Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

“They’ve put the city to the torch,” muttered Daryth, looking behind him. The Calishite plainly regretted their flight.

  “What now?” asked Robyn. “The rebels can’t run forever. Will the king and his wizards try to slay them all?”

  Tristan couldn’t meet her gaze. “I’m sure that the sorcerer will not rest until every shred of resistance is crushed from the people of Alaron!”

  “And then Gwynneth, perhaps—or Moray? Tristan, we can’t let this happen!”

  “What do you want me to do?” he demanded.

  Robyn gestured into the forest. “You can gather that army and fight again! We’ll stand with you!”

  “She’s right!” Daryth’s eyes lit. “The men of Doncastle were not slaughtered—they fled. Rally them, and you’ll have an army that can stand again!”

  “You must!” cried Fiona, her eyes flashing. “My father died to bring word of that army—Doncastle died trying to stop it! You can’t let those sacrifices go in vain!”

  “There are too many in the king’s legions—this force will never be able to stop them!”

  “That’s not what you said at Freeman’s Down,” said Robyn, a little sharply.

  “And why do you suppose the king only attacked with the Scarlet Guard?” persisted Daryth. “Could it be that his other lords are not so loyal—that a victory against the king might cause them to lose heart?”

  “Perhaps even to join the rebel cause?” added the druid.

  Tristan looked at his companions, and he knew they were right. He didn’t know how he could hope to rally the broken force—but he knew that he had to try.

  “Very well,” he agreed quietly. “Let’s move quickly and get ahead of the troops. We’ll pick a place to rally them and see what happens.”

  “A splendid battle! A marvelous fight! My, how a victory gets one’s blood pumping! Oh, say—look at the flames!” King Carrathal was quite beside himself. In one blow, it appeared that he had crushed the rebellion. He stood outside his coach at the King’s Gate, watching the sacking of Doncastle.

  “Now, let’s get back to Caer Callidyrr—I simply must have a victory feast!” Still beaming, he climbed into the coach. Cyndre, who had just returned from a meeting with his council, followed.

  “Sire, I fear the task is not yet done.”

  “Eh, what’s that?”

  “The usurper was not found among the dead. However, my man, Kryphon, was. I’m certain another of my mages also died in that city—I would certainly have found her by now if she were alive. This prince has now cost me, personally—and he will pay! There are still potent forces of rebellion here, and we cannot rest until the spark of mutiny has been quelled for good!”

  “Search again for the body of the usurper!” shrilled the king. “He must be here! Put out those fires—his body will be burned, and we’ll never find it!”

  “I tell you, he lives!” hissed the mage.

  “And I tell you you’re wrong!” shouted the king. He looked at the wisps of smoke rising from all quarters of Doncastle, at the bodies sprawled across the ground. His mind felt startlingly clear—and he hated what he saw.

  “Let them go,” argued the king. “We have taught them a lesson. We shall return to my palace, and there I will throw a festival such as Callidyrr has never seen.”

  “No, Your Majesty. We must—”

  “What did you say?” King Carrathal’s nose twitched slightly. “Did you say ‘no’ to me—your lord?”

  Cyndre cursed. Dark magic rose within him like the bubbling prelude to a volcanic eruption. His smooth voice cracked into a snarl.

  “You are a pitiful worm! Everything you have I have given you, and now you lack the gratitude to repay me or even the sense to see the wisdom of my words!”

  “I am king! You cannot speak to me that way! Now leave me—I shall give the orders to return to Callidyrr myself!”

  Black magic exploded from the mage, hissing invisibly around the monarch. The color drained from the king’s face. Then he slumped in his seat, his eyes open but glazed. Dumbly, he stared into the distance. The Crown of the Isles tipped forward, sliding across his face, and then fell heavily to the floor of the coach.

  “I shall give the order,” hissed the sorcerer. “And it will not be a return to your castle.”

  Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, ate his feasts and drank his draughts with growing impatience. Waiting for some word from his god, he amused himself by animating the bodies of the twelve druids who had fallen in the fight. Marching his undead army into ranks as separate companies, he placed the druid undead in command. Then he marched and countermarched the zombie and skeleton army across the grove of the Great Druid, trampling everything to mud.

  All the trees died, dropping their withered leaves to sink into the morass. Only the Moonwell and the twenty stone statues about it retained any semblance of purity.

  And then came the word of Bhaal, and Hobarth smiled at his deity’s instructions. He ordered the companies of undead to collect the bodies of their fallen comrades—those zombies and skeletons that had fallen under the defenders’ claws, weapons, or magic. The undead carried the bodies to the Moonwell and threw them in.

  Each twice-killed zombie hit the smooth water with an oily hiss, twitching and thrashing in a froth of bubbles until it disappeared. Each skeleton burst and cracked upon immersion in the sacred waters. And slowly death spread through the Moonwell, fading the pure light of its waters, warming the cool magic of the Earthmother. With each body added, the white waters faded, to gray, and then to sludgy brown. The light died, extinguished entirely.

  And the water turned black.

  he dwarves emerged from the wide cave mouth, tramping slowly into the light of the sun. Their bodies were bent from weariness, and their grizzled heads were bowed by their defeat. Finellen was the last one to emerge. The dark dwarves hated the sun, but she knew they would not be far behind in pursuit of an ultimate victory.

  And this they could earn. The dwarven captain’s heart burned with pain as she looked at her warriors. The dwarves had formed into lines, awaiting their captain—but there were less than half of the original three hundred left.

  “Let’s find a place to finish it,” she said loudly enough for them all to hear. None of them had any illusions about their inevitable fate—the thousands of duergar that pursued them would not let them escape.

  The cave mouth was near the sea, on the western coast of Alaron. They stood upon a rocky headland with many jutting promontories. In some places, high cliffs dropped to the wavebeaten shore. Finellen did not immediately see a place to make her stand, so she turned to the weary dwarves again.

  “Let’s march!”

  Turning to the north, with the sea to their left, the ragged column began to trudge along the coast.

  The companions fled through the forest, following the path that Robyn created, for a day and a night before they rested. Then they collapsed in a dark grove of pines, haunted by the memories of the battle and the rout. For much of their flight, the screams of doomed and dying men had echoed through the woods behind them. They knew that the Scarlet Guard was pursuing the defeated army.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Daryth, removing his boots to rub his swollen feet. Pawldo and Fiona had already dropped off to sleep, but Robyn and Tristan sat up on a cushion of needles, resting their aching legs. Canthus stood alert at the edge of the grove.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said the prince, exhaustion plain in his voice. “Our only chance is to catch as many of the survivors as possible and try to rally them. We’ll need to find a town or a crossroads and wait there.”

  “We’ve made good time,” nodded the Calishite. “I’m sure we’ve outdistanced most of the men of Doncastle.”

  Tristan slumped onto his back. Their whole plan seemed so tenuous that he could not dispel a sense of defeat. But the plan was all they had.

  They rested for an hour before wearily climbing to their feet to resume the march. Before long th
ey found a track in the woods and followed it to the southwest. Another track joined it, and the primitive road led them into a wide glen in the forest. Here they found a little village surrounded by pastureland. The forest continued beyond, except to the north. There, a lowland of dead trees extended as far as they could see.

  “They’ve been flooded and drowned,” Robyn said sadly.

  They entered the tiny hamlet. A dozen thatch-roofed cottages clustered, amid their pastures, on the bank of a winding and placid stream. Robyn led the way up the muddy track.

  “Where is everybody?” wondered Pawldo. There was not a soul visible. Even the cattle were gone from the fields.

  Robyn stopped and listened. Tristan could hear nothing.

  “Look!” cried Fiona, pointing to the path from Dernall Forest. A file of men emerged, trudging wearily along the trail. The muddy, broken soldiers fell into the shade of the trees, collapsing in exhaustion. Steadily, the weary men of Doncastle reached the open ground and stopped to rest.

  But then a figure emerged from the forest who did not stoop, who did not march bowed by defeat and exhaustion.

  “Alexei!” cried the prince, running to meet the sorcerer.

  “It is good to see you all—alive,” said the mage. “Many were not so fortunate.”

  “O’Roarke?” asked Tristan.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s with the main band of his army.”

  “Where’s that? I thought they would gather here.”

  “The king’s army pursued swiftly,” explained Alexei, shaking his head. “Most of the men were forced southward. I think Cyndre wishes to push them out of the forest, where they can be found more easily.”

  “Where will they flee?” asked Robyn.

  “Who knows?” responded the mage, “Southward across the plain, or west to the coast.”

  “But the island is only so large,” Tristan said. “The king’s army will corner them eventually. They’ll be slaughtered like sheep! We have to bring them together again—make a stand somewhere.”

  Tristan turned to the assembly of stragglers. Many of them had been following the discussion with interest, but Tristan couldn’t read their faces. Would they follow him?

  “Men of Alaron!” he began. “Our cause is not lost. The goddess is with us, and the might of the king has been damaged. One of his most powerful sorcerers has joined our cause.

  “Rally with me! We’ll gather the forces of Doncastle together and create a plan. We will meet and defeat this king. It is not too late!”

  “Who are you, someone who wants to get us killed?” asked one man.

  “I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell!” he proclaimed. He saw surprise and interest in all too few faces.

  “Corwell?” snorted the speaker. “By what claim would you command men of Callidyrr?”

  “A claim valid for all of the Ffolk. A symbol of our past and future greatness—the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!” He drew the weapon swiftly and held it above his head. Rays of sunlight reflected from the silvery blade, flickering across the assembled men.

  A few more looked interested, but most still wore expressions of skepticism or distrust. The original speaker replied for them.

  “The stories are true, then—you carry the weapon of our greatest king. But still, we have no hope of standing against the Scarlet Guard!”

  “You—and I—stood against them well at the King’s Gate! It was only another man’s mistake that led to our defeat!”

  He wanted to rail against the men, threaten them—but he knew that tactic would only drive them away. Yet the defeat and exhaustion on their faces signified more than words how hopeless his task really was.

  “Look!” cried one of the men, leaping to his feet. They all turned to the north, and Tristan saw it too: a flash of crimson among the dead trees. More and more of the color appeared, and the prince instantly understood what was happening. A company of the Scarlet Guard had moved in an arc around the retreating humans and now moved toward Hickorydale to seal off this escape route.

  “The guard! Flee for your lives!” someone screamed hysterically, and the battered survivors stared in disbelief at their approaching nemesis. Several started for the woods.

  “Wait!” Robyn’s voice, strong and commanding, rang through the clearing. A gentle breeze ruffled her long hair, and she planted her hands on her hips.

  “I offer you a challenge—a chance to avenge your defeat!”

  “How?” demanded a burly swordsman. Dried blood was crusted on his shirt and arms.

  “If I can stop the king’s mercenaries—those,” she said, pointing to the approaching red line, “will you join us?”

  The swordsman laughed. “Sure.” Other men nodded, certain they couldn’t lose.

  Robyn turned and strode across the pasture just north of Hickorydale, until she reached the edge of the dead wood. The troops of the guard were several hundred yards away, advancing steadily in a neat, unbroken line. They pointed their spears before them—a bristling wall of steel death.

  The druid took the runestick from her beltpouch and ran her fingers across a portion of the shaft. She touched the runes reverently, holding the stick before her at arm’s length. Then she gestured broadly with it, as if marking a line along the edge of the trees.

  Tristan watched her, awestruck by her poise and confidence. The group of men stared as well. The prince watched their faces and saw looks ranging from disbelief and skepticism to blind faith and humble prayer.

  Then Robyn shouted. The sound carried clearly to the men, though the word she had spoken was unintelligible. The spearmen of the Scarlet Guard hastened their pace, advancing almost within throwing range of the druid.

  But they never got there.

  A sheet of orange flame sprang up from the ground along the edge of the dead forest. A slight breeze carried it into the trees, and the dry wood crackled into an instant inferno. The fire quickly devoured the edge of the woods and raced northward. The flames and smoke obscured the men of the guard, but the watchers knew that no men could live in that kind of furnace. The spearmen who did not flee to the north most assuredly died in the fire.

  The burly swordsman gave a cheer of triumph. “I’m a man of my word,” he said. “My sword is yours.”

  “Might as well die with friends as alone,” said another. A few more rose to their feet, followed by most of the rest. Only a dozen or so remained behind. The others, nearly a hundred strong, followed the prince and his companions away from Hickorydale and Dernall Forest toward a destination none of them knew.

  “I-I’m going back there—back there!” Yazilliclick announced suddenly. He sat on the grassy bank of a placid stream and looked up at Newt.

  “Back where?” asked the faerie dragon lazily. He lounged upon a tree limb that hung over the clear water.

  Newt was bored.

  “Come with me, Newt! Let’s find Robyn—Find Robyn!”

  “Find Robyn? That would be fun! Let’s go!”

  They drifted along through the vast forest, meandering slowly toward Doncastle. It was a full day later before they got close enough to tell that something was wrong.

  “S-smoke?” asked the sprite.

  “It sure smells, too! I bet Robyn didn’t like that much—a big fire stinking up the whole woods! Too bad we couldn’t have seen her—”

  Newt stopped in shock as they emerged from the trees.

  “W-where’s the town?” gasped Yazilliclick. “Where’s Robyn—Robyn?”

  The whole expanse before them was a blackened wasteland of ash and soot. Tendrils of smoke rose from several piles of charred wood. The Swanmay River, winding placidly through the midst of the desolation, was full of scorched garbage and bodies.

  “Come on!” cried Newt. “We’ve got to find her! I bet she’s in big trouble somewhere!”

  The two faeries raced with remarkable purpose across the wasteland and into the forest. They didn’t know where Robyn had gone, but they would look everywhere if they had to. F
or another day they buzzed hurriedly, discovering pockets of refugees from Doncastle and companies of the Scarlet Guard. But they found no sign of the druid or her friends.

  Finally, they reached the western edge of the forest. Before them rolled a belt of green moor, and they could see the gray waves of the Sea of Moonshae beyond.

  “We must have missed her—missed her! We have to go back and try again!” wailed the wood sprite.

  “Wait!” said Newt, looking carefully at the moor before them. “What’s that?” Before Yazilliclick could answer, the dragon darted from the trees toward the objects that were attracting his eye. Newt blinked into invisibility, and the sprite did the same as he reluctantly followed.

  They soon saw that these were creatures, but not the humans they were searching for. Yazilliclick wanted to turn back to the woods, but Newt kept going. “They look familiar—I know, they’re dwarves! I know lots of dwarves—they’re kind of sourpusses, but they can be fun!”

  The dejected sprite trailed along as Newt landed in front of the marching column. The dragon suddenly became visible, drawing a startled curse from the leading dwarf.

  “Hi, Finellen!” he chirped. “It’s me, Newt! Say, have you seen Robyn anywhere?”

  The band of rebels grew as it moved southwestward through the forest. They encountered many small groups of stragglers, and these willingly fell in with them when they saw the size of the large group. Robyn continued to open the path for them through the forest, and they traveled far more quickly than their pursuers.

  Tristan overheard some of the men who had joined them at Hickorydale recounting the tale of Robyn’s fire spell. The story grew grander each time, until according to the teller, an entire brigade of ogres had been routed.

  It pleased him to hear these boastful stories, and it made the men feel better as well. The morale of the entire group increased with each step and each new band of recruits.

  But finally they reached the edge of the forest, having been driven nearly to the coast by the knowledge that the Scarlet Guard was in pursuit. Tristan ordered a rest break, and the men collapsed on the grassy moor, still exchanging boasts. He saw that many of the men were unarmed, and he put them to work cutting and sharpening stakes. The makeshift spears would have to do.