Undead (38 page)

Aerial combatants soared, wheeled, and swooped around the sky. A balor struck at spectres with its fiery sword and whip. Half a dozen griffon riders loosed arrow after arrow at a skifr, one of the huge, mummified, batlike undead, while dodging and veering to keep clear of fangs and talons.

Gradually, Aoth sorted it all out, or at least he thought he had. It seemed to him that up in the air, neither side had gained the advantage, which meant that the flyers stayed busy with one another. They couldn’t do much to exploit their elevated position to threaten the ships below.

The same was true of the swimming horrors. They seemed equally matched, and as long as that held true, they wouldn’t pose much danger to either fleet.

But happily, not every part of the battle reflected the same furious, lethal stalemate, with men, ores, and conjured creatures struggling and perishing without tipping the balance one way or the other. In the ship-to-ship combats, the true heart of the conflict, the council was faring better than its foes.

Szass Tam had as many ships as his rivals, vessels filled with ‘ť formidable undead monstrosities, but as Thessaloni Canos had predicted, their crews didn’t handle them well. The council’s vessels came at the enemy ships from behind or amidships, and only grappled them when it was to their advantage.

The necromancers’ thaumaturgy was more reliable than that of their fellow Red Wizards, but combined, the powers of the other orders were more versatile. In addition, they had all the priests they’d evacuated from Bezantur—servants of Kossuth, Mask, Cyric, Umberlee, and every other Thayan god except

Bane—backing them up with their own kind of magic.

By the Great Flame, Aoth thought, am I truly seeing this? Has Szass Tam overreached at last? He remembered all the times when the zulkir of Necromancy had feigned weakness to lure his foes, then snapped a trap shut around them, and was afraid to believe what he was seeing.

Then one of the black ships faded into a vague shadow of itself. Another abruptly went flat, like a paper cutout standing upright on the surface of the sea.

At first Aoth surmised that the necromancers aboard the two vessels had activated some sort of defensive enchantments. But then Brightwing said, “What are you peering at?”

“Two of Szass Tam’s ships look different. Can’t you see it?”

“No.”

After another moment, Aoth couldn’t, either. The two vessels appeared normal.

But that didn’t matter. He suddenly thought he understood the meaning of what he’d observed, and if so, perhaps the council could maintain its edge no matter what tricks Szass Tam held in store.

“Find Lallara,” he said.

The zulkir of Abjuration rated an even larger and more formidable ship than Iphegor Nath, and was accordingly easy to locate. When Brightwing dived out of the night sky, voices cried the alarm. Crossbowmen in the high stefncastle raised their weapons, and Red Wizards, their wands and staves. For an instant, Aoth was sure that his eagerness to share his discovery would be the death of him.

Fortunately, Lallara screamed, “Stop, you idiots!” Her minions froze.

Brightwing landed in the sterncastle between the archwizard and the parapet. She did so lightly, but even so, the planking groaned beneath her weight. “Thank you, Mistress,” said Aoth.

“What do you want?” Lallara said.

“I’ve observed something. We wondered where Szass Tam got a fleet, and now I know. He created the black ships with illusion magic. They aren’t entirely real.”

Lallara spat. “Nonsense. If that were true, I’d be able to tell. Or the diviners would. Or the illusionists. But no one else has discerned such a thing.”

Aoth took a breath. “Your Omnipotence, there’s something I haven’t told you. The blue fire in my eyes gives me absolute clarity of vision. So if I’ve ever accomplished anything of note in the service of the council, if I’ve ever given sound advice, then please, heed me now. Because if the black ships are made of illusion—”

“Then a circle of abjurers should be able to cast counterspells to expunge them from existence,” Lallara snapped. “I don’t need you to instruct me in basic magical theory.” She called for several lesser wizards to attend her, and they came scurrying.

Lallara arranged them in a circle with herself at the center, directed their attention to the nearest black ship, and started a long incantation with an intricate structure and rhyme. Her assistants chimed in on the refrain. Aoth, whose system of battle magic concentrated on attacks and was mostly devoid of feats of abjuration, felt lost immediately.

But he had no trouble comprehending the results of their effort. The dark ship abruptly vanished, dumping the dread warriors and necromancers aboard into the sea.

He knew the abjurers wouldn’t be able to make all the enemy vessels disappear. Some would prove impervious to their magic, especially if Szass Tam himself had taken part in their creation. Still, Aoth had given his allies a potent new weapon.

“Well done,” he said.

Lallara turned and glared at him. “Why are you still here? Your place is with your men, if you’re not trying to shirk the fight.”

He sighed. “I’m on my way.”

“No, wait. Fly to the senior illusionists and tell them what you told me. They may be able to unmake the black ships as well.”

Standing in the prow of his flagship, his staff of drowned men’s bones in his hand, Szass Tam gazed over the water and smiled. “I should have made a greater effort to win Thessaloni Canos over to my side. Or had her assassinated.”

“If it’s hopeless,” Malark said, “I recommend you pull your ships out of combat before you lose any more soldiers. The skeleton sea serpents and their fellows can cover our retreat.”

“I think not.”

“You’ve already won the war.”

“But if I kill my fellow zulkirs tonight, or failing that, send their treasure and followers to the bottom of the sea, I can rest secure in the knowledge I won’t have to fight another. And the battle is far from lost. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the trump up my sleeve.”

“Are you still strong enough to use it?”

“Let’s find out.” Szass Tam focused his awareness on the air above an empty stretch of water and murmured words of power^ Frost crept across the railing in front of him, and the remaining flesh on a dread warrior’s frame liquefied all at once, leaving it a figure of dripping bone.

The roundship’s task had been to transport the Griffon Legion, and now that Aoth and his command were in the air, not many soldiers were left aboard. Thus, although the crossbowmen

shot at any target of opportunity, the sailors were doing their best to keep the vessel out of the thick of combat.

It was only prudent, but it frustrated Tammith. The smell of blood hung on the wind, enticing her, drying her throat, and causing her fangs to extend. She longed to be on one of the pairs of grappled ships, where she could fight, kill, and drink until her appetites were satisfied.

In lieu of that, she’d obtained her own crossbow, but killing someone at range was a poor substitute for tearing him apart with her sword or fangs, not that she often hit her mark in any case. She possessed preternatural senses and physical prowess, but no training in the use of that particular weapon.

She pulled the trigger, the crossbow clacked, and the bolt flew too low, imbedding itself in the ebony hull of an enemy galley. She hissed and reached for another. Then someone shouted.

Tammith pivoted. A dead man was climbing out of the water onto the stern. A haze hung in the air around it.

She grinned. The zombie had no blood to slake her thirst, but at least she’d have the satisfaction of cutting it up. Or she would if her shipmates didn’t dispatch it first, for a single animated corpse shouldn’t pose much of a threat. She dropped her crossbow and drew her blade.

The men closest to the undead newcomer stumbled, retched, and fell. Whatever was afflicting them, it rendered them incapable of defense, and, its bare fists striking with bone-shattering force, the creature had no difficulty breaking their backs and skulls. Two crossbow bolts plunged into its torso, but it didn’t even seem to notice.

Tammith charged.

The haze surrounding the dead man was cold and wet, and as soon as she entered it, a burning tightness ripped through her chest. She couldn’t breathe, as if her lungs were full of water and she was drowning.

But a vampire had no need to breathe. She clamped down on her irrational terror, raised her off hand to signal her comrades to stay away—she doubted she could speak coherently with the choking fullness in her mouth and lungs—and rushed the zombie.

The creature evidently hadn’t realized she too was undead, because her immunity to its lethal aura seemed to take it by surprise. When she thrust her sword at its chest, it tried to parry with its forearm, but was too slow. The blade plunged through soft, rotten tissue, scraped a rib, and pierced the heart.

But it wasn’t the mortal injury she’d hoped for. Without even faltering, the creature shoved itself farther onto the blade, closing the distance, then whipped a punch at her head. She ducked and scrambled backward, yanking the sword free as she retreated.

For the next few moments, she and the zombie traded attacks. The creature had yet to connect, but as strong as it was, it might only need to hit her once to incapacitate her, and then smash her bones while she was helpless. She cut and pierced it repeatedly, but the wounds weren’t slowing it down. In fact, some were starting to close. Her foe possessed a gift of quick healing akin to her own.

It was also inching the duel toward the bow of the ship, and she thought she understood the reason. It wanted to engulf the other mortals in its drowning effect. Then she’d have to slay it quickly if she wanted her allies to survive. She’d need to fight more aggressively and take chances, and that might finally give the creature the opportunity to get its hands on her.

If you want aggression, Tammith thought, I’ll give it to you. She exploded into a cloud of bats.

It hurt to transform so quickly, and hurt again when each of her creatures felt the strangling weight of water in its lungs. The bats were more primal, more creatures of instinct, than she was in human form, and a fresh surge of terror threatened

to overwhelm them. But the part of her that was shadowy overmind, the guiding consciousness they shared, resisted.

The bats hurtled at the zombie. It caught one in each hand, squeezed and crushed them, and all the survivors felt the death agony, but that couldn’t balk them either. Two others landed on the creature’s face and clawed out its eyes.

Then all the surviving bats flew away and whirled into a single form again. That didn’t quell the pain, but Tammith had to ignore it. Because, orienting on the rustle of wings, her foe lurched around to confront her with slime seething in the orbits of its deliquescing face. Its new eyes had nearly formed already.

She bellowed a battle cry and cut at its neck.

Its head tumbled free of its shoulders. The body collapsed, then crawled after its severed portion. Tammith ran to the head, snatched it up, and hurled it over the rail. The body stopped moving, and the cold, wet haze evaporated.

Tammith surveyed the deck. More men were alive than otherwise, but the survivors were simply standing and gawking. “Get back to your duties!” she rasped. “Sail the ship and watch for other enemies!”

Most of them scrambled to obey, but one youth stayed huddled on the deck, weeping and gasping as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

Tammith strode over to him. “Get up. You’re all right now.”

He just stayed where he’d fallen, his shoulders shaking, and she experienced a spasm of contempt. He was a coward, and useless. Or rather, useful only as a source of blood. If she drained him, the throbbing pain inside her would ease more quickly.

She jerked him to his feet, tilted his head back to expose the throat, and in so doing, got a good look at his tear-and snot-streaked face. He was even younger than she’d imagined, and, judging from his lack of any uniform or insignia, not a member of

the zulkirs’ navy, just a fisherman’s son or trader’s cabin boy they’d pressed into service to help with their escape.

Shame rose inside her. It didn’t extinguish her thirst, but it counterbalanced it. She stared into the youth’s eyes and said, “Calm down. Everything’s fine.”

He blinked and smiled, then stiffened. A bat far larger than the ones she could become swooped over the deck and then melted into a towering, four-armed figure with crimson eyes and a lupine muzzle. “Good evening, Captain Iltazyarra,” Tsagoth said. “I’ve been hunting you for a while.”

Aoth watched in dismay as the dream vestige came streaming and boiling from empty air. He could hear its myriad voices moaning and whimpering even from high above.

“You didn’t think we were going to get through the fight without seeing that thing again, did you?” Brightwing asked. The undertone of stress in her voice revealed that the wound she’d received from the ghost was still paining her.

“I hoped so, but maybe the zulkirs can handle it this time. I know they talked about how to do it. Our job is to keep our troops away from it.” He flew around bellowing a warning, and other griffon riders took up the call in turn.

Although perhaps it wasn’t necessary. The dream vestige had manifested just above the water and there it floated still, either because that was where Szass Tam wanted it or because it judged it would catch more prey there. Tentaclelike extrusions groping for any sentient swimming or flying creature unfortunate enough to be within reach, it streamed forward and engulfed one of the council’s war galleys. When it flowed on, no one was left on deck.

The Red Wizards and the priests of Bezantur counterattacked with every form of magic at their disposal. Hurtling

sparks exploded into blasts of flame at the center of the cloud. Thunderbolts pierced it, and howling winds shoved at it. Two of the largest conjured entities Aoth had ever seen, both eel-like with vaguely human upper bodies, spat their breath weapons, then swam in to rip with fang, claw, and scythe before dissolving in the dream vestige’s misty embrace.