Wizard's Conclave

by Douglas Niles

  She could see down to the bottom of the great stairway, though much of the flight had been torn away by the blasts of wild magic. Still, the arched hallway leading to the anteroom was visible, from the base of the staircase.

  Holding her breath, she started down the steps, listening for signs of Kalrakin or Luthar. She heard a violent commotion some distance away, more walls breaking, stones cracking, and supporting structures collapsing.

  Her bow was ready, the string taut. She had an arrow in her hands as she made her way carefully down the steps. As she neared the bottom, she nocked the missile on the bowstring and started to pull the weapon back. She thought of the sorcerer's artifact, and for the first time, the memory of that stone brought the hint of a tiny, hopeful smile to her lips.

  She knew the Irda Stone could not stop a sharp, steel arrowhead.

  29

  Wild Magic

  Dalamar stared at the stone wall. The spell was ready to cast; indeed it was pulsing in his mind, anxious for its release. He raised his hand to make the sign of the dimension door against the side of the great hall.

  But the words emerged thick and slurred. His tongue felt like a useless piece of swollen meat. Air escaped through the torn fabric of his cheek, while his lips could not seem to articulate the most basic of sounds. His eyes watered with frustration.

  "Here, I'll do it," Jenna said with surprising tenderness. The dark elf watched bitterly as she made the sign and smoothly cast the spell.

  Immediately a passage appeared through the thick black stone of the wall. It was a shimmering doorway outlined in blue light, magical but also real. The wall here was some six feet thick, but the dimension door was flat and thin as a piece of paper. It was also visible to those on the other side of the wall.

  "Who's there?" growled a thick voice from within that great chamber as soon as the dimension door shimmered into view. A burly dwarf squatted close to the door, his eyeless face cocked in an expression of listening.

  "It is I, Willi," Jenna shouted, "coming to get you all out of here."

  "A dim door?" The dwarf sounded skeptical. "Don't ya think we already tried that in here? Wit' no luck!"

  "The sorcerer's spell bars you from getting out, via teleport or other spells. It doesn't stop us from opening a door on this side of the wall," Jenna explaining, raising her voice in urgency. "And Dalamar is here with me. Now come, all who serve the Three Gods-there is no time to waste!"

  Quickly the wizards massed before the door. Willim the Black was the first to step through, nodding to Jenna and Dalamar. "Where is that bastard? I want his spleen for breakfast!" he growled. The half-elf woman in the black robe came next, gliding past Willi. She looked shocked to see Dalamar.

  "By Nuitari! What happened to you?" gasped Sirene, her face going pale as she beheld the dark elf's horribly scarred visage.

  "Never mind about my petty injuries!" Dalamar snapped, tugging the cowl around to obscure the right side of his face as much as possible. "Get on through the dimension door- and hurry the others behind you!"

  "We'll have to leave Adramis," an elder elf, a White Robe named Suwannis, said as he appeared. "He's badly hurt, and we don't dare move him."

  "Very well. But the rest of you, hurry!" urged Jenna. "Through the door-quickly! Spread out through the hall!"

  One by one the wizards pushed through the blue-tinged door, the younger and faster going first, the elders following with as much alacrity as they could muster. Their numbers had been thinned by the battle; there were maybe twenty left, not counting Adramis, who was all but unconscious. Led by Jenna, and with stealthy, over-the-shoulder glances at the scarred Dalamar, they hurried down the hallway toward the foretower.

  They had to make their way around patches of rubble, fallen columns, and other destruction. They had collected in the alcoves along the broad corridor when Jenna called for a volunteer to scout ahead for Kalrakin.

  "I'll go," said Aenell. "For my brother." Her eyes were burning in her pale face.

  Dalamar nodded to Jenna. The Red Robe turned to Aenell. "We last saw him at the base of the north tower. And beware of using magic to find him—he senses any spellcasting. We'll wait here until we hear something."

  "I'll do my best," the elf maid pledged grimly. "If something happens to me… help my brother as best you can. And tell him I died honorably."

  Aenell slipped away, moving soundlessly across the rubble-strewn passageway. She crouched behind the next broken pillar then darted down the hall connecting the south tower to the anteroom and the foretower.

  Dalamar was acutely aware of the other wizards stealing sidelong glances at him. The hilt of his knife was cold comfort in his hand. When he noticed Sirene staring at him, horror apparent in her eyes, he pulled the cowl of his robe down around his face and leaned, fully masked, against the wall.

  Luthar stared at the wall of the room where he was hiding. Once more he summoned his limited wild magic, clawing at the stone, but could not break through to the outside. This tower seemed as impervious to his escape as it had been to the wizards who had so desperately tried to gain entry.

  Abruptly he heard someone moving around in the room behind him, and he fell to his knees, cringing against the wall. He was only slightly relieved when he saw that the newcomer was a white-robed mage, a small, slender female. At least it wasn't Kalrakin, which is what he had feared.

  "Who are you?" he gasped. "Please, don't hurt me!"

  "I am an elf maid seeking vengeance for the suffering of my brother!" declared the woman. "Give me one reason why I should not kill you!" She might have been young in appearance, but she sounded very dangerous to Luthar.

  "But I seek only escape!" he cried piteously. "I simply want to leave this place!. You can have it, you and your friends; I don't belong here!"

  "If I let you leave, will you tell me where the tall sorcerer is?"

  "Yes! Yes!" he blubbered eagerly. "Just let me go!"

  She spoke a few intricate words of magic, gestured subtly at the wall, and abruptly the blue outline of a passage appeared there. An opening, outlined in the pale blue light, shimmered in the wall of the Tower.

  "Oh! Oh, my!" Luthar exclaimed.

  The verdant expanse of Wayreth Forest, pale green in the early dawn, beckoned from beyond the walls of the courtyard. But there was a film across that tantalizing aperture, and when Luthar reached out a hand he found his way still blocked by a magic curtain of some sort.

  "Tell me!" the White Robe demanded.

  "Kalrakin is in the north tower. He is bent on destroying all the foundations of the spire and soon plans to bring it crashing down."

  "Very well," said the angry elf maid. The screen faded, leaving the dimension door open to the outside of the Tower. "You may go now. But hurry before I change my mind and kill you anyway, fat one."

  Luthar was already gone.

  Kalrakin was finishing his inspection of the base level of the north tower. He was satisfied that everything was in place for the final destruction-he wasn't sure if the tower would crumble straight down or tip to the side like a toppling tree. He very much looked forward to finding out.

  All of a sudden he spotted a flash of white, something moving in the connecting passage. Wild magic fueled him and he teleported instantly to block the figure's path, finding himself confronting a female wizard in a white robe. For a moment he recalled the dark-haired wench who had earlier escaped him. But this one had golden hair and the slender build of an elf.

  "Hmm. Unpleasant surprise. How did you get out of the hall?" he demanded, momentarily bewildered. "Or are you new to the Tower?"

  His eyes widened in surprise as she threw herself at him, fingernails clawing like a tigress. Unfortunately, she was too far away, too far to have any chance of reaching him. She died midway through her lunge, blasted by the power of his stone, an explosion that echoed loudly through the Tower.

  And continued to resonate. He was startled, though not displeased, but the ruckus caused by her deat
h. Strange, it was as if the mage had thrown herself upon his power, just so that her death could make a lot of noise.

  The sorcerer whirled at that thought then laughed out loud as he observed the wizards of three robes rushing forward from the south tower like a bunch of alley ruffians. They were charging him! Attacking!

  "Come, children of the god-fools!" he cried in delight. "Let us play together!"

  The Irda Stone was blindingly bright as he lifted his right hand. Energy exploded from the artifact. The first blast of sorcery knocked an elderly White Robe down and tore his chest open when the old man was still forty feet away. Others got closer, but then more sorcery erupted, multiple bolts of wild magic spreading into the throng of wizards with deadly results.

  During the past months, Kalrakin had stored considerable might within the artifact, and it was now at the height of its power and effectiveness. Like blasts of lightning, lacking only heat, the powerful magical energy exploded outward, slashing and stabbing and choking the attacking wizards.

  A Red Robe screamed and fell, her slender body torn nearly in half. Next to her one of the black-robed dwarves howled and died as sorcery tore at his face, searing away his beard, his nose, down to the bone of his skull.

  Some of the fools stopped to cast their spells, and these Kalrakin confronted with particular relish, using the Irda Stone to suck their fireballs, swarming meteors, and hissing lightning bolts out of the air, and draw their magic into his artifact. Some lurked there, harmless for the moment, while others rebounded against the casters, the many explosions wracking the hallway, sending all the pathetic survivors scrambling for cover.

  There was that Black Robe, the one Kalrakin thought he had killed already. The dark elf, gripping a pathetic knife, had tumbled to the ground in the wake of one explosion. As he rose now to a fighting crouch, Kalrakin laughed loud at the sight of that once-handsome face, half-swathed in blood.

  "You look dead already!" crowed the sorcerer. "So die twice, stupid elf!" He raised the stone high in his fist, the artifact pulsing with power.

  Coryn heard the sounds of battle and raced as quickly as she could through the ruin of the north tower's ground level. Nearly all of the interior walls had been destroyed and she had to jump over piles of rock, leap over gaps in the floor, and climb over huge fallen statuary. Coming around the corner into the wide hallway, she had her bow up, its string tight, and a single arrow quivering in her grip when she spied the sorcerer just ahead.

  He was under attack from a small army of the wizards and tossing bolts of wild magic as if they were snowballs—fatal, crackling snowballs. The spells burned and sizzled through the air, burning the wizards, searing their flesh, igniting robes of white, red, and black. Smoke lingered in the air; blood covered the stonework; she heard the moaning of the wounded.

  It had been a while since she had used this weapon. But the wood felt smooth and supple in her hand, and the string was steady and taut. Without hesitation she drew the string back to her cheek, took aim, and let the arrow fly.

  At the same time, the old words of wild magic sprang to her lips, and she cast the spell that had served her so well on so many hunts. The arrow split into three identical missiles, and Cory quickly blew a strong gust of wind to guide them home. The three arrows diverged as they flew, one heading straight ahead, while the others arced outward and around.

  Something, perhaps the soft twang of the bowstring, drew Kalrakin's attention. He turned, eyes wide, and raised the stone in Coryn's direction. He was grinning. Sorcery flared-a blast that knocked one of the hurtling arrows out of the air. He cackled and raised the stone higher.

  That is when the other two arrows took him, one in each side, puncturing each of his lungs, driving inward until both steel arrowheads-they weren't strictly magical, but Umma herself had sharpened them for hours-lodged in his heart. With an expression of astonishment, he looked down at the blood that was starting to stain his filthy tunic.

  Kalrakin staggered backward. The stone fell from his nerveless fingers, rolled across the floor, and came to rest against a stone heap.

  And then the dark elf was upon him, the sharp knife doing its bloody work.

  30

  Conclave

  The Red, White, and Black Robes all took their places in the Hall of Mages, sitting apart from each other in their stone chairs. There were twenty-one of these chairs, though only sixteen of them were occupied. The silence in the dark, lofty hall remained vast, broken only by the soft rustle of a robe or an occasional, whispered phrase between members of an order.

  The ringed chairs were arranged as always, facing the center, with three wide gaps marking the boundary between orders. Jenna sat in the center of the Red Robe section, with her four surviving colleagues, two to each side. Dalamar and Coryn were in the center of their respective orders. Counting the three Heads of the Orders, there were five Black Robes, five Red, and six White—counting the weak but determined Adramis—present.

  Coryn felt acutely aware of her youth. She was the youngest mage in this august gathering. But she had much of which to be proud, she reminded herself. She had come all the way from the Ice Folk village of Two Forks to pass the Test. Along with Jenna and Dalamar, she had made the sphere of glass and filled it with smoke, then sent that crucial signal out across the world, awakening her order, summoning them here to retake the Tower. And she had shot the arrow that finally brought down their greatest foe.

  This was the greatest conclave of magical power the world had seen in many decades. Though the white moon had set, Solinari seemed to rest a comforting hand upon her shoulder. Lunitari was low in the west, and Nuitari was coming up in the east. Godly magic, once again, soothed the world.

  Coryn well understood the portent of this night.

  And finally, in a moment of pure clarity, she knew what she had to do.

  She listened with an expression of grave solemnity as Jenna welcomed all of the members of the orders to the Tower, gave thanks to them all, and to their trio of gods, that they had been able to respond to the summons issued by the three wizards on the Night of the Eye.

  "Aye—like a splash of cold water, that was. Woke me from quite a restless sleep," said Willim the Black, the eyeless dwarf's voice a raspy chuckle. Then his voice turned menacing enough to send a chill through Coryn. "Took only time fer a bit o' retribution—don't ya know what I mean?—before I was out o' T'orbardin and on the road't' Wayreth."

  One by one the others acknowledged the importance of the summons. Two of the surviving elves-white-robed Adramis and a slender, even gaunt-looking female who wore the red robe-had come from among the diaspora of Qualinesti, the scattered refugees who had been driven from their homeland in small groups and now sought sanctuary wherever they could find it in the world. These two Qualinesti mourned Aenell, whose body had been found near Kalrakin's. Her chair was empty for the Conclave.

  Another, a white-robed elderly male from Silvanesti named Suwannis, had journeyed all the way from the borders of his own native land. His voice choked as he recounted the plague of minotaurs enslaving and slaying those of his people who remained. Coryn felt a shiver of sadness, realizing that the most ancient peoples on all the world were now left without a homeland.

  There were two human Black Robes who were sisters- elderly women of stooped posture and skeletally slender hands. But their voices were strong and steady as they coolly acknowledged Dalamar as their leader; his black smoke had awakened them both on the Night of the Eye. In a relatively easy journey, they had teleported to the edge of Wayreth Forest at the exact same instant from their widely separated homes in Sanction and Caergoth.

  One was the beautiful, young, black-robed woman Sirene. Coryn had thought she wasn't much older than her, until Jenna had whispered to her that Sirene was a half-elf, and already well over a hundred years old.

  One by one the sixteen wizards recounted their origins, with a succinct declaration of homeland and a description of their journey to the Tower. There were
elves and humans and besides the cackling Willim the Black from "T'orbardin"—a second dwarf from the Khalkist Mountains.

  "We are gathered here to restore the orders of magic to their proper stature upon the world of Krynn," Jenna announced as soon as the roster of introductions was completed. She stood up, leaning on her staff, and stalked with a firm stride into the center of the circle. There she pivoted slowly, allowing her eyes to meet the gaze of each of the other fifteen seated wizards.

  "There is much work to be done. Our tower has suffered grievously, and we are the ones who must make this place right once more. It will be work that will last for years, possibly a lifetime. Undoubtedly it will become the labor of the next generation of wizards. But it is work that must begin."

  "Aye, it will begin," exclaimed Suwannis and Rasilyss in unison. The other wizards echoed those words, like a prayer.

  Jenna continued. "Our procedure must, in a sense, be unique in that the first matter of any Conclave is a vote of confidence in the Head of the Conclave, so that she-or he-may lead the Conclave in matters of wisdom and practicality."

  The Red Robe let another stern look sweep around the ring of faces. "But we all know that the most recent Conclave was many years ago, held in the absence of our gods, and was viewed by all as the last that would be held in the history of the world. Our last head, Palin Majere, dispersed the orders of magic at that time, and withdrew from the practice of magic in his own life. There was no expectation that the gods, and their magic, would ever return."

  "So we have no official head of the Conclave. This, we understand," Willim the Black snorted impatiently. "Let us choose one, then. Obviously, the matter falls between yourself-the Red Lady of Palanthas," he cackled with a leer, "and our own admirable head, Dalamar the Dark. Make your speeches, and we shall decide with the spell of consensus, as always."