Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  “You will protect me from him, won’t you?”

  “Of course, sire. You know that you have nothing to worry about. Perhaps you need something to take your mind off this little distraction—an execution, perhaps. Is there a prisoner you would like put to death? Perhaps that sister of the outlaw, O’Roarke?”

  “No, not yet!” The king spoke firmly. “I still hope to make him see reason. I will never be able to do that if she is dead.”

  The wizard gestured subtly and whispered to the king.

  “Very well,” sighed Carrathal. “Have her put to death in the morning.” For a moment, a look of stark horror flashed across the king’s face. Once again, he saw the ghosts arrayed against him and sensed their number growing. But then he yawned listlessly. “Thank you, Cyndre. Sometimes I wonder what I would do without …”

  The king could not finish his sentence, for he had already fallen asleep.

  “I shan’t be gone for more than a day,” explained the Great Druid. Her manner was solemn. “Try to keep them from fighting. Talk to the leaders—they will help you.”

  Robyn nodded, trying to conceal her doubts. The grove of the Great Druid had, overnight, filled with terrified animals. Many deer, rabbits, wild pigs, squirrels, mice, and other little mammals were overrunning the place, nervously trying to avoid the few wolves, foxes, badgers, and weasels that had also come here for protection.

  But protection from what? They still knew very little about whatever menaced the grove, save that it had caused an unprecedented fear among the wild creatures.

  “If you have to, ask Grunt for help,” said Genna. “He will complain a lot, but he could be your best ally.”

  “I will,” said Robyn. Indeed, the old brown bear was a cantankerous and surly fellow, but she knew him to be an unusually steady and reliable animal,

  “I will hurry,” added the druid. “Take care, my child.”

  Genna turned toward the south and her short body shifted and blurred before Robyn’s eyes. She grew smaller, and her brown robe slowly became a coat of golden feathers. Her arms became wings, and her nose became a beak. The smooth head, no longer even vaguely human, turned to look at Robyn, and the young druid saw the blessing glittering from the small, black eyes. Then the wings struck boldly downward, and the great eagle that was Genna Moonsinger sprang into the air and climbed steadily skyward. She rose without faltering, circling over the grove until she was no more than a speck in the southern sky.

  A heavy sense of menace began to bear down on Robyn as the day progressed, removing any joy from her daily tasks. At first she thought that the feeling was produced by the threat to the Vale, and indeed, that must have been a part of it. Yet more and more she found her mind drifting to thoughts of Tristan.

  Instead of the usual ripples of pleasure that his memory ordinarily gave her, her thoughts of the prince actually increased her anxiety. This feeling grew every time she thought of him, which was nearly every minute. She could not escape the feeling that he was in terrible danger.

  She wrestled with a strong temptation to flee the grove, abandoning everything in a headlong dash to reach him. Yet even if she had known where he was—and she felt certain that he was far from Corwell—she could not have brought herself to renounce her trust with the goddess. And so once again, she turned herself to her many chores.

  But the work had a hollow, meaningless quality today. She was certain that it did not come from within herself.

  Then she felt a strange peace fall over the grove. The squeaks and squawks of the animals quieted as she looked up. Something had already entered the grove. It was a presence mighty yet serene. Robyn walked quickly through the oaks, finally breaking into a run. She suspected the visitor’s identity even before he stopped from between the oaks to regard her. She thought she saw a benign smile upon his face as she shouted with joy and ran to clasp her arms around his neck.

  The smile was in her imagination, of course, for although he, too, felt great joy, Kamerynn the unicorn could not be expected to smile.

  A cool, strong breeze flowed steadily northward, lashing the waters of the strait into rolling gray swells. Tavish fought the wind, tacking back and forth, but she still made only slow headway toward Corwell.

  For the hundredth time she wondered if she was doing the right thing. After all, she reminded herself, what could she have done to rescue the prince? Painfully, but pragmatically, she knew that she was no fighter—a daring escape from the heart of the enemy stronghold was something she could never hope to accomplish.

  The only place that seemed to offer the chance of help was the prince’s homeland. She didn’t know what kind of help the lords of Corwell could offer, but she had nowhere else to turn.

  And still the wind blew and the gray waves rolled.

  “Put him in here,” said the short cleric, pushing aside a wool tapestry to reveal a small room. The only furnishing was a narrow bed, but Daryth and Pawldo were grateful for the chance to lay Tristan upon even that tiny platform. Pontswain remained outside, sword held at the ready, looking up and down the long ribbon of darkened, empty road.

  The cleric ran back to the doors of his chapel and saw that the road was empty. The deepest hours of night were just beginning to yield to morning.

  “Cowan!” he called. “Come here!”

  Moments later, a lad of about fifteen emerged from a small alcove, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He blinked curiously at the visitors, and his eyes widened as he saw the bloodstained prince stretched, pale and deathlike, on the bed.

  “See to their horses, lad!” barked the cleric. Cowan hurried from the chapel as the man turned back to them. “I am Patriarch Trevor, a cleric of Chauntea,” he said, moving quickly to Tristan’s side. The man moved with a smooth and easy grace. He took the prince’s hand in one of his while pressing the other to Tristan’s forehead.

  “He is very near death. A few more miles on horseback, I’m certain, would have killed him.” The patriarch closed his eyes, still touching the prince’s wrist and face. He whispered softly, a ritual sound that lasted nearly a minute.

  A warm glow seemed to surround the prince, visible as a faint light to the watchers. Daryth had a feeling of deep reverence, and wanted to drop to his knees. He stubbornly resisted the urge, instead staring, spellbound, as the cleric worked his healing magic.

  “Chauntea,” said the cleric reverently. Tristan winced and thrashed on the narrow mattress. A sudden, shocking spurt of red blood burst from his mouth to spatter the cleric, but the patriarch ignored it. Daryth’s hand leaped to his sword; he feared for the prince, but the cleric held a steadying hand up, and the Calishite relaxed.

  The prince groaned and twisted on the bed. His eyes opened, but the pupils rolled so far back in his head that only the whites were visible. The cleric whispered again, and the soft glow brightened and then slowly faded away.

  As the cleric finally opened his eyes, Tristan’s chest began to rise and fall with deep, regular breathing, Slowly, color began to creep into his face.

  “He sleeps,” explained the cleric. “Now, let us talk.”

  Daryth and Pawldo followed him into another small room. Here Trevor pulled a bottle of wine from a wooden chest and gestured them to sit at the small table.

  “You are fugitives,” he said finally. “But from what?”

  Pawldo and Daryth exchanged quick looks, obviously surprised by the blunt question. Finally, the halfling spoke.

  “The High King’s ogres took the pri—uh, my friend on false charges. We helped him get away, but he was wounded during the escape.”

  “Ogres of the Scarlet Guard!” growled the patriarch with surprising venom. “The mercenary scum!” Seeing their startled looks, he explained.

  “The guard is just another example of the blight that seems to have fallen across our land. We watched them march through Grady—that’s this little town—some days past. The sight of the people huddled in their homes, shivering in terror, broke my heart. Remember, these a
re the troops of their own king! I ask you, what kind of king would bring such terror to his own subjects?”

  “Those kings are more common than you’d like to believe,” said Daryth. “Though this is the first I’ve heard of such a ruler in the Moonshaes. In my experience, the Ffolk have been ruled with freedoms that far exceed the norm.”

  “True,” agreed Pontswain, coming through the door. “The road is quiet. How is the prince?”

  “He will live,” said the patriarch.

  The lord did not respond as he moved to sit in the only vacant chair. Daryth wondered whether Pontswain considered the news good or bad.

  “Why haven’t the lords of Callidyrr stood up to the king?” asked the lord. “I can’t imagine that we, in Corwell, would stand for such behavior.”

  “They have tried. Several have disappeared, others have gone to the dungeon. Those that disappear have had their lands confiscated and their holdings assigned to allies of the king. One, the former Lord Roarke, has become an outlaw in the forest, railing bitterly against his fate, but helpless to do anything about it.”

  “Why hasn’t there been a rebellion?” pressed Pontswain.

  “I don’t know,” shrugged the cleric. “Perhaps because they lack a strong leader. Or, more likely, because the Ffolk are frightened.” The patriarch seemed to consider his statement, and his situation. He was silent for a moment.

  “I am glad that I could help you, but you have powerful enemies. I can hide you here until nightfall, but then you will have to be on your way. It is not for myself that I fear, but this entire village would doubtless be destroyed were you discovered here.”

  “We understand,” said Daryth. “And thank you for what you have done.”

  “But you must decide where you will go from here,” the cleric reminded them. “Or do you already know?”

  “To Caer Callidyrr to see the High King.”

  The voice drew their attention to the doorway, and they turned to see the Prince of Corwell standing there, watching them grimly.

  “Tristan!” Pawldo jumped to his feet as the men looked in astonishment at the prince. He leaned against the door, his face drawn with pain. But the color had returned to his skin, and his eyes glowed with determination and anger.

  “You should be asleep,” said Trevor, rising to offer the prince his chair.

  “I shall be soon. But we need to plan first.”

  “Are you certain you want to go to Caer Callidyrr?” asked the patriarch.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. The King’s Road, the highway you took from Llewellyn, is certain to be patrolled in strength. It would mean almost certain capture for you to travel there. But there are other roads, trails really, that lead to the west of here, and then north, through Dernall Forest. The soldiers of the king do not venture into the forest much, but the forest has its own challenges. For one thing, the trails are few and difficult to follow.”

  “We have some woodcraft,” said the prince. “We’ll travel the forest roads.”

  “I can give you a map and some directions. You will have to trust to your good sense for the rest of your guidance.” The cleric proceeded to sketch a spiderweb of winding trails onto a sheet of parchment. “You will be very weak for several days,” he warned Tristan. “That wound would have killed most men, I’m certain. So have a care for yourself, and rest when you need to.”

  “Thank you, friar. We shall,” said the prince. “I have but one question: Why have you done all of this for us?”

  “The ways of my goddess are not for mortals to understand, not even her clerics. I but do her bidding. Remember this, if you think of nothing else: Chauntea is your ally. She hopes for the success of your mission, and she will aid you as much as lies in her power.

  “Now that you are here, I understand. Your mission to Caer Callidyrr—no, don’t tell me any more about it. But I understand that a king who hires monsters to protect himself from his own people cannot work for the good of those people or their land. This king is offensive to my goddess, and therefore her blessing falls upon your mission.

  “May you ride like the wind and be as difficult to catch,” concluded Patriarch Trevor.

  The cleric’s words seemed to have a pleasant effect. Tristan felt warmth spread through his body, and a feeling of benign goodwill descended upon him. “Thank you for everything,” he said, clasping the patriarch’s hand firmly. “You have given our mission new hope!”

  “As you have done for mine, also,” said the cleric quietly.

  Then they slept, and when darkness fell the men mounted their black horses and slipped into the night, the great moorhound trotting watchfully ahead.

  Bhaal wallowed in the fire pits of Gehenna, luxuriating in the sensual feel of lava fueled with fresh blood.

  The god of death, lover of all murderous acts, was in fine fettle. His devotees, and even those opposed to him, were acting in concert to provide entertainment. But even more than entertainment, each act of killing strengthened Bhaal, increasing his influence among the gods and enhancing his ability to interfere in the affairs of men.

  And so Bhaal watched the events unfolding before him. He thrilled at the sight of the dead army that was defiling Myrloch Vale. They would be his mightiest achievement when he was done, creating a legion of death that would bring the entire land beneath his baneful rule. Bhaal drooled at the thought of the young druid’s blood warming his belly as Hobarth performed the ritual sacrifice.

  He watched the events upon Alaron with less interest, but took mild note of the occasional body left in the wake of the fleeing prince. More than once he had thought that the death of the prince himself was imminent, but each time the mortals had managed to fend it off—just barely.

  But Bhaal was patient.

  he unicorn nuzzled Robyn’s shoulder affectionately. The druid said nothing, but the weight of responsibility she had borne this day seemed to grow lighter.

  She leaned back and looked at the great creature, child of the goddess herself. Kamerynn’s white beard hung in a thick tuft from his jaw, and his ivory horn jutted proudly before him, more than four feet long.

  His large eyes were bright and clear, and Robyn whispered a soft prayer of thanks for this miracle. Only a year earlier, the great unicorn had been blinded, his skin and eyes scalded by the power of the Beast. But his healing seemed complete, and his broad nostrils snorted as if to belittle the hurts he had suffered.

  “Kamerynn, you big horse!” Newt shouted with joy as he buzzed into the oak grove and saw his old friend. He darted like an arrow to the unicorn, perching proudly on Kamerynn’s long horn.

  “Thank the goddess you’re here!” he chattered. “Robyn has been having an awful time with the animals. Oh, she tries you know, but she’s still so young. Now that you’re here, I’m sure we can get all of these—”

  Kamerynn turned his broad head to the rear, interrupting Newt’s explanation, and the dragon was forced to grasp the moving horn tightly to retain his perch. The bushes behind him parted very slightly, and a tiny face looked timidly at Robyn. The unicorn gestured with his horn, and the little creature stepped forward.

  Robyn saw that it looked like a small man, about two feet tall, except that it had gossamer wings sprouting from each shoulder and long pointed ears. As the little creature bowed, she noticed two long things, almost like the antennae of a bug, growing from the fellow’s forehead. She knew then that this was a wood sprite. He was dressed in a green tunic and cap, and he carried a small bow and quiver in his hands and a dagger at his belt.

  “Welcome to the grove,” she said, extending her hands.

  “Yazilliclick!” cried Newt, diving from the horn to hover before the sprite. “You’re here too! We should have a party!” He turned to Robyn, hovering up to her eye level. “Can we have a party, Robyn? Can we have a party, please?”

  “No!” Can’t you tell there’s something serious going on, Newt?” She felt genuinely angry at the dragon. He had been no help at all
as she had struggled to control the animals.

  Newt looked piqued for a second before zooming back to Kamerynn’s horn to watch the proceedings with interest.

  “I … I must tell you of the danger,” said the sprite in a high and musical voice that sounded an odd contrast to the seriousness of the missive. Robyn understood his nervousness. Sprites were among the shyest of the creatures in the Vale. Though there were many of them in the surrounding woods, she had never seen one. She knew that it must have taken great courage to bring Yazilliclick here.

  “There is terrible—t-terrible—danger abroad!” We have seen the army that defiles the vale,” said the sprite. “It is coming here!”

  “An army!” gasped Robyn.

  “That is not the worst of it—not the worst!” added Yazilliclick. “It is not an army of men, or llewyrr, or even firbolgs. It is an army of corpses!”

  “Corpses? But how …?” Robyn was too stunned to think. Certainly the little sprite could not be telling the truth!

  Yazilliclick nodded his head, his tiny antennae bouncing. He looked like he was about to start crying. “I d-don’t—don’t—know!” he wailed. “But they come this way—this way! And they are evil! Evil!”

  None of them saw the great eagle dropping silently from the twilight skies until it settled to the ground beside them. The eagle’s shape shifted and suddenly Genna Moonsinger stood beside them. Even in the dim light, Robyn saw that she was pale. She started to speak, and her voice was strained, as if she struggled to control it. She had obviously heard the sprite’s last remark.

  “They draw nearer with every minute—they will be upon us in two days at the most.

  “I have sent the sparrows to summon the other druids of the Vale. We will gather here as quickly as possible. Perhaps together our might will daunt this force somehow.” The druids of the Vale, several dozen in number, each tended their own sacred groves, scattered across the face of Gwynneth.

  Here, at the grove of the Great Druid, they gathered occasionally for councils, but for the most they were solitary men and women, seeking little human companionship.