He'd hoped the diversion would lift him out of the brooding glumness that had afflicted him of late. But it seemed to have the opposite effect.
'Shake it off,' Brightwing growled. She'd sensed the tenor of his thoughts. 'This isn't the time to mope. A cluster of houses lies up ahead. The thing-or things-we're hunting could well be down there.'
'I suspect you're right.' He pointed his spear at the ground, signaling his companions to descend.
They made a wary, swooping pass over the village. 'I smell fresh blood,' Brightwing said, 'but I don't see anything moving.'
'We'll have to land to determine what's what,' Aoth said.
'You could just throw spells and burn the whole place from the air.' The griffon snorted. 'But you won't. Not when there could be survivors.'
'And not when there might be something to learn. Set down in front of the biggest house. The one with the carvings on the corners of the eaves.'
She did as he'd bade her, touching down lightly in the snow. His companions followed, although Malark's dappled mare was reluctant, whickering and tossing her head. After dismounting, he murmured to her, and she wasted no time galloping back up into the air.
'That's a bit reckless,' said Aoth.
The spymaster shrugged. 'If I kept her on the ground, she'd become more and more nervous, and less tractable. She'll come if I whistle. Now, how about a light?'
'Why not?' Aoth replied. 'Since Brightwing says the enemy already knows we're here, I don't see much point in trying to sneak around.' He exerted his will, and the head of his spear flared yellow. The radiance was as bright as sunlight, anathema to most undead, although it never troubled Mirror. He could move around even in real daylight without harm.
The glow revealed doors smashed open, and a confusion of marks and footprints in the snow.
Bareris squatted to examine the signs. 'Skeleton tracks.'
'Well, then.' Malark unsheathed the oak batons he wore strapped to each thigh. A blue gleaming flowed down the lengths of polished hardwood, a sign of the enchantments within. 'I was hoping for something more interesting, some new creation from your old friend Xingax, but we'll have to make do.'
The mention of Xingax gave Bareris a spasm of hatred and self-loathing, for it was the aborted demigod who'd transformed his beloved Tammith into a vampire. Not long after, he'd come face to face with the hideous fetal creature but had botched the job of killing him. But then, he'd always failed when it mattered most.
'It might be more than skeletons,' said Aoth. His coat of mail clinked as he stooped to examine the ground. Most wizards found their spellcasting hindered by armor, but war mages like the swarthy, stocky Aoth, who looked like a humble Rashemi despite his claim to have come from Mulan stock, trained to overcome the limitation. 'Look here. Some of the farmers ran out of their houses. They made it this far, then the tracks end in a great muddle, as if something magical sprang up and destroyed them.'
'Or something big dived down on them from the air,' Bareris said. 'It's curious there are no corpses, just the occasional spatter of blood. It's likely the enemy carried its victims away, possibly for reanimation.'
'I agree,' Malark said. 'Here's a spot where it looks as if a pair of skeletons hauled away a body.'
'We don't know that it was a dead body,' Aoth said. 'They may be taking prisoners, and we may be in time to save them. Come on.' Glowing spear at the ready, he stalked forward, following the trail Malark had indicated. His companions prowled after him. Brightwing and Vengeance, Bareris's griffon, padded out to guard the flanks of the procession. For a time, Mirror appeared as a wavering, murky parody of Malark, with a cudgel sketched in shadow in both fists, but then the weapons melted into a sword and targe.
The trail led to the hamlet's little cemetery. So did other sets of tracks. Nothing was moving there, but something had torn open all the graves, leaving black, ragged wounds in the frozen earth, toppling markers, and scattering bones.
'I guess,' Malark said, 'we need to look in the graves. Unless the skeletons and others have moved on, I don't know where else they could be.'
They crept forward. Bareris realized his mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed hard to moisten it.
Several paces inside the desecrated space, slumped at the edge of an open grave, he discovered a mass of torn, bloody flesh clad in peasant clothing. At first glance, it looked like a farmer, but something was wrong with its mangled shape. Bareris lifted one of its arms, saw it flop and sag, and then he knew. Something had pulled out all its bones.
That might explain why so many bones were lying around, more than the open graves could have contained. But no, actually even the mutilation of all the locals couldn't account for it-bones lay everywhere. It had simply been difficult to mark their true plenitude amid the heaps of dislodged earth and snow.
Bareris frowned. He didn't understand what he was looking at, and that frequently meant he'd blundered into serious trouble. He drew breath, about to suggest that he and his companions withdraw, and then several skeletons scrambled up from the concealment afforded by the open graves.
Bareris shouted, and his thunderous bellow, charged with bard's magic, blasted one of the skeletons to scraps and splinters.
Aoth hurled a fan-shaped blast of fire from the head of his spear and burned an opponent to ash.
A skeleton swung a warhammer at Mirror, and the weapon passed harmlessly through his insubstantial form. Mirror struck back with his sword. His blade passed through the undead warrior's fleshless body without cleaving any bones, but the foxfire sheen in the creature's eye sockets guttered out, and its legs collapsed beneath it.
Malark positioned himself in front of a skeleton, inviting an attack. The creature swung its axe at his neck. He slipped out of the way, shifted in, and rapped the skeleton's skull with one of his batons. The yellowed cranium, naked except for a few lank strands of hair, shattered.
Beating their wings, the griffons pounced, each bearing a skeleton down beneath a snapping beak and slashing talons.
Clattering sounds reverberated across the cemetery. The loose bones leaped up from the ground and tangled themselves together into something not unlike a wicker sculpture. In a heartbeat, they became a colossal serpent, its tail looping around the perimeter of the graveyard as if to cage its prey.
It reared its head high, then struck down at Bareris.
He hurled himself to the side. His foot slid in a patch of snow and he fell. The serpent's fangs-blunt knobs of bone that would not pierce but would surely crush-clashed shut on empty air.
It swiveled its misshapen head and opened its jaws to bite again. Bareris scrambled to regain his feet, too slowly.
With an earsplitting screech, Vengeance plunged out of the air to land on the serpent's head. Pinions flapping, he hooked his talons into the spaces between the bones and caught a mass of them in his beak. His neck muscles bunched beneath his feathers as he strained to bite through.
The serpent tossed its head, shaking the griffon loose from his perch, and caught him in its jaws. The pressure burst Vengeance's body open as if he were a ripe piece of fruit. With a ghastly sucking sound, the bones slid out of his body, rattled down the serpent's gullet, and snapped into spaces along its body, adding to its mass.
Bareris's lips drew back in a snarl, for Vengeance had been a good mount, steady and loyal. The bard rose, readied his mace, and started singing.
The slithering, clattering wall that was the serpent's body slid past Malark, and he considered how best to attack it. He despised the undead for the abominations they were and fought them at every opportunity, always hopeful that this time, his foe might kill him. Death was a gift-one he had long ago spurned by armoring himself against the ravages of age and becoming an abomination in his own right. Since that time, he sought to atone for his folly by honoring the greatest of all powers. One day, perhaps, the multiverse would deem his service sufficient. Then, despite the formidable combat arts he had learned from the Monks of the Long Death, a blade or arrow would slip past his defense, and he could pass into the darkness.
Striking with one hand, then the other, swinging his batons like a demented drummer, he battered the creature's flank. Bones cracked and snapped with every stroke, but he couldn't see if the creature was weakened. Sorcery might be the only thing that could destroy the snake. If so, the best tactic might be to hold the serpent's
