The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Like the drow before you,” Kiva said, repeating the legend explaining the dark elves’ absolute evil.

  Dhamari actually smiled. “Even so. I am ready to resume what I set about years ago, before Keturah’s escape and death set my plans awry.”

  “Yes, I believe you are,” she said thoughtfully. “Before you continue your rise to immortality, there is one thing you should know. Keturah is not dead.”

  The wizard stared at Kiva. “How is this possible? You yourself told me of her death! You brought me her talisman!” He brandished the chain with its small, simple medallion.

  Kiva grimaced. “The Crinti are thorough. When they finished with Keturah, she was beyond recognition. They told me she was dead, and I believed them. No one who saw her then would have doubted it”

  “But she is alive.”

  “More or less. She is now known as Queen Beatrix.”

  Dhamari stared at Kiva for a long moment, then he began to laugh without humor. “So Keturah, mistress of evocation, has become the mad queen of Halruaa! Odd, the little turns life takes.”

  His mirth abruptly disappeared. “So that is why the Council of Elders presented me with a bill of divorcement so soon after Keturah’s disappearance! I had thought this a courtesy, for what wizard wishes to maintain any alliance with an accused murderess? It was Zalathorm’s doing, wasn’t it?”

  “That seems likely,” Kiva said, though it was nothing of the sort Zephyr, her kinsman and her ally, had seen to this detail.

  “So Zalathorm knows of his queen’s past identity,” Dhamari repeated, in the manner of one who was trying to stretch his mind around too large an idea.

  “How could he not? Isn’t he the greatest diviner in all Halruaa?”

  Dhamari considered this, his face troubled. “If the king knew all that had passed between Keturah and me, I would not be alive today. Nor did he know of the Mulhorandi invasion. Is it possible that his powers of divination owe more to legend than reality?”

  “Many wizards are asking that very question. I suspect you will find Halarahh to be an interesting place. Shall I return you to your tower?”

  The wizard nodded. He rose painfully to his feet and limped through the magical gate Kiva conjured.

  Left alone, Kiva considered the fairy mound. The spell of substitution was difficult and expensive. She could not cast it again, not without many hours of study, days of rest, and spell components that were exceedingly difficult to come by. For the time being, Tzigone would have to stay where she was.

  Kiva only hoped she could get to the girl before Matteo did.

  Dhamari stepped out of the magic portal and into his own gardens. The dank chill of the Unseelie realms and the pelting rain of the Nath were nothing but unpleasant memories. Here in the king’s city, stars gleamed overhead, and the soft night air was as sultry as a whispered promise.

  He stood for a long time, breathing in the intense, green fragrance, grateful merely to be alive and free of the dark fairies. He did not regret what he had become during his torment—far from it—but he was just as happy to have the transformation done and over with!

  His eyes swept over the gardens, lush and fragrant in the waning moonlight, then narrowed as they settled upon the gatehouse.

  The gatekeeper was gone. Dhamari stalked to the tower and threw open the door, bellowing for his servants. Only silence greeted him.

  Worry replaced ire. The wizard hurried up the stairs to his workshop. As he had feared, his laboratory had been disturbed, its contents sorted with a haste that suggested his “visitors” preferred not to be caught at their search. Dhamari set to work, methodically going through the tumbled vials and scrolls and books, noting which were missing. Most disturbing were the missing works on the Unseelie folk.

  Someone was at work on a spell to free Tzigone. Why else would anyone take such things? Dhamari sincerely doubted anyone would go to such effort on his behalf!

  A faint, sardonic smile twisted his lips as he recalled his own rescue. “I thought Kiva’s welcome lacked a certain warmth,” he murmured. “So Kiva still has a use for Tzigone. I wonder what that might be.”

  Dhamari had other, more immediate problems to ponder. He leaned back in his chair and considered the wreck of his library. The intrusion into his tower was not a thing lightly done. Halruaan law frowned upon those who despoiled a wizard’s tower.

  It occurred to him that the tower had been warded. If he’d been the first to enter the tower by conventional or magical means, his arrival had triggered magical alarms. He hurried to the window. Sure enough, several men in the blue-green uniforms of the city militia quick-stepped toward the tower.

  Dhamari hurried to a hidden door that led to a passage set between two rooms. There he sat, listening to the sounds of the militia tromping through his tower. Their search was long and maddeningly thorough. When at last all was silent, he crept back out into his study and the problem that awaited him there. Someone knew far too much about him. But who?

  The answer struck Dhamari like a fist. Surely the thief was none other than Basel Indoulur, Tzigone’s self-appointed guardian and, most likely, her sire! Basel had flown his skyship into the dangerous Nath to rescue Tzigone. He had put his life at risk to aid Keturah after her escape. What was robbing a wizard’s tower, in comparison?

  “This could be a problem,” he muttered. Once Basel heard of Dhamari’s return—and he would—he was sure to follow Dhamari’s every move like a hawk on a hare.

  The wizard rose and began to pace. “What to do?” he said distractedly. A conjurer of Basel Indoulur’s stature was too dangerous to ignore, and too powerful to take on directly. At least, too powerful to take on alone.

  Dhamari hurried to his scrying chamber and settled down before a large, amber globe. He quickly cast the spell that would seek out Kiva.

  Agonizing minutes passed before the elf’s face drifted into focus. As Dhamari opened his mouth to speak, he noted slender black spires rising from the ground behind Kiva. His jaw locked open in gaping astonishment.

  “This is not a good time,” Kiva said curtly.

  Dhamari sputtered. “I should say not! Those spires—I have seen them sketched in a lore book. Why did you not tell me you were raising Akhlaur’s tower?”

  “Since I intend to share his treasures with every wizard in Halruaa, I’ll post word of my progress in all the local taverns,” she retorted.

  A terrifying possibility occurred to Dhamari. In the moments before Tzigone had dragged him into the Unseelie Realm, he had caught sight of Kiva disappearing into the gate that led to the Plane of Water. If she had returned, who or what might have accompanied her?

  “What of the laraken? What of Akhlaur?”

  The elf’s gaze slid to one side. “We will speak later. I must go.”

  “He’s back, isn’t he?” Dhamari persisted. “He’s alive, and you have brought him back from exile. This is how you plan to depose Zalathorm? Kiva, that is like ridding a barn of mice by bringing in vipers! What will Halruaa become with that accursed necromancer on the throne?”

  “Akhlaur will never rule Halruaa,” she said softly, her eyes burning with hatred. “I swear it Zalathorm’s crown will pass to another.”

  Dhamari’s astonishment swiftly transmuted to interest “To whom?”

  She lifted one shoulder impatiently. “Procopio Septus, most likely.”

  “The lord mayor is a powerful man,” Dhamari allowed, “and respected among the Elders. But what wizard, or what two or three or twenty, could possibly stand against Akhlaur?”

  “Do not trouble yourself. That is my concern.”

  Dhamari’s only answer was a derisive sniff.

  The elven face in his globe grew very still. “Never forget, Dhamari, that I freed you from the Unseelie court. I could very easily send you back.”

  He doubted this but was not interested in testing the matter.

  “I have overstepped. As apology, please accept this information.” He quickly told her ab
out the missing spellbooks and Crinti lore and of his suspicions concerning Basel Indoulur. “I know this man, Kiva. He and Keturah were friends from childhood, perhaps more than friends. He might not be imposing to look upon, but he is dangerous.”

  Kiva hissed out an exasperated sigh. “I cannot take three steps without tripping over a Halruaan wizard! Something must be done to hold them off a bit longer.”

  Dhamari waited for her to elaborate. When she offered no further information, he went on to another matter. “If you hate Halruaa’s wizards so much, why would you support Procopio Septus?”

  She shrugged again. “Because he is ambitious, and because he is not Zalathorm.”

  Dhamari was speechless, dazzled by the dawning of new possibilities. “I suppose any other wizard would do as well?”

  Kiva was silent for a moment, her amber eyes noting the birth of new ambition. “You have crossed me before, Dhamari. I won’t forget that. But as long as you prove loyal, who knows what your future might be? My friends have sat upon the Council of Elders, become jordaini masters.” She smiled briefly, unpleasantly. “My former mistress reigns as queen. Perhaps you’d like to reclaim Zalathorm’s wife along with his throne?”

  A warning bell began to toll in the back of Dhamari’s mind. Kiva had spoken of Keturah as if she had recently learned of the woman’s new identity, but was it possible that Kiva had had a hand in putting Keturah on Halruaa’s throne? If so, to what purpose? There was much about his plans that Kiva did not know. Most likely the elf could make the same claim!

  “You speak of powerful friends, but many of them are dead,” he pointed out. “The queen is a madwoman, thanks to your Crinti barbarians. It seems to me that you’re a dangerous friend to have.”

  “A far more dangerous foe. Measure the height of your ambitions, Dhamari. After you have compared the risks to the prize, we will speak again.”

  “Why wait? Tell me what I have to do.”

  Again Kiva darted a glance to one side. “Two things. First, strike up a partnership with Procopio Septus. Let him pull your wagon along until the time comes to discard him. I will send you a magic missive detailing his recent misdeeds.”

  “Good,” Dhamari said, nodding. “Blackmail provides the foundation for a good many political relationships.”

  “Second, seek out wizards likely to support Zalathorm and destroy them. I must go.” The coppery face winked out of the globe, suddenly and completely.

  “Just two things,” Dhamari muttered as he pushed away from the scrying globe. “Extort one of the most powerful wizards in Halruaa, and slay those who support the king. Mere trifles!”

  He hurried to the shelf where he kept his message bottle. He set it on a table and sat down to wait.

  Before too long, a scroll appeared inside the bottle—Kiva’s message, magically sent Dhamari eagerly shook it out and smoothed the parchment out flat. As he read, he began to chuckle with delight.

  Oh, yes, Procopio would accept him as a partner. The lord mayor would have little choice. Dhamari had to admire the man’s daring. Procopio had been clever indeed—perhaps clever enough to succeed in challenging Zalathorm, but it was one thing to challenge a king, and quite another to actually wear his crown.

  Dhamari walked over to a mirror of polished bronze and regarded his reflection, thoughtfully brushing at his scant hair. He was not a handsome man, or an imposing one, or powerful—at least, not in the ways that Halruaa measured magical might In fact, there was nothing particularly compelling about him.

  The wizard shrugged. No matter. There was not a man alive who would not be vastly improved by the addition of a crown.

  Kiva hurried back toward the rising tower. Fortunately, the casting was long and difficult, and it seemed unlikely the necromancer noted her inattention. Akhlaur still stood with his eyes shut, his webbed hands outstretched. The blood from the needed sacrifices pooled around his feet and seeped slowly into the ground.

  The black tower glistened as it rose, slowly, like an obsidian elemental taking shape. Around it stood a silent horde of long-dead skeletal creatures, raised from the surrounding swamps to participate in this strange reincarnation.

  As the tower rose, thousands of naked bones took on flesh and form. The water that had drowned the tower and its treasures seeped upward into the patient dead. Undying servants—not quite zombies, not quite water elementals—stood ready for their master’s command. Ancient bone showed through translucent, watery flesh.

  It was, Kiva had to admit, an ingenious way of ridding the site of much of the water. The drained pit would remain beneath the tower, providing space for dungeons and middens, and the warriors would help Akhlaur stake his claim.

  She waited until the tower doors had risen level with the newly firm ground. Doors and windows opened by unseen hands, and desert-dry winds whistled through the tower rooms. At last the tower stood as Kiva had last seen it: an imposing work of Halruaan art, a peerless storehouse of necromantic arts, a place of horrors too well remembered.

  Kiva added her applause to the listless, watery patter of zombie hands. “Never have I seen such a spell, Lord Akhlaur, or such an army! These warriors should be more than sufficient to drive away the attacking wizards.”

  The triumphant smile fell from the necromancer’s face. “The tower is under attack?”

  She fell back a step and brought a look of chagrin to her face. “I misspoke, my lord. No attack is underway, to the best of my knowledge, but raising the tower required an enormous amount of magic. There are wizards who might sense spells of such magnitude. Sooner or later, they will come to investigate.”

  The necromancer acknowledged this with a nod. “Obviously you have a suggestion.”

  “I do, my lord. With your permission, I will summon the laraken back to the Swamp of Akhlaur.”

  Akhlaur’s black eyes narrowed. “How do you know this spell?”

  “It is similar to the magic that summoned its parent, the water demon. I saw it cast often enough to burn it into memory.” With effort, Kiva kept her voice level and calm.

  The necromancer looked intrigued. “Few can learn spells by observation alone. You have always been among my best apprentices, little Kiva,” he said, ignoring the fact that she had learned about this particular arrow not as a student archer, but as a target “Very well, let us see what you can do.”

  Kiva smiled blandly. “Indeed you will, my lord.”

  A flicker of suspicion entered the wizard’s eyes, then was gone. “The best of my apprentices,” he repeated in a tone as mild as hers. “I am eager to see what other lessons I have inadvertently taught you.”

  She heard the warning in his words and noted the keen interest in his eyes. For the first time, Akhlaur seemed to consider the possibility that all might not be as it seemed. He did not look dismayed by that prospect—to the contrary. Nothing pleased him more than a cruel game, a hidden purpose.

  The elf held her smile and silently promised to give the wizard all he desired and more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Morning crept over the Nath, fading the night sky to a dismal gray. The rain that had fallen steadily all night ceased with the coming of light, and mist rose like summoned spirits from the stony ground.

  Slim gray figures moved through the swirling, land-bound clouds, preparing their horses, gathering supplies, bundling weapons plundered from the Halruaans and from their own dead. Shanair, the Crinti chieftain, sat her shadow-gray mare and watched as her decimated forces prepared for retreat.

  One of the warriors cinched a thick bundle of bloodstained arrows to a tall bay stallion—a dead Halruaan’s war-horse turned pack animal. She caught Shanair’s eye and gave the chieftain a quick, fierce smile.

  “Fine arrows, and each one wrenched from an enemy’s body! This stallion will breed a hundred foals by summer’s end. All will fetch a good price in Dambrath.”

  Shanair nodded, understanding what prompted the woman’s boasts. They would return to their native land laden with plun
der. They would have honor and wealth. As raiders, they had done well indeed. No one need speak of their deeper, failed purpose.

  It would be good to return to Dambrath. Shanair glanced around the campsite, a relatively flat place carved high into the mountainside by a long-ago rockslide. The site was littered with boulders and nearly surrounded by jagged cliffs. Piles of tumbled rock squatted above them like tipsy, dwarven sentinels. A small, potable spring bubbled up from somewhere deep in the heart of the mountain, and a few shallow caves offered shelter from the elements. It was a highly defensible place, if not a comfortable one, but no fitting home for a Crinti warrior. Soon Shanair would again ride free over open plains.

  The prospect gave her less pleasure than she expected.

  A faint buzzing, like that of a captured wasp, came from a small leather pouch affixed to her belt. Shanair’s gray face furrowed in puzzlement as she unbuckled the fasteners and drew a small, smooth, round stone from the bag.

  Elf-sister, I greet you.

  A familiar voice sounded in Shanair’s mind, a lilting, bell-like soprano that lent rare grace and elegance to the rough Crinti dialect Shanair knew only one person whose voice held such music. Clutching the stone, she slapped her heels into her horse’s side and reined the beast away from the camp.

  “Kiva!” she whispered. “We thought you dead!”

  Do you really think I would leave before the battle was over?

  Shanair, suddenly ashamed, glanced back over her shoulder at the bustling camp. She herself was preparing to do precisely that.

  Her practical nature quickly reasserted itself. “What more can be done? The battle was fought. Many Halruaans died, but too many remain. We Crinti are too few to push them into the sea.”

  The Crinti need not fight alone. The floodgate—

  “The floodgate is closed,” Shanair said flatly. “We felt the magic shake the mountains. We saw the spring disappear.”

  There was a moment’s pause, and the stone in Shanair’s hand surged with power. The Crinti, attuned to Kiva through some magic she did not understand, recognized temper flaring bright and quickly controlled.