Malark turned the wheel. “Talk!” he snarled, meanwhile silently urging, Don’t. You only have to hold out a little longer.
“Master—” the torturer began.
Malark turned the wheel. “Talk!” Up and down the length of the rebel’s body, joints cracked and popped as they pulled apart.
“Master!” the torturer persisted. “With all respect, you’re giving him too much too fast!”
Doing his best to look as if the Rashemi’s recalcitrance had angered him, Malark kept on twisting the winch. “Talk, curse you! Talk, talk, talk!”
The prisoner’s spine snapped.
Malark rounded on the torturer. “What just happened?”
Once again, the fellow made a visible effort to cloak his irritation in subservience. “I’m sorry, Your Omnipotence, but his back broke. For what it’s worth, he might live a little while longer, maybe even a day, and he won’t enjoy it. But he can’t talk anymore.” He hesitated. “I tried to warn you.”
“Damn it!” Still pretending to be furious, Malark ended the prisoner’s ordeal by chopping his forehead with the blade of his hand. The blow broke the man’s skull and drove scraps of bone into the brain within.
The torturer sighed. “And now he won’t even suffer.”
An impish urge took hold of Malark, and he glared at the other man. “This rebel possessed vital information, and now we’ll never learn it. Szass Tam will hear of your incompetence!”
The torturer paled. Swallowed. “Master,” he stammered, “I beg you, forgive my clumsiness. I’ll do better next time.”
Malark grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s all right, my friend, I’m only joking.” He made a gold coin appear between his thumb and forefinger, one of the petty tricks that had come to amuse him since he’d mastered sorcery, and pressed it into the torturer’s hand. “Have a drink and a whore on me.”
The torturer stared after him in relief and confusion as Malark climbed the stairs connecting the pocket hell of the dungeon with the guard station overhead.
Outside the small keep, under a gray sky fouled with smoke and ash from one of High Thay’s volcanoes, the Citadel went about its business. Much of the kingdom was desolate now, particularly in the highlands, but Szass Tam’s capital city still thrived. Masons slowly carted blocks of marble and granite through the streets, eliciting shouted imprecations from the traffic stuck behind them. Legions of vendors cried their wares, and beggars their afflictions. The naked thralls in the slave markets shivered in the cold mountain air.
People scurried out of Malark’s way, then peered curiously after him. He supposed it was only natural. He was, after all, the only one of Szass Tam’s zulkirs not Mulan nor even Thayan-born, the only one not undead, and the only one who customarily walked around without a retinue of lackeys and bodyguards.
He realized his station all but demanded the latter, but he just couldn’t persuade himself to endure the inconvenience. Over the course of a long, long life, he’d discovered that clerks and their ilk rarely did anything for him that he couldn’t do more efficiently and reliably for himself. And to say the least, a man who’d learned combat from the Monks of the Long Death scarcely needed soldiers to fend off footpads and assassins.
He turned a corner and the dark towers and battlements of the true Citadel, the fortress from which the surrounding city took its name, rose before him. Though Szass Tam had claimed it for his residence, he hadn’t built it. The structure predated the founding of Thay itself and, according to rumor, was a haunted, uncanny place, with secrets still awaiting discovery in the caverns and catacombs beneath.
Malark had seen indications that rumor likely had it right, but it didn’t much concern him. From his perspective, the important thing about the castle was that it was the focal point for the enormous circle of power defined by the Dread Rings, the place where a mage must position himself to perform the Great Work of Unmaking.
Pig-faced blood orcs, lanky gnolls with the muzzles and rank fur of hyenas, and stinking corpses with gleaming yellow eyes, soldiers all in Thay’s Dread Legions, saluted Malark as he passed through the various gates and courtyards, and he acknowledged them all without breaking stride. He was eager to reach his quarters and resume his study of a certain grimoire Szass Tam had given him.
But when he saw the raven perched on his windowsill, a tiny scroll case tied to one of its claws, intuition told him the book would have to wait.
The huge keep at the center of the Citadel had a round, flat roof. The wind flapping his scarlet robes, Szass Tam floated some distance above it. The elevation afforded him a good view of both the city spread out below him and the peaks of the Thaymount beyond. And, his sight sharpened by magic, he looked for the flaws in everything he beheld.
It was easiest to find them in people, ugly in body with their legs too long or too short, their wobbling, sagging flab, their moles, rotting teeth, and general lack of grace. Ugly in spirit, too, squabbling, cheating, every word and deed arising from petty lusts and resentments. And even the few who could lay some claim to comeliness of person and clarity of mind carried the seeds of disease and decrepitude, senescence and death.
The peoples’ creations were simply their own failings writ large. Some of the buildings in the city were filthy hovels, and even the finer ones often offended against symmetry and proportion or, in their ostentation, betrayed the vanity and vulgarity of their owners. All would one day crumble just as surely as their makers.
It was perhaps a bit more challenging to perceive the imperfections in the mountains, snow capped except for the fuming cones with fire and lava at their cores. Indeed, another observer might have deemed them majestic. But Szass Tam took note of the gaping wounds that were gold mines, and the castles perched on one crag or another. Men had marred this piece of nature, and even had it been otherwise, what was nature, anyway? An arena of endless misery where animals starved, killed, and ate one another, and, if they overcame every other obstacle to their survival, grew old and died, just like humanity. As they always would, until the mountains too wore away to dust.
Szass Tam turned his regard on himself. Except for his withered hands, he might look like a living man, and, with his lean frame, keen, intellectual features, and neat black goatee, a reasonably handsome one at that. But he acknowledged the underlying reality of his fetid breath, silent heart, and cold, leathery flesh suffused with poison. The idiot priests were right about one thing: Undeath was an abomination. He was an abomination, or at least his physical form was. He could scarcely wait for the moment when he would replace it.
A compactly built man in maroon and scarlet clothing climbed the steps to the rooftop. He had light green eyes and a wine red birthmark on his chin. In his altered state of consciousness, Szass Tam needed a moment to perceive the newcomer as anything more than another bundle of loathsome inadequacies. Then he recognized Malark Springhill and drifted back down to stand before him.
Malark bowed. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing.”
“I was meditating,” Szass Tam replied. “Preparing for the ritual. When the time comes, I have to be ready to let go of everything. If I feel even a flicker of attachment or regret, it could ruin the casting. So I’m cultivating the habit of viewing all things with scorn.”
The outlander grinned. “I hope knowing me doesn’t put you off your game. I mean, since I’m indisputably such a marvelous fellow.”
Szass Tam smiled. “You’ve been a true friend this past century, I’ll give you that. And I tell you again, I can recreate you in the universe to come.”
“Then I’ll tell you again, that’s the last thing I want. I just want to watch death devour the world I know, and fall into darkness along with it.”
“All right.” Even after a long association, Szass Tam didn’t fully comprehend Malark’s devotion to death, only that it had been the response of a mind ill-prepared to deal with the unique stresses of immortality. But he was willing to honor his wishes. “Did you com
e to consult me about something in particular?”
Malark’s expression grew serious. “Yes. I’ve heard from my agent in Escalant. The zulkirs—the old ones in exile, I mean—intend to mount an invasion of Thay within the next few tendays.”
Szass Tam blinked. “They can’t possibly have amassed sufficient strength to have any hope at all of retaking the realm, or you would have learned about it before this. Wouldn’t you?”
“I would, and they haven’t. My man also reports that Aoth Fezim and his sellswords have hired on with Lauzoril and the others, and that Bareris Anskuld and Mirror slipped out of Thay to join the expedition.”
Szass Tam shook his head at the perversity of fate. “If Anskuld and the ghost are there with Lallara and the rest, it can only mean one thing: they discovered what I’m about to do and rallied the rest of my old enemies to stop me.”
Malark nodded. “That’s my guess as well.”
“I would very much like to know how they found out. Fastrin’s book has been in my possession for a hundred years. Druxus never told anyone but me what was in it, and I never told anyone but you.”
“Could the gods have played a part?”
“Except for Bane, they no longer have much reason to pay a great deal of attention to what goes on in Thay, and the Black Hand has given me a thousand years to do whatever I please. Still, who knows? I suppose at this point, the how of the situation is less important than what to do about it.”
“Are you sure you need to do anything extraordinary? Thay is well protected, the Dread Legions stronger than any force your foes can field. The Dread Rings aren’t just gigantic talismans; they’re some of the mightiest fortresses in the East. The final preparations for the Unmaking will be ready in a matter of months or possibly even sooner. It seems to me that at this late date, it’s impossible for anyone to stop you.”
“I’d like to think so. Still, the zulkirs have powerful magic at their command, and in the old days, Anskuld, Fezim, and Mirror won victories that prolonged the war by years. So I want to crush this threat as expeditiously as possible, which means I want you to take an active part. It’s the next best thing to doing it myself, and that isn’t practical. I have to finish getting everything ready here.”
To Szass Tam’s surprise, Malark seemed to hesitate. It was even possible that a hint of distress showed through what was generally his impeccable poise.
Then the lich inferred the reason. “I swear to you,” he said, “that when it’s time to start conjuring, if you’re still in the field, I’ll fetch you. I told you you’ll be at my side, and I keep my promises.”
Malark inclined his head. “I know you do, Master. Please forgive me for imagining otherwise, even for an instant.”
Szass Tam waved a dismissive hand. “It’s all right. You’ve worked tirelessly for this one reward. In your place, if I suspected I might not receive it, I’d be upset too. Now, let’s talk about how to make my old colleagues sorry they decided to revisit their homeland. How do you think they’ll go about invading?”
A gust of cold wind tugged at Malark’s sleeve, exposing a bit of the tattooing on his forearm. “They’ve held on to the Alaor since the end of the war,” said the former monk, “presumably to facilitate an attack by sea, should they ever decide to make one.”
“That’s true, and just in case they ever did, we’ve built a formidable fleet. Do they have enough warships to contend with it?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I predict they’ll deploy their naval resources for what amounts to a feint. Meanwhile, the true invasion will come by land.”
“If it does, it can’t swing north through Aglarond. The simbarchs won’t permit it. The zulkirs just fought a little war with them. That means they’ll have to ford the River Lapendrar and come through Priador, almost within spitting distance of Murbant. That’s good. We can harry them and slow their march to a crawl.”
Szass Tam smiled. “There’s another possibility. If I were the enemy, I’d come through the Umber Marshes.”
Malark cocked his head, and his light green eyes narrowed. “Is it even possible to drag an entire army through there?”
“I’ve kept track of Captain Fezim’s career, and he and his company have a reputation for traversing terrain that his foes, to their cost, believed impassable. Consider also that Samas Kul and the mages who serve him are capable of conjuring bridges out of thin air and turning ooze into dry, solid ground. Not every step of the way, of course—it’s a big swamp—but they may be able to help the army over the most difficult passages.”
“I suppose so,” Malark said, “and if I were the enemy, I’d be thinking that Szass Tam might be reluctant to send one of his own armies into that pesthole of a swamp, and that it would have trouble locating my comrades and me even if he did. It would likewise occur to me that the marshes are big enough that it would be hard to predict exactly where we’d emerge. So with luck, we could at least make it into Thay proper without encountering heavy resistance.”
“Exactly.”
“So what do we do about it?”
“It might well be a waste of resources to send a conventional army into the fens, but I can send other things. If the zulkirs overcome that obstacle, they’ll likely make for the Dread Ring in Lapendrar and lay siege to it. You’ll be there to aid in the defense.”
Malark nodded. “It should be easy enough, considering that we have to hold out for only a relatively short time. But I do have a suggestion. I take it that Tsagoth is still in charge of the Ring in Tyraturos?”
“I’m certain, my lord spymaster, that you would have known within the day if I’d reassigned him.”
“Well, I’d like you to reassign him now. Give him to me to fight in Lapendrar.”
With reflexive caution, Malark took another glance around, making sure he was still alone. He was, of course. He was locked inside one of his personal conjuration chambers, with gold and silver pentacles inlaid in the red marble floor, racks of staves, cups, daggers, oils, and powders ready to hand, tapestries sewn with runes adorning the walls, and the scent of bitter incense hanging in the air.
He murmured words of power, pricked his fingertip with a lancet, and dripped blood onto the mass of virgin clay on the tabletop before him. Then, chanting, he kneaded those ingredients together with hairs, nail parings, and various bodily fluids. Magic accumulated, straining toward overt manifestation. It sent a prickling across his skin and made the shadows writhe.
As Szass Tam had taught him, he concentrated on what he was doing. Believed in the outcome. Willed it to happen. Yet even so, there was a small, unengaged part of him that reflected that while he should be able to perform this particular spell successfully, he’d never actually tried before, and it was supposed to be particularly dangerous.
Still, he didn’t see a choice. He’d already had a plan of sorts, but it had been predicated on remaining in the Citadel awaiting an opportune moment to make his move. Now that the lich had ordered him forth, something more aggressive was required. And this scheme was the best he could devise.
He started shaping the clay into a crude doll. Suddenly, a pang of weakness shot through him, and his knees buckled. As he continued sculpting, the feeling of debility grew worse, as though his work was draining a measure of his life.
Was this supposed to happen? The grimoire hadn’t warned of it.
Don’t think about it! Focus on speaking the words with the proper clarity and cadence. On making the passes precisely and exactly when required.
A crazy titter sounded from thin air, the glee of some petty spirit drawn by the scent of magic. Malark raised his wand above his head and shouted the final words of his spell.
A flare of mystic power painted the room with frost. The doll swelled to life-size, becoming an exact duplicate of Malark right down to the wand, ritual chasuble, and the red and maroon garments beneath. The simulacrum drew up his legs and thrust them out again in a vicious double kick at his creator’s ribs.
“Stop!” Malark snapped. “I’m your maker and your master!”
The simulacrum whipped his ebony wand—a sturdy baton designed to double as a cudgel—at Malark’s head. Malark swayed out of the way, but once again, it was close. He needed the weakness and sluggishness to go away, because his twin certainly didn’t seem to be laboring under the same handicap.
But he did seem wild with fury. Perhaps he could be tricked. Malark raised his foot a little as if preparing a kick, then lashed out with his own wand, beat his opponent’s weapon, and knocked it out of his grasp. The cudgel clattered on the floor. It was far from the most effective attack he could have attempted, but he was also hindered by the fact that he didn’t want to kill or cripple his other self.
The simulacrum laughed as though the loss of his club was inconsequential, and perhaps it was. Throwing one combination after another, he came at Malark like a whirlwind, and his creator had little choice but to retreat.
As Malark did, though, he watched. No one, not even a Monk of the Long Death, could make so many attacks in quick succession without faltering or otherwise leaving himself open eventually.
There! The simulacrum was leaning forward, ever so slightly off balance, and as he corrected, Malark dropped his own wand, pounced, and gripped the other combatant’s neck in a stranglehold.
At once Malark felt his adversary moving to break free of the choke, but he didn’t attempt any countermeasures. Now that he was staring straight into the simulacrum’s eyes at short range, it was time to stop wrestling and try being a wizard once again. Imagining the indomitable force of his will, embodied in his glare, stabbing into his double’s head, he snarled, “Stop!”
The simulacrum convulsed, then stopped struggling. The rage went out of his light green eyes, and he composed his features. “You can let go now,” he croaked, his throat still constricted by Malark’s grip.
The Haunted Lands: Book III - Unholy Page 7