his eyes. Then Jet swung himself through a tight evasive maneuver that, in the absence of a saddle and safety straps, nearly tossed his rider off his back.

Magic banged through the air so loudly, it was as if the world itself were shattering, and Aoth’s ears throbbed. Still, Jet had avoided the actual stream of focused, murderous sound. The attack struck one of the weirs and rattled it, snapping loose a number of the spreading limbs. One just missed Aoth and Jet as it plummeted to the ground.

Still turning, the griffon sought to get behind the bone naga. Aoth extended his spear, spoke a word of command, and released one of the spells stored in the weapon. A ray of sunlight leaped from the point.

Unfortunately, the top of his dragonlike tail twisting to rotate the human-skeleton apex of his body, Lod refused to allow his opponents to strike him from behind, and at the same instant the light stabbed forth, he clenched his bony fist. The unnatural gloom thickened around the beam and all but smothered it. The dim remnant that splashed across the naga’s ribs made them shiver and smoke but nothing more.

All right, Aoth thought, the undead naga had evidently warded himself against daylight, and he’d promised not to hurl fire. But maybe a thunderbolt would do the trick. He rattled off buzzing, crackling words and used his spear point to scratch a glowing zigzag on the air.

Striding between two of the several lumpish, faceless men of dirt and stone that the earth had spawned for her further protection, Jhesrhi spotted Nyevarra among the mass of undead and dark fey. A fair-minded universe would at least have kept the vampire durthan busy tending the darkness that increasingly eroded the resolve and vitality of mortal men and bright fey alike. But evidently Nyevarra had finished altering the curse she’d laid on the forest and was thus free to rejoin the battle.

Specifically, raising the Stag King’s stolen weapon high, she appeared to be casting maledictions in Cera’s direction, and the peril to her friend made the urge to hurl fire roar through Jhesrhi’s mind and sent heat surging through her veins.

But instead of succumbing to the impulse, she spoke once more to the earth, the other element to which she was currently most attuned. Brown hands erupted from the snow under Nyevarra’s feet, gripped her calves, and jerked her downward.

The surprise attack disrupted the durthan’s casting, and as the earth spirit sought to drag her under, Jhesrhi urged her motley squad of warriors forward. Perhaps they could reach Nyevarra before she struggled free.

Alas, no. Too many undead and dark fey were in the way, and Nyevarra retained the presence of mind to exploit her vampiric abilities. She dissolved into mist, flowed upward, and took on human form again above the earth elemental’s reach.

Her whipping hair and robes revealed that a wind was holding her aloft. Other such entities screamed at Jhesrhi and her companions, battering and chilling them and slinging snow in their eyes. Men cried out and stumbled backward.

For a moment, the only thought Jhesrhi was able to think was that fire countered cold. Then she thrust the notion away and conjured a floating luminous shield to deflect the brunt of the blast.

Next, she sought to grow the arms and clutching hands she’d already drawn from the soil into a complete manlike figure like the ones she’d summoned previously. But Nyevarra conjured a whirlwind that ripped the new creature apart, half-formed.

Air wasn’t intrinsically stronger than earth, and Nyevarra wasn’t inherently a more powerful mage than Jhesrhi. In fact, in their previous combat, Jhesrhi had decided she was the stronger. But apparently not when malignant darkness was grinding at her and her adversary bore the Stag King’s scepter. Not when she’d forsworn the use of fire.

So burn Nyevarra! Burn Lod! Burn everything! Where was the good if the “soul” of the forest survived but as a corrupted precinct of the Shadowfell and Rashemen fell to the undead?

But if Jhesrhi resorted to that tactic, it would be like surrendering. Like admitting that all of Aoth’s training and all her hard-won sellsword experience had been for naught because there was nothing left of her but the raw strength and mindless greed of fire. And she recoiled from that possibility in disgust.

Because the soil-and-stone warriors she’d evoked previously were making little headway against the localized gale and were too short of stature to reach Nyevarra anyway, Jhesrhi bade them crack and crumble, and then commanded the resulting debris to throw itself at the vampire. None of the missiles reached its target. Living earth and rock forfeited a portion of their strength as soon as they lost contact with the ground, and the durthan’s allied winds tumbled each attack off course.

But as the futile barrage ran its course, Jhesrhi whispered a spell.

A final stone veered in flight and thumped down in the snow. The vampire in her mask of blackened silver swung the Stag King’s staff, and as the weapon swept through its arc, shadowy disembodied racks of antlers burst from it and hurtled at Jhesrhi.

She dodged and rattled off a counterspell at the same time. The antlers shredded away to nothing. But by the time they did, Nyevarra, still riding the wind, was plunging down at her. No doubt to uncover her mouth, she’d removed her mask, and her snarl revealed extended fangs. The blood thirst was on her.

But even the frenzied urge to slake it didn’t keep her from faltering in shock when something tore the antler-axe from her hands.

Nyevarra had summoned several winds to attend her, but that hadn’t prevented Jhesrhi from calling one of her own. It had simply kept the durthan from sensing the newcomer when several other such invisible presences were already moaning and gusting around.

As instructed, Jhesrhi’s ally had hovered and waited for an opportune moment to snatch the talisman. Now it was sweeping the staff away over the heads of the combatants on the ground, taking it where she hoped it would do the most good.

Jhesrhi spoke a word of power and lunged to meet the descending Nyevarra in the moment of her consternation. Charged with force, the head of her staff stabbed into the vampire’s chest like a stake. Jhesrhi recited a rhyme to send a bit of her own vitality streaming down her weapon and poison the impaled creature with the essence of natural life.

But as she spoke the final syllable, she realized she was reciting the wrong spell. It was flame that leaped from the core of her, surged down the length of the staff, and burned Nyevarra from the inside out.

As Jhesrhi looked down at the blackened, smoking husk crumpled in the snow, panting all the while, she told herself the lapse didn’t matter. She had, after all, fought in the way she’d intended. She’d only used fire to finish off an opponent she’d already beaten, and then in a way that couldn’t possibly start the forest fire the hathrans feared.

But it did matter. For a moment, at least, and despite her resolve, fire had wielded her and not the other way around. A tear slid from her eye, and when she furiously wiped it away, she saw it was burning like ignited oil.

An Old One wielded a shimmering wand and a fey warrior with gnarled bark for skin and moss for hair were fighting ghouls just a few paces to the left. Still, for Cera, the frenzied, roaring mundane part of the battle seemed vague and far away. She was chiefly aware of warmth that seemed to flower in the core of her and shine down on her from above at the same time and of the poisonous darkness with which it contended.

She couldn’t afford to let her focus stray anywhere else. Because so far, her prayers and words of anathema showed no signs of lifting the unnatural gloom. In fact, the murk was still thickening.

Perhaps she’d been foolish to imagine she could dissolve it. The durthans had been weaving their enchantments for tendays, and the Urlingwood was a place of power for them even if the hathrans had previously cast them out.

Scowling, she strained to shove doubt out of her mind. If she only remained steadfast, her god would find a way to help her.

She took a long, centering breath and recited another spell of exorcism that proved as ineffective as the last. Then, however, Yhelbruna strode out of the murk with the Stag King’s antler-axe in her hand.

“I discern that this,” said the hathran, hefting the fey weapon, “was used to bring Shadow. If so, it can help banish it as well. Continue your rites, sun priestess, and I’ll support them with my own magic.”

Cera resumed her prayers, and Yhelbruna chanted and brandished the staff as if she were clubbing and raking an invisible foe. Despite their disparate mystical traditions, they were soon declaiming in counterpoint, reinforcing one another’s incantations in the manner of accomplished spellcasters.

Gradually, the twinges of anxiety and incipient aches, the malaise trying to worm its way into Cera’s mind and body, faded away. Then the physical gloom began to lighten.

At those moments when Vandar was within striking distance of a foe, he didn’t think. Rage singing inside him, guided by instinct, he attacked relentlessly and ducked and dodged as necessary.

When he was between fights, however, his anger subsided just enough to allow flickers of reflection. Now was such a moment, and it occurred to him that the undead must still include Nar demonbinders among their number, for the thing several paces in front of him looked more alien and unnatural than even the most grotesque dark fey. A headless, asymmetrical tangle of huge bony claws and projecting spikes, it walked on four crooked, mismatched legs and bore a cluster of little round eyes in the middle of its body.

At present, the demon was smashing an iron construct in the shape of a small wyvern to pieces. Vandar rushed it, hoping to catch it by surprise, but it pivoted and lifted its giant claws to threaten him. He kept charging.

A claw jabbed at his head, and he sprang out of the way without breaking stride. That put him on the verge of flinging himself onto one of the immobile but still potentially deadly horns that bristled from the demon’s shell. He twisted past the point, leaped, and cut at the cluster of eyes.

The demon fell over thrashing, and as it rolled back and forth, the flailing of the various claws and spikes was almost as dangerous as if it were attacking deliberately. Fortunately, Vandar had to avoid them for only a couple of heartbeats before the convulsions came to a sudden end.

He studied the fiend for a moment, satisfying himself that he truly had killed it, then looked around for his next foe. Some distance away, rearing over the heads of smaller combatants, the undead creature called Lod hurled a jagged blast of darkness from his hand. Wheeling around the bone naga, Jet dodged, and, astride the black griffon’s back, Aoth hurled shafts of blue light from his spear point.

The red sword urged Vandar in that direction. Because Lod was the leader of the Eminence of Araunt, the ultimate author of Rashemen’s troubles, and the most formidable horror on the battlefield. And if Vandar didn’t play a central role in his destruction, it was Aoth and not he who would be remembered as the hero of the conflict.

Then, however, Vandar realized the gloom was lifting. Using the spines like a ladder, he scrambled up on the demon’s carcass in hopes of seeing why.

Cera, Yhelbruna-now in possession of the Stag King’s antler-axe-and a couple other hathrans stood in attitudes of invocation amid a luminous yellow haze. Plainly, their magic was burning away the dark.

Unfortunately, Vandar wasn’t the only one who’d figured that out. Undead and dark fey were turning in increasing numbers to push toward the sunlady and witches while mortals, bright fey, and golems struggled to hold them back.

Vandar suspected that keeping the exorcism going and so restoring the daylight was even more important than slaying Lod. Still, the sword insisted that any warrior who battled to protect Yhelbruna, Cera, and the other women would simply be one of many. It was champions who bested terrible foes in single combat-or at worst, with the aid of a comrade or two-who won glory.

But Vandar didn’t deserve glory. Not after all his selfishness and disastrous miscalculations. He ordered the sword to be silent and started fighting his way toward the golden glow.

At first, it proved fairly easy to cut down foes who were pushing in the same direction. Then, however, he glimpsed a hulking form from the corner of his eye.

When he turned and took his first close look at Uramar, he felt like a fool for ever mistaking the zombie counterfeit he’d slain under the Fortress of the Half-Demon for the true blaspheme. The genuine patchwork man was even more thick-built, scarred, and misshapen, with eyes of two different colors set at different heights.

Something had ripped away Uramar’s breastplate and shredded the flesh beneath, exposing and breaking ribs in several spots. Yet despite his ill-made body and gaping wounds, his two-handed blade struck constantly and to murderous effect. Essentially, he and Vandar were doing the same thing: cutting down foes who were likewise struggling closer to the sunlady and hathrans. But everyone the greatsword even nicked withered and rotted even as he fell.

Someone needed to stop Uramar before he got anywhere close to Yhelbruna, Cera, and their helpers. Vandar rushed the huge undead.

As he approached, chill bit into him. But his anger and the red sword buttressed him against it.

Meanwhile, Uramar didn’t appear to notice the danger racing in on his left. But when Vandar had nearly closed to striking distance, the blaspheme pivoted and swung the greatsword at his middle.

Vandar parried, and the two blades clanged together. The impact jolted Vandar, but his defense kept Uramar’s sword from cutting him.

Still running, Vandar slashed at the massive open wound that was Uramar’s chest. The undead parried, and the blades rang again.

Vandar plunged on past and now had his back to his opponent. Sliding in the snow, he wrenched himself around barely in time to see Uramar’s next cut leaping at his neck. He ducked underneath the stroke, then hurled himself forward to cut at the spot where a living man carried his heart.

With astonishing quickness for such a limping brute, and one already hideously wounded at that, Uramar retreated on the diagonal, and the footwork gave him time to parry. He took another retreat, and that put him back at the proper distance to take advantage of his longer arms and blade.

Vandar advanced with lowered guard, inviting an attack, then swayed back when it came. The greatsword whizzed past his chest with no more than half a finger’s length to spare. He lunged with the red blade poised for a chest cut.

Uramar shifted the greatsword to parry and once again protect that shredded, unarmored, vulnerable spot. Vandar instantly pivoted and cut at the blaspheme’s left wrist.

The red sword sheared flesh and splintered bone, and, though it didn’t quite sever Uramar’s hand, rendered it useless. The undead stumbled backward with his enormous weapon wobbling in what was now an inadequate grip.

Vandar started after him. Then, with a silent cry, the red sword alerted him to danger at his back.

He spun, and the war club that might otherwise have smashed his skull struck it a glancing blow instead. Still, that was enough to blank out the whole world.

The next he knew, his head was ringing, he lay on his back in the snow, and the zombie that had struck him had the war club raised for another blow. Vandar floundered backward, but the weapon still caught him in the knee. Bone snapped, and he gasped at the flash of pain.

Anger welled up inside him to mask what would otherwise be agony. As the dead man lifted the war club for a third strike, Vandar heaved himself up onto his off hand, cut its leg out from under it, and split its head when it fell down. The creature stopped moving.

Vandar wrenched himself around to face Uramar. The blaspheme had discarded the greatsword for a curved short sword glimmering with its own no-doubt lethal enchantments. Scowling, his half-severed hand dangling and spittering dark blood in the snow, the patchwork man limped forward.

Then the ambient gloom brightened a little more. A shaft of sunlight fell through the leafless canopy overhead, transfixing a pair of phantoms that shredded away to nothing.

Uramar turned and resumed pushing his way toward the women working to banish the darkness.

Vandar struggled to his feet to pursue. Or rather, to his foot, for another stab of pain made it immediately apparent that his injured leg wouldn’t bear his weight.

He hopped through the snow and bent down to retrieve the zombie’s fallen war club to use as a crutch. Before he could straighten up, a dark fey like a hound with a half-human face sprang at him. He killed it with a thrust between the eyes but lost his balance and fell in the process. By the time he managed to stand up, he could no longer even see Uramar past all the other combatants in the way.

It was absurd to think he could catch up, but he had to try. He started hobbling, and jagged fangs bared, a ghoul advanced to intercept him. He poised his sword for a head cut.

Then the golden griffon plunged down atop the ghoul. The impact likely smashed the life-or what passed for it-out of the creature, but the telthor made sure of its destruction by ripping the body to pieces with his claws.

The gold turned his head to regard Vandar with fierce blue eyes. The beast seemed to be waiting for something, and the berserker hoped he understood what.

He hobbled forward, tucked the red sword under his crutch arm, and reached out to scratch in the feathers behind the griffon’s beak. He’d seen Aoth and Cera pet Jet that way, and the gold permitted it as well. But he also gave an impatient-sounding rasp as though to remind the idiot human they were in the midst of battle.

The gold then pivoted, presenting his side, and lowered himself onto his belly. Vandar dropped his makeshift crutch and clambered onto the griffon’s back.

At once, the griffon ran a couple steps, sprang, and, wings beating, soared into the air. Vandar didn’t know how to ride a griffon, didn’t have a saddle, and his throbbing, broken-kneed leg couldn’t clamp against his steed’s side with any strength. Still, bending down and wrapping his arms around the telthor’s neck, he managed to stay on the creature’s back, or maybe the gold contrived to keep him from tumbling off.

The telthor weaved through an aerial melee that, with griffons, winged telthors and fey, and ghosts swooping, wheeling, and tearing at each other, and blasts of magic raining down from the skyship above the trees, was every bit as savage as the struggle on the ground. Still, the gold appeared to be scrutinizing the combatants down in the gory snow.

Vandar was too, but he didn’t spot Uramar until an instant after the griffon dived at him. The blaspheme had almost worked his way to Yhelbruna, Cera, and the other spellcasters. Already, the hathrans’ protectors were faltering as the leading edge of Uramar’s cloud of cold washed over them, and meanwhile, other undead were scrambling to aid the patchwork swordsman as he finished carving his way to his objective.

The golden griffon slammed down in the midst of those would-be helpers, crushing some and striking at the rest with snapping beak and snatching talons. The spiritual power of a telthor made such attacks devastating to even an insubstantial entity such as a specter.

Still, that small part of Vandar that could consider such things despite the fury was surprised at the gold’s choice of target. He’d expected the griffon to plunge down on Uramar. But evidently the creature expected his rider to finish what he’d started while he made sure that this time, no other foes meddled in the duel.

Well, so be it. Vandar gripped argent feathers and the hide beneath to anchor himself and gave every bit of himself over to the rage. Sound faded, and the world slowed.

The gold spun to continue striking at the remaining foes he’d chosen for himself. Uramar circled too, and Vandar realized the blaspheme was maneuvering to attack the telthor, not him. He meant to strike the griffon down from behind.

Vandar pulled his handful of feathers as if they were reins, and somehow the golden griffon understood he meant for it to turn, and in what direction. It jerked around just far enough for Vandar to catch Uramar’s cut with a parry.

Steel clanged. Bellowing, the patchwork man sprang and cut at Vandar’s head.

Vandar leaned sideways and slashed at the same time. Uramar’s sword whistled past him while his blade sheared into the blaspheme’s neck.

Uramar floundered forward, even though that made the fey sword slice deeper. He threw both arms around Vandar in a crushing bear hug.

Finally too bitter for any mortal human being to withstand, chill plunged into Vandar like icicle daggers. He jerked and lost his grip on his sword hilt, and then the cold was even worse. All he could do was shudder as the blade in the blaspheme’s good hand hitched around to aim at his face.

But then Uramar groaned and slumped, and the sword thrust never came. The golden griffon wrenched himself around in a manner that further loosened the undead’s embrace, and with a convulsive effort, Vandar shoved him away. The patchwork man toppled backward to sprawl motionless between the bodies of a fey with spindly limbs and enormous hands and feet and a witch with her bronze mask and the head behind it smashed out of shape. Still shaking, Vandar couldn’t tell if she’d been a hathran or a durthan.

Spinning blades of blue light chopped Lod’s tail. Unfortunately, that didn’t keep the bone naga from throwing a magical attack right back. He whipped his lower body clear of Aoth’s creations and stretched out his skeletal hand simultaneously.

Streaks of darkness painted themselves on the air, defining a cube with Aoth and Jet at the center. Lashing his wings, the griffon hurled himself forward and through the murky stripes in front of him. Cold seared him and his rider too, but they broke out before the magical structure could quite coalesce into a solid cage.

Aoth hurled a glimmering, silvery sphere of force from his spear. Lod flicked his hand to the side, and the attack flew off course to smash bark and wood from a tree trunk.

Your magic isn’t getting the job done, Jet snarled, and unfortunately, that was so.

Aoth had thrown sunlight, thunderbolts, acid, focused noise, and eventually fire-he’d apologize to the hathrans later if anyone complained-and found them all ineffective. Pure force, generally the most difficult energy for a spellcaster to shield against, had done a little more damage, but so far, not enough to slow Lod down. And Aoth had already exhausted his ability to cast his most potent attacks.

As he with his spellscarred eyes had observed early on, the problem was protective runes graven on the inside of Lod’s human rib cage. Coupled with the defensive spells the bone naga could cast at will, they rendered him largely impervious to combat magic.

Still, Aoth had to defeat him. Although since the start of the duel he’d perforce kept his attention on his adversary, he nonetheless inferred from the increasing brightness that his allies were winning the larger battle. But given the chance, Lod, who, as he’d gradually discovered, might even be as powerful as the dracolich Alasklerbanbastos, could still turn things around.

Let’s tear him apart! Jet continued, swooping to dodge a burst of freezing shadow.

Set me down, and I’ll tear him. You fetch Jhesrhi.

Do you think I can’t handle him? I’m as strong as I ever was!

I know that. But look in my head and you’ll see what I have in mind.

Aoth’s sense of connection pulsed stronger as Jet examined his thoughts. Then the griffon spun around Lod and over the heads of the nearest combatants, warriors and creatures that had likely come rushing to aid either Aoth or his foe but ended up fighting one another.

Jet plunged down behind the bone naga. Aoth scrambled off the familiar’s back and roused the magic of tattoos that augmented his strength, agility, and hardiness. At once, aquiline talons and leonine hind paws throwing up snow, Jet ran three strides with the uneven gait of his species, beat his wings, and sprang back into the air.

By then, Lod was twisting atop his serpentine coils to orient on Aoth. His fleshless jaw worked, surely whispering an incantation, and then streamers of snow leaped up from the ground. As they stretched and twisted, they darkened into something so infused with malevolence that their mere proximity made Aoth’s head throb.

He charged his spear with destructive force and whirled. The preternaturally sharp edges of the head slashed three of the shadowy snakelike things to nothingness. The fourth had time to strike at him, but he simultaneously blocked the attack with his shield and annihilated the attacker with a thrust.

He pivoted back toward Lod and, with a short incantation and a jab, hurled glowing blue darts of force from his spear. Apparently they stung, for when they struck just below the point where bare bone gave way to scaly flesh, the undead naga flinched and hissed. In that instant, Aoth dashed a couple of steps closer.

Then Lod swayed from side to side, and something about that sinuous motion wormed its way into Aoth’s head and snarled his thoughts into confusion. No longer sure why he was running, he stumbled to a halt.

His bewilderment lasted only a heartbeat. Then, by trained reflex, he pictured a sigil of psychic defense, and his thoughts snapped back into focus. By that time, though, a wave of smoking liquid was sweeping toward him like a breaker rushing toward the shore.

He threw himself flat in the snow, burrowing in it, and covered his head with his shield. Even so, as it washed over him, Lod’s conjured acid seared him at various points along his back and legs. But evidently not badly, for he was able to leap back onto his feet, and the magic of another tattoo sufficed to mask the lingering pain.

He charged onward. Until Lod vanished, leaving nothing behind but the long, twisting rut where his enormous tail had dragged through the snow.

Lod hadn’t simply turned invisible. Aoth’s fire-touched eyes would still see him if he had. The bone naga must have translated himself through space, and Aoth spun to locate him.

Just as he did, maggots, or something like them, rained down on him from the empty air. He scrambled aside, but some landed on him anyway, clung, and gnawed. One wriggled onto his bare neck, and its bite burned like vitriol.

He slapped the conjured grub away, then, trusting his armor to protect against the rest, charged Lod once again. Come on, he thought, you’re bigger than I am! Just fight me hand to hand!

Lod, however, wouldn’t oblige. Slithering to maintain his distance, he whirled his hands through an intricate pattern as he cast another spell.

The vista before Aoth shattered into senselessness as if he were viewing it through a wall built of warped and cloudy lenses. At the same instant, something pulled at every part of him at once. Though he’d never encountered a spell exactly like it before, he surmised that this time, Lod was attempting to shift him through space, and that different bits of him would end up in different places.

He bellowed a word of dispelling and found the strength to sprint even faster. The painful tugging lost its grip on him when he plunged free of the spot where the unseen framework of existence itself was churning.

Then, finally, instead of retreating and evading, Lod crawled to meet him. Maybe the creature had grown tired of throwing spell after spell to minimal effect. Aoth certainly had.

The bone naga reared over him, raised his fleshless hands, and boiling shadow flowed over them, sheathing them in ghostly clawed gauntlets. Halting, Aoth came on guard, his spear and shield poised to meet the attack when Lod’s upper body whipped down at him.

For the next instant, though, it didn’t, and Aoth abruptly remembered his experiences fighting dragons in Chessenta, and how an attack might come from any direction. He risked a glance backward and discovered the end of Lod’s tail sweeping down at him like a falling tree.

He dodged, and the tail smashed down in the snow. Lod’s skeletal upper body hurtled down at him.

Aoth shifted his targe to block. Raking shadow claws screeched on enchanted steel, snagged in it, and yanked, jerking Aoth off balance before they popped free.

The loss of equilibrium kept him from thrusting with the spear as he’d intended. And before he could recover, the end of Lod’s tail flicked sideways, slammed his legs out from underneath him, and dumped him in the snow.

The undead naga struck down at him, and he just managed to interpose the shield. Lod grabbed it by the edges and tried to rip it away.

Aoth could feel it was useless to resist. Even with tattoo magic enhancing it, his strength was inferior to Lod’s.

So he didn’t resist. He let Lod’s pulling hoist him back onto his feet, then yanked his arm out of the straps on the inner face of the targe.

And finally, a move seemed to catch Lod by surprise. Swaying atop his coils, the bone naga hesitated, holding the shield as if uncertain what to do with it.

Gripping his spear with both hands, Aoth spoke a word that brought all the power still stored in the weapon surging into the point to set it aglow. He fed the blue light with much of his own remaining innate magic, and it blazed brighter still.

Lod cast the targe aside and struck. Aoth met him with a spear thrust that drove cleanly between two ribs. With a dazzling flash, force exploded from the weapon to tear apart the naga’s rib cage from the inside, where the graven symbols didn’t protect it.

Unfortunately, that didn’t finish the bone naga. Lod hissed a word of chastisement, and Aoth cried out with sudden pain, weakness, and dizziness that dropped him to his knees.

Lod tore the spear out of his grasp and opened the fanged jaws of a skull that was abruptly far less human and more reptilian than before. The pieces of rib Aoth had blasted away floated through the air toward their former positions.

But then wind screamed, flung snow across the battlefield, and tossed Aoth onto his side. It caught the rib fragments too and swept them away despite the force animating them.

Lod twisted to look into the wind and no doubt find its source. He raised his hands to start a spell.

But meanwhile, the wind screamed louder still. The naga’s left arm snapped loose and blew away, and the right followed a heartbeat later.

But even that didn’t stop the bone naga’s conjuring. He roared words of malediction that made Aoth’s body feel as heavy as lead-his heart pounded as if it were trying to tear itself apart, and his ears ached as if he were deep underwater. Aoth strained to croak out a spell but couldn’t control his breathing.

Fortunately, Jhesrhi’s voice was chanting as vehemently as Lod’s. At her behest, the wind howled even louder until it drowned out both of them. Then Lod’s entire upper body burst apart into tumbling bones, and the snake part flopped down on the ground.

Although it didn’t die entirely, the wind ebbed. Feeling stronger than he had a moment before, Aoth floundered to his feet, recovered his spear, and found Lod’s fallen skull. The naga’s bones no longer showed any signs of wanting to reassemble themselves, but he smashed them anyway.

As he finished, Jet and Jhesrhi swooped down to light near him, the latter borne aloft by a friendly wind of lesser violence. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I will be,” Aoth panted. “Thanks to the two of you.” He turned to survey the greater battle and was just in time to view the final moments.

The air brightened yet again, burning off the last trace of unnatural murk and letting the sun shine down without hindrance. Phantoms shredded away to nothing. Vampires fell down smoking and thrashing, and zombies balked. And all those foes who were still capable of it turned and bolted, with automatons, berserkers, bright fey, and flares of hathran magic in pursuit.

Aoth grunted in satisfaction. “I believe we’ve fulfilled our contract with Yhelbruna.”

“Yes,” Jhesrhi said, “and done a service for the unknown lands the Eminence of Araunt hailed from, too.”

“Too bad we can’t charge them.”

Jhesrhi stood silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Aoth.”

“Yes?”

“The fire. My fire. When it attached itself to me, I thought it made me stronger and would shield me from … from the things I don’t like. But …”

She’d always hated to confess weakness or ask for help, and Aoth saw no reason to make her say the words when he could do it for her. “But now you realize it’s a sickness.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll cure it.”

How? asked Jet.

I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.

The Storm of Vengeance couldn’t set down inside the Urlingwood. Mario Bez had to rendezvous with his allies, if that was still the proper term for them, on scrubland south of the sacred forest.

By then, the setting sun was casting long gray shadows across the snow, everyone had had some opportunity to rest, and Cera Eurthos, Yhelbruna, or some other hathran had had time to use her healing magic on Aoth Fezim and Vandar Cherlinka.

Still, the folk who’d fought on the ground looked haggard with fatigue, and Fezim and Cherlinka were bandaged where even a priestess’s prayers hadn’t entirely erased a wound. In contrast, Bez still felt relatively fresh. As his Thayan counterpart had predicted, flying foes had intermittently assailed the skyship. But repelling the boarders hadn’t proved too difficult, and Bez himself hadn’t suffered any harm in the process.

He gave the circle of scowling folk who’d assembled to meet him a smile. “I take it,” he said, “that we carried the day.”

“Yes,” said Fezim, the glow of his blue eyes more noticeable with the coming of twilight. “Although a number of undead escaped, and even more of the dark fey and their telthors.”

“The dark fey shouldn’t pose too much of a problem,” the witch said in her usual austere tones. “They’re as much a part of the land as the bright ones, and without the durthans to incite them, they won’t perpetuate a war they no longer have any hope of winning.”

“But you do need to hunt down every last undead,” Cera said. “They’ll prey on the living and spread their contagion until you do.”

“Indeed,” Yhelbruna said. “We must also cleanse the Urlingwood of the stain our enemies introduced. And free those whose minds were twisted, and replace the hathrans and berserkers who perished. It will all take time, and until we accomplish it, Rashemen will be weaker than it should be.”

“Still,” said Bez, “Captain Fezim is right. Victory truly is ours. And given that we all contributed, may I suggest that the appropriate way to honor the occasion is to lay old quarrels to rest?”

For a moment, no one answered. Then an orc who was missing his tusks grinned and said, “But the best thing about beating a war band of walking corpses and angry trees and such is that it frees you to slaughter the people you really hate.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Fezim said, “but Orgurth’s right. You’re not leaving unless you first survive a duel.”

Bez shrugged. “Then let’s get to it. I assume you’re the one who’s going to meet me on the field of honor.”

“No,” said Vandar Cherlinka, “I am.”

Plainly surprised, Fezim turned to regard the berserker. “Bez and I are both war mages. It makes sense-”

“I don’t care,” Cherlinka snapped. “Look, I know you have reason to kill him. He tried to kill Jet. But he did kill my lodge brothers, and I swore to avenge them.”

The Thayan scowled, but he nodded too. “Do it, then.”

Bez waved his hand. “There’s a clear, level patch of ground over there.”

“I see it,” Cherlinka said, and people started moving in that direction. Taking a moment to watch carefully, Bez verified that an earlier impression was correct. His opponent was walking with a bit of a stiff-legged limp.

Bez then turned to Aoth Fezim. “Please, stroll along with me, Captain.”

His fellow commander fell into stride beside him. “What do you want?”

“Aside from the pleasure of your company, to remind you you said one duel.”

“I did,” Fezim replied, “and I swear by the Pure Flame, I won’t insist on fighting you if you kill Vandar. I won’t let dozens of berserkers line up to do it either. You’ll be free to go.”

Bez grinned. “Thank you.”

Fezim smiled back. “I don’t mind renewing that pledge because you aren’t going to kill Vandar. I know you think you are. I saw you taking note of his stiff leg. On top of that, you have wizardry, he doesn’t, and you assume you’ve mastered fencing tricks that will befuddle a barbarian. But I’ve taken your measure and his, and he’s a better fighter than you could ever hope to be.”

For a moment, Bez felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze blowing down from the North Country. Then he realized what Aoth was attempting to do and snorted his momentary misgivings away.

“Good try,” he said. “But it’s not that easy to rattle me. Go watch the fight with your friends. Just don’t blink, or you might miss it.”

The motley little army had formed a circle around the dueling ground. Standing together, Uregaunt, Sandrue, and the rest of Bez’s crew made up one portion of the ring, and he gave them a wink as he entered the space. Meanwhile, griffons soared and shrieked overhead.

Yhelbruna walked out into the circle to preside over the combat. Despite her air of aloof severity, she surely wasn’t impartial in her private heart, as she perhaps proved by waving Bez closer to his opponent. She was adjusting the starting distance to facilitate blade work, not spellcasting.

But Bez had no real objection. Indeed, if the adjustment misled Cherlinka into assuming he wouldn’t have to contend with magic, so much the better.

Yhelbruna said, “Draw your weapons,” and they did. With a whispered command, Bez forbade the frost in the core of his rapier and the lightning in his parrying dagger to manifest just yet.

The hathran in her leather mask stepped backward. “Begin!” she said.

At once, Cherlinka snarled like a beast. He sprang forward with the red sword poised for a head cut.

Bez retreated, put his rapier in line, and spoke a word of release to cast one of the spells stored inside it.

Three illusory duplicates of himself sprang into being around him, each with its point extended. Now Cherlinka was hurling himself at four blades, with no way to determine which was the real threat.

The Rashemi coped by diving under all of them. Bez lowered his aim but was a shade too slow. Cherlinka was already past his point.

The berserker swung the red blade in a scything blow that caught two of the illusions and popped them both like soap bubbles. But he hadn’t struck his real foe, and ducking in mid-charge had left him canted precariously forward. Bez sidestepped, raised his sword hand high with the blade aimed downward, and stabbed at his opponent’s back.

A man who looked in imminent danger of falling flat on his face shouldn’t even have perceived that attack, let alone been able to defend against it. But Cherlinka sprang forward, and the thrust missed. Why in the name of the Abyss wasn’t the clod’s bad leg hindering him now?

Berserker fury, Bez supposed, and then assured himself it didn’t matter. Limping or hopping around like a grasshopper, Cherlinka was no match for him.

As the Rashemi arrested his headlong momentum, straightened up, and started to turn, Bez backed away and, with a word of command, roused the cold in his rapier. Fist-sized hailstones hammered down from the empty air.

Again, even with his back turned, Cherlinka somehow sensed the threat. He flung himself sideways, and only a few of the icy missiles battered him.

Still, when he finished spinning around, blood was streaming from a gash in his scalp with more making fresh red spots on his bandages. At the very least, Bez was whittling him down.

Bez retreated, and his remaining illusory twin retreated with him. Cherlinka charged after him.

Bez spoke another word of invocation and drew a pale flare of pure cold from his rapier. Despite his headlong momentum, Cherlinka sprang aside, and the blast only grazed him. That alone would have been enough to drop many a man, but the Rashemi kept coming.

Bez kept his rapier forward and his main gauche well back, as if the shorter weapon were only something to use in the clinches. As Vandar rushed into striking distance, he met him with a lunge, a feint to the face, and a true attack to the stomach.

Cherlinka parried with a downward sweep that might have snapped a rapier that wasn’t enchanted. He riposted with a cut to the flank.

But it was a cut to the flank of the remaining illusory double, and so Bez had no need to parry. Instead, he thrust at the berserker’s eye.

The red sword hit the duplicate, and it burst into nothingness. Meanwhile, Bez’s point streaked at its target.

At the last possible instant, Cherlinka jerked his head to the side. The rapier caught him anyway, but not in the brain-piercing fashion Bez had intended. The edge sliced him across the ear and brought more blood streaming forth.

Still, it was yet another wound. Bez told himself that soon, even a berserker would start showing the effects.

But in the exchanges that followed, Cherlinka attacked with the same relentless aggression as before, and although his sweeping cuts and rudimentary technique repeatedly left him open, Bez didn’t score on him again. The barbarian ducked, dodged, pivoted, and swayed, and the rapier kept missing by a hair.

Until, breathing harder, Bez realized there was at least a slim chance that he was the one who was going to slow down first. Time for more magic, then, specifically, the trick that had never failed him.

He allowed Cherlinka to beat his blade out of line. Clearly not suspecting a trap, perhaps no longer even cognizant of the main gauche his adversary hadn’t used since the duel began, the Rashemi sprang and cut at Bez’s chest.

Bez retreated and spun the dagger in a circular parry. At the same time, a murmured word set it ablaze with lightning. When the blades met, the power would leap from one to the other and on into Cherlinka’s arm.

Steel clanged, and magic flashed and crackled. But the red sword went flying, and Cherlinka kept driving in. Bez just had time to realize the barbarian must have let go of the sword an instant before the two blades came into contact. Then Cherlinka slammed into him, and they fell together.

With the rapier useless at such close quarters, Bez angled the main gauche for a thrust at Cherlinka’s side. But before he could deliver it, the Rashemi punched him in the jaw.

The blow jolted Bez and made him falter. Cherlinka heaved him over so he was facedown, scrambled on top of him, and gripped his throat.

Pinned, his air cut off and his mouth clogged with snow, Bez could neither wield his blades to any effect nor recite an incantation. But there had to be something he could do! Unfortunately, as he flailed blindly and futilely, and his desperation dulled to numb passivity, that cunning tactic never came to him.

The Rashemi cheered when Vandar finished strangling the life out of Bez. Aoth observed that, understandably, the Halruaan commander’s men didn’t share in the general jubilation. But they had better sense than to do anything that would draw attention to their displeasure.

Vandar struggled to rise and then, keeping his weight on his good leg, stood swaying over the corpse. When a man came out of a berserker rage, he always felt weak and sick to one degree or another, but Aoth suspected the Rashemi’s current debility stemmed from more than that. Vandar had suffered a broken knee, a knock to the head, and frostbite during the battle with the undead and dark fey, and Bez had just torn him up all over again.

Aoth glanced down to tell Cera they should go help him, but her expression informed him she’d already decided the same thing. They hurried forward, and so did Yhelbruna.

So did a number of others, likewise wanting to help or simply to congratulate Vandar on his victory. Aoth wondered if he should try to stop them, lest the resulting press make it difficult for Cera and Yhelbruna to do their work.

Then, screeching, Jet and the golden griffon plunged down from the sky to land to either side of Vandar and glare at the crowd. Except for Yhelbruna, the oncoming Rashemi stopped short.

The two priestesses murmured prayers to their deities and touched Vandar’s new wounds with hands glowing gold or green. One at a time, the berserker’s gashes closed, his gaze sharpened, and eventually, he scooped up a handful of snow to wash the blood from his face.

“Now our war is over,” he said.

“Yes,” Aoth replied, “and congratulations on a fight well fought. But the matter that brought Cera, Jet, Jhes, and me to Rashemen remains. Who gets the wild griffons?”

“You do,” Vandar said.

Aoth cocked his head. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You were able to lead them into battle-”

“You mean, I was,” Jet rasped.

Vandar smiled a tiny fleeting smile. “Sorry, my friend. You were. But either way, it means something.”

Aoth snorted. “Maybe. But I’m not much for signs and destinies, and you did plenty to help our side win. So how about this? I’ll settle for half the griffons. You take the rest, including the telthor.”

“Why, when I no longer have a use for them? My lodge is gone.”

“Rebuild it. Isn’t that what your brothers would want, especially at a time when Rashemen needs every warrior it can muster? Young warriors will come running for the chance to be griffon riders.”

Vandar hesitated. “But … am I the man to lead them?”

Aoth scowled. “It wasn’t you to blame for the destruction of your lodge. It was this treacherous turd lying at our feet. So whatever mistakes you made, learn from them and move on. Any other course is stupid.”

“Captain Fezim is right,” Yhelbruna said. “The spirit griffon came to you when you needed him, and that means something too.” Her tone gentled in a way Aoth hadn’t heard before. “And if even that isn’t enough to persuade you, know that I see goodness and the seeds of wisdom in you.” For just a moment, she touched Vandar’s cheek, and this time, not to heal him.

The berserker looked as surprised as Aoth felt, but then he smiled and drew himself up straighter. “Very well, hathran. If I can count on you to help me, I say yes. And thank you. Thank you, both.”

Cera gave Aoth’s forearm a squeeze and whispered, “Another lecherous hundred-year-old preying on a naive young innocent.”

“Maybe she and I can start a fashion.”

Yhelbruna turned in a rustle of robes, and for an instant, Aoth thought she’d overheard and taken offense at the levity. But, stern and formal once more, she said, “Thank you for your service, Captain, and for your generosity as well.”

Aoth grinned. “I’m not that generous. Watch.” He turned and tramped through the snow to where he could address Bez’s sellswords without shouting. His companions trailed along behind him.

“As even my rival Vandar concedes,” he told the Halruaans, “I earned the wild griffons. Because I’m only taking half of them, I’m collecting the rest of my pay in another form: the Storm of Vengeance.”

The sellswords stared back at him in consternation. Then the wizened, bitter-looking old wizard who was one of Bez’s surviving officers said, “You promised that if we helped fight the undead, we’d go free.”

“I didn’t promise to return the ship.”

“Do you know how to fly her?”

“No,” Aoth replied, “so I’ll make you an offer. You men can swear allegiance to the Brotherhood of the Griffon and crew the Storm for me as you did for Bez. My sergeant Orgurth will come aboard as my eyes and voice, at least until such time as you’ve earned my trust.”

Glowering, a plump man with a scraggy, goatish beard and a bronze sickle hanging at his side asked, “What if we say no?”

“Then I’ll burn the cursed ship and leave you stranded in a country where folk despise you.”

The elderly wizard gave a grim little chuckle. “In that case, Captain, I gladly pledge my fealty.”

Glowering, his comrades mumbled to the same effect.

Yhelbruna said, “In the Wychlaran’s name, Captain, I invite you and yours back to Immilmar to partake of our hospitality. Even these scoundrels, now that they’ve proclaimed you their leader.”

Aoth smiled. “Thank you, learned sister. I’m sure they’ll prefer it to sleeping out in the cold, and I won’t mind a couple days of warm beds and good food either.”

“Only ‘a couple days’? You’re welcome to bide until spring if you like.”

“Thank you, but I have to check on the rest of my men. Cera needs to prepare for a grand conclave of Amaunator’s clergy.” He glanced at Jhesrhi standing alone, her war boots and the butt of her staff planted in a puddle of melted snow. “And we all have a problem to solve.”

Content

Richard Lee Byers
Prophet of the Dead

Prologue

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