The Magehound (18 page)

The words hung in the air like a challenge, like a curse or foul blasphemy. Both the elf and the man understood that this strategy flew in the face of every instinct and tradition of the land.

“And who would command this army of jordaini?”

“I would have done so gladly, were I still jordain.” Andris glared at the fading magical light.

The magehound dispelled the globe with a flick of her coppery fingers and then picked up the scroll. She smoothed it and put it on the table before him.

“Cast the spell again, jordain.”

Andris set his jaw and formed the gesture as before. This time no light came to his call. He lifted a puzzled stare to Kiva’s face.

In response, she reached into the folds of her gown and retrieved the jeweled wand that had damned Andris. She touched it to the grape arbor that curved over the breakfast table. A high, ghostly note vibrated through the iron trellis.

Understanding, pained and incredulous and furious all at once, dawned in the jordain’s eyes. Kiva nodded acknowledgment of his insight.

“Yes. The result would be much the same if I were to touch this wand to a stone, a toad, or a pile of goosedown. It finds magic in everything, whether there is any to find or not.”

“My brothers think me dead,” Andris said, speaking first of that which troubled him most.

“Would it comfort you to know that you will see and work with many of them again? That in doing so, you will be doing what you trained for? You and your jordaini brothers will attend powerful wizards, using both your talents and your resistance to magic for the good of the land.”

Andris regarded her thoughtfully. “You make a powerful point. But why the deceit?”

“It was a necessary thing. Truth might be meat and drink to the jordaini, but most men order their lives by other impulses. There is great status in having jordaini servants, and the wizards clamor over you like hounds snarling over bones. A man of your talents was needed for this great task. Other opportunities would soon be offered to you. We could not entrust the outcome to fate.”

“You could have told me of your plans outright. A jordain is free to choose among employments offered him.”

Kiva smiled and laid her slender hand on his arm. “Forgive me, Andris, but I did not know your true measure. Status is all-important in this land. I have on good authority that both Procopio Septus of Halarahh and Lord Grozalum of Khaerbaal intended to petition for your service. The admiral of Halruaa’s navy reports to Grozalum. If Procopio has his way, he will be king after Zalathorm. Most ambitious jordaini would be sorely tempted by offers from such patrons. I feared that you might find such an uncertain undertaking less attractive if you knew what glories were available for the taking.”

Andris scratched at the unfamiliar stubble on his chin. “But I am jordain. I serve the truth and the land.”

“And what of yourself, Andris?” she said softly. “What do you want for yourself?”

The question seemed to puzzle the young man. Kiva tried again. “How content are you with the life that lies before you? You will advise, wizards will command, and others will do. Is that what you want? Correct me if I have read you falsely, but I think you were born to command.”

Andris was silent for a long moment. “It is not the tradition of this land.”

“Nor is it tradition to mount a campaign without magic. Yet you have devised just such a campaign, and you long to command it. Is this not truth?”

There was mockery in her voice, but the young jordain’s face remained thoughtful. “Who commissioned my services?”

“I cannot say. This land is ruled by wizards, but none have been able to contain the undead monsters of Kilmaruu. Let’s just say that it would be … awkward if someone so highly placed were to seek a nonmagical solution to this problem.”

Andris’s face suffused with wonder as the alchemy of hope transformed her lie into his greatest hidden dreams. Every wizard, every fighter in the land aspired to serving the great Zalathorm. This, then, was what Kiva seemed to offer. His own command, at the king’s bequest!

The young jordain rose and fell to one knee before her. “Since you speak for the wizard who commissioned my service, you are my patron. Tell me what you desire me to accomplish, and I will find a way to do so,” he said earnestly.

The elf woman patted his arm. “You have made a fine start, Andris. Far better than you know.”

The next day Mbatu stood at the edge of the camp, watching as Kiva’s recruits trained. Though he could find no fault in the warriors’ efforts, neither did he take any pleasure in watching them.

Yesterday he had been the battlemaster, today all that remained for him to do was watch as the tall, red-haired man put the fighters through their paces.

To his amazement, the men were no longer Kiva’s captives and mercenaries, but an army. The wemic didn’t know what Eva had told the young jordain, but something had set him aflame. His passion had spread like wildfire to every man in his command.

The men were armed with rattan swords, so they could get used to the unfamiliar weight and length of them before using steel. Andris chose five men and bade them to swarm him. They charged in, whistling their practice blades through the air.

Mbatu chuckled, expecting the tall man to be facedown in muck before he could lift his sword.

He should have remembered his own encounter with a jordain. Within moments, all five of the fighters had been sent reeling back to nurse their bruises.

“Iago,” Andris called, pointing to a slim, dark blade of a man. “You play the role of the out-numbered fighter.”

“An honor,” the man said dryly. “It will be excellent practice for playing the role of the corpse.”

Andris joined in the laughter this comment elicited, then his face turned serious. “Remember that we will not be fighting honorable duels. We need to work together if any of us are to survive. Imagine that Iago is surrounded by undead. I’ll show you how to work the perimeter and finish off the attackers as he pushes them back. You three-you can be the first wave of undead.”

The men lifted their swords and rushed in for the attack. Andris fell back, so that for a moment, Iago was standing alone. The smaller man parried the first thrusting attack.

Before the rattan swords could disengage, Andris stepped in and seized the attacker’s hair. He drew his sword lightly across the man’s throat and then spun toward the second attacker, fist clenched as if it were still gripping a handful of hair. He swung hard into the second man’s gut, doubling him over.

“Freeze,” he commanded.

The men stood as they were, though the man he’d just hit wobbled as he struggled to stand in his bent-over position.

“Let’s say that I beheaded the first zombie and used the head to shield-smash the one coming up behind. What now? Iago?”

The slim jordain nodded toward his “headless” companion. “This creature cannot see. He will flail around for a time before falling. I need to move beyond reach of his blade.”

“You can do better. Turn it toward the other monsters,” Andris suggested. “Like so.”

He whirled and used the flat of his sword to strike the man who was bent over and off-balance. The man stumbled into the “headless zombie,” who obligingly turned and started swinging at this new attacker.

Iago skirted the pair and lunged at the third man, who parried and riposted high. Iago caught the blow with his sword and then planted a foot on the man’s chest, pushing him away-and directly onto the point of Andris’s waiting sword. At the last moment, Andris sidestepped so that the man splashed down into the water. He rose dripping but smiling in relief. Rattan swords did not draw blood, but all of the men were covered with livid bruises.

“You see?” Andris said. “Working together, small bands of men can fight large numbers. Let’s try it again, this time with four attackers.”

It was a precise sequence, a deadly dance with finely timed moves. Again and again Andris walked them through it, showing how to fight against four, against six, how to vary the defenses and attacks against humans, against wights and ghouls.

The wemic was both impressed and troubled by this display. He had always been Kiva’s strong right hand. She had purchased him when he was a cub, a child too young to remember the ways of the pride. The elf woman was his only family. What she said, he did. His strength was prodigious, and he had never known fear. Few men or elves could best him at arms. What he knew, he did very well.

Mbatu was beginning to realize, however, how limited his knowledge was. Oh, he could fight. In honest melee, few could match him, much less overcome him. Yet in less than a moon’s time he had been outmaneuvered by one jordain and replaced by another.

The wemic watched as the men sloshed through the shallow, fetid water and drove stakes into the muck. To these they fastened several straw figures. Andris moved the men into position, encircling the straw zombies like a pack of wolves and closing in. At his mark, each man tossed a handful of coarse, sandy substance into the water. The swamp began to roil and sizzle. Foul gas rose from it, writhing like sickly green ghosts. One of the fighters tossed a torch into the vapor. There was a sudden sharp sucking sound, and then the swamp was aflame.

The fire died almost as suddenly as it had erupted. The only trace of the straw men was the charred sticks that had supported them. The zombies and ghouls wouldn’t leave even that much of a legacy.

Kiva came up behind him, her nose wrinkled in disgust over the scent. “How goes it?”

“The jordain knows his undead,” the wemic admitted. “If the men fight as he tells them to do, they will win.”

“I am glad to hear it. It will be good practice,” she agreed.

Mbatu studied her, his leonine face troubled.

“Practice?”

“For Akhlaur,” Kiva said calmly. “The men will learn to fight in a swamp, to deal with the undead.”

“But what of the laraken?” demanded Mbatu. “What will prepare them for such a monster?”

“What could?” she retorted. “I daresay the fiend will be as much a surprise to them as it was to us. Fortunately, we are better prepared now.”

“We?” the wemic repeated suspiciously. “But you will not be there.”

“Actually, dear Mbatu, I rather think that I must.”

A low, angry growl came from the wemic. “You cannot,” he said fiercely. “The laraken feeds upon magical energy. How many wizards have you sent into the swamp? Few of those wizards survived. Those who did were utterly stripped of their magic and more empty of mind than if an enfeeblement spell had been cast upon them. What will happen to you if we go into that place?”

The magehound traced his set jaw with her coppery fingertips. “Don’t fear for me, dear Mbatu. I have learned quite a few of the swamp’s secrets. Have I never told you how the wizard Akhlaur was defeated? No? He was dragged into the elemental plane of water by the very creature he summoned to help create the laraken.”

“Yes. So?”

“So a tiny gate remains. Water leaks through, and with it the powerful magic of the elemental plane. It is this leak, this magic, that sustains the laraken and keeps it dependent upon the swamp.” She smiled slyly. “If I could close this gate, the laraken would be forced to seek sustenance elsewhere.”

The wemic’s tailed lashed with anger and frustration. “But how? We could take a hundred jordaini into the swamp, and the laraken would still be drawn to you!”

The magehound’s face hardened. “Why do you think we have been chasing Keturah’s daughter?” she demanded. “If she’s truly her mother’s daughter, she will be able to call the laraken.”

“What of the mother?”

“I have other uses for Keturah,” Kiva said in a voice that forbade discussion. “It is Tzigone we need.”

The magehound fell silent, and her face became contemplative. “It may well be that Tzigone had not yet relieved herself of her so-called honor debt to Matteo. If Matteo were to come to grief, she might feel obligated to intervene.

“Yes,” she said with greater certainty, “it is time to add some complications to the young jordain’s life.”

“And if that does not serve?”

The magehound gave her servant a small, cool smile. “Then at the very least, you will get your revenge upon him.”

In the days to come, Matteo was to spend many hours with Procopio Septus. He attended the wizard daily at the Ilysium, a vast pink marble building that housed the offices of city officials. When Procopio’s duties as lord mayor were discharged, they usually took to the sky. This was Matteo’s favorite time of day, and he was rapidly becoming adept at piloting a skyship. The evenings were a round of lavish public affairs: banquets, festivals, concerts. Since Matteo was only one of several jordaini in Procopio’s service, he was not required to attend every event. He and his fellow counselors met each day at sunrise to compare notes and devise strategies that would best serve their patron.

Matteo hoped that these meetings would foster the sense of camaraderie he knew back at House Jordain-after all, some of these men had been students at the Jordaini College when he was a young lad. But it seemed to him that his colleagues were far too absorbed with jostling for position. Matteo was keenly aware of his newcomer status, and he never seemed able to move past it Every morning he began the day in a circle of white-clad men who eyed him with open resentment.

Slowly he began to understand why this was so. He spent more time at Procopio’s side than any jordain other than Zephyr, the wizard’s high counselor. It didn’t help matters when the old elf took upon himself the role of Matteo’s mentor. Each morning after the jordaini meeting, Zephyr and Matteo spent an hour walking in the villa gardens and discussing the politics of the day.

As Zephyr had predicted, Procopio arranged several more tests of Matteo’s skills and knowledge. The young jordain passed them all with ease. Riding an unbroken horse was little challenge after his experiences with Cyric. When a wizard “assassin” magically burst into Procopio’s dining chamber, Matteo took a page from Tzigone’s book and coolly deflected the sun arrows with the mirrorlike finish of a bronze plate. Procopio had howled with laughter at the sight of his hired wizard rolling on the floor in agony, and he’d sent Dranklish, the jordain who before Matteo’s arrival had been second in rank to Zephyr, like an errand boy to fetch a cleric of Mystra to heal the unfortunate man. It was that event that cemented Matteo’s position in the household, for it became clear to everyone that the new jordain was being groomed as Zephyr’s successor. The tests ended, and so did Matteo’s hope of finding friends among the household’s jordaini.