The masked witches botg-4, Page 2

  She dabbed at the welling blood, using her wand like a paintbrush to daub symbols on the outcropping. Though stylized, some were less cryptic than the Raumathari runes. Vandar recognized the rose of Chauntea, the eyes and stars of Sel ne, the unicorn head of Mielikki, and a beaked, winged, four-footed beast that was presumably his lodge s totem.

  Yhelbruna waved him away when she had finished writing. Then she lifted her face to the sky and started singing a song punctuated by rasping shrieks similar to his own battle cry, only even more bloodcurdlingly realistic. The power she was raising sent concentric ripples running out from her feet through the snow, as though it was a pond disturbed by a pebble.

  She sang the spell three times through and started on a fourth time before anything answered. Then a speck appeared above the peaks to the south.

  Flying fast, it beat its way toward the humans on their mountaintop, while Vandar gradually made out the details of its appearance. The lashing wings. The eagle head with its golden eyes and curved beak, a match for the raptor talons on its forelegs. The leonine hindquarters and tail, where bronze-colored feathers gave way to tawny fur.

  It floated and wheeled above the mountaintop, seemingly inspecting the humans. Then, one or two at a time other griffons came to join it. Yhelbruna explained to Vandar that she was calling these beasts from the south, where they d found easy prey near the mines of Tethkel. They had devoured mules, goats, sheep, and even men, prompting the locals to ask the hathrans to put an end to the slaughter.

  At first, the dozens of soaring, circling beasts were a glorious confusion, but gradually Vandar observed differences. The one currently ascending had dark brown plumage with scarcely a hint of bronzy gleam. One that kept swooping particularly low was mostly fur it only had feathers on its wings and head. A third was missing the tip of its tail.

  Whatever their traits, they were all magnificent. Vandar studied them, rapt. He wanted them like he d never wanted anything before.

  The creatures savage strength spoke to the deepest part of him, the part that had first drawn him to the griffon totem and the Griffon Lodge. But there was even more to it than that. Though his lodge held a place of honor, it was by no means the largest or most prestigious in Rashemen, nor was he the land s preeminent warrior. But the creatures soaring overhead could change that. One day, they might even make their master the next Iron Lord, when Mangan Uruk went to join his ancestors.

  Vandar had been reasonably sure from the start that Yhelbruna meant to give the griffons into his care. He was both the obvious candidate and the one man she d ordered to accompany her on her quest. And surely last night s chance encounter had confirmed the wisdom of her choice. Grinning, he asked the Goddesses to bless the stinking Thayans and all their despicable schemes. For thanks to them, Yhelbruna had seen with her own eyes just what a stalwart hero he was.

  Once again the hathran, her voice grown hoarse, reached the last line of her song. She swept out the arms of her voluminous cloak so that she looked like she was spreading wings of her own. She screeched her loudest scream yet.

  As one, the griffons plunged toward the mountaintop.

  If they were diving and swooping to kill the humans who d dared to summon them, they would easily succeed. Not even Yhelbruna s magic could fend off so many powerful beasts all at once. Yet Vandar laughed and raised his empty hands in welcome, because he had no doubt the witch was in control. How could it be otherwise when the griffons were his destiny?

  And as he d expected, the beasts simply landed in the snow. Many turned their heads to glare at him, but they made no move to attack.

  With its wings half furled, the biggest griffon of all alit right in front of Yhelbruna. Some of its feathers were more gold than bronze, painting streaks of brightness through its pinions, while its eyes were as blue as the clear sky above. They stared into Yhelbruna s face, and she peered steadily back.

  Vandar wondered how he d missed seeing the striped griffon before, even among such a throng of them. For it was plainly the leader, and that meant, although all the beasts would belong to the lodge, the spirits must surely intend that one to be his own special steed.

  Fascinated, he hurried closer, weaving his way through the lesser griffons. Constrained by Yhelbruna s enchantments, they allowed him to pass unmolested when one snap of a beak could have nipped off his head, or the flick of a talon could have spilled his guts in the snow. The closer he approached, the more majestic the blue-eyed griffon appeared, and when he came within arm s reach, it finally turned his head away from Yhelbruna to regard him.

  He reached out a trembling hand to stroke the feathers on its neck. Yhelbruna pivoted and whipped her wand across his fingertips. The startling burst of pain made him snatch his arm back, and, possibly agitated by all the sudden motion, the griffon let out a screech.

  Vandar rounded on Yhelbruna. What s wrong? he demanded. The beast is mine, isn t it? That s why I m here.

  You presume, said the witch in her makeshift mask. You re here because I had a use for the affinity in your blood. I don t yet know who s meant to claim the griffons. We ll all have to wait for the Three to speak.

  ONE

  As he and his companions flew in from the south, Aoth Fezim studied the snow-shrouded town ahead: a collection of sturdy lodges with steep, crested roofs. A massive castle of stone and iron rose in their center, towering over every other structure and looking far more well to use an unkind word civilized. Aoth supposed there was a reason for that. Although the Iron Lords had occupied the pile for as long as they d been the warlords of Rashemen, it had started out as a Nar keep, and maybe the architectural style was still more Nar than otherwise.

  It felt a little strange to behold Immilmar, the capital of Rashemen, or most any part of the northern lands. Thoughts of the place had often occupied him since his youth. Commoners of Thay, such as Aoth, were of Rashemi stock. Although he d been born into the pale, lanky Mulan aristocracy, mischievous nature had given him the darker skin and short, burly frame of a member of the lower orders. As a result, he d endured childhood taunts and brawls, and the Red Wizards had never seen fit to induct him into one of their arcane orders.

  Later, as a war mage in Thay s legions, Aoth had fought the true Rashemi along his country s northern border. But until his journey to Immilmar, he d never seen more than the southern edge of Rashemen not before the War of the Zulkirs, and not in all the decades since.

  You still aren t seeing it, said Jet, speaking mind to mind. You re too busy picking at your memories. Pull your head out of your arse and look where I m looking.

  Considering that they shared a psychic link, and that the familiar was actually using his master s eyes at the moment, that wasn t difficult. Jet often availed himself of Aoth s sight, because the same magical storm that had extended the human s life had granted him vision even keener than a griffon s.

  That sight enabled him to make out the skaters and ice fishermen on the frozen surface of Lake Ashane, though at that distance they were only tiny specks. More to the point, Aoth could see that the broad-beamed ship sitting beside the water was no mere canoe, raft, or felucca, but rather a three-masted vessel with a pair of odd-looking panels on each side of her hull. She belonged on the high seas, not in such an inland waterway. The ship s figurehead was a horned, bare-breasted she-demon, and the flag atop the central mast bore a leering red skull with crossed yellow thunderbolts beneath.

  Aoth drew breath to curse, and Cera Eurthos asked, What s wrong? Seated behind him with her arms around his waist, the priestess had felt his body shift.

  That ship beside the lake is the Storm of Vengeance, he replied.

  The sellsword ship? she asked.

  Yes, and by all accounts, Mario Bez had a profitable year fighting along the Dragon Coast.

  And you think he s come to buy the griffons, too.

  I do. The Storm of Vengeance is a skyship, so fielding a company of riders on flying steeds would suit his style of warfare. I can t imagine what else wou
ld bring him here. Even if the Rashemi were in the habit of hiring mercenaries, winter s the wrong season for it.

  Well, don t worry about it. You had a good year, too. You saved Chessenta from ruin, and Shala Karanok rewarded you accordingly. I m sure you can outbid Captain Bez.

  I hope so. He needed those animals.

  The Brotherhood of the Griffon, his own sellsword company, had endured a hard couple of years. What the world at large viewed as a failed invasion of Thay had left its reputation tarnished and its ranks depleted. A defeat of sorts in Impiltur had aggravated the damage.

  But as Cera had said, he and his comrades had turned things around that summer, in Chessenta and Threskel. They d won notable victories. And, as a result, new recruits and offers of employment had come flooding in.

  But one problem remained. They had lost too many griffons in their battles against Szass Tam, Alasklerbanbastos, and ultimately Tchazzar. If the Brotherhood were to continue practicing its own highly effective style of warfare, they had to obtain new mounts. So the news that the Iron Lord had dozens to sell brought Aoth hurrying north with only three companions: Jet, Cera, and Jhesrhi Coldcreek, currently riding the giant hawk she d shaped from the wind. A larger group might have slowed the journey down, and some of his officers needed to stay behind to supervise the men in their winter quarters.

  Aoth supposed he should have realized he wouldn t be the only prospective buyer rushing to Immilmar. There truly was no time to lose. Discerning the tenor of his master s thoughts, Jet swooped down toward the courtyard behind the citadel s primary gate.

  Jhesrhi s golden hair streamed out behind her as she sent her conjured hawk plunging after Jet and his riders. Her patched, stained war cloak and mage s robe fluttered around her willowy form.

  Touching down, she swung herself off her mount, thanked it in one of the tongues of Sky Home, the realm of the air elementals, and permitted it to dissolve back into pure wind. Before it departed, the wind howled and blew particles of snow from the shoveled heaps shoveled into the cleared sections of the courtyard.

  Jhesrhi was glad that her recent accident, if that was the proper term for it, hadn t cost her the ability to command elements other than flame. To a degree, she could contain the heat inside her. She could wear clothing or sit on a chair without it catching fire. But if she were to ride a mount of flesh and bone for very long, the contact with her would pain and blister the poor beast.

  Which meant she herself would never fly on griffonback again. That saddened her, but it was the only part of her transformation she regretted. At first the change had been a shock, but ultimately, it had brought her a kind of peace.

  Aoth, however, didn t seem to believe that. Though he hadn t said so, she knew he d brought her along partly because he suspected she was in despair and needed tending a solicitude that irked and touched her in equal measure.

  At any rate, she was glad to escape Chessenta. She d hated the place as a child, and with the reinstitution of the Green Hand laws designed to constrain and marginalize those with arcane talents, she hated it again. Perhaps, despite its barbaric reputation, Rashemen would prove more congenial.

  On first inspection, however, there was little that was cheerful or welcoming about that particular fortress. It was all gray stone and black iron surely enchanted to stave off rust with long icicles hanging from the undersides of the battlements. Across the courtyard, the sentries and servants eyed the newcomers warily.

  Aoth s appearance might be partly to blame, Jhesrhi thought. He had the frame and coloring of a Rashemi, but his shaved scalp and the tattooing that crawled up his neck and even made a mask of sorts around his luminous blue eyes were characteristically Thayan.

  Plump and pretty, with a head of blonde, wind-tousled curls, and clad in yellow vestments, Cera gave the onlookers the kind of lavish, ingratiating smile that Jhesrhi could never have managed on her happiest day.

  The Keeper s blessing upon you all, the priestess said, and swung her hand in an arc that suggested her deity s passage across the heavens. For a moment, the afternoon sunlight brightened, and warmth banished winter s chill. The Rashemi onlookers visibly relaxed.

  We re peaceful travelers from Chessenta, Cera continued. I m Cera Eurthos, sunlady of Soolabax. My friends are Aoth Fezim, the sellsword captain; and Jhesrhi Coldcreek, one of his chief lieutenants.

  And we re here to see the Iron Lord, said Aoth, arching his back to stretch muscles stiff from the saddle. The action made his mail coat clink. Immediately, if possible.

  To Jhesrhi s surprise, one of the spearmen flanking the door that led inside the castle smirked.

  Aoth noticed it, too. Did I say something funny? he asked.

  I m sorry, Captain, the guard replied.

  It s just that all of you are in such a hurry when you arrive, and then well, it s not my place to explain it. You ll find out soon enough for yourself. Come with me, and I ll see what I can do for you.

  Thanks, Aoth said. He turned back to Jet.

  Fly around and find out where they re keeping the griffons. See how many they really have, and what kind of shape they re in.

  Right, Jet replied. With his scarlet eyes burning in his black-feathered head, the familiar turned, trotted several paces with the uneven stride of his kind, lashed his wings, and leaped into the air. A woman with a bucket in her hand let out a little squawk, even though Jet wasn t springing in her direction or threatening anyone at all.

  Aoth looked back to the soldier who d offered to conduct them all inside. We re ready, he said.

  The inside of the castle was somewhat less forbidding than the outside. The Rashemi had softened its stark lines and cavernous gloom with wood carvings, murals mostly innocent of perspective, and hunting trophies. Unimpressed, Jhesrhi cast about for graven sigils, an altar, or some other relic of ancient Nar demonbinding. But she couldn t find any. Maybe the Rashemi had deliberately expunged all such disquieting traces of their predecessors.

  But if they had, it wasn t because they were like Chessentans, fearful of any manifestation of the arcane. Periodically, as the sentry led Jhesrhi and her companions deeper into the castle, they encountered women masked in stiff, lacquered cloth, leather, wood, glazed ceramic, copper, or silver. For the most part, the ladies the famous hathrans, Jhesrhi assumed carried staves like her own, or wands, orbs, or other implements of the mystic arts. As often as not, they gave her and Cera looks of cool appraisal. They seemed less interested in Aoth, even though he appeared to be the strangest and was at least as formidable a spellcaster as either of his companions.

  After one such meeting, Cera elbowed the war mage in the ribs.

  See? she whispered. It s like I ve always heard. The women run things, and the men know their place. I should have come here a long time ago.

  Aoth snorted. I don t see you being happy anyplace where you have to cover that pretty face, he retorted.

  Hm. Should I take that as a compliment on my looks or a criticism of my vanity? she replied.

  Listening to them banter, Jhesrhi pictured Gaedynn s crooked grin, and something twisted in her chest. She clamped down on the feelings that were trying to flower inside her and squeezed them until there was nothing left.

  As she attended to that, voices echoed up ahead. Steel rang on steel.

  Jhesrhi and her companions entered a spacious, high-ceilinged chamber, lit and warmed by a crackling hearth at either end and filled with a miscellany of folk. There were almond-eyed Shou clad in flowing silk garments and armed with oddly curved blades and halberds. Others, dark-haired, ruddy-skinned humans and slender half-elves, wore the trappings of Aglarond s griffonriders, including winged pewter brooches, and dangling straps that would buckle to their saddles. In contrast to the other groups uniformity, Bez s sellswords sported whatever clothing, armor, and weapons suited them, although each displayed the red and yellow of the skyship s flag somewhere about their persons. The stocky Rashemi seemed poorly equipped compared to the rest, with only boiled leather ves
ts for armor, but they had plenty of spears, axes, war hammers, and even a fair number of swords.

  The clanging came from two fellows practicing cuts and parries using live blades. Swordsmen with more bravado than sense, thought Jhesrhi. Bone dice clattered, and an empty bottle crashed against the wall. A circle of listeners groaned and jeered at the end of a joke or story, and a couple of men even lay snoring on the floor.

  Jhesrhi knew little about Rashemen and even less about Thesk. Yet despite the exotic armor, weapons, and styles of clothing on display, and the oddly accented speech that filled her ears, the scene seemed familiar enough to make her feel at home. During her years as a mercenary, she d often watched soldiers-at-arms lounging around trying to fend off boredom while they were waiting to fight, march, or perform some other task.

  By the looks of it, some folk had been stuck in the keep long enough for a degree of friendly feeling to develop among the groups. One of the fencers was a Shou, and the other, a sellsword. Other mercenaries were gambling with griffonriders. Only the Rashemi appeared to be keeping wholly to themselves while glowering from the quadrant they d claimed as their own.

  By the Black Flame, said Aoth, his tone disgusted.

  Wait here, the escort said. I ll ask the Iron Lord if he ll see you. He headed for a door in the far wall that had its own rather bored-looking sentry.

  Fezim! called a jovial bass voice. Jhesrhi turned to see Mario Bez rising from the circle of dice players squatting on the floor.

  Bez was a strapping middle-aged man who would have been handsome if not for a bumpy beak of a nose. He wore his long graying hair tied back in a ponytail. The rapier and dagger hanging on his hips had arcane sigils both incised in the pommels and guards, and running down the scabbards. Jhesrhi suspected that, like Aoth s spear, they served both as weapons of the mundane sort and mystical foci.

  It s grand to see you, said Bez, strutting closer. Although it s sad that you re still as greedy as when we squabbled over loot down in Turmish.