Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  Razfallow looked to Kryphon, a question in his eyes. The wizard shook his head slightly, regretting the need to disappoint Doric, Still, they needed their information.

  “You have suffered enough, child. Tell us the truth, and you may go.”

  “I am telling the truth,” he sobbed. “My master helped them—one of them was hurt. Then he gave them a map and sent them on the road to the forest.”

  “How long ago?”

  “They were here not three nights previously. If you hurry, you can catch them!” The boy was still terrified, but a glimmer of hope crept into his voice.

  “What paths did they take?”

  “I don’t know!” wailed the youth, terrified. His eyes widened as Razfallow inched the bloody blade closer to his skin. “My master didn’t tell me!”

  “Very well,” said Kryphon, turning to look around the chapel.

  “Now!” said Doric. The mage nodded and walked away, deep in thought. He did not hear the pitiful, weakening cries of the lad as Razfallow slowly killed him. Doric, he knew, would be highly excited by the spectacle, and that was reward enough for him.

  By the time the youth was dead, Kryphon had determined a course of action. First, he would use a charm spell to keep Razfallow out of the way. Then—Doric ran to him, tearing him from his thoughts. She clutched his arm tightly, her eyes still sparkling. Together they walked from the cleric’s abode and place of worship. The pressure of the woman’s body against him was maddening. The sight of blood had inflamed her in a way that Kryphon found delightful.

  “Stand guard,” he ordered the assassin, pulling Doric into the darkness. She willingly followed, throwing herself to the ground as soon as they were out of the assassin’s sight. Their passion was brief but explosive. They used each other like animals in heat. Her fingernails raked his back, and his response was violent, swift, and satisfying, like an explosion of powerful magic.

  “Now we must be on our way,” he said brusquely, arranging his robe.

  “Wait,” said Doric, lazily rising to stretch. “Can I use my spell?” Her tone was supplicating, but with an undercurrent of tension that warned him against refusal.

  “Very well,” he agreed, “But quickly.”

  With a little squeal of delight, Doric turned and raised her finger, pointing at a chapel. Razfallow stood some distance away, never questioning the mage’s delay. Good, thought Kryphon, my charm spell has beguiled him completely.

  “Pyrax surrass Histar!” cried Doric, chanting the words to her most potent spell.

  A small, bright ball floated lazily from the end of her finger and drifted slowly toward the building. Doric’s eyes were wide and staring, and her lips were pulled back from her teeth in a ghastly grin. The pebble-size ball meandered through the chapel’s open door.

  “Byrassyll!” Doric’s voice rose to a shriek.

  The blackness of the night was overwhelmed by an orange glow that exploded within the tiny chapel. Kryphon imagined the building as a huge skull—its windows were glowing eye sockets, and the door, blown from its hinges, was a gaping, screaming mouth.

  And then the waves of fire tore the roof away and devoured the walls. A billowing ball of flame rose into the air, blossoming into a huge globe of heat a hundred feet overhead. Heat assailed them, brightening Doric’s eyes. Her face was stretched into a sickening mask of delight. The sight of her suddenly disgusted Kryphon, and he seized her roughly by the arm, twisting her away.

  “Let’s go,” he snarled. She glared at him. He met her gaze, challenging her to confront him—but she pulled away from him and stalked into the night.

  Robyn looked toward the ring of stone arches, invisible in the darkness and distance. She could vividly picture the milky white waters glowing with the benign presence of the goddess. The thought of the Moonwell’s desecration filled her with dread.

  The young druid’s uneasiness grew as she looked toward the rushing stream to the south. The foaming surface of the water was visible in a few places, but all else was darkness. Heavy clouds screened the starlight.

  The first warning came as an almost silent rustling of the hundreds of great birds who waited in the branches above. Hawks, eagles, falcons, and huge owls were shifting, stretching claws and wings as they prepared for flight. Robyn noticed, too, that the boars had grown unnaturally quiet.

  She looked to her teacher and saw the color slowly drain from Genna’s face. The Great Druid clutched her hand quickly to her breast, and Robyn’s heart skipped a beat. Genna let her hand fall to her side. She closed her eyes, and her lips moved in whispered prayer.

  Robyn felt the ground shift and knew that her teacher’s magic was at work. She smelled the cool, earthy odor of fresh dirt, and heard a dull, tearing sound. She saw a hulking, vaguely human shape rise from the earth to stand before the Great Druid. Even in the darkness, Robyn could see the clumps of dirt that made up the thing’s limbs, and the broken twigs and pieces of stone that added texture to its skin.

  The thing stood like the statue of a giant, stoop-shouldered and stupid, but very powerful. Its limbs had the thickness of tree trunks, and Robyn could feel the ground itself shake as the creature slowly shifted its weight from one stumplike foot to the other.

  “Turn!” barked Genna. She pointed to the south. “Attack!”

  “An elemental,” said Robyn softly, awestruck. She had seen one of the hulking things before—a being conjured by the might of druidic magic from the body of the Earthmother herself. It took great power to summon one of the creatures from its distant realm of earth and rock to their own world, though it was a mighty ally against any physical foe. Still, Robyn was surprised by the creature’s sudden appearance and huge size. Though it was but twice the height of a tall man, it looked like a walking mountain as it shambled into the darkness.

  “Now is the time to remember your staff, girl.”

  “Yes, of course.” Robyn stepped silently through the brush, walking to the position her teacher had chosen for her. The cool wood of her staff brought her a feeling of strength, but still the forest seemed very dark.

  Tristan and his three companions spent most of the day luxuriating in soft featherbeds under the sod roof of a cozy inn. Refreshed, they spent the evening touring the town, which O’Roarke had given them the freedom to roam. He had not said anything about leaving, however, and the prince had decided not to ask—at least, not immediately.

  In many ways, Doncastle seemed like any other community of the Ffolk. There were several inns with good, simple food, and an occasional harpist or minstrel for entertainment. They saw one flourishing blacksmith shop with a pair of smiths laboring over blazing forges and solid anvils. Several huts held weavers, and the smells of dye and fresh wool were pleasantly familiar. A small stream flowed into the Swanmay River near the heart of town, and there a mill pond provided water to turn a large wheel, though they saw no sign of grain. It was a month before harvest season, Tristan reminded them. But they wondered if Doncastle had any arable land in its environs.

  “Perhaps they steal their grain, too,” Pontswain said.

  But the Ffolk that they saw appeared to work hard. They were friendly, smiling and greeting these strangers from Gwynneth. The baker offered a fresh loaf of bread; the smith offered to sharpen a dulled weapon.

  Most of the buildings were on the ground—only an occasional small cottage, and a single large inn, had actually been built in the trees. The other houses, shops, and inns were either cleverly concealed among the flora or were underground. The rolling grassy hummocks that rippled like tiny hills throughout the town were actually sod-roofed homes, much like the burrows favored by halflings.

  A whole network of walkways connected the city above the ground, spanning from tree to tree with long suspension bridges. In some places, the buildings were close enough together to form actual blocks, but these were generally so well screened by thick foliage that an observer could stand before one building and not realize that it had close neighbors.

&n
bsp; The four men did not see the bandit lord that night, nor the following day. They spent the daylight hours exploring the surroundings of the community.

  “It’s ideal for defense,” remarked Daryth.

  “And ambush,” added Pawldo. “An attacker wouldn’t even know you had a force here until your arrows gave him warning!”

  “This whole city is unbelievable!” added Tristan. “So many people living here—so well concealed and defended, And they seem prosperous enough.”

  “True,” agreed Pawldo. “Though they do without a few comforts that I’d miss.” The men had seen remarkably few metal goods, and the fare of the inns they had visited was limited to a few brands of ale, with wild game constituting most of the menu.

  “It’s wrong that they should have to conceal themselves here!” exclaimed the prince, surprising himself with his fervor. “These are industrious and decent Ffolk. It can’t be right that a king would condemn such people to exile.”

  “Or worse,” muttered Daryth.

  “I think we should tell O’Roarke about our mission. With a little luck, we could persuade him to help us,” declared the prince.

  “That’s madness!” objected Pontswain. “The man is a bandit. He can’t be trusted!”

  “He is a bandit, true. But doesn’t he want the same thing we do—an end to the reign of this king?”

  “Pontswain has a point about O’Roarke,” said Daryth. “The more he knows about us, the more dangerous he is!”

  Tristan looked from his friend to his rival. Pawldo stood silent, watching the exchange. “What do you think?” the prince asked the halfling.

  “I think it’s worth a try. You can’t just walk into Caer Callidyrr and tell the king you don’t like the fact that he killed your father. And O’Roarke, much as we might not trust him, seems to be our best hope of getting help.”

  “You’ll do what you want, anyway,” Pontswain said with disgust. “Nevertheless, this is madness!”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” said the prince. “I’ll talk to O’Roarke as soon as I get a chance.”

  “Hey! You men!” A fresh-faced youth raced toward them along the rampart.

  “I’m glad …” he began, pausing to gasp for breath, “I finally found … you. Lord Roarke requests your company at dinner. I looked all over for you—I was afraid you had left town.”

  “And if we had?” asked the prince, eyebrows raised.

  The lad looked confused. “Why, he’d have sent someone after you, of course.”

  “We’ll be delighted to accept. When and where?”

  The lad gave them directions, and they recognized the inn in the treetops they had seen while exploring the city. They were to be there at sunset—less than an hour away.

  They took their time reaching the inn, crossing one last bridge that swung alarmingly in the dying breeze. They could see their host before they crossed, for the inn had no walls facing them. O’Roarke smiled and gestured them to his table.

  Just before they reached him, a young woman emerged from the shadows and began to strum a harp. Tristan noticed with a sudden pang that the minstrel resembled Robyn, at least in her long black hair and serene demeanor. But Robyn was much more beautiful, he thought, suddenly growing lonely. He imagined her, doubtlessly relaxing in the pastoral confines of the Great Druid’s grove. He missed her very much.

  A sudden bolt of alarm shot through him. Was she relaxing? Or was she, too, beset by the danger that seemed to pervade the kingdoms of the Ffolk? He tried to convince himself that Myrloch Vale was the safest place on the isles, the most secure from external depredations. But his worry clung to him like a looming vulture, bearing down heavily upon his shoulders. Distracted, he barely heard O’Roarke speak to them from across the room.

  “Join me, please,” called the red-bearded bandit.

  Two other men were already seated with O’Roarke. He nodded at one, a clean-shaven muscular man with deeply tanned skin. “This is Annuwyn. You may not remember him, but he cast the spell that brightened your night so well the other evening!” Hugh chuckled at his joke while Tristan nodded to the magic-user. Annuwyn nodded back, a thin smile creasing his lips.

  “And this is Vaughn Burne, our high cleric,” said O’Roarke, and the other man rose and bowed. Vaughn Burne was a slight, pale man with a clean-shaven pate. He wore a plain robe, and his thin face betrayed little emotion—except for his eyes. They shined with interest and energy as he waited for the men to be seated.

  “The reason I asked you here,” O’Roarke said at last, “is to tell you that I would like you to stay with us in Doncastle.”

  Tristan’s heart thumped in his chest, and he tried to display no emotion. Still, this was the worst thing the bandit could have said to start out their conversation.

  “I need. brave men,” continued Hugh. “And such I know you are—most travelers flinch and wail when they are accosted by us. None of you betrayed any fear.

  “I will offer you places within my militia. It is not large, but my men are stalwart, and they fight well. You could earn positions of command—I can use men with battle experience.

  “And you would be safe here, You are outlaws, fugitives from the king’s troops. There is no place upon Alaron where you will be safer.” O’Roarke’s voice grew more strained as he saw that his guests were not eagerly jumping up to accept his offer.

  “My Lord Roarke,” began Tristan, carefully choosing his words. “I’m sure I speak for my companions in saying that we are honored by your offer—by the trust you have shown. But perhaps we could offer you a better way of honoring that trust—that we could perform an even greater service for you than leading a company of your men into combat.”

  Hugh O’Roarke sat impassively, waiting for the prince to continue. Only the slight lowering of his bushy eyebrows betrayed his emotions.

  “We have embarked to Caer Callidyrr upon a mission—a mission that could aid not only ourselves, but all of the Ffolk,” Tristan continued.

  Hugh waved impatiently for him to go on.

  “I am a prince of the Ffolk—Tristan Kendrick of Corwell.”

  “You are the one who slayed the Darkwalker?” asked the lord. Tristan nodded and sensed the cleric across the table staring intently at him as he did so. Vaughn Burne then turned to his lord and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “But how did you come to be an outlaw?”

  “My father, King Kendrick, was slain by assassins. The Council of Lords ruled that the High King should choose either Lord Pontswain or myself as his successor. We began our journey to Callidyrr to petition the king for this decision, but we were attacked on the way and arrested by the king’s troops as we landed at Llewellyn,

  “Our mission changed, obviously, after this development. I still intend to gain an audience with the High King. He will give me a satisfactory explanation of these events—and I doubt that there is such an explanation—or he will die by my sword.”

  O’Roarke’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad!” he hissed.

  Tristan flushed. “I believe we can do it with your help. You know this kingdom! Help us get into Caer Callidyrr. We will do the rest. Think of the benefits. If the High King is pulled from his throne, your lands are yours again. No longer will you have to hide in the forest, waiting for the next attack!”

  Hugh scowled darkly, but then startled them with a burst of laughter. “You truly are mad. I shall let you go on with your fool’s mission, but you will get no support from me. In fact, I shall keep your horses as payment for my troubles!”

  At that untimely moment, several kitchen maids emerged with platters of potatoes and stew. Hugh ignored his guests as he lifted forkful after forkful of food to his lips.

  Tristan inwardly cursed the man, though he did not press the topic any longer. Pitchers of mead sat upon the table, and his tongue itched for the taste of the foamy stuff. He ignored the craving and drank only sparingly.

  The meal passed slowly, and in silence. They had almost cleaned their
platters when a young man entered the inn and gestured to Hugh O’Roarke, He was dressed in green leather and spattered with mud, as if he had just come from a long ride. The lord rose, carrying his full mug of ale, and went to the man. The fellow said something in a low whisper. Suddenly, the bandit leader whirled and threw his mug against the wall where it shattered with a crash.

  “News?” asked Tristan quietly, raising his eyebrows. For a moment, he wondered if the bandit was about to attack him, so red was his face. O’Roarke’s hands clenched at the air as he stalked back to the table.

  “My sister has been executed by the High King!” he snarled. “She was a captive in his castle, and two days ago he had her put to death!”

  A pall of silence descended over the room. O’Roarke’s look challenged anyone to speak, to give him a target for his anger. Pontswain looked down, strangely subdued. Tristan felt a pang of sadness for the outlaw and renewed loathing for the High King.

  “But why?” asked the prince.

  “Why?” Hugh cried, his voice choking with agony, “Perhaps to draw me out of Doncastle, where the Scarlet Guard can meet me on its own terms.”

  Tristan began to see an opportunity in the tragedy, a chance to use the bandit lord’s grief constructively—for himself, and perhaps even for Hugh O’Roarke.

  “There’s a better choice. You can help us get into Callidyrr, where I will confront this king!”

  “And then what? Even supposing you made it that far, which you won’t, what can you hope to accomplish?”

  “We can avenge your sister. I can gain vengeance for my father’s death. Think, man! We have to do something! We can’t stay here in the woods, hiding in your pleasant little town! Help us!”

  “Are you assassins, that you will sneak into his castle and stab him as he sleeps?”

  “I am not an assassin,” Tristan said. “I shall not kill him … in cold blood. The king will have a chance to defend himself against my charges. If he cannot, he will have a chance to defend himself against my blade!”