Текст книги "The masked witches"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

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I d imagine, said Aoth, that when the war is done, the Rashemi will be happy to reward an ally.

But the hathrans and the Iron Lord aren t here, the Stag King replied. Nor do you truly have the authority to offer treasure on their behalf. Whereas you and Jhesrhi Coldcreek are here. What will you pay? Will she indenture herself to me as Zyl has done?

Are you sure? the Stag King asked as he turned his gaze on Jhesrhi. I m not such a bad master. Zyl will vouch for that. I can teach you a great deal, and make it easier to complete your transformation.

It is complete, she said through gritted teeth.

And I like it where I am.

The Stag King turned back to Aoth. Well, then, Captain, that leaves you, he said.

I have wealth to barter, the Thayan replied.

Gold, some talismans, enchanted weapons, and such. It s not all in Rashemen, but if we make a deal, I ll get it to you.

The enormous creature grinned. No need. Your greatest treasure is here: eyes infected with the Blue Fire that changed the whole world. Eyes with truesight. Give me one of them. You ll still see better than any other human in the world.

Aoth snorted and said, Unless some foe sneaks up on the wrong flank.

Then you decline the offer?

Of course. I explained that it s in your best interest to ally with the hathrans and me. That should be enough. I shouldn t have to haggle with you like I m trying to buy a carpet in a marketplace, and it s laughable that you think I d give up one of my most valuable officers, or mutilate myself, to purchase your help. With all due respect, it s nowhere near that important. So sit idle in this tumbledown pile if it pleases you. Jhes and I will find a way to beat the undead without you.

The Stag King glared. Is that your final word? he asked.

Yes, Aoth replied.

The spirit s glower softened into a crooked smile.

Well, I may not be a rug merchant, but you still can t blame me for trying, he said. But all right. My warriors and I will accompany you to the Fortress of the Half-Demon. We ll see what we can learn and whom we can kill.

SEVEN

Zyl had alluded to berserkers cutting themselves and frothing at the mouth. But though Vandar fought like a madman when the fury held him in its sway, Cera hadn t seen him do either of those things, and so she d assumed the hare was exaggerating.

She didn t think so anymore. Even though the warriors of the Griffon Lodge weren t headed into battle at the moment, and the excitement they were experiencing was likely only a shadow of what they would feel then, a few were indeed slicing their own brawny arms and chests. Others gnashed their teeth in a gesture seemingly intended to mimic a griffon snapping its beak, a gesture that often sent spittle flying through the air. Meanwhile, the rest had other ways of acting crazy. They screeched like griffons, swept their arms wide like griffons spreading their wings, or punched their neighbors for no particular reason.

Which was to say, with Vandar having delivered his news, his brothers were raising the feral spirit they d likely need when they reached the Fortress of the Half-Demon. Cera suspected that Jet, standing with Vandar and her in front of the crowd, was a potent source of inspiration. The berserkers might constitute the Griffon Lodge, but how many of them had ever been so close to their totem?

At first, Jet regarded the berserkers display with what Cera had learned to recognize as dour tolerance, an attitude of

Humans are idiots, but there s nothing to be done about it. Soon, however, he raised his black-feathered head high. Some of the Rashemi fell silent, and the echoing clamor inside the lodge diminished.

What is it? Cera asked.

I need to get outside, the familiar replied. He glanced at a tall mullioned glass window, surely an expensive luxury and object of pride in that rustic land. Already wincing, Cera imagined him leaping and smashing through it. But instead he turned and bounded down the length of the smoky torch-lit hall toward the double doors in the far wall. Startled berserkers scrambled out of the way, and she and Vandar scurried to keep up.

She threw open the doors. Jet leaped out into the dirty, trodden snow, and she and Vandar followed. She heard the sound that the familiar had caught even inside the noisy building. Faint with distance, the cries of other griffons mingled with the whistle of the wind.

Is it the wild ones? she asked.

No, said Jet. It s the ones from Aglarond.

How can you tell? Vandar asked.

For one thing, said Jet, a grim note in his voice, I d recognize the call of that male with the blue eyes. Trust me, it s the Aglarondans, and the reason they re calling to one another is that their riders are rousing them to fly.

In the middle of a cold winter s night, Vandar said. Folcoerr Dulsaer would only order that if he suddenly thinks he knows where to go to strike a blow at the undead

Cera smiled. If Jet and I shadow them, we can find out exactly what they re up to, she said.

That s a good idea, the berserker replied. But I should be the one to go.

I m no griffonrider, Cera said. But I ve at least spent enough time aloft to know how to sit in the saddle and trust Jet to take care of me. Besides, you need to get your brothers ready to travel.

Although Yhelbruna had told all the outlanders they could ask for help as needed, Cera and Vandar had judged that the Griffon Lodge needed to sneak out of Immilmar and march on the Fortress of the Half-Demon alone. Otherwise there was a fair chance that the Aglarondans or Mario Bez s sellswords either of whom could travel faster in the sky than the Rashemi could on the ground would race to their destination ahead of them, accomplish whatever could be accomplished there, and claim the credit for doing it.

Vandar scowled. But he said, All right, lady, but be careful. My impression of the Aglarondans is that they wouldn t try to hurt you themselves. But they might not care if the creatures they re hunting attacked a rival and a spy.

With that he turned and started giving orders to the nearest berserkers. Jet and Cera ran toward the shed where they d stowed the griffon s tack. He bounded, lashing his wings with each leap, and instantly outdistanced her as she labored with her short legs through the snow.

When she caught up, he crouched so she could heave the saddle onto his back. She cinched it, climbed on, and buckled the safety straps with the meticulous slowness of a novice rider. Somewhat to her surprise, Jet didn t offer any acerbic remarks.

He broke into a run, sprang, lashed his wings, and climbed into the sky the instant she was ready. She caught her breath at the suddenness of it. She trusted Jet and had come to enjoy flying, but that didn t mean she was at ease every single moment.

As he wheeled to follow the Aglarondans, Jet rasped, Your mace keeps bumping me.

Oh! Sorry! she said. She slipped the dangling weapon off her wrist and into one of the sheaths built into the front of the saddle. The holder made a sucking sound as a minor enchantment made it clamp down tight. Do you think we can just sneak in among the Aglarondans without anybody noticing us?

I ll try, Jet replied. Don t count on the griffons mistaking me for one on their own. And if they do realize we re strangers, they may cry out. But with luck, their riders won t understand what it means. His tone made plain his scorn for human stupidity.

That sounds good, Cera said. The night was even colder up here in the sky, and she shivered. I m going to ask the Keeper to warm me. Shall I do the same for you?

The familiar laughed, a bloodcurdling sound she hadn t recognized the first time she d heard it. Don t bother, he said. Nature made griffons properly. We don t need magic just to endure the winter wind.

Well, aren t you special, she said as she began to murmur a prayer. Warmth suffused her body.

They flew on in silence for a while. She peered into the darkness ahead for a first glimpse of the Aglarondans and breathed in Jet s smell: a not-unpleasant mix of bird and cat.

Eventually the griffon asked, Are you going to stay with Aoth?

The question surprised her. She knew Jet was intelligent enough to understand the choice she was facing, but he often considered such foolish human dilemmas unworthy of his attention.

I don t know, she said. Do you think it would be hard on him if I don t?

The griffon laughed again. He s a hundred years old, he replied. He s had more mates than he can remember. He s survived more battles and foes than he can remember. He can survive losing you, too.

Cera sighed. Yes. Of course, she said.

But that doesn t mean he d like it, Jet continued. He cares about you, and you fit in his life. You fit with the rest of us.

She touched her hand to the feathers on his neck. Thank you, she said. That s good to know.

There s no reason to talk in that hushed cooing way to me, the griffon said. I didn t say that I care what you do. Look, there are the Aglarondans. Can you see them yet?

She couldn t at that moment, but when he carried her closer, she made out vague shapes racing through the sky. As Jet had anticipated, some of the other griffons screeched at the newcomers approach, but as he d also expected, the riders didn t pay it any mind except to order their steeds to cease their clamor. She and Jet flew along quietly on their rivals flank.

The Aglarondans were headed pretty much straight east from Immilmar, essentially following the track named the Huhrong s Road. If one could consider any part of northern Rashemen civilized, it was that corridor. Cera occasionally caught a glimpse of hamlets and isolated farmhouses, and land that appeared to be fields and pastures rather than woods and lonely moors. If the undead were raiding there, then that, like the attack on the sacred grove north of the Ashenwood, attested to the boldness and seriousness of the threat.

The Aglarondans griffons started screeching again.

Do they sense undead? Cera asked, keeping her voice low.

No, Jet answered. They smell horseflesh.

A moment later, Cera smelled it, too. She realized that wasn t right. She wasn t a beast with a beast s keen senses. She was a human being, who might not smell a horse even if she was standing right beside it. She definitely shouldn t have been able to smell one from high above the ground.

The Aglarondans steeds swooped lower.

In a superficial sense, that wasn t strange because horse was a griffon s favorite food. Still, properly trained mounts would ignore the distraction if they were working, and if they didn t, experienced riders could quickly reassert control.

But that wasn t what was happening. The Aglarondans barked orders at their mounts, and their voices became louder and shriller as the griffons ignored the initial commands.

The smell of warm, juicy meat thickened in the cold night air. Lightheaded, Cera realized her mouth was watering. She looked for the horses and finally spotted them. Apparently oblivious to the threat descending on them, the animals were standing placidly in a snowy paddock.

The griffon in the lead Cera wondered if it was Folcoerr Dulsaer s slammed down on a horse and crushed it to the ground. Screaming, the equine thrashed. The griffin dipped its beak and tore loose a first chunk of flesh. The man astride the steed bellowed at it and pounded it with the butt of his lance. His efforts were no more effective than the maimed horse s struggles to writhe free.

More griffons plunged down, each on its chosen prey. Then Jet screeched, furled his wings, and dived.

The unexpected plummet jolted Cera out of her daze. Amaunator! she called. Please, give us your light!

The god s power manifested as a warm golden glow in her hands. She leaned and stretched forward as far as she could and laid them on the sides of Jet s head.

The warmth surged out of her flesh and into the griffon s. For a heartbeat, she was afraid it hadn t been enough, for, while her deity s might was limitless, a mortal s ability to channel it was not. But with a snap like the crack of a whip, Jet extended his wings and leveled off. He hurtled along just above the slaughter, while Cera winced at the ripped flesh and spilled blood and viscera, at the screams of the dying horses, the crunching as the griffons bit and clawed through bone, and the frantic, bewildered cries of the Aglarondans.

Then the horses changed.

Had it happened more gradually, Cera might have not have spotted it immediately, because by then, all the animals were shredded, eviscerated, dismembered, dying, or dead. But they changed into a different sort of ruined thing virtually all at once, as a wave of mottled discoloration swept through them. The smell of raw meat and spilled blood in the air became a nauseating stench of decay.

The equines struggles had become feeble, turned to mere twitches and shuddering, or subsided altogether. But paradoxically, as their aspect changed from that of creatures killed moments before to that of ones that had lain dead for some time, their movements became far more vigorous. They no longer appeared to care about escaping. Rather, their only concern was biting a griffon and its rider, or battering them with their hooves.

Even though the griffons were gorging on putrescence and likely had been all along, with only illusion making it appear otherwise their riders still couldn t compel them to stop. Thus the soldiers only option was to stab at the undead horses with their lances. They set about it with fierce determination, oblivious to the other tattered, shambling forms rearing up out of the snow all around them.

Jet streaked beyond the edge of the battle. Cera looked over her shoulder but could already see little of the rapidly dwindling figures at her back.

Turn around! she said. We have to help them!

They re our rivals, Jet replied. We want them to fail.

Turn! she said, then realized that despite his protest, he was already wheeling. As he lashed his wings and flew back at the combatants, she reached out to the Keeper and prayed for all the strength that he could give her. The magic flared inside her like the Yellow Sun itself, filling her with an ecstasy that nearly washed away her ability to think. Almost, but not quite. She still remembered her purpose.

She swung her hand over her head, and golden light blazed down from the black starry sky to illuminate the field below. The undead cringed, and rotten flesh sizzled and crisped like bacon frying in a pan. But those effects were incidental. Cera s actual intent was to free every griffon from the enchantment trammeling its mind, and she shouted with joy when the mighty beasts started to spring away from the horse-things and shake out their wings.

One griffon leaped but fell back down onto the ground. Another started to trot and then staggered off balance. A third gave a strangled cry and vomited.

Cera realized the rotten horseflesh had poisoned the griffons, and they could no longer fly. She snarled an obscenity.

The things that had hidden under the snow Cera thought they were mostly ghouls, although the dark made it difficult to tell for certain lunged at their prey from all sides. They clawed at the stricken griffons and reached to drag the riders from their saddles.

Cera asked Amaunator for more power. Somehow seeming both to descend from above and to rise from deep within her, it came in the form of the deity s wrath, of his loathing for creatures that made a mockery of the natural progression from life into death and what came after. The magic was as hot as a cauterizing iron, but she held it without discomfort. It made her feel as taut as a drawn bow ready to drive an arrow.

She swept her hand over her head and downward. Light blazed from her fingers. One of the ghouls crumbled to dust in an instant. The Keeper s power burned holes in two more, and still others cringed, dropping onto their bellies and hiding their fanged, vaguely canine faces in the gory snow.

But those were the only three that fell. For a moment, she wasn t sure why, because it had certainly felt like she d hurled a prodigious flare of the sun god s power. Then she spotted the grotesque figure looking back up at her with three pairs of empty eye sockets.

She d never encountered such an undead before. But from Aoth s tales of the War of the Zulkirs, she recognized the armored figure with the war hammer in his hand and the three skulls perched on his one set of shoulders as a skull lord. Such beings possessed arcane abilities, and it was likely his power was shielding the lesser undead from the full effect of Cera s magic.

Looking back at her, the skull lord tossed an arm that wore a bulky gauntlet like a falconer s glove. Vague, murky shapes, somewhat manlike but with long, curved horns and batlike wings, burst into existence above his hand. They flew at her and Jet.

The griffon instantly started flying faster and veering back and forth and up and down. Cera didn t have the skill or the psychic link that would enable her to anticipate the sudden shifts, and they whipped her around in the saddle. Even worse, Jet s headlong progress carried them away from those on the ground who so urgently needed their help.

The Aglarondans! she gasped.

We have to protect ourselves first! Jet rasped.

We can t help anybody else if shadow demons are tearing us apa

One of the ghostly creatures suddenly appeared on the right. It slashed with a clawed hand and just missed the familiar s wing, at which point Cera belatedly realized the point of his racing, seemingly erratic progress. Jet knew shadow demons had the ability to shift through space. Thus, an unpredictable, constantly changing course was the only hope of avoiding them.

Jet wrenched himself to the right, leaving the spirit behind. Unfortunately, it was still close enough to try a different form of attack. Though she couldn t define precisely what she perceived or how, Cera suddenly sensed its malice stabbing at her like a dagger leaping at her eye.

She felt her spirit separating from her body as it had when she and Aoth had performed the ritual of discovery in the temple garden in Soolabax. But then it had been of Cera s own volition. There, above the Hurong s Road, some power was dragging her out, and the shadow pounced at her to pierce her material form to its core and fill the void.

Keeper! she cried. The god s power thrust her soul back into its proper place. The demon splashed against an invisible barrier, its limbs and horned head losing all definition.

Despite Jet s dogged efforts at evasion, another demon appeared right in front of him, so close he had no hope of avoiding it. The spirit plunged its claws into his shoulder, holding on with one hand and raking with the other. Meanwhile, another shadow materialized above the griffon s left wing and snatched hold of that.

Cera drew another measure of Amaunator s power, pressed her hand to Jet s back, and made him shine like he himself was a piece of the sun. Creatures of living darkness, the demons released their holds and flung themselves away from the holy radiance.

They still weren t done, however. The glow flickered and dimmed as bursts of shadow threatened to taint and drown it. The invasive gloom came with freezing cold that made Cera gasp and Jet s body jerk beneath her.

She channeled still more of Amaunator s strength and poured it into her enchantment. Jet s body burned brighter and brighter, although the glare never hindered her vision or his, until finally the blasts of frigid darkness stopped.

For a moment, she felt fierce satisfaction. Then she remembered the Aglarondans and looked down.

Though Jet s light was dimming as she d stopped channeling strength into it, it was still bright enough to reveal the scene below in gruesome detail. Every griffonrider and every one of the steeds lay mangled and motionless; only the undead were moving. Those that subsisted on flesh gobbled it as greedily as the griffons had earlier devoured the poisonous filth. Others continued slashing and pounding their fallen foes, either because they enjoyed it or because no one had told them it was all right to stop. Some were violating Aglarondan corpses in stranger and even more sickening ways.

The skull lord stood amid the carnage. Cera made out a pair of shadow demons hovering above him. The undead captain beckoned, challenging her.

She yearned to accept. It was a sunlady s duty to destroy the walking dead, and in that instance, the obligation meshed perfectly with her desires. She hated the things below her. For massacring the Aglarondans in such a foul and treacherous way. For nearly killing Jet and her. For making her fail when she d wanted so desperately to succeed.

Still, she recognized that it would be suicide to continue a fight against such overwhelming odds, so she didn t protest when Jet wheeled and fled. She simply used more of her rapidly diminishing mystical strength to close his wounds.

After a time, she said, That was a trap. A trap for the griffonriders specifically.

I think so, too, said Jet. The horses gave it away.

But does that make sense? she asked. How could the enemy be sure of catching them and no one else?

You humans with your kinked way of thinking are better at figuring out things like that, Jet said with a grunt.

Maybe they were. But no matter how Cera turned the matter over in her mind, all she could see was that five groups of outlanders had taken up Yhelbruna s quest, and there were only four remaining.

Dai Shan had observed long before that the important moments in life weren t spaced out evenly. Either nothing happened, or situations that demanded attention arrived in quick succession.

So it was that night. He d only just dismissed the shadow he d created to spy on the Griffon Lodge, when the thing he d retrieved from the spot where Falconer had instructed him to look for it gave a little bleating cry from the brassbound leather chest where he d hidden it.

He crossed the chamber to the chest, unlocked it with the proper word, and opened it. Raking aside layers of clothing, he lifted out the undead demonbinder s gift if gift was the appropriate term for such a grotesquerie. Though Dai Shan too had studied what many considered to be an unsavory form of the mystic arts, as well as the techniques his family used to interrogate and chastise prisoners, touching the thing made his skin crawl.

It looked like the right-hand side of a baby that had been split lengthwise, a freakish baby born under a curse. What there was of the head was abnormally big and bulbous, and patches of its skin were as scaly as a snake s. The body s three fingers and two toes ended in black claws. When Dai Shan had smuggled it into the castle and hidden it away, it had seemed dead, as by all rights it should certainly have been. But it squirmed feebly and opened an eye that, though it rolled from side to side, was all bloodshot sclera, with no discernible pupil or iris.

Dai Shan assumed that once the creature had been a complete imp. Falconer had presumably called it forth from one of the lower worlds, cut it in two, kept one half for himself, and had some swift, stealthy servant carry the other to Immilmar.

The half-imp s eye stopped moving, presumably because it was looking at Dai Shan, although it was impossible to tell for certain. Then it spoke his name in Falconer s deep, hollow, oddly accented voice.

Noble captain, Dai Shan replied, and imagined his own voice issuing from the mouth of the half-imp still in the undead mage s keeping. I trust you have good news.

The Aglarondans are dead, Falconer said.

Excellent, the Shou replied. I told you my drug would make the griffons particularly susceptible to enchantment. And it hadn t even been especially difficult to contaminate the winged steeds food supply. While it would be an exaggeration to say that Folcoerr Dulsaer had come to trust him, once they had sealed their pact, and the griffonriders had grown used to seeing him in their encampment, the opportunity had almost inevitably presented itself.

He wished it was as easy to juggle the half-imp. Dai Shan needed to hold onto it to strengthen the magic, but he couldn t find a way to keep the cold, slimy exposed organs from coming into contact with his skin.

I suppose it did, the skull lord said. But something else happened that we didn t foresee.

Dai Shan frowned slightly. And what was that? he asked.

There was another griffonrider there, a sun priestess on a black mount, Falconer said. And she got away.

Interesting, said Dai Shan. And it was. He hadn t realized that anyone else who d undertaken the quest was spying on the competition, and his respect for Aoth Fezim and his compatriots went up a notch. But if the Aglarondans didn t tell her I sent them to their doom, that shouldn t be a problem. And apparently they didn t, or by now someone would have called on me with inconvenient questions.

The thing in his hands jerked and shuddered like an epileptic in the throes of a seizure. To his disgust, its convulsions squeezed out fluid and sludge to stain his hands and sleeves. Then the fit subsided.

Who can you kill next? Falconer asked.

I don t know, Dai Shan said. Do the worthy magus and his circle trust me now? Do we have an arrangement? If not, then I fear the answer must be no one.

Yes, Falconer said. We have an agreement. Continue helping my allies and me, and when we win, you can have the griffons.

That s splendid, replied the Shou.

It would also be splendid if my new partner would tell me at least a little more about himself and his comrades. Such a display of trust would make me feel even more confident about the commitment I ve made. It might also give me added insight into how I can best assist you.

The half-imp convulsed again, biting down so hard that one of its jagged teeth cracked. Squeezed out of its body cavity, a little green egg of an organ fell and splatted on the floor.

Undead have come to these lands from somewhere far away, Falconer said at length. I myself don t understand where exactly. I gather that the face of the world has changed significantly since my former master made me as I am and charged me with my thankless tasks. But the newcomers are waking and rallying all those who once craved dominion, even the filthy Raumvirans.

Dai Shan considered himself an expert on many things. The history of long-dead empires was not among them. Still, he knew enough to ask,

And are the proud and valiant Nars pleased to welcome such wretches into the ranks?

For now, they serve a purpose, Falconer said.

We look forward to the time when that will no longer be that case.

Dai Shan smiled. I fully understand, he replied.

And I thank you for all the information you ve confided so far. But I d also appreciate one or two details. Perhaps the mighty and sagacious captain will tell me where he s established his stronghold.

You don t need to know that, said the skull lord.

Your trick with the imp is ingenious, said Dai Shan, but my half is deteriorating rapidly, and I suspect yours is as well. We can t count on being able to use this form of communication whenever we need it. If I know where you re based, I can dispatch a messenger.

Falconer hesitated before saying, All right. I see your point. Rest assured, it s not the only stronghold my army has occupied. But I m based in the Fortress of the Half-Demon.

And the warriors of the Griffon Lodge were sneaking north. Dai Shan had their destination, although how they knew to go there and the current whereabouts of Aoth Fezim and Jhesrhi Coldcreek remained unclear.

He considered telling Falconer to expect callers. But he quickly decided against it for two reasons.

The first was that he d already done the undead marauders one service tonight. It would be wasteful to perform another so quickly. Doling them out in a measured fashion was the way to keep Falconer from feeling beholden to him.

The other was that he might decide he actually wanted the Griffon Lodge to take the fortress by surprise. In the multilayered game of Stones he was playing, there was no reason to close any line of development prematurely.

After a moment or two, Falconer spoke again and roused the Shou from his contemplation. Does that satisfy you? he asked.

For now, brave champion, it does indeed, said Dai Shan. And I thank you for the honor of your confidence.

Then let s get back to my question. Whom do we kill next?

I ll have to explore the possibilities. Most of your enemies are less gullible than Folcoerr Dulsaer.

Well, then, while you re exploring, maybe you can do something else for us.

Falconer then proceeded to explain, and Dai Shan found himself intrigued. Because, despite his own expertise in the mystic arts, he didn t understand what the point of such an operation would be.

And unfortunately, his trader s instincts told him it would be futile to ask for explanations. For the time being, he d extracted everything from Falconer that he was going to get.