The masked witches botg-4, Page 5

  Of course, Aoth thought, some folk might say that the effects of Vandar s recklessness weren t all bad, because Vandar wasn t really a comrade. He was a competitor, and Aoth s mission would be that much simpler if the Rashemi didn t survive the consequences of his folly. But even as the thought flickered through his mind, he was already aiming his spear; and Jet, discerning his actual intent, was diving.

  Aoth spoke a word of command, and darts of blue light hurtled from the head of his weapon into the body of the wounded werewolf. The shapeshifter collapsed, but unlike with Vandar s attack, didn t jump back up.

  Staying crouched behind a pine tree, Jhesrhi made a jabbing motion with her staff. The brass glowed, and so did her golden eyes, while the evergreen boughs brushing against the metal charred. Flames leaped from the tip of an arcane weapon, annihilating one of the shadow wolves, then jumping to set a werewolf ablaze.

  Cera stood straight up and stepped out into the open. Swinging her gilded mace over her head, she shouted, Your time is past!

  Light flared around her, as though, in the middle of the night, she was nonetheless standing in sunshine. A shadow wolf lunging at Vandar s flank withered away to nothing, and several of the witches recoiled.

  But one of the undead didn t flinch: a witch who had nearly completed a spell. Glaring in Vandar s direction, her voice rose on the final syllables of her incantation, as she brandished an orb of black crystal over her head.

  Jet leveled out from his dive and hurtled at her. His talons slammed into her body, yanked her off her feet, and dragged her across the cleared area. In the process of tearing free, his claws ripped the witch apart.

  With a reflexive stab of alarm, Aoth saw that Jet didn t have enough room to climb back up into the sky. The clear space wasn t long enough, and the familiar was going too fast.

  Relax, said Jet. He furled his wings, and he and his master plunged to earth just a couple of paces shy of the tree with which they d been about to collide.

  The griffon whirled to confront the foes rushing to attack. A ghostly wolf sprang, and he met it with a snap of his beak.

  Unfortunately, the shadow beast s insubstantial nature protected it. It plunged right through the griffon s beak and sank its fangs into his chest. Thanks to their psychic link, Aoth felt the resulting burst of frigid pain.

  But he couldn t afford to pay attention to it. He had to trust the griffon to deal with the close combat while he fought the witches hanging back to attack at range.

  There were three of them. The one on the left wore brown robes and a wooden mask through which her milky eyes peered. She was pointing a dagger at him. The witch in the middle sported a black cloak and hood sewn with an over-layer of dangling bones. Her mask was a leering skull face that had evidently come from a real skull. In contrast to the others, the third witch had thrown back her cloak to reveal a spindly form clad only in a steel mask and a ragged, mold-spotted shift. Intricate tattooing crawled on every inch of her exposed gray skin.

  All three were already chanting and sweeping their arcane foci through mystic passes. Aoth discharged another of the ones stored inside his spear.

  A curtain of flying slashing blades flashed into existence and flew toward the trio. The witch with the milky eyes and the one cloaked in bones reeled out of the spell s effect with clothes and flesh tattered. The former s left arm hung useless, all but severed. But the tattooed hathran sprang clear like a cat, before any of the blades could touch her. She snarled the final word of her spell and clenched her fist.

  A cloud of swirling vapor burst into existence around Aoth. His eyes burned, flooding with blinding tears. The same fire seared him from his nostrils and his lips all the way down into his chest. He coughed and choked, unable to catch his breath.

  Aoth activated the tattoo he wore to counter poison, slapping at it through his mail. The burning abated for him, but he could still feel the echo of Jet s distress.

  The griffon spread his wings, lashed them, and leaped, carrying them clear of the cloud. Shaking, he retched and spat.

  Are you all right? asked Aoth.

  Fine! the griffon said with a snarl. Just don t let them do it again!

  Aoth could tell the griffon wasn t fine. He, himself, could barely breathe and barely see. But Jet was right. There was no time for anything but battle.

  Blinking, Aoth cast about for the trio of undead hathrans. Residual sickness from the poison and dazzling flashes Jhesrhi and Cera fighting their own foes with conjured fire and sunlight made it harder to find them than it should have been. The first thing to catch his eye was a corpse lying in the fog cloud, slowly warping from wolf back into man, while a pair of lupine shadows charged out of the vapor after Jet. Vandar, painted with blood from at least two wounds, swung his sword and cut a hathran s neck.

  Finally, Aoth located his particular foes in the flickering, lunging chaos. He leveled his spear and rattled off an incantation. A blast of wind sent the witch with the nearly severed arm staggering back amid the flying blades, still slashing away in the area where he d placed them. There came a rapid thunk-thunk-thunk as the magic hacked her to pieces.

  One down! But at that same instant, the hathran with the mantle of bones thrust out her withered arm, and a ragged flare of darkness exploded from the tips of her jagged nails.

  Aoth invoked the protective power of another tattoo. He didn t think there was anything else he could do. But though Jet was still half blind, defending by sheer instinct against shadow wolves that kept darting in, biting, and retreating, the griffon nonetheless perceived the witch s threat. With another great spring and beating of his wings, he leaped above the magic that, an instant later, splintered the front of the hut like a barrage of razors. And he landed right in front of the creature who d cast it.

  The witch flourished her cape. Bones tore loose from it and battered Aoth like sling stones. Crying out at the pain, he charged his spear with destructive power and thrust.

  The head of the weapon flared blue as it drove deep into the witch s chest. With a thunderous boom, force blasted out from the point of penetration and tore her body to shreds.

  Jet whirled to confront the shadow wolves again. As he did so, Aoth glimpsed Cera hurling a shaft of light from the spherical head of her mace. Meanwhile, a second mace seemingly made of radiance and wielded by an invisible hand bashed a werewolf and held it away from her. Jhesrhi, standing straight and tall, had wrapped herself in blue and yellow flame from head to toe and was engaging the undead witches in a duel of spells.

  Aoth located his remaining opponent just as the tattooed lines leaped from her flesh in a flying tangle. The leading edge of the spell s effect lashed him like whips before settling on him like a wire net.

  The strands slithered around him and started to draw tight. He snarled words of power, and, straining against the constriction, sought to drag his hand through the proper mystic figure. The undead creature raised her hands high, her rotting skin hanging in rags freeing the tattoos that had all but flayed her. As she lashed her hands down, they blurred into the hands of a troll, too large for her arms, with greenish hide and long claws.

  The hathran screamed and sprang over Jet s head. But at that instant, Aoth completed his counterspell. The animated mesh sizzled out of existence.

  He snapped his spear into line and impaled the witch. He sent power surging through the weapon and blasted her apart.

  He felt an instant of savage satisfaction. But the feeling crashed into dismay as Jet collapsed beneath him, and a feeling of cold, numb weakness flooded across their psychic link.

  Aoth had to get out of the saddle lest he end up pinned under the griffon s body. He willed the straps holding him in place to unbuckle themselves, heaved himself clear, and slammed down into the snow.

  At once, a hathran in a fanged, slant-eyed mask loomed over him, but Vandar rushed at her and distracted her. Aoth floundered to his feet and, furious at what the creatures had done to Jet, leveled his spear at the shadow wolves that were st
ill tearing at the griffon.

  The beasts rounded on Aoth and charged. He infused the head of his spear with blazing, crackling lightning and met the first with a thrust to the chest that burned the creature from existence.

  The other lunged inside his reach and tried to snap its fangs shut on his arm. But although mere steel links couldn t have kept them out of his flesh, the enchantments bound in the metal did. Aoth dropped the spear, growled a word that concentrated stinging power in his fist, and hammered it down on the phantom creature s head. The creature withered away to nothing.

  Aoth automatically cast about, making sure no new foe was advancing to attack him, then touched Jet s mind with his own. The familiar was alive but unconscious, and in urgent need of care.

  Cera could provide it, but she, Jhesrhi, and Vandar were still fighting. Aoth pivoted and snarled incantations, scarcely pausing between one and the next, as he hurled darts of light and booming thunderbolts until every last hathran, werewolf, and shadow beast was gone.

  Gasping and stumbling, Cera hurried to Jet s side. Vandar and Jhesrhi followed. The Rashemi looked shaky and spent with his rage having run its course, and he was finally feeling the effects of the superficial but bloody cuts in his scalp and forearm. Only Jhesrhi appeared untouched by all that had transpired as she snuffed her aura of flame.

  What happened? Cera asked. She dropped to her knees beside the griffon that, even crumpled in the snow, made her look as small as a child by comparison.

  The shadow wolves, Aoth said.

  Will he be all right? Vandar asked.

  You d better hope he will be, said Aoth.

  Why in the name of the Black Hand did you attack before I gave the signal?

  I don t take orders from you! Vandar snapped, before taking a breath. But understand, the fury is a gift of the spirits, and sometimes it takes us when they will it. I think maybe the oak telthor raised it in me because he couldn t have lasted much longer.

  Aoth realized he d forgotten all about the ghostly giant. He glanced in the direction of the blighted tree and discovered the apparition had disappeared. I don t care about your stinking spirit, he said.

  Enough! Cera said. Both of you, be quiet and let me work.

  She whispered a prayer, and her hands glowed as she laid them on Jet s flank. She moved them to his neck specifically, to another spot where a shadow beast had bitten the griffon, Aoth surmised, although he didn t know how she could tell and did the same thing there. Then she infused the tip of a wing with Amaunator s healing light.

  Gradually, the magic did its work. Aoth could feel the change in Jet as the oblivion of near-death gave way to ordinary sleep.

  Aoth took a deep breath, then let it out again. You did it, he said. He s going to be all right.

  I know, Cera replied, stroking Jet s head. Grunting, she tried to stand. Aoth helped her. She looked at Vandar and said, I have a little power left. Enough to tend you, too.

  Do that, said Aoth. Then the two of you stay with Jet. Jhesrhi and I are going to go and check on something.

  As he led her into the trees, the wizard said, I m glad Jet s going to live.

  He s too cantankerous to die, Aoth replied. Do you ever wonder why no matter where we go anymore, we end up fighting the undead?

  The bare hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Jhesrhi s mouth for a moment, then vanished. I take it we re going to see if they crawled out of the tomb you and Cera found, she said. Or if we can figure out where else they came from.

  Yes, Aoth replied. Once again, some footprints would be helpful.

  Jhesrhi shrugged. Undead, even the ones that still have a physical form, tend to be good at sneaking around, she said.

  Werewolves, too, I imagine. They may not even have needed a spell to avoid making tracks.

  That still doesn t explain why, if they came from outside the grove, Jet and I didn t see them when we were flying around above the treetops. Aoth said.

  They reached the spot where the hole led into the tomb. Aoth crawled in, the gnarled roots catching on his clothing and in the links of his mail. Jhesrhi followed and set the head of her brass staff burning like a torch. They stalked on down the stairs, only to find the same vacant, echoing passages he and Cera had explored before.

  And as before, he and his companion ended up in the hub by the sarcophagus when their search was done. He resisted a childish impulse to kick it.

  Uramar studied the stocky, tattooed war mage with the luminous blue eyes and the tall, golden-haired elementalist with the fiery staff. It wasn t difficult. As people commonly reckoned distance, they were only a couple of paces away. In another, equally valid sense, they and their frustration occupied a completely different world.

  From their remarks to one another, Uramar gathered that the frustration stemmed partly from the fact that the tattooed man was accustomed to seeing whatever existed to be seen. But at the moment, it was his misfortune to be looking for something invisible to any form of vision, even truesight.

  Uramar s invisibility gave him an advantage. He could spring forth and strike by surprise. As his hands clenched on the hilt of his greatsword, an assortment of his broken souls whispered to him.

  Kill them

  It will be easy

  Kill them, reanimate them, and then they can serve our cause

  But as was often the case, other voices disagreed.

  No. You saw how formidable they are

  If there was only one, yes, but there are two

  Don t risk giving away our secrets. A better opportunity will surely come along

  For a moment, the clamor set pain throbbing in Uramar s temples, and he staggered a step and groaned. Then the contradiction resolved itself, and he knew that he should indeed wait.

  Such being the case, there was no point in letting proximity to the mortals tantalize the more bloodthirsty parts of his nature any further. He turned and crept away. Instinct made him silent even though he knew that really, the folk behind him wouldn t notice even if he shouted at the top of his mismatched lungs.

  THREE

  Jhesrhi had noticed that few structures in Immilmar looked particularly new. Apparently Rashemi saw little reason to put up a new building until an old one had rotted out and fallen down. But even by local standards, the whitewashed longhouse called the Witches Hall had an air of antiquity about it. It was easy to believe that the dragons, unicorns, and hounds carved under the eaves had glared their forbiddance at the first Iron Lord to walk the city s muddy, unpaved streets.

  And forbiddance it would surely have been, for as the summons had made clear, even when the Wychlaran saw fit to call nonhathrans to their sanctuary, that didn t mean they were invited into the sacred precincts of the hall. As Jhesrhi, Aoth, and Cera approached, a masked woman stepped forward from her post before the front entrance and gestured for the newcomers to follow her.

  She led them around to the south side of the longhouse, where someone had either dug out a small amphitheater or had taken advantage of a natural depression in the ground to fashion one. Somebody had removed some of the snow, too, but Jhesrhi suspected the plank benches would still make cold, damp seating for those who, unlike her, didn t have fire flowing in their veins.

  By the Pure Flame, Aoth muttered.

  When Jhesrhi glanced around, she saw what had annoyed him. She knew he d hoped the summons was for him and his comrades alone, or at worst for them, Vandar, and other representatives of the Griffon Lodge. Plainly that wasn t the case, for Dai Shan, the leader of the Shou, and Mario Bez were approaching, each accompanied by several of his men. The skyship captain shot Aoth a grin as he made a point of claiming a seat right beside him.

  The heroes of the day, Bez said. Congratulations.

  We were ready for them, Aoth replied with a shrug.

  Still, even for dragon slayers, it can t have been easy to contend with undead spellcasters and superior numbers, the captain said. You should have told me what you intended. I could have spared a few men to st
ay and lie in wait with you.

  And win the Storm of Vengeance a share of the credit if the killers actually did show up? Cera asked.

  Bez spread his hands in mock dismay. Sunlady, you wound me, he said. Naturally, my concern would have been your safety, and Lady Jhesrhi s.

  Jhesrhi decided there was no reason to pay further attention to what Bez had to say. He was more than likely sniffing for information which Aoth and Cera were too wary to give him and his was the sort of oblique, bantering conversation that made her feel tongue-tied and dull. Well, except sometimes, when it was Gaedynn

  With a scowl, Jhesrhi pushed the archer s face with its shrewd eyes and flippant smirk out of her mind. In search of distraction, she watched Mangan Uruk, Vandar, and Folcoerr Dulsaer arrive. The berserker wore his beadwork regalia, and the half-elf had a sneer for each of his rivals.

  Almost as soon as everyone had found a seat, they all had to stand up again as masked witches filed out of the longhouse.

  They were not alone. Ghostly telthors flew, padded, bounded, scurried, or crawled along with them. In that first moment, Jhesrhi made out a hawk, a vulture, two bears, a squirrel, an otter, and a snake. Many of the creatures flickered, visible one instant and gone the next. None left any tracks in the snow. Their profusion reminded Jhesri that Rashemen was filled with nature spirits.

  A number of the smaller familiars accompanied their mistresses to their seats on the benches. The others looked down on the assembled humans from the top of the amphitheater, or perched on the limbs of nearby trees.

  One hathran had no phantom companion that Jhesrhi could see. Clad in a simple leather mask and brown hooded robe, she remained standing at the bottom of the amphitheater, and, when she was ready, slashed a bluewood wand through an intricate figure. Nothing overt happened as a result. Maybe it was simply a way of asking the gods to bless the gathering, for a hathran s arts were a mixture of the priestly and the arcane. It was a disorderly hodgepodge to Jhesrhi s way of thinking, but maybe she wasn t giving the barbarians enough credit.