Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  “You have done well,” said the prince. “Now, return to your duties!” The wench scurried back to the stairs and raced out of their sight.

  Tristan reached for the latch, about to push it open, when he had second thoughts. Instead, he lifted his hand and knocked firmly against the smooth panel. The door was pulled immediately open, and he stood face to face with a very startled young soldier of the Scarlet Guard.

  “You can’t—” the guard began.

  “Yes, we can,” snarled Daryth, who had flicked the point of his sword against the man’s throat in the blink of an eye.

  “We have an audience with the king,” announced Tristan, smoothly stepping through the door. Daryth prodded a bit with the sword, and the young guard’s eyes bulged.

  “Yes sir,” he said, his voice squeaking.

  The guard stood in a small room. Beyond him another gilded door led to the royal chambers. The guard stumbled across the chamber and pulled it open, while Tristan and Daryth strode calmly through.

  The Prince of Corwell stopped in shock. Even his wildest imagination had not prepared him for the sight of the preposterous figure sitting before him. Could this man, concealed by a curled and powdered wig, his face heavily made up, actually be the High King of all the Ffolk?

  The largest city among the Moonshae islands was not Callidyrr as the humans thought. Rather, it was a community known only to a few of the air-breathing peoples, a vast metropolis, more ancient than any town of the Ffolk. The city sprawled across miles. Its densest reaches filled the bottom of a deep, narrow canyon, but its most elegant structures clung precariously to the sides of the canyon. Vast gardens spread to either side of the gorge, on top of the fissure, and the hunters and warriors of the city ranged a hundred miles or more in search of plunder and prey. But no living man had ever been here.

  For this was a city on the bottom of the sea.

  It was a city of coral with lofty green towers and low, rounded buildings. Its colors were green and blue and red, and a myriad of other variations. The onion-shaped domes of its towers often rose a thousand feet or more from the bottom of the sea, reaching from the bottom into the higher stretches of the canyon, still many thousands of feet under the surface.

  Huge balconies hung from the sheer sides of the canyon. Tendrils of kelp draped from these, giving the place a jungle-like appearance. Sharks swam slowly among the kelp, for these fish were the watchers of the city; they protected its inhabitants and attacked its enemies.

  The city’s gardens were seaflowers and anemone. Its monuments were the broken hulls of sunken ships—and the dead who crewed them. The skeletal monuments surrounded the high domes, and decorated the vast balconies. The gold and silver plundered from these vessels ornamented the most elegant dwellings, or adorned the most prominent citizens. Throughout the city, the bones of dead sailors supported doorways and arches. Light curved stools were crafted from skeletons.

  Kressilacc was its name, and it was a city of the sahuagin, the undersea race that ruled its domain with a harsh and merciless hand. The sahuagin had lived in Kressilacc since the birth of their race, and their city had grown in size and beauty as they had grown in might and numbers.

  The sahuagin were ruled by their king, Sythissall, and his high priestess, Ysalla. Both of them, creatures of the greatest evil, had grown bored with their absolute mastery of the sea. They sought other realms to loot and conquer, other sights to amuse them.

  Sythissall claimed as his residence the vast palace along the crest of the canyon’s wall. Together with his hundred concubines, his huge octopi guards, and the skulls of his enemies, Sythissall sat in his vast throne room. The hugest of the sahuagin, the king neared giant proportions. His teeth and wide, flaring gills gave his head a broad, stubborn cast. He held a huge trident of whalebone. With it, he had once slain six prisoners, rival sahuagin, with a single blow.

  The spines along the king’s head, and down his back, were fully four feet long when Sythissall was aroused. He had ruled the sahuagin for centuries, and the fish-men were pleased with his leadership. They tortured and killed for him—under his direction, they had conquered or destroyed every other group of sahuagin for hundreds of miles. To celebrate their final victory, a decade earlier, Sythissall had ordered one thousand prisoners tortured slowly, and then fed to the sharks. That spectacle had been the grandest in sahuagin history.

  Ysalla, the High Priestess, dwelled in her sprawling temple, across the canyon from the king’s palace. As Keeper of the Eggs, Ysalla’s influence among the sahuagin was nearly as great as the king’s. As a female, she lacked the sharp spines along her head and backbone. Her scaled skin, and the skin of her priestesses, was a bright yellow—in contrast to the natural green of her kind. The yellow, a badge of pride and chastity, was proof that the priestesses did not breed. Tenders of the eggs, they would produce none of their own.

  The priestesses of the sahuagin adorned themselves with golden bracelets, headbands, belts, and anklets. They swam among their kin with imperial arrogance, for none of the sahuagin dared harm, or insult, a priestess.

  Like others of their order among the worlds of men, orcs, and ogres, these priestesses were clerics of Bhaal.

  Sythissall kept the sahuagins’ most precious relic in his throne room. The Deepglass was a mystical artifact, crafted by sahuagin at the dawn of their race from the ice of the farthest north, forged in the fire of the deepest undersea volcano. Sythissall kept, and controlled, the Deepglass.

  But only Ysalla knew how to use it.

  The High Priestess could unlock the power of the Deepglass, aided by the immense power of Bhaal. Through it, Ysalla and Sythissall could look at anything they chose, anywhere. They studied the world of sun, and air—and though they found the setting unpleasant with its warmth and horrid dryness, they saw many objects that they desired for their city and themselves.

  And also through the Deepglass, they found the wizard, Cyndre. The sorcerer had been watching them and waiting, for he knew that the Deepglass would eventually lead the sahuagin to his mirror. Sythissall flew in to a rage at the sight of the human staring back at him.

  But Ysalla was more patient She learned that the human could speak to them, that they could understand him and speak in return. The shrieks and clicks of their conversation echoed through the huge throne room with its coral pillars and tapestries of hanging kelp. Sythissall’s rage cooled as he heard the words of the black wizard promising gold, and bone, and blood.

  As they listened to Cyndre’s plan, they were intrigued. Sythissall saw a way to extend his influence into those realms that had been hitherto untouchable. Ysalla saw a way to serve her god and further the aims of her followers. The soft hiss of Bhaal’s voice came into her ear, telling her that the human would be a useful tool in the god’s scheme.

  And Bhaal watched, and listened, and smiled.

  amerynn bucked and kicked, crushing zombies with his forehooves and then lashing out behind him to splinter a pair of skeletons into hundreds of bone fragments. The madness of combat was upon him, and the great unicorn killed for the joy of slaying the enemies of the goddess.

  He had started the fight beside Robyn at the arch, but his bloodlust had carried him upon a rampaging gallop through the attackers. He was now some distance from the Moonwell, and he turned to gallop back to the defensive ring. But then his sensitive ears detected a worrisome noise.

  He paused for a moment and shook his head, causing his white mane to float like a cloud about him, while he looked for other victims. He felt the unnatural vibration of the cleric’s earthquake spell, though he easily held his stance upon the rocking ground. All around, he saw druids and undead stumbling and falling.

  Then he watched as Genna called down the crosspieces of the stone arches, seeing the blocks tumble into the open spaces beneath the arches. He leaped the block that had fallen before him, and once again stood within the circle, looking for more of the enemy to slay.

  Then he heard Robyn’s voice, cryi
ng in pain. He saw the young druid as she was swept up by some invisible force and carried swiftly away. With a snort of rage, the unicorn leaped the granite block and landed at full gallop, pursuing his friend’s captor. He barely noticed Newt and Yazilliclick, except to see that the dragon had been stunned and the little faerie now tended him.

  He raced like a bolt of lightning through the grove, but the thing that carried Robyn moved even faster. Though Kamerynn had lost sight of his quarry he thundered ahead, racing through the stream at the edge of the grove. His huge body threw curtains of spray into the air as he burst from the stream to stand, tensely, upon the south bank. His broad nostrils quivered as he sought the spoor of his quarry.

  And a faint passing breeze brought to him that knowledge—Robyn’s sweet scent came from the woods before him, a little to the left. With another snort, the unicorn was off again.

  Robyn felt the arms of her invisible captor relax slightly, and she twisted desperately, only to feel the vice-like limbs clamp more tightly about her. Then the thing suddenly stopped, as if it had reached the destination it sought. She felt the broad body close around her, like a solid wall, holding her motionless in the middle of a small clearing.

  Her heart slowed, though it still pounded in her breast, and she wondered about this thing that had captured her. She had heard of such invisible servants before: They would work for evil or good, as commanded by a cleric or sorcerer of might. She knew that this one worked for evil.

  Then she heard the thunderous pounding of hooves and turned hopefully to see a white form racing from he woods. In the slowly growing light she could see the unicorn galloping toward her.

  “Kamerynn!” she cried.

  The unicorn whirled toward Robyn, his head low. His white mane swirled like a cape across his neck, while rock-hard hooves pawed the earth. With a snort, the great creature sprang toward the invisible thing that still held the young druid immobile.

  Kamerynn’s body became a blur. Like a white arrow, his horn struck the body very close to Robyn’s—the body she could not see. The unicorn had no such difficulty, as his horn drove unerringly into the invisible presence. Robyn felt the thing twist backward from the jolt of the impact—and suddenly she was free. Tumbling to the ground, she looked up in time to see the unicorn rear high into the air, flexing his broad shoulders to drive the horn, once again, deeply into his opponent. It was a strange attack, Robyn thought absently. Normally he would have used his hooves in such a close combat. Perhaps he sensed that only his horn would affect this obviously magical foe.

  Again and again the unicorn drove that ivory shaft into the thing. The dying creature made no sound, but Robyn sensed its agony, somehow, and felt welcome relief.

  Finally the unicorn ceased his pounding, settling to his four hooves to stand, breathing hard. He lowered his head and probed at the shapeless thing on the ground, meeting no resistance. Whatever it was had vanished into the air.

  Robyn stood weakly and stumbled to the unicorn’s side, drawing strength from the feel of his broad flank. She seized his neck and hugged him, mutely thanking him for her life. Kamerynn’s white head turned and he gently nuzzled her shoulder as she sank, exhausted, to the ground.

  “N-Newt? Are you all right?” Yazilliclick peered into the dragon’s dilated pupils, gently nudging his scaly head.

  “Yazikilill—Yazillikillikk—Yazilliclick?” blinked the dragon. “What happened? Where’s Robyn?”

  “You got thumped—got thumped!” said the sprite. “R-Robyn’s gone.” The faerie whimpered slightly as he thought of their friend being carried off by the invisible thing.

  “Well, let’s get her! I’ll show that stupid thing how a dragon fights! I’ve got a spell that will put—”

  The faerie dragon stopped, stunned by a sudden wash of pale light that spilled from the Moonwell into the darkness around them. The pair sat on the ground, just outside the ring of arches. As the light exploded, they both sprang to the slab of stone beside them, the stone that had, until recently, marked the top of one of the druidic arches.

  They stared in awe. Even Newt was silent as the foaming waters of the Moonwell spurted from the pool to blanket the druids, boiling and hissing and then withdrawing to leave the druids as stone statues. The undead staggered away from the explosion, recoiling as drops of water struck their decayed skin or barren bones.

  “What happened to Genna—to Genna?”

  “I don’t know,” said Newt, mystified—and very curious. “Let’s go see!”

  The sprite looked sadly at the druids and shook his head. Suddenly, he had an idea—a way to get Newt away from this dangerous place, too.

  “L-let’s get Robyn. Let’s find her!” Yazilliclick urged.

  Newt was puzzled by the metamorphosis, but he couldn’t think of anything he could do about it. “Okay. Which way did she go?” Yazilliclick pointed, and the two creatures of faerie darted into the dawn, seeking their friend.

  Robyn awakened with a start. Frantically she looked around, taking in her surroundings. The great unicorn stood watchfully over her, and the sun was high in the sky. She saw that they were in a small, flowery meadow, near a clear pool of water that reflected the blue-green images of towering pine trees.

  The young druid stood and stretched. Suddenly she remembered the battle—and the thing that had borne her away, “Kamerynn, we’ve got to get back to the grove!” She grasped a handful of the unicorn’s mane and was about to swing onto his back when she heard an excited voice calling from the forest.

  “Robyn! Here you are! We’ve been looking all over for you!” Newt, followed by Yazilliclick, buzzed toward her. The faerie dragon hovered to a landing on his favorite perch, Kamerynn’s horn. “You should have seen it! The Moonwell got all white and foamy, and water sprayed all over Genna and the druids. And when it stopped, they were all statues!”

  Robyn gasped. “You mean Genna—all of them—turned to stone?”

  Yazilliclick settled to the ground. “St-stone, yes. All white and smooth. They didn’t move—didn’t move!”

  With a groan, Robyn sat heavily on the ground again. The battle was lost! And her impetuousness had carried her away at the most crucial time!

  “D-don’t cry,” said the faerie, his antennae bobbing slowly as he frowned at Robyn. “You couldn’t have done anything—anything to stop it! You’re the one who got away. Now you can go back and fix it—fix it!”

  Robyn felt as though she was about to cry. Never had she felt so lost, so alone. The undead were in possession of the Moonwell, and Genna and the other clerics were trapped within stone. She had no idea what she would do next.

  A soft whispering of wind pulled her attention across the meadow, though she felt no breeze upon her. The water of the small pool was rippling as if caressed by a gentle breath of air. It swirled slowly, hypnotically, almost as if a whirlpool had opened beneath it.

  Robyn’s weariness and despair were forgotten as she saw a shape rising in the water. No ripple was disturbed as a silver helmet broke the surface. Robyn’s breath caught in her throat as the image of a beautiful woman rose slowly from the center of the pool. Her hair was silky blond, flowing past her shoulders, and she wore a silver breastplate that showed dents from many blows. But her skin was clear, like ivory—untouched by age, or trouble, or hurt.

  The woman finally seemed to stand on top of the water, though she was not wet. Her commanding gaze forced Robyn’s eyes upward to meet her own. Robyn found herself wondering if this was some kind of trick, but she immediately discarded the notion. The sight of the woman brought a feeling of deep reverence to her heart. She did not feel that such an emotion could be caused by deceit.

  “Who are you?” Robyn asked, climbing to her feet and stepping toward the pool. Kamerynn turned to watch the woman impassively. Newt still perched on his horn. Yazilliclick had blinked into invisibility at the first sign of her.

  “I am one who cares for you, and your prince, and your land,” said the woman, in a longing
tone that brought an ache to the druid’s heart. “I am the spirit of one long dead, who hopes that her life will gain meaning through your acts.”

  “But”

  “Druid of the Vale,” said the woman. Her voice was serene yet commanding. “Your prince is in danger. He awaits his death upon Alaron, but you can help him.”

  “Tristan? Awaits his death? What do you mean?” Robyn gasped, fear choking her throat.

  “You must go to him. He needs you.”

  “Where? Where can I find him?”

  “Seek him in Dernall Forest, in the living heart of that wood. Now fly, if you would reach him in time!” With these words, the woman slowly sank into the pond, disappearing from sight in a few moments.

  “But how can I find him?” she cried.

  Her only answer was the slow swirling of the water, and then the whirling died away and the pool was still and mirrorlike once again.

  The vastness of Dernall Forest was a maze of trails and tracks, any of which could have been taken by their quarry. Yet Kryphon trusted to Razfallow’s tracking skills for the most part, and his own intuition for the rest. He was fairly certain that the prince and his party would travel north, and he let this guide their path.

  But even the prince should keep a step ahead of him. Kryphon understood the inherent value of his presence in Doncastle. The town had been a vexing problem for Cyndre and the High King. Their attacks, in the past, had been thwarted by the steady defenders, as well as magical aid from an unknown source.

  The wizard and his companions traveled cautiously. Razfallow and Doric moved in the lead, seeking signs of the six horses and the large moorhound. Kryphon followed, several hundred yards behind, concealed by a spell of invisibility. Any ambush directed against his companions would almost certainly overlook him, leaving him in position to rescue, or avenge, as the case might be. In any event, Kryphon had insured that he, himself, would remain safe.

  They pressed northward through the dark woods for two days, and gradually the sign of their quarry grew more and more faint. For most of the second day they moved by guesswork with no clue to indicate they were on the right track. Kryphon began to worry; he feared Cyndre’s wrath should the prince escape them.