“Yes,” Jhesrhi said. Finally, she thought, they were coming to it. Sarshethrian was about to explain exactly who was attacking Rashemen.

“Lod envisioned a great fraternity of the undead,” Sarshethrian said. “It would find those who were thralls and set them free. It would take those condemned to mindlessness and lift them into sentience. Ultimately, it would set the undead above the living to hunt wherever, however, and whomever they wished, without fear of retaliation.”

“And you agreed to help him accomplish all that as well,” Cera said, an edge of disgust in her voice.

“Yes, of course,” Sarshethrian said. “To that end, we invented more new wizardry, unearthed ancient secrets, and I taught him to traverse the deathways. My home, you see, was a web of secret paths that would enable him to go virtually anywhere to recruit new followers, instruct old ones, and reach any living realm he wished to assail, even one on the far side of an ocean.”

Jhesrhi blinked. “Wait. This Lod was-or is-on the other side of what, the Sea of Swords? Or the Great Sea?”

Sarshethrian smiled. “The former, although it wasn’t always so. Once, the continent on which he dwells occupied another world called Abeir. But then the cosmic upheaval you call the Spellplague uprooted it and dropped it in this world.”

“Like Tymanther,” Jhesrhi said. The same thing had happened to Medrash and Balasar’s home.

Knowing such was the case, she didn’t find Sarshethrian’s tale to be unbelievable so much as exasperating. Didn’t Faerun have enough homegrown horrors and would-be conquerors without new ones slithering onto the scene from faraway places no one ever even heard of?

“Yes,” the pale creature said, “not that it particularly matters. What does is that once again, I kept my word. Lod got the magic he wanted, and when his fellow undead realized the future he promised was actually possible, they rallied to his banner.” His mouth twisted. “All my pledges fulfilled, I awaited the homage he’d promised in return.”

“But you’d misread him,” said Cera. She sat down with her back against the dark hexagonal slab sealing a tomb, pulled off her helmet, and blotted the sweat on her round, flushed face with a kerchief. “He’d learned to hate servitude while wearing the yoke of his first master. He never intended that he or his disciples would accept a new one.”

Sarshethrian gave her a sour look with his single eye. Then: “It’s a pity you weren’t there, sunlady. I could have profited from your insights, for you understand Lod perfectly. When he judged that he had all he needed from me, he and his followers lured me into a trap to kill me.

“In the battle that followed, I lost my eye, the use of my arm, and a portion of my mystical strength. But I survived, and I managed to flee deep into the deathways where the traitors couldn’t find me.”

“And now you waylay Lod’s agents whenever you catch them traveling the maze,” Jhesrhi said.

Sarshethrian nodded. “For the time being, it’s as much as I can do. I didn’t just lose my eye. Lod took it and keeps it submerged in venom. The curse weakens me.”

“Which is why you sought allies,” Cera said.

“But why Rashemen?” Jhesrhi asked. “Is Lod already the undisputed master of this Abeir place?”

“No,” the fiend replied. “But I already explained how the deathways render distance and natural barriers meaningless. It’s not much more difficult for the Eminence of Araunt-Lod’s conspiracy-to undertake a campaign in Faerun than it is to pursue their schemes in Dusklan or Marrauk, and Rashemen has two qualities that make it attractive.”

Jhesrhi cocked her head. “It’s poor and backward, certainly, and those qualities ought to make it an easy conquest. But the Thayans have never found it so.”

Sarshethrian smiled. “What I was getting at is that it’s the country where the mortal and fey worlds mingle more than any other. I don’t know why, and at this point, neither does Lod. But he no doubt believes that given time and free rein, he can wring unique and potent magic from the land, and I imagine he’s right.

“It’s also a country that shares a border with those Thayans you mentioned, folk governed by necromancers and undead grandees who have good reason to be content with the world as it is. Lod will never free every zombie and wraith from bondage or persuade every vampire and lich to join him as long as Thay stands as an alternative to his vision. Control of a neighboring land will help him pursue the task of bringing it down.”

Remembering what it was like to fight the legions of Thay with their well-trained troops, formidable mages, and tamed demons, Jhesrhi smiled a crooked smile. “I wish him luck with that.”

“But it doesn’t matter whether he could ultimately defeat Thay,” Cera said. “It’s Rashemen we need to protect.” She shifted her gaze to Sarshethrian. “And you claim it’s still in danger?”

“Yes,” the one-eyed creature replied. “Most of the leaders of the undead fled via the deathways from the Fortress of the Half-Demon to another citadel at a place called Beacon Cairn. I don’t know what their next move will be-clairvoyance has its limits-but in their place, I’d take full advantage of the fact that the Rashemi believe the threat is over.”

Cera lowered her gilded helmet back onto her disheveled golden curls and clambered back to her feet. Her mail clinked.

“All right, then,” she said. “We fought for you, and you told us what we need to know. We appreciate it. Now please send us back to Rashemen, and that will conclude our bargain.”

Sarshethrian smiled. “I’m afraid not, sunlady. I told you I keep my promises, and I do, but it appears you misunderstood the terms of the agreement.”

Jhesrhi scowled, warmth flowed inside her arm, and ripples of flame ran along her staff. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that by itself, this one little skirmish was insignificant. I need you to fight for me until we do some real damage. Until I’ve exacted revenge and made Lod repent of his ingratitude. It’s only then that I’ll send you home.”

Aoth reined in his stolen piebald horse and looked for any sign of pursuit. He didn’t see any, just the column of smoke rising from So-Remas’s castle to mingle with the fumes from all the volcanoes that combined to foul the sky. The fire he’d started in the undead wizard’s apartments had evidently spread.

“Nobody was very fond of So-Remas,” said the orc, now clad in plundered clothing and scraps of armor and awkwardly sitting his own stolen white mare. Like most orcs, he’d apparently been infantry, not cavalry, before his fall from grace. “And we left a fair amount of confusion behind us.” He grinned at the memory. “Still, eventually, somebody will likely get on our trail, or at least spread the word that a crazy bandit-wizard and a runaway slave are on the loose.”

A crazy bandit-wizard, Aoth reflected. One of his foremost anxieties on finding himself back in Thay was that everyone would recognize him, but his companion manifestly didn’t. Maybe the tale of the Brotherhood’s invasion hadn’t spread as far as he’d imagined. Maybe those in authority hadn’t allowed it to, considering that the legions wouldn’t come off very well in the telling.

“What’s your name?” he asked the orc.

“Orgurth. Yours?”

“Aoth.” Whether most people hereabouts had heard of him or not, Aoth saw no reason to push his luck by giving his full name, especially since he was already stuck with displaying his distinctive luminous blue eyes and mask of facial tattooing.

“May the Sleepless One strengthen Aoth’s arm and send him worthy enemies to smite,” Orgurth said with a gruff and unexpected courtliness.

“May the Sleepless One sharpen Orgurth’s scimitar and send it worthy heads to cleave,” Aoth replied.

Orgurth’s piggy eyes widened in surprise that his companion knew the correct response. But Aoth had been fighting alongside and against orcs for a hundred years. It was no great marvel that he’d picked up something of their customs.