The lord’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, to the heavy oak mantle. The silvery glow of the Crown of the Isles caught his pupils, illuminating them unnaturally.
“I will consider what to do when the king fails to return only if he fails to return. Are you suggesting that a tenday’s absence is sufficient cause for usurping the throne?”
“Of course not,” Pontswain soothed. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Good night, sir,” snapped Randolph. “And I’ll thank you to wonder about something else.” The captain stalked out of the hall, but he could not shake a vague sense of disquiet.
“What if he doesn’t return, indeed?”
Yazilliclick shivered in the growing storm and settled to the ground in the shelter of a gaunt and skeletal tree. Where had everybody gone? Why didn’t they come back and find him? The sprite had tried to fly after the others, but the wind had blown so forcefully that he had little control over his course. So now he sat and watched the snow settle on his wings and cover his legs.
The sprite shook more from the effects of loneliness and fear than from cold. Though dressed only in the leafy green tunic and leggings that were his permanent and sole garments, he—like most creatures of Faerie—did not suffer extremely from the ravages of weather.
But flight was another thing. Yazilliclick was a strong and steady flier, but he weighed very little. Flying against the wind was always a challenge, and he had no chance at all of making progress into the teeth of this northern gale. Plus he still carried the wineskin that Tavish had given him before they started out, when he had asked to help. That dragged him down still more, and now his friends had all forgotten him!
Certainly Newt should have noticed his absence, shouldn’t he? The two creatures, both with roots in Faerie, had developed a deep friendship that was as close as two such flighty creatures could come to love. But even the faerie dragon had elected to continue on with his more mundane companions.
The sprite’s shoulders hunched and shook as he wept. His antennae wobbled, and great, round tears rolled to the tip of his pointed nose. There they gathered, one on top of the next, until a small icicle had formed, growing until Yazilliclick sneezed it away.
Well, he had to do something. The sprite got to his feet and started trudging through the snow toward the north. He dreamed wistfully of happier times, times spent in Myrloch Vale when this was a living and pastoral place, and even more distant times spent in the realm of Faerie itself.
Ah, Faerie! Now, there was a land for the likes of a sprite, or a faerie dragon, or a pixie—or indeed any of the myriad creatures who originated in that place of magic and beauty. Yazilliclick, plodding through snow piled higher than his knees, lost himself in reverie.
Faerie was a distant land far from the Realms, but in some respects it was very near. He remembered making the journey from his homeland to the Moonshaes. It had simply been a matter of stepping into a narrow crack in a mossy tree trunk and popping out the other side in Myrloch Vale.
He, like many of his brethren, had stayed in this world. Perhaps he had not been able to find his way back, or perhaps he had not wanted to return. Certainly he had never spent much time looking for a gate back to Faerie, for there had always been so much to do here. Then, of course, he had played with the other sprites of the vale, and taunted the pixies, and followed the dryads. In those days, Myrloch Vale had been a place so much like Faerie that it seemed as if he and his kind belonged here.
Now, of course, things had changed. In fact, for the first time, he wondered what had become of the pixies and sprites and other faerie creatures of the vale. Had they returned home, leaving him here alone? Or had they all been killed by the monsters and the evil cleric?
That thought was too horrible to contemplate, and so he didn’t. Instead, his mind returned to the awful, miserable present, to the snow that now reached his waist, and the biting wind that stretched his wings behind him, and this depressing vista of death and decay that even the white snow could not conceal completely. There, like that looming dead tree stump before him, with the ugly crack down the side. He could see the places where moss had fallen away from the stump, leaving only ghastly barren patches of rotting wood.
And then the crack widened and a great, clawed hand reached out to grab the sprite by the tunic. It pulled, Yazilliclick squealed once, and then he was gone.
“What was that?” Tristan sat bolt upright, wide awake and already drawing his sword. Again he heard the rumbling, and he felt the unmistakable shaking of the ground beneath him.
“Cave-in!” Robyn jumped to her feet and looked around. For a moment, all was still, and then another distant rumble shook the earth.
“Yipes! Who did that?” Newt demanded.
“Everyone outside!” shouted the king. “Hurry!”
“Where’s Pawldo?” Tavish gathered her possessions and noticed the halfling’s empty bedroll.
“He took over the watch when I went to bed. He’s got to be around here somewhere!” Tristan lifted a glowing brand from the fire and swirled it in the air until it blazed into flame. Then he looked around the chamber as the others gathered their things. “Pawldo? Where are you?” For several moments, they froze and listened, but the stronghold mocked their ears with complete silence. At least the rumbling had stopped again.
“Let’s have a look around,” suggested the king. “He might be hurt.”
A quick search of their chamber and the adjacent passages revealed no sign of the halfling. Though the rumbling did not resume, Tristan had grave doubts as to the security of their shelter.
“Everyone go outside. I’ll take Canthus and see if he can follow Pawldo’s trail. We’ll join you as soon as we can, but it’s not safe for all of us to remain in here.”
“You’d better take Yak with you,” argued Tavish. “He’ll be able to move rocks and stuff out of your way. And that means you’ll have to take me, ’cause I’m the only one he listens to!”
“I’m coming, too,” said Robyn quickly. “There’s no sense in breaking up the group still further. Besides, things seem to have settled down.”
“For now.” Tristan was tempted to argue with them, but he knew that would be fruitless. “All right.” He turned to the great moorhound. “Canthus, find Pawldo. Where’s Pawldo?”
The moorhound looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then his ears pricked up excitedly. He bounded around the chamber, his nose to the floor, and then he started down the tunnel that led toward the heart of the firbolg stronghold.
Robyn and Tavish each grabbed a torch and followed the king in a flickering procession through the darkness. Canthus leaped ahead, then waited until the humans caught him before bounding ahead once again. Newt hovered over the dog.
It seemed like a long time as they pushed deeper into the ruined lair. Fortunately no new rumbles disturbed the silence, but neither was there any sign of the halfling. They had only their faith in the moorhound’s keen nose to convince them they were on the right path.
“What could he be up to?” wondered Tristan as Robyn came up behind him.
“I think I know. Remember the gold and jewels, all that wealth that we left in here when we fled? I suspect he’s gone back after it.”
Tristan groaned. “Of course! I should have known he’d do that! Why didn’t I think of it?”
“You can’t think of everything.” Robyn touched his arm and as always, the pressure of her hand upon him calmed his nerves and cooled his judgment.
Suddenly Canthus stopped before a huge pile of rubble. With a soft whine, he started pawing loose rocks and broken pieces of timber out of the way. The king dropped to his knees beside him and started pulling more wreckage aside.
“Pawldo? Are you there?”
The voice that responded was faint but was unmistakably the halfling’s. “Help! I’m stuck!”
Tristan’s heart leaped at the sound. Pawldo was alive! “Wait’ll we get you out! I’ll strangle you! What kind of a prank
is this?”
“I’ll let you strangle me! Just get me out of here!”
The king heard the strumming of the lute behind him and looked up to see the firbolg leaning curiously over him. “Yak dig.”
“Yes!” gasped Tristan, already exhausted. He sat against the tunnel wall. “Yak dig!”
The giant pulled a heavy beam out of the way, then roughly shouldered several boulders aside. He reached a brawny paw into the rubble and pulled roughly.
“Ouch! My neck! Hey, that hurts! Urf!” Yak ignored Pawldo’s protests as his shoulders tensed. Tristan imagined he heard a popping sound as Pawldo suddenly burst from the pile of rubble.
Yak held Pawldo by the scruff of his neck, lifting him up so that the others could see. The giant’s face was split by a wide grin. “Look! Yak find Pawll-do! Hi, Pawll-do!”
“Put me down, you behemoth! … There, that’s better.” The halfling cleared his throat a few times and dusted himself off before glancing sheepishly at his friends.
“Uh, thanks, everybody. I’m, uh, sorry about all this, but I didn’t know the place was going to collapse just because I moved a stupid board! Besides, I, uh, I wanted to explore the ruins a little—”
“Explore my eye!” exclaimed Robyn with a scowl. “You went looking for the treasure room, didn’t you?”
“And I found it, too! Except someone else had been there first—they cleaned out everything!”
“Everything?” The druid eyed him shrewdly.
“Well, just about everything. I did sort of find a few things … nothing too great. There’s this—” Pawldo reached into his pouch and pulled out the medallion, its ruby heart scintillating in the torchlight.
Robyn gasped and seized the golden talisman, though Pawldo kept a tight grip on the chain. “This is the same symbol that marked the Scrolls of Arcanus! It’s the sign of the goddess, the one called Chauntea.”
Pawldo grimaced but relaxed his hold on the chain. “Well, if you know what it is and all, and you came to rescue me, I suppose you should have it. Is it magical?”
Robyn took the talisman and held it up, examining it in the flickering light. “I don’t know. But it’s certainly sacred to followers of Chauntea. Thank you. I shall keep it with the scrolls.”
“Why don’t you wear it?” suggested Tavish.
Robyn looked startled. “No! I couldn’t! It wouldn’t be right, or proper …”
“I know of this Chauntea,” persisted the bard. “She is a great and powerful goddess, worshiped throughout the Realms. She is a goddess of growth and life, plants and animals, and nature. Is that so different from the great mother?”
Robyn shook her head reluctantly, and the bard continued. “Now, a matter of faith is a thing you must decide in your heart, but you have told us that the goddess has grown so weak that you cannot hear her answer your prayers. Nor can she restore your spells. Surely she would welcome the help of another goddess, one of great power and similar beliefs, if it will aid us on our quest!
“And a clerical talisman of such great value must indeed be a thing of power. Perhaps the symbol of Chauntea could work to our benefit. She is certain to despise and resist the presence of evil around us!”
“Perhaps,” wavered the druid. “But—”
“And didn’t you cast a spell of Chauntea, from the scroll, to travel here?” asked the king. “Might not wearing the medallion aid in the use of the other scrolls—perhaps even to free the druids?”
“Very well. I shall wear it.” Robyn lifted the golden chain over her head, lifting her long hair out of the way so that it settled around her neck. The medallion itself, the shining crimson rose centered in the golden image of the sun, came to rest between her breasts, glowing warmly.
“I also found these. I don’t know what good they are—they’re kind of busted up—but I took them anyway.” Now the halfling produced the battered spectacles, dust-covered and cracked. “I figured that since they were in the treasure room, they must be something valuable.”
“Let me see those,” said the bard. She took the glasses and held them up to her face, perching them on her nose. They tilted at an awkward angle, since the left temple was missing. The lens over her right eye was marred by a spiderweb pattern of cracks, but Tavish squinted comically and looked around.
“They don’t do much for me … kind of hurt my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t know why they would have been stored with the other valuables. Maybe that’s why they were left behind.” She removed the glasses and offered them to Tristan, but the king had turned back to the halfling.
Pawldo squirmed awkwardly as the others examined the glasses. Finally he spoke again. “There was—that is, there is—uh, one more thing. It was under a beam.”
Hesitantly he reached into his pouch and pulled forth the fat gem. In the torchlight, they could all see the unmistakable glimmering of its many facets.
“A diamond!” gasped the halfling, surprising himself.
“It’s huge!” murmured Tavish, leaning close to examine it, though she did not attempt to remove the stone from Pawldo’s fingers.
“I guess, since you all went to the trouble of getting me out of there, this really belongs to all of us,” admitted the halfling. “I’ll hang on to it for safekeeping, but when I can sell it, we’ll each get a share.”
Tristan hid his surprise, but he looked at his old companion through new eyes. The avaricious halfling had accumulated quite a hoard over the years, but this was the first time the king had ever heard him offer to share any of it.
“Well, at least we’ve discovered a way out of here by which we might be able to avoid a confrontation with the deathbirds,” said Tavish.
The others looked at her in amazement.
“What are you talking about?” asked Tristan.
“Why, over there … where the light is coming from. Hey, where did it go?” Tavish looked in amazement up a side tunnel. “I swear I saw daylight in that tunnel, just a minute ago … Wait a minute!” The bard, excited, put the spectacles back on her face and looked up the passage. “Yes, I can see it! We just have to go around a corner or two, and there’s a shaft of light coming through the roof! We can get out there!”
“You’re looking around the corners?” asked the king, incredulous. Nevertheless, they followed the bard as she quickly led them up the passage and through a winding corridor that connected to it until they reached a hole in the ceiling. They stood in a circle, looking up at a glowering patch of gray cloud, unmistakably outside the lair.
Kamerynn held to the trail of his quarry through the growing might of the winter storm. Even when the ground upon which the hateful thing had walked became buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, the spoor of evil lay like an obscene snake across the earth.
The unicorn never hesitated nor wavered from his mission. He sensed that the killing of the thing he followed would not bring back the world he had known, would not free his beloved druids from their stony prisons. But he sensed that killing this creature was something he could do, and that had become all-important.
The trail entered the Fens of the Fallon, a region Kamerynn had rarely trod before. But now he charged forward, wading through the freezing water and boldly forcing his way through the entwining foliage. The proud spire of his horn remained upthrust before him.
Finally Kamerynn sensed the presence of the thing itself, and for the first time, he hesitated. His nostrils dilated as he searched the air, seeking confirmation of the awareness that seemed to penetrate directly to the depths of his soul. A great darkness lurked nearby, and all the unicorn’s senses urged attack.
His mind, however, counseled caution, and so he slowed to a deliberate walk, facing the blustering wind, still holding his head high. He approached a great dead tree, its huge root cluster rising before him like the gaping maw of a hungry dragon, and he knew he had found his enemy.
The beast exploded from its shelter in a snarling attack of yellow eyes and long, drooling teeth. Sharp claws r
aked the unicorn’s flanks as Kamerynn’s hooves lashed out, driving the monster backward. The creature crouched on the ground before him and then sprang again.
Wiry tentacles lashed out toward the unicorn’s flanks, but he skipped aside. Kamerynn reared and kicked again, but he missed the lightning-quick body of his foe. Driving his horn downward, the proud animal thrust. Kamerynn struck only air, but at the same time he heard the clamping of mighty jaws behind him. His sudden attack had thrown off the cat-beast’s aim.
Once more the horn missed the black pelt, and the unicorn’s blood streaked his snowy flanks. Kamerynn reared backward, crying out a shrill challenge as he fought on.
It was a fight that could only end in the death of one of the combatants.
nd now we shall turn to Corwell.”
“Such is the will of Bhaal!” Ysalla nodded her head, the yellow skullspines bobbing in agreement. “But first my people shall have their feast and their celebration.”
“But we must make haste!” Hobarth, hissing in the language of the sahuagin, argued. He himself had already gathered a hefty sack of gold coins, not so much for his own use—Hobarth had little need of material wealth—but because he thought it might prove useful in furthering the plan of Bhaal.
“You make haste, human. We have won a great victory, a battle we have fought for the spoils. You shall not cheat us of those spoils.”
The cleric looked at the high priestess, surrounded by a rank of her own sahuagin clerics, and knew that further argument was pointless. “Very well. I shall await you at the mouth of the bay.”
Hobarth was not a gentle man, nor was he burdened with a surplus of kindness, but the “celebration” of the victorious sahuagin was a thing he had little stomach for. The sheer scale of the massacre could not help but raise glimmers of doubt and fear in his almost inhuman psyche.
Not, of course, that he would mourn the deaths of the many men, women, and children of the north who fell beneath the Claws of the Deep. Their deaths had been willed by Bhaal, and as such, Hobarth’s role in bringing them about could not be questioned. These people were not necessarily enemies of Bhaal, but their existence was an inconvenience to his lord. Therefore their extermination should bring him joy.
Darkwell Page 20
