“Be still, boy,” said Nikkolynda. “Nothing's coming out of there. The bastard mocks me with his power, wasting his energy this way."
“Your enemy lives in the mountain?” Hawkin asked.
“No,” said Nikkolynda. “The cave is an illusion. This is a doorway, true, but to some other place of his choosing. The rock simply serves as the medium for the spell."
“I don't understand."
“I don't expect you to. Turn about, flyer. Return to Hurst and deliver my message."
Steeling himself, Hawkin stepped toward the hole in the rock. The darkness inside writhed in on itself and made the solid stone edges appear to pulsate. The hairs on his arm stood up as he approached.
“Very well then,” said Nikkolynda. “You're about to witness a battle the like of which this realm has never seen. Try to stay out of the way."
With that, the Prime Wizard stepped into the inky blackness. He vanished instantly, swallowed up by the opaque turbulence in the rock. Hawkin hesitated for only a second before drawing a deep breath and throwing himself after.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The ground fell away beneath Hawkin's feet as he shot through the dark portal. He thrust his hands through the glider's directionals, thankful he hadn't unsheathed the rapier as he rushed after the Prime Wizard. He spread his wings as he fell and felt the feathers bite into the wind immediately. A dim light appeared to his left. He banked toward it while straining his eyes, praying that nothing hung unseen in his path. The airway was clear, however, and he burst into the full light of the moon. He blinked, wondering what had happened to the overcast night. Then his nostrils registered the cold, moist scent of the air, and he realized the arcane door had led him to a place far from the road. He was above the cloud layer, high enough for an unobstructed view of the full moon.
He angled into a wide circle and surveyed the ground—or rather, the water below. The moonlight sparkled off the still surface of a broad lake that dominated most of the visible area. A wide swatch of grass arced around one side of the lake; a sheer wall of rock formed the opposite shore. Beyond the grass rose a thick forest of broad-leafed trees that melted away into the gloom. Along the curving canyon wall the lake narrowed to a river and, like the trees, disappeared past the reach of the moon.
Recognition struck Hawkin like a blow from a dwarf's war hammer: he'd somehow been transported to the Cauldron, the source of both the Nivom and the Odraset. Located so high in the mountains that the flyer's wings found little purchase, the Cauldron was said by the few who'd seen it to be the most beautiful locale in the Western Realm. A torrent of water crashed down from the lip of the rock wall—according to popular legend, the Cauldron was fed by an even greater body of water thousands of feet closer to the snow-topped peaks. Hawkin might have better appreciated the awesome view were his attention not preoccupied by the figures approaching one another from opposite ends of the grass.
The closest was Nikkolynda—Hawkin recognized the wizard's hobbling gait easily. As he dove toward the old man, however, Nikkolynda's appearance began to change. The bent spine straightened abruptly, and his fast-paced shuffle became a full, strong stride. When the wizard looked up, Hawkin actually saw his beard fall away to the ground. The transformation startled him so that he nearly fell from the sky before Nikkolynda's impatient wave brought the flyer back to his senses. He turned his gaze to the creature on the other side of the glen. And shuddered.
Hawkin had never encountered an elf before, but he'd been to the Imperial Museum and seen the paintings. Nikkolynda's opponent bore numerous similarities to the depictions of the vile forest dwellers, though he wasn't a perfect match. His sharp vision picked out the pointed ears, and the man's blue eyes virtually glowed of their own accord. Even through the loose white robe Hawkin noted the thin, wiry frame. He recalled that elves unfailingly sported white hair, however, and even in the pale moonlight this man's was obviously blond. A word flashed through Hawkin's mind and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from vomiting. As if able to sense his thoughts, the Weirdling bared its teeth in a vicious grin.
“Get out of here,” commanded Nikkolynda. The wizard didn't appear to shout, but his words carried through the still canyon easily. It finally occurred to Hawkin that Nikkolynda faced the warlock who'd sent the monstrous spider to Hurst, the phantom leader of the Addamantian invasion. Hawkin cut his dive abruptly and beat his wings, fighting for support in the thin air. He struggled upward until the wizard and warlock shrank to gnome-sized figures, then settled into a circling glide and waited for an opportunity to strike.
* * * * *
“I see you couldn't bring yourself to come alone,” said Malthus. As on the ice plain, the Weirdling's words carried across the distance despite his soft voice. He spoke with a master magician's voice, a mode of conversation that transmitted sound by intent rather than manipulating the clumsy medium of air and vibration.
Nikkolynda responded in kind. “The flyer followed me. I need no help to dispatch one half-breed upstart.” He slid to his left, still facing the warlock but putting some distance between himself and the lake. First ice, then water, he noted. Perhaps Malthus's magic had some peculiar dependency on water, one that might be used against him.
“Six pouches and, if my elven eyes aren't mistaken, three wands. I'm impressed, wizard. You've come a bit more prepared this time.” Malthus sidled left as well. Except for the thirty yards separating them, wizard and warlock looked for all the world like swordsmen jockeying for advantageous position.
“And you, Weirdling? Perhaps your half-elven heritage has divested you of half your need for charms and amulets?"
The barb was meant to anger Malthus, but the warlock merely laughed. “Sadly, no, my insignificant friend. I still rely on the semantic and material chains that bind your ability, though my cage is so much greater than yours. I've learned a great deal from the Sandlander grimoire."
Malthus's voice shifted timbre halfway through the brief discourse, and Nikkolynda realized that the warlock prepared a spell under his breath even as they conversed. In effect, he managed to speak with two voices at once, one to needle Nikkolynda, the other to summon power through Halonic phrasing. Despite the circumstances, the Prime Wizard was impressed. Until now he'd known no one other than himself who could perform such a feat.
“Conjuring spirits to assassinate politicians and miners?” Nikkolynda asked. “Even a coward like yourself should be able to kill a few soldiers without stealing desert magic."
Once again Malthus brushed aside the insult with a laugh. “Oh, the general and the counselor were only for practice, as were the men in the silver mine. The bard, of course, was a necessity, as he overheard Fenric discussing our plans with that idiot Draston."
Despite his suspicion of the prince Nikkolynda was surprised by the glib admission. For a brief instant his thoughts jumped to the ramifications of Fenric's betrayal and Malthus, watching intently for that moment of distraction, flew forward. His hands were outstretched before him, thumbs locked together and palms facing Nikkolynda as if the warlock meant to grab him by the throat. He shouted a final arcane word and a wave of impossibly cold air pulsed out from his body in a ring. Tiny drops of moisture crystallized around him and sprinkled to the ground, where larger pockets of water froze and exploded to leave the glade dotted with potholes.
Nikkolynda staggered as the numbing pain washed through his bones. He dropped to one knee and clutched at his chest, fighting to invoke the amulet that lay there while his throat tried to freeze shut. Forcing the two simple words caused his vocal chords to burn and his eyes to water but the amulet responded instantly. Warmth flooded his muscles, driving out the unnatural cold. He rose to his feet and chanted the incantation for an arcane shield to defend against Malthus's next attack, but the warlock stood his ground twenty yards away and grinned.
“Did you like that?” Malthus asked. He plucked a ring from his finger and tossed it to the ground. “The breath of a thousand graves, convenientl
y stored in one bit of iron until needed. I designed it myself."
“It's very impressive,” said Nikkolynda. “I'm sure your mother would be proud.” He reached into a pouch and felt the smooth surface of a carefully planed stone.
For the first time, Malthus appeared shaken by the Prime Wizard's taunt. His glowing eyes narrowed and his slight nose twitched in anger. “My mother will be the first to sing my praise when my work in the Western Realm is done, wizard."
“What else would you expect,” Nikkolynda said, “from a woman who'd lie with an elf?"
Malthus growled a response, but Nikkolynda was already attacking. He pulled his hand from the pouch and whipped the stone toward the Weirdling, whispering the command to invoke it as he threw. The stone tumbled as it flew, a dull red dodecahedron that crossed the space between them with the speed of a crossbow bolt. The ground beneath erupted as the rock passed—stones the size of a man's fist exploded from the dirt and hurtled after the charm with such velocity they blurred from sight.
Malthus slammed his hands together and shouted. He vanished as the first missiles shot through the spot where he'd stood and reappeared fifteen feet to the side of the onslaught. The storm of stone continued on to pepper the surface of the lake, sending small geysers into the air. A bruise began to spread across Malthus's cheek where he'd suffered a glancing blow. Damn poor luck, thought Nikkolynda. Another inch to the side and the fight might be over already.
“Very nice,” said Malthus. He winced as he stepped forward, then smiled. “I expected you to fall far easier than this, wizard. I'm pleased to see that I erred—estroying you will warm me greatly for the task of destroying the realm.” The warlock raised his hands and began to chant, and the battle was truly joined.
* * * * *
Hawkin looked on helplessly as the figures below fought. Their shouts rang from the curving wall of the canyon, and the noises bursting from their combined magics drowned out even the roar of the waterfall at times. Though he watched Malthus with the intense focus of a falcon searching for rabbits, the Weirdling left him little opportunity to attack. Throughout the exchange of arcane energies Malthus glanced up occasionally to assure himself that the flyer remained at height.
Hawkin grew more and more frustrated as sheets of fire and bolts of ice flew between the combatants. Once Nikkolynda produced a long silver wand and plunged its tip deep into the ground. The earth heaved in response, throwing Malthus from his feet, and Hawkin dove. A bubble of flickering red energy sprang up around the Weirdling, however, and Hawkin checked his attack immediately. He scented an acrid burn as Nikkolynda tossed a vial of dark liquid toward the Weirdling's shield, and though Malthus stood unhurt, the grass around him curled up and died in a black ring.
Why had Nikkolynda come alone? Hawkin wondered. With the two so evenly matched, surely even one of the Imperial wizards would have turned the balance. The answer struck him as soon as he'd formulated the thought: Malthus had issued the challenge and would never have opened the portal had Pellorin or Sheldon accompanied Nikkolynda. His own presence must have seemed insignificant to the Weirdling. Gritting his teeth in the cold mountain air, Hawkin promised himself that Malthus would regret the oversight.
* * * * *
“I've changed my mind,” said Malthus. He and Nikkolynda circled one another warily, both drawing deep mouthfuls of the crisp air. They faced off some twenty yards apart, closer to the trees than the lake. Malthus's white robe was now mottled with scorched black patches and a few spatters of blood. Nikkolynda assumed his own appearance bore striking similarity. “I won't destroy you. I've never had a familiar. Perhaps I'll keep you around to amuse me. The Burning Men enjoy their spirit-binding spells, you know. I'll transfer your spirit to something appropriate, perhaps a clod of dirt or a brick?"
“It's a pity I'll only be taking your head back to Hurst,” said Nikkolynda. “The children love to throw rotten fruit at the occasional caged elf; I can't imagine their delight at playing with a Weirdling."
“Stupid humans,” said Malthus. “You assume that building your cities on the open plains assures your dominance over the realm. You hide behind your walls with the dwarves and gnomes and pray the rest of the world will allow you to rule. Do you really think that having driven my people from the west, you've broken us forever?"
“Your people? When did the elves become more tolerant of half-breeds than men?"
“They'll tolerate me completely when I lead them into the cities of the Western Realm,” said Malthus.
Understanding dawned on Nikkolynda even as his breathing slowed and he felt his strength rising for the next round of the battle. “You don't want to conquer the Western Realm,” he said. “You seek the entire continent. How do you possibly expect to defeat the Sandlanders, the ogres, the tigri?"
“They'll be easier to defeat than these feeble men and dwarves—of all the peoples on the continent only men band together in great numbers. Once we have the Western Realm firmly in our grasp, the rest of the land will fall one tribe or village at a time. You expect the tigri to march into the desert on behalf of the Sandlanders? Or the Burning Men to guard the borders of the ogres’ eastern hills? They'll fall one by one, as assuredly as Hurst and her neighbors."
“And Fenric shares your desires? Even a traitor such as he wouldn't give his people up to your ilk.” Nikkolynda hoped briefly that Malthus would deny the prince's betrayal but the warlock's words simply confirmed Nikkolynda's suspicions.
“Prince Fenric is far too shortsighted,” Malthus said. He threw a warning glance in Hawkin's direction then turned his attention back to Nikkolynda. “He seeks only to be Emperor of a unified realm, but he's no more than a puppet to me, much like that boy of yours."
“That boy of a few short years shows wisdom for which you've no aptitude,” said Nikkolynda. “A common deficiency of poor breeding and lack of a father."
The warlock's eyes narrowed again at the familial reference, but if Nikkolynda's words had rekindled his fury, he didn't show it. Instead, he brushed his robe flat and smiled. “I know who my father is, wizard. He's the most righteous man in the Western Realm."
“You lie!” said Nikkolynda, stunned far more at this admission than that of Fenric's treason. “Theodoric would never—"
Malthus simply laughed.
Nikkolynda virtually spat the Halonic words as he rushed forward. His fingertips tapped a complicated rhythm against one another as he ran and a crackling line of energy flared to life between matching rings on opposing fingers. Malthus let him approach, opening his arms wide to accept the wizard's attack. Nikkolynda's hands clamped down around the other's thin neck and Malthus convulsed in pain as the Halonic garrote burned into his skin. He reached for Nikkolynda's head and grasped the wizard's skull in both his own hands. A sibilant whisper arose between the combatants, a twisting combination of voices chanting Halonic phrases as the muscles in their arms flexed. A pounding ache sprang up between Nikkolynda's ears and threatened to jar his attention from maintaining the wire of energy between his rings. He forced himself to continue the chant as sweat poured from his forehead and into his eyes. An incongruous thought sprang to his mind even as he shook from the pain in his head: the warlock's breath, growing weaker with every exhalation, was cold on Nikkolynda's face but carried a surprisingly pleasant scent.
The wizard redoubled his efforts, squeezing physically as his voice rose in volume. The pair fell to their knees and black spots appeared in Nikkolynda's vision. He felt the life slipping away from Malthus, felt the weakening of the force assaulting his own brain, then Malthus's chant ceased entirely.
Nikkolynda went for the kill instantly, snaking his hands all the way around to meet behind the warlock's neck, only to find himself hurtling through the air. The garrote winked out of existence as he hit the ground hard and lay stunned by the edge of the lake. The concussive boom of the detonation split the air above him and from the corner of his eye he saw Hawkin tumble toward the ground. The flyer regained contro
l at the last second and whipped back into the sky, beating his powerful arms furiously.
Nikkolynda struggled to rise to his knees. The dull ache in his skull remained but he forced his eyes to focus and searched the glen for Malthus.
The warlock had been thrown nearly as far as Nikkolynda but in the opposite direction. He knelt on all fours, retching into the scorched grass. Turning his head, he met Nikkolynda's gaze.
“Impossible,” the wizard said, hardly aware he'd spoken aloud. For Malthus to have readied such a powerful spell with no voice, no charms, not even a gesture, was simply unbelievable.
“You should pay more attention to your boy,” said Malthus. Though he sounded tired, a subtle note of triumph tinged his words. “The little brat has stumbled upon the most important discovery of this century. It pleases me no end to use it against you, wizard. I admit that I held it in reserve, unsure whether I'd mastered the technique."
“What—” began Nikkolynda, but Malthus was no longer listening. The warlock reached into a pouch and withdrew a folded parchment. He smoothed it on the ground before him and began reading from it, murmuring the words almost inaudibly.
Nikkolynda fought to pull himself to his knees. His fingers fumbled with the slim sheath of his remaining wand as Malthus held a small vial up in the moonlight. A viscous liquid dripped from the vial to the parchment, which disintegrated in seconds and was scattered on the slight breeze. Nikkolynda heard a distinct splash as something broke the water behind him. He turned to find a dark shape stepping from the lake.
“Fire and blood,” he whispered as the creature took shape.
It was a water troll, a distant relative of the savage creatures inhabiting the upper mountain reaches. Nearly eight feet tall, the troll stomped toward Nikkolynda on legs as thick as tree trunks. Its bluish skin glistened in the moonlight and was mottled by sores that oozed water-resistant oils. A mane of black hair was plastered to the creature's head, which it shook sharply to send droplets of water flying. It growled through sharp teeth, reaching for the net that hung from its belt as it approached the fallen wizard.
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