“Robyn, you’re here,” Tristan said stupidly.
She smiled up at him, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Once again, he tried to pull Newt out of the way.
But finally they gave up. He took her into his arms, faeries and all, and pressed his lips to hers. She met him warmly, holding him tight as they ignored the stares of the Ffolk who had gathered to watch the fire.
The goddess saw the specter of Bhaal looming on the horizon of the world. She felt the painful trod of his footstep as his presence drew near.
But her feelings were muted, barely there. Nearly all of her might had been expended in the effort to protect her druids—and that had been only partially successful. The druids of Myrloch Vale were not dead, but they were quite helpless. Unseeing, unfeeling, they could only remain within their stone prisons, awaiting rescue or destruction.
The specter of Bhaal grinned, delighting in the despair of the Earthmother. From Bhaal’s point of view, things were progressing very well indeed.
The undead army, under the command of Hobarth and aided by the heart of Kazgoroth, had accomplished everything he had hoped—and more. The Moonwell of the Vale was not only in his hands, but the druids had foolishly sacrificed themselves in the effort to protect it.
The sahuagin, under his devout high priestess, were gathering an impressive force of destruction. The dead of the sea, raised by his faithful clerics, would be another army to throw against the Moonshae Isles. Even Cyndre, his unwitting servant upon Alaron, acted as Bhaal desired. His course, whatever its outcome, would almost certainly yield more bodies to Bhaal’s cause.
Bhaal turned slightly and took notice of a new force. He relished killing in all of its forms and took pleasure in the underground battle between the dwarves. Bhaal was surprised as the dark dwarves poured forth in ever-increasing numbers, until a vast horde of them charged through the underdark, threatening everything in their path.
The dark dwarves were minions of other evil gods. Bhaal could not count his clerics among their number. But they were bloodthirsty and numerous.
There would be a way, Bhaal suspected, that they could play into his hands.
anthus growled a warning, and Pawldo didn’t wait to confirm the dog’s suspicions. “Down—hide!” he hissed, but Fiona had already dived into the muddy ditch. He splashed beside her and felt the moorhound settle in next to them.
Thundering hoofbeats pounded along the road as a column of horsemen rode past. Pawldo pressed his face into the mud. After an eternity, the riders passed, galloping into the distance. Pawldo and Fiona crawled out of the ditch, even more cold and miserable than before.
“I wish we could find a horse!” cursed Fiona. The young woman had grown more furious with each passing day. She railed against the king and the ogres and complained about their own situation. “My feet. are worn to the knees!”
Pawldo nodded, looking after the riders. “That pretty well clinches it. They have to be going to Doncastle.”
For three nights they had been walking steadily toward the forest, spending their days in isolated barns or sheds, traveling only after sunset. They were cold, hungry, and tired. A sense of danger followed them everywhere, for the riders of the Scarlet Guard were out in force. Some patrolled the countryside, but most rode to the southwest, toward the forest—and Doncastle.
They trudged through the night and reached the outskirts of the forest before dawn. “Let’s keep going,” suggested the halfling. “We can reach Doncastle by nightfall.”
Pausing only to drink from a clear forest pool and eat some bread Pawldo had acquired the previous day, they resumed their march.
King Carrathal awakened suddenly with a small cry of alarm. Biting his tongue, he felt the coach lurching beneath him. Where was he? What was happening? He pushed the Crown of the Isles up—it had slipped over his eyes.
The red satin curtains tinted the afternoon sun to the color of blood as it streamed through the window. The heavily cushioned seat, plush with furs, felt hard and unwelcoming against him. There was room for a dozen people within the large compartment, but King Carrathal rode alone.
Oh yes, he reminded himself. The war.
He pulled the curtain aside and leaned out the window. Beyond the six horses that were pulling the royal coach, he could see the companies of the Scarlet Guard stretching into the distance. Fortunately, the weather was cool and humid, so the path of their march was not very dusty.
The coach shifted suddenly, and the king whirled to see Cyndre. The wizard had not been there a moment before his sudden arrival in the seat beside him sent the monarch’s heart pounding.
“Well?” King Carrathal did not try to hide his annoyance.
“We’ll have provisions when we arrive at Cantrev Bounty.”
“Good. Did you have to …?” The king looked away.
“No. It seems the fate of Cantrev Lehigh has become common knowledge. I doubt you will find any other lords reluctant to provide your royal due.”
King Carrathal did not seem pleased by the news. The destruction of an entire cantrev, performed with relish by his ogres, weighed heavily upon his conscience. Certainly the wizard had made it sound like a good idea. And, in truth, since then they had had no more difficulties with the other lords. Food and drink had been willingly provided in the next village they had used as a bivouac.
The army column marched on, across the central plain of Alaron. The ogre brigade marched heavily in the lead. Outriders, their red coats visible for miles, protected the flanks of the column. Several wagons full of supplies trailed the column, and the king’s coach rolled along behind them. At the very rear, trailing the army by as much as a half a mile, rumbled another, larger coach.
This one was pulled by eight black horses. In it rode Talraw, Wertam, and Kerianow—the rest of the Council of Seven. And there, too, would ride Cyndre.
They spent most of the night together, holding each other, gazing at each other. They made the promises and pledges and exchanged the regrets that made them both feel warm and needed.
Tristan could still not quite believe that Robyn was in Doncastle. To go a year without seeing her, yearning for her every day, and then to have her arrive in this secret city, so far from their home—it seemed impossible.
Yet, the warmth of her body and the light of her smile told him that it was true. She said she had come because she feared for him. Tristan listened in awe as she described the vision she had received from the woman in the pool.
He told her about his father—their father, really—and he held her as she cried for the king. Then he recounted his journey to Callidyrr and his decision to fight the king. He explained about the prophecy, his doubts about its meaning. He concluded with Pontswain’s and O’Roarke’s refusals to join him.
She, in turn, described her own nightmare of death and desecration. Tristan sat numb; she had needed his help so desperately, and he had been …
“Don’t,” she soothed, sensing his guilt. “We each had our own tasks to perform, and we did them. Perhaps yours will see more success than mine did.”
“We can hope—and fight! I will return to Corwell to raise an army!” With Robyn here, Tristan’s confidence soared.
“But remember,” she said. “This is more than the work of one king—even one helped by black magic. This must be the design of some unspeakable god!”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” called the prince, reaching for his sword.
“Lord Roarke sends word, my prince,” called a voice. “The halfling has returned from Callidyrr, and he brings news!”
“Pawldo?” asked Robyn. “He’s here, too?”
They raced into the great room of the inn, where Daryth and Hugh O’Roarke had been talking for most of the evening. He saw Pawldo settling into a soft chair before the fireplace, and a young girl—Fiona, he suddenly realized—standing awkwardly to the side.
Canthus was there, too. The moorhound gave a bark of
joy and bounded to the prince, nearly knocking him off his feet. The dog then pounced upon Robyn with even more enthusiasm, wriggling and wagging his tail.
“Robyn!” cried the halfling, elbowing the dog aside to embrace the druid. “What are you, I mean how did you …?”
“It’s good to see you, too,” she smiled, releasing him. “I hear you’ve been keeping my prince out of trouble!”
“When he’ll let me,” sulked the halfling. “Of course, then he and Daryth go off and leave me to my own devices, not bothering to tell me that they’ve come back here! So I sit—”
“I am sorry about that, old friend. There were a few complications at the palace.”
“That’s what Daryth claims, too. At least you two outlaws took the time to get your stories straight. Hanging around with me has done you some good after all!”
Pawldo suddenly looked at Fiona, standing somberly.
“I’m afraid we bring dire news,” he began. “Fiona’s father brought us word of a mustering of the High King’s army. Devin must have been betrayed—his house was attacked, and he gave his life to see Fiona and me to safety.”
The others bowed their heads for a moment in respect to the fallen agent. Hugh O’Roarke went to Fiona and took the girl in his arms. “He was a brave man, your father. I know he would be very proud of you.”
“He’ll only be proud if you and your men do something!” she cried in sudden rage. She pulled angrily from his embrace. Her red hair swung around her head, and her eyes flamed. “And I don’t think that’s likely, as long as you have your little hole in the woods to hide in!”
“The rest of the news,” interjected Pawldo quickly, “is that the entire Scarlet Guard marches on Doncastle!”
Hugh looked dully at the halfling. The air seemed to drain from his body and he shrank into a chair to collapse, holding his head in his hands. Suddenly, he looked up at the prince and glared.
“This is your fault!” he growled. “You have brought this upon my town!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Robyn said sharply. “There is a doom stalking our islands, plaguing the Ffolk, and it is far more terrible than the acts of this pathetic king. It seems that the danger is now focused upon your town. So fight it! You have brave warriors here! Stop wasting all this time and get ready to defend yourselves!”
“In times past, we had the wizard Annuwynn at our service,” Vaughn Burne pointed out. “Now we do not, and we have a killer at large in our city.”
“I thought the killer died in the attack on Robyn,” said Pontswain. “That sorceress you described to us.”
“I suspect that the killer is still out there. The attack upon the druid was much less subtle, more crude than the attack on Annuwynn. I cannot believe that the same sorcerer performed them both.” The cleric did not mention his dream—a vision from Chauntea, he was certain—in which he saw the killer as a man who glittered with diamond jewelry.
“Well, find him!” cried O’Roarke, The lord was still for a moment, and then he took a deep breath and looked at Robyn. “You’re right. We can defend ourselves—and we shall. I will summon my captains and form a plan. We shall fight them for every tree, every pathway of the forest!
“My prince. It seems I was wrong. Will you join our fight? I could use your skill and experience.”
Tristan nodded.
Kryphon reflected bleakly on the prospect of returning to his bed, where Doric certainly awaited him. And then he thought of the druid. In an instant, he resolved to seek her out instead.
The flames had died down by the time he reached the Black Oak Inn, but he could tell that the druid’s room had been, if not the source, very near the heart of the blaze. The fire had been a cruel coincidence, robbing him of his anticipated pleasure.
Fire. He thought again of Doric—whenever he saw fire he thought of the sorceress. She was like her fire magic in many ways—fickle, greedy, and dangerous. And now this fire, by odd coincidence, had robbed him of the pleasure he had hoped to take from the young druid.
Or was it a coincidence? He recalled Doric’s sudden weariness. He hurried back to their room. By the time he reached it, he had guessed the truth. Doric’s absence only confirmed his suspicions—the wench feared his wrath after she killed the druid. There was no telling where she might be hiding.
After stomping around the room in frustration, the black wizard at last yielded to his own weariness and slept for several hours. After he awakened, he spent several more hours immersed in the study of his spellbooks. He had used up much of his magic in the past days, a the study helped to replenish arcane energies.
He thought bitterly about Doric. Her betrayal stung his pride and angered him. She did well to hide. Irritated, he summoned Razfallow.
“I am going to seek the cleric at his chapel. You will investigate other places—the inn where O’Roarke stays, for example. If you see him and you have a chance, kill him. If not, find me and take me to him.”
The half-orc nodded. He did not like to walk among this town of men—half-orcs were rare upon the Moonshaes—but he would do as he was told. The assassin left, and Kryphon closed his spellbooks and prepared to leave.
It was noon by the time he returned to the cleric’s chapel. As he made his way through Doncastle, he noticed that the city bustled with preparations. Many people, mostly the very old, very young, or the infirm, were gathering belongings into backpacks, saddlebags, and carts. These Ffolk were leaving the city, apparently fleeing. For what?
He saw few pedestrians, but many armed men gathering into groups of a dozen, a score, or more. He caught a glimpse of a familiar face as a group of bowmen passed him.
“Evan!” he called, turning to step alongside the group. The bandit, still enamored by the charm spell, turned to him with a broad smile.
“We’re off to the fight,” he declared proudly.
“Fight?”
“Rumor has it the king’s army is marching on Doncastle. My company is headin’ into the woods. We’ll skirmish them the whole way. They’ll have a plenty bloody trek through Dernall Forest!”
“Your captain?” asked the sorcerer. “May I meet him first?”
“Captain Cassidy? He’s right over there.” Evan gestured to a large open area, a grass-covered city plaza. Kryphon saw more than a hundred bowmen gathered there.
“Tell him that I have important news for him,” whispered the mage. “Have him meet me under that tree.”
Kryphon stepped into the shadow of a broad, low-limbed oak. He watched the man hurry into the plaza, stopping to speak to a man on horseback. The officer trotted his steed toward the oak tree, an expression of annoyance on his face. He dismounted easily and stalked up to Kryphon.
“What do you want? I haven’t time for—” He stopped suddenly as Kryphon began to wave his hand.
“Dothax, Mylax Heeroz.” Kryphon repeated the spell that had, thus far, served him very well. He pulled a diamond pendant from beneath his robe and waved it slowly.
The captain paused, confused, He looked suspiciously at the sorcerer. Slowly, his hand crept toward the steel shortsword girded to his waist, His face twisted as his mind wrestled with the magic.
“Captain Cassidy, my friend,” said the sorcerer softly. “It is good to see you again.”
The officer looked at him uncomprehendingly, but finally gave him a tentative smile. Magic had won over his mind.
“There has been a mistake,” continued Kryphon urgently. “The attack comes from the south—you must take your company there! Screen the approaches to Doncastle, but remember—from the south!”
Captain Cassidy nodded earnestly, grasping the mage’s hand. “Thank you!” he said sincerely before springing to his horse and racing into the plaza.
Kryphon smiled to himself before turning back to his original path. The chapel of Vaughn Burne was not far.
The cleric knelt in reverence, meditating. His goddess answered his calls for strength, filling him with her life- affirming power. She knew, as
did he, that the coming battle would test his might to the limit.
Vaughn Burne felt a slight disruption in the rhythm of his meditation. Immediately he knew that someone, some evil, had entered his sanctuary. A dark presence sent a shiver down his spine.
The cleric ceased his meditations and rose to grasp his silver war hammer. He stepped to the thin curtain that separated his meditation alcove from the main chapel and looked out. The front door stood open, but the huge room, with its dozens of benches, was empty.
Or was it?
Vaughn Burne cast a spell upon himself, passing a hand before his eyes. Now he looked at the room and saw it as it truly was.
Along the far wall, an invisible man was creeping stealthily. The intruder had covered himself with magic, and he carried no weapon. The cleric deduced that he was a sorcerer. And his fingers glittered with diamond rings—this was indeed the killer from his dream. The cleric grew angry, knowing that he was looking at the man who had killed his friend Annuwynn—and who now intended to slay him as well.
The cleric did not grow overconfident. He knew that if not for the warning provided by Chauntea, he would probably have been slain at his meditations. But now he had the advantage, and the sorcerer was not the only one who could use magic.
Vaughn Burne whispered another spell and became every bit as invisible as the mage. He stepped around the screen, careful not to disturb the hanging fabric, and crept toward the intruder. Carefully, he raised the silver hammer. The weapon, like him, could not be seen.
But a floorboard creaked beneath his careful step, and across the room the sorcerer froze. His black eyes turned toward the cleric, and seemed to sear into Vaughn Burne’s flesh. But the mage surely could not see him!
Suddenly the magic-user reached into his robe, pulling forth a slender, glittering rod—a glass tube, studded with diamonds. He pointed the thing at a spot just to the cleric’s left, as if he didn’t know exactly where Vaughn Burne stood.
Black Wizards Page 31
