The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Yes, my lord,” she agreed, though his observation made little sense to her.

  A strange silence hung over the city as they worked their way over piles of crystalline rubble toward the treasure Akhlaur had left here.

  Kiva stopped at the door of the elven temple, staring in revulsion at the scene before her. What had once been a place of great beauty and serenity now resembled an abandoned charnel house.

  Bones lay in tall heaps. Long, delicate elf bones were tumbled together with the thick, yellowed remnants of humans, swamp goblins, even such creatures as birds and crocodiles. Many of the bones had been blackened and broken, probably by the explosion the clever jordain Andris used to break the charge of the undead creatures. Kiva wondered how long it had taken for the shattered, scattered remains to gather themselves and return to this place.

  She glanced at Akhlaur. He nodded, and she stepped over the threshold.

  The intrusion triggered defensive wards. Shudders ran through the piles of bone. With a horrible clatter, the undead guardians rose.

  Elven bones skittered across the floor, cast aside as the other creatures took shape. Kiva’s eyes narrowed, as if to hold back the gleam of triumph they held. The elves whose bones these were had passed far beyond Akhlaur’s power.

  The others, however, had not. A skeleton of gray stone, the unmistakably squat and sturdy frame of a long-dead dwarf, lofted a giant’s thighbone like a club and stalked forward. The floor around the undead dwarf writhed as hoards of giant snakes and crocodilian skeletons undulated forward, their naked fangs grinning wickedly. Other skeletons marshaled behind this undead vanguard, some of them entire, some partial creatures that limped or hobbled or crawled toward the intruders.

  The necromancer chanted softly, gesturing toward the advancing army, directing them to go here and there, as if he were a master of dance. The advancing wall of undead creatures parted, moving to face each other in two long lines.

  A sharp crack rang through the temple as every bipedal creature snapped off one of its arms and held it aloft with the other, forming an arch to honor and welcome their master.

  Akhlaur swept through the grisly arch to the temple’s most sacred and powerful place. The elf followed, suppressing her disgust with great difficulty.

  So much magic, and for what? Would humans never learn that just because a thing could be done, it did not follow that it should be? For all their complacency, their careful laws and customs, Halruaans had not fallen far from the tree of their Netheril ancestors.

  Akhlaur stopped abruptly. For a long moment he gazed in consternation at the empty altar.

  This was the most dangerous moment. All Kiva’s wiles would be tested here.

  The necromancer turned furious eyes upon her. “Where is the globe?”

  Kiva just shook her head, as if she were too stunned to speak. “Stolen,” she marveled at last “It must have been stolen.”

  “What wizard could get near this place?”

  She suppressed a sneer. Of course Akhlaur would assume that only a Halruaan wizard would be capable of such a feat! “None, my lord,” she said hastily. “I heard rumors, though …”

  “Speak!”

  “There were tales of an army of magic-dead fighters. Jordaini, mostly.”

  An expression of extreme distaste twisted the wizard’s face. “Again, these jerdayeen,” he scoffed, using the old Netheril word for court fool. “Not one of my more successful experiments.”

  “Yet these fools have become highly regarded counselors in Halruaa.” Akhlaur chuckled at her words, and Kiva added, “Even the king employs them.”

  Her tone was innocent enough, but her words had the desired effect. Speculation crossed Akhlaur’s face, quickly chased by wrath.

  “Zalathorm,” he muttered. “He sent the jordaini in. He has the globe!”

  Kiva nodded slowly. “It is possible. Who else could have known so much about your magic and about these elves?”

  Who else indeed? she thought. For a moment, Kiva relived the flash of joy—an emotion she had thought banished from her heart forever—that she had known when Akhlaur’s green crystal shattered and the trapped spirits within took flight.

  Akhlaur turned and stalked back through the skeletal arch, muttering as he went. “Two globes missing, and with them all the magic they held! Thousands of spells, hundreds of life-forces—all that, stolen. By curse and current, Zalathorm will pay!”

  A sly, satisfied smile crossed the elf woman’s face. She quickly banished it. “You were so close, Lord Akhlaur. Had Zalathorm not interfered, you would have gathered the lion’s share of Halruaa’s magic into your hands. As you will yet do,” she added hastily when the necromancer shot a glare over his shoulder.

  “On that you may depend,” Akhlaur grumbled. “I have other bases, other sites of power. They will be more than enough.”

  When they emerged into the ruined courtyard, he swept both arms wide. A shimmering oval appeared. Akhlaur stepped through—

  And sank like a stone into miry water.

  Kiva emerged from the magic gate behind him, walking lightly on the swamp water. She, unlike Akhlaur, had been expecting this wet reception.

  The wizard shot out of the water and settled down beside Kiva, looking none the worse for his dunking. He looked about him in consternation. “What is this place?”

  “You knew it as the Swamp of Ghalagar, my lord. Now it bears your name.”

  He nodded, remembering. “My tower stood here before Zalathorm and his wretched band of charlatans moved it Where is the rest of the estate?”

  “The prisons were there,” Kiva said, pointing to a dense growth of flowering vine. “Where we stand, the gardens once grew. There was a leak, you see, from the Plane of Water. A small trickle of liquid magic kept the laraken fed and kept the wizards out”

  Akhlaur’s pale green face brightened. “So my tower is undisturbed?”

  “But for the gem I used to free you, yes.” She paused for effect, then added, “I used an undine to retrieve it for me.”

  The necromancer’s eyes narrowed. “Pray do not tell me my tower is under water!”

  She shrugged apologetically. “Zalathorm dropped it into a deep rift. I am one of only three living souls who knows where the tower lies.” Her words held a subtle barb, reminding the necromancer that two of his foes still lived.

  Akhlaur scowled and looked around at the swamp. “Amazing, what the passing of years can bring.”

  “That is the fate of long-lived people, my lord. We bear witness to many things and endure great changes.”

  Akhlaur nodded, not understanding the parallel Kiva intended. She was still young, as an elf’s life was reckoned, but during her lifetime one of the most terrible chapters of her people’s history had been written. The wizards and loremasters did not acknowledge these grim truths, and the people of Halruaa neither knew nor cared.

  Well, they would soon know.

  They stood together for a moment, gripped in private and very different contemplation. Akhlaur shook off his introspection first. His keen black eyes scanned the landscape, settling on a large, black stirge busily gorging itself on the corpse of a fhamar, a hairless swamp marsupial. The feeding insect resembled a monstrous mosquito, but its body was nearly as large as a housecat, and its black-furred belly tight with stolen blood. A weird humming melody rose from the feeding monster.

  “That will do,” Akhlaur said, and began to chant

  The stirge grew rapidly, almost instantly. In an eyeblink, the imbedded snout elongated into a deadly javelin, and the extra length thrust the suddenly much-larger creature higher into the sky. The stirge-song snapped off abruptly. Akhlaur’s chant filled the sudden silence.

  The insect turned its multiple eyes toward the wizards. Its enormous wings began to whir like wind through aspens, and it soared with deadly intent toward Akhlaur.

  The necromancer held up a hand. The stirge stopped in mid air, as suddenly and completely as if it had slammed into an
invisible wall. Akhlaur made a small circling gesture with his hand, and the hovering stirge slowly turned its back.

  “Have a seat,” Akhlaur suggested, pointing toward the monster’s feet. The creature had back-turning talons, which curved into a basket-like shape.

  Gingerly Kiva eased herself into the offered “seat.” Akhlaur settled down beside her and spoke a command word. The gigantic stirge lurched into the air with a speed that stole Kiva’s breath.

  The stirge took off through the jungle, tilting this way and that as it worked its way through the thick canopy. Branches parted to let them pass, bright birds flew squawking in startled protest. Kiva directed the way with a terse word when needed, clinging tightly to her grotesque perch.

  At last the stirge settled down near a long, narrow pool. Kiva leaped away and brushed flakes of dried blood—the creature was not a tidy eater—from her hands and arms. Released from the spell that bound it, the creature hummed off, rapidly shrinking back to normal size as it went.

  Akhlaur studied the water for a long moment. He lifted both arms high and began to chant the spell that had created the enormous water elemental during the Mulhorandi invasion. The surface of the pool shimmered, then tons of water leaped upward to take new shape.

  A manlike creature, thrice the height of an elf, sloshed toward the shore. Akhlaur continued to chant, this time forming a spell of evaporation. The creature faded into mist, which rose, wraithlike, into a thick, roiling gray cloud. Thunder rumbled in its belly, and lightning flashed impatiently.

  “That lowers the water level considerably.” Akhlaur said, looking well pleased with himself. “Where shall I send the cloud? Khaerbaal? Halar?”

  “The king’s city,” Kiva suggested, choosing her words deliberately. “Send it to Halarahh.”

  Akhlaur smiled like a shark and pointed toward the east. The cloud darted away, intent upon dropping its burden upon Zalathorm’s city. The necromancer glanced expectantly at Kiva.

  “A marvelous spell, Lord Akhlaur,” she obliged. “I have never seen its like!”

  “Nor, I daresay, has anyone in Halruaa. For two hundred years I have lived and learned in a world of liquid magic.”

  Kiva’s lips twitched. “Then I trust this summer’s rainy season will prove unusually interesting.”

  The necromancer chuckled, pleased by the elf’s dark humor, then set to work, giving Kiva one task after another as if she were some green apprentice or even a serving wench. She accepted her role without complaint. Playing servant to Akhlaur was nothing compared to all she had already endured—and a small price to pay for her long-sought revenge.

  An unseasonably fierce storm raged outside the windows of Basel Indoulur’s tower. Wind shrieked through the king’s city like unholy spirits, and steady gray rain made memories of sunny days seem as distant as childhood dreams. Basel Indoulur considered the storm an appropriate backdrop for his studies.

  He sighed and pushed away the book, a rare tome borrowed from the man who had succeeded him at the Jordaini College. Basel had fought the Crinti bandits in his youth, though he knew little about these shadow amazons beyond his personal experience with hand-to-hand tactics. But the more he read, the more Basel became convinced that the key to this matter lay with the drow-blooded raiders. The otherwise fearless Crinti dreaded the dark fairies. This suggested the shadow amazons possessed useful information.

  Basel rose and began to pace. His long-time rival, Procopio Septus, was an avid student of the Crinti, as he had demonstrated in his recent victory against them.

  A victory that, in Basel’s opinion, was perhaps a little too timely and convenient. Perhaps it was time to shake the lord mayor’s tree and see what fell out

  An hour later, Basel Indoulur lifted his goblet and beamed at his host. “To the hero of the hour, master of storm elementals. The spell components for that grand feat must have cost a small fortune! But no sacrifice is too great for Halruaa, and other songs by the same minstrel.”

  Procopio Septus pretended to drink his wine and tried not to glare at his visitor over the goblet’s rim. Try as he might, he couldn’t decide what to make of Basel’s visit The portly conjurer—with his jovial airs and obvious love of good living—was, on the face of things, an easy man to dismiss. However, those who followed Halruaan politics knew him to be a fair, even wise ruler of the city of Halar. Many wizards, particularly of the conjuration school, owed their training to Basel Indoulur. He was never without at least three apprentices. Procopio marveled that Basel had not yet replaced Tzigone, the troublesome little wench whose contributions to the recent battle had carried far higher a cost than any Procopio had incurred.

  In fact, Procopio had known nothing but gain from the recent invasion. Scandal had dogged him in the months since Zephyr, his elven jordain, had been executed as a traitor and a collaborator of the magehound Kiva. After Procopio’s successes in the Mulhorandi invasion, this had been all but forgotten. The people of Halarahh stood solidly behind their lord mayor, proud of his magical feats and military success. More than one wizard had come to him quietly, hinting that perhaps the king was not quite what he once had been, subtly suggesting that perhaps it was time for a man of Procopio’s talents to come into his own.

  Yet Procopio could not forget that he had achieved these heights through a number of hideously illegal actions. He searched Basel’s round face for any hint of a smug, knowing smile. Was it his imagination, or did those twinkling black eyes hold a malevolent gleam?

  “You are not here solely to drink my health,” he said bluntly.

  Basel placed a hand over his heart, pudgy fingers splayed. His expression of contrition looked genuine. “You are weary of speaking of your victories. I should have realized this, knowing you for a modest man. Forgive me, but yes, I came here laden with questions. I have always found there to be much confusion in the aftermath of battle.”

  Procopio heard the warning in these words. Though Basel might be an odious little toad at present, years ago he’d earned a name as a competent battle wizard. He was subtly waving his own colors, reminding Procopio that he had the experience to see what others might miss.

  The diviner rose. “I will show you something that may answer many of your questions.”

  He led his visitor to his gaming room. Here stood several tables, each with a different elaborate terrain representing historic battlegrounds. He went to the table that depicted the mountainous northern region known as the Nath, the site of his victory against the Crinti.

  A word from Procopio sent hidden drawers around the table springing open. Thousands of tiny, animated figures leaped from the drawers and hurled themselves into battle. Tiny skyships floated above a valley filled with miniscule warriors engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat. Streaks of colored lightning darted from the miniature skyships. Basel’s eyes widened as they settled upon a tiny ship with gaudily colored sails, upon which were painted voluptuous winged elves in a rather advanced state of undress.

  “Yes, that is indeed your Avariel,” Procopio assured him. “You see before you the battle we recently shared. With these tables, these toys, I can reenact battles again and again, testing different strategies and scenarios. Over the years I have learned much.”

  Procopio took a wand from his belt and waved it over the table. Some of the figures melted away, and others took their place. Many of the warriors were tiny, gray females.

  “Crinti,” he affirmed, noting Basel’s thoughtful nod. “They have been a particular interest of mine. No one else, to my knowledge, has made such a study of the shadow amazons.”

  “So your knowledge of the Crinti rose from your interest in war games?”

  “None of my choices are entirely random, my dear Basel,” Procopio said, punctuating his words with a patronizing smile. “You forget that I am a diviner. It is my art to see what another man does not.”

  His words, like Basel’s, held a subtle warning. The foolish conjurer chuckled and slapped Procopio on the back, as if he were con
gratulating an old friend on a jest well told.

  “So you keep telling me,” he said with jovial humor. “It’s a fine position you find yourself in. If no one else can see all these mysteries you keep hinting of, who could possibly dispute your claims?”

  Procopio responded to the teasing with a faint smile, but he could not bring himself to give more than terse responses throughout the rest of the conversation. Finally his lack of cordiality pierced even Basel’s well-padded armor, and the portly nuisance took himself off to bedevil another.

  The diviner went immediately to his study, clenching in one hand a bright yellow bead from the end of one of Basel’s ubiquitous braids. A simple spell had coaxed it free, and another had brought it to Procopio’s hand. With this personal item, he would make short work of finding out Basel’s secrets.

  Procopio spent the rest of the afternoon in mounting frustration, studying his scrying globes for something he might use against his foe. Basel Indoulur was remarkably free of enemies, even grudges. Procopio brought up images, one after another, of the conjurer’s former apprentices. A smile came to each face when Procopio subtlely nudged thoughts of their former master into their minds. It was the same with Basel’s servants, his city officials, his fellow wizards. It seemed that none of Basel Indoulur’s acquaintances had anything against him but Procopio himself.

  Inspiration struck. Procopio gathered his own animosity into a single, focused energy. This he sent into a blue-black globe, soaring out across all Halruaa to seek its own reflection. When the globe began to clear, and a scene to play before him, a slow smile spread across the diviner’s face.

  Impossible though it might seem, there was another who hated Basel even more than he did.

  In the aftermath of any victory, there is mourning as well as celebration. Much of Halruaa’s grief found voice in grand and solemn ritual, but all across the land, private tears were shed, and silent oaths made.