The whelp screamed and vanished, leaving a segment of gray rotting birth cord behind in Bareris's fingers. His final wail echoed.

Fearful that his foe had simply become invisible once more, Bareris pivoted and slashed at the air all around him. His blade failed to find a target, and in another moment, he realized he felt better. Xingax truly had departed, evidently translating himself instantaneously through space and taking his aura of sickness along with him.

Unfortunately, that didn't fix the chill burns on Bareris's skin. With luck, his healing songs would keep the injured patches from turning into genuine frostbite and gangrene, but he didn't have the magic or time to spare to attempt it now. He cast away the section of umbilicus, brushed rime from his garments, and strode in the direction of the portal, until he heard a commotion up ahead.

Then he realized that Xingax, surmising his foe would make for the magical gate, had transported himself there when he fled, where he'd no doubt arranged for some of his minions to guard the portal with special care while the rest scoured the catacombs for the man who'd maimed him.

Bareris struggled to suppress a surge of panic, telling himself there had to be another way out of here, wherever here was. He just had to find it.

He threw away his cloak. At a distance, the brown mantle was probably more conspicuous than the bloody rent in his robe. He hid his sword and sword belt beneath the voluminous crimson garment. Then he hurried away from the sound of the searchers and toward a portion of the maze of vaults and tunnels he had yet to explore.

Eventually he spotted a subtle change in the ambient illumination up ahead. He rounded a corner and saw a trapezoidal opening with a ray of wan light shining through. Puzzling as it seemed, given his near-certainty that he was underground, the wizards' lair possessed a window after all.

He lowered himself from the catwalk by his hands, dropped, stuck his head out the opening, and then he understood. The vaults were adjacent to a wide cylindrical shaft plunging deep into bedrock. He'd heard stories of an ancient people who'd excavated well-like fortresses in the Sunrise Mountains. Apparently they'd dug out at least one city as well, constructed on a grander scale, and he was standing in it. The morning sun hadn't yet risen high enough to shine straight down into the central vacancy, but even so, the light reflecting down from the gray clouds revealed other windows, as well as doorways connecting to chiseled balconies and staircases.

Intending to locate one of those doors, he turned, then heard his pursuers once more. They were manifestly closing in. Before, the noise they'd made had simply been a drone. Now he could make out some of the words that one orc was growling to another.

Bareris realized he didn't dare spend any more time in the tunnels looking for anything. He had to get out now, so he clambered out the window feet first.

He was no expert climber, and fatigue and the flare of cold had stolen a measure of his strength, but fortunately, the ancient builders hadn't polished the walls of the shaft smooth, or if they had, time had come along behind them and roughened them again. There were hand- and footholds to be had, and refusing to look down at the gulf yawning beneath him, the bard hauled himself upward.

Finally he reached one of the spiraling staircases. He dragged himself onto the steps, lay on his belly for a moment panting and trembling, then forced himself to rise and skulk onward.

In time he spotted a pair of human guards at the top of the steps. As best he could judge, no one had alerted them that an intruder had penetrated the catacombs below, for they appeared more bored than vigilant and were looking outward, not down the stairs.

Trying to be silent, Bareris drew his sword from beneath his robe and held it behind his back. Then he crept on.

Despite his efforts at stealth, one of the sentries apparently heard him coming. The warrior turned, and reacting to the sight of a red robe, he began to salute with his spear as the orcs at the portal had.

Then, his eyes widening, he exclaimed, "What's this?" and leveled the weapon.

Bareris charged, knocked the lance out of line with his sword, and drove the blade into the warrior's chest. Where it stuck fast as the other spearman attacked. Bareris let go of the hilt, twisted to avoid his adversary's thrust, grabbed him, and shoved him off the edge of the landing. Shrieking, the warrior plummeted down the well.

His pulse hammering in his neck, Bareris peered about. He was on top of a mountain, with brown, jagged peaks rising on every side to stab the overcast sky, and except for the subterranean city he'd just exited and a well-trodden trail running down the rocky slopes from the lip of the shaft, no sign of human habitation anywhere. He still suspected he was in the Sunrise Mountains, but he'd never even seen them before, and he knew that in fact, he could be anywhere.

At least he had the dawn to give him his directions. He'd head west, south, and/or downward, depending on which was most practical at a given moment, and hope to find his way to the Pass of Thazar or one of the eastern tharchs. He saw little choice but to try. By all accounts, a lone man couldn't survive in these mountains for long.

To his disappointment, the dead warrior at his feet wasn't carrying any food, but he did have a leather water bottle. Bareris appropriated that, his spear, and his cloak. Spring had come to the lowlands, but up here the wind whistling out of the north was cold, and the night would be colder still.

Once he'd outfitted himself as well as he was able, he trotted down the trail. It was the best way to distance himself from the wizards' stronghold, the fastest, easiest way to travel, but he'd need to forsake the path in just a little while, because his foes would come after him, and his only hope of evading them was to vanish into the trackless crags and gorges.

chapter ten

4-5 Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin

Aoth looked around the table at Nymia Focar, his fellow captains, and an assortment of high-ranking Burning Braziers and Red Wizards. Many of his comrades looked tired, and tight mouths and clenched jaws revealed the determination to participate in the council of war despite the ache of one's wounds. Yet everyone seemed happy as well, whether expansively or quietly, and the singing and whooping outside the hall mirrored the mood of satisfaction within.

It was the satisfaction that came with victory. Upon learning the undead had in fact assaulted the sizable town of Thazrumaros and overrun the eastern half of it, Nymia had hastily reunited the greater part of her army to attack the creatures in their turn, and though the battle had claimed the lives of a number of Thayan warriors, in the end, she'd prevailed.

Now the common soldiers were celebrating, drinking the town dry and bedding every woman who felt moved to so reward its saviors. Aoth wished he were reveling with them.

Leaning on a crutch, his leg splinted, an officer hobbled in and took the last available chair. The yellow lamplight gleaming on the rings in her ears and the stud in her nose, Nymia sat up straighter, tacitly signaling that she was ready to begin. The drone of casual conversation died.

"My good friends," Nymia said, "you scarcely need me to tell you what your valor has accomplished over the course of the past several days. I've just received a message from Milsantos Daramos, and he and his troops have been similarly successful, cleansing the southern part of Pyarados as we've cleansed the north."

Everyone exclaimed and applauded, and Aoth supposed he might as well clap with them. It was good news, as far as it went.