But tonight he found the place less soothing than formerly. The air was pleasant, neither too hot nor too cool, and perfumed with the scent of flowers. A night bird sang, and the stars shone, but the sight of so many open graves, yawning like raw wounds in the earth, offended him. Death was supposed to be an ending, but for the poor wretches interred here, it had only been a brief respite. They'd toil and struggle on through the mortal world as zombie soldiers.
Yet much as Malark deplored Thay's practice of employing such warriors, he could do nothing about it. So he scowled and resolved to put the matter out of his mind and focus instead on the puzzle he needed to unravel.
Szass Tam had manipulated events to persuade the council of zulkirs to elect him regent. His efforts had failed, yet it was plain he was still maneuvering. To what end?
Malark had reviewed all the intelligence available to him, all the secrets his agents daily risked their lives to gather, and he still had no idea. It was almost enough to discourage him, to persuade him that Szass Tam was as transcendently brilliant as everyone maintained, so cunning and devious that no other being could hope to fathom his schemes.
But Malark refused to concede that. Though he was no wizard nor, thank the gods, a lich, he was as old as Szass Tam, and his extended span had afforded him the opportunity to develop a comparable subtlety of mind. No doubt the undead necromancer possessed the power to obliterate a mere excommunicant monk with a flick of his shriveled fingers, but that didn't mean he could outthink him.
The spymaster wandered by another pair of gaping graves, which still stank of carrion even though their former occupants were gone. He'd passed quite a few such cavities in just a short while, and he suddenly wondered if anyone except Szass Tam and his followers knew how many had been opened altogether or whether all the corpses really had gone to serve Tharchions Focar and Daramos, the commanders who'd marched up the Pass of Thazar to counter a threat in the east.
He whirled and dashed back the way he'd come, meanwhile wondering if Dmitra was already asleep or amusing herself with a lover. If so, she wouldn't appreciate being disturbed, but Malark needed another flying horse, and he needed it now.
The sky above the mountains was blue, but as one pivoted toward the Keep of Thazar, it darkened by degrees, so that the castle seemed to stand in a private pocket of night.
As yet, Aoth hadn't seen the nighthaunt or any of the undead except for a few ghouls and skeletons on the battlements, but he had little doubt the winged creature was responsible for the shroud of darkness. He recalled the boundless malevolence of the nighthaunt's blank pearly eyes, the contemptuous way it had allowed him to escape- because Szass Tam wanted news of the attack to travel, evidently-and all the horrors he'd witnessed on the night the fortress fell, and despite himself, he shivered.
His reaction annoyed him and made him wish the battle would begin. Once the waiting ended, his jitters should end with it. They always had.
Unfortunately, it wasn't time yet. First, the Burning Braziers had to complete their ritual, and unless it succeeded, the legionnaires had no hope of a successful assault.
To better survey the castle and the army arrayed before it, Aoth had ascended a hillock with Brightwing and Bareris-and Mirror too, presumably, though the spirit was entirely imperceptible at present-and so he turned to the singer.
Though bards were generally garrulous to a fault, following their interrogation of Urhur Hahpet, Bareris had lapsed into sullen taciturnity. But perhaps Aoth could draw him into a conversation. He was still curious about the man, and it would be something to occupy his mind.
'It will be a tough fight,' said Aoth, 'but we can win. Even without our zombies, we have a sizable army, and even without the necromancers, we have wizardry. I'm not the only war mage in the host.'
Bareris grunted.
'Of course,' Aoth persisted, 'we wouldn't have a chance if not for you. Makes me glad you asked to fight in my company.'
'Don't be. My luck is bad.'
Aoth snorted. 'I'd say you were damn lucky to make it out of the mountains alive, and we were lucky you turned up here when you did.'
Bareris shrugged. 'The gravecrawler said I still had a path to walk, and maybe this is it. Revenge. As much as I can take, for as long as I'm able.'
Aoth was still trying to decide how to answer that when the ground began to shake. The Burning Braziers had warned their comrades of what to expect, but some of the soldiers standing in formation in front of the castle cried out anyway.
'This is it,' Aoth said.
He swung himself onto Brightwing's back, and the griffon beat her wings and soared into the air. Bareris trotted to join the axemen he intended to fight among.
The tremors intensified, and men-at-arms on the ground crouched to avoid being knocked down. Riders and grooms struggled to control frightened horses. Trees lashed back and forth, and stones rolled clattering down the mountainsides, until something huge and bright burst from the empty stretch of ground between the Keep of Thazar and the besieging army.
At first an observer could have mistaken it for a simple eruption of lava. Then, however, it heaved itself higher, and the contours of a lump of a head; a thick, flailing arm; and a hand with four stubby fingers became apparent.
Tall and massive as one of the castle towers, the searing heat of it perceptible even from far away, the colossal elemental finished dragging itself up out of the ground then clambered unsteadily onto its broad, toeless feet. Some of the legionnaires shrank from the terrifying spectacle. Others, remembering that this was supposed to happen, cheered.
Aoth thought the mystical feat deserved acclamation. Had the Burning Braziers summoned and bound a fire elemental big as a spire, that would have been impressive enough. But such an entity, formidable as it was, lacked the solidity required for the task at hand, so the clerics had opted for a spirit whose nature blended the hunger of flame with the weight of stone. That almost certainly made the magic more difficult for them, given that they lacked any special affinity for the element of earth, yet they'd managed nonetheless.
Its tread shaking the earth, the giant advanced to the castle wall, took hold of a row of merlons at the top, and ripped away a chunk of the battlements. It tossed the fragment of stone and masonry inside the fortress-to crush some of the enemy, Aoth hoped-and gripped the wall once more.
Ghouls came running and skin kites soared, to leap and plaster themselves onto the elemental like fleas and mosquitoes attaching themselves to a man. The colossus didn't even seem to notice, and the heat of its luminous body charred them to nothing.
Unfortunately, that didn't mean the behemoth would prove impervious to the efforts of ghosts and spellcasters. The former might be able to leech the life from it, and the latter to break the priests' control over it or send it back to its native level of existence. The Thayan archers and crossbowmen on the ground shot their missiles at any such foe that showed itself on the battlements. Aoth's fellow war mages hurled thunderbolts and fire.
No one with sense would position himself in front of such a barrage or anywhere close, but somebody needed to peer down inside the castle courtyards and counter whatever mischief was happening there. Aoth urged Brightwing higher, and other griffon riders followed his lead. He hoped that if they flew high enough, no stray attack from their own side would hit them.
'If I do catch an arrow in the guts,' said Brightwing, discerning the essence of his thoughts, 'you'll know when we both plummet to our deaths.'
'Put your mind at ease,' Aoth replied. 'I have a spell of slow falling ready for the casting. Whatever awfulness happens to you, your beloved master will fare all right.'
Brightwing laughed.
They raced into the pocket of darkness. Zombies shot crossbows at them, but the bolts flew wild. Brightwing streaked over the curtain wall, and as Aoth had anticipated, live wizards, gathered in circles, were chanting on the ground below. They'd forsaken red robes for nondescript garments, but they no doubt belonged to the order of Necromancy nonetheless.
Aoth prepared a blast of fire to keep them from interfering with the elemental, but wraiths flew up at him,
