"A-a laraken," he breathed, though in truth the monster was larger and mightier than any measure Zilgorn knew of such creatures. The approach of death lent its own clarity, and Zilgorn recognized the monster as a kindred spirit: a creature of power and hunger. He remembered all that he had done over the years and understood that this was the death he had earned. Nothing in all of Halruaa could have frightened him more than that knowledge.
Zilgorn had seen death in all its forms, and he had dealt death in manners that stretched the bounds of normal possibility. He had summoned and commanded creatures so fearful that a glimpse of them would stop most men's hearts and turn a warrior's bowels to water. But the necromancer could do nothing to stop the screams that tore from his throat.
Tore from his throat! Zilgorn's head snapped back, forced by an unseen power as he felt his voice, the instrument of his magic, wrenching loose. The pain seared through him and was gone, leaving him empty and mute. Instinctively he lunged forward, as if to seize back his voice, and he watched in horror as his outstretched hands withered to skin-shrouded bones.
He wanted to flee, but his limbs would no longer obey his will. Power and life flowed out of him like blood from a mortal wound. The laraken, which had reached the river-bank and loomed over them at twice the height of a man, slowly began to gain flesh. Its sunken belly swelled as it drained the magical essence of the wizard Zilgorn and the dying men behind him.
The proud necromancer's last thought was one of relief, for without a voice, he could not die screaming, and there was no one to witness his final defeat.
He was wrong on both counts.
In a tower room that overlooked Halruaa's western mountains, a place far from the Swamp of Akhlaur, an elf woman bent over a low, round scrying bowl. The death of Zilgorn played out before her in all its detail, and her sharp ears caught the new note in the laraken's roar: the necromancer's trained voice, raised in a final keening shriek of pain and terror.
When the magical vision ended, the elf woman leaned back and brushed a glossy green curl from her face. She glanced at the wemic, a lion-like centaur, who crouched in watchful silence by her side.
Neither elves nor wemics were common in Halruaa, and together they were as oddly matched as any two companions in all the land. Kiva, the elf woman, was of wild elf blood, and her coloring was common among forest folk in the southern lands. Her abundant hair was deep green in hue and her skin a rich coppery shade. Her face was beautiful but disturbing, for there was no gentleness in its sharp lines, and her eyes were as golden and enigmatic as a cat's. She was resplendent in a gown of yellow silk and overdress of gold-embroidered green. Emeralds flashed on her fingers and at her throat. The wemic, in sharp contract, was clad only in his own tawny hide. He was a massive creature, with the lower body of a lion and the brawny, golden-skinned torso of a man. A thick mane of black hair fell to his shoulders, and his eyes, like the elf woman's, were a feline shade of amber. His only ornaments were the ruby earring fastened in one leonine ear and the massive broadsword slung over his shoulder.
"Zilgorn was the best of the lot," Kiva mused in a singularly clear, bell-like voice. "I thought he'd make a better showing for himself."
The wemic frowned, misunderstanding. "You thought he would succeed? That he could free the laraken from the swamp?"
Kiva's laughter rang out like crystal chimes. "Never a chance of it! That is our task, dear Mbatu. But with each wizard we entice into the swamps, we learn a bit more."
Her companion nodded, and his golden eyes flamed at the prospect of battle. "We go into Akhlaur soon?"
The elf's face clouded. "Not yet. Zilgorn proved… disappointing. A necromancer's magic offers no better protection from the laraken than that of any other wizard. We must find another way."
"So this last expedition was money and effort wasted," Mbatu concluded, gesturing to the scrying bowl.
Kiva's smile held an edge that could have cut diamonds. "Not a waste," she said softly. "Never that. I would pay any price to bring death to Halruaa's wizards, and count it a bargain."
Chapter One
If asked, many of Halruaa's people would swear that the world ended in a circle of snow and sky. This proverb referred to the Walls of Halruaa, the nearly impassable mountain ranges that encircled their land like a gigantic horseshoe. Such words were spoken with great pride, and only partly in jest.
It was harder for Halruaans to dismiss the seas beyond their southern border and the ships and merchants that came and went with the tides, but trade was regarded as an exchange of goods and not of culture. Halruaans purchased luxuries such as silk from the far-eastern lands and musical instruments crafted in the distant city of Silverymoon. They sold their potent golden wine and the trade bars of electrum taken from the dwarf-mined tunnels that honeycombed the foothills. But the best of Halruaa they kept fiercely to themselves. Theirs was a magic-rich land, a kingdom ruled by wizards, and a living legend whose reality far exceeded the tavern tales brought home by awestruck merchants.
To be sure, most of these merchants had little true understanding of Halruaa's wonders, and the wizards of Halruaa went to considerable pains to keep them unenlightened. Foreigners were confined to the port cities and carefully monitored both by magic and militia. Many well-traveled visitors considered Halruaa to have the least accessible culture and most suspicious people they had ever encountered. If that was so, it was not without reason. Halruaa's history was that of an oft-besieged castle, for many of her neighbors saw the land as a treasure trove of unique spells and incomparable magical artifacts.
Dangers from within-dangers spawned by magical failures or wildly ambitious successes-were just as deadly as the threat offered by pirates or dragons or the drow-spawned Crinti raiders that prowled the wastes beyond the northeastern mountains. The ruling wizards understood that only hard choices and constant vigilance kept Halruaa from going the way of lost Netheril, and Myth Drannor, and a hundred other legendary lands that lived only in bards' tales.
That was not to say that life in Halruaa was grim. Far from it! The clime was soft and balmy, the soil yielded a succession of abundant crops in every season, the wilderness provided adventure for those who desired it, and the cities offered luxury for those who did not. And magic was everywhere.
Nowhere was that so true as in Halarahh, the capital city and home of the wizard-king Zalathorm. The skies were full of curving towers resembling graceful dancers frozen against the clouds, structures too fantastic to stand without magic. Exotic beasts known nowhere else roamed the public gardens and graced the homes of wizards and wealthy merchants. Shopkeepers casually displayed rare spell ingredients, as well as magical items that could shame a dragon's hoard and reduce most northern wizards to tears of despairing envy. Many of the common folk could boast of a magical item or two, practical things that aided in daily chores or provided a bit of simple luxury or whimsy. Even those who had neither the talent to wield magic nor the means to purchase it could join with the elite to enjoy the city's frequent spectacles.
They gathered this night at the shores of Lake Halruaa to celebrate the spring regatta. As the rains and storm winds of the winter season abated, the skyships once again took flight. It was a sight that never failed to coax sighs from jaded archmages and swell the hearts of the common folk with awe and pride.
No magical secret was more jealously guarded than that of Halruaa's flying ships. At first glance, a ship in dry dock or tied at port appeared to be nothing more than a mundane sailing vessel, broad-beamed and carrying three masts. The skyships were not particularly maneuverable, and they could not lift high enough into the air to clear the mountains. Skyships required constant magical renewal, and they were too slow and clumsy for aerial combat. None of this mattered at all, and reminding a Halruaan of these details would be as pointless as criticizing the artistic merit of a family coat of arms. The skyships were a legacy from their ancestors, the wizards of ancient Netheril, and as such they were a potent symbol of what it meant to be Halruaan.