“I trust you.”
“Then you’re an idiot!”
“Maybe. And you were right. We aren’t the people we once were. We’re lesser, tarnished things. And so we can never again possess a love like the one we had before. Yet a bond remains between the people we’ve become, and why shouldn’t we have that? Why shouldn’t we see where it takes us, and enjoy whatever happiness it can provide? What would be the point of doing anything else?”
“To save your life.”
“I haven’t cared about that since Thazar Keep.”
“I do.” She sighed. “But if you reach out for me, I won’t turn you away.”
A tap on the door roused Malark from poring over the latest dispatches, and made him realize his eyes were dry and burning. He rubbed them and called, “Come in.”
A skinny, freckle-faced boy entered, balancing a tray with one hand while using the other to manage the door. Was it suppertime already? It must be, because the sky beyond the window was red, and the spicy aroma of the roast pork made Malark’s stomach gurgle.
The boy looked around. The room was spacious and adequately furnished, but maps, books, ledgers, and heaps of parchment covered almost every horizontal surface.
Malark shifted a stack of paper onto the floor, clearing the corner of a table. “You can set it here.”
“Yes, sir.” The servant placed the tray as requested, then turned as something caught his eye. Head cocked forward, he stepped closer to the largest map in the chamber, a representation of Thay and neighboring lands painted on a tabletop. A person could scrawl notes on it with chalk or set miniature figures atop it to represent armies and fleets, and Malark had done both. The southern tokens were pewter, and the northern, brass.
He could understand why the display might intrigue a child, but the servant had no business scrutinizing state secrets. “You’d better run along now,” Malark said.
The boy shifted a little pewter griffon. “You’re well informed. I can add a few lines to the story the map tells, but only a few. Your griffon riders destroyed the north’s primary manufactory for the creation of undead and then withdrew successfully from High Thay.”
He picked up a stick of turquoise chalk. “Just last night, blue fire melted Anhaurz, killing all within.” He drew an X through the city. “The ruins have a weird beauty about them.”
He set down the chalk, rubbed his fingertips together to brush off the dust, and moved a pair of ships. “Thessaloni Canos and her men made it to the Wizard’s Reach and secured both Escalant and Laothkund for the council.
“In short, it’s the same story everywhere. Despite the inconveniences of waves of blue flame, earthquakes, wizardry misbehaving, and dangerous new animals rampaging around, southern armies are winning victory after victory, and I give much of the credit to you, Goodman Springhill, and your network of agents.”
Malark swallowed. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I think you know. Once, I spoke with you and your comrades in a grove. I offered you my patronage, and you spurned me.”
“Szass Tam.”
“Say it softly, if you please, or better still, don’t repeat it again at all. I’ll tell you something I’d admit to few others. I’m not the mage I was before Mystra died and the Death Moon Orb blew up in my face. I’ve yet to recover the full measure of my strength, and I’m not eager to fight the entire Central Citadel. It was difficult enough just sneaking in here despite the wards Lallara and Iphegor Nath set to keep creatures like me out.”
“Why did you?”
The boy grinned widely enough to reveal he was missing a molar on the upper left. “I’ve already told you, more or less. For ten years, you’ve played a key role in the war. If I’d realized just how important you were going to be, perhaps I would have killed you that evening in the wood. But I imagined it beneath me to destroy a person like you—meaning a man with no command of magic—with my own hands, especially when I’d entered your camp under sign of truce. Vanity and scruples are terrible things. They can cause all sorts of problems.”
Malark didn’t have to glance around the room. He already knew where everything was, including his enchanted cudgels, hanging on a peg by the door. It seemed likely he was going to need them. He knew better than to batter the chill, poisonous flesh of a lich with his bare hands, even when the undead wizard had cloaked himself in the semblance of a living child.
Of course, even if he reached the batons, no sane person would give a shaved copper for his chances. It seemed that Death had forgiven his sins at last and stood ready to usher him into the blackness. He felt a thrill of anticipation.
“Please,” Szass Tam said, “don’t spring into action like the hero of some tawdry play.” It startled Malark that the necromancer knew he was about to move. “I’ve never had the opportunity to study the fighting system you employ, and no doubt it would be interesting. But I’d prefer you not make a commotion, and I promise, there’s no need. If I’d wanted to kill you, I could simply have poisoned your supper. Feel free to eat it, by the way. No point letting it get cold.”
Malark felt out of his depth. It wasn’t a feeling to which he was accustomed, nor one he enjoyed. “If I’m such a stone in your buskin, then why wouldn’t you want to murder me?”
“Because it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Before she ascended to greater things, Dmitra was a brilliant spymaster in her own right. If I eliminated you, she’d just pick up where you left off. What I need to do is bring you over to my side.”
“As you mentioned, I’ve already refused your offer of patronage.”
“So you did, and I daresay the events of the ensuing decade have given you no cause to regret it. Ordinary folk deplore the widespread loss of life the war produces, but a worshiper of Death must revel in it, and in the destruction produced by the blue fire as well. You must feel as giddy as a lad at his first carnival.”
Malark took a breath. “I’m impressed. You’ve discovered something I haven’t confided to anyone in a while.”
“Actually, monk of the Long Death, I’ve discovered everything. In desperation, with all my schemes unraveling, I employed divination to learn more about my adversaries. I don’t mean Dmitra and the other zulkirs. I long ago learned all their sordid little secrets. I focused on those among their lieutenants who’ve done the most to hamper me.”
“If you really know everything about me, you know I regard the undead as affronts to the natural order of things. That’s why I’d never come over to your side, no matter what you offered.”
The boy grinned. “Never say never. If you’ll consent to hear it, I’d like to share a story. Along the way, it will answer a question that’s perplexed you for ten years. Why did I murder Druxus Rhym?”
The tale went on for a long time. The patch of sky beyond the window turned black. Stars flowered there, and shadow enfolded the chamber.
By the time he finished, Malark’s heart was pounding. He swallowed and asked, “Will it work?”
“I admit—Druxus doubted it, but I attribute that to a failure of imagination, because his own analysis suggested it would. I believe it will, and I’m generally considered the greatest wizard in Thay, which is to say, in the most magically advanced realm in all Faerûn. Of course, the only way to know for certain is to try. Will you help me put it to the test?”
chapter seven
26 Kythorn—11 Flamerule, the Year of Blue Fire
Nymia Focar ran her gaze over the mounted knights lined up before her, their lances rising straight and high, their fierce chargers standing submissive to their masters’ wills, with scarcely a snort, a head toss, or the stamp of a hoof. She could scarcely help noticing which of the faces framed in the steel helms were particularly handsome, or wondering who might prove exceptionally virile if summoned to her tent. A woman had her appetites.
But Nymia indulged them at night. It was morning now, and she had an army to lead to its next engagement. If the gods continued to smile on her, that would yield its own satisfa
ctions.
After the host that marched north from Zolum divided, she’d led her troops up the narrow strip of flatland between Lake Thaylambar and the foothills of the Sunrise Mountains, then west into Delhumide. So far, she’d encountered only feeble resistance, and had high hopes of taking Umratharos before Midsummer.
Satisfied with her inspection, she waved her arm, wheeled her destrier, and rode toward the road. Hooves clattered and harnesses jingled as her horsemen started after her, and a phalanx of spearmen took a first marching stride in unison. Griffons shrieked and lashed their wings, taking to the air.
Then a black bird swooped down from the sky, its plumage glinting in the morning sunlight. Nymia reined in her steed and raised her hand. Her army stumbled to a halt.
Many army commanders used pigeons as messenger birds, and accordingly, their foes watched for the creatures and shot them. That was the reason that Dmitra Flass—or her outlander lieutenant—had trained ravens to perform the same task. The birds had a touch of magic in them, and weren’t limited to flying to and fro from set locations. They could locate an army in the field or even a specific individual.
One of Nymia’s aides held out his arm. The raven landed on his wrist like a falcon. He untied the miniature leather scroll case on the bird’s leg and proffered it to Nymia.
She unscrewed the cap and magic swelled the tube to its natural size. She shook out the parchment and unrolled it.
The message read:
As you are surely aware, Kethin Hur was not present at the battle for the Keep of Sorrows, nor is he participating in the present campaign. He claims his strength is needed to guard his southern border and make sure the Mulhorandi don’t invade while we Thayans are busy fighting one another. But my sources report signs he’s secretly massing troops in the northernmost lands of his domain.
The council wouldn’t approve of me telling you this. They want you focused on laying waste to Szass Tam’s territories. But I thought you should know. In days to come, remember who did you a favor.
Malark Springhill had neither signed the message nor spelled out the reason Nymia ought to be concerned, but he hadn’t needed to. She understood. While she was busy fighting in the North, Kethin Hur, the governor of Thazalhar, meant to raid into Pyarados, pillaging and perhaps even seizing land.
Grasping and treacherous though he was, he wouldn’t have dared attempt such a thing in peacetime. But amid the chaos spawned by war, blue fire, and earthquakes, he was all too likely to succeed.
Nymia had to thwart the whoreson. But could she, when the zulkirs themselves had ordered her north?
She wished Aoth were present to counsel her. Over the years, he’d offered consistently good advice, and she’d regretted sending him to Bezantur for vivisection. But his life hadn’t seemed worth an argument with Dmitra Flass.
What might he say if he were with her? Maybe that a highranking officer had no choice but to follow the commands of her masters, but enjoyed some discretion as to precisely how to obey. If Nymia split her army in two and left a portion of it to fight in Delhumide, she could maintain she’d prosecuted her part in the master strategy with all due diligence.
And if that wasn’t good enough for the zulkirs, she’d say she was sick, had needed to return to Pyarados, and could hardly travel without a proper escort. Or, she could claim she had reason to believe Kethin Hur had aligned himself with Szass Tam. By the Black Flame, that might even be true! It made more sense than if he’d decided to raid a neighboring tharch without a powerful ally backing his play.
Anyway, she’d solve today’s problem today, and figure out how to appease the council later. Because for her, the real point of the war wasn’t to decide if one archmage or several would rule Thay, but to protect her own station and possessions. Nothing else mattered half as much.
She spent most of the morning dividing her army and its provisions in two and instructing Baiyen Tabar, who looked less than eager to assume command of the troops she was leaving behind. In truth, Nymia didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have enough men to be confident of accomplishing the tasks the zulkirs had set him—or rather, her.
But she could scarcely acknowledge she might be abandoning him to defeat and destruction. Instead she promised rich rewards for the victories she professed to be certain he would win. She pledged, too, to return as soon as she could, then marched the best of her warriors south.
The sky was the color of slate as the Gray Archers, or what was left of them, laid their comrade on the pyre. Cremation wasn’t one of their customs, but during their years in Thay, they’d learned not to bury anyone even if he hadn’t perished at the hands of a vampire or something similar. With the power of necromancy rampant in the land, the corpse was all too likely to dig its way out of the grave and start slaughtering its former friends.
“Damn it,” Darvin Redfox whispered, “we can’t even send our dead to the Foehammer in the way they would wish.”
Taller than he and snub-nosed, her chestnut hair gathered in a long braid, Lureene Pinehill was both his lieutenant and his lover, but generally didn’t allow the intimate side of their relationship to show in her public behavior. Now, however, she gave his hand a surreptitious squeeze. “Tempus will welcome him anyway.”
“I hope so.” The torch dropped onto the oil-doused wood, and flame crackled upward. “And the rest of us, too, when our time comes.”
“That won’t be anytime soon. The sickness has run its course. Evendur was the first case in several days, and he’ll also be the last. You’ll see.”
“I hope so,” Darvin repeated. To take back Nothos, a mostly ruinous town in northern Lapendrar, the mercenary company had needed to destroy a garrison of necromancers and dread warriors. With the wizards’ magic weakened, the Gray Archers succeeded, but afterward, sickness broke out among the ranks, possibly a result of close contact with the undead.
“I think you’re tired,” Lureene said.
“I am. Tired of fighting ghouls and wraiths, and of serving lords who traffic with demons and feel only contempt for anyone who isn’t both Thayan and Mulan.”
“Do you want to seek employment elsewhere? I’m sure someone is fighting a war in some other part of Faerûn.”
“I’d love it, but how would we get there? With the earth shaking and the blue fires burning, it’s difficult enough to march overland. Can you imagine how dangerous it must be to travel by sea? No, we’re stuck here.” He spat. “People say the world’s ending. If so, I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.”
“When the funeral’s over, you’re coming to my tent. I know how to brighten your mood.”
But it seemed she wouldn’t have the chance. When the fire had had its way with the dead Gray Archer, and the company priest finished the final prayer, several of the men accosted Darvin. He inferred that they too must have been conferring in hushed voices as they watched the body burn.
“Captain.” Squinting Aelthas said, “Sir. Sorry to bother you, but the money didn’t come again today.”
“I know,” Darvin said. He’d been assured their pay would follow them north, but it was a tenday late.
“You know we’re not shirkers or cowards, Captain. We’ve followed you into all nine kinds of Hell. But if the council of zulkirs isn’t going to pay us, what’s the point?”
Darvin groped for the right words to persuade the men to be patient. Then, it was as if something turned over in his head, and he decided he was out of patience himself. “Fortunately, there’s an easy remedy,” he said. “Collect our wages from the town.”
Lureene pivoted toward him, her brown eyes narrowed. “Are you sure that’s wise? By the looks of it, this place has been sacked already.”
“Then the people should be used to it.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to mistreat them. The zulkirs want Lapendrar—”
“We’re not mistreating them. We’re charging a fair price for ridding their settlement of undead. Now stop blathering and organize the collection!”
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Her mouth tightened. “Yes, sir.”
He felt a pang of guilt for snarling at her, but he’d never been one for apologies, and so he didn’t tell her he was sorry. Not even late that night, when a burgher had broken her arm with a club and the riot was well under way.
The dead griffon scarcely had any flesh left, let alone feathers. Yet its rattling wings carried it through the air, because that was the unnatural nature of undeath.
Bareris was no necromancer. But over the years, as his bardic powers increased and his mood grew ever bleaker, he’d discovered that his music could reanimate dead bodies. With mounts in scarce supply, he’d used the talent back in Xingax’s stronghold to create one more. It was carrying Tammith, too, strapped to its skeletal form and shrouded in black cloth to ward her from the sun.
He peered through the gathering twilight at the plains of Tyraturos stretched below. Soon it would be time to set down and make camp, and Tammith would wake. He smiled at the prospect of seeing and touching her again. His throat tingled.
Then he spied a deep gorge splitting the earth, and the legionnaires milling around on the far side of it. Their banners bore the eight-pointed crimson star device of the council, as well as the Black Hand of Bane.
Dimon’s troops, more than likely. Evidently they’d been heading north and had been unpleasantly surprised to find the chasm barring the way.
Clearly, they wouldn’t be marching any farther until morning, and Bareris supposed he and his men might as well share their camp. Using magic to project his voice, he called to them that he and his companions were Nymia Focar’s men, then blew a signal on his trumpet to convey the same message.
Meanwhile, his undead steed carried him over the wound in the earth. When he was directly above it, he gasped.
Something huge was climbing out of the depths, a mass of writhing tentacles with bulging eyes and circular orifices, alternately expanding and puckering, down the length of the arms. Blue fire flickered around it and allowed it to sink the tips of its arms into the stony wall, which they penetrated as easily as a knife cutting butter.
The Haunted Lands: Book II - Undead Page 17