Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  “Speak, man! Why have you interrupted us?”

  “Your kingship,” the man stammered, his voice barely a croak. The others in the room turned in astonishment, amazed at the impudence of the intruder. “S-Sailing into the bay, even now approaching the docks … It’s …” His voice trailed away, and he looked pleadingly at his king.

  “Tell us!” roared Grunnarch the Red. “What manner of ship do you see? What flag does it fly?”

  “No flag, sire … no flag at all. And it is—I should say it isn’t …” His voice died, and it was clearly a great effort to speak. “Sire, it isn’t a ship at all, though it sails across the water with speed and purpose.

  “It is a castle!”

  The gradual descent to the shore of Myrloch passed easily for the companions. The snow crunched underfoot, packing into a solid path for the second and subsequent companions, and once again the group alternated the lead.

  Once they passed another of the great, smoking fissures that commonly marred the ground of the vale. This one, a gaping slash more than a hundred feet long, issued gouts of colorful smoke and noxious gas, but not as constantly as did the freshly formed crevasses. They skirted the gap carefully, giving it a wide margin and noting that it must be a source of heat, for the snow had melted back from the edge on all sides.

  Finally they stood upon the shore of the great lake, amid snow-covered boulders. The dark water lapped at the fringes of the stones, in stark contrast to the whiteness of the land all around them.

  Dead fish floated, belly up, along the visible length of the shore. Long tendrils of sick-looking weeds snaked through the water, brown and putrid in visible evidence of the pollution. Robyn turned suddenly away from the lake, unable to look at it.

  “Yuk!” Newt commented, hovering over the water and looking down.

  “Let’s go,” urged Tristan. Even he was repulsed by the look of this lake that had, all of his life, symbolized pristine natural beauty. “This way.”

  He led them to the right, following the shoreline but remaining a short distance from the water to avoid the rocks that prevented easy passage near the lake. As it was, they were able to pick a relatively smooth and unobstructed path.

  “Look. Sticky stuff!” It was Yak who called their attention to the water after they had walked along the shore for half a mile or so.

  “What is that?” Tavish wondered aloud, seeing the patch of black slime atop the water that had caught the firbolg’s attention.

  “Looks like more tar.” Tristan stepped to the water’s edge, but he didn’t need to touch the stuff to confirm his identification. “It seems to be seeping up from the bottom.”

  “Let’s go!” Robyn’s voice, nearly a shriek, startled them all. “Let’s get away from here!” She started into the lead, desperate to escape the growing evidence of desecration.

  Finally they made out the gaunt outlines of leafless trees, a dark line on the horizon before them. The scene was heartbreakingly bleak, but Tristan found it a relief to have some kind of physical goal before them—anything but the awful monotony of the snowcovered fields and blackened water that had surrounded them for so long.

  And too, he knew that somewhere within those woods awaited their destination.

  They all quickened their pace unconsciously, and gradually the distant mass of the forest became individual trees. The wood was as bleak and desolate as any other in the vale. Even the snow covering the branches of the trees did not alleviate the bleakness of the scene. If anything, it served to highlight the death of the forest.

  Tristan again took the lead, heading toward the wood on a path that veered slightly away from the shore, when he heard Robyn approach from behind.

  “Do you feel anything strange?” she asked.

  He stopped and looked around, wondering what she meant. His eyes were drawn to the forest, to the still trees and the barren, snowy ground. As he stared, he felt a prickling along the nape of his neck.

  “Yes, I do. It’s like something is staring back at us from the woods.”

  “I feel it, too. I don’t know why, but the feeling is very strong. There’s something there!”

  “Should we change our course?” he asked, wondering where they could go instead.

  “I don’t think so. We’re getting too close to the well now. We’ll just have to go in with our eyes open.”

  And our swords loose in their scabbards, thought the king, though he said nothing out loud. The feeling of being observed, that an unknown presence lurked in the woods, grew stronger as he resumed the march. He felt terribly exposed here on the flat, open ground, but he could see no ready alternative to approaching the forest, so he led the companions on.

  They moved still closer to the woods, until they had to crane their heads to look up to see the tops of the trees. Every tiny branch was now visible in sharp relief, and they could see the falling snow sifting down far back into the uncannily still forest.

  “Look … behind us!” Robyn’s cry of alarm whirled the king in his tracks, and his heart sank as he looked up into the sky.

  “It’s the deathbirds! The whole damned flock!” shouted Pawldo, breaking into a run.

  Indeed, the ghastly predators soared eerily toward them, gliding silently below the layer of clouds. The companions’ concentration on the woods had proven to be a tragic mistake.

  “Run! To the trees!” Tristan shouted, drawing the Sword of Cymrych Hugh in the same instant. He urged Robyn, Tavish, and Pawldo past him. Newt hovered at his shoulder and Yak spun beside him, shaking a hamlike fist at the sky as the creatures dropped into a shallow dive.

  “Hurry!” Tristan cried, stumbling after his companions. The trees did not offer perfect safety, but they would provide some protection against the swooping flight of the predators. He sprinted through the snow that now seemed to clutch his boots with pernicious intent, striving to drag him down. Desperately he raced on, casting a look back over his shoulder at the flying monsters.

  In his heart, he knew that they wouldn’t make it to the woods.

  Once again Hobarth walked the dark passages between this world and the next, following the contours of the planar fabric that allowed him to enter in one place and emerge in a different location when he returned to the Realms.

  In this particular instance, he crossed from Oman’s Isle to Gwynneth, into the kingdom of Corwell, and finally to the town itself. He returned to the prime plane on the outskirts of Corwell Town, near dusk on a chilly wintery eve.

  Of course, the sahuagin and the legions of the dead would take longer to make the same journey, but not too terribly much longer. And when they arrived, he would be ready.

  He found a town that was friendly and warm, with pleasant fires burning in the hearths of most of the wooden cottages of the Ffolk. Several larger buildings made of stone commanded the waterfront, and the whole community was surrounded by a pitiful little wall, no more than waist high.

  Hobarth found a small tavern called the Inn of the Great Boar. The place was warmed by a pleasant fire, and he went inside to rent a room. He thought it would be pleasant to sleep in an actual bed for a change, and in truth, the weariness of his travels had begun to weigh heavily on him.

  Hobarth enjoyed watching the Ffolk of Corwell going about their petty tasks of barter and purchase, consumption and labor. How they would regret their foolish complacency! In a few short days, their lives would change irrevocably—for those few that survived.

  He enjoyed a glass of warm ale, and then another, strolling out onto the porch of the inn as the grayness began to fade to black. He could barely make out the outline of Caer Corwell, perched so proudly and so precariously on its little knoll. The cleric smiled a secret smile as he thought of the earthquake spell Bhaal had restored to him.

  Soon that ancient fortress, the original stronghold of the Ffolk, would come crashing down about them. And even as it fell, the sahuagin and the dead would emerge from the sea.

  Chauntea, mistress of agriculture, had re
coiled with the other gods from Bhaal’s roiling presence in the Darkwell. She had grieved for the destruction of land and life as that murderous god had worked his will.

  But now she sensed a glimmer of life, and of hope, from near the heart of his realm. It was not strong nor constant, but it seemed to be her only promise, however faint of a tool to use against the god of murder and death.

  Chauntea had suffered much, perhaps more than any other god, from the passing of the Earthmother. The two deities had shared more than immortal sisterhood, for they had both cherished notions of growth and health, nature and life. The balance, prime tenet of the Earthmother’s faith, was a necessary conviction of those who would work the land and grow crops and raise livestock. Without winter, of course, there could be no spring.

  Now the passing of the goddess and the claiming of her lands—her body, in truth—by Bhaal struck Chauntea as a grievous wrong, a blight upon the face of all the planes.

  But there was a hope now, at least the glimmer of one, in the person of this flicker of life and strength near Bhaal’s own foul stronghold. Chauntea studied the signs well and came to know this thing as a human follower of the goddess, a druid.

  This human would no doubt paint Chauntea, with the broad brush used by such druids, as one of the new gods and hence an enemy of the land. However, she was a person of great strength and faith, plus a powerful aptitude. Her use of scrolls normally reserved for Chauntea’s own clerics provided ample proof of this. And she carried a medallion of faith, for this was how Chauntea knew of her presence.

  Perhaps, if this druid remained strong, Bhaal would not gain a complete triumph. Perhaps some vestige of the land would remain in its natural state.

  Perhaps.

  he snow dragged against Tristan’s feet, slowing him to an agonizing plod. He saw Pawldo fall, with the tree line a good twenty paces away. The halfling struggled to his feet, whirling and unslinging his bow in the same motion, and Tristan turned to fight beside him.

  The Sword of Cymrych Hugh hummed with anticipation as he raised it toward the oncoming flock. The leading deathbird swooped toward him, its antlers spread like a phalanx of deadly spear tips.

  Tristan saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, and Pawldo’s arrow darted into the sky, piercing the monster’s wing and bringing it tumbling to the ground. Even in pain, it made no sound, though the thump of its body and the cracking of its neck were plainly audible as it crashed.

  More of the monsters swerved toward the king, seeming to blacken the sky before him. Silently he vowed to slay as many as he could before he fell, and the sword in his hands thrummed with the shared conviction.

  A volley of arrows arced through the air over his head, knocking six or eight of the beasts from the sky. Instinctively the king readjusted his defense to face the nearest surviving attackers, and then his mind reacted. A volley! From where? Pawldo was a rapid archer, to be sure, but no man could shoot several arrows simultaneously!

  But he had no more time to contemplate the source of this unexpected succor as two more of the monsters slashed toward his face. The sword flicked upward like a lightning bolt as the deerskull face of one attacker ducked to drive its antlers home. The point drove deep into the creature’s breast, and the sword sang with grim satisfaction.

  The second deathbird veered to avoid the falling body of its partner, and as it did, the point of an antler struck the king a glancing blow on his shoulder. The sturdy chain of his father’s armor absorbed the blow and snapped the tip of the horn, and one blow from the gleaming sword struck the creature on the back of its neck and lopped its stag-skull from the bird’s body.

  More of the things were on him instantly, and it seemed as if his world had been reduced to a vision of frantically beating wings, sharp antlers, widespread mouths hungry for his blood, and hollow, empty eye sockets. Antlers scraped his face, and blood flowed freely into his eyes. He took repeated heavy blows to his chest and back, which only his armor prevented from driving deep into him.

  He fought back desperately, a whirlwind of slicing, slashing death. He cut the deathbirds from the air, slaying one, driving another back with one leg hanging limp, flopping a third to the ground as he severed its wing.

  Another volley of arrows, gleaming silvery bright even under the bleak overcast, whistled overhead and struck several more of the monsters from the sky. Suddenly the entire flock was swirling around the companions in a vicious melee, antler against sword and dagger and even fist, for Yak waded into the thickest of the flock, bashing tirelessly with his great, clubbed hands. A deathbird vanished in a cloud of feathers and bones, annihilated by a single powerful blow. Another twisted and squirmed as the firbolg seized it around the neck and squeezed the life from its obscene body.

  Tristan caught a glimpse of Robyn, surrounded by a swirling cloud of feathers and antlers. Silver gleamed, and the scimitar she had inherited from Daryth of Calimshan claimed an unnatural victim. The druid wielded the weapon with skill and grace, using it like a sickle to harvest the foul creatures from the sky.

  The king lunged and hacked his way to her side. Pawldo fought alongside him, sticking and thrusting with his dagger and somehow managing to hold the deathbirds at bay. Yak stood protectively over the bard as Tavish poked awkwardly with her shortsword at the swirling predators.

  A fountain of colored lights exploded among the flock, scattering them temporarily, and Newt popped into view in the center of the display.

  “Scatter, you stupid buzzards, or I’ll turn you all into sparrows!” With a great display of teeth, the faerie dragon dived at one of the deathbirds, sinking his fangs into the thing’s tail and sputtering away with a mouthful of feathers. The monster swerved around and joined several others as they dived at the faerie dragon.

  Once more Newt disappeared, deciding invisibility was the safest defense against the raging fowls. The predators darted and swooped in the direction of their vanished quarry, and Tristan took advantage of the confusion to stab another in the belly, dropping the creature like a stone.

  The attackers turned once more toward the companions, and the king heard Robyn, behind him, cry out in pain. A rack of antlers struck him in the back, jolting him forward and knocking the wind from his lungs, but he somehow maintained his footing. Once again the chain mail had prevented a wound. Spinning, he cut the creature from the air as it tried to climb away.

  Then he saw a line of figures, perhaps half a dozen of them, advancing through the snow. Dressed in white furs, they emerged from the trees and moved toward the battle. He saw longbows and quivers slung across their backs, but now they attacked with silver swords extended. Again the king whirled to protect his flank, slaying another deathbird, but he turned back in the next instant to stare at the newcomers.

  Who were they? Where did they come from? These and a thousand more questions stormed through his brain, but he saw several of the silver swords dart through the air and slice into the obscene avians. Whoever they were, they were friends.

  Robyn stumbled, a bloody gash on her shoulder, and Tristan hurried to her side. One of the monsters flapped toward his face, revealing wolfish fangs in its bony maw, but the king brought the sword of his ancestors crashing down onto the thing’s skull and it tumbled into the trampled snow. With a quick thrust, he killed it.

  Now the fur-cloaked figures were fighting all around them, and the odds were shifting in their favor. As the newcomers moved easily across the ground, Tristan saw that each wore a pair of light snowshoes. Perhaps half of the deathbirds had fallen, and the remaining creatures could no longer gang up on an opponent four or five at a time. Tristan could see little of the strangers beneath their winter garments, but he caught a glimpse of wide brown eyes beneath one hood. A long lock of blond hair spilled from another.

  Yak lunged forward with a loud bellow, seizing a flying deathbird by its claws. The firbolg swung the creature around in a circle before smashing its skull against the frozen ground. Tristan, Pawldo, and Robyn joined
in the charge, disrupting the flock with a sudden attack. Then the strangers followed their lead and rushed forward. The entire flight of monsters lurched into the air, beating their ungainly wings in an attempt to evade the deadly swords.

  Tristan lunged at one that passed high overhead, and the Sword of Cymrych Hugh seemed to pull him upward, striking the creature’s belly at the height of the king’s prodigious leap. In moments, the horrid creatures had risen too high for their blades, flapping their great wings with unseemly urgency as they fled the scene of battle.

  The newcomers threw back their hoods and unslung their bows. The king saw, with instant recognition, the shocks of golden hair, the slender and serious faces, the breathtaking beauty of each of the warriors. He stood, amazed and exhilarated, watching the silver arrows dart into the sky, bringing down more and more of the monsters until at last the survivors, no more than a dozen or so, had flown out of range to the north.

  Tristan did not speak until the last of the bows had been lowered and the leader of the band of warriors turned to regard him with her wide brown eyes.

  “Brigit, your arrival could not have been better timed! I feared that we faced the end of our quest right here on this snowy field.”

  The sister knight’s face lightened with the barest suggestion of a smile. “Your quest is the hope and prayer of more than you realize, Tristan. We could not stand by when we had the power to aid you.”

  He stepped forward and embraced the petite warrior, a gesture which she shyly returned. He looked around and recognized Maura, the tiniest of the sister knights, and Colleen, and several others, the remnants of the brave company that had served him during the Darkwalker War. These female fighters of the Llewyrr had ridden chargers and carried silver lances then. Now they fought in furs and snowshoes, with longbow and sword. But always they battled with courage and consummate skill.