The Floodgate (8 page)

The priest nodded. “If you think their expertise will balance the additional delay, yes. You trust these men?”

Matteo’s answering smile was both sharp and sad. “As much as I trust anyone.”

Three days passed as Matteo awaited the arrival of his jordaini brothers. He spent much of the time in the temple’s library, studying maps and lore of the Mhair Jungle. The rest he devoted to learning to ride the huge, tame lizards the priests kept in their stables-just as a precaution, or so the stable hands assured him at every opportunity. These were the only mounts that could traverse the jungle. While no one from the temple actually rode into the jungle, they stressed, if need arose the proper mounts were available.

Finally the tolling of temple bells announced the approach of visitors. Matteo hastened to the gate to meet his friends.

Themo was a mountain of a man with the bluff, cheery face of a mischievous boy, and a temperament to match. Although he was Matteo’s age, repeated infractions of jordaini rules forced Themo to repeat the fifth form before he could become a full-fledged counselor. Matteo suspected that Themo would not be heartbroken if this honor was never his to claim, for he was more suited to the battlefield than the council chamber. Iago was a slight, dark man with a sage’s introspective eyes. He was also among the best battlemasters the Jordaini College had produced, as well as a master of horse.

Iago had also been one of Kiva’s captives and had nearly as much reason for vengeance as did Andris. He listened to Matteo’s story and readily agreed that Andris had gone in pursuit of Kiva. Themo, on the other hand, was eager to pursue this quest, or any other.

The high priest himself accompanied them to the side gate, wishing them success and admonishing them to secrecy.

“Success,” muttered Themo later that day, climbing back onto his lizard mount for at least the fifth time. “If I fall off this slimy excuse for a horse only twice more before sunset, I’ll call it a good day’s work.”

“Wishing you were back at the college?” Iago asked.

Themo looked genuinely surprised. “Nine Hells! A man can’t complain for love of hearing his own voice?”

“A man can. A jordain shouldn’t. The measure of a man’s spirit is the distance between ordeal and adventure,” Iago pointed out, quoting a familiar proverb.

“The college is an ordeal,” Themo grumbled. “As for adventure, I wish I’d been with you two in Akhlaur’s Swamp.”

“No, you don’t,” Iago said with quiet certainty. “Consider what happened to Andris.”

The big man conceded this with a shrug. “Poor bastard, Going through life looking like a glass sculpture isn’t my idea of fun. Makes people hesitate before taking a swing at you.”

“Hold your sympathy until we find Andris and Kiva,” Matteo advised, giving voice for the first time to his reluctant suspicions.

Iago sent him a considering stare, but Themo responded with an out-thrust tongue and a rude, moistly vibrating buzz.

“You sound like the logic and rhetoric master, Matteo. Before that, therefore because of this,” Themo quoted in a derisive singsong. “One thing doesn’t always follow another, lined up like swimming ducklings. The elf is gone, and so is Andris, and what of it? Doesn’t mean Andris has thrown in with Kiva. Maybe he just didn’t want the Azuthans poking at him. Can’t say I blame him.”

“Nor I.” A stab of guilt pricked at Matteo. Yes, Andris had misled him, but he had to assume that his friend had a good reason for doing so.

They rode on, stopping frequently to search for the faint, subtle marks of Andris’s passing. The lizards moved soundlessly, finding passages through the thick vines and dense underbrush that none of the men could see.

“We’re following Andris, but what the Nine bloody Hells is he following?” demanded Themo as he picked a leaf from his hair. “Besides the sun, that is.”

“According to the temple lore, there is an elf village due west of the temple. Kiva was badly weakened by the laraken. She will need help. It is logical to assume that she would seek out others of her kind.”

“I’m not sure which idea I like less,” the big man grumbled. “More jordaini logic, or the notion that there could be more at home like Kiva.” He suddenly brightened and pointed to a long, narrow clearing up ahead. “There’s a path. Going due west, too!”

The “path” was an odd, cone-shaped swath cut into the jungle. No, Matteo noted suddenly, the path had not been cut but burned. The foliage had wilted away, matting the jungle floor with a thick, blackened mass.

Matteo dismounted. He studied the passage, then kicked at some of the wilted vines. The smell of rotting plants rose into the air, and with it the distinctive stench of spoiled eggs.

“Chlorine gas-the breath weapon of a green dragon,” Matteo said softly. “Some of the jungle plants can absorb poisonous gases, which is no doubt why we can smell it still.”

Iago came to stand beside Matteo. “The dragon is long gone, judging from its droppings.” He pointed to a pile of fewmet, nearly dry and littered with bones from long-ago meals.

“Might as well take advantage of the dragon’s path.” Themo gave his lizard a sharp nudge with both heels. The creature took off like a loosed arrow. Themo jerked back in the saddle, swearing as he struggled to keep his seat.

Startled by the impulsive act, Matteo had no time to shout a warning. He lunged for his friend and seized Themo’s tunic as he rode past. He dug in his heels and managed to drag the big jordain off the lizard.

Themo fell hard and came up mad. He launched a wild swing at Matteo, connecting with a blow to the jaw that sent the smaller man reeling.

“I don’t need your help to fall off the damn lizard!”

Matteo scrambled to his feet in time to intercept Themo’s second swing. He caught the big man’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. He spun Themo around to face the path. “See those spider webs at the end of the passage?”

The big jordain squinted at the layers of delicate netting spanning the end of the passage. “So?”

Before Matteo could speak, the “web” enfolded the charging lizard and jerked it up into a tree.

“Oh. Not your usual web,” Themo observed, glancing sheepishly back at his friend.

But Matteo’s attention was on the trees overhead. He abruptly released Themo and reached for his sword.

The jungle suddenly came alive with exited little yips. Golden, catlike eyes blinked from the deeply shadowed underbrush. A small, hunched green figure dived toward them from high overhead, clinging with one hand to a long vine. A wicked bone-headed spear was couched under one arm, giving its flight the appearance of an airborne joust.

The creature passed harmlessly overhead and landed on a high branch behind them. It sat there, chittering and shaking a small fist.

“What the-“

Themo’s outburst ended in a sharp oof! as another vine, this one bearing three of the creatures, slammed into his back. He pitched forward onto all fours, and more of the creatures dashed out of the underbrush, swarming over him. They clung to him, clawing and squealing, as he struggled to his feet.

More creatures encircled Matteo. They were hideous beasts, green as goblins but emaciated in form and hunched over in a permanent crouch. None of them stood much higher than Matteo’s knees. Their gait was awkward, their mien cowardly. Yet they wielded an assortment of weapons crafted by humans and elves, a silent but powerful testament to previous successes.

“Tasloi,” Matteo muttered.

“Lizard grub!” countered Themo. He peeled off one of the creatures and hurled it toward his entrapped and struggling lizard. The tasloi sailed down the passage, wailing pitifully, and landed well short of the trap. Themo shrugged this off and backhanded another of the pests. He drew his dagger and began to cut free of the mob, working his way toward Iago and dragging the tasloi that clung doggedly to one ankle.

Matteo glanced toward Iago. The small jordain was whirling about, slapping at the tasloi that clung to his back. Several more of the creatures tittered excitedly, circling around Iago and his dervish dance. Though all held weapons, they did not strike. Clearly they expected their comrade to bring the jordain down.

Themo caught up a chunk of dried fewmet and hurled it into the midst of the tasloi spectators. Dragon dung splattered, and the tasloi scattered with shrill, startled yips. Iago took advantage of this reprieve to stagger over to a tree. He slammed his back repeatedly into the trunk, trying to dislodge the clinging tasloi.

Matteo’s friends seemed to have matters well in hand. That was just as well, for the tasloi pack that encircled him left him in no position to give immediate aid.

He turned this way and that, sword menacing as he kept the creatures at bay.

The tasloi swarmed him suddenly. He lunged low, knocking aside the spear wielded by the creature directly in front of him. At the same time he kicked out with his back foot, connecting hard with one tasloi rushing in from behind. He pulled his sword free, whirled to the left with a fierce yell that sent several of the creatures skittering back. Just as suddenly he reversed and lunged toward the pair of tasloi that came in from his right. One of the creatures panicked and all but threw his comrade onto Matteo’s blade in his haste to backpedal. Matteo grimaced and pulled his sword free. He parried a dagger thrust, kicked the attacking creature aside and turned to face a regrouping trio.

By now most of the tasloi had reconsidered their chances. The surviving members of the pack melted into the jungle, leaving behind a score of their dead.

The three men worked together to cut down Themo’s mount and tried not to listen as the other two lizards fed noisily upon the fallen tasloi.

“Fine sport,” Themo observed happily. “Of course, the green dragon would have been better, but there’s something to be said for starting small.”

“The tasloi ambush obscured what little trail sign Andris left behind. Any more time spent tracking would be time wasted,” Iago said.

Themo looked unwilling to give up this adventure. “But if we keep traveling west, we’ll find this village.”

Matteo shook his head. “I wish that were true. Our only chance of finding the village was following Andris to Kiva. From what I can ascertain of wild elves, we could walk directly beneath the village, and not see it unless the elves wanted us to.”

The three friends fell silent. Themo’s lizard scuttled over to the battlefield and nosed aside one of its comrades. Except for a few of the less palatable bits, the feast was over. Cheated, the reptilian mount returned to its rider, dragging its tail and looking as dejected as a kicked cur.

“What now?” Themo asked in a resigned tone as he climbed back onto his disgruntled mount.

“Perhaps the answer lies in Iago’s recent past,” Matteo said slowly. His eyes were apologetic as he turned to the small jordain. “You were in the service of Procopio Septus. It seems likely that Zephyr, his jordaini counselor, betrayed you to Kiva, but Zephyr did not give you directly into the elf woman’s hand.”

Iago’s olive skin paled. “That is true.”

“Perhaps we should trace the path between. It led to Kiva once. It might again.”

The small jordain rode in silence for several moments. “Three days I spent in the Crinti camps,” Iago said softly. “By the end of that time, I was grateful to be sold as a slave.”

Matteo acknowledged this with a somber nod. “Did the Crinti deal directly with Kiva?”

“Yes. They spared me the indignity of a slave market, if nothing else. Understand this, Matteo: the rumors of the shadow amazons fall far short of the reality.”

Themo cast him a disgusted look. “If you don’t like the plan, just say so.”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t work,” Iago said slowly. “If I could think of a better one, I’d be swift to speak it.”

“Dangerous, is it?”

“I would rather leap naked into a pit of molten tar than return to that hell.”

Iago spoke with a stillness that chilled Matteo, but Themo nodded as if this pronouncement confirmed a dearly held hope. “There’ll be fighting involved?”

“I can almost guarantee it,” Iago murmured. As he spoke, his eyes went cold and hard.

Themo noted the change in his friend’s expression and hooted with approval. He slapped the reins on the lizard’s neck, his good spirits fully restored. “Well then, what are we sitting around here for?”

A small, bedraggled figure crept through the jungle, staggering from tree to tree, clinging to each as if she took strength from it. Kiva, the once-powerful magehound, walked barefoot, clad only in the plain gray tunic of an Azuthan penitent. Long, jade-green hair hung about her face. The only magic in her hands was that which rippled through the mazganut tree she clutched for support. Kiva sensed the forest’s teeming pulse, heard the soft music of the Weave, but faintly, as if from a great distance.

So frail was Kiva that she felt a disturbing kinship to her own shadow. Her strength had been stolen in battle with the laraken, her wizardly magic siphoned away. For days, only pride had kept her going. Now even that was gone. All Kiva could call upon were ancient memories and the vendetta born of them. Whenever her vision began to blur, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Akhlaur!”

Hatred focused her, strengthened her. She had not trained and plotted and fought for two centuries to die now, her vengeance incomplete!

Kiva pushed away from the tree and stumbled onward. Instinct led her where memory failed, for she had been a child of this forest. No elf, no matter how long away from the trees of her birthplace, no matter what transpired in the years between, ever lost her connection with the land. No living elf was completely devoid of magic.

As twilight came on, insects emerged in stinging clouds. Childhood lore came back to Kiva, and she drew in long breaths of air until she caught the faint, sharp note of an acridia plant. She followed the scent and picked a fat spear, crushing it and smearing the fragrant green gel on her skin. The scent disappeared at once, and so did the hungry insects.

This small success heartened her. She noted a hooded flower, nearly knee high, with a blood-red stamen that resembled a sneering goblin. It was the only truly ugly flower she knew, and it held one of the most lethal poisons of the Mhair. Kiva fell to her knees beside it and began to dig for the treasures it protected.