Matteo let go of his hold and slid down the creature’s back. He rolled and leaped to his feet. Breaking into a run, he outpaced the laraken and spun to face it, standing directly in its path as he drew the unfamiliar long sword Andris had lent him.
The creature plunged right over him, unimpressed. Matteo fell and then leaped up, stabbing upward with all his strength.
The sword plunged into the soft hide where the leg joined the laraken’s body. With a scream like that of a titanic eagle, the laraken swiveled quickly away from the attack.
It was the worst thing it could have done, and the one thing Matteo hoped it would do. He braced the sword, holding it firm as the creature’s startled reaction tore the flesh within.
The force of the laraken’s movement ripped the sword from Matteo’s hand, but not before the damage was done. Matteo rolled clear and came up with his daggers in hand, determined to keep the creature away from both of his friends.
Tzigone saw her own determination mirrored in Matteo’s dark eyes. She pounded the tree limb with frustration, but she kept singing. If she had her way, she would summon two dark and terrible creatures this day.
In a tower room in a village on the edge of the swamp, Kiva leaned over her scrying bowl and watched as the battle played out. When Matteo struck a near-fatal blow, she gasped as if her own flesh had been pierced.
She lifted anguished eyes to her wemic companion. “They might actually do it, Mbatu. They might kill the laraken.”
“That might be for the best,” the wemic said.
The elf shook her head. Her painted lips firmed in determination. “Give me the portal,” she said, extending her hand.
Mbatu placed the folded silk in her hands, but his leonine face twisted with concern. “Is it safe for you to go so soon?”
She rose and stroked his mane. “What place is not safe if you are with me?”
The flattery was obvious, but still the wemic looked displeased. But he stayed at her side as she flung the silk into the air and let it envelop them both.
The air was suddenly thick and hot, heavy with the scent of battle and death. Impatiently Kiva flung aside the silk portal and reached for the spell she had so carefully prepared, a powerful casting that would close the portal and free the laraken to ravage the land and leave the treasures of Akhlaur for her to reclaim.
An anguished roar sent her spinning toward the battle, a scream that carried magic as the wind carried seeds. The fighters had learned from Matteo’s bold move, and they focused their attacks on the soft tissue beneath the creature’s arms, inside its thighs, under its tail. The laraken was weaving on its feet, bristling with arrows and spears and looking like an enormous, hideous hedgehog. But it still lived, and it slashed out wildly with its clawed hands.
Instinctively Kiva’s hand went to her leg. The creature had slashed her with those claws, tiny at the time of its birth but still sharp enough to tear down to the bone. She bore the scars still, as well as other, deeper wounds to her body and her spirit.
But it wasn’t a mother’s instinct that lured her to the laraken’s side. All Kiva knew was that the laraken was near death and that all that she had worked for was at risk.
With a terrible keening scream, the magehound summoned her magic and prepared to destroy her own army.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tzigone heard Kiva’s cry and knew with certainty that the magehound intended yet another betrayal.
Her gaze skimmed the battlefield. Over half the fighters had fallen, but the survivors were wearing the laraken down at last. It continued to press toward her tree, compelled by the magic of her song, and each pace took it farther from the source of its power.
A shimmer of silvery motes appeared over the bubbling spring, spreading and smoothing out into a large silver form. A bucket, Tzigone realized, and she had little doubt what the magehound intended to do.
Kiva snatched the bucket from the air and dipped it into the magic-rich water. She hurried forward, ready to hurl it at the weakening laraken.
Tzigone broke off her song at last, for it was impossible to sing and curse at the same time. She squared her shoulders as she muttered a few arcane words and then flung out one hand, throwing one of the few wizard spells she knew.
A huge fireball streaked toward the elf woman, arching over the laraken’s head and trailing light like a comet. As Tzigone expected, much of the fireball’s power was siphoned off by the magic-draining monster. It fell toward Kiva, fading and shrinking dramatically until it was no larger or brighter than an orange.
But it was large enough for Tzigone’s purpose. The diminished fireball splashed into the bucket with a searing hiss. Steam rose, and water bubbled over the rim.
The elf woman shrieked and dropped the bucket, shaking her scalded hands. She whirled toward Kiva’s tree, her wild eyes searching for her attacker. The wemic came to her side, standing ready for whatever command she gave.
Tzigone began to sing again, calling the swamp creatures to her aid. A score or so of stirges answered her call and dived at the elf woman, humming in their droning voices, a grim harmony to Tzigone’s song.
Kiva set her feet wide and delivered a series of fireballs. Each of the glowing missiles divided again and again as it flew, and the shards took off in search of the darting stirges. Giant mosquitoes sizzled and popped as the seeking fireballs found their targets. The surviving stirges scattered in frantic flight, closely pursued by balls of killing flame.
Kiva retaliated with a swift, angry gesture. A glowing arrow sizzled toward Tzigone. But it could not strike. It was no true arrow, but magical energy shaped into a bolt. It stopped short of its target, so suddenly that it seemed to splat against an invisible wall. Now shaped more like a plate than an arrow, the missile fell to the ground and seared the earth beneath it as it cooled.
Tzigone kept singing. A pair of centaurs came to her call, their thundering hooves echoing above the sound of battle. She grimaced. These creatures had little to do with men and were more likely to side with the beleaguered elf. But the centaurs took one look at the men engaging the laraken and decided that the foes of their foes were worth supporting. Leveling wooden staffs at the elf and her wemic guard, they charged forward like jousting knights.
Mbatu reached over his shoulder for his great broadsword. He thrust Kiva aside and stepped into the line of attack. With a roar, he swept his sword up in a rising circle, catching the oncoming staff and forcing it up. He reared, raking at the centaur’s chest with his forepaws.
But the centaur also reared, and his hoofs slashed and pounded at the wemic. Both combatants dropped their weapons, grappling like wrestlers with their manlike arms while pounding and lashing at each other with the weapons of lion and steed.
Mbatu leaped up, digging his hind claws deep into the centaur’s belly and pulling the massive creature down with him. The snap of the centaur’s leg sent a surge of triumph through him, and he ignored the heavy impact He rolled aside and seized his discarded sword. As he rose beside the struggling centaur, he slashed the creature hard across its throat with one forepaw. Four deep lines opened and welled with blood.
A heavy thud jolted Mbatu. Dimly he recognized that this wasn’t the first such blow, and he whirled to face the second centaur, his sword lifted to attack.
But there was no power to his blow. Mbatu felt strangely weak, and he struggled to draw air into his aching chest. The centaur swung his staff again and smacked Mbatu hard against his flank. The wemic spat at the centaur’s hooves in defiance and noticed that his spittle was thick and red.
The wemic lifted his hand to his face. His mane was sodden with blood. The centaur’s hooves had left a deep slash on the left side of his head and removed most of one ear. In his battle lust, Mbatu hadn’t noticed.
But there had been other wounds, and he felt them now as he and the centaur circled each other warily. Several ribs had been cracked. One had pierced a lung. He was drowning in his own blood even as he fought.
But fight
he did, as best as he could, while Kiva hurled spell after spell at the small woman in the tree.
A flicker of fear went through the wemic as he considered the probable result of the spell battle. As he feared, the laraken reared up, sniffing the air like a tired wolf who scents an easy meal. The creature turned away from the fighters and began to wade toward Kiva.
Mbatu roared in protest and leaped directly at the laraken’s throat. He held on with his leonine fangs and his claws, not expecting to deal a death blow but hoping to hold the creature off long enough to allow Kiva to escape.
But the laraken plucked the wemic from its throat and gave its latest tormenter a single hard shake. Mbatu’s spine snapped with an audible crunch. The laraken tossed him aside and advanced on the elf woman and her nourishing magic. As it moved closer, its many wounds started to heal and spears dropped away as knitting tissue expelled them.
Kiva’s fireball spell fizzled into smoke as the creature drew near. Her hands faltered, and her copper face began to pale as the laraken drank in her magic. In a heartbeat, she was weaving on her feet, her eyes fixed on the approaching creature as a mouse might eye a swooping hawk.
Matteo saw the course of battle reversing before his eyes. If the laraken regained strength, they could not destroy it. Again he ran up the spine of the laraken. Desperate now, he flung one arm around the creature’s neck. Pulling his dagger, he reached around and pulled the dagger hard toward the laraken’s face. He steeled himself for the crush of those lethal fangs.
But his aim was true, and the dagger plunged deep into the laraken’s eye with a sickening pop and a hot gush of fluid.
The laraken roared, twitching and pawing at its head. Claws raked Matteo’s arm, slashing through sinew and grating on bone. Bright pain darted through his arm and exploded behind his eyes. He let go and fell, rolling aside and barely escaping the pounding feet of the frantic laraken.
The creature rushed instinctively toward the spring, brushing past Kiva in its desperation to feed and heal. The elf woman was tossed aside like a leaf in the wind. She came up on her hands and knees and began to chant.
Instantly the stream began to boil, and bubbles as large as men rose from the water. The laraken dived into one of the bubbles and disappeared.
Kiva, pale as death, lurched to her feet and staggered toward the spring, brandishing a square of dark silk. She tossed this over the bubbling water. The silk turned dark as water soaked it, then sank into the spring. Water and silk disappeared, leaving a bed dry and empty except for a few fish that gasped and floundered in the thin air. Kiva sank to her knees, wavered, and then fell heavily onto her face.
Tzigone slid down the tree and raced over to Matteo’s side. He struggled to a sitting position and she dropped to her knees beside him. For a long moment, she regarded the deep gashes that ran from wrist to elbow.
“Well, that’s pretty disgusting,” she announced.
Matteo chuckled weakly. “Get Andris. He knows how to clean and stitch wounds.”
She rose and looked around for the tall jordain. Andris was bent over one of the wounded men, his touch deft and sure as he bandaged a wound. He, too, had suffered from the attack. His form still retained its distinctive colors, but it was translucent. Looking at him was like looking at a rainbow in human form.
Tzigone hurried over and grasped his elbow, relieved to find that he still felt solid. “Matteo needs you.”
Andris quickly finished his work and came to his friend’s side. His expression was somber as he examined the wound. He took out needle and fine gut thread and began to stitch. Tzigone paced as he worked.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Deep, but clean. There is little tearing across the muscle. Fortunately the talons on that creature were sharp as knives.”
“How lucky can a man get?” she muttered. “Will he be all right? I know how quickly a wound can turn bad in a swamp.”
“He’ll be fine,” Andris assured her in a soothing voice.
Tzigone stopped and prodded the translucent jordain with her foot. “Don’t lie to me,” she warned him. “I can see right through you.”
“Tzigone,” Matteo said wearily. “Go check on Kiva.”
That struck her as an excellent idea. She went over to the elf, seized one of her limp coppery hands, and jerked her over onto her back. Stooping, Tzigone placed her fingers against Kiva’s throat.
“She still lives,” she said in a flat voice, and then she pulled a knife from her boot and lifted it high.
Andris darted forward and seized the girl’s wrist in a translucent hand. “No,” he said softly. “I will not argue that she deserves to live, but consider the good of the land.”
“He’s right,” Matteo agreed. He rose painfully and made his way carefully through the tangle of fallen men. “Kiva didn’t close the gate. She merely moved it. We must find out where. Let her live, under the guard of the church of Azuth, until she recovers enough to submit to Inquisition. If it is vengeance you seek, her own kind will deal with her less kindly than you would.”
Tzigone gave him a baleful look. “Is that true?”
“I swear it. Magehounds are seldom merciful, even to their own kind.”
“Hmmm.” She considered this and then nodded. “Maybe I could get to like magehounds after all.”
But Matteo noticed that she still gripped the knife, and she eyed Kiva with a fury than went beyond hatred. He gently took her wrist and eased the blade from her fingers.
“Our task is done,” Matteo said softly. “The swamp has been contained; the laraken is gone. There is a balance in that. Halruaa is well served.”
“But what about us?” Tzigone said passionately. “Who among us have been well served?”
Matteo looked at his friends and at the men whom Kiva had tricked or conscripted into service. Even the brave wemic who died defending her had no doubt been stolen as a cub and trained to Kiva’s service. He considered what had been taken from all of them. And try as he might, he could not hold Kiva solely guilty.
“I’m not saying that what Kiva did was right or justified,” he said softly. “But who knows what wrongs she sought to avenge? If such grim measures were taken to mold the jordaini, what else might Halruaa’s wizards have done? What evils gave birth to what we have fought today? This is something we must know.”
Andris gathered up Kiva in his translucent arms. The tiny elf woman seemed almost to float. “That is no task for a jordain,” he said. “It is our duty to serve Halruaa’s wizards.”
“It is our duty to seek truth,” Matteo said with quiet determination. “From this day on, I will follow no other master.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kiva awakened to the chant of morning prayers. Moments passed before she realized she was in the care of the Temple of Azuth. Memory returned in a rush, dimming the pain that throbbed through her every bone and sinew. And worse still was the terrible void in her mind and soul.
She had been stripped of magic. Not entirely—no elf could be entirely devoid of magic and live—but her wizardly power was gone beyond recall. She wouldn’t have felt half as bereft if she’d lost sight or hearing or touch. The elf lay back on her pillows and fought against her rising despair.
There might yet be something she could do. In fact, the loss of her magic made her quest for the treasures of Akhlaur even more imperative.
But she had few defenses now, and fewer allies. Who would rally to the cause of a magic-dead magehound? Mbatu was dead—Mbatu, who would have stood beside her if she had been halt and lame and hideous. Mbatu, at least, she had not betrayed. The wemic had gone into battle honestly, knowing the risks and accepting them for love of her. Kiva took some comfort in that, especially in the face of what she had to do.
With great effort, she managed to reach the silver bell that stood on the bedside table. A cleric of Azuth answered her call, a tall man wearing a saffron tunic and a frigid expression.
“So you have awakened. Good. I will summon
servants to bring broth and bread. You will need your strength to face the coming Inquisition.”
Kiva propped herself up on one elbow. “What I did was done at the behest of the queen,” she said, knowing that this would slow the Inquisition until her claim was investigated.
“Queen Beatrix bade you to subvert the jordaini? That is difficult to believe.”
“The queen suspects the jordaini order,” Kiva continued. “I slew Cassia at her command. This was my right, for Cassia was tainted by magic’s touch.
“And she is not alone in treachery,” the magehound continued. “Zephyr, the counselor to Procopio Septus, is another hidden wizard. He must be destroyed.”
The cleric gazed at her. “Many of Halruaa’s wizards might have been destroyed if you’d had your will in Akhlaur’s Swamp.”
She waved this aside impatiently. “The whole story hasn’t yet been told. When you question Zephyr, he will tell you that he wanted the laraken to die. But ask him who sired the laraken! He cannot deny his part in this. He is a soft old fool who could not kill a thing. He will deny this, but I swear before Azuth that Zephyr told me he wanted the laraken to live. He wanted all of Halruaa to suffer at the laraken’s hands.”
“But if he’s a wizard, then he would die as well.”
“Zephyr is over six hundred years old,” she said flatly, “and though that is not so old for an elf, he was greatly aged by the magic worked upon him by the wizard Akhlaur. Ask him about Akhlaur. Ask what was done to him, and then tell me that Zephyr had no part in this vengeance.
“He wishes to die,” Kiva said, speaking true at last. “But not until a great evil is avenged. Test me now. I will repeat these words, and you will see that they are true.”
The cleric hesitated, but Kiva gave a firm nod. He left the room and returned with an inquisitor. When the silver rod touched her forehead, she repeated her claim. The truth of her accusation—or at least, a damning partial truth—rang through her words like temple bells.
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