The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  One of the most beautiful old villas in all Halarahh was the Belajoon family estate. Ancient and sprawling, it was home to four generations of wizards and several family branches. As did most Halruaan buildings, this villa held it shares of secrets.

  In a chamber far below the oldest mansion on the estate, an old man knelt before a glass vault. In it lay his greatest treasure, his young and adored wife Sinestra. She was dead—killed not in battle but by mysterious magic.

  Guilt mingled with Uriah Belajoon’s grief. He was well beyond his prime, and his name would never be included among the ranks of Halruaa’s great wizards. Other than his wealth and his absolute devotion, he had little to offer a woman such as Sinestra. But there were other wealthy men in Halruaa, and Uriah had noted well how many a man’s eyes followed Sinestra. He had given her a protective charm, a gem that would bring her directly home if any other man should touch her.

  Home she had come. Uriah had found her in their bed, her too-still face strangely changed. He knew her, though, from the ring she wore and by small hidden marks that he hoped only he might recognize.

  Sinestra’s death had revealed a startling secret: her beauty had been lent her by magic. This Uriah had never suspected. Granted, he was not the most powerful of wizards, but Sinestra had been his apprentice, and he’d never sensed unusual strength in her gift. The wizard who’d molded Sinestra’s face into that of a goddess must have possessed a level of Art beyond Uriah’s comprehension.

  Perhaps Uriah’s lack of wizardly skill had killed her! Perhaps his small, protective spell had turned a greater wizard’s brew into poison. This thought tormented him until he could no longer bear it.

  He hauled himself to his feet and went off in search of an Inquisitor, a specially trained wizard attached to the temple of Azuth. Few wizards were as adept at ferreting out the origins of spells as was a magehound.

  Before dark he returned with a tall, thin man whose petulant expression left little doubt concerning his opinion of this errand. Uriah suspected the man would not have come at all but for the reputation of the Belajoon clan. The magehound expected lavish compensation, but that expectation didn’t improve his opinion of his benefactor.

  Uriah was long past caring how other Halruaans measured him. He led the man to Sinestra’s tomb and left him to do his work. He lingered at the far corner of the chamber, however, watching intently as the magehound cast his spells of inquiry.

  The expression on the magehound’s face turned from impatience to incredulity. Finally he lowered his silver-and-jade wand and turned to Uriah.

  “I have grave news indeed.”

  The old wizard steeled himself to hear that his spell, his ineptitude, had caused the death of his beloved Sinestra.

  “There is a spell upon your wife so that another man’s touch will return her to your side.”

  Uriah confirmed this with a single nod.

  “The man who touched her was Lord Basel Indoulur.”

  For long moments, wizard and magehound regarded each other, neither quite able to take in the truth of this. Finally emotion began to rise in Uriah’s heart. There was fear—for Basel Indoulur was a noted conjurer—but fear paled before his fury. With this anger came a murderous resolve.

  “You are certain of this?”

  His voice was steady, grim. A wary expression—a shadowy version of respect—entered the magehound’s eyes.

  “Beyond doubt. What would you have me do with this knowledge?”

  The old wizard considered. He would avenge Sinestra, of that he was certain. The problem was his utter lack of ideas concerning how to proceed!

  He took a heavy, gold chain from around his neck and handed it to the magehound. “For now, keep this knowledge close. When the time comes, I will call upon you to bring inquisition. You, and no other.”

  The magehound’s eyes flashed with ambition. In these uncertain times, Halruaans searched for traitors in every well and under every bed. If he could deliver as powerful and canny a wizard as Basel Indoulur to judgment, his fame would be assured!

  He inclined his head to Uriah, favoring the minor wizard with a bow usually exchanged only between men of equal rank and power.

  “As you say, Lord Uriah, it will be done.”

  The wizard waited until his guest left, then flung himself upon the curved dome of Sinestra’s tomb and wept. Each tear watered his hatred of Basel Indoulur. Surely an opportunity to strike would come, even to a man such as he! If it did not, he would find a man who had greater power and a better chance of success.

  His Sinestra was dead. One way or another, Basel Indoulur would pay.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A band of warriors followed a small, green-clad wizard, a half-elven woman who moved through the swampy jungle like a cat. They followed closely, their faces grim and their eyes constantly scanning for some new danger.

  In the canopy overhead, a bird loosed a burst of maniacal laughter. The peeping of hidden tree toads brought to mind a bevy of malevolent sprites, tittering behind tiny hands as they plotted mischief. A prowling jungle cat—a clanish creature more cunning and deadly than a mountain wolf-roared out an invitation to hunt. From the surrounding forest one feline voice after another picked up the refrain until the very trees seemed to vibrate in time with the death-promising song.

  The largest man in the group, a distant cousin to the wizard, threw down his machete. “Only fools enter the Swamp of Akhlaur, be there a laraken here or not!”

  The half-elf stopped and turned. Despite her diminutive size, she possessed an aura of power that froze the fighters in mid-step. Like her men, she showed signs of hard travel in sweltering heat. Her black hair hung in limp strands around slightly pointed ears, and her large, almond-shaped eyes were deeply shadowed in a gaunt and heat-reddened face.

  “Do you call me a fool, Bahari?” she said with deceptive calm.

  He stared her down. “Thirty of us entered this place. Seventeen remain. How many more need to die?”

  Her chin lifted, and her dark eyes narrowed. “I gave my wizard-word oath.”

  “I’m sure your father’s wife was very impressed by this,” he sneered. “You are quick to serve a woman who despises you.”

  The half-elven wizard turned away. “I would not presume to know Lady Charnli’s heart. Nor should you.”

  “I know her better than I want to. No matter how this ends, she’s not likely to reward either of us, and she’ll never thank you.”

  The wizard shrugged and turned her attention to the path ahead. The jungle vines grew thick, and enormous, softly glowing green flowers nodded amid the tangle. One of the flowers, a large but tightly furled bud, tossed and bucked wildly, as if it contained a frantic bird struggling to free itself from a soft-shelled egg. Muffled peeping came from within the flower.

  The wizard raised her machete and carefully sliced the flower from its stem. A tiny, golden monkey tumbled out, flailing and shrieking. She dropped her machete and caught the little creature, then jerked back her hand with a startled oath as the monkey sank its needlelike teeth into her thumb. Off it scuttled, scolding the half-elf as if she had been the source of its misery all along.

  Bahari lifted a sardonic eyebrow in silent comment on the nature of gratitude. He retrieved his machete and hers from the jungle floor and handed her one with a courtly bow—a mockery of the proud Halruaan family that excluded them both.

  With a hiss of exasperation, the half-elf turned her attention back to the flowering vines. The lovely plants were carnivorous and grew where carrion was in great abundance. Oddly enough, only a few bones were entwined among the vines.

  She studied the area carefully. The vines grew from the stumps of thick, much-older canes. A long, yellowed bone drew her eye. She eased it out of the old roots, moving her head to one side to avoid a snapping blossom.

  The wizard stood and showed the warriors a human thighbone. “Not Zilgorn. This man has been too long dead. But this place has been recently disturbed—these vine
s are new growth on old stems. We go on.”

  The men groaned, but they stood aside as the wizard cast spells to wither away the dangerous vines. They made short work of snapping aside the remaining dry twigs and stepped into what appeared to be a large, deeply shaded clearing.

  Bahari lit a torch. Flicking light fell upon heaps of marble, all that remained of a once-fine structure pulled down by the passing of time and the inexorable green hands of the jungle. Vines filled the room like a nest of sleeping snakes, nearly obscuring the remains of a temple of Mystra. They curled around the altar and twined through the skeletons of warriors who had died with their weapons in hand.

  Two of the men made signs of warding over their hearts.

  “This must have been the Mystran shrine on the old Ghalagar estate,” the half-elf mused. “My mother spoke of it Her people lived beneath these trees long ago, before the Ghalagar clan lost these lands and changed their name to Noor.”

  The wizard turned to leave, pulling up in sudden surprise when she came face to face with a glassy statue of an elf woman. Her eyes filled with deep sorrow, and as she backed away she chanted a few keening words in the Elvish tongue.

  “Necromancy,” observed Bahari grimly. “The stench of death-magic clings to this place. Let’s agree that this jungle is a fitting tomb for Zilgorn the necromancer and be done with it.”

  She shook her head. “Zilgorn was my half brother, no matter what else he might have been. We go on.”

  Somber and silent, the small band left the temple and followed a narrow, barely perceptible path sloping down toward the river. The sounds of swamp creatures grew louder—the grumble of great frogs, the roar of crocodiles, and the chittering of thousands upon thousands of insects.

  Their quest ended at the banks of a river, and the strange sentinel standing at water’s edge.

  The husk of skin-wrapped bone suggested a tall, powerful man. Shreds of once-fine scarlet linen clung to the corpse, and long, black hair moldered about the fleshless face.

  The half-elf approached and gingerly lifted the gold medallion that hung around the dead man’s neck. She studied it for a moment, then nodded once in confirmation.

  Bahari folded his arms. “So it ends. You knew Zilgorn’s likely fate before you stepped foot into this accursed place.”

  “His mother is old. She should not spend her last years wondering what became of her firstborn son.”

  The fighter threw up his hands in disgust. His eyes narrowed, and in one cat-quick motion, he brought his machete up like a sword and lunged at the half-elf.

  The attack was unexpected, but she was quick enough to roll aside. As she fell, she heard an unnerving crackle erupt from her half-brother’s body. A shower of acrid brown dust burst from his desiccated chest—along with the brilliant green head of a swamp viper.

  The mercenary traced a quick, circular movement with his machete, spinning the deadly snake around the blade and thwarting its lunge. He shouted to two of his men, then hurled the snake to the ground between them. They began wildly hacking at the creature with their machetes.

  A small explosion rocked the clearing, and a glowing cloud burst from the mutilated snake. It hung for a moment in the heavy, humid air, quivering with gathering magic. Then a small storm erupted, and glittering green sparkles descended like bits of bright, lazily drifting hail.

  “Zombie powder!” the wizard shrieked as she rolled to her feet and kicked into a run. “Don’t breath in, don’t let it touch you!”

  Most of the men heeded her, clamping hands over their mouths and noses as they fled the descending hail. One fighter tripped over a root and fell. Glittering green limned him, and a bright light flared and died. Horrible spasms wracked his body, and his cries faded to a lingering rattle.

  The others backed away in horrid fascination as their comrade rose, lurching toward them with a chunk of bloody snake clutched in one hand.

  Surprisingly fast, he seized a comrade and clamped his hand on the man’s jaw. Forcing it open, he stuffed the snake down the man’s throat.

  Again green light flared, and the second man expired in violent paroxysms. Two pairs of dull, glazed eyes turned upon their comrades and kinsman. Loyalties forgotten, the two men drew weapons and attacked.

  The mercenary nearest them was too slow to understand, too slow to react. The newly made zombies fell upon him. He went down shrieking, clutching at the pumping stump of his sword arm. In moments he also rose, wielding his own severed arm as a bludgeon.

  The half-elf slowed to a stop as she realized that none of her warriors kept pace. She turned and watched the riverside battle in horror and disbelief. She had no spells that might help—her art was the crafting of healing potions—but even to her unseasoned eyes, it quickly became apparent that this fight could have only one end. Each man who fell rose again, only to join the swelling ranks of his undead comrades.

  “Flee!” she shouted to the survivors. “Flee or die!”

  Bahari turned toward her. In a few quick strides he was at her side. He swept her up easily and slung her over his shoulder, taking off at a loping trot. The half-elf clung to his baldric strap, grateful that her warrior cousin proved loyal to the Charnli family despite his previous complaints.

  Finally Bahari stopped. He casually threw the half-elf to the ground.

  Startled, she rolled and looked up at her rescuer’s face. His eyes were dull and glazed, steadfastly fixed upon something behind her. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head—or what was left of it.

  With sickening understanding, the wizard gazed at the man’s crushed skull. Her gaze followed the sound of other warriors dropping to the ground in obeisance. To her dismay, the entire party had followed Bahari to this place. Quaking, she lifted her eyes to the object of the undead warriors’ veneration.

  A tall, bald man regarded the small army with a thin smile on his green-scaled face. Then his black eyes settled on the half-elf wizard. He held out a webbed, faintly green hand. Another, smaller viper dripped from it like drool and slithered toward her.

  She tried to flee, but her treacherous body refused to obey. Trapped in the waking nightmare, she could only scream helplessly as the viper slithered up the length of her body. Then the snake crawled into her mouth, and she could scream no more.

  As the viper disappeared down her throat, a terrible chill spread through her, sped by waves of agonizing convulsions. Life slipped away like mist, leaving behind a strange, cold clarity. Every spell she had ever learned or cast stood ready in her mind, as quiescent as the undead warriors. She lifted her hand and gazed with horror at the transformation—the pale bronze color was fading to a sickly gray, and the skin on her delicate fingers had grown tougher than a dock worker’s.

  Frantically she drew a small knife from her belt and sliced at her own wrist. Blood welled, thick and dark, but the pulse of life was nearly gone. She could not even take her own life. It had already been taken from her.

  “Not this,” she croaked, her eyes imploring the strange green wizard. “Kill me, but do not make me a lich!”

  A sharp gasp drew the half-elf’s eyes to the woman in the wizard’s shadow. She was a wild elf, copper-skinned and crowned with lustrous green hair. Her golden eyes mirrored the horror that gripped the dying wizard.

  The half-elf’s gaze dropped to Bahari’s discarded machete, then returned to the elf woman’s face. “Es’-Caerta,” she pleaded, an Elvish phrase that defied translation, used only at the end of formal prayers blessing and beseeching the gods.

  Whether the green elf understood or not, it seemed fitting to the half-elven wizard that this should be her last spoken word.

  Without hesitation, the elf woman stooped and seized the machete. She threw herself into a spin, circling once, twice, to gain power and momentum. In the instant before the blade hit, the half-elf’s eyes sought her savior’s grim face, and her silent lips shaped the elven blessing one final time.

  Kiva staggered to a stop, the bloody machete clasped in bot
h hands. For a moment she regarded her handiwork: a neatly decapitated head, elven eyes closed in peace and a faint, contented smile upon bloodless lips.

  The next instant she was hurtling through the air. Her back struck a tree and she slid to the ground.

  When her vision cleared, she saw Akhlaur standing over her, his pale green face twisted in fury.

  “Have you any idea what you’ve just wasted? You have deprived me of a servant as obedient as any of these fools but with an undying wizard’s power!”

  Using the tree as a support, Kiva pushed herself to her feet. “It’s impossible to change another wizard to a lich!”

  He dismissed this obvious misperception with a wave of one webbed hand and continued to glare, clearly waiting for some word of explanation.

  But Kiva could think of no justification for her impulsive act—at least, none that Akhlaur would accept “She was half-elven,” she said at last, “and therefore not a worthy servant”

  The necromancer’s wrath faltered, and a strange, lethal amusement dawned in his eyes like a dark sun. “What of your descendants, little Kiva? Did you so disdain their human blood? Did you slay them, as well?”

  A flood of emotions—feelings Kiva had thought long dead—burst free from some locked corner of her heart. She dropped her eyes to hide her loathing and hatred and shame. Any one of these responses could prove fatal.

  Nor could she answer the necromancer’s questions without stepping off another precipice. She had given birth, just once, before the laraken’s spawning had destroyed all hope of further progeny. Her long-ago daughter had been half-elven, a scrawny, sickly thing barely clinging to life, almost completely devoid of magic. Akhlaur had never acknowledged his child by Kiva, but he had made good use of the girl. That sad little half-breed had been Akhlaur’s first magic-dead servant, the germ of an idea that eventually became the jordaini order.

  To Akhlaur, that long-ago daughter was the subject of a necromantic experiment, and nothing more. He would be insulted by any claim of kinship. Yet Kiva could not take a similar viewpoint without disparaging the child’s human father.