The Floodgate

He gave the order to his helmsman to take the skyship higher, above the stench of death and the cries of dying men. After all, he was accustomed to watching such battles from above.

Matteo sprinted up a mountain path, running along a stream that seemed too swift and strong for this terrain, this season. From the skyship, he noted that its origin was a spring in the middle of a small clearing, very like the stream in the Swamp of Akhlaur that had sustained the laraken for two centuries. Several Crinti warriors guarded this spring, firming Matteo's suspicions.

Surely this was where Kiva had moved the floodgate.

He ran toward the deadly site, not entirely certain what he would do when he got there or what he might meet. His only thought was that the gate must be closed. He only hoped he would live long enough to mark the site for Basel Indoulur. The wizard would have to do the rest.

Far to the west, beside the pool that guarded Akhlaur's treasure with monsters and magic, Kiva faced down the furious, ghostly jordain. She forced herself to keep her voice calm and soothing, addressing the human as she might an angry dog.

"Keep your goal in mind. You know the price others have paid for the power Halruaan wizards wield. Did you think this wrong could be easily undone?"

Andris gestured to the slain elves. "They did not have to die."

"Yes, they did," the elf told him, "and so must I."

She smiled into his stunned face. "Did you think I meant to rule in the wizards' stead? There is nothing left for me in this world but vengeance. I will die with my blade in Akhlaur's heart and be content."

"But the task is not completed!"

"No, but my part is almost finished. It is your task to hold the floodgate until I can slip through into the Plane of Water. When the gate closes, you will know that I have succeeded, and you will know that I am dead."

Andris accepted this with a nod. "And the Cabal?"

"To destroy that, one must destroy Zalathorm himself."

Andris's face turned an even more ghostly shade. "I can't do that."

"No," she agreed, "but you will not need to. I already have. Zalathorm is a dead man-he is just too stupid to know it. But no more words. I have only borrowed the undine's strength. It will soon fade."

She extended her hand to him. After a moment's hesitation, he took it. Together they stepped back into the whirling white magic that led to the floodgate. Neither of them looked back.

* * * * *

Matteo burst into the clearing with a fierce battle cry, his sword raised high.

Two Crinti warriors ran to meet him. A third Crinti, a tall, almost stocky woman, held her place by the spring.

Three swords met in a single clash. "Mine," growled the taller Crinti as she heaved her blade free. She sidestepped Matteo's lunge and shouldered her comrade out of the way. "You, Whizzra! Get reinforcements."

She spat the word out through a sneer. Apparently she thought two Crinti were more than sufficient for a single human. Matteo planned to prove her wrong.

He spun back toward the elfblood, bringing his sword around in a sweeping, waist-level cut. It was a difficult attack to defend, but the Crinti brought her sword down in a brutal smash that knocked Matteo's blade low.

Matteo leaned in over the weapons and locked one hand on the nape of her neck. While she was still off balance, he hooked one foot behind her ankle and threw himself back, letting his weight bring them both down.

The Crinti was quick, but she could not get her balance or bring her sword back into play. She landed hard on Matteo-surprising him with her solid weight-and then drew back her fist for a short arm punch to his throat.

Matteo, trained in hand-to-hand combat since early boyhood, caught her wrist and gave it a deft twist. In three quick moves he had her pinned face down, hands behind her back.

He tugged off the leather thong that bound back his hair and quickly secured her hands. All the while, he kept an eye on the second Crinti, who watched with her fists on her hips and a smile of dark amusement on her lips.

"Yours, Shanair?" she sneered.

"Take him!" the downed woman shrieked. "But the trophy for this kill is mine!"

"No, Shanair," said a familiar voice. "This trophy is mine."

Matteo lifted his eyes to the ghostly face of his boyhood friend. He shifted his weight off the struggling Crinti and reached for his fallen sword, rising slowly, never taking his eyes from this new and deadly foe.

Shanair rolled away and jumped to her feet. She leaped again, bringing her knees up high and tight to her chest and swinging her bound hand under them. Stalking over to the other Crinti, she held out her hands. The woman smirked and pulled a knife from a wrist sheath. She snapped the leather thong with a quick slice, then turned the knife point-inward to return it to its place.