Gothog grunted. "Maybe that was the problem, or maybe you didn't really want to fight."
"Are you stupid? Why wouldn't I, when the northerners were trying to kill me, too?"
"Were they?"
Thamas decided he no longer felt comfortable sitting on the ground with the half-orc and the legionnaires looming over him. He drew himself to his feet. "Exactly what are you insinuating?"
"Maybe the enemy found us because someone called them to us. Maybe it was you."
"That's ridiculous! Where did you come up with such an idea?"
"A magus wouldn't have much trouble passing messages to the enemy. You have spells that let you talk over distances. You'd only need to sneak off by yourself for a moment, and here you are again, alone among the trees."
"Did I look like I was doing anything sinister? I was just sitting!"
"I don't take much pleasure in this." Gothog took hold of the leather-wrapped hilt of his scimitar, and the blade whispered out of the scabbard. The other soldiers readied their broadswords. "You always made it plain you think I'm dirt, but you helped me win gold and a captaincy, too. I wish you were still helping. The Horde Leader knows, we'll likely need a sorcerer's help to get us out of Gauros alive. But I can't trust you anymore." He and his companions stepped forward, spreading out as they did so.
Thamas stood frozen, losing a precious moment to shock and bewilderment. Then he hastily retreated. "This is crazy! I'm no traitor, and besides, I'm a Red Wizard! You scum can't touch me!"
"Oh, I think I've just been handed the authority," Gothog said, "but you're right, why put it to the test? I'll just say you died fighting Azhir Kren's warriors, and nobody will ever know any different."
You're the one who's about to die, Thamas thought. You should have struck me down before I realized I was in danger.
Because he'd long ago prepared for a moment of ultimate peril like this. He needed only to speak a name and a certain alkilith, a formless demon made of oozing filth, would appear to serve him for thirteen of his heartbeats.
"Shleeshee!" he cried. Magic whined through the air, and he sensed power shifting in his staff, making the top half feel heavier than the bottom. Then the pole exploded. Splinters stung his cheek and forehead, and he flinched.
Nothing else happened.
Thamas whirled, ran, and smashed into the trunk of a pine tree he hadn't realized was directly behind him. He rebounded, then a blade bit into his back.
Malark sauntered among the rooftop mews, inspecting them. From a certain perspective, it was a waste of time. He knew he'd find the cages clean and the food and water bowls filled. But the stooped, white-haired Rashemi who took care of the ravens liked to have his diligence perceived and commended.
"Everything looks fine," Malark said. He tossed a silver coin, and the aged servant caught it deftly. "Go have some breakfast, and a bottle of wine later on."
The Rashemi grinned, bowed, and withdrew. Humming, Malark took out the first of the scroll cases he'd brought to the roof and touched it with an ebony wand. He reflected that one of the nice things about magic was that one often needn't be a wizard to use an enchanted tool.
The wand shrank the leather tube to a fraction of its former size. Malark opened a cage, removed a raven, set it on a perch, and fed it a scrap of fresh meat. Then he tied the tiny scroll tube to its foot. Well accustomed to the process, the bird suffered it without protest, merely cocking its head and regarding its master with a black and beady eye.
Malark was sure he was alone on the roof. Even so, he took a glance around before whispering, "Find Szass Tam."
The raven spread its wings and took flight, soaring over the spires and battlements of the Central Citadel, then the myriad houses and temples beyond.
Malark shrank another scroll and bade a raven carry it to Kethin Hur. Then footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and Aoth climbed onto the roof. The glow of his azure eyes in their framework of fresh tattooing was more noticeable in dim light, but perceptible even now.
"Good morning," Malark called. "You look well."
Aoth smiled. "A lot better than I would if not for you."
Malark waved a dismissive hand. "You already thanked me for that. We don't have to keep talking about it."
"If you say so."
"Did you come to watch the sun rise over Loviatar's Manor? If so, you're doomed to disappointment. It's another gray day."
"Another gray and hungry year, I imagine, unless the zulkirs can finally wrest control of the weather away from Szass Tam. But to answer your question, no. I came for a couple of those." He nodded toward the box of scrolls.
Malark's awareness sharpened, and he began to breathe slowly and deeply, as the Monks of the Long Death trained themselves to breathe in the moments prior to combat. "I don't follow."
"Before Nymia promoted me, Brightwing and I carried a lot of messages. We might as well carry some more."
Feeling relieved, Malark smiled. "You're bored hanging around Bezantur?"
"Yes. Really, I'm itching to take back command of my legion, but I can't do that until several pieces of it return from their various errands." His mouth twisted. "If they return."
"I admit, much of the news, as it filters in, isn't as good as we'd hoped."
"It was for a little while, but now we hear of defeat after defeat and setback after setback. You're the spymaster. Do you understand what's going wrong?"
Malark shrugged. ''We knew it would be perilous for our armies to take the field under current conditions. And that the necromancers were still formidable even with their powers weakened. But I still believe the decision to take the offensive was a sound one. We still have reason to hope for victory."
"I'm glad to hear you think so. Now, will you trust me with a dispatch or two?"
"Certainly." Fortunately, many of them were inconsequential. Malark didn't really think Aoth would succumb to idle curiosity, open a message, and read it along the way. Though far from stupid, the griffon rider was also a straightforward fellow with ingrained habits of military discipline. But it was best to be safe.
Malark looked down and rummaged in the box of scrolls. Aoth gasped.
Once more poised to kill if necessary, Malark turned around. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," Aoth said. "My eyes just gave me a twinge." He rubbed them. "They still ache every once in a while."
"Are you sure you want to take on this duty?"
"Oh, yes." The war mage hesitated. "But I'll tell you what. To start with, give me something that's going to Pyarados. It's a short trip there and back."
CHAPTER EIGHT
19 Flamerule-14 Eleasias, the Year of Blue Fire
Wearing a murky, wavering semblance of his true face, Mirror trailed Bareris into the griffons' aerie. Now that the bard had returned, the ghost meant to resume his practice of following him around.
Bareris saluted and stood at attention, and Aoth left him that way for a long breath. Eventually, he said, "I'm taking back command of the Griffon Legion."
"Of course." Bareris smiled. "If you recall, I predicted you would."
"Cordial words can't mend our friendship," Aoth snapped. "Not even if you sweeten them with magic."
Bareris's mouth twisted. "I wasn't. I won't do that ever again. I was wrong to do it before, and I'm ready to leave the legion if that's what you'd prefer."
"Does anything remain for you to leave?" Aoth waved his spear at the many vacant cavelike stalls and the wounded griffons occupying others. The sharp smell of the salves used to treat the animals' gashes and burns blended with the normal cat-and-bird stink of the aerie.
"Captain, it's true I lost mounts and riders. But we succeeded in killing Xingax and destroying his manufactory."