The companions felt, rather than saw, the panic that infused the defenders of Doncastle. The mist looked so completely evil that no one could have doubts as to its nature—including the unfortunate soldiers in its path. Some men tried to hold their posts. The banner of the Black Bear fluttered bravely above a band of spearmen, but the smoke obscured the soldiers, and the companions watched the banner slowly fall until it, too, vanished into the evil mist.
As the magic cloud moved on, they gasped in horror. The sprawling bodies revealed were twisted torturously. The men had died in the greatest agony, their skin seared and scarred.
“By the goddess, what sorcery is this?” gasped Tristan.
“It can only be Cyndre,” muttered Daryth.
“Let’s get out of here while we still can!” urged Pawldo. “No mortal troops can stand against an attack like that!”
“Wait,” said Robyn quietly. Of all of them, she alone seemed calm in the face of the onrushing wave of death.
The companions watched as gas flowed toward the outer fringes of the line, reaching around the base of the palisade where they stood. Already, a gap a hundred yards wide had been opened in the ranks of the defense.
Robyn reached into her robe and pulled out the strangely carved stick, the runestick that Genna had made and Yazilliclick had saved for her. She held the stick in both her hands, running her fingers over the runes engraved in one end. Suddenly, she brandished the stick like a weapon, pointing toward the green tendrils that were inching their way closer up the wall.
The prince gagged as the odor of the gas reached him, and his eyes began to water. Canthus whined and paced frantically about their broad platform. For a moment, Tristan feared that the dog would jump, but then Daryth laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Other men saw the effects of the killing cloud and were not so brave or foolish. They turned to run as the yellow tendrils of gas approached. Some held their weapons and stumbled backward, while others dropped everything and fled headlong into the town. Within minutes, the center of the line was gone—killed or routed.
The green smoke expanded to either side and climbed higher into the air. The companions saw defenders trapped in nearby trees as the mist passed around the tree bases and cut off their escape. Then it climbed slowly, inexorably, toward the men who huddled upon the surrounding platforms. Some of these archers, carrying the banner of the Red Boar, jumped to safety and fled before the gas surrounded them. Others stood their posts, seeking targets for their arrows, but died without striking back. As the mist moved on, it continued to reveal grotesque, twisted corpses in its wake.
Then the mist seemed to clear as a slight breeze moved through the treetops. Robyn turned the stick around, and the wind whirled with her. The mist fell away from their platform as the wind increased in force.
Robyn closed her eyes in concentration, holding the stick like a talisman of hope, and still the wind picked up. The mist pressed in from all sides, but the air flowed outward from their platform, keeping that area free of the killing mist.
Tristan and the others watched, spellbound, as the mist pressed in and then fell back, locked in its battle with the clean air of Robyn’s spell. The struggle seemed to last an eternity, but finally the mist began to dissipate, falling away more rapidly and then vanishing into the air.
“They’re coming,” said Daryth quietly. In the distance they could make out flashes of crimson, growing more distinct every second. The military cadence of drumbeats grew audible, and soon dozens of ranks of troops could be seen.
“The Scarlet Guard,” confirmed Pawldo.
“Come on!” shouted the prince, suddenly leaping down the ladder and running among the scattered defenders. His companions followed him from the rampart as he drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and held it high.
“Men of Doncastle, rally to me!” Tristan cried. “The power of the goddess has broken the wizard’s spell. Fight for your town, your people!” But the battle cries of the Scarlet Guard sounded across the gate, long, ululating howls that would have shaken the morale of the stoutest defenders.
“Maybe this isn’t the place to make our stand,” suggested Daryth. “Look around.”
The prince saw that they would never assemble enough fighters to hold a position as wide as the King’s Gate—too many had died under the killing cloud, and most of the survivors had fled.
“The river! We have to try and form a line at the river!”
Then something caught Robyn’s eye. “Look! The banner of the Red Boar!”
They saw a cautious face peering from between two houses. It belonged to a frightened-looking young man who carried a long pole, from which fluttered the standard of one unit routed by the killing cloud.
“Here, man!” called Tristan, Tentatively, the fellow emerged from his hiding place. “Are there others? The rest of your unit?”
The man gestured toward the heart of the city. “All gone,” he mumbled. “They ran—I did, too!”
Tristan could think of nothing else to do. “Come with us,” he urged. “Rally them to the standard!”
Reluctantly, the man accompanied them, holding the banner high. The Red Boar symbol fluttered faintly in the air.
“Men of Doncastle, of the Red Boar!” called Tristan, waving his sword. “Rally to your standard!” He repeated the cry as they moved along the line, and slowly the routed warriors emerged from the shelter of buildings and alleys. Still, there were pathetically few.
“Now we have to keep them together while we fall back to the river. Daryth, can you—” Tristan stopped suddenly.
He heard a thundering of hooves and saw Hugh O’Roarke mounted upon his galloping charger, bearing down upon them. “What are you doing?” he cried. “Why are you not at the gates?”
“The sorcerers sent a cloud upon us—a mist that killed all who breathed it.”
O’Roarke’s face whitened in rage. He looked around frantically, desperate for inspiration. “We’ll have to hold them here! I’ll pull the garrisons from the other gates—we cannot give them entrance!”
“That will make the disaster worse!” argued the prince. “Choose good ground—and fight there! Fall back to the river—make a line! We have a chance to hold there!”
“Never!” cried Hugh O’Roarke. “We cannot give up another inch of ground without a fight!”
“If you pull the men from the other gates, you’ll have no position to hold, anyway. A second attack by the king’s army, and you’ll be taken from the rear!”
But O’Roarke was no longer listening. Tears ran down his face as he looked at the remnants of the Red Boar company. He whirled his horse to put his plan into motion. “Men of the Red Boar! Hear me! We will stop the king’s legion … here!” He brandished his sword along their line, and a ragged cheer went up from the men.
The bandit lord did not look back as he rode away. He was on his way to pull his men from every other part of the city—to try to hold a line in a place chosen by pride, not judgment.
The diamond rod identified the enemy, but it would be up to Alexei to find him. Magic would help, but he would have to search with his own eyes. Alexei was surprised by how badly he wanted to find Kryphon, to kill him. Once the man had been his friend—the two had been Cyndre’s most trusted lieutenants. Now Kryphon was at the heart of all he hated about the council that had turned him out.
Before he began his search, Alexei cast two spells upon himself—one to detect magical auras, and another that allowed him to see invisible objects. Then he walked to the King’s Gate, the northeast entrance to the city. This was where the greatest block of defenders had gathered—and where the main force of the king’s attack was expected.
Alexei walked among the defenders in total concentration. He looked into every rampart and walked slowly down every street in that quarter of the town. He saw Tristan and his companions on the high palisade. He sensed the ominous presence of the king’s army, breaking camp somewhere in the depths of the wood.
But he did not find Kryphon.
Nor was there any sign that magic had been used upon the ramparts or barricades—or anything else. Either the mage was concealed very well, waiting until the attack began, or he was somewhere else.
Alexei hurried to the Lord’s Gate—the northwestern approach to the city. He wondered when the attack would come—would he be in time? Though the defenders were not so numerous here, he found ramparts and ditches manned by willing troops who were ready to defend their city to the death. As he walked among the barricades, rumors of a rout in the defenses at the King’s Gate begin to spread among the troops.
He watched in shock as Hugh O’Roarke himself galloped along the line of the deep ditch, shouting to all the men gathered there.
“Follow me! The King’s Gate has been breached—you must fly to the rescue!”
With a cheer for their lord, the troops at the Lord’s Gate burst from their positions. They moved at a trot, ignoring any sense of order, eager to join the fray.
A flash of movement attracted Alexei’s eyes to the entryway of a small wooden house. He saw it again—a figure moving stealthily along the shaded side of the building. He wore a black robe with a gray hood that flowed over his shoulders like a cape.
Finally the figure emerged. He walked beside an empty ditch, fondling the sharpened points of the stakes that had been hastily erected there. He threw back his head and laughed, and as the hood fell away from his tight, bearded face, Alexei recognized Kryphon.
His enemy stood at least five hundred feet away, between the trunks of two huge oaks. The trees were connected by a solid rampart, twenty feet up. Alexei fastened his eyes to that rampart as he began to cast a spell.
“Xor-thax, teray.”
In the blink of an eye, Alexei teleported to the center of the ramp, materializing in one place as he vanished from the other. As soon as he felt the hard wood of the rampart under his feet, the wizard began his next spell.
But the long beams of the bridge creaked under his sudden weight. Alexei did not stop to see if Kryphon had noticed the sound—he ceased his casting and rolled to the side. A moment later, a blast of magical energy exploded in the middle of the rampart. Each of the ends of the bridge, no longer supported, dropped to the ground.
Alexei leaped from the rampart. In mid-air, he uttered the one-word command for one of his simplest spells—a spell that would take effect immediately. Thus enchanted, he floated gently to the ground like a falling feather.
Kryphon had not waited to identify his attacker, and now Alexei saw no sign of him. Then he heard a low voice behind one of the tree trunks. As he settled to the ground, Kryphon reappeared, wrapped in a shimmering green globe of light
Kryphon’s eyes widened as he recognized Alexei, who stood facing him on the ground. “Well, comrade,” he said, “I am surprised to see that you are still alive!”
“And you, it would seem, have already lived too long.”
Kryphon laughed. “We shall see who has lived too long!”
Alexei suspected the nature of the globe surrounding his foe, and it worried him greatly. But it could be an illusion, and he had to make sure. He quickly raised his right hand and pointed at Kryphon’s heart.
“Magius, stryke!”
Five hissing bolts of magical energy shot in rapid succession from Alexei’s fingertip, each arrowing toward Kryphon’s grinning figure. And each sizzled into extinction as it came into contact with the green sphere.
“I am impressed in spite of myself,” acknowledged Alexei. Despite his outer calm, his mind whirled through a succession of desperate plans, discarding each as futile.
“That could not matter less to me,” sneered Kryphon. He waved a hand before him, preparing to cast a spell.
“Did you have a pleasurable dalliance with Doric?” asked Alexei, seizing upon that old ground as he groped for a plan.
“Bah! She quickly became annoying.”
“Did you send her after the druid? She failed, you know.”
Kryphon paused, surprised. “She went without my permission. She has been too frightened to return to me, since—no doubt doubly so, if she failed.
Alexei laughed. “She did not return to you because she cannot. The druid killed her!”
Alexei hoped to provoke a strong reaction from his enemy, but he was disappointed. Kryphon shrugged and suddenly knit his brows in concentration. Carefully, he stroked his fingers through the air.
“Sheeriath, drake,” he hissed. Alexei dove to the side at his words, and the sticky strings of web missed him by scant inches. He rolled behind a tree, still concentrating.
The globe of invulnerability protected Kryphon from Alexei’s magic. His enemy had all the advantages, stalking him while he could do little but scuttle out of the way. And how could he fight back without using his magic? Without using his magic on Kryphon, he reminded himself.
The murderous sorcerer crept closer—Alexei could hear the faint tread of his footfalls. He caught a glimmer of the magical screen coming around the tree and knew that his enemy was almost upon him. Overhead, one end of the shattered bridge hung limply. Kryphon stepped closer, and now Alexei saw him. Kryphon’s hands were raised in preparation for a final, killing spell.
Alexei raised a hand, weaving a spell of his own. He saw Kryphon’s confident grin—the black wizard felt quite secure behind his magical screen.
But Alexei’s spell was not cast at the mage. He pulled forth a tiny glass rod, much like the diamond one Kryphon had used to send the lightning bolt against Vaughn Burne.
“Blitzyth, Dorax zooth!” The bolt of lightning exploded from Alexei’s finger as he pointed not at Kryphon, but straight above him. Kryphon’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stumbled over the words of his own casting as he leaned back to look upward.
In a split second he saw the section of the heavy rampart swinging over his head. He watched the bolt of lightning crackle into it, severing the few points of support still holding the wreckage to the tree. And he screamed as the mass of twisted wood plummeted through his magical screen, and his skull, and his chest.
But even his death scream was drowned by the splintering and snapping of the broken mass as it crashed heavily to earth. The pile of wreckage creaked and groaned for several seconds before settling—a suitably anonymous gravestone for Kryphon, Alexei thought. The sudden end to the fight left him weak and trembling. He felt a little frustrated at the suddenness of Kryphon’s death—he had hoped to savor the moment more.
He leaned against a rough tree trunk, slowly dropping until he was slumped on the ground. He stayed there for several minutes, until the sounds of marching awakened him from his reverie. The empty battlements greeted his eyes, and beyond, as if to mock him, he saw a line of crimson soldiers advancing toward the gate.
Alexei stayed behind the tree and watched. The soldiers, at first glance, seemed very close—but then he realized that it was their huge size that gave this impression. For these were not humans, marching a hundred abreast toward the undefended gate of Doncastle.
This was the ogre brigade.
The troops of Doncastle made a valiant stand at the King’s Gate. One brigade of human mercenaries shattered against the pikes and swords of O’Roarke’s men. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh claimed a dozen or more mercenaries. O’Roarke rode like a maniac, directing his charger into the thick of the fighting, flailing about with a great two-handed sword. The man looked like he had been born to battle.
But then the ogres marched into the rear of the defenders. As the rest of the Scarlet Guard charged the broken position, Hugh O’Roarke led a futile counterattack. Dozens of his men fell around him, pushing their leader to safety. At the last, the bandit leader was swept along with his men routing from the fight—those few that had survived the bloody onslaught of the ogres.
The disaster developed swiftly. Within minutes of the first appearance of the monstrous troops, word spread through the ranks that the battle was lost. With no hope of victory, the men o
f Doncastle were reluctant to face their doom.
They fled through the abandoned streets of the city, away from the enveloping wings of the royal army. In chaos and confusion, the panic-stricken mass poured through the Druid’s Gate, into the wilds of Dernall Forest.
Tristan and his companions stood until the line collapsed around them. It was easy to foresee the inevitable result of the attack, so Tristan again decided to keep his friends together and alive rather than staying to make an heroic but fruitless stand.
“Stay together!” he cried, holding Robyn’s hand. Daryth and Pawldo flanked the druid, while Canthus raced behind.
Hundreds of men, eyes wide with panic, pressed around them. Robyn was torn from his grasp by the force of the retreat. As he saw her black hair borne away by the mob, he panicked and reached for the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, ready to battle his way to her side, if need be.
But somehow the druid managed to stop moving, standing serenely with her eyes closed, and miraculously the fleeing soldiers avoided her, leaving her as an island in the raging river of retreat.
They started moving again, swept along by the crowd, and suddenly the prince recognized a tousled head of red hair. He pushed through a pair of bedraggled swordsmen and took Fiona’s arm.
“Let go!” she cried, and then recognized him. “What happened? I didn’t expect to see you running away.”
“Come on,” he said, forcing her back to his companions.
“I can take care of myself!” She waved her shortsword. “I’m staying here to stick this into the king’s heart as soon as he gets here!”
“Join us—you’ll have another chance!” Tristan said, maintaining his hold on her as they were swept along.
They passed through the Druid’s Gate as smoke was beginning to fill the air. Once outside of the city, Robyn led the way. The troops followed the pathways through the woods, but she took her companions through the thick of the forest. It seemed that she opened a path with a wave of her hand before her.
Black Wizards Page 33
