The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  Silence hung thick in the crowded room. “What possible terms could they seek?” demanded a thin, querulous voice. Febir Khorn, a wizened man whose face wore every day of his ninety years, thumped his staff indignantly on the polished marble floor. His advanced years, longtime friendship to Zalathorm and absolute loyalty to the king purchased him the right to speak his mind at will. “If the Mulhorandi stay out of Halruaa, we will let them live. What more could they ask or expect?”

  A chorus of huzzahs and approving laughter filled the hall. Zalathorm smiled at the indignant wizard. “It is my sincere wish that everything was as forthright as you, my friend, but, despite Halruaa’s victory, several mysteries remain. These we must and will address.”

  His steady gaze swept the crowd. No one doubted that he spoke of his own queen, and her coming trial for treason. Many of the wizards dropped their eyes, shamed by their whispered accusations and speculations. It was widely rumored that Zalathorm’s queen would never come to trial at all, that her misdeeds would be shielded by the king’s power.

  “The battle between the storm elementals provides a key to one such mystery,” Zalathorm continued. “Procopio Septus turned back the attack, using a storm elemental fashioned in his own image. It is likely that the Mulhorandi wizard did the same. I propose that we have an artist sketch the Mulhorandi storm elemental and send it back to Mulhorand with their diplomat”

  Procopio stepped forward. “The man is dead—killed when his elemental was vanquished. What benefit would this bring?”

  “We will insist that the Mulhorandi supply us with the man’s true name, as well as some of his personal belongings, so that we can pursue a full divination into his plans and purposes. If the Mulhorandi do this, we will seek no reprisals. If they attempt to shield this man for fear of exposing others involved in the invasion, we will retaliate with an attack on Mulhorand.”

  An astonished babble exploded. Halruaa had repelled many invasions over her long history, but never had she launched an attack upon another country!

  “There is wisdom in tradition,” shouted Procopio above the din.

  Complete silence fell over the hall. This was the first open challenge to the king.

  Zalathorm’s steady gaze acknowledged the wizard lord’s words for what they were. “You obviously think that tradition holds more wisdom than your king. Tell us why.”

  Such bluntness was rare in Halruaan society, and for a moment Procopio looked disconcerted. He quickly gathered himself and responded in kind.

  “Fully a third of Halruaan wizards and fighters were destroyed in the recent battles. Four hundred fell in the king’s city alone. It is time to rebuild, not to extend forces already depleted.”

  Zalathorm nodded gravely. “Our losses were great, but would you have us cower behind our mountain walls, weak and timid in the eyes of the world? Why give our neighbors cause to consider another attack?”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Procopio inclined his head in a slight bow. “You know your subjects well, my lord. You appeal to our pride, and we are indeed a proud people. There is an important difference, however, between pride and blind arrogance. The invasion—the first in more than a century!—demonstrated a serious weakness in our defenses. To deny this is folly. Making a scapegoat of one of the invading wizards might be satisfying, but it detracts from the larger problem.”

  Zalathorm’s gaze did not waver. “The larger problem, indeed. In your opinion, Lord Procopio, was the recent threat against Halruaa from without or within?”

  Procopio’s lips tightened into a thin line, and several of Zalathorm’s supporters nodded approvingly. This was a deftly chosen question, for the lord mayor could give but one answer.

  “Both, my lord.”

  “Then we must pursue both. We will send envoys to Mulhorand. We must know more about the wizard who enspelled our borders and learn how he mingled the magic of Mulhorand with the hidden lore of Halruaa—and we must learn who helped him.”

  Zalathorm paused to give weight to that pronouncement. As his meaning became clear, stunned disbelief spread from face to face like a spell-borne plague. Revealing Halruaan magic to foreigners was the most egregious treason, the most unthinkable betrayal!

  Yet, what else could have happened?

  “I hesitate to speak of this,” the king went on, addressing all the wizards, “for I see how your eyes slide to those next to you, weighing and wondering. Unlike most of you in this room, I have lived in a time when wizard fought wizard. We must avoid a return of those days. We must stand together, even as we root out weakness and treachery. I pledge to you, by wind and word, that all will be brought to light”

  The silence enshrouding the room grew heavier. Zalathorm had given his wizard-word oath, even though his queen stood accused.

  For a moment Zalathorm believed that he had averted the crisis of ambition and conflict. Perhaps reality reflected his young jordain’s belief—perhaps truth was indeed the most powerful weapon to use in Halruaa’s service.

  But Procopio wheeled to face the assembled wizards, indignation and incredulity sharp on his face. “Are we all to submit to Inquisition? What sort of tyranny is this? What of the laws of Halruaa, the rights of her wizards?”

  The utter lack of logic startled the king. “I do not propose to do away with either.”

  “Not openly, no,” the wizard returned, “but magic and secrecy are like sword and sheath. A man who carries naked steel is more likely to use it. You speak of the dangers of wizardwar, yet it seems to me that you fan the flames! In casting suspicion upon every wizard in Halruaa, perhaps you hope to deflect it from known traitors and incompetent leaders?”

  Mutters of protest mingled with muttered agreement. A woman in warrior’s garb shouldered her way forward, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Wizards parted to let her pass. Rhodea Firehair was as tall and ruddy as a northern barbarian, skilled with both blade and battle magic. She came nearly toe to toe with the lord mayor, forcing him to look up at her considerable height

  “You go too far, Procopio,” she growled.

  The diviner inclined his head. “I pray you are right, Lady Rhodea. None of us wishes to see Halruaa torn by more conflict But I see what is coming, even if others do not.”

  Procopio’s condemning words rang through the hall. He turned and walked from the room, his back to the throne. After a moment’s hesitation, several more wizards followed or quietly disappeared.

  Rhodea strode to the throne and took up a place at Zalathorm’s left-hand side—the traditional position for a champion. Her sword sang free of its scabbard, burning with magic as fiery as her own hair. Blood-red light bathed the battle wizard as she raised the sword and slammed it sharply against the buckler strapped to her left forearm. A high, metallic note echoed out through the room like a battle cry.

  “Zalathorm has spoken. Any who would challenge the king or his decisions must come through me,” she announced over the grim music of her sword.

  Deep silence ruled the counsel hall. Then, one by one, the wizards began to step forward with loud acclamations, some of which provided deliberate cover for those wizards who slipped quietly away. Already deals had been made and sides chosen.

  With sinking heart and soul-deep sorrow, Zalathorm acknowledged the truth in Procopio’s words. There was little difference, sometimes, between foreseeing a battle and causing one.

  He did not need his divination magic to understand that a wizardwar had begun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Later that day, Rhodea Firehair stomped angrily into the vast, stone chamber that housed Halruaa’s mint. She acknowledged the guards with a curt nod and submitted with ill grace to the spells of divination that each visitor, no matter how well known, was subjected to before entering.

  Usually she acknowledged the wisdom of such precautions. It would not do to allow a thief or hostile wizard to slip into the mint Much of Halruaa’s wealth poured through this place. Rich ore came in by the wagonload, to e
merge as the elegantly stamped skie that formed the basis of Halruaan currency.

  She was in no mood, however, to endure the foolishness of her fellow wizards. The shameful display in Zalathorm’s counsel hall left her sword hand itching for the feel of her weapon. The sword still glowed faintly red from the power that had fueled her indignant defense of her king.

  Rhodea stopped by the cooling pool and plucked a fresh-minted coin from the water. The image of King Zalathorm, the only ruler Rhodea had ever known and the only one she intended to serve, gazed back at her.

  She nodded curtly. “As it should be.”

  The wizard’s mood improved as she walked slowly through the mint. Here, all was as it should be. Stout, dour-faced dwarves shepherded their ore through the smelting process. Artisans labored with tiny tools, engraving plates for new coin. A tall, red-haired young woman argued loudly with the dragon keeper, her hands milling in furious gestures.

  Rhodea smiled fondly. Her daughter, Thalia, possessed in full measure the family’s passionate nature. Though she would never be a great wizard, the girl shared her mother’s steadfast dedication to Halruaa. In time she would run this mint and run it well.

  The subject of her ire was a half-elven wizard, specially chosen for his long life and his skill with magical creatures. Many years were required to raise and train a hatchling dragon and to learn the spells that kept the young creature relatively docile.

  There was a jordaini proverb about the dangers of overdoing matters, something to the effect of chaining a dragon to do your cooking, yet the mint did precisely that Risky, yes, but electrum ore was difficult to melt, and few things burned as hot as dragonfire.

  Rhodea came alongside the arguing pair, who fell silent “Greetings, Thalia. And to you, Pizar. Problems?”

  Thalia glared at the half-elf. “The dragon is acting strangely. I told this … keeper … to review his spells of binding. He is too proud and stubborn to listen.”

  “I have reviewed them,” the dragonmaster returned heatedly. “Of course the dragon is restless! She nears maturity. Soon we will no longer be able to control her at all. It is time and past time to return her to the wild! Another hatchling is nearly old enough for firebreath. It’s better to suspend production of coin for a short time than risk both the dragon and the mint.”

  Rhodea nodded thoughtfully. “I agree. You have my permission to release this dragon as soon as the spells of transportation can be arranged. But do not release it into the Calimshan wastes, as usual. Mulhorandi recently sent some of their finest citizens to call. Perhaps we should return the courtesy.”

  Shocked silence fell over the contentious pair. They exchanged glances and began to grin like urchin conspirators. Rhodea chuckled and moved on.

  She strode over to the main vat to observe the dragon. The creature was still young, no more than twenty feet long and covered with bright red scales. Mithril chains and unbreakable spells kept the creature secure during its brief servitude. The dragon seemed tame enough, breathing gouts of flame at the base of the enormous vat whenever the dwarves on the scaffolding above shouted for it.

  Rhodea looked up. Four dwarves, working two to a wheel, turned the crank that stirred the simmering brew. Another dwarf stood on a lower level of scaffolding, adjusting the knobs that opened a circular hole near the top of the kettle. Gleaming silvery liquid poured down a long trough toward a smaller kettle, where still more dwarves scooped out the rapidly cooling metal and smoothed it into plates.

  Much of the work was done by dwarves. They were the only creatures who could abide the intense heat. Even so, their bearded faces were nearly as red as Rhodea’s famed tresses.

  Suddenly a terrible stench filled the room, like that of a thousand well-rotted eggs. Rhodea spun, her hand clamped to her mouth, toward the source.

  The dragon held its post, its eyes still magic-glazed into quiescence, its breath still coming in regular bursts. But the dragon’s scales were no longer the clear, bright red of early adolescence but a verdant green. Its breath yielded not fire, but a noxious yellow cloud.

  Rhodea gasped in astonishment. The sudden intake of foul air sent her into a paroxysm of coughing. The dwarves on the scaffolding were harder hit, coughing violently and teetering on their perch like drunkards. One of them lost his grip and fell into the molten ore with a terrible scream.

  Bright droplets of liquid metal splattered the dragon. Pain jolted the creature free from the protective spells. It began to roar and struggle. Its tail lashed, knocking the supports from under the vat.

  The vast kettle tipped, sending a killing river of silver spilling slowly over the wooden floor. Wooden scaffolding burst into flame, and fire darted up the tapestries that softened the stone walls. In less than a heartbeat, the promise of wealth was transmuted into a death threat.

  Rhodea reached for her Elder’s ring, which would transport her immediately to the safety of Zalathorm’s court. Frantically she sought her daughter.

  Thalia stood too near the silvery lava. Rhodea would never reach her in time.

  The wizard tore the ring from her hand and poured all her considerable strength into the family battle cry. Thalia spun toward the sound and instinctively caught the ring her mother hurled toward her.

  Rhodea Firehair watched her daughter fade from the room, then turned to face the white wave of heat that preceded the killing flood. A warrior died with weapon in hand. Rhodea drew her sword and strode toward the light.

  Word of the mint’s destruction spread quickly, nearly as quickly as the molten ore and the fire that swept its wake.

  Procopio Septus read the report again, muttering under his breath about incompetent fools, but in truth, he didn’t understand how this thing could have come to pass.

  Many of Halruaa’s mages frowned upon the use of dragons in the smelting process. The creatures were as tame as dragons would ever be, hand-raised from hatchlings and warded with powerful protective spells.

  “A visitor, Lord Procopio.”

  The wizard looked up, frowning. “I am not at leisure,” he told his steward.

  “He tells a most interesting tale,” the man persisted. “He claims to have fought his way out of the Unseelie realm.”

  Procopio’s jaw fell open. He knew of Dhamari Exchelsor’s disappearance. He knew also that the wards on the wizard’s tower had been breached. The militia had searched and found no one, but there was clear evidence of theft. The magical wards had not yet been examined to determine the identity of this thief—the Lord Mayor had higher priorities. It had not occurred to him that Dhamari himself might be the “thief.”

  He quickly mastered his surprise. “Let him come. I am in need of a bit of diversion.”

  The steward showed in a small, slight man. Procopio knew him only by sight and had always considered him an unassuming little man, hardly worth the time and trouble under ordinary circumstances.

  Procopio exchanged the courtesies that protocol demanded. Even a great wizard was required to acknowledge lesser men, and Procopio was politically astute enough to court all men to some degree. Even a mediocre wizard could be a supporter, and at this pivotal moment Procopio needed every man and woman he could muster.

  He smiled at the little man with a cordiality he did not feel. “I hear you have an interesting tale.”

  “Yes,” Dhamari said dryly. “Your steward seemed to find it amusing. I don’t suspect your credulity will stretch much farther. Be that as it may. I haven’t come to discuss such things. I can tell you about the death of Rhodea Firehair, the self-declared champion of our current king.”

  Though the little wizard was being far from subtle, Procopio ignored the treasonous remarks. He steepled his fingers and gazed mildly over them at his visitor. “I have heard reports of the fire.”

  “Would you like to hear precisely what happened?”

  “Please.”

  “Those who examined the ruins of the mint saw only the charred bones of a young dragon,” Dhamari said without preamble.
“It did not occur to them to inquire what color the dead dragon might have been.”

  “I fail to see the point”

  “The dragon was shapeshifted from red to green. This detail will not be in any report you might read.”

  Procopio leaned back, beginning to see where this was going and, for the first time, truly interested in the little wizard’s words.

  “The raw ore came from an area with heavy mineral deposits. When the dragon was changed from red to green in mid exhalation, its fiery breath changed to gas. This mingled with the gases rising from the vat and formed a poisonous and extremely volatile miasma. I imagine the dwarves working over the kettle dropped like stones.”

  “You have a disturbing imagination,” Procopio murmured. “Yes, I can envision the scene. The kettle knocked over, and the heat from the molten ore set the place afire. The gas incapacitated the workers, cutting off their spells and their escape. A grim but effective ploy, yet it has one rather large and glaring fault. Assuming you’re right, the magic that would transmute red dragon to green would have to be a necromancer’s spell of enormous power. Who could have done this?”

  Dhamari spread his hands modestly. “As you may know, the Exchelsor family owns much of Halruaa’s mining lands. Since I supplied the ore, getting a magical device into the mint was easy enough.”

  A burst of incredulous laughter escaped Procopio. “You were responsible for this spell?”

  “If you will not believe me, will you listen to the only survivor? Like all members of the Council of Elders, Rhodea Firehair has a ring that will teleport her to Zalathorm’s court in times of need. Her last, heroic deed was to hurl the ring at her daughter. She could not know that a rather similar magical device had been prepared to intercept any who might try to escape. Shall we hear what the little red-haired wench has to say on this subject?”

  “By all means!”

  Dhamari drew a small red globe from the folds of his robe and threw it to the floor. The crystal shattered, and a disheveled young woman staggered into the room.