He looked again at the monster. The yellow eyes stared back into his own, but the beast had not moved. It crouched between a tree and a rock, poised as if to spring. The tentacles, which he could see more clearly as dawn progressed, writhed and twitched like disfigured snakes along the cat’s back or over its head.
His first decision to make was, should it be a killing trap or a capturing trap? Killing, obviously. Or if the trap could not be ultimately fatal, it must at least smash the creature hard enough to allow Daryth to administer the coup de grace.
Next he must take stock of the tools at hand. He had Cat’s-Claw, of course, and the dagger, and rope … fire-starting tools, and trees, lots of trees. And there was the precipice, he reminded himself.
He thought about his selection for a moment and realized that the precipice seemed to offer the greatest chance of doing the cat harm, though, of course, if he could lure it under a large, leaning tree trunk, he could also hope to give it a sound thump.
The third consideration, the approach to the trap, did not offer ready inspiration. The woods here were open, and the little existing underbrush had withered and rotted away. The cat-creature could go between the trees wherever it pleased.
Neither did the cliff seem to offer an auspicious location for his trap. Though the rocky lip was sharp, nowhere did the ground slope down toward the precipice. Instead, it marched straight and level, right up to the very edge, which meant it would be difficult to get the monster to slide toward the drop.
He looked again at the creature, which still held that unblinking gaze. The monster watched the Calishite almost curiously now and seemed to be in no hurry to attack. Slowly Daryth climbed to his feet. He had to determine how mobile he could be.
A terrible aching throb exploded from his right foot when he tried to rest even a fraction of his weight on it. Wearily he leaned against the tree and slumped back to the ground. He would need a crutch for any movement at all.
He stretched to his right and reached the end of a stout stick that had fallen from a tree. Pulling it across his lap, he began hacking at it with his dagger, all the while watching the creature as it watched him. Soon he had cut off a short piece of branch, which he lashed across the end of the longer piece for an armrest.
Switching Cat’s-Claw to his left hand he climbed slowly to his feet, leaning his weight on the crutch. With an awkward hobble, he started moving away from the creature, determined to find a location that would provide him with his trap.
His foot continued to throb, but the pain had become a fact of life, and he no longer took special note of it. He hopped for several steps, then leaned against a tree as he suddenly grew dizzy.
And then the monster made its first audible footfall, directly behind the Calishite. Daryth whirled in shock, dropping his crutch and transferring Cat’s-Claw into his right hand. The creature had bounded a hundred feet or more in mere seconds! Now it snarled savagely, only a few paces away.
Daryth firmly anchored his back against the tree, feeling the rotten bark peel away under his weight. He hefted the scimitar in both of his hands and stared the creature full in the face. He felt no fear of the thing, just a cold anger that, like his pain, seemed more a fact of life than a raging emotion.
The cat-beast came closer, creeping a pace at a time. The shiny black body crouched as if it prepared to spring after each slithering step. With repugnance, Daryth saw the suction cups lining the leathery tentacles. The moist lips of each flexed and pursed as if seeking contact with the flesh of their victim.
The Calishite took no notice of the sun, which at last broke through the morning haze as it crested the ridge across the valley. Though the woods remained shrouded in fog, the small area on top of the cliff stood outlined clearly in yellow sunshine.
A deep, heart-stopping growl rumbled from the creature’s cavernous chest, but even this awful sound could no longer bring a tremor to Daryth’s hand. He carefully studied the approach of the monster, marshaling his strength, planning his blow.
Staring at the center of the monster’s forehead, he concentrated on the placement of his weapon. He doubted that he would have a second chance, but if his first blow could somehow puncture the bone there, driving into that wicked brain …
Smoothly he raised the scimitar, but not so high that the creature could slash in under his guard. The cat came on with no apparent fear, creeping almost to within his range without springing. Each breath the beast took now was a prolonged and rumbling growl.
Suddenly Daryth struck. The silver blade sliced downward faster than a mortal eye could follow, straight and true toward its target. All the muscle in the Calishite’s shoulders and arms, and all of the skill in his heart and mind, poured into that one blow.
The blade fell true, striking exactly at the point of aim, but it passed straight through the point, and the air beneath it, to crash harmlessly into the ground. His already precarious balance gone, Daryth pitched forward and fell on top of the blade.
There was nothing there! He whirled into a sitting position and reached out to touch the image of the monster, squatting beside him and glaring balefully. His hand passed right through the sleek black side, and he knew the creature there was nothing but air!
Then the monster snarled again, and the sound brought a chill of horror to Daryth’s spine. The snarl came from behind him! In an instant, Daryth understood the nature of the beast. This was a creature that appeared to be in one place but was actually somewhere else! Daryth’s blow had been strong and true, at the image of the beast, while the beast itself crouched behind his unprotected back!
An electric surge of alarm propelled Daryth into a crablike scramble to the side. Even as he moved, he felt the thump of a great body landing beside him, smelled the pungent scent suggestive of a great panther, somehow corrupted.
The Calishite whirled on the ground, ignoring the pain from his wound. His hand came up, Cat’s-Claw gleaming, and then the blade bit into something fleshy and muscular. The monster shrieked, an exaggerated feline cry of pain and rage. Its image, now beside Daryth, recoiled several feet at the same time as the man heard the beast retreat before him.
The jolt of energy gave him strength to stand and once more Cat’s-Claw darted forward. The blade whistled through the air, striking nothing, but on its lightning backstroke, Daryth again found blood.
His frenzy continued unabated as he pressed the battle against the ungodly beast, shrewdly estimating its true location before each silver slash. The monster recoiled, stunned by the savage attacks, but it quickly recovered.
A lashing tentacle wrapped both Daryth’s legs in a snakelike embrace, pulling him to the side as it twirled around him again and again. He raised Cat’s-Claw, taking aim at the thing from feel since he could not see the tentacle that imprisoned him.
But then the other tentacle wrapped tightly around his neck and his mouth. It jerked his head backward, and he gasped loudly as the air exploded from his lungs. The moist, sucking cups fastened themselves to his face, and he couldn’t draw a breath. Suffocating, he squirmed fruitlessly in the grasp of the beast.
Then his heart was gone, torn from his ribs in a single crushing bite. And with it went his life.
“The North Cape! Home!”
The cry of the lookout brought Grunnarch the Red racing to the bow. He stood behind the proud figurehead and let his eyes bathe in the view. The fir forests of coastal Norland gave the strip of land a green and lively cast, especially when compared to the unrelieved gray across the Sea of Moonshae.
Always the autumn homecoming was a time of reverence and thanks for the Red King, but this year the feeling struck him as especially profound. There would be great wailing in the lodges tonight as the cost of this mission—a ship and a full crew—became known.
This weight did not bear as heavily on his shoulders as it would have in years past, however, for this year he brought back a thing he had never found on a raid before. Always he returned with plunder, sometimes with slaves,
and ever leaving new enemies behind.
But now, for the first time, Grunnarch the Red returned from a raid with an alliance. The news would be greeted with mixed emotions by his people, he knew, but he was enough of a leader to make them understand the properness and usefulness of the move.
He watched his steersman take the sleek vessel around the rocky prominence of North Cape and into the Bay of Norland. His own town lay on the shore, dead ahead, and he could already see the signal fires sending the message of their approach from the cape to the town. His people, and his woman, would quickly gather and be waiting for him on the docks.
Ingra would understand. The Ffolk didn’t have to be the enemy! And with her help, he could make the rest of his people understand and accept.
The longship pulled alongside the stone quay just before dark. As he had suspected, a silent throng had gathered there. Eighty men and two ships had embarked from this same quay seven months earlier. Now only half of those men returned, and many voices from the crowd were raised in grief. The Red King ignored the wailing of the women as he stepped proudly down the plank.
Ingra stepped forward to greet him, and he swept her into his arms, relishing again the feel of her softness. She did not weep, for it did not befit the wife of a king to display her emotions in public, but he could sense her relief as he held her.
And then he set her down and turned to look at the faces of his countrymen and women. They looked back with a mixture of hope and apprehension as he spread his arms to the sides and allowed his voice to boom across the waterfront.
“Summon the fathers of the tribes! I will meet the chieftains of Norland in my lodge five nights hence! I am calling a Council of Winternight! We return laden with treasure, and those families that have lost their men shall be cared for. The remainder shall be divided at the council!”
And with this news, he dispersed his people, planting seeds of hope and curiosity. A Council of Winternight was a rare meeting, for travel over Norland this late in the season was a hazardous affair.
The northmen understood that a matter of great import would be discussed, and they sensed correctly that their king was not about to tell them what it was.
But word went out to the hill villages and to the towns along the coast. The fathers of the tribes packed for the journey, and by longship or by horse, they began to make their way to Norland to the lodge of their king.
Four figures moved cautiously forward, leaving the scant shelter of the dead forest. They crept across a field of brown mud, toward a black circle of water. Each of them was shrouded beneath a thick fur cloak, though their arms swung easily outside the garments. Two of them carried slender swords, while the others were not visibly armed.
One of the figures gestured to another, the smallest of the band, and the latter paused. A strand of blond hair fell from the fur hood as the slender form gestured angrily. Wide brown eyes glared from the depths of the garment. At last, with obvious reluctance, it turned back to the woods and took shelter among the bleak trunks.
The trio approached the dark water, stepping between two white statues. One of them studied the stone image, the likeness of a young woman dressed in sturdy fighting garb. Then it turned back to join the two as they came to the very shore of the water.
Come closer … a little closer. Bhaal willed the strangers to advance, to touch the water. The god longed to reach forth and strike them down, but he lacked the physical means to push himself beyond the surface of the water, so he must wait for the victims to come to him.
Bhaal sensed that these were ancient beings of enchantment and peace. Vibrant and very humanlike, they were nonetheless not human. Their souls were more lyrical than the rough spirituality of humanity, and the dark god sensed that they would taste very sweet.
Finally one of the figures knelt and reached forward, extending slender fingers to the water’s surface.
Immediately the blue light exploded upward, hissing and crackling as it outlined the suddenly rigid body. The light sizzled through the air to strike the second, then the third figure. The silver swords blackened, and the fur burned from the hoods and cloaks of the victims.
Then the fire faded, and the three figures stood scarred and misshapen, killed but not truly dead. The shells of their bodies shuffled slowly around the rim of the well, taking up stations as Bhaal’s sentries. He did not hear the fourth figure scream, nor did he see it turn and flee from the well.
The god was satisfied for now, but the frustration of waiting for the victims’ approach still irritated him. The physical location of the Darkwell began to seem a closed door rather than an opened window. And as Bhaal drained more of the Earthmother’s might, turning that power to his own purposes, he longed to take more of a role in his machinations.
He would have to find some way to project himself beyond this watery veil.
Tristan awakened with a jolt of alarm. He sprang from his bedroll, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh gleaming in his hand, and dropped into a fighting crouch as he looked around for the source of his fear. Before he came fully awake, he would have disemboweled any intruder.
But all he saw was the dim gray light of an overcast dawn and the sleepy figures of his companions, stirring in their own bedrolls. Tavish, on guard duty, leaned against a tree and regarded him with raised eyebrows.
“Jumpy this morning, sire? Indeed, you slept poorly. I’ve seen dancers that moved less and singers more quiet than you were in your sleep.”
“Yes … jumpy,” he agreed ruefully, looking at the ghastly woods and its supernatural cloak of fog. “But with good cause, it would seem. Did Daryth ever return?”
“No, sire,” said the bard, growing suddenly somber. “I’m worried.”
“So am I,” muttered the king. A gnawing dread tugged at his subconscious. “I’ll put Canthus on his trail. We’ll find him. That forest is no place for a man to be alone.”
“The sight of it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine,” agreed the bard. “Though the lonesomeness is relieved some by your rising. The last hour before dawn, now there was a time I kept a nervous eye over my shoulder!”
“It’s not the hour,” interjected Robyn, stepping into the clearing. She had slept several paces off. “It’s the place.”
“Myrloch Vale?” asked Tristan.
“Myrloch Vale now, as it has changed. The valley has been taken over by some evil of vast power—more awful than that lone cleric, certainly. Perhaps he is in direct contact with his god.
“The dark force must be centered in the grove of the Great Druid, for that is the matrix through which flows control of the entire vale.”
“And that, also, is where the druids remain entrapped in stone?” asked the bard.
“Yes. I intend to go there and break the power of this god!”
Tristan immediately wondered how Robyn planned to do this, but he dared not ask her. Tavish, too, seemed curious for more details, but she settled for a shrug of her broad shoulders. “Well, I’m in till the end this time. I’ve a hunch I missed some great ballad material when I left you on Callidyrr!”
“I’m famished!” Pawldo’s voice emerged from the depths of his bedroll. “I’ll have three goose eggs, turned oh-so-very easy.”
“Eggs? There must be bacon, too … and cakes. Let’s eat!” Newt lifted his head from beneath the saddle that had served as his tent.
“Cold bread,” said the king, suddenly irritated by his companions’ good humor. “And we’ll hit the trail in ten minutes.” Tristan stretched his stiff muscles as he slid the chain mail over his shoulders. Even the heavy wool padding did not prevent the chill of the iron links from penetrating to his skin.
He saddled Avalon, then lifted Daryth’s saddle to the back of the Calishite’s frisky chestnut mare. There he met Robyn as she brought their friend’s bedroll to be lashed onto the horse.
“Daryth went down the trail last night, farther into the vale,” he explained. “I want to put Canthus on his trail. If he’s strayed from
our path, I’ll try to find him. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“By all means,” she agreed. “But we shall all go.” She looked at him without anger. “Our first priority must be to find him.”
By the time they had packed their meager camp, Tristan had located the Calishite’s trail and shown it to Canthus. The moorhound immediately grasped his master’s meaning and started along the path at an easy lope, his nose held inches off the ground.
Tristan, atop Avalon, rode behind the moorhound. Robyn, on Daryth’s mare, came next. Newt also rode the mare, perched possessively on the saddlehorn before the druid, while Yazilliclick rode in front of the king on Avalon. Pawldo and Tavish brought up the rear.
The horses broke into a slow trot, unimpeded by any underbrush in the dead forest. The trees here had once been lofty pines, but now each was a bleak spire, prickly with the brittle array of its dead branches and surrounded by a small heap of rotting needles. Their path, a former game trail, meandered among these trunks, then gradually left the hill country and entered the bottomland of Myrloch Vale itself.
Tristan put a hand on Yazilliclick’s tiny shoulder to steady the sprite as the horse took them over a rough part of the trail. He took care to avoid crushing his companion’s frail butterfly wings, but nevertheless he noticed the faerie’s body trembling under his touch.
“What is it, Yaz?” he asked, leaning forward and speaking softly.
“It—it’s this!” squeaked the faerie, gesturing around them in despair. “Of all the places in the world—the world, this one here, the v-vale, was the closest to F-Faerie! And now it’s all dead—all dead!”
“Faerie? I’ve heard it’s a magical place, unlike any other realm. Is that so?”
“Oh, y-yes!” Yazilliclick brightened perceptibly. “It has b-beauty and magic—and a w-wonderful peacefulness!”
Darkwell Page 12
