The Floodgate

Cibrone, the shaman, threw up her small hands in disgust. "How could you defeat a wizard who destroyed hundreds of elves?"

Kiva took a small book from her pack. Andris recognized it as the spellbook he had taken from the Jordaini College. Her face was somber as she held it up. "This holds Akhlaur's secrets. Your touch senses magic, Cibrone. Test the truth of my claim."

The shaman reached out with hesitant fingers and touched the delicate, yellowed leather binding. Her face paled as an unexpected truth came to her. She snatched her hand away from the grim book, then smoothed her fingers over it in a small, sad caress.

"Filora," she said in broken tones. "My sister."

Chagrin washed over Kiva's face-real or feigned, Andris could not say. "I did not know this, Cibrone. But I can see that you, at least, understand me. You know what things the necromancer has done. Sooner or later, Akhlaur will win free of his prison. He has already learned how to send one of his monsters through the floodgate. Did you know that the laraken escaped into the world of water? That Akhlaur can take from the laraken all the magic the monster steals? Can you imagine how quickly his power will grow?

"Akhlaur must be stopped," Kiva asserted. "Here. Now. For two hundred years I have studied his magic. I know how he can be defeated, and I believe I can do it if we move with all haste. If I fail, what loss to you? You will not mourn me overmuch."

The elves considered, debating the matter in their eloquent silent speech.

"We will go," Nadage said at last. "This evil must be stopped. Yet know this, Kiva: If you spill i

"So be it. Prepare your warriors, and bring the undine with you."

This took the elf leader by surprise. "Why?"

"Akhlaur's tower is deep under water. The undine can retrieve the treasures from it-things I will need to follow Akhlaur and subdue him."

"I will ask her," Nadage said hesitantly, "but I will not ask her to follow you into the world of water."

"Nor would I! She is a creature of magic. The laraken dwells there and would be her death."

Nadage nodded, and the elves disappeared into the trees. Kiva and Andris waited throughout that day and most of the next before the band reappeared with the undine-a slender, white-ski

However, as the long march to the swamp went on, the undine's beauty faded. The elves moved swiftly, covering more ground that Andris would have thought possible. He considered himself strong and fit, but he had difficulty keeping the pace. It was brutally hard on the undine, who appeared thi

When they entered the Swamp of Akhlaur, a pall settled upon the spirits of the elves. The air was as dank as an open grave. As they made their way through moss-draped trees, long filaments brushed at them like lifeless fingers. Each crystal ghost the elves passed was an occasion for mourning. Kiva urged them on, and after a while they took to singing their keening laments in time to their step, like a mournful marching song.

Andris, too, was forced to confront his dead. On the second day into the swamp, they reached the site of the battle with the laraken.

The jungle was already reclaiming the battlefield. Foliage scarred by the fireball battle between Kiva and Tzigone had healed and grown. Flowering vines entwined the naked rib cage of the lion-centaur who had died protecting his elf mistress. Andris was grateful that he did not have to gaze upon the actual bones of his comrades. Lacking tools for burial, they had weighted down the bodies and dropped them into a deep pool nearby.

A wave of odor slammed into him-a stench so foul that it made Andris dizzy with nausea. It was familiar, but for a moment Andris could not identify it.

"Kilmaruu," he murmured, remembering the battle in the swamp and the rank scent of long-drowned men.

Andris reached in his bag for the pot of pungent ointment he'd prepared for that battle. He smeared a quick dab under his nose to help block the smell. Tossing it to Kiva, he pulled his sword and dropped into a battle-ready stance. Behind him, the elves followed suit.

A rotting, swollen corpse blundered through the foliage. Its puffy hand drew back and hurled something brown and wet at Andris. His sword leaped up to bat it away, easily cutting through the spongy missile. Two halves of a vampire leech-each the size of his fist-writhed at his feet.

A shudder ran through Andris. The leeches were as voracious as their namesakes, and nearly impossible to dislodge. If the leech had hit a living target, it would have sucked enough blood to fill a wine bottle before they could cut it off.

The undead creature came on, pulling a sword from a rusty scabbard. Andris stepped in and blocked the attack. The «sword» snapped in two as easily as a dried reed. It was no warrior's weapon, but a thin, hollow tube.

Andris darted a gaze to the corpse's chest. A groan escaped him as he noted the stab wound to the heart, almost obscured by the pale, puffy flesh around it. This had been Dranth, a jordaini student who had left the college with a "debilitating illness"-as spurious a claim as the one that added Andris to Kiva's ranks. Dranth had died in the swamp, slain by a giant stirge. The weapon in Dranth's undead hand was that which had dealt his deathblow: a stirge's snout.

There was no intelligence in the dead eyes, nothing at all of Dranth. That made Andris's task somewhat easier. With three quick strokes, he beheaded the walking corpse and ran his sword through the already-shattered heart.

Dranth was dead, Andris reminded himself as he stooped to wipe the foul pus from his sword.

A whimper of inarticulate terror came from behind him. Andris glanced back at the undine. The watermaid managed to stand upright only because Cibrone linked a supporting arm around her waist. Both females stared at the beheaded zombie with revulsion and sorrow. Andris knew enough of elves to realize their great respect for the afterlife. The notion of an animated corpse was abhorrent to them.

A ragged, gurgling wail rose from a vine-shrouded copse of trees. The jordain spun away and stalked toward the new threat, bent on destroying the animated bodies of his former comrades.

Themo arrived at the travel hut two days late, flushed with sun and excitement and ready for adventure. Any doubts Matteo might have had about his decision to meddle in Themo's life dissolved at the sight of the big man's grin. He leaped from his horse and swept Matteo up into a bone-crushing embrace.

"What did you say to old Ferris to get him to turn me loose?"

Matteo managed a faint smile. "Wouldn't you rather know what we're hunting?"

Themo listened intently, nodding and offering an occasional suggestion. His spirits were high as the three jordaini rode out, following the Crinti trail deeper into the hills, expecting ambush with every bush and cave they passed. Trail sign was plentiful, but never once did they see their prey.

"Not much sport to this," Themo complained after a few hours.

Matteo and Iago exchanged glances. "Perhaps his sword is sharper than his mind," the small jordain said sarcastically.

"During my time with Procopio Septus, I often joined the wizard in games of war," Matteo began, deftly cutting off Themo's indignant response. "He had a wondrous table, a raised map shaped much like this wild land. With it were hundreds of tiny figures that moved and fought. He commanded them to enact battles so we could observe the field from above, as a god might, and better understand how the battle played out. Sometimes we would play the same battle again and again with variations to learn what worked and what did not."