Shanaera looks then at her shamblers, the un-spirited dead, who possess no trace of their former life. They do not lift their heads, do not look back over their shoulders in fear. The song has no effect on them, and she almost wonders if she imagines it.
No, she could not invent a sound—a swell of force—like that. What is more, she is convinced it is pursuing her and gaining ground with every passing second. If she does not hasten, it will catch her, and then . ..
She casts a swift gaze to Taar’s corpse, lashed to a second dead licorneir, which moves in tandem with hers. Death has swollen and disfigured his face. Gone are the features of the lover she once so enjoyed. She smiles a little, pleased. He deserves this. After what he did to her on Agandaur, he deserves to suffer as she did. But let no one doubt that she loves him still. She will bring his spirit back from the hell to which the virulium dragged him, and in his gratitude, he will gladly bind himself to her forever.
Ah! She can see it all. Every plan she’s carefully conceived since first waking to this horror. Everything is going as she wanted, yes, even that song pursuing her now. That voice could be none other than the gods-gifted princess, Taar’s tasty plaything. She should arrive just in time to contribute her small part in this ongoing drama. Then Shanaera will dispose of the little whore, and Taar will forget her, and all will be made right.
But only if she can keep the head start she’s gained.
“Vulmon!”she cries, and digs her heels into the flanks of her mount, something she never would have done in her previous life. The two dead licorneir jolt into motion, powerful muscles surging, un-song pulsing through every vein. Leaving the shamblers behind, Shanaera races across the landscape of Cruor, her dead love beside her. When thevardimnarstrikes, she laughs out loud. What difference does it make to her? She is dead—she may ride through hell with abandon, while those cursed licorneir pursuing her must stop and sing their protective songs, fortifyingthemselves and their riders against this glorious darkness.
And the darkness is glorious indeed—simmering with power far beyond anything ever conceived by the mind of fae oribrildian.No, it took mortal minds, with all their twisted desperation, to conceive of reaching for such a power. A dangerous business, yes, but with rewards far more potent even than raw-formed magic drawn directly from thequinsatra.A man with the daring and the desperation might work wonders beyond even the great fae kings and queens of Eledria, if he could simply steel his nerve to the task.
It is not pure darkness for Shanaera, not to her spirit, which has seen hell up close. Through the fluttering black veil, she catches glimpses of a red, raw landscape, which overlays every inch of Cruor. Through that landscape run rivers of blood, like fingers gripping the soil. Figures climb from these rivers and walk in the dry land between—torturous shapes, who have long since lost all trace of male or female parts. They are all of comparable height and near skeletal aspect, indistinguishable from one another. They walk aimlessly, one heavy footstep after another, now and then twisting as though their bodies contort in tremendous pain. But when each spasm passes, they continue, forever. Bowed and burdened and without hope of any end. The souls Ashtarath has claimed for her own, fed on her blood and never sated.
“Give me to drink,”the figures murmur, desperate voices a susurrus of sound, imperceptible to living ears.“Give me to drink . . . to drink . . .”
Shanaera laughs at the sight of them. They are trapped in that realm, whereas she has escaped. Though the darkness of virulium bubbles in her veins, she has returned to the world of the living, and she will not be dragged back again. So she laughs with a wild, manic joy and rides her licorneir on through thevardimnar, her purpose clear before her dead eyes.
Thevardimnarlifts. Apparently Morthiel has siphoned off what power he needs for the time being and distributed it among his acolytes. The realm of Cruor comes back into clear focus around Shanaera, and she casts her gaze over her shoulder once more. That swelling song has fallen behind her now, held back by the Hand of Darkness. She is offered a reprieve—best to take advantage of it.
Spurring her dead mount on faster and faster, Shanaera tears across the landscape, slipping from night into day and back again. Thevardimnarfalls and lifts, but she pays no heed to the passage of time. Her only concern is the slow rot taking hold of Taar’s limbs and the bloating of his corpse. She does not want him too far gone when he awakens.
At last she spies Evisar on the horizon. Mage-paths lead a roundabout way to it, but Shanaera sees no need to bother with those, as they are used only by the sniveling Miphates. She cuts a more direct route across the fields of Agandaur and through the hobgoblin-infested city. The hobgoblins, though hungry for fresh prey, are wary of Shanaera, smelling the deadness on her flesh. Even they will not eat decayed meat. The few who dare to jumpout, her undead licorneir skewers on its horn, or she decapitates with swift strokes of hervaritar. She laughs in delight at the hideous corpses left in her wake, the joy of virulium bubbling in the cavern where her heart once beat.
Soon Taar will know this joy with her again, and then it will be complete.
She leaves the ruined city behind and gallops her licorneir across the open stretch of ground where, not long ago, troldefolk laid waste to Noxaurian and Licornyn troops. The ground is still stained with all that spilled blood—mostly black, for the Noxaurians were all rabid on virulium. Some silver licorneir blood as well. The contrast strikes her as pleasing, and her rictus grin only grows.
Reaching the gate, she dismounts and pounds with one fist. The Miphates keep poor watch, and no one has noted her arrival. She adds her voice to her pounding, hollering like a banshee until at last the window slit slides open, and a pale Miphato peers out.
“I’ve brought a fresh corpse for Morthiel,” she says by way of greeting.
The Miphato shifts his gaze over her shoulder to Taar’s body, slung over the dead licorneir. His lip curls in a sneer—the mortals are most of them so squeamish around death. Not Artoris, though. No, he relished all aspects of anecroliphon’swork, including the corpses. But Artoris has not shown his face back in Evisar, and Shanaera begins to doubt he ever will.
“Morthiel has enough corpses to deal with just now,” theMiphato says, turning his attention back to Shanaera.
“This one is primed,” she says. “Lots of virulium. He’s a good one, strong as an ox and not unintelligent. He will make an excellent servant.”
The Miphato glances at Taar again. Then he sighs heavily. “Very well. But Morthiel is not seeing anyone right now, so you’ll have to add him to the body pit until he has time to consider.”
Shanaera grits her blackened teeth. “He will see me. I’ve got news for him as well as a corpse.”
“What kind of news?”
“Concerning a Licornyn invasion force on its way to Evisar this very moment.”
His already-pasty skin goes a shade or two paler. He and his surviving brethren have, after all, only just warded off the Noxaurian siege. Their written spells are mostly used up, their stores of power drastically reduced, their battle mages slain by hobgoblins . . . and they don’t have any more trolde warriors ready and willing to come to their rescue. All efforts are being put into building a freshobscurisspell, but it is not prepared.
“Very well,” the Miphato says, licking his lips nervously. “A moment, please.”
He slides the window shut. Shanaera listens to the sounds of bolts being drawn and chains being cranked. The heavy gate is slowly opened just enough to allow her and her two licorneir entrance. She steps into the courtyard, which half-circles the great citadel tower.There are signs of repair work everywhere, and Miphates with the sleeves of their robes rolled up as they hasten about very un-magical tasks. They pay no attention to Shanaera—the comings and goings of the dead are of little concern to the living.
“This way,” the pale Miphato says, beckoning. Shanaera crosses the yard, leading the licorneir which bears Taar. The dead beast follows her, even into the winding stairway leading story after story up the tower, following behind the wafting robe of the mage, who puffs and pants his way up the many levels. He stops halfway, winded and gasping for air. “You go on,” he tells her, waving a hand. “I shall inform Morthiel of your coming.”
Shanaera nods and continues up the stair, aware of weakness shaking in her own rotten limbs; she’s going to need a little attention from Morthiel’s magic after the strain of the last few weeks. But they reach the top of the tower at last and step out into the large, open space beneath the dome. Once tall windows ran around the circumference of this chamber, but they have long-since been boarded up.
In the center of the floor is a dark black spot where the paving stones are warped, as though they’ve been superheated to liquid form, stirred up, then instantly cooled in that strange shape. Standing over that whorl is a huge licorneir.
