The Haunted Lands: Book II - Undead Page 2

  “Shake it off,” Brightwing growled. She’d sensed the tenor of his thoughts. “This isn’t the time to mope. A cluster of houses lies up ahead. The thing—or things—we’re hunting could well be down there.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” He pointed his spear at the ground, signaling his companions to descend.

  They made a wary, swooping pass over the village. “I smell fresh blood,” Brightwing said, “but I don’t see anything moving.”

  “We’ll have to land to determine what’s what,” Aoth said.

  “You could just throw spells and burn the whole place from the air.” The griffon snorted. “But you won’t. Not when there could be survivors.”

  “And not when there might be something to learn. Set down in front of the biggest house. The one with the carvings on the corners of the eaves.”

  She did as he’d bade her, touching down lightly in the snow. His companions followed, although Malark’s dappled mare was reluctant, whickering and tossing her head. After dismounting, he murmured to her, and she wasted no time galloping back up into the air.

  “That’s a bit reckless,” said Aoth.

  The spymaster shrugged. “If I kept her on the ground, she’d become more and more nervous, and less tractable. She’ll come if I whistle. Now, how about a light?”

  “Why not?” Aoth replied. “Since Brightwing says the enemy already knows we’re here, I don’t see much point in trying to sneak around.” He exerted his will, and the head of his spear flared yellow. The radiance was as bright as sunlight, anathema to most undead, although it never troubled Mirror. He could move around even in real daylight without harm.

  The glow revealed doors smashed open, and a confusion of marks and footprints in the snow.

  Bareris squatted to examine the signs. “Skeleton tracks.”

  “Well, then.” Malark unsheathed the oak batons he wore strapped to each thigh. A blue gleaming flowed down the lengths of polished hardwood, a sign of the enchantments within. “I was hoping for something more interesting, some new creation from your old friend Xingax, but we’ll have to make do.”

  The mention of Xingax gave Bareris a spasm of hatred and self-loathing, for it was the aborted demigod who’d transformed his beloved Tammith into a vampire. Not long after, he’d come face to face with the hideous fetal creature but had botched the job of killing him. But then, he’d always failed when it mattered most.

  “It might be more than skeletons,” said Aoth. His coat of mail clinked as he stooped to examine the ground. Most wizards found their spellcasting hindered by armor, but war mages like the swarthy, stocky Aoth, who looked like a humble Rashemi despite his claim to have come from Mulan stock, trained to overcome the limitation. “Look here. Some of the farmers ran out of their houses. They made it this far, then the tracks end in a great muddle, as if something magical sprang up and destroyed them.”

  “Or something big dived down on them from the air,” Bareris said. “It’s curious there are no corpses, just the occasional spatter of blood. It’s likely the enemy carried its victims away, possibly for reanimation.”

  “I agree,” Malark said. “Here’s a spot where it looks as if a pair of skeletons hauled away a body.”

  “We don’t know that it was a dead body,” Aoth said. “They may be taking prisoners, and we may be in time to save them. Come on.” Glowing spear at the ready, he stalked forward, following the trail Malark had indicated. His companions prowled after him. Brightwing and Vengeance, Bareris’s griffon, padded out to guard the flanks of the procession. For a time, Mirror appeared as a wavering, murky parody of Malark, with a cudgel sketched in shadow in both fists, but then the weapons melted into a sword and targe.

  The trail led to the hamlet’s little cemetery. So did other sets of tracks. Nothing was moving there, but something had torn open all the graves, leaving black, ragged wounds in the frozen earth, toppling markers, and scattering bones.

  “I guess,” Malark said, “we need to look in the graves. Unless the skeletons and others have moved on, I don’t know where else they could be.”

  They crept forward. Bareris realized his mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed hard to moisten it.

  Several paces inside the desecrated space, slumped at the edge of an open grave, he discovered a mass of torn, bloody flesh clad in peasant clothing. At first glance, it looked like a farmer, but something was wrong with its mangled shape. Bareris lifted one of its arms, saw it flop and sag, and then he knew. Something had pulled out all its bones.

  That might explain why so many bones were lying around, more than the open graves could have contained. But no, actually even the mutilation of all the locals couldn’t account for it—bones lay everywhere. It had simply been difficult to mark their true plenitude amid the heaps of dislodged earth and snow.

  Bareris frowned. He didn’t understand what he was looking at, and that frequently meant he’d blundered into serious trouble. He drew breath, about to suggest that he and his companions withdraw, and then several skeletons scrambled up from the concealment afforded by the open graves.

  Bareris shouted, and his thunderous bellow, charged with bard’s magic, blasted one of the skeletons to scraps and splinters.

  Aoth hurled a fan-shaped blast of fire from the head of his spear and burned an opponent to ash.

  A skeleton swung a warhammer at Mirror, and the weapon passed harmlessly through his insubstantial form. Mirror struck back with his sword. His blade passed through the undead warrior’s fleshless body without cleaving any bones, but the foxfire sheen in the creature’s eye sockets guttered out, and its legs collapsed beneath it.

  Malark positioned himself in front of a skeleton, inviting an attack. The creature swung its axe at his neck. He slipped out of the way, shifted in, and rapped the skeleton’s skull with one of his batons. The yellowed cranium, naked except for a few lank strands of hair, shattered.

  Beating their wings, the griffons pounced, each bearing a skeleton down beneath a snapping beak and slashing talons.

  Clattering sounds reverberated across the cemetery. The loose bones leaped up from the ground and tangled themselves together into something not unlike a wicker sculpture. In a heartbeat, they became a colossal serpent, its tail looping around the perimeter of the graveyard as if to cage its prey.

  It reared its head high, then struck down at Bareris.

  He hurled himself to the side. His foot slid in a patch of snow and he fell. The serpent’s fangs—blunt knobs of bone that would not pierce but would surely crush—clashed shut on empty air.

  It swiveled its misshapen head and opened its jaws to bite again. Bareris scrambled to regain his feet, too slowly.

  With an earsplitting screech, Vengeance plunged out of the air to land on the serpent’s head. Pinions flapping, he hooked his talons into the spaces between the bones and caught a mass of them in his beak. His neck muscles bunched beneath his feathers as he strained to bite through.

  The serpent tossed its head, shaking the griffon loose from his perch, and caught him in its jaws. The pressure burst Vengeance’s body open as if he were a ripe piece of fruit. With a ghastly sucking sound, the bones slid out of his body, rattled down the serpent’s gullet, and snapped into spaces along its body, adding to its mass.

  Bareris’s lips drew back in a snarl, for Vengeance had been a good mount, steady and loyal. The bard rose, readied his mace, and started singing.

  The slithering, clattering wall that was the serpent’s body slid past Malark, and he considered how best to attack it. He despised the undead for the abominations they were and fought them at every opportunity, always hopeful that this time, his foe might kill him. Death was a gift—one he had long ago spurned by armoring himself against the ravages of age and becoming an abomination in his own right. Since that time, he sought to atone for his folly by honoring the greatest of all powers. One day, perhaps, the multiverse would deem his service sufficient. Then, despite the formidable combat arts he had learned from the M
onks of the Long Death, a blade or arrow would slip past his defense, and he could pass into the darkness.

  Striking with one hand, then the other, swinging his batons like a demented drummer, he battered the creature’s flank. Bones cracked and snapped with every stroke, but he couldn’t see if the creature was weakened. Sorcery might be the only thing that could destroy the snake. If so, the best tactic might be to hold the serpent’s attention, buying Aoth and Bareris the chance to cast their spells without interference.

  He scanned the wall of bone, found his bearings, and sprinted toward the creature’s head, bounding over open graves on his way. Armed with a scythe, a surviving skeleton rushed in on his flank. Malark broke stride, leaped high into the air, and kicked to the side, driving his heel into the creature’s neck. The attack shattered the skeleton’s spine and its head tumbled free. Then the spindly figure fell to pieces, and its bones flew through the air to integrate into the snake. Malark ran on.

  As he neared its head, he heard Bareris singing. The tune was mournful, dirgelike, but it sent a thrill of fresh vitality through Malark’s limbs.

  Bareris had managed to lay an enchantment on himself, and he flickered in and out of view. Malark knew his friend was solid one moment, but not the next. With luck, he’d be safely intangible if the snake’s fangs slammed shut on him. But that was not a certainty, so he dodged when his colossal adversary struck at him, and pounded back with his mace.

  Mirror was intermittently visible as well. Taking advantage of his lack of a solid foe, he was trying to attack the interior of the serpent’s body, and was alternately inside and out as the creature’s mass writhed back and forth.

  Aoth chanted the words of an incantation, spun his glowing spear through mystic passes, and the snake’s head swiveled toward him. Plainly it was intelligent, but then, Malark had already guessed that, because it had laid a trap for them. It had lured its foes into striking distance before manifesting, and had choosen ground where the yawning graves might keep them from maneuvering to their best advantage.

  Aoth leaped backward, evading the attack and carefully preserving the precise cadence his chant required. A sphere of bright white light shot from the luminous head of his spear. It struck the snake on the snout and exploded into twisting, crackling arcs of lightning.

  The attack charred the serpent’s head, but caused no noticeable injuries. It reared for another strike.

  Completing his dash, Malark interposed himself between the creature and Aoth. “Get up in the air,” he called out. “Bareris, stay away from it. Mirror and I will keep it occupied.”

  Aoth shouted Brightwing’s name, and the griffon, who’d already taken to the air and had been wheeling overhead, maneuvering to make an attack, furled her pinions and dived toward her master. Bareris scrambled backward, his head twisting as he sought to keep his eyes on his foe without falling into one of the graves.

  Malark lost track of his allies after that, because the snake spread its jaws wide and lunged at him. He had to hold his attention on his adversary. It was his only hope of survival.

  He forced himself to delay his dodge, lest the serpent adjust its aim. He waited until the last instant, then spun to the right. The creature’s jaws smashed shut beside him.

  Malark bellowed a war cry, slammed the serpent as hard as he could with a baton, and bashed a substantial breach in the weave of bones beneath the jagged-edged eye socket. Apparently, Aoth’s lightning had weakened the tangled lattice, allowing the baton to inflict significant harm.

  The serpent finally reacted almost like a living creature, jerking its head away as though the strike had caused actual pain.

  “That’s right!” Malark called. “I’m the one who can hurt you the worst! Fight me!”

  The snake obliged him with a few more attacks, which gave Bareris time to sing a spell unhindered. A shuddering ran down the length of the snake, breaking certain bones and shaking others loose from the central mass.

  The serpent’s body twisted around as it oriented on Bareris. Malark had to move quickly to keep the bony coils from knocking him down and grinding him beneath them. The movement left him yards away from the creature’s head, with little hope of diverting it from the bard.

  Then Mirror flew up from the ground to hover right in front of the serpent’s face. His ghostly sword sliced back and forth.

  The snake tried to catch him in its teeth, while Bareris sent shudders and convulsions tearing through it, and Malark battered it with his cudgels. At first, Mirror either dodged the creature’s bite or oozed free unharmed. But then the colossal jaws clamped down again, and the malignancy of the snake’s own supernatural nature finally overcame the protection afforded by the ghost’s phantasmal condition. Mirror fell from the gnashing teeth tattered, fading, dwindling, and incapable of continuing the fight. Bareris cried out in dismay.

  Overhead, Aoth chanted words of power. For the first time, Malark felt truly confident that he and his companions would prevail. War magic won battles more often than not, provided the war mage positioned himself out of reach of the foe and conjured unimpeded.

  With a great clatter, the serpent arched itself and hurtled up into the air. Malark had forgotten their earlier guess that their quarry might be capable of flight.

  Aoth and Brightwing had evidentally lost sight of the possibility as well, for they were flying low, and the griffon took a heartbeat too long to start swooping out of the way. It looked to Malark as if the serpent would snag her in its jaws.

  Bareris gave a thunderous shout. The noise jolted the snake, and its strike missed.

  Aoth bellowed the final words of his incantation. An orb of mystical force, glowing a dull blue, flew from his outstretched hand. It struck the serpent like a stone from a trebuchet, and with a prodigious crack, broke it entirely in two. The sections collapsed, and Malark raised a hand to shield his head from the rain of bone.

  He watched to see if the serpent would reassemble, but couldn’t detect even a slight twitch. The thing looked utterly destroyed.

  Aoth and Brightwing glided back to earth. The rents in Mirror’s substance began to mend, and his vague form took on definition. He was going to be all right.

  “What’s the proper term for that thing?” Malark asked. “A living bone yard?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aoth. “I’ve never heard of such a beast before. The necromancers’ creations grow stranger every year.”

  “Well, the important thing is that we won.”

  Aoth’s mouth twisted. “Did we? The peasants are dead. Will anyone else come and work this isolated, poorly protected patch of land and feed us in the coming year?”

  “They’ll dare it if someone in authority orders them to. What ails you, friend? I thought Bareris was the gloomy one.” Malark gave the bard a wink, which he didn’t bother to acknowledge.

  “I just. …” Aoth shook his head. “Mirror isn’t the only one. We’re all ghosts. Ghosts of the men and lives that ought to have been.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aoth, “but sometimes I feel it.”

  chapter one

  26–29 Ches, the Year of Blue Fire

  Hezass Nymar, tharchion of Lapendrar and Eternal Flame of the temple of Kossuth in Escalant, drew breath to conjure, then hesitated. What, he thought, if the lich or his spies are watching me at this very moment? Or what if the lords of the south disbelieved his statements, or chose to kill him on sight, without even granting him a hearing?

  He scowled and gave his head a shake, trying to dislodge his misgivings. Yes, it was dangerous to act, but it might well prove even more perilous not to. He wouldn’t let fear delay him now.

  He recited the incantation, the ruby ring on his left hand glowed like a hot coal, and the dancing flames in the massive marble fireplace roared up like a bonfire, completely filling their rectangular enclosure. Hezass walked into the blaze.

  Without bothering to look back, he knew that the four archer golems wo
uld follow. Carved of brown Thayan oak with longbows permanently affixed in their left hands, the automatons were Hezass’s favorite bodyguards, in part because they were incapable of tattling about his business no matter what persuasions were applied.

  Beyond the gate he’d opened lay an entire world of flame. The air was full of cinders, the sky, nothing but swirling crimson smoke. Fires of every color hissed and crackled everywhere, some as tiny as blades of grass, some the size of shrubs or trees, and some as huge as castles or even mountains, without the need for fuel to feed them. The yellow ground was an endless glowing furnace with streams of magma running through it. Birds or something like them flew overhead, a herd of four-legged beasts stood on a rise in the distance, and even they were made of fire.

  The extreme heat would have seared flesh and ignited oak instantly, except that Hezass’s power protected him and the golems. Indeed, he found this realm exhilarating, and had to take care lest that excitement swell into a delirious joy that could make him forget his purpose.

  He walked until the prompting of his spell pointed him toward a patch of blue-white fire the size of a cottage. He led the golems into it and out the other side.

  As he’d expected, the other side was one of the scores of ceremonial fires burning behind the altars of the Flaming Brazier, the grandest temple of Kossuth in all Faerûn. Eyes glowing, shrouded in nimbuses of incendiary power, images of the god glared from the walls and the high vaulted ceiling.

  Despite the lateness of the night, it didn’t take long for a Disciple of the Salamander, a warrior monk performing sentry duty, to discover Hezass while making his rounds. In other circumstances, the exchange that followed might have been comical, for the poor fellow plainly didn’t know whether to react with hostility or deference. Hezass was a supposed enemy of the Council of Zulkirs and all who gave it their allegiance, but he was also a hierophant of the church, decked out in all the pomp of his formal regalia.