"I'll do it," he sighed.
He beckoned to the giant zombie, and the creature picked him up to ride on its shoulders as if he were a toddler, and the mindless brute with its low forehead and gnarled apish arms, his father. His frayed, greasy length of umbilicus dangled over the zombie's chest.
In reality, it wasn't necessary that anyone or anything carry Xingax. If he chose, he could move about quite adequately on his own, but it suited him that folk should think him as physically helpless as his ravaged fetal form appeared. For the time being, he and his associates were all on the same side, but an existence spent primarily in the Abyss had taught him just how quickly such situations could alter, and a time might come when he'd want to give one of his compatriots a lethal surprise.
His balcony was one of a number of such vantage points overlooking the warren of catacombs below. Despite the extensive labor required, he'd ordered the construction of a system of catwalks to connect one perch to the next and only descended to mingle with his living associates when necessary. Even necromancers couldn't maintain their mystical defenses against his proximity every moment of every day, nor could they work efficiently if vomiting, suffering blinding headaches, or collapsing in convulsions.
As his undead giant lumbered along with Muthoth and So-Kehur trailing at its heels, it pleased Xingax to see the complex bustling with activity, each of his minions busy at his-or its-job. That was as it must be, if he was to make progress in his investigations and earn his ultimate reward.
One of the Red Wizards had conjured a perpetual gloom to shroud the platform overlooking the enormous vault where the couriers caged newly arrived slaves. The prisoners' eyes couldn't penetrate the shadows, but an observer experienced no difficulty looking out of them. Thus, Xingax could study the thralls without agitating them.
He didn't scrutinize any one individual for long. He trusted his first impressions, his myopia notwithstanding. "Food," he said, pointing. "Basic. Basic. Advanced. Food. Basic." Then he noticed the wizards simply standing and listening. "Why aren't you writing this down?"
"No need," said Muthoth. "So-Kehur will remember."
"He'd better," Xingax said. He continued assigning the slaves to their respective categories until only two remained.
They were young women who'd found a corner in which to settle. Likely aghast at what she'd glimpsed on the walk to her current place of confinement, the one with long hair appeared to have withdrawn deep inside herself. Her companion was coaxing her to sample the porridge their captors had provided.
"Food and food," Xingax concluded, feeling a renewed eagerness to return to the problem of the defective ritual. "Is there anything else?"
Maddeningly, it appeared there was. "My hand," said Muthoth, lifting the bandaged one. "I've heard about your skill with grafts, and I was hoping you could do something to repair it."
"Why, of course," Xingax said. "I have a thousand vital tasks to occupy me, but I'll gladly defer them to help a mage so incompetent that he couldn't defend himself against a lone madman even with a second wizard and bodyguards to help. Because that's exactly the sort of ally I want owing me a favor."
Muthoth glared, looking so furious that Xingax wondered if he was in danger of losing control. So-Kehur evidently thought so. He took a step backward, lest a sorcerous attack strike him by accident.
Xingax called on the poisonous power inside him. He stared into Muthoth's eyes and released an iota of it, hoping to suggest its full devastating potential in the same way that a mere flick of a whip reminds a slave of the shearing, smashing force of which the lash is capable.
Muthoth flinched and averted his eyes. "All right! If you're too busy, I understand."
"Good," Xingax rapped. He started to direct his servant to carry him away then noticed that the confrontation had delayed him long enough for another little drama to start playing itself out in the hall below.
Specifically, one of the blood orcs had entered the makeshift barracoon. The warrior was somewhat reckless to enter alone. It must assume the slaves were too cowed to try to hurt it, and to all appearances, it was right. They shrank from it as it prowled about.
The orc's gaze fell on the two women sitting on the floor in the corner. It leered at them, started unfastening its leather breeches, and waved for the slave with the short hair to move away from her companion.
The orc's actions were neither unusual nor illicit. The wizards and guards had permission to amuse themselves with the slaves provided they didn't damage them to any significant degree. Still, despite the lure of his work, Xingax lingered to watch for another moment. Though he would never have admitted it to another, he sometimes found the alien matter of sexuality intriguing as well as repugnant.
To his astonishment, the short-haired slave stood up and positioned herself between the orc and her friend. "Find someone else," she said.
The orc grabbed her, perhaps with the intention of flinging her out of its way. She hit it in the face with the bowl of gruel. The earthenware vessel shattered, and the warrior stumbled backward. The slave lunged after it, trying to land a second attack, but the guard recovered its balance and knocked her staggering with a backhand blow to the face. Her momentary incapacity gave it time to draw its scimitar.
It stalked after the thrall, and she retreated. "Help me!" she called. "If we all try, we can kill at least one of them before the end! That's better than nothing!"
Apparently the other slaves were too demoralized to agree, because none of them moved to help her. Knowing then that she stood alone, pale with fright but resolute, the short-haired woman shifted her grip on the shard of bowl remaining in her hand to make it easier to slash with the broken edge.
"She has courage," Xingax said.
"That's the one the bard wanted to buy," So-Kehur said.
"Really? Well, perhaps his obsession does make at least a tiny bit of sense. In any case, I was wrong about her." Xingax waved his hand, dissolving the unnatural gloom so the orc could see him. "Leave her alone!"
Surprised, the warrior looked up to find out who was shouting at it. It hesitated for a moment, seemingly torn between the prudence of unquestioning obedience and the urgency of anger, then howled, "But she hit me!"
"And she'll suffer for it, never fear." Xingax turned to So-Kehur. "The woman comes to me."
After Aoth's company destroyed the creatures occupying Dulos, he opted to stop there for the night. His weary warriors could use the rest.
So could he, for that matter, but he proved incapable of sitting or lying still. Eventually he abandoned the effort, left the house he'd commandeered, and started prowling along the perimeter of the settlement.
It was a pointless thing to do. Shortly before dusk, he and Brightwing had flown over the immediate area and found it clear of potential threats. On top of that, he already had sentries posted.
Yet he couldn't shake a nagging unease. Maybe it was simply because the undead were more powerful in the dark. If any remained in the region and aspired to avenge their fellows, this was the time when they would strike.
Abruptly a shape appeared in the pool of shadow beneath an elm, and though Aoth could barely see it, its tilted, knock-kneed stance revealed it to be undead. No living man would choose to assume such an awkward position, but a zombie, incapable of discomfort, its range of motion altered by its death wounds, very well might.
Aoth leveled his spear and drew breath to raise the alarm, then noticed the gleam of yellow eyes in the creature's head. The thing was a dread warrior, one of his own command. As it still possessed sufficient intelligence to fight as it had in life, so too could it stand watch, and apparently Urhur Hahpet or one of his fellow Red Wizards had stationed it here to do so. Maybe the whoreson believed Aoth's security arrangements were inadequate, or perhaps it was simply that the necromancer, too, felt ill at ease.