But the magical weapon quickly dissipated, fizzling in Zilgorn’s hands like a campfire in a monsoon. He hardly noticed, for his eyes were fixed on the creature that rose slowly, silently from the dark water.
The creature’s face was enormous, hideous beyond words, the sort of visage that surely haunted the nightmares of demons. The face was framed by huge elf ears that were not only pointed, but also barbed. Its massive skull was covered not by hair, but by a tangle of writhing, snapping eels. Black as obsidian were its eyes, and they showed no intelligence that Zilgorn could understand; they were as soulless and single-minded as a shark’s. As the creature waded toward shore, it revealed a muscled body shaped roughly like that of a man, but utterly devoid of beauty. Each sinew was corded like a drawn bow, and its gut was sharply concave beneath the massive chest. Four arms, each ending in grasping talons, reached toward Zilgorn.
“A—a laraken,” he breathed, though in truth the monster was larger and mightier than any measure Zilgorn knew of such creatures. The approach of death lent its own clarity, and Zilgorn recognized the monster as a kindred spirit a creature of power and hunger. He remembered all that he had done over the years and understood that this was the death he had earned. Nothing in all of Halruaa could have frightened him more than that knowledge.
Zilgorn had seen death in all its forms, and he had dealt death in manners that stretched the bounds of normal possibility. He had summoned and commanded creatures so fearful that a glimpse of them would stop most men’s hearts and turn a warrior’s bowels to water. But the necromancer could do nothing to stop the screams that tore from his throat.
Tore from his throat! Zilgorn’s head snapped back, forced by an unseen power as he felt his voice, the instrument of his magic, wrenching loose. The pain seared through him and was gone, leaving him empty and mute. Instinctively he lunged forward, as if to seize back his voice, and he watched in horror as his outstretched hands withered to skin-shrouded bones.
He wanted to flee, but his limbs would no longer obey his will. Power and life flowed out of him like blood from a mortal wound. The laraken, which had reached the river-bank and loomed over them at twice the height of a man, slowly began to gain flesh. Its sunken belly swelled as it drained the magical essence of the wizard Zilgorn and the dying men behind him.
The proud necromancer’s last thought was one of relief, for without a voice, he could not die screaming, and there was no one to witness his final defeat.
He was wrong on both counts.
In a tower room that overlooked Halruaa’s western mountains, a place far from the Swamp of Akhlaur, an elf woman bent over a low, round scrying bowl. The death of Zilgorn played out before her in all its detail, and her sharp ears caught the new note in the laraken’s roar: the necromancer’s trained voice, raised in a final keening shriek of pain and terror.
When the magical vision ended, the elf woman leaned back and brushed a glossy green curl from her face. She glanced at the wemic, a lion-like centaur, who crouched in watchful silence by her side.
Neither elves nor wemics were common in Halruaa, and together they were as oddly matched as any two companions in all the land. Kiva, the elf woman, was of wild elf blood, and her coloring was common among forest folk in the southern lands. Her abundant hair was deep green in hue and her skin a rich coppery shade. Her face was beautiful but disturbing, for there was no gentleness in its sharp lines, and her eyes were as golden and enigmatic as a cat’s. She was resplendent in a gown of yellow silk and overdress of gold-embroidered green. Emeralds flashed on her fingers and at her throat. The wemic, in sharp contract, was clad only in his own tawny hide. He was a massive creature, with the lower body of a lion and the brawny, golden-skinned torso of a man. A thick mane of black hair fell to his shoulders, and his eyes, like the elf woman’s, were a feline shade of amber. His only ornaments were the ruby earring fastened in one leonine ear and the massive broadsword slung over his shoulder.
“Zilgorn was the best of the lot,” Kiva mused in a singularly clear, bell-like voice. “I thought he’d make a better showing for himself.”
The wemic frowned, misunderstanding. “You thought he would succeed? That he could free the laraken from the swamp?”
Kiva’s laughter rang out like crystal chimes. “Never a chance of it! That is our task, dear Mbatu. But with each wizard we entice into the swamps, we learn a bit more.”
Her companion nodded, and his golden eyes flamed at the prospect of battle. “We go into Akhlaur soon?”
The elf’s face clouded. “Not yet Zilgorn proved … disappointing. A necromancer’s magic offers no better protection from the laraken than that of any other wizard. We must find another way.”
“So this last expedition was money and effort wasted,” Mbatu concluded, gesturing to the scrying bowl.
Kiva’s smile held an edge that could have cut diamonds. “Not a waste,” she said softly. “Never that. I would pay any price to bring death to Halruaa’s wizards, and count it a bargain.”
CHAPTER ONE
If asked, many of Halruaa’s people would swear that the world ended in a circle of snow and sky. This proverb referred to the Walls of Halruaa, the nearly impassable mountain ranges that encircled their land like a gigantic horseshoe. Such words were spoken with great pride, and only partly in jest.
It was harder for Halruaans to dismiss the seas beyond their southern border and the ships and merchants that came and went with the tides, but trade was regarded as an exchange of goods and not of culture. Halruaans purchased luxuries such as silk from the far-eastern lands and musical instruments crafted in the distant city of Silvery-moon. They sold their potent golden wine and the trade bars of electrum taken from the dwarf-mined tunnels that honeycombed the foothills. But the best of Halruaa they kept fiercely to themselves. Theirs was a magic-rich land, a kingdom ruled by wizards, and a living legend whose reality far exceeded the tavern tales brought home by awestruck merchants.
To be sure, most of these merchants had little true understanding of Halruaa’s wonders, and the wizards of Halruaa went to considerable pains to keep them unenlightened. Foreigners were confined to the port cities and carefully monitored both by magic and militia. Many well-traveled visitors considered Halruaa to have the least accessible culture and most suspicious people they had ever encountered. If that was so, it was not without reason. Halruaa’s history was that of an oft-besieged castle, for many of her neighbors saw the land as a treasure trove of unique spells and incomparable magical artifacts.
Dangers from within—dangers spawned by magical failures or wildly ambitious successes—were just as deadly as the threat offered by pirates or dragons or the drow-spawned Crinti raiders that prowled the wastes beyond the northeastern mountains. The ruling wizards understood that only hard choices and constant vigilance kept Halruaa from going the way of lost Netheril, and Myth Drannor, and a hundred other legendary lands that lived only in bards’ tales.
That was not to say that life in Halruaa was grim. Far from it! The clime was soft and balmy, the soil yielded a succession of abundant crops in every season, the wilderness provided adventure for those who desired it, and the cities offered luxury for those who did not. And magic was everywhere.
Nowhere was that so true as in Halarahh, the capital city and home of the wizard-king Zalathorm. The skies were full of curving towers resembling graceful dancers frozen against the clouds, structures too fantastic to stand without magic. Exotic beasts known nowhere else roamed the public gardens and graced the homes of wizards and wealthy merchants. Shopkeepers casually displayed rare spell ingredients, as well as magical items that could shame a dragon’s hoard and reduce most northern wizards to tears of despairing envy. Many of the common folk could boast of a magical item or two, practical things that aided in daily chores or provided a bit of simple luxury or whimsy. Even those who had neither the talent to wield magic nor the means to purchase it could join with the elite to enjoy the city’s frequent spectacles.
&nb
sp; They gathered this night at the shores of Lake Halruaa to celebrate the spring regatta. As the rains and storm winds of the winter season abated, the skyships once again took flight It was a sight that never failed to coax sighs from jaded archmages and swell the hearts of the common folk with awe and pride.
No magical secret was more jealously guarded than that of Halruaa’s flying ships. At first glance, a ship in dry dock or tied at port appeared to be nothing more than a mundane sailing vessel, broad-beamed and carrying three masts. The skyships were not particularly maneuverable, and they could not lift high enough into the air to clear the mountains. Skyships required constant magical renewal, and they were too slow and clumsy for aerial combat. None of this mattered at all, and reminding a Halruaan of these details would be as pointless as criticizing the artistic merit of a family coat of arms. The skyships were a legacy from their ancestors, the wizards of ancient Netheril, and as such they were a potent symbol of what it meant to be Halruaan.
The launching of the skyships came at the end of Lady Day, a spring festival honoring the goddess Mystra. Everyone donned festive red garments, lending the crowd at lakeside the appearance of a vast field of scarlet flowers. As the sun set, the music of street musicians faded away and the cheerful clamor of voices dimmed to an expectant hum. Every eye turned toward the waters of Lake Halruaa.
Slowly, slowly the great ships began to rise from the lake. Starlight seemed to gather in their white sails, gaining brilliance as the sky darkened and the skyships rose. There were ten of them, moving into perfect formation: nine ships forming a circle of starlight around a central ship, the great vessel owned and occasionally flown by King Zalathorm himself.
Suddenly Zalathorm’s ship appeared to burst into crimson flame. The starlight captured by the attending ships began to blink on and off in a pattern that made it appear that the circle of ships was moving faster and faster until giant stars seemed to spin around the dancing flame—Mystra’s symbol, and therefore that of Halruaa.
The crowd responded with huzzahs, stamping their feet in quickening rhythm, dancing and holding their arms out toward the light. The display ended in a brilliant burst, and a cloud of sparkling motes descended upon the cheering people. These tiny lights would cling to their red garments until the sun returned, forming patterns that, according to tradition, spoke of Mystra’s favor.
Laughing and chattering, the people hurried away to enjoy the evening’s festivities, most of which revolved around having their fortunes told. Some went to the temples to joyous rites to the goddess of magic, while others sought counsel from diviners who read such signs through incantations. The common folk held parties for neighborhood wise women, who pieced together credible stories using bits of folk magic and a lifetime of experience with the people who sought their advice. Wherever they went, most people came away satisfied. Ill tidings on Lady Day were as rare as snow in the swamplands.
In the sky over the lake, the now-dark skyships prepared to return to port. Procopio Septus, the Lord Mayor of Halarahh and captain of the skyship fleet, nodded to his helmsman. Before the man could relay the orders to the crew, the scrying globe beside the helm began to pulse with light.
Procopio skimmed his fingertips over the smooth crystal. A face took shape on the surface of the globe, a round, cheerful, and distressingly familiar face. The wizard stifled a sigh as he regarded his friend and nemesis, Basel Indoulur.
“We conjured up a good show, eh what?”
“And a fine Lady Day to you, Basel,” Procopio told his fellow wizard, ignoring the sly humor in the man’s words. Basel Indoulur was a wizard of the conjuration school, which was not as highly regarded as divination, Procopio’s discipline. But Basel never lost an opportunity to tease the diviner with the opinion that conjuring accomplished things, while divination merely nosed about in whatever other wizards were doing or were likely to do.
Nor was their school of magic the only difference between them. Procopio was a small man with a prodigious beak of a nose and strong, blunt hands. He wore his thick white hair clipped close to his head. His appearance was always meticulous, and his garments, though honoring Lady Day with the traditional red silk, were quietly fashionable. Basel Indoulur was a fat, jovial soul who was frank and vigorous in his enjoyment of Halruaa’s finer things. He was brightly clad in a tunic of crimson silk with beaded trim and voluminous sleeves. As was his custom, his black hair had been dressed with fragrant oils and worked into scores of tiny braids. When he laughed, which was often, the beads at the tip of each braid set up an echoing twitter. Procopio did not measure Basel by his appearance but by his ambition. The conjurer had reached a high level of magical skill and was the Chief Elder of his home city of Halagard. It did not escape Procopio’s attention that Basel lost few opportunities to attend events in King Zalathorm’s court. Much good may it do him. King Zalathorm was a diviner, as were most ruling wizards. It was widely accepted that only a diviner had hope of ascending the wizard-king’s throne.
“Lady Day was a great success. All went well, as I anticipated,” Procopio added, getting in a subtle dig of his own.
“Deft riposte!” Basel threw back his head and laughed delightedly.
The compliment dampened the diviner’s self-satisfaction, but not for long. Procopio had other ways of making his opinions and his powers known.
“A fine night,” he said mildly. “A shame to take the skyships down so early.”
The image of Basel pursed his lips, probably to avoid grinning like an urchin. “And there’s a sprightly wind,” he agreed. “Seems to me a good ship, well captained, could race a dragon on a night like this.”
Procopio permitted himself a smile. “You read my intentions. Figuratively speaking, of course. Shall we wager, say, a thousand skie?”
It was a princely sum, for the electrum coins were as dear as gold, but Basel did not blink. “Past the western banks of the River Halar,” he suggested. “First man to the green obelisk takes it.”
Procopio nodded, accepting the daring wager. The night winds were capricious, and the ships could not venture far out over the turbulent lake. Moreover, the junction of river with lake was a common site of wind tunnels. Here the river water, cooled by melting snows from the mountains, met the steamy air that seeped northward from the swamp. It was a volatile mix at the best of times and especially risky in the spring.
“Captain?” the helmsman said hesitantly.
The wizard waited until Basel’s image faded from the globe, then gave a sly wink. “Hard astern, on my mark.”
The helmsman picked up the horn and shouted orders to the crew, then repeated Procopio’s count. He turned the wheel hard, and the starship began to trace a slow, wide arc in the sky. Her sails fluttered, then snapped tight as they filled with wind.
“There be twisters tonight, m’lord?” the helmsman asked with studious calm. “You looked ahead to see, so to speak?”
Procopio turned to regard the man. “Would I have accepted Lord Basel’s wager if I had not? There will be a bit of weather as we pass the city’s storm break, however. Basel’s apprentices plan to cast spells of wind summoning. Could be nasty to someone whose ship or crew are ill prepared.” He paused for a small, cool smile. “Pity about poor Basil’s aft mast.”
As if in response to the diviner’s words, the third mast of the Avariel, Basel Indoulur’s skyship, began to groan in the gathering wind. The conjurer turned and regarded it with mild puzzlement. The wood was flexible, taken from the date palms that lined the stormy Bay of Taertal. Spells of binding kept the masts firm, and Farrah Noor, one of his most competent apprentices, had been charged with renewing the enchantment.
The wizard shrugged and turned back to the grinning trio of apprentices that awaited his command. “Ready to cast the wind charm?”
They nodded and began to chant in unison, their hands moving through the graceful gestures that summoned and shaped the magic. Basel left them to the task and turned his face into the wind, enjoying the bra
cing rush.
Suddenly a powerful gust caught the ship and sent it listing dangerously to one side. The spellcasting wizards stumbled to the deck and slid, smashing into the side of the ship in a tangle of limbs. Wood began to creak alarmingly and the sails flapped thunderously. Basel braced his feet wide and seized the control rod himself, chanting as he struggled with magic and skill to right the Avariel.
The ship fought him like a panicked mare, and the aft mast began to creak and splinter. Resignedly Basel knew what must be done. Reaching out with a spell of unbinding, he magically severed the ropes that fastened the sails to the masts. The heavy canvas whipped away, and at last the ship came upright. They were safe, but hopelessly becalmed.
Basel watched as his apprentices rose to their feet and brushed at their crimson finery. All three of them looked rumpled and rattled, but the expression of puzzlement on Farrah’s pretty face confirmed Basel’s growing suspicions. He gestured the young woman to his side.
“Let me see the gestures to the wind spell,” he said mildly. “Leave out the chant, if you please.”
The apprentice went through half the spell before she flushed and faltered. “I seem to have forgotten the third quatrain,” she admitted. “Only this morning I knew it perfectly. On my life, Lord Basel, I do not know how this thing could have happened!”
Actually, Basel had a fairly good idea. “And the enchantment of the mast? You spoke the spell of binding this morning, as you were bade?”
An expression of complete befuddlement crossed Farrah’s face. “You gave me this task? My lord, I have no memory of this.”
The conjurer nodded. Loss of memory was a common side effect of magical inquiry. Most likely Procopio had had his servants follow Basel’s apprentices during the day’s festival and had cast spells of divination upon the first one they’d found. Unfortunately for the Avariel, it had been Farrah.
The Magehound Page 2