Unclean

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 gri

"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 legio

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.

For a heartbeat, Aoth could only stand and stare, frozen by the certainty his life had come to an end. Then he started to level his spear and drew breath to chant. He was a warrior and could at least go down fighting.

"Don't!" Brightwing screeched. "He isn't attacking!"

Szass Tam smiled. "Your familiar has good instincts, Captain Fezim. At the risk of sounding immodest, I'm… formidable. When I kill with my own hands, the victim tends to be a fellow archmage, a demigod, or a whole army. Anything less is scarcely worth the bother, which is not to suggest that your brave and resourceful company doesn't merit some sort of attention."

Aoth swallowed. "I don't understand."

"I'd like a parley with you and your fellow officers." Szass Tam gestured toward the heart of the grove, where the exhausted griffon riders had camped in the evidently vain hope the trees would conceal them from hostile eyes. His sleeve slipped down toward his wrist, revealing more of his withered hand. "Will you grant me safe conduct?"

"Yes," said Aoth.

He felt as if he were still mired in a dream, and it was somehow impossible to say anything else. He led Szass Tam toward his slumbering, snoring comrades. Brightwing followed, positioning herself behind the lich so she could pounce on him if it became necessary to protect her master, even though Aoth could feel she shared his conviction that Szass Tam could crush them like ants whenever he chose.

Szass Tam surveyed the sleeping men and griffons. "Do you want to wake them or should I?"

"I'll do it," Aoth replied. "Get up, everyone!" The mundane quality of the words made the moment feel that much more unreal.

Men groaned and rolled over, rubbed their eyes and threw off their covers, then faltered as Aoth had done when they saw who'd tracked them down. Rather, all but one of them did. Bareris leaped up, drew his sword, and sprang, all in a single blur of motion. Aoth lunged to interpose himself between the bard and Szass Tam but saw he wouldn't make it in time.

Bareris's sword flashed at the necromancer's head, and Szass Tam caught in his hand. The enchanted weapon should have cut the skeletal fingers off, but instead, Aoth saw some sort of malignancy flash up the blade. The sword shattered, and Bareris crumpled.

Sword in hand, vaguely resembling Aoth at this particular moment, Mirror streaked at the lich. Szass Tam simply looked at the ghost, and Mirror froze into a statue of shimmer and murk.

Warriors snatched up their weapons, and griffons gathered themselves to spring. They were all afraid of Szass Tam, but now that a fight had broken out, none intended to stand idle while the lich struck down their comrades. Nor, for that matter, did Aoth. He charged his lance with power.

Szass Tam flourished his staff. Patterns of rainbow-colored light shimmered into existence around his body, then flowed into another configuration, and another after that. The ongoing process was fascinating, so much so that despite the urgencies of the moment, Aoth could only stand and stare. No doubt his comrades felt the same compulsion.

"I entered your camp under sign of truce," Szass Tam said, "and this swordsman and the ghost had no right to attack me. Even so, I've done them no permanent harm. Now will you grant me the parley I seek, or should I smite you all while you stand helpless?"