A wooden stake would have been better. It would have paralyzed her. But at least the enchanted sword had her shrieking, thrashing, and fumbling impotently at the blade. In another moment, she might collect herself sufficiently to realize she could free herself by dissolving into mist, but he didn't give her the chance. He gouged her eyes from their sockets, then drove in bone-shattering blows until her neck broke and her head was lopsided.
He stepped back, regarded his handiwork, and felt a pang of loathing that had nothing to do with the harm she'd done to him. She was an abomination, an affront to Death, and he ought to do his utmost to slay her, not leave her to recover as she unquestionably would. But it wasn't practical. In fact, considering that she'd survived repeated beheadings, it might not even be possible.
He'd cleared her out of his way, and that would have to do. He turned and ran on.
chapter nine
21 Eleasias-15 Eleint, the Year of Blue Fire
Aoth peered at the faces looking back at him. At first he didn't recall them. He only had a sense that he should. Then one, a ferocious countenance comprised of beak, feathers, and piercing eyes, evoked a flood of memories and associations. "Brightwing," he croaked.
The griffon snorted. "Finally. Now maybe I can have my lair all to myself again." She nipped through the rope securing Aoth's left wrist to the frame of the cot.
He saw that his associates had actually tied him to a bed in the griffon's pungent stall. Shafts of moonlight fell through the high windows. Tammith's skin was white as bone in the pale illumination. Mirror was a faceless smudge.
"How are you?" Bareris asked.
"I'm not crazy anymore, if that's what you mean."
"Do you remember what happened to you?"
"Part of it." Some kind of spirits had attacked him, not spilling his blood but seemingly ripping away pieces of his inner self. He'd fallen unconscious, and when he awoke, he was like a cornered animal. He didn't recognize anyone or understand anything. He thought everyone was trying to hurt him, and fought back savagely.
The healers had tried to help him, but at first their magic hadn't had any effect. Then someone had hit on the idea of housing him with his familiar, in the hope that proximity to the creature with whom he shared a psychic bond would exert a restorative effect.
Maybe it had, for afterward, he grew calmer. He still didn't recognize his companions, but sometimes his fire-kissed eyes saw that they meant to help and not harm him. During those intervals he was willing to swallow the water, food, and medicines they brought, and to suffer the chanted prayers and healing touch of a priest without screaming, thrashing, or trying to bite him.
The recollection of his mad and feral state brought a surge of shame and horror, as well as fear that he might relapse. Sensing the tenor of his thoughts, Brightwing grunted. "Don't worry, you're your normal self again, for what little that's worth. I can tell."
"Thank you. I suppose."
The griffon bit through the other wrist restraint. His limbs stiff, Aoth sat up and started untying the remains of his bonds. His minders had used soft rope, but even so, his struggles had rubbed stinging galls into his wrists and ankles.
As he dropped the last piece of rope to the floor, the final bit of the jumbled puzzle locked into place. "Malark!" he said. "Did you get him?"
"No," Bareris said.
"Curse it! Why did I bring you into this in the first place? What good are you?"
Even as he spoke, Aoth realized he was being unfair. But he didn't care. He'd been crippled and humiliated twice, once by blindness and once by madness, an enemy had escaped, and the false friend who'd tampered with his mind was a convenient outlet for his frustrations.
Bareris frowned. "I'm sorry Malark got away. But at least you unmasked him. He can't do any further harm."
"You offered to leave the Griffon Legion," Aoth replied. "It's time for you to do that."
"No," Mirror said.
Aoth turned his head just in time to see the ghost's blur of a face sharpen into a kind of shadow-sketch of his former self-a lean, melancholy visage, an aquiline nose, and a mustache.
"I know I owe you," Aoth said, "and I know you've taken Bareris for your friend. May he prove more loyal to you than he did to me. But-"
"We champions of the order are one," Mirror said. "What stains one man's honor tarnishes us all, and by the same token, a companion can atone for his brother's sin. I helped you. Accordingly, our code requires you to forgive Bareris."
Aoth shook his head. "We aren't your ancient fellowship of paladins or whatever it was. I'm a Thayan, and we don't think that way."
"We are who we are," Mirror said, "and you are who you are.
Even by the ghost's standards, it was a cryptic if not meaningless declaration, yet it evoked a twinge of muddled, irrational guilt, and since Aoth was truly the injured party, he resented it. "The whoreson doesn't even care whether I forgive him or not. If you understand anything about him, you know he only cares about his woman."
"That isn't true," Tammith said. Her voice had an odd undercurrent to it, as if echoing some buried sorrow or shame. "He always valued his friends, even when grief and rage blinded him to his own feelings, and now his sight is clearer."
Aoth glowered at Bareris. "Why are you standing mute while others plead for you? You're the bard, full of golden words and clever arguments."
"I already told you I'm sorry," Bareris said, "and I truly want your forgiveness. But I won't plead for something to which I have no right. Hold a grudge if you think you should. Sometimes a wrong is bitter enough that a man must. Nobody knows that better than I."
Brightwing spread her rustling wings, then gave them an irritated snap. "Either forgive him or kill him. Whatever will stop all this maudlin blather."
Aoth sighed. "I'm just getting up off my sickbed. I'll need a bath and a meal before I feel up to killing anyone." He shifted his gaze to Bareris. "So stay in the legion if you'd rather."
Bareris smiled. "I would. Thank you."
"What's been going on while I was insane?"
"The zulkirs are convening another council of war. You recovered just in time to attend."
"Lucky me."
Nevron gazed at his fellow zulkirs-prissy, bloodless Lauzoril, gross, bloated Samas Kul perpetually stuffing food in his mouth, and all the rest-and suffered a spasm of loathing for each and every one of them.
Nothing unusual in that. He despised the vast majority of puny, muddled human beings. In general, he preferred the company of demons and devils. Even the least of them tended to be purer, grander, and certainly less prone to hypocrisy than the average mortal. He often entertained the fancy of abandoning the blighted realm that Thay had become and seeking a new destiny in the higher worlds. What a glorious adventure that would be!
But it could also prove to be a short one. Nevron was a zulkir and confident of his own mystical prowess. But he also comprehended, as only a conjuror could, what awesome powers walked the Blood Rift, the Barrens, and similar realities. He would have to confront them with comparable capabilities if he was to establish himself as a prince among the baatezu or tanar'ri.
Which, he supposed, was why he tarried where he was, learning and inventing new spells, crafting and acquiring new talismans, and impressing new entities into his service. It was the most intelligent strategy, so long as he had the judgment to recognize when he'd accumulated enough. Otherwise, preparation could become procrastination.