Tristan moved forward, all danger forgotten. Stumbling slightly at the nearly hypnotic sight, he reached the side of the case and looked in …
… and almost cried out in sadness.
The case itself seemed to glow with a soft, unearthly radiance. Tristan saw a young, frail woman. Her delicate face was impossibly beautiful, and long golden tresses spread from her head, cushioning her. She was dressed in a plain gown, embroidered very faintly with gold thread.
Her skin was so light as to be translucent. Her eyes were closed, and she lay perfectly still, as she must have lain for centuries. So beautiful, thought Tristan, and so long dead.
Then she moved.
Daryth sprang up a long flight of stairs. A feeling of urgency gripped him, but nowhere did he see anything that would serve them as a raft. He knew Tristan still searched the great hall, but he didn’t dare risk calling to his friend.
The stairs ended in a long balcony, with hallways running into the distance to either side. He saw several open doorways that led to the balcony, and he looked quickly into each room as he jogged toward the right-hand hallway. This upper floor was well illuminated by narrow windows, though the interiors of the rooms were rather dark.
Still, he saw nothing but wreckage in each chamber. The doors had apparently long since rotted away, and likewise any furniture that they had contained was now nothing but damp rot.
He heard a sound in one room as he ran past, and he thought that he might have seen a flash of movement. Daryth immediately flattened himself against the wall outside of that room, holding his trident poised to strike.
His alertness was rewarded as another of the sahuagin bounded through the doorway, its dead fish-eyes blinking warily down the corridor. Before it could react, Daryth thrust his weapon savagely at the monster’s throat.
The sahuagin’s gills flared in rage, but the middle point of the weapon caught it squarely in the neck. The Calishite pressed it remorselessly across the hall as the monster’s webbed hands grasped at the shaft of the trident. It started to twist away, but then the wall opposite the doorway stopped its retreat. Daryth felt the tip of the weapon puncture the thing’s scaly skin.
Red, oily fish blood spurted from its neck as the monster slowly slumped to the ground. It flopped reflexively several times, and then lay still. Daryth looked cautiously around, but saw no other signs of movement. Quickly he turned and continued his rapid journey down the corridor. For a minute he jogged past rooms like those he had seen earlier, but then he stopped.
His instincts had apparently been correct, for he now stood before a solid, varnished door of heavy oak. A silver keyplate, untarnished by the sea, seemed to beckon his tools.
With another look around, Daryth knelt before the door and pulled a thin probe from his belt. Placing his ear next to the silver plate, he carefully pushed and poked with the stiff wire. One minute later, he was rewarded by a sharp click.
He pushed on the door and it swung smoothly open. The room within was dry. And it contained more treasure than he had ever seen in his life.
Crystal lanterns lit the room in a silky white glow. Golden and silver plates were stacked on the floor, and jeweled candelabra awaited their waxen charges, scintillating in the magical illumination. Several crowns lay on the floor—each studded with more gems than the Calishite had ever seen. A scattering of gold coins lay like a carpet across the floor, and bits of leather, crystal, and shining metal suggested even more treasures buried in the coins.
His eyes were drawn to a weapon, and his jaw dropped as he recognized his own scimitar! It can’t be, he told himself, but the weapon was unmistakable. He noticed a sword next to it and picked it up, fairly certain that it was Pontswain’s weapon. Though he looked for the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, there was no sign of Tristan’s blade in the room.
He casually kicked aside some of the coins and discovered a pair of soft gloves that looked like they were the right size. On impulse, the Calishite put down the sword and pulled on the gloves. They immediately lightened in color until they exactly matched the hue of his skin. Each fingertip even had an artificial fingernail. Someone would have had to look very closely to see that he wore anything upon his hands. They were smooth and warm and quite comfortable.
Then he noticed another piece of leather, nearly buried by the coins, and he pulled free a smooth and tightly sewn sack. He saw another just like it and picked that one up, too. With luck, their flotation problem would be solved by these.
Gathering his belongings, he left the room. The door locked behind him.
With a sense of profound wonder, Tristan watched the woman rise. She sat up slowly, and for the first time the prince realized that the glass case had no top. She opened her eyes, and though her skin was pale as death, her eyes were deep brown, rich and loving.
Then she smiled, and Tristan’s knees buckled from the beauty of her face. Unwittingly, he knelt before her, forced to drop his eyes in wonder.
“My lady,” he gasped.
She studied him curiously, extending her hand and then speaking quietly. “My husband, have you come for me?”
But then her voice trailed off, and she stared at the prince for a full minute. When she spoke again, her voice was more confident.
“Rise, my prince, and step forward.” Her voice was even more lovely than her smile. Dumbly, Tristan rose and moved hesitantly to the side of the case.
“This shall be yours again, until you find its true bearer.” She held forth an object that had been by her side.
Tristan’s senses returned as he saw the object that she extended toward him, hilt first.
She offered him the Sword of Cymrych Hugh—the sword that had been lost when his boat sank! How she came to hold the weapon, the prince did not try to guess, but he took it reverently and kneeled of his own will.
“You are Queen Allisynn,” he guessed. “I do not know why you have performed for me this great miracle. But my sword shall be yours to command for the rest of my days!”
For a moment, her exquisite face looked sad. “Alas, but I am far beyond the need for swords. This … tomb is all the protection I will ever need.” She sighed and Tristan’s heart nearly broke.
“But you shall have need of that sword, and very soon,” she continued. “Which is why, of course, I returned it to you. You did lose it, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Forever, I thought.”
“Do not say that. You cannot have any idea how long forever is.” The rebuke was in words only, for her tone was still gentle.
“You are here for a reason, prince, and I shall tell you what that reason is so you may leave. You haven’t much time, you know.” As Tristan nodded, she continued.
“You have a destiny laid upon you, Prince Tristan Kendrick of Corwell. And it is mine to tell you what that destiny is. That is why, of course, your sword was returned.”
Her voice grew solemn and serious. “The realms of the Ffolk are to be united again, as they were by my husband, Cymrych Hugh. They are to be united in your time, and in your presence. Now, this is the destiny I shall lay upon you:
“You are to find the next High King of the Ffolk—the one who will rule our people into a new age. You are to find him, and your sword shall become his.”
Tristan’s heart pounded at her words. To see the Ffolk united again under a strong High King! To find the one who would be that High King! He proudly gripped the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and raised his head to meet the eyes of the dead queen, though he still knelt before her.
“This I shall do, my lady, for the rest of my life, if need be. But tell me, how shall I know this king?”
“You shall know him with your heart. But you may better find him by knowing these things:
“His name shall be Cymrych, and he will bear that sword.
His destiny will carry him many places.
He shall fly above the earth,
Even as he delves its depths.
Wind and fire, earth and sea
All s
hall fight for him,
When it is time for him to claim his throne.”
She finished speaking and appeared to grow very tired. Tristan sprang to his feet only to see her lie again in the case, her body reposed in the eternal stillness of death.
The mustering of the Scarlet Guard was a thing spectacular in sound and sight, fearful to behold. The citizens of Callidyrr scurried into the nearest buildings as the king’s mercenaries assembled in the heart of the town.
Each of the four brigades of the guard gathered in its own quarter of the city and then marched toward the great, open square that stood below the towering majesty of Caer Callidyrr. All the towers of the castle streamed with pennants proclaiming the proud emblem of each of the dozen companies in the force.
First, three brigades of human mercenaries, battle-hardened soldiers, marched in tight formation into the square, standing at attention around three of the four sides.
Each member of these brigades, composed of three companies each, wore a cloak of blazing scarlet and a tall helmet plumed with crimson feathers. Their weapons were clean and gleamed in the midday sun.
Fierce, implacable warriors, these human mercenaries were feared along the length of the Sword Coast. No crime was too heinous, no murderous or rapine task too hateful, for the Scarlet Guard to take on.
But none of these three brigades could match, in might or in terror, the reputation of the fourth brigade.
King Carrathal stood upon the rampart of Caer Callidyrr with his close adviser, the wizard Cyndre, beside him. His pulse raced at the spectacle before him.
“Oh, I say! This is simply splendid! They look so …” His Majesty groped for the right word. “… so military!”
“Indeed, sire,” nodded the sorcerer. Cyndre was pleased at the sight as well, but did not reveal his emotions quite as openly as did his master.
“Hmmm, isn’t there supposed to be one more?” King Carrathal was busy recounting the troops before them.
“I believe the ogre brigade is arriving soon, Your Majesty.”
The ground shook underfoot as the tromp of heavy footsteps pounded the street. There was no sign of any citizen of Callidyrr now, as there was no mistaking the source of that mighty cadence.
The ogre brigade marched as a long column into the square, thumping steadily to the place of honor before the castle.
The ogres stood at attention, but it was obvious that they were not particularly skilled at this, though they excelled at shuffling, spitting, grunting, and nose-picking. Each of the great brutes stood at least eight feet tall, with crooked, trunklike legs and a stocky, stooping body.
Their faces were bestial, with long foreheads that sloped down to beady, glaring eyes. Broad noses flared upward, revealing wide nostrils and even wider mouths. Wicked tusks extended from the corners of those mouths.
These brutal monsters came from every corner of the Realms, gathered and disciplined—barely—by the good pay of their human commanders. And in truth, ogres were well-suited to the needs of the guard. Huge, fearless fighters, they could crush any band of humans that dared to stand before them—and would as easily spit a child upon a spear as an opposing swordsman. The ogres relished the tasks of the guard, for killing and mayhem were their most basic desires. The missions of the brigade gave them an opportunity to do both.
“Somehow, I never realized that there were quite so many of them,” said the king hesitantly. “They really make up quite a force, don’t they?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. They are an army mightier than any upon the Moonshaes, and they will do your bidding alone.” The wizard smirked a little as he said it.
“We had better send them off, hadn’t we?” blurted the king. “You do think they’ll catch him, don’t you?”
“I’m certain they will, Sire. The Prince of Corwell shall have a very short visit to Alaron. A very short visit indeed.”
“Teacher, I’m frightened.”
Robyn spoke quietly, not certain that Genna was awake. The Great Druid lay muffled in a down quilt, though the day was warm. Her steady breathing was her only sign of life.
“It’s Acorn,” Robyn continued, pulling her shawl more tightly across her shoulders at the vivid memories. As far as she knew, the stranger was still spellbound, standing stupidly beside the pond. Nevertheless, she had latched the door of the cottage when she entered, for she knew that the spell would eventually lose its potency.
Genna’s eyes flickered open, and she turned to gaze intently at her pupil. Her gray hair, pulled back from her face, emphasized her severe expression. She struggled to sit up, and Robyn helped her, placing pillows behind her back.
“Evil!” she hissed. She stared at Robyn, but it seemed to her that the Great Druid actually looked right through her. “He is evil!” she said again. It was the most articulate statement she had made in many days.
“Acorn?” Robyn said. “But, I thought … Oh Genna, what should I do? Help me!”
This time the older woman looked at her niece with an intensity that made Robyn squirm. Genna coughed once, a dry, rasping sound, before she spoke again.
“You must kill him!”
Bhaal watched the Heart of Kazgoroth carefully, feeling its thrumming power. The shred of the Beast had begun its work. Soon, now, the task would be complete.
He took note of the feeble earthmagic of the druid and sneered. Her strength, and the might of her dying goddess, could not hope to stand against him, as he had demonstrated upon Alaron.
There, he had commanded his cleric to destroy the druids. Hobarth had used the ambitious wizard to help, even convincing Cyndre that the plan was the sorcerer’s own idea. One by one, the druids of Alaron had died, drawn out by Hobarth’s power, slain by magic or the cold steel of the assassin’s blade. Their mutilated bodies had been used to pollute and defile the Moonwells from which they drew so much of their power.
That power was now broken forever. The next to fall would be the druids of Gwynneth, the keepers of Myrloch Vale.
he sound of Canthus barking savagely brought Tristan back to his senses. Immediately he felt the tremors in the floor below him. He staggered forward, turning to run like a drunk from Queen Allisynn’s tomb as the marble surface heaved and rocked. He charged down the short corridor and into the great hall beyond.
Canthus bounded before him, racing for a great double door leading to the courtyard. Daryth had just reached the door. Tristan saw that he now carried a sword.
“All I could find,” he gasped as Tristan ran to his side, helping to pull open the huge portal. His eyes widened at the sight of the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, girded again at the prince’s side, but the Calishite said nothing. The castle shook once more, sending them stumbling.
The door creaked open stubbornly. Tristan was about to run through the door when Daryth’s voice halted him.
“Wait!” The Calishite probed the flagstones before them with his trident. The iron barbs clunked against the surface several times, and Tristan was startled by a sudden click.
Two sections of floor gave way, swinging freely inward to reveal a long, dark shaft. Uneasily, the prince stepped back.
“Same kind of trap,” the Calishite smiled ruefully. He stepped nimbly along the side of the pit. The prince jumped after him and made it through the door with no difficulty.
They found Pontswain where they had left him. The lord was sitting up, rubbing the bruised side of his face. “Where did you go?” he demanded. “Leaving me to—”
“Shut up!” barked the prince, then looked a bit sheepish. “Uh, thanks … you know, for helping me out in there.”
The lord looked surprised but offered no argument. Instead he climbed unsteadily to his feet.
The castle was beginning to sink. Already water was pouring through the gate. They had left the outer portal down after entering, and the seawater now rushed into the courtyard through the wide opening. They stood upon the balcony outside the keep, five steps up from the courtyard itself, and watched the wa
ter slowly climb the stairs.
“There’s no way we can fight the current through the gate,” said Daryth. “We might as well wait until it comes over the walls and hope that we can float out. Here, fill this with air,” said Daryth, handing each of them a leather sack. “This is how we’ll float.”
Skeptically, Tristan took the bag and blew a lungful of air into it. The bag barely puffed out. Again and again, he breathed enough air to fill the bag several times over.
“It has a leak,” he said, looking quickly at the rising water.
Daryth blew into his bag. “That’s what I thought at first. But they’re holding all the air we’ve blown into them.”
“How?” said Tristan, looking at the limp sack.
“These are magical bags. I found them in the castle treasure room. They will hold a lot more than their size would indicate. Now, keep blowing!”
Still doubtful, they nonetheless continued trying to inflate the bags. Slowly, Tristan’s began to grow, and finally it was reasonably firm. Daryth took a length of twine from his beltpouch and lashed the three sacks together, tightening the line about the mouths of the bags.
In another minute the water had reached the level of the balcony. Soon they stood waist-deep in water.
The bags rose beside them as the water lifted them off the ground, and Tristan was surprised at how buoyant they were. Soon the men were carried from their feet, but they floated easily into the courtyard. They were even able to support Canthus with their makeshift floats.
The water inside the courtyard was within six feet of the top of the wall when seawater poured over the ramparts. Crushing waves now roiled around them, threatening to tear the bags from their grip. Desperately holding on, Tristan tried to see if Canthus was still with them, but he lost sight of everything but the bag under his hands and the water. As more of the sea poured into the courtyard, the surface slowly calmed, and Tristan was relieved to see that Canthus, Daryth, and Pontswain were still hanging on. In no time, they were floating easily again.
Black Wizards Page 9
