"You have similar problems among the nobles and commoners," she continued. "Many are loath to exert themselves or make any sacrifices to assist the defense. Some merely await the opportunity to work against you as spies and saboteurs."
"We already knew Szass Tam did an exemplary job of endearing himself to the masses," Nevron growled. "Do you have a remedy?"
"I hope so, Your Omnipotence," Dmitra replied. "You six must forsake the seeming security of your castles and speak directly with lesser folk: the captains, the lords, and whomever."
Nevron glared at her. "You mean plead for their help?"
"Of course not. You are their masters, now and forever. The problem is, so is Szass Tam. You need to loom as large in their thoughts as he does, so command them as always, but do it in person. Don't count on them to obey your deputies with the same diligence and alacrity they'd show to you."
Samas Kul snorted. "I don't have the proper physique for chasing frantically about the realm."
"Perhaps you should consider turning into something leaner," Yaphyll replied. "That's what transmutation's all about, or so I'm told."
"In truth, Your Omnipotence," Dmitra said, "I didn't envision you doing a great deal of traveling. With an army marching against it, its tharchion and the commander of its legions assassinated, and the Shadowmasters still lurking about to hinder efforts at defense, nowhere in the realm needs more sorting out than Bezantur. You're the zulkir who lives there and heads up the guild that made the city rich. You can set matters right if anyone can, but not by hiding behind fortress walls."
"Walls have their uses," Lauzoril said in his usual prissy, tepid manner. "Szass Tam or his proxies have murdered two zulkirs already. Now you propose that the rest of us expose ourselves unnecessarily."
"Understand," said Mythrellan, her body patterned in brown and tan diamonds like snakeskin, "we have reason to fear traitors even within the ranks of our own orders. But I don't suppose I have to explain that to you."
"I infer," Dmitra said, "you're alluding to the fact that though I'm an illusionist, for a long while I gave my greatest loyalty to Szass Tam instead of your exalted self. What can I say, except that I recall a time when you too were pleased to have him as an ally."
Yaphyll chortled. "As were Lallara, Samas, and I, so let's forgo deploring old miscalculations and address current needs, to which end I'll say I believe Dmitra Flass is right. Whatever our concerns about our personal safety, we need to take the southern tharchs in hand while we still can."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," Dmitra said, "for I have even more to recommend."
Samas Kul snorted. "What else can there be?"
"You're all used to Szass Tam working through agents and subordinates. As you do. As lords everywhere do. But I know him, and I promise you that when his army undertakes a major battle, he'll fight alongside his vassals. Obviously, his wizardry will all but guarantee a victory-unless we have archmages fighting on our side, too."
The zulkirs exchanged glances. Dmitra felt as if she could read their thoughts. None was especially eager to risk himself on a battlefield, where, if Lady Luck turned against him, even the most formidable spellcaster could fall. Their underlings were supposed to face such hazards for them. But chiefly they all flinched from the prospect of a duel of spells with Szass Tam. The lich was their superior, and whether or not any of them would ever concede it aloud, they knew it.
The moment stretched on until Lallara suddenly banged her fist on the table. "Damn us for cowards! It's six against one, isn't it?"
Yaphyll grinned. "It is, and I think that if we're sensible, we must either fight as hard as we can or flee into exile. I'm not disposed to the latter. I just refurnished the south wing of my palace."
"Fine," Samas Kul spat. "I'll tend to Bezantur and all the rest of it, but it's a bitter jest that I finally rise to be a zulkir, and then, instantly, everything turns to dung."
Dmitra could see they were all of one mind, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her masters cared for nothing but their own self-interest, which meant their brittle accord could fracture at any time, but for the moment at least, they'd follow where she led.
For the time being, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. Bareris supposed that was good. It wouldn't wash the pigment off his face or the faces of his companions.
Unfortunately, his garments were already soaked, and a letup in the downpour couldn't stop him feeling cold nor exhausted. The days and nights of flying and fighting almost without sleep had taken their toll. He crooned a restorative charm under his breath, and a tingle of vitality and alertness thrilled along his nerves.
Off to the north of the enemy encampment, light flashed, dazzling in the night. Aoth and Brightwing had swooped in to cast their fire magic. The supply wagons were as wet as everything else, and Aoth hadn't been certain the spell would actually suffice to set them ablaze, but the wavering yellow glow persisted, proof that he'd succeeded. Horses screamed, and men clamored.
With luck, the fire had distracted everyone, even sentries. Bareris, Malark, and ten comrades, all clad in the trappings of the enemy and each with gray stain on his skin and streaks of amber phosphorescence above his eyes, jumped up from their hiding places and sprinted toward the perimeter of the camp.
They got inside without anyone raising an alarm, and then they were just zombies shambling mindlessly about, waiting for some necromancer to command them. At least that was how it was supposed to look.
Several enemy legionnaires stood babbling and gawking in the direction of the fire. Bareris and his companions circled to take them from behind. He eased his sword from its scabbard and slid it into a warrior's back. Malark broke a man's neck with a gentle-looking thump from the heel of his hand.
Somebody saw and yelled a warning. Northerners scurried to grab their weapons and shields. Bareris and his comrades slaughtered several more, then it was time to go. Their disguises wouldn't bear scrutiny for long, nor could they hope to stand against all the foes within easy reach of them. They cut their way clear and fled back into the night toward the spot where their griffons-and Malark's flying horse-waited to bear them to safety.
The loss of supplies should hinder the enemy a little. The confusion and dismay arising from the perception that some of their own undead warriors had rebelled might flummox them yet a little more. Anything to delay the advance for even another dozen heartbeats.
For one terrifying instant, Aoth dreamed he'd fallen from Brightwing's back, then woke to find it so. Fortunately, however, in reality, he hadn't been riding her across the sky but using her for a pillow, and she'd dumped his head and shoulders onto the cold, wet ground when she sprang to her feet. Now she stood staring into the trees and the darkness like a hound on a point.
Stiff, sore, and grainy-eyed, Aoth grabbed his lance and clambered upright. "What is it?"
"I don't know," the griffon replied. "Something terrible."
A shadow appeared between two oaks. "That's rather harsh."
Aoth borrowed Brightwing's eyes so he too could see in the dark, and the murky figure became a gaunt, dark-eyed man. The newcomer walked with a straight, unadorned ebony staff, and the fingers peeking from the sleeves of his wizard's robes were shriveled and flaking.