Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  “My father served as king for twenty-seven years. With one notable exception, these were years of peace and prosperity. Trading vessels call regularly here and at Kingsbay. Taxes have remained low—practically nonexistent for those with little means to pay. I think you will all agree that he allowed you to rule your fiefdoms with little interference.

  “When our neighbors in Moray suffered the misfortune of an invasion of Northmen, King Kendrick and the forces of Corwell were decisive in defeating the invasion.

  “And last summer, when our own kingdom felt the brunt of such an invasion, he rallied the cantrevs to ultimate victory.” Tristan didn’t want to overstate his father’s role in that conflict, for he knew that his own contribution gave him his best claim to the throne.

  “In that campaign, where the stalwart Lords Koart and Dynnatt fought beside my own company, the Ffolk of Corwell drove off not only an army of Northmen, but supernatural horsemen. We triumphed with the aid of this potent sword—” he gestured to the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, “—over the Beast that the Northmen called their master!”

  The prince paused, willing each of the lords to recall the Darkwalker War. “Many are the wounds that remain with us to this day, suffered in that struggle. Galric, whose cantrev was ravaged by the hungry wolfpack.… Fergus, and Macshea—their homes burned by the invading Northmen. Corwell itself, held by the narrowest of margins.

  “While others of us, such as Pontswain, were more fortunate. Not only were they spared the destruction of their homes, but they did not suffer the deaths of their people in combat.” He paused again, allowing the facts to sink in.

  Before Tristan could continue, however, Lord Pontswain rose smoothly to his feet, smiling politely around the table before nodding quickly at the prince.

  “My … prince,” he began. The pause was long enough that none could miss its significance. “Your gracious hospitality and entertainment is greatly appreciated. It is time, however, that we arrived at the true purpose of this council.

  “Leave us, please, to attend to the man’s task of selecting the next king of Corwell.” Pontswain turned back to the lords, his gesture emphasizing the prince’s dismissal.

  Tristan had been prepared for a maneuver of some kind, but the bluntness of it took him by surprise. He found his voice a second later.

  “My … lord.” He mimicked Pontswain’s pause perfectly. “I have earned the right to attend this council, as much as any other man here—perhaps more than some, if such earning is measured in blood shed for the kingdom.” He saw the lords who had suffered during the war nodding in mute agreement, as attention turned back to Pontswain.

  “Now, now, lad …” Pontswain’s patronizing tone gave Tristan his opening.

  “Where do you earn the right to condescend?” he growled. “The laws of the Ffolk provide that my fitness to rule will be judged alongside yours, old man—and it may be that it will be judged superior to yours!”

  In a brief minute, the field of candidates for the kingship had been narrowed to two. Both men understood this and sized each other up for a moment before proceeding.

  “None would deny,” began Pontswain, “that, under the guidance of your father, you made some remarkable contributions to the realm. But your father is gone now—”

  “Which is why we are here.…” Tristan interrupted flatly. “I stood without my father upon Freeman’s Down, where my troops stopped an army of Northmen numbering four times our own! I found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh without my father, returning that weapon to the Ffolk after it had been lost for centuries! My father lay wounded within these walls when I faced the Beast in the courtyard and drove it from this castle. And it was also without my father that I pursued and slayed the Beast in mortal combat!”

  “And since that time you have wasted your time drinking and carousing, and not done a single thing to better yourself!” accused Pontswain. Several of the lords turned to regard the prince somewhat critically, and he paused. It had not occurred to Tristan that his reputation would have reached these men.

  “Perhaps I have enjoyed myself,” Tristan finally conceded. “But it was at my own expense. I have not been collecting and hoarding a fortune by overtaxing the peasants of Corwell!” Now several lords regarded Pontswain accusingly, for it was well known that Lord Pontswain was a harsh taxer and miserly with his expenses.

  “My experience as the administrator of a cantrev has given me an opportunity to prepare for the kingship. My cantrev has been prosperous beyond the norm—”

  “Because you stood behind your stone walls while war ravaged the cantrevs of your neighbors and countrymen!”

  “That accusation is not true,” Pontswain returned, “and I’m glad you’ve given me the opportunity to respond.

  “During the Darkwalker War, my troops diligently patrolled the southern shore of Corwell Firth. I myself rode at their head as we combed the moors, looking for Northmen or wolves or any kind of enemy!” Pontswain’s voice quavered with outrage. “Am I to be blamed because the invaders did not challenge my lands?”

  Several of the lords looked convinced, while others, such as Fergus and Dynnatt, scowled in obvious disgust.

  “In any event,” concluded Lord Pontswain, “your immaturity leaves little option for this council. Our king must be a man of steadiness, intelligence, and responsibility. I am clearly your better in those respects.”

  “Perhaps,” said Friar Nolan, speaking for the first time. “And perhaps not.” The cleric stood, and all of the lords waited patiently for him to speak. Though most of them did not actively worship the new gods of the devout cleric, Friar Nolan was regarded by them all with respect and a little awe. After all, his potent healing magic had benefited more than one of them.

  “It seems to me that you are all in too much of a hurry to make a decision. You have a ruler above yourselves, above even your king. Turn to him for guidance in this most critical decision. Allow the High King to determine which of these men shall become your king!”

  “I cannot object strongly enough,” growled Pontswain.

  Fergus leaped to his feet, a smile lifting his broad mustache. “I, for one, like the friar’s suggestion. Let the High King choose between them.”

  “Indeed!” chorused Koart. “Let the High King decide!”

  A chorus of assents rumbled from the lords, and Tristan and Pontswain exchanged a sudden, challenging look. The prince looked back to the lords, unable to read the emotion in Pontswain’s dark, confident gaze.

  “I shall journey to Caer Callidyrr to petition the king for the throne of Corwell,” Tristan said calmly.

  “And I shall accompany you—and win that approval!” boasted the lord.

  “Decided!” mumbled Galric, lurching drunkenly to his feet and raising his mug. “Let the High King choose!”

  Once again the Council of Seven sat around their U-shaped table. Seven candles illuminated the large circular chamber. Its bleak stone walls were covered in several places by plush tapestries—abstract designs with crimson streaks of color flowing like blood across the velvet.

  Cyndre sat at the base of the U. His voice, pleasant and conversational as always, floated through the chamber. He spoke to the wizard sitting at his right hand.

  “Alexei? I sense reluctance as you hear our plans.”

  “We could be mistaken in using the assassin so readily. I fear he is not to be trusted—that fat cleric could be using us to further his own ends!” the one called Alexei answered.

  “How dare you challenge the decision of our master!” interrupted the wizard seated to Cyndre’s left. His sharp voice emerged from a black robe. He looked identical to all of the others present, except that he allowed himself the conceit of a small diamond brooch upon his shoulder. His fingers, nervously drumming the tabletop, glittered with a sparkling array of diamond rings.

  “Now, Kryphon,” countered Cyndre. “Please keep the discussion on a genteel level.” The master of the Seven smiled benignly. Of course, none present co
uld see the smile within the folds of Cyndre’s robe, but they all felt it.

  “Very well,” replied Kryphon calmly. “I ask my colleague if the threat to our liege, the High King, should be ignored.”

  “Of course not,” Alexei explained. “But our only evidence of threat comes from the prophecies of this cleric of Bhaal!”

  “A very powerful cleric, of a very powerful god,” added Doric. The woman sat to Kryphon’s left. Her face, like the others, was hidden within her hood, but her voice was filled with cool arrogance. Her unnaturally long fingers tapped nervously upon the tabletop.

  “True. But I feel that we should, through our own methods, determine the veracity of his claims.”

  “Do you think that I am a fool?” Cyndre asked. “Of course I have checked, using far more accurate means than that wretch of a cleric can hope to employ! For now, that cleric—and yes, even his ‘awesome’ deity—serve our purposes!”

  If Cyndre noticed the shudders of nervousness that passed among the members of his council he gave no indication. The master of the mages continued, as if talking to recalcitrant children.

  “The significant kings and lords of the Ffolk have been eliminated or neutralized. The way grows clear for our liege to rule all of the Moonshaes.”

  “Yes, master,” said Alexei quietly. “I am—”

  “Silence.” Cyndre’s single word came like music to their ears, but bound their lips like the ironclad order that it was.

  The master gestured, and the Seven knew that the door to their chamber had been opened. Soon they heard the whisper of soft leather boots moving down the black corridor, and then three men entered the room, standing awkwardly at the open end of the table.

  Actually, only two of them were men—the third was manlike, but stood taller than his companions. His arms were long and his face grotesque. Nervously licking his lips, he revealed wicked fangs.

  “Well, Razfallow? What is the word from Corwell?” Cyndre’s question was a formality, and no doubt the assassin knew it. The wizard’s powerful scrying mirror had shown him the results of the mission as it had happened.

  “We failed, master. The king sacrificed himself to save the prince. Then the prince’s bodyguard—a graduate of the Academy and former student of mine—intervened. I lost five of my finest—”

  “This is what I think of your finest.” Cyndre’s voice carried no trace of threat, but his left and right forefingers gestured at the men standing to either side of Razfallow. Spellbound, each instantly grabbed his throat and gasped. Choking, they staggered to their knees and then flopped to the floor. Twisting in agony, their faces growing slowly black, they died over a period of several minutes.

  Razfallow watched the executions impassively. Finally, the assassin turned toward Cyndre.

  “You only live because I have further need of you,” explained the wizard. “Serve me well, and you may be granted the right to live out your miserable life.…”

  “What is it, teacher? Why did you call?” Robyn clasped a hand to her mouth as she saw Genna’s haggard face staring at her from the depths of her bed.

  “Pain!” gasped Genna Moonsinger, collapsing into her soft quilt. Her eyes darted past Robyn, as if she feared that some apparition might appear in the doorway.

  “Can I help you? Tell me what you need!”

  “Leave me, girl! Go, now!” Genna’s voice was sharp—more harsh than Robyn had ever heard before.

  Confused and frightened, she stumbled from the cottage and banged the door shut. She saw the man—the “stranger” she still called him—watering the roses as she had requested. Robyn quickly turned away from him and went around the cottage. She felt a need to be alone.

  She heard a loud snuffle as she passed through the hedge that magically parted before her, and Grunt rose to his four feet. Absently, she scratched his broad head while she wondered about her teacher’s strange malady. Genna had been taciturn and unpleasant recently, and her health seemed to grow worse every day.

  Grunt suddenly rubbed against her, anxious for more attention, and knocked her to the ground.

  “Dammit, you clumsy oaf!” she shouted, and then winced as she saw the deep hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s not you—I shouldn’t treat you so.” Mollified, the bear nuzzled in for more scratching, and she absently complied.

  Her mind drifted to Tristan. She had been thinking of him a lot lately. Often she daydreamed about his sudden arrival at the grove. She pictured him galloping from the woods on his great stallion, Avalon. She liked to imagine his joy upon seeing her—and the crushing kiss he’d greet her with.

  She felt certain that something was terribly wrong—she feared that the king was indeed dead. She would have gone, except for the demands of Genna’s illness, for the Great Druid desperately needed her help now.

  Half-hoping, she turned to the forest beyond the grove, as if she expected to see the approach of the white charger and its handsome rider.

  But there were only green leaves, swaying easily in the breeze.

  The goddess, Earthmother, was a deity unlike Bhaal in every respect. While his interests spanned planes and universes, hers were focused only upon the Moonshae Islands. While he thrived upon death, she prospered from growth and life. Bhaal relished chaos and disorder, while the Earthmother desired only the proper balance of all things.

  The islands had been her body, her life, since time began, But the power of the goddess was waning, for only through her druids could her body survive and prosper. The coming of the Northmen, in centuries past, had driven the druids from many parts of the isles.

  And a challenge from another source, upon the large island of Alaron, had gradually removed that land from her. She did not know what had happened to the druids of Alaron—only that their lives had been snuffed out, one by one, as if some ravaging cancer had spread across the land.

  Her islands of Snowdown and Moray, small and lightly populated, still held to the tenets of her ancient faith. Their druids were devout but simple people, the demands of their lands slight and easily met.

  Only upon Gwynneth were her druids still truly strong. She sensed, in some godlike way, that she would need all of that strength if she was going to survive.

  he vast underground passage reverberated with soft echoes, as hundreds of dark, small bodies moved stealthily through the cavern. No light broke the inky blackness, but the figures moved quickly and easily, avoiding each upthrusting stalagmite, and carefully bypassing each sheer precipice that led to depths of the earth thousands of feet, even many miles, below them.

  “Are your troops in position? My time is precious,” remarked Cyndre smoothly. The black wizard was concealed as usual beneath his robe, but his posture and tone conveyed boredom.

  “You will receive your payment!” barked one of the little figures, standing irritably beside the mage. He came only to the man’s waist. His dark and swarthy face scowled at the passing file of similar creatures. “If your magic is as mighty as you claim …”

  Dai-Dak, king of the dark dwarves—the duergar—glared a challenge at the mage. He was not used to hearing complaints. Cyndre waved a finger, whispering a soft word.

  Dai-Dak, the cave salamander, froze in panic. His reptilian eyes bulged up at the wizard. Cyndre gestured again, and the dark dwarf stood once again beside him, looking considerably chastened.

  “See that you do not question my magic again,” said the sorcerer very softly.

  Dai-Dak nodded quickly. “As we agreed, my army will guard the underworld approaches to Caer Callidyrr. We will let nothing in or out. And when you call us, we will be there to serve you!”

  “Very good.” The wizard smiled from the depths of his robe. “Now let us see to this attack.”

  “My troops are almost in position,” pleaded the dwarf. “A few moments more, please!”

  Cyndre looked with disinterest at the short, stocky column of fighters. Each was dark-skinned and bristled with hair and beard. Their bowed legs carried them roughl
y but steadily. Finely crafted armor of metal or leather protected their chests, and their arms were banded in steel.

  The deep gnomes—svirfneblin—were the blood enemies of the duergar. The vast, underground community below them contained valuable gold and iron deposits, prime fungus-growing caverns, and good water supplies. It would be a fine addition to the duergar holdings. And too, the slaying of the svirfneblin would be grand sport for the malicious, merciless duergar.

  Cyndre enjoyed the prospect of the coming fight, for his magic would insure the victory—and the duergar would then join the forces waiting to move on the sorcerer’s command. The Scarlet Guard, and the duergar, had potent armies—and one more force, now waiting quietly under the sea, would soon join those legions.

  “We are ready,” said Dai-Dak. “Follow me.”

  The dark dwarf king led Cyndre through a narrow cave mouth onto a high promontory, still underground. They looked over a vast network of caverns—the realm of the svirfneblin. Huge stone pillars connected the floor to the ceiling, some five hundred feet overhead. Many gems studded these pillars, casting a soft, yellow light over the scene.

  Below them, the round-roofed stone huts of the deep gnomes clustered against the cavern walls. The gnomes bustled about their community, busy as always. Potters, jewelers, bakers, farmers, smiths, all plied their trades—bartering constantly, for such is the way of the gnomes. They were a slight, wiry people, smaller than the duergar, and much less malicious. Beyond the village stretched the vast fungus-forests where the gnomes grew their food. A placid stream wound through the huge fungi, bridged in several places by neat, stone spans. The scene, throughout the caverns, was one of peace.

  But that peace was ending.

  “Seeriax, punjyss withsath—nere!” Cyndre whispered the words to his first spell, holding his fingers before him. A soft hissing surrounded him, and a long tendril of yellow gas flowed from each of his fingertips. The gas expanded into a huge yellow mass of air, sinking from the promontory toward the bustling village below.