The Crinti woman's keen ears caught the faint clicking sound that hummed through the air like distant cicada song. Under water, the sound probably carried for leagues. Shanair figured that the creature's sound-sight, even in air, was probably as keen as a bat's.
Shanair smacked her mare's flank and sent her running. The other horses fell into pace behind their leader. The trio thundered in tight circles around the clearing, leaping over the stream again and again. The echoing hoof beats blended into a reverberating rumble, like the war drums of jungle elves. Even Shanair's battle shriek was swallowed by the sound as she closed in on the confused and wounded beast.
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
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
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.
Tzigone flexed her cramped fingers, retrieved one of her discarded quills, and dipped it into the ink yet again. On impulse, she whipped the pen toward a portrait of some grim-faced Indoulur ancestor. Ink arced out in a spray of purple droplets. Tzigone made a deft little gesture, and the ink splashed onto the canvas in the shape of a long, curling mustache.
She grinned, pleased with the effect-even though the ancestor in question was female. It added a piquant note to the woman's fussy silks and gems and sweeping peacock feathers.
This success gave birth to an idea. Tzigone snatched up a blank parchment sheet and stuck it up on the wall. She dipped and whipped again, and this time as the ink flew, she chanted the spell she was supposed to copy.
Ink splashed onto the parchment and began to wriggle around. The runes of the simple cantrip took shape on the page, more accurately and neatly than she'd been able to reproduce by hand.
Tzigone let out a little crow of triumph and danced a few steps of a jig. Her joy was short-lived, however, for she remembered that she could cast the spell twice a day.
Unless…
'There's got to be something useful in this place,' she muttered as she scanned the room. It was brimming with the usual spellbooks, vials, bottles, and small, covered pots, as well as an odd collection of trophies and trinkets.
Her gaze fell on a statue of Mystra. A small, bright rainbow cloaked the goddess. Tzigone's gaze traced the rainbow to its source. Sunlight spilled through the window, filtering through a glass prism resting on a high, wooden pedestal.
On impulse, Tzigone walked over and picked up the prism. It looked like an ordinary crystal paperweight, but she sensed the hum of magic in it and guessed what it might do.
Her face broke out in a grin as a scheme took shape. She arranged a few dozen writing quills around the prism like spokes radiating from a wheel's center. She placed every bottle of ink she could find along the outer edge of the circle, then stuck parchment sheets against the walls with bits of sealing wax. When all was ready, she cast the spell.
As expected, the prism caught and magnified her little spell. All of the quills leaped into the air and dunked themselves smartly into inkbottles. They rose up and whipped toward the parchments, then returned to refill. In short order, the spell was perfectly copied upon all the available parchments.
But the quills showed no signs of abating. They began to toss ink onto the walls, the silken drapes, the mirrors. Upon the ceiling, and across the portrait of the mustachioed Indoulur ancestor. Into the face of the spellcaster herself.
