For a quick moment, he looked up into the heavy rafters and the shadows beyond. Escape! He pictured a quick leap, a grab of the beam, and they would be off into the darkness beyond. But then he stumbled drunkenly backward, and only Pontswain’s strong arm held him from falling to the floor. The look of utter disgust on the lord’s face burned its way into Tristan’s bowels, and he jerked away.
More of the Ffolk were rising to their feet now, and a startlingly clear vision burst through the fog in Tristan’s brain: He saw a massacre of these brave but outmatched Ffolk—a massacre for which he, at least indirectly, would be responsible. Shaking off Pontswain’s supporting arm, he forced himself to stand up straight.
“The charge is untrue!” he announced, somehow managing to keep his words from slurring. He addressed the soldier. “I will accompany you and refute it before the High King himself.”
For a moment, he thought that the patrons of the bar would still fight, but gradually the tension eased. The three visitors walked over to the sneering man. The captain’s black eyes glittered at them above his sharp, hawklike nose and neatly trimmed mustache and beard.
“I must have your weapons,” he announced, holding out his hand expectantly.
Tristan momentarily regretted his decision, but he saw again the brutal crossbows leveled at the innocent bystanders. Reluctantly, he ungirded his belt and handed it over. The Prince of Corwell would hold the Sword of Cymrych Hugh again, Tristan vowed.
The heart of Kazgoroth provided all of the strength and endurance that Hobarth needed. His path carried him up a rocky pass and through winding gorges, yet he never wavered in his course toward a place he had never seen.
Some of this confidence came from his faith in Bhaal, for the god showed him visions of his destination. But another part of it came from the black heart, as if that stone wanted him to find the battlefield for its own reasons.
After several days without food or drink but also without pause, he came down the center of a broad, forested valley. Before him lay a wide field with a rounded hill upon the far side. That hill, he knew, was Freeman’s Down, and it had given its name to the battle fought here the previous, year. The huge cleric made his way to the top of the burial mound, fondling the black rock as he approached.
He held the heart to the ground and remembered the spell that allowed him to animate the dead. As before, the knowledge of the enchantment came from his mind, but the power to enact it came from the black rock. It was a far greater power than any one cleric could hope to generate.
Hobarth suppressed a shiver of delight as he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. The earth was rent by great cracks that ripped across the grass. The scent of moist dirt arose but was quickly extinguished by a stronger smell: the stench of dead, decayed flesh.
In the bottom of one of the fissures, Hobarth saw movement. Skulls gaped upward at him, and bony hands clawed at the dirt, pulling whole skeletons jerkily from the earth. Bones clicked together as the creatures crawled from the soil like a swarm of insects emerging from a narrow hole. They crawled over each other, mindless of those that were dragged down or reburied. More and more of the things emerged as the fissures deepened. The skeletons lurched away from the graves to collect in loose ranks of dirty bone.
Next came the zombies.
The flesh on these bodies had not entirely rotted away, but hung loose in great flapping folds of carrion. Clutching the lip of the fissure with sinewy, skinless fingers, the zombies dragged themselves from their graves in answer to Hobarth’s command. Empty eye sockets gaped dully from swollen, misshapen faces. Black tongues thrust from lipless mouths, hanging stupidly from torn and rotted jaws. Like the skeletons, the zombies formed careless lines, moving off the desecrated burial mound and spreading across the field.
And still Hobarth’s army rose from the earth.
ide-eyed, Pawldo watched from the shadows as Tristan, Daryth, and another prisoner were prodded through the door of The Diving Dolphin. He kept one hand on the neck of the moorhound. One of the brutes cuffed the prince roughly, and Canthus growled, deep within his cavernous chest. Pawldo pressed reassuringly against the bristling neck and whispered soothing sounds into the dog’s ear.
In another moment the prisoners had been shoved down the stairway, and their escort moved them quickly up the street. Soon the captives disappeared into the night.
Another dozen ogres remained around the inn, staring belligerently through the doors and windows. They poked curiously at anyone who attempted to enter or leave. Finally the ogres grew bored and moved on, but the halfling remained still for several minutes. As the customers began filtering out of the inn, he stood up and dusted himself off.
Pawldo had some things to do. He found some old rags and quickly repacked his duffel, burying each of the Crystals of Thay in several layers of cushioning cloth. Next he pulled out a sturdy leather tunic that fit snugly over his shoulders. Lastly he took a slim blade and girded it to his waist. That blade, no more than a long dagger to a man, had sipped the lifeblood of more than one foe.
Finally he turned again to the moorhound, who had lain motionless while he completed his preparations. “Tristan?” said Pawldo, inclining his head to the street.
The huge dog instantly sprang to his feet and bounded from the entryway, pausing only to give the dirt road a cursory sniff. He trotted in the direction the ogres had taken, and Pawldo had to jog in order to keep up.
Canthus, for his part, loped as quietly as a shadow through the streets of Llewellyn. The dog’s path carried them to the fringes of the town. He circled anxiously for several minutes at an intersection, allowing Pawldo to catch his breath while the dog sought his master’s spoor. Finally he picked up the trail again, turning to the left and bounding up a gradual hill. Pawldo followed him, still puffing.
Suddenly the dog darted toward a gatehouse in a high wall that ran several feet back from the street. A huge ogre stood carelessly within the gatehouse.
“No!” Pawldo hissed, pulling the huge dog aside just a moment before he would have reached the circle of light created by the ogre’s torch. “This way,” he whispered, sprinting away from the gatehouse and cutting sharply into a lane that ran along the property. Here he found a large oak tree. No gardener had removed the lower branches. The halfling found a nearby clump of bushes and ordered Canthus to lie there, hidden from casual view. Pawldo then had no difficulty scampering up the knotty bole until he reached a point where he could see over the wall.
He saw a huge manor house within the yard, surrounded by formal gardens and placid pools. Several ogres wandered around, patrolling the area.
Somewhere in there was the Prince of Corwell.
“It’s about time you woke up!” Pontswain’s biting tone blasted through Tristan’s weariness.
The prince sat up awkwardly, trying to ignore the heavy manacles that bound his hands and restricted his movement. His head pounded. Daryth, similarly restrained, looked at him morosely.
“What happened?” groaned the prince.
“You don’t remember?” Pontswain stalked from the barred window to stand before the prince. Tristan sat on a hard bunk and looked up at the lord in anger and chagrin.
“Of course I remember what happened!” he snapped. “I mean, how did the guards know we were there? Were they waiting for us to come ashore? We hadn’t been here for more than a few hours.”
“Just long enough to get drunk.”
“All right!” Tristan growled, standing up to face the lord. The chain binding his wrists clanked noisily. “I made a mistake. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Now drop it, or by the goddess I’ll force your teeth down your throat!”
He expected Pontswain to strike at him—in fact, he would have welcomed the physical release. He wanted to hit something, and the arrogant lord seemed like a good target. To his surprise, Pontswain shrugged and walked away.
“I’m beginning to understand,” said Daryth quietly.
“Will you explain it to
me, then?” asked the prince.
The Calishite stood and paced across their small cell in frustration, joining Pontswain at the lone window. Finally, Tristan joined them. They looked across the well-tended gardens of a large manor house.
“Don’t you see? Our arrest, maybe even the sabotage of the Lucky Duckling. It’s all been an attempt to stop you from seeing the High King!”
“So you think the High King is afraid of me?” countered Tristan. “Why?”
“The other rulers—Moray, Snowdown—all killed or vanished, as your father was killed, You are the only one left!”
“What threat does a country prince offer to the High King?” asked Tristan.
“Certainly, with your victory in the Darkwalker War you could seem like a threat—especially to a weak-willed ruler,” Daryth said. “The soldiers here were waiting for you. Not just any outlaw lord or king. And somehow, they knew you were coming …” All fell deadly silent as each realized the implications of the Calishite’s words.
Tristan nodded his agreement. He wondered as he did so if the walls were listening … or watching.
“These feathers steady and steer her in flight. The muscles in the wings are strong enough to allow her to lift a large rabbit from the ground.”
The young eagle sat calmly in Genna’s lap as the Great Druid stretched out its long wing. Robyn watched attentively as her teacher lifted the graceful bird.
“Of course, this one is still small,” added Genna. “She must grow before she can attempt anything so ambitious.”
They sat upon a bench in the garden, amid red and purple flowers and the stately boles of a few ancient oaks. Fat bees buzzed lazily from blossom to blossom, sipping nectar.
“She has the keenest eyes of any of our creatures,” continued Genna. “And speed! Her form is one of the most useful when one must travel from one place to another in hurry.”
“I would love to try that!” exclaimed Robyn, imagining the joys of flight. “To see the whole valley—the whole world.”
“Soon, child,” said Genna, surprising her. “Your lessons have progressed very well despite my recent … lethargy. You are almost ready to learn the secrets of the animals, to assume their forms when the need is upon you.”
“Teacher …” Robyn asked, hesitantly voicing a question that had been concerning her. “Your lethargy—had it to do with the stranger’s presence in the grove?”
Genna paused a long time before answering. For a while, Robyn wondered if she had heard the question.
“My ailment cannot be blamed upon the stranger—at least, not entirely,” explained Genna at last. “You see, I am getting old—quite a bit older than I look, if the truth be told! The infirmities of age sometimes weigh heavily upon me. At first, I thought that was all that was wrong with me.
“After the stranger’s coming, however, I felt something much more sinister—the presence of an ancient and powerful enemy—one whom I had hoped I was done with, at least in this life. That presence brought a kind of madness upon me.” She raised a hand at Robyn’s look of surprise.
“No, not the stranger himself. I know him now; he was a powerful druid in Myrloch Vale. Trahern of Oakvale was his name. I thought that he was killed during the war.
“No, it was not Trahern that caused my ailment. It was a presence that came along with him—something that wore me down and frightened me. Perhaps it had inhabited his body, or maybe it was something that he carried.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t,” explained the Great Druid. “The madness that infected me kept me silent. I dreaded that presence, but I could not articulate the words to warn you. It’s gone now, or at least lessened greatly in strength.”
“The black rock!” Robyn exclaimed.
“What? What black rock? Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Genna demanded.
“I didn’t know about it—at least, not until he died. The first time he died, I mean.” She proceeded to explain about the ragged bundle Acorn had carried, and described the rock that fell out of it after his death.
“Where is it now?” asked Genna.
“Newt took it away after I was stunned. I don’t know exactly where he put it. Newt?”
The little dragon blinked into sight a dozen feet away. He had been buzzing about the garden, invisible, shaking the stems of flowers as bees attempted to land upon the petals.
“Is it lunchtime already?” he cried, eagerly zipping over to the bench. “It’s been a long and hot morning. You two are being very, very boring, today, you know. What’s for lunch? Hey, where’s the food? I don’t see any food!”
“Wait,” cried Robyn, holding up her hand. “We’ll eat soon. First, I need you to tell me where you took that black rock.”
Newt shuddered nervously, twisting his agile neck to look in all directions, as if he expected savage enemies to burst from the woods at any moment. “I hid it!” he explained in a stage whisper. “I took it into the forest and dropped it!”
“But where?” persisted the young druid.
“Over there, somewhere,” replied the faerie dragon with an irritated gesture to the south. “Now, can we eat?”
Robyn couldn’t help but laugh and agree. She turned to go to the cottage to gather some bread, cheese, and fruit.
Only then did she notice Genna’s eyes, squinting warily into the woods in the same direction as Newt’s gesture.
Pawldo was about to jump from the tree back into the narrow lane. The sound that froze him was little more than a faint scuffing, indistinguishable from wind in the grass or a dozen other common noises. But the halfling strained his ears, cursing the clouds that blocked the moon. There it was again! He was not alone in the lane.
A crease between clouds dropped a slow wash of illumination, and the halfling saw dark shapes moving toward him. Men on horseback, he suddenly realized, but why could he not hear the horses?
The riders pulled up at the base of the very tree concealing Pawldo, and he counted six men, shrouded in black. Each rode a midnight-black horse whose hooves were shrouded in thick leather bags.
Pawldo did not like these characters—not that he knew who they were, or what they wanted. His dislike was compounded by fright, as he saw the riders dismounting below. As quietly as possible, the halfling moved upward, certain that the pounding of his heart would give him away.
Pawldo could only watch as the man leaped into his tree and started to climb upward. One stayed behind holding the horses, but the other five swung into the middle of the tree.
Pawldo lay headlong upon a wide limb no more than ten feet above the sinister figures. Shaking with fright, he squeezed the branch as tightly as he could, hoping to blend with the darkness.
“He’ll be in one of the tower rooms,” hissed a man.
“How do you know?” questioned another.
“Ogres,” answered the first speaker. “They always store treasure and prisoners up high if they can.”
The men wormed their way outward along a pair of stout limbs, looking over the manor. Pawldo felt certain that they were talking about Tristan.
“Rasper, you take this,” said the first speaker, apparently the leader of the band. Pawldo couldn’t see the object that changed hands, but he heard more. “Drink that before we cross the wall—you’ll be the lead man, but invisible. Let’s stay out of the paths of those ogres, but if we run into trouble, the four of us’ll keep ’em busy. Fallow, you know what to do then.”
“Don’t worry,” said Rasper. “The prince is a dead man!”
Assassins! In his fright, Pawldo squeezed a piece of bark from the tree.
The flake of wood broke with the tiniest of cracks, but the conversation below him ceased immediately.
Pawldo discerned slight movement and realized that some of the men had moved to the bole of the tree, while several more remained below him. In utmost silence, the assassins spread out to close the net.
Clenching his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out i
n fear, Pawldo wormed his way farther out on the limb. The tree’s branches thinned above him—he would gain nothing by climbing. The men were below him, and between him and the trunk, so it seemed that out was the only way to go.
The branch narrowed as he moved and began to bend under his weight. Now he heard whispered commands in the depths of the tree. He swung his feet into space, tightly clasping the end of the bough, and felt it swing down under his weight. His feet touched a lower branch and he let go, trusting his sense of balance. Tumbling free, he barely grabbed the lower branch, but this one also sagged.
Suddenly he saw movement in the lane below him and remembered the sixth assassin, who had remained below with the horses. He saw a shadowy figure moving to meet him as he landed.
“Canthus!” he cried, dropping to the ground and sprawling headlong. The assassin loomed over him and then suddenly lurched to the side. Pawldo saw the form of the giant moorhound bearing the man to the ground. Canthus’s long white fangs were buried in his shoulder.
“Let’s go!” cried the halfling, jumping to his feet and running to the horses. The dog followed, leaving his victim moaning softly in a spreading pool of blood.
Pawldo darted among the nervously shuffling horses. “Hee-yah!” he shouted, slapping one of the steeds in the rump. He grabbed the stirrups of two more and yanked them sharply. Spooked, all six horses galloped down the lane and raced into the street, the halfling swinging wildly from one stirrup. Canthus raced behind, urging any stragglers ahead with sharp barks.
“Any more ideas?” asked Pontswain. For once, his voice was not laden with sarcasm. Tristan had tried to bend the bars on the window.
“I can’t do anything about the lock without my tools,” announced Daryth, turning from the door. “They took my picks and probes before they tossed us in here.”
Tristan paced back and forth while the other two flopped onto the mattresses. The prince truly hated confinement—a thing he had never experienced before. The room seemed to grow smaller with every passing minute, and tension threatened to consume him. He felt that he might soon be driven to beat his brains out against the iron door in a quest for freedom. Forcefully, he suppressed the primitive urge. Faint starlight was visible through the window, and the tiny specks of light seemed to mock his plight.
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