chapter five

25 Mirtul, the Year of Risen Elfkin

Surthay, capital of the tharch of the same name, was a crude sort of place compared to Eltabbar, and since the town lay outside the enchantments that managed the climate in central Thay, the weather was colder and rainier. Even murky Lake Mulsantir, the body of water on which it sat, suffered by comparison with the blue depths of Lake Thaylambar.

Yet Malark Springhill liked the place. At times the luxuries, splendors, and intricacies of life at Dmitra Flass’s court grew wearisome for a man who’d spent much of his life in the rough-and-tumble settlements of the Moonsea. When he was in such a mood, the dirt streets, simple wooden houses, and thatch-roofed shacks of a town like Surthay felt more like home than Eltabbar ever could.

That didn’t mean he could dawdle here. He didn’t understand the urgency of his errand, but his mistress seemed to think it important and he didn’t intend to keep her waiting any longer than necessary. He’d finish his business and ride out tonight, and with luck he could complete the wearisome “Long Portage” back up the First Escarpment before the end of tomorrow.

He headed down the rutted, dung-littered street. This particular thoroughfare, a center for carnal entertainments, was busy even after dark, and he made way repeatedly for soldiers, hunters, fishermen, pimps, and tough-looking locals of every stripe—for anyone who looked more dangerous and intimidating than a smallish, neatly dressed, clerkish fellow armed only with a knife.

Only once did he resent stepping aside, and that was when everyone else did it too, clearing the way for a legionnaire marching a dozen skeleton warriors along. Malark detested the undead, which he supposed made it ironic that he owed his allegiance to a princess who in turn had pledged her fealty to a lich, but serving Dmitra Flass afforded him a pleasant life and plenty of opportunity to pursue his own preoccupations.

He stepped inside a crowded tavern, raucous with noise and stinking of beer and sweaty bodies. A legionnaire turned and gave him a sneer.

“This is a soldier’s tavern,” he said.

“I know,” Malark replied. “I came to show my admiration for the heroes who saved Surthay from the Rashemi.” He lifted a fat purse and shook it to make it clink. “I think this is enough to stand the house a few rounds.”

He was welcome enough after that, and the soldiers were eager to spin tales of their valor. As he’d expected, much of what they told him was nonsense. They couldn’t all have slain Rashemi chieftains or butchered half a dozen berserkers all by themselves, and he was reasonably certain no one had raped one of the infamous witches.

Yet it should be possible to sift through all the boasts and lies and discern the essence of what had happened buried beneath.

Malark listened, drew his inferences, and decided further inquiries were in order, inquiries best conducted elsewhere and by different methods.

Stiffening and swallowing, he feigned a sudden attack of nausea and stumbled outside, ostensibly to vomit. Since he left his pigskin pouch of silver and copper coins behind on the table, he was reasonably certain no one would bother to come looking for him when he failed to return.

He found a shadowy recessed doorway and settled himself to wait, placing himself in a light trance that would help him remain motionless. Warriors passed by his hiding place, sometimes in groups, sometimes in the company of painted whores, sometimes young, sometimes staggering drunk. He let them all drift on unmolested.

Finally a lone legionnaire came limping down the street. By the looks of it, an old wound or fracture in his leg had never healed properly. Though he was past his prime, with a frame that had once been athletic and was now running to fat, he wore no medallion, plume, or other insignia of rank, and was evidently still a common man-at-arms.

He didn’t look intoxicated, either. Perhaps he’d just come off duty and was heading for the same soldier’s tavern Malark had visited.

In any case, whatever his business, he appeared perfect for Malark’s purposes. The spy waited until the legionnaire was just a few paces away, then stepped forth from the shadows.

Startled, the legionnaire jumped back, and his hand darted to the hilt of his broadsword. Then he hesitated, confused, perhaps, by the contradiction between the menace implicit in Malark’s sudden emergence and the innocuous appearance of his empty hands and general demeanor. It gave the spy the opportunity to step closer.

“What do you want?” the soldier demanded.

“Answers,” Malark replied.

That was apparently enough to convince the warrior he was in trouble. He started to snatch the sword out, but he’d waited too long. Before it could clear the scabbard, Malark sprang in and slammed the heel of his hand into the center of the other man’s forehead. The legionnaire’s leather helmet thudded, no doubt absorbing part of the force of the impact. Not enough of it, though, and his knees buckled. Malark caught him and dragged him into the narrow, lightless space between two houses.

When he judged he’d gone far enough from the street that he and his prisoner would remain unobserved, he set the legionnaire down on the ground, relieved him of his sword and dirk, and held a vial of smelling salts under his nose. Rousing, the warrior twisted away from the vapors.

“Are you all right?” Malark asked, straightening up. “It can be tricky to hit a man hard enough to stun him, but not so hard that you do any real harm. I like to think I have the knack, but armor makes it more difficult.”

“I’ll kill you,” the soldier growled.

“Try if you like,” Malark said and waited to see if the prisoner would dive for the sword or dagger now resting on the ground beyond his reach or attack with his bare hands.

He opted for the latter. Wishing the space between the buildings weren’t quite so narrow, Malark nonetheless managed to shift to the side when the captive surged up and hurled himself forward. He tripped the legionnaire then, while the other man was floundering off balance, caught hold of his arm and twisted, applying pressure to the shoulder socket. The warrior gasped at the pain.

“We’re going to have a civil conversation,” said Malark. “The only question is, do I need to dislocate your arm to make it happen, or are you ready to cooperate now?”

As best he was able, the legionnaire struggled, trying to break free. Malark applied more pressure, enough to paralyze the man.

“I really will do it,” said the spy, “and then I’ll go on damaging you until you see reason.”

“All right!” the soldier gasped.

Malark released him. “Sit or stand as you prefer.”

The bigger man chose to stand and rub his shoulder. “Who in the Nine Hells are you?”

“My name is Malark Springhill. I do chores of various sorts for Tharchion Flass.”

The legionnaire hesitated, his eyes narrowing. Perhaps he’d never risen in the ranks, but he was evidently more intelligent than that fact would seem to imply. “You … are you supposed to tell me that?”

“Ordinarily, no,” Malark replied. Out on the street, a woman laughed, the sound strident as a raptor’s screech. “I’m a spy among other things, and generally I have to lie to people all the time, about … well, everything, really. It’s something of a luxury that I can be honest with you.”

“Because you mean to kill me.”

“Yes. I’m going to ask you what truly happened in the Gorge of Gauros, and I couldn’t let you survive to report that anyone was interested in that even if you didn’t know who sent me to inquire. But you get to decide how pleasant the next little while will be, and how you’ll die at the end of it.

“You can try withholding the information I want,” Malark continued, “in which case, I’ll torture it out of you. Afterwards, your body will be broken, incapable of resistance when I snap your neck.

“Or you can answer me freely, and I’ll have no reason to hurt you. Once you’ve given me what I need, I’ll return your blades, permit you to unsheathe them, and we’ll fight. You’re a legionnaire. Surely you’d prefer the honor of a warrior’s death, and I’d like to give it to you.”

The legionnaire stared at him. “You’re crazy.”

“People often say that, but they’re mistaken.” Malark decided to confide in the warrior. It was one technique for building trust between interrogator and prisoner, and besides, he rarely had the chance to tell his story. “I just see existence in a way others can’t.

“A long, long while ago, I learned of a treasure. The sole surviving dose of a philter to keep a man from aging forever after.

“I coveted it. So did others. In those days, I scarcely knew the rudiments of fighting, but I had a friend who was proficient, and together we bested our rivals and seized the prize. We’d agreed we’d each drink half the potion, and thus, though neither of us would become immortal, we’d both live a long time.”

“But you betrayed him,” said the legionnaire, “and drank it all yourself.”

Malark smiled. “Are you saying that because you’re a good judge of character, or because it’s what you would have done? Either way, you’re right. That’s exactly what I did, and later on, I started to regret it.

“First, I watched everyone I loved, everyone I even knew, pass away. That’s hard. I wept when my former friend died a feeble old man, and he’d spent the past fifty years trying to revenge himself on me.

“I attempted to move forward. I told myself there was a new generation of people to care about. The problem, of course, was that before long, in the wink of an eye, or so it seemed, they died, too.

“When I grew tired of enduring that, I tried living with dwarves and later, elves, but it wasn’t the same as living with my own kind, and in time, they passed away just like humans. It simply took a little longer.”

The soldier gaped at him. “How old are you?”

“Older than Thay. I recall hearing the tidings that the Red Wizards had fomented a rebellion against Mulhorand, though I wasn’t in these parts to witness it myself. Anyway, over time, I pretty much lost the ability to feel an attachment to individual people, for what was the point? Instead, I tried to embrace causes and places, only to discover those die too. I lost count of the times I gave my affection to one or another town along the Moonsea, only to see the place sacked and the inhabitants massacred. I learned that as the centuries roll by, even gods change, or at least our conception of them does, which amounts to the same thing if you’re looking for some constancy to cling to.

“But eventually I realized there was one constant, and that was death. In its countless variations, it was happening all around me, all the time. It befell everyone, or at least, everyone but me, and that made it fascinating.”

“If you’re saying you wanted to die, why didn’t you just stick a dagger into your heart or jump off a tower? Staying young forever isn’t the same thing as being unkillable, is it?”

“No, it isn’t, and I’ve considered ending my life on many occasions, but something has always held me back. Early on, it was the same dread of death that prompted me to strive for the elixir and betray my poor friend in the first place. After I made a study of extinction, I shed the fear, but with enlightenment, suicide came to seem like cheating, or at the very least, bad manners. Death is a gift, and we aren’t meant to reach out and snatch it. We’re supposed to wait until the universe is generous enough to bestow it on us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it. Most people don’t, but the Monks of the Long Death do, and there came a day when I was fortunate enough to stumble across one of their hidden enclaves and gain admission as a novice.”

The legionnaire blanched. “You’re one of those madmen?”

“It depends on your point of view. After a decade or two, paladins descended on the monastery and slaughtered my brothers and sisters. Only I escaped, and afterward, I didn’t feel the need to search for another such stronghold. I’d already learned what I’d hoped to, and the rigors and abstentions of the ascetic life had begun to wear on me.

“According to the rules of the order, I’m an apostate, and if they ever realize it, they’ll likely try to kill me. But though I no longer hold a place in the hierarchy, I still adhere to the teachings. I still believe that while all deaths are desirable, some are better than others. The really good ones take a form appropriate to the victim’s life and come to him in the proper season. I believe it’s both a duty and the highest form of art to arrange such passings as opportunity allows.

“That’s why I permitted younger, healthier, more successful men to pass by and accosted you instead. It’s why I hope to give you a fighter’s death.”

“What are you talking about? It’s not my ‘season’ to die!”

“Are you sure? Isn’t it plain your best days are past? Doesn’t your leg ache constantly? Don’t you feel old age working its claws into you? Aren’t you disappointed with the way your life has turned out? Why not let it go then? The priests and philosophers assure us that something better waits beyond.”

“Shut up! You can’t talk me into wanting to die.”

“I’m not trying. Not exactly. I told you, I want you to go down fighting. I just don’t want you to be afraid.”

“I’m not! Or at least I won’t be if you keep your promise and give back my sword.”

“I will. I’ll return your blades and fight you empty-handed.”

“Ask your cursed questions, then, and I’ll answer honestly. Why shouldn’t I, when you’ll never have a chance to repeat what I say to Dmitra Flass or anybody else?”

“Thank you.” The inquisition didn’t take long. At the end, though Malark had learned a good deal he hadn’t comprehended before, he still wasn’t sure why it was truly important, but he realized he’d come to share his mistress’s suspicion that it was.

Now, however, was not the time to ponder the matter. He needed to focus on the duel to come. He backed up until the sword and dagger lay between the legionnaire and himself.

“Pick them up,” he said.

The soldier sprang forward, crouched, and grabbed the weapons without taking his eyes off Malark. He then scuttled backward as he drew the blades, making it more difficult for his adversary to spring and prevent him had he cared to do so, and opening enough distance to use a sword to best effect.

Malark noticed the limp was no longer apparent. Evidently excitement, or the single-minded focus of a veteran combatant, masked the pain, and when the bigger man came on guard, his stance was as impeccable as a woodcut in a manual of arms.

Given his level of skill, he deserved to be a drill instructor at the very least. Malark wondered whether it was a defect in his character or simple bad luck that had kept him in the ranks. He’d never know, of course, for the time for inquiry was past.

The legionnaire sidled left, hugging the wall on that side. He obviously remembered how Malark had shifted past him before and was positioning himself in such a way that, if his adversary attempted such a maneuver again, he could only dart in one direction. That would make it easier to defend against the move.

Then the warrior edged forward. Malark stood and waited. As soon as the distance was to the legionnaire’s liking, when a sword stroke would span it but not a punch or a kick, he cut at Malark’s head.

Or rather, he appeared to. He executed the feint with all the necessary aggression, yet even so, Malark perceived that a false attack was all it was. He couldn’t have said exactly how. Over the centuries, he’d simply developed an instinct for such things.

He lifted an arm as if to block the cut, in reality to convince the legionnaire his trick was working. The blade spun low to chop at his flank.

Malark shifted inside the arc of the blow, a move that robbed the stroke of much of its force. When he swept his arm down to defend, the forte of the blade connected with his forearm but failed to shear through the sturdy leather bracer hidden under his sleeve.

At the same moment, he stiffened his other hand and drove his fingertips into the hard bulge of cartilage at the front of the warrior’s throat. The legionnaire reeled backward. Malark took up the distance and hit him again, this time with a chop to the side of the neck. Bone cracked and, his head flopping, the soldier collapsed.

Malark regarded the body with the same mix of satisfaction and wistful envy he usually felt at such moments. Then he closed the legionnaire’s eyes and walked away.

North of the Surag River, the road threaded its way up the narrow strip of land between Lake Thaylambar to the west and the Surague Escarpment, the cliffs at the base of the Sunrise Mountains, to the east. The land was wilder, heath interspersed with stands of pine and dotted with crumbling ruined towers, and sparsely settled. The slaves and their keepers marched an entire morning without seeing anyone, and when someone finally did appear, it was just a lone goatherd, who, wary of strangers, immediately scurried into a thicket. Even tax stations, the ubiquitous fortresses built to collect tolls and help preserve order throughout the realm, were few and far between.

Tammith had never before ventured farther than a day’s walk from Bezantur, but she’d heard that the northern half of Thay was almost all alike, empty, undeveloped land where even freemen found it difficult to eke out a living. How much more difficult, then, must it be to endure as a slave, particularly one accustomed to the teeming cities of the south?

Thus she understood why so many of her fellow thralls grew more sullen and despondent with each unwilling step they took, and why Yuldra, the girl she’d sought to comfort just before the Red Wizards came and bought the lot of them, kept sniffling and knuckling her reddened eyes. In her heart, Tammith felt just as dismayed and demoralized as they did.

But she also believed that if one surrendered to such emotions, they would only grow stronger, so she squeezed Yuldra’s shoulder and said, “Come on, don’t cry. It’s not so bad.”

Yuldra’s face twisted. “It is.”

“This country is strange to me, too, but I’m sure they have towns somewhere in the north, and remember, the men who bought us are Red Wizards. You don’t think they live in a tent out in the wilderness, do you?”

“You don’t know that they’re taking us where they live,” the adolescent retorted, “because they haven’t said. I’ve had other masters, and they weren’t so close-mouthed. I’m scared we’re going somewhere horrible.”

“I’m sure that isn’t so.” In reality, of course, Tammith had no way of being certain of any such thing, but it seemed the right thing to say. “Let’s not allow our imaginings to get the best of us. Let’s play another game.”

Yuldra sighed. “All right.”

The next phase of their journey began soon after, when they finally left the northernmost reaches of Lake Thaylambar behind, and rolling plains opened before them. To Tammith’s surprise, the procession then left the road where, though she eventually spotted signs that others had passed this way before them, there was no actual trail of any sort.

Nor did there appear to be anything ahead but rolling grassland, and beyond that, visible as a blurry line on the horizon, High Thay, the mountainous tharch that jutted upward from the central plateau as it in turn rose abruptly from the lowlands. From what she understood, many a Red Wizard maintained a private citadel or estate among the peaks, no doubt with hordes of slaves to do his bidding, but her sense of geography, hazy though it was, suggested the procession wasn’t heading there. If it was, the warlocks had taken about the most circuitous route imaginable.

Suddenly three slaves burst from among their fellows and ran, scattering as they fled. Tammith’s immediate reflexive thought was that, unlike Yuldra and herself, the trio had figured out where they all were going.

Unfortunately, they had no hope of escaping that fate. The Red Wizards could have stopped them easily with spells, but they didn’t bother. Like their masters, some of the guards were mounted, and they pounded after the fugitives. One warrior flung a net as deftly as any fisherman she’d ever watched plying his trade in the waters off Bezantur, and a fugitive fell tangled in the mesh. Another guard reached out and down with his lance, slipped it between a thrall’s legs, and tripped him. A third horseman leaned out of the saddle, snatched a handful of his target’s streaming, bouncing mane of hair and simply jerked the runaway off his feet.

Once the guards herded the fugitives back to the procession, every slave had to suffer his masters’ displeasure. The overseers screamed and spat in their faces, slapped, cuffed, and shoved them, and threatened savage punishments for all if anyone else misbehaved. Yuldra broke down sobbing the moment a warrior approached her. The Red Wizards looked vexed and impatient with the delay the exercise in discipline required.

The abuse was still in progress when Tammith caught sight of a horseman galloping steadily nearer. His wheat-blond hair gleamed dully in the late afternoon sunlight, and something about the set of his shoulders and the way he carried himself—

Yes! Perhaps she shouldn’t jump to conclusions when he was still so far away, but in her heart she knew. It was Bareris, after she’d abandoned all hope of ever seeing him again.

She wanted to cry his name, run to meet him, until she realized, with a cold and sudden certainty, that what she really ought to do was warn him off.

Outside in the streets of Eltabbar, the celebration had an edge to it. The mob was happy enough to gobble free food, guzzle free ale and wine, and watch the parades, dancers, mummers, displays of transmutation, and other forms of entertainment, all of it provided to celebrate the election of Samas Kul to the office of zulkir. Yet Aoth had felt the underlying displeasure and dismay at the tidings that in the east, a Thayan army had met defeat, and in consequence, undead marauders were laying waste to the countryside. He suspected the festival would erupt into rioting after nightfall.

Still, he would rather have been outside in the gathering storm than tramping at Nymia Focar’s side through the immense basalt ziggurat called the Flaming Brazier, reputedly the largest temple of Kossuth the Firelord in all the world. That was because it was entirely possible that the potentate who’d summoned the tharchion had done so with the intention of placing the blame for the recent debacle in Pyarados. Since she, the commander who’d lost to the undead, was the obvious candidate, perhaps she’d dragged Aoth along to be scapegoat in her place.

Maybe, he thought, he even deserved it. If only he’d spotted the lacedons—

He scowled the thought away. He hadn’t been the only scout in the air, and nobody else had seen the creatures either. Nor could you justly condemn anyone for failing to anticipate an event that had never happened before.

Not that justice was a concept that automatically sprang to mind where zulkirs and Red Wizards were concerned.

Aoth and his superior strode in dour silence through yellow and orange high-ceilinged chambers lit by countless devotional fires. The heat of the flames became oppressive, and the wizard evoked the magic of a tattoo to cool himself. Nymia lacked the ability to do the same, and perspiration gleamed on her upper lip.

Eventually they arrived at high double doors adorned with a scene inlaid in jewels and precious metals: Kossuth, spiked chain in hand, smiting his great enemy Istishia, King of the Water Elementals. A pair of warrior monks stood guard at the sides of the portal and swung the leaves open to permit the new arrivals to enter the room beyond.

It was a chamber plainly intended for discussion and disputation, though it too had its whispering altar flames glinting on golden icons. Seated around a table in the center of the room was a more imposing gathering of dignitaries than Aoth had ever seen before even at a distance, let alone close up. Let alone taking any notice of his own humble existence. In fact, four of the five were zulkirs.

Gaunt, dark-eyed Szass Tam, his withered fingers folded, looked calm and composed.

Yaphyll, zulkir of Divination and by all accounts the lich’s most reliable ally, was a slender woman, somewhat short for a Mulan, with, rather to Aoth’s surprise, a humorous, impish cast of expression manifest even on this grave occasion. She looked just a little older than he was, thirty or so, but she had actually held her office since before he was born with magic maintaining her youth.

In contrast, Lallara, zulkir of Abjuration, though still seemingly hale and vital, evidently disdained the cosmetic measures which might have kept time from etching lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth and softening the flesh beneath her chin. Scowling, she toyed with one of her several rings, twisting it around and around her forefinger.

Astonishingly obese, his begemmed robes the gaudiest and plainly the costliest of the all the princely raiment on display, Samas Kul likewise appeared restless. Perhaps he disliked being called away from the celebration of his rise to a zulkir’s preeminence, or maybe the newly minted mage-lord was worried he wouldn’t make a good impression here at the onset of his new responsibilities and so lose the respect of his peers.

Rounding out the assembly was Iphegor Nath. Few indeed were the folk who could treat with zulkirs on anything even approximating an equal footing, but the High Flamelord, primate of Kossuth’s church, was one of them. Craggy and burly, he wore bright orange vestments, the predominant hue close enough to forbidden red that no man of humbler rank would have dared to put it on. His eyes were orange as well, with a fiery light inside them, and from moment to moment tiny flames crawled on his shoulders, arms, and shaven scalp without burning his garments or blistering his skin. His air of sardonic composure was a match for Szass Tam’s.

Nymia and Aoth dropped to their knees and lowered their gazes.

“Rise,” said Szass Tam, “and seat yourselves at the table.”

“Is that necessary?” Lallara rapped. “I’m not pleased with the tharchion, and her lieutenant doesn’t even wear red. By the looks of him, he isn’t even Mulan.”

“It will make it easier for us all to converse,” the lich replied, “and if we see fit to punish them later, I doubt that the fact that we allowed them to sit down first will dilute the effect.” His black eyes shifted back to Nymia and Aoth, and he waved a shriveled hand at two vacant chairs. “Please.”

Aoth didn’t want to sit or do anything else that might elicit Lallara’s displeasure, but neither, of course, could he disobey Szass Tam. Feeling trapped, he pulled the chair out and winced inwardly when the legs grated on the floor.

“Now, then,” said Szass Tam, “with the gracious permission of His Omniscience”—he inclined his head to Iphegor Nath—“I called you all here to address the situation in Tharchion Focar’s dominions. It’s serious, or so I’ve been given to understand.”

“Yet evidently not serious enough,” the High Flamelord drawled, “to warrant an assembly of all eight zulkirs. To some, it might even appear that you, Your Omnipotence, wanted to meet here in the temple instead of your own citadel to avoid the notice of those you chose to exclude.”

Yaphyll smiled a mischievous smile. “Perhaps it was purely out of respect for you, Your Omniscience. We came to you rather than put you to the inconvenience of coming to us.”

Iphegor snorted. Blue flame oozed from his hand onto the tabletop, and he squashed it out with a fingertip before it could char the finish.

“You’re correct, of course,” Szass Tam told the priest. “Regrettably, we zulkirs fall into two camps, divided by our differing perspectives on trade and other issues, and of late, our squabbles have grown particularly contentious, perhaps even to the point of assassination. That makes it slow going to accomplish anything when we all attempt to work together, and since this particular problem is urgent, I thought a more efficient approach was required.”

“Besides which,” Iphegor said, “if you resolve the problem without involving your peers, you’ll reap all the benefits of success. The nobles and such will be that much more inclined to give their support to you in preference to Aznar Thrul’s cabal.”

“Just so,” said Samas Kul in a plummy, unctuous voice. “You’ve demonstrated you’re a shrewd man, Your Omniscience, not that any of us ever imagined otherwise. The question is, if we score a hit in the game we’re playing with our rivals, will that trouble or displease you?”

“It might,” the primate said. “By convening here in the Flaming Brazier and including me among your company, you’ve made me your collaborator. Now it’s possible I’ll have to contend with the rancor of your opponents.”

“Yet you agreed to meet with us,” Lallara said.

Iphegor shrugged. “I was curious, I hoped something would come of it to benefit the faith, and I too understand that Pyarados needs immediate attention.”

“Masters!” Nymia said. All eyes shifted to her, and she faltered as if abruptly doubting the wisdom of speaking unbidden, but now that she’d started, she had no choice but to continue. “With all respect, you speak as if Pyarados is lost, and that isn’t so. The undead seized one minor fortress and won one additional battle.”

“With the result,” snapped Lallara, “that they’re now devastating your tharch and could easily range farther west to trouble the entire plateau.”

“The ghouls have overrun a few farms,” Nymia insisted, the sweat on her face gleaming in the firelight. “I still hold Pyarados,”—Aoth realized she was referring specifically to the capital city of her province—“ and I’ve sent to Tharchion Daramos for assistance. He’s bringing fresh troops from Thazalhar.”

Yaphyll smiled. “Milsantos Daramos is a fine soldier, a winning soldier, and Thazalhar is too small and sparsely populated for a proper tharch. I wonder if it might not be a good idea to merge it and Pyarados into a single territory and give the old fellow authority over both.”

Nymia blanched. “I beg you for one more chance—”

Szass Tam silenced her by holding up his hand. “Let’s not rush ahead of ourselves. I’d like to hear a full account of the events in the east before we decide what to do about them.”

“Aoth Fezim,” Nymia said, “is the only man to survive the fall of Thazar Keep. For that reason, I brought him to tell the first part of the story.”

Aoth related it as best he could, without trying to inflate his own valor or importance. He made sure, though, that the others understood he’d fled only when the castellan had ordered it and not out of cowardice.

Then Nymia told of the battle at the west end of the pass, justifying her defeat as best she could. That involved explaining that forms of undead had appeared whose existence Aoth had not reported and that neither he nor the other scouts had noticed the creatures swimming beneath the surface of the river. The griffon rider wasn’t sure if she was actually implying that he was responsible for everything that had gone wrong or if it was simply his trepidation that made it seem that way.

When she finished, Szass Tam studied Aoth’s face. “Do you have anything to add to your commander’s account?” he asked.

Partly out of pride, partly because he was all but certain it would only move the zulkirs to scorn, Aoth resisted the urge to offer excuses. “No, Your Omnipotence. That’s the way it happened.”

The lich nodded. “Well, obviously, victorious soldiers inspire more trust than defeated ones, yet I wouldn’t call either of you incompetent, and I don’t see a benefit to replacing you with warriors who lack experience fighting this particular incursion. I’m inclined to keep you in your positions for the time being at least, provided, of course, that everyone else is in accord.” He glanced about at the other zulkirs.

As Aoth expected, none of the others took exception to their faction leader’s opinion, though Lallara’s assent had a sullen quality to it. Rumor had it that, willful, erratic, and unpredictable, she was less firmly of the lich’s party than the faithful Yaphyll and was something of a creative artist in the field of torture as well. Perhaps she’d been looking forward to inflicting some ingeniously gruesome chastisement on Nymia, her subordinate, or both.

“Now that I’ve heard Tharchion Focar’s report,” Iphegor said, “I understand what’s happening but not why. I’d appreciate it if someone could enlighten me on that point.” He turned his smoldering gaze on Yaphyll. “Perhaps you, Your Omnipotence, possess some useful insights.”

Aoth understood why the high priest had singled her out. She was, after all, the zulkir of Divination. Uncovering secrets was her particular art.

She gave the High Flamelord a rueful, crooked smile. “You shame me, Your Omniscience. I can repeat the same speculations we’ve already passed back and forth until our tongues are numb: We’re facing an unpleasantness that one of the vanished kingdoms of the Sunrise Mountains left behind. Despite the best efforts of my order, I can’t tell you precisely where the undead horde originated or why it decided to strike at this particular time. You’re probably aware that, for better or worse, it’s difficult to use divination to find out about anything occurring in central Thay. Jealous of their privacy, too many wizards have cast enchantments to deflect such efforts. When my subordinates and I try to investigate the undead raiders, we meet with the same sort of resistance, as if they have similar wards in place.”

Lallara sneered. “So far, this has all been wonderfully productive. Even a zulkir has nothing to offer beyond excuses for ineptitude.”

If the barb stung Yaphyll, she opted not to show it. “I will say I’m not astonished that ancient spirits are stirring. The omens indicate we live in an age of change and turmoil. The great Rage of Dragons two years ago was but one manifestation of a sort of universal ferment likely to continue for a while.”

Iphegor nodded. “On that point, Your Omnipotence, your seers and mine agree.” He smiled like a beast baring its fangs. “Let us give thanks that so much is to burn and likewise embrace our task, which is to make sure it’s the corrupt and unworthy aspects of our existence which go to feed the purifying flames.”

“Can we stay focused on killing this nighthaunt and its followers?” Lallara asked. “I assume they qualify as ‘corrupt and unworthy.’”

“I would imagine so,” said Szass Tam, “and that’s our purpose here today: to formulate a strategy. Tharchion Focar has made a beginning by sending to Thazalhar for reinforcements. How can we augment her efforts?”

Samas Kul shrugged his blubbery shoulders. The motion made the tentlike expanse of his gorgeous robes glitter and flash with reflected firelight. “Give her some more troops, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said the lich, “we can provide some, but we must also recognize our limitations. We reduced the size of our armies after the new policy of trade and peace proved successful. The legions of the north just fought a costly engagement against the Rashemi. Tharchions Kren and Odesseiron need to rebuild their forces and to hold their positions in case of another incursion. I don’t think it prudent to pull warriors away from the border we share with Aglarond either. For all we know, our neighbors to the north and west have conspired to unite against us.”

“Then what do you suggest?” asked Iphegor Nath.

“We already use our own undead soldiers to fight for us,” the lich replied. “The dread warriors, Skeleton Legion, and such…. I propose we manufacture more of them. We can disinter folk who died recently enough that the remains are still usable and lay claim to the corpse of any commoner or thrall who dies from this point forward. I mean, of course, until such time as the crisis is resolved.”

“People won’t like that,” Lallara said. “We Thayans put the dead to use in a way that less sophisticated peoples don’t, but that doesn’t mean the average person likes the things or wants to see his sweet old granny shuffling around as a zombie.” She gave the lich a mocking smile. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Szass Tam replied blandly. “There are two answers to your objection. The first is that commoners have little choice but to do as we tell them, whether they like it or not. The second is that we’ll pay for the cadavers we appropriate. Thanks to the Guild of Foreign Trade, we have plenty of gold.”

Samas Kul smirked and preened.

“That may be,” said Iphegor, “but it isn’t just squeamish commoners who’ll object to your scheme. I object. The Firelord objects. It’s his will that the bodies of his worshipers be cremated.”

“I’m not averse to granting your followers an exemption,” said Szass Tam, “provided you’re willing to help me in return.”

The priest snorted. “At last we come to it. The reason you included me in your conclave.”

“Yes,” Szass Tam replied. “I intend to put the order of Necromancy in the forefront of the fight against the marauders. My subordinates won’t just supply zombies and skeletons to Tharchion Focar. They’ll stand in the battle lines themselves and use their magic to smite the foe. Dealing with the undead is their specialty, after all, so they should acquit themselves admirably, but our forces will prove more formidable still if the church of Kossuth commits itself to the struggle. Pyarados needs warrior priests to exert their special powers versus this sort of threat, and none are more capable than your Burning Braziers.”

“According to Tharchion Focar,” Iphegor said, “some of the undead apparently possess the ability to strip clerics of their magic. You can understand my reluctance to send my followers into such a situation.”

“Ah, yes,” said Szass Tam, “the quells. Even the most learned necromancers believed that, like nighthaunts, the last of them perished eons ago, but now that we know of the threat, we can employ countermeasures. We’ll guard the priests better—perhaps your orders of militant monks should undertake the task—and arm them better as well, so they’re capable of defending themselves even under adverse circumstances.”

“Arm them with what?” Iphegor asked.

“With this.”

Suddenly a baton of crimson metal reposed in Szass Tam’s withered fingers. Though Aoth was looking straight at the zulkir of Necromancy, he had the odd feeling that somehow he’d just missed seeing the rod materialize. Startled, Samas Kul gave a little jerk that set his layers of flab jiggling. Yaphyll smiled at his discomfiture.

“Take it, please,” Szass Tam said.

Iphegor accepted the baton which, Aoth now observed, had stylized tongues of flame etched on its surface. As soon as the primate gripped it, the small flames dancing about his person poured hissing down his arm and over the weapon. The tip of it blazed up as if someone had soaked it in oil. Now it resembled a brightly burning torch, and despite the cooling enchantment of his tattoo, Aoth shrank back slightly from the fierce radiant heat.

“I feel the power in it.” The primate rose and brandished the torch in an experimental manner. “What exactly does it do?”

“I’ll show you,” said Szass Tam, rising, “using these targets.”

He waved his hand to indicate the entities now occupying one corner of the room. Aoth hadn’t noticed them materializing either, nor had he sensed any telltale fluctuation of magical forces in his vicinity. Nymia caught her breath in surprise, or alarm.

One of the creatures was a zombielike “dread warrior,” an undead soldier still possessed of the martial skills it had mastered in life, its eyes aglow with yellow phosphorescence. The other was some sort of ghost, a bluish transparent shape that flowed and warped from one moment to the next. Its face flickered repeatedly from wholeness to raw, bleeding ruin, as if an invisible knife were cutting away the nose, lips, and eyes in turn. Aoth assumed the display reprised agonies the spirit had suffered while alive.

After his recent experiences, he felt an unreasoning urge to lash out at the undead things with his spells before they could strike at him, but in point of fact, they weren’t moving to menace anyone. Szass Tam’s magic evidently caged them where they were.

Iphegor gave the lich a glower. “People aren’t supposed to be able to translate anything in or out of the temple without my consent.”

“I apologize if it seemed disrespectful,” said Szass Tam. “Perhaps later on Lallara can help you improve your wards.” As zulkir of Abjuration, as protective magic was called, she was presumably well suited to the task. “For now, though, shall we proceed with our demonstration?”

“All right.” The high priest extended his arm, aiming the baton as if it were a wizard’s wand or a handheld crossbow. “I assume I point the fiery end at the object of my displeasure.”

“Yes. Now focus. Place yourself in the proper frame of mind to cast a spell or chastise undead through sheer force of faith, but you aren’t actually going to expend any of your own power. You’re simply going to release a measure of what’s stored in the rod.”

Iphegor snorted. “I do know how to employ a talisman.”

“Of course. When you’re ready, the trigger word is ‘Burn.’”

“Burn,” Iphegor repeated.

Dazzling flame exploded from the end of the torch to engulf the captive undead. When the flare died a heartbeat later, they were gone as well. The burst had reduced the dread warrior to wisps of ash, while the phantom left no tangible residue whatsoever.

“Impressive,” Iphegor conceded.

“Thank you,” Szass Tam replied. “The discharge is a mixture of fire and that pure essence of light and life which is poison to undead creatures, and I guarantee you, the Burning Braziers will be able to invoke it as required, even if other magic fails.”

“There will still be a significant element of danger, and you still need to give me an adequate reason to put Kossuth’s servants in harm’s way.”

“Concern for the common folk who need your help?” Yaphyll suggested, grinning.

Judging from her scowl, Lallara found the high priest’s recalcitrance less amusing. “Szass Tam already offered to exempt your followers from the mandate to surrender their dead.”

“True, that’s something,” the fire priest said, “and so are these torches, which, I assume, the Braziers will keep even when the threat is past. Still, if I’m to throw in with you and earn the enmity of Thrul and his party, I need more.”

“It seems to me,” said Szass Tam, “that you’re getting it. As we seek ascendancy over our fellow zulkirs, don’t you aspire to make the worship of Kossuth the primary faith in the realm?”

“It already is,” said Iphegor.

“Granted,” said the lich, “but the churches of Bane, Cyric, and Shar are also strong, and in time, one of them could well supplant you. As you and Yaphyll agreed, this is a generation of ‘change and turmoil.’ We’re offering you a chance to guarantee your continued dominance. If your faith receives special treatment from the zulkirs and plays a heroic part in destroying the menace in Pyarados, new worshipers will flock to your altars.

“Surely that’s sufficient incentive,” Szass Tam continued. “Surely it’s more important than anything else we could offer, so must you really haggle like a fishwife for additional concessions?”

Iphegor grinned. “It seemed worth a try, but perhaps it is beneath our dignity. All right, I agree to your terms. When the tharchions and your zombies and necromancers march out, the Burning Braziers, Black Flame Zealots, Brothers and Sisters of the Pure Flame, and the Order of the Salamander will march with them.”

Szass Tam returned the smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

The council of war broke up a short time later, and left Aoth feeling both relieved and a little dazed. As he and Nymia retraced their steps through the temple, he murmured, “They spoke so freely.”

“Because the High Flamelord insisted on candor,” the tharchion replied.

“Yes, but they did it in front of us. They could have sent us out of the room when they started talking about their rivalries and politics and all the rest of it, and I wish they had.” He chuckled without mirth. “A man who ‘doesn’t even wear red’ doesn’t need to know about such things.”

“They didn’t bother,” Nymia said, her sweaty face set and hard, “because we’re insignificant to them. You’d do well to remember it.”

The slaves, guards, and masters were just ahead. The setting sun stretched their shadows in Bareris’s direction like dark fingers reaching to gather him in.

Though why that ominous simile flickered through his mind, he couldn’t imagine, because this was a joyous if not miraculous moment. He’d lost precious days to the virulent fever the child-thing’s bite had induced. It had been only by the grace of Lady Luck that he’d spotted the tracks that told him the thralls and their captors had left the road. Yet he hadn’t fallen so far behind he could never catch up, nor lost the trail either, and his search had come to an end. He kicked his weary horse into a gallop.

A small woman, her dark hair just beginning to grow out, scrambled forth from the ranks of the slaves. It was Tammith. Even at a distance, even after six years, he knew her instantly, as it was plain she’d recognized him despite his outlander’s clothing and the sweaty unshaven locks flopping around his head. Crisscrossing her arms, she waved her hands over her head until an orc grabbed her and shoved her back in among the other thralls.

Seeing her subjected to rough treatment made Bareris all the more frantic to close the distance. Still, he forced himself to rein in his mare, because it had looked as if she was waving him off, and some of the guards were maneuvering to intercept him if he came any closer.

It was the final inexplicable oddity in a whole string of them. First he’d learned that necromancers had purchased Tammith and the other slaves in the middle of the night and marched them out of Tyraturos under cover of darkness. Then, bribing and questioning folk along the way, he’d gradually realized that over the course of the last several tendays, people—some recognizably Red Wizards, others possibly their agents—had marched a considerable number of slaves into the sparsely populated north, where the demand for such chattels was ordinarily limited. After that came the discovery that Tammith’s owners didn’t appear to be taking her to a town, fief, or farm but rather into open country.

Bareris didn’t need to know what it all meant. He only wanted to extricate Tammith from the middle of it, but it came to him that, eager as he was to be reunited with the woman he loved, it might be prudent to approach the caravan with caution.

He reviewed the list of all the spells he knew, imagining how he might use them if things went awry, then sang a charm to augment his force of personality. While the enchantment endured, people would see him a shade taller and handsomer than he actually was. They’d find themselves more inclined to like, trust, and oblige him.

That accomplished, he walked his horse forward, sang, and accompanied himself on the yarting, like any wandering minstrel seeking a cordial welcome. On the surface, the song was simply the familiar ditty “The Eagle and the Mouse,” but he wove magic through the lines. Enough, he hoped, to beguile the guards and keep them from loosing arrows at him before he drew close enough for conversation.

He paced the tune to conclude just as he reached the mass of people clustered in front of him. By then, charmed, perhaps, by his music, two Red Wizards had stepped forth to meet him. Both were young, which he supposed made sense: Their seniors were surely above the mundane chore of transporting slaves across country. It likewise gave him reason for hope. Older Red Wizards were wealthy almost without exception, but neophytes might still be striving to make their fortunes, hence that much more susceptible to bribery.

Bareris crooned words that would keep his steed from wandering or getting into mischief, swung himself down from the saddle, and dropped to one knee in front of the Red Wizards. The show of respect was arguably excessive. By custom, a bow would have sufficed, but he wanted to flatter them.

“You can stand up,” said the one on the right. He had jam stains on his robe and a bulge of paunch beneath it, though his spindly Mulan frame was still lean elsewhere. In time, that was likely to change if he didn’t master his love of sweets. “That was a fine song.”

“ ‘That was a fine song,’” mimicked the other mage, his face tattooed in black and white to make it resemble a naked skull, and the fellow with the soiled robe winced at the sneer in his voice. “Who are you, sirrah?”

As a Mulan, Bareris was entitled to a more respectful mode of address, even from a Red Wizard, but he chose not to make an issue of it. “Bareris Anskuld, sir.”

“Apparently,” said the skull-faced wizard, “you’ve been following us.”

“Yes, sir, all the way from Tyraturos.”

The leaner mage sneered at his partner. “So much for your promise to cover our tracks. Have you ever done anything right?”

The jam lover flinched. “I reanimated the child just the way our master taught us, and Calmevik was supposed to be one of the best assassins in the city. Everybody said so.”

Bareris’s mouth turned dry as dust, and a chill oozed up his back. The trap in the alley hadn’t been an essentially random misfortune after all. The Red Wizards were so determined on secrecy that they’d left minions behind to kill anyone inquiring into their business, and now he, idiot that he was, had delivered himself into their murderous clutches.

Yet he still had his enchantment heightening his powers of persuasion and other tricks held in reserve. Perhaps, unlikely as it seemed, he could still steer this confrontation where he wanted it to go. It was either that or try to run, and with Tammith’s desperate, yearning eyes on him, the latter was a choice he simply couldn’t make.

Feigning perplexity, he said, “Are you joking with me, Masters? I didn’t meet this Calmevik or anyone who tried to hurt me. I’m just … do you see that pretty lass over there?” He pointed.

The skull-faced necromancer nodded. “The one who’s been staring at you. Of course.”

“Well, just as I followed you all the way north from Tyraturos, I tracked her all the way from Bezantur, where she sold herself into slavery just tendays ago as the result of a tragic misunderstanding. She thought her family needed the gold, but they didn’t. She had no way of knowing I was already bound for home after years abroad, coming back to marry her with enough gold in my purse to support her and her kin forever after.”

The black-and bone-colored face sneered. “How terribly sad, but it’s no concern of ours.”

“I understand that,” Bareris said, “but I’m begging for your help.” He couldn’t break into actual song, or the Red Wizards would likely realize he was casting a spell, but he pitched and cadenced his voice in such a way as to imply melody in an effort to render himself still more charismatic and persuasive. “I’ve loved Tammith ever since we were children growing up in the gutters of Bezantur. It wasn’t an easy life for a Mulan child whose family had fallen in poverty. Older boys bullied and beat me, and one day, even though she was of Rashemi descent herself, Tammith came to my aid. We both wound up with bruises and black eyes, on that day and others subsequent, but she never once regretted befriending me. That’s the kind of loyal, courageous spirit she possesses. The spirit of someone who deserves a better life that slavery.”

The wizard with the flabby belly looked caught up in the story, perhaps even touched by it. Bareris wasn’t surprised. The mage had the air or someone who’d likewise been bullied in his time, but if his partner was mellowing, it wasn’t apparent from his demeanor.

Still, if a tale of love couldn’t move him, maybe baser considerations would. “So I’ve come to buy her out of bondage,” Bareris continued, “and I’ll pay well, more than she can possibly be worth to anyone but the man who loves her.” He opened one of the hidden pockets in his sword belt, extracted three of the diamonds he and his former comrades had found cached in a dragon-worshiper stronghold, and proffered them in his palm for everyone to see. Even in the failing light, the stones gleamed, and impressed, warriors cursed or murmured to one another. “One jewel for each of you wizards, another for your retainers.”

The pudgy mage swallowed as if greed had dried his throat. “Perhaps we could make some sort of arrangement,” he said, then stiffened as if expecting his colleague to rebuke him.

But the other necromancer simply smirked and said, “Yes, why not? As the troubadour said, it’s a great deal of coin, and what’s a single slave one way or the other?” He stretched out his hand, and Bareris gave him the diamonds. “It’s a bargain then. The wench is yours. Take her and ride away.”

Tammith cried Bareris’s name and ran toward him. He turned to catch her in his arms. It should have been a moment of supreme exultation, but he realized that all he felt was fear.

Because it was too easy. Yes, he’d cast glamours that predisposed others to indulge him, sometimes even in defiance of their own best interests or common sense, and had offered treasure in addition, but the mage with the tattooed face had never appeared to fall under the influence of the spells, and the grim truth was he and his fellow necromancer were obviously supposed to keep their mission a secret, which would seem to preclude permitting Bareris and Tammith to depart to talk of what they’d seen.

Had Bareris been in the necromancer’s position, and had he, like so many Red Wizards, felt scant obligation to honor a pledge given to an inferior, he might well have pretended to accede to his petitioner’s pleas just to put him off his guard. Then he’d attack as soon as a good opportunity presented itself.

Yet Bareris couldn’t simply assume treachery and strike first. He didn’t dare start an unnecessary fight when, outnumbered as he was, he had so little hope of winning it. Weeping, Tammith flung herself into his embrace, kissed him, and babbled endearments. He hugged her but couldn’t reply in kind. He was busy listening.

Yet even so, the necromancer with the tattooed face whispered so softly that for a moment, Bareris wasn’t sure if he was actually hearing his voice or only imagining it. Then he felt a subtle prickling on his skin that warned of magic coming into being.

He whirled, dragging the startled Tammith around with him, and shouted. Bardic power amplified the cry into a thunderous boom capable of bruising flesh and cracking bone. The sound smashed the Red Wizard off his feet, and for an instant, Bareris dared to hope he’d killed him, but no, for he started to get up again.

Still, at least Bareris had disrupted the other man’s spellcasting, and in so doing, he bought himself a moment he hoped to use to good effect. He beckoned to his horse. Ordinarily, the mare wouldn’t have responded to such a gesture, but steed and rider still shared the empathic bond he’d sung into being just before he’d dismounted, and she came running.

He poised himself to leap onto the horse’s back and haul Tammith up behind him, but having drawn himself to one knee, his black-and-white skull face now streaked with blood, the lean necromancer brandished a talisman. A bolt of crackling darkness leaped from the charm to spear the mare from behind. She shriveled as though starving past the point of emaciation in a single heartbeat, and her legs gave way beneath her. She crashed to the ground, shuddered, and lay still.

The injured wizard lurched to his feet but evidently couldn’t stand straight. Rather, he held himself doubled over as if his midsection was particularly painful. He looked about, no doubt taking in the fact that neither his fellow necromancer nor any of their servants had yet moved to attack or otherwise hinder Bareris. Perhaps the enchantments the bard had cast still influenced them even now, or maybe hostilities had simply erupted too suddenly.

“Get him!” the Red Wizard screamed. “Get him, and we’ll divide up all his jewels! But take him alive! A true bard will be useful!”

The guards readied their weapons and closed in from all sides. Bareris whipped out his sword and struggled to hold back panic and think. If they hoped to take him alive, that would hamper them a little. If he could somehow seize another horse—

Why then, he thought, the wizards would simply blast the animal out from under Tammith and him as they tried to ride away, or else the guards would shoot it full of arrows. Before the enemy readied themselves for battle, there had existed a slim chance of fleeing successfully on horseback, but it was gone now.

“Give me a knife,” Tammith said. He could hear the fear in her voice, but only because he knew her so well. He handed her a blade and she positioned herself so they could protect one another’s backs. “I’m sorry you came for me, sorry this is happening, but glad I got to kiss you one last time.”

“It wasn’t the last time.”

In fact, he knew it very likely had been, but he wouldn’t abandon hope even in his private thoughts, wouldn’t defeat himself and save the enemy the trouble. Maybe he and Tammith could at least kill a few of the bastards before the remainder overwhelmed them.

Blood orcs shrieked their harrowing cry and charged. Bareris chanted, and power stung and shivered down his limbs. Tammith gasped as she experienced the same sensation.

The world, including the onrushing orcs, slowed down, or at least that was how it appeared. In reality, Bareris knew, he and Tammith were moving more quickly. The enchantment had given him a critical advantage in other combats, and he could only pray it would again.

A whip whirled at his calves. Had it connected, it would have wrapped around his legs and bound them together, but he leaped over the arc of the stroke and slashed the eyes of an orc armed with a cudgel. That put another guard behind him, in position to bash his head with the pommel of its scimitar. It was too sluggish, though, compared to his unnatural celerity. He pivoted, sliced its belly, turned, stepped, and hacked open the throat of the brute with the whip while it was still drawing the rawhide lash back for a second stroke.

That finished all the foes immediately in front of him, and it was then that he heard Tammith half cry, half gasp his name. It was possible she’d been screaming for a moment or two, and he’d been too intent on the blood orcs to hear.

He turned. Another guard, a human on horseback, had looped a whip around Tammith’s neck and was lifting her off her feet, essentially garroting her in the process. She flailed with her knife but couldn’t connect. Neither her bravery nor the charm of speed sufficed to counter the warrior’s advantages of superior strength and skill.

Bareris sprang in and cut at the guard’s left wrist, and his blade bit to the bone. The horseman dropped the whip and Tammith with it. Blood spurting from his gashed extremity, features as bestial with rage and pain as the tusked, piggish face of any of the orcs, he prompted his mount—a trained war-horse, evidently—to rear and try to batter Bareris with its front hooves.

Bareris sidestepped and thrust his point into the animal’s side. The destrier fell sideways, carrying its rider with it. They hit the ground hard and lay motionless thereafter.

Bareris cast about and found Tammith, a raw red welt now striping her neck, standing just behind him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He realized she meant she was sorry she hadn’t managed to kill the rider with the whip, sorry Bareris had needed to save her. “It’s all right.” It occurred to him that the two dead horses sprawled on the ground constituted obstacles of sorts. If he and Tammith stood between them, it would make it difficult for very many of their foes to come at them at once. “Come on.” He scrambled to the proper position, and she followed.

There he began another song. It would strengthen and steady them, and he could weave specific spells through the melody as needed. Pivoting, he peered to see who meant to attack him next.

A rider with a net spurred his mount into a canter. Crouching, blood orcs circled as if they hoped to clamber over the top of one of the dead horses and take their adversaries by surprise.

Then the wizard with the tattooed face shouted, “Stop! You imbeciles are next to useless, but I can’t afford to lose all of you. Forget about taking the minstrel alive, and don’t go within reach of his sword, either. Shoot him and his whore, and So-Kehur and I will smite them with spells.” He gave Bareris a vicious smile. “Unless, of course, you prefer to surrender.”

“Don’t,” Tammith whispered. “I don’t know what they’ll do to us if we give up, but I’m sure it will be terrible.”

Bareris suspected she was right, yet what was the alternative? To condemn her to die here and now? For while the two of them had evaded capture and injury thus far, it was obvious they no longer had any chance of getting away. It was only the Red Wizard’s order to take them alive that had provided even the illusion of hope, and that was no longer in effect.

“We have to surrender,” he said, “and hope we can escape later on. Set the knife on the ground.” He stooped to do the same with his sword, and then someone gave a startled yell.

Bareris looked around to see slaves scrambling in all directions. Evidently they shared Tammith’s conviction that some ghastly fate awaited them at the end of their trek, and they’d decided to take advantage of their keepers’ distraction to make a break for freedom.

“Stop them!” the necromancer with the flabby midsection—evidently his name was So-Kehur—wailed.

Some of the guards obeyed. Horsemen galloped and wheeled to cut the thralls off. A blood orc dashed after a group of fleeing men and started slashing them down from behind, evidently on the assumption that if it killed enough of them, the slaughter would cow the rest into giving up.

Of course, not every warrior turned his back on Tammith and Bareris, but as best the bard could judge, even those who hadn’t seemed momentarily flummoxed. So, for that matter, did the necromancers. Perhaps he had a hope left after all.

“Follow me!” he said to Tammith. He bellowed a battle cry and charged.

For an instant, he considered running at So-Kehur. Evidently worthless in a crisis, the round-bellied mage had yet to cast a spell and was surely an easier mark than the skull-faced warlock. He must possess an extraordinary aptitude for some aspect of sorcery, or else exceptionally good family connections, to account for his induction into an order of Red Wizards despite the lack of iron in his soul.

The problem was that even if they were of equivalent rank, it was plainly the necromancer with the tattooed face who’d taken charge of the caravan. Should they find themselves at odds, he was the one the warriors would obey, and just to make matters worse, he obviously held his fellow mage in contempt. Bareris could easily imagine himself grabbing So-Kehur, using him as a shield, threatening him with his sword, and having the tattooed wizard laugh and order his underlings to go ahead and shoot them both.

No, if Bareris was going to take a hostage, it had to be the skull-faced mage himself, and so he ran straight at him. He prayed Tammith was still following close behind him but didn’t dare waste the instant it would take to glance back and find out.

An arrow whistled past his head. An orc scrambled to block his path, and he split its skull. For a moment, his sword stuck in the wound, but then he managed to yank it free, flinging drops of blood through the air in the process.

Realizing his peril, the skull-faced necromancer brandished the talisman that had killed Bareris’s horse, a round medallion, the bard now observed, fashioned of ebony and bone. He wrenched himself to the side, and the jagged blaze of shadow missed him by a finger length.

He raced onward. Just a few more strides would carry him within striking distance of his foe, and with enchantment quickening his actions, he had reason for hope that his adversary didn’t have time to attempt any more magic.

But the necromancer had a trick in reserve. Even as his body backed away, his face seemed to spring forward like a striking snake. In reality, Bareris perceived, it was the tattooed skull mask that had torn free of his skin, and as it did, it rounded itself into a snarling head, and a gaunt, decaying body materialized beneath it. It had, in fact, become a ghoul, a slave creature or familiar the Red Wizard had carried inside his own body to evoke in a moment of ultimate need.

Startled by the vile-smelling thing’s unexpected materialization, Bareris faltered. The ghoul leaped, its jagged, filthy nails ripping at his face. They nearly snagged him, but then trained reflex twisted him out of the way. He hacked at the bumpy ridge of spine in the corpse eater’s withered back, and the undead’s legs buckled beneath it.

Bareris sprinted on. Looking unexpectedly soft-featured and callow with his macabre mask stripped away, the Red Wizard lifted his talisman for another blast. Bareris had believed he was already running his fastest, but somehow he achieved an extra iota of speed to close the distance. He cut at the necromancer’s hand, and the medallion and severed fingers tumbled through the air.

At that instant, Bareris hated the wizard, relished hurting him, and had to remind himself that he needed him alive. He shoved the necromancer down onto the grass, lifted his sword to threaten him—

A voice chanted rhyming words, and the ambient temperature fluctuated wildly. Bareris realized So-Kehur wasn’t entirely useless after all. He’d finally found the presence of mind to cast a spell.

Something stabbed into the middle of Bareris’s back. It didn’t hurt, precisely, but weakness streamed outward from the site like ink diffusing through water. His sword suddenly felt too heavy to support. The blade dropped, and the hilt nearly pulled itself from his grasp. He collapsed to his knees.

He told himself he didn’t need his stolen strength. He could hold a hostage down with his weight, and menace him with the lethal sharpness of his blade. He floundered after the necromancer with the maimed hand, but now the mage was the quicker and stayed beyond his reach.

Until a mesh of sticky cable abruptly materialized on top of Bareris, binding and gluing him to the ground. “I did it!” So-Kehur crowed. “I took him alive, just like you wanted.”

“So you did,” the other wizard gasped, rising unsteadily, “and now I’m going to kill the wretch.” Using his intact hand, he fumbled in one of his scarlet robe’s many pockets, no doubt seeking the talisman required to facilitate some sort of death magic.

Enfeebled as he was, it was difficult for Bareris even to turn his head. Still, praying she could help him somehow, he peered around for Tammith, only to see her slumped on the ground clutching at a bloody wound in her leg. An orc stood over her, spear aimed to stab her again if she attempted further resistance. Elsewhere, the creature’s fellow guards had all but completed the task of catching and subduing the rest of the slaves.

Bareris would have taken any risk to rescue or protect Tammith, but those things were no longer even remotely possible. He had to escape alone now in the hope of returning for her later, if, indeed, he could even manage that.

Rapidly as he dared—too much haste and he might botch the casting—he started singing. Weak as he was, he felt short of breath and had to struggle to achieve the precise intonation and cadence the magic required.

His would-be killer seemed clumsy with his off hand and was possibly on the verge of sinking into shock from the amputation of his fingers. He was slow producing his talisman, but when he realized Bareris was attempting magic, he managed to snatch it forth, flourish it, and jabber hissing, clacking syllables in some foul abyssal tongue.

A thing of tattered darkness, with a vague, twisted face and elongated fingers, swirled into existence between the necromancer and the prisoner caught beneath the sticky net. The wizard pointed, and the shadow pounced.

At the same instant, Bareris completed his spell-song. The world seemed to shatter into motes of light and remake itself an instant later.

The greatest spellcasters could work magic to whisk themselves and a band of comrades hundreds of miles in a heartbeat. Bareris had seen it done. He himself had no such abilities, or he would have employed them to carry Tammith to safety as soon as he clasped her in his arms, but he had mastered a song to translate a single person several yards in a random direction. A desperation ploy that could, with luck, save a man’s life after other measures failed.

Thus, he now sprawled on his belly a short distance away from his enemies and the slaves. As best he could judge, no one had spotted him yet, but somebody unquestionably would if he couldn’t conceal himself within the next few moments. He tried to crawl, and with the curse of weakness still afflicting him, the effort was so difficult it made him sob.

Crouching low, the shadow-thing started to pivot in his direction. Then something grabbed him by the sword belt and yanked him backward.