The Floodgate

Now truly blinded, the creature tried to bolt, but it could not even hear the spring and took a fatal pace in the wrong direction. The Crinti warriors closed ranks.

They worked their quarry for a long time, and not just for the joy of a slow kill. They played the creature until it was exhausted, then tried prying up several scales, inquiring with sharp, deep jabs as they studied which wounds bled, which ones brought the sharpest pain, and finally, which killed. If this were not the only creature of its kind, such information could decide the next battle.

Finally the Crinti stood over their kill, drenched with exertion and blood, not all of it the monster's. All three wore fierce, sated smiles.

"Take the trophy," commanded Shanair.

Her warriors set to work, wresting off the head and stripping it clean of flesh and hide. Shanair broke off several dagger-shaped teeth and gave them to her warriors. The skull was too awkward for one horse to carry, so they fixed a cloak between two mounts like a sling. That accomplished, they mounted and set off to rejoin their comrades.

"A good kill," Whizzra observed.

Her words were correct, but her tone held hesitation as well as satisfaction. Shanair lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

"This monster, this stream," the warrior continued. "What does it mean?"

"Do you not recognize this clearing?" demanded Shanair. "This is where I come to meet with Kiva. As for this stream, it is a gate to the world of water. That can only mean the elf woman has succeeded."

Joy, as dark and bright as hellfire, seared through the Crinti warriors' eyes. "It is time to fight?" Xibryl demanded eagerly.

Shanair shook her head. "Soon. We continue as planned, We loot and raid. We await Kiva. In time, the Crinti will emerge from the shadows, and all of Halruaa will be washed into a bloody sea!"

Chapter Four

A young woman sat before a table in a wizard's library, garbed in the pale blue robe that marked her as a conjurer's apprentice. The robe was left open, revealing a trim form clad in a well-worn tunic and leggings that ended several inches shy of her bare feet. Her face was finely featured, with large dark eyes and a wide, expressive mouth currently pulled down into a mutinous scowl. Her short brown hair stood up in spikes, as if raked through by an impatient hand, and her fingers were stained with purple ink. There was a small stack of parchment to her left, three completed scrolls to her right, and a pile of crumpled and discarded parchments scattered around her feet.

Suddenly she tossed aside the quill and rose. A quick, impatient kick sent parchment wads flying.

"Copy the spell scroll, Tzigone," she repeated, in an uncanny imitation of her master's jolly tones. "By highsun, you'll know the spell as well as your own name, and then you can have the evening free.

"Well, guess what, Basel," she said in her own voice as she stalked across the room to glare at a portrait of the wizard. "I don't know my real name, the sun is as high as it's ever going to get, and I learned the blasted spell the first time I copied the thrice-bedamned scroll!"

The image of Basel Indoulur continued to beam down at her, unperturbed by her uncharacteristic spate of ill temper.

Tzigone sighed and blew the portrait a kiss by way of apology. She genuinely liked her new master-her first master. If she had to learn the art of magic, and apparently she did, there were worse ways of going about it.

Basel Indoulur was a round, jolly man who enjoyed good times and fine things. He was fun loving but hardly frivolous. A master in the art of conjuration, he was also a member of the Council of Elders and mayor of the city of Halar, just south of the king's city. He enjoyed teaching, and was one of many wizards who had courted Tzigone after the Swamp of Akhlaur incident. Many wizards were eager to train an innate gift strong enough to withstand the magic-draining power of a laraken. Tzigone had picked Basel for two reasons, only one of which she would admit. His eyes knew how to laugh.

He was a patient but exacting teacher. Such discipline was new to Tzigone, and an uncomfortable fit for a girl who had seldom slept two nights in the same place. Basel's other apprentices had lived through the boredom of copying spell scrolls, so Tzigone assumed that her chances of survival were fairly good.

She'd kept at it since morning, copying the runes over and over and over. Basel had patiently explained that magic, like the science of numbers, was best learned in a well-defined sequence. An apprentice must train her memory, hone her powers of concentration, practice hundreds of precise and subtle movements with the dedication of a dancer, learn the hidden language in which all Halruaan spells were declaimed, and acquire a core knowledge of basic spells and cantrips. There was far more to spell-casting, it seemed, than tossing a few smelly oddments into a pot and chanting words over it.