Unclean (23 page)

But the necromancer was an even greater threat, and Bareris didn’t dare leave him to conjure unmolested. He stepped between a set of skeletal arms and Wesk, ducked a cut, and riposted, buying the gnoll chieftain the moment he needed to drop his bow and ready his axe. After that, though, the bard extricated himself from the whirl of blades and charged the mage who, the

translucent, arrow-pierced disk still hovering between him and his foes, the skirt of his robe flapping around his legs, was himself sprinting toward the white stone archway. Apparently he believed safety, or at least help, awaited him on the other side.

Bareris was too far away to cut him off. He sang a charm so rapidly that he feared botching the precise rhythm and pitch required, but he didn’t have the option of taking his time.

Magic groaned through the air, and the section of floor under the Red Wizard’s feet bucked as though an earthquake had begun. The vibration knocked the mage staggering then dumped him on his rump. Bareris dashed on, closing in on the warlock while likewise interposing himself between his foe and the portal.

The Red Wizard thrust out his arm. A glyph tattooed on the back of his hand leaped free of his skin and became a hand itself, levitating and seemingly formed of shadow. It bobbed over the top of the floating shield, then streaked at Bareris.

The bard tried to dodge, but the hand grabbed him by the shoulder anyway. Agony stabbed outward from the point of contact to afflict his entire body.

It was the fiercest pain he’d ever experienced, severe enough to blind and paralyze, which was no doubt the object. Evidently still intent on reaching the gate, but looking to finish off his adversary as well, the necromancer simultaneously circled in the appropriate direction and hissed sibilant rhyming phrases.

The pain is in my mind, Bareris insisted to himself, and I can push it out. He struggled to straighten up, turn in the mage’s direction, and lift his sword once more. For a heartbeat, it was impossible, and then the bonds of torment constraining him ripped like a sheet of parchment tearing in two.

He spun around. His eyes widening, the necromancer appeared startled, but the floating shield automatically shifted to defend its creator as thoroughly as possible. Bareris poised himself

as if he meant to dart to the right then dodged left instead. That fooled the shield and brought him within striking distance of the wizard. He drove his point into the other man’s chest. The enchanter fell back with his final incantation uncompleted.

Bareris studied the mage for another moment, making sure their duel was truly over, then pivoted to survey the rest of the battle. Two of the gnolls were down, but with a final chop of his axe, Thovarr was reducing the last of the disembodied arms to inert splinters of bone.

His allies’ success gave Bareris the opportunity to contemplate the enormity of what he’d done, or the seeming enormity. He’d earned a death by torture the moment he’d lifted his hand to So-Kehur and his skull-masked partner, so in practical terms, it shouldn’t matter that he’d now killed a Red Wizard outright.

Yet it gave him pause. The eight orders taught every person and certainly every pauper in Thay to think of their members as superior, invincible beings, and though Bareris’s experiences abroad had given him ample reason to feel confident of his own prowess, perhaps a part of him still believed the myth and was accordingly appalled at his temerity, but then a surge of satisfaction washed his trepidation away. After all, these were the bastards who’d taken Tammith away from him, and this particular specimen didn’t look so exalted or omnipotent anymore, did he?

Wesk trotted up to him, bow in hand once more. He had a cut on his forearm where a greatsword must have grazed him, but he wasn’t paying it any mind.

/donV hear anyone coming,”he said, “doyou?”

Bareris listened. “No. “Evidently the fight hadn’t made a great deal of noise. He was glad he hadn’t needed to produce any of the prodigious booms or roars of which his magic was capable. He pointed to the gnolls still lying on the floor. “How are they?”

“Dead.” If Wesk felt bad about it, no human could have told it from his manner. “So what now?”

“We hide the bodies and what’s left of the skeleton arms. With luck, that will buy us more time before anyone else realizes we were here.”

“And then we go through the gate?”

Bareris opened his mouth to say yes, then thought better of it. “No. Thovarr’s right. We don’t know where it leads or what’s waiting beyond, but we do know the necromancer believed that if he could reach the other side, it would save him. That means he could have had a lot of allies there. More than we, with half our band already lost, can hope to overcome.”

Wesk cocked his head. “You didn’t come this far just to give up.”

“No, but I’m going on alone, clad in the dead wizard’s robe, in the hope that trickery will succeed where force would likely fail.”

“Did you notice that the robe has a bloody hole in it? You put it there.”

Bareris shrugged. “It’s not a big hole and not too bloody. Bodies don’t bleed much after the heart stops. If I throw a cloak on over the robe, perhaps no one will notice.”

He’d also sing a song to make himself seem more likable and trustworthy, the very antithesis of a person meriting suspicion, but saw no point in mentioning that. He was still leery of allowing the gnolls to guess the extent to which he’d used magic to manipulate them.

Wesk grunted. “Better, maybe, to disguise yourself with an illusion or be invisible.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know those particular songs. Somehow I never had the chance to learn them. Now let’s get moving. We need don’t anybody else blundering in on us while we stand around talking.”

They dragged the bodies to the room from which the Red

Wizard had emerged. It turned out to be a small, bare, rectangular space the clergy of Horus-Re might have used to store votive candles, incense, and similar supplies. Bareris wondered what the mage had been doing in here and realized he’d never know.

He was stripping his fellow human’s corpse when Wesk exclaimed, “Your hair.”

Bareris reflexively raised a hand to touch his tangled, sweaty locks. “Curse it.’” Like any Mulan who hadn’t spent the last several years in foreign lands, the Red Wizards uniformly employed razors, depilatories, or magic to keep themselves bald as stones.

Wesk pulled his knife from its sheath. “
don’t suppose you can truly shave without lather and such, but I can shear your hair very short, and the robe has a cowl. Keep it pulled up and maybe you’ll pass.”p>

The gnoll proved to be about as gentle a barber as Bareris had expected. He yanked hard on the strands of hair, and the knife stung as it sawed them away. Bareris had no doubt it was nicking him.

“Gnolls take scalps for trophies sometimes,” said Wesk. “You make the first cut like this.” He laid the edge of his knife against Bareris’s forehead just below the hairline.

“I had a hunch that was what you were doing,” Bareris replied, and Wesk laughed his crazy, bestial laugh.

When the gnoll finished, Bareris brushed shorn hair off his shoulders and chest, put on the scarlet robe over his brigandine and breeches, then donned his cloak and sword belt. He hoped he could get away with wearing a sword. Though it wasn’t common, he’d seen other Red Wizards do the same. But he tealized with regret that he’d have to leave his yarting behind. The musical instrument would simply be too unusual and distinctive.

He handed it to Wesk. “Take this. It’s not a ruby, but it‘11 fetch a good price.”

The gnoll archer grinned. “Maybe I’ll keep it and learn to play.”

“Thank you all for your help. Now clear out of here. Try to be far away by daybreak.”

“Good hunting, human. It was good to be a soldier again, even if our army was very small.”

The gnolls stalked toward the exit. Singing softly, Bareris headed for the arch.

30Mirtul-l Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin

For the briefest of instants, the universe shattered into meaningless sparks and smears of light, and Bareris felt as if he were plummeting. Then his stride carried him clear of the portal, and his lead foot landed on a surface just as solid and level as the floor in Horus-Re’s holy of holies. But because his body had believed it was falling, he lurched off balance and had to take a quick step to catch himself.

Seeking to orient himself as rapidly as possible, he peered around. He was in another stone chamber, this one lit by the wavering greenish light of the sort of enchanted torch that burned forever without the heatless flames consuming the wood. It didn’t look as though Mulhorandi had built this room. Its trapezoidal shape, the square doorways, and the odd zigzag carvings framing them were markedly different than the architecture of his ancestors or any other culture he knew of.

The portal was a white stone arch on this side too, identical to

its counterpart. Armed with spears and scimitars, wearing cyclopean-skull-and-fbur-pointed-star badges that likely proclaimed their fealty to one Red Wizard or another, a pair of blood ores were standing guard over it. They eyed Bareris curiously.

Their scrutiny gave the bard a twinge of fear. Indeed, it inspired a witless urge to whip his sword from its scabbard and try to strike the sentries down before they could raise an alarm. He raked them with a haughty stare instead.

They straightened up as much as their stooped race ever did, thrust out their lances with the shafts perpendicular to their extended arms, drew them back, and pounded the butts on the floor. It was a salute, and Bareris breathed a sigh of relief that he’d deceived the first creatures he’d encountered anyway.

One guard, afflicted with a runny walleye that rendered it even homelier than the common run of ore, looked back at the portal expectantly. When no one else emerged, it asked, “No slaves this time, Master?”

“No,” Bareris said. “I traveled on ahead carrying word of how many you’re getting and when. It should help with the planning.” He hoped his improvisation made at least a little sense.

The ore’s mouth twisted. “You need to see the whelp, then.”

The whelp? What in the name of the Binder’s quill did that mean? “The one in charge,” he said warily.

The ore nodded. “That Xingax thing. The whelp is what we call it.” It hesitated. “Maybe we shouldn’t, but it’s not one of you masters. It’s … what it is.”

“I understand,” Bareris said, wishing it were true. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere up top. That’ll take you up.” The ore used its spear to point to a staircase behind one of the square doorways.

Bareris started to say thank you, until it occurred to him that the average Red Wizard probably didn’t bother showing courtesy to ores. “Got it.” He turned away.

“Master?”

Breathing more quickly, fearful he’d betrayed himself somehow, the bard pivoted back around. “What?”

“I don’t mean to bother you. I wouldn’t, except you haven’t been here before, have you? I understand you’re a wizard, and ten times wiser than the likes of me, but you know to protect yourself before you go close to Xingax, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Bareris lied, wondering what sort of protection would serve and hoping he wouldn’t need it. Given the choice, he’d steer well clear of “the whelp,” whatever it was.

He discovered that the room above the arch connected to a series of catwalks that apparently allowed one to make a full circuit of the various lofts and balconies without ever descending to the more extensive and contiguous system of chambers and corridors comprising the primary level below. Unlike the rest of the stronghold, the walkways appeared to be of recent construction, and it seemed plain the Red Wizards—or rather, their servants—had expended a fair amount of effort building them, which was odd, considering that Bareris didn’t see anyone else moving around up here.

Peculiar or not, their vacancy was a blessing. It allowed him to explore without venturing near to anyone who might penetrate his disguise, and in time he came to suspect the advantage was essential. Viewed up close, his face might have betrayed horror and disgust no matter how he tried to conceal them.

He soon concluded from the complete absence of windows that he was underground. Stinking of incense and carrion, the chilly vaults felt old, perhaps even older than Delhumide, and like the haunted city, breathed an aura of perversity and danger. Unlike Delhumide, however, the catacombs bustled with activity. Necromancers chanted over corpses and skeletons, which then clambered to their feet, the newly made zombies clumsily, the bone men with clinking agility. Warriors drilled the undead

in the use of mace and spear, just as if the creatures were youths newly recruited into the legions. Ghouls practiced charging on command to shred straw dummies with fang and claw. A half dozen shadows listened as, its face a carnival of oozing, eyeless rot beneath its raised visor, a corpse armored in plate expounded on strategy and tactics.

Anyone but a necromancer would likely have found it ghastly, but it was inexplicable as well. The Red Wizards were free to turn their slaves into undead men-at-arms if they so desired. They created such monstrosities all the time. Thus, Bareris wondered anew: Why the secrecy?

Though he still didn’t care. Not really. All that mattered was spiriting Tammith away from this nightmarish place before her captors could alter her.

He refused to entertain the notion that perhaps they already had until he found his way to a platform overlooking a crypt housing dozens of listless, skinny, ragged folk with the whip scars and unshorn hair of thralls. Bareris scrutinized them all in turn, then peered into every empty shadow and corner, and none of the prisoners was Tammith.

His nerves taut, he marched onward, striding faster, no longer concerned that his boots would make too much noise on the planking beneath them or that haste would make him appear suspicious to anyone looking up from below. He gazed down into chamber after chamber and felt grateful the catacombs were so extensive. Until he ran out of spaces to check, he could still hope. But at the same time, he hated that the warren was big and labyrinthine enough to so delay his determination of the truth.