Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  He judged correctly that it was just a haystack, but it was not until he passed it that he saw the dark form of a horse tethered beside the mound. In that instant, he knew that his search had ended.

  Randolph leaped to the ground, drawing his long sword as he stepped into the scant shelter of the leeward side of the pile. He saw the cape of his quarry extending from beneath the straw, and for a moment, he wrestled with the temptation to drive his keen blade into the hay above it. He settled instead for a sharp kick.

  Pontswain stumbled out into the storm, a look of utter shock on his handsome features. Before Randolph could speak, the lord drew his own sword, and only the captain’s instinctive parry saved his throat from a deadly cut.

  “Why?” grunted Randolph, striking aside Pontswain’s thrust and settling back on guard. His eyes expressed a legion of scorn that could not be phrased into words.

  “Don’t be such a fool!” sneered the lord. Pontswain slashed savagely once, twice, and both times his blade clashed against the captain’s steel.

  “Your arrogance would be amusing, if you weren’t so treacherous.” Randolph held steady, watching his foe. “Did you really think you could steal the Crown of the Isles and escape like a thief in the night?”

  “Your discovery and interference is trivial!” Pontswain sprang at the captain, slashing desperately, then suddenly stumbled back with a bleeding wound across his cheek.

  “Now your arrogance is amusing!”

  Randolph’s blade slashed downward, meeting Pontswain’s in a clash that was muffled by the fury of the storm. Again and again the weapons clashed as the two men fought slowly and awkwardly, impeded by their heavy winter garb.

  Pontswain was the larger and stronger of the two, but Randolph possessed more skill with his weapon. At first the lord drove the captain back into the storm, and Randolph steadily gave ground, all the while analyzing his opponent’s weaknesses. The snow clutched at his boots, threatening to trip him, but he retreated with care and precision.

  At last the moment was right. Pontswain extended himself with a vicious slash, and in the split second before he recovered, the captain’s blade slipped easily through his throat. The lord stumbled backward with a strangled gasp, his red blood spurting across the white snow and disappearing as quickly beneath fresh flakes.

  Randolph wasted no time in checking his victim, for he felt a growing sense of urgency and danger. Even this amount of time away from Corwell, he feared, might prove disastrous. He reached into the haystack, located the golden artifact that he sought, and wrapped it in the same bag Pontswain had used to carry it away.

  The body of his enemy had not yet grown cold as Randolph mounted his mare, taking the reins of Pontswain’s steed in his hand, and started back through the storm toward Corwell Town.

  Once again the companions camped in a muddy clearing in the woods, surrounded by desolation and darkness. The stifling heat of Genna’s spell finally began to fade with nightfall. Though the snow around them still was melting, it did not fade away as quickly as it had earlier during the day’s march.

  I should feel relieved and confident, Tristan reminded himself. After all, Yazilliclick had returned, miraculously accompanied by Canthus. The great dog once again lay curled at his master’s feet, breathing contentedly, not quite asleep. Still, the king felt a strong sense of foreboding.

  They enjoyed Yaz’s tale of his sojourn through Faerie. The six blink dogs had gradually overcome their shyness, though they rested some distance from the fire.

  “Do you think we’ll reach the grove tomorrow?” asked the king, idly scratching the moorhound’s head.

  “Yes, unless another fissure or tar pit or something blocks our way,” Robyn replied quickly. “It can’t be more than a couple of miles to the streambed south of Genna’s grove.”

  “Yes,” the Great Druid, lost somewhere in her own thoughts, agreed absently. She stared into the depths of their fire, ignoring the others for the most part. This, of course, was not unusual behavior from so solitary an individual as a Great Druid. The older members of the order were notoriously unsociable among people who did not share their faith and practices.

  “And then you’ll use the fourth scroll?” Tavish turned the conversation back to Robyn.

  “Yes. From the way the others have worked, I’m certain it will do what we require—that is, allow the druids to return to flesh and blood. Our combined might should be enough to purify the well and re-sanctify the grove. After that, the healing of the land can begin.”

  As the others slowly drifted off to sleep, Tristan moved closer to Robyn’s side. He reached out a tentative hand but she did not take it.

  “After tomorrow,” he said softly, afraid of her response, “what will happen? What do you plan to do?”

  For a moment, she looked at him, and the familiar smile played about her lips while her green eyes flashed a glimpse of the love he had once seen there.

  But then the cold fire of anger erupted within her and a red haze fell across her vision, surprising Robyn herself with its intensity. She tried to look through the heat, to Tristan himself, but all she could see was the taunting vision of a red-haired woman. The image grew stronger, brighter, drowning everything else in her awareness.

  “What does it matter?” she said roughly. “You have made your decision for yourself. Allow me to make mine!”

  Even as she spoke, she cringed at the harshness of her words, the coldness of her voice. What was happening to her? She saw the pain clearly reflected in Tristan’s face, and a part of her wanted to reach out and take him in her arms.

  But the other part of her, the one that had spoken, would not allow this. And so she turned away from him, glaring into the fire as if she would quench it with an icy look.

  Tristan could not muster the energy to curse, even inwardly. He slumped back against a tree stump, taking small consolation as Canthus nuzzled his hand. Idly he scratched the dog’s ears, wondering what had become of the relationship he had once cherished. In truth, Robyn’s answer had not surprised him, for it was quite in keeping with her manner of the last days. But why couldn’t she forgive?

  The black night offered no clue to an answer.

  Bhaal pushed at the surface of the Darkwell with a broad and mighty hand. He saw the water ripple away from the pressure as it yielded to his physical form, and he knew that he would soon be ready to emerge.

  He felt the power of long, tough sinews as monstrous muscles developed in the body that slowly coalesced around him. He began to smell and taste the water of the well through his own sensory organs, not through the supernatural awareness of his immortal form.

  The cord connecting his center in the well to Gehenna remained strong. Now another cord—shorter but far more tough and able to cope with the threats of this physical world—grew from his body and connected it to the well. The cord would be invisible to those in the mortal world, but it would carry the essence of Bhaal’s life and insure that even his physical body remained immortal.

  Bhaal’s was a body of gigantic size. Though manlike, with flowing hair and beard, it would tower over the mortals of the world. Its very presence would inspire fear and awe. Very soon now, it would walk the lands of the Forgotten Realms.

  The god of murder sensed the approach of the humans, led by the corrupted form of the Great Druid, his servant. She served him well, indeed, bringing them nearer so that they might witness the explosion of Bhaal from the well. And in this same moment, they would know their doom.

  his would be the last day.

  Robyn sensed this the moment she awakened. As on the previous morning, Genna sat nearby, motionless but awake and observant. With a quiet nod to her teacher, Robyn rose and made her way some distance into the woods. She noticed that the temperature, though still warm, did not have the sweltering nature of yesterday’s oppressive weather.

  Slowly, reverently, Robyn knelt on the muddy ground. She faced a blistered stump of an oak, surrounded by a brittle nest of dead,
dried vines. Somehow this seemed an appropriate setting for her purpose.

  The druid prayed to her goddess with all her vibrant, faithful heart. She begged for a word, some sort of a sign in return, to assure her of the great mother’s presence. Robyn felt a sudden dread and wondered if the very fact of her asking confirmation of the goddess wasn’t tantamount to doubting her existence. How could the mother honor such a request, when its very presence was proof of Robyn’s lack of faith?

  Barely suppressing a sob, Robyn looked to the sky, away from the inanimate representation of her deity. Even in her despair, she felt a strange tingle of vitality, an energy different than she had known. It was a potent feeling, frightening and mysterious.

  Keenly aware of this odd sensation, Robyn rejoined her companions. Distracted, she broke fast and prepared for the march. Once she looked upon Tristan as he ate his bread, and the sight caused her a flash of pain: The hurt came from within her, as if from a hidden tumor rather than a physical wound.

  She made a point not to look at the king again until he started toward the trail. Canthus paced watchfully by his master’s side, and Robyn suddenly recalled a former feeling, of pride and love and desire as she watched him. But once again the image vanished in a vision of red hair and blind rage. Robyn choked back a gruff curse and turned away from Tristan, shaking.

  What is doing this to me? she demanded of herself. The flare of rage had been so hateful, so unlike anything she had ever felt before this quest. It far superseded natural jealousy, and for a moment, Robyn wondered what made her anger so unnatural.

  With a shake of her head, she touched the remaining Scroll of Arcanus, safe in the tube at her side. Genna started off in the lead, with Robyn following close behind. Tristan and the others fell into file behind.

  The sultry heat of the tropics once again sweltered around them, melting the remaining snow and filling the air with steam. Robyn saw that the spell seemed to gain vitality as the druid moved, as if it thrived on the steady exertion of the Great Druid’s body.

  Genna set a demanding pace, and Robyn drove herself with equal determination. She felt the conclusion of her quest approaching and saw that the battle she had been forced to flee tendays earlier would soon be renewed and resolved.

  The companions reached the stream bed that had once marked the southern boundary of the grove of the Great Druid. Now it was a barren ditch, choked with mud and rocky rubble. No water flowed here, nor had any snow accumulated in the stream bed. In fact, from here on into the grove, Robyn could see that the ground was bare. Either some source of heat had melted the snow on the ground, or the ravages of the storm had spared the area of the grove like the eye of a raging hurricane.

  If the weather had avoided the grove, the destruction wrought by the Darkwell had not. The formerly grand stands of oak, hickory, and aspen, the once brilliant meadows and gardens, now stood withered under such an air of desolation as to make the rest of Myrloch Vale seem healthy by comparison.

  Vines draped tree trunks, giving the woods a strangled look. Tendrils of mist writhed among the fallen forest giants, and the land itself seemed to writhe under the oppressive curse of death. But the land did not move, and only the gently drifting fog gave the earth a living effect.

  The Great Druid appeared to take no notice of the change, striding boldly into the stream bed, stepping among the rocks and ignoring the clutching mud that sucked at her feet.

  “Teacher, wait!” Robyn called out to Genna as she stepped into the stream bed herself, aware that the others had still not reached the border of the vale. Such had been the Great Druid’s pace that the group now was stretched out over some distance. “Let the others catch up. We can approach the well together.”

  “Very well. But we must hurry.”

  Genna looked impatiently back at the trail as Tristan and Newt, followed by the dogs, came into view. A short time later, Yazilliclick buzzed from the woods, and then Tavish and Yak stepped into the open. Finally Brigit, Colleen, and Maura came cautiously forward in their role as guardians of the party’s rear.

  As soon as the others reached the north bank of the desolate streambed, Genna turned again, leading the group into the heart of the grove.

  Robyn looked around them in shock, trying to recall the pastoral beauty of the druid’s grove as it once had been. She looked at the mighty fir trunks, most of them now lying on the ground. The earth, once a rich black, was now a sickening brown that squished softly underfoot and gave rise to an overpowering stench of rot.

  The sweltering heat of Genna’s spell remained around them. Here it seemed more natural, for there was no evidence of the wintery blanket coating the rest of the vale.

  Gaunt, skeletal branches of bushes and low trees seemed to reach out and clutch at the companions as they pushed through the woods. Robyn could see no trace of the pleasant paths and sunny walkways that had once curved gracefully among the forest giants.

  Genna again hurried forward, and Robyn hastened to keep up. She froze in place with a gasp of dismay when the heart of the grove finally appeared among the twisted trunks before them.

  Robyn would not have known the place by sight, though the palpable evil in the air around her confirmed that they had reached their destination. The ground around the well was barren of all plant life, a desolate expanse of muddy brown. She could plainly see the statues, nineteen of them now that Genna had escaped, frozen in place at the periphery of the water. Surrounding them had once been the proud stone arches, composed of two massive pillars and a heavy, flat crosspiece, erected by druids of a distant age. Now the crosspieces had fallen to ground and shattered, and most of the pillars had either been knocked down or leaned crazily against neighboring columns. Half the stones were buried in the oozing mud near the well, and the surfaces that were visible had become coated with a fetid, unhealthy scum.

  Shallow craters covered the expanse of muck. Within several of these mud-rimmed holes, Robyn could see thick greenish slime, bubbling and seething like some ghastly stew. A wide fissure gaped in the ground along the west side of the clearing. Steaming gouts of gas erupted in many places along the fissure, often casting showers of mud as they did so. The spurts of gases combined to form a thin gray haze that hung constantly in the clearing, dimming the view of the skeletal trees on the opposite side.

  Each breath of air seemed to burn the lungs of the companions. Robyn seemed frozen in a quandary of violent emotions. She wanted to turn and flee in heart-stopping panic or to cry out her rage and attack with mindless ferocity. But attack what?

  Stifling the desperate urge to scream, she stood still and waited. Sweat popped from every pore on her body, and she shivered as the perspiration soaked her clothes.

  The entire setting had been wracked by forces of incredible violence and power. Robyn took several deep breaths to calm herself before moving forward. As Genna marched ahead, Robyn felt Tristan step up to her side and sensed Pawldo, Tavish, and Yak close behind her. The blink dogs, in a racing pack led by Canthus, loped past them, cutting to the left in a wide circle around the well.

  “Let’s go,” she whispered, again touching the reassuring warmth of the scroll at her side. Her eyes locked on the black water before them, and unknown to her, a grimace of dark anger crossed Robyn’s face.

  Tristan held his sword before him, looking to the right and left for enemies he did not understand but nevertheless sensed awaited them. This place stank, and the very air made his flesh crawl. And what was there to fight? The statues stared back at him, as if mocking his mortal form. The king fixed his gaze on one of the stone forms after another, seeking some sign of movement or menace.

  The companions emerged into the clearing around the well to the sudden flapping of wings, like geese struggling aloft from a small pond. But these “geese” had perverted antlers growing from their heads and the ghastly look of vile corruption. The deathbirds had been lurking among the shattered pillars around the well, but now they flew, their deadly antlers angling toward t
hose who would threaten their master.

  “Come on!” The king broke into a run, charging the flock even as the hideous creatures fought to gain altitude. He saw several arrows dart overhead, striking a pair of the monsters from the sky. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh compelled him, with a will of its own, to attack the things.

  The ground shook beside him as Yak followed. Tristan heard, incongruous in the oppressive grove, the strident chords of Tavish’s lute. Inexplicably, the notes brought a rush of ferocity to his heart, and he shouted an inarticulate challenge at the obscene flyers.

  Pawldo advanced at his right, brandishing his sword. He moved awkwardly, for his skis were strapped to his back. He had not used the things once during the long hike, but he remained reluctant to give up the products of his labor. Yak advanced at Tristan’s left, the companions in line abreast to face the greatly reduced flock. Another shower of arrows rained overhead as the sisters and Yazilliclick maintained their deadly fire. The deathbirds dived, and the sword pulled the king from his feet as it thrust upward to cut the life from the leader of the flock.

  Yak swung his heavy club and crushed one of the creatures in midair. The shattered body fell to earth as the firbolg turned on another deathbird, sending it veering madly away to avoid the knobby weapon.

  “Tristan! Look out!” Robyn’s voice, a desperate shout, suddenly jerked his attention back to the ground. He looked to his side, past Pawldo, to see a nightmare vision of death springing toward them, as if it charged straight from the lowest levels of the Abyss.

  “What is that thing?” He whirled, the sword instinctively swiveling with him to face this new and much more serious threat. He sensed Yak crushing a deathbird above his head, but he could not tear his gaze from the black, hellish creature now lunging toward Pawldo.