Unholy (9 page)

Malark bowed. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing.”

“I was meditating,” Szass Tam replied. “Preparing for the ritual. When the time comes, I have to be ready to let go of everything. If I feel even a flicker of artachment or regret, it could ruin the casting. So I’m cultivating the habit of viewing all things with scorn.”

The outlander grinned. “I hope knowing me doesn’t put you

off your game. I mean, since I’m indisputably such a marvelous fellow.”

Szass Tam smiled. “You’ve been a true friend this past century, I’ll give you that. And I tell you again, I can recreate you in the universe to come.”

“Then I’ll tell you again, that’s the last thing I want. I just want to watch death devour the world I know, and fall into darkness along with it.”

“All right.” Even after a long association, Szass Tam didn’t fully comprehend Malark’s devotion to death, only that it had been the response of a mind ill-prepared to deal with the unique stresses of immortality. But he was willing to honor his wishes. “Did you come to consult me about something in particular?”

Malark’s expression grew serious. “Yes. I’ve heard from my agent in Escalant. The zulkirs—the old ones in exile, I mean—intend to mount an invasion of Thay within the next few rendays.”

Szass Tam blinked. “They can’t possibly have amassed sufficient strength to have any hope at all of retaking the realm, or you would have learned about it before this. Wouldn’t you?”

“I would, and they haven’t. My man also reports that Aoth Fezim and his sellswords have hired on with Lauzoril and the others, and that Bareris Anskuld and Mirror slipped out of Thay to join the expedition.”

Szass Tam shook his head at the perversity of fate. “If Anskuld and the ghost are there with Lallara and the rest, it can only mean one thing: they discovered what I’m about to do and rallied the test of my old enemies to stop me.”

Malark nodded. “That’s my guess as well.”

“I would very much like to know how they found out. Fastrin’s book has been in my possession for a hundred years. Druxus never told anyone but me what was in it, and I never told anyone but you.”

“Could the gods have played a part?”

“Except for Bane, they no longer have much reason to pay a great deal of attention to what goes on in Thay, and the Black Hand has given me a thousand years to do whatever I please. Still, who knows? I suppose at this point, the how of the situation is less important than what to do about it.”

“Are you sure you need to do anything extraordinary? Thay is well protected, the Dread Legions stronger than any force your foes can field. The Dread Rings aren’t just gigantic talismans; they’re some of the mightiest fortresses in the East. The final preparations for the Unmaking will be ready in a matter of months or possibly even sooner. It seems to me that at this late date, it’s impossible for anyone to stop you.”

“I’d like to think so. Still, the zulkirs have powerful magic at their command, and in the old days, Anskuld, Fezim, and Mirror won victories that prolonged the war by years. So I want to crush this threat as expeditiously as possible, which means I want you to take an active part. It’s the next best thing to doing it myself, and that isn’t practical. I have to finish getting everything ready here.”

To Szass Tarn’s surprise, Malark seemed to hesitate. It was even possible that a hint of distress showed through what was generally his impeccable poise.

Then the lich inferred the reason. “I swear to you,” he said, “that when it’s time to start conjuring, if you’re still in the field, I’ll fetch you. I told you you’ll be at my side, and I keep my promises.”

Malark inclined his head. “I know you do, Master. Please forgive me for imagining otherwise, even for an instant.”

Szass Tam waved a dismissive hand. “It’s all right. You’ve worked tirelessly for this one reward. In your place, if I suspected I might not receive it, I’d be upset too. Now, let’s talk about how to make my old colleagues sorry they decided to revisit their homeland. How do you think they’ll go about invading?”

A gust of cold wind tugged at Malark’s sleeve, exposing a bit of the tattooing on his forearm. “They’ve held on to the Alaor since the end of the war,” said the former monk, “presumably to facilitate an attack by sea, should they ever decide to make one.”

“That’s true, and just in case they ever did, we’ve built a formidable fleet. Do they have enough warships to contend with it?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I predict they’ll deploy their naval resources for what amounts to a feint. Meanwhile, the true invasion will come by land.”

“If it does, it can’t swing north through Aglarond. The simbarchs won’t permit it. The zulkirs just fought a little war with them. That means they’ll have to ford the River Lapendrar and come through Priador, almost within spitting distance of Mur-bant. That’s good. We can harry them and slow their march to a crawl.”

Szass Tam smiled. “There’s another possibility. If I were the enemy, I’d come through the Umber Marshes.”

Malark cocked his head, and his light green eyes narrowed. “Is it even possible to drag an entire army through there?”

“I’ve kept track of Captain Fezim’s career, and he and his company have a reputation for traversing terrain that his foes, to their cost, believed impassable. Consider also that Samas Kul and the mages who serve him are capable of conjuring bridges out of thin air and turning ooze into dry, solid ground. Not every step of the way, of course—it’s a big swamp—but they may be able to help the atmy over the most difficult passages.”

“I suppose so,” Malark said, “and if I were the enemy, I’d be thinking that Szass Tam might be reluctant to send one of his own armies into that pesthole of a swamp, and that it would have trouble locating my comrades and me even if he did. It would likewise occur to me that the marshes are big enough that it would be hard to predict exactly where we’d emerge. So with luck, we

could at least make it into Thay proper without encountering heavy resistance.” “Exactly.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“It might well be a waste of resources to send a conventional army into the fens, but I can send other things. If the zulkirs overcome that obstacle, they’ll likely make for the Dread Ring in Lapendrar and lay siege to it. You’ll be there to aid in the defense.”

Malark nodded. “It should be easy enough, considering that we have to hold out for only a relatively short time. But I do have a suggestion. I take it that Tsagoth is still in charge of the Ring in Tyraturos?”

“I’m certain, my lord spymaster, that you would have known within the day if I’d reassigned him.”

“Well, I’d like you to reassign him now. Give him to me to fight in Lapendrar.”

With reflexive caution, Malark took another glance around, making sure he was still alone. He was, of course. He was locked inside one of his personal conjuration chambers, with gold and silver pentacles inlaid in the red marble floor, racks of staves, cups, daggers, oils, and powders ready to hand, tapestries sewn with runes adorning the walls, and the scent of bitter incense hanging in the air.

He murmured words of power, pricked his fingertip with a lancet, and dripped blood onto the mass of virgin clay on the tabletop before him. Then, chanting, he kneaded those ingredients together with hairs, nail parings, and various bodily fluids. Magic accumulated, straining toward overt manifestation. It sent a prickling across his skin and made the shadows writhe.

As Szass Tam had taught him, he concentrated on what he was doing. Believed in the outcome. Willed it to happen. Yet even so, there was a small, unengaged part of him that reflected that while he shouldht able to perform this particular spell successfully, he’d never actually tried before, and it was supposed to be particularly dangerous.

Still, he didn’t see a choice. He’d already had a plan of sorts, but it had been predicated on remaining in the Citadel awaiting an opportune moment to make his move. Now that the lich had ordered him forth, something more aggressive was required. And this scheme was the best he could devise.

He started shaping the clay into a crude doll. Suddenly, a pang of weakness shot through him, and his knees buckled. As he continued sculpting, the feeling of debility grew worse, as though his work was draining a measure of his life.

Was this supposed to happen? The grimoire hadn’t warned of it.

Don’t think about it! Focus on speaking the words with the proper clarity and cadence. On making the passes precisely and exactly when required.

A crazy titter sounded from thin air, the glee of some petty spirit drawn by the scent of magic. Malark raised his wand above his head and shouted the final words of his spell.

A flare of mystic power painted the room with frost. The doll swelled to life-size, becoming an exact duplicate of Malark right down to the wand, ritual chasuble, and the red and maroon garments beneath. The simulacrum drew up his legs and thrust them out again in a vicious double kick at his creator’s ribs.

Malark only barely managed to spring back out of range. Grinning with mad joy, his twin rolled off the worktable, dropped into a fighting stance, and advanced.

“Stop!” Malark snapped. “I’m your maker and your master!”

The simulacrum whipped his ebony wand—a sturdy baton

designed to double as a cudgel—at Malark’s head. Malark swayed out of the way, but once again, it was close. He needed the weakness and sluggishness to go away, because his twin certainly didn’t seem to be laboring under the same handicap.

But he did seem wild with fury. Perhaps he could be tricked. Malark raised his foot a little as if preparing a kick, then lashed out with his own wand, beat his opponent’s weapon, and knocked it out of his grasp. The cudgel clattered on the floor. It was far from the most effective attack he could have attempted, but he was also hindered by the fact that he didn’t want to kill or cripple his other self.

The simulacrum laughed as though the loss of his club was inconsequential, and perhaps it was. Throwing one combination after another, he came at Malark like a whirlwind, and his creator had little choice but to retreat.

As Malark did, though, he watched. No one, not even a Monk of the Long Death, could make so many attacks in quick succession without faltering or otherwise leaving himself open eventually.

There! The simulacrum was leaning forward, ever so slightly off balance, and as he correcred, Malark dropped his own wand, pounced, and gripped the other combatant’s neck in a stranglehold.

At once Malark felt his adversary moving to break free of the choke, but he didn’t attempt any countermeasures. Now that he was staring straight into the simulacrum’s eyes at short range, it was time to stop wrestling and try being a wizard once again. Imagining the indomitable force of his will, embodied in his glare, stabbing into his double’s head, he snarled, “Stop!”

The simulacrum convulsed, then stopped struggling. The rage went out of his light green eyes, and he composed his features. “You can let go now,” he croaked, his throat still constricted by Malark’s grip.

Malark warily complied, then stepped backward. His twin remained calm. Rubbing one of the ruddy handprints on his neck, the simulacrum said, “I’m truly sorry. But being born is a painful, disorienting thing. All those babies would lash out too if they had the strength.”

Malark smiled. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“And you have to admit, from a certain perspective, this is a setback. For centuries, my dearest wish has been that there be none of me. Instead, the number has doubled.”

“Only temporarily, and in the best of causes.”

“Oh, I know. I know everything you do, including your plan. I go west to foil the invasion while you stay here, hide, and set a trap.”

A patch of azure flame danced on the muddy, sluggishly flowing water, seemingly without having any fuel to burn. Evidenrly the Umber Marshes contained a tiny pocket or two of plagueland— territory where the residue of the Spellplague still fesrered—and Gaedynn had wandered into one of them.

He studied the blue fire with wary interest. Though he’d occasionally visited plagueland, he’d never actually seen the stuff before.

He would have been just as glad to skip the spectacle now. He fancied he’d feel at home in any true forest across the length and breadth of Faerun, but this rust-colored swamp was a different matter. He hated the way the soft ground rried to suck the boots off his feet and especially hated the clouds of biting, blood-sucking insects. Back in the Yuirwood, the elves had taught him a cantrip to keep such vermin away, but it didn’t seem to work on these mindlessly persistent pests.

Yes, if there ever was a patch of land that ought to be scouted

on griffonback, this was it—except that the thick, tangled canopy of the trees made it impossible to survey the ground from on high. So somebody had to do it the hard way.

He skulked onward, glancing back at the azure flames periodically, making sure they were staying put. So far, so good, but in Aoth’s stories they’d raced across the land in great curtains, destroying everything they engulfed.

Gaedynn faced forward again to see a troll charging him, its long, spindly legs with their knobby knees eating up the distance. The man-eating creature was half again as tall as a human being, with a nose like a spike and eyes that were round, black pits. It had clawed fingers and a mouth full of fangs, and its hide was a mottled red-brown instead of the usual green, possibly to help it blend in with the oddly colored foliage of the marshes.

Perhaps that was why Gaedynn hadn’t detected it sooner, expert woodsman though he was. Or perhaps the distractions of the blue fire and stinging insects were to blame. Either way, it was a lapse that could easily cost him his life. He snatched an arrow from his quiver, laid it on his bow, and then the troll was right on top of him.

On top and then past. It ran by without paying him any heed, soon vanishing between two mossy oaks.

Gaedynn exhaled. From one perspective, he’d had a narrow escape, but he didn’t feel lucky just yet, because it had certainly appeared that the troll was running away from something. If so, what had put such a fearsome brute to flight?