The Floodgate (37 page)

“Storm elemental,” Procopio muttered, recognizing an obscure Mulhorandi spell.

Other cloud forms began to rise, tapping the power of the avalanche. On one of the giants, Procopio saw a familiar face-that of Ameer Tukephremo, the Mulhorandi wizard who had sold him the cloaking spells in exchange for the promise of Halruaan magic.

A tremor of uncertainty shivered through the diviner. Procopio had not considered the possibility that the Mulhorandi might actually enter the land. That they had certainly done. Was it possible that they might even prevail? That he might not only lose a throne but also his homeland?

For a moment the wizard debated his course. He could confess all that he had done, let the other Halruaan wizards know what secrets and advantages their opponents had. Procopio had studied Mulhorandi magic for many years, and the wizards could use this knowledge against the invaders.

Or he could use it to promote his own cause?

In the end, the choice was simple. Procopio began the chant of a cloud-form spell, creating a monster that could challenge any two of the Mulhorandi giants. The sight of his own visage on that godlike frame thrilled him, and he laughed aloud as he willed his elemental double into battle against Ameer Tukephremo.

The sky giants met like two opposing storms. Procopio’s wielded a sword taller than a mountain pine. Ameer’s curving scimitar flashed against the sky like a new moon.

As the diviner watched the battle, he reached for another spell sequence. He summoned a fireball and then a spell that would place it, greatly enlarged, in the hands of his cloudy avatar.

Light from the magic missile flowed through the insubstantial form, lending it the fire and brilliance of sunset clouds. The titanic image of Procopio hurled the fireball, which tore through the Mulhorandi’s cloud form like a javelin. The elemental staggered back, already beginning to dissipate, the edges of its body peeling off into wisps of cloud. Procopio followed with a lightning-sword spell. His elemental’s blade took on a jagged edge and a livid blue hue. Procopio willed the elemental to slash again and again at the cloudy form of his enemy and partner.

At last the gigantic image of Ameer faded away. Procopio held the spell, and for a long moment his storm elemental stood in the sky like an avenging god, holding aloft the lightning sword as if daring the other cloud forms to pass.

None of the elementals took his challenge. They dissipated as the Mulhorandi wizards retreated, putting their energies to other, less risky spells. Procopio released the cloud form and stooped to pick up the small book that fell from the empty air to land on the deck near his feet Without sparing it more than a glance, he thrust it into the enchanted bag that would send it to his library. He knew what the book was and what its return meant. This was the spellbook that Ameer Tukephremo had risked so much to win. Its return to Procopio signaled the wizard’s death. Procopio sank onto a bench, exhausted by the casting, but his face wore a smile. Halruaa would not soon forget the image of a titanic Procopio, standing triumphant against all challengers. He might not have done all the things he had planned, but his triumphs might prove to be enough.

Kiva rose and clenched her fist around the emerald deeply aware of the hundred souls that cried out for release. The elf woman felt their pain as if from a very great distance. Her own pain had been lost to her long ago, her heart encased in something far harder than green stone.

The necromancer’s cold fingers closed around hers, and 8 the magic she had labored over for nearly two hundred years caught them and swept them away. They flew through the liquid magic as if they had beet sucked into a rising waterspout. Up they went, caught in a vastly powerful spell that thrust them across the worlds and through the gate. Like an arrow suddenly loosed from a bow, they hurtled up through the thin and empty air. The gate slammed shut behind them with booming finality. The sheer power of the spell reverberated through Kiva’s bones and exploded into white-hot pain. All light and sound and sensation simply, suddenly, stopped.

Later-Kiva had no way of knowing exactly how much later-the world slowly came back to life. She eased her eyes open, listened as the ringing in her ears faded away. As her senses slowly reawakened, she realized that the ground beneath her was soft and yielding.

She struggled into a sitting position and looked wildly around. Instead of the rocky clearing where the spring had leaked water from the almost-closed gate, she reclined or an enormous carpet that, in turn, undulated gently on a cloud.

The necromancer sat cross-legged, studying her with something approaching respect. “I did not expect so powerful a spell. You have worked hard, little elf, and grown further in Art than I had anticipated. Later, you will show me this spell.”

She would deal with “later” when it came. Perhaps by then she would be able to learn what magic had gathered around the gate and thrust them so powerfully out of the watery plane.

“The battle?” Akhlaur prompted. Gathering herself, she directed him to the point of invasion. They arrived just in time to see the giant cloud forms grappling in the sky, to witness the victory of a storm elemental with close-cropped curls and a face like a hawk’s.

“Ingenious,” Akhlaur murmured. “I admire a man who studies the magic of his enemies.”

The Mulhorandi forces still outnumbered the Halruaan fighters on the ground. A wave of dark-clad infantry swept forward, and a tremble of anticipation ran through the waiting cavalry.

“The Halruaan army will be destroyed,” Kiva said.

“Not necessarily. A water elemental might stem the tide-a truly gigantic creature that could crush the cavalry underfoot.”

Kiva swept a hand over the barren plain. “There is no water in sight, my lord.”

“No?” He smirked. “You have forgotten your lessons, little elf. Man is made of flesh and blood-endlessly mutable flesh and blood. What is the primary component of all this flesh and blood?”

She nodded, suddenly understanding. “Water! Of course!”

Akhlaur lifted his webbed hands and began to chant. A gray cloud grew overhead, grumbling and quivering. There was a sudden explosion, and a torrent of rain rose up into the cloud.

The warriors directly under the spell cloud immediately dissolved into desiccated bone. Others fell in withered heaps of bone-wrapped skin. Like the ripples cast by an enormous stone, the wave of devastation spread. The army of the Mulhorandi fell by the hundreds, the thousands. The fluids that gave them life flowed upward into the waiting cloud.

As swiftly as thought, the cloud began to take shape. Legs as thick as a wizard’s tower descended and slammed into the ground. Shards of bone flew like grapeshot as dozens of skeletons shattered from the impact. The cloud creature turned and began to stalk through the ranks of the invaders.

The Mulhorandi wizards hurled spell after spell at the water elemental. It trampled them or snatched them up and swallowed them. Drowning men swirled through the fluids of their slain comrades, frantically beating at the magical “skin” of the strange elemental.

“There you have it,” Akhlaur said with satisfaction. “The elemental will finish the Mulhorandi, then turn upon the Halruaans. I will be most interested to see what Zalathorm employs against this monster.”

Matteo stood at King Zalathorm’s side, staring aghast at the gruesome elemental. “Who in the Nine bloody Hells summoned that?”

“No one I know can do such a thing!” the king said. “But at least it is fighting for us.”

“At the moment, yes. If the tide turns, so to speak, we must be ready.”

Even as he spoke, the elemental turned ponderously around and began to pace toward the Halruaan line.

Matteo swore under his breath. “What is the largest creature you could hope to summon?”

“The largest land creature is a roc,” Zalathorm said, naming an eaglelike monster large enough to carry an elephant in its talons, “but the nearest dwells in the deserts of Calimshan.”

The jordain thought fast. “Can you do a spell of fire permutation?”

“Of course.”

“Contact every wizard in the air and on the ground. On my count have them release the largest fireball spells they know directly at the elemental. You will cast the permutation.”

“The spell will transmute one fire,” the king reminded him.

“One fire,” Matteo agreed. “Capture the fireballs as they converge into a single flame.”

The king snorted. “You have a high opinion of my powers, and my wizards’ aim.”

“This requires good timing,” Matteo admitted, “and stray fireballs will diminish the size of the elemental.”

The king nodded and touched a hand to the Globe of Elders. He gave the order, and Matteo began the count. On his mark, fireballs flashed from every skyship, from flying steeds and from wizards yet on the ground. They soared toward the elemental from every direction. When Matteo dropped his hand, the king shouted a single word.

Airborne fire converged into a flaming roc. A wave of heat swept over the valley as the firebird seized the water elemental in its talons and winged away. Both creatures diminished in a geyser of steam-a land-bound comet that flamed orange and purple against the sunset sky.

Zalathorm let out a triumphant whoop. “The fire roc’s taking it away!”

“We haven’t enough weapons to waste one so promising. Command the firebird to drop the elemental on the Mulhorandi cavalry.”

The king shot a quick, astonished look at Matteo, then nodded. “Tell me when.” He began the spell and held it until the jordain gave the signal.

Powerful magic, once unleashed, was not easily recalled. The fiery roc let out a ringing squawk of protest, but it changed the direction of its flight and winged back, captive to the call of Halruaa’s wizard-king. The roc dropped the elemental and dissipated into the sky like festival fireworks.

The elemental tumbled end over end, looking from this distance like a man falling out of a skyship. Though the elemental had much diminished in size, it was still nearly the length of a full-grown dragon.

The liquid monster hit and shattered like a broken water skin. Men and horses went down screaming under the impact, and water mingled with blood flowed over the barren plain. The hoofs of panicked equines quickly churned the ground to mud.

Matteo was sickened by the death that had come at his bidding, but he gave his report. “The elemental appears to have taken out nearly a third of the cavalry.”

“Send in the foot soldiers,” the king commanded. The order was relayed, and the sound of horns winded across the plain. Halruaan troops raced in on both sides, pinning the larger numbers down. Some of the mounted Mulhorandi tried to flee, but their horses floundered in the mud.

Even so, men on foot were at a great disadvantage over mounted fighters. After the first wild rush, the battle began to turn once again to the invaders.

“What is your counsel, jordain?” demanded Zalathorm.

Matteo grimaced. “You are not going to like it.”

“I haven’t liked any of this,” the king retorted, “but if you say it’s for the good of Halruaa, I’ll believe you. And may Mystra save us all.”

Akhlaur applauded, his long, webbed hands rasping together. “Excellently done! I wouldn’t have credited Zalathorm with that particular spell. His forces on the ground are not faring so well, though.”

“He will lose,” Kiva said with satisfaction.

“Not yet, and not here.”

A clatter filled the air. Thousands of skeletons created by the necromancer’s first attack rose from the ground. An army of skeletons clattered toward their former comrades, inexorable as a plague of locusts. They swept over the struggling cavalry, dragged the Mulhorandi down from their horses, tearing man and beast apart.

“No spell should have but a single purpose,” Akhlaur said. “Water from the living, warriors from th? dead. There is a certain elegance to this, don’t you think?”

Below them, streams of colored light poured from the wizard-king’s skyship. They flowed over the battlefield like delicate, glowing ribbons, entwining the undead soldiers and releasing them from their battle lust.

“Grant them rest and respect,” Akhlaur murmured with scorn. Kiva remembered hearing Zalathorm speak these very words long ago, and her lips twisted in a sneer that matched the necromancer’s.

Zalathorm might have released the skeletons, but their work was done. The battered remnants of the Mulhorandi troops turned and fled toward the northern passes, in full retreat.

Halruaan horns sounded the call to attack, but there were few left to join in the pursuit.

The battlefield was carpeted with dead. The living staggered about, too dazed to realize that the battle was won. Groans and shrieks of the wounded and dying filled the air. Then a single triumphant roar rose from the battlefield, a ringing wordless shout of victory that soared like a phoenix from a fire. Like a spark, it caught and flamed.

Singly and in pairs, standing tall or leaning on comrades for support the surviving Halruaans raised their fists and their swords and screamed their triumph to the skies.

“So once again, Halruaans have secured their homeland from outside threats,” Kiva said. “Once again, the cycle comes around.”

The necromancer turned his gaze to her. “You are generous today, little elf. First you bring me the key to my freedom, then you present me with this fine entertainment, and now you offer a puzzle?”

“It is not a puzzle to those who watch the turning wheel of history. Halruaa has often faced dangers from without. Strong leaders rise to face them. Thus did Zalathorm rise to power, and many years has he held the throne.”

Akhlaur nodded, beginning to understand. “Other wizards performed well today. The one who called the storm elemental seems rather impressive.”

“Don’t be too impressed,” Kiva retorted. “That one is no fox, but a rogue hen raiding its own hen house. He knew of the coming Mulhorandi attack, and of shields that kept other Halruaan wizards from seeing the troops massing on their border.”

“So he perceived this coming threat where Zalathorm did not. A clever ploy!”