The Wizardwar Read online

  “Grow a backbone, Dhamari!” Tzigone snapped. “Thanks to you and Kiva, I can tell you from experience that it’s possible to survive almost anything.”

  The wizard responded with a shriek of agony. Tzigone muttered a phrase she’d picked up on the streets and stooped beside him. Quickly she tucked her mother’s talisman back into his hand. His screams immediately subsided to a pathetic whimper.

  “I want you to survive,” she told him. Her voice was cold and her eyes utterly devoid of the playful humor that had become both her trademark and her shield. “I’ll find a way out of this place for both of us—and when this is all over, I’m going to kill you myself.”

  Novels by Elaine Cunningham

  Songs and Swords

  Elfshadow

  Elfsong

  Silver Shadows

  Thornhold

  The Dream Spheres

  Starlight and Shadows

  Daughter of the Drow

  Tangled Webs

  Counselors and Kings

  The Magehound

  The Floodgate

  The Wizardwar

  Evermeet: Island of Elves

  Counselors and Kings Book III

  THE WIZARDWAR

  ©2002 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

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  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: John Foster

  Map by: Dennis Kauth

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6188-7

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  v3.1

  Dedication

  To Peter Archer, who has the patience angle nailed but is still two miracles short of sainthood.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  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 Zalathorm’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 hundred 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 traveled far south, settling in a beautiful haven protected 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 magical means.

  Additional laws and customs ensure the jordaini’s faithful service. Ambition cannot tempt us, for we possess neither 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 powerful guardians of jordaini purity are the magehounds, wizards who serve as Inquisitors in the church of Azuth, Lord of Wizards.

  Magehounds are granted spells and magical items powerful 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 infamous 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 Halruaa’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 Tzigone 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 monster, 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 magical treasures were collected for her by a band of Crinti raiders—the “shadow amazons” of Dambrath, female warriors 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 neighboring 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 examined 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 magehound was defeated. Once again, Tzigone thwarted Kiva’s designs. Two doors were closed by the magic Tzigone triggered: 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 clockwork 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 seagoing 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 Halruaa’s queen. Scarred within and without by terrible suffering, 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 constructs 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 healing 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 compelled me to inform Zalathorm of his wife’s treachery. The queen awaits trial. This tragedy destroyed what might otherwise 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 Mulhorandi 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 Zalathorm’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 Halruaan history to memory. Stories of wizardwars are the most fearsome we know. I pray daily to Lady Mystra that we Halruaans 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 hundred 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, reverberating 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 slaughtered 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, asymmetrical face. Their tiny fangs gnashed and snapped in counterpoint 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 protecting 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 distant 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!