Unholy (17 page)

He switched to a different song, raised his blade high, and took an eager stride.

He closed half the distance, and then Tsagoth vanished. Bareris faltered, startled, anguished that the demonic vampire evidently intended to break his word. Then Malark, clad partly in crimson, a black wand or cudgel in his hand, floated down from the sky to stand where Tsagoth had been.

Bareris realized a measure of calm had returned to him. Consternation had blunted his frenzy. “My business is with Tsagoth,” he said.

“But Tsagoth isn’t as interested in you as you are in him,” Malark replied.

“Has he turned coward?”

“Most assuredly not. But our mortal conventions of honor mean very little to him. Now, I have a proposition for you. You

can’t duel Tsagoth or retreat back into your bolt hole, either.” The former spymaster pointed with his wand. Bareris glanced over his shoulder and saw that some of the enemy had shifted to block the way back into the tower. “But you can still have a measure of satisfaction. You can fight me.” “Why would you offer that?”

“For old times’ sake. Call it an apology if you like. So, do you want to, or would you rather have all these Red Wizards, dread warriors, and whatnot assail you forthwith?”

“All right. I’ll fight you. I’ll kill you too.”

“It’s possible. Give me your best.”

Malark dropped into a deep stance and started to circle. Grateful to stop talking and resume singing, Bareris poised his broadsword in a low guard and sidled in the opposite direction.

Malark suddenly sprang into the air and thrust-kicked at Bareris’s head. Bareris ducked, retreated a half step, and extended his sword. The point should have caught Malark in the groin, but despite his forward momentum, the smaller man somehow contrived to snap his foot sideways into the threatening blade, knocking it out of line.

Malark touched down, pivoted, and slammed a back kick into Bareris’s torso. Bareris felt a stab of pain as his ribs snapped. The attack sent him reeling backward, and Malark turned again and rushed him. Still singing, Bareris waited another moment, then planted his feet, regained his balance, and extended his sword a second time. Malark stopped short and once again avoided impaling himself, but not by much. Bareris’s point was half a finger-length from his chest.

Bareris lunged, and Malark spun to the side. The sword missed his vitals but sliced a bloody gash in his forearm.

Malark grinned and inclined his head. “Good. Really good.” He threatened with his black club, and then, when Bareris tried to parry, tossed the weapon into his other hand and spun it to bind

his opponent’s blade. Bareris sprang in closer, altering the relative positions of the blades so that he and not the spymaster was able to exert leverage. He heaved with all his inhuman strength and tore the club from Malark’s grip.

At once he continued with a drawing cut to the knee. Malark hopped over it and hit him in the forehead with the heel of his palm. Bareris’s skull crunched, and a bolt of agony blinded him. He hacked at the spot where instinct told him Malark must have gone, and evidently he guessed correctly. He didn’t hit anything, but neither did any follow-up attack hit him, and when his vision cleared an instant later, the man in red was three paces away, where he must have leaped to dodge the cut. Malark whistled, and the black club flew up off the ground and inro his hand like a dog obeying its master’s call.

The duel went on that way for a while, each combatant hurting the other occasionally, but not badly enough to incapacitate. Bareris wondered how much longer he needed to stall. Because that was the problem with the spell he’d been weaving ever since making contact with the enemy, threading the incantation through his seemingly mundane speech and shouts as well as performing it in his song. The effect he hoped to create was subtle, so much so that he himself had no way of knowing whether he’d succeeded. Or at least, none that didn’t require betting his existence on it.

He was still wondering when Malark took the decision out of his hands.

Bareris advanced, lunged, and made a head cut. Malark stepped into the attack and should have ended up with a cleft skull as a result. But as he moved, he swiveled his upper body ever so slightly to the side, and somehow, the stroke missed. He dropped his cudgel, grabbed Bareris’s forearm, and twisted.

Bareris resisted, refusing to drop his sword or let his adversary tear apart his elbow. Whereupon Malark let go of his limb, and, straining when there was no longer any opposing force, Bareris

lurched off balance. Only for an instant, but that was all the time his foe needed to snap a kick into his knee.

Bareris staggered, and the smaller man kicked his other knee. Neither leg would support Bareris now, and he fell prone in the dirt. He tried to roll over onto his back and raise his sword, but he was too slow. Something—a stamp kick, probably—smashed into the center of his spine, and then another cracked his neck. Pain blasted through him, and afterward, he couldn’t move anymore. He tried to croak out the next syllable of his song, but even that had become impossible.

Malark looked down at Bareris, who was squirming feebly and uselessly at his feet, and judged he hadn’t done enough. The twice-broken spine would finish any mortal man, but given a little time, the undead bard might well recover even from that.

But he was unlikely to rise up if someone cut off his head, pulled the heart from his chest, and burned him. Malark plucked the sword from his hand to begin the process.

“Sleep in peace,” Malark said. “I’m glad I was finally able to free you.” He gripped the blade with both hands and raised it high.

A sort of groan sounded from the living members of the audience he’d nearly forgotten, particularly his fellow Red Wizards. They weren’t protesting what a zulkir chose to do. None of them would dare. But plainly, they regretted it.

At first Malark couldn’t imagine why. Then, abruptly, as if a key had unlocked a portion of his mind, he understood. Like himself, the other mages were necromancers. Their special art was to master rhe undead, and Bareris was a particularly powerful specimen. Thus, they deplored the waste implicit in destroying him when they could enslave him instead.

Malark realized he agreed with them. He tossed away the sword to clank on the ground, called his wand back into his grasp, swept it through a serpentine mystic pass, and recited the first words of a binding. He made an encouraging gesture with his free hand, and the other necromancers joined in.

When the spell was done, Tsagoth appeared beside him to inspect the pale figure still twitching and shuddering on the ground. “Did you enjoy that?” the blood fiend asked.

“For me,” Malark said, “destroying the undead isn’t sport. It’s a sacrament. But yes, I did enjoy it.”

“But you didn’t destroy him.”

For a heartbeat, Malark felt confused. Perhaps even uneasy. But then he frowned his formless misgivings away. “Well, no. At the last moment, I realized how useful he could be fighting on our side if the council attacks again. Imagine the effect on Aoth and the rebels’ morale when their faithful friend rides out to slaughter them.”

Szass Tam snapped his shriveled fingers, and a rippling ran down from the top of the oval mirror. It looked like streaming water, and it washed the images of Malark, Tsagoth, and Bareris Anskuld away, so that the lich’s own keen, intellectual face looked back at him once more.

It was good luck that he’d chosen to check on the Dread Ring in Lapendrar at this particular time, for he’d enjoyed watching Malark overcome the bard. Anskuld had never been more than a minor problem, but he’d been one for a hundred years, and after all the accumulated irritation, it was satisfying to see him neutralized at last.

Someone tapped on the door softly enough that it took sharp ears to hear it. Szass Tam turned in his chair and called, “Come in.”

Ludicrously for such an exemplar of his brutish kind, bred for generations solely to kill whenever and whomever Red Wizards commanded, the blood-orc captain appeared to creep into the divination chamber as hesitantly as a timid child. Perhaps he didn’t like the carrion stink and the litter of corpses and broken, filthy grave goods, for, insofar as he could without rendering the room incapable of its intended function, Szass Tam had filled it with such things. He’d done the same with many spaces reserved for his personal use. The ambience helped tune his mind for the Unmaking.

But he suspected the ore seemed uneasy because he had bad news to report, and the warrior confirmed as much as soon as his master told him to get up off his knees. “Your Omnipotence, we lost another hunting party. They found the demon—or it found them—outside the vault with the blue metal door, in the tunnels with all the faces carved on the walls. And it killed them.”

I’m served by imbeciles, Szass Tam told himself and conscientiously tried to despise them for their inadequacies. “I’m sorry to hear it. Make sure we provide for the families of the fallen.”

The officer swallowed. “There’s more, Master. After the demon killed the hunters, it got the door to the vault open. It broke all the staves and wands you kept inside.”

Szass Tam scowled. No stray predator from the Abyssal planes should have been capable of opening a door he’d sealed himself. And he’d spent the better part of four hundred years acquiring those rods across the length and breadth of Faerun and even in lands beyond. To lose the entire collection, and not even to a thief—that at least would make sense—but to a creature who’d apparently destroyed it out of sheer random spite—

Szass Tam belatedly realized that if his disgust was appropriate, his sense of attachment and attendant loss was counterproductive, and he did his best to quash it. The staves and wands were flawed, contemptible trash, just like the rest of creation. They would have

passed from existence within the next few tendays anyway, when the Great Work erased all the world. Thus, they didn’t merit a second thought.

But he supposed he ought to provide a display of pique even though he no longer felt it. The ore would expect no less, and, mindbound though they were, Szass Tam would rather his minions not question their master’s sanity or true intentions. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, but it had the potential to make this final phase of his preparations a bit more difficult than it needed to be.

So he scowled and snarled, “Kill the cursed thing! Take a whole legion into the crypts if you have to!”

“Yes, Master. We will. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Considering the cunning wizards and mighty creatures we’ve already lost, people are saying that maybe this demon’s so nasty that only Szass Tam himself can slay it.”

Szass Tam realized that if he still cared about the security of his fortress home and the safety of cherished possessions, as he wanted his retainers to believe, that was exactly what he’d do. And perhaps he could use a diversion, a break from the days and nights of near-constant meditation.

“All right,” he said. “Forget about sending any more hunters. I’ll go as soon as I get a chance.”

Throughout the night, some vague impulse prompted Bareris to peer up at the sky. Eventually he observed that dawn wasn’t far distant, that it was, in fact, approximately the same time as when he’d invaded the Dread Ring. In the depths of his mind, something shifted.

Once the necromancers were certain they’d enslaved him, Malark had assigned him duties appropriate to a seasoned officer.

As the day dragged by, he’d performed them like a sleepwalker, feeling nothing except a dull, bitter anger he could no longer express or even comprehend.

He was still numb and incapable of contemplating his situation. But he slipped away from the band of ghouls Malark had placed under his command and stalked to a shadowy corner in an empty courtyard. No mouths opened in the stonework to proclaim his whereabouts; he belonged to the garrison now.

Once there, he sang softly. He couldn’t have said exactly what he was doing or why, but he exerted his bardic skills anyway, striking precisely the right notes, rhythm, and phrasing to spark magic flickering in the air around him like a cloud of fireflies.

The spell picked at another power that, at this moment, seemed to cover his skin like a smothering coat of lacquer. The process stung, but the pain was a kind of relief, and by the time it ended, his mind was clear, his will, his own once more.

When he’d nudged Malark and the other necromancers to enslave rather than destroy him, he’d fully expected the binding to take. That was why, prior to sneaking into the castle, he, working with Lauzoril and Lallara, had imposed a different geas on himself. At the proper moment, he would find himself compelled to cast countermagic that would, if Tymora smiled, break the enemy’s psychic shackles.

Keeping to the shadows but, he hoped, not so blatantly that he’d look like a skulking footpad if someone noticed him anyway, he headed toward a sally-port in the west wall. Still, no enchanted mouths opened to denounce him. The defense wasn’t sophisticated enough to distinguish between the thrall he’d been a little while ago and the foe he was now. Some wizard had instructed it that he belonged in the stronghold, and as far as it was concerned, that was that.

The four guards currently standing watch on the battlements above the postern were gaunt dread warriors with smoldering

amber eyes. Bareris couldn’t muddle the minds of his fellow undead, and a thunderous shout or some other violent mystical attack was apt to draw unwanted attention.

But that was all right. He didn’t mind doing things the hard way.

He climbed a set of stairs to the top of the towering wall and strode on toward the living corpses. They glanced at him once, then resumed their scrutiny of the rolling plain beyond the gate. Dread warriors were more sentient than ordinary zombies, but that didn’t mean they were capable of casual curiosity.

The wall-walk was plenty wide enough for him to make his way past the first two. When he was in the middle of the group, their corrupt stink foul in his nostrils, he drew his sword, pivoted right, and struck.

The cut tumbled a dread warrior’s head from its shoulders to drop into the bailey below. He swept its toppling body out of his way, rushed the one behind it, and split its skull before it could aim the spear in its gray, flaking hands.