She and Fyazel joined the Iron Lord’s party as was their due, and he and the other warriors bowed to them. Then they all continued onward and reached the frozen lake just in time to see the Storm of Vengeance float to earth. The wings folded against the hull as the crewmen cranked the windlasses, while other sellswords worked on deck to lower the sails.

A rope ladder tumbled over the side of the skyship. Mario Bez swarmed down it as nimbly as a squirrel. A middle-aged man who wore his graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, he had a strong, shrewd face marred by a bumpy beak of a nose. As usual, he’d dressed in the red and yellow that were his company colors and armed himself with a rapier and main gauche. The blades were enchanted; they were not only weapons but tools for conjuring as well.

Bez bowed low with a sweeping flourish of his arms that he’d likely learned in some southern court. “Majesty,” he said. “High Lady. I come with good news and a trophy or two as well.”

He waved to the ship. Some of his men lowered sacks on ropes. Others clambered down the ladder to catch the bags and carry them forward.

“If I may?” he asked, and when the Iron Lord inclined his head, the sellswords dumped the contents of the sacks in the snow.

People gasped and flinched, and Yhelbruna understood why. Many of the severed heads were hideous, decayed and deformed, but beyond that, in their plenitude, they radiated a sort of spiritual vileness sufficient to grate on the nerves of even the least sensitive.

Yet the trophies were harmless and inert, dead now in every sense of the word, and she wondered why the sight of them failed to move her to happiness, relief, gratitude, or any emotion Bez might reasonably have expected.

“I could have brought troll and hobgoblin heads too,” the outlander said. “But I figured these were the ones that mattered.”

Yhelbruna supposed they were, indeed. The sellswords had collected the putrescent heads of zombies; the fanged, vaguely canine heads of ghouls; and the naked skulls of animate skeletons, all festering with the lingering residue of undeath. The mercenaries also had the vulturine head of a vrock and the broad, scaly one of a hezrou.

Mangan stooped to inspect the demon heads more closely. It was likely that, despite a lifetime of combat, he’d never seen such entities before. As he straightened up again, he said, “Tell me the tale.”

Bez grinned. “Gladly, Majesty. With the resources at my disposal, I eventually tracked the raiding parties that have been plaguing Rashemen back to their secret stronghold. As it turned out, they’d established themselves in an old castle in the north. I believe your sagas call it the Fortress of the Half-Demon. There, as I mentioned, they were building a genuine army, with goblin-kin and their ilk rallying to their banner. Fortunately, their plans hadn’t progressed so far that the Storm couldn’t put a stop to them, and the creatures won’t bother you again.”

Mangan smiled, sincerely enough but with a hint of rue. “It must have been a glorious battle. I wish I’d been there. Congratulations.” He offered his hand, and Bez shook it.

“I congratulate you as well,” Yhelbruna said. “But why were the undead rising in the first place? What was behind it?”

The Halruaan shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea. My commission was to exterminate the creatures, and I did. Now that the crisis is over, perhaps you and the other wise women can look into the underlying cause.”

“I’m sure they can,” Mangan said. “But first, we’ll have feasting and games to celebrate your victory.”

“Thank you,” said Bez. “You honor us. But I hope that first before anything, I can claim my prize. This morning, if possible.”

The Iron Lord cocked his head. “Right now, in other words? Surely you and your warriors are tired.”

“Of course,” Bez replied. “But we traveled far in the dead of winter to obtain the griffons. Then we fought what turned out to be a challenging little campaign across the length and breadth of this land. In our place, wouldn’t you be eager for your reward, no matter how weary you were?”

“I suppose so,” Mangan said. He turned to Yhelbruna. “Are you prepared to work your part of the magic?”

She hesitated for a heartbeat without quite knowing why. Then she told him, “Yes.”

“Then I guess we’re all going to hike a little farther in the snow.”

Some of Bez’s sellswords joined the procession as it headed northeast. Yhelbruna recognized Melemer, a sly-looking little tiefling warlock with stubby horns, yellow eyes, and a cabalistic ring on every finger; Olthe, a priestess of Tempus the Foehammer as broad-shouldered and burly as many a berserker; and Sandrue, a plump, jolly-looking fellow with a scraggy, goatish beard, who, as his belt of pouches for spell components and the bronze sickle hanging from it attested, was versed in both arcane and druidic mysteries. He was the beast master Bez was counting on to control the griffons well enough to get them back to Yaulazna for proper training.

As they all left Immilmar behind, Yhelbruna asked, “Where’s Dai Shan? Didn’t he accompany you the last time you flew out of town?”

Perhaps, for an instant, a subtle tightening of Bez’s mouth bespoke irritation, but then his face was all affability again, a mask as effective in its way as any witch’s. “If we weren’t all friends here, I might almost wonder if you hathrans spy on your guests.”

“You can understand why we’d take an interest in those on whom we depended to perform a vital task.”

“Of course. And unfortunately, that’s the part of my news that isn’t joyous. The Shou perished during the battle. When I have a chance, I’ll inform his retainers and write a letter of condolence for them to take back to his kin.”

“What about Captain Fezim, the sun priestess, and the wizard? And Vandar Cherlinka and the Griffon Lodge? They all ventured forth to find and destroy the undead too, but they haven’t returned.”

Bez shook his head. “I wish I knew, but we saw no trace of them. It’s unfortunately possible the undead killed them before the Storm found and destroyed the creatures in their turn, but I hope not. I hope they’re simply wandering the countryside trying to pick up a trail and will turn up in due course.”

The rasping cry of a griffon split the frigid air. A number of the creatures were circling within their invisible cage, a weave of magical compulsions constraining them to a certain patch of hilly ground. The bell jar-like space was as huge as Yhelbruna and her sister witches had been able to make it, but it was still obvious the magnificent creatures hated their confinement, and even knowing that she’d acted in accordance with the will of the Three, seeing their restlessness gave her a twinge of guilt.

The hathran currently watching the beasts wore a white robe trimmed with green and a silver mask with a single short horn jutting from the center of the forehead to signify her devotion to the Forest Queen. Dispensing with decorum like everyone else this morning, she hurried to greet the procession with the several berserkers Mangan had assigned to attend her striding along behind.

“We all saw the skyship and heard the thunderclaps,” she said. “Is it time?”

Yhelbruna supposed that with Mario Bez right beside her, the only courteous answer was yes. Still, some grudging impulse made her say, “We’ll find out,” instead.

She glanced around, but as she’d expected, the particular griffon she sought wasn’t one of the few on the ground. She peered up at the creatures soaring and circling overhead until she made out one that gleamed like gold in the sun.

She pointed to it. “That one is the leader. Control him, and you control the pride. Well enough to take them south, anyway.”

The beast master nodded. “I understand.”

“I hope so. I imposed my will on him when Vandar and I found him in the High Country, and my magic has controlled him ever since. I’ll have to loosen my bonds so you can create yours.”