Indeed, peering around, Aoth saw it had balked the entire assault. Creatures endeavoring to scale the wall lost their grips, fell, and thudded to the ground. Beyond them, other undead cowered, averting their faces from the light. Here and there, one of the mindless lesser ones, a zombie or skeleton, collapsed entirely or crumbled into powder.
Aoth smiled and shook his head. It was astonishing that a cleric in an insignificant outpost like Thazar Keep could exert so much power. Maybe the Banite had been hoarding a talisman of extraordinary potency, or perhaps he had in desperation called out to his deity, and the Black Hand had seen fit to answer with a miracle.
Trembling, his features taut with a mixture of concentration and exultation, the priest stretched his fist even higher. Aoth inferred that he was about to attempt a feat even more difficult than he'd accomplished already. He meant to scour the entire undead horde from existence.
Then his eyes and most of his features shredded into tattered flesh and gore. One of his foes, perhaps the same spellcasting specter or ghoul that had injured Brightwing, had somehow resisted his god-granted power and struck back. The Banite reeled, screamed, and the light of the gauntlet guttered out. The undead hurled themselves forward once more.
At least the priest hurt them, thought Aoth. Maybe I can finish what he started. He started to shout an incantation, and darkness swirled around him like smoke from some filthy conflagration. Crimson eyes shone toward the top of the thing amid a protrusion of vapor that might conceivably serve it as a head.
He tried to threaten it with his spear and complete his recitation simultaneously, but even though he was a battle wizard and had trained himself to articulate his spells with the necessary precision even in adverse circumstances, he stumbled over the next syllables, botching and wasting the magic. Suddenly, he had no air to articulate anything. The spirit had somehow leeched it from the space around him and even his very lungs.
His chest burning, an unaccustomed panic yammering through his mind, he endeavored to hold his breath, or what little he had left of it, and thrust repeatedly with his spear. If the jabs were hurting his attacker-an undead air elemental, did such entities exist? — he couldn't tell. Darkness seethed at the edges of his vision, and he lost his balance and fell to his knees.
Pinions spread for balance, rearing on her hind legs, Brightwing raked the spirit with her claws and tore at it with her beak. The entity whirled to face her, a movement mainly perceptible by virtue of the rotation of the gleaming eyes in the all but shapeless cloud that was its body, but before it could try stealing her breath, it broke apart into harmless fumes.
Aoth's one desire was to lie where he'd fallen and gasp in breath after breath of air, but his comrades needed the few spells he had left for the casting, so he struggled to his feet and peered around, trying to determine how to exert his powers to their best effect.
To his dismay, he couldn't tell. It didn't appear there was anything anyone could do to turn the tide. There were more undead than live soldiers on the battlements. The diggers had finished their tunnel under the wall, and ghouls and skeletons were streaming though. Everywhere he looked, shriveled, fungus-spotted jaws tore flesh and guzzled spurting blood, and the gossamer-soft but poisonous touch of shadows and ghosts withered all who suffered it. The air was icy cold and stank of rot and gore.
"Go," someone croaked.
Aoth turned then winced to see the castellan swaying and tottering in place. Moments before, the officer had been an aged man but still vital and hardy. Now he looked as senescent and infirm as anyone Aoth had ever seen. His face had dissolved into countless sagging wrinkles, and a milky cataract sealed one eye. His muscles had wasted away, and his clothes and armor hung loose on his spindly frame. His targe was gone, perhaps because he was no longer strong enough to carry it. Aoth could only assume that one of the ghosts had blighted the poor wretch with a strike or grab.
"Go," the captain repeated. "We've lost here. You have to warn the tharchion."
"Yes, sir. Brightwing! We're flying!"
The griffon hissed. Like her master, she didn't relish the idea of running from a fight, even a hopeless one. Still, she crouched, making it easier for him to scramble onto her back, and as soon as he had, she sprang into the air.
As her wings hammered, carrying them higher, another flyer glided in on their flank. With its outstretched bat wings, talons, and curling horns, it somewhat resembled a gargoyle, but it had a whipping serpentine tail and looked as if its body were formed of the same shadowstuff as the night itself. It had no face as such, just a flat triangular space set with a pair of pale eyes blank and round as pearls.
After all that he'd experienced already, Aoth might have believed himself inured to fear, but when he looked into the entity's eyes, his mouth went dry as sand.
He swallowed and drew breath to recite the most potent attack spell he had left, but the apparition waved a contemptuous hand, signaling that he was free to go, then beat its wings and wheeled away.
CHAPTER THREE
12 Mirtul, the Year of Risen Elfkin
Dmitra believed she possessed a larger and more effective network of spies than anyone else in Thay. Still, she'd found that when one wished to gauge the mood of the mob-and every person of consequence, even a zulkir, was well-advised to keep track of it if he or she wished to remain in power-there was no substitute for doing some spying oneself.
Happily, for a Red Wizard of Illusion, the task was simple. She merely cloaked herself in the appearance of a commoner, slipped out of the palace via one of the secret exits, and wandered the taverns and markets of Eltabbar eavesdropping.
She generally wore the guise of a pretty Rashemi lass. It was less complicated to maintain an effective disguise if appearance didn't differ too radically from the underlying reality. It was easier to carry oneself as the semblance ought to move and speak as it ought to speak. The illusion had an additional advantage as well. When she cared to join a conversation, most men were happy to allow it.
But by the same token, a comely girl roaming around unescorted sometimes attracted male attention of a type she didn't want. It was happening now, as she stood jammed in with the rest of the crowd. A hand brushed her bottom-it could have been inadvertent, so she waited-then returned to give her a pinch.
She didn't jerk or whirl around. She turned without haste. It gave her time to whisper a charm.
The leer would have made it easy to identify the lout who'd touched her even if he hadn't been standing directly behind her. He was tall for a commoner, and his overshot chin and protruding lower canines betrayed orcish blood. She stared into his eyes and breathed the final word of her incantation.
The half-orc screamed and blundered backward, flailing at the illusion of nightmarish assailants she'd planted in his mind. The press was such that he inevitably collided with other rough characters, who took exception to the jostling. A burly man carrying a wooden box of carpenter's tools booted the half-orc's legs out from under him then went on kicking and stamping when the oaf hit the ground. Other men clustered around and joined in.
Smiling, hoping they'd cripple or kill the half-orc, Dmitra turned back around to watch the play unfolding atop a stage built of crates at the center of the plaza. The theme was Thay's recent triumph in the Gorge of Gauros. A clash of armies seemed a difficult subject for a dozen ragtag actors to address, but changing their rudimentary costumes quickly and repeatedly as they assumed various roles, they managed to limn the story in broad strokes.