Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

Cyndre lowered his head modestly. The monarch could not see the gloating light in his eyes.

  “And the lords grow restless,” whined the king. “They all owe fealty to me, but they don’t act like it! I don’t trust any of them—they would turn against me at the drop of a hat. Like that bandit O’Roarke in Dernall Forest. That rebel could serve as an example for other traitorous scum!”

  “You hold his sister in your dungeon. Why do you not use her as an example? Show what will happen to those who resist your will?”

  King Carrathal turned away. He did not like to be reminded of the way he had usurped Lord Roarke’s land—nor was he completely comfortable with the idea of using the young woman as a lever to obtain his ends. “If only O’Roarke knew me,” he whined. “He and his outlaws would see that I have only the best interests of the kingdom at heart!”

  “Do not underestimate the extent of the problem,” said Cyndre calmly. “But come, Your Highness, what of this prince? Will you do as I suggest?”

  “Very well,” sighed King Carrathal. “I shall declare the prince of Corwell an outlaw. The Scarlet Guard will meet him as he lands. They will arrest the usurper and bring him to me in chains.”

  Water pounded and crashed about Tristan, choking him and pressing him down. He kicked and flailed but could not find the surface. He felt his consciousness slipping away, though he struggled even more desperately to swim. He barely felt the vicelike jaws close over his arm, jerking him roughly through the sea. For a second his face broke free from the black water, and he gulped a great lungful of air. Then he became conscious of the teeth that were sinking through his flesh.

  Thrashing upward, struggling for more air, the prince felt the grip on his arm slacken. But then he was grabbed by the collar and pulled backward helplessly. Miraculously, his face remained out of the water.

  He felt a solid object strike him in the back, and he twisted around to catch a long section of planking. The Lucky Duckling, he thought. As he did so, the grip on his collar broke free, and he turned to find himself face-to-face with his panting moorhound. Canthus thrashed beside him, finally forcing his forelegs over the plank.

  “Thanks, old dog,” he choked, wrapping an arm around the broad neck. “You almost ripped my arm off, didn’t you, buddy?” The presence of the hound warmed his heart but did little for his hopes. “I fear you have only postponed the inevitable,” he added, after he had recovered his breath.

  “Daryth!” he shouted suddenly. Where was the houndmaster? The bleak, despairing realization crept over him: His friend had drowned, along with Rodger and Pontswain. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that the man’s cocky self-assurance, his casual energy, had been snuffed out. “By the goddess, no!” he cried aloud.

  The feeling that he was doomed would not go away, and he had to grit his teeth and shake his head to dissuade himself from releasing the plank and sinking into oblivion.

  Through the remainder of the long night, the young man and his dog bobbed, barely alive, across the heaving surface of the strait. Tristan lost consciousness once, only to awaken as Canthus dragged him back to the plank. Frightened and shivering, he nevertheless remained alert after that.

  He groped to understand the death of the Lucky Duckling. Black sorcery had killed her, he felt certain, but how? And by whose hand? Over and over again he vowed vengeance against the force that had sought to destroy him. Gradually his anger began to sustain him. I’m not going to die, he told himself. I’m too mad to die.

  Gradually he noticed that the waves grew smaller, and the wind died away almost completely. The swells lessened. Though the crests of the waves still loomed six or eight feet higher than the troughs, they seemed to carry him up and down with an easy and unthreatening rhythm. No longer did they curl over at the top, thundering down to crush anything below them.

  The horizon lightened to a dull gray, and he peered around for any sight of land or sail or even debris. Visibility was still very poor, and he could make out no features beyond the rolling swells.

  “Tristan!” He heard the voice as if from a great distance away, and he was certain that he imagined it.

  “Tristan!” it repeated. “Over here!”

  Now he squinted intently across the gray surface, wondering if he was losing his mind. There! He saw a flash of brightness over the crest of a wave.

  “Daryth!” He croaked. He finally saw his friend, and Pontswain too, bobbing across the rolling summit of a wave. The Calishite was soon kicking toward him, buoyed by an air-filled wineskin and a loose bundle of wood, and dragging a sodden Pontswain behind him.

  “Are you injured?” asked Daryth.

  “I don’t think so. How about you?”

  “Just wet and cold.” The Calishite somehow found the strength to grin. Pontswain’s formerly graceful locks hung like a wet blanket across his face. He looked barely alive, and he did not acknowledge the prince’s presence.

  “Aye,” grunted Tristan. “And I’ve lost the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. The goddess alone knows how far it is to land from here, or what such land would be.”

  “Still, the seas are calming, and it’ll be daylight soon. We may even sight a sail.” But Daryth didn’t look as cheerful as he sounded.

  Pontswain coughed weakly and struggled to raise himself. His efforts sent the makeshift raft rolling, and everyone scrambled to regain their handholds.

  “Be careful!” snapped the prince as the lord gave him a baleful glare.

  “This is your fault! If you hadn’t let that old fool take us in his rot-ridden craft, this would not have happened!”

  “That man gave his life for us! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “He met the fate he deserved for his incompetence. He failed, and that’s all that matters,” said Pontswain.

  But as twilight gave way to dawn and the clouds broke apart, the men saw no sign of anything except the rolling sea. They could tell which direction was east, for there the sun became a rosy glow against the horizon, finally breaking free from the sea to begin its climb into the sky. But that knowledge did them little good, for they had no idea which direction to look for land.

  “What’s that?” Daryth asked suddenly.

  Everyone fell silent because they all heard it: A faint rumble seemed to arise from the sea itself. The sound was almost inaudible but was so deep and powerful that they felt it as much as a vibration in their bones as a sound in their ears. The sound grew in volume and strength, until they heard a noise like crashing thunder, rolling constantly. The water itself seemed to shake.

  Suddenly the surface of the sea turned to foam a scarce hundred yards away from them. Water frothed upward and then rolled away, creating a steady wave that forced them backward. A crenellated parapet, like the top of a tower, burst through the surface and sent spray and waves crashing away from it. Another, and then a third, exploded from the sea, thrusting skyward like gigantic lances.

  And then the foaming water spilled away to reveal a vast surface of smooth stone. A glowing rosy hue shone from a wall as the thing caught the rays of the morning sun. More walls, and a gate, and more towers continued to rise for a minute until the vast object came to rest, seeming to sit upon the surface of the sea.

  Tristan, Daryth, and Pontswain, bobbing in the water and gaping in awe, stared at the most magnificent castle that they had ever seen.

  It stood motionless, vast and imposing, like a monument to some forgotten era of grandness. Water spilled down its vast sides, thinning into a soft mist that floated around them. Tendrils of seaweed hung from the crenellated parapet, draping across the sides.

  The whole structure was oddly silent, as if mere sound could not convey the grandness of its arrival nor the majesty of its appearance. And too, there was warmth flowing from the edifice—not a physical warmth, but a spiritual sense of power and majesty. Each of them felt this magical emanation as both welcoming and foreboding.

  The castle remained, and they knew they had no choice but to enter.

>   “Here, lady. Wood!”

  Smiling broadly, the man dumped a huge pile of twigs and dried wood at Robyn’s feet.

  “Thank you, Acorn,” she replied, warily meeting his gaze. She had taken to calling the man after the seed of the oak tree, for he could not remember any name of his own. The name seemed to suit him—his nature was childlike, but Robyn sensed that he harbored a deep inner strength. She wanted to nurture that strength, to see him grow. At the same time, she was still a little afraid of him.

  “You did very well,” she added, embarrassed by the way he beamed at the praise. “Now, if you will fetch some water so I can rinse these linens, we can take a rest.”

  Eagerly, Acorn scrambled toward the silver ribbon of bubbling water that ran through Genna’s grove, only to pause and return sheepishly.

  “Forgot buckets!” he explained, chuckling over and over as if it were some great joke.

  As the days had passed, the scraggly stranger had grown more lucid and helpful. He was stronger than an average man and had skills that were useful in tending the grove.

  All of which were very helpful, Robyn thought with a twinge of worry, for Genna’s illness had grown suddenly worse. She had spent the past few days in bed, tossing deliriously in the depths of a fever, barely rational.

  Newt had not spent much time in the grove, either. He had taken long excursions throughout the Vale, even visiting the Fens occasionally. Today, he had gone off to seek Grunt’s company, almost certainly to annoy the old bear. Grunt had a notoriously short temper, and Newt delighted in driving the animal into a rage with his sudden spells of invisibility.

  Robyn thought again about Acorn. He was friendly and almost pathetically grateful for any praise she gave him, but more and more the man raised shudders of uneasiness within her. One minute he seemed harmless, and the next minute she was afraid of him. But she did not know why.

  “Here, lady. Here water!”

  Proudly, Acorn returned with two sloshing buckets. He set them down at Robyn’s feet as she thanked him, bobbing his head up and down eagerly. She quickly rinsed the light blankets and hung them to dry—well practiced motions, as Genna’s sweaty fever necessitated frequent linen changes. She tried to ignore the feeling that Acorn’s eyes were boring into her back as she stretched to reach the clothesline.

  “Come along, now,” she said as he followed at her heels. “Why don’t we go and sit by the pond? I have some carrots and apples that we can have for lunch.”

  They walked across Genna’s garden, a lush field of wildflowers and herbs. In the center of the garden was a broad pond with a grassy island at its heart. In places, the sandy bottom of the pond was smooth—perfect for swimming. Elsewhere, lily pads spread across the surface, home to myriad frogs and turtles. Great white swans swam regally among them. Robyn thought again, as she beheld the scene, that it must be the most beautiful place in the world.

  As they approached the pond, the water swirled momentarily, and then the smooth bridge of sand rose to the surface. She took no notice of the phenomenon, so accustomed to the ways of the grove was she, but Acorn hesitated.

  “Come on,” she encouraged, stepping onto the firm bridge. Reluctantly, he followed her to the island while she selected a smooth place for their lunch.

  She sat comfortably on the soft bank, stretching her legs over the water and kicking her feet to relieve her taut muscles. Acorn settled slowly, almost reverently, beside her. She noticed, uneasily, that the look on his face was no longer one of innocence. Instead, he looked as though he struggled to conceal some secret thought.

  “Here,” she said to cover her nervousness. “Have an apple.”

  Acorn took the fruit and chomped greedily into it, ignoring the pieces that scattered in his beard or sprayed into the air. In seconds he had finished and reached forward to snatch another from the basket on Robyn’s lap.

  She ate absently, suddenly aware of Acorn’s closeness. She felt uncomfortable, but didn’t want to offend him by moving away. Turning to look at him, she was startled to see him staring intently at her face. His eyes were clear, but they seemed to burn with a frightening intensity.

  “Lady … you like me? My friend?” Still that burning gaze.

  “Yes, Acorn … of course I like you. Haven’t I—”

  “I mean, you—” he cut her off awkwardly. “Lady, you are my lady!” Suddenly his hand reached out to clasp her thigh. He leaned quickly forward to force her backward onto the ground, his mouth seeking hers.

  “No! Get off me!” she screamed, pushing against him and rolling to the side.

  “Mine!” he cried, scrambling forward on all fours to lunge at her before she could stand.

  She punched him in the face, but he still tackled her, his eyes gleaming madly. He pinned her to the ground and grasped a handful of her gown.

  Terror galvanized Robyn and once again she twisted free, but this time he ripped half her garment away. He paused, staring stupidly, and in that split second she recalled a piece of her training: a fast, simple spell.

  “Stop!”

  The command was a physical attack, slamming into the crazed man and holding him in place, poised to leap. Slowly, the light of madness died in his eyes.

  She stared at him in hatred and anger. She wanted to strike him or kick him—to somehow cause him pain. But something, perhaps it was pity for his degraded state, stayed her hand. She was shaking with fright and tension and rage, and she didn’t even want to look at him again.

  Gasping, she gathered her gown about her and stumbled toward the cottage, leaving him bound by the spell.

  “Come on!”

  Tristan was propelling himself toward the castle even before Daryth spoke, too surprised to wonder if the grand structure was illusion or reality. Canthus and Pontswain swam beside them, their weariness forgotten. Soon the men and the dog reached the foot of the massive, smoothly hewn wall. The shining pink surface rose straight into the air above them and seemed to continue underwater as far as they could see.

  “Rosy quartz,” muttered the Calishite. “There’ll be no climbing it here.”

  “Where—?” began the prince, dismayed at the thought of succor so close at hand yet possibly unreachable.

  “Let’s try the gate,” suggested Daryth, swimming easily along the base of the wall. Pontswain followed, while Tristan and Canthus sputtered and splashed in the rear.

  The Calishite reached the gate first. The prince watched him rise slowly from the water, pulling himself gradually up the wall. With a supple swing, the Calishite carried himself over the gate and out of Tristan’s sight.

  Tristan heard nothing for a few seconds, but then the portal began to drop with a steady creaking. In a moment, he could see his friend operating the smooth iron winch that patiently fed chain to the lowering gate. In another moment, Tristan, Pontswain, and Canthus had pulled themselves onto the flattened entryway and squirmed quickly into the castle proper.

  “Is it real?” asked the lord.

  “I don’t know,” replied the prince, unconsciously whispering. A sense of awe possessed him. The rosy stonework of the castle was bathed in a pale mist, shot through by slanting rays of early morning sunlight. The place was mystical yet somehow welcoming.

  “This place is amazing!” commented Daryth, looking around at the high balconies, ornate columns, and sweeping stairways that surrounded the small courtyard before them. “What is it?”

  “I remember a legend I heard once. I was just a child, so I can’t vouch for the details,” Pontswain said slowly, his voice unusually subdued. “It was about a young queen, bride of Cymrych Hugh. I think her name was Allisynn.

  “The king erected a mighty castle, full of wondrous towers and lofty balconies, for her as his wedding gift. But she died soon after they were married. This was why Cymrych Hugh did not leave an heir.

  “The king was so distraught by her death,” Pontswain continued, “that he ordered the castle to become her tomb. It stood upon a tiny island between G
wynneth and Alaron, and, with the aid of the Great Druids of all the isles, he commanded the castle to sink below the waves, forever hiding and preserving the resting place of his beloved.”

  “The very stone feels sacred,” said Daryth. “Like a shrine.”

  “Legends tell of fishermen and sailors occasionally sighting a castle here in the strait, but none have been verified. I don’t recall hearing about it happening during my lifetime.” Pontswain still spoke with quiet reverence.

  “How do you know so much about this?” asked the prince, surprised at Pontswain’s knowledge.

  “I listen to the bards,” said the lord simply.

  “That’s fascinating. I’ve only heard vague stories about a castle in the sea—never the details.”

  “What good will it do us?” snapped Pontswain. “If the legends are true, the castle will stay here for a few hours and then sink. We’ll be right back in the water.”

  “Let’s find something to float on, then,” suggested Daryth, pragmatically turning to look around them.

  Shallow pools of water covered most of the surface, and strands of seaweed lay everywhere. Here and there a fish lay still, gills widespread, or flopped out its last strength on the hard stones. Across the courtyard, a mist-enshrouded stairway rose toward a balcony or entryway. The fog parted enough to give them a look at a pair of huge doors.

  “Let’s check inside,” suggested the Calishite. “We might find something we can use as a raft.”

  “Or a weapon.”

  They reached the balcony and saw a pair of huge doors made of solid oak, strapped with gleaming bronze, and uncorroded by their immersion in the brine.

  “We might as well try these first,” muttered the Calishite, looking pessimistically at the massive portals.

  A whirling blur of green was Tristan’s first warning of attack. A savage shape slashed outward from the shadow of one of the columns.

  “Look out!” cried the prince, bounding backward.

  Daryth dove forward and somersaulted out of the creature’s path. Tristan saw that the attacker was a humanlike creature covered with green scales. Wide gills gaped like wounds in its neck, and on the top of its head, trailing in a line down its backbone, was an array of barbed spikes. Wide, white eyes hung open like some ghastly blinding affliction, but the creature leaped after Daryth as if it could see very well. Its wide mouth gaped, displaying row after row of needlelike teeth. Webbed hands, studded with long, curving claws, sought the flesh of the Calishite, while similar feet slapped across the wet stone.