“Yet I reject your terms.”
Szass Tam sighed. “Then how about this? After I make myself master of Thay, give me one thousand years to enjoy the fruits of my victory, and then you can take my soul. I’ll be your bondsman forever after, in this world or wherever you decide to have me labor on your behalf.”
Bane laughed. “Do you think so highly of yourself as to imagine that appreciably sweetens the bargain? The addition of one tiny soul, due a millennium hence?”
“It’s not a prodigiously long time in the context of your eternal existence, and I am Szass Tam. Jeer and scoff at me all you like, but I know you’re wise enough to understand what that means. You could scour your ‘higher worlds’ from one end to the other without finding a vassal who will further your schemes half as well.”
Bane laughed again. “I’m tempted to accept this bargain. Then, in days to come, to make you the lowliest of my slaves, performing the most painful and degrading duties, just to punish your arrogance as it deserves.”
“If you want to waste my talents, that will be your prerogative. Now, will you make a pact with me or not?”
“Do you know … I believe I will, but the terms must change in one respect. My priests and other worshipers will continue to aid the council.”
“Because that way, no matter who wins, you and your creed will enjoy the favor of the victors. Very shrewd. All right, it’s a bargain. Give me knowledge and power and I’ll make do without your clerics.”
“I warn you, you’re asking for more than you were ever meant to hold, and jamming it inside you all at once will exacerbate the stress. Your mind may break apart.”
“That I doubt.”
“We’ll see.” His arm a blur of motion, Bane whipped the back of his jeweled gauntlet against Szass Tam’s face.
Bone cracked, but the initial numbing shock of impact didn’t give way to pain. That was because a sensation like a discordant scream stabbed into Szass Tam’s mind, and it was so intense as to eclipse mere physical distress.
It howled on and on until he began to fear that, as Bane had warned, he might not be able to bear it. Then it resolved from a grating shriek into harmony. His inner self seemed to vibrate to it, but no longer felt as if it might tear apart. Rather, the sensation was exhilarating.
He realized he’d fallen, and picked himself up off the ground. He looked around for Bane, but the Black Hand had taken his leave. The dark barrier had dissolved, and the stars shined overhead.
Szass Tam’s face gave him a belated twinge. Now confident of his ability to perform the delicate manipulations, he mended the bone, regenerated flesh and skin, and even regrew his beard. He started to heal the rest of his wounds as well, realized he could now rid his hands of any trace of blemish, but then, on a whim, left the fingers withered. He was used to them that way.
He could feel that, while the new knowledge was his to keep, the prodigious mystical strength Bane had lent him would gradually fade. He needed to exploit it immediately if it was to carry him to victory. Yet as he sent his thoughts soaring to link with the minds of his followers, he had time to grin at the reflection that even a so-called god with all his alleged omniscience could be gulled into making a disastrously bad bargain.
Perched on Brightwing’s back, Aoth surveyed an expanse of sky, and his preternaturally keen vision discerned all sorts of things. Subtle variations in the grayness of the clouds. Sparrows. Vultures circling. A white gull that had strayed too far north of the seashore. But no ravens.
A cold drizzle started falling, further souring his mood. “Will ravens fly in this?” he asked.
“They might,” Brightwing said, “if it doesn’t get any harder.”
“Wonderful.” That meant he and the griffon had to keep flying in it, too.
Proving Malark’s treachery, if in fact he was a traitor, seemed simple enough in principle. One need only show a discrepancy between the intelligence the spymaster received and the information he supplied to the zulkirs or the commanders in the field. Or between the orders the council gave him to transmit and those he actually sent along.
The trick was identifying those contradictions. Aoth was a high-ranking officer, and Bareris likewise occupied a position of trust, but even so, they had no right or apparent reason to review every secret message that found its way to Malark, or that he sent in turn. Nor were they informed of the outcome every time the zulkirs conferred, or when one of the archmages acted unilaterally.
Since they doubted their ability to spy on Malark and remain undetected while he waited on his superiors and read and prepared his scrolls, that left Aoth and his fellow conspirators to hunt messenger birds on the wing, but not near the Central Citadel or anywhere over Bezantur, where they might have had some reasonable hope of finding them. They had to seek them in the vastness of the countryside, and hope that if they did manage to kill one, its message would prove duplicitous, and they’d know enough to recognize the treason when they saw it.
“Curse it, anyway,” Aoth growled. “I’m working with the false friend who betrayed me to trip up the true one who saved my life, and I’m doing it to serve the masters who wanted to cut me to pieces. What in Kossuth’s name is wrong with me?”
“I’ve been wondering that for years,” Brightwing said. “We can still desert if you’d rather.”
Aoth sighed. “No, I’ve lost the inclination. Walking away from a long, slow grind of a stalemate is one thing, because what does it matter if you’re there or not? But for a little while, after the blue fires came, it seemed the south might actually win, and now it looks as if Szass Tam might defeat us for good and all. Either way, the war feels different, and running off would seem more cowardly.”
“Is that supposed to be an example of human reason at work? Because to a griffon, it makes no sense.”
Aoth tried to frame a retort, then sat up straight in the saddle when he spotted a fleck of black in the distance. Before the blue flame infected his eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see it at all. Now he thought he could discern a brown wrapping bound to a yellow foot.
“There,” he said.
“Where?” Brightwing asked.
He married his mind to hers, sharing his vision. “To the right, above the abandoned vineyard.”
“Got it.” She raised one wing, dipped the other, turned, and hurtled in the proper direction.
The raven saw them coming and fled. Perhaps, in its animal way, it wondered why they were troubling it, for such a small bird should have been beneath the notice of such a large predator.
A war mage would have no trouble bringing a raven down, but Aoth had to make sure he did it in a way that wouldn’t destroy the message it carried. He recited a spell, brandished his spear, and a cloud of greenish vapor materialized around the bird. It convulsed, fell, and smashed against the ground.
Brightwing landed beside it. Aoth dismounted and picked up the broken carcass. For a moment, he felt like a bully, using powerful sorcery to kill such a fragile, defenseless creature.
He opened the tiny scroll case and it swelled to its full size. He shook out the document inside, unfurled it, and read it. A chill oozed up his spine.
“Is it anything?” Brightwing asked.
“Yes.” He rolled up the parchment again. “We need to get back to the city.”
Dmitra Flass kept a garden in the heart of the grim black fortress that was the Central Citadel, and the rosebuds blazed in voluptuous shades of crimson and gold despite the droughts, tainted rains, and plant-killing pests of the past ten years. Perhaps, Malark thought, it was illusion that kept the flowers bright and the grass thick and verdant at all times.
Whatever the truth of the matter, when his schedule allowed, as it did that evening, he liked to stroll and meditate here. He headed for a favorite bower, and then Aoth stepped onto the path ahead of him.
Aoth was carrying his spear, had his falchion strapped across his back, and wore mail, but none of that was unusual. It was the deliberate way he
moved and the grim set of his square, tattooed face that betrayed his intentions.
A pity. Malark had known someone would discover his treason eventually, but he’d hoped for more time.
Had Aoth come alone? It was possible, but Malark doubted it. It seemed more likely that someone else was sneaking through the trees and bushes to strike him down from behind if he resisted arrest. He listened, trying to pinpoint the location of that hypothetical threat, meanwhile giving the war mage a smile. “Good evening. How are your eyes?”
“I know about your treason,” Aoth said. “I got my hands on one of the scrolls you wrote.”
“This is some sort of misunderstanding.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“You’re right. I should know better, and I apologize.” Malark had never had any reason to doubt the acuity of his hearing, but he still couldn’t detect anyone creeping up on him. Maybe no one was. On the other hand, if Aoth had enlisted Mirror’s aid, the ghost wouldn’t make any noise unless he wanted to. “Can I appeal to friendship and gratitude instead?”
“No. I hate this, but I mean to do my duty. Curse it all, why would you turn traitor now, when we actually had a chance of winning? What can Szass Tam give you that Dmitra Flass wouldn’t?”
Malark sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Have it your way. I’m sure it will all come out during your interrogation. Will you accompany me peacefully? It might go a little easier for you if you cooperate.”
“All right. Take me to Dmitra.”
“No. She’s fond of you. Of course, she’s also a zulkir, and I doubt mere sentiment would cloud her judgment sufficiently for you to talk your way out of trouble, but I figured, why risk it? I showed the proof of your guilt to Nevron, and he’s the one who ordered your arrest. He’ll question you first, and involve the rest of the council when he sees fit.”
“All right.” Malark took a step forward. “But indulge my curiosity. Tell me what aroused your suspicions.” Sometimes people had trouble talking and focusing on an opponent at the same time, and if he could distract Aoth, maybe he could spring and attack without provoking a blaze of arcane power from the head of the spear.
Or maybe not. Malark rarely met a warrior whose prowess he truly respected, but the commander of the Griffon Legion was one of the few.
Which meant this confrontation could quite possibly end in a fitting death for one of them. But the prospect made Malark feel an unaccustomed ambivalence. He still wanted to die, but he also wanted to share in what was to come.
“Sorry,” Aoth said. “I don’t care to answer that question.” He leveled the spear and stepped off the path, making way for his prisoner to move in front of him, and then, off to Malark’s right, something brushed in the grass.
At last Malark knew the approximate position of another adversary, and this one might be less formidable than Aoth. He pivoted and charged toward the faint noise.
He felt a pang of surprise when he saw Bareris. He’d thought the bard and war mage had had a falling out, but apparently they’d patched things up. From a certain perspective, that was unfortunate, for Bareris too was a fighter to be reckoned with.
Happily though, Malark’s sudden move caught both griffon riders by surprise. Aoth hurled a blast of flame from his spear, but it only roared through the space his target had just vacated. Bareris extended his sword, but his timing was off. Malark brushed the blade aside with one hand, stepped in, and struck at Bareris’s chest with the heel of the other.
Bareris jerked back from the blow, which kept it from landing with full force. Instead of smashing splinters of rib into his lung and heart, it simply sent him staggering backward.
Malark sprinted to the door in the garden’s east wall, then glanced back. The closest foes were Mirror, who looked like a wavering semblance of Bareris, and a huge wolf that could only be Tammith Iltazyarra. Aoth and the bard were farther back, the former circling, trying to reach a position from which he could cast another spell without a tree or his allies blocking the line to the target, and the latter still doubled over, gasping and pressing a hand to his chest.
The odds against Malark were even longer than he’d initially guessed. Still, since he’d broken out of the noose that had been closing around him, maybe he had a chance. Szass Tam had given him a charm to use when the moment came to make his escape, but had also made it clear that he must be particular as to how he employed it. Otherwise, the effect could prove as deadly to him as to his pursuers.
Now, he judged, was the moment. He opened a hidden pocket on his belt, snatched forth a black pearl, threw it, and spun around. He jerked the handle of the door and found it locked. He kicked it off its hinges and dashed onward.
Tammith understood that Bareris and Aoth hoped to take their friend into custody without hurting him or depriving him of his dignity. That was why they hadn’t blasted him with spells the instant they found him, or brought a squad of legionnaires along. The part of her that still remembered fondness and compassion made her feel that she might have done the same, even as her vampire side scorned her comrades as fools.
Now she no longer felt any such ambivalence. Malark’s break for freedom had suppressed what passed for her humanity and fired her predatory instincts. As she raced after him, all she wanted in the world was to rip his legs out from under him, tear him with her fangs, and guzzle his blood. Indeed, it was going to take all the self-control she could muster to stop short of killing him, but Nevron wanted him alive.
Certain the barrier would delay him long enough for her to close with him, she grinned a lupine grin when he scrambled to the locked door. Then he threw a dark bead or stone.
Since it landed in grass, it shouldn’t have shattered. It did anyway, and shadow boiled out of it, separating into ragged, floating figures that moaned and gibbered as they advanced.
Tammith felt a dullness numbing her mind and exerted her will to banish it. Only after she succeeded could she think coherently enough to recognize the entities: allips, the mad, vengeful spirits of suicides. A particularly nasty rearguard to cover Malark’s retreat.
She melted from she-wolf to woman, because the touch of an allip was venomous. If she had to fight the things, she preferred to do it with the superior reach her sword afforded.
Bareris started singing, probably to counter the hypnotic effect of the allips’ babble. Tammith drew her blade, and then a pair of the spirits closed with her.
Fangs bared, she slashed at one and the sword whizzed all the way through it without any tangible resistance. The weapon was enchanted, but she sensed that the stroke hadn’t hurt her foe. Well, perhaps the next one would.
The allips whirled around her, groaning and keening. She cut and thrust, and perhaps their murky forms began to fray, but it was difficult to tell for certain. She dodged and ducked to avoid their scrabbling, raking fingers.
But it was hard to avoid every strike when the entities were attacking from two sides, and eventually, one landed a blow from behind. Or so she assumed, for she didn’t see it, nor did she feel localized pain or a shock of impact as such. Rather, she experienced a sudden disruption of thought, followed by confusion, fear, and a sense of filthy violation.
It was like having Xingax in her head again, and it drove her to fury. Screaming, she laid around her until her attackers dissolved into nothingness and their ghastly voices fell silent.
She turned, surveying the battle. Malark had broken the locked door and fled. Still singing, Bareris was holding his own against two remaining allips, and Mirror was exchanging blows with another.
Aoth, however, was having problems. Half a dozen of the crazed, vicious spirits had swarmed on him, and, plainly hurt, he was stumbling around in the middle of them jabbing desperately with his spear. A spell would likely have served him better, but perhaps he was already too addled to cast one.
It occurred to her that Aoth was Bareris’s friend, and that she could rush to his aid. But he was nothing to her, and t
he prey responsible for fouling her own mind was getting away. She dissolved into bats and flew in pursuit.
Though Mirror hadn’t consciously tried to summon his targe when the allip engaged him, it had materialized on his arm anyway, and served him well. A wooden or steel shield would likely have proved all but useless, but he, his ethereal opponent, and his armor were all made of the same refined essence of darkness and pain.
He thrust his blade into his adversary’s murky, demented features, and it gave a last mad gabble and withered from existence. That freed him to help Aoth.
But when he turned toward the war mage, he saw that it might already be too late to succor him. Aoth staggered and fell, the spear flying from his grip. The allips sprang on top of him and clawed like famished ghouls ripping at a corpse.
Mirror could leap to Aoth in an instant, but he couldn’t strike half a dozen blows quickly enough to keep one of the allips from giving the griffon rider his death. But he could attempt something else, because communion with his god had partly restored him. At times, he thought more clearly, and he could now invoke the holy powers he’d wielded in life.
That didn’t mean he was eager to do so, because as he’d discovered when healing Aoth’s eyes, there was a fundamental discrepancy between the divine champion he’d once been and the tainted shadow that remained of him. When he channeled the power of his deity, he was like a snowman trying to handle fire.
Yet if his faith was strong, his master would protect him. He raised his sword and called to that which he no longer understood or could even name, but which he loved and trusted nonetheless.
A radiance like daylight blazed from his blade. The allips cringed from it, floating away from the fallen Aoth.
Mirror charged them and cut at the nearest. Now shrouded in blur to hamper an opponent’s aim, Bareris rushed to stand beside him. Fighting in concert, the two companions slashed the remaining allips into evaporating wisps of murk, then hurried over to Aoth.
The Haunted Lands: Book II - Undead Page 20