Prophet of the Dead

Still, when he finished spinning around, blood was streaming from a gash in his scalp with more making fresh red spots on his bandages. At the very least, Bez was whittling him down.

Bez retreated, and his remaining illusory twin retreated with him. Cherlinka charged after him.

Bez spoke another word of invocation and drew a pale flare of pure cold from his rapier. Despite his headlong momentum, Cherlinka sprang aside, and the blast only grazed him. That alone would have been enough to drop many a man, but the Rashemi kept coming.

Bez kept his rapier forward and his main gauche well back, as if the shorter weapon were only something to use in the clinches. As Vandar rushed into striking distance, he met him with a lunge, a feint to the face, and a true attack to the stomach.

Cherlinka parried with a downward sweep that might have snapped a rapier that wasn’t enchanted. He riposted with a cut to the flank.

But it was a cut to the flank of the remaining illusory double, and so Bez had no need to parry. Instead, he thrust at the berserker’s eye.

The red sword hit the duplicate, and it burst into nothingness. Meanwhile, Bez’s point streaked at its target.

At the last possible instant, Cherlinka jerked his head to the side. The rapier caught him anyway, but not in the brain-piercing fashion Bez had intended. The edge sliced him across the ear and brought more blood streaming forth.

Still, it was yet another wound. Bez told himself that soon, even a berserker would start showing the effects.

But in the exchanges that followed, Cherlinka attacked with the same relentless aggression as before, and although his sweeping cuts and rudimentary technique repeatedly left him open, Bez didn’t score on him again. The barbarian ducked, dodged, pivoted, and swayed, and the rapier kept missing by a hair.

Until, breathing harder, Bez realized there was at least a slim chance that he was the one who was going to slow down first. Time for more magic, then, specifically, the trick that had never failed him.

He allowed Cherlinka to beat his blade out of line. Clearly not suspecting a trap, perhaps no longer even cognizant of the main gauche his adversary hadn’t used since the duel began, the Rashemi sprang and cut at Bez’s chest.

Bez retreated and spun the dagger in a circular parry. At the same time, a murmured word set it ablaze with lightning. When the blades met, the power would leap from one to the other and on into Cherlinka’s arm.

Steel clanged, and magic flashed and crackled. But the red sword went flying, and Cherlinka kept driving in. Bez just had time to realize the barbarian must have let go of the sword an instant before the two blades came into contact. Then Cherlinka slammed into him, and they fell together.

With the rapier useless at such close quarters, Bez angled the main gauche for a thrust at Cherlinka’s side. But before he could deliver it, the Rashemi punched him in the jaw.

The blow jolted Bez and made him falter. Cherlinka heaved him over so he was facedown, scrambled on top of him, and gripped his throat.

Pinned, his air cut off and his mouth clogged with snow, Bez could neither wield his blades to any effect nor recite an incantation. But there had to be something he could do! Unfortunately, as he flailed blindly and futilely, and his desperation dulled to numb passivity, that cunning tactic never came to him.

The Rashemi cheered when Vandar finished strangling the life out of Bez. Aoth observed that, understandably, the Halruaan commander’s men didn’t share in the general jubilation. But they had better sense than to do anything that would draw attention to their displeasure.

Vandar struggled to rise and then, keeping his weight on his good leg, stood swaying over the corpse. When a man came out of a berserker rage, he always felt weak and sick to one degree or another, but Aoth suspected the Rashemi’s current debility stemmed from more than that. Vandar had suffered a broken knee, a knock to the head, and frostbite during the battle with the undead and dark fey, and Bez had just torn him up all over again.

Aoth glanced down to tell Cera they should go help him, but her expression informed him she’d already decided the same thing. They hurried forward, and so did Yhelbruna.

So did a number of others, likewise wanting to help or simply to congratulate Vandar on his victory. Aoth wondered if he should try to stop them, lest the resulting press make it difficult for Cera and Yhelbruna to do their work.

Then, screeching, Jet and the golden griffon plunged down from the sky to land to either side of Vandar and glare at the crowd. Except for Yhelbruna, the oncoming Rashemi stopped short.

The two priestesses murmured prayers to their deities and touched Vandar’s new wounds with hands glowing gold or green. One at a time, the berserker’s gashes closed, his gaze sharpened, and eventually, he scooped up a handful of snow to wash the blood from his face.

“Now our war is over,” he said.

“Yes,” Aoth replied, “and congratulations on a fight well fought. But the matter that brought Cera, Jet, Jhes, and me to Rashemen remains. Who gets the wild griffons?”

“You do,” Vandar said.

Aoth cocked his head. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You were able to lead them into battle-”

“You mean, I was,” Jet rasped.

Vandar smiled a tiny fleeting smile. “Sorry, my friend. You were. But either way, it means something.”

Aoth snorted. “Maybe. But I’m not much for signs and destinies, and you did plenty to help our side win. So how about this? I’ll settle for half the griffons. You take the rest, including the telthor.”

“Why, when I no longer have a use for them? My lodge is gone.”

“Rebuild it. Isn’t that what your brothers would want, especially at a time when Rashemen needs every warrior it can muster? Young warriors will come running for the chance to be griffon riders.”

Vandar hesitated. “But … am I the man to lead them?”

Aoth scowled. “It wasn’t you to blame for the destruction of your lodge. It was this treacherous turd lying at our feet. So whatever mistakes you made, learn from them and move on. Any other course is stupid.”

“Captain Fezim is right,” Yhelbruna said. “The spirit griffon came to you when you needed him, and that means something too.” Her tone gentled in a way Aoth hadn’t heard before. “And if even that isn’t enough to persuade you, know that I see goodness and the seeds of wisdom in you.” For just a moment, she touched Vandar’s cheek, and this time, not to heal him.

The berserker looked as surprised as Aoth felt, but then he smiled and drew himself up straighter. “Very well, hathran. If I can count on you to help me, I say yes. And thank you. Thank you, both.”

Cera gave Aoth’s forearm a squeeze and whispered, “Another lecherous hundred-year-old preying on a naive young innocent.”

“Maybe she and I can start a fashion.”

Yhelbruna turned in a rustle of robes, and for an instant, Aoth thought she’d overheard and taken offense at the levity. But, stern and formal once more, she said, “Thank you for your service, Captain, and for your generosity as well.”

Aoth grinned. “I’m not that generous. Watch.” He turned and tramped through the snow to where he could address Bez’s sellswords without shouting. His companions trailed along behind him.

“As even my rival Vandar concedes,” he told the Halruaans, “I earned the wild griffons. Because I’m only taking half of them, I’m collecting the rest of my pay in another form: the Storm of Vengeance.”

The sellswords stared back at him in consternation. Then the wizened, bitter-looking old wizard who was one of Bez’s surviving officers said, “You promised that if we helped fight the undead, we’d go free.”

“I didn’t promise to return the ship.”

“Do you know how to fly her?”

“No,” Aoth replied, “so I’ll make you an offer. You men can swear allegiance to the Brotherhood of the Griffon and crew the Storm for me as you did for Bez. My sergeant Orgurth will come aboard as