Undead

Gray fumes of dreammist twisted through the air. Yaphyll chanted as she pulped and powdered the other items one by one, then stirred them into her cup. When she'd mixed everything, she shouted a final rhyme, raised the cup, and drank the narcotic concoction.

She convulsed so violently that only the magic of Thakorsil's Seat kept her upright, thrashing against that invisible restraint. Her dainty fist clenched and the pewter goblet crumpled. Then her fingers relaxed and the ruined cup slipped from her grip to clank on the oak platform. Her body slumped and her head lolled to the side.

"Are you still conscious?" asked Szass Tam. "If so, tell me what you see."

Yaphyll blinked and sat up straighten "I see…"

"What? I explained what I need."

She shuddered, bumping her head against the high back of the chair, and then the shaking subsided. "Come spring, send word to Hezass Nymar that you mean to march the legions of High Thay to lay siege to the Keep of Sorrows. Summon him and his legions to rendezvous with you there."

Szass Tam frowned. Hezass Nymar, the tharchion of the province of Lapendrar, had switched sides five times since the war for control of Thay had begun, which branded him as faithless and unreliable even by the shabby standards of this chaotic conflict. "Such an assault would put my strongest army deep in enemy territory, drawn up in front of a formidable fortress, with the River Lapendrar and the First Escarpment limiting our mobility. On first inspection, I don't see that idea's merit."

Yaphyll gri

Szass Tam nodded. "I doubt I would have blundered into this trap in the first place, but I appreciate the warning. Still, it isn't the answer to my question. When and where can I bring your peers to battle to tip the balance in my favor for good and all?"

Yaphyll's back arched, and she raised her trembling hands before her face as if she meant to claw at it. "You have your answer. The other zulkirs will leap at the chance to catch you. They'll field every soldier who can reach the Keep of Sorrows in time. But, knowing the situation is a snare, you can plan accordingly. You can turn it around against your enemies, and when you defeat such a large number, you'll cripple them."

"Interesting." It seemed a mad scheme altogether, and yet Szass Tam knew that where augury was concerned, she was a better wizard than he was. He was also confident that, compelled by the Death Moon Orb, she couldn't lie. What if-

Yaphyll's laughter jarred him. Or perhaps she was sobbing.

"The white queen is troubled," she said, "but can't say why."

"What queen is that?" Szass Tam asked, without any sense of urgency. Since Thay didn't have kings or queens, the remark was cryptic, seemingly without relevance to his question. Now that Yaphyll had obeyed his command, he suspected her mystical sight had drifted to some unrelated matter.

"The black queen hates the white," Yaphyll continued, "and gives the assassin a black cloak. The assassin steals up on the white queen. She can't see him gliding through the shadows."

"Who are these people?" asked Szass Tam.

"The sword screams," Yaphyll continued. "The white queen falls. Her city falls. Stones fall in the cavern to crush the soothsayer."

"It sounds like a bad day all around."

"The tree burns," Yaphyll said, "and thrashes in agony. Branches break. Branches twist and grow togeth-"

Tendrils of blue flame erupted down the length of her body, from her hairless scalp to the tips of her toes. She screamed and thrashed.

Szass Tam took a step back. Had her spell escaped her control? He'd save her from the consequences if he could, in the hope she'd prove useful again. He spoke the word that dissolved the crystal pyramid into a fading shimmer, then prepared to conjure a splash of water.

The flames went out of their own accord, leaving behind spots where flesh, silk, and velvet had melted and flowed like wax. Indifferent to the bizarre injuries, Yaphyll giggled and rose from Thakorsil's Seat.

Szass Tam was astonished, but didn't delay. He thrust the Death Moon Orb at her. "Sit down."

"Thank you," she said, "but I'd rather stand. You bade me split myself in two, and send one half into tomorrow. Your silly globe can't touch that half."

She waved her hand and a gout of acid flew at him and splashed across his chest. But fortunately, he was never without his defenses, and although much of his robe sizzled and steamed away, he felt only a little stinging.

Which didn't mean he was inclined to let her try again. He lunged at her and grabbed her by the wrist.

When he willed it, his grip could paralyze, and she stiffened as he expected. But then, to his chagrin, he sensed the life vanish from her body like a blown-out candle flame. After the poison she'd already taken, the malignancy of a lich's touch had proved an unendurable strain. Such a waste.

He dropped her and turned to the zombie giants. "Return Thakorsil's Seat to its chamber," he said, "then take this corpse to Xingax."

For his part, Yaphyll had left him with a mystery to ponder- and, he supposed, a campaign to plan.

"It knows we're coming," Brightwing said.

As he often did when they flew by night, Aoth Fezim had married his senses to the griffon's. Even so, he couldn't tell how she knew, but he didn't doubt her.

"Is it in the air, too?" he asked, adjusting his grip on the spear that served him as both warrior's weapon and wizard's staff.

"I can't tell yet," Brightwing said, then hissed when the base of her right wing gave her a twinge.

With their minds coupled, Aoth felt it too. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Are you sure?" He'd almost lost her last autumn, when one of Szass Tam's undead champions drove its sword deep into her body, and he didn't want to take her into battle if she hadn't fully recovered.

"Yes! Now stop fretting like a senile old gra

She was right-he needed to relay the information. His familiar spoke Mulhorandi, but with a beak and throat poorly shaped for human speech, and for the most part, only her master could understand her.

Flying on his own griffon, Bareris Anskuld acknowledged the warning with a curt nod. As the bard's fair complexion and lanky frame attested, he was of Mulan stock, but he sported a tangled mane of blond hair that shone bone white in the moonlight. He'd abandoned the habit of shaving his head during his travels abroad and had never taken it up again.

A dimly luminous shadow, Mirror floated on the other side of Bareris, far enough away to keep his presence from spooking the singer's mount. As it might well have done, for Mirror was a ghost. Because he lacked all memory of his mortal existence he tended to take on the appearance of anyone who happened to be near. Although sometimes he showed a murky, wavering semblance of what had been his own living face, a lean visage notable for a big, hooked nose and a drooping mustache. Occasionally, he even spoke.

Mounted on his flying horse, Malark Springhill acknowledged Brightwing's warning with a grin and a finger-flick of a salute. Compact of build, with pale green eyes and a wine red birthmark on his chin, Malark was an outlander, but he sported the usual Thayan hairless pate and collection of tattoos.

To some, they would appear an ominous trio. Bareris's bleak, obsessive nature revealed itself in his cold stare, gaunt face, somber dress, and indifference to personal hygiene. Mirror was one of the living dead. Malark's unfailing good cheer in the face of every hardship and horror the war could unleash sometimes verged on the demented. Yet Aoth felt a bond with them all. They'd all but been to the Hells and back together.