“I tell you, it is no use!” persisted O’Roarke, slumping into his chair. The energy drained from him—he looked dejected and defeated.
“We are not without skill,” Daryth said quietly.
“No, you are not. But you were all four taken by my clumsy ambush. And you can be sure that the traps of the wizard, Cyndre, will be far more deadly!”
Tristan flushed, whether in anger or embarrassment he was not sure. Then he spoke.
“We have to try. You have lost a sister and your cantrev. I have lost my father—my king. How many more losses will it take to move you?”
Hugh was silent for a long time. Once again, his thick red eyebrows sank into a deep scowl.
“I will help you,” he said finally. “But I have a condition: One of you must remain here, as proof against a betrayal. You will come to know my most valuable agent in Callidyrr. Should harm come to him, your man will die as well.”
“That is unaccep—” Tristan began to object, certain that he had the upper hand, when Pontswain cut him off.
“I shall remain here,” said the lord.
Tristan looked at Pontswain in shock, wondering if the lord was afraid to face the High King. Or perhaps he hoped that the prince would be slain, leaving the path open for his own claim to the kingship. Still, it solved the problem. And Tristan knew that he wouldn’t miss the man’s company.
“Very well,” he agreed.
“We can disguise you,” offered O’Roarke, as if relieved to have reached a decision. “And slip you into Callidyrr on a fishing boat that is returning to harbor at the end of the day. It will be risky, but it is still our best chance.”
“Why a boat?” asked Daryth suspiciously.
“Because the walls are high, and the city gates are guarded around the clock. A boat returning to port with the same number of men aboard as left in the morning may escape inspection.”
“And once we’re in the city, what then?” asked the prince.
“I have people in the city,” said the bandit lord. “They will do whatever they can for you. My agent, Devin, may get you into the castle. If there’s a way, he’ll know it!”
“When can we get started?” Tristan asked.
“Tomorrow. We’ll take to horse at first light.”
Cawing and crying in a harsh cacophony, the birds of prey took wing. The hawks and eagles and owls exploded from their perches together, arrowing toward the stream and the as-yet-unseen enemy.
The birds rushed from the darkness against the army of the undead, dashing with beak and claw against the zombie vanguard. Flesh was torn away from the dead faces, and limbs were rent from bodies—but still the dead moved forward. Birds fell, shrieking in pain, as the claws of the undead tore at their feathered breasts or crushed their powerful wings.
And when the birds fell, the skeletons came upon them, lifting the struggling creatures and tearing them to pieces. A few of the zombies dropped, badly torn. But the fate of the flyers was much worse. Soon, the flock was decimated.
The army marched into the stream. At the far shore, sprawling in the darkness, was the grove of the Great Druid. And at its heart was the sacred pool of the Moonwell.
The vast caverns of Dwarvenhome glowed with an eerie green radiance as light spilled from the green fungi that grew on the high walls. Clinging stalactites dropped like drooling fangs over the huge council chamber, where hundreds of the short folk had gathered around a high platform. Three dwarves, looking nearly identical behind bristling beards, stood above their fellows. They heard the acclaim of their community arise from many barrel-chested comrades. The voices were strong and deep, and the chant was always the same: “Finnnnellllen! Finnnnellllen!”
One of the trio stepped forward, looking out at the vast sea of bearded faces. Her jaw jutted forward belligerently, but she apparently liked what she saw, for she nodded slowly, affirmatively.
“Dark dwarves in the Moonshaes? They’ll be there about five more days, I reckon—about as long as it’ll take my fighters to march there, or my name’s not Finellen!”
The chant grew to a roar, and then the dwarves dispersed to gather their armor and weapons. In another hour they would assemble as an army to follow their heroic leader—the real champion of the Darkwalker war, as all the dwarves knew—through the vast caverns of the underdark. Their route would take them under land and sea; for the length of the march, they would never look upon the sun. And when they reached their destination, they would fall upon their hated enemies—the dark dwarves—with a vengeance.
The outcome would be bloody but glorious.
Slowly Robyn squeezed the wood of her staff, as always drawing strength and reassurance from her mother’s gift. She held the ashwood shaft before her and listened. Moments later, she heard a squishing, sucking noise that told her the zombies had emerged from the stream. They approached her, crossing the little meadow.
Kamerynn paced beside her. She sensed that Newt was still perched upon the unicorn’s horn, though she couldn’t see the little dragon. Neither could she see Yazilliclick, but she knew that the sprite stood beside her, ready to launch a hail of tiny missiles from his little bow.
And then she saw the shapes emerging from the darkness, and her nostrils caught the scent of the zombie horde. Though the night was frightening, she thanked the goddess for sparing her the horror of seeing the undead in their gory detail.
Robyn offered a silent prayer to the goddess and felt the answer of the Earthmother flowing through the wood. There was power and peace in that answer—but there was also rage. Robyn channeled that power into a spell, aided by the staff, and released it as the skeletons stumbled toward her from the darkness.
And the rage of the goddess was fire that erupted from the ground, a wall of flame spreading across the clearing. Robyn saw Genna cast the same spell some distance away. Other walls of fire erupted before her as the druids ignited their first line of defense.
Zombies lurched into and through the flame, sizzling in the intense heat. The monsters stumbled forward and collapsed on the ground, writhing in silent torture as their flesh blackened. Before the fire died, their bodies shriveled into misshapen lumps, stiff as statues carved from charcoal.
The skeletons, too, suffered from the intense heat. Bones splintered as the orange tongues of fire licked them. Bodies broke apart, collapsing into heaps of unrecognizable ash.
The birds that had been harassing the monsters flew up and away as the fire erupted, but Robyn grieved to see that several moved too slowly. Tongues of flame greedily stroked the feathers of owls and hawks. The birds screeched and writhed in agony as the fire dragged them to earth and consumed them.
But some unspoken command was turning the mindless army away from the fire. The zombies slipped to the left, the skeletons to the right, and the undead came on. The walls of fire were limited, not long enough to encircle the grove, and the monsters now came around them.
In the lurid light, the young druid saw a moving mound of earth as the elemental answered Genna’s command. It moved to block the skeletons. Huge, fistlike appendages swung from the thing’s sides, and it used these like clubs, smashing a dozen of the undead in the first press of attack.
From where Robyn stood, the elemental looked like a rough-skinned giant. It fought quickly, remorselessly. For a moment, the press of the skeletons was shattered—though the undead knew no fear, the elemental was killing them faster than they could advance.
But then a whirling storm of silvery axes emerged from the darkness. The shining blades gleamed with an internal light. The hafts were long, the blades heavy, and they filled the air with a glittering array of razor-sharp attacks. Hundreds of the missiles swirled about the elemental, hacking off chunks of earth. For a second, Robyn wondered at the unnatural way they hung in the air. Magic! The elemental stumbled as one of its legs was severed, and then fell into rubble as the blades tore it to pieces.
Now the zombies had completely passed the wall of fire, and they lurched qui
ckly toward Robyn. They were still being harassed by the birds, and now the wolves and boars raced into the attack. The animals were a pitiful few against the numbers of undead, however, and they were swiftly killed or driven back with grievous wounds.
As the wolves whined and ran, Robyn turned to flee as well, but her foot caught on a root. She sprawled headlong and heard the squishing footsteps of a zombie nearby. Terror seized her, but she managed to cling to her staff as she leaped to her feet and sprinted through the darkness.
She saw Genna and the other druids running with surprising stamina toward the center of the grove. Grunt loped along behind the Great Druid, turning to bellow his rage at the undead who pursued them.
Gasping in horror and fear, Robyn stumbled along behind, wondering how they could hope to stop this nightmare before it reached the Moonwell.
Cyndre stood before the vast mirror as the three mages at the table watched him closely. The master turned to look at them: tall, lean Talraw, the dark-skinned Wertam, and the short, ugly little woman called Kerianow.
The image in the mirror was a vast field of green. Leafy treetops waved slightly in the breeze. Only upon closer examination could the wizards see the buildings cleverly concealed among the foliage, the smoke rising from well-hidden chimneys.
“You have seen this prince outwit the finest assassin in the land,” said Cyndre. “Now, our colleagues Kryphon and Doric pursue him. We can only hope that they fare better.”
“We know he is in Doncastle.” Talraw spoke hesitantly. “Why don’t we simply destroy that town and have done with him—and it?”
“Remember,” said the wizard gently, but his undertone told them all that Talraw was a fool for asking such an obvious question. “It is not our power that will win over the Ffolk. We must appear to act only as the king’s advisers. Only through him can we gain the power we truly deserve. When that power is ours we will be free to act as we wish.
“But that day draws near. Have patience and listen well: One of you must remain here always, watching the mirror We have found the Prince of Corwell, and we will not lose him again.”
“Yes, master,” they chorused, awed at the responsibility he had laid upon them. In truth, they were not ready, but Alexei was lost to them, and Kryphon had a mission of his own.
“And it may be that you will see one looking back from the mirror,” said the sorcerer, his voice dropping low in warning. He described the one he sought and watched as the three mages exchanged frightened glances. “Should you see this in the mirror, you are to interrupt me immediately.
“For I seek to talk to the sahuagin.”
ne after another, the druids gathered at the Moonwell, stumbling in from the surrounding darkness to gasp weakly against the sturdy stone pillars. There, they quickly recovered their strength. The milky water glowed softly.
The circle of arches here in the center of the grove was illuminated faintly by the light from the Moonwell. Robyn felt rather than saw the other druids around her. And she knew that the army of death was very close.
Something white moved through the darkness to stand beside her, and she threw her arms about Kamerynn’s broad neck. The presence of the mighty unicorn bolstered her own confidence.
“We haven’t long to wait,” said Genna. The Great Druid emerged from the darkness to stand beside her pupil.
“Did you see the … human?” Robyn asked, wondering if one who commanded such an army could actually possess humanity.
“No, but it was his spell that destroyed the elemental. He cast it from beyond the stream. Perhaps the barrier still prevents him from entering the grove.”
“Barrier?” Robyn was surprised. “I’ve never seen a barrier at the edge of the grove.”
“No one can see it. And only one such as he, a being consumed by evil, feels it. He cannot pass into the grove through it, though I fear that now his army may have damaged it enough so that he can.”
Robyn saw Eileen of Aspenheight and the stalwart Gadrric step wearily toward them. Their brown robes were torn, and bloody scratches covered their bare arms and legs. Gadrric’s stout staff and Eileen’s sickle were covered with ripe gore.
“How did the undead pass it, then?” Eileen asked.
“These poor, mindless creatures are not inherently evil. They are simply driven by his foul command. As such, the barrier had no effect upon them.”
Genna sighed sadly. “All they want is to return to death. The cruel truth is that the cleric has taken from them the only thing they had—the peace of eternal rest.”
Robyn had not thought it possible to feel sympathy for the ghastly invaders, but she found herself suddenly pitying their unnatural plight—and hating the cleric who had done this to them.
“Now, to your posts—all of you,” chided Genna, tenderly. “Remember, the arches must be held at all costs!”
She swept her arm in a great circle to indicate all twelve arches. These arches provided the only access to the Moonwell. Earlier, the druids had prepared their defenses by filling the spaces between the arches with an impenetrable tangle of thorn bushes. Now each arch was to be guarded by several druids and the remaining animal defenders.
Eileen clasped Robyn’s hand and gave the Great Druid a quick embrace before turning back along the shore of the Moonwell. Gadrric looked at them both sternly, nodding his gray, shaggy head gruffly as he hurried away.
“Wait, Robyn,” said Genna softly. She looked at the young druid tenderly, hopefully, as Robyn turned back to her.
“Here,” said the Great Druid, giving a handful of acorns to Robyn. The nuts felt warm against her skin. “You might find a use for these.”
“Thank you.”
“And this …” Genna paused and reached into a pocket of her robe. “I’ve been making it for you. It’s not quite finished, but you may need it now. ‘The Great Druid held a straight stick, perhaps a foot and a half long. Intricate carvings covered it from end to end. Robyn took it slowly, and it, too, felt warm to her touch.
“A runestick?” she asked reverently. She took the druidic talisman and touched the carvings, each of which she knew Genna had inscribed with her tiny knife. The runestick was covered with pictures—a spiraling mural of the land around her.
Tears came into Robyn’s eyes. There was no more significant nor caring thing that one druid could do than carve a runestick for another. “I will treasure it,” she whispered.
“You will use it, I hope,” said her teacher with a smile. “They’re very near, now.” Genna turned away and walked along the shore of the Moonwell. She joined Grunt at the south arch.
Robyn stood with Kamerynn, Newt, and Yazilliclick at the arch on the north side of the grove.
“We won’t get to see anything over here,” moped Newt, sitting on Kamerynn’s proud horn.
“I’m fri-frightened,” whimpered Yazilliclick, standing next to Robyn and unconsciously leaning against her leg.
“Let us tend to our duties,” said Robyn as calmly as she could, “and remember, the goddess is with you.”
With that, Kamerynn left them to stand before one of the twelve arches circling the Moonwell. The spaces between the arches had been blocked off by their earlier efforts. Now thick walls of thorns and sturdy young tree trunks intertwined to channel the only approaches to the well. Grunt stood stolidly beneath one of the arches, Genna, stood at the next, and then Kamerynn.
Robyn and Newt stood at the next arch. Spreading out to either side, the arches were guarded by little bands of pixies, armed with small but sturdy bows, and sprites, who would fight with their silvery swords. Most of the faeries were invisible. The few remaining wolves and boars guarded the arches across the circle, where the enemy army was least likely to strike.
Robyn remembered her teacher’s blessing and she felt certain that the goddess was standing with her. She was very calm, somehow detached from the madness around her. She also felt very strong. And as she stood guard to protect the most sacred place on the isles, her calmness
slowly grew into a powerful, controlled rage.
“I’m frightened,” whimpered Newt, landing on her shoulder and leaning against her.
“So am I, my friend,” she reassured him, realizing that the statement was a lie. She realized that she was not afraid.
Then she felt a slight disturbance, like a flutter, in the power of the goddess. The night seemed suddenly blacker and colder as an unseen menace closed in.
“He has entered the grove,” she whispered, not certain how she knew this.
But the ground felt strong beneath her feet, and the feel of the smooth staff in her calloused hands reassured her.
“How could he have escaped?” shrieked King Carrathal. He removed the Crown of the Isles from his head, holding it loosely in his hand as he mopped at his sweating brow with a delicately embroidered handkerchief. His eyes were wide with terror.
“He is resourceful,” said Cyndre with a shrug. “And far luckier than any man has a right to be.”
The king turned away and paced across his throne room in agitation. Once he had been able to meet with Cyndre again, he had assumed that everything would be all right. Instead it seemed that his problem was growing larger every day.
“See how the usurper seeks shelter in Doncastle. I have urged you, sire, to wipe that nest of rebels off the map. Surely you can now see the necessity for that?”
“We must do something!” whined the king, turning back to the wizard.
“I have my most trusted assistant on his trail.”
“When will your man catch him?” demanded the king,
“Very soon, I am sure. Now, why don’t you take your mind off this? Do something to amuse yourself! Would you like another prisoner put to death?”
The king shook his head angrily. He would not admit it to the wizard, but the execution of Darcy O’Roarke had been troubling him for several days. He dreamed of her defiant laugh in the face of the headsman’s axe. She had vowed that her brother would avenge her. In truth, the king feared the wrath of Lord Roarke and all of his outlaw clan nearly as much as he feared the relentless approach of the usurper from Corwell.
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