“It was … exhilarating,” she said, imbuing her words with the dark irony Akhlaur so enjoyed. “All the same, I am grateful for rescue.”
The necromancer inclined his head graciously, accepting her thanks as genuine. He had reason to think Kiva sincere. There was a death-bond between them, forged two centuries past so she could survive the laraken’s birth. Kiva could not harm Akhlaur without slaying herself, and she counted on this to convince the wizard of her sincerity.
“Sleep,” he instructed her. “We have much to do upon the morrow.”
Kiva obediently curled up on the carpet and pretended to drift back into reverie, but dreams of the past dimmed before the great battle ahead.
During this battle, Akhlaur, the wizard who had come so close to conquering all of Halruaa, would fight not as her master but as her deadly and unwitting tool.
CHAPTER ONE
A small, swarthy young man glided like a brown shadow through a labyrinth of corridors far below King Zalathorm’s palace. Dawn was hours away, and this deep place was lit only by the small blue globe in the young wizard’s hand.
Moving with the assurance born of experience, he barely glanced at the ancient skeletons moldering in side corridors, silent testament both to the spirit of Halruaan adventurers and the wards guarding the land’s deeply buried treasures.
He made his way to the center of the maze and stepped into a circle ringed with deeply etched runes. As he chanted in the ancient, secret language of Halruaan magic, the stone beneath his feet melted away, swirling downward like dense gray mist and reforming as a narrow, circling stairway.
Down he went, moving deeper and deeper into the heart of the land. With each step he intoned the specific arcane word required. He respectfully avoided treading upon the blackened spots marking the final resting places of wizards whose memories had faltered.
At the foot of the stairs was a great hall, lined on each side by a score of living guards. Here gathered many of Halruaa’s great necromancers, keeping watch over secrets last whispered by lips long ago faded to ash and memory. They nodded to the young man as he passed, giving the deference due to the king’s messenger. None of them suspected the true identity of the black-eyed, brown-skinned youth.
The disguised wizard stopped before an enormous door and bowed to the ancient, cadaverous archmage who guarded it He handed the old man a scroll.
“A writ from the king,” he said in the lilting accents common to the coastal islands.
The archmage glanced at the missive, then lifted his rheumy gaze to the messenger. “By the king’s command, we must answer your questions with the same candor we would offer him. I swear by my wizard-word oath it will be so.”
The youth inclined his head in respectful thanks. “I would know who raised and commanded the undead army during the battle against the Mulhorandi invaders.”
The guardians exchanged uncertain glances. “The king himself is acclaimed for this victory,” the archmage ventured.
The messenger snorted. “When did the king become a master of necromancy? Tell me who among your ranks could have done such a thing.”
The old man’s lips thinned as if to hold back the answer he was sworn to give. “It is beyond my art,” he admitted at last “No one in this room could cast such a spell. We can all raise and command undead, certainly, but not in such numbers! If the king did not cast this spell, then his equal did.”
“Who is equal to the king?” asked the disguised wizard, imbuing his voice with a mixture of indignation and concern, such as a faithful young messenger might express.
“I assume you speak rhetorically, as did I,” the archmage hastened to add. “For who could be the king’s equal?”
Who indeed? The wizard swallowed the wry smile that tugged at his lips. The old archmage’s parry was as deft as any swordmaster’s, but in truth many wizards were beginning to wonder if perhaps they might prove to be the king’s equal. The guardian’s question might have been rhetorical, but it would not long remain in the bloodless realm of rhetoric.
The wizard bowed his thanks and gestured toward the door. The archmage moved aside, clearly eager to end this disturbing interview.
Massive, ironbound doors swung inward on silent hinges, untouched by mortal hand. Torches mounted on the walls flared into life, revealing a circular room with several doors but no floor other than a gaping pit Faint but fearsome howls wafted up from untold depths, carrying a faint charnel scent and the promise of oblivion.
The wizard stepped into the empty air, counted off several paces to the left, and strode confidently across the void. He passed through three other magically trapped rooms before he came to the place he sought.
This final chamber was empty but for the ruby-hued crystal floating in the room’s center. Shaped like a many-pointed star, it burned with its own inner light and filled the room with a crimson glow.
The wizard let his disguise melt away, revealing the mild, middle-aged face of the man who had claimed the crimson star more than two hundred years ago. He dropped to one knee and began the difficult process each visit demanded: emptying his mind of thought, his heart of sorrow and guilt. When at last the silence within matched the profound stillness of the chamber, he rose, lifted his eyes to the gem, and spoke.
“The heart of Halruaa seeks counsel,” King Zalathorm said softly.
In lean words Zalathorm described the battle spells that just two days before had siphoned the fluids from hundreds of living men to create an enormous water elemental, then raised the desiccated men into an undead army.
“What wizard, living or dead, might have cast such a spell?” he concluded.
He tuned his mind’s ear for the silent response, the familiar, elfsong voices of sages long dead. They spoke in a single-note chorus of wordless, overwhelming terror. Waves of emotion swept over him like an icy storm, stealing his breath. Stopping his heart.
Crushing pain enveloped Zalathorm’s chest, sending him staggering back. He fell heavily against the chamber’s only door, unable to move or breathe. For long moments he believed he would die in this room.
Finally healing magic, more ancient even than the sages’ remembered fear, pulsed from the crimson star.
The king’s heart leaped painfully, then took up its normal rhythm. Slowly his agony receded. Once again, the crimson star had preserved its creator.
Once again, it had given Zalathorm an answer he could find nowhere else. The gem was undying history, centuries of experience preserved in eternal immediacy. In all of Halruaa’s long history, Zalathorm knew of only one wizard who could inspire such terror in the time-frozen sages’ hearts. Though no word had been given, Zalathorm had his answer all the same.
Somehow, Akhlaur had returned.
CHAPTER TWO
The streets below King Zalathorm’s palace teamed with life, even though the sun barely crested the city’s eastern wall. Matteo stood at the king’s side, listening as Zalathorm received a seemingly endless line of supplicants.
It was Matteo’s first day as King’s Counselor, and already he was fighting off the urge to fidget like a schoolchild. The king had charged him with the defense of Queen Beatrix. Why not let him get on with it?
Matteo could not understand the king’s insistence on honoring his custom of granting daily audience. In these extraordinary times, mundane routine seemed as out of place as a witless sheep among unicorns!
Reminders of the recent battles were everywhere. Laborers still cleared away the debris and rubble cluttering the king’s city. The pyres in the burial gardens outside the city walls burned steadily. Professional mourners sang themselves into rasping silence, then yielded their places to others. Their keening songs soared up into the smoky clouds, commending the spirits of fallen Halruaans to the gods and their bodies to the sky.
The Halruaans were a proud and defiant people who mingled mourning rituals with extravagant victory celebrations. Students at the mage schools were sent home until after the new moon. Merchants
and artisans closed their shops before highsun and did not reopen after the sunsleep hours were past. Street performers sang ballads and acted out tableaus; fireworks dazzled the night skies. Somber, hardworking Halruaans, wizards and common folk alike, devoted themselves to defiant celebration, as if to thumb their noses at ubiquitous Death.
Outside the palace, the familiar song of the street began a swift crescendo and took on a faintly dissonant note. Zalathorm nodded to Matteo. Glad for the diversion, the young jordain went to the window to see what was going on.
As always, a throng waited outside, hoping for audience with the king. The scene had a festival air. Street vendors came to display their wares, and wandering performers kept the crowd entertained. Matteo quickly averted his eyes from a young juggler, for the lad’s deft hands and carefree grin reminded him too painfully of his friend Tzigone.
His gaze slid over the dancing bear that plodded and whirled like a corpulent matron, and settled briefly upon the drovers hawking exotic beasts. Beaming parents handed their children up for rides upon camels from the Calimshan deserts or an enormous three-horned lizard from the jungles of Chult or an aged and rather threadbare unicorn. There was even a young elephant, an animal seldom seen in Halruaa. Two small, shrieking children clung to the gaudy red and yellow litter on the animal’s broad, gray back.
Matteo’s eyes darted back to the elephant. Its long trunk lashed back and forth, as if swatting away an attacking swarm. He looked closer and realized this was precisely what the animal was doing. Several people had taken to pelting the unfortunate creature with fruit and morning cakes.
He turned back to Zalathorm. “One of the drovers has brought an elephant. The crowd is attacking it, perhaps because the animal is native to Mulhorand and a reminder of the invaders.”
A scowl darkened the king’s face. He rose from his throne and stalked toward the window, gesturing for Matteo to follow. Courtiers parted as the two passed, watching with furrowed brows as the king broke his own unbending custom.
Zalathorm led the way to a hidden stairwell, where narrow, winding steps spiraled down to the street. These he took at an astonishingly brisk pace.
“With respect, sire, may I ask your intentions?” Matteo called as he jogged after the king.
Zalathorm stopped and shot a glance back at his counselor. “The people outside the palace are waiting for me to settle disputes. This particular one isn’t going to improve with age.”
Matteo would have argued the wisdom of marching into the middle of a street disturbance, but he assumed the king had his reasons. He followed quickly, loosening the peace-ties on his daggers as he went.
By the time they reached the street, the situation had devolved into chaos. The elephant whirled this way and that, lunging at its circle of tormenters with short and astonishingly swift charges. Two wizards had cast spells of levitation to lift the terrified children out of the boxlike litter. They were floating, kicking and wailing, toward the frantically outstretched arms of their parents.
Several more wizards advanced on the animal. Small balls of crackling, bluish energy flew from their outstretched hands and exploded against the elephant’s hide with sharp, sizzling pops.
Matteo immediately sensed their strategy: Back the elephant into a walled garden, where it could be easily contained. The animal, though, was too panicked to cooperate. Emitting shrill, trumpeting cries, it began to rear and pitch like a bee-stung stallion.
“Idiots,” muttered Zalathorm.
Since their miniature lightning shockballs were not putting the elephant into retreat, the wizards began to hurl larger missiles. A small barrage of many-colored lights hurtled toward the terrified animal.
The king lifted both hands and slammed his right fist against his left palm. Immediately the missiles struck an invisible wall and were deflected off at a sharply climbing angle, ascending the sky like festival fireworks.
One of these missiles, a bolt of energy shaped like a slim crimson javelin, glanced off the magical barrier and came around in a tight turn, like a fish changing directions in a swift moving stream. It hurtled directly, unerringly, toward the spellcaster who had disrupted its course.
Matteo’s response was part training, part instinct. He leapt in front of the king, his hands lunging for the shaft of the magical javelin. The weapon scorched through his clenched fist—only his deeply inbred resistance to magic kept the thing from burning down to bone.
Even as his fingers closed on the shaft, he twisted his wrist slightly, not trying to stop the weapon so much as to shift it off course. The magic weapon turned broadside but kept its course. Matteo’s right arm jerked free of its shoulder joint in a searing, white-hot flash of pain. He hurtled backward, still holding the crimson bolt, and slammed into a courtyard wall.
Matteo tossed aside the dissipating weapon and reached for his left-handed dagger, ready to protect the king if need be, but in the brief moment it took him to blink away the dancing stars from his vision, Zalathorm had moved to stand beside the elephant.
The king stroked the animal’s bristled gray hide in a soothing manner. When the drover came up to take the reins, Zalathorm spoke a few quiet words. Matteo could not hear what was said, but he noted how the color leeched from the drover’s face. The man backed away, ducking his head repeatedly in quick, nervous bows.
Zalathorm’s gaze swept the quiet, watchful throng. “Many are the tasks before us. Halruaa is equal to them all, so long as our energies are not distracted from the real work at hand. Those of you who require the king’s judgment may wait in peace. Those who came seeking spectacle have been satisfied and can go their way.”
Though the king spoke calmly, his voice reached the outskirts of the crowd. Some of the morning revelers slipped away, others reclaimed their places in line with subdued faces.
Matteo returned to Zalathorm’s side, cradling the elbow of his injured arm in his left hand. “Fine speech,” he murmured. “Many are the tasks before us—and what better way to illustrate this than for the king and his counselor to tend the well-being of a pack animal?”
The king sent him a sharp glance. “If pain prompts you to sarcasm, by all means let us repair your shoulder immediately.”
Matteo managed a small bow. “My apologies, sire. Though I thank you for you kind thought, healing spells and clerical prayers have about as much effect upon a jordain—”
“As flattery has upon a mule,” Zalathorm broke in. “An analogy, mind you, that I find surprisingly apt”
He took hold of Matteo’s arm and gave it a sharp twist and a sudden, precise shove. Pain exploded in Matteo’s shoulder and skittered along his limbs and spine. As suddenly as it came, it was gone but for a deep, dull ache.
Matteo rolled his shoulder experimentally. “Amazing. I doubt a jordaini battlemaster could have done better.”
For some reason, Zalathorm found that amusing. “High praise indeed!”
He strode toward the palace wall and the stairs, which had suddenly reappeared in a new location. Matteo followed.
“If I may ask, what did you say to the elephant drover?”
“Jaharid? I told him I calmed the elephant by speaking with it mind to mind. I reminded him the elephant is an intelligent, perhaps even sentient beast, and suggested that since he could bear witness to many of Jaharid’s less-than-legal activities, it behooved him to treat the animal with courtesy and respect.”
Matteo took this in. “The elephant told you these things?”
The king sent a quick, amused look over his shoulder. “Our large, gray friend did not offer an opinion concerning Jaharid’s business practices. Few elephants are well versed in Halruaan law.”
“I see. You know this Jaharid, then.”
“Never set eyes upon the man. A simple divination spell yielded his name, along with an interesting image: Jaharid bartering with a Mulhorand pirate for a baby elephant. If you’d had dealings with the Mulhorandi, would you want them brought to light? Mark me, Jaharid will treat the
animal well and give it no cause for complaint”
Matteo considered this. “According to what I know of the Art of divination, this seems an unusual insight. Divination is the study of the future.”
The king lifted one shoulder dismissively. “The seasons pass and return. The future can often be read in the patterns of the past.”
Though the words were prosaic, they sent an image jolting into Matteo’s mind: Tzigone, deep in trance as she sought her own earliest memories, accidentally moving past her own experiences to witness events occurring long before her birth. Zalathorm, it seemed, had unconventional talents of his own.
“You are more than a diviner,” Matteo observed.
Zalathorm stopped and turned. “I am king,” he said simply. His lips twisted in a wry smile, and he added, “At least for the moment.”
He waved away Matteo’s attempted protests. “No wizard has stepped forward with a challenge, but it is only a matter of time. We both know this. Your former patron, Procopio Septus, stands tall amongst the waiting throng.”
Matteo secretly agreed. Still, “Sire, you know I am sworn not to reveal one patron’s secrets to another.”
Zalathorm sent him an inquiring look. “Did I ask you to? Procopio is ambitious. I need no jordain to tell me what my own eyes perceive.”
“Of course not, my lord.” Matteo hesitated, then asked the question that had been harrying him since his appointment. “Forgive me, but why exactly do you need me? I have lived twenty-one summers, hardly enough time to gain the wisdom a king’s counselor requires.”
The king smiled faintly. “Surely you’ve heard the whispers questioning my fitness to rule. Do you agree with them?”
This question startled Matteo, and the answer that came to mind stunned him. Zalathorm waited for him to speak, studying him with eyes that needed no magic to measure a man.
“I’m not sure,” Matteo said at last.
Zalathorm nodded. “Therein lays the answer to your question. An older, wiser jordain would have told me what he thought I wished to hear.”
The Wizardwar Page 3
