went. Only zombies, skeletons, and golems-mindless things-endured its touch with impunity.
Malark sent the zombie bat swooping low over the southern army. It was a reckless thing to do, but no arrows or thunderbolts came flying up to strike him or his steed. The enemy was too busy fighting the force from the Keep of Sorrows and goggling at the fog-thing seething toward them from the foot of the cliff.
Malark spied Dmitra conferring with several illusionists, the lot of them amid a contingent of bodyguards. It was too bad her minions hadn't fled and left her unattended, but he'd cope.
The bat furled its wings and plunged to earth in front of the zulkir and her entourage. Someone cried out, and guards hefted javelins.
Malark swung himself down from his mount. 'Your Omnipotence.' He bowed.
Dmitra shook her head. 'I wondered if you were insane to betray me. Now I know you must be, to do so and then return.'
Malark smiled. 'I'm sure it looks that way. You're an archmage, and you and your servants have me outnumbered. Even worse, Szass Tam's creation is advancing on our location. If I don't finish my business and get away quickly, it will eat me as readily as it would you.'
'What is your business?' Dmitra asked.
'Knowing me for as long as you have, I thought you might have guessed already.'
'I have an idea. Did you come to keep me from trying to destroy the creature?'
'Not exactly.'
'To switch sides again?'
'No, I'm where I belong. But you, Mistress, were always generous to me in your fashion. I've always liked you. I want to repay your kindness by giving you a better death then you'd suffer with your body and mind breaking apart in the fog-thing's grip. In particular, I hope to spare you the ugliness of undeath, either as one small part of that abomination yonder or as a lich under Szass Tam's control.'
Dmitra laughed a little puff of a laugh. 'It sounds as if you're challenging me to a duel.'
'You could put it that way.'
'But that implies some sort of equality where none exists. I'm a zulkir of Thay, and you're a treacherous worm. Kill him!'
Legionnaires threw their javelins. Malark sidestepped some and batted one away with his forearm. He waved the giant bat forward.
The zombie was clumsy crawling on the ground. But its sheer bulk, gnashing fangs, and long flailing wings made it formidable. It bobbed its head and bit the top of a warrior's skull off, and Malark dashed forward.
A soldier tried to thrust a broadsword into his belly. He twisted out of the way, caught his opponent's outstretched arm, and spun him around to slam into one of his comrades. Tangled together, they fell with a clash of armor. One of the lesser illusionists rattled off rhyming words of power, and Malark chopped her across the throat before she could finish. Another stride brought him within striking distance of Dmitra.
She gave him a radiant smile.
He felt himself falling, suffered a pang of alarm, and then his eyes flew open. He realized he'd dreamed of plummeting and then awakened.
Disoriented, he looked around. He and Dmitra were sitting on the roof of a tower in her palace in Eltabbar. A carafe held red wine to fill the golden goblets, trays offered lobster, oysters, beef skewers, grape leaves, figs, sweetmeats, and other delicacies, and a scarlet awning provided shade in the midst of amber sunlight. Slaves hovered at a discreet distance.
Beyond the red marble balustrade and the walls of the castle, the city murmured, its voice arising from teeming streets and bustling markets. To the west, south, and east were green fields, and to the north, Lake Thaylambar, reflecting the clear blue of the sky. Sailboats and galleys dotted the surface.
It occurred to Malark that the vista was as lovely as any he'd seen in all his centuries of protracted life. Then, belatedly, he realized Dmitra was speaking to him. He resolved to pay attention and catch the sense of whatever she was saying, but she reached the end too quickly and then watched him, awaiting his response. He tried to think of something to say, but he was still muddled, and nothing came.
Dmitra laughed. 'I thought you dozed off.'
'I humbly beg your forgiveness.'
'No need. You went without sleep for a tenday to find out what Nevron and his followers are up to. You can go to bed if you like.'
He took stock of himself and decided he didn't need to. He didn't feel exhausted so much as bewildered. He remembered spending days without sleep to spy on the Order of Conjuration, but had the crazy sense that it had happened years ago. 'Thank you, Your Omnipotence, but I'm all right.'
She cocked her head. ' 'Your Omnipotence'? Have you promoted me to zulkir? I fear Mythrellan won't approve.'
He blinked. 'Didn't Mythrellan die during the war?'
'What war?'
'The one the rest of you zulkirs are waging against Szass Tam.' The one that had come close to transforming Thay into a desert, although no one could have told it from looking out over Eltabbar on such a warm, clear summer afternoon.
Dmitra shook her head. 'I think you must have dreamed a very strange and vivid dream. I, alas, am simply a tharchion. I give my allegiance to Szass Tam, and since you serve me, so do you. There isn't any war among the zulkirs unless you count the usual endless politicking and intrigue to steer the realm in one direction or another.'
'I… all right.'
'I insist you go and rest. I'll have someone escort you.' She crooked a finger, and two slaves came scurrying.
He felt a twinge of alarm, but knew that was senseless. The men were just thralls, cowed and subservient. They had no particular reason to hurt him and wouldn't dare to try even if they did. Nor did they possess the weapons or martial skills they'd need to have any hope of succeeding.
He stood and suffered them to close in around him. Dmitra smiled at him from her couch.
Something about her smile was ever so slightly wrong. Perhaps it held a hint of malice or triumph. Whatever it was, it reminded him she was an illusionist, and prompted him to exert his will to try to see clearly.
The world darkened abruptly as the semblance of day she'd created in his mind gave way to the reality of night. The men he'd mistaken for slaves were legionnaires about to plunge their swords into his body.
He thrust his stiffened fingers into their throats, one hand for each, and lunged, bulling his way between them. Dmitra was standing on the other side. Her eyes widened in dismay.
Though he didn't see a telltale glimmer or anything comparable, he had no doubt she had defensive enchantments in place. He bellowed to focus every iota of his strength and spirit, and punched at her heart.
He felt ribs break. The shards had nowhere to go but into the pulsing organ behind them, and she fell backward.
It was a perfect death, for she'd perished wielding the art and guile that defined her. Malark felt the mix of exultation and envy that transported him on such rare occasions.
But he had no time for contemplation. He had other foes to fight. He pounced, grabbed the ruby amulet dangling on the Red Wizard's chest, and gave it a jerk that snapped the illusionist's neck.
Bareris had exhausted his bardic powers, and he had a single arrow left. Seeking an appropriate target, he peered at the ground.
The fog-entity wasn't a logical choice. Even magic didn't seem to hurt it, although given its amorphous nature, it was difficult to be sure. If anyone had wounded it, the steady growth it experienced as it absorbed victim after victim likely offset the damage.
He spied an orc nocking an arrow. Judging from its position on the battlefield, it had come from the Keep of Sorrows. Like the rest of its comrades, it was keeping its distance from the fog-thing. But as the southern army fell back before the entity and its formations disintegrated, the orc and its fellows were shooting foes who blundered within easy reach of their weapons.
