Unclean

Lady Luck must love you, the war mage silently told the refugee, to keep you alive until Brightwing and I arrived. With a thought, he sent the griffon swooping lower then flourished his spear and rattled off an incantation.

Darts of blue light hurtled from the head of the lance to pierce the phantom through. The punishment made it more visible, though it was just a pale shadow with a hint of armor in its shape and the suggestion of a blade extending from its hand. It rose into the air as Aoth had hoped it would. He wanted to draw it away from the man on the ground.

'Run!' Aoth shouted.

Instead, the stranger called, 'Don't attack him! He's my guide! Mirror, don't fight! Come back to me!'

Aoth hesitated. Was the man a necromancer and 'Mirror' his familiar?

Maybe not, because the ghost kept on flying at Aoth and his mount, and after his recent experiences with the undead, he had no intention of giving it the benefit of the doubt. He wheeled Brightwing in an attempt of keep away from the spirit and chanted words of power. For a moment, Mirror wavered into a short, broad, better-defined figure not unlike himself, then melted into blur once more.

'Stop!' the refugee roared, and his voice echoed from the mountainsides like thunder.

A palpable jolt made Brightwing screech and spoiled the mystic gesture necessary for the completion of Aoth's spell. Mirror's misty substance rippled like water, and then it-or he-floated back down toward the stranger like a hound called to heel.

With their psyches linked, Aoth could taste Brightwing's anger almost as if it were his own. She believed the man they'd been seeking to rescue had treacherously attacked them, but striving for clarity of thought despite the flare of emotion, Aoth discerned that the magical cry hadn't actually injured her, and the stranger had targeted both her and Mirror. Maybe he'd just been trying to halt the confrontation without harm to any of the parties involved.

'Calm yourself,' he told the griffon. 'Let's land and talk to him.'

'I'd rather land and tear him apart,' Brightwing snarled, but once she'd furled her wings and glided to the ground, she held her position several paces away from Mirror and the stranger.

Not so sure of the peculiar duo's benign intentions that he cared to dismount, Aoth remained in the saddle. 'I'm Aoth Fezim, captain and battle wizard in the Griffon Legion of Pyarados. Who are you, and what are you doing wandering in this region?'

'My name is Bareris Anskuld,' the stranger replied, and when Aoth viewed him up close, his haggard weariness was apparent. Weariness and something more. He had a bleakness about him, as if something of vital importance to him had gone horribly, irreparably awry. 'A bard and sellsword. I've been lost in the mountains and trying to find my way out. I met Mirror, and he chose to lead me. Is that the Pass of Thazar below us?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Thank you for the information and for trying to help when you thought I was in danger. Mirror and I will move on now, if it's all right with you.'

Aoth snorted. 'No, musician, it's not 'all right.' You need to give a better account of yourself than that, considering that my comrades and I are fighting a war of sorts in the vale.'

'A war? With whom?'

'Undead that came out of the mountains to the north, the same as you and your ghost friend.'

The bard's eyes narrowed, and though he seemed no less despondent than before, his taut expression now bespoke a bitter resolve. 'In that case, Captain, you should hear my tale in its entirety.'

It had taken most of the night to put the little meeting together while making sure none of the necromancers learned of it, and eyes smarting, nerves raw with tension and lack of sleep, Nymia Focar looked around the shadowy tent at the other three folk in attendance and found something to dislike in each of them.

Though evidently a Mulan of sorts and gifted with a facility for one of the lesser forms of magic, Bareris Anskuld was essentially a filthy, ragged vagabond. It was preposterous to imagine he had anything of importance to relate.

Despite his advanced years and the forfeiture of his rest, Milsantos Daramos, Tharchion of Thazalhar, looked fresh and alert and stood straight as a spear shaft. He'd even taken the trouble to put on his armor. That was reason enough to dislike the old man with his seamed face and shaggy white brows even if she hadn't resented the necessity of begging his aid to salvage her province and the fact that everyone considered him a better commander than herself.

She found, however, that Aoth vexed her most of all. The half-breed had his uses, but she never should have promoted him. The pressures of command had evidently disposed him to absurd apprehensions and fancies. Rather to her embarrassment, he'd already blathered about them in one council of war, and here he was, making a fool of himself again, and dressing her in motley and bells as well.

For he'd somehow managed to persuade her to give Bareris a hearing in the covert manner he desired, and she winced to think what might happen if the Red Wizards learned she'd gone behind their backs.

She supposed that meant it behooved her to get this nonsense over with as rapidly as possible, to minimize the possibility of anyone else finding out about it. 'Let's hear it,' she rapped.

Aoth had already given her the gist of the story in terse summation, but Bareris told it in detail and was more persuasive than she'd expected. Perhaps the very strangeness of the tale made it seem more credible, for how-to say nothing of why-would anyone make such things up?

But she wanted the story to be false. Since her audience with the zulkirs and Iphegor Nath, everything had gone splendidly, until she was ready to retake the Keep of Thazar itself. The lack of siege equipment shouldn't prove an insurmountable obstacle if the Burning Braziers performed as promised. She didn't need complications arising at the last moment.

So she did her best to pick holes in Bareris's story. 'If you wanted to take slaves into the mountains, why not just march them there directly? Why bother with Delhumide and a portal?'

'Because they didn't want anyone to see the thralls going east,' Bareris answered, 'lest he draw a connection between them and the raiders.'

'Also,' said Milsantos, idly fingering a raised gilded rune on his breastplate, 'it would be easier. The Sunrise Mountains are difficult terrain to negotiate and swarming with wild goblin and kobold tribes to boot.'

'Still,' she said, 'where's the proof this story is true?'

'The proof,' Aoth said, 'is that Bareris's report illuminates matters we couldn't understand before. The enemy was able to overcome the priest in Thazar Keep, send lacedons swimming downriver, and reanimate the folk they slaughtered in such quantities because they aren't all undead. Some are living necromancers.'

'That isn't proof,' she snapped, 'it's speculation.'

She realized she craved a drink, and despite a suspicion that, tired and upset as she was, it would do her more harm than good, she picked up a half-finished bottle of wine. The cork made a popping sound as she pulled it out.

'Tharchion,' Bareris said, 'if my word isn't good enough, let me tell my story to one of the Burning Braziers. He can use clerical magic to verify that I'm speaking the truth.'

Nymia had no desire to involve another person in their deliberations. Besides, she abruptly discerned that, much as she'd struggled to deny the perception, her instincts told her the bard was being honest.

She looked around for a clean cup, couldn't find one-she'd allowed her orderly to retire earlier-and swigged sweet white wine from the neck of the bottle. The stuff immediately roiled her stomach.

'For purposes of argument,' she said, 'let's say you are telling the truth as best you understand it. Your story suggests we're facing a cartel of rogue necromancers, traitors to their order.'

'Maybe,' said Milsantos, 'and maybe not. I have informants in Eltabbar. I'm sure you do too, but have you heard from yours in the past couple days? Mine got a letter to me.'

'And they said something pertinent to our situation here on the eastern border of the realm?'

'Perhaps. Two days ago, Szass Tam tried and failed to persuade the other zulkirs to proclaim him regent. In light of that, let's consider recent events.'

'To have any hope of winning the council to his way of thinking,' said Aoth, 'the lich had to seem a successful if not triumphant figure, so he manufactured a threat to the eastern tharchs then played a crucial role in combating it. That means it isn't 'rogue' mages standing against us. It's conceivable the entire order of Necromancy is