though he was, he strode back toward the breached wall and the muddled din of the fight still raging there in search of something else to kill. For some reason impervious to the purifying sun, Mirror fell into step beside him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
17 Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin
Aoth took a swallow of beer, belched, and said, 'One nice thing about the undead: When they occupy a fortress, they don't drink up all the ale.'
In truth, he had good reason to be glad of it. So many priests had died when Szass Tam's torches exploded that after the battle, healing magic had been in short supply. As a captain and war mage, he hadn't had any difficulty or qualms about commandeering the services of a cleric to knit his broken bones and Brightwing's too, but bruises, however painful, were a different matter. Nymia and many other officers he'd known wouldn't have hesitated to order up a second dose of healing to ease them, but he couldn't, not when there were legionnaires likely to die for want of a priest's attention. He simply bore the discomfort as best he could, and alcohol helped, as it helped so many things in life.
Seated on the other side of the shabby little parlor that comprised the greater portion of their billet, methodically honing a dagger, Bareris raised his head and asked, 'How soon, do you think, will we head up into the mountains?'
Aoth sighed. His new friend's response had nothing to do with what he himself had said, but at least he'd answered. Half the time, when someone spoke to him, he didn't.
'It's hard to say. You know as well as I do, an army needs time to put itself back in order after a big, hard fight, and when the tharchions are ready to attack this underground fortress you tell of, it might be easier to reach it through the portal in Delhumide.'
'No.' The dagger whispered against the whetstone. 'The necromancers know an intruder found and used it already. I doubt it's there anymore.'
'Well, you could be right.' In actuality, Aoth wasn't certain Nymia and Milsantos would decide to go hunting 'Xingax' and his cohorts by any route. The zulkirs hadn't ordered them to, a march over the Sunrise Mountains would be difficult, and who knew if Bareris could even find the wizards' lair again? But he had a hunch the bard wasn't ready to hear that.
Bareris glowered. 'You sound as if you don't even want to go.'
'I won't want to go anywhere for the next couple of days. You wouldn't either, if you'd come out of the battle banged up like me. Anyway, I'm a legionnaire. I go where my tharchion sends me.'
'What about Chathi?'
'I liked her. I miss her, but it won't keep me from living the rest of my life. She wouldn't want that. I doubt your Tammith would have wanted it for you, either.'
'You don't understand. You can't. You were only with Chathi a short time. My whole life centered on Tammith.'
'It's grand to love and be loved, but a man needs to stand at the center of his own life.'
'I only wanted to make her happy, yet I failed her in everything.' Bareris laughed. 'By the Harp, that's a mild way of putting it, isn't it? Failed her. I
'A priest would say you set her soul free. Certainly, you did everything you could for her. It's a miracle you were even able to track her.'
'If I'd never left Bezantur-'
'And if I'd figured out the torches were dangerous a few breaths sooner, Chathi might still be alive. Whenever things go wrong, you can always find an if, but what's the point of brooding over it? You're only torturing yourself.'
Bareris stood up and reached for his sword belt, which hung on a peg on the wall with Aoth's lance leaning beside it. 'I'm going for a walk.'
'My friend, if I've said anything to offend you, I'm sorry.'
Bareris shook his head. 'It isn't that. It's just…' He slid the newly sharpened knife into its sheath then buckled on his weapons. 'I just need to be alone.'
Malark was as tired as he could recall ever being, even during the first months of his monastic training, and accordingly eager to reach his destination. Even so, he brought his flying horse down to the trail for the final leg of the journey up the valley. If the undead were still in possession of the Keep of Thazar, he'd be at least slightly less conspicuous approaching at ground level, and if the legionnaires had succeeded in retaking the place, he didn't want them mistaking him for a wraith. By now, they were likely wary of most anything that flew.
His steed snorted, expressing its displeasure at descending. When first created, it hadn't displayed emotion, nor had its black coat felt so much like actual horsehair. Malark wondered if, over time, simply by virtue of being perceived and employed, an illusory creature could become more real.
The question intrigued him, but now was not the time to ponder it. He'd do better to focus his attention on his surroundings, lest some skeleton or dread warrior notice him before he spotted it.
He crested a rise and the castle came into view, with a portion of the curtain wall demolished and an army, or the overflow of one, camped around it. He smiled, for the force was plainly composed of living men and orcs. Minute with distance though they were, he could see them moving freely about in the sunlight, and downwind, he could smell their cook fires and latrines. In addition to which, the banners of Thay, Pyarados, and Thazalhar flew from spires inside the fortress.
He cantered on into the encampment, where, it seemed to him, a general air of lethargic exhaustion prevailed. Still, it wasn't long before someone realized he was a stranger and came to ask his business.
'I'm an emissary from Tharchion Flass,' he answered, 'and I need to see Nymia Focar and Milsantos Daramos immediately.'
Nymia had heard reports of Dmitra Flass's outlander lieutenant but had never met him before, so she studied him curiously. Despite what had evidently been a wearisome journey, he kneeled without any show of stiffness or soreness, and the regard of his striking green eyes bespoke intellect and self-possession. Her initial impression was that he appeared as competent as his reputation indicated.
'Rise,' said Milsantos, 'and tell us your business.' He and Nymia had taken a room near the top of the central keep to serve as their command center, and weather permitting, threw open the casements to admit fresh air and illumination. This afternoon the old man sat in a chair near one of the west windows, and the golden sigils on his breastplate-Nymia wondered fleetingly if, when on campaign, he ever dispensed entirely with the weight, heat, and general discomfort of plate armor-gleamed in a shaft of sunlight.
'Thank you,' said Malark. 'I understand you've been busy retaking the valley and castle. May I ask how much you know about what's been happening elsewhere in Thay?'
'Szass Tam,' said Milsantos, 'asked his fellow zulkirs to make him regent, but they declined.'
Malark smiled. 'I'm glad to find you so well informed. It will save us at least a little time, and we don't have much to spare, but I imagine there are facts you haven't had the opportunity to learn. Szass Tam manipulated recent events to increase the likelihood of the other zulkirs acceding to his request. Among other machinations, he murdered Druxus Rhym and Aznar Thrul, tampered with the transmuters' election, betrayed a Thayan army to the Rashemi, and fomented riots in the major cities. All deeds that furthered his plan in one way or another.'
No, Nymia thought, I don't want to hear this. She and Milsantos had defeated the undead marauders Szass Tam's followers had created as the lich himself had charged her to do, even though it meant taking necromancers captive and destroying their dread-warrior servants. But in the aftermath, everything had seemed to be all right. Though Szass Tam almost certainly knew what the armies of Pyarados and Thazalhar had accomplished, he hadn't come rushing to exact retribution. She'd dared to hope she might actually emerge from this mad, paradoxical
