“A gift from some fey, I believe. She doesn’t talk about it. But all you need to know is that long-lived isn’t the same as immortal. Her powers and judgment are finally failing.”
“What a shame. But how can you tell?”
“You know the Iron Lord told her to perform divinations to establish the truth of your report. Has she reported back?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Because she can’t make the rituals work. In fact, when she tried in the Urlingwood, the magic went horribly wrong, and another hathran died as a result.”
“Again, I offer my regrets.”
“As far as her judgment is concerned,” the priestess continued, “surely you don’t need me to convince you she’s grown peculiar and obdurate, as old people sometimes do. There was no sane reason to hold up your reward.”
Bez turned toward her, brushed snow off the railing, and rested one elbow on the spot he’d cleared. “If others think the way you do, then why not divest the old girl of her responsibilities-gently and respectfully, of course-and pack her off to enjoy a well-earned retirement?”
“Some would not agree with me. Yhelbruna’s past achievements blind them to the current sad reality. And even if everyone did …” The hathran sighed. “An outlander like you once told me we Rashemi are slaves to our traditions, and I see now there’s truth in that. Yet it’s dangerous for the land to have a failing mind in charge. And you, Captain, will never have your due now that, by whatever perverse, suspicious reasoning, she has decided you don’t deserve it. Whereas if the ‘old girl’ no longer stood in your way …”
Bez shook his head in amazement. “You’re asking me to kill her?”
“It’s your trade, isn’t it?”
“War is my trade, and as a general rule, it’s neither good for business nor particularly safe for sellswords to turn on their employers. Besides, mightn’t Mangan and the other hathrans take Yhelbruna’s bloody corpse as evidence the undead aren’t really gone?”
“Then don’t bloody it. Make it look like her tired old heart simply stopped beating, or she broke her neck in a fall. Or make sure the body’s never found. My friends and I can put about the suggestion that, upset over what happened in the Urlingwood, she went into seclusion to pray. The point is that when she’s no longer around to object, Mangan will give you the griffons.”
Bez grinned. “And some other hathran will have to rise from the ranks and take command.”
“I told you, my concern is for my country, not my personal ambitions.”
“Certainly.” Standing up straight again, he pondered her proposal.
Obviously, it carried an element of risk, but so did simply waiting around in Immilmar. The berserkers of the Griffon Lodge, their deer-man allies, Dai Shan, and Aoth Fezim’s familiar were all safely dead, but he couldn’t be quite as certain about the Thayan himself, or Jhesrhi Coldcreek and Cera Eurthos. Unlikely as it seemed, they could conceivably still turn up, or some busybody could discover by some other means that Mario Bez wasn’t really the savior of Rashemen but rather the man who’d slaughtered its true benefactors to steal the credit.
He drew breath to give his companion his answer, and then his eyes widened in surprise.
Apparently, as he’d deliberated, he’d briefly lost track of anything other than his own musings. In that moment, the witch had disappeared.
He looked at both ends of the bridge and all around. He still couldn’t see any cloaked and hooded figures, just a stray wisp of mist curling over the ice.
He snorted, mildly amused but annoyed as well. He preferred being the trickster, not the dupe, and it nettled him that the witch believed she could read him so well that she needn’t wait for a verbal reply.
Still, it wasn’t worth fretting over. Especially when there was work to be done, or rather, assigned.
He tramped back to the Owlbear Lodge, where all was now raucous conviviality, with some men booming out a song and other stamping, whirling, and tossing their blades back and forth in a sword dance. Looking in the doorway, he beckoned Melemer and Olthe forth as the witch had beckoned him.
The little warlock possessed a deviousness that lent itself well to assassination. The battleguard was a more forthright personality, but she’d follow Melemer’s lead if Bez told her to, and to say the least, it seemed unlikely that Yhelbruna could withstand both of them.
One of the constructs was a long-armed, short-legged giant with a bestial face that reminded Aoth of demons he’d fought in the past. Leaning forward on its knuckles, it had been standing motionless ever since he and Orgurth had first peered down at the Raumathari war band. But now, abruptly, gleaming in the starlight, it stood up straight and held out an upturned hand. Something black began to accumulate there either created in every sense of the word or drawn from elsewhere.
“There we go,” Aoth murmured.
“What?” Orgurth replied.
“I’ve identified their siege engine. Apparently, it needed to renew its power, but now it’s ready to resume the bombardment.”
“The undead already made one breach. I expected them to charge it already.”
“So did I. They generally don’t hesitate to make a run at the living. But their tactics are sound. The more holes they poke, the harder it becomes for the defenders to block them all.”
The orc grunted. “So you want to stop the statue?”
“Yes.”
Ever since Aoth had decided to intervene in the siege, he’d been looking for a way to make a difference. For all his toughness, Orgurth was just one warrior, and while Aoth wielded potent magic, he was just one war mage against a small army no doubt made up in part of others with comparable skills. He would, moreover, have only one chance to attack by surprise. Afterward, attempting any sort of aggressive action without falling victim to an overwhelming reprisal would be more difficult.
It made sense to use that chance to destroy the enemy’s most powerful weapon. If Tymora smiled, he might even surprise the Raumvirans controlling the construct and destroy them as well.
“How are you at walking like a dead man?” he asked.
Orgurth eyed him. “Are you joking?”
“I’ll need to use a more powerful spell than I can throw from this far away, and truly, the trick should work. This is an empty wasteland. The Raumvirans have no reason to expect any foes to come sneaking up behind them, and even if they do have lookouts posted, the average dread warrior isn’t all that observant.”
“You never told me what being a Brother of the Griffon pays. I hope it’s a lot.”
Orgurth tugged his cowl down to shadow as much of his face as possible. Then he practiced a stiff-legged walk and gave an experimental moan.
Aoth winced. “Don’t make noise. You don’t sound right. Sway and lurch a little, but don’t overdo it.”
He adjusted his own hood as the orc had. Then he and Orgurth clambered down the slope and trudged on toward the ranks of the enemy.
As he’d hoped, none of the foe paid the newcomers any attention. All the Raumvirans, or at least all the common zombies and walking skeletons, were watching the Rashemi stronghold with the single-minded patience of the dead.
While he and Orgurth made their approach, the black substance finished congealing in the metal giant’s palm, forming a ball so round and smooth that any artilleryman would have gladly loaded it into an onager or mangonel. The construct cocked its arm, whipped it forward, and stepped, just like a human being would, to put all his strength behind a throw.
The missile flew not at one of the sealed cave mouths but at the breached one where, no doubt hoping darkness would afford a measure of protection, masked Rashemi were stacking pieces of stone. Their half-finished barricade shattered, and those struck by flying rock cried out.
The construct resumed its previous stance. Another orb began to form in its palm.
But, Aoth resolved, it was never going to get the chance to throw it. Judging that he and Orgurth had sneaked close enough, he whispered an incantation.
The head of his spear glowed green. He extended his arm, and power leaped forth in a thin beam that caught the construct in the center of its back.
