Undead (4 page)

Lauzoril pursed his lips and pressed the fingertips of his hands together to make a pyramid. “The important question,” the zulkir of Enchantment said in his dry tenor, “isn’t whether Hezass is a scoundrel, but whether his information is accurate. If so, then as Dmitra Flass observed, we may have a chance to win a meaningful victory at last.”

“I concur,” Nevron said, scowling so fiercely that anyone who hadn’t heard his words might have assumed he disagreed. A number of his tattoos took the forms of hideous faces, the countenances of the demons and devils that, as a master conjurer, it was his particular art to command. “Szass Tam descends from the heights to lay siege to the Keep of Sorrows. We swing an army in behind him. They’ll be the hammer, and the castle and the

edge of the cliffs, the anvil. We’ll pound the necromancers, and they won’t be able to retreat.”

“You can’t count on Nymar to bring the troops he pledges,” Samas said. “He’ll keep them in their garrisons to protect the lands he still holds, and afterward, claim sickness in the ranks prevented them from marching. Or else, that his scouts reported Aglarondan troops maneuvering on the western border, and he had to leave his men in place to protect against a possible invasion. He’s done it before.”

“I remember,” Dmitra said. “He doesn’t much care to ride heroically into battle, does he? But if we can prevail on him to bring his army as far as the western bank of the River Lapendrar, to make certain Szass Tam can’t maneuver in that direction, that in itself would be a help.”

“Right,” Nevron said. “We can do the real work ourselves, if we commit enough of our own strength.”

Samas responded, as well as Lallara, in much the same vein. Before long, it became clear to Aoth that, without bothering to say so overtly, the zulkirs had decided on a strategy. Now they were discussing how best to implement it.

Aoth gnawed his lower lip. In theory, he and the zulkirs’ other subordinates were present to provide their opinions, and he would have preferred to hold his tongue until someone specifically asked for his perspective. But it didn’t seem that any of the mage lords meant to do so.

Wishing he were somewhere else, he cleared his throat. “Masters?”

The zulkirs all turned to regard him, some more coldly than others, but none with extraordinary warmth. “Yes, Captain?” Dmitra said.

“I think,” said Aoth, “we should evaluate Hezass Nymar’s claims carefully, and not just because he’s a known traitor and liar. I realize that many of you have magic to determine

whether a man is speaking the truth as he understands it, and I imagine you’ve applied those tests in this instance. But on the face of it, the scheme he’s attributing to Szass Tam makes little sense.”

“Why?” Nevron asked. “The Keep of Sorrows is an important fortress. If he takes it, it will be far easier for him to strike into Tyraturos, and if he’s successful there, it opens the High Road for incursions into Priador.”

“Yes, Your Omnipotence,” said Aoth, “//”he’s successful. But the keep is generally considered impregnable, or nearly so. Until now, Szass Tam has only undertaken major battles and sieges under conditions advantageous to himself. Most of the time, he picks away at us, raiding, burning crops and granaries, killing a few folk here and there to raise as zombies and swell the ranks of his legions. He’s been slowly tipping the balance in his favor, as if-—as Hezass Nymar suggested—he doesn’t care how long it takes to win, or what condition the realm is in when he does. Why, then, would he suddenly change tactics and commit his troops to such a reckless venture?”

“Because he’s grown impatient,” Lallara said, “and made a mistake. The wretch isn’t infallible, whatever you and fools like you may imagine.”

Aoth glanced at Nymia Focar in the forlorn hope that his superior would support him. She was an able warrior and capable of seeing the sense in what he was saying. But, as he expected, she gave him a tiny shake of her head, warning him to desist. The motion made the silver stud in her left nostril flash with a gleam of lamplight and the rings in her ears clink faintly.

He wished Malark were present. Dmitra often heeded his opinion, but hadn’t seen fit to bring him. Perhaps he was busy with some other task.

Milsantos Daramos might also have spoken on Aoth’s behalf, for the former tharchion of Thazalhar had been both

the canniest and the bravest Thayan general in recent memory. Unfortunately, he’d succumbed to old age three years back.

In the absence of such men and the counsel they might have offered, Aoth stumbled on alone. “I understand that the lich is capable of miscalculating. Everybody is. But I still worry that there’s something about this situation we don’t understand.”

Samas grunted. It made him seem even more swinish, if that was possible. “You realize, Captain, that if the lich marches on the Keep of Sorrows, we have no choice but to defend it. Unless’ you advocate simply opening the gates and surrendering.”

Aoth clamped down hard to keep resentment from showing in his face or tone. “Of course not, Master. But the keep should be able to resist a siege for a considerable time. We needn’t be in a hurry to commit the bulk of our forces to defend it, and we needn’t look to Nymar for anything. We can proceed cautiously.”

“And perhaps lose the castle as a result,” Lallara rapped. “Perhaps even forfeit the opportunity to win the war.”

“Which is something,” Dmitra said, “we cannot afford. You said it yourself, Captain, more or less. Time is on Szass Tam’s side. We must defeat him while we’re still strong.”

Aoth inclined his head. “Yes, Your Omnipotence. I understand.”

Tammith Iltazyarra winged her way through the night sky as a flock of bats, the lights of Escalant shining below. The sea reflected Selune’s crescent smile, and the haze of glittering tears that followed her, like an obsidian mirror. Tammith’s inhuman senses registered the sea in somewhat the same way that a living person might discern the presence of a wall or cliff face looming close. She didn’t merely see it, but felt it as a confining

pressure. It exerted a force upon her, because no vampire could cross open water.

Once upon a time, her transformation into a swarm of leathery-winged beasts would have significantly altered her consciousness. The human—or quasi-human—Tammith was prey to shame and regret, and the bats were not. But it had been a long while since such feelings troubled her in any of her various guises. She supposed that meant she truly was dead now, and she was glad of it. Existence was easier this way.

Their shrill cries echoing from roofs and walls to guide them, the bats flew into an alley, checked a final time to make sure no one was watching, then swirled together. In a moment, they merged to become a petite, dark-haired woman in a plain cloak and gown. In other circumstances, she would have worn a sword and mail, but she didn’t feel vulnerable without them. Her most formidable weapons were always with her. Xingax, curse him, had seen to that.

She walked onward, through streets that were busy even after dark, because Escalant was a thriving port. Though under Thayan governance, it was a colony, geographically removed from the realm proper, and as a result, the zulkirs’ war had yet to blight it. In fact, the contented faces, well fed and unafraid, the music and laughter sounding from the taverns, and the scarcity of soldiers reminded her of Bezantur as it had been when she was alive. Something stirred inside her, some vague approximation of melancholy or nostalgia.

Then the temple of Kossuth came into view, and she quashed the feeling, whatever it was, to focus on the task at hand.

Like all the Firelord’s houses of worship, this one was a ziggurat, built of blocks of cooled lava. Fires burned on either side of the door, on the terraces leading upward, and at the apex of the pyramid.

Tammith again felt a pressure, because the flames were the

sacred symbols of Kossuth, and although no priest was trying to use their power to repel her, there were plenty of them, and more holy force, concentrated inside the temple.

Still, since the ziggurat was a public place, it should be possible for her to enter. It would simply take spiritual strength and resolve.

As she advanced, Tammith fought the urge to lean forward as if she were struggling against a strong wind. Her skin grew hotter and hotter.

She stumbled as she climbed the steps to the entrance. Fortunately, the two warrior monks standing guard at the top didn’t take any notice. Perhaps they were used to the sick and the lame hobbling up to pray to the god for healing.

Grimacing with effort, she forced herself across the threshold, and then the pressure and heat abated. Wherever she looked, more fires burned, altars stood piled with offerings, and images of Kossuth glowered at her, so the aversive sensations didn’t vanish entirely. But it seemed that by coming this far and asserting her supremacy, she’d heightened her resistance. She should be able to bear the unpleasantness for a time.

She reached out with her mind, and the results were disappointing. The priests and monks evidently did a good job of waging war against rats, or perhaps the rodents simply found the pyramid with its hard stone walls and scores of open fires uncongenial. But every large structure provided a home for at least a few such vermin, and she summoned them to rendezvous with her as she prowled onward, doing her best to look like a worshiper heading for her favorite shrine or chapel.

The ruse lost its utility when she reached the staircase leading up. The higher reaches of the temple were closed to everyone but clerics and monks. Before continuing onward, another vampire might have become a bat or rodent to make himself less conspicuous. But Tammith could only transform into a

cloud of bats or a scurrying carpet of rats. Those guises were more likely to attract attention than a single human figure, and the same was true of a hulking wolf, or billows of mist flowing along in the absence of a breeze. Best, then, simply to slink on two feet.

The rats she’d collected on the first story scurried behind her. The eyes of a few more gleamed from the shadows on the level above. Somewhere in the ziggurat, a choir commenced a hymn, the sound of the nocturnal ceremony echoing through the stone chambers.

Fortunately, most of the temple’s occupants were asleep. That fact and her talent for stealth allowed Tammith to reach the highest level and the antechamber of Hezass Nymar’s personal apartments undetected. Shelves stuffed with ledgers and documents lined the walls. During the day, clerks would be hunched over writing desks, quills scratching. Petitioners and underlings would lounge on the benches, awaiting the high priest’s pleasure. But at this time of night, no one was around.

But no. She was mistaken. Perhaps no person was here, but something was. She couldn’t see it, but she suddenly sensed its scrutiny, its watchful expectation.

Perhaps it was a guardian creature, or some sort of unliving but sentient ward. Since it hadn’t attacked or raised an alarm immediately, it might be giving her a chance to prove she belonged there. By speaking a password, or something similar.

“Praise be to Kossuth,” she said. The odds were slim that she’d guessed correctly, but she couldn’t see that she had anything to lose by trying.

Heat exploded through the chamber. Something hissed and a wavering yellow brightness splashed the walls. Tammith pivoted and saw the creature that had emerged from nothingness to destroy her.

It was a spider as big as a pony, with a body made of glowing

magma, with flame dripping from its gnashing mandibles. Its eight round eyes gave her a lidless, inscrutable stare.

This was bad. She’d spent the past decade battling every devil and elemental Nevron that the Order of Conjuration could raise, and had learned early on why it was difficult to fight entities like the spider. If she closed to striking distance, the heat emanating from its body would burn her to ashes.

Better to subdue the spider without fighting if she could. She stared into its row of eyes and willed it to cower before her.

Instead, it sprang. She leaped out of the way, snatched up one of the benches, and threw it. Tavern-style combat would make too much noise, but that couldn’t be helped.

The bench smashed into the spider and clattered to the floor in burning pieces. One of the arachnid’s legs dragged, twisted and useless. The injury didn’t impair the creature’s quick, scuttling agility, but it was a start.

Tammith scurried to grab another bench, keeping an eye on the spider lest it jump at her again. Instead, it reared onto its hind legs, exposing the underside of its body. Burning matter sprayed from an orifice in its abdomen.

The discharge spewed in a wide arc and expanded in flight to become a kind of net. Caught by surprise, Tammith tried to dodge, but was too slow. The heavy mesh fell over her and dragged her to her knees. Its blazing touch brought instant agony.

With burning, blackening hands, she struggled to rip the adhesive web away from her body. Another weight, far heavier than the mesh, slammed down on her and crushed her to the floor. Liquid fire dripping from its fangs, the spider lowered its head to bite.

She wasted a precious instant in desperate, agonized squirming, then realized what she needed to do. Focusing past the distractions of pain and fear, she asserted her mastery of her own mutable form.

Tammith dissolved into vapor. Even the lack of a solid body failed to quell the ache of her wounds, but the spider could no longer bite her, and its bulk and web couldn’t hold her any longer. She billowed up around it and streamed to the other side of the room.

Given the choice, she might well have kept flowing right out the door. But although she was a captain in the legions of the north, she was also a slave, magically constrained to obey Xingax and Szass Tam. The latter had ordered her to accomplish her mission at any cost.

That would require slaying the spider, and she couldn’t do it as a cloud of fog. She had to become tangible once again.

As she did so, she glanced at her charred hands and her arms where the sleeves had burned away. New skin was already growing, but not quickly enough. If the arachnid seized her again, it would likely hurt her so severely as to render her helpless.