To her relief, the other griffons had broken off the attack. But three of the curious folk who’d wandered forth from Immilmar to witness the claiming of the beasts lay in pieces in patches of bloody snow. So did a griffon, at Mangan’s feet. All of it was a waste, a tragedy, and an affront to the deities who’d given the winged creatures to Rashemen in anticipation of its hour of need.

Bez peered around the same way Yhelbruna was, making sure the fight was really over. Then, scowling, his face a mottled crimson, he advanced on Sandrue.

“Captain!” the beast master said. “Please! I’m sorry!”

The sellsword captain took a long breath. Sparks danced and crackled on the main gauche.

Then he said, “The hathran, prompted by a very proper regard for the griffon and all he represents, instructed you to be gentle with him. But what if you’re less gentle? Will you then be able to do your job?”

If Sandrue hesitated, it was only for an instant. “Yes, Captain.”

Bez turned to Mangan and gave him an apologetic smile. “Well, then, Majesty, it seems the course is clear.”

“No,” Yhelbruna said.

The sellsword frowned. “Lady, with respect, you were the one who set the price for the griffons, and my men and I have paid it. I’m sure neither the Wychlaran nor the Iron Lord are so dishonorable that they’d try to renege on the agreement, no matter what measures are required to fulfill it.”

“You misunderstand,” she said. “There was nothing wrong with Sandrue’s magic. It failed because the spirits wouldn’t allow it to succeed. And that can only be because the threat to Rashemen isn’t over.”

“That’s preposterous,” Bez replied. He shifted his gaze back to Mangan. “I brought you proof of my victory. Surely a warrior found it convincing even if a priestess doesn’t.”

Mangan scowled and scratched at his close-cropped black beard with its sprinkling of white. “Hathran, do you actually hear the spirits telling you the danger isn’t over? Or are you guessing?”

Yhelbruna hesitated. “I’m interpreting what we all just experienced.”

“Then … you know I respect you, and where this matter is concerned, I’ve done what you wanted at every step along the way. But now, Captain Bez has a point. Perhaps fair dealing requires us to release the griffons even if it requires some rough handling for our guests to take possession.”

“ ‘Rough handling’ or no, the druid will fail as he failed before.”

“Maybe not if you don’t use your own magic to thwart him,” Bez said, and then, before she could respond: “I apologize. That was a rude and, I’m sure, baseless thing to say. But, Iron Lord, all I ask is that Sandrue be allowed another try.”

“If he is,” Yhelbruna said, “it’s likely more people and griffons will die, and we’ll be flouting what we now discern to be the will of the Three.”

“What you claim to ‘discern,’ ” little Melemer murmured, just loud enough to make himself heard while still pretending he didn’t mean to be.

Frowning, Mangan wiped the blood from his broadsword. It was his way of giving himself a moment to ponder, and Yhelbruna had an unpleasant feeling she knew where his deliberations were leading.

She supposed she could simply order him to do what she wanted. She was a Witch of Rashemen, and generally deemed one of the wisest and most powerful. In theory, she stood above any male.

But in practice, matters weren’t always that simple. Every Rashemi, including herself, respected Mangan, and in the matter of the griffons and the menace of the undead, she’d consistently overruled his seemingly sensible advice. She didn’t want to appear unreasonable and high-handed yet again. She needed his respect if they were to work together to protect the land.

So she too, pondered, and then something occurred to her, or perhaps some kindly spirit whispered in her ear. “I just realized something curious,” she said.

“What?” the Iron Lord replied.

“Captain Bez told us about the great battle he fought. But I don’t see any wounds on him or any of these sellswords. I didn’t notice any on those we left back in town either. Or scars on the hull of the skyship.”

Mangan’s brow furrowed. “Now that you mention it, neither did I.”

Bez smiled. “You can attribute that to the advantages afforded by a flying vessel with enchanted artillery and a complement of spellcasters. We can rain destruction on foes who often have no way of striking back. It’s not a particularly sporting way to fight, but as I’m sure Your Majesty will agree, war isn’t a game.”

“I’ve been to war myself,” Yhelbruna said, “so I certainly agree. Just as I’m sure the Iron Lord will agree that creatures ensconced in a castle like the Fortress of the Half-Demon would, if bombarded from above, take shelter inside the donjons and dungeons. Even the crew of a skyship would have to come down to earth and fight them at close quarters to really clean them out.”

Bez shrugged. “My men are good at their work, and I remind you again, High Lady, you’re the one who told everybody else your goddesses and spirits wanted this chore attended to. Perhaps they graced us with their blessings.”

Mangan sheathed his sword, and the cross guard clicked against the gold at the mouth of the scabbard. “We’ll do this. Captain, you and your men will take the rest you acknowledge you need. Yhelbruna will further inquire into the will of the spirits through prayer and ritual. I’ll find out if any reports come in from the countryside to indicate that there are still undead running loose. And we’ll see where we are a few days hence. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Yhelbruna said.

Bez smiled a crooked smile. “It seems I have little choice.” He blew on the forte of his rapier blade, and the coating of frost melted in a puff of steam.

A populous town stood around the base of the ancient fortress called the Citadel to serve the needs of those who dwelled therein, but the cobbled streets, slippery with filthy slush, seemed half-deserted after sundown. That was because sentient undead, an accepted element of society in the Thay of Aoth’s early years but the true elite in the realm that had arisen in the wake of the Spellplague, stalked the night in plenitude while mortals with weak nerves or good sense stayed behind closed doors.

Still, it wasn’t passing within a few paces of the creatures’ withered, linen-wrapped, or alabaster faces that made Aoth edgy. He’d grown grimly accustomed to the undead in all their eeriness fighting the War of the Zulkirs, and he’d slipped incognito into a fair number of enemy towns and strongholds in his time. It was the proximity of the Citadel itself-its tallest spire stabbing the night sky like a blade-that wore on his nerves.

He scowled and told himself to calm down. He didn’t even know that Szass Tam was in residence. The lich could be anywhere in Thay or in all of Faerun, for that matter, and even if he was nearby, he surely had better things to do than cast around for an enemy who shouldn’t have been anywhere near his dominions in the first place.

Still, one of Faerun’s preeminent wizards might possess occult means of sensing all sorts of things. And when Szass Tam had set about the final slaughter of his foes, Aoth was the one fish who’d slipped the net.

The blurry, luminous ghost of a young woman silently sauntered toward Aoth and Orgurth. At first, like a sleepwalker, the phantom seemed oblivious to their presence. Then, suddenly, she rounded on them, and her transparent face brightened with an exaggerated smile of surprise and delight. She opened her arms, inviting an embrace.

Aoth felt a lustful urge to kiss her. He touched one of his tattoos through his mail, and the resulting tingle of protective magic cleared his head. Orgurth, however, started forward.

For want of a subtler remedy, Aoth grabbed the orc and shook him. Orgurth struggled for a moment and then relaxed in his grip.