Elaine Cunningham - Counselors & Kings 3 - The Wizardwar

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Counselors and Kings Trilogy

Book 3

The Wizardwar

Elaine Cunningham

Entered into

The King's Lorebook,

on this the 22nd day of the Redtide Moon,

in the 73rd year of Zalathorm's Reign.

If cattle were bards, butchers would be villains. This jordaini proverb reminds us that every

tale is shaped by the teller. I am Matteo, King Zala-thorm's newly appointed counselor, a jordain sworn

to the service of truth, and Halruaa, and the wizardlords who rule.

Once, not long ago, I would have said these three masters speak with one voice. Now a

hun-dred voices call my name, all of them compelling, many of them contradictory. Be that as it may. This

is no time for introspection or philosophy— too many tasks lie before me. I will present my tale in

straightforward fashion.

Halruaa's history begins in Netheril, an ancient northern realm famous for extravagant magic.

Before Netheril's glory become her downfall, a group of wizards left their homeland and trav-eled far

south, settling in a beautiful haven pro-tected by mountains and sea. In this, our Halruaa, we have

avoided the excesses of lost Netheril through elaborate laws and protocols, and through a series of

safeguards. The jordaini, counselors to the wizard-lords, provide one of these safeguards.

We are an order of warrior sages, strong of mind and body, vessels destined to remain forever

empty of Mystra's Art. The Lady of Magic has granted us no arcane talent whatsoever but rather has

imbued us with a strong resistance to magic. Jordaini are identified before birth, taken from our families,

and raised to know the art of warfare and the lore of our land. Lacking magic, we can advise our wizard

patrons but can never coerce them. Nor can any wizard compel us. The secrets entrusted to us cannot

be stolen or altered through magi-cal means.

Additional laws and customs ensure the jordaini's faith-ful service. Ambition cannot tempt us, for

we possess nei-ther land nor title. We are forbidden indulgences that cloud the mind and discouraged

from forming personal ties that might bias our judgment. Among the most pow-erful guardians of jordaini

purity are the magehounds, wiz-ards who serve as Inquisitors in the church of Azuth, Lord of Wizards.

Magehounds are granted spells and magical items pow-erful enough to pierce even a jordain's

resistance. If a magehound declares a jordain unfit to serve, that jordain's service is over. If a magehound

claims that a jordain is tainted by magic, this pronouncement is a sentence of death. Harsh indeed, but the

trust between wizard and counselor demands absolute certainty.

Last spring a magehound, an elf woman known as Kiva, visited the Jordaini College. She passed

judgment on Andris, the most promising student in recent memory. His "death" was carried out on the

spot Kiva, though, proved false. She spirited Andris away and used her position to secretly gather an

army of magic-resistant warriors. She led them into the Swamp of Akhlaur, so named for the infa-mous

necromancer who disappeared there two centuries past. Here lurked the laraken, a monster that fed

upon magic. In my opinion, Kiva's intention was not to destroy the laraken but to unleash it upon the

land. Her purpose, insofar as I can ascertain, was to wreak havoc upon Hal-ruaa's wizards.

Kiva might have succeeded but for a young woman named Tzigone, a street waif untrained in

magical arts. Tzigone possessed a powerful raw talent for evocation. Her voice was the lure intended to

draw the laraken away from its magical sustenance: a bubbling spring originating in a leak from the

Elemental Plane of Water. Where Tzi-gone is concerned, however, things seldom go according to

expectations!

Tzigone called the laraken and held it in her sway while we fighters attacked. We might have

destroyed the mon-ster, but it escaped through the gate leading into the Plane of Water just before Kiva

moved this gate to some unknown place. This effort was greater than Kiva's strength, and by battle's end

she clung to life by the thinnest of threads. I myself delivered her to the fastness of Azuth's temple, hoping

the priests might revive her and learn the gate's secret location.

Kiva revived indeed. She escaped and gathered allies for a renewed attack upon Halruaa. She

and the elves of the Mhair Jungle raided the Lady's Mirror, an Azuthan shrine and a treasury of rare

spellbooks and artifacts. Other mag-ical treasures were collected for her by a band of Crinti raiders—the

"shadow amazons" of Dambrath, female war-riors descended from human barbarians and drow elves.

Although it pains me to write this, Kiva's allies also included Andris, who learned of his distant

elven heritage shortly after the battle of Akhlaur's Swamp. We jordaini know no family, and Andris was

overwhelmed by the prospect of kinship. This, perhaps, led him to see honor in Kiva's actions where

nothing of the sort existed.

Kiva must have had contact with wizards in neighbor-ing lands, for her plans moved in concert

with theirs. Though I hesitate to suggest Halruaan wizards were also in collusion with her, the actions of

Dhamari Exchelsor, a wizard who befriended Tzigone, undoubtedly added to the chaos. (Let it be noted

that Azuth's Inquisitors have exam-ined Dhamari and have found him not guilty of conspiracy with Kiva.)

While these diverse events were unfolding, I searched for Kiva, fearing that the elf woman might

open the gate and unleash the laraken. Andris, who awaits trial for treason, insists that Kiva's purpose

was to destroy the ancient necromancer Akhlaur. She followed him into the Plane of Water expecting to

prevail but not to return.

So Andris swears. I wish I could believe him. To Andris, Kiva was a hero who sacrificed her life

to destroy every vestige of Akhlaur's dark reign. I have seen Kiva at work, and I do not believe anything

good can be born of such hatred, such evil.

Whatever the truth of the matter, the former mage-hound was defeated. Once again, Tzigone

thwarted Kiva's designs. Two doors were closed by the magic Tzigone trig-gered: the gate to the Plane

of Water and a veil between our world and the Unseelie Court. As I write, Tzigone is trapped in that

dark and unknowable realm. May Lady Mystra grant Tzigone grace and strength to survive until a way

can be found to free her!

Despite our victories and our sacrifices, the turmoil Kiva set in motion was not easily quelled. The

Crinti attacked in force from the north, and the fighters who engaged them were further harried by the

Unseelie folk. An army of clock-work warriors was unleashed upon the royal city of Halarahh. Any one

of these foes might have easily been put down, but our strength was diminished by Kiva's earlier ploys.

Divisions of militia were diverted to the western borders to guard against further incursions of hostile

elves. As word of the laraken's defeat spread, many doughty wizards and adventurers disappeared into

Akhlaur's swamp to search for treasure the necromancer reputedly left behind.

Even the season conspired to aid Kiva, for in the early summer, before the coming of the

monsoons, piracy reaches its height Halruaa's ships set sail to protect sea-going commerce and coastal

towns, taking many of our best fighters. Halruaa's might is considerable, but it was thinly spread and

sorely tested.

Now came the truly stunning blow. An invasion force from Mulhorand passed over the eastern

mountains into Halruaa itself—undetected by Halruaan magic.

For the first time in nearly a century, King Zalathorm, the greatest diviner in the land, failed to

foresee a coming threat I cannot express how profound and devastating a blow this dealt to the Halruaan

mind. Perhaps this was what Kiva had intended all along.

If this notion strains credulity, consider this: One of Kiva's allies, the creator of the devastating

clockwork army, was Queen Beatrix, Zalathorm's deeply beloved wife.

I have nothing but admiration for my king, but in truth I must name Beatrix as Zalathorm's greatest

weakness. Whatever she once might have been, she is no longer Hal-ruaa's queen. Scarred within and

without by terrible suf-fering, she has been steadily withdrawing from the world, seeking companionship

only from the clockwork creatures whose creation she oversees.

Early last moon cycle, one of Beatrix's warrior con-structs went amok. I fought and destroyed it

but not before one worker was killed and several more were injured. In the time it took me to report this

to the king, the clockwork monsters magically disappeared. The family of the slain worker was offered

resurrection, the wounded given heal-ing and redress. The matter might have been dropped, had not

Tzigone intervened once again.

Tzigone can mimic voices with uncanny clarity and hold an audience in her hand with skill a bard

might envy. Lately she left behind her life as a street performer to play the role of apprentice wizard, but

her unsettled life has honed other, more questionable skills. Her fingers are light and nimble. She conjures

entertaining half-truths as easily as a behir spits lightning. She walks like a shadow, climbs like a lizard,

and smirks at the most formidable locks. Even the palace wards and safeguards could not deny her.

Tzigone slipped into Beatrix's workroom and with a magic mouth statue she recorded a most

disturbing interview between the queen and Kiva. The elf woman came to Beatrix, commended her for

her efforts, and took the metal monsters in preparation for the coming battle.

When Tzigone brought the statue to me, duty com-pelled me to inform Zalathorm of his wife's

treachery. The queen awaits trial. This tragedy destroyed what might oth-erwise have been regarded as

one of Halruaa's greatest triumphs.

Destroyed? Yes, I fear so. The invaders were repelled, and the floodgate was closed both in fact

and metaphor. But the queen stands accused of treason. Although no one dares speak the words,

everyone knows King Zalathorm is likewise on trial.

If the king knew of his queen's perfidy, he is as guilty as she. How could the most powerful

diviner in all of Halruaa not see what was happening in his very palace? On the other hand, what if he

truly could not? Is his power gone? Is this why he knew nothing of the invasion until Mulho-randi forces

stood upon Halruaan soil?

All of Halruaa whispers these questions. If the cycle of history turns true, soon powerful and

ambitious wizards will do more than whisper. No one has challenged Zala-thorm's crown for nearly three

generations, and the land has been at peace. In past times, though, Halruaa has known terrible wars of

ambition, wars in which wizard fought wizard with spells of astonishing art and devastating power.

This brings my tale full circle and to another safeguard we jordaini provide. We are the keepers

of the lore, and we spend the first twenty years of our lives committing Halru-aan history to memory.

Stories of wizardwars are the most fearsome we know. I pray daily to Lady Mystra that we Hal-ruaans

have learned from these oft-told tales and grown wise enough to avoid war.

Yet I cannot ignore this disturbing truth: if these prayers are granted, then we will be the first truly

wise men in history.

Prelude

In a dark moment of Halruaa's past, some two hun-dred years ago, a black tower stood near the

edge of an ancient swamp.

Cages lined the walls of the great hall, a vast circular chamber encompassing the entire ground

floor of the tower, which in turn was far bigger than its black marble exterior suggested. In these cages a

bewildering variety of prisoners paced in frustration or slumped despairingly against the bars. Their

mingled cries filled the tower, rever-berating like echoes rising from the Abysmal pits. Red-robed

apprentices calmly went about their business, either oblivious or uncaring.

In one cage huddled a small, bedraggled female, clad in a brief shift that did little to hide scars left

by repeated magical experiments. She stared fixedly past the dwarf-forged bars, her eyes glazed with the

knowledge of certain death.

Once known as Akivaria, a proud elf maid of the Crimson Tree clan, now she was simply Kiva,

the necromancer's favorite captive and toy. Her heart had died the day the necromancer slaugh-tered her

clan, but an unexpectedly deep reserve of stubbornness and cunning sustained her life. She had even

survived the laraken's birth, a feat that surprised both her and her human tormenter. But today, at long

last, it would end.

Kiva ventured a glance at the large, oval glass set into the bars of her cage, a window into a

world of water and magic. Behind it raged a fearsome monster, a demon lured to the Plane of Water

from the primordial depths of the Abyss. Twice the height of a man and as heavily muscled as a dwarf, it

was purest evil encased in powerful flesh. Kiva knew the demon well—the wizard had captured and

tormented it before—and memories of past encounters with the fiend filled her with terror and loathing.

The demon's massive fists pounded soundlessly on the portal. Like a water-bound Medusa, it

was crowned with eels, which writhed furiously about a hideous, asymmetri-cal face. Their tiny fangs

gnashed and snapped in counter-point to the demon's silent screams. The necromancer commonly kept

the demon imprisoned in magical limbo until the point of frenzy. Kiva never knew when the demon might

erupt into her cage. This waiting was one of the wizard's crueler torments.

Kiva reminded herself of the experiment planned for that very night, one she could never survive,

but even the promise of death brought little comfort. The joys of an elven afterlife were as far beyond her

reach as her dreams of putting a knife in the necromancer's heart!

She craned her head, looking for the necromancer's favorite toy—a crimson gem that imprisoned

the captured spirits of her clan. To Akhlaur, an elf's lifeforce was a source of energy, a thing no more

highly regarded than the sticks of deadwood a kitchen wench might use to stoke a cook fire. For one of

Akhlaur's elves, death offered nothing more than a new kind of enslavement.

The gem was not in its usual place. That meant that Akhlaur and his laraken were out hunting

again. A long, strident creak ripped through the cacophony. Kiva sat up, suddenly alert, and her resilient

spirit grew bright with hope. The stone sentinels had awakened at last!

The necromancer's tower was guarded by undead armies, warded about with terrible traps and

protected from wizardly incursion by the magic-draining hunger of the laraken. Never before had anyone

fought through these defenses and triggered the twin gargoyles protect-ing the tower door.

Kiva struggled to her feet and pushed aside the mat of hair that once had been a lustrous jade.

She clung to the bars and strained her ears for the sounds of battle. A dis-tant clamor grew steadily

louder until it settled around the stone warehouses imprisoning most of the necromancer's captives. The

elf maid's heart leaped—many of her people languished in those prisons!

She heard the warehouses' stout oaken doors explode like lightning-struck trees. A chorus of

elven song surged, then faded as freed prisoners fled into the surrounding forest. Joyous tears spilled

from Kiva's eyes, though she herself did not hold much hope of rescue.

The tower's doors flew open and crashed into the wall. Two enormous gargoyles, similar in

appearance to the water demon, stalked into the room. They took up ambush positions on either side of

the open door.

After a moment of stunned disbelief, the apprentices quickly armed themselves with wands or

fireball spells. One young man conjured a crimson lightning bolt and held it aloft like a ready javelin. Even

the tower itself prepared for invasion. Bright lines of fire raced through the cracks between the marble

ties, gathering power that would erupt in geysers of random, killing flame. Stone carvings stirred to life.

Winged serpents peeled away from the ceiling's bas-relief and spiraled heavily downward. Black marble

skele-tons wrenched free of the grimly sculpted tangles that passed for art

A hush fell over the tower as the captives awaited the coming battle with a mixture of dread and

hope. Up, and quickly!

The silent command rang in Kiva's mind like an elven battle cry. Perplexed expressions on the

faces of the other captives suggested the message had come to all. There was powerful magic in the silent

voice, magic untouched by the necromancer's malevolent amusement. That was enough for Kiva.

Hope lent her strength. She leaped and seized a cross-bar, swung her feet up and hooked them

over the bar, then pulled herself up and reached for the next handhold. Around the room other captives

scrambled upward as best they could.

An angry gray cloud erupted in the midst of the tower with a roar like a captive dragon. It

exploded into a torrent of rain. The force of the downpour threatened to tear Kiva from her perch, but

she climbed doggedly, and a small, unfamiliar curve lifted the corners of her mouth as she per-ceived the

attacker's strategy.

Steam rose from the floor with a searing hiss as the arcane waters met the necromancer's lurking

flames. The apprentices stumbled back, screaming, throwing aside their magical weapons as they tried to

shield their faces from the rising, scalding mist.

Instantly the cloud changed, compressing into an enor-mous, ice-blue blanket. It swept over Kiva

like a ghostly embrace, then drove down into the scalding mist. Steam changed to delicate webs of ice

crystals, which in turn crunched down into a thick, solid sheet of ice.

Stone and marble guardians froze, their feet encased in ice, the magic that animated them gone.

One winged snake had not yet landed. Its wings locked in place as the ice-cloud passed over it, and it

plunged down, exploding on impact and sending shards of black marble skittering across the frozen floor.

Only the twin gargoyles shrugged off the magic-killing rain. They thrashed about frantically, but

they could not break themselves free of the icy trap. Someone else, appar-ently, could.

Neat cracks appeared in the ice around them, and the stone monsters rose into the air on small

frozen squares like monstrous sultans on tiny flying carpets. Still struggling, they soared through the open

door and landed with thun-derous finality back in their accustomed places.

Kiva dropped back to the floor of her cage, ignoring the burning chill beneath her bare feet. She

darted a quick look around for more defenses.

Several of the apprentice wizards lay dead, their bodies covered with a thick shroud of ice.

Others were captured in ankle-deep ice, some shrieking in agony, others already falling into shock and

silence. One young wizard had had the presence of mind to climb above the rising steam. He sat upon the

shoulders of a marble skeleton, staring with stupid amazement at the limp crimson rope in his hand— all

that remained of his splendid lightning bolt. A wild-eyed female apprentice stood halfway up the spiral

stairs, franti-cally peeled away the budding twigs that had appeared on her wand, as if denuding the

branches could restore the magic lost to the rain. She glanced up, briefly, as the invaders entered, then

returned her attention to her ruined wand.

Several men in warrior's garb stalked into the room, their eyes scanning for further resistance.

When they per-ceived none, they set about freeing the captives. A tall, strongly built man came to Kiva's

cage, a man with a scim-itar nose and a single long braid of dark chestnut hair. He took a small wand

from his belt and lowered it to the skull-shaped lock securing her door.

"Don't!" croaked Kiva in a voice left raw by too many screams, too little song. She reached

through the bars and seized the wizard's wrist. With her free hand she pointed toward the "mirror" and

the suddenly calm and watchful demon.

The monster grinned in anticipation. Bloody saliva hung from its fangs in long strings.

"You cannot," Kiva repeated. "Disturb the lock, and you unleash the demon."

The wizard glanced at the drooling fiend. "Don't fear, child. We will not let it harm you."

"Lord Akhlaur will soon return! You cannot fight him and the demon both," she argued.

"Neither can Akhlaur fight two such battles. Has the demon any loyalty to him?"

Loyalty to Akhlaur? she echoed, silently and incredu-lously. "The demon is a prisoner."

"Then you need not fear its release. It will not be you or me whom the creature seeks. Just be

ready to flee as soon as the door opens."

Suddenly the wizard's eyes clouded, as if he were lis-tening to distant voices. After a moment his

gaze sharp-ened, hardened. He spun toward his comrades. "Akhlaur comes."

They formed ranks, their wands held like ready swords or their hands filled with bright globes

that coursed with the snap and shudder of contained power.

A tall, black-haired man strode into the tower. Rich black and crimson robes swirled around him,

and he gazed about with the faint interest a courtier might display upon enter-ing a ballroom. Behind him

came Noor, his favorite appren-tice, a doe-eyed young woman of soft beauty and ironclad ambition.

Cradled in Noor's hands was a ruby-colored crystal nearly as large as a man's head, sparkling

with thousands of facets and shaped like a many-pointed star. It glowed, quite literally, with life. Kiva's

gaze clung to the crimson gem with a mixture of longing and despair.

"Well met, Zalathorm," Akhlaur said with a hint of amusement

The name startled Kiva. Even here, a prisoner in an iso-lated estate, she knew that name! She

had heard stories of the wizard who was slowly bringing peace and order out of the killing chaos

spawned by Akhlaur's rise to power.

A second shock jolted through her when one of the wizards broke from the group and strode

forward. The great Zalathorm was a man of middle years and middling height. His hair and beard were a

soft brown, a pallid color by Halruaan standards. Nothing in his face or garb suggested power. His hands

were empty of weapons or magic. He stood a full head shorter than Akhlaur, and his somber,

plain-featured face provided sharp contrast to the necromancer's aristocratic features. An image flooded

Kiva's mind of a jousting match between a farmer's dun pony and a raven-black pegasus.

"I wondered when you'd get around to visiting," Akhlaur said. His gaze moved from Zalathorm

and slid dismissively over the battle-ready wizards. His smirk sharpened into a contemptuous sneer.

"This was the best you could do? Transformation into mindless undead could only improve this lot!"

A white-haired wizard spat out a curse and lifted his wand to avenge this insult. As he leveled it at

Akhlaur, Kiva noted the expression of pure panic flooding Noor's face. The apprentice uttered a

strangled little cry and flung out a hand as if to stave off the magical assault

light burst from the old wizard's wand. It veered sharply away from Akhlaur and streaked toward

Noor like light-ning to a lodestone. As magical energy flowed into the crimson gem, Noor's black hair

rose and writhed about her contorted face. The old wizard's wand quickly spent itself, blackened, and

withered to a thin line of falling ashes.

The magic came on, flowing until the wizard's out-stretched hand was little more than

skin-wrapped bone. Where there was life, there was magic, and Akhlaur's crim-son star drank swiftly

and deeply of both. The brave man died quickly, and his desiccated shell fell to the ice-covered floor

with a faint, brittle clatter.

Stunned silence fell over the wizards. Only Zalathorm maintained presence of mind. He beckoned

to the crim-son star. The gem lifted out of Noor's slack hands and floated over to him. To Kiva's

astonishment, Akhlaur did not intervene.

"You cannot harm me with that," the necromancer said, still with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Nor you me," Zalathorm returned grimly. "With this gem, we entrusted our lives to each other's

keeping."

The necromancer lifted raven-wing brows in mock sur-prise. "Why, Zalathorm! Take care, or I

shall suspect you of harboring doubts about our friendship!"

"Doubts? I don't know which is the greater perversion: the use you have made of this gem, or the

monster you made of the man I once called friend."

Akhlaur sent a droll glance toward his apprentice. Noor stood over the slain wizard, both hands

clasped over her mouth and tears streaming down her lovely face. The necromancer took no notice of

her distress.

Tiresome, isn't he?" he said, tipping his head in Zala-thorm's direction. "What can one expect of a

man whose family motto is Too stupid to die?'"

Zalathorm lifted the gem as if in challenge, then swiftly ' traced a spell with his free hand. Every

wizard in the room mirrored his deft gestures.

The room exploded into white light and shrieking power. Kiva dropped and hugged the floor of

her cage as the tower wrenched free of its moorings and soared above the forest canopy.

Again she smiled, for the power of this casting was as great as any magic she'd endured at

Akhlaur's hands. Moving an entire tower, a wizard's tower—Akhlaur's tower!—was an astonishing feat!

Immediately she sensed Zalathorm's intent, and again she dared to hope.

When the tower shuddered to a stop, Kiva closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if she could

draw the forest into herself. Senses she could never describe to a human told her where the tower now

rested. Deep in the swamp was a rift carved into the land by a long-ago cataclysm known to the elves as

the Sundering. The rift was a hidden place, a suitable tomb for Akhlaur's tower—and a place far from the

laraken and its magic-draining power.

Kiva hauled herself to her knees and looked about for the necromancer. He stood crouched in

guard position, brandishing a skull-headed scepter and an ebony wand like a pair of swords. Her throat

clenched in dread, for she knew the spells stored in these weapons and knew Akhlaur could hold off

magical attacks for a very long time.

Yet he did not strike.

Her gaze slid to the necromancer's face. A puzzled moment passed before she understood his

wild eyes, his twisted expression.

Akhlaur was afraid.

Of course! The magical rain had stripped away even these powerful weapons! Akhlaur's

confidence had rested upon his laraken and its ability to strip spells from other wizards and transfer them

to its master. Now the tower had been removed well beyond the laraken's hunting ground, and no new

magic flowed to the waiting scepter and wand.

Akhlaur's frantic gaze sought out his apprentice. "The laraken!" he howled to Noor, brandishing

his scepter at the circling wizards in the manner of one who attempts to hold off wolves with a stick.

"Summon the laraken!"

Kiva laughed. The sound was ragged, yet it rang with both hatred and triumph. Noor would not

do as Akhlaur asked. The slain wizard had been her father—Kiva knew this in her blood and bones, just

as she knew the spirit of the old wizard was now imprisoned in the crimson star, along with Kiva's kin.

The anguish and guilt on Noor's face when the white-haired wizard died was as familiar to Kiva as the

sound of her own heartbeat

However, obedience to Akhlaur was a powerful habit The girl's hands began to trace a

summoning spell before she had time to consider her own will. She hesitated, and half-formed magic

crackled hi a shining nimbus around her as her uncertain gaze swept the room.

Several of the wizards had leveled their wands at her, ready to slay her if need be. All of them

looked to Zala-thorm, who held up a restraining hand and studied Noor with sympathetic and measuring

eyes. "Your father," he said softly, "was a hard man but a good one. He believed magic carries a stern

price. He came here to pay his daughter's debts."

Noor's eyes clung to the crimson star in Zalathorm's hands. "You will free them?"

"Yes," the wizard said simply. In a softer voice, he added, "I will grant them rest and respect"

Joy rose in Kiva like springtime. For a shining moment, she believed Zalathorm could actually

free her, would free them all!

With a single, sharp gesture, Noor finished the sum-moning spell. Kiva had witnessed the

laraken's summoning many times, and she saw at once that the spell cast was not the spell Noor had

begun. Power crackled through the tower, and the roar of angry seas filled the air. Rising above the

surge was a keening, vengeful shriek. A shriek Kiva knew well.

She frantically backed away from the portal, flatten-ing herself against the bars as she awaited the

demon's release.

Stand clear!

Again the voice—the voice of the wizard who'd started to free her—sounded in her head. Kiva

edged away from the bars. Bright energy jolted through them, and the lock's skull-like jaw went slack as

it melted. Kiva tore at the door, not caring that the heated metal burned her fingers.

She stumbled away from the cage. Her retreat was un-heeded, for the wizards' attention was

fixed upon the crea-ture bursting free of the shimmering oval and the open cage.

The water demon shielded its glowing red eyes with a dagger-taloned hand as its gaze swept the

room. Red orbs focused upon the necromancer. Hatred burned in them like hellfire.

"Akhlaur," the demon said in a grating, watery voice, pronouncing the word like a foul curse. It

sprung, impossi-bly quick, its massive hands arched into rending talons.

The wizard dropped his useless weapons and seized the creature's wrists. He frantically chanted

spells to summon preternatural strength and killing magic. Zalathorm's wiz-ards fell back as evil fought

evil like two dark fires, each determined to consume the other.

Arcane power crackled like black lightning around the struggling pair. Akhlaur's luxuriant black

hair singed away and drifted off in a cloud of ash. His handsome face blis-tered and contorted with

pain—pain that fed his death-magic spells.

Suddenly the eels upon the demon's head shrieked and flailed in agony. One by one, they burned

and withered, then fell limp to the creature's massive shoulders like lank strands of hair. Fetid steam rose

from the demon's body, and green-black scales lifted from its flesh like worn shin-gles. Too furious to

meet death alone, the demon forced Akhlaur inexorably back toward the portal.

The necromancer's hate-filled eyes sought Noor's face. He captured her gaze, then jerked one of

the demon's hands, pantomiming a slashing motion. The girl's head snapped back, and four burning lines

opened her throat.

Then Akhlaur was gone. In the mirror, the entwined fig-ures of necromancer and demon rapidly

diminished as they fell away from the glowing portal. Kiva felt a surge of tri-umph, then a sudden,

gut-wrenching drop.

To her astonishment, she felt herself sucked into the Plane of Water with the necromancer!

Down she fell, sinking through a sea of magic, falling away from her forest, her clan and kin.

Away from her past her heritage. From herself. Falling too far to ever, ever return.

In some part of her mind, Kiva knew she was trapped in a dream. Two centuries had come and

gone since Akhlaur's defeat She awakened abruptly but not with the sudden jolt that usually followed an

interrupted dream.

To her horror, she was falling still, tumbling helplessly through thin mountain air. The vision of

Akhlaur's tower had been only a dream, but this nightmare was very, very real!

The elf flailed and tumbled, clawing at the empty dark-ness. Wind whistled past her and carried

her shrieks away into the uncaring night. Stars whirled and spun overhead, mocking her with the long-lost

memories of starlit dances in elven glades. Kiva felt no sorrow over her forgotten inno-cence—its loss

was too old to mourn. As she fell toward certain death, her only regret was the unfinished revenge that

had sustained her for two centuries.

A sudden blur of light and color flashed past her, circled, and dipped out of sight. Kiva struck

something soft and yielding and felt herself received and cradled as if in strong, silken arms.

For several moments she lay facedown, too dazed to move, too stunned to make sense of either

her fall or her rescue. After a while she raised her head and peered into the elaborate, swirling pattern of

a carpet. The wind still whistled past her, but its passage no longer felt cold or mocking.

A flying carpet, then. Kiva felt about for the edges of the magical conveyance and rolled toward

the safety of the middle. She cautiously sat up and found herself face to face with Akhlaur himself.

Two centuries of exile in the Plane of Water had taken its toll on Akhlaur. Lustrous black hair

had given way to a pate covered with fine, faintly green scales. His long fin-gers were webbed, and rows

of gills shaped like jagged lightning slashed the sides of his neck, but his expression of faint, derisive

amusement was maddeningly familiar. For a moment Kiva heartily wished she'd left him in his watery

prison. "You are a restless sleeper, little Kiva," Akhlaur ob-served in an arch tone.

"Elves do not sleep," she reminded him, though she wondered why she bothered. Akhlaur was

singularly unin-terested in elven nature except as it pertained to his exper-iments.

"I trust you are unharmed by your little adventure?" he asked, his manner a blatant parody of a

master's concern for his faithful servant.

Kiva managed a faint smile, though she suspected Akhlaur had nudged her off the carpet in the

first place just to enjoy her fall and her terror!

"It was ... exhilarating," she said, imbuing her words with the dark irony Akhlaur so enjoyed. "All

the same, I am grateful for rescue."

The necromancer inclined his head graciously, accept-ing her thanks as genuine. He had reason

to think Kiva sin-cere. There was a death-bond between them, forged two centuries past so she could

survive the laraken's birth. Kiva could not harm Akhlaur without slaying herself, and she counted on this

to convince the wizard of her sincerity.

"Sleep," he instructed her. "We have much to do upon the morrow."

Kiva obediently curled up on the carpet and pretended to drift back into reverie, but dreams of

the past dimmed before the great battle ahead.

During this battle, Akhlaur, the wizard who had come so close to conquering all of Halruaa,

would fight not as her master but as her deadly and unwitting tool.

Chapter One

A small, swarthy young man glided like a brown shadow through a labyrinth of corridors far

below King Zalathorm's palace. Dawn was hours away, and this deep place was lit only by the small blue

globe in the young wizard's hand.

Moving with the assurance born of experience, he barely glanced at the ancient skeletons

molder-ing in side corridors, silent testament both to the spirit of Halruaan adventurers and the wards

guarding the land's deeply buried treasures.

He made his way to the center of the maze and stepped into a circle ringed with deeply etched

runes. As he chanted in the ancient, secret lan-guage of Halruaan magic, the stone beneath his feet melted

away, swirling downward like dense gray mist and reforming as a narrow, circling stairway.

Down he went, moving deeper and deeper into the heart of the land. With each step he intoned

the specific arcane word required. He respectfully avoided treading upon the blackened spots mark-ing

the final resting places of wizards whose mem-ories had faltered.

At the foot of the stairs was a great hall, lined on each side by a score of living guards. Here

gathered many of Halruaa's great necromancers, keeping watch over secrets last whispered by lips long

ago faded to ash and memory. They nodded to the young man as he passed, giving the deference due to

the king's messenger. None of them suspected the true iden-tity of the black-eyed, brown-skinned youth.

The disguised wizard stopped before an enormous door and bowed to the ancient, cadaverous

archmage who guarded it He handed the old man a scroll.

"A writ from the king," he said in the lilting accents common to the coastal islands.

The archmage glanced at the missive, then lifted his rheumy gaze to the messenger. "By the king's

command, we must answer your questions with the same candor we would offer him. I swear by my

wizard-word oath it will be so."

The youth inclined his head in respectful thanks. "I would know who raised and commanded the

undead army during the battle against the Mulhorandi invaders."

The guardians exchanged uncertain glances. "The king himself is acclaimed for this victory," the

archmage ventured.

The messenger snorted. "When did the king become a master of necromancy? Tell me who

among your ranks could have done such a thing."

The old man's lips thinned as if to hold back the answer he was sworn to give. "It is beyond my

art," he admitted at last. "No one in this room could cast such a spell. We can all raise and command

undead, certainly, but not in such numbers! If the king did not cast this spell, then his equal did."

"Who is equal to the king?" asked the disguised wizard, imbuing his voice with a mixture of

indignation and con-cern, such as a faithful young messenger might express.

"I assume you speak rhetorically, as did I," the arch-mage hastened to add. "For who could be

the king's equal?"

Who indeed? The wizard swallowed the wry smile that tugged at his lips. The old archmage's

parry was as deft as any swordmaster's, but in truth many wizards were beginning to wonder if perhaps

they might prove to be the king's equal. The guardian's question might have been rhetorical, but it would

not long remain in the bloodless realm of rhetoric.

The wizard bowed his thanks and gestured toward the door. The archmage moved aside, clearly

eager to end this disturbing interview.

Massive, ironbound doors swung inward on silent hinges, untouched by mortal hand. Torches

mounted on the walls flared into life, revealing a circular room with sev-eral doors but no floor other than

a gaping pit Faint but fearsome howls wafted up from untold depths, carrying a feint charnel scent and the

promise of oblivion.

The wizard stepped into the empty air, counted off sev-eral paces to the left, and strode

confidently across the void. He passed through three other magically trapped rooms before he came to

the place he sought.

This final chamber was empty but for the ruby-hued crystal floating in the room's center. Shaped

like a many-pointed star, it burned with its own inner light and filled the room with a crimson glow.

The wizard let his disguise melt away, revealing the mild, middle-aged face of the man who had

claimed the crimson star more than two hundred years ago. He dropped to one knee and began the

difficult process each visit demanded: emptying his mind of thought, his heart of sorrow and guilt. When

at last the silence within matched the profound stillness of the chamber, he rose, lifted his eyes to the gem,

and spoke.

The heart of Halruaa seeks counsel," King Zalathorm said softly.

In lean words Zalathorm described the battle spells that just two days before had siphoned the

fluids from hundreds of living men to create an enormous water elemental, then raised the desiccated men

into an undead army.

"What wizard, living or dead, might have cast such a spell?" he concluded.

He tuned his mind's ear for the silent response, the familiar, elfsong voices of sages long dead.

They spoke in a single-note chorus of wordless, overwhelming terror. Waves of emotion swept over him

like an icy storm, steal-ing his breath. Stopping his heart.

Crushing pain enveloped Zalathorm's chest, sending him staggering back. He fell heavily against

the chamber's only door, unable to move or breathe. For long moments he believed he would die in this

room. Finally healing magic, more ancient even than the sages' remembered fear, pulsed from the

crimson star.

The king's heart leaped painfully, then took up its normal rhythm. Slowly his agony receded.

Once again, the crimson star had preserved its creator.

Once again, it had given Zalathorm an answer he could find nowhere else. The gem was undying

history, centuries of experience preserved in eternal immediacy. In all of Hal-ruaa's long history,

Zalathorm knew of only one wizard who could inspire such terror in the time-frozen sages' hearts.

Though no word had been given, Zalathorm had his answer all the same.

Somehow, Akhlaur had returned.

Chapter Two

The streets below King Zalathorm's palace teamed with life, even though the sun barely crested

the city's eastern wall. Matteo stood at the king's side, listening as Zalathorm received a seemingly

end-less line of supplicants.

It was Matteo's first day as King's Counselor, and already he was fighting off the urge to fidget

like a schoolchild. The king had charged him with the defense of Queen Beatrix. Why not let him get on

with it? Matteo could not understand the king's insis-tence on honoring his custom of granting daily

audience. In these extraordinary times, mundane routine seemed as out of place as a witless sheep among

unicorns!

Reminders of the recent battles were every-where. Laborers still cleared away the debris and

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CounselorsandKingsTrilogyBook3TheWizardwarElaineCunninghamEnteredintoTheKing'sLorebook,onthisthe22nddayoftheRedtideMoon,inthe73rdyearofZalathorm'sReign.Ifcattlewerebards,butcherswouldbevillains.Thisjordainiproverbremindsusthateverytaleisshapedbytheteller.IamMatteo,KingZalathorm'snewlyappointedcouns...

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Elaine Cunningham - Counselors & Kings 3 - The Wizardwar

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