The Haunted Lands: Book III - Unholy Page 12

  To the Abyss with that. Given a choice, Aoth knew better than to fight a deathbringer hand-to-hand even if he’d had the time. He drew a deep breath, chanted, and hurled fire from the head of his spear. The blast tore the eagle out from under its rider and ripped it into burning scraps.

  Unless Aoth was lucky, neither the explosion nor the fall that came after would slay the deathbringer. But maybe he and the other griffon riders could get away before the undead champion procured another mount.

  Aoth cast about, seeking Bareris again. His friend and Tsagoth were wheeling around one another in the usual manner of seasoned aerial combatants, each seeking the high air or some comparable advantage. Meanwhile, one of the bizarre creatures called skirrs, things like gigantic, mummified bats right down to the decayed wrappings, had climbed higher still for a plunge at the pallid target below. Blind with hate, Bareris evidently hadn’t noticed it.

  So Aoth and Jet had to dispose of the skirr as well. By the time they finished, half a dozen skeletal riders had flown to Tsagoth’s aid. Having surrounded Bareris, they too were maneuvering, looking for a good opportunity to strike.

  And Aoth hesitated. A warmage’s most potent magic tended to produce big, messy flares of destructive power, and at first glance, he couldn’t see how to scour Bareris’s opponents out of the sky without hitting the bard and his steed, also.

  Then Mirror, currently a murky parody of an orc, floated up into the midst of the fight, brandished his scimitar, and released a dazzling burst of his own sacred power. The undead eagles and their skeleton riders fell burning from the air. Tsagoth appeared unharmed, but, his mount destroyed, disappeared, translating himself through space to spare himself a fall.

  The divine light, an expression of life and health, hadn’t hurt Bareris’s griffon, either, but the bard himself slumped on its back, part of his white mane charred away, his alabaster skin blistered and smoking. As Aoth flew closer, he wondered if the ghost couldn’t have wielded his magic with more finesse and spared his friend, and then, abruptly, he understood. Mirror had deliberately included Bareris in the effect, willing to risk his existence if that was what it took to slap the crazy fury out of him.

  Bareris straightened up and groggily peered about. Judging that he’d approached near enough to make himself heard, Aoth shouted, “Blow the retreat! Help me get our people out of here!”

  Bareris shook his head, perhaps in negation, perhaps to clear it. “Tsagoth …”

  “Gone! And if you stay to look for him, you’ll just get yourself killed, and Tsagoth and Szass Tam will win! That’s not any kind of revenge!”

  Bareris peered about, jerked his head in a nod, and raised his horn to his lips.

  The wizard in scarlet and maroon—a lean man of middling height for a human, with a mark on his chin—brandished an unusually thick and sturdy-looking black wand. Shadowy tentacles burst from the ground under the feet of four of Khouryn’s spearmen, whipped around them, and dragged them down.

  Khouryn couldn’t imagine what had possessed the fellow to descend from the relative safety of the battlements into the thick of the melee. To say the least, it was uncharacteristic behavior for a Red Wizard. But whatever he was thinking, his spells were doing considerable damage. Fortunately, Khouryn expected he could put a stop to it if he could only close with him. In his experience, it was a rare mage who could throw spells and dodge an urgrosh at the same time. In fact, it was a rare mage who could dodge an urgrosh at all.

  A yellow-eyed dread warrior delayed him for a heartbeat. He had to chop its sword hand off and one leg out from under it, before he could get around it and advance. Then he heard a horn sounding the retreat, the high, blaring notes somehow cutting through the crashing, howling din of combat.

  An instant later, the griffon riders winged away from the Dread Ring with other flyers in pursuit. The sight gave Khouryn a jolt of surprise. The castle wasn’t supposed to have any aerial cavalry worth mentioning, and, caught up in the carnage in front of the gate, he hadn’t noticed them until now.

  Flying at the back of their company, Aoth, Bareris, and other spellcasters hurled great blasts of magic, seemingly expending every iota of their power to hold the undead back. The warmage painted a wall made of rainbows across the sky. The undead singer bellowed and shattered the bones of three cadaverous birds and the skeletal archers on their backs.

  Khouryn wondered if Aoth was running because it was death to stay any longer, or because the east wall was down. But if Jhesrhi and Nevron had succeeded at the latter, surely Khouryn would have noticed some sign of that. He felt a sick near-certainty that this costly gambit had failed.

  But now was not the time to think about it. If the griffon riders were fleeing, the infantry had to do the same, and it was up to him to make sure that as many as possible got away safely. He just prayed to the Lord of the Twin Axes that the run away from the fortress wouldn’t prove as difficult as the charge up to it.

  At first, the grip of the phantom hands chilled and dulled Jhesrhi. Her mind seemed to soften and run, as if it were rotting away.

  Then, however, revulsion stabbed through the crippling fog. Under the best of circumstances, she disliked being touched, and the poisonous clutch of the dead, here in solid, claustrophobic darkness, was unbearable.

  Loathing threatened to explode into panic, and she strained for self-control. She had to think. Find the way out of this.

  She couldn’t call on earth or water for succor. The necromancers had corrupted them. Another power would have to liberate her. Air, itself emblematic of freedom. There was none here in this frigid quicksand snare, but she could will it here.

  She shouted words of power. Dead men’s hands tried to cover her mouth, but they were too slow. Wind screamed from elsewhere, forcing the poisonous earth back, making a bubble of pressure and emptiness in the midst of it. Jhesrhi floated at the center of the hollow.

  It was a start, but she still needed a way out that wouldn’t require swimming through tainted ground. She spoke to the wind, and, alternately whirling like a drill and pounding like a hammer, it cut a shaft to the surface. The circle of gray sky at the top seemed as beautiful as anything she’d ever seen.

  It was only as she flew toward it that she remembered her colleagues and looked to see how they were faring. More of the luminous soul-forms had vanished, slain by the necromancers’ curse. But some remained, and she wondered if she could do anything to help them.

  Then new entities, grotesque as the necromentals but far more varied in shape, exploded into view. They roared and hurled themselves at the necromancers’ servants, and their intervention allowed Nevron and his subordinates to break away. They fled into the vertical tunnel, and Jhesrhi led them up into the sky.

  Afterward, they scurried back to their bodies as fast as they could. It only made sense. They’d failed in their mission, the enemy’s assault had shaken them, and it was possible the necromancers had other tricks to play.

  Jhesrhi plunged into her corporeal form in much the same way she’d exited it. For a moment, her flesh felt heavy as lead. As she halted her droning repetition of the ritual incantation, she caught a foul smell and peered around.

  Six of her Red Wizard collaborators sprawled on the ground, their bodies so decayed that it looked as if they’d been dead for days.

  The next instant, demons and devils appeared, their various blades and claws poised to strike. It was plain that their controller’s will had snatched them out of combat unexpectedly, and, hideous as they were, their surprise might have seemed comical had the situation been less grim.

  Or at least Jhesrhi found it droll, but, like most mages, she had some familiarity with such entities. Nevron’s human bodyguards cried out and lifted their weapons, and the spirits, evidently happy they still had something to fight, rounded on them.

  “Enough!” Nevron barked, and all his servants, mortal and infernal, froze.

  The zulkir looked at the dead men on the ground and sneered as though their fa
ilure to survive made them contemptible. Then, his crimson robes flapping around his legs, he strode in the direction of the Dread Ring, no doubt to see how the rest of the battle was going. Jhesrhi followed.

  It soon became apparent that the men who’d attacked the south face of the stronghold were retreating. When she saw how many of their number they were leaving behind, torn, tangled, and trampled on the ground, Jhesrhi felt sick all over again.

  chapter seven

  14–17 Mirtul, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

  Aoth, Bareris, and Mirror stood at the edge of camp, gazing at the approach to the Ring and the fortress itself. Mirror was invisible, a mere hovering intimation of wrongness, and hadn’t spoken since the griffon riders had fled. Evidently his great evocation of holy power had addled and diminished him for a while.

  Perceptible to Aoth’s fire-infected eyes, even in the dark and even at such a distance, necromancers chanted on the battlements, the sound a counterpoint to the wailing of the wounded soldiers the retreat had abandoned. Responding to the magic, dead men lurched up from the ground to join the ranks of the castle’s defenders.

  That was unfortunate, but Aoth doubted it would be the worst thing to happen this cool, rainy spring night. He was sure the Ring had defenders he and his comrades hadn’t even seen yet, vile things that couldn’t bear daylight. They’d come out now and make quick strikes at the fringes of the camp, forcing men in dire need of rest to defend themselves instead, doing their best to undermine the besieging force’s morale.

  Or what was left of it.

  “By the Flame,” Aoth said, “this is why I balked at coming back. I like war—parts of it, anyway—but I hate fighting necromancers.”

  At first, neither of his companions answered, and he assumed that, as was so often the case, neither would. But at length Bareris said, “I know I should apologize.”

  Aoth shrugged. “I accept.”

  “When I saw Tsagoth, it drove me into a frenzy. Made me stupid. Everyone could have come to ruin if you and Mirror hadn’t risked yourselves to save me.”

  “Maybe so, but what’s important is that we did get away.”

  “So I know I should feel sorry and ashamed, but I don’t. All I am is angry that Tsagoth got away.”

  Aoth didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s all I have,” Bareris continued. “Undeath has stripped other emotions away from me. Tammith told me it was like this. Told me how broken and empty she was. Told me that even when she seemed otherwise, it was just because she was trying to feel. But I didn’t want to understand.” He paused. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stray into that. This is my point: I at least remember how people are. I had to act the way they do, over the past ninety years, to make the rebels trust me. And I promise, I’ll behave that way now. I won’t let you down again.”

  Aoth sighed. “You still are ‘people,’ whether you believe it or not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have the urge to unburden yourself this way.”

  “No, that isn’t it. I’m going to propose a plan when we confer with the zulkirs, and I want you to trust me enough to support it.”

  Malark crouched at the top of the stairs and studied the chamber below, particularly the arched doorway in the north wall. The hunting party would enter that way.

  He didn’t know exactly who or what the hunters were. He had yet to get a good look at them. But as he’d murdered the folk he surprised here in the depths, despoiled repositories of treasure, conjuration chambers, and the like, and done anything else he could think of to vex the other inhabitants of the Citadel, each team had been more formidable than the last, and this one would likely continue the trend.

  The thought didn’t dismay him and wouldn’t have even if he’d feared to die. He’d shrouded both the stairs and himself in a spell of concealment. It likely wouldn’t fool a Red Wizard for more than an instant, but that ought to be enough.

  Intent as he was on the space below, there was still an unengaged part of his mind that wondered how his simulacrum was faring at the Dread Ring. Then, peering this way and that, the hunters stalked into view.

  In the lead strode two walking corpses, not the usual zombies or dread warriors, but something deadlier. Even if Malark, favored with Szass Tam’s tutelage in the dark arts, hadn’t been capable of sensing the malign power inside them, the superior quality of their weapons and plate armor would have given it away. A greater danger, however, floated behind them, a vaguely manlike form made of red fog, with a pair of luminous eyes glaring from the head. And bringing up the rear were, most likely, the greatest threats of all: a trio of necromancers, their voluminous black-and-crimson robes cut and deliberately soiled to resemble cerecloths, glowing wands of human bone in their hands.

  Malark decided to kill his fellow wizards first. Without their masters’ spoken commands or force of will to prompt them, the undead might not even choose to fight.

  Feet silent on the carved granite steps, he bounded downward. One of the necromancers glanced in his direction, looked again, goggled, and yelped a warning.

  It came too late, though. Malark reached the foot of the stairs, leaped high, and drove a thrust kick into one mage’s neck, snapping it. He twisted even as he landed, reached out, and stabbed the claws of one scaly, yellow gauntlet into a second necromancer’s heart.

  Two wizards down, one to go, but the third was quick enough to interpose the crimson death, as the fog-things were called, between himself and Malark. The creature reached for him with a billowing, misshapen hand.

  Malark ducked and raked the crimson death’s extended arm. He didn’t encounter any resistance but knew that the talons of the enchanted glove might have cut the entity even so. Or not, for that was the nature of ghostly things.

  He felt danger behind him and lashed out with a back kick. Armor clanged when he connected, and rang again when one of the animated corpses fell backward onto the floor.

  The other dead man rushed in on Malark’s flank and thrust a sword at him. Malark pivoted, caught the blade in his hands—the demon-hide gauntlets made the trick somewhat easier—and twisted it out of the corpse’s hand. He reversed the weapon and, bellowing a battle cry, rammed it through its owner’s torso. The creature toppled.

  Malark whirled, seeking the next imminent threat, but was a hair too slow. The crimson death’s hands locked on his forearms and hoisted him into the air. Pain stabbed through him at the points of contact, and a deeper redness flowed from the entity’s fingers into its wrists and on down its arms. It was leeching Malark’s blood.

  He poised himself to break free, and the surviving necromancer lunged and jabbed him in the ribs with the tip of his yellowed wand. Malark jerked at another jolt of pain, this one followed by a feeling of weakness. The touch had stolen much of his strength. He clawed and squirmed anyway, but it didn’t extricate him from his captor’s grip.

  Merely inconvenienced, not damaged, the corpse he’d kicked to the floor clambered up again. It raised its sword to cleave him while he hung like a felon on a gibbet.

  Malark would have preferred to finish the fight without using any more magic, but plainly, that approach wasn’t going to work. He rattled off three words of power—a spell Szass Tam himself had invented, taught only to a few—and the crimson death dropped him. The corpse warrior faltered and didn’t swing its blade.

  The necromancer gaped when he realized he’d lost control of his servants, and then his eyes opened wider still when he belatedly recognized the man he was fighting. “Master?” he stammered.

  “Kill me if you can,” Malark answered. “You have a chance. I’m still weak from the touch of your wand.” He charged.

  The wizard extended his arcane weapon and started to scream a word of command. Malark knocked the length of bone out of line and silenced his foe by clawing out his throat.

  Afterward, he dispatched the undead, who remained passive throughout the process. As always, it felt good to destroy the vile, unnatural things.

  Aoth looked a
round the command tent at the zulkirs and Bareris. “Let’s get started,” he said. “We’ll be needed elsewhere soon, when the specters start coming.”

  Samas Kul frowned, disgruntled either that Aoth had possessed the audacity to call the assembly to order, or that he had, in effect, suggested that the lordly archmages perform sentry duty. “Can’t the Burning Braziers keep the spooks away? I was hoping they were good for something.”

  “And I keep hoping the same about you,” Lallara said. She turned her flinty gaze on Aoth. “We expended much of our power during the battle. We need time and rest to recover. But we understand that we must all do what we can.”

  Nevron glowered at her. A tattooed demon face on his neck appeared to mouth a silent obscenity, but perhaps that was a trick of the lamplight. “Do not,” he said, “presume to speak for me.” He took a breath. “But yes, Captain, I’ll help, and so will my followers. What’s left of them.”

  “I regret the loss of those who died,” said Aoth.

  “As well you should,” Samas said. A cup appeared in fingers so fat the flab bulged around the edges of the several talismanic rings.

  “We tried the best plan that any of us could think of,” Lallara said.

  “Well, I said from the start that it wouldn’t work,” Samas retorted.

  “True. You did. I freely acknowledge that you’ve finally been right once in the hundred and fifty years we’ve known you. Now let’s talk about something important.”

  “I think that’s a sensible suggestion,” Lauzoril said. It was Lallara who looked like a frail if shrewish old granny, but he was the one who’d bundled up to ward off the evening chill. “Captain, what’s your assessment? After the beating we took today, is the army in any condition to continue the siege?”