force of faith, but you aren't actually going to expend any of your own power. You're simply going to release a measure of what's stored in the rod.'
Iphegor snorted. 'I do know how to employ a talisman.'
'Of course. When you're ready, the trigger word is 'Burn.''
'Burn,' Iphegor repeated.
Dazzling flame exploded from the end of the torch to engulf the captive undead. When the flare died a heartbeat later, they were gone as well. The burst had reduced the dread warrior to wisps of ash, while the phantom left no tangible residue whatsoever.
'Impressive,' Iphegor conceded.
'Thank you,' Szass Tam replied. 'The discharge is a mixture of fire and that pure essence of light and life which is poison to undead creatures, and I guarantee you, the Burning Braziers will be able to invoke it as required, even if other magic fails.'
'There will still be a significant element of danger, and you still need to give me an adequate reason to put Kossuth's servants in harm's way.'
'Concern for the common folk who need your help?' Yaphyll suggested, grinning.
Judging from her scowl, Lallara found the high priest's recalcitrance less amusing. 'Szass Tam already offered to exempt your followers from the mandate to surrender their dead.'
'True, that's something,' the fire priest said, 'and so are these torches, which, I assume, the Braziers will keep even when the threat is past. Still, if I'm to throw in with you and earn the enmity of Thrul and his party, I need more.'
'It seems to me,' said Szass Tam, 'that you're getting it. As we seek ascendancy over our fellow zulkirs, don't you aspire to make the worship of Kossuth the primary faith in the realm?'
'It already is,' said Iphegor.
'Granted,' said the lich, 'but the churches of Bane, Cyric, and Shar are also strong, and in time, one of them could well supplant you. As you and Yaphyll agreed, this is a generation of 'change and turmoil.' We're offering you a chance to guarantee your continued dominance. If your faith receives special treatment from the zulkirs and plays a heroic part in destroying the menace in Pyarados, new worshipers will flock to your altars.
'Surely that's sufficient incentive,' Szass Tam continued. 'Surely it's more important than anything else we could offer, so must you really haggle like a fishwife for additional concessions?'
Iphegor grinned. 'It seemed worth a try, but perhaps it is beneath our dignity. All right, I agree to your terms. When the tharchions and your zombies and necromancers march out, the Burning Braziers, Black Flame Zealots, Brothers and Sisters of the Pure Flame, and the Order of the Salamander will march with them.'
Szass Tam returned the smile. 'I'm glad to hear it.'
The council of war broke up a short time later, and left Aoth feeling both relieved and a little dazed. As he and Nymia retraced their steps through the temple, he murmured, 'They spoke so freely.'
'Because the High Flamelord insisted on candor,' the tharchion replied.
'Yes, but they did it in front of us. They could have sent us out of the room when they started talking about their rivalries and politics and all the rest of it, and I wish they had.' He chuckled without mirth. 'A man who 'doesn't even wear red' doesn't need to know about such things.'
'They didn't bother,' Nymia said, her sweaty face set and hard, 'because we're insignificant to them. You'd do well to remember it.'
The slaves, guards, and masters were just ahead. The setting sun stretched their shadows in Bareris's direction like dark fingers reaching to gather him in.
Though why that ominous simile flickered through his mind, he couldn't imagine, because this was a joyous if not miraculous moment. He'd lost precious days to the virulent fever the child-thing's bite had induced. It had been only by the grace of Lady Luck that he'd spotted the tracks that told him the thralls and their captors had left the road. Yet he hadn't fallen so far behind he could never catch up, nor lost the trail either, and his search had come to an end. He kicked his weary horse into a gallop.
A small woman, her dark hair just beginning to grow out, scrambled forth from the ranks of the slaves. It was Tammith. Even at a distance, even after six years, he knew her instantly, as it was plain she'd recognized him despite his outlander's clothing and the sweaty unshaven locks flopping around his head. Crisscrossing her arms, she waved her hands over her head until an orc grabbed her and shoved her back in among the other thralls.
Seeing her subjected to rough treatment made Bareris all the more frantic to close the distance. Still, he forced himself to rein in his mare, because it had looked as if she was waving him off, and some of the guards were maneuvering to intercept him if he came any closer.
It was the final inexplicable oddity in a whole string of them. First he'd learned that necromancers had purchased Tammith and the other slaves in the middle of the night and marched them out of Tyraturos under cover of darkness. Then, bribing and questioning folk along the way, he'd gradually realized that over the course of the last several tendays, people-some recognizably Red Wizards, others possibly their agents-had marched a considerable number of slaves into the sparsely populated north, where the demand for such chattels was ordinarily limited. After that came the discovery that Tammith's owners didn't appear to be taking her to a town, fief, or farm but rather into open country.
Bareris didn't need to know what it all meant. He only wanted to extricate Tammith from the middle of it, but it came to him that, eager as he was to be reunited with the woman he loved, it might be prudent to approach the caravan with caution.
He reviewed the list of all the spells he knew, imagining how he might use them if things went awry, then sang a charm to augment his force of personality. While the enchantment endured, people would see him a shade taller and handsomer than he actually was. They'd find themselves more inclined to like, trust, and oblige him.
That accomplished, he walked his horse forward, sang, and accompanied himself on the yarting, like any wandering minstrel seeking a cordial welcome. On the surface, the song was simply the familiar ditty 'The Eagle and the Mouse,' but he wove magic through the lines. Enough, he hoped, to beguile the guards and keep them from loosing arrows at him before he drew close enough for conversation.
He paced the tune to conclude just as he reached the mass of people clustered in front of him. By then, charmed, perhaps, by his music, two Red Wizards had stepped forth to meet him. Both were young, which he supposed made sense: Their seniors were surely above the mundane chore of transporting slaves across country. It likewise gave him reason for hope. Older Red Wizards were wealthy almost without exception, but neophytes might still be striving to make their fortunes, hence that much more susceptible to bribery.
Bareris crooned words that would keep his steed from wandering or getting into mischief, swung himself down from the saddle, and dropped to one knee in front of the Red Wizards. The show of respect was arguably excessive. By custom, a bow would have sufficed, but he wanted to flatter them.
'You can stand up,' said the one on the right. He had jam stains on his robe and a bulge of paunch beneath it, though his spindly Mulan frame was still lean elsewhere. In time, that was likely to change if he didn't master his love of sweets. 'That was a fine song.'
' 'That was a fine song,' ' mimicked the other mage, his face tattooed in black and white to make it resemble a naked skull, and the fellow with the soiled robe winced at the sneer in his voice. 'Who are you, sirrah?'
As a Mulan, Bareris was entitled to a more respectful mode of address, even from a Red Wizard, but he chose not to make an issue of it. 'Bareris Anskuld, sir.'
'Apparently,' said the skull-faced wizard, 'you've been following us.'
'Yes, sir, all the way from Tyraturos.'
The leaner mage sneered at his partner. 'So much for your promise to cover our tracks. Have you ever done
The jam lover flinched. 'I reanimated the child just the way our master taught us, and Calmevik was supposed to be one of the best assassins in the city. Everybody said so.'
Bareris's mouth turned dry as dust, and a chill oozed up his back. The trap in the alley hadn't been an essentially random misfortune after all. The Red Wizards were so determined on secrecy that they'd left minions behind to kill anyone inquiring into their business, and now he, idiot that he was, had delivered himself into their murderous clutches.
Yet he still had his enchantment heightening his powers of persuasion and other tricks held in reserve.
