The Wizardwar (19 page)

The wizard threw himself into a forward roll, going between the laraken’s legs and coming up behind, a sword in each hand. The monster whirled and slashed.

Basel met the laraken’s blow with one sword and brought the other weapon into guard position. Suddenly the at-guard sword lengthened, leaping up toward the laraken’s unprotected armpit

Matteo shouted a warning, but it was too late. To his astonishment, the sword dug deep into the monster’s body, unaffected by the monster’s magic drain. Basel released the impaling weapon and backed away.

The jordain smiled briefly as he realized what had just happened. He had seen such a weapon demonstrated once before. A deadly mating between a crossbow and a sword, it was a double-layered contraction fashioned of cunning levers and springs. A trigger sent the outer layer hurtling forward, effectively doubling the length of the sword.

Matteo charged the bellowing monster with a high, slashing feint, hoping to free an opening for one of the other fighters to drive the imbedded blade still deeper.

But the laraken ignored him. Its form began to waver and fade, much like the landscape when viewed through the shimmering filter of a magic portal. The creature gave one final roar and disappeared. The trick weapon fell free and clattered to the rocky ground.

Matteo picked up the blade and returned it to its owner. “A well-chosen weapon. Your style of fighting seems familiar.”

“It should be. We trained with the same man. Vishna was my swordmaster well before you were born.” Basel looked around the clearing, littered with rock and dead Crinti warriors. “You’ve had a busy morning. Who are these others?”

“Iago is dead,” Matteo said softly. He eyes slid over the jordain’s scattered remains and moved to the survivors. “Themo has a gash requiring stitching. Andris will have to speak for himself-his state is beyond my knowledge and understanding.”

The ghostly jordain sat slumped on a rock, staring with unseeing eyes at the place where the laraken had disappeared.

“I will tend Themo,” Basel said softly. “You see what can be done for the other.”

Matteo came over and placed a hand on Andris’s shoulder. It seemed to him that his friend was no longer quite

“She’s alive,” the jordain said flatly. “The Crinti spoke the truth. Kiva is alive.”

Matteo crouched down to eye level. “How do you know?”

Andris cast a bleak look up at Matteo. “The laraken is back.”

Basel glanced up from his work. “That’s the problem with fighting monsters. It’s rather like house-tending, in that it never seems to be done and over with. You spoke of Kiva’s return. Why do you equate one monster with the other?”

“I saw Akhlaur’s spellbook,” Andris explained. “The necromancer created the laraken, but there are limits to his powers over it. He generally has an apprentice trained to summon the laraken, for he cannot. Who but Kiva could do this thing?”

Matteo blew out a long breath and sat down next to his friend. “Kiva, alive and aligned with Akhlaur! But how could she summon the laraken? You saw what happened to her last time she got too close to it.”

Andris shook his head. “I have the feeling we値l find out far too soon.”

The laraken was falling again. It flailed wildly, clawing at the swift-flowing stream of magic.

Then the magic was gone, and the laraken stood mired to its haunches in murky water. Familiar sounds and scents filled the humid air. The puzzled creature realized, without understanding why, that it had been returned to the place of its birth.

Suddenly the laraken was ravenous. The Plane of Water had yielded a steady, constant supply of magic. Here in the swamp, the monster would need to hunt. The laraken threw back its head and sniffed the air. A faint scent of magic, the spoor of its prey, lingered in the humid air. The laraken followed the scent as unerringly as a hound, stalking out of the mire and toward the borderlands of the swamp.

It crouched behind the thick trunk of a bilboa tree and peered at the straggling line of humans cutting their way through waist-high grasses. Magic clung to them like scented smoke.

The laraken’s black tongue flicked out, tasting the air with reptilian pleasure. The male who led the group carried a sword decorated with a glowing gem and filled with magic-fairly glowing with it. The laraken drank the savory draught.

Abruptly the wizard stopped, his hand going to the despoiled sword. Steel hissed as he drew the weapon, and he stared for a long, disbelieving moment at the dull, clouded stone in the hilt. He tossed the useless blade aside and shouted incomprehensible noise at his comrades. One of them, a woman wearing robes of jungle green, stepped forward and brandished a tall black staff.

In response, the bilboa trees began to stir like awakening titans. The ground shook as roots tore free of the soil. Ancient wood creaked as the ensorcelled trees stretched and flexed, trying out their first fledgling steps.

The laraken backed away, enthralled by this wondrous display. It ducked as a thick limb swept over its head in ponderous attack, and it began to drink. Leaves withered to brown ash as the living trees yielded up their magic-enhanced lives. The laraken shrieked with joy at the intoxicating magic flowing into its limbs.

The wizards threw down their weapons and fled in panic. The laraken reached out, draining their spells, drinking their essence. Giddy with magic, the creature did not at first notice the uprooted bilboa trees begin to totter and sway.

Down they went, moving at the slow, inexorable pace that characterizes nightmares. Living trees shattered beneath the weight of the toppling giants, and a shrill chorus filled the air as creatures that made verdant cities of jungle trees died along with their homes. The humans, those slain by the laraken’s hunger and those yet alive, went down under the tangle of killing limbs.

The laraken scuttled back, dodging the upturning roots and the churning soil. A sudden swell of torn root caught it and sent it tumbling.

Pain lashed through the monster. Flying branches and unearthed rock tore at its hide as the humans’ swords could not. The sated pleasure of the laraken’s recent banquet faded as the stolen magic flowed into the healing process.

Quickly the glow of the magical feast faded. Far too quickly.

Suddenly the laraken understood. The spells, the stolen magic, were being taken away! That meant that He Whose Spells Could Not Be Eaten had also left the world of watery magic.

The laraken-not quite healed, ravenous to the point of agony-threw back its head and shrieked in despair.

Kiva watched as Akhlaur received the stolen magic. His long, black staff crackled with bluish light and gathering energy. His faintly green face was intent as he considered the nature of his booty.

“Druid spells,” he said disgustedly, and tossed the eel aside. “The laraken will have to do better than that.”

Despite his words, he seemed pleased. The laraken would quickly advance Akhlaur’s rise to power, even if many of the spells it drank were of no use to its master. Whatever magic Akhlaur possessed was magic that another wizard did not.

“One thing concerns me about the laraken’s return,” Kiva said. “I am afraid its presence might drain away my hard-won spells. It did so once before.” In a few words, Kiva told the necromancer how she had regained her wizardly magic and how the effort had aged her.

“You raided the Lady’s Mirror,” Akhlaur repeated, clearly amused. “I must say, little Kiva, your initiative is rather impressive.”

The necromancer snapped his fingers, then plucked a small, glittering vial from the empty air. “All problems have solutions. You recognize this powder?”

The elf hesitated, then nodded. It was the same glowing green substance that had triggered the zombie transformation in the half-elven wizard’s guard.

“There is a death-bond between us,” Akhlaur went on, “which already gives you some immunity to the laraken. I can strengthen that bond. While I am not averse to taking your spells, it serves my purpose to keep you as a loyal servant.”

Kiva pretended to consider this. “But what if I die, my lord? The death-bond between us is already as strong as it can be without binding both ways.”

“Hence the potion,” Akhlaur said with strained patience, as if speaking to a particularly slow and stupid child. “I have no intention of dying, of this I assure you! This potion will grant you a type of immortality. An elf can expect an unnaturally long life; this will ensure a lich transformation at the end of it.”

“I had never aspired to such an afterlife,” Kiva said, speaking for once with complete truth. Elves, particularly wild elves, viewed transformation into any undead creature as an unspeakable abomination and a fate to be avoided at any cost.

The necromancer took her words at face value. He motioned for Kiva’s water flask and poured the potion into it. She accepted the flask eagerly and tipped it back. Remembering the terrible death throes of the half-elven wizard, Kiva gave a theatrical shudder and dropped to the ground. She thrashed and flailed, twisting herself into wild contortions-conveniently managing to spit out most of the tainted water unnoticed. By her reckoning, a sip would strengthen the death-bond sufficiently without preparing her for lichdom.

At last Kiva dragged herself to her feet. “And you, Lord Akhlaur,” she said hoarsely. “Have you also taken this precaution?”

The necromancer gave her a condescending smile. “As long as the crimson star lasts, what power could possibly bring me down?”

“I have often pondered that very question,” she said.

Akhlaur’s face fell slack with astonishment, then darkened with wrath. Just as quickly, his expression changed to dark mirth. “The best of my apprentices,” he repeated.

Wizards from all over Halruaa gathered in the council chamber of King Zalathorm. The king’s greatest magical treasure-at least the greatest treasure of which people were aware-was a great, amber globe that could summon wizards from every corner of the land. Each wizard who achieved the status of Elder wore a golden ring set with a round amber stone. Using these artifacts, Zalathorm could summon a council at any time and could communicate with some or all of his faithful wizards.

The problem, mused Zalathorm wryly, was that few of these wizards were entirely as faithful as they wished to appear.

He looked out over the sea of waiting, respectful faces. Zalathorm was a powerful diviner, as adept at gauging the heart and purpose of a man as any wizard alive. The truth he saw behind many of those faces pained him to the soul.

“I have summoned you here to discuss the aftermath of the Mulhorandi invasion,” he began.

Applause swept through the hall as wizards hailed their king for his role in the recent victory. Zalathorm cut the ovation short with a sharply upraised hand.

“Every man and woman here had a part in Halruaa’s victory. Let us address the future. We have received word from Mulhorand. An ambassador seeks permission to offer terms of peace.”

Silence hung thick in the crowded room. “What possible terms could they seek?” demanded a thin, querulous voice. Febir Khorn, a wizened man whose face wore every day of his ninety years, thumped his staff indignantly on the polished marble floor. His advanced years, longtime friendship to Zalathorm and absolute loyalty to the king purchased him the right to speak his mind at will. “If the Mulhorandi stay out of Halruaa, we will let them live. What more could they ask or expect?”

A chorus of huzzahs and approving laughter filled the hall. Zalathorm smiled at the indignant wizard. “It is my sincere wish that everything was as forthright as you, my friend, but, despite Halruaa’s victory, several mysteries remain. These we must and will address.”

His steady gaze swept the crowd. No one doubted that he spoke of his own queen, and her coming trial for treason. Many of the wizards dropped their eyes, shamed by their whispered accusations and speculations. It was widely rumored that Zalathorm’s queen would never come to trial at all, that her misdeeds would be shielded by the king’s power.

“The battle between the storm elementals provides a key to one such mystery,” Zalathorm continued. “Procopio Septus turned back the attack, using a storm elemental fashioned in his own image. It is likely that the Mulhorandi wizard did the same. I propose that we have an artist sketch the Mulhorandi storm elemental and send it back to Mulhorand with their diplomat.”

Procopio stepped forward. “The man is dead-killed when his elemental was vanquished. What benefit would this bring?”

“We will insist that the Mulhorandi supply us with the man’s true name, as well as some of his personal belongings, so that we can pursue a full divination into his plans and purposes. If the Mulhorandi do this, we will seek no reprisals. If they attempt to shield this man for fear of exposing others involved in the invasion, we will retaliate with an attack on Mulhorand.”

An astonished babble exploded. Halruaa had repelled many invasions over her long history, but never had she launched an attack upon another country!

“There is wisdom in tradition,” shouted Procopio above the din.

Complete silence fell over the hall. This was the first open challenge to the king.

Zalathorm’s steady gaze acknowledged the wizard lord’s words for what they were. “You obviously think that tradition holds more wisdom than your king. Tell us why.”

Such bluntness was rare in Halruaan society, and for a moment Procopio looked disconcerted. He quickly gathered himself and responded in kind.

“Fully a third of Halruaan wizards and fighters were destroyed in the recent battles. Four hundred fell in the king’s city alone. It is time to rebuild, not to extend forces already depleted.”

Zalathorm nodded gravely. “Our losses were great, but would you have us cower behind our mountain walls, weak and timid in the eyes of the world? Why give our neighbors cause to consider another attack?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Procopio inclined his head in a slight bow. “You know your subjects well, my lord. You appeal to our pride, and we are indeed a proud people. There is an important difference, however, between pride and blind arrogance. The invasion-the first in more than a century!-demonstrated a serious weakness in our defenses. To deny this is folly. Making a scapegoat of one of the invading wizards might be satisfying, but it detracts from the larger problem.”