The Wizardwar (17 page)

Kiva smiled blandly. “Indeed you will, my lord.”

A flicker of suspicion entered the wizard’s eyes, then was gone. “The best of my apprentices,” he repeated in a tone as mild as hers. “I am eager to see what other lessons I have inadvertently taught you.”

She heard the warning in his words and noted the keen interest in his eyes. For the first time, Akhlaur seemed to consider the possibility that all might not be as it seemed. He did not look dismayed by that prospect-to the contrary. Nothing pleased him more than a cruel game, a hidden purpose.

The elf held her smile and silently promised to give the wizard all he desired and more.

Morning crept over the Nath, fading the night sky to a dismal gray. The rain that had fallen steadily all night ceased with the coming of light, and mist rose like summoned spirits from the stony ground.

Slim gray figures moved through the swirling, land-bound clouds, preparing their horses, gathering supplies, bundling weapons plundered from the Halruaans and from their own dead. Shanair, the Crinti chieftain, sat her shadow-gray mare and watched as her decimated forces prepared for retreat.

One of the warriors cinched a thick bundle of bloodstained arrows to a tall bay stallion-a dead Halruaan’s war-horse turned pack animal. She caught Shanair’s eye and gave the chieftain a quick, fierce smile.

“Fine arrows, and each one wrenched from an enemy’s body! This stallion will breed a hundred foals by summer’s end. All will fetch a good price in Dambrath.”

Shanair nodded, understanding what prompted the woman’s boasts. They would return to their native land laden with plunder. They would have honor and wealth. As raiders, they had done well indeed. No one need speak of their deeper, failed purpose.

It would be good to return to Dambrath. Shanair glanced around the campsite, a relatively flat place carved high into the mountainside by a long-ago rockslide. The site was littered with boulders and nearly surrounded by jagged cliffs. Piles of tumbled rock squatted above them like tipsy, dwarven sentinels. A small, potable spring bubbled up from somewhere deep in the heart of the mountain, and a few shallow caves offered shelter from the elements. It was a highly defensible place, if not a comfortable one, but no fitting home for a Crinti warrior. Soon Shanair would again ride free over open plains.

The prospect gave her less pleasure than she expected.

A faint buzzing, like that of a captured wasp, came from a small leather pouch affixed to her belt. Shanair’s gray face furrowed in puzzlement as she unbuckled the fasteners and drew a small, smooth, round stone from the bag.

Elf-sister, I greet you.

A familiar voice sounded in Shanair’s mind, a lilting, bell-like soprano that lent rare grace and elegance to the rough Crinti dialect Shanair knew only one person whose voice held such music. Clutching the stone, she slapped her heels into her horse’s side and reined the beast away from the camp.

“Kiva!” she whispered. “We thought you dead!”

Do you really think I would leave before the battle was over?

Shanair, suddenly ashamed, glanced back over her shoulder at the bustling camp. She herself was preparing to do precisely that.

Her practical nature quickly reasserted itself. “What more can be done? The battle was fought. Many Halruaans died, but too many remain. We Crinti are too few to push them into the sea.”

The Crinti need not fight alone. The floodgate-

“The floodgate is closed,” Shanair said flatly. “We felt the magic shake the mountains. We saw the spring disappear.”

There was a moment’s pause, and the stone in Shanair’s hand surged with power. The Crinti, attuned to Kiva through some magic she did not understand, recognized temper flaring bright and quickly controlled.

What I was about to say, Kiva went on pointedly, was that many magical treasures are buried around the site of the floodgate. Dig a circle around the place of the spring’s origin, about seven paces from the center.

Shanair shook her head before she remembered the elf could not see this response. “This morning, Xerish did not report. We tracked her to one of the dark fairy mounds. There she disappeared. This is no place for the Crinti.”

This time the stone flared hot enough to burn Shanair’s fingers. Did you find another set of tracks, or are the Crinti not skilled enough to follow a true elf’s trail?

The venom in Kiva’s words smarted worse than the burning stone. “One trail only,” Shanair admitted.

There were two trails leading to the Green Crone, Kiva said, giving the Crinti name for that particular fairy mound. Xerish failed me, and I sent her beyond the veil. Do as I say, Shanair, or you will find you have far more to fear than the Unseelie folk.

The magical contact broke off abruptly, leaving Shanair stunned and enlightened.

“Elf-sister,” she muttered in self-disgust. All this time, she had believed Kiva viewed her as a comrade, if not quite an equal. The Crinti dealt death with a quick hand. Though they were brutal and unforgiving of failure, no one among them would ever torture one of their own. Kiva had given Xerish to the dark fairies. Nothing could have painted the truth in starker colors than this.

Shanair and her proud people were nothing to Kiva.

She tugged on the horse’s reins, turning it back around to the camp. After the recent defeat, the Crinti had retreated to the place where the floodgate had been hidden. Not only was it a defensible camp, but all the scattered Crinti knew it to be the fallback place. Each day had brought new stragglers. If Kiva spoke truth, there was enough magic in this place to send them all beyond the veil.

“Call in the sentinels and scouts,” she shouted. “We leave this accursed place before the sun burns away the mists!”

Basel Indoulur stooped and peeked cautiously through the low, open door. The wizard who’d crafted Procopio’s gaming tables was said to be an unusual soul, but the reality was odder than Basel had anticipated.

A stout, middle-aged female gnome ceased her work long enough to give him a cheery wave. “You’d be Lord Basel, then? Come in, come in.”

He ducked through the door and exchanged pleasantries with his host. She was an odd-looking little creature, brown as a mushroom except for eyes of cornflower blue and a bright, rosy bloom on her plump cheeks and large, button nose. Her abundant brown hair was caught back in a blue kerchief, and a neat, white apron covered her kirtle. Although famed for her skill as an alchemist and artificer, the little wizard looked more like a cook holding sway in a miniature, well-managed kitchen.

After greeting Basel, she went back to a low table. Shelves above it were lined with jars filled with strangely colored powders.

“This has the look of an apothecary shop,” Basel observed.

“That and more.” The gnome winked at him, then picked up a miniature mortar and pestle. She began vigorously grinding at something pale gray and unspeakably foul smelling.

“Bat guano,” she said cheerfully. “Very useful in creating explosions. Have some?”

She held out a small, paper-wrapped packet, much as a homey granny might offer a treat to a child.

Not wishing to offend, Basel accepted the odd gift. “You said I might have a look around?”

The gnome waved her hand toward a small side room. “All the Crinti lore is in there. Stay as long as you like. Don’t worry about making a mess-I’ve already seen to that.”

He thanked her and made his way over to the small room. Unlike the main chamber, this area was an untidy jumble. Tiny, carved figures tumbled about in various stages of completion. Piles of miniature limbs and weapons waited to be attached to tiny bodies. Fully assembled figures had been daubed with paint, but the detailed work that made them look like living things had yet to be completed. All the figures would eventually be enspelled into the almost-living toys Procopio Septus favored so highly.

A long table was heaped high with old books and shards of pottery. Basel reached tentatively into the pile. His hand brushed something furry, and he instinctively pulled back.

An enormous tarantula, its body nearly as large as a rat’s, darted out at him, hissing like an angry cat.

Basel’s battlefield nerve deserted him in the face of this unexpected foe. Letting out a startled shout, he seized a heavy tome and lofted it high over the attacking arachnid. He kept yelling as he brought the book down, hoping to drown out the sound of impact. His efforts were only partially successful.

“Mind the spiders,” the gnome called cheerfully. “For some reason they tend to gather in that corner.”

Basel regarded the splattered creature with disgust, then turned his gaze to his chosen weapon. Greenish ooze dripped from a cover embossed with slanted, spindly runes, which proclaimed the book to be a history of the southland’s dark elves. He scraped the book clean with the packet of bat guano and settled down to read.

Hours passed, and Basel pored through one book after another. He pieced together scroll fragments and shards of spell-vessels of a sort not used for hundreds of years.

Finally he stood and stretched, thinking fondly of a fortnight by the sea and perhaps a pilgrimage to a holy Mystran shrine. He would need something of this nature to cleanse himself of the creeping, soul-deadening evil he’d immersed himself in.

“Like crawling through a midden,” he muttered, glaring at Crinti lore. “If water seeks its own level, small wonder that Procopio is so taken with such things!”

The gnome peeked around the doorjamb. “I’m for the tavern. Found what you need?”

“Actually, no,” he admitted. “I’m looking for an ancient spell, probably created by dark elves.”

A bit of the cheeriness faded from the gnome’s face. “Well, I suppose you have your reasons. There’s a book or two in the root cellar that might serve. Never had much use for them myself, and they seemed right at home down there.”

Basel followed her to a miniature kitchen. She kicked aside a wooden door in the floor and disappeared down a ladder. The wizard accepted things she handed up to him-a pair of rutabagas for tomorrow’s stew, some dried herbs, a small bag of coin, and finally a book bound with black wyvern hide, long ago faded to a dull, papery gray.

He thanked the gnome and began to turn the ancient vellum pages-carefully, for they were fragile. By the look of them, they had probably been written by some of the first wizards from ancient Netheril. Basel struggled with the archaic language and the even more ancient spells.

Finally he found one that quickened his heart and chilled his blood.

A dark-elven spell opened a small gate to the Unseelie realm, allowing one mortal to be substituted for another. It was possible for both to return, but only if the would-be rescuer possessed rare clarity of character and a heart that offered no foothold to the dark fairies’ magic. The rescuer-or the sacrifice, depending upon the outcome-must wear a talisman containing, among other things, a lock of hair from an ancestor, preferably a wizard of great prowess.

Basel grimaced. While this requirement would not be difficult for most Halruaans, it presented a real challenge for a kinless jordain. Yet Basel could think of no one but Matteo to whom he would entrust this task.

He copied the complex spell, working as quickly as he dared. He paid the gnome woman for her time and hurried to his tower, where a gate awaited that would take him to the floodgate’s location-the place where Tzigone had disappeared and where Matteo was bound.

Four men rode northward through the rugged Nath, following the faint, twisting trail left by a dry streambed. Although all four were Halruaan and all were clad in the jordaini garb of white linen, it occurred to Matteo that he and his friends presented a strikingly diverse group.

Iago, the small, slight man who led the way, had seen well over thirty summers, at least ten more than the three men with him. Themo was the youngest, a bluff, cheery giant who was still in many ways more a youth than a man. Andris was taller than most Halruaans and wiry rather than muscular. His coloring was unusual: auburn hair, hazel eyes, and freckled skin that refused to burnish in the sun. Hints of these colors remained, despite Andris’s mysterious transformation during the battle in Akhlaur’s Swamp. Despite all, Matteo still considered Andris the best jordain he knew.

Yet nothing resembling brotherhood passed between Andris and the other two jordaini, who’d accepted the ghostly jordain’s presence only after much argument and under protest. Even Themo, who had counted Andris a boyhood friend, had little to say to him.

As they neared the battle site, the expression on Iago’s face changed from wary to grim. He reined his horse back and fell into step with Matteo’s steed.

“I understand the need to trace Kiva’s path. Andris has cause to know it better than any other, but perhaps you should consider his true purpose in bringing us here.”

“Andris is still a jordain,” Matteo said quietly. “He follows our code. I would stake my life on his word.”

“And ours as well,” Iago grumbled.

Eager to change the subject, Matteo turned to Themo. “You have not spoken of your plans. What will you do, now that you’ve been released from jordaini service?”

The big man gave him a fleeting grin. “I’d like to survive this trip.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and gestured to the jordaini garments he wore out of life-long habit Truth is, I知 feeling more adrift than I expected to. The only thing I know is the jordaini order.”

“The world is too wide for a single man’s eyes to take in,” Matteo observed.

“Just so. I don’t need someone to do my thinking for me, mind you, but it’s easier to think things through if you have some sort of reference point. Maybe I値l join the militia.”

Matteo nodding approvingly. “There is great need for such as you.”

He would have said more, but Andris placed a translucent hand on Matteo’s arm. He pointed to a small muddy patch of ground just off the path, almost obscured by a tumble of rocks. There, barely discernable from horseback, was a faint footprint.

Matteo signaled a halt. He slid from his horse and went over for a closer look. The print was long and narrow, most likely a woman’s foot, and the boot sole showed signs of repeated repair. A faint smear of blood appeared on a rock nearby, as if the traveler had stumbled and caught herself. Most likely, someone already wounded and weakened had passed this way, and recently. Neither the blood nor the muddy print was completely dry.