The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  What I was about to say, Kiva went on pointedly, was that many magical treasures are buried around the site of the floodgate. Dig a circle around the place of the spring’s origin, about seven paces from the center.

  Shanair shook her head before she remembered the elf could not see this response. “This morning, Xerish did not report. We tracked her to one of the dark fairy mounds. There she disappeared. This is no place for the Crinti.”

  This time the stone flared hot enough to burn Shanair’s fingers. Did you find another set of tracks, or are the Crinti not skilled enough to follow a true elf’s trail?

  The venom in Kiva’s words smarted worse than the burning stone. “One trail only,” Shanair admitted.

  There were two trails leading to the Green Crone, Kiva said, giving the Crinti name for that particular fairy mound. Xerish failed me, and I sent her beyond the veil. Do as I say, Shanair, or you will find you have far more to fear than the Unseelie folk.

  The magical contact broke off abruptly, leaving Shanair stunned and enlightened.

  “Elf-sister,” she muttered in self-disgust. All this time, she had believed Kiva viewed her as a comrade, if not quite an equal. The Crinti dealt death with a quick hand. Though they were brutal and unforgiving of failure, no one among them would ever torture one of their own. Kiva had given Xerish to the dark fairies. Nothing could have painted the truth in starker colors than this.

  Shanair and her proud people were nothing to Kiva.

  She tugged on the horse’s reins, turning it back around to the camp. After the recent defeat, the Crinti had retreated to the place where the floodgate had been hidden. Not only was it a defensible camp, but all the scattered Crinti knew it to be the fallback place. Each day had brought new stragglers. If Kiva spoke truth, there was enough magic in this place to send them all beyond the veil.

  “Call in the sentinels and scouts,” she shouted. “We leave this accursed place before the sun burns away the mists!”

  Basel Indoulur stooped and peeked cautiously through the low, open door. The wizard who’d crafted Procopio’s gaming tables was said to be an unusual soul, but the reality was odder than Basel had anticipated.

  A stout, middle-aged female gnome ceased her work long enough to give him a cheery wave. “You’d be Lord Basel, then? Come in, come in.”

  He ducked through the door and exchanged pleasantries with his host. She was an odd-looking little creature, brown as a mushroom except for eyes of cornflower blue and a bright, rosy bloom on her plump cheeks and large, button nose. Her abundant brown hair was caught back in a blue kerchief, and a neat, white apron covered her kirtle. Although famed for her skill as an alchemist and artificer, the little wizard looked more like a cook holding sway in a miniature, well-managed kitchen.

  After greeting Basel, she went back to a low table. Shelves above it were lined with jars filled with strangely colored powders.

  “This has the look of an apothecary shop,” Basel observed.

  “That and more.” The gnome winked at him, then picked up a miniature mortar and pestle. She began vigorously grinding at something pale gray and unspeakably foul smelling.

  “Bat guano,” she said cheerfully. “Very useful in creating explosions. Have some?”

  She held out a small, paper-wrapped packet, much as a homey granny might offer a treat to a child.

  Not wishing to offend, Basel accepted the odd gift. “You said I might have a look around?”

  The gnome waved her hand toward a small side room. “All the Crinti lore is in there. Stay as long as you like. Don’t worry about making a mess—I’ve already seen to that.”

  He thanked her and made his way over to the small room. Unlike the main chamber, this area was an untidy jumble. Tiny, carved figures tumbled about in various stages of completion. Piles of miniature limbs and weapons waited to be attached to tiny bodies. Fully assembled figures had been daubed with paint, but the detailed work that made them look like living things had yet to be completed. All the figures would eventually be enspelled into the almost-living toys Procopio Septus favored so highly.

  A long table was heaped high with old books and shards of pottery. Basel reached tentatively into the pile. His hand brushed something furry, and he instinctively pulled back.

  An enormous tarantula, its body nearly as large as a rat’s, darted out at him, hissing like an angry cat.

  Basel’s battlefield nerve deserted him in the face of this unexpected foe. Letting out a startled shout, he seized a heavy tome and lofted it high over the attacking arachnid. He kept yelling as he brought the book down, hoping to drown out the sound of impact. His efforts were only partially successful.

  “Mind the spiders,” the gnome called cheerfully. “For some reason they tend to gather in that corner.”

  Basel regarded the splattered creature with disgust, then turned his gaze to his chosen weapon. Greenish ooze dripped from a cover embossed with slanted, spindly runes, which proclaimed the book to be a history of the southland’s dark elves. He scraped the book clean with the packet of bat guano and settled down to read.

  Hours passed, and Basel pored through one book after another. He pieced together scroll fragments and shards of spell-vessels of a sort not used for hundreds of years.

  Finally he stood and stretched, thinking fondly of a fortnight by the sea and perhaps a pilgrimage to a holy Mystran shrine. He would need something of this nature to cleanse himself of the creeping, soul-deadening evil he’d immersed himself in.

  “Like crawling through a midden,” he muttered, glaring at Crinti lore. “If water seeks its own level, small wonder that Procopio is so taken with such things!”

  The gnome peeked around the doorjamb. “I’m for the tavern. Found what you need?”

  “Actually, no,” he admitted. “I’m looking for an ancient spell, probably created by dark elves.”

  A bit of the cheeriness faded from the gnome’s face. “Well, I suppose you have your reasons. There’s a book or two in the root cellar that might serve. Never had much use for them myself, and they seemed right at home down there.”

  Basel followed her to a miniature kitchen. She kicked aside a wooden door in the floor and disappeared down a ladder. The wizard accepted things she handed up to him—a pair of rutabagas for tomorrow’s stew, some dried herbs, a small bag of coin, and finally a book bound with black wyvern hide, long ago faded to a dull, papery gray.

  He thanked the gnome and began to turn the ancient vellum pages—carefully, for they were fragile. By the look of them, they had probably been written by some of the first wizards from ancient Netheril. Basel struggled with the archaic language and the even more ancient spells.

  Finally he found one that quickened his heart and chilled his blood.

  A dark-elven spell opened a small gate to the Unseelie realm, allowing one mortal to be substituted for another. It was possible for both to return, but only if the would-be rescuer possessed rare clarity of character and a heart that offered no foothold to the dark fairies’ magic. The rescuer—or the sacrifice, depending upon the outcome—must wear a talisman containing, among other things, a lock of hair from an ancestor, preferably a wizard of great prowess.

  Basel grimaced. While this requirement would not be difficult for most Halruaans, it presented a real challenge for a kinless jordain. Yet Basel could think of no one but Matteo to whom he would entrust this task.

  He copied the complex spell, working as quickly as he dared. He paid the gnome woman for her time and hurried to his tower, where a gate awaited that would take him to the floodgate’s location—the place where Tzigone had disappeared and where Matteo was bound.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Four men rode northward through the rugged Nath, following the faint, twisting trail left by a dry streambed. Although all four were Halruaan and all were clad in the jordaini garb of white linen, it occurred to Matteo that he and his friends presented a strikingly diverse group.

  Iago, the small, slight man who led th
e way, had seen well over thirty summers, at least ten more than the three men with him. Themo was the youngest, a bluff, cheery giant who was still in many ways more a youth than a man. Andris was taller than most Halruaans and wiry rather than muscular. His coloring was unusual: auburn hair, hazel eyes, and freckled skin that refused to burnish in the sun. Hints of these colors remained, despite Andris’s mysterious transformation during the battle in Akhlaur’s Swamp. Despite all, Matteo still considered Andris the best jordain he knew.

  Yet nothing resembling brotherhood passed between Andris and the other two jordaini, who’d accepted the ghostly jordain’s presence only after much argument and under protest. Even Themo, who had counted Andris a boyhood friend, had little to say to him.

  As they neared the battle site, the expression on Iago’s face changed from wary to grim. He reined his horse back and fell into step with Matteo’s steed.

  “I understand the need to trace Kiva’s path. Andris has cause to know it better than any other, but perhaps you should consider his true purpose in bringing us here.”

  “Andris is still a jordain,” Matteo said quietly. “He follows our code. I would stake my life on his word.”

  “And ours as well,” Iago grumbled.

  Eager to change the subject, Matteo turned to Themo. “You have not spoken of your plans. What will you do, now that you’ve been released from jordaini service?”

  The big man gave him a fleeting grin. “I’d like to survive this trip.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and gestured to the jordaini garments he wore out of life-long habit “Truth is, I’m feeling more adrift than I expected to. The only thing I know is the jordaini order.”

  “The world is too wide for a single man’s eyes to take in,” Matteo observed.

  “Just so. I don’t need someone to do my thinking for me, mind you, but it’s easier to think things through if you have some sort of reference point. Maybe I’ll join the militia.”

  Matteo nodding approvingly. “There is great need for such as you.”

  He would have said more, but Andris placed a translucent hand on Matteo’s arm. He pointed to a small muddy patch of ground just off the path, almost obscured by a tumble of rocks. There, barely discernable from horseback, was a faint footprint.

  Matteo signaled a halt He slid from his horse and went over for a closer look. The print was long and narrow, most likely a woman’s foot, and the boot sole showed signs of repeated repair. A faint smear of blood appeared on a rock nearby, as if the traveler had stumbled and caught herself. Most likely, someone already wounded and weakened had passed this way, and recently. Neither the blood nor the muddy print was completely dry.

  “Crinti stragglers,” Matteo said softly. “Keep your weapons at hand.”

  Iago shot a disgusted look at Andris. “So much for his jordaini honor!”

  Shrill, ululating battle cries rose from a dozen hiding places, coming at them from all sides and echoing off the surrounding mountains.

  “The floodgate clearing,” Andris said urgently. “It’s nearby and gives our best hope of holding out against so many.”

  “How many would that be?” retorted Iago. “How large an ambush have you arranged?”

  No one heard his objection, for they were already riding hard on the heels of Andris’s mount Iago kicked his horse into a run, following the other jordain up the steep, narrow path created by the streambed and into a clearing.

  Andris leaped from his horse and put his shoulder to a large, rounded boulder. Themo came to help him. They rolled it into the opening made by the stream, and then piled more rocks on top. The makeshift dam would not stop the Crinti, but it would slow them down.

  “Now there’s only one way in,” Andris said, pointing to the pass leading out of the clearing.

  “And only one way out!”

  A woman’s voice, harsh and heavily accented, rang through the clearing. The jordaini whirled, just in time to see a large net spinning toward them from behind a precarious pile of rocks. The weighted net slapped into them and brought them down in a tangle of limbs.

  Over a dozen Crinti warriors stepped from the shadows of small caves, planting themselves in a circle around the edge of the net and holding the jordaini trapped beneath. One of them, a tall woman with crimson tattoos encircling her upper arms, looked Andris over appraisingly.

  “Elf-blooded or not, I did not think you would return. You have also spoken with Kiva?”

  Matteo noted the stunned expression that crossed his friend’s face, the flicker of confusion and indecision.

  “No,” Andris said shortly. “I didn’t know she had returned.”

  “Then you brought the humans here on your own. Well done.” The big Crinti pulled out a sword and slit open the net over Andris. She reached down and hauled him to his feet.

  Her gaze skimmed her other captives. Her strange, blue eyes narrowed when they settled upon Matteo. “This one killed Whizzra. It was his woman who summoned the dark fairies.”

  “My friend,” Matteo corrected.

  Shanair laughed and cast a sly glance toward Andris. “And here is another of your ‘friends?’ You do not choose them wisely. This one betrays you, and the girl was not strong enough to master what she summoned. She is dead now, or gone beyond the veil, which is much worse.”

  She turned to her warriors. One of them had a large, powerful crossbow cranked and ready, leveled at Matteo’s chest. The chieftain jerked her head in Matteo’s direction. “Kill him first, but slowly.”

  The gray archer smirked and lowered her aim.

  “Wait,” Andris said. He pulled out his jordaini daggers. “I’ve known this man since boyhood. A crossbow is too swift and too kind.”

  He turned to Matteo. He flipped both daggers, caught them by their points, and sent first one then the other spinning toward the captive jordain.

  The first dagger struck the ground near Matteo, neatly slicing through the tied ropes of the net Matteo thrust his arm through the opening and closed his hand around the handle of the second, spinning dagger.

  A risky move, catching a thrown dagger, but one the two of them had practiced together since boyhood.

  Matteo sliced through the net and burst out into the clearing, drawing his sword as he came. He dropped into guard position, prepared to hold off the Crinti’s blades as Themo and Iago struggled free.

  As he moved, he saw Andris whirl and seize the woman’s crossbow. The jordain forced her aim up at the large, unstable rock formation that had hidden the Crinti ambush.

  Boulders tumbled down into the clearing, bringing more stones with them. Andris hurtled forward, driving Iago toward a small overhang. The four jordaini flattened themselves into the scant shelter as the thunder and dust of falling rock filled the clearing.

  “She was wrong, you know,” Matteo shouted at Andris. The pale jordain sent him an inquiring look. “The Crinti chieftain. She said I do not choose my friends well.”

  A quick look of gratitude flashed in Andris’s pale eyes. “Obviously she never met your horse Cyric.”

  The two jordaini shared a chuckle. When the avalanche ceased but for echoes carrying the grumbling thunder from mountain to mountain, they came cautiously out, swords ready.

  Most of the Crinti had gone down under the tumbling stone. Some shifted weakly, others lay bloody and still. Only a few Crinti were left standing—odds the jordaini could reasonably face. The chieftain staggered to her feet, her wild, steel-gray hair crusted with blood.

  “Another traitor,” she said, eyeing Andris with disdain. She spat at the ground. “You are not worth fighting. She is not worth fighting for. We go.”

  The surviving Crinti turned and disappeared through the pass, swiftly melting into the hills.

  “Shouldn’t we give chase?” Themo asked.

  Iago sent him a withering look. “Remember the battle cries that sent us scurrying into this hole? This was a small group. Most of them are out there. If they want to leave Halruaa, I say we let them.”
>
  He turned to Andris. “You have proved me wrong. See that you keep doing so.”

  “I’ll do my best,” the jordain agreed, “but I should warn you that despite my best intentions, I seem destined to betray those around me.”

  “A strange sentiment,” Matteo protested, “from someone whose quick thinking kept us alive.”

  “I thank you for that thought, but remember that heritage plays a strange part in destiny.”

  “Then it’s just as well we jordaini seldom know of our ancestry,” Iago said curtly. “Do you think the Crinti was telling the truth about Kiva? Is she still alive?”

  Andris sighed. “I don’t know what to think. The spells cast during the invasion were right out of Akhlaur’s spellbook. Few living wizards could cast them. To my thinking, the possibility of Akhlaur’s return indicated that Kiva died in the Plane of Water. But Shanair spoke of Kiva as if her survival was a fact we both knew. She had no reason to lie to me.”

  Another tremor shuddered through the clearing. “Another rockslide,” groaned Themo, eying the distance between the jordaini and their recent shelter.

  “Worse than that.” Matteo pointed to the center of the clearing. Cracks splintered the hard-packed ground, revealing glimpses of several strange items that had been dislodged by the tremor—a cat-headed statue carved in jade, a sword hilt forged from crimson metal, a strangely shaped rod.

  “This is a natural site of power, made stronger by those hidden artifacts. Wizards use ritual to focus magic, but this is not the only way of doing so. Sometimes magic can be triggered by other strong energies.”

  “Like an avalanche,” Iago said.

  Themo nudged the discarded crossbow with his foot, then sent a sidelong glance at Andris. “Seemed like a good idea at the time, did it?”

  Andris wasn’t listening. He stared at the strange circle of light dawning in the clearing. It erupted in a sudden brilliant flare, then faded.