Unclean (32 page)

“I killed it!” yelled the axeman, brandishing his gory weapon. “I killed it!” His comrades roared in triumph then hurled themselves at the legionnaires with renewed savagery.

With the fiend gone and rioters circling to get behind their remaining adversaries, the advancing line wasn’t viable anymore.

The legionnaires needed a formation that would enable them to guard each other’s backs.

“Square!” Nular bellowed. “Square!”

But they couldn’t form one. The enemies swarming on them from every side, grabbing and beating at them, made it impossible to maneuver. Pivoting, fighting with his sword in one hand and his cudgel in the other, Nular realized the press had suddenly grown so thick that he couldn’t even see his men anymore, just hear the clangor of their opponents’ blows pounding on their shields.

That clashing noise diminished as, no doubt, the legionnaires fell one by one. Something smashed or cut into Nular’s knee, and he dropped too. His injured leg ablaze with pain, he glimpsed men running toward the conjurors’ Chapter house, then a burly laborer lifted a shovel high and plunged the edge down at his throat.

At first, Faurgar Stayanoga thought, it had made sense. They’d take to the streets as the priest in the alehouse had urged, and when the zulkirs saw how many they were, and how displeased, they’d have to rethink their decision.

More than that, it had been fun. Intoxicating. His whole life, Faurgar had walked warily in the presence of Red Wizards, legionnaires, or any Mulan really, but tonight, roaming the streets with hundreds like himself, he hadn’t been afraid of anyone. They’d all said whatever they wanted as loud as they wanted. Defaced, smashed, and torched whatever they wanted. Broken into shops and taverns and taken whatever they wanted.

But he was scared, because the legions had turned out in force to deal with the disturbance, and he and his friends were trapped, with blood ores advancing from one side and human

warriors from the other. The ores leered and howled their piercing battle cries. The men strode quietly, with faces like stone, but despite their differing attitudes, both companies looked entirely ready to kill.

Faurgar looked up and down the street and found nowhere to run. Some of his companions pounded on doors, but no one would open to them. Evidently hoping the legionnaires would spare the lives of any who surrendered, others raised their hands or dropped to their knees. The rest, defiant still, brandished the knives and tools that were all they possessed in the way of weapons.

Faurgar simply stood, mouth dry, heart pounding, uncertain of what he ought to do. It didn’t look to him as if the guards intended to spare anyone, and if so, it seemed better to go down fighting. But if he was wrong, if there was even the slightest chance of surviving…

By the Great Flame, how had he come to this? He was the son of respectable parents and a journeyman mason. He didn’t belong in the middle of this nightmare.

The ores reached the first kneeling man. Steel flashed, blood spurted, and the penitent collapsed to flop and twitch like a fish out of water. Soldiers trampled him as they continued to advance.

All right, thought Faurgar, now we know for certain that they mean to kill us all. So fight! But he didn’t know if he could. Tears were blurring his vision, and even if they hadn’t been, the urge to cringe was so strong that he could hardly bear even to look at the warriors. How, then, could he possibly strike a blow?

As if too full of bloodlust to permit their human comrades an equal share in the killing, the ores abruptly screamed and charged. One ran straight at Faurgar.

Fight! he told himself, but when he tried to raise his trowel, his hand shook so badly that he dropped it. Knowing it was

craven and useless, but powerless to control himself, he crouched and shielded his torso and face with his arms.

And as if the Storm Lord were responding to the spectacle of his wretchedness, the night burned white. Prodigious booms shook the earth, and torrents of frigid rain hammered down, ringing on the legionnaires’ armor and drumming on everything else.

The legionnaires faltered in shock. Barely audible over the thunder and the downpour, the commander of the ores bellowed at his troops. Faurgar couldn’t speak their language, but he had a fair idea of what the gray-skinned creature was saying: It’s only rain! Go on and kill the rabble as I ordered you to!

The ores moved to obey, then a flare of lightning struck a peaked rooftop on the right-hand side of the street. The flash was blinding, the crash loud enough to jab pain into Faurgar’s ears, and everyone froze once more.

One of the human soldiers shouted and pointed. Blinking, Faurgar reflexively glanced to see what had caught the legionnaire’s attention. He expected to observe that the thunderbolt had set the shingled roof on fire, but it wasn’t so. Rather, a tall, thin man in a red robe stood in the middle of the charred and blackened place where the lightning had struck, as if he’d ridden the bolt down from the sky.

“That’s Szass Tam!” someone exclaimed, and certainly the guards were coming to attention and saluting. Faurgar and his fellows knelt.

The lich’s dark gaze raked over them all, warrior and cornered troublemaker alike. “This won’t do,” he said. He seemed to speak without raising his voice, yet despite the din of the storm, Faurgar could hear him clearly from yards away.

“Unlike some,” Szass Tam continued, “I’m not eager to see Thayan soldiers slaughtering Thayan citizens, not as long as there’s any hope of avoiding it. Accordingly, you legionnaires

will give these people one last chance to disperse and retire to their homes in peace.”

“Yes, Your Omnipotence!” the commander of the human guards shouted.

“And you citizens,” the necromancer said, “will do precisely that. I understand that you’ve behaved as you have out of concern for the realm, and to that degree, your patriotism does you credit, but you can’t accomplish anything by damaging your own city and compelling the guards to take harsh action against you. I promise a better outlet for your energies in the days to come.

“Now go,” he concluded, and a heartbeat later, inexplicably, he was gone. Faurgar had been looking straight at him, yet had a muddled sense that he hadn’t actually seen the wizard vanish.

The human officer barked orders. His company divided in the middle, clearing a corridor for Faurgar and his companions to scurry along. The ores scowled but offered no protest. Szass Tam was their zulkir too.

Their zulkir, and the greatest person in the world. Thanks to him, Faurgar was going to live.

Malark stood at the casement watching the lightning dance above the city. The peaceful city. Even those folk who hadn’t had the opportunity to hear Szass Tam speak had discovered that cold, blinding, stinging rain washed the fun out of looting, vandalism, and assault, or in the case of the legionnaires, it dissolved their zeal to chase those guilty of such offenses.

The door clicked open behind him, and he smelled the perfume Dmitra was wearing tonight. He turned and knelt.

“Rise,” she said, crossing his darkened, austerely furnished room, a silver goblet in her hand. “I’ve received a message from Szass Tam. He’s retiring to his estate in High Thay for the time

being. I can contact him there, but the implication is that I should refrain except in case of an emergency.”

“Do you think he knows you warned the other zulkirs of his intentions?”

“By the Black Hand, I hope not. I also hope it was the right thing to do. My instincts told me it was, and they’ve rarely played me false, but still…” She shook her head.

“If I may say so, Tharchion, you look tired. If you don’t feel ready to sleep, shall we sit and watch the storm together?”

“Why not?” He moved a pair of chairs up to the window and she sank down into one of them. “Do you have anything to drink, or must I call for a servant?”

“No wine.” Now that she’d come closer, he knew what she’d been drinking. He could smell it on her breath despite the overlay of perfume. “But some of that Hillsfar brandy you like.”

“That will do.”

As he passed behind her to fetch clean cups and the decanter, he automatically thought of how to kill her where she sat. One sudden blow or stranglehold, and no magic would save her, but he didn’t actually feel the urge to strike. Aside from the inconvenience to himself, obliged to give up a congenial position and flee Thay just when life here was becoming truly interesting, there wouldn’t be anything profoundly appropriate or exceptionally beautiful about the death. Dmitra was his benefactor, perhaps even in a certain sense his friend, and she deserved better.

She sipped brandy and gazed out at the tempest. “You have to give Szass Tam credit,” she said after a time. “First he incites what could have been the worst riot in the history of Eltabbar. He even tricks the mob into believing Nevron and the conjurors sent demons to kill them. Then he ends the crisis in the gentlest way possible, making himself a hero to every person who feared for his life and chattels, every rioter who escaped punishment,

and any legionnaire who was squeamish about killing other Thayans.”

Malark smiled. “While simultaneously demonstrating just how powerful he is. I assume it’s difficult to spark a storm in a clear sky.”

“Yes, though we Thayans have been the masters of our weather for a long while. I’m actually more impressed by the way he appeared in dozens of places around the city all at the same moment. Obviously, people were actually seeing projected images, yet by all accounts, the phantasms didn’t behave identically. They oriented on the folk they were addressing, and if anyone dared to speak to them in turn, they deviated from the standard declaration to answer back. I’m a Red Wizard of Illusion, and I have no idea how one would go about managing that.” She laughed. “And this is the creature I opted to betray.”

“But with considerable circumspection, so instead of fretting over what can’t be undone, perhaps it would be more productive to contemplate what’s just occurred. What game is Szass Tam playing now?”

“I don’t know, but you’re right, he is still playing. Otherwise, what’s the point of the riot?”

“He must realize now that the other zulkirs will never proclaim him regent no matter how much he makes lesser folk adore him.”

A gust of wind rattled the casement in its frame.

“I wonder,” Dmitra said. “Suppose he murders another zulkir or two. Suppose he tempts one or more of those who remain with the office of vice-regent, subordinate to himself but superior to all others. Sounds better than death, doesn’t it?”

It didn’t to Malark, but he didn’t bother saying so. “Now that I think about it, the various orders must be full of Red Wizards who’d love to move up to be zulkir, even if the rank was no longer a position of ultimate authority. It’s easy to imagine one or more

of them collaborating with Szass Tam. They work together to assassinate Nevron, Samas Kul, or whomever, get the traitor elected to replace him, and afterward the fellow acts as the lich’s dutiful supporter.”

Dmitra nodded. “It could happen just that way, but not easily, not when Szass Tam needs a majority on the council, and not with all the other zulkirs now striving assiduously to keep themselves safe. I actually think the game has entered a new phase.”

“Which is?”

“I wish I knew.” She laughed. “I must seem like a pathetic coward. It’s one zulkir against six, who now enjoy my support, yet I’m frightened of the outcome. I have an ugly feeling none of us has ever truly taken Szass Tarn’s measure, whereas he knows our every strength and weakness. I can likewise imagine our very abundance of archmages proving a hindrance. The lich is a single genius with a coherent strategy maneuvering against a band of keen but lesser minds bickering and working at cross purposes.”

“Then you’ll have to make sure that, no matter what the zulkirs imagine, it’s actually you calling the tune.”

“A good trick if I can manage it, whereas your task is to figure out what Szass Tam means to do next.”

Malark grinned. “Even though I’ve never met him, and you tell me he’s a genius. It should prove an interesting challenge.”

13-14 Kythom, the Year of Risen Elfkin

Borrowing Brightwing’s eyes to combat the darkness, Aoth rode the griffon above the mountainsides on the northern edge of the valley. It was a necessary chore. As far as the Thayans could tell, after they’d chased the undead up the pass, the creatures had retreated into the Keep of Thazar, but it was possible they hadn’t all done so. Even if they had, with flying wraiths and ghouls possessing a preternatural ability to dig tunnels among their company, it was by no means a certainty that they’d all remain inside the walls. Ergo, someone had to make sure no enemy was slinking through the night.

“It didn’t have to be you,” Brightwingsaid, catching the tenor of his thoughts. “You’re an officer now, remember? You could have sent a common soldier and stayed in camp to guzzle beer and rut with your female.”

“I know.” Maybe he hadn’t been a captain long enough to delegate such tasks as he ought. He’d so often served as a scout,

advance guard, or outrider that he still felt a need to observe things for himself whenever possible. “But you’re getting fat. We need to work some of the lard off your furry arse.”

Brightwing clashed her beak shut in feigned irritation at the jibe then exclaimed, “Look there!”

Two beings were descending a slope. One was a living man—a Mulan, to judge from his lanky physique, though his head and chin weren’t properly shaved—wearing a sword. Evidently he was a refugee who’d somehow avoided death at the hands of the undead infesting the valley. Gliding along behind him, perceptible primarily as a mote of cold, aching wrongness, was some sort of ghost. No doubt it was stalking him and would attack when ready, though Aoth couldn’t imagine what it was waiting on.

Lady Luck must love you, the war mage silently told the refugee, to keep you alive until Brightwing and I arrived. With a thought, he sent the griffon swooping lower then flourished his spear and rattled off an incantation.

Darts of blue light hurtled from the head of the lance to pierce the phantom through. The punishment made it more visible, though it was just a pale shadow with a hint of armor in its shape and the suggestion of a blade extending from its hand. It rose into the air as Aoth had hoped it would. He wanted to draw it away from the man on the ground.