Lod twisted to look into the wind and no doubt find its source. He raised his hands to start a spell.
But meanwhile, the wind screamed louder still. The naga’s left arm snapped loose and blew away, and the right followed a heartbeat later.
But even that didn’t stop the bone naga’s conjuring. He roared words of malediction that made Aoth’s body feel as heavy as lead—his heart pounded as if it were trying to tear itself apart, and his ears ached as if he were deep underwater. Aoth strained to croak out a spell but couldn’t control his breathing.
Fortunately, Jhesrhi’s voice was chanting as vehemently as Lod’s. At her behest, the wind howled even louder until it drowned out both of them. Then Lod’s entire upper body burst apart into tumbling bones, and the snake part flopped down on the ground.
Although it didn’t die entirely, the wind ebbed. Feeling stronger than he had a moment before, Aoth floundered to his feet, recovered his spear, and found Lod’s fallen skull. The naga’s bones no longer showed any signs of wanting to reassemble themselves, but he smashed them anyway.
As he finished, Jet and Jhesrhi swooped down to light near him, the latter borne aloft by a friendly wind of lesser violence. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I will be,” Aoth panted. “Thanks to the two of you.” He turned to survey the greater battle and was just in time to view the final moments.
The air brightened yet again, burning off the last trace of unnatural murk and letting the sun shine down without hindrance. Phantoms shredded away to nothing. Vampires fell down smoking and thrashing, and zombies balked. And all those foes who were still capable of it turned and bolted, with automatons, berserkers, bright fey, and flares of hathran magic in pursuit.
Aoth grunted in satisfaction. “I believe we’ve fulfilled our contract with Yhelbruna.”
“Yes,” Jhesrhi said, “and done a service for the unknown lands the Eminence of Araunt hailed from, too.”
“Too bad we can’t charge them.”
Jhesrhi stood silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Aoth.”
“Yes?”
“The fire. My fire. When it attached itself to me, I thought it made me stronger and would shield me from … from the things I don’t like. But …”
She’d always hated to confess weakness or ask for help, and Aoth saw no reason to make her say the words when he could do it for her. “But now you realize it’s a sickness.”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll cure it.”
How? asked Jet.
I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.
* * * * *
The Storm of Vengeance couldn’t set down inside the Urlingwood. Mario Bez had to rendezvous with his allies, if that was still the proper term for them, on scrubland south of the sacred forest.
By then, the setting sun was casting long gray shadows across the snow, everyone had had some opportunity to rest, and Cera Eurthos, Yhelbruna, or some other hathran had had time to use her healing magic on Aoth Fezim and Vandar Cherlinka.
Still, the folk who’d fought on the ground looked haggard with fatigue, and Fezim and Cherlinka were bandaged where even a priestess’s prayers hadn’t entirely erased a wound. In contrast, Bez still felt relatively fresh. As his Thayan counterpart had predicted, flying foes had intermittently assailed the skyship. But repelling the boarders hadn’t proved too difficult, and Bez himself hadn’t suffered any harm in the process.
He gave the circle of scowling folk who’d assembled to meet him a smile. “I take it,” he said, “that we carried the day.”
“Yes,” said Fezim, the glow of his blue eyes more noticeable with the coming of twilight. “Although a number of undead escaped, and even more of the dark fey and their telthors.”
“The dark fey shouldn’t pose too much of a problem,” the witch said in her usual austere tones. “They’re as much a part of the land as the bright ones, and without the durthans to incite them, they won’t perpetuate a war they no longer have any hope of winning.”
“But you do need to hunt down every last undead,” Cera said. “They’ll prey on the living and spread their contagion until you do.”
“Indeed,” Yhelbruna said. “We must also cleanse the Urlingwood of the stain our enemies introduced. And free those whose minds were twisted, and replace the hathrans and berserkers who perished. It will all take time, and until we accomplish it, Rashemen will be weaker than it should be.”
“Still,” said Bez, “Captain Fezim is right. Victory truly is ours. And given that we all contributed, may I suggest that the appropriate way to honor the occasion is to lay old quarrels to rest?”
For a moment, no one answered. Then an orc who was missing his tusks grinned and said, “But the best thing about beating a war band of walking corpses and angry trees and such is that it frees you to slaughter the people you really hate.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Fezim said, “but Orgurth’s right. You’re not leaving unless you first survive a duel.”
Bez shrugged. “Then let’s get to it. I assume you’re the one who’s going to meet me on the field of honor.”
“No,” said Vandar Cherlinka, “I am.”
Plainly surprised, Fezim turned to regard the berserker. “Bez and I are both war mages. It makes sense—”
“I don’t care,” Cherlinka snapped. “Look, I know you have reason to kill him. He tried to kill Jet. But he did kill my lodge brothers, and I swore to avenge them.”
The Thayan scowled, but he nodded too. “Do it, then.”
Bez waved his hand. “There’s a clear, level patch of ground over there.”
“I see it,” Cherlinka said, and people started moving in that direction. Taking a moment to watch carefully, Bez verified that an earlier impression was correct. His opponent was walking with a bit of a stiff-legged limp.
Bez then turned to Aoth Fezim. “Please, stroll along with me, Captain.”
His fellow commander fell into stride beside him. “What do you want?”
“Aside from the pleasure of your company, to remind you you said one duel.”
“I did,” Fezim replied, “and I swear by the Pure Flame, I won’t insist on fighting you if you kill Vandar. I won’t let dozens of berserkers line up to do it either. You’ll be free to go.”
Bez grinned. “Thank you.”
Fezim smiled back. “I don’t mind renewing that pledge because you aren’t going to kill Vandar. I know you think you are. I saw you taking note of his stiff leg. On top of that, you have wizardry, he doesn’t, and you assume you’ve mastered fencing tricks that will befuddle a barbarian. But I’ve taken your measure and his, and he’s a better fighter than you could ever hope to be.”
For a moment, Bez felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze blowing down from the North Country. Then he realized what Aoth was attempting to do and snorted his momentary misgivings away.
“Good try,” he said. “But it’s not that easy to rattle me. Go watch the fight with your friends. Just don’t blink, or you might miss it.”
The motley little army had formed a circle around the dueling ground. Standing together, Uregaunt, Sandrue, and the rest of Bez’s crew made up one portion of the ring, and he gave them a wink as he entered the space. Meanwhile, griffons soared and shrieked overhead.
Yhelbruna walked out into the circle to preside over the combat. Despite her air of aloof severity, she surely wasn’t impartial in her private heart, as she perhaps proved by waving Bez closer to his opponent. She was adjusting the starting distance to facilitate blade work, not spellcasting.
But Bez had no real objection. Indeed, if the adjustment misled Cherlinka into assuming he wouldn’t have to contend with magic, so much the better.
Yhelbruna said, “Draw your weapons,” and they did. With a whispered command, Bez forbade the frost in the core of his rapier and the lightning in his parrying dagger to manifest just yet.
The hathran in her leather mask stepped backward. �
��Begin!” she said.
At once, Cherlinka snarled like a beast. He sprang forward with the red sword poised for a head cut.
Bez retreated, put his rapier in line, and spoke a word of release to cast one of the spells stored inside it.
Three illusory duplicates of himself sprang into being around him, each with its point extended. Now Cherlinka was hurling himself at four blades, with no way to determine which was the real threat.
The Rashemi coped by diving under all of them. Bez lowered his aim but was a shade too slow. Cherlinka was already past his point.
The berserker swung the red blade in a scything blow that caught two of the illusions and popped them both like soap bubbles. But he hadn’t struck his real foe, and ducking in mid-charge had left him canted precariously forward. Bez sidestepped, raised his sword hand high with the blade aimed downward, and stabbed at his opponent’s back.
A man who looked in imminent danger of falling flat on his face shouldn’t even have perceived that attack, let alone been able to defend against it. But Cherlinka sprang forward, and the thrust missed. Why in the name of the Abyss wasn’t the clod’s bad leg hindering him now?
Berserker fury, Bez supposed, and then assured himself it didn’t matter. Limping or hopping around like a grasshopper, Cherlinka was no match for him.
As the Rashemi arrested his headlong momentum, straightened up, and started to turn, Bez backed away and, with a word of command, roused the cold in his rapier. Fist-sized hailstones hammered down from the empty air.
Again, even with his back turned, Cherlinka somehow sensed the threat. He flung himself sideways, and only a few of the icy missiles battered him.
Still, when he finished spinning around, blood was streaming from a gash in his scalp with more making fresh red spots on his bandages. At the very least, Bez was whittling him down.
Bez retreated, and his remaining illusory twin retreated with him. Cherlinka charged after him.
Bez spoke another word of invocation and drew a pale flare of pure cold from his rapier. Despite his headlong momentum, Cherlinka sprang aside, and the blast only grazed him. That alone would have been enough to drop many a man, but the Rashemi kept coming.
Bez kept his rapier forward and his main gauche well back, as if the shorter weapon were only something to use in the clinches. As Vandar rushed into striking distance, he met him with a lunge, a feint to the face, and a true attack to the stomach.
Cherlinka parried with a downward sweep that might have snapped a rapier that wasn’t enchanted. He riposted with a cut to the flank.
But it was a cut to the flank of the remaining illusory double, and so Bez had no need to parry. Instead, he thrust at the berserker’s eye.
The red sword hit the duplicate, and it burst into nothingness. Meanwhile, Bez’s point streaked at its target.
At the last possible instant, Cherlinka jerked his head to the side. The rapier caught him anyway, but not in the brain-piercing fashion Bez had intended. The edge sliced him across the ear and brought more blood streaming forth.
Still, it was yet another wound. Bez told himself that soon, even a berserker would start showing the effects.
But in the exchanges that followed, Cherlinka attacked with the same relentless aggression as before, and although his sweeping cuts and rudimentary technique repeatedly left him open, Bez didn’t score on him again. The barbarian ducked, dodged, pivoted, and swayed, and the rapier kept missing by a hair.
Until, breathing harder, Bez realized there was at least a slim chance that he was the one who was going to slow down first. Time for more magic, then, specifically, the trick that had never failed him.
He allowed Cherlinka to beat his blade out of line. Clearly not suspecting a trap, perhaps no longer even cognizant of the main gauche his adversary hadn’t used since the duel began, the Rashemi sprang and cut at Bez’s chest.
Bez retreated and spun the dagger in a circular parry. At the same time, a murmured word set it ablaze with lightning. When the blades met, the power would leap from one to the other and on into Cherlinka’s arm.
Steel clanged, and magic flashed and crackled. But the red sword went flying, and Cherlinka kept driving in. Bez just had time to realize the barbarian must have let go of the sword an instant before the two blades came into contact. Then Cherlinka slammed into him, and they fell together.
With the rapier useless at such close quarters, Bez angled the main gauche for a thrust at Cherlinka’s side. But before he could deliver it, the Rashemi punched him in the jaw.
The blow jolted Bez and made him falter. Cherlinka heaved him over so he was facedown, scrambled on top of him, and gripped his throat.
Pinned, his air cut off and his mouth clogged with snow, Bez could neither wield his blades to any effect nor recite an incantation. But there had to be something he could do! Unfortunately, as he flailed blindly and futilely, and his desperation dulled to numb passivity, that cunning tactic never came to him.
* * * * *
The Rashemi cheered when Vandar finished strangling the life out of Bez. Aoth observed that, understandably, the Halruaan commander’s men didn’t share in the general jubilation. But they had better sense than to do anything that would draw attention to their displeasure.
Vandar struggled to rise and then, keeping his weight on his good leg, stood swaying over the corpse. When a man came out of a berserker rage, he always felt weak and sick to one degree or another, but Aoth suspected the Rashemi’s current debility stemmed from more than that. Vandar had suffered a broken knee, a knock to the head, and frostbite during the battle with the undead and dark fey, and Bez had just torn him up all over again.
Aoth glanced down to tell Cera they should go help him, but her expression informed him she’d already decided the same thing. They hurried forward, and so did Yhelbruna.
So did a number of others, likewise wanting to help or simply to congratulate Vandar on his victory. Aoth wondered if he should try to stop them, lest the resulting press make it difficult for Cera and Yhelbruna to do their work.
Then, screeching, Jet and the golden griffon plunged down from the sky to land to either side of Vandar and glare at the crowd. Except for Yhelbruna, the oncoming Rashemi stopped short.
The two priestesses murmured prayers to their deities and touched Vandar’s new wounds with hands glowing gold or green. One at a time, the berserker’s gashes closed, his gaze sharpened, and eventually, he scooped up a handful of snow to wash the blood from his face.
“Now our war is over,” he said.
“Yes,” Aoth replied, “and congratulations on a fight well fought. But the matter that brought Cera, Jet, Jhes, and me to Rashemen remains. Who gets the wild griffons?”
“You do,” Vandar said.
Aoth cocked his head. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“You were able to lead them into battle—”
“You mean, I was,” Jet rasped.
Vandar smiled a tiny fleeting smile. “Sorry, my friend. You were. But either way, it means something.”
Aoth snorted. “Maybe. But I’m not much for signs and destinies, and you did plenty to help our side win. So how about this? I’ll settle for half the griffons. You take the rest, including the telthor.”
“Why, when I no longer have a use for them? My lodge is gone.”
“Rebuild it. Isn’t that what your brothers would want, especially at a time when Rashemen needs every warrior it can muster? Young warriors will come running for the chance to be griffon riders.”
Vandar hesitated. “But … am I the man to lead them?”
Aoth scowled. “It wasn’t you to blame for the destruction of your lodge. It was this treacherous turd lying at our feet. So whatever mistakes you made, learn from them and move on. Any other course is stupid.”
“Captain Fezim is right,” Yhelbruna said. “The spirit griffon came to you when you needed him, and that means something too.” Her tone gentled in a way Aoth hadn’t heard before. “And if even t
hat isn’t enough to persuade you, know that I see goodness and the seeds of wisdom in you.” For just a moment, she touched Vandar’s cheek, and this time, not to heal him.
The berserker looked as surprised as Aoth felt, but then he smiled and drew himself up straighter. “Very well, hathran. If I can count on you to help me, I say yes. And thank you. Thank you, both.”
Cera gave Aoth’s forearm a squeeze and whispered, “Another lecherous hundred-year-old preying on a naive young innocent.”
“Maybe she and I can start a fashion.”
Yhelbruna turned in a rustle of robes, and for an instant, Aoth thought she’d overheard and taken offense at the levity. But, stern and formal once more, she said, “Thank you for your service, Captain, and for your generosity as well.”
Aoth grinned. “I’m not that generous. Watch.” He turned and tramped through the snow to where he could address Bez’s sellswords without shouting. His companions trailed along behind him.
“As even my rival Vandar concedes,” he told the Halruaans, “I earned the wild griffons. Because I’m only taking half of them, I’m collecting the rest of my pay in another form: the Storm of Vengeance.”
The sellswords stared back at him in consternation. Then the wizened, bitter-looking old wizard who was one of Bez’s surviving officers said, “You promised that if we helped fight the undead, we’d go free.”
“I didn’t promise to return the ship.”
“Do you know how to fly her?”
“No,” Aoth replied, “so I’ll make you an offer. You men can swear allegiance to the Brotherhood of the Griffon and crew the Storm for me as you did for Bez. My sergeant Orgurth will come aboard as my eyes and voice, at least until such time as you’ve earned my trust.”
Glowering, a plump man with a scraggy, goatish beard and a bronze sickle hanging at his side asked, “What if we say no?”
“Then I’ll burn the cursed ship and leave you stranded in a country where folk despise you.”
The elderly wizard gave a grim little chuckle. “In that case, Captain, I gladly pledge my fealty.”
Glowering, his comrades mumbled to the same effect.
Prophet of the Dead: Forgotten Realms Page 31