At first glance, the Raumvirans didn’t appear to be doing much of anything except holding their positions and enduring the wan winter sunlight as best they could. But far back from the front ranks, the ghoul with the pearl in her eye socket and the glittering mites crawling in the folds of her robe was conferring with a couple of her lieutenants while drawing in the snow at her feet with a staff. Moving without perceptible haste, animate corpses shambled around inspecting automatons, sometimes herding them a bit closer or a little farther from the next construct in line. They also spoke to other zombies that eventually then adjusted a shield on a withered arm or loosened a sword in its scabbard.
In short, the creatures were preparing to attack, but in so leisurely a fashion that the Old One’s sentry, who was of course well aware that up until now the attackers had been active by night and passive by day, didn’t even recognize the threat. In its essence, what was occurring was a tactic Aoth himself had used countless times: Lead the enemy to expect one thing, then do something different.
He felt an urge to snarl at the lookout beside him as viciously as Orgurth was still berating his workers. But that would be unfair. Of the two of them, he was the professional soldier who’d convinced the Old Ones to accept him as their commander, and if the Raumvirans were on the verge of outwitting their foes, it was his fault.
But thanks to Jet, maybe he could still turn things around. He spotted Kanilak brandishing a staff with a tuft of owl feathers on the end, grabbed him by the shoulder in mid-incantation, and hauled him over to Orgurth so he could talk to both of them at the same time.
“The undead aren’t going to wait for nightfall,” he said. “They could come at any moment, and we have to change our plans accordingly. Do whatever you can to finish quickly so we’ll have some defenses in place when they burst in.”
Orgurth gave a brusque nod. “Got it.” He pivoted and started shouting.
Kanilak’s brown eyes were wide inside his mask. “But the traps you wanted. It’s just not possible to set those quickly. The magic-”
“You’re an Old One of the Silverbloods!” Aoth snapped. “You told me that like it meant something. Well, here’s your chance to prove it.”
With that, he dashed on toward the foundry.
Vandar disliked skulking in the dark. Whatever was coming up the passage, he’d rather charge to meet it with his torch blazing in one hand and the red sword gleaming in the other.
Yes, the red sword. His mental picture of himself fearlessly confronting the foe served to remind him of his fey blade and spear’s particular qualities, and then he belatedly recognized their hunger for battle and glory fanning his impatience. Even after all this time, it could be difficult to discern that inner nudging. Maybe that was because it so often encouraged him to do what he was naturally inclined to do anyway.
Still, he thought, scowling, he had to keep his head, because he already had reason to regret succumbing to the sword and spear’s urgings. Not that he was sure good would have come of responding to Cera’s cry for help on the day they stormed the fortress. Indeed, it seemed more likely that he would simply have failed to find any trace of her. Yet it was possible everything could have been different. She, Jhesrhi, and even Aoth might have been present to help when the Storm of Vengeance attacked. The brothers of the Griffon Lodge might still be alive.
Dai Shan interrupted Vandar’s self-reproach by peering into the narrow space between two tombs, into which the Rashemi had wedged himself. “It’s a pair of zombies approaching,” the outlander said, “or possibly ghouls. Some sort of corporeal undead anyway.”
Vandar felt his pulse quicken. The warm tingle of excitement in his weapons quickened too. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Surely, survivors of the force your lodge and the Stag King’s retainers destroyed in the fortress.”
Vandar frowned. “They might know something about what became of Cera and Jhesrhi, and we might be able to make them tell us.”
“Indeed,” Dai Shan murmured, “ ‘make’ being the critical term in the mighty warrior’s formulation.”
“If it’s just a couple of walking corpses,” Vandar said, “you and I have bested worse since we started roaming around in here. We can take them by surprise when they reach the statue of Jergal.” He scowled. “No, curse it, the torchlight will still give me away.”
Dai Shan took a moment to think, then answered, “I can share my knack for seeing in the dark with you. Please close your eyes.”
With a twinge of reluctance, Vandar obeyed. Dai Shan whispered words that, although the berserker had no idea what they meant, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. On the final syllable, the Shou touched a fingertip to each of his eyelids.
When that light pressure ended, Vandar opened his eyes and glanced around. “Nothing looks different.”
“It will when you leave the torch behind. Come. We should take our positions.”
Dai Shan turned out to be correct. The curtain of shadow the Shou had conjured blocked the firelight, and after the wavering yellow glow disappeared, Vandar could still see. In fact, he could see a little farther than before, although he’d lost every trace of color, with even his crimson weapons turning gray. The change made the maze’s riotous jumble of morbid carvings look even ghostlier, if such a thing was possible.
Bending low, Dai Shan scurried around Jergal’s statue. Presumably, he took up a position at the mouth of the passage on the other side, although, with the sculpture in the way, Vandar couldn’t actually see him anymore. The Rashemi occupied the corresponding position on his own side and peeked around the corner.
Swaying, lurching figures were now visible, although Vandar still couldn’t make out exactly what manner of creature he was about to ambush. Maybe Dai Shan’s magic granted a keener form of dark sight to a shadow adept than to an ordinary person. But whatever the approaching beings were, the fey weapons were eager to assail them. The sword hilt and the shaft of the spear seemed to shiver in his hands.
Although the undead moved quietly, the moment came when Vandar heard their footsteps scuffing on the floor. Then two withered corpses with foxfire in their sunken eyes shuffled into view.
Vandar stepped and thrust with the spear. The weapon punched through the knee of the nearer undead. The creature toppled, but it had a naked scimitar in its clawlike hand and slashed at its attacker at the same time. Vandar parried with the fey sword, spun the parry into a bind, and tore the blade from his opponent’s grip. The scimitar flew through the air to clank down on Jergal’s desktop.
There. That was one dread warrior crippled and disarmed for questioning. Letting go of the spear, Vandar turned to see if Dai Shan needed help dealing with the other and only then perceived the long-hafted war hammer sweeping down at his head.
The second zombie had had no difficulty rushing in on his flank because Dai Shan had never engaged it. In fact, Vandar still didn’t see the Shou trader at all.
Vandar leaped backward and, as the hammer stroke fell short, saw more shapes rushing up the passage. The undead he’d so confidently attacked had been forerunners scouting ahead of a larger band, and just as he was simultaneously comprehending that and cutting at the hammer-wielding zombie’s neck, Dai Shan called out from somewhere behind him.
“Noble undead, the barbarian is Vandar Cherlinka, a champion of Rashemen and your enemy! I’ll help you kill him!” The Shou rattled off an incantation.
The red sword tore the hammer zombie’s rotting head tumbling from its shoulders, and then the world went black. As Vandar realized Dai Shan had ripped away the gift of dark sight he’d bestowed previously, something clamped around his ankle.