Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  The man looked at him boldly now, and Daryth saw, behind the haggard look, a face of courage and dignity. He remembered tales of the good lords and loyal citizens that the High King had imprisoned.

  Not understanding fully why he wasted his time thus, the Calishite stepped forward and began to pick the locks on the prisoner’s manacles.

  Hobarth spent the day alternating between bursts of delight and fits of frustration. The druids had been defeated! His army of death had won a grand victory! Bhaal’s army of death, he reminded himself with a reverent nod of his head—Bhaal’s army, but under his own command.

  But they had been cheated of the pleasure of the kill. Sealed within their stony prisons, he was certain that the druids were watching, mocking him.

  He examined each smooth and lifelike statue, satisfying himself that they all were solid stone. He hefted a heavy iron axe, taking the weapon from a standing zombie, and smashed it against one of the statues, trying to snap off a druid’s upraised arm—but instead of the stone, the blade of his axe shattered. A stinging numbness throbbed in his hands as he dropped the useless weapon.

  Yet the blow had given him a sense of satisfaction. He enjoyed striking the druid, even if she could not feel his blow.

  A rumble of hunger disturbed his huge belly, and Hobarth, with almost childish glee, decided to hold a victory banquet. His table would be the stone slab that had fallen from one of the arches. His food would be the meat and wine of Bhaal himself. Dropping the axe handle, Hobarth turned to the stone and chanted a simple spell. Immediately, the surface of the slab was covered with succulent cuts of red meat, ripe fruits, and heavy bread. He threw his empty wineflask onto the slab, and uttered another incantation. Then he picked up the new flask and drank long and deep of the tart, strong liquid. A warm glow spread through his body as he tackled the feast—enough to feed four men—and finished it. Several times he created more wine, and his head buzzed pleasantly by the time he had consumed all the food

  Hobarth next looked around the scene of the battle. Bodies of his undead lay everywhere, shattered and broken so badly that they had died a second time. Those bodies were useless to him. Many hundreds had survived the fight, however, and these now stood or sat like statues of flesh and bone around the Moonwell and the broken arches, waiting for their master’s next command.

  Several of the druids had died during the fight, and he looked for these bodies with interest. He found one—a woman—who had been torn by the zombies. Her face and limbs were gashed to the bone, and her eyes were gaping, bloody sockets. The zombies had shown a penchant for gouging the eyes from their victims.

  He lifted the Heart of Kazgoroth from its pouch and held it in his hand, staring at the body of the druid. Concentrating, he willed the might of Bhaal to enter the body. First, a leg twitched. Then the jaw stretched, flopping aimlessly. The cleric concentrated some more.

  The body of Isolde of Winterglen sat up slowly and climbed unsteadily to its feet.

  ristan looked from the king to the wizard to the turnkey. The High King could not meet his gaze, dropping his eyes to stare awkwardly at the floor. The grotesque turnkey leered eagerly, flecks of spittle dropping from his lips. The wizard threw back his hood and smiled coolly.

  “The task is too important to leave to the headsman,” said Cyndre. “Or even to magic. I will handle this myself.”

  He drew a black-hilted dagger from beneath his robe and took a step toward Tristan. The prince jerked frantically against his chains, but they were not about to give. The king turned away, while the turnkey raised his torch to shed more light on Cyndre’s intended victim.

  Then the torch clattered to the floor and the turnkey’s head—still leering—flew through the air while his body lurched and fell to the ground. Tristan saw a flash of silvery steel as Cyndre hissed in anger and turned in a catlike crouch. The light faded but did not disappear as the torch sputtered and sizzled on the wet flagstones.

  A figure slashed into the room, and the prince saw the bright flash of a weapon again. The wizard screamed and fell backward as his dagger was knocked to the floor. Tristan saw that the mage clutched his right hand as blood spurted from his clenched fist.

  The king shrieked in terror and darted from the door as Cyndre struggled to avoid the attacker. Tristan heard the monarch’s cries for help fade into the distance as he raced up the dungeon corridor.

  The wizard, meanwhile, moved with surprising agility as he scrambled away. The prince recognized Daryth, now, as the Calishite brandished his scimitar with liquid smoothness, trying to force Cyndre into a corner. The Calishite kicked and slashed with merciless persistence, constantly forcing Cyndre to duck and twist away.

  Cyndre sprang to his feet and charged Daryth suddenly, crying out as Daryth’s scimitar bit into his raised forearm. But the rush had thrown the Calishite off balance, and before Daryth could strike a lethal blow, the mage sprang through the door out of the cell. There he nearly knocked down another person—one whom Tristan had not noticed earlier.

  Still hissing in rage, the wizard raced up the corridor following the path of the king.

  “Quickly,” the stranger urged Daryth. “We must free him and be gone—the guard will be upon us in minutes.”

  Daryth snatched the keys from the body of the headless turnkey and found the one that released Tristan’s manacles.

  “Why didn’t he use his magic?” asked the prince.

  “The wound,” said the stranger, turning to look at him. Even in the dim light, Tristan thought that the man looked more dead than alive. The skin of his face had shrunk tightly, giving him the visage of a skull. His hands were twisted claws. Seeing his gaze, the man held up those hands and continued.

  “A magic-user needs his hands to cast spells. The scimitar did enough damage to prevent Cyndre from casting—a fact to which we owe our lives. But as soon as he visits a cleric, the damage will be repaired, and he will be after us with a vengeance.”

  Tristan looked intently at the man as Daryth opened the last lock. “Your hands … Are you, too, a sorcerer?”

  “I was, until my ‘master’ ”—he spat the word—“decided that I threatened his base of power.”

  “You are one of the Council of Seven?” asked the prince, remembering the information O’Roarke had given him.

  “Was one of the council,” said the mage. “My name is Alexei, and I will do what I can to stop them now. They will come to regret leaving me alive.”

  “Let’s go,” Daryth hissed urgently. “We can talk later!”

  Tristan flexed his muscles and found that he could still move, albeit with some pain. “Where do we go?” he asked.

  “Follow me!” said Alexei, hobbling from the cell. “The upper reaches of the castle are sure to be sealed off, but the wizards have secret ways through here. We might be able to slip into one of them before the guards discover us.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Daryth. “Where to?” The Calishite picked up the fading torch, which flared back into light as it was raised from the floor. He waited for Tristan to follow the wizard, and he brought up the rear.

  Alexei led them away from the direction in which the king and the wizard had fled. The mage moved stiffly, and suddenly he stumbled and fell headlong.

  “Come on,” encouraged the prince, lifting him under the arms. The man was no heavier than a straw dummy.

  Once they heard a sound behind them. Pausing momentarily, they heard the pounding of heavy boots and the clanking of weaponry somewhere in the distance. Pursuit had begun! Urging the mage to move faster, Tristan and Daryth pressed urgently along the slippery passage.

  “Slow down!” cautioned Alexei. The wizard examined the water-streaked walls of the corridor as they moved carefully along. He seemed to be searching for something and at last he held up a clawlike hand.

  “Here!” he said, pointing at a blackened stretch of stone that looked no different from any other part of the tunnel walls. He reached forward and tried to twist a small
outcropping of rock, cursing as his broken hands could not grasp the small and slippery surface.

  “Help,” he mumbled in frustration.

  Daryth stepped forward and twisted the knob of rock. Nothing happened. He tried again, maneuvering it this way and that, and suddenly they heard some kind of mechanism click within the walls.

  With a slow creaking, the stone wall swung away, revealing a passage barely as high as a man, and no more than three or four feet wide. They could hear the heavy tramp of pursuing guards as they stepped through the opening and saw the secret door close behind them.

  “We’ll be in Doncastle soon. You’ll be amazed, I promise you! Lord Roarke is quite ingenious—the defenses are his idea.” The bandit, who had called himself Evan, chattered away under the influence of the charm spell.

  “And all who live there are outlaws?” asked Kryphon. He was annoyed with the man’s loquaciousness, but the information he provided was certainly valuable.

  “All of us,” boasted Evan, as if the term “bandit” was a badge of honor. “The king and his wizards have tried, time and again, to conquer us—but we have always driven them off!”

  “How do you face the magic of the king’s army?”

  “We have a magic-user and a cleric of our own. We used to have the support of the druids, until the king and his wizards drove them away—or killed them!”

  Kryphon smiled privately, relishing that personal triumph. The battles with the druids had been savage, but wizardry had prevailed. “I would like to meet some of these … spellcasters. Perhaps you could introduce me when we reach the city?”

  Before Evan could answer, Kryphon felt a familiar pull upon his arm, accompanied by the languorous press of Doric’s body. They had been walking for several hours, and he knew that she was getting tired.

  “Can’t we stop for a while?” she whispered, plaintively. “You and I can take a little rest. We’ll still get to this city before dark!”

  “No!” he hissed, pulling his arm away. He realized that he was growing very tired of Doric. Her constant need for attention was becoming a burden. Sulking, she let go of his arm and walked ahead of him.

  Kryphon was surprised and a little amused at how quickly his affection had cooled for the woman. He looked at her now, and he saw a gaunt scarecrow where before he had seen a desirably slender woman. In the past, he had vanquished her poutiness with physical release or by allowing her to exercise her incessant need for cruelty. Now he found her moods tiresome and annoying.

  Perhaps, he mused, he could find a young woman more to his liking in Doncastle.

  Alexei could scarcely believe his luck. Rescue! He chuckled inwardly at the irony of its source: the ones his former master had worked so diligently to destroy. His weariness and pain were forgotten as he shuffled along with Tristan and Daryth. His body grew numb to the efforts of their march.

  But his mind whirled with possibilities.

  The hatred that had sustained him in the darkness of his cell now blossomed into raging heat, fed by the fuel of opportunity. He would make Cyndre, the council, Hobarth—even the High King—pay!

  And, for the time being, what better way than to aid the one whom Cyndre had branded their most dangerous foe? After a while, of course, Alexei would be capable of dealing his vengeance alone—but for now he needed allies, and fate had provided him with a ready pair.

  First, Alexei decided, he would need tools to help him regain some of his lost powers. That was why he had directed the men to this secret passage and now urged them to hasten downward.

  He knew where to find those tools.

  The unicorn looked sad, thought Robyn, as she, Yazilliclick, and Newt made their farewells. “I wish you could come too, old friend, but without wings.…”

  Kamerynn lowered his head as she stepped away. She held the runestick in her hand. It was now her only possession, since she had dropped her staff beside the arch. Yazilliclick had told her that the Moonwell was still surrounded by undead, so she dared not risk an attempt to regain it.

  “Wait here for us, Kamerynn! We’ll be back soon, won’t we, Robyn? I’ll find you something nice from Alaron. And Tristan will be with us. We’ll have to have a party then!” Newt exclaimed, with a reproachful look at Robyn.

  “Farewell again,” said the druid, clasping the unicorn’s neck. “Will you watch over Genna and the others until I return?” Stifling her tears, she turned to the two faeries.

  The faerie dragon and wood sprite rose quickly into the air as Robyn held the runestick to her side and closed her eyes in concentration. Once again she felt her body shrink and tumble forward, and she instinctively spread her wings to break her fall.

  But she noticed more subtle changes this time. She felt her heartbeat accelerate. She opened her eyes, and the keen vision of the eagle was more brilliant even than before.

  And she took to the sky with the dragon and the sprite. The other two were dwarfed by her massive wingspan, but they darted easily around her in flight. They headed east, toward Alaron.

  Daryth led the way through the narrow tunnel. It descended sharply, often as steep as a stairway. Rubble along the floor made footing very treacherous. In places, rivulets of water trickled along the floor and walls, making the surface as slippery as ice.

  “This is a path of the sorcerers,” explained Alexei. “Unknown to the guards of the castle—although it has challenges all its own!”

  “Where do you come from?” asked the prince after several minutes. “You don’t look like one of the Ffolk.”

  Alexei shook his head. “None of the wizards are from your islands. Cyndre recruited his council from throughout the Realms and brought us here to achieve his ambition.”

  “What ambition is that? What does he want—and what power does he hold over the High King?” asked Tristan.

  “He desires to rule a large kingdom. The Realms of the Ffolk seemed to fit his needs, as best as I can guess—a weak ruler, divided peoples, but a large and rich land, ready for exploitation. The king fell prey to a simple charm spell long ago. Cyndre constantly tightens his hold on the pathetic worm, until it has reached the point where the king will not make a move without the wizard’s approval.”

  “And your role …?”

  Alexei’s eyes flashed anger. “I was his right hand, the first to be recruited from Thay, where Cyndre also passed his apprenticeship. I watched my master’s back, while he practiced his evil. He is in league with a powerful cleric—thinks he controls the cleric, though I have my doubts. But together they make a potent force.” Alexei did not add his knowledge of Hobarth’s mission—the capture of the druid who loved this prince. It did not suit his purposes to distract Tristan from aiding his escape.

  They made good time. The passage widened into a cave about thirty feet wide, still dropping steeply. After some time, Tristan guessed that they might have descended as much as a thousand feet underground. He wondered when they would begin going up.

  “Here,” said the mage, suddenly pointing to a narrower cave that branched to the left. “I recognize this place!”

  They allowed him to lead the way into the passage. He hurried forward for about a hundred yards and then stopped as the narrow passage opened into a huge chamber. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, and several pools of water, so clear as to be almost invisible, dotted the floor. The torchlight flickered and flared, creating moving shadows that gave the place a menacing look.

  But the strangest feature of the room was at its center: A table and a dozen stone chairs rested upon a flat space in the floor. The obviously manmade furnishings looked completely out of place in a locale of such natural splendor.

  Alexei noticed his companions’ looks of puzzlement. “This is a secret meeting place for the council,” he explained, “For when Cyndre wished to avoid gathering in the castle. It is used very rarely; I doubt the younger wizards even know of its existence.”

  “Amazing,” murmured the prince, looking in wonder at the beauty of the cave.
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  “And the reason you brought us here?” asked Daryth.

  “Oh, yes—here!” Alexei moved around the table, holding the torch high. “See that chest there?”

  The other two joined him. He indicated a large wooden chest near the far wall of the cave. It sat in the center of a smooth circle of floor that was about thirty feet in diameter.

  “If we can get into that chest, I will not be crippled any longer,” explained the mage.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” offered Daryth, stepping forward.

  “Wait!” Alexei grabbed Daryth’s collar with one of his clawlike hands, pulling the Calishite back before he stepped onto the smooth expanse of floor. “There are traps!”

  “I might have known,” grumbled Daryth. “Just how important is the stuff in that chest?”

  “It could mean the difference between our escape and our deaths,” said the mage gravely.

  “What do you know about the traps?”

  “The floor is false, for one thing, a deep pit filled with soft dust. You would sink to the bottom and choke to death—a most horrible death.

  “And the chest itself has a trap—something in the lock.”

  “You’re sure we need these ‘treasures?’ ”

  Alexei shrugged, not wanting to press the point. Tristan didn’t say anything. They all knew that Daryth was the only one with the skill necessary to pick the lock and, perhaps, to avoid the trap there. It would have to be his decision.

  “Well, I’ll have a look at it, anyway,” muttered the Calishite. “How do I get over there?”

  “We could stretch the table across the pit,” offered the prince. Indeed, the boards were just about the right length to extend from the edge of the pit to the chest in the center.

  “Everyone’s got a way to get me killed,” grunted Daryth. Nevertheless, he turned to lift one end of the solid platform.