by Jean Rabe
A second ghoul moved in silently from the slaver's side, catching Elwin's head in both hands. The ghoul raked its nails across Elwin's scalp, ripping a piece of skin loose from the man's bald skull. The slaver screamed and dropped his daggers as he tried to push his new attacker away, but the ghoul only ambled closer. Pressing up against Elwin and lifting him by his head, the undead creature snapped his thick neck. The ghoul took a bite out of Elwin's cheek, cast him to the ground, then fell upon his body, tearing off chunks of flesh with its filthy nails. Anchoring its feet against Elwin's chest and grasping the slaver's right leg, it pulled until the leg came free. Another ghoul stopped to feast on Elwin, but the two behind it continued to move forward, bent on the living targets.
Wynter had lost count of the number of ghouls he had killed by the time he was able to pull back and help Galvin and Brenna. The druid appeared to be faced with the most desperate struggle. He was standing on one ghoul, which appeared to be finally dead, while holding off another three with his scimitar. The two that had passed by Elwin were eyeing Brenna but keeping their distance, obviously concerned about her magic. Wynter started toward the druid.
Galvin kicked at a ghoul in the middle, sending it sprawling, then swung his scimitar in a vicious downward stroke at the one to his right. The weapon cut through the corpse's shoulder blades and lodged halfway down in its chest. The ghoul seemed to grin as it reached forward and clawed the druid's exposed arm. Galvin immediately felt sluggish, his arms and legs heavy. He felt the talons of his other attacker rake his left arm as he became rooted to the spot.
"No!" the centaur screamed, bringing his staff down on the ghoul that had Galvin's scimitar in its chest. Wynter smashed its head like an overripe watermelon, ending its unlife. Continuing his assault, the centaur trampled the remaining ghoul into oblivion, then swung to see Brenna wrestling a tall corpse.
The sorceress obviously had taken out one of the pair. As the centaur dashed forward, he saw a decaying body lying at an odd angle across her bags. Part of its chest was missing.
"Back up, Brenna!" he called, rearing on his hind legs.
Brenna fell back on the ground, unmoving, her clawed cheek exposed. The ghoul turned to meet Wynter's front hooves, which fell on it hard. In a berserk rage, the centaur pounded the undead into the soft ground, continuing to rear and stomp on it well after it had ceased to move.
The centaur's chest heaved from fear and exertion. He was the only one standing in the clearing. It was too dark to make out all the details, but he could see Galvin's frozen outline and Brenna lying on the ground, motionless. Elwin's corpse lay in pieces, but the ghouls who had dined on him were nowhere to be seen. Although Wynter was relieved he didn't have to fight any more of the creatures, he was worried about the surviving ghouls' absence. Ghouls were intelligent undead, and he feared they would report the incident to their dark master or gather more of their kind for another assault.
Determined not to wait for any undead reinforcements or to take time to assess his friends' conditions, Wynter picked up the paralyzed Galvin and slung him across his back. He cradled Brenna in his arms and carried the pair of them and their belongings out of the defiled area and into the abandoned barn. If guards looking for escaped slaves chanced upon the trio, Wynter thought, the Aglarond council would have to contact more Harpers to continue the spying mission.
Inside the dilapidated barn, the centaur placed the sorceress near a large mound of straw, laying her down gently near the barn wall and placing her head on some hay. Watching her closely, Wynter saw her chest rise and fail shallowly. Tears fell from his angular face, and his hands trembled. Wynter didn't want Brenna and Galvin to die. Aside from losing his friends, their deaths would leave him alone in a country he considered one step removed from hell.
The centaur laid Galvin near her and cringed when he saw how irregularly the druid was breathing. Wynter pulled off the druid's tunic so he could clean the gashes left by the undead. Galvin's arms had been raked by the claws of the creature, and the area around the red welts was swelling. Rummaging through the druid's satchel, the centaur found some of the herbs Galvin had used on his shoulder earlier. The centaur was uncertain how to apply them, so he crumbled them in his fingers and laid them across the gashes.
Next he tended to Brenna. Wynter tore off a strip from the hem of her dress and soaked it with water from his waterskin. Kneeling awkwardly, he cleaned the blood from her cheek where the ghoul had clawed her. The scratch marks weren't deep, but they marred her pretty face.
The centaur wore a circular path in the dirt as he trotted around the unmoving forms of Galvin and Brenna. Through a gaping hole in the barn's roof, the stars shone brightly, illuminating the sheen of sweat on the centaur's back. Wynter feared the undead would return, or perhaps a patrol of a worse kind would find them. His friends' long hair would make them look like escaped slaves, so if they were caught here they would be killed or put on a slave plantation, never to see Aglarond again.
Wynter shivered and glanced about the barn. There were too many shadows to make out everything, but he noted a few piles of moldy straw, damp because the roof provided little shelter from the rain. One toward the back of the barn was large enough to hide Brenna and Galvin behind it in the event he heard someone approaching the barn. He didn't want to move them unless he felt he had to. It looked like the barn had had a loft at one time. Now it was completely hollow inside, and rotted boards lay along the walls and near the center of the floor to outline where a second story used to be.
The entire structure tilted a little to the east, and Wynter suspected it wouldn't survive a heavy windstorm. The dirty hay inside smelled musty and was coated with little bits of fur. It probably served as a haven for mice and other rodents. A few rusted farm implements were scattered along the western wall-rakes, a hoe, bits of tack. He took note of those that might serve as weapons.
The centaur continued to guard his friends until daylight filtered in through the roof and he could no longer stay awake. Standing between the barn doors and the prone druid and sorceress, Wynter slept on his feet. He awoke late in the afternoon to find Galvin and Brenna still unmoving. Wynter peered out one of the larger cracks at the front of the barn. In the distance, he saw the orchards and spied a few slaves moving among the trees, picking fruit. The centaur was careful not to touch the wood of the barn. The structure appeared so old and rotted that he feared it could easily fall over.
Wynter kept his vigil, dosing on and off until well after midnight, when Galvin finally shook his paralysis. The gashes on his arms smarted, but they were slightly healed by Wynter's efforts.
"How… how long has it been?" Galvin asked, sitting up and glancing about the barn. "I remember… Brenna! Was she killed?" The druid panicked and brought himself quickly to his feet.
"She's still alive-barely, I think," Wynter replied. "She was clawed, too. She's paralyzed."
Galvin rushed to the enchantress's side and moved the fingertips of his right hand over her scratched face. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, an old druidic prayer taught to him as a youth. He rarely used healing magic, which took a great deal of concentration-something he usually lacked when he himself was injured. The druid preferred to rely on herbs and natural mixtures. But he had none of the latter handy, so he continued the prayer. After several minutes, Brenna's breathing began to deepen, although she still remained unconscious. The scratches on her face began to heal, and Galvin rose.
"She'll be all right," he stated simply, his voice showing his relief. He began to examine his surroundings and noticed that Wynter looked different somehow. Then he realized why-the hair on the centaur's head was short, not more than an inch long. His long curls and braid lay in a pile on the barn floor.
"What did you do?" Galvin pointed at the centaur's head.
"We need to look like Thayvians, remember?"
Brenna finally came to several hours later. Sunlight streamed in where planks of wood had rotted away in the walls and through th
e hole in the center of the roof. The rays warmed her face. She slowly sat up, then pulled herself to her knees.
"I've come to the conclusion that it's decidedly unlucky sharing a camp with the two of you," Wynter said dryly. Despite the tone, he was thankful his companions were for the most part uninjured. He tossed the enchantress her satchels.
"I left Elwin behind in the clearing," the centaur added hesitantly. "There wasn't much left of him."
"Why did the undead attack us?" Brenna didn't understand. "They were horrid. Gods, but I feel for the people who live in this country."
"The ghouls must have heard us talking. That attracted them," Wynter said flatly, eyeing her and Galvin. "We were none too quiet."
"They were quiet, though," Galvin added.
"You could never have heard them approaching anyway," the centaur offered. "Undead only make noise when they want to." He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. "You've got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that."
A look of horror crossed her face. "What-what do you mean?"
"I mean you should cut it, shave it off," the centaur instructed. "You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you've got another pretty dress." He extended the shears to her. "These'll take off most your hair. Galvin's scimitar can take care of the rest."
When the sorceress didn't take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.
The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna's curls.
"Oh, no, you don't!" she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur's cropped hair. "Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven't cut my hair in ten years."
The druid smiled. "I'll pose as your slave."
"You mean you're not cutting your hair?" she said angrily.
"Slaves have long hair."
"Listen," Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. "You'd make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You've got the bearing, the social graces."
The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.
"I can make myself look bald without shaving my head," she announced. Concentrating and chanting, the sorceress sat stock still as her face took on a magical radiance. The glow covered her hair, then disappeared, leaving her appearing bald.
Wynter sighed. "Nice try, Brenna, but it won't work." He stepped toward her, bent over, and reached forward to feel around her shoulders until he grabbed a handful of hair.
"I can't see it, but it's there," he stated. "Amruthar's filled with wizards. Some of them are bound to see through your illusion. We can't risk it. You'll have to shave it off."
Brenna's shoulders sagged. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry. I should have known I was going to have to do this if I entered Thay." She gritted her teeth, picked up the shears, and tossed her head forward. Grabbing a handful of hair with one hand and wielding the shears with the other, she began cutting.
"Look at it this way," Wynter teased. "You'll be right in style in Amruthar. And if we live through this and you get back to Aglarond, maybe you can start a fashion trend there." He grimaced as he watched the shears slip in her hand and nearly nick her head.
When Brenna was finished, about a half an inch of hair remained on her head. It was uneven and looked comical, but the Harpers remained straight-faced.
The druid padded forward, knelt in front of her, and held up his scimitar. "Here, let me help."
Brenna bent her head forward, and Galvin began to scrape the sharp blade across the back of her scalp. The druid was careful, not wanting to cut her. Wynter had told him most Thayvians prided themselves on their appearance, and he doubted that scars were in fashion. When he was finished with the back half of her head, he tilted her neck upward and started to run the knife across the front half of her scalp.
"I don't know why Thayvians have an aversion to hair," Wynter said. He wanted to make conversation because the silence in the barn felt uncomfortable. "They've been shaving their heads for more than two hundred years. It all started with a few wizards, I understand. Now only slaves have long hair. The longer the hair, the longer someone's been a slave."
"You mean everyone but slaves is bald?" she asked softly, looking slightly sick.
"All the wizards, everyone considered wealthy or middle-class tharchions, merchants, and even most of the peasants-they don't want to be mistaken for slaves. Most centaurs cut their hair as short as mine. Everyone in my family had short hair," he concluded.
"Was it hard for you to leave your family?" Brenna asked. Galvin winced at that question as he finished shaving the last of her locks. He began to run the blade across her now bald head to smooth it. He was surprised when Wynter answered.
"Yes," he said slowly. "My family was my life, and the slave plantation was the only home I knew. I had three brothers. They took to the life there. I just never fit in. When I was old enough to make it on my own, I left. I don't even know if my father ever went looking for me."
The centaur stood still in the center of the barn. "I cut my ties with my family when I left Thay. I'm only here because of Harper business. When we're done in Amruthar, I'll leave again." The centaur paused and looked at the councilwoman. She was rubbing her head, obviously uncomfortable with the feel of it.
Brenna stared at the pile of red curls in her lap. Ten years' worth of hair, she thought. No use regretting it. Shrugging her shoulders, she stood up, shaking the curls off her dress.
"Beautiful," Wynter observed.
Brenna tittered and twirled to brush the last of the hair from her dress. "At least it won't take me long to wash it," she said, finally smiling.
The skin on her head was an even, creamy peach tone, free of blemishes. She had a high forehead that glistened in the light that filtered through the barn. The absence of hair drew more attention to her eyes, which Galvin found himself staring into. They were large and round and ringed by long lashes.
Brenna blushed and bent to pick up an armload of hay and deposit it on top of her hair. "A pretty dress, right? That's all I need to look like a wealthy Thayvian."
"Almost," Wynter said. "We'll have to paint your head first. When you were… sleeping, I gathered some berries and crushed them. They should do fine as long as it doesn't rain. The important people in Thay-or at least those who think they are-always paint designs on their heads."
The centaur explained that many men permanently tattooed their heads so they wouldn't have to bother about changing designs. But many of the women went to shops to have their heads painted, preferring to have different symbols from time to time as fashions changed.
The centaur trotted over to Brenna, carrying a shovelful of smashed blue and red berries. Brenna's lower lip quivered, but she stood still.
"We'll give you a dainty little barbed whip cascading over your forehead like a spray of flowers," Wynter said as he smeared his fingers into the mixture and applied it to her head. "The whip's the symbol of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, one of the regularly worshiped deities here." Before the centaur finished, he added a lightning bolt with a ball on one end above her right ear. "That's the Harpers' symbol for 'dangerous magic here,' " he explained.
Brenna changed into a dark orchid dress with voluminous sleeves and a rounded, lace-edged neckline. She looked striking in it, even with her bald head, and added a crystal and gold necklace to make herself fit the image of a wealthy Thayvian.
"Well, this is it for my wardrobe," she said with a touch of disappointment in her voice. "I've ruined everything else."
Wynter pushed open the barn door, which teetered precariously on one rusted hinge. The countryside appeared different by daylight. The orchards in the distance yielded the faintest fragrance of citrus
blossoms. The sky was as blue as the Sea of Fallen Stars, and it stretched, cloudless, from horizon to horizon. A dirt road that had been sprinkled liberally with white gravel cut through the grass and pointed toward the east. Weeping birch and crimson maples lined the road.
Galvin had expected the countryside to look bleak and the trees twisted like Thay's evil rulers. Instead, he found it quite pleasant. He glanced at the small clump of trees behind the barn and shuddered, remembering the attack of the undead. Deciding to put some distance between this place and himself, the druid padded toward the road, with Brenna and Wynter following.
The druid could tell that the road was well traveled. Most of the gravel had been washed to the sides by the rain, and carriage and wagon tracks made deep impressions in places.
"Are you certain this leads into Amruthar?" Galvin asked Wynter.
The centaur pursed his lips. "I hope so. Elwin talked about a road before he fell asleep last night. It's the only one I see."
Galvin turned to Brenna. "If we're stopped, Wynter's the chief foreman on a slave plantation your father owns, and he's going to Amruthar to buy slaves. You're traveling with him so you can shop. I'm your slave-on hand to carry any packages."
"If I'm wealthy, why am I walking?" she challenged.
"You were on horseback," Wynter stated, "but the horses were stolen by thieves."
Brenna beamed. "Fine. I'm just looking forward to being in a city again, even if it is in Thay."
Wynter glanced at the druid. "You'll enjoy this, too, won't you, Galvin?"
The druid rolled his eyes, drew his lips tightly together, and continued ambling down the road.
Seven
The lich sat hunched over a centuries-old rosewood desk cluttered with bones of fingers, vials half-filled with assorted dark-colored powders, and yellowed scrolls curling at the corners and covered with runes and scratchings. He peered at the markings with his deep-socketed, ancient eyes and slowly scanned them.