Unclean: The Haunted Lands Read online

  She started to kneel, and he caught hold of her arm and held her up. “No time for courtesies,” he said. “My magic interrupted the attack, but it will resume in a moment. Get your people moving toward the river.”

  She stared at him in confusion. “We don’t have a way to cross.”

  “I’m about to remedy that.”

  He produced a scroll, perhaps plucking it from the empty air, though it was also conceivable that, his shriveled fingers deft as a juggler’s, he’d simply drawn it from his voluminous sleeve. He unrolled the vellum, turned to face the Gauros, and spoke the trigger phrase, releasing the magic stored in the parchment.

  Three arches of crimson light shimmered into being above the river, spanning it from shore to shore. Bridges, Azhir realized, he built us bridges.

  She grabbed the nearest warrior, held him and shouted at him until she made him understand that a means of escape was available. Then she released him to spread the word, even as she continued to do the same.

  Perhaps her efforts did a little good, but it was primarily Szass Tam who goaded the Thayan warriors toward salvation. He multiplied himself to appear in a dozen places at once, each version bellowing to all in an amplified voice discernible even over the ambient din.

  In less time than Azhir would have imagined possible, they were all scrambling for safety. The smooth, transparent curve of the bridge she chose looked as if it ought to be slippery as glass, but in fact, the surface was sufficiently rough that she had no difficulty negotiating it.

  It was only when she was on the south shore, and Szass Tam was dissolving the bridges to forestall pursuit, that she remembered that a death beneath the blades of the Rashemi would have been a merciful fate compared to what the lich was likely to do to her.

  Homen Odesseiron had long ago learned that a battle doesn’t end when the fighting stops. He and Azhir had to restore order to their battered and demoralized legions, make sure the healers tended the wounded, withdraw their force to a place of greater safety, and establish a defensible encampment.

  It was hectic work, but even so, Homen stole the odd moment to savor the beauty of wisps of white cloud in the bright blue sky and the towering mountainsides with their subtle striations of dun and tan and their trim of fresh spring greenery. He made time because it might well be his final opportunity to enjoy anything.

  Soon enough, Szass Tam led the two insubordinate tharchions into a tent—Homen’s own green-and white-striped pavilion, as it happened, with his axe-and-boar standard planted before the entrance—to talk in private. Once inside, he kept the governors kneeling for a considerable time. The servants had spread carpets on the ground, but the exercise in humiliation made Homen’s knees ache even so. Since Azhir was as old as he and wearing plate to boot, it was probably even more uncomfortable for her. He hoped so anyway.

  “I confess,” said Szass Tam at last, “I don’t recall the council of zulkirs ordering a raid on Rashemen. Perhaps I missed a meeting.”

  There was a part of Homen that wanted to shout, It was all her idea, reckless, ambitious, hatchet-faced bitch that she is. She pressured me into it. But his pride wouldn’t permit him to whine like a frightened child, and it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. As governor of Surthay, he had to take responsibility for his own decisions.

  “Your Omnipotence,” he said, “I exceeded my authority and led my troops into a trap. I’m to blame and will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”

  Szass Tam smiled. “Are you sure? You’ve seen the kind of punishments I’m wont to concoct. Get up, both of you. Do you have anything to drink stowed in these trunks? If so, perhaps you could pour us each a cup.”

  Feeling confused, Homen did as the necromancer had bade him. Szass Tam inhaled the bouquet of the Chessentan red, swished it around, then sipped from his golden goblet with every sign of a connoisseur’s appreciation, though Homen wondered if the undead were truly capable of enjoying such pleasures. Perhaps the lich simply drank—and even, on occasion, ate—to appear more normal and so put folk at ease.

  “Well,” said Szass Tam, “it’s clear what the two of you did, but kindly explain why.”

  “Master,” Azhir said, “with respect, surely it’s plain enough. I sought to perform great deeds for Thay, to fill her coffers with plunder and extend her borders.”

  “And to enrich and elevate yourself in the process.” Szass Tam raised a shriveled finger. “Please, don’t embarrass yourself by denying it. Kept within limits, self-interest is a virtue in a tharchion.” His dark eyes shifted to Homen. “I take it you share your co-commander’s sentiments?”

  “Yes,” Homen said. “Your Omnipotence knows that in my youth, I was a Red Wizard of Evocation. I could have remained with my order and enjoyed a privileged, luxurious existence, but the warrior’s life called me. I aspired to win great victories on the battlefield.”

  Szass Tam nodded. “Yet for all your personal prowess and all the might of Thay’s legions, you rarely prevailed in a campaign of any consequence.”

  Homen’s face grew warm with emotion. Shame, perhaps. “That’s true. Somehow, through the decades, Rashemen and Aglarond withstood us again and again, and now I’m an old man. I didn’t want to go to the grave as the failed captain of a humbled realm.”

  “I understand.” Szass Tam took another sip of wine. “But why not ask the zulkirs to authorize your expedition? We could have given you additional troops—”

  “By the Black Hand!” Azhir exploded. She must have been utterly unable to contain herself to interrupt a zulkir. He arched an eyebrow, and realizing what she’d done, she blanched.

  “It’s all right,” Szass Tam said. “Complete your thought.”

  “It’s just—” Azhir took a breath. “Master, have I not asked for permission repeatedly over the course of the last several years, and have you not denied me every time? These days, the policy is trade”—her tone made the word an obscenity—“not war. All we want is our neighbors’ gold, even though we already have plenty, even though the mountains of High Thay are full of it. I remember when we dreamed of ruling Faerûn!”

  “As do I,” Szass Tam replied.

  Homen hesitated then decided that if the lich hadn’t struck Azhir dead for her outburst, he might likewise tolerate a somewhat impertinent question. “Master, pardon me if I presume, but you almost sound as if … you agree with us? I thought you supported peace and the trade enclaves.”

  Szass Tam smiled. “There are only eight zulkirs, but our politics, our gambits and maneuverings, are more intricate than any sane outsider could imagine. You should be wary of assuming that all is as it appears, but we can talk more about that later.” He shifted his narrow shoulders like a laborer about to set to work. “For now, we must determine how to turn today’s debacle into a splendid achievement, a deed meriting a triumphal procession as opposed to pincers and thumbscrews.”

  Homen reflected that it was strange. By rights, conversation ought to produce enlightenment, but the longer the three of them talked, the more perplexed he felt. “You … mean to help us escape the consequences of our folly?”

  “It should be easy enough,” said the lich. “It’s all in how one tells the story, isn’t it? How about this: Because the two of you are astute commanders, with scouts and spies cunningly deployed, you discovered that a band of Rashemi intended to invade Thay via the Gorge of Gauros. You marched out to stop them and stop them you did, albeit at a heavy cost. Let all Thay applaud your heroism.”

  Homen studied Szass Tam’s fine-boned, intellectual features, looking for some sign that the necromancer was toying with them, proffering hope only for the amusement of snatching it away once more. As far as he could tell, the undead warlock was in earnest.

  “Your Omnipotence,” Homen said, “if you show us such mercy, then for the rest of our days, we will serve you above all others.”

  “That seems fair.” Szass Tam saluted them with his cup. “To better times.”

  chapter one />
  7–8 Mirtul, the Year of Risen Elfkin

  It wouldn’t take long for the crew, accomplished sailors all, to moor the cog and run out the gangplank, but Bareris Anskuld was too impatient to wait. He swung his long legs over the rail, and ignoring the shout of the mariner seeking to dissuade him, he jumped for the dock.

  It was a fairly long drop and he landed hard, nearly falling before he managed a staggering step to catch himself. But he didn’t break anything, and at last, after six long years abroad, he was home in Bezantur once more.

  He gave his traveling companions on the ship a grin and a wave. Then he was off, striding up the dock and on through the crowds beyond, picking his way through stacks and cart-loads of goods the stevedores of the busy port were loading or unloading, sword swinging at his hip and silver-stringed yarting slung across his back.

  Some folk eyed him speculatively as he tramped by, and he realized with a flicker of amusement that they took him for some manner of peculiar outlander in a desperate hurry. They had the hurry part right, but he was as Thayan as they were. It was just that during his time abroad, seeking to make his way among folk who were seldom particularly fond of his countrymen, he’d abandoned the habit of shaving the wheat blond hair from his head.

  He supposed he’d have to take it up again, but not today. Today something infinitely more wonderful demanded his attention.

  For all his eagerness, he stopped, stood, and waited respectfully with everyone else while a pair of Red Wizards and their attendants passed by. Then he was off again and soon left the salt-water-and-fish odor of the harbor behind. Now home smelled as he remembered it, stinking of smoke, garbage, and waste like any great city, but laced with a hint of incense, for Bezantur was Thay’s “City of a Thousand Temples,” and it was a rare day when the priests of one god or another didn’t parade through the streets, chanting their prayers and swinging their censers.

  There were no great temples where Bareris was headed. A worshiper would be lucky to happen upon a mean little shrine. He passed through a gate in the high black wall and into the squalid shantytown beyond.

  He took the back-alley shortcut he’d used as a boy. It could be dangerous if a fellow looked like he had anything worth stealing, and these days, carrying an expensive musical instrument, he supposed he did. But during his travels, he’d faced foes considerably more daunting than footpads, and perhaps it showed in the way he moved. At any rate, if there were thieves lurking anywhere around, they suffered him to past unmolested.

  A final turn and his destination, just one nondescript shack in a row of equally wretched hovels, came into view. The sight froze him in place for a heartbeat, then he sprinted up the narrow mud street and pounded on the door.

  “Open up!” he shouted. “It’s Bareris. I’m back!”

  After a time that seemed to stretch for a day, a tenday, an eternity, the rickety door creaked open on its leather hinges. On the other side stood Ral Iltazyarra. The simpleton, too, was as Bareris remembered him, doughy of body and face, with a slack mouth and acne studding his brow and neck.

  Bareris threw his arms around him. “My friend,” he said, “it’s good to see you. Where’s Tammith?”

  Ral began to sob.

  The youth was nice-looking in a common sort of way, but he looked up at Dmitra Flass, often called “First Princess of Thay” for the sake of her sharp wits, iron will, and buxom, rose-and-alabaster comeliness, tharchion of Eltabbar and so mistress of the city in which he dwelled, with a mixture of fear and petulance that could scarcely have been less attractive.

  “Maybe I did throw a rock,” he whined, “but everyone else was throwing them, too.”

  “Bad luck for you, then, that you’re the one who got caught,” Dmitra replied. She shifted her gaze to the blood-orc warrior who’d dragged the prisoner before her throne. “Take him to your barracks and tie him to a post. You and your comrades can throw stones at him and see how he likes it. If there’s anything left of him at sunset, turn him loose to crawl away.”

  The boy started to cry and plead. The orc backhanded him across the face then manhandled him out of her presence. Dmitra looked to see who the next prisoner was—in the wake of a riot, administering justice was a time-consuming, tedious business—and Szass Tam appeared in the back of the hall. She had a clear view of the doorway but hadn’t seen him enter. Nor had she, Red Wizard of Illusion though she was, felt a pulse of magic. Yet there he was.

  And about time, too, she thought. She rose, spread the skirt of her crimson brocade gown, and curtsied. As a mark of special favor, he’d decreed she need no longer kneel to him. Her courtiers and prisoners turned to see whom she was greeting, and they of course hastily abased themselves.

  “Rise,” said the lich, sauntering toward the dais, the ferule of his ebony staff clicking on the marble floor. “Dmitra, dear, it’s obvious you’re busy, but I’d appreciate a moment of your time.”

  “Certainly, Master.” She turned to the blood-orc captain. “Lock up the remaining prisoners until—on second thought, no. I refuse to feed them or squander any more of my time on them. Give them ten lashes each and turn them loose.” She smiled at Szass Tam. “Shall we talk in the garden?”

  “An excellent suggestion.” He’d always liked the garden, and the open-air setting made it difficult for anyone to eavesdrop.

  Outside, it was a fine sunny afternoon, and the air smelled of verdure. Heedless of the thorns, which evidently couldn’t pierce or pain his shriveled fingers, Szass Tam picked a yellow rose and carried it with him as they strolled, occasionally lifting it to his nostrils and inhaling deeply.

  “I take it,” he said, “that news of poor Druxus’s assassination triggered a disturbance in the city.”

  “The orcs dealt with it.”

  He smiled. “I wonder if the mob was celebrating the welcome demise of a hated tyrant or expressing its horror at the foul murder of a beloved leader. Perhaps the commoners don’t know themselves. Perhaps they simply enjoy throwing rocks and will seize on any excuse.”

  She shifted her flared skirt to avoid snagging it on a shrub. “I wondered if you were even aware of Druxus’s murder. I assumed that if you were, you would have come immediately.”

  “Is that a hint of reproach I hear in your dulcet voice? I came as soon as it was practical. Believe it or not, matters of consequence sometimes do arise beyond the confines of the capital, and I trusted you to manage here, as you evidently have.”

  “I managed to keep order. It may take both of us to get to the bottom of Druxus Rhym’s murder.”

  It galled her to admit it. She was proud of the network of spies and covert agents she operated on the lich’s and her own behalf, but the affairs of the zulkirs were a difficult and perilous business for any lesser being to investigate.

  “What have you learned so far?”

  “Precious little. Not long after midnight on the morning of the fifth, someone or something managed to enter Druxus Rhym’s apartments undetected. The intruder killed him and his bodyguards with blasts of fire.”

  “That’s certainly enough to suggest a hypothesis. Druxus was well protected against both mundane and mystical threats. It would likely take a master wizard to slip into his bedchamber, a master who then employed evocation magic to accomplish his purpose. Surely the evidence points to Aznar Thrul or one of his particular protégés, acting at his behest.”

  Perhaps it did. Though relations among the zulkirs were mutable and complex, the council could be viewed as split into two factions, with Mythrellan, zulkir of Illusion, standing aloof from either, and tharchions like Dmitra either tacitly casting their lots with one mage-lord or another or striving assiduously to avoid taking sides. Szass Tam headed up one faction, Druxus Rhym had been his ally, and Aznar Thrul, zulkir of Evocation and tharchion of Priador, was the lich’s bitterest rival among the opposition. Thus, it made sense that Aznar might murder Druxus. By so doing, he’d weaken Szass Tam’s party and strengthen his own.

  Still
, it seemed to Dmitra that perhaps because he and Aznar so loathed one another, the usually judicious Szass Tam was jumping to conclusions. “One needn’t specialize in evocation to conjure fire,” she said. “Many wizards can do it.”

  “True,” said the necromancer. “Still, I’m convinced my conjecture is the most plausible explanation.”

  “I suppose, and if we can prove it, perhaps we can rid ourselves of Thrul. Even his closest allies might forsake him rather than risk being implicated in his crime.”

  “The problem is, you won’t be able to prove it. Aznar is too able an adept.”

  “Don’t be so sure. With all respect, I don’t care if he is a zulkir, with scores of potent spells at his command. Everyone makes mistakes. If he wrote anything down or let slip a careless word where a servant could overhear—”

  Szass Tam shook his head. “I know the wretch and I can assure you, he didn’t. He’s too wily. If there’s proof to be had, only magic will uncover it, and Yaphyll’s the best person to attend to that.” The woman to whom he referred was zulkir of Divination, and with Druxus Rhym slain, his staunchest remaining ally on the council. “I need you to focus your energies on another matter.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ve decided Samas Kul should be the new zulkir of Transmutation.”

  “May I ask why? He’s a competent mage, but his order has others more learned.”

  “And I daresay we can trust them to advance the art of transmutation even if they aren’t in charge. What’s important is that the new zulkir side with us, and Samas will. Our faction is responsible for the new mercantile policy, and he’s grown rich as Waukeen heading up the Guild of Foreign Trade. If we make him a zulkir, he’ll have even more reason to support us.”