“My Lord King,” said Brigit, bending at the waist in the slightest of bows. “The Sisters of Synnoria are at your service once again.”
The moorhound bounded in an ever-growing circle around Yazilliclick and Honkah-Fah-Snooei, stopping every several moments to shake more droplets of water from his shaggy coat.
“Why you know wolf?” asked the troll, looking suspiciously at the sprite.
“W-Wolf? He’s no wolf. He’s a dog—a dog! Like a blink dog, kind of, only he’s b-bigger and he d-doesn’t blink.” Yazilliclick laughed at the notion of Canthus as a wolf. “He’s m-my friend, and the f-friend of my friends, t-too!”
“Dog-friend?” The troll slowly absorbed the thought, and then his face brightened. “Dog-friend gots wine?”
“N-No! People gots—people have wine. The d-dog just g-goes with them—with them.”
“Crud. We rest now.” Honkah plopped himself on a fallen tree trunk and looked wistfully at Canthus and the gate. “I gots to go back to my guard gate.”
“B-But we’re g-guarding a g-gate here, aren’t we—aren’t we? You’re still a g-guardian troll. You j-just moved to a d-different gate, that’s all!”
“Not my gate!”
“H-How often does anyone use y-your gate? Do people g-go through it a l-lot—a lot?”
“Sure! Just now, you did.”
“I—I know. But how long before m-me?”
Honkah scratched his head, squinting his tiny eyes with the effort of his concentration. “Never.”
“Well, someone j-just came through this g-gate, too. I bet it’s even busier that yours. M-Maybe we should rest here and guard it—guard it! Then we can go find another g-gate, one that’s even b-busier!”
The troll looked at him suspiciously but apparently could think of no effective rebuttal. He grunted and turned to stare at the earthen bank, as if expecting an invading army to pour through it in the next instant.
Canthus dropped and rolled in a field of flowers, squirming in delight. He displayed no curiosity or surprise about his transition from the depths of an icy torrent to this sunlit meadow. The moorhound sprang to his feet and bounded over to Yazilliclick, bumping the sprite with his nose and knocking him off the log.
“N-No, Canthus! I c-can’t play now—now. I’m helping Honkah g-guard the g-gate!”
Across the meadow, the branches of a thick bush parted, and the head of a blink dog poked through, staring with interest at the trio. The dog, like all of its kind, had smooth brown fur, a pointed muzzle, and floppy ears that perked upward when, as now, the creature was attentive. The blink dog was about half the size of the moorhound.
The faerie dog suddenly teleported itself across the meadow, popping into sight right in front of Canthus. The moorhound barked sharply and leaped backward in surprise, then leaned toward the blink dog. The two canines sniffed each other tentatively, and then the blink dog popped out of sight, only to reappear across the meadow, with another of its kind beside it.
Canthus barked again, confused, then raced across the meadow to once again sniff the other canines’ noses, followed by a more intimate examination of each other. Abruptly both dogs of Faerie popped out of sight.
This time four of them appeared near the center of the meadow, and Canthus leaped over to them, his tail wagging playfully. The blink dogs, too, frolicked and rolled about the moorhound, and soon six of them had Canthus racing and chasing about the meadow.
Yazilliclick whooped with laughter at the dogs’ antics, and even Honkah chuckled a bit before climbing gruffly to his feet. “Nuff rest! Show next gate now.”
“O-All right. C-C’mon, Canthus!” The moorhound ran to the sprite as Yazilliclick hovered in the air. They started off along a winding Faerie trail, following Honkah, the six blink dogs bounding and blinking along beside them.
“This is the sign! The prophecy! Listen to me, men of the North, if you would heed your own salvation!” Taggar, aged cleric of Tempus, sprang onto the table like a young man. He banged a large serving spoon against a huge golden platter, ignoring the dents his blows inflicted on the precious plate.
The northmen in Grunnarch’s great lodge, stunned by the events of the last few hours, looked on quietly, as if this uncharacteristic display was merely another piece of evidence that their world was falling to pieces around them.
And in a sense, perhaps it was. First there had been Grunnarch’s declaration of a peace with one of their oldest and most bitter enemies. Then a great gleaming castle had sailed into the very harbor of the town, witnessed by all of them as they had poured forth to behold the miracle. It was a building finer than any existing in Norland yet it sailed upon the water with the grace and speed of a sleek longship.
Third had come the message of the two people who had ridden the castle to Norland, the tall, proud young man and the plump, pretty maid. The Iron Keep had fallen! The settlements on the coast of Gwynneth had been razed!
And finally the message from the lips of the maid, who claimed to have heard it from a fire that had blazed even as the castle emerged from the sea. The next target of the army that had laid waste to Oman was Corwell, the very kingdom Grunnarch had so recently sworn to aid and defend!
Now the cleric stood atop a table and banged a spoon against a plate. Well, why not?
“Men of my lands, brave warriors of Norland, listen to me!” Grunnarch stood, his red hair seeming to blaze in the firelight. His eyes, too, blazed, and he fixed each of his followers with a commanding gaze. Taggar climbed stiffly down from the table and sat, satisfied that the king would explain the significance of the sign.
“This same cleric came to me two nights ago, in the presence of two chiefs, Urk Bearstooth and Eric Graybeard, who will vouch for my words, and gave me a prophecy. It was a prophecy direct from the lips of Tempus!” He held the rapt attention of every man in the room now. Tempus was not a kind god, but he was strong and fair and had long been the favorite of the men of the North. They could not but heed his advice.
“These are the words of Tempus, given before this council commenced: ‘A messenger will arrive at the council, traveling not by foot or by mount, nor by ship. But he will arrive with the commands of Tempus upon his lips, and you must—you must—heed those words!’
“And now we are given to see this miracle, this edifice of stone that glides across the sea, and to hear the words of the one who has arrived during our council.” Now Grunnarch lowered his voice, and an absolute hush fell over the hall.
“I shall take the Northwind to sea at first light, alone if I must, to heed the commands of Tempus. I sail to the aid of the king who saved my life when no good reason gave him cause to do so.
“And I go to atone for the evil we, the men of the North, have wrought upon these isles in the past year, to atone for the service we gave—albeit unknowingly—to the heart of evil itself, that came to us in the form of Thelgaar Ironhand. I shall confront the root of this evil and slay it, or I shall die trying. Do I sail alone, men of Norland?”
The walls shook, and the fires in the hearths blazed high from the force of the resounding chorus: “No!”
Randolph slipped quietly through the gatehouse of Caer Corwell, thankful for the early darkness that concealed his movement from any watcher within the keep. He walked briskly down the castle road, meeting no one, and passed through the unguarded north gate of Corwell Town. He went immediately to the Inn of the Great Boar, passing from the chill darkness into a smoky warmth, from the silence to an atmosphere of quiet laughter and pleasant conversation.
Here his eyes quickly sought out Lord Mayor Dinsmore of Corwell Town and the lords Koart and Dynnatt.
“What is the meaning of this?” inquired Dynnatt as Randolph sat at a table. “Why the secrecy and subterfuge?”
None of them took notice of the obese stranger who sat at the next table, nor did they see the man lean closer to overhear their conversation. As he listened, the man’s eyes narrowed to evil, hooded slits in his face.
&nbs
p; “I wish we didn’t have to meet like this,” said Randolph. “Frankly, we need to talk without Pontswain present. I believe the kingdom is facing a very grave threat, and he prefers to lounge around, feasting and drinking like a king. He spends most of his time staring at the Crown of the Isles!”
The other men grunted in acknowledgment, not surprised by the description. “What is this threat you speak of?” asked the Lord Mayor.
Randolph described the message from the fisherman, informing the others that he had sent a fast boat to investigate. “But we might not hear anything until it’s too late!”
“Indeed, that’s Pontswain for you,” grumbled Koart. “When we fought here last year, he held his company safe at home, as if his cantrev was the heart of the kingdom.”
“And so he would again, except I believe he still wishes to take up residence in Corwell as our king. He would shed few tears if King Kendrick does not return from his quest.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Dynnatt.
“Can you men muster your companies and prepare them—quietly—to move to Corwell? I hope I’m wrong about this, but if we are attacked from the sea, we’ll have precious little warning, and the town militia, together with the men of your two cantrevs, are all we could expect to have in place.”
“The men won’t like this … a winter muster,” objected Koart. “And my company lost heavily fighting the Darkwalker.”
“Indeed, as did all of ours.” Randolph accepted the objection patiently. “I will do my best to see that your men are rewarded when the king returns, regardless of the outcome. But we must take some action.”
“I agree.” The Lord Mayor, with the most to lose in the event of a seaborne invasion, was the first to concur. It took several minutes of coaxing, and the promise of such reward as Randolph thought King Kendrick could manage, before the other two lords would accept.
“Very well. I thank you, good lords, for meeting me under such unusual circumstances, and I pray that my worries are groundless. Good evening.” Randolph rose and bowed to the men before he left the inn. The three lords decided to enjoy a few more pitchers of ale before retiring.
Still none of them noticed the fat stranger, who had leaned back to his own table now, his cruel face twisted by a barrage of frustrations and schemes.
A most fortuitous meeting, this, Hobarth told himself. How in the Realms had Kendrick come to hold the Crown of the Isles? No matter, but the fact that he did put a major crimp in Hobarth’s—and Bhaal’s—plan. Hobarth had first experienced the crown when it had been held by the weakling, King Carrathal of Callidyrr, and he had no reason to suspect that its properties had weakened any in the hands of King Kendrick. Its property, actually, for the magical element of the crown, only served one purpose so far as Hobarth knew.
It created an area of immunity around it. A large area of immunity.
When the crown had been held in Caer Callidyrr, Hobarth had been unable to work his clerical spells anywhere within the ample bounds of that vast fortress. Now, in the much smaller Caer Corwell, it would certainly protect that fortress against his castings. There would be no earthquake to tear down the castle walls here.
That is, unless the crown could somehow be removed. And here the plotting of the three lords and the captain had inadvertently provided Hobarth with a vehicle for accomplishing this.
The cleric got up heavily from his table and lumbered from the inn. He would find another, more private establishment and begin to work his plan. He sought out such a place—a quiet, tiny tavern tucked away on a darkened lane beside the waterfront. He entered and spotted a youth tending to some cleaning chores.
“Here, lad,” he said, flipping the boy a gold coin and watching the youth’s eyes widen in surprise and delight. “I would like you to do me a favor.”
“Anything, your lordship!”
“Go up to the castle and find Lord Pontswain. Tell him that a man in town has a proposal for him—a mutually profitable proposition, you may call it. Ask if he would be good enough to meet me here at noon tomorrow to discuss it. Do you understand?”
The lad nodded eagerly.
“Go ahead, then. Be off with you!”
As the door slammed behind the departing youth, Hobarth sat down and accepted a large mug of ale from a barmaid. He felt very pleased with himself.
“I found Avalon just after the storm struck. He was horribly wounded, but he lived.”
“And he lives still?” Tristan held his breath.
“Yes.” Brigit looked somber. “Though his days as a warhorse are over, he lives and grows healthy.”
“Thank the goddess for that, at least. One of us thought dead, but alive instead—that is a welcome lightening of the burden of this quest.”
“But how did you know we were here?” asked Robyn.
“We knew the desecration of the vale would not go unanswered, and when I found Avalon, we knew that you must be on the way. Then it was simply a matter of observing this flock of strange creatures, for we suspected they were following you, and making the deduction that you would head for the grove of the Great Druid. We planted ourselves upon that path and were proved correct when you came to us.”
“You know of the grove? How fares it?” asked the druid.
“It has become an awful place, full of poison and death. The Moonwell itself is corrupt, turned dark and foul. The desolation throughout the vale starts there, spreading outward like a loathsome plague.”
“Has it reached Synnoria?” Tristan tried to imagine the beautiful valley of the Llewyrr under the influence of the horrible desolation that surrounded them.
“Alas, you would not know Synnoria for the place you once saw—or heard, I should say.” Brigit stopped abruptly, a catch in her voice, and tears welled within her deep brown eyes. “The rivers have ceased to run. Even the songs of the forest have died.
“Most of the Llewyrr have fled, leaving our valley to its fate. We have found temporary succor from our old rivals, the dwarves, who have helped see our people safely from the vale or have sheltered them in their underground fortresses.”
Robyn’s face drained of color, and Tristan, equally shocked, took her hand as he tried to imagine the magnitude of this disaster. He vividly recalled the sounds of Synnoria, so beautiful that they had all but driven him mad when the Llewyrr had escorted the companions through their valley during the Darkwalker War. They had been blindfolded during the passage because the Llewyrr had assured them that to look upon the beauty of the place would cause madness.
And now Synnoria, like Myrloch Vale, had fallen prey to the cancerous spread of darkness.
“This is the legacy of the Beast, Kazgoroth,” sighed Brigit softly.
“No … this is the mark of the Beast’s master,” Robyn answered bluntly. “But why must the most cherished places be the first ones to die?”
“Perhaps because true beauty is, by its very nature, frail,” suggested Brigit.
“Beauty can be strong,” argued Tavish, “but its very presence is abhorrent to the kind of evil that now confronts us. I think that is why these are the first places to fall.”
“But they will not be the last, unless we prevail. We should get started on the last leg of this journey.” Tristan looked at each of his companions, sharing their misery but silently urging their action.
The battlefield fell quickly out of sight as they entered the trees, once again making their way between the barren trunks of rotten oaks, hickories, and pines. Four of the sisters led the way, tromping a flattened path with their snowshoes, followed by Tristan and his companions, with Maura, Colleen, and Brigit, marching in a single file.
They moved in nearly total silence, surrounded by the soft scraping of clumps of snow falling among the dead branches. Winter’s frosting grew steadily thicker on the ground.
Gentle, low hills rolled through the forest here, but the walking was easy. After a few minutes, their world had become a place of white snow and black tree trunks. The sifting flake
s clouded the air and marked the limits of their vision.
Tristan’s hopes rose rapidly with the arrival of the sisters. They were the finest fighters he had ever seen, and he still felt that this conflict would be resolved, in the end, through combat. They knew the vale and were equipped for this early winter in a way that he and his companions were not.
His hopes exploded with the thunderous rumble that shook the ground at his feet. He staggered backward and fell, but not before he saw a monstrous fissure erupt in the ground before him, swallowing the four sister knights who led the party. He saw the hole tear toward him, but something strong grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to safety.
Green and red fountains of gas erupted from the fissure, and the earth groaned as if the wound caused her physical pain. Rotten tree trunks leaned into the gap as the firmament that supported them fell away, slowly toppling into nothingness. Shrieks and cracks split the forest as other trees lost their limbs or toppled whole from the violent convulsions of the land.
Gasping and spitting to clear the traces of gas he had inhaled, Tristan looked up to see that it was Yak who had saved his life. He stood and stared, horrified, at the crevasse that had claimed the lives of four of the sisters. They hadn’t had a chance!
The whirling snow settled around them, and at last they could see. But the confirmation of their eyes only deepened their sadness and heightened their sense of despair.
They faced an apparently bottomless fissure, more than a hundred feet wide. It stretched to the limits of sight to the left and to the right. In short, there appeared to be no way around it.
The Darkwell bubbled and gurgled, pouring forth black smoke and thick, poisonous gases. Bhaal learned of the defeat of his flock as the surviving perytons came circling back to the well, and his rage caused deep cracks and gaping fissures to explode throughout the land, tearing still further at the wasteland of the vale.
Shantu crept to the edge of the black water, sensing his master’s anger. The displacer beast crouched there, unmoving, for so he had been commanded. The perytons, too, shifted and flapped in agitation but remained around the well.
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