The Magehound

by Elaine Cunningham

  Matteo began to understand the situation. “Why don’t you play in the courtyard gardens, and we will try again after midday meal.”

  The child shrugged ungraciously and left the room. Matteo made his way directly to his patron’s study. He told the wizard in a few words about the child’s response.

  “Next time let her win,” the wizard decreed.

  “That is dishonest, and a disservice to the child, “Matteo protested. “Strategy games are designed to develop the reason and intellect, but learning to win and to lose with grace is a skill as important as any other.”

  “A lesson she will learn in time,” the wizard said. “Ease her into it.”

  “With all respect, I cannot teach in that manner.”

  Procopio shrugged. “Fine. Tell Drankiish to take over the girl’s tutoring. You can deliver a diplomatic message for me. That is, if your scruples don’t prevent you?”

  He ignored the wizard’s sarcasm. “I would be honored.”

  For several days to come, Matteo served largely as messenger, memorizing a sentence or a speech and repeating the messages, faithful to the word and nuance and inflection. He did not see Zephyr again except at an occasional meal, and his attempts at befriending the other jordaini were soundly rebuffed.

  Matteo found none of the camaraderie and good-natured teasing he had known in the school. Here, satire was in deadly earnest and usually held several sharp, hidden layers of meaning.

  After a few days of this, Matteo began to feel rather despondent. When he was not on duty, he spent his time learning the city or reading alone in his bedchamber.

  He was engaged in study one evening when a soft rustle drew his eye to his open window. A surge of pleasure engulfed him at the sight of the small, pointed face peering over the ledge, and his smile mirrored the grin on the young woman’s face.

  “Tzigone!” he exclaimed. “How did you find me? For that matter, what possessed you to travel so far?”

  She hauled herself over the sill and into the room. “I take my debts very seriously. Or had you forgotten? I thought jordaini were supposed to have memories like palaces with endless rooms.”

  Matteo had forgotten nothing, and his wariness returned as he recalled all that had passed between them. “I remember that you advised me not to trust too easily.”

  She nodded in understanding. “You’ll be reminded of that often enough of in a place like this. I’d rather live in a behirs’ nest than a wizard lord’s villa. You’ve had a hard time of it, I suppose.”

  “It is a fine position,” he said stiffly.

  “Hmmph,” she said, unconvinced. “Where wizards are concerned, the only ‘position’ you’re likely to find yourself in is over a barrel with your breeches about your ankles.”

  Matteo stifled a chuckle. “I am not supposed to hold such dim opinions of wizards.”

  “Nice evasion,” she complimented him. She sat on the windowsill, her bare feet dangling into the room. “This place is as good as any. I suppose that after your last few days at the jordaini complex, you would be happy to go almost anywhere else.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  A flicker of pity crossed the girl’s face. “I followed you back to the school, as I said I would. I witnessed that so-called rite of purification.”

  “I was late to come,” he said shortly. “But in the time allotted me, I had much to contemplate.”

  “Contemplate?” she echoed incredulously. “Is that what you call what I saw?”

  Matteo shrugged. “Granted, it probably was not much to watch. Observing the growth of crops would be as exciting as watching jordaini in solitary contemplation. Though I do not complain. I arrived late, but the two days I spent in thought were most enlightening.”

  Tzigone’s eyes lit with understanding. “And as far as you know, that’s the extent of this rite.”

  “The ritual of purification is a time of solitary contemplation,” Matteo said, puzzled by her reaction. “Mine was shortened, but I made what use of it I could.”

  For some reason she found that comment amusing. “No offense, Matteo, but that’s something I’d expect one of your less fortunate comrades to say.”

  “I don’t understand,” he repeated.

  “Someday you might. When that day comes, be sure to tell me if you consider my debt paid. After talking to you, I think it might be.”

  With that cryptic comment, she disappeared into the night, leaving Matteo staring after her in puzzlement.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kiva enjoyed a few quiet days in her retreat outside of Zalasuu, but she was just as happy to see this time draw to a close. She had spent a very long time preparing for the assault upon Akhlaur, and today she expected to make more progress than she had in a decade.

  The villa was well outside the walls of the city. Small but luxurious, it was surrounded by deep forests and warded by virtually impenetrable magical wards.

  That morning the magehound broke her fast with tea and fruit on the piazza, a tiled courtyard encircled by gardens. An elaborate iron trellis curved over the breakfast table, providing shade and lending support for the profusion of grapevines that entwined it. Bunches of grapes, some yellow and some a soft, sunrise pink, hung in fragrant clusters overhead. The morning rain had come before dawn with a sudden bursting of clouds, and moisture still hung thick in the air. The air, despite the heavy perfume of the garden and the braziers of scented smoke that kept away the insects, was fetid with the scent of the nearby swamp—the Kilmaruu Swamp, and the origin of the paradox that Andris had been brough there to solve.

  Kiva heard the soft tap of approaching footsteps and watched as the tall jordain walked onto the piazza. For many days he had lain in deep slumber. Since magic had little effect upon the jordaini, Kiva had resorted to burning in his room incense made from powerful herbs and giving him sips of strong herbal infusions. Though she had been tapering off the dosage so that he might awaken, she had given him enough over the past several days to leave him disorientated and confused.

  She studied the tall young man as he approached. His auburn hair was still damp from the baths, but he had not made use of the razor that had been left for him. This was telling. The jordaini custom was for men to be meticulously clean-shaven.

  She gestured him to take the seat across from her. “You look well, Andris. Your long sleep seems to have agreed with you.”

  “I was given no opportunity to disagree,” he pointed out.

  “True enough.” She put down her cup and folded her hands on the table. “I must apologize for the way you were brought here. You have been chosen for an important task, as counselor to a hidden lord.”

  “Counselor?” The young man eyed her warily. “I am no longer jordain. No man tainted by magic can hold that office.”

  “And do you have this ‘taint,’ Andris?”

  “So you say. I myself have seen no sign of it.”

  Kiva rose and walked over to a small table. She took something from a carved wooden box and returned to him. “This is a test given to the children of Halruaa. Light is the first and simplest of magical energies. It moves more swiftly than heat or sound or substance. Read this scroll and imitate the gesture written upon it.”

  The bit of parchment was the simplest of spell scrolls, suitable for children who could not yet read. On it was sketched a small curved pattern.

  “Hold your hand so, fingers all together so that the tips touch your thumb, and trace this pattern in the air before you. Begin at the red dot and move toward the blue.”

  Andris did as he was bade. A ball of faint greenish light appeared, bobbing listlessly over the breakfast table. He dropped his hand onto the table and regarded the enchantment with bleak eyes.

  “You have produced light,” Kiva pointed out. “You don’t look pleased.”

  “Should I be? There are fish and fungi that can do as much.”

  Kiva chuckled. “Now that you mention it. But you can also do many other things, and
do them well.”

  “Nothing that matters. Nothing for which I am trained. I am disgraced, dead in the eyes of my brothers.”

  “Your death was a necessary illusion. Your new patron required it,” she said softly. She settled back in her chair. “But let us speak of more pleasant things. There is in your training much that interests me. Tell me of the Kilmaruu Paradox.”

  A spark of interest lit the man’s hazel eyes. “You know the problem as well as I. The Kilmaruu Swamp is a hive of undead. Many wizards and adventuring parties have sought to clear the swamp, but they only seem to strengthen the creatures. Each incursion into the swamp brings a retaliatory strike on the villages and farmlands beyond. On the other hand, if nothing is done to contain the undead, they slip into the harbor and scuttle the ships.”

  “And how would you solve this problem?”

  Andris leaned forward. “In Zalasuu, there is a proverb: The swamp helps keep the number of fools in town low.’ That is truth, but invert the statement and another truth is revealed. Increase the number of fools in the town, and we could keep the number of undead in the swamp low. Do you know the etymology for the word ‘jordain’?”

  “All too well,” she said dryly. “In Old Netherese, the language from which Halruaan descended, it was the word for ‘fool.’ At that time the word had a meaning more elevated than it now enjoys. A fool was a counselor to kings and wizards, a bard of sorts who entertained and advised through satirical songs. I suppose this charming little history has a point?”

  “In time. Permit me to explain one step at a time,” Andris said, his animation increasing with each word. “What element is common to all who enter the swamp to explore and conquer? What weapons do they employ?”

  “Magic, of course.”

  “And magic feeds the undead. The creatures seem to require it. Why else would they venture into the harbors to attack ships? I have made a study of the cargo lost to these attacks. Without exception, the ships carried a goodly number of spellcasters and magical items.”

  Kiva nodded thoughtfully. “I had not thought to seek a pattern there, but your reasoning seems sound to me.”

  “For reasons I do not completely understand, the undead in the swamp need magic to survive. The adventuring wizards and warriors and clerics armed with their magical weapons and holy artifacts feed the undead, like so many tavern wenches delivering hot trenchers of stew.”

  Kiva suppressed a smile at the analogy and noted at the faint disdain in the young man’s voice. In time, he would come to regret both. “And your solution?”

  “There are many in this land who possess no magical talent whatsoever. The jordaini are chief among them, but there are others. Gather them together and go against the undead denizens of Kilmaruu without magic.”

  The words hung in the air like a challenge, like a curse or foul blasphemy. Both the elf and the man understood that this strategy flew in the face of every instinct and tradition of the land.

  “And who would command this army of jordaini?”

  “I would have done so gladly, were I still jordain.” Andris glared at the fading magical light.

  The magehound dispelled the globe with a flick of her coppery fingers and then picked up the scroll. She smoothed it and put it on the table before him.

  “Cast the spell again, jordain.”

  Andris set his jaw and formed the gesture as before. This time no light came to his call. He lifted a puzzled stare to Kiva’s face.

  In response, she reached into the folds of her gown and retrieved the jeweled wand that had damned Andris. She touched it to the grape arbor that curved over the breakfast table. A high, ghostly note vibrated through the iron trellis.

  Understanding, pained and incredulous and furious all at once, dawned in the jordain’s eyes. Kiva nodded acknowledgment of his insight

  “Yes. The result would be much the same if I were to touch this wand to a stone, a toad, or a pile of goosedown. It finds magic in everything, whether there is any to find or not.”

  “My brothers think me dead,” Andris said, speaking first of that which troubled him most.

  “Would it comfort you to know that you will see and work with many of them again? That in doing so, you will be doing what you trained for? You and your jordaini brothers will attend powerful wizards, using both your talents and your resistance to magic for the good of the land.”

  Andris regarded her thoughtfully. “You make a powerful point. But why the deceit?”

  “It was a necessary thing. Truth might be meat and drink to the jordaini, but most men order their lives by other impulses. There is great status in having jordaini servants, and the wizards clamor over you like hounds snarling over bones. A man of your talents was needed for this great task. Other opportunities would soon be offered to you. We could not entrust the outcome to fate.”

  “You could have told me of your plans outright. A jordain is free to choose among employments offered him.”

  Kiva smiled and laid her slender hand on his arm. “Forgive me, Andris, but I did not know your true measure. Status is all-important in this land. I have on good authority that both Procopio Septus of Halarahh and Lord Grozalum of Khaerbaal intended to petition for your service. The admiral of Halruaa’s navy reports to Grozalum. If Procopio has his way, he will be king after Zalathorm. Most ambitious jordaini would be sorely tempted by offers from such patrons. I feared that you might find such an uncertain undertaking less attractive if you knew what glories were available for the taking.”

  Andris scratched at the unfamiliar stubble on his chin. “But I am jordain. I serve the truth and the land.”

  “And what of yourself, Andris?” she said softly. “What do you want for yourself?”

  The question seemed to puzzle the young man. Kiva tried again. “How content are you with the life that lies before you? You will advise, wizards will command, and others will do. Is that what you want? Correct me if I have read you falsely, but I think you were born to command.”

  Andris was silent for a long moment. “It is not the tradition of this land.”

  “Nor is it tradition to mount a campaign without magic. Yet you have devised just such a campaign, and you long to command it. Is this not truth?”

  There was mockery in her voice, but the young jordain’s face remained thoughtful. “Who commissioned my services?”

  “I cannot say. This land is ruled by wizards, but none have been able to contain the undead monsters of Kilmaruu. Let’s just say that it would be … awkward if someone so highly placed were to seek a nonmagical solution to this problem.”

  Andris’s face suffused with wonder as the alchemy of hope transformed her lie into his greatest hidden dreams. Every wizard, every fighter in the land aspired to serving the great Zalathorm. This, then, was what Kiva seemed to offer. His own command, at the king’s bequest!

  The young jordain rose and fell to one knee before her. “Since you speak for the wizard who commissioned my service, you are my patron. Tell me what you desire me to accomplish, and I will find a way to do so,” he said earnestly.

  The elf woman patted his arm. “You have made a fine start, Andris. Far better than you know.”

  The next day Mbatu stood at the edge of the camp, watching as Kiva’s recruits trained. Though he could find no fault in the warriors’ efforts, neither did he take any pleasure in watching them.

  Yesterday he had been the battlemaster; today all that remained for him to do was watch as the tall, red-haired man put the fighters through their paces.

  To his amazement, the men were no longer Kiva’s captives and mercenaries, but an army. The wemic didn’t know what Kiva had told the young jordain, but something had set him aflame. His passion had spread like wildfire to every man in his command.

  The men were armed with rattan swords, so they could get used to the unfamiliar weight and length of them before using steel. Andris chose five men and bade them to swarm him. They charged in, whistling their practice blades through the
air.

  Mbatu chuckled, expecting the tall man to be facedown in muck before he could lift his sword.

  He should have remembered his own encounter with a jordain. Within moments, all five of the fighters had been sent reeling back to nurse their bruises.

  “Iago,” Andris called, pointing to a slim, dark blade of a man. “You play the role of the out-numbered fighter.”

  “An honor,” the man said dryly. “It will be excellent practice for playing the role of the corpse.”

  Andris joined in the laughter this comment elicited, then his face turned serious. “Remember that we will not be fighting honorable duels. We need to work together if any of us are to survive. Imagine that Iago is surrounded by undead. I’ll show you how to work the perimeter and finish off the attackers as he pushes them back. You three—you can be the first wave of undead.”

  The men lifted their swords and rushed in for the attack. Andris fell back, so that for a moment, Iago was standing alone. The smaller man parried the first thrusting attack.

  Before the rattan swords could disengage, Andris stepped in and seized the attacker’s hair. He drew his sword lightly across the man’s throat and then spun toward the second attacker, fist clenched as if it were still gripping a handful of hair. He swung hard into the second man’s gut, doubling him over.

  “Freeze,” he commanded.

  The men stood as they were, though the man he’d just hit wobbled as he struggled to stand in his bent-over position.

  “Let’s say that I beheaded the first zombie and used the head to shield-smash the one coming up behind. What now? Iago?”

  The slim jordain nodded toward his “headless” companion. “This creature cannot see. He will flail around for a time before falling. I need to move beyond reach of his blade.”

  “You can do better. Turn it toward the other monsters,” Andris suggested. “Like so.”

  He whirled and used the flat of his sword to strike the man who was bent over and off-balance. The man stumbled into the “headless zombie,” who obligingly turned and started swinging at this new attacker.