Элейн Каннингем - The Wizardwar

The big man grinned fiercely. "I'm guessing Akhlaur's army were Halruaans, mostly, but they've been dead too long to take offense."

At his signal, the battalion picked up their weapons ant prepared to run toward battle.

"To the royal stables," Matteo shouted.

They quickly claimed swift horses, mounted, and rode hard for the northern gate. The dueling field was a short ride, and the horses ran as if they sensed the urgency оf their riders.

Matteo leaned low over his horse's neck, skirting battle and riding hard for Zalathorm's side. He saw Akhlaur striding forward, a glowing black ball held aloft. Matteo groaned as he recognized a deathspell-a powerful necromancy attack that snuffed out a life-force instantly and irrevocably.

The king swept one hand toward the advancing necromancer. A brilliant light flashed out-as bright and pure as a paladin's heart. It swept toward the necromancer, a light that would dispel darkness, destroy evil.

The black globe winked out, and Akhlaur slumped to the ground. To Matteo's horror, the necromancer's green scaled faced darkened, taking on the bronzed visage of newly slain warrior. The wizard's robes changed to a blue green uniform, mottled with darkening blood.

"A zombie double," Matteo said, understanding the necromancer's diversion. He had lent his form to a newly slain Halruaan. The jordain looked frantically about for the real Akhlaur.

A shadow stirred amid the roiling battle, and a black globe flared into sudden life. It hurtled toward the king. A shout of protest burst from Matteo, but he was too far away to reach Zalathorm in time.

A bay stallion galloped toward the king, and the tall, red haired man in the saddle drew his feet up beneath him and launched into a diving leap. The black sphere caught him in midair and sent him spinning.

Andris struggled to his feet, his daggers in hand. For moment, Matteo dared hope that his friend's jordaini resistance would prove equal to the terrible spell, but Andris hands dropped to his side, and his daggers fell to the field. Matteo threw himself off the horse and caught the dying man as he fell.

Kiva raced toward the palace. She stopped near one of the trees that shaded the courtyard and began to climb. A soft thump landed behind her. Kiva's wide-spanning elven vision granted her a quick glimpse of Tzigone, her hands darting toward Kiva's hair.

Before the elf could respond, Tzigone seized the jade-colored braid and yanked it savagely. Kiva's head snapped back, and she lost her grip on the rough bark. Using her fall to advantage, she kicked herself off the tree and into the wretched girl.

They went down together like a pair of jungle cats-rolling, clawing, and pummeling. Neither of them noticed at first that Keturah had begun to sing.

Slowly Kiva became aware of elven voices joining in with the woman's ruined alto. She broke away, backing away from the suddenly watchful Tzigone and gazing with disbelief at faces too long unseen.

The song faded. Quiet and watchful, the elven folk lingered near as if somehow their life task was not quite finished.

Tzigone rose. "It's over, Kiva. You've won. The elves are free."

Dimly Kiva became aware that she was shaking her head as if in denial. Yes, these were her kin, her friends. There was her sister, there the childhood friend who taught her to hunt, there her first lover. They were free. Her life purpose was fulfilled, and the proof of it stood by silently waiting for her to understand the truth of it.

Suddenly Kiva knew the truth. It was not finished, her task. All these years, everything she had done-she had believed that it was devoted to the freeing of her kin. But that was not what had driven her at all. Vengeance has utterly consumed her, leaving her less alive than these shadowy spirits.

With a despairing cry, Kiva threw both arms high. A flash of magic engulfed her and she disappeared from sight.

In less than a heartbeat, she emerged from the blind spell, one designed to take her to her one-time ally. She stood at the palace stairs, where a glum-faced Procopio sat and brooded.

He jumped like a startled cat when her fingernail dug into his arm. "Come, wizard," she said in a voice that was strange even in her own ears. "It is time for Halruaa to die!"

Kiva and Procopio emerged from the spell in the midst of an undead throng. The wizard gagged at the stench and lifted one hand to cover his nose.

The elf snatched it aside and pointed with her free hand to the place where Akhlaur stood, limned with black light.

"Look well, wizard," Kiva said in a voice shrill with madness. "He is your mirror. He is you. He is Halruaa, and may you all molder in the Abyss!"

She snatched a knife from Procopio's belt and plunged it into his chest. For a moment he stared down at it, incredulous, then he slumped to the blood-sodden field.

Deep in the ranks of his warriors, Akhlaur cast another spell. A terrible bone blight settled on a seething mass of warriors. The undead were not harmed, but the living received each blow with twice the force it might otherwise have had. Swords fell from shattered hands, and men dropped to the ground, writhing in agony as the fragile, jagged shards of broken bones stabbed through their flesh.

Gray-clad priests worked bravely, dragging the wounded aside and praying fervently over the fallen. Wizards, in turn, protected the clerics. A circle of wizards cast protective spells upon a cluster of gray-clad Azuthan priests, who chanted collective spells meant to turn away undead.

The forces of Halruaa, when united in purpose, were difficult to withstand. Skeletal warriors fell like scythed grain.

Akhlaur spun toward his lich. Vishna stood beyond the reach of the clerics. At a nod from Akhlaur, the undead wizard summoned a deathguard-guardian spirits ripped from the Ethereal Plane. These bright warriors glided toward the priests like fallen angels, as formidable as a charge of airborne paladins. Vishna began the chant that could summon an even more dreadful magic.

A dark web formed over the battlefield. As the corpse host spell took effect, the newly dead began to rise and living soldiers, untouched by blade or spell, fell senseless to the ground.

Cries of inarticulate dismay burst from torn throats as scores of living men realized that they were inhabiting corpses. Their own bodies, living but discarded, lay defenseless. Already the undead warriors stalked toward them like wolves encircling trapped prey.

The Halruaan warriors who had not felt the touch of Vishna's spell, who did not understand the spell, rushed to meet their advancing comrades. Not understanding, they cut down the confused and frantic undead. Abandoned bodies shuddered and died as the life-forces trapped in undead flesh were released to whatever afterlife awaited them.

The lich's eyes swept the crowd and found Zalathorm fighting hand to hand against an enormous, bony construct that seemed half man, half crocodile. Akhlaur sped through the gestures of a powerful enervation spell and hurled it at the king. Zalathorm jolted back, his face paling as strength and magic were stripped from him. For the briefest of moments the eyes of the two of friends met.

With a thought, a gesture, Vishna sent a bolt of healing energy toward Zalathorm. At the same time, he sent mental command to the undead warrior at Akhlaur's side.

The creature drew a rusted knife and cut the tether to the black cube at the necromancer's sleeve. It stumbled forward, bearing the ebony phylactery that contained Vishna's spirit. So engrossed was Akhlaur that he did not notice its loss.

Vishna took the tiny box from the skeletal hand and nodded his thanks. "I grant you rest and respect," he muttered. The skeleton bowed its head as if in thanks and crumbled into dust.