Undead (3 page)

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 o^e

26-29 Ches, the Year of Blue Fire

H ezass 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 would 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 Faerun. 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.

Fortunately, it was easy for the disciple to resolve his dilemma. He only had to do as Hezass requested and fetch Iphegor Nath.

The High Flamelord arrived with a handful of monks in tow. He was a tall man with craggy, commanding features. His muscular physique, the uncanny glow of his orange eyes, and the tiny flames that crawled on his shaved scalp and shoulders all combined to make him resemble the traditional depiction of the deity he served. His simple attire stood in marked contrast to Hezass’s gemmed and layered vestments, for, most likely roused from his bed, he’d only taken the time to pull on breeches, sandals, and a shirt.

Hezass dropped to his knees and lowered his eyes. Iphegor let him remain that way for a long time.’

Finally, the High Flamelord broke the silence. “You realize, I’m going to drown you.”

Inwardly, Hezass winced. “Drowning is the traditional punishment for an apostate, Your Omniscience, and thus inappropriate for me. I walked through the god’s domain to come here. How could I do that if I’d renounced my priesthood?”

“You renounced the church,” Iphegor growled. “You renounced me.”

“With all respect, Your Omniscience, that is incorrect. I freely acknowledge your supreme authority … in matters of theology. The matter of who should govern Thay is a political question.”

“And your answer is—the creature whose treachery slew scores of the Firelord’s priests.”

“I confess, I made an error. I’ve come here to rectify it.”

“By sneaking an armed force into the temple.”

“What, these?” Hezass waved his hand at the golems standing like statues behind him. “They have their uses, but it’s laughable to think that four of them could prevail against all

the magic and armed might protecting the Flaming Brazier. I simply wanted to present myself with the dignity an escort affords. Now, do you truly intend to keep me on my knees for the entire parley, and to conduct it in the hearing of these good monks? I’m sure they’re pious and loyal, but even so, it would be indiscreet.”

“Get up,” Iphegor said. “We can talk in the chapel over there. Leave your puppet bowmen outside, and I’ll do the same with the monks.”

A statue of Kossuth bestowing the gift of fire on humanity dominated the shrine. The golden light of votive fires gleamed on the crimson marble. In the mosaic on the wall, the god presided over a court of red dragons, efreet, and other creatures whose natures partook of elemental flame.

“So,” Iphegor said, seating himself on a bench, “how do you propose to atone for your sins?”

Since the High Flamelord hadn’t given him leave to sit, Hezass remained standing as he explained his proposal.

When he finished, Iphegor stared at him for several heartbeats, until Hezass, who’d just negotiated the Plane of Fire without discomfort, felt sweat starting to ooze under his arms. Finally, the big man said, “You string words together as glibly as ever. But after all the lies you’ve told over the past ten years, how can you possibly expect anyone to believe you?”

“I’ve already explained that my link with our god remains intact. How could I not desire reconciliation with the head of my faith?”

Iphegor snorted. “How many times have I offered my forgiveness, only to have you wipe your arse on it by slinking back to Szass Tam? I’ve lost count.”

“I confess. I’ve maneuvered for power and wealth. I’ve put my own welfare ahead of every other concern, doing whatever seemed necessary to survive amid a war of wizards. Which makes

me no worse than many other nobles and officials in Thay. But I know that’s not the man I want to be. I want to be steadfast and honorable and worthy of the god we serve.”

“That would be inspiring if I thought you meant it.”

Hezass sighed. “If you can’t believe I’ve had a change of heart, perhaps you’ll credit this. The Council currently occupies a goodly portion of eastern Lapendrar. I’d like those lands back, and in reasonable condition.”

“And you doubt Szass Tam’s ability to recover them?”

“He may succeed, or he may not. Even if he does, I don’t approve of the way he’s conducting the war. I understand the strategic points of causing flood and drought, slaughtering peasants, and poisoning the soil, rain, and streams. Since his legions are largely undead, the resulting scarcity of food hurts his enemies more than it injures him. But what will be left of the realm after he wins? I don’t want to live out my days as the pauper governor of a ruined province. I want the old Thay back!”

Iphegor grimaced. “As do I. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I still don’t trust you, but I will ask the Council to listen to your blandishments. They can make up their own minds about you.”

Aoth steeled himself for an ordeal. When convening for a council of war, the zulkirs sometimes commanded the attendance of their tharchions, whisking them to the site of the meeting by magical means. The military governors, in turn, made it a habit to bring a trusted lieutenant or two, which meant Nymia Focar occasionally dragged Aoth along.

He supposed he should be used to it, but after all these years, he never felt fully at ease in the presence of the notoriously cruel and capricious wizard lords. It didn’t help that, of everyone in the hall, with its long red wooden table and jeweled crimson banners

hanging from the rafters, he was the only person who didn’t look like a proper Mulan.

Still, the zulkirs probably deserved commendation for possessing the prudence to seek advice, especially considering that the council was less than it once had been. Not that there was any real shortage of intelligence. The bloated Samas Kul, shrewish Lallara, clerkish Lauzoril, glowering Nevron with the brimstone stink emanating from his person, and the comely Dmitra Flass were as shrewd as anyone could wish. But Kumed Hahpret, who’d succeeded the murdered Aznar Thrul as zulkir of Evocation, and Zola Sethrakt, representing what little remained of the necromancers after Szass Tam suborned most of the order to fight on his behalf, had proved to be less impressive intellects than their predecessors. And the chair once occupied by the traitorous Yaphyll sat empty. The Order of Divination hadn’t yet elected a leader to replace her.

Aoth stiffened when Iphegor Nath ushered Hezass Nymar into the chamber. The fire priest’s faithlessness had, on more than one occasion, cost the Griffon Legion good men and mounts. But Aoth couldn’t vent his anger in such an assembly, at least not yet. He had to sit quietly while Hezass spoke his piece.

When the whoreson finished, the zulkirs sent him out of the room under guard. “Well,” said Dmitra, who often acted as presiding officer, to the extent that the other haughty zulkirs would tolerate, “what do you think?”

“Question him under torture until he dies of it,” Lallara said. Powerful as her magic was, the zulkir of Abjuration could easily have erased the outward signs of advancing age, but had instead allowed time to cut lines and crow’s feet and loosen the flesh beneath her chin. It made her bitter manner all the more intimidating.

Dmitra smiled. “That’s my first impulse, also, but I wouldn’t

want to waste a genuine opportunity. Your Omniscience, what’s your opinion? What game is Nymar playing this time?”

Iphegor frowned. “Your Omnipotence, I wish I knew. Much as it irks me to admit it, he hasn’t lost his connection to the Lord of Flames. He’s still a priest, and it’s possible he wishes to mend his quarrel with me, just as he asserts. In addition, I find his claim that he only ever served Szass Tam to achieve a life of opulent wealth, and that he fears that such an existence is slipping forever beyond his reach, to be plausible. Still, there’s no disputing the man’s a treacherous worm. Who knows where his allegiance really lies, or where it will reside tomorrow?”

“Not I,” said Samas Kul. If Hezass was in fact motivated by avarice, he ought to sympathize, for, taking full advantage of his position as Master of the Guild of Foreign Trade, he’d made himself the richest man in Thay even before his ascension to leadership of the transmuters. His red robes reflected the fact, for they glittered with more gems and precious metal than any of the other costly attire on display in the chamber. Unfortunately, even the finest raiment couldn’t make his obese, sweaty, ruddy-faced form attractive.