The Haunted Lands: Book II - Undead

by Richard Lee Byers

  Bareris’s mouth tightened in exasperation. The terse story agreed with the history Quickstrike the gravecrawler had once related, and almost certainly represented one of Mirror’s rare glimmers of authentic memory, but that wasn’t the point. Though the ghost appeared to be recommending courage, his story also implied that those who dared to cross archwizards like Szass Tam could anticipate only destruction. That moral seemed likely to bolster Aoth’s doubts and so disrupt the influence Bareris was weaving.

  But Aoth sighed and said, “I suppose I’d feel the same way. Death gets us all eventually, doesn’t it? If not in the form of an ambitious lich or crazy warlock, then in some other guise. So you might as well stick by your comrades and follow the banner you’ve chosen no matter how ragged and faded it becomes.”

  Bareris’s shoulders slumped with relief. Beneath that emotion was the hint of another—a vague, uncomfortable squirming that might have been shame—but it subsided quickly. “Now that’s the Aoth I’ve known for all these years.”

  Aoth snorted. “Yes, Aoth the fool.” His mail clinking, he slid off the fence. “Let’s go back and get the flogging over with.”

  Perched on a mound at the edge of the sheer drop that was the First Escarpment, girt with a double ring of walls, the Keep of Sorrows had never fallen, and wise men opined it never could. Still, as Nular Zurn, the castellan of the granite fortress, stood on the battlements and studied the advancing host through his spyglass, he felt tense anyway.

  It wasn’t just the size of the besieging force, though it was huge, darkening the plain like a vast stain and flying the standards of every tharch and order of Wizardry, since Szass Tam claimed dominion over them all. Nor was it the knowledge that the lich himself was down there somewhere. What troubled him was the nature of the troops under his command.

  Throughout its history, Thay had employed undead troops, the Zombie Legion, dread warriors, and the like. During his thirty-five years of soldiering, Nular had, of necessity, grown accustomed to such creatures. But he’d never seen so many gathered together, rank upon rank of withered and sometimes eyeless faces, and enclosed wagons shrouded in pockets of unnatural gloom carrying entities that could only move around between sunset and dawn. Although the host was still some distance away, the wind already carried its carrion stink, and he wondered how the lich’s companies of living warriors could stand marching in the thick of it.

  Nular glanced up and down the walkway. Lacking spyglasses, his own soldiers couldn’t see the advancing army as well as he could, but they could discern enough to discomfit them. He could read it in their faces.

  “Where’s our hospitality?” he said, raising his voice sufficiently to carry along the battlements. “Why do you stand mute when guests have come to call? Say hello!”

  Its gray hide creased with scars and spittle flying from its mouth, a blood orc sergeant screamed an ear-splitting battle cry. In moments, all the orcs joined in and the human warriors too, although the latter couldn’t compete with their pig-faced comrades. Their shouts were all but lost in the din.

  As the noise subsided, the company looked steadier. The sergeant turned to Nular. “Lord! The closest ones are in catapult range.”

  “I believe so,” said Nular, “but wait.” The zulkirs promised a swift resolution to the siege, but in case they were mistaken, he intended to use catapult stones, ballista bolts, and all other resources with care.

  “Look!” someone shouted.

  Nular peered outward again. Riding in from the west, a dozen horsemen galloped into the open space between Szass Tam’s army and the keep. From their course, it was plain they rode for their lives, hoping to reach the latter.

  Szass Tam’s archers reacted within a moment or two, and arrows arced through the air. Nular expected to see men and horses fall, but instead, they simply popped like soap bubbles until only a pair of riders remained. The others, Nular realized, had been illusions intended to draw the enemy’s attack.

  More shafts flew at the real horsemen and their mounts, but glanced harmlessly away. The riders had a second defensive enchantment in place. Nular realized the fools might actually reach the keep. “Open a sally port!” he shouted.

  Voices bellowed, relaying his command. Then a huge shadow soared up from a patch of darkness in the midst of the enemy host and flew toward the riders.

  Nular had difficulty making out its shape, but it resembled a giant bat. “Shoot the thing!” he shouted. “Where are our spellcasters?”

  Bows creaked, crossbows snapped, and arrows droned through the air. Several found their mark, but failed to penetrate the bat-thing’s hide. It raced ahead of the horsemen and whirled around to face them. Mystical energy, visible as ripplings in the air, streamed down at them from its head.

  Nular winced in anticipation of the horsemen’s destruction, but they had another trick to play. Riders and mounts vanished and reappeared several yards closer to the castle. The leap whisked them out of the way of the creature’s blast, which covered the piece of ground they’d just vacated in ice.

  The shadow bat wheeled, seeking its quarries once again. Twisting in the saddle, one of the riders pointed a wand. Fire streamed from the tip of the weapon and splashed against the creature’s wing. It convulsed and began to fall.

  Then the beast spread its wings, arrested its plummet, and swooped toward the riders again. But by that time, the men were pounding through the sally port. Nular heard the small gate slam shut after them.

  The bat flew high enough to peer over the outer wall of the keep. But if it thought to continue the chase, the sight of so many soldiers standying ready and the wizards and priests scurrying to aid them, must have discouraged it, for it wheeled and retreated toward the rest of Szass Tam’s army. Legionnaires cheered and howled derision after it.

  Nular descended the stairs to the courtyard. By the time he arrived, the newcomers had already dismounted, thrown back their cloaks to reveal the crimson robes beneath, and started drinking the cups of wine the grooms had brought them. They set the goblets aside to greet Nular.

  One rider was exceptionally pudgy for a Mulan, and a wand dangled from his belt. The other had sharp, haughty features and was missing the fingers on his right hand. Both were panting and sweat-soaked, with a gray cast to their skin.

  “Masters,” Nular said, “are you all right?”

  “We will be,” said the Red Wizard with the maimed hand. “The nightwing—the creature that chased us—moves in a kind of poison cloud, but now that it’s flown away, the sickness will pass. My companion is So-Kehur, and I’m Muthoth. We’re messengers from Hezass Nymar.”

  “He sent two,” So-Kehur wheezed, “in the hope that at least one of us would make it past the enemy.”

  “What is your message?” Nular asked.

  “The tharchion and his army have crossed the Lapendrar safely,” Muthoth said, “less than a day’s march to the north, and without the necromancers knowing about it. The governor will move in and strike when the time is right, in concert with the forces closing in from the north and east.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Nular said. In fact, he was astonished that the infamously unreliable Nymar had actually decided to commit his troops and person to battle. “And also honored to have you as my guests. Unless you’re minded to try to slip past Szass Tam’s army a second time.”

  “Thank you, no,” Muthoth said. “We’ll stay here where it’s safe.”

  Dmitra Flass knew she wasn’t the most powerful illusionist in Thay. She had her skill at politics and intrigue and her primary role in the opposition to Szass Tam to thank for her election as zulkir in the wake of Mythrellan’s demise. Or perhaps, knowing that whomever succeeded Mythrellan would likewise receive the lich’s homicidal attentions, no one else with any brains had wanted the job.

  In any case, Dmitra was zulkir whether her arcane capabilities justified it or not, and only the zulkir, by virtue of the rituals that had consecrated her ascension, could perform the task required o
f her now. Accordingly, she sat chanting in the dark, stuffy confines of the enormous rocking, creaking carriage—essentially a conjuration chamber on wheels—for bell after sleepless bell. A circle of her underlings recited with her, sending flickers of light, whispers and chiming, surges of heat and cold, baseless sensations and manifestations of unreality, dancing through the air. But those wizards were able to work in shifts. As the essential hub of a vast and intricate mechanism, Dmitra had to perform her function continuously.

  That mechanism consisted of far more than the occupants of a single carriage. Other such coaches rolled among the marching legions of Eltabbar. Their positions would define a magical sigil if any flying creature gazing down from above had the knowledge and wit to connect them with imaginary lines. The entire fleet of wagons had its counterparts amid the armies of Tyraturos and Pyarados, all working as one to keep Szass Tam’s scouts and soothsayers from discerning the foes advancing on their flank and rear.

  Dmitra reached the conclusion of one lengthy incantation and drew breath to start another. Then someone touched her on the shoulder. She turned and saw Malark. For a moment, a stray wisp of illusion painted iridescent scales across his brow.

  Careful not to unbalance the forces at play, she uncoupled her power from the structure she’d created. It could manage without her, but only for a little while. “Is it midday?” she asked, her throat raw and dry.

  “Yes,” Malark said, “just as you ordered.” He offered her a goblet of water.

  It was cold, a pleasant surprise given the army’s current circumstances. Malark must have persuaded a wizard to chill it with conjured frost. She gulped it greedily.

  “I also have food,” the spymaster said. “Raisins, dried apricots, bread and honey—”

  “I’ll start with that.” He proffered a silver tray. “Do we know,” she continued after her initial bite, “whether all this effort is actually accomplishing anything?”

  He shrugged. “My agents can’t see any indication that Szass Tam knows we’re creeping up on him, and the diviners say they can’t, either. Since I don’t practice their mysteries, I’ve little choice but to defer to their expertise. I imagine their opinion is reliable. After all, we have the entire Order of Illusion working in concert to do what you do best.”

  “You’re right,” she said, “that should suffice, but you don’t know Szass Tam like I do. He’s a genius, and a master of every school of wizardry. So can we really hide whole armies from him, or was that Rashemi griffon rider correct? Is this a feckless plan?”

  Malark smiled. “Captain Fezim would be gratified that you recall his opinion, though chagrined to hear you call him Rashemi. But in response to your question, I can only say that in war, nothing is certain, especially when facing an enemy like Szass Tam. But brilliant though he is, you’ve always proven his equal in guile whenever it truly counted. So I trust your judgment, and think you ought to trust it, too.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and felt a swell of affection. Collecting and evaluating intelligence was a demanding task, especially in the midst of an army on the march. She hadn’t required that Malark attend to it and also ride alongside her coach to guard her while she was vulnerable, fetch her food and drink, and soothe her frazzled nerves. He’d volunteered for the latter duties, as he always did his utmost to assist her, and without wheedling for lands and lucrative sinecures like so many courtiers.

  “Once we destroy Szass Tam,” she said, “I’ll make you a tharchion, or whatever else you want.”

  “Some people might object to that, considering I’m not Mulan, nor even a Thayan.”

  “Then they’ll just have to choke on it, because I mean it—whatever you want.”

  He inclined his head. “You honor me, but let’s discuss it after the war is over. Right now, all I truly want is to kill a great many of your enemies.”

  Aoth glanced around, making sure he knew where everyone was, as his command winged its way across a sky that was clear and blue for once. Bareris gave him a nod. Aoth felt a fleeting pang of hostility, and then wondered why.

  “Because your eyes water every time he comes near,” Brightwing said.

  Aoth snorted. “You’ve been known to stink yourself.”

  “That’s different. I’m an animal. I’m allowed. Do you resent him for persuading you not to desert?”

  “No.” A new thought struck him. “Do you? If I left, you’d enjoy a safer, more luxurious life, too. You could gorge on horseflesh every day.”

  The griffon laughed her screeching laugh. “Now you tell me! But no. You raised me to fight, and I wouldn’t want to miss a battle like this. Look at them down there.”

  They were soaring high enough that Aoth had called upon the magic in one of his tattoos to ward off the chill. High enough that he could gaze down on them all—the legions of Pyarados, Eltabbar, and Tyraturos converging on the foe. They were visible to him because the same spell of concealment that cloaked them enshrouded him.

  When he contemplated them, he reflected on how difficult it could be for even two companies to coordinate once separated by any distance. It seemed little short of miraculous that, marching through spring rain and mud, all the diverse elements of this great host had managed to assemble in the right place at the right time to close the trap on Szass Tam. And on top of that, there was still no indication the lich knew they were coming.

  As anticipated, the shield of illusion failed at the end. Aoth knew it when horns started blowing and living men and orcs began shouting amid the necromancers’ army. That force had arranged itself to threaten the Keep of Sorrows, and now companies scrambled to defend against the enemies who’d suddenly appeared in the opposite direction.

  The southerners meant to hit them before they had the chance to form ranks. Their own bugles blew, their blood orcs bellowed, and clouds of arrows blackened the air. Aoth brandished a spear, and the Griffon Legion hurtled forward.

  A flat, leechlike undead known as a skin kite flew up at Aoth. Brightwing caught it in her talons and shredded it. Aoth rained lightning and flame on the massed foes on the ground, while Bareris sang noxious clouds of vapor and hypnotic patterns of light down into their midst. Their fellow riders shot arrows from the saddle.

  “Beware!” Brightwing lifted one wing and dipped the other, turning, and then Aoth saw the danger—several yellowed, rattling horrors, reanimated skeletons of giant raptors, seeking to climb above them.

  There were too many for the griffon to handle alone. Aoth pointed his spear at the closest and flung darts of emerald light from the point.

  The knight was undead, its face a rotting skull inside its open helm. Its flying steed, with its night black coat, blazing eyes and breath, and hooves shrouded in flame looked demonic, but nonetheless alive.

  If so, Bareris thought, it should be susceptible to enchantments that couldn’t affect its master. Murder, his new griffon, maneuvered to keep away from it while he sought to sing it blind.

  When the horse balked, jolting the corpse-knight in the saddle, he knew he’d succeeded. He sent Murder streaking at it.

  The undead knight spurred its mount and hauled on the reins, but couldn’t induce the sightless, panicked creature to move in any way useful for defense. Abandoning the effort, it braced its lance in both gauntleted hands and aimed to impale Murder as he closed.

  Bareris leaned forward, swung his spear, and knocked his adversary’s weapon out of line. Murder’s talons stabbed deep into the black horse’s body, and for a moment, they all fell down the sky together. Then the griffon pulled his claws free, lashed his wings, and flew clear. The knight and his destrier smashed into the ground.

  Bareris cast about to locate the next threat. He couldn’t find one. For the moment, the patch of air in which he and Murder had been fighting was clear of foes.

  Good. He and Murder needed a chance to catch their breath. While they did so, perhaps he could figure out how the battle was progressing.

  When he surveyed the battlefield,
he decided it was going well. Hammered by flights of arrows and quarrels, by the devils and elementals of the conjurors and the firestorms and hailstones of the evokers, by sword and mace and spear, Szass Tam’s battle lines were buckling, and his warriors had nowhere to retreat. Yielding to the pressure only moved them closer to the walls of the Keep of Sorrows, where the defenders maintained their own barrages of missiles and spells.

  Ten years we’ve been fighting, Bareris thought, and by dusk it could all be over.

  It should have been cause for rejoicing, but he felt empty. He scowled and looked around for something else to kill.

  To So-Kehur’s relief, the keep’s temple, with its altars to Kossuth, Bane, and an assortment of other deities, was empty of priests. No doubt they were all outside tending the wounded and casting maledictions on the undead.

  Of course, even had the clerics been in attendance, it was unlikely they would have objected to So-Kehur visiting the shrine. When the defenders of the keep learned that a siege was imminent, they’d surely started watching for spies and scrying. But by entering the castle despite the northern army’s supposed efforts to stop them, and then delivering good news, he and Muthoth had diverted all suspicion from themselves. As the castellan had promised, they were honored guests.

  Still, some busybody might have found it odd if one of the newcomers showed an interest in the crypts. So-Kehur appropriated a votive candle and hurried down the stone steps, getting himself out of sight before anyone wandered in.

  The wavering yellow candlelight revealed massive sarcophagi, the lids sculpted into the likenesses of those who rested inside. Slabs of marble graven with names, titles, and dates, with mottos, coats-of-arms, and the sentiments of the bereaved were mortared into the surrounding walls. Apparently no aristocrat had died in a while, for dust lay thick and cobwebs choked the walkways. The air smelled of dampness and decay. So-Kehur extracted the scroll Szass Tam had given him, unrolled it, and hesitated.