Undead (17 page)

It was good advice, especially considering that Aoth had intended to run off anyway, until Bareris tampered with his mind. So it surprised him to realize just how reluctant he was to go.

Deserting because he wanted to was one thing. Fleeing because he feared for his life would leave him feeling baffled and defeated. It would also mean he could never command the

Griffon Legion again. He’d never aspired to do so, and in the years since his elevation, he’d honestly believed he didn’t enjoy the responsibility. But after blindness rendered him unfit to lead, he discovered he missed it. Indeed, he’d felt guilty and worthless because he couldn’t look out for his men anymore.

“Besides … since I don’t understand why this is happening,” he said, “I don’t know how just badly people want to kill me. It may be badly enough to hunt us down if we try to run. I also have misgivings about fleeing when earthquakes and tides of blue fire are ripping the world apart. It doesn’t seem a promising time to try to build a new life in some foreign land.”

“Then what will we do?” Brightwing asked.

“You’ll stay here with Mirror and be quiet. I’ll talk to Lauzoril and try to straighten things out.”

“That’s assuming that he or his minions don’t strike you down on sight.”

“I think I know who can prevent it, if only I can reach him.”

Brightwing snorted. “It sounds stupid to me, but when has that ever stopped you?” She cocked her head. “Say, you aren’t wearing your blindfold.”

Perhaps it was Malark’s imagination, but the ash shaft of the spear seemed to shudder in his grip as though it resented resting in any hand but its master’s. He wondered if that could possibly be true, if the weapon was in some sense alive and aware. Perhaps he’d have a chance to ask Aoth about it later, but for now, they had a more urgent matter to address.

Malark hadn’t expected to see his comrade again, because he’d heard what fate Dmitra had decreed for him. And although it wasn’t the death he would have chosen for Aoth,

there hadn’t been a reason to intervene. But when, with his lambent blue eyes uncovered and obviously no longer blind, the war mage slipped into Malark’s apartments, it was plain the situation had altered.

A small, flat-faced goblin guard used its apelike arms to open the red metal door to Lauzoril’s conjuration chamber. When Aoth saw what waited on the other side, he stopped short. Malark didn’t blame him.

The room beyond the threshold was the sort of arcane workroom familiar to them both after years spent at the beck and call of wizards. The steady white glow of enchanted spherical lamps illuminated racks of staves and ceremonial swords, a stylized wall painting of a tree that, as Dmitra had once explained, represented the multiverse, and an intricate pentacle inlaid in jet and carnelian on the floor. A thurible suffused the air with the bitter scent of myrrh.

The surprise was the steel table with sturdy buckled straps to immobilize a man, gutters to drain away his blood, and an assortment of probes, forceps, and knives to pick and slice at him. A healer might conceivably have used such equipment. So did a number of the interrogators in Malark’s employ.

“Steady!” he whispered. “It’s too late to run. They’ll only kill you if you try.” As if to demonstrate that he was right, a pair of blood ore guards and a Red Wizard of Enchantment advanced to take charge of Aoth.

Aoth strode into the chamber, and Malark followed a pace behind him. An ore reached to seize hold of Aoth’s arm. Shifting, the griffon rider evaded the creature’s hand and shoved it into its fellow. The pair got tangled up and fell down together.

The Red Wizard jumped back a step and lifted a fist with a pearl ring on the forefinger. Brightness seethed inside the milky stone. Malark interposed himself between the enchanter and Aoth and gave the former a glare and a shake of his head.

Flummoxed if not intimidated, the wizard hesitated.

By then, Lauzoril’s other minions were scrambling to intercept Aoth, but they were too slow. He had time to march up to the zulkir and drop to his knees without anyone coercing him. Malark did the same.

Lauzoril frowned. It was a pinched little frown, just as all his smiles were grudging little smiles. “Well,” he said, “it’s taken half the night, but someone finally caught him.”

“No, Your Omnipotence,” Malark said, “I didn’t. As you surely observed, Captain Fezim obeys your summons of his own volition. Neither I nor anyone else had to force him.”

“He resisted the escort I sent to fetch him,” Lauzoril said.

“That was a misunderstanding,” Malark said. “You’ll note, he extricated himself from the situation without seriously hurting anyone. He’s too loyal a legionnaire to rob you of the use of any of your servants, even in a moment of alarm and confusion.”

“Good.” Lauzoril shifted his gaze to Aoth. “Captain, if you are the man your companion claims you are, a faithful soldier willing to give his life in the service of his liege lords, then permit the ores to secure you on the table, and I’ll undertake to make what follows as painless as is practical. Refuse, and my enchantments will compel you.”

“Master,” Malark said, “may I respectfully ask why you’re doing this?”

“Don’t you know? It was your mistress’s idea.”

“No, Master,” Malark lied, “she didn’t confide in me.”

“Then I suppose I can explain. She suggested I examine the griffon rider with all the tools at my disposal and see what I can discover about the blue flame.”

“I assume she recommended this while Captain Fezim was blind and unable to perform his usual duties.”

“Well, yes.”

“Your Omnipotence has surely observed that he has now recovered his sight.”

“Of course. I’m not a dunce. But his eyes are still glowing, and I still think it may prove worthwhile to study him.”

“I respectfully suggest that my mistress would disagree.”

“Then it’s too bad she’s in Eltabbar this evening, isn’t it? Otherwise you could run and ask her. Not that I would feel obliged to accede to her notions if they ran counter to my own.”

“No, Your Omnipotence, of course not. It’s only that Captain Fezim is one of Nymia Focar’s ablest officers—”

Lauzoril snorted. “He’s just a soldier. Another such commands the Griffon Legion now, and I imagine he’ll do every bit as well. Better, probably, considering he’s Mulan.”

“You’re correct, Bareris Anskuld is also a fine soldier, but—”

A trace of color tinged Lauzoril’s cheeks. “Goodman Springhill, your prattle wearies me. If you persist, I’m apt to decide you aren’t just tiresome but insolent, and then, you may rest assured, your affiliation with Dmitra Flass won’t shield you from my displeasure.”

Malark noticed his mouth was dry.

He wasn’t afraid to die. But it was entirely possible the archmage had something else in mind. The art of Enchantment lent itself to punishments that crippled and degraded both body and mind but left the victim alive. And despite his prim demeanor, Lauzoril had as sophisticated a sense of cruelty as any other zulkir.

Yet Malark intended to try the wizard’s patience for at least a little longer, even though he himself wasn’t entirely sure of the reason. Maybe he was simply stubborn, or averse to losing an argument.

“I understand, Master,” he said, “but I think I’d be remiss in my responsibilities if I didn’t at least point out that Captain Fezim isn’t the only creature infected with blue fire. We’ve

received reports of others, and I assume that if you vivisected them, the bodies would yield the same information.”

“I remember those reports,” Lauzoril said. “The other creatures have become dangerous monstrosities.”

“Still, my agents can trap an assortment of them,” Malark said. “It will just take a bit of doing. It will delay your investigations a little, but that could work to your advantage. It will give you a chance to involve Mistress Lallara.”

“To what end?” Lauzoril asked.

“I shouldn’t even presume to speculate,” Malark said. “After all, you know everything there is to know about the supernatural, while I know virtually nothing. But I wonder—if the blue fire can get inside a person or animal, generally with hideous results, maybe it can jump from one living being to another. Maybe it would even try to invade you when you cut into the creature. If so, you might want the defensive spells of the zulkir of Abjuration to make sure the power didn’t possess you.”

“Ridiculous,” Lauzoril snapped. “I too am a zulkir. I don’t need that shrew or anyone else to protect me. However”—he took a breath—”if a legionnaire is fit for duty, perhaps it would be improvident to sacrifice him when an altered pig or some such would serve just as well. Captain Fezim, you’re dismissed. Go away and take this … jabberer with you.”

“Yes, Your Omnipotence.” Aoth held his head high and maintained a proper military bearing until the goblin closed the crimson door behind him and Malark. Then his squat, broad-shouldered frame slumped so completely that for a moment it looked as if his legs might give way beneath him. “By the Flame,” he sighed. “By the Pure Flame. I didn’t think you were going to convince him.”

“To be honest,” Malark said, “neither did I. I’m still not sure which argument did the trick. Probably the last. For all their might, zulkirs aren’t eager to risk their own skins, particularly

when they don’t understand the peril. That’s how they live long enough to become zulkirs, I suppose. Here, take this.” He gave Aoth his spear.

The war mage gripped his shoulder. “I won’t forget this.”

Malark smiled. “I was glad to help.” Aoth had killed a great many men in his time. It felt right to set him free to slaughter more, and to seek an end more befitting such a warrior.

29 Mirtul-2 Kythorn, the Year ofBlue Fire

Like many ores, Neske Horthor would have taken offense at the suggestion that she’d ever felt “pity.” But it took only a dash of brains to recognize that the prisoners had it hard, marching on short rations day after day with whips slicing into their backs and fear gnawing at their nerves. It was no wonder that one occasionally dropped dead, succumbing to exhaustion, fever, or pure despair.

Such a child had keeled over that day, whereupon Neske halted the march long enough to dress the corpse. It was wrong of her, she supposed. She should have carried the body on to Xingax. But he’d never know about it unless somebody tattled, and Khazisk wouldn’t. She and the necromancer had worked together long enough to come to an understanding.

She pulled her skewer back from the campfire, inspected the chunks of fragrant, blackened meat impaled on it, and offered it to Khazisk, sitting cross-legged beside her with the sweep of his red robe pooled around him. “Try it. It’s good.”

The wizard’s narrow, supercilious face screwed up as she’d known it would. “Thank you, no.”

She laughed. “You do all sorts of nasty things with rotten bodies. I’ve watched you. But your stomach rolls over at the prospect of fresh meat, just because it happens to come from your own kind. If you had any sense, you’d realize that’s the most nourishing kind of food.”

“You’re saying you eat ore?”

“Every chance 1 get.” She bit the top piece of juicy meat from the skewer. It was too hot, and seared the roof of her mouth, but she wolfed it down anyway. “You know, it’s a puzzle.”

“What is?”

“Our real enemies, the ones we’re at war with, are in the south. Yet our masters have us sneaking in and out of Thesk, raiding villages and capturing the peasants.”

“You mean paradox, not puzzle.”

She rolled her eyes. He loved to correct her speech. “Whatever it is, it’s stupid.”

“Not really. Xingax will turn our captives into potent weapons of war. The result is a net gain in the strength of our legions.”

“Maybe.” Neske tore another bite of child flesh off the stick. “But when Szass Tam is king, will anyone remember that this chore was important and we did it well? Or will all the rewards go to the warriors who stormed Bezantur and chopped off Nevron and Dmitra Flass’s heads?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Khazisk said, “our fellow soldiers are welcome to such opportunities. You and I are better off here in the north. If I never see one of the council’s warriors—”

A ram’s-horn bugle bleated. On the western edge of the camp, a sentry was sounding the alarm.

Trained reflex made Neske snatch for the targe that lay beside her and leap to her feet. But though her body knew what to do,

her mind lagged a step behind, mired in perplexity. It would have made sense if an attack had come while she and her comrades were across the border in Thesk, or even during the trek through Surthay and Eltabbar. But once the slave takers finished the climb up the Third Escarpment into High Thay, they should have been safe.

“Look up!” someone shouted. Neske did, and made out winged shadows sweeping across the sky.

“Griffon riders,” Khazisk said. He stood up and brandished his staff over his head. The pole was a gleaming white, whittled down from a dragon’s leg bone, or so he claimed. He chanted words that, even though she couldn’t understand them, filled Neske with an instinctual revulsion. A carrion stink filled the air.

But that was all that happened. The magic failed.

Khazisk cursed and began again. Four syllables into the spell, an arrow punched into the center of his forehead. He toppled backward.

Neske decided she needed her bow and quiver, not her scimitar and shield. She pivoted toward the place where she’d set the rest of her gear. Then the world seemed to skip somehow, and she was lying on her belly. When she tried to stand, and pain ripped through her back, she understood that an arrow had found her, too.

Griffon riders were trained to hit their targets even when their mounts were swooping through the air, and the first flights of arrows did an admirable job of softening up the enemy on the ground. Then the ores started shooting back.

Bareris was confident his troops would prevail in a duel of archery. But possibly not before the ores managed to kill a griffon or two, and their masters with them when the stricken

beasts plummeted to earth. Better to prevent that by ending the battle quickly.