The Wizardwar (34 page)

Matteo opened his mouth to protest, then shut it with a click. Tzigone’s argument had th? desired effect-pointing out that any more time wasted detracted from her chances. He bowed slightly, keeping his eyes on hers-the formal salute of a jordain to a wizard of great power and rank.

With a jolt of unpleasant surprise, Tzigone realize that if she passed this test, that was precisely how she would be regarded.

“As you say, lady, it will be done,” he said softly, without a hint of friendly mockery in his manner. “May Mystra guide and strengthen you.”

Tzigone watched him go, one hand clasped over her lips as if to hold back a laugh, or perhaps a sob. At the moment, she wasn’t sure which way to go. Matteo’s formal farewell might sound absurd, but this was what lay ahead for them.

She shrugged. “I could always throw the mage duel and kill Snow Hawk later.”

This excellent compromise, spoken only half in jest, raised her spirits considerably. She gathered up her mother’s books and headed for the tower to prepare for the challenge ahead.

That night, as sunset color faded from the sky and the soft purple haze of twilight spread over the land, a great throng gathered at the western end of the dueling field. Artisans and minor wizards had been busy throughout the day. A makeshift wooden arena soared high over the field, and at the edge of the field a dais held chairs for the Elders and thrones for the wizardking and his consort.

Beatrix was there, dressed carefully and elaborately in her usual silver and white. The only concessions to her coming trial were the pair of wizards who flanked her and the armed guards who surrounded three sides of the dais.

Tzigone came onto the field first. On Matteo’s advice, she came out in a simple tunic rather than her apprentice robes. She repeated the challenge and listened while a herald read the lengthy rules of engagement.

Excitement simmered through the crowd as Procopio walked onto the field. He, too, was simply dressed, perhaps to downplay the vast difference between his rank and his challenger’s. There would be little honor in besting a mere girl. When he executed the proper bows, he made a point of acknowledging Tzigone’s heroics in the recent battles and in Akhlaur’s Swamp.

The combatants moved to the center of the field and faced each other, staring intently into each other’s eyes as they matched minds. Procopio’s white brows rose when he perceived the size of arena Tzigone had in mind-the maximum allowed for their combined rank and status. A sly look entered his eyes as he perceived her likely strategy, and he conceded with a nod.

They turned, and each paced off half the length of the arena. That done, they again faced each other. A shimmering wall rose from the field, forming an enormous cube between them. That accomplished, the combatants moved aside to prepare defensive spells.

Matteo came to her side. “Any last words of advice?” she said lightly.

His brow furrowed in a conflicted frown. “Procopio Septus was my patron. I can’t divulge any of his secrets, but I can remind you of things that are obvious to all. He is proud, he is arrogant, and he is short.”

She studied him for a moment, then grinned in understanding. “I can work with that.”

The crumhorn sounded the beginning of the challenge. Tzigone and Procopio took their places at the edge of the magical arena. When the final note sounded, they stepped in at the same instant.

At once Tzigone began to sing. Procopio waited confidently, arms folded and feet planted wide, his black eyes scanning the heights of the arena for the appearance of some conjured beast.

A small behir with scales of pale blue appeared on the dueling field, an unimposing creature that would have little effect on the wizard-except for its strategic position. The behir materialized between Procopio’s feet.

The creature shook itself briefly, assessed its situation, and then attacked. Its small, slender head lunged straight up, and crystalline fangs sought a convenient target. A small sizzle of lightning-like energy jolted into its victim.

The wizard let out a roar of pain and fury. He kicked at the behir, which promptly let go. The little creature scuttled off, its six pairs of legs churning.

Tzigone dispelled it with a flick of her hand. “Proud, arrogant, and short,” she said casually, “and maybe a little shorter than he was a few minutes ago.”

The wizard snarled and called her several foul names. Tzigone shrugged. “Just be glad I insisted on a mage duel. Imagine if the behir hadn’t been enspelled to do only subdual damage.” She sent him an innocent smile. “Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were subdued for a very long time….”

Procopio furiously conjured and hurled a fireball. His opponent clucked and responded with a scatterspell. The brilliant missiles met and exploded into thousands of small pieces, which drifted down in a bright, harmless shower, winking out to ash before reaching the combatants.

“Not much imagination there,” she said, “but you are devastatingly handsome when you’re angry. It’s a shame that you’re, well, subdued.”

Wrath flared in his black eyes, then quickly banked. “This travesty will be over soon enough. You’ll face me again, witch, without these walls and rules.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” she said, her lips smiling but her eyes utterly cold. “Back to the show. My turn.”

She began to chant. A large, dusky creature took form in the center of the arena. The conjured wyvern’s sinuous, barbed tail lashed angrily. It leaped into the air and described a tight spiral as it climbed to the top of the shimmering cube.

Procopio quickly countered, forming the spell for the storm elemental he had used to such acclaim during the Mulhorandi invasion. The arena shivered as wind lashed through it. The resulting clouds, tinged with color by the setting sun, flowed together, melding and shifting into the form of a giant wizard. The cloud form inhaled deeply and sent a gust of wind at the diving wyvern.

The gale struck outstretched wings curved taut in a hawklike stoop. The creature let out a startled shriek and went into a spin. It plummeted toward the ground, its batlike wings whipping so furiously that it seemed they would tear loose. The wyvern pulled out of the spin at the last possible moment and spread its wings wide, swooping so near the ground that the grasses bent and whispered as it passed over. The wyvern’s deadly tail raked a long furrow in the ground.

Procopio’s storm elemental reached out with a giant, translucent sword and sliced at the tail. It fell to the ground, twitching and writhing like a gigantic worm. The wyvern screamed. Dark blood boiled from the stump, and the great creature’s wings slowed.

Tzigone made a deft gesture that released the conjured wyvern. It disappeared in a puff of mist. The poison-tipped tail made a few more blind attempts to find and stab the wizard, then it, too, melted away.

The cloud elemental stooped down and scooped Tzigone up in one hand. She pulled a dagger and slid it under the creature’s thumbnail. The elemental roared-a sound like wind and thunder-and tossed Tzigone into its other hand, shaking the offended member.

Tzigone had never feared heights, but dread seized her as the elemental flung her from hand to hand. All the thing had to do was drop her, and Procopio’s job would be finished. It was exactly as Matteo had feared: she did not have the mastery of magic to stand against a wizard like Procopio.

She quickly shook off the moment of despair and cast a simple feather fall spell. The elemental hauled her up and threw her with all its strength. Tzigone floated slowly down, touching the ground just short of the glowing wall.

With a grimace, she acknowledged that this was far too close. The first wizard forced out of the cube was declared the loser. She’d entered the arena hoping to humiliate Procopio but not expecting to win. Suddenly her goals shifted, her resolve settled.

She was a sorceress, like her mother before her. Although Basel Indoulur was the only father she held in her heart, in her veins ran the blood of Halruaa’s king.

Tzigone stretched one hand toward one of the standards flying over the king’s dais-a black silk flag with a firebird emblazoned upon it. The enormous arena encompassed the flag, and anything within it was fair game.

At her call, th? firebird leaped from the silk and began to grow.

With each beat of its burning wings, the creature grew. Heat filled the arena, as the firebird circled Procopio’s creature. The light from its wings reflected in the elemental, turning the clouds to brilliant sunset hues. The creature batted at its circling foe as it dissipated into colored mist.

Tzigone turned to Procopio and raised one brow, inviting him to take his next turn. She was not prepared for the look of astonishment on the wizard’s face, swiftly turned to fury.

Procopio stalked over to the king’s throne, shouldering past the barrier of shining magic. Tzigone, curious, followed.

“This was no just competition,” he began furiously. “I did not issue this challenge but was honor-bound to accept. Yet I fight not one wizard, but two!”

Zalathorm regarded him coolly. “You accuse this young woman of cheating?”

“I accuse the king of intervening on behalf of his daughter!”

At that moment, Tzigone’s suspicions were confirmed. Dhamari knew that Keturah and Beatrix were one, and so did Kiva. Procopio was surely aligned with at least one of them.

“I did not intervene in the spell battle,” Zalathorm said quietly. “As for the other, I will not embarrass Lord Basel by directly refuting his claim.”

“Basel is dead,” Tzigone said flatly. “He was an honest man, but he lied to protect me. He would do anything for his apprentices, and when it comes right down to it, that’s probably how he’d want to be remembered. You want me to be his daughter, that’s fine with me, but do whatever you need to do.”

Zalathorm studied her with measuring eyes. Tzigone was not certain what he saw there, but an expression of resolve crossed his face. He rose from the throne and faced the whispering, puzzled crowd. All could see that something strange was occurring, but few had heard Procopio’s claim.

Raising his voice, Zalathorm said, “Lord Procopio suggests that the fire roc summoned by this young woman was my spell and not hers. It was not. This I swear to you by wind and word. I do not work magic through another wizard and will not take credit for another wizard’s work.

“Many of you believe I created the water elemental against the Mulhorandi from the fluids of living enemies and raised their skeletal forms as an army. I have never claimed this feat. It is important that all know these powerful spells were not mine.”

His gaze swept the silent throng. With a quick gesture, he dispelled the shimmering magic of the arena. “This challenge has been made and met. I declare Tzigone, lawful daughter to Zalathorm and Beatrix, to be the winner.”

The king silenced the sputtering Procopio with a glance. “You underestimated your opponent. You were so certain of her limits that you stepped beyond the bounds of the arena. By law, that is a default.”

“Proud and arrogant,” Tzigone repeated. She glanced down pointedly. “Not to mention, short.”

Procopio’s jaw finned. He executed a choppy bow to Tzigone to acknowledge her victory and strode off-without the proper acknowledgements to the king.

“That one will come back to bite you,” she murmured as she watched the wizard stalk away.

“It matters less than it did,” the long answered, “now that I can leave Halruaa with an heir.”

It was Tzigone’s turn to gape and sputter. Zalathorm glanced pointedly at his seneschal. The man hurriedly moved a chair to the king’s left side and ushered Tzigone to it. She sank down, feeling as though she’d reentered a world ruled by illusions.

Zalathorm rose and addressed the stunned and watchful crowd. “One challenge was made and met. I lay down another. I call upon the wizard who cast the great spells of necromancy against the Mulhorandi. I challenge him to battle-in the old way, without boundaries of magic.”

The king gestured, and an enormous golden globe appeared, floating in the air before him. He placed one hand on it and repeated his challenge in ringing, metered chant, sending it to every wizard within the boundaries of Halruaa.

Again he addressed the crowd. “This land is on the brink of wizardwar. What will be done here could either burn out in a sudden flare or light a fire that could consume all of Halruaa. Gather all the forces of steel and magic and bring them to this place. I entreat all of you to put aside your personal ambitions and petty challenges. The wizard who cast this spell is formidable indeed. If I am not equal to the challenge I sent out this night, it might take the strength of every one of you to pick up the standard.”

Far away from the dueling field, in the deepest part of Halruaa’s deadliest swamp, Akhlaur and Kiva watched as the lich who had once been Vishna prepared his undead troops.

“He was a battle wizard,” Akhlaur said with satisfaction. “The best of his generation.”

Kiva forbore from observing that Vishna was among the wizards who had vanquished and exiled Akhlaur. “His plans seem sound enough. The battle will create a diversion. But the crimson star-“

“Enough!” snapped the necromancer. “The star aids Zalathorm and me in equal measure. It will not change the battle one way or another.”

“Can Zalathorm be destroyed?” she persisted.

“Could Vishna?” he retorted. His mood suddenly brightened. “As a lich, Vishna will be a brilliant and loyal general. It will give me great pleasure to use Zalathorm’s oldest friend to bring down his realm.”

As the elf woman bit back a shriek of frustration, a golden light filled the clearing. Zalathorm’s voice, magnified by powerful magic, repeated the challenge he issued to every magic-user in the realm.

Akhlaur’s black eyes burned with unholy fire, and his gaze darted to his undead battlemaster. “All is in readiness?”

“It is,” Vishna replied in a hollow voice.

“Gather our forces and weapons,” he announced. “Quiet your doubts, little Kiva. The three will be reunited, and the crimson star will once again be mine to command!”