just in case. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he saw that the figure stood on two legs. At fifty yards, it was clear that the figure was too short to be a man or elf, too broad and bulky to be a child. A dwarf, then.
'Oh no,' Gesmas whispered. 'Azrael.'
He reined in the horse sharply. It reared, nearly throwing him from the saddle. The elaborate brace forged for Gesmas by the smith of Loupet Castle made it easier for him to ride, but it couldn't completely compensate for his twisted leg. As he fought to bring the mount back under control, Gesmas lost his sword. He didn't pause to retrieve it. The blade would do him no good, not against Azrael.
'Give up,' the dwarf shouted from the bridge. There's nowhere to run.'
The woods were too thick on either side for a mounted man to ride more than a stone's throw before being blinded or knocked senseless by a low branch. The best option, Gesmas thought, was to race back up the road, to put enough distance between himself and the dwarf to dismount, then to duck into the forest on foot. With a little luck he could later reach the border along the banks of the Musarde or some half-forgotten woodsman's path. Passing from Sithicus to Invidia would place him beyond the reach of the darkest magic employed by Lord Soth. The minions of that mysterious tyrant would hesitate as well before crossing in pursuit, for fear of drawing the personal attention of Malocchio Aderre.
Gesmas wheeled the horse about and spurred it to a gallop.
With the clomping of his mount's hooves, the clatter of his tack and his leg brace, and the near-deafening thunder of his own heart filling his ears, Gesmas shouldn't have been able to hear the other riders-but he did.
The approaching hoofbeats thudded across the valley like the slamming of coffin lids. Their terrible sound heralded the arrival of two horsemen, who appeared atop the rise just as Gesmas started up the hill. The world seemed to slow, time itself shuddering to a halt at the sight of the twin horrors. Fleshless hands curled around the reins of horses that shook off wormy clots of meat with each step. Armor that seemed more tarnish than metal clattered against bare ribs. Open-faced helmets framed visages of bone. Their mouths gaped wide in mirthless, rictus grins.
Gesmas did not need to turn his horse again to direct its retreat from the skeletal horsemen. The animal wheeled on its own. Eyes wide with terror, it barreled back toward the bridge. The riders followed. For all their preternatural slowness, they somehow gained ground on the spy quickly.
Given a choice, Gesmas would have faced the riders before Azrael. He had a particular dread of creatures like the dwarf-or the thing the dwarf was supposed to be, if the stories he'd heard were to be believed. Malocchio's generals, too, had warned him against tangling with Azrael. He was unpredictable, the sort who might turn a simple act of espionage into an excuse for open warfare.
Gesmas could only hope that the stories were exaggerations, for there was no stopping his horse now. It recognized the stench of the grave emitted by the dead riders.
'Fate favor me,' Gesmas said, then kicked his mount into a full charge.
Azrael's iron-shod boots struck sparks from the stones underfoot as he ran to meet the assault. He balled his thick-fingered hands into fists in front of his face. Then his arms went slack, trailing loosely to his sides like broken wings. Claws burst from his fingertips. His heavy-footed gait became more certain, swifter. Fur sprouted in unpleasant gray-and-black tufts from his face and bare arms. A scream that was equal parts ecstasy and anguish blasted from his lips. The dwarfs entire frame convulsed, the bones of his skull grinding into a new configuration-a terrible mixture of dwarf and giant badger.
The transformation completed itself just as Azrael reached the near end of the bridge. An instant later, horse and rider were upon him.
Gesmas directed his mount's wild flight as best he could, hoping to drive Azrael aside or perhaps even trample him. For the briefest of instants, it appeared that he would escape.
Azrael fell to his back as the horse bore down on him. The mount leapt forward, and Gesmas gasped. The way stood open. The border and safety beckoned at the bridge's far end.
The elation that sight engendered was shortlived. Even as the spy turned his head, hoping to glimpse the battered form of the werebeast, his horse collapsed beneath him. The unfortunate animal screamed once, then crumpled. Gesmas pitched forward. The saddle, its straps somehow sheared, and the saddlebags flew with him. They landed in a snarl at the center of the bridge's span.
As he raised his head from the stones, Gesmas glanced back at his fallen horse. The animal had been split from breastbone to tail. The carcass lay atop Azrael, who struggled to free himself from the grisly tangle. The werebeast's claws were thick with gore, the fur on his monstrous face matted with blood. Azrael expelled a grunt of anger, a horrible sound matched only by the thunder of the approaching skeletal riders.
Gesmas started to crawl. From his wrist, he plucked a small locket. The filigreed silver gleamed softly, just as it had the day Malocchio Aderre had given it to the spy. Now, in his hour of greatest need, Gesmas pressed it to his lips and invoked the charm it carried. 'Lord Aderre, aid me!' he called. 'I have what you want. I have Soth's history.'
He looked to the far end of the bridge. There, shrouded in the gathering gloom, stood Malocchio Aderre. Clad in black, he could have been cut from the darkness itself. He crossed thin arms over his chest impatiently. A breeze stirred his wild mop of black hair, uncovering his eyes for a moment. The dark orbs glittered brightly in a pale white face. 'Give it to me,' he cried. 'Quickly.'
Gesmas snatched up the saddlebags, stuffed to bursting with scraps of parchment and folios of notes about the Lord of Sithicus. As the spy raised the satchels above his head, the world went suddenly silent. Azrael's growls and the awful thunder of the dead riders, even the dull murmur of the river-all quieted at the same instant. A soft, unpleasant sound quickly filled the void. It was a voice, as deep and bleak as a bottomless chasm. It shook the soul and froze the blood. Gesmas found himself paralyzed.
'What do you hear?' shouted Malocchio Aderre, but his servant could not answer. The droning of the voice had become a song, a dirge of shattered faith and forsaken love. It was the tale of Lord Soth, sung by the thrice-cursed knight himself.
The words of that dire song gathered along the border, but would not pass beyond. They coalesced into thorny stems that reached high into the sky. With each new verse of Soth's lament, the stems stretched upward, swelling at the tops with tightly dosed buds. Then the song grew discordant, the story confused. The orderly row of stems tangled. The thorns tore at each other, and the wounds they left wept thick, viscous tears.
Gesmas felt the song take root in his mind. The melody sent tendrils deep into his thoughts, seeking out memories the spy had carefully walled off. They tapped into his most ghastly deeds, the morbid and horrific reflections that surrounded them, and drank of their vileness.
The urge to expel that poison overwhelmed Gesmas, and he himself began to sing. His crimes-and those of every other soul within the spectre-haunted land-created a dreadful harmony that swelled the buds atop the tangled stems. Finally, when no more voices could be added to the chorus, the flowers opened.
Black roses. Their petals blotted out the sky and filled the world with the fragrance of corruption.
Two
Countless pairs of hungry, hunting eyes followed the passage of Azrael's open-air carriage as it careened along the road to Nedragaard Keep. Nothing sprang from the night-cloaked forest or slithered up from the noxious mires that bordered the way. The creatures that stalked the Sithican wilds knew the distinctive sound of the dwarfs trap. The two-wheeled carriage was armored in the teeth of Azrael's fallen enemies. Tusks and fangs and molars chattered nervously at every bump in the road, warning away anyone or anything that might mistake Azrael for a common wayfarer.
Not that many travelers frequented the byways of Sithicus. The land's three main cities-Mal-Erek, Hroth, and Har-Thelen-were largely self-sufficient. The elves who inhabited those gray, joyless places shunned trade, even with their own kind. A plague known as the White Fever, which had swept back and forth across the land like a reaper's scythe for more than two decades, only made the cities more insular. That didn't slow the sickness. It ravaged town and farm alike, sometimes carrying off a single soul, sometimes an entire village.
As Azrael's trap hurtled through a crossroads, it encountered one of the more visible signs of the White Fever's presence in Sithicus. The horse's I hooves and the studded wheels shattered bones and sent up a cloud of pale,
