As he scrambled backward, distancing himself from the reaper, Szass Tam could only infer that the random fluctuations in mystical forces had rendered his staff and its stored magic useless. He had no way of knowing if any of his other spells would work any better, or even if he'd have the chance of find out. Evoking an effect from the ether required more time and precision than releasing one already stored, and an aggressive attacker like the reaper could make it impossible for a wizard to conjure successfully.
As the creature rounded on him, he focused his thoughts on the red chalk. It was still enchanted, and still responsive to his unspoken will. He bade it hurtle at the reaper to scribble on its bony face and crown.
With luck, the unexpected harassment would distract the reaper for a precious moment, until it decided that the chalk was insignificant. Without waiting to see if the trick would work, Szass Tam reached for one of his many pockets. He snatched out a tiny ball of compressed bat droppings and sulfur, flourished it, and rattled off the first words of an incantation.
The reaper stopped swiping at the chalk and charged its animator. That was unfortunate. It meant Szass Tam wouldn't be able to smite the creature with the crude magic he was creating without catching himself in the effect. But he didn't abandon the effort. He had to put the reaper down before it hit him with its scythe.
A spark streaked from his outstretched hand and hit the reaper's sternum. It exploded into a blast of crimson fire.
The detonation threw Szass Tam backward and the heat seared his body, particularly the parts that still had flesh. But liches were preternaturally resistant to harm, and he also carried a ward against flames. Thus, though the blast tore much of his robe away, it left his limbs in place. In fact, it didn't even stun him.
He reeled, caught his balance, and came on guard in a wizard's fighting stance, staff gripped to conjure, strike, or parry as needed. As it turned out, he didn't need to do anything. When the blaze subsided, scraps of bone and tatters of burning garments littered the floor. Only the scythe remained intact, its blade warping and melting the granite on which it rested.
Szass Tam drew a deep breath. Without actually needing to breathe, he couldn't truly feel winded, but even after centuries of undeath, the old, useless habits of mortality sometimes manifested.
That had been too close, and it infuriated him. An archmage should have little trouble coping with an entropic reaper, fearsome as the creatures were to lesser folk, and yet the entity might easily have slain him.
But there was no point in bemoaning his weakness. He'd do better to ponder what he'd discovered.
When intricate magic had failed, his instincts had prompted him to resort to a basic evocation of elemental force. That succeeded, and he thought he knew why. The Red Wizards had developed their art to a level lesser mages could scarcely imagine. Their spells incorporated all sorts of sophisticated shortcuts and enhancements. But those features achieved their efficacy by exploiting the subtle interplay of the forces comprising the Weave.
With the Weave annihilated, those same mechanisms had become a hindrance. Szass Tam's spells could no longer tap into all the elements they required to work. Trying to perform magic that way was like attempting to carry water in a bucket with a hole in the bottom.
Of course, most enchantments took advantage of the Weave to one degree or another, and until the realm of magic stabilized, even a basic spell might run afoul of the same problem. But it wouldn't happen as often.
So long as Szass Tam acted in accordance with this new limitation, he might be able to function effectively. And if he shared his insights with his necromancers, they too-
He sighed. No. For the most part, they couldn't, not anytime soon, because they weren't immortal archmages with his breadth and depth of learning. Most of them had only ever studied Thayan thaumaturgy, and it would take time to retrain them. By then, his rivals, wielding the brute strength of their legions, might gain such a decisive advantage that even sorcery couldn't counter it.
He had to find another way to stave off defeat, and after a time, an idea occurred to him. It would require another divination, and he summoned a blue crystal globe into his hand. For the time being, he'd had his fill of opening windows into the infinite.
The world of mortal men in general, and of warriors in particular, was good for Mirror. It filled him like water filled a cup, or perhaps it unblocked a spring of essence that welled up inside him. Either way, it dulled the ache of emptiness.
Yet despite its solace, he sometimes felt obliged to let go of it. He needed to step into a place that, he'd posited, on one of the rare occasions when his thoughts were clear enough for such conjectures, existed only within himself. In effect, he turned himself inside out like a pocket.
Whatever and wherever the place was, it was dangerous, for so far as he'd ever discovered, nothing existed there but a cold whisper of wind that rubbed away at everything his commerce with the material world had given him. For that reason, he never stayed long. He opened himself to its corrosive power then hastily retreated, like a man fingering a sore tooth then snatching his hand away.
Yet now he tarried, for instinct told him there truly was something to find, something the living world could never provide. And though he had no idea what it was, if he recovered it, perhaps he could mend an ill and wash away dishonor.
So he took a stride and then another, fading with every pace.
The wings of her many bodies beating, Tammith peered into the darkness. She, Bareris, and a half dozen griffon riders were scouting ahead of the combined hosts of Eltabbar, Tyraturos, and Pyarados, looking for signs of the enemy, the blue fire, or any hazards the flames might have created.
It had certainly passed that way, scouring away vegetation and sculpting the earth into spires and arches. Eviscerated, virtually pulverized, the remains of a herd of cattle littered a field. A single survivor dragged itself along, lowing piteously.
Even for a vampire, it was unpleasant to see nature herself tormented in this fashion. Baring her many fangs, Tammith sought to snarl the feeling away.
A griffon screeched. "What's that?" its rider called.
It's just Solzepar, fool, Tammith thought, right where it's supposed to be. She could make out the dark shape of the town below, at the point where the road north from Zolum intersected the great highway called the Eastern Way.
On first inspection, it looked as if the wave of blue fire had missed Solzepar, for there was the town, still standing. Then a great crashing and crunching sounded from the midst of the shops and houses. It was like the start of another earthquake, but few of the structures and trees were swaying.
An island of earth and rock within the city rose from its surroundings like a cork popping out of a bottle. A wooden house straddled the edge and the separation tore it in two. The half that ascended disintegrated, raining boards and furniture onto the part below.
The chunk of earth rose high before slowing to a stop, and Tammith saw it was the latest addition to an archipelago of small floating islands ripped from the town below. A number of them supported buildings that were still intact.
The vampire realized she'd done the griffon rider an injustice by deeming him a fool. It was this prodigy, not the mere sighting of Solzepar, that had elicited his outcry.
Bareris climbed high enough to inspect the islands from above. Tammith and the other scouts followed. No lights burned in any of the houses-nor, she realized, in any of the parts of Solzepar that remained earthbound-and she didn't see anyone moving around.