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  Wizards Conclave

  ( Age of Mortals - 5 )

  Douglas Niles

  Douglas Niles

  Wizards Conclave

  Chaptes 1

  Three Gods

  When the War of Souls ended, the gods of magic returned to their own cosmos together with all of their immortal kin among the pantheon of Krynn. For long years they had dwelled in banishment, their world stolen away by the treachery of the late and unlamented Dark Queen. Their world had been bereft of godly magic for decades, and all were cognizant of the fact that there was much work to be done. In the time-honored manner of gods-and mortals as well-they immediately began to flex their respective might in competition with their fellows.

  Each returning god, male or female, master or mistress of major or minor creed, had, of course, a somewhat narrow scope of interest. Zeboim turned to the seas, the briny landscape of her nearly limitless domain, while Sargonnas reveled in the martial splendor of his minotaurs. Shinare gently nudged her worshipers toward a restoration of the trade and commerce that was her lifeblood and joy. Reorx spoke to his dwarves, his basso voice thrumming up from the bedrock, reaching the stocky mountain folk through dreams and clerics, urging them to set aside their clannish differences, and to apply themselves jointly to the advancement of the race. Some gods worked for the cause of good, others for evil; while the neutral gods strived to maintain the ancient Balance that had long been the most stable force in the world.

  The three immortal cousins who were the gods of magic each had distinct plans, schemes, agendas. Yet they shared a closeness that was foreign to the other gods, a connection no other immortals could know. In their guises of black, red, and white, they embodied evil, neutrality, and good. As moons, they once again waxed and waned in the skies over the world. Two of them were visible to the eyes of men, while the third-the black moon-remained an unseen presence that was, nevertheless, keenly potent.

  The gods of magic knew that, during the decades of their absence, foul sorceries had arisen among the mortals. This wild sorcery was an affront to true magic power, an abomination in the eyes of the gods. Yet it lurked and grew and swirled throughout the world, a blanket of corruption cloaking the land and-an even greater abomination-clouding the minds of the wizards who might otherwise have welcomed the return of their ancient lords. Each god of magic yearned for a return of true arcane power, and each set about restoring the faith, and the powers, of loyal followers.

  Nuitari, the black moon, sent a summons to the world of Krynn, commanding his practitioners to once again take up their spellbooks and potions, to plot and scheme for the furtherance of the Black Robes among the lands of dragons, men, and all the lesser peoples of the world. Those followers were ordered to restore the glory of that mighty order, a glory revealed in the fear it provoked in the souls of all the creatures of the world.

  Nuitari's female cousin, Lunitari the Red, likewise sent out a call. The Red Robes were to gather in her name and await her commands. She would organize them and grant them her favor, and they would once again be a force upon Krynn. The message went to all corners of the world, thrumming with power and truth: the Red Robes must awaken and arise, seizing their crucial position astride the fulcrum of the Balance, striving for prominence and mastery among the Orders of Magic and the councils of men.

  Even Solinari, the gleaming perfect circle of the white moon, felt the competition, the resurgence of power, and the threat to his primacy presented by the foul pollution of wild magic. Solinari knew the nature of his ambitious cousins, and understood that might must be met with greater might. So he, too, directed his attentions toward the world, and made to pull the wearers of the White Robe into a council of magical power, a meeting to allow them to plan the future course of true magic in the world. Evil and apathy were the threat, and the stern guidance of the white wizards was needed to hold the world on a steady path.

  But Solinari's command, like those of Nuitari and Lunitari, went unheard in the world. The magic users were scattered; those who survived were uniformly elderly-since they had, by necessity, completed their training in an earlier age-and the gods of magic were unable to draw them back into the fold.

  "It is the curse of the wild magic," observed the god of black magic, when at last his fury settled enough to allow reflection. "It runs rampant in the world, drawing those who have talent away from us and toward its own ruinous ends. It is corruption and betrayal, and it bars the way to our full return."

  "I tried to battle this wild magic," said Lunitari. "But it was a force too strong; it turned me back at every angle, every corner. I could find no chink in its arcane armor. And it has seized the souls of those who would otherwise raise us to our deserved glory."

  "Nor could I reach into the world as I desired," admitted Solinari, though perhaps he was not as surprised as his cousins. "For more than thirty of Krynn's years, the forces of wild magic have grown in power, while our own faithful have been left to languish with no proof even that their gods existed, much less that they would have been able to cast the spells, to work the alchemies, to brew the potions that had been instinctive truths upon the world for as many centuries as we three moons have roamed the skies."

  "Are you suggesting that we are done and defeated, then?" growled Nuitari, lightning and hellfire sparkling in the depths of his colorless void. "I will never admit to that! I will fight, and if I must die, then the world will see me perish in glory and devastation!"

  And the black moon spewed forth a great storm in the night, lighting and assailing the world with crackling bolts, sending them searing into the crests of mountains, the tops of tall trees, the steeples and parapets of lofty buildings. Each hissing missile was composed of pure magic, but as these bolts smote the world, they were snuffed into nothingness, leaving no fire, no hint of smoke or char. Instead their magical power melted into the wild sorcery that held such sway in the world.

  "Nor shall I acknowledge this foul adversary!" chimed in Lunitari, surrounded by a blazing corona of flames. "I will blaze my way into Krynn and once again claim my rightful place above the world!"

  And she sent a cascade of meteors plunging from the heavens, arcane chunks that had been torn from the very fabric of magical power. These burned through the skies with terrifying majesty, streaking bright colors, thundering with crushing roars of sound, but when they struck the surface of the world, they vanished. They left no mark upon the ground, nor did the impacts create any sound audible to the awestruck humans, elves, draconians, and others who witnessed the essence of magic smash into the earth. Instead the magic was absorbed by the fabric of the world, and the core of wild sorcery flourished and grew.

  It was white Solinari who voiced a plea for unity. "We cannot hurl ourselves against the world at random, disparate and competing in our aims. We must work together, a godly model for the Conclave we desire upon Krynn."

  "What use, that?" Nuitari's voice dripped contempt. "My deepest might, thrown lustily and with abiding hatred and vengeance, caused not a blink among the peoples of the world!"

  "We must focus our attention, combine our presence, and direct it at a single place in the world where we can reenter Krynn and form a base of power!" Lunitari declared. "A target we can empower utterly and completely."

  "The tower of magic, of course!" Now the god of black magic understood, and he sounded delighted and enthused. "We must awaken the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest!"

  "Indeed," agreed Solinari. "That is the only thing that we can do."

  Chapter 2

  Sorcerers

  Murk lay over the land in this place. A stinking miasma enveloped the skeletal remnants of trees, outlining the leafless branches, caressing the rotted, moldering bark. T
he mist ebbed and flowed, surged and receded. It was green and gray and sometimes a pale, sickly white, lying close along the ground, filling the shallow hollows, and now and again surging through the dead trees like a brackish tide billowing among the pilings of a ruined pier.

  Many of the once-lofty pines lay inert, a forest of giant matchsticks tangled and tossed by gigantic or godly hands. Some of the timbers were invisible within the mist, while others rose starkly against the gray and sunless sky. No creatures dwelled here, not even rat or vulture or other carrion scrounger. Even the wind seemed afraid to intrude, to display any sign of vitality. Instead, the fetid air lay languid and suffocating over the ruined land, like a poisonous blanket that smothered all vitality.

  Yet even in the lifelessness, there was noise. Bubbles of sulfurous gas percolated up through the soggy ground, bursting with the sound of gooey slapping. Branches and tree trunks snapped for no apparent reason; the sharp cracks immediately faded, as if the dead forest were acting promptly to absorb all sound into the corrupt bosom of its rotten soul.

  Now and then a great rumble would shiver the flesh of the world, creak and groan forbiddingly, briefly raking the ground. Then trees wobbled and swayed, and brittle branches fell like stinging rain. One or two of the still-upright trees would lean too far, groaning like things that were dying in great agony. With a splintering snap, the ancient giant of the wood broke near its base and toppled to land amid the rotting corpses of its fellows.

  The forest was decaying, dying everywhere, but it was not as dead as the lake. Across the vast expanse of poisoned wetness, the lake stood revealed in all its ghastly desolation. Fumes rose from the surface, thick tendrils of oily effluence that danced like wraiths above the fetid surface, slunk low toward the shore. These sinuous vapors coiled and twirled and reached toward the shore, forming the mist that thrust its foul fingers through the wasteland of wood. The vaporous tentacles caressed each rotted trunk, probed knotholes and stroked the splintered gaps, seeping into the very pores of the timber-and thus hastening its irreversible decay.

  A spume erupted, violently, far out on the flat surface. Like a geyser, spewing steam of green and liquid caustic enough to burn through plate mail armor, the spire cast itself far into the sky. For several minutes it roared and pulsed, showering acid in a great circle while the steam that came after lingered, a toxic plume slowly settling toward the surface. For a long time that cloud expanded, adding countless additional tendrils to the vaporous emissions constantly poking and wending through the lifeless forest.

  Far from shore, nearly invisible in the mists, the upper ramparts of a tower slanted skyward from the surface of the lake. Balconies that had once been crystal and silver were now corroded to a rusty gray. Gaps showed where sections of the wall had been rent by violence. Judging by the angle of its leaning, it seemed inconceivable that the spire could survive long without toppling into the waters and vanishing.

  "That tower was a thousand feet tall."

  The speaker was a tall man, gaunt and hook-nosed. His visage was concealed behind a massive spray of silver-black beard and a tangle of long gray hair. His eyebrows bristled, meeting thickly over his massive beak of a nose, shading a pair of deep-set eyes. Even sunken as they were into the almost gaunt face, those eyes gleamed, sparkling with intelligence, ambition… and perhaps a hint of madness.

  "How can it still be standing?" asked a second man, much shorter and rounder than the first. His beard was neatly trimmed where his companion's was wild. His manicured nails somehow gleamed even in the murky haze. "The convulsion that wracked this place when the Green Mistress fell should have rattled it to pieces. It seemed as though every other building toppled! Beryl herself crushed a hundred great houses when her body struck the ground!"

  "Ah, but the Tower of the Sun was not a structure made of mortal stone. Even among the elf-houses, which are enforced with crystal and gemstone on every side, that spire was a thing of ancient might. I am not surprised that it stands, even if somewhat askew." The tall man glared down at his companion as he gestured across the lake, waving his hand with disdain. "But that tower is insignificant to us. It means less than nothing."

  "Very well, Kalrakin." The short man seemed to accept this with a shrug. He glanced over his shoulder, through the dead woods. The mist parted, slightly, revealing a glimpse of green, a living forest very far away. "But I am worried about pursuit. Perhaps now is the time for you to tell me what you plan for us to do."

  "Did you not tell me, yourself, that in time our true path would be revealed to us? Luthar, you surprise me. I did not think you were the type to have doubts. If you wish, of course, I am sure the Dark Knights would be glad to take you back. Though, after the bloodletting of our departure, they may feel they have a score to settle."

  Luthar snorted. "Did you have to kill so many of them? I told you, they were fully prepared to let us leave with the artifact. And they would not have been inclined to pursue their two most adept sorcerers, no matter what we took from them before our departure. Even before this morning, they had good cause to fear our power."

  At the mention of the artifact, Kalrakin smiled, as a delectable memory was refreshed. His hand, a skeleton of long, slender fingers, crept into a pouch at his waist. They emerged, curled into a claw, holding a pearly sphere the size of a child's fist. Even through the cage of the tall man's fingers, the stone cast light bright enough to penetrate the midday haze.

  "This is all that matters. They were insignificant men; their lives meant nothing."

  "Still, we have no need of further enemies! In destroying so many, we leave others with a burning desire for vengeance.

  "Luthar, you do not understand the power of fear. Those who witnessed our departure may mourn for their slain companions, and they may speak of us with hatred, but they are not likely to come after us-for they are afraid. And as to those who died, they had no reason to live," Kalrakin said contemptuously. "Their general is dead. The land they occupied, this place they once called Qualinesti, is a lifeless wasteland. The elves, their former subjects, are gone, and the green dragon is dead. Let the Dark Knights die, too, and this place might finally be forgotten. It deserves no better."

  Luthar's expression turned sly. "But aren't we here, on the shores of the former elf realm, because Qualinesti was also the home of the Irda Stone?"

  The tall sorcerer looked down at the pearly sphere. He squeezed and the light pulsed, brightening the spark in his eye. "The pathetic elves did not understand the power of the thing that they held in their treasury, locked away with a thousand other pretty baubles. And when the Dark Knights claimed those stones as part of their due tribute, Marshal Medan was equally a fool. It was not until you, my worthy helpmate, brought me to see the stone that I recognized its true power. Its true identity had been overlooked for thousands of years, but I have reawakened it. We claimed the opportunity, and we took it-the stone itself could ask for nothing less!"

  The ground rumbled again, a tremor rolling through the dead forest, lifting the ground underfoot. Both men staggered, and Luthar leaned against his companion, bracing himself. Dead trees toppled here and there, and the tremor shivered up to the shoreline, sending a wave of ripples through the acidic brew.

  No trace of amusement showed in Kalrakin's face now when he lifted his head and stared out across the lake of death. Vapors still danced and swirled, spires of lethal gas moving in uncanny synchronicity. Another geyser spurted, this one farther away but bursting upward to a nearly impossible height-as tall as the Tower of the Sun had once risen above the fair city.

  "I fear this place," Luthar admitted. "That ruined tower taunts us, wards us away."

  Kalrakin sniffed. "That tower is nothing to us, an insignificant piece of wreckage. Yet there is another… somewhere. It is calling us through this stone."

  "Another tower? Where?

  "The stone will show us the way. Now it is time for us to go," the tall sorcerer said simply.

  Luthar nodded. "You are h
olding the key," he acknowledged.

  Kalrakin raised his hand and struck a rigid pose. His left arm hung motionless at his side, but his right-with the hand still clenched into a fist around the pearly stone-he held straight out before him. Slowly, gravely, he called upon the wild sorcery of the world, the power that had brought him great, even exalted, status among the Gray Robes. He flexed the fingers of his hand, opening his fist, palm downward, spreading his fingers into a widespread spider of five golden legs. The artifact remained tight against his skin, held in place by an unseen magnetism.

  Magic pulsed visibly, a flash of light beating along the shore, swiftly swallowed by the cloaking mist. The stone glowed warm, then hot-a thrilling, gratifying heat. The warm power surged outward and down, eager to do its master's bidding; tendrils of sorcery penetrated the ground, seizing hold of the bedrock.

  The tall sorcerer remained rigid, except for his fingers. These flexed and twisted., each motion delicate, subtle, masterful. He played the wild magic as if it were a lute of infinite, invisible strings and Kalrakin were the musician summoning his melody from that instrument. The power arced downward from each of his fingers; crackling conduits of golden light stroked the ground. That same magic pulsed upward through his feet and legs, drawn by the force of his will and the skill of his spellcasting, amplified by the power of the precious artifact. He started to raise his right arm, his lips parting as, through clenched teeth, he uttered a sound that was half groan, half hiss, a mingling of desperation and pleasure.

  Luthar shivered as the sorcerous magic began to respond. A ripple creased the surface of the flat lake, spreading outward from Kalrakin's position on the shore. The ground trembled underfoot and, back in the fringe of the forest, several tall trees toppled over, tumbling in splintering crashes that seemed shockingly loud against the backdrop of the dead land.