For a few heartbeats, the defense worked as theory said it should. Overlapping shields protected those who carried them and protected their neighbors, too. The bristling hedge of spears pierced foes reckless enough to come within reach, often before those warriors could even strike a blow.

But then, as so often happened, the work got harder. Aglarondans somehow sprang past the spear points, struck past the shields, and killed defenders, tearing gaps in the formation, even as the relentless pressure of their onslaught buckled the lines. Meanwhile, spears broke or stuck fast in corpses, and sellswords snatched frantically for their secondary weapons.

Khouryn was one of those whose spear stuck fast. He dropped it and his shield, too, and pulled his urgrosh off his back.

A white warhorse, its legs black with muck, cantered at him, turning so the half-elf on its back could cut down at him with his sword. Khouryn parried hard enough to knock the blade out of its owner's grip, then, with a single stroke, chopped the rider's leg in two and sheared into the destrier's flank. Rider and mount shrieked as one, and the steed recoiled.

Khouryn glanced around, making sure he was still more or less even with the soldiers to each side. To anyone but a seasoned warrior, it might have seemed that any semblance of order had dissolved into a chaos of slaughter, into the deafening racket of weapons smashing against shields and armor and the wails of the wounded and dying. But in fact, there was still a formation of sorts, and it was vital to preserve it.

He killed another Aglarondan, and more after that, until the gory urgrosh grew heavy in his hands, and his breath burned and rasped. The man on his left went down, and Gaedynn, who'd traded his bow for a sword and kite shield, darted forward to take his place.

Sometime after that, the enemy stopped coming. Peering out across the corpses heaped two and three deep in front of him, Khouryn saw the survivors fleeing north toward the safety of Glarondar. The Brotherhood's horsemen harried them along.

The last Khouryn knew, Aoth had been holding the cavalry in reserve. At some point, he must have ordered them forward, possibly to play a crucial role in foiling the Aglarondans' attack.

If so, Khouryn supposed he'd hear all about it later. For now, he was simply grateful for the chance to lower his weapon.

Nevron studied the fleeing Aglarondans for a time, making sure they had no fight left in them. Then he drew a deep, steadying breath. He'd need a clear mind and a forceful will to compel his demons and devils back into their various prisons. They were having a jolly time of it hunting enemy stragglers, torturing and killing Aglarondan wounded, and devouring elf and human flesh.

He was just about to start when Samas floated up in the huge, padded throne that spared him the strain of having to waddle around on his own two feet. "Should we chase the Aglarondans and finish them off?" the transmuter asked.

"No," Nevron said. "A wounded bear can still bite, and we need to conserve our strength if we're going to Thay. The simbarchs won't try to take the Reach again for a while. That will have to do."

"But if we don't come back to protect it, they'll take it eventually."

Nevron spat. "I realize the name of Samas Kul is synonymous with greed. But if you're dead, I doubt that even you will care what becomes of your dominions."

chapter four

15-28 Tarsakh, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

With his swarthy skin, the prisoner was evidently Rashemi, although if he'd ever been stocky, as his kind often was, hunger had whittled that quality away. He lay atop the torture rack with his arms pulled up behind him. To Malark Springhill, who fancied he might know more about how to destroy the human body than anyone else in Thay, its tradition of sophisticated cruelty notwithstanding, it was clear that the torture had already dislocated the prisoner's shoulders, and that his knee, hip and elbow joints had also started to come apart.

Still, the Rashemi had yet to provide any answers. It was an impressive display of defiance.

Malark turned the winch another eighth of a rotation. The prisoner gave a strangled cry, and something in his lower body tore audibly. The sweaty, bare-chested torturer, speckled with little scars where embers had burned him, tried not to look as if he resented an amateur usurping his function.

Malark leaned over to look the prisoner in the face. "I want the names of your fellow rebels."

The Rashemi croaked an obscenity.

Malark twisted the windlass a little farther, eliciting a gasp. "I know you've had contact with Bareris Anskuld. Tell me how to find him."

Although it didn't really matter if he did. Over the course of the past ninety years, Bareris and Mirror had done more than any of the other malcontents left in the realm to hamper Szass Tam's government, but even so, their efforts hadn't amounted to much. Still, Malark had been Bareris's friend, and given the chance, he would gladly rescue the bard from the vileness that was undeath.

That final iota of stretching had evidently rendered the captive incapable of verbal defiance, but, panting, he shook his head and clenched his jaw shut. Closed his eyes too, as though blocking out the sight of his tormentors and the dank, shadowy, torchlit dungeon would make his situation less real.

Malark wondered if one of the spells he'd mastered under Szass Tam's tutelage would loosen the Rashemi's tongue, then decided he didn't care. It didn't really matter if he unmasked a few more impotent rebels, either. In truth, the success of such efforts had never mattered, only maintaining the appearance that the ruler of Thay was preoccupied with the same sort of trivia as the average tyrant, and with the Dread Rings completed, even that necessity had all but reached an end.

So why not let this hero perish with his spirit unbroken, his secrets preserved? Why not grant him that greatest of all treasures, a perfect death?

Malark turned the wheel. "Talk!" he snarled, meanwhile silently urging, Don't. You only have to hold out a little longer.

"Master-" the torturer began.

Malark turned the wheel. "Talk!" Up and down the length of the rebel's body, joints cracked and popped as they pulled apart.

"Master!" the torturer persisted. "With all respect, you re giving him too much too fast!"

Doing his best to look as if the Rashemi's recalcitrance had angered him, Malark kept on twisting the winch. "Talk, curse you! Talk, talk, talk!"

The prisoner's spine snapped.

Malark rounded on the torturer. "What just happened?"

Once again, the fellow made a visible effort to cloak his irritation in subservience. "I'm sorry, Your Omnipotence, but his back broke. For what it's worth, he might live a little while longer, maybe even a day, and he won't enjoy it. But he can't talk anymore." He hesitated. "I tried to warn you."

"Damn it!" Still pretending to be furious, Malark ended the prisoner's ordeal by chopping his forehead with the blade of his hand. The blow broke the man's skull and drove scraps of bone into the brain within.

The torturer sighed. "And now he won't even suffer."

An impish urge took hold of Malark, and he glared at the other man. "This rebel possessed vital information, and now we'll never learn it. Szass Tam will hear of your incompetence!"

The torturer paled. Swallowed. "Master," he stammered, "I beg you, forgive my clumsiness. I'll do better next time."

Malark grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's all right, my friend, I'm only joking." He made a gold coin appear between his thumb and forefinger, one of the petty tricks that had come to amuse him since he'd mastered sorcery, and pressed it into the torturer's hand. "Have a drink and a whore on me."