“We’re following Andris, but what the Nine bloody Hells is he following?” demanded Themo as he picked a leaf from his hair. “Besides the sun, that is.”
“According to the temple lore, there is an elf village due west of the temple. Kiva was badly weakened by the laraken. She will need help. It is logical to assume that she would seek out others of her kind.”
“I’m not sure which idea I like less,” the big man grumbled. “More jordaini logic, or the notion that there could be more at home like Kiva” He suddenly brightened and pointed to a long, narrow clearing up ahead. “There’s a path. Going due west, too!”
The “path” was an odd, cone-shaped swath cut into the jungle. No, Matteo noted suddenly, the path had not been cut but burned. The foliage had wilted away, matting the jungle floor with a thick, blackened mass.
Matteo dismounted. He studied the passage, then kicked at some of the wilted vines. The smell of rotting plants rose into the air, and with it the distinctive stench of spoiled eggs.
“Chlorine gas—the breath weapon of a green dragon,” Matteo said softly. “Some of the jungle plants can absorb poisonous gases, which is no doubt why we can smell it still.”
Iago came to stand beside Matteo. “The dragon is long gone, judging from its droppings.” He pointed to a pile of fewmet, nearly dry and littered with bones from long-ago meals.
“Might as well take advantage of the dragon’s path.” Themo gave his lizard a sharp nudge with both heels. The creature took off like a loosed arrow. Themo jerked back in the saddle, swearing as he struggled to keep his seat.
Startled by the impulsive act, Matteo had no time to shout a warning. He lunged for his friend and seized Themo’s tunic as he rode past. He dug in his heels and managed to drag the big jordain off the lizard.
Themo fell hard and came up mad. He launched a wild swing at Matteo, connecting with a blow to the jaw that sent the smaller man reeling.
“I don’t need your help to fall off the damn lizard!”
Matteo scrambled to his feet in time to intercept Themo’s second swing. He caught the big man’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. He spun Themo around to face the path. “See those spider webs at the end of the passage?”
The big jordain squinted at the layers of delicate netting spanning the end of the passage. “So?”
Before Matteo could speak, the “web” enfolded the charging lizard and jerked it up into a tree.
“Oh. Not your usual web,” Themo observed, glancing sheepishly back at his friend.
But Matteo’s attention was on the trees overhead. He abruptly released Themo and reached for his sword.
The jungle suddenly came alive with exited little yips. Golden, catlike eyes blinked from the deeply shadowed underbrush. A small, hunched green figure dived toward them from high overhead, clinging with one hand to a long vine. A wicked bone-headed spear was couched under one arm, giving its flight the appearance of an airborne joust.
The creature passed harmlessly overhead and landed on a high branch behind them. It sat there, cluttering and shaking a small fist
“What the—”
Themo’s outburst ended in a sharp oof! as another vine, this one bearing three of the creatures, slammed into his back. He pitched forward onto all fours, and more of the creatures dashed out of the underbrush, swarming over him. They clung to him, clawing and squealing, as he struggled to his feet.
More creatures encircled Matteo. They were hideous beasts, green as goblins but emaciated in form and hunched over in a permanent crouch. None of them stood much higher than Matteo’s knees. Their gait was awkward, their mien cowardly. Yet they wielded an assortment of weapons crafted by humans and elves, a silent but powerful testament to previous successes.
“Tasloi,” Matteo muttered.
“Lizard grub!” countered Themo. He peeled off one of the creatures and hurled it toward his entrapped and struggling lizard. The tasloi sailed down the passage, wailing pitifully, and landed well short of the trap. Themo shrugged this off and backhanded another of the pests. He drew his dagger and began to cut free of the mob, working his way toward Iago and dragging the tasloi that clung doggedly to one ankle.
Matteo glanced toward Iago. The small jordain was whirling about, slapping at the tasloi that clung to his back. Several more of the creatures tittered excitedly, circling around Iago and his dervish dance. Though all held weapons, they did not strike. Clearly they expected their comrade to bring the jordain down.
Themo caught up a chunk of dried fewmet and hurled it into the midst of the tasloi spectators. Dragon dung splattered, and the tasloi scattered with shrill, startled yips. Iago took advantage of this reprieve to stagger over to a tree. He slammed his back repeatedly into the trunk, trying to dislodge the clinging tasloi.
Matteo’s friends seemed to have matters well in hand. That was just as well, for the tasloi pack that encircled him left him in no position to give immediate aid.
He turned this way and that, sword menacing as he kept the creatures at bay.
The tasloi swarmed him suddenly. He lunged low, knocking aside the spear wielded by the creature directly in front of him. At the same time he kicked out with his back foot, connecting hard with one tasloi rushing in from behind. He pulled his sword free, whirled to the left with a fierce yell that sent several of the creatures skittering back. Just as suddenly he reversed and lunged toward the pair of tasloi that came in from his right. One of the creatures panicked and all but threw his comrade onto Matteo’s blade in his haste to backpedal. Matteo grimaced and pulled his sword free. He parried a dagger thrust, kicked the attacking creature aside and turned to face a regrouping trio.
By now most of the tasloi had reconsidered their chances. The surviving members of the pack melted into the jungle, leaving behind a score of their dead.
The three men worked together to cut down Themo’s mount and tried not to listen as the other two lizards fed noisily upon the fallen tasloi.
“Fine sport,” Themo observed happily. “Of course, the green dragon would have been better, but there’s something to be said for starting small.”
“The tasloi ambush obscured what little trail sign Andris left behind. Any more time spent tracking would be time wasted,” Iago said.
Themo looked unwilling to give up this adventure. “But if we keep traveling west, we’ll find this village.”
Matteo shook his head. “I wish that were true. Our only chance of finding the village was following Andris to Kiva. From what I can ascertain of wild elves, we could walk directly beneath the village, and not see it unless the elves wanted us to.”
The three friends fell silent. Themo’s lizard scuttled over to the battlefield and nosed aside one of its comrades. Except for a few of the less palatable bits, the feast was over. Cheated, the reptilian mount returned to its rider, dragging its tail and looking as dejected as a kicked cur.
“What now?” Themo asked in a resigned tone as he climbed back onto his disgruntled mount.
“Perhaps the answer lies in Iago’s recent past,” Matteo said slowly. His eyes were apologetic as he turned to the small jordain. “You were in the service of Procopio Septus. It seems likely that Zephyr, his jordaini counselor, betrayed you to Kiva, but Zephyr did not give you directly into the elf woman’s hand.”
Iago’s olive skin paled. “That is true.”
“Perhaps we should trace the path between. It led to Kiva once. It might again.”
The small jordain rode in silence for several moments. “Three days I spent in the Crinti camps,” Iago said softly. “By the end of that time, I was grateful to be sold as a slave.”
Matteo acknowledged this with a somber nod. “Did the Crinti deal directly with Kiva?”
“Yes. They spared me the indignity of a slave market, if nothing else. Understand this, Matteo: the rumors of the shadow amazons fall far short of the reality.”
Themo cast him a disgusted look. “If you don’t like the plan, just say so.”<
br />
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t work,” Iago said slowly. “If I could think of a better one, I’d be swift to speak it.”
“Dangerous, is it?”
“I would rather leap naked into a pit of molten tar than return to that hell.”
Iago spoke with a stillness that chilled Matteo, but Themo nodded as if this pronouncement confirmed a dearly held hope. “There’ll be fighting involved?”
“I can almost guarantee it,” Iago murmured. As he spoke, his eyes went cold and hard.
Themo noted the change in his friend’s expression and hooted with approval. He slapped the reins on the lizard’s neck, his good spirits fully restored. “Well then, what are we sitting around here for?”
CHAPTER SIX
A small, bedraggled figure crept through the jungle, staggering from tree to tree, clinging to each as if she took strength from it. Kiva, the once-powerful magehound, walked barefoot, clad only in the plain gray tunic of an Azuthan penitent. Long, jade-green hair hung about her face. The only magic in her hands was that which rippled through the mazganut tree she clutched for support. Kiva sensed the forest’s teeming pulse, heard the soft music of the Weave, but faintly, as if from a great distance.
So frail was Kiva that she felt a disturbing kinship to her own shadow. Her strength had been stolen in battle with the laraken, her wizardly magic siphoned away. For days, only pride had kept her going. Now even that was gone. All Kiva could call upon were ancient memories and the vendetta born of them. Whenever her vision began to blur, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Akhlaur!”
Hatred focused her, strengthened her. She had not trained and plotted and fought for two centuries to die now, her vengeance incomplete!
Kiva pushed away from the tree and stumbled onward. Instinct led her where memory failed, for she had been a child of this forest No elf, no matter how long away from the trees of her birthplace, no matter what transpired in the years between, ever lost her connection with the land. No living elf was completely devoid of magic.
As twilight came on, insects emerged in stinging clouds. Childhood lore came back to Kiva, and she drew in long breaths of air until she caught the faint, sharp note of an acridia plant. She followed the scent and picked a fat spear, crushing it and smearing the fragrant green gel on her skin. The scent disappeared at once, and so did the hungry insects.
This small success heartened her. She noted a hooded flower, nearly knee high, with a blood-red stamen that resembled a sneering goblin. It was the only truly ugly flower she knew, and it held one of the most lethal poisons of the Mhair. Kiva fell to her knees beside it and began to dig for the treasures it protected.
After a few moments she found them—truffles, big as her fist, fragrant and meaty. She brushed the dirt from a savory fungus and began to eat, dutifully at first in order to regain strength, and then with real hunger.
“Kiva,” said a male voice, a human voice, deep and disturbingly familiar.
Startled, she leaped to her feet. The too-sudden movement set her head whirling and her vision dancing with sparks of light. When she focused, it was upon the ghostly form of Andris, the jordain she had condemned, used, and discarded.
For a moment Kiva went cold with horror—she, who thought herself beyond reach of such emotions!
“Is this my fate, then?” she murmured. “Am I to be haunted by all those whom I have killed?”
“If that’s so, you will never lack company,” Andris responded. “Perhaps the others will be along presently, but I am no ghost.”
Even as he spoke, she saw it was true. The tall jordain was translucent, but he retained color, like delicately tinted glass. The jungle grasses bent beneath his feet and parted before him as he came toward her.
Her first response, honed by dozens of years among Halruaa’s wizards, was to hurl a spell. None came to her call. She pulled her only remaining weapon—a broken boar’s tusk, long as a dagger and nearly as sharp—and slashed at the approaching human.
Andris easily dodged and seized her wrist The elf tried to twist away, but her captor’s grip was surprisingly firm and strong. She quickly realized the futility of struggle and forced herself to meet his eyes. To her relief and puzzlement, her death was not written in them.
“How is this possible?” she demanded, her gaze traveling his translucent form.
“The laraken did this. I carry elf blood, the gift of a distant ancestor. ‘Distant’ only in terms of time,” he added pointedly.
Understanding touched the elf’s golden eyes, bringing light but no warmth. Andris felt an illogical stab of disappointment.
At loss for words, he handed Kiva the necromancer’s tome. She paged through the ancient book, her face deathly pale and her lips set in a tight line.
“Is this true?” Andris asked gently.
Kiva slammed the book shut. “As far as it goes, yes. There is much left unsaid.”
Andris whistled softly. “If that is true, I am glad for the omission.”
“You should be.” Her voice was faint, and memories haunted her eyes.
After a few moments, Andris ventured, “This book explained many things. I’ve wondered how you, a full-blooded elf, could face the laraken and live.”
His question jolted her back into the present moment “Do I?” The elf spat out the words. “The laraken and its creator—” she punctuated this by hurling the book back at Andris—“have taken from me everything of value. I breathe, I speak and move. I hate! But do I live? Such things the sages debate!”
Andris recognized the bitterness in her voice and heard the insanity. Neither changed his chosen path. “You will resolve the question for them if you stay here much longer. You are weak, Kiva. You cannot survive alone.”
Her chin lifted. “I have allies.”
“You had better find them, and soon.”
She was about to respond when they caught the distant sound of underbrush rustling and a faint, grating snuffle. A boar, Andris noted grimly. In her hunger, Kiva had apparently forgotten that the scent of truffles might lure one of the dangerous beasts.
Kiva’s eyes darted toward the sound, then to the ghostly sword on the jordain’s hip. “I can help you,” Andris said softly as he eased his weapon free. “With the boar and with other things.”
The elf managed a scornful little laugh. “At what price?”
“Tell me how the Cabal can be destroyed.”
This Kiva had clearly not expected. She regarded the jordain with curiosity. “Only idiots and elves believe in the Cabal. You spoke truth when you claimed elf blood?”
Andris noted that she spoke only of race, not of kinship. “Did I speak truth? Lady, I am a jordain,” he said, self-mockery sharp in his eyes.
She let this pass. For the first time she looked at him, and there was something approaching kinship in her amber eyes. “You saw the captured elves of Kilmaruu, you read Akhlaur’s journal,” she said in a soft but steely voice. “You know who we are and what we must do. So be it.”
Andris met the elf woman’s eyes and saw there a destiny that encompassed them both. He responded with a grim nod.
There was no time for anything more. The underbrush exploded into a sudden fury of sound and motion. Andris whirled to face the charging beast—an enormous black sow, her belly swinging slack from a recent litter and her red eyes gleaming with desperate knowledge of her piglets’ hunger. He judged the creature as nearly half the mass of a war-horse, with thrice the fight and fury.
Kiva touched Andris on the back, just below the shoulder blades. “Here,” she said tersely. “Strike hard.”
He acknowledged this with a curt nod and then pushed her aside, holding his ground as the wild pig charged in, its snout tucked like a charging bull. At the last moment Andris sidestepped, spun, and drove the sword home.
The blade sank into the hump of fat that was the wild pig’s most vulnerable spot. Andris felt the sword grate against ribs before it was wrenched from his grasp. Even so, the great sow took
several more steps before she stumbled and went down.
“Careful,” the elf cautioned as Andris closed in. “The sow could still gut you with a nod of her head.”
The wounded pig managed to get her feet beneath her and a tree at her back. At bay, she swung her massive head as if daring Andris to attack. The jordain stood his ground, battle-poised but patient.
It was not the sow’s nature to wait tamely for death. She let out a searing bellow and burst into a charge, heading not for Andris but for the weaponless Kiva.
Andris shouted a warning and sprinted directly through the beast’s path, slashing at the pig’s sloped forehead. Blood poured freely. Blinded, the creature veered wildly aside.
Andris leaped onto the bristly back and groped for the hilt of the embedded sword, but the pig whirled and bucked, its tusks slashing the air. With each movement the upright sword swayed and danced like a palm tree in a monsoon gale. Andris was battered by the flailing movements of his own sword. Try as he might, he could not get a grip on it without slicing his hand on the blade or losing his hold on the pig.
As the sow frantically pitched and spun, the forest colors blurred into a whirling green haze. Andris was dimly aware of Kiva’s shouts, barely audible above the creature’s furious squeals and roars, and the thunderous pounding of his own heart. He sensed a dark streak sweeping in at him, felt a bruising blow glance off his shoulder and thud heavily into the sow’s ribs. The wild pig stopped to consider this new threat. Andris focused his spinning vision on the elf woman, who stood with her feet planted wide and a stout length of deadwood in her hands.
“The sword!” she shrieked as she hauled back the club for another swing.
Andris seized the hilt. Before he could thrust it down for the killing blow, the sow took off toward Kiva in another running charge. The jordain jolted back, certain he would lose his seat and yank the sword free.
He might have done just that, had Kiva been less agile. The elf dived aside, rolling quickly and coming to her feet. From the corner of his eye, Andris saw Kiva throw herself into a spin, bringing the club up and around as she came.
The Floodgate Page 7