The Wizardwar (14 page)

She studied the area carefully. The vines grew from the stumps of thick, much-older canes. A long, yellowed bone drew her eye. She eased it out of the old roots, moving her head to one side to avoid a snapping blossom.

The wizard stood and showed the warriors a human thighbone. “Not Zilgorn. This man has been too long dead. But this place has been recently disturbed-these vines are new growth on old stems. We go on.”

The men groaned, but they stood aside as the wizard cast spells to wither away the dangerous vines. They made short work of snapping aside the remaining dry twigs and stepped into what appeared to be a large, deeply shaded clearing.

Bahari lit a torch. Flicking light fell upon heaps of marble, all that remained of a once-fine structure pulled down by the passing of time and the inexorable green hands of the jungle. Vines filled the room like a nest of sleeping snakes, nearly obscuring the remains of a temple of Mystra. They curled around the altar and twined through the skeletons of warriors who had died with their weapons in hand.

Two of the men made signs of warding over their hearts.

“This must have been the Mystran shrine on the old Ghalagar estate,” the half-elf mused. “My mother spoke of it. Her people lived beneath these trees long ago, before the Ghalagar clan lost these lands and changed their name to Noor.”

The wizard turned to leave, pulling up in sudden surprise when she came face to face with a glassy statue of an elf woman. Her eyes filled with deep sorrow, and as she backed away she chanted a few keening words in the Elvish tongue.

“Necromancy,” observed Bahari grimly. “The stench of death-magic clings to this place. Let’s agree that this jungle is a fitting tomb for Zilgorn the necromancer and be done with it”.

She shook her head. “Zilgorn was my half brother, no matter what else he might have been. We go on.”

Somber and silent, the small band left the temple and followed a narrow, barely perceptible path sloping down toward the river. The sounds of swamp creatures grew louder-the grumble of great frogs, the roar of crocodiles, and the chittering of thousands upon thousands of insects.

Their quest ended at the banks of a river, and the strange sentinel standing at water’s edge.

The husk of skin-wrapped bone suggested a tall, powerful man. Shreds of once-fine scarlet linen clung to the corpse, and long, black hair moldered about the fleshless face.

The half-elf approached and gingerly lifted the gold medallion that hung around the dead man’s neck. She studied it for a moment, then nodded once in confirmation.

Bahari folded his arms. “So it ends. You knew Zilgorn’s likely fate before you stepped foot into this accursed place.”

“His mother is old. She should not spend her last years wondering what became of her firstborn son.”

The fighter threw up his hands in disgust. His eyes narrowed, and in one cat-quick motion, he brought his machete up like a sword and lunged at the half-elf.

The attack was unexpected, but she was quick enough to roll aside. As she fell, she heard an unnerving crackle erupt from her half-brother’s body. A shower of acrid brown dust burst from his desiccated chest-along with the brilliant green head of a swamp viper.

The mercenary traced a quick, circular movement with his machete, spinning the deadly snake around the blade and thwarting its lunge. He shouted to two of his men, then hurled the snake to the ground between them. They began wildly hacking at the creature with their machetes.

A small explosion rocked the clearing, and a glowing cloud burst from the mutilated snake. It hung for a moment in the heavy, humid air, quivering with gathering magic. Then a small storm erupted, and glittering green sparkles descended like bits of bright, lazily drifting hail.

“Zombie powder!” the wizard shrieked as she rolled to her feet and kicked into a run. “Don’t breath in, don’t let it touch you!”

Most of the men heeded her, clamping hands over their mouths and noses as they fled the descending hail. One fighter tripped over a root and fell. Glittering green limned him, and a bright light flared and died. Horrible spasms wracked his body, and his cries faded to a lingering rattle.

The others backed away in horrid fascination as their comrade rose, lurching toward them with a chunk of bloody snake clutched in one hand.

Surprisingly fast, he seized a comrade and clamped his hand on the man’s jaw. Forcing it open, he stuffed the snake down the man’s throat.

Again green light flared, and the second man expired in violent paroxysms. Two pairs of dull, glazed eyes turned upon their comrades and kinsman. Loyalties forgotten, the two men drew weapons and attacked.

The mercenary nearest them was too slow to understand, too slow to react. The newly made zombies fell upon him. He went down shrieking, clutching at the pumping stump of his sword arm. In moments he also rose, wielding his own severed arm as a bludgeon.

The half-elf slowed to a stop as she realized that none of her warriors kept pace. She turned and watched the riverside battle in horror and disbelief. She had no spells that might help-her art was the crafting of healing potions-but even to her unseasoned eyes, it quickly became apparent that this fight could have only one end. Each man who fell rose again, only to join the swelling ranks of his undead comrades.

“Flee!” she shouted to the survivors. “Flee or die!”

Bahari turned toward her. in a few quick strides he was at her side. He swept her up easily and slung her over his shoulder, taking off at a loping trot. The half-elf clung to his baldric strap, grateful that her warrior cousin proved loyal to the Charnli family despite his previous complaints.

Finally Bahari stopped. He casually threw the half-elf to the ground.

Startled, she rolled and looked up at her rescuer’s face. His eyes were dull and glazed, steadfastly fixed upon something behind her. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head-or what was left of it.

With sickening understanding, the wizard gazed at the man’s crushed skull. Her gaze followed the sound of other warriors dropping to the ground in obeisance. To her dismay, the entire party had followed Bahari to this place. Quaking, she lifted her eyes to the object of the undead warriors’ veneration.

A tall, bald man regarded the small army with a thin smile on his green-scaled face. Then his black eyes settled on the half-elf wizard. He held out a webbed, faintly green hand. Another, smaller viper dripped from it like drool and slithered toward her.

She tried to flee, but her treacherous body refused to obey. Trapped in the waking nightmare, she could only scream helplessly as the viper slithered up the length of her body. Then the snake crawled into her mouth, and she could scream no more.

As the viper disappeared down her throat, a terrible chill spread through her, sped by waves of agonizing convulsions, life slipped away like mist, leaving behind a strange, cold clarity. Every spell she had ever learned or cast stood ready in her mind, as quiescent as the undead warriors. She lifted her hand and gazed with horror at the transformation-the pale bronze color was fading to a sickly gray, and the skin on her delicate fingers had grown tougher than a dock worker’s.

Frantically she drew a small knife from her belt and sliced at her own wrist. Blood welled, thick and dark, but the pulse of life was nearly gone. She could not even take her own life. It had already been taken from her.

“Not this,” she croaked, her eyes imploring the strange green wizard. “Kill me, but do not make me a lich!”

A sharp gasp drew the half-elf s eyes to the woman in the wizard’s shadow. She was a wild elf, copper-skinned and crowned with lustrous green hair. Her golden eyes mirrored the horror that gripped the dying wizard.

The half-elf’s gaze dropped to Bahari’s discarded machete, then returned to the elf woman’s face. “Es’-Caerta,” she pleaded, an Elvish phrase that defied translation, used only at the end of formal prayers blessing and beseeching the gods.

Whether the green elf understood or not, it seemed fitting to the half-elven wizard that this should be her last spoken word.

Without hesitation, the elf woman stooped and seized the machete. She threw herself into a spin, circling once, twice, to gain power and momentum. In the instant before the blade hit, the half-elf’s eyes sought her savior’s grim face, and her silent lips shaped the elven blessing one final time.

Kiva staggered to a stop, the bloody machete clasped in both hands. For a moment she regarded her handiwork: a neatly decapitated head, elven eyes closed in peace and a faint, contented smile upon bloodless lips.

The next instant she was hurtling through the air. Her back struck a tree and she slid to the ground.

When her vision cleared, she saw Akhlaur standing over her, his pale green face twisted in fury.

“Have you any idea what you’ve just wasted? You have deprived me of a servant as obedient as any of these fools but with an undying wizard’s power!”

Using the tree as a support, Kiva pushed herself to her feet. “It’s impossible to change another wizard to a lich!”

He dismissed this obvious misperception with a wave of one webbed hand and continued to glare, clearly waiting for some word of explanation.

But Kiva could think of no justification for her impulsive act-at least, none that Akhlaur would accept. “She was half-elven,” she said at last, “and therefore not a worthy servant.”

The necromancer’s wrath faltered, and a strange, lethal amusement dawned in his eyes like a dark sun. “What of your descendants, little Kiva? Did you so disdain their human blood? Did you slay them, as well?”

A flood of emotions-feelings Kiva had thought long dead-burst free from some locked corner of her heart She dropped her eyes to hide her loathing and hatred and shame. Any one of these responses could prove fatal.

Nor could she answer the necromancer’s questions without stepping off another precipice. She had given birth, just once, before the laraken’s spawning had destroyed all hope of further progeny. Her long-ago daughter had been half-elven, a scrawny, sickly thing barely clinging to life, almost completely devoid of magic. Akhlaur had never acknowledged his child by Kiva, but he had made good use of the girl. That sad little half-breed had been Akhlaur’s first magic-dead servant, the germ of an idea that eventually became the jordaini order.

To Akhlaur, that long-ago daughter was the subject of a necromantic experiment, and nothing more. He would be insulted by any claim of kinship. Yet Kiva could not take a similar viewpoint without disparaging the child’s human father.

No answer was correct. Any response could bring harsh reprisals. It was the sort of cruel game Kiva remembered from her distant captivity. But she was no longer that captive elven girl.

Her chin lifted, and her eyes cooled to amber ice. “My only living child is the laraken. It carries a portion of Akhlaur’s magic. How could I possibly disdain that?”

For a long moment their stares locked. Then Akhlaur stooped and seized the half-elf’s head by the hair. He lifted it and regarded it thoughtfully. “How old do you suppose she was?”

Kiva blinked at this unexpected question. “Forty, maybe forty-five years. Quite young for a half-elf, and about the same as twenty-five years of human life.”

“Then I suppose there’s little chance she achieved archmage status.”

“It seems unlikely.”

“Pity. I’ve a spell that requires the powdered skull of an archmage who died during the lich transformation.”

Kiva shot him an incredulous look. “Is this a common enough occurrence to warrant its inclusion in spell components?”

“If the spell were common, it would hardly be worth casting.” The necromancer negligently tossed the head into the pool, and tapped thoughtfully on his chin as he gazed out over the spreading ripples. “Well, no matter. There are other ways of raising the tower.”

He gave a terse command to the undead warriors. They fell to work digging a narrow canal that would divert the water downhill to a nearby river.

“A small thing,” Akhlaur said with a shrug, “but this river feeds the pool drowning my tower. The more water is removed from that pool, the easier the task of raising the tower. Perhaps I will return the tower to its original location. An unusually strong place of power, that.”

Dark inspiration struck Kiva, a small repayment for Akhlaur’s cruel game. She was not the only one whose past held moments of shame and defeat.

“Perhaps we should visit this place again before beginning such a massive undertaking. It is possible the laraken drained all power from that spot. If that is so, one place in this swamp is as good as any other.”

Akhlaur considered, then began the chant for a magical gate. He and Kiva stepped through, to emerge near the mirky bog that had first welcomed them to Akhlaur’s Swamp.

“This is the highest point in your former estate,” Kiva said. She pointed to an obelisk, a standing stone deeply coated with moss and half submerged in water. “The tower stood there.”

The necromancer studied the obelisk with narrowed eyes. “The power of this place is gone, but for a glimmer of magic clinging to that stone. Come.” He cast a spell that would allow them to walk upon the swamp water. Kiva followed, knowing full well what they would find.

The translucent image of a slim, doe-eyed girl slumped by the obelisk, eyeing something beneath the water with a mixture of hopelessness and longing. The necromancer’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed to furious slits.

“Noor!”

Akhlaur spat out the name of his former, treacherous apprentice as if it were a curse. The ghostly girl looked up. Terror suffused her face. She turned away, flinging up both hands to ward off the barrage of spells he hurled at her. Fireballs sped toward her, sizzling and steaming as they passed through the humid air. Black lightning flared from the wizard’s hands, charring the moss covering the obelisk to ash. None of this had any effect on the ghost of Noor.

However diverting the sight of a thwarted Akhlaur might be, Kiva finally tired of the display and seized the necromancer’s arm. “I do not think you can destroy the ghost, Lord Akhlaur. She died when Zalathorm claimed the crimson star. It seems likely that her spirit is somehow linked to the gem. You will not be able to avenge yourself upon Noor as long as Zalathorm holds the crimson star. The sooner the gem is destroyed, the sooner Zalathorm’s power will be broken!”