"Thank you, Tharchion." He was hungry, but not enough to essay the awkwardness of reporting and shoving food into his mouth at the same time. A drink seemed manageable, however, certainly safer than the risk of giving offense by spurning her hospitality, and he poured wine into one of the pewter goblets provided for the purpose. In the lamp-lit tent, the red vintage looked black. "I scouted the pass as ordered. Hundreds of undead are marching down the valley, in good order and on our side of the river."
It was what she'd expected to hear, and she nodded. "Why in the name of the all-devouring flame is this happening?"
"I can only repeat what others have speculated already. There are old Raumviran strongholds, and the ruins of a kingdom even older up in the mountains. Both peoples apparently trafficked with abyssal powers, and such realms leave ghosts behind when they pass away."
As Thay with its hosts of wizards conducting esoteric experiments would leave its stain when it passed, he reflected, then wondered where the morbid thought had come from.
"Once in a while," he continued, "something skulks down from the ancient forts and tombs to trouble us, but we've never seen a horde the size of this, and I have no idea why it's occurring now. Perhaps a true scholar might, but I'm just a battle mage."
She smiled. "I wouldn't trade you. Destroying the foul things is more important than understanding precisely where they came from or what agitated them. Is it your opinion that they intend to march straight through to engage us?"
"Yes, Tharchion." He took a sip of his wine. It was sweeter than he liked but still drinkable. Probably it was costly and exquisite, if only he possessed the refined palate to appreciate it.
"Even though they can't reach us before dawn?"
"Yes."
"Good. In that case, we'll have the advantages of a well-established position, daylight, and the Thazarim protecting our right flank. Perhaps the creatures aren't as intelligent as we first thought."
Aoth hesitated. Wizard and griffon rider though he was, he was wary of seeming to contradict his capricious commander, but it was his duty to share his perspective. It was why they were talking, after all.
"They seemed intelligent when they took Thazar Keep."
"Essentially," Nymia said, "they had the advantage of surprise. Your warning came too late to do any good. Besides, the warriors of the garrison were the least able in the tharch. I sent them to that posting because no one expected anything to happen there."
He didn't much like hearing her disparage men who had, for the most part, fought bravely and died horrific deaths in her service, but he was prudent enough not to say so. "I understand what you're saying, Tharchion. I just think it's important we remember that the enemy has organization and leadership. I told you about the nighthaunt."
"The faceless thing with the horns and wings."
"Yes." Though he hadn't known what to call it until a mage more learned than himself had told him. "A form of powerful undead generally believed extinct. I had the feeling it was the leader, or an officer at least."
"If it impressed a griffon rider, I'm sure it's nasty, but I have all the warriors I could gather on short notice and every priest I could haul out of his shrine. We'll smash this foe, never doubt it."
"I don't, Tharchion." Truly he didn't, or at least he knew he shouldn't. Her analysis of the tactical situation appeared sound, and he trusted in the valor and competence of his comrades. Maybe it was simply fatigue or his memories of the massacre at Thazar Keep that had afflicted him with this edgy, uncharacteristic sense of foreboding. "What will you do if the undead decide to stop short of engaging us?"
"Then we'll advance and attack them. With any luck at all, we should be able to do it before sunset. I want this matter finished quickly, the pass cleared and Thazar Keep retaken. Until they are, no gems or ores can come down from the mines, and there won't be any treasure hunters heading up into the peaks for us to tax."
Nor safety or fresh provisions for any miners, trappers, and crofters who yet survive in the vale, Aoth thought. She's right; it is important to crush this enemy quickly.
"Do you have anything else to report?" Nymia asked.
He took a moment to consider. "No, Tharchion."
"Go and rest then. I want you fresh when it's time to fight."
He saw to Brightwing's needs, then wrapped himself in his bedroll and attempted to do as his commander had suggested. After a time, he did doze, but he woke with the jangled nerves of one who'd dreamed unpleasant dreams.
It was the bustle of the camp that had roused him to a morning so thoroughly overcast as to mask any trace of the sun in the eastern sky. Sergeants tramped about shouting. Warriors pulled and strapped on their armor, lined up before the cooks' cauldrons for a ladle full of porridge, kneeled to receive a cleric's blessing, or honed their swords and spears with whetstones. A blood orc, eager for the fight to come, howled its war cry, and donkeys hee-hawed, shied, and pulled at their tethers. A young human soldier attempting to tend the animals wheeled and cursed the orc, and it laughed and made a lewd gesture in response.
Aoth wondered whether an undead spellcaster had sealed away the sun and why no one on his side, a druid or warlock adept at weather-craft, had broken up the cloud cover. If no one could, it seemed a bad omen for the conflict to come.
He spat. He was no great hand at divination and wouldn't know a portent if it crawled up his nose. He was simply nervous, that was all, and the best cure for that was activity.
Accordingly, he procured his breakfast and Brightwing's, performed his meditations and prepared the day's allotment of spells, made sure his weapons and talismans were in perfect order, then roamed in search of the scouts who had flown out subsequent to his return. He wanted to find out what they'd observed.
As it turned out, nothing of consequence, but the effort kept him occupied until someone shouted that the undead were coming. Then it was time to hurry back to Brightwing, saddle her, and wait for his captain to order him and his comrades aloft.
When the command came, the griffons sprang into the air with a thunderous snapping and clattering of wings. As Brightwing climbed, Aoth studied the enemy. The light of morning, blighted though it was, afforded him a better look than he'd enjoyed hitherto, even when availing himself of his familiar's senses.
It didn't look as if the undead had the Thayan defenders outnumbered. That at least was a relief. Aoth just wished he weren't seeing so many creatures that he, a reasonably well-trained warlock even if no one had ever seen fit to offer him a red robe, couldn't identify. It was easier to fight an adversary if you knew its weaknesses and capabilities.
A hulking, gray-skinned corpse-thing like a monstrously obese ghoul waddled in the front ranks of the undead host. From time to time, its jaw dropped halfway to its navel. It looked like, should it care to, it could stuff a whole human body into its mouth. Aoth scrutinized it, trying to associate it with something, any bit of lore, from his arcane studies, then realized he could no longer see it as clearly as he had a moment before.
The morning was growing darker instead of lighter. The clouds had already crippled the sunlight, and now some power was leeching away what remained. He thought of the nighthaunt, a being seemingly made of darkness, and was somehow certain it was responsible. He tried not to shiver.
Every Thayan warrior was accustomed to sorcery and had at least some familiarity with the undead. Still, a murmur of dismay rose from the battle formation below. Officers and sergeants shouted, reassuring the common soldiers and commanding them to stand fast. Then the enemies on the ground began to lope, and dangerously difficult to discern against the darkened sky, the flying undead hurtled forward.