The Masked Witches

by Richard Lee Byers

  “I think we’re all right,” Olthe said. She glowered again at Melemer, like she was daring him to contradict her.

  But she’d already lost Bez’s attention. He pivoted and peered up the slope at the murky, faceless figure approaching in a silent, flowing way that somehow looked like creeping and bounding at the same time. Melemer raised his hands, and his several rings, each made of a different metal and engraved with a different glyph, shone like his eyes.

  Bez whipped out his dagger and rapier and came on guard. Lightning crawled and crackled in the smaller blade, and frost formed on the larger.

  Olthe spun her axe through cuts, blocks, and flourishes and chanted a battle hymn. Though she wasn’t directing the challenge at him, Bez still felt the words ring and reverberate inside him.

  The shadow didn’t seem daunted by the prayer or anyone else’s demonstration of power. It kept coming, only halting when light rippled inside it, and its vague, flat form swelled into something constant and three-dimensional.

  The transformation only took a heartbeat or two, and when it was finished, Dai Shan bowed with an elegance that somehow conveyed both impeccable courtesy and nonchalance. “My valiant associates,” he said.

  “What in the Destroyer’s name are you doing here?” Bez demanded.

  “I wanted to confer with you,” Dai Shan said, “so I sent one of my servants to find you. When I sensed that it had, I inhabited it, turning it into a window through which you and I can speak for the relatively brief time the magic will last.”

  Bez quelled the murderous forces seething inside his weapons and lowered them to point at the ground. But at that moment, a cordial greeting was beyond him. Maybe it was because, though they’d scoured the country from Immilmar east to the mountains, he and his company hadn’t found a trace of any of the sundry bands of undead witches, werewolves, and what-have-yous that were supposedly wandering around committing atrocities. Whereas it seemed the Shou only had to dispatch one lone phantom to locate a flying vessel with minimal difficulty. In a better mood, Bez might have found some humor in that, but for the moment, it aggravated his frustration.

  And perhaps that was why he examined the merchant’s words in his mind, and, began to doubt. “Immilmar is west,” he said, and, responding to his suspicion and hostility, the potential for more lightning and searing, heart-stopping chill quivered inside his blades. “Your ghost, or whatever it was, slunk down from the east.”

  Dai Shan’s slight smile didn’t waver. “Naturally, the shadow couldn’t just travel to you in a straight line,” he said. “It had to wander back and forth before spotting you at last.”

  “When I said it was coming down from the east,” Bez persisted, “I meant, sneaking down from the spot where the Storm is moored. We’ve been carrying a stowaway ever since we left Immilmar, haven’t we? One emplaced to spy on us or worse.” He raised the rapier and dagger, and his silent command made their magic flare anew. Taking their cue from him, Olthe and Melemer dropped back into fighting stances.

  Dai Shan took a nonchalant step back.

  “I implore you,” he said, “consider that I’m not really here. If you destroy this thing, all you’ll do is bring our parley to a fruitless and premature end.”

  Bez sneered. “And why, merchant, would I want to talk to a false friend who snuck a horror aboard my ship?”

  Dai Shan’s smile widened just a bit. “Stalwart captain, had you not opted to make yourself the foremost soldier of the age, I’m confident you would have won equal distinction as a poet or a player, for you unquestionably have the requisite flair for the dramatic. Things that rise from shadow have their appetites, and I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting otherwise. But I never let this one slip the leash, and even if I had, how could one little phantom truly threaten a warrior who’s fought giants and malebranches in his time?”

  Bez smiled a grudging smile. “It always feels strange to talk to you, Shou. I think it’s because I’m used to being the glib one. Do you swear the shadow was only aboard to spy and give you and me a way to talk if need be? You didn’t plan anything worse?”

  “August warlord, in my father’s sight, I swear it,” Dai Shan replied. “May I also point out that, if my poor intermediary’s presence on your vessel was inappropriate, at least you’re rid of it now. It won’t survive to board a second time.”

  Bez extinguished the power burning in his weapons and slid them back into their sheaths. “All right. Forget it for now, if only because you’re right. I can’t thrust a sword into the real Dai Shan across the length of this wretched country. So what do you want, anyway?”

  “I want you to return to Immilmar to pick me up.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s the part that’s slightly awkward. I’ll explain when my true self is aboard the skyship. Until then, I’m asking you to trust me.”

  Bez snorted. “No offense, merchant, but that’s not going to happen. I offered to work with you, not blindly carry out your commands.”

  “But, stalwart and sagacious captain, surely you see that the real problem is my inability to repose complete and utter faith in you. If I told you now where you ought to sail and why, perhaps you would simply do so immediately without bothering to collect me. And then how could I convince the hathrans that I played even a minor part in the achievements that will follow?”

  Bez grunted. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  Dai Shan frowned ever so slightly. It was about as much of a display of sincere emotion as he ever permitted himself. In its way, his face was as much of a mask as any the witches wore.

  “Obviously,” the little Shou said, “I understand why such a shrewd leader of men prefers to weigh his decisions carefully. But if we lose our means of communication before you say yes or no, that will leave me in an awkward and ambiguous position.”

  Bez sneered. “That’s your problem,” he said.

  “Indeed it would be. As your problem is chasing a quarry you haven’t caught and will never catch without my guidance. Clearly, you realize it, too, or you wouldn’t be meddling with a demon trap in the middle of a frigid night.”

  “We’re looking for clues that will lead us to the enemy.”

  “Master strategist, wily tactician, scourge of the Dragon Coast, I have the utmost respect for your intelligence. I ask you to respect mine as well. Plainly, you paid attention to the tales of the durthans and their ilk breaking open the old Raumathari menhirs. Frustrated by your inability to locate the actual foe, you’ve decided to open a stone yourself, kill whatever’s inside, and carry the carcass back to Immilmar as a trophy.”

  “Just for amusement’s sake, let’s say you’re right. What of it?”

  “If I may be forthright, it’s a weak ploy. It may slightly elevate Yhelbruna’s opinion of you, but it won’t convince her you’ve made any fundamental progress toward accomplishing the task she set us. Whereas if you honor my request—”

  “All right!” Bez snapped. “I’ll come for you. And if it turns out you’re wasting my time, well, you’ll be in reach of my blades then, won’t you?”

  “Indeed,” Dai Shan said. “Until I see you next.” He bowed deeply, and his body broke apart and disappeared, like it was crumbling into a dust so fine the eye couldn’t see it.

  After a moment, Melemer chuckled. “I like that one,” he said.

  Bez grinned. “You would,” he replied. “You both have weasel blood flowing in your veins. But don’t get too attached to him.”

  “So,” Olthe said, nodding toward the monument. “We’re giving up on this?”

  “No,” said Bez. “We’re already here. And whether the idea’s a ‘weak ploy’ or not, I don’t feel like going back to the Iron Lord and the Wychlaran empty-handed.”

  “Fair enough,” the priestess said, frowning. “The only problem I see is that while we don’t know if those miners down there have noticed any undead lurking about, someone probably has noticed the Storm sitting on the mountainside.
What if the villagers figure out that we freed the demons ourselves? What if they send word to the Iron Lord? I admit, it’s unlikely—”

  “More than unlikely,” said Bez, “impossible. The fiends are going to prove just what a terrible threat they are by wiping out the village. Well, technically, we’re going to do it for them, but I’m sure that if they knew, they’d appreciate our efforts on their behalf. Then, after we finish the miners, we’ll crack open the trap, kill its prisoners, and take their heads.”

  N

  I

  N

  E

  A griffon is about to fly down among us!” Aoth shouted in Elvish. “Don’t shoot at him! He’s Jet, my steed that I told you about!”

  Everyone stood and waited for the creature to appear, and shortly thereafter, Aoth pointed with his spear and said, “There.” Then an enormous shadow swept over the snowy ground.

  Jet swooped to the ground. Heeding Aoth’s warning, no one attacked the griffon. But some of the stag warriors couldn’t resist the impulse to raise their weapons.

  Jet looked them over and snorted. “Relax,” he rasped, “I’m not going to hurt you. Now, if you were centaurs … or maybe not. I’ve seen things lately that put me off horseflesh.”

  “So you told me,” Aoth said. He advanced, scratched among the feathers atop the griffon’s head, then lifted Cera out of the saddle and gave her a hug.

  The Stag King strode up to them, and to Jet, with no apparent hesitation. Either he was confident the griffon wouldn’t lash out at him, or he was simply unwilling to act timidly.

  “Highness,” said Aoth, “this is Cera Eurthos, sunlady of Soolabax, and Jet, my familiar. Cera, Jet, this is the Stag King.”

  Smiling, Cera moved her hand in an arc, and for a moment, the pale winter sunlight shone brighter and felt warmer. “Hello,” she said. “The Keeper’s blessing on you and all your company.”

  The Stag King grunted. “Your god doesn’t love me, cleric, nor I, him,” he said. “How near are these berserkers of yours?”

  Cera blinked. “You should meet up well before dusk,” she said.

  “Then let’s pick up the pace,” the spirit said, “and find out what this army of ours looks like when we put it all together.” Turning away, he swung his antler weapon over his head to urge the company onward.

  “Well,” the priestess said. “That was a gracious welcome.”

  “Even though he hails from the Feywild rather than the Shadowfell,” Aoth replied, “he’s a dark thing, like the fomorians, and perhaps not partial to clerics of the light.”

  Aoth, Cera, Jhesrhi, and Jet started forward amid the stag men, most of whom were still keeping a cautious eye on the griffon and making sure they didn’t get too close.

  “But enough about him,” Aoth said. “By the Pure Flame, it’s good to see you again! Both of you! What’s your impression of the Griffon Lodge? How’s their morale?”

  “Oh, that’s no problem,” said Jet, a sardonic note in his voice.

  “Meaning what?” Aoth replied.

  “Jet said he told you about the fey mound,” Cera said.

  “Yes,” said Aoth. “It’s a miracle that any traveler ever gets anywhere in Rashemen, considering that you have to change direction or stop to make an offering to a spirit twenty times a day. But my understanding was that Vandar did mollify the guardian, and it lifted the curse.”

  “It did,” Cera said, “but then something else started to happen. Gradually, so Jet and I didn’t notice at first. That’s why you’re only hearing about it now.” Keeping her voice low, she explained what she meant.

  When she finished, Aoth said, “I hate this stinking country.”

  * * * * *

  Like Mangan Uruk’s castle, the Fortress of the Half-Demon was built of gray stone and black iron, but it had an even more massive and squared-off look to it. Apparently the round towers and turrets that graced the stronghold in Immilmar were a Rashemi innovation.

  The ancient Nars, however, had adorned—if that was the right word—the citadel with a huge iron gate cast in the form of a snarling inhuman face. At some point in the centuries that followed, the leaf on the right side had fallen from its hinges. That left only one profile of the ghastly countenance standing, and, Aoth assumed, inspired the name the place had borne ever since.

  Lying prone to peer over a rise, he shifted his gaze from the gate to the battlements. Someone or something was moving around up there, but Aoth was so far away that even his eyes were having trouble discerning what. Hoping it would help, he touched a tattoo that sent a bracing thrill of vigor through his body. He squinted, too, and the tiny figures came into focus.

  One was a squat little goblin spearman with greenish skin, pointed ears, and a shaggy mane of hair sticking out in all directions from under his conical helmet. The other was considerably larger. Indeed, if the stooped thing stood up straight, it might be taller than the Stag King. Judging from its long arms, spindly frame, and warty carrot of a nose, it was likely a troll, although its white, glistening skin distinguished it from any such creature Aoth had encountered farther south. So did its mail, crossbow, and falchion.

  The trolls of his experience were scarcely more intelligent than beasts. They lived like beasts in the wild, and even when some enterprising commander managed to tame one and use it as a soldier, it was rarely given weapons or armor. There was no point. In the excitement of battle, a troll would almost always strip away the gear and assail the foe with fang and claw.

  The white trolls of the North Country were evidently different. But not, Aoth suspected, so different as to pose an insurmountable problem. He was more concerned about reanimated durthans and other undead, but there were none in view for the scouting.

  Of course, that only made sense. Even undead who could tolerate sunlight didn’t like it. So why would they man the battlements by day when their living allies—creatures who’d thrown in with the durthans during the Witch War and had rallied to their cause again—could do it for them?

  When he judged that he’d seen all he was going to, Aoth crawled backward far enough so that no one on the battlements would see him when he stood up. He tramped back to the relatively clear patch of rolling heath where his allies waited and was pleased to find that, though the berserkers and the stag men didn’t show any signs of having become fast friends in his absence, the two groups at least appeared to be tolerating one another. Perhaps they found each other so strange that their first impulse was to marvel rather than feel fear or revulsion.

  Vandar was sitting on a stump with a number of his lodge brothers gathered around him. When he spotted Aoth returning, he beckoned to him with a flick of his new spear. To fire-kissed eyes, the red metal gleamed with something more than reflected sunlight; Aoth could see the enchantments flowing and seething inside it.

  That didn’t make it any less annoying to be summoned like a subordinate. Still, it seemed too petty a matter to complain about, and Vandar’s current location was as good a spot for a parley as any. Aoth headed for it as requested. He just made sure he didn’t hurry.

  “What did you find out?” Vandar asked.

  Aoth glanced around and found that, as expected, the Stag King, Cera, Jhesrhi, Jet, and Zyl had begun converging on their location. “Let’s wait until everyone can hear. Then I’ll only have to tell it once.”

  Vandar scowled. “As you wish,” he said. He sounded like he was doing Aoth a favor.

  Cera and Jet were right, Aoth thought. Vandar was different. He’d thought that at least a grudging trace of camaraderie had grown up between the berserker and himself, but if so, there was no sign of it. Instead, Vandar seemed even testier and more suspicious than on the occasion of their first meeting.

  Were the red sword and spear exerting a psychic influence? Aoth had never borne such weapons and wouldn’t want to, but he’d heard stories about them.

  If the weapons were to blame, Aoth supposed he might as well get used to the new Vandar. For it was plain that he
prized the enchanted arms too highly to ever give them up.

  Once all the leaders of the expedition had gathered around, and many of the berserkers, too, Aoth proceeded to tell them what he’d observed. When he reached the part about the big white creature on the battlements, Vandar grinned and said, “That was an ice troll. Fighting them is one way we Rashemi keep in practice for killing Thayans.”

  The berserker’s lodge brothers laughed.

  Aoth swallowed a pang of irritation. “I’m glad you recognize it,” he said. “You can tell me and the other southerners about them later. For now, let’s talk about our next move.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Vandar asked. “You say the gate is open. The sun is shining, so the undead are at their weakest. Let’s go take the castle!”

  His lodge brothers clamored in agreement. Some screeched in a fair imitation of griffons and swept out their arms like they were spreading a pair of wings. Startled by the outburst, the stag warriors stepped back from it and some even leveled their spears. Fortunately, though, they weren’t rattled enough to actually strike out at their human allies.

  When the uproar had died down, Aoth said, “You have to remember, the enemy aren’t idiots. Since they can’t close the gate, they’ve protected it some other way.”

  “How?” Vandar asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “ ‘Yet?’ ”

  “I need to get closer and look at the castle from different angles. Jet and I should fly over under cover of darkness.”

  “That’s stupid. The undead will be out, and they can see in the dark. Come to think of it, so can trolls and goblins.”

  Aoth smiled. “But they can’t see as far in it as I can,” he said. “Jet and I will be all right, and afterward, we’ll all have a better idea of what we’re facing.”

  Vandar shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “The durthans surely send out patrols, including undead patrols by night. The longer we delay attacking, the more likely it is that they’ll notice we’re here. Then we lose the advantage of surprise.”