Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  “Blitzyth, Dorax zooth!” he chanted.

  A bolt of energy exploded from the rod, crackling like a lightning bolt through the chapel. It sizzled the air and blasted a hole in the wall, sending dust and shards of wood flying into the street. Vaughn Burne dove to the side as the lightning struck, but heat and fire blazed across his chest. He felt as though his lungs were consumed by flame as he tumbled over empty benches and lay still on the floor.

  His robe was gone—burned away—and wisps of smoke rose from his skin.

  The duergar spilled from their lair like an army of insects. Their number seemed limitless as they continued to pour forth long after Finellen’s companies had pulled away.

  The retreat threatened to become a rout, as even the sturdy dwarves—most of them veterans of a dozen campaigns—quailed before the savage onslaught. With the greatest difficulty, the dwarven captain kept her formations assembled, placed a rear guard, and managed to keep the shaken morale of her troops from breaking entirely.

  They had discovered a vast nation of dark dwarves—not the tiny outpost she had first suspected. Somehow, the duergar had overcome the natural balance of forces that served to maintain peace in the underdark: They had destroyed or driven away enough of their neighbors to enable them to develop vast resources of precious food. With that food supply secure, there was little that could stand in their way.

  Finellen feared for her people, the dwarves of Gwynneth. The retreat of her companies must not lead to the clanholds, or the entire population would suffer an unspeakable fate.

  So she directed the retreat away from Gwynneth, away from the caverns that led to her home. She had only one hope—a slim one, at best. She would try to lead the duergar onto the surface, where their strength was weakest. Perhaps if she could lure the pursuing horde under the light of the sun she could face them and die with honor.

  That was all she had left to hope.

  Alexei was one of the first to arrive at the smoldering chapel. He saw the hole in the wall and smelled the distinctive odor lingering in the air. And he watched in silence as a group of men bore a stretcher from the wreckage.

  He heard the thundering of hooves behind him and turned to see the bandit lord gallop in. O’Roarke’s face reflected his anger and shock as he dismounted.

  “Do you know what happened?” he asked, looking somberly at the stretcher as it was borne from the church.

  “I am certain a sorcerer used lightning magic. The damage to the church and that smell in the air is clear evidence. The cleric is not dead, but he is badly hurt.”

  “How bad?” O’Roarke’s grief showed in his eyes, though his voice remained steady.

  “He will be crippled and blind, unless you have another cleric here capable of healing him,” Alexei said bluntly.

  “There are none in Doncastle. This is a serious blow. Now we are left to face the attack without a cleric or a wizard.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Alexei. “Vaughn Burne used his healing magic on me last night.” The mage held up his hands. They were still twisted and scarred, but he was able to move his fingers with some control. The grimace distorting his face showed that his dexterity returned with considerable pain.

  “He also gave me access to the spell books of Annuwynn. I have been studying them.”

  “And?”

  “I think I can use them.”

  “You can start by finding whoever did this!”

  “That would please me greatly,” said Alexei.

  “I’ll be with the troops at the King’s Gate. Let me know if you learn anything,” said O’Roarke.

  Now Alexei could begin to wreak his vengeance. He would avenge himself upon Cyndre, upon Kryphon—upon the entire council that had turned him out.

  And it would start with this agent who had caused so much damage in Doncastle. He had a good idea about the attacker’s identity, but he stepped into the chapel and quickly reconstructed the attack to be sure.

  The wizard went over to the spot where the spell had been cast. Searching the floor, he found what he sought: little shards of the rod that was used to cast the spell.

  And he learned more than he dared hope. The shards were not glass, or even amber—materials most magic-users would have used for the spell. The glittering fragments were unmistakably diamond.

  “I didn’t like that place anyway!” declared Newt. “All those people running around—you couldn’t even get a bite to eat without asking somebody. And they’d always say no!”

  “I d-didn’t like that t-town either,” replied the wood sprite. “B-but I miss Robyn—miss Robyn!”

  Newt’s tail drooped as he settled to an oak limb high above the floor of Dernall Forest. “Why’d you have to say that?” he said wistfully. “I miss her, too! Why do you think she didn’t want to come along with us? I know she likes the woods!”

  “I think it was the prince—her prince.”

  Newt sniffed. “Well, we’ll go back and see her in a few days. But for now we’ve got a whole big forest to explore!” With that he dove like an arrow through the leafy canopy, searching for something to interest him.

  Still moping, the wood sprite darted behind him.

  Daryth emerged from the smithy, running a callused thumb across the edge of his scimitar. It drew blood without the slightest pressure—the man had done a splendid job!

  The Calishite started across Doncastle’s shady lanes, on his way back to the inn. The food would be good tonight, he hoped. He resolved to eat much of it, knowing that it might be some time before he got to sit at a table again. The Scarlet Guard was very close—all the rumors on the street indicated that the battle would erupt on the morrow.

  He stopped short as a familiar figure stepped out of a tavern, directly in his path. Razfallow froze as his eyes met the Calishite’s. The half-orc wore a leather shirt-piece with a high collar and a floppy leather hat with a drooping brim. The disguise was obviously intended to mask the half-orc’s race, but Daryth looked full into his beastly face.

  “Once again, Calishite?” said the assassin, exposing his wicked pointed teeth with an amused half-smile.

  “This will be the last time.”

  Razfallow suddenly turned and walked, and Daryth followed a few feet behind. He had learned the assassin’s lesson well when he had studied under Razfallow at the Academy of Stealth: “Never fail to capitalize on an advantage.” It was as if the half-orc taunted him with his back, daring him to strike the single blow that would kill him.

  Daryth carefully dropped a hand to his scimitar. He could see the gap between the assassin’s hat and his shirt-piece, but something compelled him to hold his hand. Perhaps he wanted to show Razfallow that he had outgrown the old lessons, after all. Or perhaps he wanted to prove to himself that he could beat Razfallow fair and square.

  At that moment, the assassin chuckled and stepped into the middle of the street. He whirled in a single, fluid motion, and his shortsword whistled through the air toward Daryth’s exposed throat.

  But the weapon clanged against the scimitar which had, just as quickly, flashed up to parry the blow. Daryth slashed, and Razfallow leaped away. The Calishite advanced in a crouch, carefully planning his cuts, recovering from each in an instant to clash away the assassin’s return thrusts.

  Thrust and slash. The half-orc suddenly rushed in, and Daryth backed down the street, almost tripping in a rut. He stumbled and saw the shortsword lash at his chest. He desperately parried the blow, a scant inch from his skin. The move cost him his balance and he dropped to one knee, springing backward before Razfallow could strike again.

  Slash and thrust. Daryth drove the half-orc away with a dazzling series of blows. His scimitar whirled like a dancer through the air, barely visible even to the keenest of eyes. But somehow, the assassin’s heavy blade blocked each attack. The Calishite stopped momentarily, gasping for breath. He saw the sweat beading on the half-orc’s face.

  Once again Razfallow rushed, but this time Daryth gave no ground. He s
tood against the probing blade and laid a vicious slash along the half-orc’s forearm. His weariness vanished, and now he leaped in, darting and dodging—pushing the assassin steadily down the street. A ring of bystanders moved with the fight.

  Now he sensed a delay in Razfallow’s response. Weariness was slowing the assassin’s parries. Each of Daryth’s attacks came closer to landing, and they could both sense the inevitable end of the fight. For the first time, the Calishite saw something approaching fear in his enemy’s eyes—and he relished the sight.

  Suddenly Razfallow turned and rolled away from Daryth, springing to his feet and leaping into the ring of bystanders. Razfallow seized the arm of a plump woman and jerked her around to serve as his shield.

  But the student reacted quickly to his former teacher’s trick. Daryth’s silver scimitar followed Razfallow’s roll, closed the gap as he sprang up, and met his flesh as he grasped the woman. Daryth thrust around the woman’s terrified face, driving his weapon into Razfallow’s throat. Razfallow stiffened and made a gurgling sound as his shortsword fell from nerveless fingers. Blood spouted from his torn jugular, and his jaw flapped open. Finally, he slumped to the ground and died.

  Daryth cleaned his scimitar on the dead man’s shirt, ignoring the looks of thrilled horror on the faces of the Ffolk. He turned and walked away.

  This had to be a good omen for the battle, he thought.

  They ate cold venison and discussed the impending fight late that evening on the high balcony of Hugh’s favorite inn. Tristan and Robyn, together with Pawldo, Daryth, Alexei, Pontswain, and Fiona, had joined the outlaw leader.

  O’Roarke outlined his plan. The King’s Gate, northeast of Doncastle, would receive nearly half of the defenders, since it lay in the Scarlet Guard’s path of approach. The rest of the defenders would be spread among the other three gates.

  “You’re not going to keep a reserve?” asked Tristan.

  “Don’t have the men,” said the bandit. “Besides, Cassidy’s archers will have decimated them by the time they get to the gate! We will meet them with steel, and they will break!”

  “You can’t be sure of that!” Tristan argued. “If they don’t—if there are too many of them—fall back to the river. Don’t sacrifice the entire town on this gamble!”

  “That’s enough! You are not required to stay here—leave if you wish. But if you stay, you will fight by my plan.”

  Tristan wanted to grab the man by his leather collar and thrash some sense into him, but Robyn’s presence at his side somehow calmed him, “Of course I will stay,” he said.

  “Very well.” Hugh O’Roarke turned to Fiona. “You must leave Doncastle tonight, if possible. The women and children have fled to secret glens and caves.”

  “I will not!” cried the young woman, pounding her fist on the table. “I am going to be a part of any fight! My father taught me to wield a sword and shoot a bow. Give me either, and I will stand in your line!”

  The bandit sensed the futility of argument. “You shall have a sword. But you are to remain at my side throughout the day. Do you understand?” Fiona nodded.

  “You’re all mad!” said Pontswain, staring about the table in disbelief. “To even think about meeting this army, and these wizards, with a band of outlaws in the woods!”

  “We have no choice!” growled O’Roarke.

  “Yes—yes, you do! We all do! We can go to Corwell. The king might not come after us, but even if he does, we can meet him with men-at-arms at a castle!” Pontswain looked around the table, desperately seeking agreement.

  Pontswain saw no supporting looks. With a snarl of frustration, he leaped to his feet and stalked from the room.

  Not a single arrow had flown from the underbrush during the long march through the forest. This in itself, Cyndre thought, boded well for their attack. In the past, the approach to Doncastle had been a nightmare of skirmishing archers and sudden ambush. This time, the ogres had led the way to Doncastle, ready to brutally counterattack at the first sign of resistance. There had been none.

  “Why did we stop?” The king stuck his head through the window of his coach, blinking sleepily.

  “It is time to deploy for the attack,” explained Cyndre.

  “Oh. Very well, then … deploy!”

  Cyndre walked to the center of the vast forest clearing, where he was joined by the other mages and the four captains of the Scarlet Guard’s brigades.

  “We will attack Doncastle from two directions,” Cyndre explained. “Captain Dornthwait and two brigades of the guard will strike the northeast gate. I will precede this attack with a spell—it will clear the way so that the charge should carry you into the city. After Dornthwait has broken in, the rest of you will take your companies into Doncastle. The city is to be destroyed. Take anything you can carry—but burn the rest!

  “The ogre brigade of the guard, accompanied by the other wizards, will infiltrate through the forest and strike the city from the northwest. You will wait until the first attack has developed for two hours. By then, the defenders should all have been drawn from your quarter.

  “We will attack tomorrow morning, an hour after dawn. Use the rest of the day to get into positions—I want all units ready by nightfall!”

  The captains dispersed to organize their units. Cyndre spent the long afternoon checking with each commander to make sure that he understood the role he was to play in the plan. Only the ogre brigade, which had to make a long march through the woods to the northwest, faced a real challenge.

  The long night gradually gave way to dawn, and the sorcerer estimated the passing of an hour after sunrise. He felt the mass of the king’s legion behind him as he stepped to the forefront and cast his spell—the spell that would, he hoped, give them free passage into Doncastle.

  “Seeriax, punjyss withsath—fore!”

  The forest before him slowly filled with yellow smoke. There was no wind, but the smoke, trailing a sickening stench in its wake, began to drift toward Doncastle. It thickened, billowing along the ground as it moved, and drifted steadily away from the king’s army.

  As it passed through the forest, squirrels, birds, and every other animal fell dead. It grew still more, bubbling and seething like a furious living thing. Tendrils of the smoke, tinged with green, reached forward eagerly toward the outskirts of the city. Cyndre knew that ranks of defenders stood, camouflaged, among the trees before him.

  But the killing cloud would find them.

  The Deepsong thrummed, building in intensity and volume. Throughout the city, along the canyon walls, across the gardens and balconies, the sahuagin gathered, enthralled. Thousands of them focused their might upon the song, and it grew more compelling with each addition.

  Gradually, they began to thrash and jerk from the tension. Flailing around with the vast domes of Kressilacc, the sahuagin thrashed the water into a vast, swirling maelstrom until the momentum of the sea itself carried the song and the singers through its great circle. And still the Deepsong grew.

  The dead of the sea marched along the bottom. Shepherded by Ysalla’s priestesses, they gathered around the city. Vast ranks of white bone, pallid flesh, and gouged eyesockets shuffled forward under the priestesses’ commands. Unknowing, they stood ready to do whatever they were told.

  Then King Sythissall raised one webbed, claw-studded hand, and the Deepsong came to a halt. The frenzy of the sahuagin exploded upward as thousands of green, scaled bodies hurled from the city, kicking their way swiftly toward the surface. The swarm bristled with tridents and spears. The mass of sahuagin broke the surface in a frothing mass of turbulence.

  Swimming strongly, their spines breaking the surface to roll through the spray in a menacing flood, they approached the coast of Alaron—the Kingdom of Callidyrr.

  And the undead started to march slowly across the bottom of the sea. Led by the yellow-scaled priestesses the dead of the sea shambled over every obstacle, every undersea mountain or valley in their path.

  Toward the light,
and the air, and the land.

  n eagle, huh?” The halfling was obviously impressed with the account of Robyn’s journey to Alaron. He, Daryth, Tristan, and Robyn stood overlooking the King’s Gate of Doncastle. Below them the defenders of the city stood at their posts.

  “And a wolf, once,” she added proudly. Her skin was clean and smooth again—the scrapes and burns had vanished from her face. Only the garish sear across her eye indicated the hurts she had received.

  “I’ve learned a lot in the past year,” she admitted. “But I missed you all terribly.” She touched Pawldo tenderly on the cheek, and he turned away in embarrassment.

  She squeezed Tristan’s hand, and for a moment he forgot everything but the fact that she was at his side again. His confidence grew; Robyn’s strength would be a great asset in the coming fight.

  They would certainly need all the help they could get, he reflected, looking at the position before them. The King’s Gate was not really a gate at all. It was a wide avenue through the forest that granted access to the northeastern quarter of the city. Most of the defenses consisted of deep, muddy ditches before fences of sharpened spikes. Companies of men with long spears barred the gaps between the ditches. Above them stretched bridges that linked a number of large oak trees. Along these spans, O’Roarke had deployed his companies of archers.

  In a few places, tall and solid wooden palisades stood among the ditches and ramparts. Tristan and his companions stood up on one of these, a sturdy platform perhaps twelve feet off the ground to the left of the line at the gate. O’Roarke and Pontswain stood at the right end of the line.

  “What’s that?” Robyn asked, sniffing the air. Her nose wrinkled with displeasure, but Tristan could smell nothing unusual.

  “Look!” shouted Pawldo abruptly, pointing toward the center of their line.

  They watched as a green mist emerged from the forest before them. It reached forward with snakelike tendrils, probing along the ground into the positions held by O’Roarke’s stalwart footmen.