Prophet of the Dead

Nars, and Raumvirans. The band below us is all Raumvirans.”

Orgurth shrugged. “Maybe after your victory, Raumvirans are all that are left.”

“I guess it’s possible. But here’s what’s really strange. The defenders up there in the caves are men in masks. Male hathrans. Except there’s no such thing.”

“That you’ve heard of.”

“Right. That I’ve heard of.” For a moment, Aoth felt profoundly tired of this backward land and its secrets.

“Well, whoever and whatever they are, what do we do now?”

Aoth wanted to say they’d keep heading north. He was as eager as ever to reach the Fortress of the Half- Demon, and with the undead down on the saddle conducting their siege, the way lay open.

But was that the right move?

He was no healer to aid in Jet’s recovery. Vandar and even Dai Shan were already venturing into the dark maze at regular intervals to search for Cera and Jhesrhi. If Aoth did reach the ruin, it would only be after tendays of travel, and once there, what was he likely to accomplish?

But suppose he took a hand in the confrontation fate had placed before him. He’d be doing what he’d promised the Wychlaran and the Iron Lord he’d do and in the process might uncover some genuine answers at last. And if the masked men were some sort of hathran, they might have magic to speed him on his way.

“We’re going to help break the siege,” he said, “and hope the folk in the caves make it worth our while.”

The berserker of the Owlbear Lodge scowled and jumped up from the bench. His thoughts sluggish with ale and firewine, Mario Bez tried to puzzle out how he might have given offense, then realized he’d already forgotten what he’d just said.

He also realized he didn’t care. He supposed the barbarians had been friendly to invite men of the Storm of Vengeance into their hall to drink with them, but as far as he was concerned, this oaf was being friendlier still by offering him the chance to vent his frustration with all things Rashemi.

He rose in his turn, and other men on both sides leaped up as well. Hands reached for sword hilts and axe handles, and, starting to invoke the rage that was their gift, berserkers gave the unmistakable cry, half hoot and half roar, of their totem animal.

The imminence of a general melee jolted Bez’s thinking into a belated clarity. Once someone spilled blood, there’d be no stopping it; he and his crewmen were outnumbered, and even had it been otherwise, he had nothing to gain and much to lose by falling out with his hosts.

“Stop!” he bellowed. “This is between this lad and me!” Then he removed his rapier and main gauche and laid them on the table amid the tankards, goblets, pitchers, and bottles.

The fellow he’d evidently insulted-a typical Rashemi warrior, dark-haired, scarred, burly, and of no more than medium height-set his hand-axe and dirk aside as well. Then the two of them moved to a clear space while other people turned to watch.

Bez started to circle, but the berserker apparently wasn’t a believer in taking one’s time and feeling out the opponent before attacking in earnest. No doubt hoping to overwhelm Bez in an instant, he bellowed and rushed in.

That kind of explosive aggression could be effective, but it couldn’t startle a seasoned sellsword into passivity. Bez twisted out of the way and drove a fist into the Rashemi’s kidney as he blundered past.

The berserker grunted, spun, and flung out his arm. The backhand blow clipped Bez in the temple but not quite hard enough to make him falter. He stepped in close and whipped his elbow into the Rashemi’s face. The man stumbled back a step.

Bez then punched him in the jaw, and that stung worse than the blow he’d taken to the head. His knuckles throbbed. But the Rashemi went down.

Bez almost succumbed to the urge to kick and stamp on him, but that too, might have had unfortunate consequences. Instead, he waited for the berserker to shake off his daze, then offered him a hand up.

The Rashemi smiled ruefully and accepted the gesture of renewed good fellowship, and the spectators cheered. Bez acknowledged their approval by grinning, waving, and clapping his erstwhile adversary on the shoulder.

Then the door at the end of the lodge hall opened, and as the assembled warriors noticed the figure framed in the opening, they fell quiet.

The new arrival was a hathran with staff in hand and layers of robe and mantle shrouding her form. Her polished wooden mask was a bland abstraction of the female face, expressionless except, perhaps, for the hint of an ambiguous smile at the corners of the mouth.

Which was to say, she looked little different than the other witches Bez had seen since landing in Rashemen. He couldn’t make out why, as he regarded her, he felt a chill. Maybe just because of the cold night air blowing in around her.

She met his gaze and crooked her finger.

Still uneasy, wondering what this portended, he grabbed his weapons and buckled them on. Melemer and Olthe looked up at him, asking without words if he wanted them to accompany him or do anything in his absence. He shook his head and then followed the masked woman out the door.

It was late, and a whistling wind tumbled fresh snow out of the north. As he and his companion strolled south toward the little river that wound through the center of town, they appeared to have the night to themselves.

“You blundered your way into that predicament back there,” the witch said after a while, “but you extricated yourself deftly too.”

He snorted. “Were you peeking in the window?”

“I see that despite the excitement,” she said, “you’re still a little drunk. Otherwise, I trust, you wouldn’t speak to a hathran disrespectfully. Give me your hand.”

Wondering if she intended to rap his knuckles like he was a naughty child, he obeyed, and she clasped his hand in her own. Her touch was so cold, it startled him, though once again, he supposed he could attribute that to the general chill in the air. Her skin was nearly as white as the snow spilling from the heavens and blanketing the town.

She murmured a charm, and his thoughts quickened, while a hint of numbness fell away from his limbs. He had still been a little tipsy, even if he hadn’t realized.

Releasing his hand, she asked, “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we can confer like intelligent folk.”

“About what? Who are you?”

“Someone who hates seeing the champion of Rashemen cheated of his just reward.” They rounded a huddle of trees, sacred, in all likelihood, to some spirit or fey, and one of the old wooden bridges arching over the river came into view. She pointed with her staff and said, “Let’s talk in the center of that. The view is so pretty.”

And nobody, thought Bez, would be able to sneak up on them and eavesdrop.

The butt of her staff clicked on the planks, and the frozen river gleamed gray with Selune’s light. They stood at the railing and looked west, toward the point where the watercourse emptied into the lake, although Bez couldn’t quite see that far in the dark.

“Now you can introduce yourself properly,” he said.

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “That would be unwise.”

He cocked his head. “You’ll pardon a soldier’s bluntness if I say secrecy doesn’t inspire trust.”

“How much do you know about the history of Rashemen, Captain? The last time the learned sisterhood split into factions, the consequences were grim. No witch would want to be accused of fomenting another such schism.”

“And yet you are?”

The masked woman hesitated in the manner of one choosing her words judiciously. “You’ll have heard tell that Yhelbruna is well over a hundred years old.”

“Yes, although not the reason for it.”