There remained only one of her children—one who had suffered grievously in the war with the Beast. Yet that one she could not afford to leave to his rest.
And so the goddess, once again, summoned Kamerynn the unicorn.
he assassins raised their crossbows, and Tristan could almost physically feel the dart focus on his chest. He was about to make a desperate dive to the side—almost certain to get himself killed—when Daryth surprised him with a long, low whistle.
“I’ve just gotten you figured out, Razfallow,” said the Calishite smoothly. He repeated the whistle again.
The silver dart in the crossbow shifted slightly to point straight at Daryth. Razfallow, the half-orc, spoke. “You have been amusing, Calishite.” He snorted a soft chuckle and actually seemed reluctant to give the order to kill. “In fact, I shall have you killed last to show my gratitude.”
Tristan had been puzzled by his friend’s whistle, but he suddenly remembered something Pawldo had said. Instantly, he understood Daryth’s plan. Time! They needed to stall the assassins for a few more seconds.
“I’m a dead man, anyway,” said the prince, devoutly hoping he was wrong. “Tell me, then, why are you doing this? Where do your orders come from?”
Razfallow laughed, a sound like a crackling fire. “You are indeed a dead man, and I do not waste my breath talking to dead men.” The half-orc nodded to his men, and the pair raised their silver crossbows.
“I grow tired of this game,” said the assassin. “Larrell, you kill the one with the curly locks.” He sneered at Pontswain. “Rasper, you put your bolt into the prince. Aim low.”
Tristan saw a flash of movement in the moonlight behind the assassins. Daryth slowly raised his hand as if in supplication, but the prince saw that his companion’s finger was pointed directly at the archer. Again he saw the motion in the road, closer now.
“Canthus, kill!”
Daryth’s sharp command was timed exactly with the great dog’s leap. The well-trained moorhound attacked silently and savagely. Rasper stumbled forward from the brutal impact, and though he tried to shoot the deadly dart into Tristan, the hound’s attack had thrown off his aim. The missile flew harmlessly into the night as the man turned in desperation to grapple with the mighty jaws that eagerly sought his throat.
The one called Larrell turned slightly in surprise. Pontswain dropped to his stomach in the path as the assassin released his dart. The prince could not see if it struck home.
At the same moment Tristan, Daryth, and Pawldo leaped forward, drawing their blades. The three assassins crouched to meet them, Larrell dropping his bow and drawing a slim shortsword.
The assassins backed slowly away as Rasper screamed in pain. He twisted and struggled as the moorhound’s teeth tore at his face. Locked in mortal combat, they rolled from the path, leaving the two trios faced off, a dozen feet apart.
Daryth looked sharply to his side at Tristan—behind the prince, actually. Tristan cast a quick glance behind him and saw only Pontswain in the bright moonlight. The lord stumbled to his feet, dazed but uninjured, and the Calishite turned back to the assassins.
“Look out!” cried the Calishite, suddenly whirling toward the prince again. Tristan twisted in surprise and then shouted in pain as he felt a sharp blade slicing through his back. But there was no one there! The prince lurched forward and crashed to the ground in agony. He coughed and choked with fright as he spit up blood.
Daryth leaped at the source of the attack. Through a thickening haze, Tristan saw him strike at … air! Daryth’s blade snaked forward, and then the tip disappeared. He saw it again as the Calishite pulled back, and now it dripped with blood. He heard a groan as something heavy but invisible fell across his legs.
Tristan clenched his teeth to keep from crying out, and he struggled to remain conscious. The invisible sword had stricken deep into his back. It would almost certainly have killed him had not Daryth’s warning caused him to turn at the last minute. Dimly, he realized that one magically invisible assassin had crept up behind them.
Pawldo rushed forward to keep the three assassins at bay. Now the Calishite leaped forward to stand at the halfling’s side, as Pawldo stumbled rapidly back before three slashing attackers. Pontswain climbed to his feet and charged forward, waving his longsword before him.
Daryth sliced savagely at Razfallow’s face, but the assassin ducked the blow easily and almost took off the Calishite’s ear with the counter-thrust. One of the others tried to follow up his master’s advantage with a lunging stab, but this one overstepped his reach. Daryth’s downward cut lopped off his arm at the elbow, and the man stumbled to his knees, holding the bleeding stump in shock.
Pawldo attacked aggressively. The Calishite crouched and jabbed at Razfallow, but neither of them could gain an advantage. Pontswain ducked about the edge of the melee, looking for an opening. Suddenly, the halfling shouted in alarm—his attacker had just knocked the blade from his hand. Pawldo ducked as the assassin took a wild swing at his neck. The attack was the man’s last mistake, as Pontswain leaped into the fray and stabbed the man in the throat with a single lightning thrust.
Razfallow slashed immediately after Daryth, but the Calishite parried smoothly. The two blades clashed again and again as the fighters hurtled themselves at each other.
Pawldo scrambled to regain his sword, and rage twisted Razfallow’s face into a hideous mask of hatred. He spit in Daryth’s face and sprang backward, snarling.
“I will see you again, Calishite!” His voice was a rasping, inhuman growl as he turned and raced into the darkness.
“I’ll get that baboon-faced—” growled the halfling, at last finding his sword. He lunged after the half-orc but Daryth caught him by the collar and pulled him back.
“I admire your courage,” he said sincerely. “But he would kill you—or me! The darkness is his element—he wants us to come after him! Besides, our companion needs our help.
Tristan saw his friends coming toward him, and then nothing more.
“Come here, little fellow. You know I won’t hurt you.”
To most listeners, Genna’s voice would have sounded like an assortment of chirps, squeaks, and clicks. Robyn, however, had no difficulty understanding her teacher’s speech.
Neither did the small red squirrel, obviously, for the little creature bounded to the end of a long limb, and then hopped lightly onto the Great Druid’s outstretched hand. The creature jumped to her shoulder and sniffed curiously at her ear as Genna smiled at Robyn.
“I really think the mammals are the most fun of them all,” she said. “They’re the most like us, of course. And I think they can be friendliest of all our creatures, when they want to be!”
“Food?” the squirrel chirped.
“Oh, you little beggar,” sighed Genna in resignation, nevertheless reaching into a pocket of her loose gown to draw forth an acorn.
Robyn looked up suddenly as the limb next to Genna sagged slightly. “Don’t you dare, Newt!”
Scowling, the dragon became visible. Perched over the squirrel, he had been about to squeeze the animal’s tail—a prank that certainly would have sent it shrieking in terror to the highest branches of the tree.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” rebuked Genna.
“I can’t help it,” whined the dragon, his wings and tail drooping pathetically. “I’m so bored! You two never have time for anything fun anymore! It’s always lesson this and teach that and learn the other thing!
“And you’re always yelling at me, too,” he pointed out defensively. “ ‘Newt, where are you?’ or ‘Don’t do that, Newt!’ or ‘Stop eating that, Newt!’ or something else.”
“We have been working hard,” said Genna with a look at Robyn. “I suppose I have been trying to make up for lost time. Why don’t we have lunch at the pond? We can share a bottle of wine and have a quiet afternoon.”
“Yesyesyesyes!” shrieked Newt, blinking into invisibility in his excitement. A second later he was bac
k, buzzing happily.
“I was going to introduce you to the bats today,” said Genna as they started toward the cottage. “But that can wait till later. They’re more talkative at night, anyway.”
Robyn walked thoughtfully back to the cottage. She felt at peace for the first time since the stranger had come. When Newt had removed the heartlike rock from the grove, it seemed as though a whole world of trouble had vanished. But another thing bothered her, and now she felt she could talk about it.
“Teacher, I’m troubled by a dream I have had several times in the past weeks. I’m certain it is a vision from the goddess.”
Genna looked at her quizzically.
“It’s about my … father, the king. And Tristan, too. I’m afraid something terrible has happened. They need me!”
“You wish to cease your studies?” Genna asked softly.
“No! But I must learn what has happened. I must go to them! Can you forgive me if I leave you for a while?”
Genna smiled sadly. “There would be nothing to forgive. You are a capable and accomplished student, able to make your own decisions. If you must leave, for a time, so be it. I only hope you will return.”
“Genna, I will!” Robyn pledged. “And thank you!” She felt a giddy sense of relief and anticipation. She would travel to Corwell as swiftly as possible!
The women had almost reached the cottage when they heard a pathetic bleating in the distance. They paused and heard it again. The sound originated to the south, near the edge of the grove, and seemed to be coming closer.
“That sounds very bad,” frowned Genna, turning to run toward the cries. Robyn joined her and quickly outdistanced her teacher. She raced through the garden and into the oaks where she almost ran headlong into a terrified doe.
She grasped the trembling creature around the neck and stopped its flight, muttering soothing sounds. Kneeling beside it, she felt the animal’s shaking subside, although it did not cease entirely. In moments Genna joined them.
“What’s the matter, brown-eyed one?” she whispered in a voice so soft that Robyn could barely hear.
The deer bleated again, a sound that Robyn could not understand specifically, but she easily recognized the deer’s sheer terror. Burrs matted the animal’s sides and belly, and its legs were covered with many small scratches.
Genna looked at her student,. and the lines of concern around her eyes deepened. she stroked the deer a few times, and gradually it settled down. She did not rise until the creature began to graze contentedly on the sweet grasses of the druid’s grove.
“I do not understand what frightened her,” she explained. “But never have I seen such lasting terror. She has obviously run many miles.”
“What should we do?” asked Robyn. The deer’s panic aroused deep feelings of anger within her. She wanted to punish whatever had tormented the creature so.
“I must go and have a look,” said the druid.
“Let me come with you!” pleaded Robyn.
“No, you cannot yet. I will call upon powers you have yet to learn, though your abilities grow daily.” Her teacher smiled at her and patted her shoulder reassuringly. “While I am gone, I want you to remain in the grove. We may have other creatures coming here to seek our help.”
As she finished speaking, a huge flock of blackbirds squawked into sight. Thousands of feathered figures raced through the sky until they were all safely within the confines of the grove. There they settled, still agitated, into the highest branches of the towering oaks.
Robyn and Genna both noticed that they, too, had fled from the south.
Death reached out with cold fingers to seek the Prince of Corwell. Tristan only vaguely felt the chill presence beside him, for all of his feelings were blanketed in a gray fog.
The pounding cadence of the galloping horse penetrated his consciousness only barely, and he did not sense Daryth’s arms around him holding him in the saddle. The pain of his wound had long since vanished. His only discomfort now came from straining for air in his wounded lung.
For a time, the prince was ready to yield to the dark figure that rode beside him. The struggle to breathe was too exhausting to continue. The blessed relief promised by the one who held those arms outspread seemed the most pleasant recourse.
“Tristan. Look to me, my prince!”
For a second, he didn’t react to the distant voice. When he did, it was as if his body was mired in thick mud; he couldn’t open his eyes or turn without expending great effort. But finally, he saw.
An ocean of mist spread around him, muffling the sounds of the horse’s hooves. The jolting gait became smooth, even comfortable. He could see that they were racing across this plain of fog, and then the mist parted to reveal a wide, smooth lake. It seemed to him that they were galloping along the shore, though he couldn’t see any ground below him. In truth, he did not look down.
“Tristan.”
The voice again reached seductively for his mind, and he struggled to see who was speaking. Then he saw the white figure, standing serenely on the waters of the lake. Her arms were spread wide, beckoning. Queen Allisynn stood some vague distance away. It seemed that she was very far, yet he could see tears welling in the corners of her eyes. He could hear her voice, though she spoke in the softest of whispers.
How beautiful she was! Her blond hair billowed like a flag in a gentle breeze, while her snowy gown seemed more like water than cloth as it flowed across her body. She looked very sad, and the prince wanted to hold her, to comfort her.
And then he understood her sadness.
His quest, had failed! He had disappointed her. A black sense of despair grasped him, and once again he saw the specter of death seated beside him.
Desperately, he struggled to reach the queen, but his body would not move fast enough. A sob forced itself from his throat, and already her image grew dim.
“My queen!” he croaked. He struggled to hold out a hand to her so that she could pull him to her side.
“Stay there!” she cried, her voice growing stern. “Do not come to me. You must not come to me!”
He made no reply, but his throat choked with sorrow, and tears flooded his eyes. The agony of watching her slip away was more than he could bear. Yet somehow, though his ghostly horse raced like the wind and the queen stood still upon the water, she remained beside him.
“You must go on, my prince.” Again he heard her. She began to fade from view, but her voice was stronger than ever. “Go to Caer Callidyrr. Only from the High King himself will you learn the secret of your destiny. And prince, beware his wizard. Beware Cyndre!” She had almost disappeared from his sight, and despair threatened to drown the prince in his well of self-pity.
“My lady …” he moaned softly.
“No,” she said, and suddenly her image was clear again, “Your lady is another—a woman who needs you, and who can help you! Call to your lady, my prince, do not call to me!”
And then she was gone, and in her place stood a green-eyed druid with flowing black hair. Her beauty brought a lump to his throat. By the goddess, how he needed Robyn! He must see her again. He must live!
“Robyn,” he croaked, quietly, and the sound became a sob.
But then his companions slowed the pace of their flight, as the black horses grew winded. The pain returned, lancing through his chest and throat in fiery agony. The taste of blood was bitter in his mouth.
But with the pain came awareness, an understanding that he did want to live, that he had a mission to perform. With this understanding he banished the specter of death from his side. The prince was unconscious to his surroundings; he did not feel his companions lift him from the saddle nor see them enter the battered door of a frail country chapel. But he was aware of his life.
And he was determined to keep it.
The courtier timidly approached the great throne, his powdered wig trembling as he walked.
“Your Majesty,” the man began, his voice cracking. “The … um … the wizard canno
t be found.”
“Imbecile!” barked the king, “Out of my sight! Fool! Do not return until you have found him!”
The king rose and stalked down the stairway leading to his throne. He reached the bottom of the staircase and turned to the side in agitation, wrapping the robe about his legs and almost tripping himself.
“Out!” he screamed. “All of you! Go away!” The courtiers, jesters, and ladies-in-waiting in the huge chamber all turned and fled for the doors. In seconds the vast room was empty except for the king.
And one other.
Cyndre stood beside the throne, his black robe billowing and swelling around him. The king turned back, pacing, and suddenly saw him. He gasped and clapped a hand to his mouth, but quickly straightened to march purposefully up the steps.
“Where have you been? I have had every messenger in the palace searching for you! Why can’t you be where you’re supposed to be?”
“I came as soon as I could, sire. I was in the midst of some arcane meditation. To interrupt it would have been extremely dangerous.” The wizard made a slight, almost imperceptible gesture. The king’s shoulders sagged as he turned to flop wearily into his throne.
“I have been so worried!” he whined. “Has there been any word of that upstart from Corwell?”
“We have had word of his arrival at Llewellyn. A strong garrison of the Scarlet Guard is posted there. I am certain that we will hear of his capture very soon.” The wizard’s voice was soothing, and the king began to relax.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you, Cyndre. My nerves are not what they used to be.” The wizard did not reply, and his thin smile of amusement was masked by his robe.
“When he is captured,” continued King Carrathal, “I want him brought to me immediately. I am curious about this prince. I wish to learn why he pretends to my throne.”
“At the earliest opportunity, sire, I will have him delivered to you,” replied Cyndre, silently adding, “his corpse will not tell you much.”
Black Wizards Page 15
