"We're lucky," Samas said, "that it only existed for a while. Maybe Szass Tam will prove incapable of making another, or maybe he'll lose control of it if he does. Maybe it will eat him."
Zola sighed. "I'm sorry, but it didn't cease to exist. A dream vestige can pass back and forth between the physical realm and what I infer is some sort of demiplane of dreams. When Szass Tam judged that it had done all he required, he sent it there."
"To keep it from slipping its leash and getting into mischief," Nevron said, "like a conjuror keeping an elemental in a ring or bottle. I'm familiar with the concept. So, you're telling us he can call the thing forth whenever he feels the need, and that it will grow bigger and stronger every time it kills somebody."
"I'm afraid so."
"Our luck is a wondrous thing," Lallara said. "There are two schools of wizardry, divination and illusion, that make a study of dreams, and those are the two zulkirs we lack. Yaphyll went over to Szass Tam, and Dmitra is missing."
"I suspect," Lallara said, "Dmitra, too, has betrayed us. Remember, at one time, she was Szass Tam's most devoted minion, and she urged us to fight at the base of the cliffs."
"With a god endorsing her point of view," Lauzoril said.
"Are you sure?" Lallara asked. "Dmitra is the zulkir of Illusion. Perhaps she tricked us into believing the Black Hand spoke to us."
"I hope you're wrong," Lauzoril said, "because that would make it Szass Tam and two other zulkirs against the rest of us. But let's stay focused on the lich's new servant. We no longer have a wizard with a special understanding of dreams in our company. But we do have an authority on undeath."
Zola's mouth tightened. "If you're asking me if I know how to stop the creature, Your Omnipotence, I'm sorry, but the answer is no."
Lallara sneered. "Zola Sethrakt at a loss. How astonishing."
"Perhaps," Lauzoril said, "since the dream vestige is a form of undead, the priests can destroy or at least repel it."
"Don't count on it," Nevron said. "I watched Iphegor Nath and a circle of his acolytes try and fail. I detest that arrogant whoreson, but he's the best of his breed. He always has been."
"The Order of Abjuration," Lallara said, "can try to devise a ward to hold the dream vestige back. Although if it can jump back and forth between this world and some astral realm, that makes the task more difficult."
"Perhaps it's time," Lauzoril said, "to ask ourselves whether it even matters if we can devise a defense against the dream entity."
Nevron glowered at him. "Are you suggesting what I think you are?"
"Reluctantly," the zulkir of Enchantment replied, "but someone has to say it. We just lost the greater part of our military strength."
"We have other troops," Nevron said.
"Who are out of position to confront the horde of undead that is surely racing south, and too few to stop it even if they could. Because somehow, Szass Tam has raised a vast new army when it should have been impossible. He and his necromancers also appear to have discovered how to make wizardry reliable again while the solution still eludes us. In short, the lich holds every advantage."
"I don't care," Nevron said.
"Nor does it matter to me," Lauzoril responded, "what your pride obliges you to do. But I don't intend to die struggling to cling to my position in a realm that mostly lies in ruins anyway. Not if the cause is hopeless."
"It may be that Szass Tam would offer us terms," Samas said.
Lallara laughed. "Now that his victory is at hand? He'd butcher you and feed your bloated carcass to his ghouls before you could even blink."
"Even if he was inclined to be merciful," Lauzoril said, "I'd prefer a comfortable life in exile to subservience."
Nevron shook his head. "I won't give up." But for the first time in all their long acquaintance, Samas heard a hint of weakness and doubt in the conjuror's voice.
"No one has to flee yet," Lauzoril said. "We can keep searching for a way to turn the situation around. But we'll also make preparations to depart, and take comfort in the fact that, whatever resources Szass Tam may possess, he doesn't have ships, and some forms of undead can't cross open water."
"Very well," Nevron said. "I suppose that's reasonable." He turned his glower back on Zola, studying her, and his mouth tightened. He stroked the hideous face tattooed in the palm of one hand and muttered under his breath.
A creature resembling a diseased satyr appeared behind the conjuror's seat. Open sores mottled its emaciated frame. It had horns and a head like a ram, but with seeping crimson eyes and pointed fangs. Its serpentine tail switched back and forth, scraping a cluster of metallic spines on the tip against the floor. It clutched a huge spear in its four-fingered hands. Nevron pointed, and it oriented on Zola.
The necromancer jumped out of her seat. "What are you doing?"
"It's only a bulezau," Nevron said, "not all that powerful for a demon. A true zulkir shouldn't have any trouble defending against it."
The tanar'ri leveled its spear and charged.
Zola shouted a word of power and swept her hand through a mystic pass. Swirls of jagged darkness spun from her fingertips to fill the space between the bulezau and herself. The demon lunged in and stuck fast like an animal caught in brambles. Zola grabbed a bone-and-onyx amulet.
The bulezau vanished from the shadowy trap and appeared behind her. She sensed it, started to turn, but was too slow. It raised its spear high, rammed it into her torso, and the force of the blow smashed her to the floor. The bulezau threw itself on top of her, clawed away hunks of flesh, and stuffed them into its mouth. The rattle of the jewelry on her flailing limbs found a counterpoint in the snapping of her bones.
Samas swallowed and wondered if he would even be hungry at suppertime.
"If this really is the end," Nevron said, "I'll be damned if I meet it in the company of a useless weakling claiming to be my equal and looking to rule our shrunken dominions along with the rest of us."
Samas noticed that Kumed Hahpret had turned an ashen white.
If the war had taught the people of Thay anything, it was that horrible entities were apt to come stalking or flying out of the dark. That was why Aoth approached the walls of Mophur wrapped in a pearly conjured glow that also enveloped Brightwing, and with a fluttering banner of the Griffon Legion tied to the end of his spear.
Even so, crossbow bolts flew at him from the battlements. One struck his shoulder with stinging force but glanced off his mail.
"Bareris!" he shouted. The bard was better able to communicate over a distance.
"Stop shooting!" Bareris called. "We fight for the council. Look carefully at Captain Fezim and you'll see."
More quarrels flew. Brightwing screeched in anger. "Go away!" someone yelled.
Aoth flew Brightwing away from the walls and waved his spear for his fellow griffon riders to follow. They landed beside the High Road, near the mounted knights and men-at-arms who'd fled south with them. The griffons were so tired that they didn't even show signs of wanting to eat the horses. Some wounded, heads hanging low, the equines were in even worse shape. One charger toppled sideways, dumping its master on the ground, writhed once, and then lay still.
While he flew, the kiss of the wind had kept Aoth alert, but on the ground, he suddenly felt weary enough to keel over himself. He invoked the magic of a tattoo to clear his head and send a surge of energy into his limbs. It helped, but not a great deal. He'd already used the trick too many times.
"What's wrong?" asked the knight at the head of the column. Aoth tried to recall the man's name and rank, but couldn't dredge them out of his memory.