Aoth swung himself down off Brightwing and took a final glance around, making sure there were no horses in the immediate vicinity.

Divining his concern, the griffon snorted. "I can control myself."

"Maybe, but the horses don't know that." He ruffled the feathers on her neck then tramped toward the big tent at the center of the camp. Cast in the stylized shape of a griffon, his shiny new gold medallion gleamed as it caught the light of the cook fires. The badge proclaimed him a newly minted officer, promoted for surviving the fall of Thazar Keep and carrying word of the disaster to his superiors.

The same accomplishment, if one was generous enough to call it that, made him the man of choice to scout the enemy's movements, and he'd spent some time doing precisely that. Now it was time to report to the tharchion. Aware of his business, the sentry standing watch in front of the tent admitted him without a challenge.

Currently clad in the sort of quilted tunic warriors employed to keep their own metal armor from bruising their limbs, Nymia Focar, governor of Pyarados, was a handsome woman with a wide, sensuous mouth, several silver rings in each ear, and a stud in the left side of her nose. As he saluted, she said, "Griffon rider! After your errand, you must be hungry, or thirsty at the least. Please, refresh yourself." She waved her hand at a folding camp table laden with bottles of wine, a loaf of bread, green grapes, white and yellow cheeses, and ham.

Her cordiality didn't surprise him. She was often friendly and informal with her underlings, even to the point of taking them into her bed, though Aoth had never received such a summons. Perhaps his blunt features and short, thick frame were to blame. In any case, he was just as happy to be excused. Nymia had a way of turning into a ferocious disciplinarian when she encountered a setback, sometimes even flogging soldiers who'd played no part in whatever had gone amiss. He'd noticed that in such instances, it was often her former lovers who wound up tied to the whipping post.

"Thank you, Tharchion." He was hungry, but not enough to essay the awkwardness of reporting and shoving food into his mouth at the same time. A drink seemed manageable, however, certainly safer than the risk of giving offense by spurning her hospitality, and he poured wine into one of the pewter goblets provided for the purpose. In the lamp-lit tent, the red vintage looked black. "I scouted the pass as ordered. Hundreds of undead are marching down the valley, in good order and on our side of the river."

It was what she'd expected to hear, and she nodded. "Why in the name of the all-devouring flame is this happening?"

"I can only repeat what others have speculated already. There are old Raumviran strongholds, and the ruins of a kingdom even older up in the mountains. Both peoples apparently trafficked with abyssal powers, and such realms leave ghosts behind when they pass away."

As Thay with its hosts of wizards conducting esoteric experiments would leave its stain when it passed, he reflected, then wondered where the morbid thought had come from.

"Once in a while," he continued, "something skulks down from the ancient forts and tombs to trouble us, but we've never seen a horde the size of this, and I have no idea why it's occurring now. Perhaps a true scholar might, but I'm just a battle mage."

She smiled. "I wouldn't trade you. Destroying the foul things is more important than understanding precisely where they came from or what agitated them. Is it your opinion that they intend to march straight through to engage us?"

"Yes, Tharchion." He took a sip of his wine. It was sweeter than he liked but still drinkable. Probably it was costly and exquisite, if only he possessed the refined palate to appreciate it.

"Even though they can't reach us before dawn?"

"Yes."

"Good. In that case, we'll have the advantages of a well-established position, daylight, and the Thazarim protecting our right flank. Perhaps the creatures aren't as intelligent as we first thought."

Aoth hesitated. Wizard and griffon rider though he was, he was wary of seeming to contradict his capricious commander, but it was his duty to share his perspective. It was why they were talking, after all.

"They seemed intelligent when they took Thazar Keep."

"Essentially," Nymia said, "they had the advantage of surprise. Your warning came too late to do any good. Besides, the warriors of the garrison were the least able in the tharch. I sent them to that posting because no one expected anything to happen there."

He didn't much like hearing her disparage men who had, for the most part, fought bravely and died horrific deaths in her service, but he was prudent enough not to say so. "I understand what you're saying, Tharchion. I just think it's important we remember that the enemy has organization and leadership. I told you about the nighthaunt."

"The faceless thing with the horns and wings."

"Yes." Though he hadn't known what to call it until a mage more learned than himself had told him. "A form of powerful undead generally believed extinct. I had the feeling it was the leader, or an officer at least."

"If it impressed a griffon rider, I'm sure it's nasty, but I have all the warriors I could gather on short notice and every priest I could haul out of his shrine. We'll smash this foe, never doubt it."

"I don't, Tharchion." Truly he didn't, or at least he knew he shouldn't. Her analysis of the tactical situation appeared sound, and he trusted in the valor and competence of his comrades. Maybe it was simply fatigue or his memories of the massacre at Thazar Keep that had afflicted him with this edgy, uncharacteristic sense of foreboding. "What will you do if the undead decide to stop short of engaging us?"

"Then we'll advance and attack them. With any luck at all, we should be able to do it before sunset. I want this matter finished quickly, the pass cleared and Thazar Keep retaken. Until they are, no gems or ores can come down from the mines, and there won't be any treasure hunters heading up into the peaks for us to tax."

Nor safety or fresh provisions for any miners, trappers, and crofters who yet survive in the vale, Aoth thought. She's right; it is important to crush this enemy quickly.

"Do you have anything else to report?" Nymia asked.

He took a moment to consider. "No, Tharchion."

"Go and rest then. I want you fresh when it's time to fight."

He saw to Brightwing's needs, then wrapped himself in his bedroll and attempted to do as his commander had suggested. After a time, he did doze, but he woke with the jangled nerves of one who'd dreamed unpleasant dreams.

It was the bustle of the camp that had roused him to a morning so thoroughly overcast as to mask any trace of the sun in the eastern sky. Sergeants tramped about shouting. Warriors pulled and strapped on their armor, lined up before the cooks' cauldrons for a ladle full of porridge, kneeled to receive a cleric's blessing, or honed their swords and spears with whetstones. A blood orc, eager for the fight to come, howled its war cry, and donkeys hee-hawed, shied, and pulled at their tethers. A young human soldier attempting to tend the animals wheeled and cursed the orc, and it laughed and made a lewd gesture in response.

Aoth wondered whether an undead spellcaster had sealed away the sun and why no one on his side, a druid or warlock adept at weather-craft, had broken up the cloud cover. If no one could, it seemed a bad omen for the conflict to come.

He spat. He was no great hand at divination and wouldn't know a portent if it crawled up his nose. He was simply nervous, that was all, and the best cure for that was activity.