Richard Byers - Prophet of the Dead

It could only mean Yhelbruna had survived the attempt on her life. Now she was rousing any Rashemi warriors within reach to seize the Halruaan sellswords and the vessel that might otherwise have afforded them a means of escape.

Bez pulled off his hat and tossed it away. He hadn’t seen any Rashemi wearing one like it, and its shape might make him conspicuous even in the dark. Unfastening his cloak to facilitate access to his blades, he turned and strode south, parallel to the lakeshore. He was even colder now but, intent on the business at hand, only noticed in an abstracted and occasional sort of way.

For the capital of such a poor and backward land, Immilmar was well supplied with inns, and all the crew of the Storm had sought lodgings in one or another of them. Such accommodations provided a welcome change from the cramped quarters aboard the skyship, and Bez had hoped spreading some coin around would endear him to the locals and make them more inclined to offer him the griffons.

He, his officers, and his spellcasters had all taken rooms in Blackstone House, purportedly the finest inn in town, and the one scrap of luck Tymora had allowed him on this disastrous night was that it was close by. Catering to outlanders who arrived by boat, it too, sat near the lakeshore midway between the Storm and Dai Shan’s barge.

Bez studied the structure. No one appeared to be lying in wait outside, and despite the shuttered windows, he could just make out the mournful voice of a minstrel serving up a tragic ballad within.

By the looks of it, Bez had reached the inn ahead of the enemy. Still, his heart beat faster, and his hands fairly tingled with the urge to draw his weapons, until he stepped through the door into the light, warmth, and cheer of the common room and knew for certain he hadn’t just walked into a snare.

The ballad sobbed to an end, and the audience clapped and tossed a few coppers into the wooden bowl at the scruffy singer’s feet. Meanwhile, Bez headed for the Storm ’s third mate, a white-headed, sour-faced old wizard and artilleryman named Uregaunt.

Thanks be to the Foehammer, despite the pewter cup and firewine bottle in front of him, the old man didn’t appear drunk. Evidently marking something grim in Bez’s manner, he asked, “What is it, Captain?”

“The crew needs to assemble outside, and right now. Get everyone up and moving. But don’t attract any more attention than you have to.”

“Got it.” Uregaunt rose and headed for the table where two sellswords were throwing dice with a pair of Dai Shan’s retainers.

With a twinge of regret for the possessions he was abandoning in his room, Bez stalked back outside to stand watch. Almost immediately, three Rashemi loped out of the dark. Embroidered, embossed in leather, or picked out in beadwork, images of stag heads and stylized designs representing racks of antlers identified each as a member of the Great Stag Lodge.

Bez was sure Yhelbruna meant to turn out the Great Stag Lodge-along with every other lodge and the garrison of the Iron Lord’s citadel-in force. She must have encountered these three berserkers abroad in the night as she was making her rounds and sent them on ahead to keep an eye on Blackstone House.

But they weren’t content to settle for spying now that they beheld the commander of their enemies standing right in front of them. They bellowed and shuddered, invoking their empowering rage in a heartbeat as only veteran berserkers could, and charged.

Bez retreated and snatched out his rapier and main gauche. Ice flowed down the long blade, and the promise of lightning glowed and buzzed in the shorter one. Snarling a rhyme, he thrust with the sword.

Materializing in midair, fist-sized hailstones hammered down on the onrushing berserkers. One Rashemi pitched forward onto his face in the snow with blood welling from his scalp. The other two staggered but kept coming, spreading out to flank Bez in the process. Apparently their rage didn’t preclude the use of basic tactics.

Still giving ground, Bez rattled off another incantation. On the final syllable, he whipped his rapier down pommel-first as if he were bashing an opponent with it.

Several cracks sounded in quick succession as bones snapped inside a second Rashemi’s body. The berserker fell and tried to jump back up again immediately, but despite his furious determination, pain turned the effort into floundering failure.

Bez discerned he didn’t have time for a third spell. The remaining berserker was about to close with him. It seemed unfair that the Rashemi could run so fast even in the snow.

But since he could, Bez might as well turn it against him. He retreated two more steps, then lunged, explosively reversing direction with a facility and sense of timing that, he fancied, would have satisfied the most demanding fencing master.

Any opponent who was rushing forward would have had difficulty avoiding such an attack, and the frost-coated rapier stabbed deep into the berserker’s chest. As his knees buckled, the Rashemi tried to strike back with his broadsword, and Bez parried with the main gauche. The impact jolted and stung his arm, but all that mattered was that he stopped the cut, and his opponent wouldn’t be making another. The berserker finished collapsing to his knees, flopped over onto his side, and lay there, shuddering and coughing up blood.

Bez freed the rapier and dispitched the warrior with the several broken bones. Otherwise, the man might eventually have started yelling for help. But he left the unconscious Rashemi with the gashed and battered head alone. He had nothing personal against the fellow, and nobody was paying for his death.

A few moments later, Uregaunt led other crewmen, some still adjusting their garments, blinking, and yawning, out of the inn. The old wizard looked at the bodies lying in the snow and shook his head. “We’re neck deep in the cesspit, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Bez said. “We need to haul the rest of the crew out of the other inns, or at least collect as many as we can. We’re racing the men who are on their way to arrest them.”

“Understood,” Uregaunt said. “Then rendezvous aboard the ship?”

Bez sighed. “No. The barbarians secured the Storm first thing. We’ll go to ground in the Ashenwood.”

There to struggle for food and warmth in unfamiliar country in the dead of winter while contending with the trolls, owlbears, and other predatory creatures that reportedly infested the forest. Bez thought of the witch who’d lured him into this predicament and yearned to slide his rapier into her heart.

Jhesrhi had observed before the battle started that Sarshethrian had more troops that would perforce fight on the ground than minions capable of flight. So when Lod sent a portion of his forces streaming up the slope at her, she directed her fiery attacks at the enemies in the air. The stag men followed her lead and, the bells in their antlers chiming, loosed arrows at floating direhelms, winging vampire bats, and ghosts with wavering, faintly luminous forms that trailed out behind them like the tails of shooting stars.

It was a joy to burn them. Aoth had trained Jhesrhi always to reduce an enemy to helplessness as quickly and safely as possible, and in the back of her mind, she still remembered the principle. But the idea seemed inconsequential measured against the delight of wielding flame. Rather than desiring a deft, efficient victory, she almost wished the fight would never end.

The swords in its gauntlets poised to slash, a direhelm swooped down on her. She jabbed with her staff, and a bolt of fire roared out and blasted the animated plate into twisted scraps of steel.

Then something prodded her in the ribs. Startled and suffering a surge of the usual revulsion at being touched, she jerked around and nearly hurled flame at the stag man who’d risked his longbow to reach into her fiery halo and poke her. He nodded furiously to ring his antler bells. Perhaps, in his agitation, he’d forgotten she didn’t know how to interpret the sound.