Текст книги "Prophet of the Dead"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

Соавторы: Richard Lee Byers
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Aoth finished first, only because he’d opted for a simpler spell. Darts of blue light hurtled from the spear and pierced the undead wizard’s scrawny torso. Lord So-Remas cried out and flailed, his casting ruined short of completion.

Running footsteps pounded. All but certain he was moving too slowly to keep the two onrushing guards from driving their weapons into his body, Aoth blundered around to face them.

He was right. If he’d had to protect himself, he would have been too late. But the orc had picked up a small table, and now he heaved it at the soldiers. The improvised missile bashed one guard and made him stumble. Startled, his comrade balked too.

Aoth pulled his short, heavy sword from its scabbard and tossed it to the orc, who caught it deftly by the hilt. It wasn’t much to hold off two armored spearmen, but it was better than nothing, and handing it off was all Aoth had time to do. He had to use his magic-or what was left of it-to fight the most dangerous foe.

He wrenched himself back toward the doorway to the bedchamber and found the Red Wizard had already shaken off the effects of the darts of light. Worse, he was already chanting a new incantation, one that made a sickly green glow flower in the depths of his sunken eyes and branch out through the veins in his temples to his hairless crown.

Aoth started a spell of his own, but this time, So-Remas finished first. He flicked the ebony wand in an arc that ended with it pointing straight at his opponent. Shedding its clattering pieces, the lanceboard table leaped into the air and flew at Aoth.

He tried to dodge and gasped at the resulting stab of agony. The table slammed into him and knocked him onto the floor, and that double jolt was just as excruciating.

He curled up and tucked his head as, prompted by So-Remas’s wand, more objects flew at him. Struggling to keep to the proper cadence despite the punishment, Aoth gritted out another spell and jabbed with his spear on the final syllable.

A red spark shot from the point to strike at the undead mage’s feet. There, it exploded into a fiery blast that knocked the wizard backward and filled the doorway with a hissing sheet of flame.

Gasping, Aoth hoped that was the end of it, and for a heartbeat, it appeared to be. He was about to turn and see how the orc was faring when So-Remas strode back through the fire. Either he was innately impervious to it, or he carried some talisman that made him so.

The undead noble flicked his wand up and down. The animated game table hammered Aoth like a boot stamping repeatedly on an insect.

Aoth struggled to think of a counterstroke he might conceivably accomplish despite the ongoing torment and his depleted powers. The drawn curtains with the shuttered windows behind them caught his eye.

The orc had said that on rare occasions, he’d seen his master when the sun was out. But that wasn’t the same as saying that he’d seen the undead creature inthe sunlight, and Aoth was going to gamble that the thrall had meant the former but not the latter, and that there was a reason for it.

He thrust his spear at a window and shouted a word of command. Raw force leaped from the weapon to tear down the drapes, shatter the greenish panes behind them, and smash open the shutters on the other side of those.

A shaft of daylight shined in and caught So-Remas in its center. The undead shrieked and burned, his desiccated skin and the withered flesh inside charring like paper, the purifying power of the sun achieving what Aoth’s burst of arcane fire hadn’t.

Aoth dredged up the concentration for a little more magic. It helped that, now that So-Remas had lost hisfocus, the lanceboard table had stopped battering him. Aoth cast more glowing darts, and they and the sunlight together were enough. The Red Wizard pitched forward onto his face. By now, he was mostly bare bone, which burned to coals and then to ash like the rest of him.

It occurred to Aoth that if Cera were here, she’d say her god had looked out for him. That in turn made him remember that, as far as he knew, she and Jhesrhi were still trapped in the dark maze. Somehow, he had to get them out!

But he couldn’t think about that now. Aoth twisted around and saw that the spearmen had backed the orc against a wall.

Fortunately, they’d turned their backs on Aoth to do it. With his teeth gritted, he crawled close enough to drive his spear up between one soldier’s legs.

The gelded man whimpered and, knees buckling, collapsed. The other warrior’s head jerked in his wounded comrade’s direction. Risking everything on an all-out attack, the orc lunged and slashed. The remaining guard fell backward with blood pumping from a gaping wound in his neck.

Aoth looked around to make sure there were no other immediate threats. He noticed the orc doing the same.

“Thanks,” Aoth gasped.

The slave shrugged. “I had to fight, or they would have tortured me to death for helping you. It wouldn’t have mattered that you forced me.” He leered a crooked leer. “Although there was more to it. I wantedto kill them.”

“You need to break open the secret panel. Fast, before more guards show up. I’d do it, but I’m not sure I can stand back up.”

The orc attacked So-Remas’s hiding place. The enchanted sword cracked and crunched through the wood in what Aoth knew to be a matter of moments even though it felt like a cruelly long time to him.

The thrall handed him a silver bottle. “This is the stuff.”

Clumsy with pain and eagerness, Aoth fumbled out the stopper and took a long pull of the tasteless, lukewarm elixir inside. He felt the vertebrae in his neck shift, but without discomfort. In fact, all the cramping, throbbing soreness was fading away from his neck all the way down to his rump. He let out a long sigh of relief.

He would have been happy to sit and savor his liberation from torment. But he and the orc weren’t out of danger yet, and although he’d recovered his physical strength, his mystical power would return only with rest. He jammed the stopper back in the bottle, scrambled up, and hurried to So-Remas’s hiding place.

“What else have we got?” he murmured to himself.

Fortunately, there was something, a long, thin, golden-hilted poniard of an athame. He snatched the ritual dagger from its sheath, and knowledge of its attributes poured into his mind. So-Remas had bound spells in it just as Aoth himself was accustomed to store magic in his spear.

He judged that it would do. In fact, it should do nicely. When more of So-Remas’s soldiers charged into the room, he met them with a nasty smile and a shriek of focused, bone-shattering sound.

The ambush started well. Sarshethrian, his newfound human and stag-man allies, and his shadowy slaves had caught the undead wayfarers by surprise and slaughtered several in the first few moments. Then, however, the creatures of the Eminence of Araunt started fighting back and maneuvering through the darkness, until Jhesrhi suddenly caught a whiff of something putrid.

She spun around. Somehow, two withered ghouls with luminous green eyes had gotten behind her, and now they were rushing in with needle fangs bared and jagged claws poised to rake and tear.

She felt a surge of loathing, less at the foulness of the undead creatures or the danger they represented-although that was there too-than at the prospect of being touched by anything even remotely manlike. She made a slashing motion with her staff and hurled a fan-shaped blaze of flame into the ghouls’ rotten, vaguely canine faces. They fell down, burning and thrashing.

Bells chimed. She looked to her flank and found one of the stag men there. He’d been scrambling to intercept the ghouls, and her flare had nearly hit him too. Maybe he was urging her to be more careful, although because she didn’t understand the language of the bells, and the expression on a stag warrior’s long, narrow face with its brown eyes and dusting of down never changed, it was impossible to tell for certain.

Cera cried, “Keeper! Keeper!” throughout the fight. She’d been invoking her god all along, but now there was a shrill note of desperation in her voice.

Jhesrhi turned. A misty, faintly luminous figure covered in gashes and puncture wounds was floating toward the sunlady. A flying mace made of golden light bashed at the ghost, and brandishing the identically shaped weapon of metal and wood in her hand, Cera sent flares of radiance stabbing through it. But the attacks didn’t stop it.

A shredded face oozing into visibility on the wavering blur that was its head, the ghost grinned and plunged an incorporeal hand into Cera’s shoulder. She cried out and reeled backward.

Jhesrhi hurled more flame from her brazen staff. The flare caught the phantom and burned it from existence.

Which didn’t mean she’d acted soon enough. She glanced around to make sure nothing was about to attack her, then rushed to her friend.

To her surprise, Cera recoiled. “You’re on fire!” the sunlady gasped.

Jhesrhi realized it was so. She must have cloaked herself in flame without realizing it at the same moment she used it to strike at the ghouls.

With a little irrational twinge of reluctance, she pulled the fire back inside herself, and the chilly gloom of the deathways became oppressive once more. But that didn’t matter. Cera did.

“Are you all right?” Jhesrhi asked.

Cera took a breath. “I will be,” she said, pain in her voice. “Once we’re out of here. Is the battle over?”

Jhesrhi looked around and decided that it was. All the undead travelers made of solid flesh were down, and the wraiths and such were gone, incinerated, exorcised, or otherwise expunged from existence. Sarshethrian’s servants, murky forms that resembled rats, leeches, centipedes, and beetles to the extent they resembled anything, were slinking away down various passages, while, lengths of shadow lashing around him, the fiend himself repeatedly kicked a fallen skeletal swordsman.

Jhesrhi recognized the phenomenon from her years on battlefields across northeastern Faerun. The fight had ended too quickly to suit Sarshethrian. He was still full of aggression and was expending the spiteful energy as best he could.

Still, there was something comical if not contemptible about watching a self-styled archdevil comporting himself like a child in the throes of a tantrum. It reminded her of Tchazzar’s excesses, and she made a little spitting sound, softly enough that she didn’t expect him to hear.

He did, though, and, his halo of shadow drawing in its ragged tendrils and groping and coiling in a less agitated fashion, left off abusing the dead thing to turn and give her a sardonic smile. “I take it you think I’ve forgotten my dignity.”

Jhesrhi shrugged. “Do you care?”

“Yes. I told you, I want the three of us to be friends. And when you hear the rest of the story I started earlier, perhaps you’ll be more inclined to forgive my … excitement.”

I doubt it, Jhesrhi thought, but there was no point to saying it aloud and annoying him any further. She and Cera still needed his good will.

“I told you how I freed Lod the bone naga from his endless servitude.” Sarshethrian sat down atop a granite urn in the midst of several mangled, reeking corpses like that was the most natural place in the world to take his ease. Maybe for him it was. “And how his personal liberation inspired him to dream bigger dreams.”

“Yes,” Jhesrhi said. Finally, she thought, they were coming to it. Sarshethrian was about to explain exactly who was attacking Rashemen.

“Lod envisioned a great fraternity of the undead,” Sarshethrian said. “It would find those who were thralls and set them free. It would take those condemned to mindlessness and lift them into sentience. Ultimately, it would set the undead above the living to hunt wherever, however, and whomever they wished, without fear of retaliation.”

“And you agreed to help him accomplish all that as well,” Cera said, an edge of disgust in her voice.

“Yes, of course,” Sarshethrian said. “To that end, we invented more new wizardry, unearthed ancient secrets, and I taught him to traverse the deathways. My home, you see, was a web of secret paths that would enable him to go virtually anywhere to recruit new followers, instruct old ones, and reach any living realm he wished to assail, even one on the far side of an ocean.”

Jhesrhi blinked. “Wait. This Lod was-or is-on the other side of what, the Sea of Swords? Or the Great Sea?”

Sarshethrian smiled. “The former, although it wasn’t always so. Once, the continent on which he dwells occupied another world called Abeir. But then the cosmic upheaval you call the Spellplague uprooted it and dropped it in this world.”

“Like Tymanther,” Jhesrhi said. The same thing had happened to Medrash and Balasar’s home.

Knowing such was the case, she didn’t find Sarshethrian’s tale to be unbelievable so much as exasperating. Didn’t Faerun have enough homegrown horrors and would-be conquerors without new ones slithering onto the scene from faraway places no one ever even heard of?

“Yes,” the pale creature said, “not that it particularly matters. What does is that once again, I kept my word. Lod got the magic he wanted, and when his fellow undead realized the future he promised was actually possible, they rallied to his banner.” His mouth twisted. “All my pledges fulfilled, I awaited the homage he’d promised in return.”

“But you’d misread him,” said Cera. She sat down with her back against the dark hexagonal slab sealing a tomb, pulled off her helmet, and blotted the sweat on her round, flushed face with a kerchief. “He’d learned to hate servitude while wearing the yoke of his first master. He never intended that he or his disciples would accept a new one.”

Sarshethrian gave her a sour look with his single eye. Then: “It’s a pity you weren’t there, sunlady. I could have profited from your insights, for you understand Lod perfectly. When he judged that he had all he needed from me, he and his followers lured me into a trap to kill me.

“In the battle that followed, I lost my eye, the use of my arm, and a portion of my mystical strength. But I survived, and I managed to flee deep into the deathways where the traitors couldn’t find me.”

“And now you waylay Lod’s agents whenever you catch them traveling the maze,” Jhesrhi said.

Sarshethrian nodded. “For the time being, it’s as much as I can do. I didn’t just losemy eye. Lod tookit and keeps it submerged in venom. The curse weakens me.”

“Which is why you sought allies,” Cera said.

“But why Rashemen?” Jhesrhi asked. “Is Lod already the undisputed master of this Abeir place?”

“No,” the fiend replied. “But I already explained how the deathways render distance and natural barriers meaningless. It’s not much more difficult for the Eminence of Araunt-Lod’s conspiracy-to undertake a campaign in Faerun than it is to pursue their schemes in Dusklan or Marrauk, and Rashemen has two qualities that make it attractive.”

Jhesrhi cocked her head. “It’s poor and backward, certainly, and thosequalities ought to make it an easy conquest. But the Thayans have never found it so.”

Sarshethrian smiled. “What I was getting at is that it’s the country where the mortal and fey worlds mingle more than any other. I don’t know why, and at this point, neither does Lod. But he no doubt believes that given time and free rein, he can wring unique and potent magic from the land, and I imagine he’s right.

“It’s also a country that shares a border with those Thayans you mentioned, folk governed by necromancers and undead grandees who have good reason to be content with the world as it is. Lod will never free every zombie and wraith from bondage or persuade every vampire and lich to join him as long as Thay stands as an alternative to his vision. Control of a neighboring land will help him pursue the task of bringing it down.”

Remembering what it was like to fight the legions of Thay with their well-trained troops, formidable mages, and tamed demons, Jhesrhi smiled a crooked smile. “I wish him luck with that.”

“But it doesn’t matter whether he could ultimately defeat Thay,” Cera said. “It’s Rashemen we need to protect.” She shifted her gaze to Sarshethrian. “And you claim it’s still in danger?”

“Yes,” the one-eyed creature replied. “Most of the leaders of the undead fled via the deathways from the Fortress of the Half-Demon to another citadel at a place called Beacon Cairn. I don’t know what their next move will be-clairvoyance has its limits-but in their place, I’d take full advantage of the fact that the Rashemi believe the threat is over.”

Cera lowered her gilded helmet back onto her disheveled golden curls and clambered back to her feet. Her mail clinked.

“All right, then,” she said. “We fought for you, and you told us what we need to know. We appreciate it. Now please send us back to Rashemen, and that will conclude our bargain.”

Sarshethrian smiled. “I’m afraid not, sunlady. I told you I keep my promises, and I do, but it appears you misunderstood the terms of the agreement.”

Jhesrhi scowled, warmth flowed inside her arm, and ripples of flame ran along her staff. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that by itself, this one little skirmish was insignificant. I need you to fight for me until we do some realdamage. Until I’ve exacted revenge and made Lod repent of his ingratitude. It’s only then that I’ll send you home.”

2

Aoth reined in his stolen piebald horse and looked for any sign of pursuit. He didn’t see any, just the column of smoke rising from So-Remas’s castle to mingle with the fumes from all the volcanoes that combined to foul the sky. The fire he’d started in the undead wizard’s apartments had evidently spread.

“Nobody was very fond of So-Remas,” said the orc, now clad in plundered clothing and scraps of armor and awkwardly sitting his own stolen white mare. Like most orcs, he’d apparently been infantry, not cavalry, before his fall from grace. “And we left a fair amount of confusion behind us.” He grinned at the memory. “Still, eventually, somebody will likely get on our trail, or at least spread the word that a crazy bandit-wizard and a runaway slave are on the loose.”

A crazy bandit-wizard, Aoth reflected. One of his foremost anxieties on finding himself back in Thay was that everyone would recognize him, but his companion manifestly didn’t. Maybe the tale of the Brotherhood’s invasion hadn’t spread as far as he’d imagined. Maybe those in authority hadn’t allowed it to, considering that the legions wouldn’t come off very well in the telling.

“What’s your name?” he asked the orc.

“Orgurth. Yours?”

“Aoth.” Whether most people hereabouts had heard of him or not, Aoth saw no reason to push his luck by giving his full name, especially since he was already stuck with displaying his distinctive luminous blue eyes and mask of facial tattooing.

“May the Sleepless One strengthen Aoth’s arm and send him worthy enemies to smite,” Orgurth said with a gruff and unexpected courtliness.

“May the Sleepless One sharpen Orgurth’s scimitar and send it worthy heads to cleave,” Aoth replied.

Orgurth’s piggy eyes widened in surprise that his companion knew the correct response. But Aoth had been fighting alongside and against orcs for a hundred years. It was no great marvel that he’d picked up something of their customs.

“Now we’re proper comrades,” he continued, “but maybe only until the point where our paths will split.”

Orgurth tugged at the buckled straps securing a pauldron to his shoulder. Made for a larger warrior, and a human one at that, the armor wasn’t going to fit perfectly no matter how many times he adjusted it. “Why would they?” he asked.

“Because we’re an odd pair. We might attract less attention each traveling alone. And because it’s possible that if a tharchion or someone like that hears my description, the patrols and taxstation guards will become a lot more interested in catching me than you.” Aoth figured he owed the orc that much of the truth.

Orgurth leered. “You must be quite a villain.”

Aoth grinned back. “You’re not the first person to say so. So what’s it going to be?”

“I’ll stick with you. The way I see it, there’s something to be said for going unnoticed, but more for having a partner who can throw lightning into the teeth of those who do take an interest. Where do you think we ought to head?”

“That’s another thing. I haveto head for the Citadel. It’s a dangerous choice, but I’m hoping it’s also my quickest way back to Rashemen, and I have urgent business there.”

“That suits me. I’ve had my fill of Thay.”

“It’s settled, then. Let’s put some more distance between us and the castle, then find a spot where we can get off the trail and stop for a while without anybody seeing us.”

“Why, do you need a rest already? I thought the potion fixed you.”

“It did. But I need to talk to my otherpartner, and I’d just as soon not try to manage a horse at the same time.”

As he drowsed by the crackling campfire, Jet thought that in ordinary circumstances, the tiny portion of scrawny rabbit in his belly would likely only have sharpened his hunger. Yet he wasn’t hungry at all.

Maybe it was because he felt so wretched and weary. Dai Shan had regained consciousness, but like Vandar, Jet hadn’t even dredged up the will to question him yet. He doubted he was capable of listening to the glib Shou’s prattle, sorting his lies from truth.

Or maybe it was because he was dying, and if so, there was a part of him, a part he’d never imagined existed until today, that wished he could just get on with it.

Then a voice spoke inside his head. You’re awake.

Suddenly alert, Jet reached across their psychic link to peer through Aoth’s eyes. The human was sitting on a log in a clearing with an orc and a pair of horses tied to scrub pines. Mountains rose on all sides, some of them volcanoes. Several were smoking and a couple were rumbling and spilling lava down their sides. The snow on the ground was gray with ash.

You’re on the Thaymount, said Jet, as astonished as he was appalled.

Unfortunately, yes. Aoth reached back across their mystical bond, and the familiar felt something else that was new, an impulse to flinch from his rider’s inspection. He wondered if this was the useless human emotion called shame.

Whatever it was, he sensed Aoth’s horror and pity, and that only made the feeling burn hotter. But at least Aoth was matter of fact when he continued speaking:

I was hoping you would fly me out of here. But apparently that couldn’t happen for a while.

I’m sorry.

It’s all right. I’ll find another way north. You concentrate on recovering.

If I can. The statement slipped out seemingly of its own accord, before Jet knew he was going to say it.

Of course you can! You’re stronger than any ordinary griffon. I know. I enchanted you to be that way when you were still in your mother’s womb.

I hope so.

Besides, Cera’s magic will heal you if she’s there. Is she?Jet could feel the anxiety underlying the question.

No. Delivering the bad news felt like another failure. I’d better tell you everything I know about what happened after you passed through the arch into the dark. He did so with a combination of language and flashes of images from his memory.

By the time he finished, Aoth’s worry had warped into anger. And Dai Shan is there with you, right now?

Yes. Jet turned his head so that Aoth could see the Shou through his eyes. Singed, blistered, and stinking of combustion and blood, portions of his garments burned away, Dai Shan looked far different than the dapper emissary to the Iron Lord’s court, but his self-possession remained intact. Apparently engaged in the practice humans called meditation, he sat with legs crossed, palms up, and eyes closed.

Your suspicions were correct, said Aoth. He-or his avatar-tricked Jhesrhi, Cera, and me into going into the shadow maze so he could get rid of us. He tried to murder me, he stranded the others, and maybe he knows how to get them back. You have to question him right away.

Jet found that his own anger gave him the strength to heave his aching body up off the ground. He lunged, shoved Dai Shan onto his back, and held him there by pressing an eagle-clawed forefoot down on his chest.

“Ah,” Dai Shan wheezed, breathless with a griffon’s weight squashing him. “I infer that the fierce prince of the skies wishes to resume the conversation that Captain Bez’s fireball cut short.”

Red spear in hand, Vandar rose heavily. “I guess it’s time.”

“I defer to your judgment,” the merchant said. “Yet I fear the results will prove disappointing. As I was about to explain previously, by chance, I discovered some of the more formidable undead fleeing into a hidden labyrinth. I likewise discerned how to pursue them. I shared the information with Captain Fezim and his friends, and we gave chase. Unfortunately, the creatures realized someone was on their trail and set a trap. In the battle that ensued-”

Jet silenced him by pressing down harder. “Don’t lie. Captain Fezim is here. He’s in my head.”

“Then he must have found a way to return to the mortal plane.” Dai Shan smiled up into the griffon’s eyes. “Congratulations, sagacious warlord. I should have expected nothing less. Yet I’m perplexed. If you’re already in communication with your steed, why does he need to hear the tale of our adventure from me?”

We need to know how you really unlock the magical arches, said Aoth.

Jet relayed the question.

“Of course,” said Dai Shan. “I pray my friends will forgive both my obtuseness and my decision to reserve that information a little while longer. Until the desire for retaliation has lost its primacy.”

Jet pressed harder. “Now.”

“Please consider,” Dai Shan wheezed, “that until we make our way back to the Fortress of the Half-Demon, we won’t have access to any magical arches, anyway. Consider too, that if you kill me, you’ll forfeit the other forms of assistance I can provide.”

“Meaning what?” Vandar asked.

“I have some training in the chirurgeon’s art, even though I’ve always employed it to conduct interrogations not unlike this one rather than to heal. Moreover, when my father told me he was sending me to Rashemen to procure griffons, I learned what I could on that subject. My inquiries included having a sage instruct me on their anatomy.”

Jet realized an instant after the fact that he’d stopped pressing down so hard.

Dai Shan gave him a little nod. “I see the valiant lord of the clouds understands. In the absence of priestly healing, some skilled and knowledgeable soul must set that broken wing. Should that occur, and Tymora smiles, you may eventually fly again. Whereas if it heals as it is, such an outcome is precluded.”

“I want to see you strong and hale,” said Vandar to Jet. “I want to bring Cera and Jhesrhi back too. But how can we trust this dastard?”

“It will be a pity if you can’t, lodge master,” Dai Shan replied. “For I have something to offer youas well.”

Vandar scowled. “What’s that?”

“As Captain Fezim learned and his shrewd familiar now understands, I have the ability to create surrogates for myself. Regrettably, not at the moment. My injuries diminish my mystical capabilities. But when I’m sufficiently recovered, I can conjure such an entity, and it can race to Immilmar more quickly than we three invalids could hope to make the journey. And we needa messenger to go to the Wychlaran and the Iron Lord, do we not, to warn that the most dangerous undead escaped and to denounce Mario Bez.”

What do you think?asked Jet, trying not to let his desperate, selfish hope communicate itself from mind to mind.

Aoth’s answer came with a tinge of bitter frustration, but it also came at once. What choice do we have? Let the little weasel live for now.

Nyevarra led her sisters through the arch with a certain sense of relief. Under Uramar’s tutelage, she’d learned that so long as they knew their route, undead could traverse the deathways without incident more often than not. Yet it was also true that the maze had its perils, and some who entered never emerged.

Glancing around, she found herself in a vault behind a wrought-iron gate. Stone sarcophagi rose from the floor, and cobweb-shrouded jars and urns reposed in niches in the walls. For another moment, the arched doorway opened on the deathways with their crawling, smothering gloom and mad profusion of morbid sculpture. Then the charm of opening ran its course, and space on the other side of the arched doorway wavered into a somewhat more ordinary sort of place, filled with gloom but only the natural kind, and with painted hathran symbols defacing the pentacle mosaic on the floor.

It was the symbols that proved beyond doubt that Nyevarra and her sisters had reached their proper destination. She whispered a cantrip. The lock in the gate made a crunching sound, and, with a squeal, the grille swung open.

Nyevarra and the other durthans swung wide to avoid the pentacle. She had no doubt the sigils would hold their prisoner as they had for centuries, but still, why rouse the demon, especially when stealth was essential? They didn’t want the fiend’s agitation to communicate itself to some sensitive soul in the castle above.

After several turns, a staircase rose to a wall of sandstone blocks. Nyevarra murmured a charm, tapped the barrier with her staff of oak-the antler weapon was too unusual an instrument for someone who wished to be inconspicuous-and, scraping against one another, three loose stones floated free of the matrix. They hovered while the witches clambered through the hole, and then the stones replaced themselves.

Now that Nyevarra and her companions had reached the storerooms, her inhumanly keen hearing could hear drunken male voices roaring out an obscene song somewhere on the ground floor of the citadel. Despite herself, she hesitated, then noticed some of the others doing the same.

“Don’t worry,” she told them-and herself too, she supposed. “This will work. Because the hathrans have no idea that Falconer’s accomplice opened a path for us.”

And it turned out she was right. As she and the others strode through the ground floor of the massive keep, berserkers and lesser folk cleared out of their way and stood respectfully until they passed. Even when they encountered a hathran, the other wise woman simply gave them a casual nod. Aided by enchantment and the natural tendency of folk to see what they expected to see, the masks and voluminous robes of witches concealed the telltale marks of undeath.