Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  “Who are you?” she whispered. Her right eye, deeply cut, was swollen shut.

  “Pardon me—I seem to have the wrong room.” Concern etched his brow as he looked at her face. “Are you all right?”

  He stepped into the doorway, and she shrank against her pillow in fright. “Yes—I am! Please go!”

  Kryphon toyed with the idea of killing her immediately, but laughed off the notion. Even if this was a druid, she was certainly no threat in her battered state. He decided that she would serve him in another, far more satisfying way.

  Then the door next to hers opened and two men stepped into the corridor. They looked pointedly at the wizard, still standing in the doorway of the woman’s room, before they went to the stairs.

  “Excuse me.” Kryphon bowed to Robyn and backed out of the room, closing the door. He cursed the men who had seen him, for he could not afford to be observed—especially if something untoward were to happen to the druid.

  Yet, Kryphon thought, I can be patient. He was certain that the druid would be here for awhile.

  She would keep until tomorrow.

  Black-cloaked figures whirled around her, striking with needle-sharp beaks and raking claws. Robyn felt her skin split as it was torn from her body.

  She felt herself dying.

  And then she awakened, soaking wet, from the nightmare. At first, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then, abruptly, her door swung open. She gasped at the tall, bearded man who stood peering in at her. She was not just startled, she was afraid. For she was certain that Vaughn Burne had locked the door earlier when he had left.

  The man said something; she answered, and all the while horror was building in her chest. She wanted to scream. He looked ordinary enough at first glance, but she saw something sinister in his eyes.

  Then he closed the door and was gone. She sprang from the bed and turned the latch, making sure the portal was secured. Then she darted back to the security of her covers.

  It took her many minutes of meditation to relax. She called upon the power of the Earthmother to soothe her, but that power was faint. Finally she was able to push the tension from her body, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She was unaware of the invisible sprite sitting upon her headboard. Yazilliclick had been delighted to see her awaken, but he did not want to disturb her. He watched over her alertly as she went back to sleep.

  “Did you find her?” Doric asked.

  Kryphon shrugged. “I found an old hag, barely alive, and not worth the trouble of killing. It’s the cleric we must find!”

  The slender woman nodded, disappointed. Then she had a sudden thought. She sat up and examined the sorcerer’s face surreptitiously.

  He had lied to her!

  She knew now with certainty that Kryphon was much more interested in the druid than he was admitting. Had he killed her already, cheating Doric of that pleasure? No, she decided, he looked preoccupied, like he wanted something. Like he wanted … the druid!

  The knowledge exploded within her in a wave of jealousy, and she almost drew her dagger and thrust it through Kryphon’s heart before she regained her self-control.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?” asked the sorcerer.

  “I feel … ill,” she replied, trying to mask her rage. She would plunge her dagger into a heart, but it would not be Kryphon’s.

  “Would you like to come and lie down?” he asked.

  “Can you seek the cleric without me?” she inquired coyly.

  “Certainly! My purpose tonight is to learn. I will come and get you before it is time to act.”

  “Very well. I will await you here.” Ignoring his look of annoyance, she squeezed his leg. It gave her a little thrill of pleasure to deceive him.

  “I shall seek his chapel. Sooner or later he will have to go back there,” Kryphon said. Then he was gone.

  Doric waited for several minutes, which was as long as she could bear. Then she rose and left the inn, entering the darkened street with anticipation of blood. She fingered her slender dagger and walked quickly toward the back of the Black Oak Inn.

  “Lord O’Roarke would like you to join him in the dining room,” said the guard to Tristan, Daryth, and Alexei. They had slipped into Doncastle only an hour before, sending word of their arrival, and the bandit lord had wasted no time in sending for them. Their journey through the cavern network had been rough and tiring, but uneventful. Finellen’s map had been flawless, so they had made the journey in two days.

  O’Roarke and Pontswain were seated together at a long table laden with meats and breads and cheeses. “Welcome,” said the red-bearded outlaw.

  Pontswain nodded coolly, his raised eyebrows revealing his surprise at their return. “The halfling?” he asked as they all sat.

  Tristan told of their entry into the city and fortress, and of their capture and escape—and of Pawldo, left behind out of necessity. He introduced Alexei, explaining how he had joined them.

  “A wizard from the council?” scowled the bandit. “How did you come to be in the dungeon?”

  Alexei met his gaze. “My former master and I had a parting of the ways,” he said tersely. “I have vowed to do everything I can to destroy him—perhaps I might be of some use to you.”

  “We would not have escaped without him.” said the prince. “He knew the secret tunnel that let us out of the castle, and his flying spell saved us in the cave when—” Tristan. paused in shock, though no one seemed to notice. His own words reverberated through his mind as he methodically raised food to his mouth.

  He shall fly above the earth, even as he delves its depths! The prophecy of Queen Allisynn came back to him, every word. Could the prophecy mean him? No, he reminded himself, for she said his name will be Cymrych. Still, the coincidence was a strange one, deeply disturbing. Forcing his mind back to the present, he heard O’Roarke sending a messenger to get the cleric, Vaughn Burne.

  “And so, what is the word from the High King?” asked Hugh. “Other than his presumed distress at your escape.”

  “He fears for his crown,” offered the prince. “In fact, he has been told that I have come here to claim it!”

  “Have you?” O’Roarke asked bluntly.

  “Of course not!” Tristan’s denial was a little forced.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Pontswain.

  “The Ffolk cannot survive with such men as their leaders. I will end the reign of this king—kill him, if necessary!”

  “I knew you were mad,” snorted Lord Pontswain.

  “What choice do we have—go back to Caer Corwell and wait for the next group of assassins? Or stay here, waiting for the king to get tired of our presence and send the guard and his wizards down upon us?”

  “We’ve fought them before—and we’ll drive them off again!” snarled the outlaw lord.

  “Don’t deceive yourself,” said the prince. “If a concerted attack came against this place, you would be doomed!”

  “Our chances are still better than yours. Revolt against the king? With what?” O’Roarke sputtered.

  “With your help,” said the prince, lowering his voice but holding his tone firm. “Pontswain, if you will return to Corwell and gather the lords, we can have an army here by early autumn. Lord Roarke, muster your men and challenge the king! I promise you, you will be joined by other lords.”

  “By what right do you order my men to war?” roared the lord, leaping to his feet. “I shall not do this thing!” The prince saw an odd emotion in the lord’s face. It was not anger, nor was it betrayal. It was fear.

  “Nor shall I,” said Pontswain, turning to face the prince directly. Tristan saw no fear in his eyes—just a cool sense of accomplishment as the lord thwarted the prince’s plan.

  They stopped talking, then, for they were joined by a small, gray-haired man in a plain robe. The top of his head was as clean-shaven as his face.

  “This is our cleric, Vaughn Burne,” explained O’Roarke to Alexei before turning to the
cleric himself. “I was hoping, Patriarch, that you could help this man. He has done my friends a great service, and as you can see he has suffered greatly at the hands of our enemies.”

  “I shall do my best,” said the cleric with a smile. “The power of Chauntea is mightiest for acts of healing.”

  “Oh, and how fares our other guest?” asked the lord.

  “She is resting. She will live. Her recuperative powers are tremendous.”

  “Did you learn anything more about her?” inquired Hugh.

  “As you suspected, she is a druid. Apparently she flew here all the way from Gwynneth in the shape of an eagle.”

  Tristan followed the conversation with growing interest.

  “I would like to meet this druid. Do you know her name?”

  “She didn’t tell me—she was very weak. But even so,” smiled the cleric, “she was very beautiful. And young, with long, raven-black hair.”

  Tristan leaped to his feet. “I must see her! Where is she?”

  Finellen cursed the underground confines that prevented her from deploying all three of her companies. The duergar had chosen their lair well. It had three points of access, but all of these were controlled by narrow chokepoints. As yet, none of Finellen’s dwarves had been able to get inside and scout the place.

  They had a rough idea of its size from the placement of the entrances, however. Finellen was certain that it didn’t contain more than three hundred duergar—and those were comfortable odds for her own three hundred fighters.

  The duergar lair was a complex of central caverns surrounded by narrow tunnels. In one tunnel, a deep gorge blocked the pathway, while in the other two, steep upward climbs were necessary to enter the duergar stronghold. Finellen had one of her companies posted at each entrance.

  A shiver ran down her spine as the trumpets blared the call to attack. Each of the companies roared to the attack, and she heard the clash of steel down all three caverns. She cursed the responsibility that kept her out of the fighting, waiting with several messengers at this intersection of caves, but she understood the necessity for it. It was difficult enough to control scattered formations in any battle, but in an underground conflict like this one, visual communication would be impossible. Hence, she had to wait here, listening for word of the progress or setbacks of each of her three companies so that she could send help quickly to wherever it might be needed.

  The sounds of battle grew faint—a good sign, as that meant the dwarves had crossed the initial barriers of defense in each tunnel. For an agonizing hour Finellen heard little, and she began to hope that the battle was won.

  But then the din of clashing steel grew more distinct. Louder and louder, the noise swelled from the tunnels. Now she heard the cries of wounded, and the horrible battle noise of the duergar all around her. There was no doubt what was happening.

  Her companies were being forced to retreat.

  Robyn could not go back to sleep. Images of the black, sharp-beaked birds tormented her every time she closed her eyes.

  “Robyn?”

  “Yazilliclick?” She looked around. “Where are you?”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake,” cried the faerie, popping into sight on the footboard of the large bed. “I was so worried about you, Robyn. Those men brought you here, and I couldn’t stop them, but I hoped they’d help you. I think they did—they did.”

  She held up her hand, but couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you for staying with me,” she said. “Where’s Newt?”

  “F-food! He went to get us something to eat—to eat!”

  “We’ll be lucky to get anything but the bones,” sighed the druid, reassured to have friends beside her in this strange place. Then she laughed as she saw the faerie dragon hovering outside the window, trying to hold his altitude and a large haunch of roast at the same time.

  She crossed to the window and opened it, lifting the mutton from the dragon as he dove through the opening and collapsed on the bed. “Boy, is that cook ever a sourpuss! You wouldn’t believe the things he threw at me while I was minding my own business, getting a little supper!” The dragon stifled a laugh. “I fixed him, though—you should have seen his face when I used my spell!”

  “What did you do?” asked Robyn, a little worried.

  “I made it look like maggots were crawling out of all his meat. He was sure upset! It was great fun! Now, can we go home? Or find Tristan, or something.? I’m bored!”

  “N-Newt! Let Robyn rest!” said Yazilliclick sternly.

  “I’m afraid I do need to rest before we go,” said the druid, sitting back on the bed. “But you—i—”

  Robyn gasped as a black shadow soared through the window into her room. A white face grimaced at her, and she had a horrible vision of an undead skeleton, flying here to haunt her.

  But the eyes of this apparition were alive, and its red lips were parted in cruel delight. This figure, robed all in black, was a woman. And now she was diving at Robyn’s face. Robyn caught a glimpse of thin, bony hands and wild black hair as the woman flew toward her.

  But most of all Robyn saw the woman’s steel dagger, extended like a claw for her heart. Desperately, she pulled a pillow from the bed and crouched beneath it as the woman fell upon her. Feathers flew as the dagger sliced the cushion.

  The young druid used the force of her attacker’s momentum to pull her past the bed, kicking her in the stomach as she sailed by. The attacker slammed into the wall as Robyn threw off the covers and sprang to her feet.

  Still bearing that ghastly grin, showing her long teeth, the woman brandished her dagger. Suddenly, Newt flashed across the room, scoring a path of bloody claw marks across her cheek. Yazilliclick pulled out his silver dagger and darted into the fray. With a bestial scream of rage, the woman turned toward the faerie dragon.

  “Sheeriath, drake!” she hissed, pointing. A stream of stringlike material shot from her finger, wrapping itself around the little dragon, sticking to him and burying the wood sprite as well. They were both stuck fast in the gluey net of a giant spiderweb.

  A sorcerer! Hissing like an angry black cat, the woman crept toward her. She waved the dagger menacingly.

  “Centius, heerith!” said Robyn softly. Instantly, the blade of the dagger glowed cherry red. With an explosive hiss of pain, the woman dropped her weapon.

  “Magius, stryke!” she shrieked. An arrow of light burst from her pointing finger to strike Robyn in the breast, cutting her skin and burning into her flesh. Pain raced through the druid’s body as another, and still a third, magic missile crackled into her bleeding chest. The force of the blows smashed her against the outer wall of the room. Robyn leaned heavily against the window, while the magic-user stood with her back to the door.

  Newt and Yazilliclick struggled within the bonds of the web, but they were powerless to move. Robyn felt her strength ebb as blood ran across the front of her gown. She shook her head weakly as the woman pulled a little ball of something from her robe. The smell of sulphur filled the air.

  “Pyrax, surrass histar,” gloated the mage, her eyes gleaming, The tiny ball suddenly burst into flame, drifting lazily toward Robyn.

  Sulphur? Fire magic! Desperately, Robyn raised her hands to her face and then dropped them the length of her body.

  “Protection, Mother—” she beseeched. Before she could finish the ritual chant, orange flame exploded around her, blanketing her body in fire. The fireball billowed from the window, illuminating the night and incinerating half the room. Doric stood in the other half, cackling as the fire—far hotter than any natural blaze—consumed the bed, the walls, and the floor. The druid could not be seen in the bright heart of the explosion.

  But then the magic-user’s eyes widened as her enemy stepped from the heat. Robyn’s goddess had heard her plea for protection. She had surrounded her druid with a cool barrier, holding the forces of dark magic at bay.

  Doric’s jaw fell slack as she stared in awe. The druid came closer, and the blazing rage in her
eyes made even the supernatural heat of the fireball grow pale in comparison.

  Robyn seized the neck of the mage with hands that were strong and callused from work in the grove. Her grip tightened, and she felt the windpipe of her enemy close beneath her powerful grasp. Robyn’s strength was much greater than this frail woman’s—for Doric’s power to terrorize and destroy came solely from her magic.

  Suddenly, Robyn knew that she wanted this mage to die by magic—and carry a final lesson about the power of the goddess to her grave. Robyn had a spell for healing, and she knew that if she reversed the words of the chant, she would reverse the effect of the spell.

  “Matri, terrathyl—wrack,” she growled, relaxing her grip slightly. Robyn felt the woman’s neck twist, tense, and finally snap. The sorceress fell dead.

  Flames raged up the side of the Black Oak Inn as Tristan ran up to the building. Panicked patrons rushed from the doors and spilled through the windows in a race to escape.

  Desperately, Tristan forced himself into the main room, pressing against the flow of humanity. He leaped the stairs four at a time and stumbled into the smoke-filled hallway.

  Suddenly, one of the doors burst open and someone staggered into the hall, carrying a bundle. Her face was averted to avoid the swirling clouds of smoke, but there was no mistaking the long fall of ebony hair.

  “Robyn!” Tristan gasped, stumbling forward to take her in his arms. She looked at him in disbelief. Her face was streaked with soot and covered with bruises and scratches. Yet she had never looked so beautiful.

  Tristan seized her in his arms and helped her to the stairs, noting that the bundle was in fact Newt. The dragon was tangled in a strange web, and Tristan thought he saw another tiny figure buried there as well. Robyn collapsed against him.

  He helped her down the stairs and they stumbled from the inn together. She tried to drop Newt and Yazilliclick to take him in her arms, but she couldn’t get free. The prince, too, tugged at the wailing faeries, trying to dislodge the sticky mess.