Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  The girl stumbled, a look of surprise growing on her face, and then she fell into the pool. The water swirled around her in a crimson pattern as a flock of brightly colored birds broke, shrieking, from the underbrush. Razfallow cleaned his blade and returned to the mage.

  They walked silently from the tropical garden. The opening in the hedge rustled and closed behind them.

  And the garden slowly grew cool.

  The great form lay sprawled among the wildflowers, one wing folded unnaturally over her back. As Newt dove to Robyn’s side, the bird flopped and twisted, growing in size. By the time the wood sprite settled beside her, Robyn lay as a young woman. She clutched the runestick in one hand. Yazilliclick reached tentatively forward to take the stick. He placed it in his quiver of arrows, taking care that it would not fall out.

  But she was not moving. Yazilliclick moaned slightly as he saw blood running from her nose, but he realized from the slow rising and falling of her chest that she still lived.

  The crows, satisfied that the threat was over, circled back to the trees around the clearing, ignoring the human, the wood sprite, and the little dragon.

  “Robyn? W-wake up, please!” cried Yazilliclick, thoroughly miserable. He was in a strange land, farther than he had ever been from his home. Who would help him?

  Distraught, the sprite jumped into the branches of the dead oak that had been Robyn’s intended landing place. His antennae drooped as he tried to think.

  Then he saw movement in the clearing—some men were coming! They were hunters, he thought, dressed in brown leather and carrying bows. He counted six of them.

  “Newt! Up here! Up here!” He called to the faerie dragon, who was sniffing about the meadow, buzzing several feet off the ground. Newt quickly flew to his side, curious.

  “L-look!” whispered the wood sprite.

  “It fell over here,” cried one, pointing toward the place where Robyn lay. “It was a big one. Maybe it’s not dead.”

  “Don’t count on it,” said another, trudging wearily behind.

  Newt and Yazilliclick remained invisible on the branch while they waited to see what these humans would do.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the leader as he pushed through the grass to Robyn’s side. “A woman!”

  “She alive?” asked the second, staring in amazement as he reached his companion’s side.

  “Yeah,” said the first. “But I don’t know for how long.”

  “Best get her to Doncastle. Maybe the cleric can fix her up. And Lord Roarke will probably want to know about this, too. A woman falling from the sky!”

  “Coulda sworn it was an eagle,” said the first as he hoisted Robyn over his shoulders and started back toward the woods. Buzzing silently above them, the faerie creatures followed the men and the druid.

  “Good luck to you,” said the prince, clasping Finellen’s gauntleted hand. They stood at the junction of several underground passages. From here, the dwarf would coordinate her attack on the duergar, and the humans would start on the underground trek to Doncastle. They were able to take the subterranean route because Finellen had given them a detailed map and had told them of a cave near the center of Dernall Forest.

  The dwarf shrugged. “Won’t need too much—there can’t be more’n a couple hundred of them. Isn’t a duergar born who can stand toe to toe with a true dwarf!” Her voice grew serious. “But your task sounds a little more difficult than duergar-bashing.”

  “What—you mean deposing a king?” Tristan tried to make light of his goal, but his mind had grown more clear after several long talks with Alexei. There was no other solution to his woes and the woes of his land. The king and his council of black sorcery had to be removed.

  “We should have this problem tidied up in a few days,” said the dwarf awkwardly. “Maybe we’ll stop in and see how things are going.”

  “Your help is always welcome,” replied Tristan. “We are going to Doncastle now, though I cannot promise for how long. But I will hope to see you again soon, my friend!”

  “Now I’ve got a battle to win,” said the dwarf bluntly. “So be on with ye!” The dwarf turned away and resolutely marched toward her troops, who were arrayed in battle formation farther down the cavern.

  Daryth, Tristan, and Alexei started up the cavern on foot. The wizard already seemed healthier. Two days of freedom, even spent entirely underground, had done wonders for him. Alexei’s vitality had increased immeasurably as they had made plans to strike back at the king.

  Tristan was certain that the mage, that all of them, would need every bit of their strength in the coming days.

  Ysalla, high priestess of the sahuagin, did not remain in her city as the king mustered his forces. She was a cleric of Bhaal—in her own way, as devout and remorseless as Hobarth—and she was determined to carry out the commands of her god.

  Bhaal had commanded her to do something, and so she did it without question. Unlike Hobarth, she had no potent artifact of evil to aid her efforts. But also unlike Hobarth, she had many willing disciples to help her. The lesser priestesses of the sahuagin numbered in the hundreds, and these would do her bidding as she did the bidding of Bhaal.

  And so the priestesses swam from Kressilacc, yellow shapes swimming smoothly away from the city, against the crush of green bodies so steadily arriving. The Deepsong drove the priestesses to their tasks as surely as it summoned the sahuagin warriors to theirs.

  The yellow sahuagin, brilliantly ornamented with gold and silver trappings, kicked their way along the sea bottoms of the Sea of Moonshae, the straits of the isles, and even the Trackless Sea. There they sought the wrecks of ships. Far out to sea, they discovered lonely hulks; around especially treacherous points and headlands, they found vast nautical graveyards.

  Ysalla herself, accompanied by a dozen of her most faithful disciples, went to a place near Kressilacc, a place the sahuagin visited often. Here, a Northmen longship and a Calishite galleon had sunk, still entwined from their surface combat. The treasures of the wrecks had long been plundered—at least, the metal treasures.

  But now Ysalla sought a different kind of treasure. She went to the body of a Northman, frozen in death on the sea bottom. The man’s yellow beard and wild hair floated around his bloated, horrified face. His eyes, delicacies, had long ago been eaten by sahuagin young

  The High Priestess cast a spell, her voice clicking and shrieking in the deep water, and the body shifted and rose. The eyelids opened over the horrid, gaping sockets, and the booted feet clumsily sought purchase on the sandy seabed. And he stood before the priestess and waited.

  One by one, Ysalla and her priestesses called the drowned men back to a semblance of life, or at least animation. The Northmen and Calishites gathered together and followed the priestesses at a slow, drifting march toward Kressilacc.

  All across the Sea of Moonshae and around the islands as well, the priestesses of the sahuagin summoned the sailors who rested there, and another army of death—the dead of the sea—came into being.

  t was late afternoon when Devin burst through the front door, red-faced and gasping for breath. As he flopped into a chair, Fiona and Pawldo jumped up in shock. Canthus leaped to his feet with a growl and stared, hackles raised, at the front door.

  All was quiet outside, however. Pawldo stroked the dog’s raised bristles, and slowly Canthus relaxed. He sat, but did not lie down again, and his eyes and nose remained focused on the door.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Devin, finally regaining his wind. “But I have urgent news.”

  “What is it?” asked Pawldo. His nerves were raw. Tristan and Daryth had entered Caer Callidyrr several days ago, and there had been no word from them since.

  “The High King has called for a general muster of the Scarlet Guard. The entire army has been recalled from its posts throughout the kingdom—they gather now in Callidyrr.”

  “Why? Is there any more information?” The news seemed to confirm Pawldo’s worst fears.<
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  “Rumors—perhaps hopeful. It is said that the king fears a usurper, and that this usurper was, until recently, a prisoner in the High King’s dungeon. Now he has escaped.”

  “Tristan and Daryth?” Pawldo asked.

  “I hope so,” replied Devin. “Could be them, or maybe nobody at all. That is the way of rumors.

  “And of course, there are reports of a rebellious army gathering in Dernall Forest,” Devin continued. “The king believes the whole country is ready to burst into civil war.”

  “Well, isn’t it?” demanded Fiona.

  Suddenly, Canthus leaped to his feet and growled deeply. Pawldo sprang to the front window, peering cautiously around the curtain. His knees nearly collapsed at the sight.

  “Ogres!” he whispered, pale. “Coming to your door!”

  Devin’s face blanched and he sagged into the chair in despair. In the next instant, however, he leaped to his feet.

  “This way,” he whispered, grabbing Fiona’s arm and jerking open the trap door. He half pushed his daughter down the steep steps, but she landed lightly on her feet at the bottom. He turned and knelt, his face inches from Pawldo.

  “Get her out of the city. Go to Doncastle—get word to O’Roarke about the army. Hurry!”

  “Come with us!” urged the halfling, taking Devin’s hand in both of his. “We can make it!”

  “No,” said the man impatiently. “They know I’m here—they must have followed me. They won’t stop searching until they find me. I will buy you some time. Now go!”

  Pawldo turned angrily, knowing Devin was right. He pushed Canthus toward the trap door, and the big hound sprang through the hole. The halfling dove into the opening and heard the door close above him even as the front door splintered under the impact of ogre clubs.

  Fiona stared in shock. “Where’s my father?”

  “He … stayed behind. He said it was our only chance to escape. Let’s go!”

  “No! I can’t leave him!” She hastened toward the stairs.

  Pawldo took her arm firmly, and Fiona stopped in her tracks. From above they heard snarls, and Devin’s voice raised in anger, Then there was a sharp cry of pain, followed by low ogre chortles.

  Fiona turned to the halfling with deep, wracking sobs. Pawldo held her in an awkward embrace, inwardly cursing the brutality of the king’s mercenaries. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he simply stood and let her cry. Finally she dried her eyes and raised her head. Her chin was set and determined, but her eyes were shot with pain.

  “This way,” she said softly.

  She led him to the back of the underground hiding place, to a wooden wall made of rough-hewn knotty pine. Reaching her hand into one of the knotholes, she twisted something and the door slid away to reveal a narrow passage.

  “Our secret escape route,” she explained. A torch, flint, and steel lay just inside the door. As the portal closed softly behind them, she struck a spark, and soon, the torch was blazing brightly.

  The lass led the way, and Canthus brought up the rear. For several minutes they walked silently through a low tunnel. Then Fiona abruptly slowed her pace. Handing the torch back to Pawldo, she advanced forward at a crawl, heedless of the mud that splattered her frock.

  Pawldo heard her grunting from exertion, and then he felt a waft of cold, moist air against his face. She had opened a door into some connecting passage.

  “It’s the city’s storm sewer,” she explained as he extended the torch. She had lifted a hatch in the floor of their tunnel that led into a larger pipe below.

  The pipe was round, perhaps ten feet in diameter. Water lay in pools along the bottom, a foot or more deep in places. He felt cool, humid air flowing past the opening.

  Fiona swung through the hatch first, hanging by her hands before dropping to land easily at the bottom of the pipe. There was a slurping sound as she landed in muck. Pawldo and Canthus followed.

  Fiona reclaimed the torch, and led the way at a brisk march. Finally, they saw an end to the tunnel, where early twilight glimmered over the bay. Fiona extinguished the torch, and they carefully advanced to the end of the pipe.

  Green waves rolled against the shore, about twenty feet below them. The pipe ended in the face of a high seawall. Looking up, the halfling couldn’t tell how high it stretched. Smooth, water-worn stone had been built into this barrier, which was now covered with seaweed and moss. Only by jumping far out into the air could they hope to avoid the jagged rocks at the foot of the wall.

  “Can you swim?” asked Pawldo.

  “I know how. The question is, will we freeze to death before we reach the shore?” answered the girl.

  “Only one way to find out,” shrugged the halfling. He sprang from the pipe and dropped into the gently rolling sea. The water struck him like a cold shock, and as he rose to the surface he heard Fiona and Canthus join him.

  Fiona started to swim along the shore with strong strokes, Pawldo couldn’t see much in the twilight, but he sensed that they were moving away from the harbor. His body was already growing numb.

  “They brought her in this evening,” Evan explained over the mug of ale Kryphon had just bought him. “Cassidy saw something fall and swears it was an eagle. Attacked by crows, you know how they do?

  “But then he goes over to get the feathers, and there’s no eagle! Instead, some woman’s lying there, banged up and bleeding.” Evan was certain his remarks would provoke interest.

  The mage leaned back in his chair and regarded Evan with an expression of vague amusement. “Fairy tales,” smiled the mage, concealing his curiosity, “Surely the man had been drinking?”

  “No fairy tale! And it’s been done before; druids do it all the time, turn into birds and such.”

  “You don’t say? Then this … woman is a druid?” Kryphon’s mind whirled with curiosity. A druid in Alaron?

  The bandit shrugged. “Who knows? But Cassidy’s got the best eyes I know—the best ears, too.” Evan lowered his voice. “He told me that someone killed Annuwynn!”

  “The magic-user? The wizard of Doncastle?”

  “The same.” Evan’s voice grew serious. “His loss is a blow, no doubt about it. Someone murdered him in his garden, in the full light of day!”

  “But surely you have other stalwart defenders. You mentioned a cleric, or … what was his name?”

  “Vaughn Burne. To be sure, he’s a man worth a company or two!”

  “Where might this cleric be? I mean, I hope he’s safe.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry. He’s busy tending to that flying wench I was telling you about. Right down the street from here.” Evan sighed appreciatively as he finished his mug, and Kryphon signaled for another.

  “I heard they took her to the Black Oak Inn,” Evan said. “Got nice, comfortable rooms there.”

  Kryphon laid a heavy gold coin on the table—enough to quench Evan’s thirst for the entire evening and send him home with change. He patted the bandit’s arm. “I have to go for a while. I want you to stay here and enjoy yourself!”

  Evan grinned foolishly and hefted the coin. He didn’t even notice Kryphon rising from the table.

  The mage left the drinking room and climbed the stairs to his room. There he found Doric sprawled languidly on the large bed, wearing only her belt.

  “I must seek the cleric,” announced the mage, ignoring the look of desire she gave him. In truth, during the days they had been together he had grown altogether tired of the way Doric pursued him—never leaving him a moment’s peace. At first, it had been a delightful aspect of their mission. Now, he wished he could send her back to Caer Callidyrr.

  “Take me along,” she pouted, seeing his lack of interest.

  “No—this I will do alone. Once I locate him, I will of course let you help in his removal.”

  “Stay here for awhile first,” she pleaded, moving over on the bed. The sight of her gaunt body and hollow cheeks revolted him, and he couldn’t hide the disgust in his eyes.

  “T
hen go!” she screamed. She picked up one of her boots and threw it at him, but it struck the door he had already slammed as he left.

  The Black Oak Inn was easy to find. It was an enormous place, with a doorman at the entrance and a thick red carpet lining the floor of the huge main room. The wooden walls and ceiling beams had been sanded smooth, and the tables and chairs were of ornate detail, obviously imported from Waterdeep or Amn.

  A servant escorted Kryphon to a table near a low fire, and a serving wench, dressed in a low-cut gown of red and black, inquired as to his desires. Her plump, rounded body—such a contrast to Doric’s—intrigued him, and he watched her walk back to the bar. Then he took in the interior of the place.

  There were about a dozen customers, mostly in pairs, sitting around the quiet, elegant room. He saw a partially screened-off stairway in the back of the room. The front door and a door to the kitchen were the only other exits.

  The barmaid returned with his wine. “I would like to look at one of your rooms,” he said. “I’m thinking of staying here.”

  She shrugged—what did she care where he stayed? And she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. “They’re upstairs,” she said quickly, turning to another customer.

  Kryphon finished his wine in several gulps and walked to the staircase behind the screen. The stairway was a fitting addition to the luxurious main room—the same red carpet covered the floor, and an ornate banister of carved oak ran beside the stairs.

  Mounting the stairs quietly, he reached a short hallway on the second floor of the inn. There he found three doors on both sides of the corridor. He pushed the first open, finding an empty room. At the second, he heard two male voices engaged in quiet conversation. He passed that door to the third, where he heard nothing. Testing the latch cautiously, he discovered that it was locked.

  “Eriath, gorax,” he said softly, waving his hand before the portal and knocking once.

  The door swung open easily. Startled, a young woman sat up suddenly in a deep featherbed. Her long black hair lay in disarray about her head, and her face was covered with scrapes and bruises. Yet her beauty was undeniable.