Элейн Каннингем - The Wizardwar

To his surprised, he felt no sting from the flying shards. Cautiously he lifted his head.

The room was still filled with rosy light. Moving through the light were crystalline forms, similar to that borne by Andris. All were elven but for an elderly human man who held a strong resemblance to Farrah Noor. The ghostly human bowed deeply to them and disappeared.

The elves milled about, embracing each other and rejoicing in their freedom. Tzigone watched with tear-misted eyes.

A light, tentative hand touched her arm. "Ria?" asked a tentative voice.

Memory flooded back, the one thing Tzigone had sought for so long-her name, the name her mother used to call her. "It's me," she managed.

Keturah's eyes, enormous in her white-painted face, searched her daughter's face. "So beautiful," she said wistfully, "but no longer a child."

For the first time in her life at an utter loss for words, Tzigone handed her mother the talisman. Keturah's fingers closed around it, and her face went hard.

"Kiva is near, and with her comes a great and ancient evil." She reached out and touched Tzigone's cheek. "Our task is not quite finished-they must both be destroyed."

She set off with certainty down a series of tunnels. Tzigone glanced at the jordain, and did an astonished double-take at the sight before her. Andris was fully restored, and looked much as he had before the battle in Akhlaur's Swamp.

Matteo nodded to her. "We follow," he said simply.

Tzigone raced after the avenging queen and prepared to face Akhlaur-and Kiva.

Two armies faced each other across the dueling field. It was as Kiva expected-as it always had been. The warring factions of Halruaan ambition gathered to fight a common foe. Wizards and warriors, private armies and the remnants of Halarahh's militia, they all stood shoulder to shoulder, nearly as pale as the hideous foes they faced.

Akhlaur's undead minions stood ready. Skeletal forms showed through watery flesh that reeked of the swamp. All waited for some signal to begin.

Suddenly Zalathorm appeared, standing before Halruaa's army. He flung out one hand, and fine powder exploded toward the undead army. A wind caught the powder, sending it swirling as a dust devil rose in size and power. The pale tornado raced toward the undead and burst into a shower of flying crystal.

The lich commander shouted an order, and many of the warriors fell to one knee, covering themselves with large rattan shields. The salt storm, though, struck many of the undead warriors, and all it touched melted like salted slugs.

Their skeletons merely shrugged off their oozing flesh and advanced. Their bony hands unlatched small leather bags hung about their necks, removed vials glowing with sickly yellowish light. The skeletal warriors darted forward with preternatural speed, hurling the vials as they came.

"Deathmaster vials!" shouted one of the wizards. Several of them began to cast protective spells.

The front line charged. Some of the warriors pushed through, shielded by protective magic. Others were not so fortunate. Terrible rotting sores broke out wherever the noxious liquid met flesh. Yet all of them, living and dying, fought with fervor. Their swords lifted again and again as they hacked the attacking bones into twitching piles of rubble.

Arrows rained down upon the undead forces from the north side of the field, which was shaded by enormous, ancient trees. Kiva, who crept along the forest edge, noted the scores of archers perched in the branches overhead. She noted that all were clad in Azuthan gray, and she hissed like an angry cat.

As she feared, whenever the arrows found a target, undead creatures fell and did not rise. Holy water, no doubt, had been encased in glass arrow heads.

The wizards took full advantage of this, bombarding the army with one spell after another. Fetid steam rose as fireballs struck watery flesh.

Kiva's lips firmed as she recalled a terrible necromancy spell she had learned at Akhlaur's side. After just a moment's hesitation, she began the casting of a powerful defoliation spell.

Instant blight fell over the woods. All vegetation withered and died, and leaves drifted like mountain snow. Birds fell limply to the ground, and human archers dropped like sacks of meal. In moments, a swatch of woods some fifty feet in every direction stood as barren as a crypt.

Yet another bit of the ancient elven forests fell before Halruaan magic.

Kiva shrugged aside the pain that coursed through her, blood and bone and spirit, when the great trees died and the Weave shimmered and sighed. This terrible destruction was but one more stain upon her soul.

The two armies charged, meeting in the midst of the field in terrible melee. A small group of Halruaans broke through, charging with suicidal bravery toward the place where the necromancer stood.

The elf-victim, apprentice, and would-be master of Halruaa's most powerful necromancer-responded without thought or hesitation. Kiva lifted her hands, and red light crackled from her fingertips. It stopped the charge like a wall of force. The warriors were lifted into the air, surrounded by crackling light, their bodies twitching in excruciating pain. The nerve dance was one of the many cruel arrows in a necromancer's quiver. It would not stop the warriors for long, and it would not kill many of them, but it held them helpless for several agonizing moments. Few wizards could maintain a spell in such pain. The moment of invulnerability provided opportunity-it was up to Akhlaur and his lich to seize it.

Kiva turned and fled the battlefield, running for the palace. When she brought Beatrix to this place years ago, she had placed small devices that would enable her to slip past the wards and into the palace.

Whether Akhlaur wished it or not, the crimson star would set this day.

Matteo and Andris raced down the sweeping marble expanse of the palace stairs. They pulled up short as a battalion of militia marched into formation, taking a guard position. Procopio Septus stepped forward and surveyed the dumbfounded jordaini with a faint smile.

"We will hold the palace," Procopio announced. "Someone must stand ready to take over the throne if Zalathorm should fall."

"If all the city's wizards stand with him, the king's chances of survival rise considerably," Matteo shot back. "These men are needed against Akhlaur's army."

Procopio's face darkened. "That is my decision to make. You have yet to learn, jordain, that it is the wizard-lords who rule."

"Do what you will, but let us pass," Matteo said. He drew his sword, and Andris followed suit. "Every blade is needed."

The wizard shook his head. "And let you carry this tale to Zalathorm, like a faithful hunting dog retrieving a partridge? I think not."

The two jordaini advanced.

Procopio sneered. "What can two men do against twenty warriors and a wizard?"

One of the militia-a tall, thick-bodied man-shouldered his way though the group. He bowed to Procopio and drew his sword, as if he intended to offer himself as champion. Before Procopio could respond, the big man fisted his free hand into the wizard's gut. The flair of protective wards flashed, but the man shrugged them off without apparent effort. Procopio folded with a wheeze like a punctured wineskin.

"With respect, my lord," Themo said distinctly to him, "that would be three men and no wizards."

An enormous grin split the big man's face. He fell into step with his two friends as they stalked down the stairs toward a sea of ready swords.

As one, the men threw down their weapons. Themo's face fell. "Where's the fun in that?" he demanded.

"You're ranking officer now," one of them said to Themo, "and it's treason to fight a commander. There's a bigger battle to fight, but by all the gods, if you tell us to fight Halruaans I'll run you through myself."