Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  Its eyes blazed a savage yellow, gleaming starkly against the midnight black of the creature’s coat. Its long fangs drooled, and the two tentacles writhing from its shoulders reached like hungry snakes for the halfling’s face. In that second, Tristan knew that this was the beast that had slain Daryth.

  Pawldo swiveled, his skis swinging through a broad arc. The wooden boards passed right through the form of the drooling monster, but then they smashed into something solid, yet invisible, beyond the beast. The force of the blow knocked the halfling sideways, pushing him away from the snapping clamp of those horrid jaws.

  Then Pawldo’s body whipped into the air, and the king imagined him seized by one of those tentacles. With a dull thud, the halfling slammed back to earth and lay, utterly silent and motionless, beside the monster.

  The creature crouched again, and this time Tristan sprang. He swung his sword through a vicious horizontal slash and felt it bite into flesh—but not where the monster appeared to be! Then he, too, stumbled backward, struck by an invisible tentacle that hurtled him to the ground. Once again his father’s armor had saved him from a deep and slashing wound.

  Tavish the bard stood entranced as the fight raged. The battlesong of the harpist was upon her, and her fingers flew across the strings. The words of an unknown song filled her heart, and though the lyrics made little sense as a story, they lifted the spirits of the Ffolk and urged them onward into battle.

  Tavish watched the monsters attack, strumming with a fantastic intensity a tune and a rhythm born in her mind only as it was played. She felt the words erupt within her, whirling through her mind, and suddenly she sang. Her voice was a challenge to all the evil and blackness in the world, but especially to the dark power lurking before them, as she sang her message of hope and prayer for herself and her companions.

  The lyrics of her song were incomplete, but now a tale began to take shape. She had no ending, for the song was a ballad, and the tale it told had not yet seen its conclusion. But Tavish felt herself swept along by the music, felt it raise the spirits of her companions, and so she challenged the darkness with growing courage and strength.

  The deathbirds swirled in confused savagery, and several of them dived toward the bard. Tavish, caught in the rapture of her music, failed to see them coming.

  But Robyn did. The druid let go of the scroll and momentarily attacked as a warrior, raising her scimitar into the air and slicing a wing from the leading deathbird. The monster’s body crashed into the bard, knocking her to the ground, as Robyn whirled and cut another of the creatures from the sky before it could attack.

  The lute fell from Tavish’s hands and a black silence again settled over the clearing. The bard sat up awkwardly and saw the black panther-beast strike down Tristan as the king’s weapon again struck at the empty air.

  Not knowing why she did so, Tavish pulled forth the broken spectacles from the firbolg lair and fumbled to place them on her nose. She squinted toward the battle and immediately saw the beast in its true position, several feet to the side of the illusionary appearance.

  Standing again, lifting her lute, Tavish cried out to the king. “There! To your left! There it is!” But then another of the deathbirds smashed into her face. A cruel antler tore at her cheek, and the glasses flew across the muddy ground. Tavish fell backward heavily, gasping for air and seeing the shadow of horned death looming over her.

  Brigit and Maura nocked and fired their arrows with mechanical precision, while Colleen drew her sword and raced to Tristan’s defense. One by one the silver missiles found targets in the flying creatures.

  Brigit felt a great emptiness rise within her as the music ceased. She suddenly realized that, for a brief moment, the music had recalled memories of pristine Synnoria. The sister knight turned and saw Tavish on the ground, saw Robyn reach to strike one of the deathbirds with the now bloody scimitar.

  But two more swept toward the prone bard, and Tavish squirmed awkwardly, too slow to get out of the way. Brigit dropped her bow and raced toward the fight, her own long sword extended.

  None of the companions saw the displacer beast crouch, its yellow eyes gleaming, and slink along the ground. Genna pointed a finger, again unnoticed by the others, and the creature sprang toward Robyn’s unarmed and unprotected back.

  Ysalla floated easily in the shallows, watching the great march below her. Hundreds and hundreds of the dead of the sea, preceded by the hulking corpses of the ogres, moved through the gap in the breakwater and approached the beaches at either side of Corwell Harbor.

  The storm overhead clearly waned, though large breakers still smashed against the shore. The priestess could see no sign of sunlight through the thick clouds, and this pleased her. The Claws of the Deep could emerge from the water and fight and breathe among the air-breathing peoples, but they abhorred the light of the sun. This boded well for the coming battle, the priestess thought.

  Sythissal, King of the Deep, drifted behind her, casually drawing a clawed hand along the ridges of her spine. She whirled on him, a hissing froth of bubbles exploding from her scaly maw.

  Ysalla drew back her golden dagger and was on the verge of striking him for his insolence, but the sahuagin king floated breezily past. She understood the warning implicit in his gesture: Though the power of Bhaal had given her command of this great mass of undead creatures, the king had told her that he was her master, as well as lord of all the Claws of the Deep. Seething, she acknowledged the truth of his point.

  But it would be her troops that would win this battle, she knew. Finally the mighty army had gathered into position for the attack, either inside the harbor or spread along the outer shores. It was time to move.

  A dozen sahuagin, the yellow-scaled priestesses of Bhaal, ordered their legions forward. Lumbering but implacable, the undead emerged from the water. Ysalla surfaced, her proud spines breaking the water first like the dorsal fin of a monstrous shark. She saw that gray clouds glowered above and was pleased.

  Everywhere around her the heads and bloated bodies of the dead of the sea emerged from the surf. To Ysalla, the sudden panic in the town was a powerful drug, and she knew that Sythissal’s legions, too, would feed upon that fear. With steady, slow precision, the dead army marched to the shore and emerged from the water.

  In the town, Hobarth watched the attack with unconcealed glee. From a room on the second floor of the inn, he faced the harbor. Now he stood at the window, observing the array of zombie troops before him. They advanced steadily along the wharf, clambering into the boats docked at the pier or struggling awkwardly up the steep seawall to shuffle along the docks. The Ffolk at the waterfront, in a mass outbreak of panic, turned and bolted for the central regions of the town.

  Snow still floated gently from the sky, but the storm had passed. Now the white flurries drifted and eddied in the gentle breeze, in stark contrast to the brutal scene enacted on the ground.

  To either side, Hobarth could see hundreds of undead outside the walls of Corwell Town. To the north, the grisly army shuffled forward against no resistance, sweeping along the edge of the town and cutting off retreat to the castle on its rocky knoll. Splendid! The Ffolk would be trapped in the town, and the castle could be dealt with later.

  To the south, he saw the other wing of Ysalla’s army. This segment turned toward the town as it came ashore, hammering at the gate and climbing, through sheer force of numbers, over the low wall and into the streets.

  But what was this? Surprised, Hobarth looked down to see several hundred men, armed with swords and spears, carrying shields, gathering in the central square. Organized resistance! Hobarth picked out the figure of the town’s Lord Mayor and realized that the militia had indeed been mustered.

  He turned the other way upon hearing the screeching shrill of pipes and saw two more companies of men assembling in the streets. Some of the neighboring cantrev lords must have gathered their forces as well.

  The cleric of Bhaal chuckled grimly as he observed these feeble prepar
ations. He watched the three companies of the Ffolk, brave but doomed, gather together and move toward the waterfront. A bristling wall of spears advanced toward the first of the lumbering ogres. Hobarth saw several of the bloated creatures fall before the attack, though the others pressed mindlessly on. After all, the dead could know no fear.

  But the living could. And Hobarth was determined to see that they did.

  He called upon the might of his god, pulling a tiny scrap of insect larva from a pouch in his robe. He crushed it between his plump fingers, letting the dust swirl down to the street below as he summoned the might of his god to power his infernal casting.

  Bhaal heard and answered. The dust of the insect larva suddenly blossomed and expanded, curling into a black cloud that began to flow through the streets of Corwell. Seeping and slithering forward, the cloud clung to the ground as it expanded. It probed alleys, filled yards, and slowly it took to life. The black cloud became a massive shroud of living insects, buzzing and humming in an infernal chorus.

  Bees, wasps, locusts, hornets, savage biting flies, and a host of other insects filled the air and covered the streets. They flowed through the town with a nightmare hum. In the mass of their millions, they spelled horrible, painful death to anyone caught within their cloud.

  The insect plague spread among the buildings and streets of Corwell Town, reaching forward with fingerlike tendrils to wrap around the men of the companies. First a few stragglers fell out of line, slapping and cursing the attack. Then the cloud gradually embraced them all, and the men broke and fled, unable to stand the supernatural attack.

  And the legions of dead advanced through the town, unmolested.

  Tristan felt a shadow pass over him. He scrambled to his knees, instinctively keeping the Sword of Cymrych Hugh away from the mud. He saw the black monster spring toward Robyn as the young druid slashed at a deathbird, unaware of the horror approaching from behind.

  “Robyn!” As the king screamed a warning, the words caught in his throat. He struggled to his feet, raging against the clutching mud, knowing he could never reach her in time.

  Yak turned beside him, also too far away. Pawldo lay motionless; the three sister knights struggled with the remaining deathbirds; Tavish lay prone, struggling to rise … none could help Robyn.

  The displacer beast landed in a crouch, a low growl rumbling in its belly. Robyn spun and gasped in shock, staggering backward in the face of the horrible drooling visage. The beast crept forward, its tentacles flicking with deadly purpose.

  Then it pounced. Desperately the woman dived to the side, sensing that the creature’s balance was imperfect. She saw a deep wound in the monster’s flank, a broken shaft of some kind protruding from it. It looked like a spear, only it was white.

  One of the tentacles lashed across Robyn’s legs, cutting her skin and knocking her to the ground. The monster twisted back toward her, and the druid saw the broken weapon that had been embedded in the creature’s flank suddenly pop free from the wound. She lay helpless, watching the drooling fangs come closer, hearing the beast’s deep, rumbling growls, smelling its fetid breath.

  One, then another, and suddenly six four-footed creatures appeared before Robyn, snarling and yelping at the beast. The blink dogs, as a pack, lunged forward and snapped at the monster’s flanks. They blinked in and out of sight at the front, sides, and rear of the beast.

  Biting and snapping with surprising savagery, the dogs attacked the abominable cat-beast. The monster flew into a frenzy of rage, biting with its great teeth, slashing with its claws, and whipping its obscene tentacles at one after another of the nimble dogs.

  Tristan started toward the melee, but then he saw Robyn starting to get up, apparently unhurt. Another deathbird soared at his face, and he quickly crouched into a defensive position.

  “Get him, Canthus! Yippee!” shouted a shrill voice above the noise. The great moorhound raced across the field. Above him soared a tiny orange figure, shooting like an arrow toward the fight. “C’mon, you guys! Bite him! Chew his tail off!”

  Canthus and Newt slashed into the fray, and suddenly the displacer beast whirled and lashed out from the center of the melee. Tristan saw the moorhound leap and snarl at the image of the beast, striking at the empty air. The blink dogs, conversely, snapped at no apparent foe, their teeth apparently closing on empty space, but as they pulled back, the image of the displacer beast snarled and shrieked in rage. The other-dimensional ability of the blink dogs apparently allowed them to see the displacer beast in its actual location.

  As the fight raged, scarcely feet away from her, Robyn rose to her feet. She caught sight of the weapon that had fallen from the displacer beast’s wound and picked it up. While she had at first thought it to be a spear, she now saw that it was an ivory horn.

  With a dull feeling of shock, she recognized it. Kamerynn! Had he, too, succumbed to this savage presence? Was this horn all that remained of the proud unicorn that had saved her life, that had carried her into battle with the Beast? This shock, the proof of the death of the proudest child of the goddess Earthmother, now only strengthened Robyn’s resolve. Grimly she tucked the horn into her belt and turned again to face the well.

  Tavish at last found her glasses and stood beside Brigit and Maura. The two sisters had driven the flying predators back from the bard while she searched. Now Tavish again took up her lute.

  A deathbird flapped toward Tristan, its antlers lowered. The sword of his ancestors surged forward, sinking into the monster’s throat. The king flipped the limp creature to one side and started toward the melee again, only to see Robyn running toward him.

  “The scroll! I’ve got to get to the statues!”

  “Come with me!” He spun beside her and started toward the well. Yak and the sister knights continued to strike at the remaining deathbirds. Behind them, they could hear the roaring of the displacer beast, then the painful yelp of an injured blink dog.

  Before them, Genna stood before the well, ignoring the battle raging behind her. She stood between two of the druid statues, staring at the black water. When Tristan and Robyn joined her, she looked up suddenly, an expression of passionate hatred burning on her face. Robyn imagined the revulsion she must feel, confronted by this ultimate devastation.

  “The scroll!” Genna demanded. “Now is the time!”

  Robyn fumbled with the container as Tristan looked around frantically. The statue beside him was a white stone image of a middle-aged man. An uncanny look of brutal determination, etched in the stone, glared from his frozen face. In his hand was an upraised sickle.

  Beyond him were others, men and woman, all dressed in the practical garb of the druids, all locked in positions of deadly combat. Armed with scythes, knives, staffs, poles, and a few heavy clubs, these druids had faced a nightmare army only to be imprisoned thus. He remembered Robyn’s description of the miraculous white foam that had risen from the Moonwell, saving the druids from the disastrous climax of their battle.

  If the scroll worked, if these statues once again became living druids, they would find themselves in the midst of another battle—against, Tristan suspected, an even mightier foe.

  But could they save them now? He saw Robyn unroll the parchment, her hands shaking. Tristan saw the golden circlet, the Rose-in-Sun Medallion, glowing with an eager, hopeful aura.

  Genna put out her hand as if to steady Robyn’s grip. The Great Druid’s hand touched the scroll, and suddenly a blue light crackled through the air. Robyn recoiled from the druid’s touch, her mouth wide in a soundless scream. Genna looked at her, her wrinkled face barren once again of any emotion.

  Still the blue flame crackled and sizzled around them. Robyn remained immobile, her mouth wide, her eyes panic-stricken, full of disbelief and pain.

  The parchment of the scroll burst into flame, and even Tristan could feel the heat from the fire. Now Robyn broke from her spell, screaming in terror, tumbling back against one of the statues to fall, sobbing, onto the ground. The flames con
suming the parchment slowly faded, and the last of the Scrolls of Arcanus fluttered in useless ashes through the air, drifting on an eddy of wind to land in the black waters of the Darkwell.

  Randolph spurred his panting mount over the last rise before Corwell Town, thankful that the storm had diminished somewhat. A strong sense of urgency gripped him, and as he crested the low hill, he knew why.

  He saw immediately that Corwell was under attack, and the attackers had come from the sea. He kicked the horse into a desperate gallop, and the animal gave its last strength to streak over the snow-covered moor, pounding frantically toward the town.

  The captain could see a black haze, almost like smoke, hanging over the town. He saw warriors and women and children—indeed, the entire populace—fleeing from the city through its gates, or even over the walls. Then he heard the droning of the smoke, though he could still not believe its nature.

  But as the horse staggered up to the town’s south gate, he saw the tiny creatures that made up the cloud, and he instantly realized that powerful sorcery was at work.

  “Rally ’round me, men of Corwell!” he cried, brandishing his sword among the crowd of fleeing warriors. He pulled hard on the reins, and somehow the tired horse found the strength to rear, pawing the air with its forehooves in a brazen challenge.

  “To the attack!” Randolph leaped to the ground and started toward the narrow gate.

  “Wait! You’ll be killed!” Lord Mayor Dinsmore, among the fleeing warriors, pushed himself forward to the captain’s side. “They have powerful sorcery! The enemy are not even alive! They’re walking dead! Flight is the only hope!”

  “Nonsense!” growled the captain. “We’ll just have to kill them again! Follow me!”

  He charged through the gate, heartened by the score or so of men who followed. More and more of the Ffolk saw his solitary advance and fell into rank, until the course of the rout had been reversed.

  Randolph still carried the Crown of the Isles in the burlap sack, tied securely around his waist, but he gave the artifact no thought as he plunged into combat with a sea-bloated zombie. Nevertheless, the crown had a most pronounced effect as he moved onto the battlefield.