The Haunted Lands: Book III - Unholy

by Richard Lee Byers

  “You hate being pulled back into this, don’t you?”

  “Yes. In Thay, my Rashemi looks made other Mulans view me with contempt. Out here in the rest of the world, they don’t matter. In Thay, I was the servant of masters who cared nothing for my welfare. Here, I grovel to no one. In Thay, I lost my war, but I haven’t lost one since, and my victories made me rich and respected.

  “I think of all that,” Aoth continued, “and I remember the horrors the necromancers sent to kill us, horrors that still trouble my sleep one night in three. You’re damned right I don’t want to go back.”

  “I hope you’ll feel differently when we finally settle the score.”

  Aoth decided it would accomplish nothing to say that he never even thought in terms of there being “a score.”

  “Maybe so,” Aoth said. “Now get ready. That’s the west gate up ahead.”

  Veltalar wasn’t a walled city, but it did have fortifications straddling the major roads into the city to control the flow of traffic. The west gate was one such barrier, perfectly positioned to keep an eye on the rows of tents comprising the Brotherhood’s encampment.

  It looked to Aoth as if there were extra sentries manning the battlements tonight, surely for that very purpose. He kindled silvery light in the point of his spear to make sure the other riders would know when Jet dived, then sent the griffon hurtling down at the gate.

  Bareris sang, and though the magic wasn’t aimed at him, Aoth’s eyelids drooped and his limbs felt heavy. He gave his head a shake to rid himself of the lethargy, and some of the soldiers on top of the gate collapsed.

  Jhesrhi swooped low, and her sleep spell picked off the warriors who’d resisted Bareris’s enchantment. Still other men-at-arms ran from the base of the fortification, and Gaedynn and his mount plunged to earth to block their path. The archer shot an arrow imbued with a charm of slumber into the dirt at their feet, and they too dropped.

  The other sellswords in the city, the ones who didn’t have flying steeds, erupted from their hiding places and poured through the gate. The griffon riders flew over the portal, and they all rushed on to join their comrades in the camp.

  Aoth was pleased to see the latter were ready to move. Everyone had his armor on, the griffons and horses were saddled, and the foot soldiers had their packs stuffed and ready to sling across their backs. Unfortunately, the company was leaving much of its baggage behind, but that couldn’t be helped if they were to travel at maximum speed. In the paddock, a mule brayed as though protesting its abandonment.

  Working in concert, Jhesrhi and Bareris cloaked the camp in illusion. For a time, the magic would make it look as if people were still moving around inside and would conceal the tracks the column left when it set forth.

  Afterward, the master of griffons found a mount for Bareris, and he overcame its instinctual distrust of the undead by beguiling it with a song. Then the officers of the company convened for a final palaver.

  “Are you sure,” asked Aoth, “that you can lose a pursuing force in the Yuirwood?”

  Gaedynn spread his hands as though amazed anyone would even ask. “Of course.”

  Jhesrhi scowled. “The Aglarondans will have elves to guide them.”

  Gaedynn was human. But he’d grown up among the elves of the Yuirwood, a hostage seized in a futile attempt to ensure his father’s good behavior.

  Gaedynn grinned. “That’s fine, Buttercup. We’ll play Foxes and Rabbits through the circles.” He shifted his gaze back to Aoth. “Frankly, Captain, the person we ought to worry about is you. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” said Aoth, “but it’s the only thing to do. Get the men moving, and if Tymora smiles, I’ll see you in a tenday or two.”

  Sensing that he was ready to go, Jet sprang back into the air. Bareris followed, and Mirror, a faceless blot of aching wrongness more felt than seen in the dark, brought up the rear.

  When Bareris had last seen Escalant, it had been a city in distress, crammed to overflowing with refugees and fearful that either Szass Tam or the Spellplague would destroy it. But as he surveyed the port from the air, it was plain the place had prospered in the intervening decades. Stevedores scurried to load or unload the dozens of merchant ships moored at the docks, while elsewhere, the sawmills, furniture manufactories, and slave markets were equally busy. It was no wonder the simbarchs wanted to add the town, along with the rest of the Wizard’s Reach, to their own dominions.

  He looked over at Aoth, flying on his left. “What now?” he asked.

  The warmage smiled crookedly. “Look for the gaudiest, most ostentatious palace in town. It should be easy enough to spot.”

  With its high, gilded minarets and jeweled scarlet banners gleaming in the sunlight, it was. The travelers set down on the expanse of verdant lawn in front of the primary entrance. The high arched double doors were sheathed in gold as well. Unless they were gold through and through. Considering who lived here, anything was possible.

  Bareris had given himself the appearance of life, and for a moment, the slaves who came to greet them didn’t sense anything amiss. Then they noticed the shadow that was Mirror and faltered in alarm.

  “It’s all right,” said Bareris, charging his voice with the power to calm and command. “We don’t mean any harm. Simply tell your master that Aoth Fezim, Mirror, and Bareris Anskuld request an audience.”

  One of the servants scurried to deliver the message, and in time a dozen guards appeared to demand that the travelers surrender their weapons. They did, and the warriors escorted them into the presence of Samas Kul.

  The archmage looked no older, but if possible was even more obese than Bareris remembered him, a heap of a man whose begemmed ornaments and gorgeous crimson robes failed utterly to render him any less repulsive. A small semicircular table sat just in front of his throne as if he were an infant or an invalid, while a bigger one farther away held enough food and drink to supply a banquet. Most likely, as in days of yore, he used magic to float viands from one surface to the other.

  Statues—a dragon, a spider, a bear—wrought of various metals stood in alcoves along the walls: golems ready to spring to life if required. Despite these formidable protectors and the human guards who still surrounded Bareris, Aoth, and Mirror, Samas held a wand of congealed quicksilver in his pink, blubbery hand. Bareris supposed he could take the precaution as a sort of compliment.

  The zulkir said, “You must be insane to come here.”

  “That,” Aoth replied, “is a cold greeting for the legionnaires who saved your fleet and possibly even your life on the Alamber Sea.”

  Samas sneered. “You did render good service that night. But any gratitude you earned thereby, you forfeited when you deserted and took the whole of the Griffon Legion with you.”

  “Maybe that’s fair. But when I discovered I was going to live a long time, I realized I didn’t want to spend all those years bowing and scraping. And when I told the men of my intent, they agreed there was a better life to be had.”

  “A ‘better life’ that involved siding with the enemies of your own people!” Droplets of spittle flew from Samas’s lips. “Of conspiring to overthrow all that remains of the Thay that was!”

  “Yes, an offense for which you zulkirs tried to kill me. Nevertheless, here I stand before you, because none of that matters anymore. With your permission, we’ll show you what does.”

  Bareris removed the red book from its pouch. “This belonged to Druxus Rhym. The simbarchs, for all their claims to arcane knowledge, considered it nonsense. But I trust that you, who presided over the Order of Transmutation, will see deeper.”

  Samas held out his hand. The book leaped out of Bareris’s grasp and flew to the zulkir. Samas murmured a charm over it, perhaps checking to see if it was some sort of magical trap, then opened the cover.

  “Where,” Lauzoril asked, “are Aoth Fezim and his companions now?”

  Seated on the other side of the red maple table, a piece
of roast duck in one hand, a cup of apple-flavored liqueur in the other, and his several chins gleaming with grease, Samas had to swallow before he could answer. “I locked them up, but I haven’t punished them in any way. I would have liked to, but under the circumstances …” He shrugged, and his rolls of fat flapped in a way that made his fellow zulkir think of avalanches sliding down a mountain.

  A shrewish glint in her eye, Lallara rasped, “Why did we need a dead bard and knight to stumble across this wretched book a hundred years after Druxus’s death? You were his successor. Didn’t you have the sense to take an inventory of his possessions?” She looked wizened and frail, but Laurozil knew the appearance was deceptive. Like all of them, she’d used magic both to extend her life and to ward off the genuine disabilities of old age.

  Samas’s round, sweaty, hairless face turned a deeper, mottled red. “If you recall, those were tempestuous times. Naturally, I made some effort to take stock of what he’d left behind—”

  “But if it wasn’t made of gold, ablaze with magic, or edible, you assumed it couldn’t be important.”

  Inwardly, Lauzoril sighed. Once again, it was time to intervene. It made him miss Dmitra Flass, who, though he’d resented her pretensions to leadership, had likewise exerted her influence to keep their deliberations from descending into useless acrimony.

  “We all wish we’d uncovered this information earlier,” he said, “but what matters is that we have it now. We need to focus on what to do about it.”

  “I suppose so,” Nevron said. Like the other male zulkirs, he’d maintained the appearance of relative youth and had strong, ugly features that sneered more often than not. Most of his tattoos were portraits of demons and devils bound to his service, and the scent of brimstone clung to him. “If we’re agreed that the book is anything to worry about. Are we?”

  “It’s difficult to evaluate whether the ritual could actually destroy one world and allow the mage to mold a new one from the ashes,” Samas said. “To say the least, it seems unlikely. But I see little reason to doubt that it would kill everything for hundreds of miles around.”

  Nevron scowled. “I think so too.”

  “As do I,” Lallara said.

  “Then it’s unanimous,” Lauzoril said. “Still, just because Szass Tam could attempt the rite, with dire consequences, doesn’t mean he necessarily will.”

  “Our spies,” Nevron said, “confirm Anskuld’s report. The lich built his new castles in the same shape as Druxus’s drawing.”

  “But perhaps,” Lauzoril said, “he’s found a way to raise this particular form of power and turn it to some less ambitious project. He wouldn’t be the first wizard who simply”—simply!—“aspired to claim a place among the gods.”

  Lallara cackled. “The Szass Tam I remember already thought he was a god, or as good as.”

  “True enough,” Nevron said, “and let’s not forget that gods can subjugate one another and even die. I’ve lost count of how many did so in the past century. No, it makes perfect sense that Szass Tam, arrogant, merciless whoreson that he is, would seek to become something greater.”

  Lauzoril reflected that in different circumstances, he might have needed to suppress a smile at hearing Nevron refer to anyone else as “arrogant” or “merciless.” But nothing seemed very funny at the moment.

  Samas guzzled from his cup. “But I wonder if the actual gods wouldn’t stop him.”

  “Like they stopped the Spellplague?” Lallara asked.

  “She’s right,” Nevron said. “No mortal understands the ways of the gods, no mortal can command them, and that means you can’t depend on them.”

  “Then you’re saying Captain Fezim and his friends are right,” Samas said. “Other people need to stop Szass Tam, and since we’re the only ones who know of the threat and take it seriously, it will have to be us.”

  “How?” Lallara asked. “The necromancers already defeated us once, when we commanded far greater resources than we do now. I know we’ve always prattled about reconquering Thay, but we never actually set about organizing an invasion, did we? Because we knew we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to retake Thay,” Samas said. “The so-called ‘Dread Rings’ define a mystic pattern with the Citadel, where Szass Tam will perform the conjuration, at the center. And we can assume that, gigantic though it is, it’s like any pentacle. Break any part of it, and the whole becomes useless. So all we need to do is seize a single fortress, neutralize its arcane properties with our own countermagic, and that will make the ritual impossible.” He smiled smugly, and Lauzoril surmised that he’d enjoyed playing schoolmaster to the woman who so often mocked and fleered at him.

  “Interesting,” Lallara said. “I assume this is Captain Fezim’s idea that you’re passing along to us.”

  Samas glared.

  “Wherever it originated,” Lauzoril said, “it seems the most practical way—perhaps the only way—of addressing the problem.”

  “It does,” Nevron said, “but it ignores one important point. The Aglarondans are coming to drive us out of the Wizard’s Reach, and if we take most of our troops and wander off to Thay, they’ll succeed.”

  “Given what’s at stake,” Lauzoril said, “perhaps even that doesn’t matter.”

  Nevron scowled. “It matters to me. I’m a zulkir, a lord among men, and I intend to remain one so long as I walk the mortal plane. The East can burn, the whole world can crumble, if that’s what it takes for me to keep my lands and titles until the end.”

  Her eyes flinty, Lallara nodded. Samas said, “The Reach is all we have left.”

  Lauzoril realized he agreed with them. Their perspective was a subtle kind of madness, perhaps, but whatever it was, he shared it. “All right. First we push back the simbarchs, then we deal with Szass Tam. Maybe the former will be good practice for the latter. As far as I can see, that just leaves one more minor matter to decide here and now. What shall we do with Captain Fezim and his comrades?”

  “What do you generally do with deserters?” said Nevron. “Execute them.”

  “They are the people who warned us of Szass Tam’s scheme,” Samas said.

  Nevron smiled. “Which is to say, they’ve served their purpose.”

  “Perhaps not their entire purpose,” Lallara said. “Remember the old days. When we scored a victory against Szass Tam, these warriors played a part as often as not. And from what I understand, Captain Fezim’s mercenary company—the army he built around our old Griffon Legion—is on its way here. They’re coming to help us invade Thay, but they may have second thoughts if they arrive to learn we tortured their commander to death.”

  “I suppose we would be stupid to cast away such a weapon,” Nevron said, “but it galls to me to think of that insolent Rashemi going unpunished.”

  Lauzoril fingered his chin. “Well, how about this? Someone will have to bear the brunt of it when Aglarond attacks. Let it be the Brotherhood of the Griffon. If Fezim and his company perish, that’s his punishment. If they survive, they can serve as our vanguard in Thay. And if they make it through that, then we can always butcher the traitor when we come home again.”

  As Aoth had anticipated, a substantial force of Aglarondans had chased the Brotherhood some distance into the Yuirwood before Gaedynn’s maneuvering shook them off the trail. But even with elves and druids to aid their passage, the simbarchs had balked at the arduous task of bringing the whole of their armed might south through the dense forest with its dangerous patches of plagueland. Instead, they’d marched their forces east, to emerge from the fortified city of Glarondar onto the plains north of Escalant.

  Aoth flew high above the field to inspect the Aglarondans in their battle array and the zulkirs’ troops in their own formation. Bareris and Mirror accompanied him, but none of the other flyers. There was no reason to tire the griffons prematurely or to show the enemy just how many aerial cavalry there were, even though they’d had ample opportunity to learn before the Brotherhood swi
tched sides.

  Switched sides. Aoth tried to spit the unpalatable thought away.

  He glanced over at Bareris, an uncanny ivory apparition astride his own griffon, its tawny wings gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. The bard’s scowl suggested that his thoughts were bitterer than Aoth’s.

  “Cheer up,” called Aoth. “The situation doesn’t look all that bad.”

  “This is a waste of time,” the bard replied. “We should already be in Thay.” He nudged his mount with his knee and sent it winging to the left.

  “It would be futile to go by ourselves,” Aoth said, even though his fellow griffon rider was already out of earshot. “I’m doing the best I can, damn you.”

  Mirror floated closer. For Aoth, it was one of those moments when regarding the ghost actually was like peering into a warped and murky looking glass. “He knows that. But you have to admit, you would feel silly if, while we were busy fighting the simbarchs, Szass Tam performed his ‘Great Work’ and killed us all.”

  Aoth snorted. “Is that supposed to be funny? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you try to joke before. You’ve come a long way.”

  “Some days are good, some, I’m as mad and empty as the day Bareris met me. But yes, I’ve emerged partway into the light, even as he’s slipped farther and farther into darkness. At times I feel like some sort of vampire. As if I’m leeching his soul from him without even realizing it.”

  “I never knew you to fall prey to poetic fancies before, either.” Aoth sent Jet swooping for a better look at some of the enemy’s archers. “I’m sure your company has been as good for him as his has been for you. I suspect it’s the thing that’s kept him at least a little sane.”

  “I suppose it could be so.” Mirror hesitated. “You were always a shrewd soldier. You do realize that, the way our side is formed up, a good many of the Aglarondans are going to end up hammering away at your Brotherhood. More than your fair share, I’d have to say.”