Tsagoth hurled himself forward. As he crossed the boundary of the pentacle, his muscles spasmed, and he staggered. But since the warlock hadn't drawn the figure to imprison creatures of his precise nature, it couldn't contain him.
It had delayed him, though. The wand, a length of polished carnelian, had cleared the sheath, and the Red Wizard nearly had it aimed in his direction. The blood fiend sprinted fast as ever in his long existence, closed the distance, and chopped at the conjuror's wrist with the edge of his lower left hand. The blow jolted the rod from the wizard's grasp.
Tsagoth grappled the Red Wizard, bore him down, and crouched on top of him. He gave the wretch a moment to struggle and feel how helpless he was then bared his fangs.
The display made him feel a pang of genuine thirst, for all that the blood of humans was thin and tasteless stuff. Resisting the impulse to feed, he stared into his captive's eyes and stabbed with all his force of will, stabbed into a mind that, he hoped, terror had disordered and rendered vulnerable.
The Red Wizard stopped squirming.
'You will do what I tell you,' Tsagoth said. 'You will believe what I tell you.'
'Yes.'
'You meant to summon me here and you did. Afterward, you bound me without incident.'
'… without incident,' the mage echoed.
'And now you'll see to it that I'm assigned to the house of Aznar Thrul.'
His broad, tattooed hand numbed by all the alcohol he'd already consumed, Aoth Fezim carefully picked up the white ceramic cup and tossed back the clear liquor contained therein. The first few measures had burned going down, but now it was just like drinking water. He supposed his mouth, throat, and guts were numb as well.
His opponent across the table lifted his own cup, then set it down again. He twisted in his chair, doubled over and retched.
Some of the onlookers-those who'd bet on Fezim to win the drinking contest-cheered. Those who'd wagered on his opponent cursed and groaned.
Aoth murmured a charm, and with a tingle, sensation returned to his hands, even as his mind sharpened. It wasn't that he minded being drunk, to the contrary, but it was still relatively early, and he feared passing out and missing all the revelry still to come. Better to sober up now and have the pleasure of drinking himself stupid all over again.
He waved to attract a serving girl's attention and pointed at the length of sausage a fellow soldier was wolfing down. The lass smiled and nodded her understanding, then gave a start when a screech cut through the ambient din. Indeed, the entire tavern fell quiet, even though the cry was nowhere near as frightening as it could be when a person heard it close at hand or could see the creature giving voice to it.
At the same moment, Aoth felt a pang of… something. Discomfort? Disquiet?
Whatever it was, nothing could be terribly wrong, could it? After an uneventful flight up the Pass of Thazar, he and Brightwing were properly billeted in the safety of Thazar Keep. He'd seen to his familiar's needs before setting forth in search of his own amusements, and in the unlikely event that anyone was idiot enough to bother her, she was more than capable of scaring the dolt away without any help from her master.
Thus, Aoth was tempted to ignore her cry and the uneasiness that bled across their psychic link, but that wasn't the way to treat one's staunchest friend, especially when she was apt to complain about it for days afterward. Consoling himself with the reflection that even if there was a problem, it would likely only take a moment to sort out, he rose, strapped his falchion across his back, and picked up the long spear that served him as both warrior's lance and wizard's staff. Then, pausing to exchange pleasantries with various acquaintances along the way, he headed for the door.
Outside, the night was clear and chilly, the stars brilliant. The buildings comprising the castle-massive donjons and battlements erected in the days of Thay's wars of independence against Mulhorand, when the vale was still of strategic importance-rose black around him, while the peaks of the Sunrise Mountains loomed over those. He headed for the south bailey, where Brightwing was quartered, well away from the stables. Otherwise, her proximity would have driven the horses mad and put a strain on her discipline as well.
A soldier-tall, lanky, plainly Mulan-came around a corner, and an awkward moment followed as he stared down, waiting for Aoth to give way. The problem, Aoth knew, was that while he claimed Mulan ancestry himself, with his short, blocky frame, he didn't look it, particularly in the dark.
He was easygoing by nature, and there was a time when he might simply have stepped aside, but he'd learned that, looking as he did, he sometimes had to insist on niggling matters of precedence lest he forfeit respect. He summoned a flare of silvery light from the head of his lance to reveal the badges of a rider of the elite Griffon Legion and the intricate tattooing and manifest power of a wizard.
Not a Red Wizard. Probably because the purity of his bloodline was suspect, none of the orders had ever sought to recruit him, but in Thay, any true scholar of magic commanded respect, and the other warrior stammered an apology and scurried out of the way. Aoth gave him a nod and tramped onward.
The masters of Thazar Keep housed visiting griffons in an airy, doorless stone hall that was a vague approximation of the caverns in which the species often laired in the wild. At present, Brightwing-so named because, even as a cub, her feathers had been a lighter shade of gold than average-was the only one in residence. Her tack hung from pegs on the wall, and fragments of broken bone and flecks of bloody flesh and fat-all that remained of the side of beef Aoth had requisitioned for her supper-befouled a shallow trough.
Brightwing herself was nine feet long, with a lion's body and the pinions, forelegs, and head of an eagle. Her tail switched restlessly, and her round scarlet eyes opened wide when her master came into view.
'It's about time,' she said.
Her beak and throat weren't made for articulating human speech, and most people wouldn't have understood the clacks and squawks. But thanks to the bond they shared, Aoth had no difficulty.
'It's scarcely been any time at all,' he replied. 'What ails you?'
'I have a feeling,' the griffon said. 'Something's moving in the night.'
He grinned. 'Could you be a little less specific?'
'It's not a joke.'
'If you say so.' He respected her instincts. Heeding them had saved his life on more than one occasion. Still, at the moment, he suspected, she was simply in a mood. Maybe the beef hadn't been as fresh as it looked. 'Is 'something' inside the walls or outside?'
Brightwing cocked her head and took a moment to answer. 'Outside, I believe.'
'Then who cares? The Sunrise Mountains are full of unpleasant beasts. That's why Tharchion Focar still keeps troops here, to keep them from wandering down the pass and harming folk at the bottom. But if something dangerous is prowling around outside the fortress, that's not an emergency. Somebody can hunt it down in the morning.'
'Morning may be too late.'
'We aren't even part of the garrison here. We just deliver dispatches, remember? Besides which, there are sentries walking the battlements.'
'We can see more than they can and see it sooner. I mean, if you'll consent to move your lazy arse.'
'What if I find you more meat? Maybe even horseflesh.'
'That would be nice. Later.'
Aoth sighed and moved to lift her saddle off the wall. 'I could have chosen an ordinary familiar. A nice tabby, toad, or owl that would never have given me a moment's trouble, but no, not me. I wanted something special.'
Despite his grumbling and near-certainty that Brightwing was dragging him away from his pleasures on a fool's errand, he had to admit, if only to himself, that once the griffon lashed her wings and carried him into the air, he didn't mind so very much. He loved to fly. Indeed, even though the slight still rankled sometimes, in his secret heart, he was glad the Red Wizards had never come for him. He wasn't made for their viciousness and intrigues. He was born for this, which didn't make the high mountain air any less frigid. He focused his attention on one of the tattoos on his chest, activating its magic. Warmth flowed through his limbs, making him more comfortable.
'Which way?' he asked. 'Up the pass?'
'Yes,' Brightwing answered. She climbed higher then wheeled eastward. Below them, quick and swollen with the spring thaw, the Thazarim River hissed and gurgled, reflecting the stars like an obsidian mirror.
