Red Magic (22 page)

“It’s puzzling,” Galvin admitted. “In any event, we need to get a close look at Maligor’s place.”

“Get those slaves outta here!” an old woman barked as one of the dwarves lobbed a clod of dirt in her direction. Her companions cackled and encouraged the dwarf to try again.

Galvin and Wynter pulled harder. They passed by a large group of campers who obviously knew each other. The men had circled around a fire for a game of chance. Near them, two women in brightly colored scarves danced about a campfire. The conversation was abundant and covered the weather, the day’s business, and the city’s tax policies.

One group was even discussing Maligor’s gnolls.

The travelers and their slaves selected a spot on the edge of the tent town where they could talk freely and weren’t likely to be invited by their neighbors to share in any festivities. Wynter used crude hand signals, indicating the dwarves should sit. They refused, of course.

When he merely shrugged and ignored them, the dwarves finally sat, looking defiant. Brenna edged forward cautiously and began working the knots loose from about their waists. She held her breath; the slaves hadn’t bathed in a long while. When she had finished untying them, she backed away, put her hands on her hips, and inspected them.

“If we take them to Aglarond, I can get them cleaned up and give them a few gold pieces,” she said.

“If we make it back to Aglarond,” Wynter added, surprised the dwarves weren’t bolting.

“We’ve more things to worry about than the dwarves,” Galvin said as he stretched out on the ground. Brenna lay down a few feet away from the druid and watched him.

“I’m just glad I was able to buy a few slaves their freedom,” Wynter said softly, not wanting any nearby campers to hear. He vividly described the condition of the pens to Galvin, then waited for a response, but the druid had had enough conversation for the day and pretended to sleep.

Nine

Asp clung to the shadows outside Maligor’s tower. The nearby gnoll guards paid her little attention, knowing it was healthier not to question the spirit naga about her business.

She rested back on her snake’s lower body, leaning her shoulders against the cool, smooth stone wall and twitching the end of her tail through the dewy grass. In her pale, slender hands, she cradled a large weasel. Asp ran her fingers through its silky fur and hissed softly to the creature. The weasel seemed to enjoy the attention and lay still for the naga’s caresses.

“Maligor will be proud of me,” she hissed in a barely audible tone. “I’ve watched him closely. I, too, can create darkenbeasts.”

The naga slithered farther along the wall, away from the guards and toward the rear of the tower. Setting the weasel down amid a thick clump of grass, she scratched its neck and lay on her belly to watch it sniff a patch of clover. Then, reaching in her pouch for the powders she had “borrowed” from Maligor, the snake-woman sprinkled them on the weasel’s back and began mumbling the words she had heard Maligor recite.

She kept her voice soft, not wanting to draw the attention of the guards or any slaves who might be milling about. The weasel’s nose began to quiver, finally sensing danger. The moment it started to bolt, Asp’s tail shot through the grass like a striking cobra and fastened itself about the animal’s back legs to hold it in place.

The frightened weasel tried to squirm free, but the naga persisted with the spell. By the time Asp had finished with the words, the creature had begun the horrid metamorphosis.

The weasel shed its hair as its skin bubbled and oozed. Asp quickly drew her tail away and slithered back a few feet. The thing cried out, almost like a human infant, as its bones stretched, making loud popping and cracking sounds. Talons formed at the ends of its front feet, yet its back feet remained those of a weasel. Then its jaw elongated; rows of long, jagged teeth filled its misshapen mouth. The thing continued to grow until it was as big as a bull and appeared a cross between a weasel and a lizard.

The naga gasped and covered her mouth in surprise. Even though she had used the same words, the spell wasn’t working as it had when Maligor cast it. This darkenbeast was too big and was retaining many of its weasel features—its hind legs, ears, stubby tail, and round, frightened eyes. Its skin was covered with festering boils, as if the thing were diseased. For a moment, the naga considered calling for the Red Wizard, hoping he could correct her miscast magic. Then she realized he would be angry because she had cast a spell he had not yet taught her.

Nervously she eyed the creature as it continued its transformation. Webbed wings covered with short gray hair grew from its sides. The darkenbeast, whimpering loudly in pain from its transfigurement, turned its hideous head toward Asp, its crimson eyes glowing with hatred. The thing hopped toward her, flapping its deformed wings and nearly succeeding in rising from the ground. The naga gathered herself to her full height and prepared to defend herself with magic.

But the darkenbeast stopped inches from her. Its stench was overpowering and kept her from concentrating to cast any enchantments. The naga held her breath and looked into the monster’s face. Suddenly she realized that the thing was waiting.

“Attack the peasants,” she hissed, mentally picturing the camp outside Amruthar’s northern gate.

The darkenbeast turned and lumbered away, then awkwardly took off into the night sky toward the city’s northern edge. The creature was hardly graceful, as Maligor’s creation had been. Instead, it was clumsy and unbalanced, and the naga hoped someone would kill it quickly so it wouldn’t return to her and cause problems.

She slithered into the tower, casting a last glance at the diminishing form of her misbegotten darkenbeast.

In the tent town, Wynter listened to the dwarven slaves talk among themselves. Their deep voices sounded pleasant enough, and he wished he knew what they were saying. They had been hungry, devouring an entire sack of fruit that Wynter had purchased for them. Brenna had tried speaking to them in several languages, hoping the dwarves would understand something. She told Wynter she wasn’t sure if the slaves spoke only Dwarvish or if they were playing ignorant.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wynter said. “They’ll be free soon… as soon as it seems safe to let them go. I just wish I could tell them that.”

Brenna smiled and decided the least she could do was help clean up the dwarves. She uncorked her waterskin and padded toward them. Suddenly she heard a commotion coming from the direction of the gate. Turning, she saw the guards on the gate lining up across the barbicon, drawing their longbows.

Screams from the merchants nearby filled the air, and in the gathering darkness, the enchantress saw a grotesque flying creature diving toward the center of the tent town.

“Galvin!” she shouted as Wynter galloped past her toward the attacking beast. The centaur had his staff held out before him like a lance, and merchants jumped out of his way as he charged through.

The druid sprang to his feet in time to see a dozen guards on the barbicon loose arrows at the winged creature. The beast screamed terribly and plummeted into the mass of tent town residents. Galvin and Brenna rushed toward where they had seen the thing fall, elbowing their way through the growing crowd.

The druid soon found himself at the forefront of the assembled merchants, and like the other onlookers, he stared slack-jawed at the creature. Four arrows were lodged deeply in the grotesque beast’s underside. Obviously dying, it flapped its monstrous wings weakly, raising a small cloud of dust.

A child screamed as the creature’s skin began to bubble and pop, boiling away like water. The wings quivered and beat faster as they shriveled and were drawn into the rapidly diminishing form of the beast. The crowd backed up, yet none turned away, engrossed with the vile tableau.

Finally the creature’s leathery skin began to recede, revealing the silky, blood-soaked fur of a large weasel. The animal lifted its head, a stream of blood trickling out of its mouth, then it twitched once more and died. The crowd lingered, each lost in his own thoughts, wondering precisely what it was he had seen. At last the guards from the barbicon made their way into the tent town to disperse the throng.

One guard stooped over, picked up the body of the weasel, and turned to carry it inside the city. The guards ignored the shouted questions from the crowd. Disgruntled that they would get no information from the guards, the crowd began to break up and return to their tents.

Galvin found Wynter and Brenna near the gate. “I—I saw it, Galvin,” the sorceress said evenly. “Before it hit the ground, I saw it. It was like the thing that attacked us in Aglarond. Do you think someone knows we’re here?” Brenna glanced about nervously.

“I don’t think so,” Galvin whispered, noting that a few of the merchants who had returned to their camps next to the gate were staring at the trio. The druid strolled toward their own makeshift camp. Brenna and Wynter followed. “I think it would have gone straight after us if it was meant for us.”

“That makes sense,” Wynter agreed. “We were on the edge of the tent town and would have made easy targets.”

“I hope you’re right,” Brenna said. She shivered, more from fear than the cool night air, and continued to glance behind her occasionally toward the gate.

The druid paused to wrap his cloak around her shoulders. As he did, he noticed that the tent town had resumed its former appearance, just as if nothing had happened. He shrugged and continued striding toward their camp. Galvin wondered if attacks such as this were commonplace here. It could explain the merchants’ nonchalant bearing in the aftermath of the attack.

“The dwarves!” Wynter shouted suddenly, trotting to the edge of the tent town. “They’re gone!”

The former slaves had left their ropes behind and left the Harpers’ possessions untouched. The druid knelt on the ground beside a footprint left by one of the dwarves, then glanced to the north.

“They went toward those trees,” the druid observed.

“Thay’s not a safe place to be at night,” Wynter said nervously.

“Nothing’s safe for those dwarves,” Galvin concluded. “We were going to free them anyway.” The druid rose and brushed the dirt off his knees. Before he had taken a handful of steps toward his belongings, a cry pierced the night air.

“Jujus!” a woman screamed. “Juju zombies! Szass Tam’s undead will kill us all!”

Once again the tent town leapt to life as the cry of “stiff-walkers” passed like a crashing wave from the outer rim of tents to the city gates. The Harpers determined from the people’s cries that Szass Tam was behind the attack and that the “stiff-walkers,” or undead, were the shadowy creatures they could make out shuffling toward the tent town.

The people on the outer edge of the tent town, including Brenna, Wynter, and Galvin, were the first to react. The night-cloaked figures had already come upon some of the campers there, silently lifting their blankets and awkwardly prodding through their tents and lean-tos. It was obvious the undead were looking for something—or someone.

The merchants grabbed their torches and lanterns, hoping the light would keep the undead creatures at bay. The women gathered their children and ran toward the gates. As the campers pushed closer to Amruthar’s walls, the ragged-clothed corpses shambled through the canvas and discarded belongings, the stench of their decaying bodies wafting across the tent town. There were ten of the things that had long ago been living creatures. They had hollow eye sockets and skeletal frames, and despite their degree of decomposition, they still had vaguely human shapes. The undead regrouped at the edge of the tent town, then, as one, they glanced up with their empty sockets straight toward Brenna and the Harpers.

The trio hadn’t moved far in this time, waiting to see what the zombies would do. After several long moments, the undead began to advance, with their broken, yellowed teeth bared and claws outstretched.

Brenna screamed in terror. “They’re here for us!”

“Get your back to mine and Wynter’s,” Galvin commanded. “We’ll stand our ground till the peddlers are safe inside the gate.” Galvin motioned for Wynter to form a small ring. In the back of his mind, he wished they had decided to stay inside Amruthar’s walls.

The druid was genuinely frightened that the sorceress might have hit the mark—the zombies did seem to be after them. Glancing around, he saw no fatalities among the peddlers, just toppled tents and disturbed bedrolls, so the undead weren’t mindlessly killing everything that lay in their path. If they truly were after the three heroes, they would continue on like thoughtless automatons until they had captured their victims or until their intended victims had dispatched them. The zombies had the advantage, Galvin knew, even though there were only ten of them. Undead beings didn’t tire, and they never had to sleep.

Brenna dug about in her satchel for her spell components while she desperately called for the retreating merchants to band together to fight the creatures. She knew that the sheer number of Thayvian peddlers could overwhelm the undead attackers, and she was unnerved that Galvin seemed to want the campers to run. Her pleas for their help brought a scowl from Galvin and fell on deaf ears. Already screams of terror were filling the night sky as the merchants continued to flee, blotting out all other sounds. The enchantress wondered if Amruthar’s guards would open the gates and let the tent people inside or leave them to be slaughtered.

Galvin’s eyes flashed in the starlight, and he began to transform, not caring if anyone saw him. He needed a body that would catch the zombies off guard, yet could fight viciously. He fell to all fours as thick, coarse orange and black hair sprouted from his face and hands and spread like melting butter to obscure his clothing. Sharp white teeth emerged from his swelling feline snout, and long white whiskers pushed outward through the fur around his nose. His ears stretched until they became pointed. At the same time, the druid’s body grew, its torso elongating, its frame becoming heavier and more powerful, its legs more muscular. His hands and feet became wider, grew thick pads, and sprouted razor-edged claws where human nails had been. From his rump, an orange tail striped with black sprang forth and grew until it was nearly four feet long.