Unholy (18 page)

He whirled and saw that slaying the guards on the right had given the ones on the left time to prepare themselves. The dead man in front held a scimitar in one hand and hurled its spear with the other.

Bareris crouched, and the spear flew over his head. He straightened up again and charged.

He cut a sizable chunk of the dread warrior’s left profile away, exposing a section of black, slimy brain, but that didn’t kill it. The corpse-thing tried to slash his leg out from under him, and steel rang when he parried. He shifted in close and hammered the heavy pommel of his sword into the breach in the dread warrior’s skull. Brain splashed his hand, and his foe dropped.

He saw with a jolt of alarm that the last guard was raising a horn to its crumbling, oozing lips. He sprinted at it, slipped a cut from its scimitar, and struck the bugle from its grasp.

That frantic action left him open, and the dread warrior hacked at his flank. He parried, an instant too late, but though he failed to stop the attack from landing, his defensive action at least blunted the force of it and kept it from biting deep. He thrust up under the sentry’s chin, and his sword punched all the way through the creature’s head and crunched out the top of it. The guard fell.

Scowling at the burning pain in his side, Bareris freed his blade and cast about. As far as he could tell, no one had noticed anything amiss, and he meant to keep it that way.

He sang under his breath, and a shimmer curled like smoke through the air. First it hid the remains of the dread warriors, both the portions of them still on the wall-walk and those that had fallen to the ground. Then it painted semblances of them still standing at their posts.

Bareris was all too keenly aware that both wizards and undead were notoriously difficult to fool with this particular sleight. But he trusted his own abilities and dared to hope the phantasm would at least convince any foe who merely happened to glance in this direction.

Next he crooned a counterspell to obliterate any mouths that might otherwise have appeared and called out from the stone. When that was done, it was finally time to open the postern.

In this colossal stronghold, even the secondary gates were massive, designed to be operated by two or more soldiers at a time. But with his unnatural strength, Bareris managed. It was odd to feel the heavy bars slide and the valves swing apart when, beguiled by the mirage he himself had conjured, his eyes insisted that the sally-port was still sealed up tight.

17Mirtul, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

Invisible to hostile eyes—or so they hoped—Aoth, his fellow commanders, and a goodly portion of their army lay behind a shallow rise on the western approach to the Dread Ring. Blessed with the sharpest vision in the company, Aoth peered at the sally-port they’d selected before Bareris sneaked into the enemy stronghold. He willed it to open.

Crouching beside him, Jet grunted. “Yes. Wish for it. That’ll make a difference.”

“It can’t hurt,” said Aoth, and then, finally, the two leaves of the gate swung inward, first one and then the other. He could make out a fleck of white that must be Bareris pulling them open.

“By all the flames that burn in all the Hells,” said Nevron, for once sounding impressed instead of contemptuous, “the singer did it.”

“Or else the necromancers forced hkn to divulge his intentions and are exploiting our own scheme to set a snare for us,” Lallara

said, smiling maliciously. “Shall we go find out which it is?”

“Yes,” said Aoth. “Let’s.” He drew himself up, the others followed suit, and for an instant, he thought again how odd it was to have zulkirs lying on their stomachs in the sparse grass at his direction. Even Samas Kul had grudgingly forsaken his floating throne, substituting a conjured armature of glowing white lines that wrapped around his bloated body and evidently enabled him to move without strain.

Only Aoth intended to march in the vanguard, so he had to wait while the archmages retreated to the center of the company and their bodyguards formed protective ranks around them. “Are you sure you want to walk in?” he asked Jet. “You could wait and fly with the rest of the griffons.” He hadn’t included aerial cavalry in the first wave lest it double the chances of being spotted.

Jet dismissed the suggestion with a toss of his black-feathered head. “I’ll go when and how you go. Just don’t think you can ride me in the same way you’d ride a damned horse.”

“Perish the thought.” Aoth glanced around and judged that they were ready. He pointed with his spear, strode forward, and the others followed.

As they advanced, Jhesrhi and other wizards whispered spells of concealment. Aoth could feel the power of them seething in the air, and, even with his fire-kissed eyes, he didn’t see. any foes lurking on the battlements waiting to spring a trap. Still, his throat was dry. He couldn’t help imagining that when he and his comrades came close enough, flights of arrows and blasts of freezing, poisonous shadow would hammer down from the wall.

Fortunately, it never happened, and when, spear leveled, he warily stepped through the open gate, only Bareris was waiting to meet him. He grinned and gripped the bard by the shoulder. Mirror, on this occasion looking like the ghost of his own living self and not somebody else’s, flitted in after him and saluted their friend with an elaborate flourish of his shadowy sword.

Bareris acknowledged them both with a curr nod.

Aoth looked around and found Khouryn already standing expectantly at his side. “Form ranks,” he told the dwarf. “Quietly. We don’t want the necromancers to know they have callers quite yet.”

“I remember the plan,” Khouryn said. He turned and waved a group of spearmen forward.

“Now where are the mages?” said Aoth.

“Here,” said Jhesrhi, striding forward. The golden runes on her staff glowed. Silvery phosphorescence, the visible manifestation of some armoring enchantment, outlined her body. Her blonde tresses, cloak, and robe stirred as through brushed by a wind that wasn’t blowing on anyone else. Several tattooed, shaven-headed Red Wizards trailed along behind her. “I assume it’s time?”

“Yes,” said Aoth. “Do it.”

The wizards formed a circle and raised their instruments—two staves, four wands, and a clear crystal orb wrapped in a silvery web of filigree—above their heads. The mages chanted in unison, power warmed the air, and then a rattle ran from their immediate vicinity down the length of the fortress. It was the sound of doors banging shut in quick succession as they jumped and jerked in their frames.

The magic had sealed them. In some cases, those trapped inside the various towers and bastions would break them open again and rush out into the cool, moist dawn air. In others, the attackers would breach the doors themselves when they were ready, and pass through to kill whoever waited on the other side. Either way, the object was to fight the garrison a piece at a time instead of all at once.

“There’s something you should know,” Bareris said. “Malark’s here, commanding the defense.”

“I’m not entitely surprised. We knew we were up against someone clever.”

“Be wary of him. He’s spent the past ninety years learning sorcery from Szass Tam himself. He’s even more dangerous than he was before.”

“So are we.” Aoth nodded to Khouryn, who relayed the command to the soldiers under his command. As the first hint of sunrise turned the sky above the postern gray, the spearmen stalked forward.

Despite the howling, surging press of battle, the corpse moved in its own little bubble of clear space, as if even its allies were taking care not to come too close. It wore filthy bandages, but if someone had tried to mummify and so preserve it in the usual way, the process had failed. Putrescence leaked from between the loops of linen, and the thing smelled as foul as anything Bareris had encountered in a century of battling undead. As it shambled toward three of Aoth’s sellswords, the miasma overwhelmed them. One actually doubled over and puked. The other two reeled.

It made them easy prey. The plague blight, as such horrors were called, grabbed the man who was vomiting and hoisted him off his feet. Streaks of gangrene ran through the man’s flesh.

“Leave it to me!” Bareris shouted. Obnoxious though it was, the stink wasn’t making him sick, and it was even possible his undead body was immune to the blight’s corrupting touch, though he hoped to avoid putting it to the test. He ran up behind the creature and plunged his sword into its back.

It dropped the already lifeless body of its previous opponent and lurched around to face him. He slashed it twice more, then retreated and cut its hand when it pawed for him.

The plague blight kept coming as though its wounds were inconsequential. He shifted out of its path and shouted. The

blast of sound smashed it into wisps of bandage, bone chips, and spatters of rot.

He pivoted, looking for whatever foe was rushing or creeping up on him now. None was, so he took a moment to try to take stock of the battle, difficult as that could be when a warrior was in the thick of it.

Aoth’s plan to isolate the various components of the garrison had worked for a while. Long enough, one could hope, to give the attackers a significant edge. But then all the sealed doors opened virtually at once when some master wizard obliterated the locking enchantment. Now all of Szass Tarn’s minions could join the fight, and it became a desperate, chaotic affair.

The tide of battle carried Bareris to the main gate. Scores of his allies were fighting like madmen to gain control of it, so they could open it and bring the rest of the zulkirs’ army streaming in. But enemy axemen and spearmen were struggling just as furiously to hold them back, while up on the battlements, archers loosed arrows and scarlet-robed necromancers hurled flares of fire and shadow. Confiscated after the besiegers abandoned it and animated by magic, Tempus’s Boot rolled itself back and forth to bash at its former masters.

Hoping to see some griffon riders in the immediate vicinity, Bareris looked higher still. Aoth’s aerial cavalry had entered the fight some time ago, and some of them ought to be here now, harrying the men on the wall-walk from the air. But they weren’t. Evidently the enemy had them tied up elsewhere.

Bareris sang. The world seemed to blink, and then he was standing atop the wall in the middle of the necromancers.

Still singing—now a spell to leech the courage from his foes’ hearts and the strength from their limbs—Bareris thrust his sword into one wizard’s chest, yanked it free, and stepped past the toppling corpse to confront a second mage. That one brandished a wand capped with a miniature skull and rattled off words of

power. Bareris felt coercion searing its way into his psyche like a branding iron. But this time, he wasn’t sprawled crippled and helpless, and he cleaved the necromancer’s skull before rhe binding was complete.

He killed the next mage. Dodged a hurtling, crackling ball of lightning. Slew another pair of wizards and saw they were the last spellcasters in that group.

He rounded on a squad of archers. A couple of the blood ores recognized the danger, and they loosed their shafts at him. One arrow stabbed into his chest.

It hurt and rocked him back a step, but that was all. He knocked the bowmen off their feet with another bellow, and then something crashed into the back of his skull, pitching him onto his belly.

It wasn’t like when the arrow pierced him; the pain and shock were almost overwhelming. But if he let them paralyze him, he was finished. He floundered over onto his back.

Tsagoth stood several paces away, a second round stone— originally intended as ammunition for one of the Ring’s smaller catapults, probably—in his upper right hand. He tossed it into the left and threw it. Bareris rolled, and the missile smashed down beside him.

He scrambled to his feet, and the back of his head throbbed. He wondered just how badly his skull was cracked, and then Tsagoth made another throwing gesture, although now his hand was empty.

An explosion of multicolored light hammered Bareris. Tsagoth vanished.

The blood fiend shifted himself through space with perfect stealth, like the consummate predator he was. It was pure warrior’s instinct that warned Bareris rhat his foe had appeared immediately behind him in hopes of rending him while he was still reeling from the blast. He spun and dropped low in the same movement,

and Tsagoth s talons whipped harmlessly over his head. He thrust his sword deep into the vampiric demon’s belly.

Tsagoth roared and convulsed but kept fighting. He leaned forward, actually imbedding the sword deeper to do so, and his four hands swept down.

Bareris couldn’t free the blade in time to defend. He sang words of power instead, shielded himself with his free arm, and lowered his head in hopes of saving his eyes.

Tsagoth’s claws tore his forearm and scalp, but Bareris didn’t let the blows spoil the pitch and cadence of his magic. On the final note, force chimed through the air, and now he was the one who translated himself some distance backward.

He and the blood fiend regarded one another across the stretch of wall-walk and the gory corpses lying there. Tsagoth s stomach wound was already closing, faster than even Bareris could heal.

“So you decided to fight me after all,” Bareris gritted. ‘

Tsagoth laughed. “This time I have a reason. I’m ordered to defend the Dread Ring, and if I leave you running loose, those other worms on the ground yonder are likely to get the gate open. So come on. I’ll give you what you truly want. I’ll send you to join your woman.”

Singing, Bareris advanced, but slowly. It gave the burning pain of his wounds time to ease and his enchantment time to tingle through his body.

He stepped into range, and Tsagoth clawed at him. Bareris wished himself a phantom. The attack raked harmlessly through him, and Tsagoth snarled and pivoted. Since he couldn’t see Bareris anymore, he assumed the bard had tried the same trick he himself had employed, and shifted behind him.

But Bareris was using a different spell, and since he hadn’t really changed position, he was behind Tsagoth now. He willed himself solid and visible again and cut into the blood fiend’s back.