Prophet of the Dead

but essentially true, a vision of Aoth’s recent struggle slipping across their psychic bond.

He prepared to reach out with his thoughts, make absolutely sure Aoth was all right, and ask what the war mage meant to do next. Then a shout rang up from the courtyard. This, he realized, was the noise that had actually woken him.

He peered down. Red sword in hand, Vandar was running toward the steps that ran up to his location. Something was manifestly wrong, but for another moment, Jet couldn’t tell what it was.

Then undead erupted from the doorway into the central keep. Some were loping ghouls and running skeletons. Others were entities unlike any Jet had ever seen, animate suits of half plate floating through the air. All were in pursuit of the berserker.

What had the idiot human done? How had he managed to go looking for Jhesrhi and Cera and come back with dozens of angry phantoms and living corpses chasing after him?

Shaking off his astonishment, Jet realized that at the moment, how didn’t matter. What did matter was that there were too many foes for him and Vandar to fight by themselves, and no refuge in the ruined castle that, even if they could reach it, would keep the creatures out for long.

That left only one recourse. Straining because his injuries had made him stiff and the angle was awkward, Jet clawed and bit at his splint and the bindings holding it in place.

Dai Shan had said that despite a month of recuperation, his wing wasn’t ready. If so, would trying to use it prematurely cripple it for all time?

No, no need to worry about that, because if Jet couldn’t use it now either the undead or a second fall would kill him, and by all the winds that blew, if that happened, so be it. At least the waiting and fretting would be over!

Using his beak, he ripped away the last strip of cloth and shook his wing out. It throbbed and stank too. Pus seeped from raw spots where feathers had yet to grow back. But at least he could move it.

Panting and soaked in sweat, Vandar scrambled onto the wall-walk, whirled, and slashed the fey broadsword in a horizontal arc. The ghoul that had been about to cut him down from behind toppled off the steps and out of sight with its mold-spotted head half severed.

“Get on my back!” Jet rasped.

Vandar glanced around. “You’re sure?”

“Do you have a better plan? Move!”

The Rashemi ran to him and clambered on. Even the paltry weight of a human being produced a fresh pang of pain.

But Jet didn’t let that slow him down. He lunged at the parapet, leaped atop a crenel, and bounded on out into space.

And his outstretched pinions transformed what would otherwise have been a plummet into a level glide. He lashed them and began to climb.

Every wing beat hurt, and flight was a labored, awkward progress. But he was flying, and he rejoiced.

He wheeled and beheld a couple of the animate suits of half-plate floating after him. Uselessly. Despite his weakened condition, they weren’t flying fast enough to catch him.

Still, he wheeled, lashed his wings, and hurled himself at the closest. It attempted to swing a broadsword at him, and he caught its weapon arm in one set of talons and its helmet head in the other.

The armored phantom pulled apart in his grasp. He dropped the pieces to clatter on the ground, turned to avoid flying over the courtyard-there might be archers and spellcasters down there by now-and drove onward.

“Another man might ask what the point was of pausing to kill that one creature,” Vandar said, still breathing heavily. “But I’m a berserker. I understand.”

Jet didn’t bother answering. He was busy peering ahead for a place of concealment he could reach before his strength gave out.

7

Over the course of her long life, Yhelbruna had listened to countless messengers standing outside Witches’ Hall to request that she and her sisters attend the Iron Lord. Such callers were always respectful, but in subtle ways, their manner varied.

Generally, the messengers were extremely deferential, conveying that their master understood the hathrans would come if and when they pleased. But if a matter was urgent, and particularly if it pertained to the Iron Lord’s primary role as warlord, then his emissaries communicated that urgency. While still asking for assistance with all the rhetorical flourishes protocol required, they nonetheless made it clear that the Iron Lord expected representatives of the Wychlaran to attend him without delay.

The messenger that had arrived this afternoon had been of the latter variety. Still, Yhelbruna had expected to find Mangan Uruk inside the castle. Instead, he stood in the courtyard amid scurrying, shouting warriors, some of them his own personal retainers, others carrying shields painted with stags, snow tigers, and other totems of Immilmar’s berserker lodges.

Spying the half dozen hathrans entering through the gate, he waved to them. “Over here!”

The hathrans advanced, the warriors made way for them, and, when they reached him, Mangan bowed.

“What is all this?” Yhelbruna asked.

“I’ll let him tell you,” Mangan said. He held out his arm, and, its little brown-feathered body translucent in the winter sunlight, a wren fluttered down to light on his wrist.

Yhelbruna felt a pang of dismay. Despite all the distracting commotion, she ought to have sensed the presence of a spirit animal. It was one more indication that her mystical strength was waning.

“I am Rosesong!” chirped the wren. “I live in Belvata!”

“Yes,” Mangan said. “Please, tell the learned sisters what you told me.”

“I am Rosesong! I live in Belvata! Dead things came in the night! They killed men and women! They killed chickens and pigs! Hathran Yulzel sent me to fetch help! I am Rosesong! I live in Belvata!”

“Thank you, friend,” Mangan said. The phantom bird leaped off his wrist and fluttered up toward the battlements.

The Iron Lord then gave Yhelbruna a wry smile. “So you see, hathran, you were right. Whatever may have happened in the North Country, the threat from the ghouls and wraiths is not over, and I have to go end it once and for all. I’ll need witches to help me, and naturally, I’d like the aid of wise Yhelbruna most of all.”

She took another look around the crowded courtyard with its men tying bundles on braying donkeys; whining, sparking grinding wheels sharpening blades; and all the rest of its bustling, noisy preparations. “It looks like you’re taking every warrior you can lay your hands on.”

“As I said, we’re going to put an end to this menace as fast as possible, and the way to do that is to bring all our strength to bear.”

“I see the logic. But Belvata is a small village.” To be precise, it was a hamlet on the far side of the River Rasha a hundred miles to the south. “If a great host of undead raided it, how likely is it that anyone would have survived to send word?”

For a moment, a hint of something less cordial, a flicker of impatience, perhaps, showed through Mangan’s smile. “You listened to Rosesong. He’s a brave, loyal creature, but I doubt he has the wits to give us a more detailed explanation of what happened. Maybe only a few undead, scouts or foragers or whatever, turned up in Belvata. The fact remains that of late, no one has sighted any of the vile things anywhere else. Accordingly, I have to assume they’ve all moved south.”

Yhelbruna frowned. “That’s not as logical. What if-”

“Curse it!” Mangan exploded. “Enough of this!”

Startled for a moment, Yhelbruna could only stare, and in that instant, the Iron Lord appeared to realize he’d overstepped. He bowed a second time and far more deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I revere the Wychlaran. I’ve spent my life serving you to the best of my ability. You