Red Magic (27 page)

Following the skeletons shuffled a division of zombies, also about fifty in number, some of which were so recently dead that Brenna thought they could pass as human. At first she wondered why Szass Tam didn’t put these up front. However, on closer examination, she discovered that their stench gave them away and made them more repulsive than the animated bones. All of the zombies were clad, some in armor. They shuffled forward with their eyes cast on the ground in front of them, since they were unaccustomed to the sunlight. None of these carried weapons, intending to fight with their claws, which were filthy and carried diseases.

The remainder of the undead numbered about forty—jujus; zombie monsters, including a quartet of decomposing hill giants; yellow musk zombies, which were part man, part plant; and a few things with manlike shapes that the heroes couldn’t identify.

Even though they preferred the comforting darkness of night, all of these undead were able to move about freely in the light of day. The Harpers and Brenna worried what might join their legion after the sun set a dozen hours from now.

The centaur wore barding, horse armor that made him feel as if he were being treated like an animal rather than a man. But from a distance, he thought he would appear to be a knight on horseback, and he rather fancied that idea. His rump was covered with a crupper—segmented, padded metal plates riveted together that extended to just below the tops of his back legs. A hole allowed his tail to poke through.

On his back was a flanchard, another piece of smooth and polished plate. It looked as if it had been molded to his body but possessed none of the flexibility of his natural hide; it connected to the crupper and extended to the start of his human torso. The flanchard chaffed a little and felt heavy and uncomfortable; Wynter had never worn armor before. However, he knew it would protect his flanks, and that was where the bulk of his injuries had been sustained earlier. The peytral portion—the section that would normally protect a horse’s neck—had been discarded. Instead, Wynter wore part of a human’s plate—a cuirass, a backplate and breastplate over a heavy quilted shirt. Oddly, that part of the ensemble fit him almost perfectly and was surprisingly easy to move in. His head was protected by a close helmet, the visor of which was up so he could see more easily. Of Mulhorandish make, it didn’t match the cuirass, being newer, more ornate, and covered with stamped designs.

In metal gauntleted hands, Wynter carried an enchanted bardiche, a formidable pole-arm that consisted of a stout wooden staff with a long, slightly curved blade at one end. It had been ensorcelled to strike more easily and was weighted so that when it struck opponents, it could slice off limbs. It was sharpened until it glinted keenly in the sunlight.

Although Wynter hadn’t been specifically trained in the use of such a weapon, the centaur was confident his mastery of the quarterstaff and experience with a pike would suffice to allow him to use this weapon if he truly had to. He switched the bardiche back and forth between his left and right hands, getting accustomed to the feel of it. It seemed finely balanced and could no doubt cleave a skull in two with little effort. The centaur disliked killing, fighting, and even carrying such weapons, yet his appearance gave the impression he was spoiling for a fight.

Szass Tam had forced Wynter to dress like this, reasoning that his large size might cause opponents to select him as their first target, but the armor should give him enough protection. Conversely, the centaur knew his stern countenance would cause at least some opponents to reconsider facing him, perhaps giving the Harpers a psychological edge.

His companions were not armored as formidably as the centaur, but they were also protected, equipped, and looked impressive.

Galvin had declined Szass Tam’s offer to be outfitted in the finest full plate mail. The druid was adamant that all the metal would hamper his movements, and thus would be more of a hindrance than a benefit. He settled on wearing a mail shirt, the links of which were small, tight, and afforded adequate defense, while being flexible enough to satisfy him. Over it, and against his strong objections, he wore a sleeveless black tabard that bore the lich’s symbol, a skeletal hand crushing a fleshy one. Galvin took it to mean Szass Tam believed the undead would one day conquer the living.

The druid’s kite-shaped shield was painted black and had a large, open skeletal hand in the center of it. He rode a heavy war-horse, also black. It had chain barding and a flowing ebon cloth decorated with embroidered skulls that hung on both sides of the saddle. The druid was an accomplished equestrian, having often ridden the wild horses of Faerun, but this mount unsettled him. It was trained for war, it walked with practiced, measured steps, and it lacked the spirit of the wild horses. When he was finished being Szass Tam’s pawn, he intended to leave it behind.

Galvin had left his scimitar with the lich, but not by choice. The Zulkir of Necromancy insisted the druid carry an enchanted blade, a long sword that would make him a more stalwart opponent against Maligor’s minions. Further, he worried the druid by explaining that there may be some forces under Maligor’s control that could only be harmed by magical spells or weapons. Galvin preferred the feel of his own weapon, which seemed an extension of his own hand, but he wasn’t in a position to argue with Szass Tam.

Brenna was the least affected by the lich’s demands. Her attire was simpler. Being a wizard and unable to wear armor because it could interfere with her spell-casting, she had been provided with an arcane defense—silver etched golden bracers that fit high on her forearms and felt as light as parchment. The lich claimed they afforded almost as much protection as the plate Wynter wore. Brenna was skeptical, but she accepted them sullenly, finding some consolation in the fact she didn’t have to leave any of her possessions behind with Szass Tam.

She had a harder time stomaching the charcoal-black robe he gave her. It was too large, falling in folds about her feet, and the shoulder seams extended several inches down her upper arms. The neckline, cuffs, and hem were trimmed with bits of bone. From the cut and the lingering scent of perfume in the fabric, she knew it was a woman’s robe, and she wondered what the previous owner had been like. She must have been six feet tall and twice Brenna’s girth. The enchantress got goosebumps thinking about the garment and considered shedding it and putting on something different. However, she suspected Szass Tam was watching them somehow, and for some reason, he seemed insistent the trio dress in a grim fashion and display his markings.

Her mount was slight but muscular, a young gray riding horse with a long, jet-black mane and an ebon saddle. She hoped she would be able to release it outside of Thay once they had fulfilled their agreement with the lich. She didn’t want something so spirited to be trapped inside this country.

Brenna thought a moment, watching Wynter lead the cortege. She doubted her horse really would have a chance at freedom, uncertain as she was whether Wynter, Galvin, or she would either. She was convinced that her fate would be grim—death at the hands of Maligor’s forces or eternal servitude to the lich. If they survived their encounter with Maligor, she didn’t believe Szass Tam would let them go. Success would make them too valuable as puppets and too knowledgable as free men.

Wynter and Galvin had remained silent since they left Szass Tam’s keep a half-hour ago. To keep her mind from dwelling on the glum possibilities, Brenna studied the terrain. Even by daylight, the land near Szass Tam’s keep looked dead. The ground was flat, the trees that dotted it were twisted and black. Only weeds grew, and they were the thorny kind.

As the miles floated by and they moved farther from the lich’s property, the land changed dramatically. Tall grasses grew on the plain, and there was an abundance of trees and bushes. In the distance to the west, north, and south, the enchantress saw precise rows of citrus trees, looking like dark green stripes on the land. She tried to imagine what this land would look like without the Red Wizards’ influence. It would probably be barren, she decided, like the ground near Szass Tam’s keep.

Brenna wondered what Galvin was thinking about—the lich, perhaps, or Maligor. The Harpers were likely to be taking this worse than she was, she thought, knowing that Wynter and Galvin claimed allegiance only to themselves and to the Harpers, and they were not bound by civil responsibilities beyond what they decided to accept—such as this mission into Thay. Their forced loyalty to Szass Tam, even though supposedly temporary, must be causing them great inner turmoil. Brenna had found herself in situations before in which she had to follow the majority dictates of the Aglarond council, even though she didn’t agree with them. Although those dictates were never evil, she tried to tell herself this current dilemma was similar to those experiences. She tried to believe that.

Brenna wished the Harpers hadn’t agreed to investigate the evil country and cursed herself for not staying back in Aglarond. But if she hadn’t kept herself entrenched in political events at home, she wouldn’t have cared what the Red Wizards were up to, and she’d never have known the two Harpers. She wished she had shown Galvin more understanding earlier. Melancholy reflections continued to flood her mind until she noticed Galvin was talking.

“At least you could talk about it.” The druid was speaking to Wynter.

“Talk about what?” Wynter’s voice was hard to catch, as he spoke straight ahead and was a half-dozen yards in front of Brenna. “Talk about this country? The lich? I remember my father fearing Szass Tam, yet all the while hoping the slave plantation would come under his influence. My father wanted to work for Szass Tam. The Red Wizard who controlled my father’s plantation wasn’t as powerful as the lich. I’m not sure any Red Wizard in Thay, or any wizard anywhere else in Faerun, for that matter, is that powerful. And now here we are working for Szass Tam. I can imagine quite a few people in this gods-forsaken country actually envy us.”

“The lich isn’t all-powerful,” Galvin interjected. The druid rode up even with the centaur to make the conversation easier. “If he was, he would have taken over Thay years ago. Besides, he’s dead. I would think that limits him.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Galvin. Szass Tam is more powerful dead than he ever was alive. Humans—and centaurs—are mortal. And any mortal, unless he has enough magic behind him, isn’t a part of the world long enough to have any lasting power.” The centaur swiveled his human torso to face the druid. “Some of the Red Wizards are very old, my friend. Centuries old. Time has given them power, and Szass Tam has existed longer than any of them.”

“If he’s so powerful,” Galvin pressed, “why doesn’t he deal with Maligor himself, and why hasn’t he taken over this whole stinking country? If he’s so powerful, he doesn’t need us.”

Wynter paused a moment, as if trying to get the wording right. “Because he can keep his hands clean by using puppets like us to do his work.”

Brenna had ridden up near the Harpers and had been listening intently. “Maybe he’s just waiting a few centuries until the time is right to strike,” she offered.

The three became silent and continued to move across the Thayvian countryside toward Amruthar. They paused for an hour at the edge of a small citrus orchard after they had marched half the day. Galvin wanted to rest the horses. The undead needed no rest, food, or water, but the Harpers and Brenna needed all of those. They cooled themselves in the shade of the citrus trees and talked little during their rest, watching the undead, who stood unmoving like statues, waiting for the order to continue on.

Perhaps Szass Tam’s symbol of a skeletal hand crushing a living one bears truth, Galvin thought as he used his black tabard to wipe the sweat from his face. Maybe the tireless undead would someday rule Faerun. An army of soldiers who had no human needs and could move as silently as a snake could easily defeat living soldiers.

The druid reached up to pluck a piece of fruit. The ripe fruit was sweet, and the juice ran down his chin when he bit into it. Gazing over their army, he compared it to the number of undead he had seen around and inside Szass Tam’s fortress. He assumed that if the Red Wizard Maligor was making a bid for something, he would have to throw all of his army at it, and it was evident Szass Tam was providing the heroes with only a fraction of his forces to deal with the threat from Maligor. Galvin considered discussing the situation with the centaur, then saw him eyeing the undead.

“We should reach Amruthar near midnight. We might as well take the undead against the gnolls right away,” the centaur observed. “I want to get this over with as soon as possible. I want…” Wynter stopped and stared into the orchard. His nose twitched. “I’ll be right back.”

The centaur trotted off and disappeared behind a row of large citrus trees. Galvin shrugged and turned to Brenna; she was grimacing at a nearby hill giant. The decomposing creature appeared to leer at her. However, the druid realized, the creature’s expression was caused by its missing upper lip. Galvin sat down beside her.

“We’ll make it through this,” he said reassuringly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Before she could reply, a scream sliced through the air.

“Wynter!” Galvin shouted, jumping up and racing into the orchard where he had last seen the centaur. Brenna was on his heels, waving her arm frantically behind her, trying to keep the skeletons from following.

As Galvin cut through the trees, he saw Wynter standing motionless beneath a large citrus tree. Wrapped around the centaur’s legs and the base of the tree was a thick length of light green vine. Dark green buds and ivylike leaves covered much of the plant, and bright yellow flowers splashed with purple dotted the vines. The heavy scent of musk filled the air.

The druid drew his blade and dashed forward, slashing at the nearest vine. The weapon sunk halfway into the pulpy tendril, releasing a dark red sap, and he tugged to pull the blade loose. Before he could remove it, however, Brenna pushed him and fell to the ground on top of him. Over their heads, the druid saw one of the yellow flowers spray a purple mist of pollen at the spot where he had been standing. The fragrance was overpowering, an inviting musk that seemed to encourage him to come closer to the blooms.