Plants erupted from the ground around Acorn’s body. Shoots of grass and thick-leafed weeds curled upward, clasping toward the undead thing.
But the plants withered and curled away as they made contact with the creature, falling to either side and opening an unobstructed path to Robyn. Once again, she turned to flee, darting underneath the low limbs of a tree behind her. In her haste, she did not duck low enough, and pain flashed through her skull as she cracked it against the heavy bough.
Dazed, she staggered against the tree, squinting through blurry eyes at the monster only ten feet away. She watched as Newt swooped into the thing’s face, and she saw the dead man’s hand slash through the air with stunning speed. With a low squeak, the faerie dragon flopped to the ground.
Robyn tried to run, but the encircling branches of the tree cornered her. The monster moved in, and she crouched like a cat, determined to fight to the last with her bare hands.
Suddenly a shape moved behind the creature, and Robyn heard a loud growl. The body lurched to the side, half turning, and now she saw a brown form, great teeth bared, swat the creature’s outstretched arm. The limb snapped loudly and dropped to the monster’s side.
Robyn watched Grunt smash the monster to its knees with a blow to the hip and then stretch it upon the ground with a vicious cut to the already broken neck. She watched as the bear seized the corpse in his powerful jaws, shaking the thing like a rag doll before tossing the body casually to the ground and tearing at it again with his long, curved claws. The corpse stopped moving, but Grunt savaged it further, tearing pieces away and tossing them aside until the corpse was unrecognizable as a human body.
Limply, Robyn stumbled to the bear and leaned against his broad flank, trying to draw strength from him. Her shock gradually gave way to uncomprehending terror. Finally, for the first time in many years, she sobbed uncontrollably.
Hobarth crouched among the branches of a thick bush, ignoring the thorns that pricked him. He dared not move for fear of alerting the druid across the stream.
He had watched her battle the zombie. Although disappointed with the outcome, he had other plans. He squeezed the black rock in excitement, his eyes never leaving the woman. The stone, like the heart of evil that it was, seemed to answer his pressure with a warm caress of its own. He watched Robyn stumble weakly from the clearing, leaning against the bear, until she disappeared from his sight.
The cleric remembered his surprise as he had cast the spell to animate the corpse. Such a spell normally called for the discipline of Hobarth’s faith, coupled with the might of Bhaal. Once cast, the spell would vanish from Hobarth’s memory, until a suitable period of praying to his deity would restore it to him.
But somehow the black heart had changed that. The power to raise the corpse had arisen from the stone, not from Hobarth. The memory of the spell remained with him. He felt that he could immediately recruit another corpse from the dead—in fact, as many bodies as he could find.
Hobarth squirmed from his position in the bush, his mind alight with possibilities. Bodies—hundreds of them, raised into an army of undead! He needed bodies! The cleric was unaware of Bhaal feeding him these images. He knew only that he wanted such an army under his control.
Common sense told Hobarth to look for bodies at the site of a battlefield. He was not a historian, but he knew a little local history. A year earlier a battle had been fought not many day’s march from here.
Quickly, eagerly, the great cleric turned his steps back toward the south. He would call upon the wisdom of his god to show him the exact route, but he knew that this was the general direction to Freeman’s Down.
Genna opened her eyes and studied Robyn with a look of great tenderness and understanding that the pupil had not seen for many weeks. She rose to her feet, and the young woman saw again the sturdy muscle of the stout druid’s body. Trying to banish her lingering sense of horror, she embraced Genna in relief. The cottage door was securely bolted behind her, and Grunt sat just outside. But even the cozy fire in the stove and the lace curtains filtering the afternoon sunlight could not entirely soothe her.
“What could it have been?” she asked Genna.
“A creature animated from death—a zombie,” Genna explained. “But how it came to be here I cannot imagine.”
“I felt so helpless,” Robyn said. “My magic was useless!”
“The powers of the druid are the powers of life and growth. We have no power over death or death’s creatures.”
Genna looked warily across the grove, probing the waters of the pond and the flowers of the garden with her eyes. “Whatever the source of this abomination,” she said, “we must take great care that it does not happen again. The results could be disastrous.”
“And it’s genuine crystal from the famed glasskilns of Thay. Note the detail, the colors, and the shapes!”
The old sailor leaned in, burping discreetly, to examine the shining object. The diminutive salesman pressed his pitch. “This one has come thousands of miles by galley across the Sea of Fallen Stars, by camel across Anauroch, the Great Desert. Its passed through the hands of pirates and bandits and traders. Why, it’s certain to be the only one in the Moonshaes—perhaps along the whole Sword Coast!”
“Crystal of Thay, huh?” mumbled the sailor, intrigued in spite of himself. He looked through bleary eyes at the little fellow who held the glass ball in his hand. A halfling, he was, one of the little folk, half the size of man.
“Why’d you bring it to Llewellyn?” he asked suspiciously.
“A shrewd fellow you are, to be sure,” said the halfling with a conspiratorial wink. “To tell you the truth, I had no intention of stopping in Llewellyn, much less selling the crystal. I’ve become quite attached to it, you know.” The halfling, his large brown eyes sliding furtively around the room, leaned in close.
“I had a little trouble up in Callidyrr. I have to get off the island in a hurry. The money’ll make that possible.”
“Who are you? Where is your home?”
“The name is Pawldo, of Lowhill,” said the halfling easily. “I hail from Corwell. Oh, it’s nothing serious that has me in a hurry to leave. It involves, if you must know, a young lady.”
The sailor chortled knowingly and went back to examining the bright crystal sphere.
“Five gold, eh?” the old sailor mumbled, turning the fascinating sphere in all directions, watching it catch the light from a nearby lantern, diffusing it into a million colors and patterns. He had just been paid, and though the price represented half a season’s salary, the object was like nothing he had ever seen before. “I’ll take it!”
“A fine deal. I’m grieved to part with it, but the crystal’s yours,” said the halfling in a voice that almost dripped with regret. The sailor fumbled across the coins and lurched unsteadily to his feet. He clutched the sphere covetously to his breast and staggered out into the street, looking to show off the object to his mates.
Pawldo counted the money, biting a slightly tarnished coin to satisfy himself that it was indeed gold, and smiled to himself. He hoisted the duffel bag he had placed under the table, careful not to jostle its contents. It contained several dozen more of the crystals, each of which he would sell as the only one of its type. He worked his way through a crowd and climbed to a stool, carefully placing a silver piece upon the bar. He would not pay with gold—the little folk had long ago learned to conceal their wealth around humans, particularly drunk and disreputable ones.
This tavern was filled with both types. The Old Sailor was an ancient establishment in one of the most run-down sections of Llewellyn. Fights and theft were common. But the halfling knew that his trail could easily be buried here, and in case two of his customers should chance to meet up after a sale, Pawldo needed quick anonymity.
He sipped at a mug of ale and looked around at the other patrons.
A pair of Northmen were engaged in an arm-wrestling contest in the center of the room, and most of the patrons had gathered aro
und to place bets and cheer on their favorites. Pawldo could see little of the match. The hulking forms of the humans formed an effective barrier for one of his stature. Instead, he saw the door open and a heavyset woman enter. She had a broad face and round cheeks, but she was very attractive in a large sort of way, She stepped confidently up to the group around the wrestlers, and the halfling saw that she carried a lute upon her back.
Interested now, Pawldo watched her join the onlookers. She obviously knew them, judging from the familiar tweak she gave one man. She talked for a moment and then left.
Halflings are nothing if not curious (except about magic), and Pawldo was compelled to see what the bard-lady had said. He hopped to the floor, hoisted his bag and strolled over to the sailor she had tweaked.
“Any idea where I could find some music?” he asked.
“Huh? Oh, sure, there’s a party at The Diving Dolphin tonight. Seems the Prince of Corwell’s in town, and … damn!”
The sailor’s attention jerked back to the wrestlers. One had just crushed the other’s brawny arm to the table. Muttering a stronger curse, he counted out three silver pieces and passed them to a sailor to his left before turning back. He was surprised to see no one there.
“Now where’d that little fellow go?”
“To Rodger!” Tristan solemnly raised his mug.
“Rodger!” echoed Daryth.
Pontswain ignored them, seizing another massive boar’s rib and biting greedily into the succulent meat. Red juices ran into his beard, but his hair, brushed again, had regained its elegant curl.
Moments later they slammed down the empty stoneware next to the empty pitchers. Tristan felt vaguely guilty. This was the first time he had thought of the fisherman who had given his life to carry them to Alaron. “I didn’t even find out if he had a family,” he said.
“He was a widower, his children grown,” replied Daryth. “He told us that in Kingsbay.”
Tristan felt another twinge of guilt. He had drunk so much beer that night that he barely recalled the conversation. “I’ll see that they’re provided for,” he said, raising his head. The thought made him feel slightly better.
He looked around The Diving Dolphin. The inn was pleasantly crowded, with a steady buzz of conversation. Pretty maids bustled about replenishing pitchers, mugs, and platters. Heavy beams of dark wood crisscrossed the ceiling, and bright lanterns showed the place to be clean and well-maintained. The huge skin of a cave bear served as a rug before the vast fireplace, and the head of a leering sea monster was mounted above the hearth.
Daryth showed his companions the gloves he had found in the castle and told them how he had found their weapons in the treasure room.
“Where did you find your sword?” he asked Tristan.
The prince smiled. The rush of alcohol made his secret seem even more pleasant. He felt better than he had in days. He leaned back in his chair and lifted a booted foot to the table. “Magic,” he said smugly.
They found the beer to be a bit watery to their palates, but that hadn’t stopped them from finishing four pitchers. Actually, Tristan had had most of it. Daryth had filled his mug a few times, but Pontswain was still on his first.
“Another, gentlemen?” said a freckled barmaid. A great spray of red hair fell across her shoulders. She had a pretty face, though Tristan was barely aware of it. He was more consumed with the ample shape of her figure straining against the tightly laced stays of her bodice.
Even in his fog, though, Tristan caught Pontswain’s warning glance; the lord obviously disapproved of his consumption. That alone was enough to make him want to order more, and he was about to signal the lovely maid to bring it.
“Not for now!” announced a voice. Tavish marched up to the table, bearing a pitcher in each hand. She ignored the barmaid, smiling at Daryth as he rose to offer her a seat.
“So, how do you like this place?” she asked as Tristan watched the barmaid flounce away. He thought wistfully of Robyn and turned back to his companions.
“It was rather empty earlier, but it seems to be filling up,” observed the prince.
“Oh, it gets pretty crowded,” said Tavish with a secretive little smile. “Especially on nights like this!”
“What’s so special about tonight?” asked Daryth.
“Music, for one thing.” She smiled, but would say no more.
A screeching sound drew their attention to the hearth, where several pipers were tuning their instruments.
“I love the airpipes!” shouted Tavish over the noise. “The audience is always ready for something different when they stop!”
Tristan observed the pipers through a thin fog as they played a fast jig, drawing several dancers, including Daryth and Tavish, to their feet. A few more songs followed, and after each Tristan noticed more and more of the patrons looking over at his table. Finally, one of them shouted “Tavish!” In moments, the room vibrated as everyone called for the bard.
“Hometown girl,” Tavish smiled at her companions’ looks of surprise. Grinning easily, she took her lute and stepped to the makeshift stage vacated by the pipers. Twanging a few soft chords, she assured herself that the instrument was tuned. With the first chord, Tristan recognized the song.
My tale’s of far Corwell, on Gwynneth so wild,
Of heroes, and demons, and druids, and war.
And the Beast that rose darkly, from waters deep black,
And stalks all of Corwell, in times old and new.…
Tavish’s clear voice carried the Song of Keren to heights Tristan had never before heard. She sang almost without accompaniment, using the lute only to establish an occasional harmonic chord.
The song took him back to the war, and with it as background he remembered the summer of battle in a dramatic, almost poetic light. He saw but one image: Robyn, her black hair flying in the breeze, standing alone atop the high tower of Caer Corwell, using the staff of her mother to call upon the powers of nature itself, bringing lightning crackling into the ranks of the Bloodriders that would otherwise have slain them all.
Thick sky spit forth death’s fire, the Riders fell—black,
While the white steeds’ charge rumbled—
“Hold!”
The sharp command cracked through the room like a thunderclap. All eyes turned to the doorway.
A tall man stood there, arrogantly looking about the room. He was dressed in a heavy red cloak, with gold braid decorating his shoulders. His head was protected by a steel helmet that did not cover his face. In his upraised hand he clenched a shining steel longsword.
“I arrest the Prince of Corwell in the name of the king!” he announced. “He is charged with treason against the crown!”
Pawldo raced down the street, almost forgetting to cushion his bag.
Tristan! he thought to himself. In Llewellyn! How they would celebrate, the two old friends. Of course, the prince had probably brought that Calishite along—but even Pawldo had grown to trust Daryth, so that was all right. A long year of traveling was coming to an end, and the halfling was eager to think about home and old companions.
He found The Diving Dolphin and dashed up the steps, only to bump into a massive figure. He recoiled quickly as he looked into the tusked face. An ogre!
“Closed,” muttered the monster, giving the halfling a casual shove that knocked him across the entryway. Stunned, Pawldo looked around to see a dozen ogres, all clutching weapons and standing ready to charge through the door. His gaze rested upon a familiar shape in the comer.
“Canthus?” he whispered, and the great moorhound thumped his tail in greeting. He did not raise his head from his paws, however, instead shifting his brown eyes to stare mournfully at the door to the inn.
The cleric of Chauntea slept soundly, secure in the warm embrace of his goddess. His breathing was deep and slow as the night reached its deepest hour. Finally, the goddess sensed that he was ready for her dream.
The cleric dreamed that he awakened to find a sword on the s
teps of his chapel. Though unskilled in weaponry, he recognized the blade as a wondrous piece of work.
But the weapon had been damaged. Its silvery blade was tarnished, chipped, and bent. The tip had been broken off. Its smooth, leathery hilt was worn away by rot and decay.
The cleric took the weapon into his chapel, which had suddenly become a forge. Though he knew nothing of smithing, he took a hammer and fired the forge. The handle of the hammer was smooth and comfortable in his hand. He stroked the weapon across the anvil, caressing it with gentle taps of the hammer. Slowly it regained some of its former shape. The metal was straightened, and the tip gradually sharpened into a point. The hilt healed itself; the rot fell away, and the leather grew once again sturdy and thick.
And then the blade was done, and it was a glorious thing to behold. The cleric held it up to the sun, and the light of it nearly blinded him.
Patriarch Trevor awakened suddenly and sat up in bed. His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded. Elated, he sprang to the floor and knelt in reverence before a statue of his goddess. He had received a vision! He did not know what the dream meant, but he had no doubts about its nature. And so he would wait.
Tristan saw anger in the faces around him. Not anger directed at him, the alleged traitor, but toward the officer who stood at the door. Grumbles of displeasure came from many throats, and he saw men fingering their weapons.
“Mercenary scum!” cried one huge man, lunging to his feet. “How dare you speak for a king of the Ffolk?”
The captain made a slight nod to his left, and a window exploded inward. Shocked patrons turned to see a leering ogre’s face, its yellow tusks gleaming over a huge crossbow. A huge bolt punched through the chest of the standing man, knocking him over two tables as it killed him. More of the ugly ogres crowded in the door behind the officer, while others broke into the room from the kitchen. The rest of the windows crashed inward, and at least a half-dozen of the massive crossbows were sighted on the crowd.
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