The Haunted Lands: Book III - Unholy

by Richard Lee Byers

  Bareris sang. The world seemed to blink, and then he was standing atop the wall in the middle of the necromancers.

  Still singing—now a spell to leech the courage from his foes’ hearts and the strength from their limbs—Bareris thrust his sword into one wizard’s chest, yanked it free, and stepped past the toppling corpse to confront a second mage. That one brandished a wand capped with a miniature skull and rattled off words of power. Bareris felt coercion searing its way into his psyche like a branding iron. But this time, he wasn’t sprawled crippled and helpless, and he cleaved the necromancer’s skull before the binding was complete.

  He killed the next mage. Dodged a hurtling, crackling ball of lightning. Slew another pair of wizards and saw they were the last spellcasters in that group.

  He rounded on a squad of archers. A couple of the blood orcs recognized the danger, and they loosed their shafts at him. One arrow stabbed into his chest.

  It hurt and rocked him back a step, but that was all. He knocked the bowmen off their feet with another bellow, and then something crashed into the back of his skull, pitching him onto his belly.

  It wasn’t like when the arrow pierced him; the pain and shock were almost overwhelming. But if he let them paralyze him, he was finished. He floundered over onto his back.

  Tsagoth stood several paces away, a second round stone—originally intended as ammunition for one of the Ring’s smaller catapults, probably—in his upper right hand. He tossed it into the left and threw it. Bareris rolled, and the missile smashed down beside him.

  He scrambled to his feet, and the back of his head throbbed. He wondered just how badly his skull was cracked, and then Tsagoth made another throwing gesture, although now his hand was empty.

  An explosion of multicolored light hammered Bareris. Tsagoth vanished.

  The blood fiend shifted himself through space with perfect stealth, like the consummate predator he was. It was pure warrior’s instinct that warned Bareris that his foe had appeared immediately behind him in hopes of rending him while he was still reeling from the blast. He spun and dropped low in the same movement, and Tsagoth’s talons whipped harmlessly over his head. He thrust his sword deep into the vampiric demon’s belly.

  Tsagoth roared and convulsed but kept fighting. He leaned forward, actually imbedding the sword deeper to do so, and his four hands swept down.

  Bareris couldn’t free the blade in time to defend. He sang words of power instead, shielded himself with his free arm, and lowered his head in hopes of saving his eyes.

  Tsagoth’s claws tore his forearm and scalp, but Bareris didn’t let the blows spoil the pitch and cadence of his magic. On the final note, force chimed through the air, and now he was the one who translated himself some distance backward.

  He and the blood fiend regarded one another across the stretch of wall-walk and the gory corpses lying there. Tsagoth’s stomach wound was already closing, faster than even Bareris could heal.

  “So you decided to fight me after all,” Bareris gritted.

  Tsagoth laughed. “This time I have a reason. I’m ordered to defend the Dread Ring, and if I leave you running loose, those other worms on the ground yonder are likely to get the gate open. So come on. I’ll give you what you truly want. I’ll send you to join your woman.”

  Singing, Bareris advanced, but slowly. It gave the burning pain of his wounds time to ease and his enchantment time to tingle through his body.

  He stepped into range, and Tsagoth clawed at him. Bareris wished himself a phantom. The attack raked harmlessly through him, and Tsagoth snarled and pivoted. Since he couldn’t see Bareris anymore, he assumed the bard had tried the same trick he himself had employed, and shifted behind him.

  But Bareris was using a different spell, and since he hadn’t really changed position, he was behind Tsagoth now. He willed himself solid and visible again and cut into the blood fiend’s back.

  Tsagoth staggered and jerked back around, but not fast enough. Bareris had time to land two more cuts and still shift himself beyond the blood fiend’s reach when the hulking creature lunged.

  Of course, there was no such thing as a perfect defense; even his intermittently ethereal condition didn’t qualify. If an attack surprised him, it would score, and Tsagoth was a cunning fighter. Once the undead demon realized what Bareris was doing, he used his ability to whisk himself through space to achieve a comparable effect. So, each trying to predict when and where the other would appear, the two combatants repeatedly materialized, struck, and vanished once again.

  The difference was that Bareris guessed better. It was as though Shevarash, god of retribution, guided him. His strokes scored again and again, slicing a crosshatch of bloody gashes down the length of Tsagoth’s body while he himself avoided further harm. And as his dance of vengeance continued, as the demon jerked in pain and Bareris’s flying blade cast spatters of the creature’s blood, a savage ecstasy swelled inside him.

  Perhaps it made him careless.

  He willed himself solid, made an overhand cut at Tsagoth’s torso, then saw the blood fiend wasn’t trying to defend himself. Instead, he hurled himself into the blow, willing to accept whatever harm it might do him if, at the same instant, he could drive his claws into Bareris’s body.

  The sword sheared into flesh, and so did Tsagoth’s talons. Bareris stiffened at the shock of his new wounds, and then Tsagoth plowed into him and bore him down beneath him. The injured spot on the back of Bareris’s head cracked against the stone, and a flare of pain made him convulse, insofar as that was possible with his huge opponent pinning him down.

  Their claws still lodged in Bareris’s body, Tsagoth’s hands pulled in opposite directions. Agony ripped through the bard as his frame began to tear apart. The demonic vampire spread his jaws wide, then lowered them to Bareris’s face.

  Bareris told himself that this was the thing who’d destroyed Tammith, and rage lifted him above the crippling pain. Somehow he found the strength to concentrate and make himself a phantom once more. Tsagoth’s fangs clashed shut in the same space his head occupied, but without harming him. The undead demon’s body dropped through his and landed with a thump.

  Bareris rolled clear, floundered upright, and made himself corporeal. Tsagoth snarled and started to rise. The last sword stroke must have hurt him, for he was floundering too. But he was still coming.

  Shaking, his body ablaze with pain, Bareris gripped his sword with both hands, bellowed a war cry, and swung. The blow split Tsagoth’s head from crown to neck.

  Two more cuts chopped the head free of the body. Bareris reduced it to fragments, then turned his attention to the remainder of his foe’s corpse. When he was certain that he’d demolished the blood fiend beyond any possibility of regeneration, all the strength spilled out of him, and he collapsed amid the carrion.

  Where he tried to feel triumph. Or at least satisfaction. Something.

  But he couldn’t. For a few moments, as he had fought and gained the upper hand, he’d felt a teasing promise of joy, but there was nothing now but the torment of his wounds.

  As Tammith had once tried to explain to him, this too was what it meant to belong to the living dead. You thirsted for something—blood, revenge, power, whatever—and the need was so hellish you’d do anything to ease it. But you couldn’t, no matter what you tried.

  As soon as he could, before his wounds had finished closing, he drew himself to his feet to hurl himself back into the roaring chaos of the battle. For after all, what else was there to do?

  A griffon rider swooped past the arched window. Malark resisted the impulse to toss a javelin or darts of force at the sell-sword and shrank back instead. If he didn’t reveal his location, the enemy couldn’t disturb him while he performed his next task.

  And it was essential that he succeed. He’d helped the defense by unlocking all the magically sealed doors, but by itself, that wasn’t going to be enough. The council’s soldiers were pushing into every bailey. They’d taken possession of som
e of the towers and bastions already. By the looks of it, they were on the verge of seizing the fortress’s primary gate to admit the rest of their army.

  But Malark judged he could still turn the fight around—if he could blot the wan dawn light out of the sky. Then the specters and other entities lurking in the dungeons, the true night creatures to which the sun was poison, could emerge to join the fray.

  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be easy. Ysval had been able to do it, but he’d been a nighthaunt. And then Xingax, but he’d grafted Ysval’s severed hand onto his own wrist.

  Malark would have to make do with pure sorcery. Encouraging himself with the reflection that at least he’d learned the craft from the greatest mage in the East, he raised his wand and started to chant.

  Jet beat his wings, flew above a skin kite, caught the membranous undead in his talons, and shredded it. Meanwhile, Aoth looked around the aerial portion of the battle for another foe and saw the sky was darkening.

  With his fire-infected eyes, he’d noticed the process early. That gave him a chance to stop it if he could determine its source. Unfortunately, no matter how he peered, he couldn’t. The wizard responsible was hidden away somewhere.

  He cast about for his own wizards and spotted the gleam of Jhesrhi’s golden hair atop a captured bastion. She and some colleagues in red were hurling fire from the flat, square roof of the keep, while the soldiers standing with them shot arrows or dropped stones they’d pried loose from the parapet.

  Aoth sent Jet diving toward the keep. Their haste nearly earned them a volley of arrows, but then the startled archers realized who was plunging down at their position and eased the tension on their bowstrings.

  Jet spread his pinions wide and, despite his speed, touched down with scarcely a bump. “Jhesrhi!” said Aoth. “The sky’s getting darker.”

  Jhesrhi looked up. “It is?”

  “Yes, and that’s bad. Can you find the person causing it?”

  “Maybe. Darkness isn’t an element per se, but air is, and the darkness is presumably flowing through the air. I’ll speak to it.”

  She raised her staff over her head, closed her eyes, and murmured words of power. Aoth had a fair knowledge of elemental wizardry himself, for as a warmage, he relied on it extensively, but even so, he didn’t recognize this particular spell. A cold wind kicked up, moaning, blowing one direction, then another, fluttering the hems of cloaks and robes.

  Jhesrhi lowered her staff and used it to point at one of the taller towers. “It’s just one man, and he’s in the top of that.”

  “Thank you.” Aoth dismounted, strode to the parapet, pointed his spear, and rattled off his own incantation. A bright, crackling lightning bolt leaped from the point of the spear, only to terminate just short of one of the windows of the minaret.

  Aoth cursed and threw a pale blaze of cold. It too failed to reach the target. “The bastard’s got wards in place.”

  One of the zulkirs’ soldiers said, “Captain, we could do it the regular way. Break into the bottom of the tower and fight our way up from there.”

  Aoth shook his head and pointed to the sky. By now, surely everyone could see it was murkier than before. “We don’t have time.”

  His glistening wand of congealed quicksilver in his hand, the harness of white energy still supporting his ponderous form, Samas Kul waddled forth from the circle of wizards with Lallara hobbling at his side. Aoth hadn’t noticed his co-commanders before but wasn’t surprised to find them here. The top of the keep was a relatively safe position from which to work their magic, and in his experience, his former masters didn’t like facing unnecessary risks. That was the job of lesser creatures like legionnaires.

  “I’ll break open the tower,” Samas said.

  Lallara spat. “You couldn’t breach the walls before.”

  “Then,” Samas said, “we were outside the Dread Ring, which meant its defenses were at their strongest. Now, we’re inside. Watch and learn.” He raised his wand with a surprising daintiness that reminded Aoth of a conductor leading a band of musicians, then flicked it through an intricate series of passes.

  A piece of minaret sparkled around its pointed window, and then the black stone turned to water. It cascaded down the side of the tower, leaving a ragged hole and revealing the man inside. It was Malark, clad in garments that were partly scarlet, denoting his status as a Red Wizard.

  Aoth and Malark both aimed their weapons, but Szass Tam’s aide was a hair quicker. Four points of yellow light shot from the tip of his wand.

  “Get down!” Aoth yelled. Praying that the parapet would shield them at least to some degree, he threw himself flat, and his companions followed suit. Most of them, anyway. Lallara was moving too slowly. He grabbed her and jerked her down just as the sparks exploded into blasts of fire.

  The heat seared him, and the booms nearly deafened him, but he wouldn’t let them pound him into sluggishness. He raised his head and looked around.

  Some of the warriors were badly burned, maybe dead. Thanks be to Kossuth, Jhesrhi and Jet looked dazed and a little scorched but essentially unharmed.

  On the other side of the gap that separated the one high place from the other, violet phosphorescence seethed on top of the hole Samas had punched, patching it. Somehow, though he’d only had an instant, Malark had conjured a new defense. Now, protected by that shield, he was lifting the trapdoor that granted access to the lower levels of the tower.

  He was still chanting and brandishing his ebony club too, and the sky was still blackening. Down in one of the western courtyards, a door flew open, and wolves with glowing crimson eyes—vampires, almost certainly——loped out.

  Lallara snapped her fingers and floated back onto her feet as though invisible hands had lifted her. Samas heaved himself up in a way that reminded Aoth of a whale breaching. Jhesrhi rose, and the glowing runes on her staff pulsed brighter, first one and then another, a sign that she was angry.

  Lallara glared at the minaret so intently that one could virtually feel her summoning every iota of her mystical might. Then she thrust her staff at it and screamed a word of power.

  Samas seized Jhesrhi’s blistered hand in his own meaty fingers. “I want your strength,” he said, and though she stiffened like he’d jabbed her with a pin, she didn’t pull away. He whipped the quicksilver wand through a complex figure.

  Assailed by Lallara’s spell of dissolution, the shield of violet light shattered like glass, the fragments winking out of existence when they fell free of the whole. As soon as the defense failed, Samas’s power enfolded the minaret, and the entire top half of the black tower became a shapeless grayness that collapsed under its own weight and engulfed the nearly vanished Malark in the process. Portions of the stuff fell away from the central mass in globs and spatters. The rest flowed down what remained of the spire.

  For an instant, Aoth couldn’t tell what Samas had transmuted the stonework into. Then he heard the fresh screams rising from the base of the tower, looked down at the burned, battered, writhing men and orcs, and realized it was molten lead.

  He rounded on the obese archmage, who was just letting go of Jhesrhi’s hand. “Some of our own men were at the foot of that tower!”

  “I killed Malark Springhill too,” Samas answered, “and brought back the dawn light.” Aoth saw that the sky was indeed lightening, and the vampire wolves were bursting into flame. “It’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”

  Then, as if to save Aoth the trouble of framing an answer, the transmuter swayed and collapsed.

  Lallara squinted at him. “Pity,” she quavered, “he isn’t dead. He simply swooned from his exertions.” She turned to a soldier. “Guard him, and find a healer to tend him. And have food and drink ready when he wakes up. I guarantee the hog will want them.”

  Aoth scratched a patch of itching scorched skin on his cheek. Something was nagging at him, and after a moment, he realized what. He was finding it hard to believe that Malark was truly gone, charred, crushed, smothered
in a heartbeat. It would have felt wrong even if the spymaster had simply been the supremely competent warrior of a century ago, and in the time since, he’d mastered a zulkir’s skills on top of that.

  Still, that was war for you. Even the greatest champion could die in an instant, as Aoth had observed time and again. And to say the least, it was doubtful that any human being could survive the magmalike inundation that Samas had dumped on Malark’s head.

  Anyway, the problem of the darkening sky was past, Aoth had a battle to oversee, and the best way to do it was on griffonback. Sensing his intent, Jet bounded to his side. He swung himself back into the saddle, and the enchanted restraining straps buckled themselves to hold him there. The familiar leaped, lashed his black-feathered wings, and carried him aloft.

  They climbed until they achieved a good view of the great southern gate. At the moment, he judged, it was the site of the most important struggle of all.

  He sighed and sent a silent word of thanks to the Firelord when he saw that his side was winning. A lurching step at a time, paying a toll in blood for every miniscule advance but exacting even greater payment in their turn, the council’s soldiers pushed, stabbed, and hacked their way toward the great valves, grinding the mass of defenders in front of them like grain beneath a miller’s stone.

  Meanwhile, Gaedynn and other griffon riders wheeled above the fight and shot arrows down at Szass Tam’s minions. Singing, Bareris fought on the wall-walk, keeping it clear of enemy warriors when necessary and hammering the legionnaires, dread warriors, and orcs below him with his magic the rest of the time. Mirror battled beside him.

  The defenders held out for a while longer, but finally the relentless assault proved too much for all but the stolid undead. Panicking, their human and orc counterparts cringed or turned and sought to run away.