Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  Angrily he sprang to his feet, stalking to the window as he realized how dramatically his own feelings had changed in the last few hours.

  Looking into the orange dawn, Tristan faced the truth that, hours earlier, he had argued vehemently against: He wanted, very much, to be the next king of Corwell.

  Robyn gasped as she knelt beside the frail figure. An unfocused fear prevented her from touching him.

  As she finally reached forward to turn the man onto his back, his eyes squinted against the sky. He gibbered something that was not even vaguely speech, and she saw that his tongue was swollen and cracked. She quickly grabbed the nearby water flask, pouring a few drops between the man’s chapped lips.

  “Don’t touch him!” Newt warned. “He looks dangerous! I don’t trust him!” For the first time, Robyn noticed that the little dragon had dived for cover under a pile of leaves when the stranger arrived. Buried up to the eyeballs, he stared watchfully at the pair of humans.

  “Oh, hush,” she chastised, pouring more water into the man’s gaping mouth.

  He coughed and choked spasmodically, but eagerly licked the droplets from his lips, straining to raise his head for more. Robyn gently moved his head back to the grass, offering him another splash of water.

  Slowly the tension seemed to drain from his body, and he closed his eyes. His breathing slowed from frantic panting to a steadier rhythm. After a moment, it seemed that he had fallen asleep. She wished she knew how to aid him—he seemed so frail and weak. At the same time something about him frightened her.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, examining the man.

  His skin was cracked and dry, as if it had been exposed to extended periods of savage weather. His hair and beard were thin, but long. Branches and thorns had tangled them into mats. His fingernails were filthy and worn all the way to the skin. Did he find food by scratching at the ground for roots and grubs? Robyn wondered.

  His only garment was a leather cloak that barely covered his nakedness. A crude fur belt stretched around his waist to hold the cloak. His thin brown hair and beard were long and matted with burrs.

  But it was his eyes that drew her attention and frightened her. They stared fiercely one moment, then darted frantically about like a madman’s—driven by some mysterious combination of fear and pain.

  Robyn noticed that the man sprawled at an odd angle, with his hips raised slightly off the ground, as if he lay upon a sharp rock. She tried, gently, to move him, and she discovered that he had a small pouch tied to his belt, concealed by his buttocks beneath the ragged cloak. It was a filthy object, barely worthy of notice. Yet she found her eyes drawn to it—compelled to look at the pouch, and frightened by that compulsion at the same time.

  Carefully, she reached for it, trying to pull the pouch from beneath the man. Her strong fingers felt a hard object, like a fist-sized stone. As soon as she touched it, however, the man sat up, opening his eyes wide. Never had the woman seen such stark panic before.

  The man screamed, and his voice shocked her ears. It was a piercing, monstrous sound, reminding her of some hulking reptile, ready to strike. But then he scuttled away from her like a crab, clutching the pouch to his breast. Robyn jumped up at the same time, stunned at the man’s reaction, but then she held her hands up and gestured that she would not touch the stranger’s possession. But what could this man be carrying that was of such incredible value?

  “Come with me,” she said quietly. “I’ll take you to a place where you can rest and eat.”

  Slowly, Robyn reached for the man’s arm, helping him stagger to his feet. He was very weak, swaying drunkenly. He certainly would have fallen if not for Robyn’s supporting arms. He weighed little, however, and she had no difficulty holding him upright. Newt crept out of the leaves and buzzed warily behind.

  Carefully she led him through the grove among the broad oak boles. They approached a vast tangle of brush beside the ring of stone arches that marked the Moonwell.

  As Robyn approached the clump its thickly intertwined branches parted silently, creating a rounded arch that was slightly higher than her head—and revealing the tangle as a ring of brush, not a solid clump. Within the ring, she could see the tiny building that was the Great Druid’s cottage. With its thatched roof and vine-covered walls, it looked like it had sprouted from the ground itself.

  Robyn stopped abruptly, remembering that her teacher was taking a well-deserved nap. She decided to tell Genna about the stranger after she awakened. For now, she could tend to the man herself.

  “Come this way,” she said, changing course. “Through these trees.” She led him between sheltering aspens, into a shaded area of lush grasses and soft flowers. “You can rest in the bower.”

  She helped the man into the meadow, leaning against a sturdy aspen to rest. A sudden growl erupted behind her, and she whirled—nearly dropping the stranger—to see a small mountain of brown fur rise from the grass. A huge creature snarled and bared its white fangs in annoyance.

  The man cried out in fright and shrank against the tree trunk. His eyes nearly popped from his head at the sight of the huge bear.

  “Grunt, stop it!” Robyn scolded, waving a hand at the animal. “Shame on you!”

  The bear growled again but settled to all four feet and shambled across the meadow, disappearing into the aspens on the other side.

  “I’m sorry,” she explained, laying a hand upon the man’s trembling arm. “He’s very grumpy when he’s awakened suddenly. Just ignore him—he wouldn’t hurt you. Besides, the animals are forbidden to attack other creatures within the grove. You’re safe here!”

  She doubted that the stranger understood her, but he seemed soothed by her tone, for he clung tightly to her arm and allowed her to lead him farther into the bower.

  The bower was actually a grassy meadow, surrounded and covered by a converging tangle of trees. It was small, for they kept no animals and only used it for those periods when some injured creature of the wild needed the grove as a haven while recovering from wounds.

  She helped the man, who seemed to grow weaker with every step, to a bed of lush grasses. Lowering him gently to the ground, she offered him more water.

  Gradually his trembling subsided, and finally he slept. Even in unconsciousness, however, he clutched the tattered pouch and its rocklike contents tightly to his chest.

  She rose silently when his breathing became deep and even, slipping through the curtain of aspens to leave him to his rest. There she found Newt perched suspiciously upon a low branch, waiting for her.

  “Now, can we go swimming?” he asked.

  “They were Calishites,” reported Daryth. “At least, they learned their trade in Calimshan—at the Academy of Stealth.” The Calishite’s brown face was taut with anger, and his black eyes blazed.

  “How can you be sure?” asked the prince. He shook his head, trying to clear away the grogginess of his short sleep. Suddenly, he remembered his father’s body in the next room, but he clenched his jaw to stifle any display of emotion. Inwardly, he wanted to shout his grief at the heavens, to cry aloud for vengeance. Daryth had awakened him after what seemed like scant moments of sleep, although he could now see the sun outside the window.

  “Their garments, for one thing,” Daryth continued. The prince knew that his friend had studied at the Academy of Stealth, but Daryth rarely spoke of those experiences. It was not, Tristan sensed, something the houndmaster was proud of. “The assassins of the Pasha’s school always wear the finest weave of Amnish silk—this silk.” He held up a piece of cloth torn from one of the slain attackers.

  “And these little crossbows are a favored weapon of the Pasha’s elite. Smeared with poison, they are absolutely deadly within fifty feet,” Daryth paused. “I’m sorry. It’s a miracle that they didn’t get you as well.”

  “Then there was Razfallow.” The Calishite paused for a moment. “I studied under him when I was at the Academy. That was when I was young—but strong and quick. The skills taught at
the Academy, I thought, would see me to a life of luxury and ease. But those skills—stealthy murder, theft, betrayal—they come with their own cost.

  “And Razfallow made those costs clear to me. He is one of the deadliest assassins in the Realms. Eventually, I made him angry. The most convenient solution was for me to leave Calimshan, and so I did.”

  “Obviously, he remembers,” remarked the prince.

  “I gave him good cause to,” muttered Daryth, but despite Tristan’s curious look he would not elaborate.

  “What is he?”

  “A half-orc. His mother was a full-blooded orc—it’s a sore spot with him.”

  “As if a person might not notice,” muttered the prince.

  “Finally, we found two guards atop the palisade slain from a single stab wound—here.” Daryth bent his head forward, gesturing with a finger at the base of his neck. “I know of no other assassins in the world who use such a tactic for surreptitious slaying.”

  “The Pasha of Calimshan sent assassins to Corwell?” asked the prince. Perhaps he could find a focus for his anger.

  “Probably not. Although they were trained in Calimshan, they were paid with these.” Daryth held out a pair of gold coins, stamped with the outline of a crenellated castle on one side. The prince reached for the coins and flipped them over. On the back was a familiar silhouette.

  “Caer Callidyrr? They were paid with the coin of the High King?”

  “So it would seem,” Daryth nodded soberly. “It was careless of one of them to carry his coin with him—perhaps he did not trust his fellows. Now he has no use for the coin, and its presence on his body tells us much.

  “What is the relationship of the High King to the rulers of the Ffolk, such as your father?”

  “The title High King is more an honorific than anything else. Not since Cymrych Hugh has there truly been a king that united the Ffolk under one leader. Now, he wears the Crown of the Isles to signify his authority—that was the gold crown forged for Cymrych Hugh himself—but has little real authority, except over the Kingdom of Callidyrr. In Moray, Snowdown—and here in Corwell—we pay little attention.”

  “But what does that honorific mean?”

  “In name, he is the lord of the kings of Corwell, Moray, and Snowdown. The High King is in fact the King of Callidyrr—the largest kingdom of the Ffolk. Though the other kings, including my father, owe fealty to him, there is no power behind the title. The current king, Carrathal, has brought much trade to Callidyrr from the nations on the Sword Coast. He has even hired a council of mages from Waterdeep and beyond to advise him. Still, he has been no more dynamic than any of the others in providing strong leadership—or bringing the nations of the Ffolk together.”

  Tristan paused. He and his father had discussed this more than once. Because the Ffolk had no single, strong leader, the Northmen had been able to conquer many of their lands—one by one. We cannot bring ourselves to unite against them, Tristan reflected—even when they bring all of their nations together against one kingdom. But he still could not follow Daryth’s argument.

  “Perhaps he knew that your father had no ambitions,” conceded Daryth. “But perhaps your father was not the target of this assassin. It may be that he was simply an unfortunate victim—the real target could be one that the High King does not know to be a loyal vassal—the one most responsible for the great victory of last year.”

  “Me?” Tristan was shocked.

  “Of course, that is just a guess,” admitted Daryth. “But your father was no threat to the High King. Maybe you were.”

  “But what could be gained by slaying me? The king has enemies by virtue of his position. Who knows how many petty cantrev lords will be arriving here to fight for my father’s position? One of them could have done this.”

  “I think that is unlikely,” argued the houndmaster. “For one thing, the graduates of the Academy of Stealth do not work cheaply—I doubt whether one of the cantrev lords could have afforded them.”

  “Perhaps they were hired by the High King, or at least by some wealthy individual of Callidyrr,” Tristan said. “I cannot accept the idea that I was the target.” Still, he recalled his father pushing over his chair and the dart that followed.

  “Very well,” Daryth shrugged. “But have a care for your back nonetheless.”

  “I shall. The coming council of lords gives me enough cause for nervousness, in any event. The major lords of Corwell will ride here upon hearing of the news of my father’s death. After the funeral feast they will select a new king.”

  “What do you plan?” asked the houndmaster.

  “I plan to be the one selected.”

  The sliver of a moon cast little light over the vast wilderness of Myrloch Vale. It did not penetrate the thick canopy of aspen leaves, and thus the confines of the bower remained pitch black.

  The shriveled figure there twisted and sat up, breathing heavily. He had slept all afternoon and now felt strong enough to move.

  With exaggerated stealth, he reached a clawlike hand into his tattered pouch, pulling forth a black rock. It was curved, with smooth surfaces. Like a stone sculpture of a heart. Some of its facets were pure, deep black, and others seemed even darker. It absorbed light and radiated a faint heat. Deep within its center, it throbbed with a deep, evil cadence that few could hear—but those that heard it heard it most profoundly. Nervously peering into the woods surrounding him, he hunched over and clasped the object to his breast.

  Rabbits and squirrels shifted uneasily throughout the woods as some nameless disturbance penetrated their rest. The flowers in the garden closed their petals. In the pond, the lilies shivered and shifted away from the sinister presences, until all of the blossoms had gathered against the far shore like a nervous flock of sheep.

  Suddenly, a cackle of glee passed the man’s lips, and he jumped in fright. Panicked, he jerked his head about, straining to hear if he had been detected. Carefully, he wrapped the object in its filthy pouch and lay down again upon the bed of grasses.

  Within the cottage, two hundred feet away, Genna thrashed in her sleep, apparently caught in the throes of a nightmare.

  And Robyn sat up suddenly, drenched with sweat—for she had just awakened from a numbing nightmare of her own. She had dreamed of the king, her stepfather, laid upon his funeral bier. Surrounding him, descending slowly, was an unspeakably menacing black mist.

  She could not return to sleep for the rest of the night.

  “To Good King Kendrick. May the goddess reward him!” Lord Pontswain raised his mug, allowing foam to spill onto the broad tabletop.

  The council of lords was meeting in Caer Corwell’s great hall, for the royal study was not large enough to accommodate the gathered throng. The lords represented the villages and towns of the small kingdom, from tiny highland communities to thriving fishing cantrevs. They sat drinking dark ale in toast to their deceased sovereign.

  All thirty-one of Corwell’s cantrev lords had gathered at the castle to decide upon the future ruler of the kingdom. Tristan, as host, sat at the head of the table. Daryth sat to his right, while Randolph, in his role as captain of the castle guard, stood at the nearby door. Opposite Tristan, twoscore feet away, sat Friar Nolan, the cleric of the new gods who had won over some of the Ffolk of Corwell. Most of the Ffolk still held the Earthmother goddess to be the supreme deity, but as a rule her representatives, the druids, shunned human politics, and thus none were present.

  Lord Galric lurched to his feet, splashing half the contents of his mug into the lap of the scowling Lord Koart, who sat beside him. As usual, Galric was drunk, and Tristan suppressed a smile—at least one of his rivals was ill-prepared to debate him.

  “King Ken’rick,” shouted Galric. “A splennid ruler ’n a fine figger of a man!”

  “Hear! Hear!” The chorus of agreements was followed by more slurping swallows around the table.

  Tristan examined the other lords, trying to determine who was most likely to offer him a challenge. Ne
arby sat Lord Koart and Lord Dynnatt. Neither had acquitted himself well during the war, and Tristan hoped this fact would be enough to mark them as unfit to rule. He knew them both to be ambitious, however, and the two lords were close friends—he had to beware of a potential coalition.

  Farther down the table, Lord Galric’s head was already dropping onto his chest. Galric ruled over a highland cantrev that had amassed considerable wealth from the mining of copper, iron, and silver. In any event, the lord was now too drunk to make a case for himself.

  Beyond Lord Galric sat Lord Pontswain. He was a smooth, handsome man, with curling brown hair that flowed past his shoulders, and a firm, crackling voice that commanded attention. He had a sharp wit, and the cutting edge of his voice often left one wondering whether he had been complimented or insulted. The prince noticed that Pontswain’s mug remained full. The lord spent more time sizing up the others at the table than he did in joining the toasting.

  Pontswain ruled a large and wealthy cantrev to the southwest of Corwell. Tristan knew him to be very ambitious and judged him the most significant rival at the table.

  The others, such as Lord Fergus of Kingsbay and Lord Macshea of Cantrev Macsheehan, ruled small fiefdoms that were still recovering from the war. Tristan judged these lords, as council members, to be honest and reasonable men, open to persuasion by the best candidate.

  For a moment the prince thought again of the meeting’s purpose. His father had been buried the night before, and he was about to make a case for himself to succeed the king. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat. His mug, like Pontswain’s, sat before him, barely touched.

  “My lords,” he began, so softly that the group was forced to quiet in order to hear him. “I thank you all for attending this most significant council. Your presence at the funeral last night, as well, is appreciated.