Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  Briefly Randolph recapitulated the fisherman’s story. “I’m worried,” he admitted after he finished. “I think we should take steps to prepare for a possible attack!”

  “Bah!” Pontswain waved away the suggestion with irritating casualness. “No doubt the drunken ravings of a man who has been at sea too long! And even if something did happen to the town, there’s no saying it didn’t happen over a year ago, during the Darkwalker War!”

  Randolph shook his head firmly. “There’s more to it than that. For one thing, the northmen did not attack their own towns during the war. And second, I saw that this man was genuinely afraid—worried enough to give us the warning!”

  “Probably hoped for some kind of reward.”

  “I think we should raise the militia and start a watch on the coasts. I intend to send out the summons this very afternoon!”

  “Wait a moment!” Pontswain stood and glared at the captain. “We share the rulership of the kingdom, remember? And I will not sanction a muster with winter approaching. Think of the cost, man!”

  Randolph clenched his teeth, biting back an angry reply. He knew that without the support of this influential lord, he could not expect the other cantrev lords to respond to his call for a muster. “We must do something! What if some unknown menace descends upon us now, gathering force while we do nothing?”

  “Well, then, you do something!” said Lord Pontswain. “Take a band of your guardsmen and investigate the report. See if we really have anything to worry about. I can tend to the needs of the kingdom while you’re gone.”

  The suggestion jangled a hundred alarm bells in Randolph’s brain. He could not trust the kingdom to the care of this ambitious lord even for a few days. But he still had to do something.

  “I will send scouts,” he decided. “If they bring proof of a threat, then will you agree to call the muster?”

  Pontswain shrugged. “Perhaps. Certainly if the proof is conclusive.” He tried unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment in Randolph’s decision to remain in Corwell.

  “Very well.” The captain turned on his heel and left the hall, frustrated by the lord’s lack of concern.

  Pontswain remained in the Great Hall for a few more minutes, sitting in the great chair and watching the fire. Then he got up and went to the mantle. As he had done a thousand times before, he examined the Crown of the Isles, relishing the sight of its golden frame, its elegant shape, and the small but perfect diamonds that gleamed from each of its eight points.

  What a shame, he thought, that it had been won by the wrong man.

  The muffled figure remained beside the wounded stallion for several days. The slender hands cleaned and then bandaged the grievous cuts, offering the horse handfuls of tender grains and then building a small fire to melt enough snow to offer Avalon a drink.

  It was fortunate indeed that the great horse had found this niche in the grotto wall. In any other position, the stallion would have been torn to pieces, but as it was, he had reached this shelter barely in time. Dragging himself, slashed and bleeding, into the narrow cut, he had saved himself from the attacks of the horrid predators. This, alone, was why he had survived the attack.

  But now it was the ministrations of the fur-cloaked stranger that kept the horse from perishing. Avalon ate a little food and drank a little water, and slowly the awful wounds began to heal.

  After a time, Avalon was ready to stand again, albeit unsteadily. The stallion dwarfed the slender figure as he gained his feet, stumbling from the niche into the open grotto. Slowly the horse regained his balance and learned to stand firmly on his bandaged legs.

  The stranger acted in the manner of one who knew horses, leading the stallion with a gentle hand on his neck or his muzzle, never pulling or startling the mighty steed. And after Avalon had regained his feet, the figure bade him walk and led him from the grotto, across the barren hilltop, into the dead forests of the vale.

  It led the stallion eastward, toward the fringe of Myrloch Vale, and Avalon followed it willingly, perhaps perceiving their destination. Or perhaps he understood the words of the stranger, when it finally spoke softly into the stallion’s ear. The voice was soft, speaking in light, musical tones.

  “Come, Avalon, this way. Let us go home.”

  Koll leaped to his feet as soon as he felt movement in the castle floor below him. “Come on! Let’s get out of here!” he cried.

  Gwen leaned back on the rug, the look of contentment on her face quite at odds with her companion’s agitation. “I think we’re perfectly safe,” she said with a sigh, “and I’m going to stay right here!”

  For a moment, the northman considered reaching down and sweeping the woman into his arms. Damn her blind naivete! He wanted to carry her to safety, but he admitted to himself that he didn’t know where safety lay. Koll’s heart pounded, thumping in his ears. Somehow he spoke without screaming.

  “Stay here, then, if you want to! I have to see if we’re sinking!” He sprinted through the corridor, back into the Great Hall with its shimmering stained glass, and out the great bronze doors into the courtyard.

  For a moment, he felt relieved. Water was not, as he had feared, pouring into the castle. It did not appear to be sinking back beneath the waves. Then he looked to the sky and saw the clouds sailing past the castle walls, appearing to move from the north to the south.

  Koll dashed across the courtyard and found a stairway leading to the parapet high above the wall. Scrambling up the steps three and four at a time, he stumbled onto the rampart and looked in disbelief at the water below.

  The castle wall, like the prow of some impossibly massive ship, plowed through the gray swells of the Sea of Moonshae, tossing up solid curtains of spray from each mountainous wave. The citadel moved across the surface of the water on a steady northerly course! He looked behind them and saw a broad, foaming wake in their path.

  “Am I mad?” he asked himself. After a moment’s reflection, he decided that the movement of the castle across the ocean did not seem any more improbable than its rising from the depths at the precise moment his boat had sailed above it. It all seemed impossible and unbelievable!

  He stood there for a long time, like the captain on the bridge of a massive warship, watching the gray swell rolling to the far horizons. Eventually he felt a presence beside him and turned to see that Gwen had joined him on the rampart. She took his hand and leaned against him.

  “It is a miracle,” she said. “The fire told me.”

  “What?” Koll turned to look full into her face, but he could see no trace of madness. In fact, she looked more confident and self-assured than he had ever seen her.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” she continued, laughing, “but the fire—I heard it talking to me while you were gone. It spoke with a woman’s voice. This is her castle, and she is—was—a queen of the Ffolk who died long ago. Queen Allisynn, bride of Cymrych Hugh.”

  “You know of her?”

  “Her husband was the great hero of my people, the first of our High Kings.”

  Koll was prepared to believe almost anything now, so the news that the fire had spoken to Gwen did not shake him. Some distant part of himself watched in amazement as he calmly discussed the issue. “And what did she say?”

  “She is taking us someplace where there is a task we must perform. I don’t know what it is, but it is important, and we are suited for it because I am a daughter of the Ffolk and you are a son of the North.”

  He turned back to the water, watching the gray waves roll past the castle walls. His seaman’s sense told him they sailed north, or perhaps just a little west of true north. He made a guess, based upon their course and his knowledge of the Moonshaes.

  “I believe she is taking us to Norland.” Koll pronounced.

  Tristan led the way, blindly driving himself along the bottom of the icy gorge, pulling his companions by the force of his rage. Savage images cavorted through his mind. He saw Canthus, drowned and dead, Daryth mauled beyond recognition. H
e pictured Yazilliclick frozen in the snow somewhere, Avalon torn and bleeding. He stared unwillingly at the image of the red-haired vixen sprawled naked on his bed and Robyn’s wounded face as she opened the door.

  I’m going to fail!

  The knowledge burned within him, steadily growing into an inferno of fury and threatening to consume him with its fire.

  I deserve to fail!

  He groaned aloud in his pain, unmindful of Robyn’s presence as she followed closely behind him. The others had fallen farther back, unable to maintain his punishing pace. Once he slipped on an icy patch of rock, falling heavily onto his side. The pain was a welcome thing, like a deserved punishment for his multitude of failures.

  He attacked the trail even more savagely then, leaping down treacherous, slippery expanses of rock, wedging his way between two boulders as if he would hurl them out of the way. Newt buzzed to his side, looking at him curiously, and the king swatted a hand at the faerie dragon with no more thought than he would have given to striking a bug. Hurt and confused, Newt retreated to accompany Tavish, Pawldo, and Yak.

  It was nearly dark by the time they reached a sloping portion of the gorge wall, a place where they could at last climb out of the riverbed that threatened to become a trap. Tristan scrambled up the steep slope, slipping and losing his balance several times as Robyn struggled to stay close. She feared for him, but she dared not interfere.

  At the top of the gorge, Tristan started immediately to the north, ignoring the plight of his companions. Yak stayed to help Tavish and Pawldo, both of whom were shivering and exhausted, while Robyn struggled to keep up with the possessed king.

  The land above the gorge was barren of trees and gently rolling. It descended toward Myrloch through a series of broad ridges, each of which was bare and snow-covered. At one time, these would have been meadows replete with flowers and bees, but now their very smoothness added to the aura of death.

  “Tristan! Stop!” Robyn cried finally, as her own strength began to fail. She stumbled after him, afraid she would fall and that he would continue on, vanishing into the dead vale forever.

  But he paused, shaking his head as if trying to awaken from a deep and troubled sleep. As she caught up to him, she saw that he wept like a baby.

  For a time, she held him in her arms, willing him to exhaust his grief. She said nothing, hoping that the reassuring embrace would calm him. An ironic image of the maid in his bed came to her, and she stifled an urge to push him away angrily. Suddenly she wanted to hurl his treachery in his face, to remind him of his betrayal.

  But instead she held him, wishing him comfort, even wishing that she could forgive him and forget her pain. This she could not do.

  He shook his head again and leaned back, looking at her with red, bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he moaned. “By the goddess, I wish you knew how sorry I am!”

  “Be quiet,” she whispered, pulling him close again. “We need you now! Don’t do this to yourself!” She reminded herself of the mission, of their need for Tristan’s leadership and his sword. Those things were every bit as important as her own power, and she told herself that it was for their sake that she consoled the king. Her king.

  “What can I do? Everything comes to failure and death! How many more of you will I kill today?”

  “You haven’t killed any of us! Your strength, your mind, and your sword have done nothing but help to keep us alive! Don’t let us down now. We need your help more than ever!”

  He looked up, as if a thick fog had parted before him, and saw Tavish stumbling toward them, followed by Yak. The giant carried the shivering halfling in his arms, and Newt was perched on his broad shoulder.

  “We’ve got to camp before dark,” Tristan said quietly. “Let’s see if we can find some shelter.”

  The barren ridges offered little in the way of protection. The king tried to wrap his arm around Robyn’s shoulders, feeling her shivering as he drew her close, but she pushed away and walked alone. The chattering of Pawldo’s teeth was plainly audible. Their wet garments sucked the heat from their bodies, and once again the icy wind had become the primary foe.

  Tristan set a more deliberate pace, conscious of the growing darkness around them. Finally he saw an irregularity in the snowy ground and led the party to a small cluster of boulders. The flat earth among them was relatively free of snow.

  “It’s not much, but I think it’s all we’re likely to find,” he said. He threw his ice-crusted cloak on the ground and gestured Yak to place Pawldo down on it. Robyn and Tavish knelt beside them, grateful for even the minimal shelter offered by the rocks.

  “It keeps the worst of the wind off of us at least,” said the bard with a forced attempt at cheer.

  Tristan leaned back against the frozen rock. “That’s not enough, though. If we don’t have a fire, we’ll never make it to morning.”

  The truth of the statement was apparent to all of them, just as was the complete lack of firewood within the limits of their view. Pawldo shivered violently, and the chattering of his teeth sounded like a company of horses charging across smooth paving stones.

  “I’ll try to find some wood. The rest of you stay here and keep as warm as possible.” Tristan rose to leave, wondering which direction was the most likely source of fuel.

  “Wait,” said Robyn. “There’s another solution.”

  Without another word, she reached into her pouch and pulled forth the third scroll, carefully checking to see that the fourth and last one remained safely stored. As she opened the scroll tube, none of them noticed the tiny ruby in her medallion glow and glimmer faintly in its golden sun circlet.

  “The mastery of fire,” whispered Tavish. “But don’t you still need fuel?”

  “I have fuel.”

  Robyn read the scroll quietly, with the same diligent care she had used when casting the mastery of water. As she read, the words disappeared from the parchment, and then the frail skin itself burst into soft, blue flames.

  Tristan gasped and reached forward when the flames spread to Robyn’s hands, but Tavish held him back. He watched in awe as the flames spread across her arms, and her torso, at last appearing to flicker across her entire body. The fire kept its blue tint, shedding little light, and Robyn gradually faded from view as the flames grew warm, then hot.

  Soon a silky blaze wavered before them, reaching six feet or more from the ground. It flashed and shimmered, a narrow column of fire that radiated warmth like a mound of hot coals. Heat washed over the little party like a soft blanket of hope, and such it was.

  The druid became both flame and fuel for the fire that saved their lives. Their wet garments drying, the chill slowly driven from their bones, the little band of companions huddled around the blazing image that no longer bore any resemblance to a human being. The blue fire flickered throughout the long night, and though none of them slept for more than a few minutes at a time, it renewed and revitalized them, bringing hope and heat and life to them all.

  Dawn had already begun to lighten the eastern clouds when it began, once again, to snow.

  The Darkwell grew mightier, and ever blacker, as the other gods recoiled from the power of Bhaal. The god of murder held forth in the inky pool and felt the greater portion of his presence now lay claim to this place in the Forgotten Realms. Of course, he retained his link to his home plane of Gehenna via a long thread of blackness, invisible to all but those attuned to the will of Bhaal. The thread crossed the myriad planes, through the ether as well, assuring the god of ready contact with his place of origin.

  Now Bhaal began to view the Darkwell differently than he had in the beginning. Now he saw it as a temporary prison, not as the gate that had allowed him to leave Gehenna and project his self into the prime plane.

  But he reasoned, if the thread could be extended not just from Gehenna to the well, but from Gehenna through the well, could he not project himself beyond the limits of the Darkwell? In short, could he not free himself to walk unrestrained upon the Moonsh
aes, and indeed all of the Realms, not just enjoying the evil of his minions vicariously, but actually participating in that evil, commanding the minions at the point of battle?

  In his black heart, Bhaal knew that he could. And so he set his energies toward strengthening the thread, giving him the physical form and the means that would allow him to move beyond the Darkwell. His power grew, aided by the retreat of the other gods and the corresponding enhancement of his own status.

  Soon the Moonshaes would tremble, not only under the assault of Bhaal’s legions, but also under the footsteps of Bhaal himself.

  ristan awakened slowly, feeling the chill of his rocky backrest penetrating into his flesh. The heavy overcast remained overhead, eternal as ever. Dawn now lightened it from its impenetrable black to a smoky gray. Large, wet flakes of snow drifted slowly downward, melting as they touched his skin but gathering in an ever-thickening blanket on the ground.

  Still sleepy, the king reached forth a hand to scratch Canthus’s broad head, knowing that the dog would, as always, be curled beside him. Then the memory of the previous day doused him like icewater. He sat up in sudden grief, realizing that the moorhound would never again be there.

  He saw Robyn lying motionless on the ground and gasped at the sheer whiteness of her skin. She looked drained of blood, and he wondered if the expenditure of magic that warmed them throughout the night had killed her.

  Trying to restrain his alarm, he leaned over the druid and saw that she still breathed, though her breath came in short, shallow gasps. He took her up in his arms and held her close, frightened by the chill within her that seemed to drain the heat from his own body. But gradually, as he leaned back and wrapped her within his cape, her body warmed and her breathing grew deep and steady.

  The king heard a stirring beside him and turned to see Tavish sitting up, blinking sleepily and stretching. Pawldo, too, arose, and even Yak’s snoring began to sputter. A flurry of snow exploded from what had appeared to be a small rock, and Newt’s head popped free from his powdery blanket. This morning the dragon’s scales were a deep blue, almost purple.