In its place stood a monstrous creature, easily twice Themo’s height. Exaggerated elven ears slashed upward, framing a hideous green-scaled face. living eels writhed about the monster’s head, their tiny, fanged jaws snapping. Four massive arms flexed, making the monster look like a mutated wrestler preparing for attack. Each of the four hands sported curved talons as deadly as daggers. Thick, greenish hide armored the monster, and slightly luminous drool dripped from its bared fangs.
The monster’s black eyes settled upon the stunned jordaini, and it threw back its head and let out a shrieking howl that spanned the spectrum of sound, at the same time a thunderous grumble and a raptor’s shriek.
“Holy mother of Mystra,” breathed Themo.
Iago drew his weapons. “Few men are granted their wishes. You wanted to fight the laraken.”
“Obviously, I lied.”
Despite his jest, the big jordain was pale as death. Matteo remembered Themo’s recently confessed doubts about his worthiness as a warrior. Yet Themo pulled his sword and shouldered his smaller comrades aside, rushing in to take the first slashing blow of the laraken’s claws. The other jordaini followed close behind.
Matteo gave a silent prayer for the men who had fallen in the last battle with this foe and those who were about to join them.
Basel Indoulur stepped from the shimmering magic of his transportation spell into a grim, gray world. The sun climbed sluggishly toward its zenith, looking faint and pale through its shroud of mist He found himself nearly at the top of the mountain, looking down into a small, rock-strewn clearing.
The sight below chilled him. Four men battled a fierce, four-armed creature. The monster seized one of the men in all four hands and lifted him, struggling and kicking, to its waiting fangs. A glint of sun reflected from the man’s hair, and auburn lights flashed like a premonition of spilled blood.
“Matteo,” murmured Basel, his voice thick with grief and dread.
A smaller man darted forward, his sword angled high and braced like a lance. He threw himself at the monster, and his sword found an opening beneath the creature’s upraised arm.
Its bellow of pain and rage shook the mountains. Hurling Matteo aside, the creature fell upon this new foe. Its two lower hands seized the man’s sword arm at wrist and elbow. With a quick twist it snapped the arm like a reed, bending the forearm into an impossible angle.
The other men—a huge man in jordaini garb and one that looked more like a soap bubble than flesh and sinew—slashed at the monster with their respective weapons of steel and crystal. Matteo staggered to his feet, found his fallen sword, and rejoined the battle. All of them fought fiercely, clearly determined to rescue their comrade.
But the creature would not be cheated or deterred. Still holding the small man’s mangled arm, the monster jerked him up high and used him like a flail to beat back his own would-be rescuers. Again and again the monster lashed out. The three jordaini dodged and rolled aside from each blow, but they were helpless to prevent injury to their captured comrade. In moments, the man was reduced to something that more closely resembled a broken doll than a brave jordain.
The monster backed away several paces. Each of its massive hands closed on one of the wounded man’s limbs, and the creature threw all four of its arms up high. For the briefest of moments it held the man aloft, well above the reach of his comrades.
Then, with a ringing shriek, the monster threw its four arms wide and tore its victim apart.
All this happened far more quickly than the telling would take. Muttering an oath, Basel reached into his sleeve for a battle wand, one he had carried for twenty years. Leveling it at the strange monster, he chanted the spell that would loose stinging bolts of cold. He smiled as icy blue light streaked from the wand. Cold and ice were rare things in Halruaa, and Basel’s enemies had seldom been prepared for such an attack.
He looked forward to seeing this one’s response.
Matteo ducked under slashing claws, then lashed out high. His sword retraced a bloody line under the laraken’s lower left arm—one of the monster’s few vulnerable spots. Ichor flowed freely down the creature’s side. Matteo dropped and rolled away, yielding his place to Themo. When the big man was forced to evade, Matteo came back in.
The two of them harried and worried the creature, like a pair of wolves snapping at a stag. Matteo tried not to think of Iago’s fate or his conviction that they all would share it
“Fall back,” he snapped at Andris. His friend seemed more insubstantial than ever, little more than a shadow. The presence of the laraken obviously leeched away his strength. Yet Andris kept coming in, using his near-transparency as a means of slipping up behind the monster unseen.
Andris ignored Matteo and slashed at the laraken’s tail. The monster shrieked and thrashed the wounded appendage wildly. One blow connected, sending Andris tumbling painfully over the rocky ground.
But Matteo and Themo made good use of the diversion. They moved out wide on either side of the laraken, swords flashing as they kept all four of the monster’s hands busy and held well out from its body.
The creature wheeled this way and that, as if sensing its vulnerability.
The attack came from an unexpected quarter. A bolt of pale blue sizzled down from a nearby mountaintop, heading directly for the laraken’s chest.
Matteo’s first impulse was to leap between the monster and the magic. Instantly he checked himself—his resistance to magic was strong but certainly not absolute, and since he had never before seen a missile of this nature, he did not know if he could survive it.
Instead he threw himself at Themo, knocking his friend clear of the magic missile. They rolled together, swiftly breaking apart and coming to their feet in ready guard—just in time to see the missile find its target.
The blue light softened and spread as it approached the monster. A glowing haze enveloped the laraken and sank into its hide like water into a sponge. As the laraken absorbed the magic, its wounds closed and the muscles on its corded limbs swelled with renewed strength.
“It’s healing,” Themo marveled, staring at the monster. “What now?”
“We hope that whoever cast that spell isn’t stupid enough to do it again,” Matteo said grimly.
The laraken shrieked and came at them in a darting charge. Matteo set his feet firmly, lifted his sword, and prepared to die well.
Suddenly another fighter appeared between him and the charging laraken. With astonishment Matteo recognized Basel Indoulur. The portly conjurer stumbled and fell to one knee, dropped prematurely from a blink spell that had been intercepted and drained by the laraken’s hunger.
“No magic!” Matteo shouted as he charged forward to protect the wizard.
The laraken slashed at Basel with rending talons. Matteo caught the laraken’s wrist near the hilt of his sword and threw himself to one side. The laraken, expecting more resistance, was led slightly forward. Matteo only hoped Basel had the wit and instinct to use this moment to escape.
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 solid.
“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’ll find out far too soon.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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 g
round. 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.”
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