Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  But instead it raised the growing specter of fear in his soul. Bhaal’s aim, of course, was to make of Gwynneth an island of death, a monument to his inhuman evil. The fact that this massacre occurred on the much smaller neighboring island of Oman could be dismissed as a diversion, or a rehearsal for the annihilation of Corwell. That kingdom, of course, would be their next target.

  Yet for the first time, Hobarth wondered about his own role in his master’s plan. He had been a true and devoted cleric for all of his adult life, giving all of himself for the greater glory of his god. But soon Bhaal’s will would be done, and then what of Hobarth? If the god of death wanted no human life to mar his island, what would become of his unmistakably human cleric?

  Grimly Hobarth shook off these doubts. He had cast his die, and he would live—or perhaps perish—with the roll. Certainly he would hasten his own destruction if his master should suspect anything less than total obedience.

  Thus far, Bhaal should have no complaints. Hobarth’s earthquake spell, the most powerful of all his enchantments, had torn the wall from the Iron Keep. Exploiting the breach, hundreds of sahuagin had poured into the suddenly exposed castle. The dead of the sea had followed, lumbering up the steep slope and through the wide gap until the entire keep had been overrun.

  Now the animated corpses lolled senselessly about the battlefield, for they depended upon the commands of Ysalla’s clerics for movement or any other action. And those clerics were now, with the rest of the sahuagin, embarked upon a frenzy of killing, eating, and looting.

  This left Hobarth to worry about the next phase of the plan. Of course, it was irrational that he worry. The might of Bhaal had proven unstoppable thus far, and if the fishmen wished to revel in their victory for a night before embarking for Corwell, so be it.

  Still, Corwell was an ancient kingdom, protected not just by doughty warriors but by some kind of benign and supernatural force. Or so it seemed. The Beast, Kazgoroth, had not been able to break the might of the kingdom. Of course, Kazgoroth could not cast the earthquake spell, and his minions had been living, breathing warriors, capable of failures of morale.

  Nevertheless, Hobarth felt a strong sense of urgency, an urgency that was not shared by his allies. He took up a position at the mouth of Iron Bay, sitting upon a rocky promontory overlooking the scene of fire, chaos, and death below. He closed his eyes and prayed to Bhaal for a restoration of the spell he had cast during the battle. The recovery of the earthquake power would take most of the night, anyway, so he might as well put the time to good use.

  And as always, his god Bhaal heard him and answered his prayer.

  Snow spilled down the narrow hole, but the broken rock of the fallen ceiling had created a natural stairway. Tristan led the way, holding his sword in his right hand as he used his left to pull himself upward, out of the firbolg lair and onto the snow-covered ground.

  “It’s clear,” he whispered. “Come on!”

  He reached down to hoist Robyn to the ground beside him, and then the pair of them flanked the hole as Yak helped Tavish, Pawldo, and Canthus up. Newt popped out under his own power, and the firbolg had no difficulty lifting himself from the underground labyrinth.

  They emerged into a landscape of black and white—black where the trunks of the dead trees towered from the snow, stark against the gray sky, and white everywhere else. The snow had stopped falling, but the wintery blanket covered the ground to a depth of a foot or more.

  “The deathbirds are gone, or else they’re still watching the entrance. Let’s make some time!” Tristan started to move away from the ruins and suddenly stopped short. He looked up toward the gray sky, but the overcast gave no hint of the sun’s location. “Which way is north?” he wondered aloud.

  Robyn, directly behind him, looked around at the bleak forest. Tavish, meanwhile, pulled out the broken spectacles, perched them on her nose, and looked at the sky. “Just as I thought! These glasses let me see things as they really are! It’s really quite remarkable. For example, I can tell you that the sun is over there. That must be east, so north is that way!”

  “Seems as good a guess as any,” grunted the king. “To the north, then.”

  For several hours, they pushed across the snowy ground. Tristan led for a while before turning the lead over to Robyn. It proved much easier, in the snow, to follow in the exact steps of the leader, so after this they changed the order of march frequently and took turns breaking the deep snow.

  The warmth of their evening camp had revitalized all of them. Though they talked little, they made steady progress, and the firbolg lair fell quickly behind them. They saw no sign of the ghastly birds and began to hope that the predators had also been left behind.

  For Tristan, Daryth’s death still burned like a deep wound. His own part in it seemed an act of tremendous evil. But he was now convinced that the challenge before them offered him a way to absolve himself of that guilt.

  In most places, they walked among the gaunt trunks and tangled branches of the forested fen. The patches of land they encountered now seemed larger than those of the previous day.

  An unlikely benefit of the cold temperature became apparent the first time their path took them from one of the hummocks of land back into the wetlands of the fens. The cold temperatures had frozen the water, in most places creating a layer of ice thick enough to walk on. In these cases, they put Yak in the rear of the party, since the firbolg’s weight always caused the ice to give way. The rest of them made it across several such icy patches with little worse than an occasional wet foot.

  Tristan took over the lead after one such stretch, looking behind at the plainly visible path they left in the snow. “I hope those birds are too stupid to follow a trail,” he said to Robyn as she stood aside to let him pass.

  “I’m afraid not.” She pointed to the sky, and his heart sank as he saw a soaring shape wheeling just below the level of the low clouds. It was soon joined by another, then several more.

  “They’re pretty far away,” he said hopefully.

  “But I think they’re coming this way!”

  The king started breaking trail with a vengeance, as if he hoped they could outdistance the awful creatures, but more and more of the flock appeared in the sky. Though they did not chase the companions with any apparent urgency, it was clear to the companions that the deathbirds were getting closer.

  “What will we do once we’re past the fens?” asked Robyn, bringing up a question Tristan had avoided thinking about. “Can we stick to the forests and keep them off our heads there?”

  “I doubt it. The woods are too open to provide much of an obstacle. We might be forced to fight them,” said the king, without much hope. They all knew the odds of such a fight were grim.

  Right now he faced a more immediate problem, as he hacked a network of dead vines out of the way and pushed himself through a tangle of trees, only to stop short.

  “What do we do now?” he groaned, gesturing to the obstacle he had discovered.

  Before them, neatly bisecting their path, stretched a steep-sided gorge that had once been a riverbed. The bottom was only about twenty feet below them, but the smooth, rocky sides offered few promising handholds. Snow lined the bed of the gorge, revealing the tops of huge boulders. On the far side, they could see well beyond the fens, for the ground rolled away uninterrupted by trees or any other cover, descending gradually to the north. In the distance, unfrozen and dark, sprawled the polluted expanse of Myrloch.

  Yazilliclick squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the grip of massive claws on his shoulder and waited to be killed. And waited some more. Still nothing happened.

  He began, without peeking, to take stock of his surroundings. He could hear the deep, raspy breathing of some creature beside him. A warm, smoky smell filled the air, and he thought he detected the scent of meat roasting on a fire. Indeed, he could hear it sizzling.

  Against all his attempts to stifle it, his belly rumbled from hunger. Of course, he reminded himself, tha
t wouldn’t matter after this horrible beast had killed him. And still he waited, and still he wasn’t killed.

  Daringly he decided to sneak one eye open a tiny crack. He peeped from beneath the trembling lid and caught sight of a huge warty nose, flanked by a pair of beady eyes. A troll! Immediately he squeezed his eyes shut, and he once again waited to be killed.

  “Well? Why’d ya nock?” The gruff voice, propelled by a burst of unimaginably bad breath, rumbled in his ears. He didn’t dare move, or speak, or look, or anything.

  “Woke me up, ya did! Banging on the gate, you wuz—I heard ya!”

  “G-Gate?” The sprite dared another look at the thing. “Gate to what?”

  “Why, to Faerie! You is a stoopid one, ain’tcha?”

  “Y-Yes, I mean, n-no! I m-mean, I didn’t knock—didn’t knock. I am stupid, though. You’re right—right!”

  Yazilliclick looked up hesitantly at the troll again. The creature’s green skin was covered with warts, and it towered over the faerie, even as it squatted before him. In size, it nearly equaled a firbolg.

  It was much skinnier, however, with spindly arms and legs that looked awkward and frail. The sprite knew they were lined with supple sinews far stronger than any human’s, however. The great, hooked nose wagged menacingly at him, and those gleaming, incongruously tiny eyes fixed him with a baleful glare.

  “Did ya wants in or out? I kin pitch ya back out if ya wants!”

  “N-No! Y-Yes! N-Yes! I did wants—want—in! And you heard m-me! You’re a guardian troll, aren’t you? And this is a gate to Faerie—to Faerie!” Now the sprite opened his eyes wide. He wanted to leap up and hug the troll, but common sense suggested this might be a bad idea.

  “Bright fella, ain’tcha now? Course this is Faerie! An’ I’m a troll, ain’t I? An’ I’m guardin’ the gate, ain’t I? Whaddya think?”

  Bolder now, Yazilliclick looked around at the “gate.” It wasn’t much, really. It passed right through this troll’s earthen lair, but the sprite couldn’t even locate the exact spot he had entered. Of course, his eyes had been squeezed tightly shut, but it seemed he had been pulled through a tangle of roots growing from the dirt wall on the far side of the lair. Elsewhere, he saw a crude stone fireplace where a succulent piece of meat sizzled on a stick. A few clean-picked bones lay in a heap in one corner, and a heavy oaken door stood in the wall opposite the tangle of roots. He noticed a collection of jugs and kettles, all covered with filth and dirt, scattered around the room. Then he remembered the troll’s question.

  “What do I th-think? I think I’m h-home! I—I just wanted to come home so bad—so bad! And you must have h-heard me think about it. That’s it—that’s it! I didn’t even know there was a g-gate here!”

  “Didn’t know! Is you blind?”

  “B-Blind? I am not blind!” Yazilliclick became indignant. “It’s j-just that everything has changed so much out there that none of the gates even l-look like gates anymore! You should t-take a look at what you’re g-guarding sometime, then you’d s-see!” He gasped for air, unaccustomed to such long speeches.

  The troll chuckled. “You been gone a long time, not to see gate!”

  “Oh, I have—I have! And I’m never going away again—again! N-Now that I’m home, I’m going to stay r-right here!” And then Yazilliclick paused. For the first time since he had sensed his impending death, he thought of his friends. How were they faring in the desolate wasteland of the vale? The sprite knew that he couldn’t abandon them.

  “Kwitcher yakkin’,” groused the troll. “I is thirsty. Give me rotgut.” He pointed to a filthy jug of unknown origin and equally unknown contents.

  Now Yazilliclick’s terror had passed, and he knew he had to do something to help his friends. He began to develop an idea for doing so.

  “How’d you like some real g-good wine?”

  “You gots wine?” The troll was all ears.

  The sprite nodded solemnly. “A whole bottle, and I’ll g-give it to you—to you, for a small f-favor!”

  “What favor?” The troll’s eyes squinted even smaller. “Maybe I just take wine!”

  The sprite felt a flash of panic. “Y-You can’t! You’re a guardian troll—you told me—told me! And you’re sworn to help and p-protect those who come through your g-gate!” He hoped the troll had some sort of respect for the laws of Faerie.

  “Hmph!” But the troll made no move toward him. “What favor?”

  “W-Well, you must know where the gates are here in Faerie. Lot’s of ’em go to the vale—the vale! Can you take me to the others and help me find my f-friends?”

  The troll considered the offer, and soon his black tongue extended, licking his lips. “All right. First wine, then gates!”

  The sprite’s elation caused his hands to tremble as he reached into his pouch and pulled forth the bottle. He felt very proud of himself.

  “First w-wine, then g-gates!” Yazilliclick repeated. “I don’t m-mind if I have a little drink m-myself—myself!”

  Koll pushed on the great bronze door, half afraid he would find it locked. The other half of him feared what he would find inside. He still carried Gwen, who lay motionless in his arms, her eyes closed.

  But the massive portal swung silently open, revealing a huge hall lined with gleaming granite columns. Every surface was wet and gleaming. An array of windows circled the hall near the ceiling, their colorful panes of glass filtering the gray light of the outside world into a rainbow assortment of cheery hues.

  “By all the gods!” he whispered. “It’s a miracle!” He didn’t try to hide the sense of awe and wonder that held him rooted to the spot.

  “Hmmm?” Gwen’s eyelids fluttered open. “What is this place?” She twisted to see, and he set her down, supporting her with one of his arms as she stood weakly and looked around.

  “It could be that we’ve died,” Koll said.

  She shook her head with sudden vehemence. “No. We’re alive. And like you told me before, this place is real!”

  “Look … through that hall. You see the glow?”

  She followed his pointing finger and saw a rosy light flickering down one of the hallways leading from this vast chamber. “Let’s see what it is!”

  “No! Wait, there might be danger!” Koll’s heart pounded and sweat soaked his palms. He loathed the fear within him, but he could not banish it.

  “Nonsense! It seems perfectly cheery to me!” Gwen smiled, nodding at the warm light. “Let’s see what it is—please?”

  The woman led the way now, taking Koll’s hand and starting down the corridor. The passage was short and opened into a small room. They saw several bearskin rugs on the floor and assorted furniture—a couch, several wooden chairs, and a gleaming table—none of which appeared to have been disturbed by the presence of seawater in the room.

  But the most amazing feature of the chamber was the cheery blaze that greeted them from a huge fireplace. Several massive logs, carefully arranged, burned smoothly and evenly, showing no trace of the steam that should have hissed from wet wood.

  They sat on one of the rugs, soaking in the welcome warmth of the blaze. Already their clothes had begun to dry, and lifegiving heat once again seeped into their flesh and bones.

  “I give up trying to explain it,” muttered Koll. “Maybe this whole place will vanish in two minutes and plop us back into the ocean.”

  “No,” said Gwen firmly.

  “I hope you’re right. Even if you aren’t, I want you to know that, well, I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this.”

  “You saved my life. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  “If we are about to die, at least I have the comfort of spending my last moments with you.”

  Gwen smiled and leaned over to kiss him affectionately. Then the young woman shook her head. “I’m sure we have been saved for a reason—and not just to dunk us back into the sea! I don’t know who saved us or why, but I suspect we’ll find out soon.”

  And then they both froze
in shock. The feeling beneath them was unmistakable, and yet it seemed to defy explanation even more than the appearance of this citadel before them.

  For now the castle had begun to move!

  “The flock’s on our trail. I don’t think they’ve seen us yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Robyn balanced upon a limb of a desolate oak tree, looking back along their trail.

  “That’s all we need!” Tristan turned to look at the gorge, but he was fresh out of ideas. They could leap or climb down into the rocky gulch, of course, but they would be easily trapped when the deathbirds reached them. The terrain on the far side of the barrier offered no hope of concealment, either. They seemed to be trapped no matter what they did.

  “This was once a river not so very long ago,” said the druid, climbing down to stand beside him.

  “Too bad it isn’t anymore. Then all we’d need is a boat. We could float down the gorge a lot faster than we can walk through this stuff.”

  “I’ve got a boat!” Tavish offered. “Remember?”

  Tristan looked at her in surprise, then in remembrance as she pulled a narrow wooden box from her pack. “All I’ve got to do is say the word, and it’ll fold into as pretty a craft as you could wish.”

  “I do remember. I owe my life to you, and that boat, when you fished Daryth and me out of the Strait of Alaron.” Pawldo and Robyn nodded as well, for they had both heard the tale of Tavish’s marvelous folding boat. It was good-sized and a most seaworthy vessel that, upon the speaking of her word of command, folded into the compact box she now showed them.

  “It still doesn’t offer much help, with no water to put it in,” remarked Pawldo sourly.

  “I wonder …” Robyn paused, looking at the riverbed curiously. Impulsively she reached for the ivory scroll tube and removed the top. She pulled out a sheet of parchment, looked at it, and then pulled out another. Satisfied, she returned the first one to the tube and resealed it.