Prophet of the Dead

too.”

“Too bad we can’t charge them.”

Jhesrhi stood silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Aoth.”

“Yes?”

“The fire. My fire. When it attached itself to me, I thought it made me stronger and would shield me from … from the things I don’t like. But …”

She’d always hated to confess weakness or ask for help, and Aoth saw no reason to make her say the words when he could do it for her. “But now you realize it’s a sickness.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll cure it.”

How? asked Jet.

I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.

The Storm of Vengeance couldn’t set down inside the Urlingwood. Mario Bez had to rendezvous with his allies, if that was still the proper term for them, on scrubland south of the sacred forest.

By then, the setting sun was casting long gray shadows across the snow, everyone had had some opportunity to rest, and Cera Eurthos, Yhelbruna, or some other hathran had had time to use her healing magic on Aoth Fezim and Vandar Cherlinka.

Still, the folk who’d fought on the ground looked haggard with fatigue, and Fezim and Cherlinka were bandaged where even a priestess’s prayers hadn’t entirely erased a wound. In contrast, Bez still felt relatively fresh. As his Thayan counterpart had predicted, flying foes had intermittently assailed the skyship. But repelling the boarders hadn’t proved too difficult, and Bez himself hadn’t suffered any harm in the process.

He gave the circle of scowling folk who’d assembled to meet him a smile. “I take it,” he said, “that we carried the day.”

“Yes,” said Fezim, the glow of his blue eyes more noticeable with the coming of twilight. “Although a number of undead escaped, and even more of the dark fey and their telthors.”

“The dark fey shouldn’t pose too much of a problem,” the witch said in her usual austere tones. “They’re as much a part of the land as the bright ones, and without the durthans to incite them, they won’t perpetuate a war they no longer have any hope of winning.”

“But you do need to hunt down every last undead,” Cera said. “They’ll prey on the living and spread their contagion until you do.”

“Indeed,” Yhelbruna said. “We must also cleanse the Urlingwood of the stain our enemies introduced. And free those whose minds were twisted, and replace the hathrans and berserkers who perished. It will all take time, and until we accomplish it, Rashemen will be weaker than it should be.”

“Still,” said Bez, “Captain Fezim is right. Victory truly is ours. And given that we all contributed, may I suggest that the appropriate way to honor the occasion is to lay old quarrels to rest?”

For a moment, no one answered. Then an orc who was missing his tusks grinned and said, “But the best thing about beating a war band of walking corpses and angry trees and such is that it frees you to slaughter the people you really hate.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Fezim said, “but Orgurth’s right. You’re not leaving unless you first survive a duel.”

Bez shrugged. “Then let’s get to it. I assume you’re the one who’s going to meet me on the field of honor.”

“No,” said Vandar Cherlinka, “I am.”

Plainly surprised, Fezim turned to regard the berserker. “Bez and I are both war mages. It makes sense-”

“I don’t care,” Cherlinka snapped. “Look, I know you have reason to kill him. He tried to kill Jet. But he did kill my lodge brothers, and I swore to avenge them.”

The Thayan scowled, but he nodded too. “Do it, then.”

Bez waved his hand. “There’s a clear, level patch of ground over there.”

“I see it,” Cherlinka said, and people started moving in that direction. Taking a moment to watch carefully, Bez verified that an earlier impression was correct. His opponent was walking with a bit of a stiff-legged limp.

Bez then turned to Aoth Fezim. “Please, stroll along with me, Captain.”

His fellow commander fell into stride beside him. “What do you want?”

“Aside from the pleasure of your company, to remind you you said one duel.”

“I did,” Fezim replied, “and I swear by the Pure Flame, I won’t insist on fighting you if you kill Vandar. I won’t let dozens of berserkers line up to do it either. You’ll be free to go.”

Bez grinned. “Thank you.”

Fezim smiled back. “I don’t mind renewing that pledge because you aren’t going to kill Vandar. I know you think you are. I saw you taking note of his stiff leg. On top of that, you have wizardry, he doesn’t, and you assume you’ve mastered fencing tricks that will befuddle a barbarian. But I’ve taken your measure and his, and he’s a better fighter than you could ever hope to be.”

For a moment, Bez felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze blowing down from the North Country. Then he realized what Aoth was attempting to do and snorted his momentary misgivings away.

“Good try,” he said. “But it’s not that easy to rattle me. Go watch the fight with your friends. Just don’t blink, or you might miss it.”

The motley little army had formed a circle around the dueling ground. Standing together, Uregaunt, Sandrue, and the rest of Bez’s crew made up one portion of the ring, and he gave them a wink as he entered the space. Meanwhile, griffons soared and shrieked overhead.

Yhelbruna walked out into the circle to preside over the combat. Despite her air of aloof severity, she surely wasn’t impartial in her private heart, as she perhaps proved by waving Bez closer to his opponent. She was adjusting the starting distance to facilitate blade work, not spellcasting.

But Bez had no real objection. Indeed, if the adjustment misled Cherlinka into assuming he wouldn’t have to contend with magic, so much the better.

Yhelbruna said, “Draw your weapons,” and they did. With a whispered command, Bez forbade the frost in the core of his rapier and the lightning in his parrying dagger to manifest just yet.

The hathran in her leather mask stepped backward. “Begin!” she said.

At once, Cherlinka snarled like a beast. He sprang forward with the red sword poised for a head cut.

Bez retreated, put his rapier in line, and spoke a word of release to cast one of the spells stored inside it.

Three illusory duplicates of himself sprang into being around him, each with its point extended. Now Cherlinka was hurling himself at four blades, with no way to determine which was the real threat.

The Rashemi coped by diving under all of them. Bez lowered his aim but was a shade too slow. Cherlinka was already past his point.

The berserker swung the red blade in a scything blow that caught two of the illusions and popped them both like soap bubbles. But he hadn’t struck his real foe, and ducking in mid-charge had left him canted precariously forward. Bez sidestepped, raised his sword hand high with the blade aimed downward, and stabbed at his opponent’s back.

A man who looked in imminent danger of falling flat on his face shouldn’t even have perceived that attack, let alone been able to defend against it. But Cherlinka sprang forward, and the thrust missed. Why in the name of the Abyss wasn’t the clod’s bad leg hindering him now?

Berserker fury, Bez supposed, and then assured himself it didn’t matter. Limping or hopping around like a grasshopper, Cherlinka was no match for him.

As the Rashemi arrested his headlong momentum, straightened up, and started to turn, Bez backed away and, with a word of command, roused the cold in his rapier. Fist-sized hailstones hammered down from the empty air.

Again, even with his back turned, Cherlinka somehow sensed the threat. He flung himself sideways, and only a few of the icy missiles battered him.