When all the talk was finally through, and most of the enchanters were headed out to prepare for the journey, Shaugar came down to the floor of the amphitheater. “Thanks for your support,” Aoth told him. “Can I hope the part about wicker cages was an exaggeration?”
Shaugar snorted. “You were right before. You really don’t understand Rashemen. But you were also correct that we mustn’t worry about that now. As we head north, we’ll pass near a couple other Old One villages. We can ask them to join us.”
Pevkalondra laughed. “You still won’t have enough men to stop what’s happening in the forest.”
“We’ll see,” said Aoth. “It may be that I can scare up a few more.”
“Either way,” Orgurth said, “I’m tired of listening to Stinky, here, jeer at us. I’ve also gone too long in my new life as a sellsword without picking up any plunder.”
He turned, grabbed Pevkalondra’s ocular between thumb and forefinger, and yanked. The pearl jerked free, trailing the thin prongs of metal that had zigzagged back into her head. They came out with bits of rotten matter clinging to them, and the ghoul screamed.
“See?” asked Orgurth, making a casual attempt to wipe the decay off on his sleeve. “I told you I could have made her talk.”
The durthans were performing their rites in a stand of towering, many-branched weirwood trees. It was one of the most sacred places of power in the Urlingwood, yet even so, permanently tilting the balance of dark and light in all Rashemen was proving to be a long and arduous process requiring night after night of chanted prayers and incantations around the greenish fire.
Although things were moving a little faster now that, with matters elsewhere under control, Nyevarra was leading the rituals. The Stag King’s antler staff had turned out to be a potent talisman for strengthening the conjurations.
She was spinning it through a complicated figure that made the bonfire blaze higher when, her mystical perceptions heightened by the ceremony, she sensed entities possessed of considerable supernatural power approaching in the night. She used a hand signal to warn her sister witches a pause was necessary, and they all stopped chanting on the same word, at a point that kept the forces they’d raised from bursting free of the metaphysical structures meant to channel and contain them.
Nyevarra and the other durthans then turned to await the newcomers. Some witches gasped or exclaimed when their fellow ghouls and specters marched out of the dark.
There were many creatures in the column formidable enough to merit such expressions of admiration and respect. But Nyevarra had no doubt that it was the singular entity crawling in the lead who’d riveted everyone’s attention.
The upper part of him was the top portion of a human skeleton. At the waist, those bare bones fused with an enormous, scaly serpentine body like a dragon’s tail. She knew from the description Uramar had given her that this was Lod, but even if she hadn’t, she would have assumed as much from the exceptional wizardly strength she sensed inside him.
She left the circle to greet him and his companions. Swaying slightly from side to side, he loomed over her, and she felt small and vulnerable. Making sure that didn’t reveal itself in her stance or voice, she said, “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Lod replied. “You must be Nyevarra. Uramar’s messenger told me you’re the one who worked out how best to conquer this realm.”
Nyevarra smiled behind her mask. “It was my notion. But every durthan is aiding in the effort.”
Lod nodded. “I like it that you’re willing to share the credit. It reflects the spirit of fellowship our cause requires.” He peered over her head in the direction of the green fire. “But plainly, our arrival interrupted your labors. Will you take them up again? It would be a privilege to observe.”
Nyevarra blinked. “Right now? You’ve traveled a long way.”
“Yes. But as you’ve surely discovered, one of the many benefits of undeath is being impervious to fatigue.”
“In that case, please, come to the fire.”
After another series of complex invocations, the durthans came to a planned halt; undead might be tireless in the general course of things, but any witch performing a lengthy ritual was well advised to pause from time to time to refocus her will. At that point, curious to hear his opinion, Nyevarra looked up at Lod.
“Remarkable,” the bone naga said. “Until Uramar relayed your plans, I would never have dreamed such a thing was possible. Still, I have lore of my own, and with your permission, I believe I can speed things along.”
“I’m eager to see what you have in mind.”
“Then when everyone is ready, I’ll take the lead while you and your sisters make the ritual responses. I’m only going to change your incantations a little, so you won’t have any difficulty following along.”
In a sense, that proved to be true. But in the aggregate, the small changes-an arcane gesture performed with extra slashing vehemence, an alteration in the cadence of a phrase, the substitution of one name of power for another-made a considerable difference. Attuned to the magic, Nyevarra could perceive it transforming the Urlingwood in ways it hadn’t hitherto.
The fire turned from green to a gray so deep it was nearly black, and in some indefinable but ghastly fashion, the crackling alternately suggested sobbing and laughter. A darkness deeper than natural night thickened in the air.
Tendrils of rot snaked through one of the weir trees, riddling the heartwood in an instant. Farther away, oaks and pines perished of the same cankerous affliction.
Earth shifted and clenched like a miser’s fist, and the spring water that had bubbled up to feed a frozen brook could no longer find its way to the surface.
A bear sleeping in its burrow whimpered and thrashed as a new deformed head-three-eyed, with crooked jaws and jagged, oversized fangs-sprouted from its shoulder. But the natural head didn’t truly wake until the freakish one started eating it.
There was still a part of Nyevarra, the part that recalled life as a dutiful young hathran, that winced at the accelerated corruption and desecration. But the rebel and vampire that naive girl had become rejoiced. Before, she’d estimated that her rituals would make her and her allies invincible near the time of the spring thaw. But with Lod’s aid, it should require only another tenday or two.
Vandar felt a surge of happiness as, riding the giant hawk Jhesrhi had conjured to carry him, he gazed down on Immilmar from the air. After all the dangers and horrors he’d encountered in the north, home had never looked more inviting.
Or at least that was the case until his eyes fell on the peaked roof of the Griffon Lodge. Even on this frigid winter day, no smoke rose from the chimney, and why would it? The building stood empty as it would until someone new took possession of it.
Vandar averted his eyes, and in so doing, turned them toward the lake. The Storm of Vengeance was sitting on the shore.
Grief and guilt gave way to rage, and had he known how, he would have turned his steed toward the skyship. Because he didn’t know how to steer the giant hawk, he could only wait as his bird, Jhesrhi’s, and Jet, who was carrying Cera, swooped down to light in the snow in front of Witches’ Hall.
As soon as their riders dismounted, the two huge raptors dissolved into wind, moaning and flinging up snow for a moment, and then they were gone. Vandar started westward.
“Stop!” Cera said. “I saw the ship too, but you can’t just run off by yourself.”
“She’s right,” rasped Jet. Frequent applications of Cera’s healing sunlight had strengthened him and improved his appearance, although black feathers and fur had yet to cover over every patch of ugly scarring. “I’ve got a score of my own to settle, and if things were different, I’d come along and help you. But we have a plan in motion. A plan to rescue your miserable excuse for a homeland.”