Accordingly, he procured his breakfast and Brightwing's, performed his meditations and prepared the day's allotment of spells, made sure his weapons and talismans were in perfect order, then roamed in search of the scouts who had flown out subsequent to his return. He wanted to find out what they'd observed.

As it turned out, nothing of consequence, but the effort kept him occupied until someone shouted that the undead were coming. Then it was time to hurry back to Brightwing, saddle her, and wait for his captain to order him and his comrades aloft.

When the command came, the griffons sprang into the air with a thunderous snapping and clattering of wings. As Brightwing climbed, Aoth studied the enemy. The light of morning, blighted though it was, afforded him a better look than he'd enjoyed hitherto, even when availing himself of his familiar's senses.

It didn't look as if the undead had the Thayan defenders outnumbered. That at least was a relief. Aoth just wished he weren't seeing so many creatures that he, a reasonably well-trained warlock even if no one had ever seen fit to offer him a red robe, couldn't identify. It was easier to fight an adversary if you knew its weaknesses and capabilities.

A hulking, gray-skinned corpse-thing like a monstrously obese ghoul waddled in the front ranks of the undead host. From time to time, its jaw dropped halfway to its navel. It looked like, should it care to, it could stuff a whole human body into its mouth. Aoth scrutinized it, trying to associate it with something, any bit of lore, from his arcane studies, then realized he could no longer see it as clearly as he had a moment before.

The morning was growing darker instead of lighter. The clouds had already crippled the sunlight, and now some power was leeching away what remained. He thought of the nighthaunt, a being seemingly made of darkness, and was somehow certain it was responsible. He tried not to shiver.

Every Thayan warrior was accustomed to sorcery and had at least some familiarity with the undead. Still, a murmur of dismay rose from the battle formation below. Officers and sergeants shouted, reassuring the common soldiers and commanding them to stand fast. Then the enemies on the ground began to lope, and dangerously difficult to discern against the darkened sky, the flying undead hurtled forward.

Its rotten wings so full of holes it was a wonder it could stay aloft, the animated corpse of a giant bat flew at Aoth and Brightwing. He decided not to waste a spell on it. He was likely to need every bit of his magic to deal with more formidable foes. Availing himself of their empathic link, he silently told Brightwing to destroy the bat. As the two closed, and at the last possible moment, the griffon lashed her wings, rose above the undead creature, and ripped it with her talons. The bat tumbled down the sky in pieces.

Meanwhile, Aoth cast about for other foes. They were easy enough to find. Brandishing his lance, shouting words of power, he conjured blasts of flame to burn wraiths and shadows from existence until he'd cleansed the air in his immediate vicinity. That afforded him a moment to look and see how the battle as a whole was progressing.

It appeared to him that he and his fellow griffon riders were at least holding their own in the air, while their comrades on the ground might even be gaining the upper hand. Archery had inflicted considerable harm on the advancing undead, and the efforts of the clerics were even more efficacious. Standing in relative safety behind ranks of soldiers, each in his or her own way invoking the power faith afforded, priests of Bane shook their black-gauntleted fists, priestesses of Loviatar scourged their naked shoulders or tore their cheeks with their nails, and servants of Kelemvor in somber gray vestments brandished their hand-and-a-half swords. As a result, some of the undead cringed, unable to advance any further, while others simply crumbled or melted away. Several even turned and attacked their own allies.

It's going to be all right, Aoth thought, smiling. I was a craven to imagine otherwise. But Brightwing, plainly sensing the tenor of his thought, rapped, "No. Something is about to happen."

She was right. In the midst of the Thayan formation, wherever a group of priests stood assembled, patches of air seethed and rippled, then new figures exploded into view. They were diverse in their appearance, and in that first chaotic moment, Aoth couldn't sort them all out, but a number were mere shadows. Others appeared similarly spectral but with blazing emerald eyes, a murky suggestion of swirling robes, and bizarrely, luminous glyphs floating in the air around them. Swarms of insects-undead insects, the griffon rider supposed-hovered among them, along with clouds of sparks that wheeled and surged as if guided by a single will. Figures in hooded cloaks, evidently the ones who'd magically transported their fellow creatures into the center of their enemies, immediately vanished again, perhaps to ferry a second batch.

Aoth had reported that the undead host included at least a few spellcasters, but even so, no one had expected any of their foes to possess the ability to teleport themselves and a group of allies through space, because, as a rule, the undead didn't, and they hadn't revealed it at Thazar Keep. Thus, the maneuver caught the Thayans by surprise.

Yet it didn't panic them. The priests wheeled and rattled off incantations or invoked the pure, simple power of belief to smite the newcomers.

Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Shadows pounced at the priests, sparks and insects swarmed on them, and they went down. Warriors struggled to come to their aid, but there were stinging, burning clouds to engulf them as well, and phantoms to sear them with their touch, and in most cases, they failed even to save themselves. Meanwhile, the bulk of the undead host charged with renewed energy to crash into the shield wall of the living, which immediately began to deform before the pressure.

Perhaps, Aoth thought, he could aid the clerics. He bade Brightwing swoop lower, but instead of obeying, the griffon lashed her wings and flung herself straight ahead. A moment later, something huge as a dragon plunged through the space they'd just vacated. Aoth hadn't sensed the creature diving at them. He was grateful his familiar had.

The thing leveled out, turned, and climbed to attack again. It was yet another grotesquerie the likes of which Aoth had never encountered before, a creature resembling a giant minotaur with bat wings, fangs, and clawed feet instead of hooves, its whole body shrouded in mummy wrappings.

Brightwing proved more agile in the air and kept away from the enormous thing while Aoth blasted it with bright, booming thunderbolts and darts of light. The punishment stabbed holes in it and burned patches of its body black, but it wouldn't stop coming.

Then Brightwing screeched and lurched in flight. Aoth cast about and couldn't see what ailed her. "My belly!" she cried.

He leaned far to the side, relying on the safety straps to keep him from slipping from the saddle. From that position, he could just make out the greenish misty form clinging to her like a leech, its insubstantial hands buried to the wrists in her body, her flesh blistering and suppurating around them.

The angle was as awkward as could be, and Aoth was afraid of striking her instead of his target, but he saw no choice except to try. He triggered the enchantment of accuracy bound in one of his tattoos, and his forearm stung as the glyph gave up its power. He charged his lance with power and thrust.

The point caught the phantom in the flank, and it shriveled from existence. Freed from its crippling, excruciating embrace, Brightwing instantly furled her wings and dived, seeking to evade as she had before.

She failed. The bandaged horror missed the killing strike to the body it had probably intended, but one of its claws pierced her wing.