Genna turned to look at Yazilliclick, and her eyes softened. “Thank you, little one, for coming here. I know how hard it was for you.”
“I’ll s-stay, to help,” blurted the faerie, looking immediately as if he regretted the offer.
Next, the Great Druid raised her chin and looked her pupil squarely in the eyes. “Robyn, you must remain here awhile. I know of your concern for the king and for your prince, but you are needed here.”
Robyn sensed the command in her teacher’s words, but that command was not necessary. She knew where her duty lay, and she nodded in response. There was nothing else that she could do.
The patriarch’s map proved invaluable as the black horses carried the riders through the night. They alternated mounts frequently, allowing two of the steeds to run free while the others carried Tristan, Daryth, Pontswain, and Pawldo. Keeping the mounts fresh, they made excellent time.
The hours in the saddle wore heavily on Tristan, however, as the pain of his wound grew into a throbbing ache across his entire back. He said nothing, fearing that his companions would slow their pace, but he was nonetheless relieved as dawn approached and they began to look for a place to hide during the day.
There were few likely spots along the winding country lanes. Alaron—at least, this portion of it—seemed devoid of wilderness, or even of large tracts of forested land. They eventually left the road, riding across several fields and crossing numerous stone fences before finding a little clump of woods in a secluded hollow. Here they dismounted, ate some of the bread and fruit that the cleric had sent with them, and prepared to rest.
Pawldo left the three men to fill his watersack in a nearby stream, and they sat quietly for a time.
“I suppose you’ve realized that our original mission no longer has much relevance,” said Pontswain, lounging.
Tristan looked at him suspiciously. He could not help but suspect the lord’s motives, but he nodded now. “Indeed, there’s not much point in petitioning approval from a man who has ordered me arrested and killed.”
“Then let’s go back to Corwell and leave this madhouse to its inmates!” said the lord. “What can you hope to accomplish here?”
“I can gain a measure of vengeance for my father’s death! I can force the king to admit his crimes against the Ffolk—perhaps even to make some of them right again!”
“You’re mad! He’s tried to have you killed already. Now you want to travel to his very stronghold and tell him you don’t like what he’s done? You don’t have a chance!”
“On the contrary, I think I have a good chance. We have avoided his pitfalls thus far. And besides, I have to try something! I cannot let my father’s death go unavenged!”
“Your foolish vengeance will get us all killed!”
“You are free to return to Corwell whenever you want. We can go on without you.” Tristan challenged. Pontswain slumped silently, scowling.
Pawldo returned with a dripping goatskin of water and passed the bag around. Silently, they drank, as the halfling flopped to the ground beside them.
“How do you propose to gain entrance into the castle?” asked Daryth as they settled into their makeshift beds.
“I don’t know,” admitted the prince. “But if there’s always a way to escape from a place, as you’ve told me, then it follows that there’s always a way to get in.”
“The opposite of escape is capture,” announced Pawldo.
“We have to get there before we worry about getting in,” observed the Calishite. “And from the looks of this country that’s far from guaranteed, especially if there are troops out looking for us.”
“On the other hand, the troops of the High King seem to be none too popular in this part of the country, if the Ffolk in The Diving Dolphin or the cleric Trevor are any indication,” said Tristan.
“Still, let’s try and stay hidden,” warned the halfling. “I don’t want to have to rescue you again!”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” said the prince. “How did you pull that off—distracting the ogres?”
Pawldo chuckled, not a little proud, He told the story of the assassins in the tree and his entry into the manor house. For once, he embellished the details only slightly.
“It was our good fortune to have a friend like you lurking in the shadows,” laughed the prince. Pawldo grinned, enjoying the praise.
“Now tell me,” asked the halfling. “What did you scoundrels do to get in trouble with the law? Were you stealing milk from a baby? Or perhaps you got enthusiastic about the young daughter of some local lord?”
“Nothing so straightforward,” said Tristan. He explained about the assassination of King Kendrick and their mission to Alaron. After a long hesitation, he described the castle of Queen Allisynn and the prophecy he had received there.
“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Pawldo said.
Tristan felt a moment of sorrow. It came suddenly and then passed. He realized, with a twinge of guilt, that it had been many days since he had thought of his father. But now he could feel some sense of atonement. “We did more than a little avenging in Llewellyn,” he said. “I’m certain that the men with Razfallow were the same who accompanied him to Corwell.”
“I wish that bloodthirsty devil hadn’t gotten away,” said Daryth bitterly. “But we’ve certainly trimmed down the numbers of his band.”
“It’s too bad we couldn’t have put an end to his killing,” said the prince. “But we’ll have another chance, I’m certain.”
“Especially with your subtle plan,” snapped Pontswain. He had been listening to their conversation, using a saddle to keep his head off the ground. But now he sat up.
“I didn’t ask you to come along!” retorted the prince, his anger kindled.
“No, that was my decision. And now that I’m here, I’m wondering what kind of madness you’re planning next!”
“My lord Pontswain, this is my fight—and it has become a personal matter. I neither seek nor welcome your involvement in it! If you have concerns that can be better addressed elsewhere …”
“Indeed I do, prince. I want our kingdom to prosper—to see some of the glory it had ages ago. If I am king, I think it will. Perhaps the same thing can happen under your rulership. But I haven’t seen any proof of that yet!”
Tristan flushed, instinctively reaching for his sword. Anger blazed from his eyes as he met Pontswain’s level gaze. The lord’s face was curiously unemotional.
“Oh, you wield your blade well—certainly better than I do,” continued Pontswain. “But I wonder how well you can wield your mind!”
Tristan forced down his rage, but the remark cut him deeply. In a dark corner of his mind, he realized that Pontswain was too close to the truth. What ideas did he have to offer? What kind of a plan had he assembled?
“Perhaps under the tutelage of your wisdom I’ll learn!” he snapped, trying to turn Pontswain’s sarcasm back at him, But the challenge sounded hollow, even to himself.
“On that cheerful thought, I’m going to get some rest,” said Daryth. The others, too, rolled into their blankets. Tristan was still livid. His mind coughed up numerous, sharp remarks that he regretted he had not thought of at the time. But as his anger cooled, a strange thought struck him. For the first time he saw Pontswain not just as a rival for the throne,. but as a man who truly cared for the kingdom. The knowledge was disturbing, and he took it with him to sleep.
That night they rode again, gradually turning north. They found themselves entering wilder country now, though still tame in comparison to Corwell.
The prince’s wound still hurt, but did not seem to have gotten worse during the last day. This time they found it easy to find a secluded place to spend the day, and on the following night they rode into Dernall Forest itself.
“At least we’re a bit more secure here,” remarked the prince as they trotted down a dark forest lane. Canthus, as usual, loped along before them. “We should have no trouble finding a place
to hide during the day.”
All of them felt more relaxed among the thick, sheltering branches. Though the moon was half full, the canopy of leaves made the road almost black.
That changed very suddenly. Their only warning was a low growl as Canthus froze, staring into the darkness. Harsh words in a strange language barked from the night.
“Magic!” cried Pawldo in alarm, and even as he spoke the ground itself suddenly glowed with cool, bright light.
The little party halted, clearly outlined by the bright spell, and blinded from seeing anything beyond their circle.
“Do not move, strangers,” said a voice from the darkness. The voice was strong, filled with the authority of command.
Tristan’s eyes finally adjusted to the brightness enough that he could make out forms moving toward them from all sides. He saw men, armed with the largest longbows he had ever seen, in a circle around them. He counted several dozen with his first glance, and he saw that each member of his party was in the sights of a weapon.
The prince hauled back on his reins, searching for escape, but the ring of archers was solid—and very menacing. There was something frightening in the lack of emotion he detected among them, as if this was simply in a day’s work.
Yes, he realized now, they were captives once again.
“The Black Rock is gone,” said Newt miserably. Yazilliclick nodded in agreement. “Somebody must have taken it! This is all my fault!” The faerie dragon was on the verge of tears. His wings drooped miserably when he landed on the bench, returning from the mission Genna had given him.
“You helped us very much by removing it from the grove,” said Genna. “You are not to blame for the evil that has befallen us.”
Robyn stroked Newt’s head and long neck, surprised at his contrition. She had never seen the faerie dragon expressing anything approaching remorse before.
“Now,” continued Genna, addressing the creatures that had gathered before her cottage. “You must all listen very carefully.” Around her were arrayed Kamerynn the unicorn, the great brown bear Grunt, and a hundred or more of the animals—the strongest and wisest from among the teeming throngs.
The Great Druid sought to calm the fears and soothe the tensions of the gathered wild creatures. She needed them to remain peaceful throughout the night, for she and Robyn would not be able to watch them. Finally she finished, and the animals drifted away to rejoin their kind.
“Now Newt, Yazilliclick,” said the Great Druid. “I must ask you to care for the grove while we’re gone. The other druids should be arriving soon; you must tell them where we have gone. Will you do this?”
The sprite nodded.
“Can’t I come along?” pleaded Newt. “You will get into—”
“We need you here,” soothed Robyn. “You must help us.”
“I will,” said the faerie dragon with a resigned sigh. He darted to Kamerynn’s horn and looked away from them.
“Now, my dear, it is time,” Genna said quietly, turning to Robyn. The two druids entered the cottage. There, Genna opened several clay jars and removed pieces of holly and mistletoe. Robyn picked up her long staff—the legacy of her mother. She handled the smooth ashwood staff reverently, grateful for the potent magic it contained. It alone provided her a weapon that might slow the unnatural army approaching through the Vale.
“Come along.” Her teacher walked outside again, with Robyn following. They crossed the now-silent grove to its heart—a sacred place where even the animals did not go. Here the Moonwell illuminated the surrounding ring of stone columns with a soft, milky glow. Here the power of the goddess was most accessible to her druids.
“Woman, you must concentrate like you never have before. You must realize that your youth and lack of experience make this even more dangerous than it must be.”
“I understand, teacher,” said Robyn solemnly
“I would not even allow you to consider this action, were it not for our dire emergency. And I admit, the fact that you have displayed an inherent talent gives me some reassurance that you are capable of this feat.
“Now, hold your staff, and listen to me.”
Robyn planted the staff at her side, grasping it firmly in her right hand. She heard Genna whisper something—private words to the goddess.
“Remember your lessons,” intoned the Great Druid, her voice taking on the cadence of a chant. “Remember the bright eyes. Remember the long, light bones—and the feathers. Think of the beak and the claws, so hard. Concentrate!”
Robyn remembered well. She pictured the powerful bird upon her teacher’s lap, and she saw every detail of its graceful body. She didn’t feel the magic of the Earthmother wash over her or even notice the sudden change in her body, so intently was she focused within her mind.
She only noticed as she stretched to keep from falling. Driving powerful wings downward, she felt her feet lift from the ground. She looked around, and her eyes saw the Moonwell in minute detail, falling away below. Again and again she extended her wings, aware of Genna soaring beside her, but only slowly did she understand.
She was an eagle. She was flying!
Alexei endured days and nights of black silence, chained to the wall of a stone cell. Madness came closer, daily, and the mage had few weapons with which to fight for sanity.
Only hours after Alexei’s imprisonment, Cyndre and a cruel painmaster had paid a visit to the cell. The painmaster was an expert from Calimshan who had gleefully broken Alexei’s hands, taking care to shatter every bone.
For a time the agonizing pain of those wounds had served to give him focus. But gradually the bones healed, freezing the appendages into twisted claws, useless for the delicate spell-casting gestures required by Alexei’s craft. And as they healed, the pain lessened, and Alexei had only the darkness and solitude to comfort him.
Now that the pain was gone completely, he had only his hate to keep him going. And so he nurtured that hatred, caressing it in his mind, building it and storing it for the moment it could be released. He hated the king and Kryphon; he was certain that they had betrayed him. And he hated the painmaster who had broken his hands.
But most of all he hated Cyndre. The mage thought over and over of ways to destroy his former master. He relished thoughts of the sorcerer’s death, a lingering death, utilizing a variety of methods, most of them magical.
But even had he been able to use his hands, he could not have cast a spell, for Cyndre had encased his cell within a cone of silence. Neither a chip of stone falling to the floor nor a hoarse scream from a terrified throat made any noise in that awful stillness.
For a time, the mage wondered why Cyndre had kept him alive instead of slaying him outright, but then he remembered the lurid god of the cleric Hobarth and his bloodthirsty altar. Blood of high magic flowed through Alexei’s veins, and when Hobarth returned from his mission, the altar of Bhaal would welcome Alexei to its eternal night.
“Welcome, travelers!”
A tall man jumped smoothly from a tree limb into the pool of magical light. He was dressed in brown trousers and a long green shirt, and his face, through his flowing red beard, was aloof though not openly hostile. He spoke again.
“You really should take more care, you know. Traveling the ways of Dernall Forest on a night so dark!”
Tristan looked at the ring of archers surrounding them. None had moved a muscle. “Perhaps you would be good enough to provide us with an escort?” he asked.
“Ha ha!” The man gestured broadly, as if inviting his men to join the laughter, but they remained poised to shoot. “An audacious one—I like that in a man. Perhaps you’ll be allowed to hang onto a coin or two!”
Tristan felt a small measure of relief. These were bandits, and this encounter would certainly cost them money. But they were not soldiers and thus were not likely to turn them over to the king’s mercenaries. Still, this was no ragged band. The discipline shown by the bowmen was worthy of a veteran company of warriors, and they were supported by on
e or more magic-users, as evidenced by the light spell. These men could be very dangerous, he was certain.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll be good enough to hand over your purses, we can conclude this little interview. Don’t be stingy, now!”
Tristan saw Pawldo scowling to his right, and he realized that the halfling was probably carrying a heavy pouch of coins. Neither the prince nor Daryth had much to lose by paying the bandits, but the halfling had no doubt assembled a tidy profit from his year-long endeavor. Then, too, Tristan remembered, he had lifted a pouch from the officer of the Scarlet Guard.
“May I inquire, sir, whose coffers are being fattened by these ill-gotten gains?” asked the prince.
“Ill-gotten?” The bandit chief looked distressed. “Sir, you wound me! Consider it a toll, if you will.… A toll for keeping these paths free of the king’s scum! Your contributions will go to the coffers of Hugh O’Roarke—that is, myself!”
The name meant nothing to Tristan.
“We are no friends of the king ourselves. We ride these forest paths expressly to avoid the scum you refer to.”
“Could it be that you are fugitives?” O’Roarke’s expression was mildly curious.
“It could. In fact, we have a small pouch of the king’s own gold that we would happily contribute to your cause in exchange for passage through your domain and perhaps information that may aid us in our mission.”
“Hey!” Pawldo hissed. “That’s mine! You can’t—”
“Be still,” growled the prince out of the side of his mouth.
“Travelers with a mission, eh? Let us have a look at this pouch, and perhaps we can talk.”
“My squire has it in his pack. Pawldo, pay the man.” Muttering curses, Pawldo drew forth the sack he had lifted from the officer’s cabinet and tossed it to O’Roarke. As he did so, Tristan realized that they had never checked to see that the pouch contained gold. But the gilded metal was clearly visible in the bright light, and even some of the archers wavered their attention as the bandit ran a glittering stream into his hand.
Black Wizards Page 17
