The Haunted Lands: Book II - Undead

by Richard Lee Byers

  Bareris slammed down hard, but managed to swing his blade in a frantic parry. Somehow it carried his adversary’s thrust safely to the side. Taking advantage of his supine position, he sliced the bowman’s hamstring. The man with the black hand yelped and fell. Bareris heaved himself to his knees and cut, shearing into the archer’s stomach.

  That should take care of him, but what about the third enemy? Bareris twisted around just as the other man’s arrow leaped from the bow.

  The bard wrenched himself sideways and the shaft hurtled past him. The bowman instantly snatched for another. Bareris sucked in a breath to batter him with a thunderous shout.

  But before he could, a cloud of black bats swirled down to rip at the archer from all sides. He collapsed immediately. The bats hadn’t shed nearly enough blood to kill, but the cold poison of their touch had stopped his heart.

  The bats flew round and round one another and became a woman. “Are you all right?” Tammith asked.

  “Yes.” He looked up and down the row of roofs and saw other black figures slinking with bows in hand. “But we have problems.” He bellowed loud as his magic would permit. “Legionnaires! Look up! At the rooftops!”

  Despite the volume he achieved and the power of coercion with which he infused his call, he wasn’t certain anyone would heed him. There was too much happening on the ground. But someone paid attention. Arrows and quarrels flew up from the docks and ships, and the dark bowmen started to drop. Bareris heaved a sigh of relief, and then an enormous shadow swept over him.

  Black against a black sky, largely visible because it eclipsed the few stars shining through the cloud cover, a nightwing soared above the harbor, while other huge, batlike shadows glided over other parts of the city. Bareris wished again for his brigandine, wished, too, that Winddancer was with him, and that he hadn’t already expended so much of his power. But the nightwings didn’t dive and attack, and when they wheeled and flew north, he inferred that they’d simply been scouting the city stretched out beneath them.

  He was glad he wouldn’t have to fight one, but far from overjoyed. If the creatures had ventured here tonight, it could only mean the rest of Szass Tam’s host was following close behind.

  The Tower of Revelation offended Lallara’s sensibilities. As far as she was concerned, a wizard’s fortress was meant to hide secrets and provide strong defenses, and the sanctuary of the Order of Divination seemed capable of neither. The acoustics were so excellent that she could hear tiny sounds from two chambers away, and the place sported so many big, costly glass windows that it scarcely seemed to have enough solid stone wall to support its mass. More often than not, the casements stood open to admit the morning breeze and the faint sounds of the city, abnormally quiet, almost holding its breath after last night’s insurrection and the sighting of Szass Tam’s flying creatures.

  But though the citadel made her feel exposed and ill at ease, she was an archmage specializing in protective magic, and perceived that the building had wards in place to foil eavesdroppers and keep assassins from flinging daggers or thunderbolts through the openings. So she supposed she could tolerate it for a while. Certainly it had seemed more expeditious for the zulkirs to go to the diviners than to require the seers to drag the appurtenances of their discipline to the Central Citadel.

  Two dozen senior diviners chanted spells to their mirrors and crystal orbs. Light seethed inside the devices, then coalesced into coherent images. Lallara, Nevron, Lauzoril, Samas Kul, and Kumed Hahpret prowled among them, peering at ranks upon marching ranks of dread warriors, packs of loping ghouls, crawling hulks with writhing tentacles like the ones that had reared up out of the ground outside the Keep of Sorrows, and skeletal horses drawing closed wagons.

  After a time, Lauzoril said, “You’ve done well. Thank you.”

  A diviner with additional eyes tattooed above and below his real ones said, “To be honest, Your Omnipotence, it wasn’t difficult. The necromancers aren’t trying to conceal their numbers or their location.”

  Nevron spat. “No. Why should they? You soothsayers, get out. Your masters need to talk.”

  Ifthe diviners resented the brusque dismissal, they had better sense than to let on. They filed out docilely.

  Samas flopped down on a stool, plucked a silk handkerchief from a pocket of his luxurious scarlet robe, and wiped sweat from his mottled, ruddy face. He looked as if the brief stroll around the chamber had taxed his stamina, and, as on many previous occasions, Lallara felt a pang of disgust at his gross, wheezing immensity.

  “How can Szass Tam have such a large army?” the obese transmuter said. “How could the necromancers create so many undead in so short a time?”

  “We don’t know!” Lallara snapped. “We already discussed it and agreed that we don’t understand. Either think of something new to contribute or keep your mouth shut.”

  Samas glared at her. By the look of him, he was attempting to frame a truly scathing retort, but Lauzoril intervened before he could.

  “Let’s not take out our frustrations on one another,” the zulkir of Enchantment said, his manner that of the stuffy, condescending schoolmaster he was at heart. “We have decisions to make, and we need to make them quickly, because I recognize that tax station.” He gestured to a greenish sphere floating in the air. The luminous scene inside it revealed gigantic hounds, their forms composed of mangled corpses twisted together, standing near a roadside keep, its walls a distinctive mosaic of white stones intermingled with black. “The lich’s host has nearly reached the First Escarpment.”

  “How do they travel so fast?” Kumed asked.

  “The undead are tireless,” Lauzoril said, “and by day, the wagons carry the creatures who can’t bear sunlight. And we have no one left in the field to harry the enemy and slow them down.”

  “The Griffon Legion did it at the start of the war,” Samas said.

  “The Griffon Legion is a shadow of its former self,” Nevron said, “like all our other legions. I don’t think they could manage the same trick again. Let’s not send them to their deaths until we can accomplish something thereby.”

  “So,” Samas said, “Szass Tam will be here soon. The question is, do we linger to receive him?”

  “Yes, damn it!” Nevron snarled. “This is Bezantur! It can withstand a siege.”

  “Can it?” Lauzoril asked. He waved his hand again, this time in a gesture that encompassed all the globes and mirrors shining on every side, and all the visions of martial and mystical might flickering inside them.

  “If it can’t,” Nevron said, “the four of us—” He stopped short, then gave Kumed a cold smile. “Excuse me, Your Omnipotence, obviously I meant to say, the five of us can always transport ourselves to safety.”

  “In the midst of battle,” Lauzoril said, “nothing is certain. It would be difficult to articulate any spell properly with a vampire’s fangs buried in one’s throat. Besides, if we waited to escape until Szass Tam’s army had breached the walls and flooded into the city, we might get away, but it’s likely that the ships carrying our treasure and our more useful followers wouldn’t. Is that how we want to start our lives in exile?”

  Samas looked pained at the mere thought of leaving his vast wealth behind.

  “At this point,” Lallara said, “we can count ourselves fortunate we even have ships. Only four burned, but we could have lost all of them.”

  Kumed cleared his throat. “What really happened last night? Who was responsible?”

  “The church of Bane,” said Lauzoril. “Their agents stirred up the rabble to try to steal the ships to flee the city. The point was to create cover for the Banites to sneak over the rooftops, shoot flaming arrows into the vessels, and so keep us from fleeing.”

  Kumed attempted a scowl as fierce as Nevron’s. “Then we should hang every Banite we can find.”

  “You won’t find the ones who actually pose a threat,” Lallara said. “They’ve gone into hiding.”

  “Which means they could try ag
ain,” Samas said, summoning a golden cup into his hand. Lallara caught a whiff of brandy. “For that matter, the mob could rise again, now that the Dreadmasters have put the idea in their heads, and this time succeed in making away with the boats.”

  “All the more reason,” Lauzoril said, “to use them ourselves as quickly as possible.”

  Nevron shook his head. “Are you really so craven?”

  “I’m not surrendering,” Lauzoril said. “I intend to spend my time in the Wizard’s Reach planning and gathering strength. I’ll deal with Szass Tam when the time is right, but that time has yet to arrive. If you disagree, then you’re free to try and prove me wrong. Stay in Bezantur and command the defense. Just don’t expect me to leave any enchanters, or any of the soldiers we command, behind to fight.”

  “I’m leaving, too,” Lallara said. The admission wounded her pride, but pride was of no use to the dead.

  “So am I,” said Samas.

  “And I,” said Kumed, as if anyone cared.

  “Then I must come as well,” Nevron said. “Plainly, I can’t hold the city without you. But curse you all for the gutless weaklings you are!”

  He seemed furious enough, but Lallara sensed a histrionic quality to his bitterness. Perhaps, underneath it all, the conjuror was grateful they’d made it impossible for him to stay.

  His fingers scratching among the feathers atop Winddancer’s head, Mirror wafting a chill at his back, Bareris stood at the rail of a barge overloaded with griffons and their riders and watched the zulkirs’ fleet set sail. It took a long time for so many vessels to maneuver out of the harbor. The Red Wizards and nobles had laid claim to every trawler, sloop, and cog in port to transport themselves, their troops, their possessions, and favored members of their households.

  The city stood in a haze of smoke. As the fleet set forth, evokers had hurled blasts of fire at the piers and the shipyards with their half-completed and half-repaired vessels suspended in dry dock. The idea was to make it as difficult as possible for the necromancers to give chase over the Alambar Sea, and if the conflagrations spread to other parts of the city, the lords who were abandoning it no longer had any reason to care.

  The smoke was thick enough to sting their eyes and make them cough. Yet hundreds of folk perched on rooftops, or ventured as close as they could to the water’s edge, to watch their masters’ departure. Bareris wondered if they were happy or sad to see them go.

  He wondered the same about himself. He’d been a warrior for sixteen years. He didn’t like losing, and despite all the council’s swaggering talk of hiring a mighty host of sellswords and returning to reclaim mainland Thay in a year or two, he judged that was exactly what had happened. He doubted he’d ever lay eyes on the city of his birth again.

  It was particularly hard to accept defeat after a ten-year struggle against Szass Tam. He’d hated the lich ever since he’d discovered that his minions had turned Tammith into a vampire, and he still did.

  But that loathing wasn’t the passion that ruled his life anymore. His love for Tammith was stronger, and perhaps he ought to regard this final retreat as a blessing. Now they could devote themselves to one another, and to finding a remedy for her condition, without worrying that, in one ghastly fashion or another, war would sunder them yet again.

  Yes, it might all be for the best—if the fleet managed to slip away unmolested.

  The late Aznar Thrul had commissioned a magnificent pleasure ship for himself. After succeeding the murdered evoker, Samas Kul had looked forward to taking full sybaritic advantage of the vessel, only to discover that he was prone to seasickness. After that she had seldom left her berth.

  But now he had a use for her, and he’d invited his fellow zulkirs aboard to enjoy a splendid breakfast and watch Thay fall away behind them. He hoped he wouldn’t disgrace himself by needing to rush to the rail. So far, the potion he’d drunk seemed to be doing an adequate job of preventing distress in his guts, but one never knew.

  Nevron summoned a demon with the head of a beautiful woman and a body like a small green dragon to carry him between ships. Lallara flew like a bird, and Lauzoril shifted himself through space.

  That left only Kumed Hahpret to appear. Samas waited a little longer, then asked if anyone knew where he was.

  Nevron smiled. “I’m afraid our young peer won’t be joining us. He met with an unfortunate accident before we even set sail. I myself had to command his underlings to set the port on fire or it wouldn’t have gotten done.”

  Lauzoril inclined his head as if to convey approval. “I suppose the evokers will hold an election.”

  Nevron snorted. “They can try.”

  chapter eleven

  6–11 Marpenoth, the Year of Blue Fire

  It gladdened Szass Tam to see the gates in the high black walls of Bezantur standing open, and the banners of the Order of Necromancy flying from the spires that rose above. He had a sudden foolish urge to spur his infernal steed with its jet black coat, iron hooves, and red eyes, gallop ahead of his army, and enter the city immediately.

  It wasn’t an entirely mad idea. According to his scouts and seers, no one was left in the city with the will and the power to have any chance of harming him. But he was going to rule Thay in years to come. It would be politic to start out by entering the realm’s greatest city with the pomp appropriate to the new “regent.”

  So he took the time to organize a procession, while his officers chafed at the delay, and he derived a bit of secret amusement from their restlessness. They believed he was wasting precious time, but that was because they didn’t understand just how much mystical strength the Black Hand had given him.

  He’d already expended a goodly portion of it, and the rest had begun to slip away as he’d known it would. But he fancied he had enough left to bring his war to a satisfactory conclusion.

  When everything was ready, he marched his army into the city with Malark Springhill, Homen Odesseiron, and Azhir Kren riding in places of honor just behind him. The streets echoed to the deafening chants that kept the blood orcs striding in unison, and to the huzzahs of the folk who lined the streets and leaned out of windows to wave little red flags and cheer for him.

  Sometimes the cheering faltered, and when it swelled again, it had a forced quality to it. Szass Tam suspected that happened when the crowd caught sight of some particularly hideous or uncanny-looking horror, even though he hadn’t put a great many of his most alarming servants on display. Some were too gigantic to pass easily through the streets, some were invisible in the afternoon sunlight, and others had to hide from it lest it sear them from existence. Still, enough remained to daunt even a populace that had long ago accustomed itself to the fact that demons and undead served in the ranks of its armies.

  Or perhaps the carrion stink of all the dread warriors and ghouls packed together was making people sick to their stomachs.

  In any case, Szass Tam was realist enough to understand that few, if any of these supposed well wishers, had yearned to see him crush his rivals, although it was likely a number had prayed for someone to win and bring the long war to an end. They were cheering to convince him they’d only served the council because they had no choice, and therefore it would be pointless for their new overlord to punish them.

  Comprehending their true motives didn’t vex him. He enjoyed the moment because it was a symbol of his victory. He didn’t need Bezantur to love him.

  Triumphal processions through the city traditionally entered through the northeast gate, followed a circuitous route that took them past the major temples and Red Wizard bastions, and terminated in the plaza north of the Central Citadel. Szass Tam adhered to the custom and found Zekith Shezim waiting to greet him. His eyes and the jagged patterns of his tattooing as dark as his gauntlet and vestments, the high priest of Bane advanced, kneeled, and proffered a ring of iron keys.

  They should properly have been keys to the Central Citadel, but Szass Tam, who’d seen the genuine items before, albeit not for ten yea
rs, recognized that they weren’t. His enemies had probably taken all the real ones when they fled.

  No matter. This little ceremony was like the acclamation of the crowd. He could appreciate it for what it was.

  He took the keys and said, “Thank you. Now stand, Your Omniscience, and rest assured, a bow will suffice in the future.”

  Zekith rose stiffly. “Thank you, Your Omnipotence.”

  Szass Tam smiled. “It occurs to me that I may need a new title. Every zulkir is ‘Your Omnipotence.’”

  “On the other hand,” Malark said, “you’re the only one left.”

  “Not yet,” said Szass Tam, “but with luck, soon.”

  Zekith took a deep breath. “Master, I apologize. I tried to burn the fleet as you directed, but it didn’t work out.”

  “It’s all right,” Szass Tam said. “When one arrow misses, you shoot another, and happily, my quiver isn’t empty yet. Now, I need someone to govern this place. Would you like to be autharch of Bezantur, with more honors to come if you do a good job?”

  “I would.”

  “Then you’ll need these.” Szass Tam handed back the keys. “Well, not really, but one good piece of mummery deserves another.”

  “Yes, Your Omnipotence.”

  “Your first task will be to see to the needs of my troops. Many have requirements and appetites that the citizens of Bezantur may find objectionable. But I want my warriors strong and satisfied that their commander takes good care of them. Up to a point, that means making sure no one interferes with them as they pursue their pleasures, but it would also be nice if the city was still standing tomorrow morning. Do you follow?”

  “Yes, Master. I can strike the proper balance.”

  “Then I leave the matter in your hands. My captains and I are going to look at the harbor.” He, Malark, the two tharchions, and an escort rode in that direction.

  The waterfront still smelled of smoke, and small fires flickered here and there. The major conflagrations had reduced the vessels in dry dock to black, flaking shells, ready to crumble at a touch. The piers had burned until whatever remained of the walkways collapsed into the sea. Only the support posts remained, sticking up out of the waves.