Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  The unicorn’s horn plunged through the skin and the flesh of the god’s foot, through the bottom, and into the earth below. Like a huge nail, it anchored the foot to the ground.

  Bhaal’s bellow of rage shook the very depths of the earth, felling nearby trees and sending ripples across the water of the well. As the force of sound struck Tristan, he stumbled forward, struggling to regain his balance.

  The physical body of Bhaal swayed precariously and crashed to the ground, its foot still firmly pinned by the horn. The earth itself trembled beneath the impact, and several more trees toppled to the ground. Tristan lost his footing and sprawled in the mud. Quickly he scrambled to his knees, holding his sword upraised, and for a moment, he thought he was free.

  Suddenly a massive hand pinned him to the earth, driving the wind from his chest and threatening to crush his rib cage. He squirmed and managed to free his hands, including his sword, but then the massive fingers wrapped around him and lifted him from the ground. He groaned as the force of Bhaal’s grip twisted his spine and slowly began to squeeze the life from him.

  The links of his chain mail armor pressed into his skin, but the flexible armor seemed to absorb some of the crushing squeeze. Nonetheless, he could not draw a breath or move his torso or legs.

  He looked desperately toward the well, a hundred feet away, as a red haze floated before his eyes. The black pool might have been a hundred miles distant, for all the good it did him. Through the mist he saw, or imagined, the crimson pulse of Bhaal’s essence in the center of the well.

  Pain exploded in Tristan’s ears as the pressure of the blood pounding in his head grew to agonizing proportions. He tried to jab his blade into the hand that held him, but the angle made the attack impossible. He could only wave the weapon in the air fruitlessly, cursing this monstrous thing that was crushing the life out of him. He felt his consciousness rapidly slipping away.

  Dimly he thought again of Robyn’s message and pictured the soul of the god, so near yet so impossibly far. With his last strength, his lungs burning from lack of air, he threw his arm back and cast the Sword of Cymrych Hugh high into the air, toward the black water of the Darkwell.

  The blade arched upward, spinning slowly, shining against the dark clouds that glowered overhead. Robyn froze, her heart pounding, as she saw the king’s last desperate effort to save himself. Tavish held her breath as the weapon began its lazy descent. Still spinning, it seemed to tumble so slowly that time itself paused anxiously, waiting to see what would happen.

  It became clear to them all that the sword would fall far short of the center of the well. It would not even reach the water. Tristan’s awareness faded to black as he saw the sword drop inexorably toward the muddy shore. Robyn fought back a sob without success. Tavish sat, stupefied and devastated, on the ground.

  Suddenly an orange shape popped into view, hovering in the air beside the falling sword. “Not here!” Newt grabbed the weapon in his forepaws, though the weight of the sword almost bore the faerie dragon to the earth.

  “Over here!” Hovering awkwardly with the heavy weight, the dragon fluttered to the center of the Darkwell and dropped the sword.

  The silver blade disappeared into the water with a soft splash, and for a moment nothing happened. Then the physical body of Bhaal cried out with a shriek of agony that made his thunderous roars throughout the battle seem almost silent. Robyn clapped her hands to her ears and fell backward, stunned.

  The god’s hand opened reflexively, and Tristan tumbled to the ground, unconscious. And then the flesh of the giant body began to shrivel and smoke, falling away from the bone in a hissing cloud of decay. Bhaal cried out again, a dull moan this time, and then the body vanished into a sizzling heap of gory sludge. Flowing into the well, the red liquid mass of Bhaal’s flesh crackled with blue flame. Smoke erupted from the flesh, but the fire shed no heat.

  The water of the Darkwell bubbled and seethed in a torment of agony as the blade struck deep into the god’s unprotected soul. The bulb of his essence leaked ichor from a long gash where the Sword of Cymrych Hugh had sliced into it. Now the thing swirled through the water, torn asunder and rapidly spilling its power into the black water.

  Explosions wracked the pond, casting curtains of steam and sludge into the surrounding air. The ground vibrated from a primordial wrenching, and gouts of steam and flame filled the sky.

  Clouds of rancid smoke rose into the sky, destroying the Sword of Cymych Hugh with their venom, but at the same time driving the soul of Bhaal, writhing in torment, back from the Moonshaes, out of the Realms, and down through his dark gate.

  Grunnarch twisted and squirmed in the grasp of the dead, unable to break free. The zombies carried him through a throng of their own, but they did not kill him. Then the Red King learned why.

  The animated corpses dumped him on the ground before a human, a living man in this sea of dead or reptilian enemies. The man was fat and ugly, his visage dominated by a cruel sneer that marked his bloated features.

  Grunnarch struggled to rise, but the press of carrion behind him held him down.

  “You are the king of the North,” the man remarked calmly, as the zombies held back the raging king. Grunnarch spat toward him, but the spittle fell short.

  “Spirited to the end, I see. I like that. My followers have brought you before me so that I may observe your death at close hand. Now I see that you shall make that a most pleasant experience.”

  Suddenly the fat man grasped his chest, a grimace of deep pain crossing his face. He moaned and staggered. At the same time, Grunnarch felt the grip of the zombies on his arms and legs weaken. With a surge of effort, the Red King broke free.

  He did not notice the dead of the sea falling in legions all around him as the power of their god evaporated from the priestesses of the sahuagin.

  He did see, however, the fear growing in the face of the man before him as Grunnarch closed his powerful hands about the cleric’s neck. The Red King relished the growing awareness of impending death and the expression of despair in the man’s eyes.

  Something else glared hatefully from those eyes as well, though Grunnarch did not understand it. As Hobarth died, the cleric’s last bitter thoughts were of his god. The cleric perished amid a horrible sense of betrayal, for here, in the hour of their ultimate victory, his god had forsaken him.

  All across the field, the undead fell like twigs in the wind. The ogre corpses of the Scarlet Guard, the dead sailors of the sea, all were returned at last to the death that had been so cruelly interrupted. Without the power of Bhaal to animate them, the army disintegrated to so much carrion.

  Now the Ffolk and the warriors of the North pressed forward, driving the sahuagin before them. The fish-men reeled in confusion, many of them turning on their priestesses in rage. The battle had been all but won with the legions of the dead beside them. Now it was sahuagin against human, and the numbers of the humans were as great as their own.

  As one great, seething mass, the sahuagin turned toward the sea. They would fight no more for Bhaal.

  Robyn lifted her hand from Pawldo’s head as the halfling’s eyes blinked open.

  “What—what happened? Where did they go?” Pawldo looked around, half afraid that the battle still raged. Finally he sat up, confused but relieved. Tristan, Colleen, and Tavish stayed with the halfling as Robyn hurried over to Brigit’s still form on the shore of the pond.

  The well was no longer dark, though neither could it be called a Moonwell. It lay placid now, simply a pond awaiting the cool ice of winter.

  Robyn performed the same healing magic upon Brigit, and slowly the sister’s eyes flickered open. She sensed, even before she sat up, that the vale around them was peaceful once again.

  From the woods, Maura emerged, her eyes downcast. Colleen went to her companion and embraced her. The sister knight’s shame at her flight was plainly visible, but no one censured her for it. They had all felt the same mind-numbing terror as Bhaal burst forth from the well. Yak
and Yazilliclick soon followed the warrior into the clearing.

  Tristan stepped to Robyn’s side as she looked across the pond. “Your spells … how did you get them back?” he asked.

  “These are new spells.” Robyn looked wistful for a moment, then turned to the king with a soft smile. “I know I shall never have the old ones back, for the goddess is indeed dead. The Moonshaes are a mundane land now, like any other place in the Realms.

  “But there are still gods to worship, benign and good gods. I have found one of those, and she has taken me to her heart. Together we will make this land grow again.”

  “And this is Chauntea?”

  “Yes, she of the Rose-in-Sun sign.” Robyn nodded at the well, then looked back at the king. “You, too, have lost something!”

  He looked toward the water, where the Sword of Cymrych Hugh had vanished forever. “It was a fitting end for the sword. I hope that its destruction also marks the end of my need for a weapon.”

  The king turned back to the black-haired woman beside him. “The beast is slain now, and the northmen … Grunnarch is a good man and a strong king. He and I will be allies, and our friendship will seal the peace between our peoples.”

  Robyn nodded. “With such a mixture of old and new, both the northmen and the Ffolk cannot help but prosper.”

  For a moment, thoughts of his past flooded Tristan’s mind. He pictured his lifelong teacher, Arlen, killed in the first skirmish of the Darkwalker War. He recalled the sacrifice of the blacksmith, Gavin, saving Robyn as the Bloodriders stormed into Caer Corwell, but only at the cost of his own life. And all the others who had died during the war rooted in the bowels of a dark and hateful god.

  “Is the god Bhaal truly dead?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think we could possibly kill him, at least not here in our own world. But that is of little matter. The truth is that his power here has been broken, and so it shall remain for many generations.”

  The king thought for a moment of Daryth, and he knew that his pain would never vanish entirely. He said a silent prayer to his friend. Somehow, perhaps only because of his present sense of wellbeing, he felt a whisper of affection and forgiveness in Daryth’s memory.

  Then his mind came back to the present, and he smiled unconsciously. His shoulders had grown accustomed to bearing the weight of his chain mail, but now he unclasped the armor and shrugged free of it. He felt a delightful lightness of foot as the iron rings fell free.

  Tristan looked awkwardly away from Robyn, disturbed by the warm glow in her green eyes. Then he looked back, hesitantly placing his arms upon her shoulders.

  “I know I have hurt you, and we have seen the agent of this hurt today, in the body of your teacher and the Beast, Kazgoroth. Once I claimed to have been bewitched by her, but I know this isn’t true. I simply made a mistake—an error in judgment that, because it has caused you such pain, I would do anything to take back. But I can’t do that. All I can do is hope that you will be able to forgive me.”

  “I can,” Robyn said simply, smiling. It was as if the weight of a great burden had been lifted from the king’s shoulders. “The only bewitchment, I fear,” Robyn went on, “was the anger in me that would not die. That anger was a poison as venomous as your infidelity, and lasting far longer. I believe that was her whole purpose in pursuing you, to break the bonds that hold us together.

  “I owe you thanks that your love was deep enough to accept my anger, and still keep you by my side.”

  He swept her into his arms, kissing her warmly, and welcoming her returning embrace. A thought came to him as he remembered the calling of her druidic faith, when Robyn had been willing to serve her goddess as Great Druid, should such be the Earthmother’s need.

  “This new goddess … does she require … that is, must you remain chaste? Will you marry me?”

  “I know nothing about that aspect of my new faith,” Robyn said in mock seriousness, “but I promise not to ask until our children are grown.”

  The soul of Bhaal tumbled away from the well, down from the Moonshae Islands, out of the Forgotten Realms. The cord connecting the god to his home plane of Gehenna contracted violently, pulling his tortured and writhing form through the ether.

  Thus Bhaal was ripped through the Outer Planes, past the bottomless pit of the Abyss, above the fiery levels of Hell, to be cast in defeat and impotence on the flaming mountainside that was his own world.

  Here he lay in broken despair, scorned by other gods of evil who now far superseded him in might and influence, reviled by the gods of good who took great joy in his banishment. Motionless, Bhaal knew only suffering.

  Thus he would lie for generations, as a forgotten god and a distant relic of the human past.

  hey debated the merits of springtime but quickly decided to wed at the height of the Yule festivals. Friar Nolan performed the ceremony. A diamond ring bearing a stone of impressive size, a gift from Pawldo of Lowhill, symbolized their union.

  The Great Hall of Caer Corwell overflowed with celebrators, and the party spilled into the courtyard, where great fires burned, holding winter’s chill at bay.

  Grunnarch and his northmen had stayed in Corwell, and they were joined by other guests from all over the isles: Lord Llewellyn and his own young bride, the Lady Fiona of Callidyrr; Lords Koart, Dynnatt, and Fergus from the cantrevs of Corwell; Brigit and a full complement of the Sisters of Synnoria; and the halflings of Lowhill. To a tumultuous welcome just prior to the ceremony, the dwarven chieftain Finellen arrived with a hundred of her doughty warriors.

  The wedding itself was a simple ceremony, marred only by a minor incident as Newt surprised the guests with an illusion of a huge red dragon. They soon returned to the hall, and everything proceeded according to plan.

  As winter closed in, Corwell bundled snugly against the world. Cheery fires glowed in every hearth, none more cheery than the blaze lighting the great fireplace of Caer Corwell. Once again the Ffolk sensed that their only enemies were natural ones, foes with which they had long coped successfully.

  The great bulk of Caer Allisynn, the floating fortress, stood at the shore of the firth throughout the winter, though heavy surf made access to the keep impossible. With the coming of spring, swimmers found the massive structure at rest firmly on the bottom.

  The underwater exploration of the ancient building, smaller than Caer Corwell but more finely constructed, occupied the king for most of the summer, and the queen as well, until her pregnancy made such excursions dangerous. The relics of ancient glory, including volumes of lore from the time of Cymrych Hugh, would keep the bards and scribes busy for years.

  The line of Kendricks received an addition in the autumn with the birth of the Princess Alicia. By late winter, yet another royal heir was expected.

  Peace with the North became a fact of the land. The combined skills of the seafaring northmen and the craftsmanship of the Ffolk proved clearly useful to both peoples, and the recent military accomplishments of the Ffolk served as additional deterrence against any future raids.

  The land itself did not change drastically. The blasted areas of Myrloch Vale gradually returned to normal. The fields continued to be worked with hoof and plow, but their area was considerably enlarged. The wild places grew smaller and fewer, though they still existed. The memory of the goddess remained with the land and the Ffolk, but the changing of eras had begun.

  There were those, including the High King, who felt that perhaps this increased use of the land was not a bad thing, that perhaps it was merely the sign of fortuitous progress. Certainly this represented the view of the goddess Chauntea, and through her blessing came many years of bounty from the land.

  And many healthy children to the Ffolk.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The creation of the Moonshae Trilogy has been a joyous task for the past few years, but it has not been mine alone. I am grateful for the opportunity to thank some of those who have contributed their energies.

  Foremost has been
the work of three talented editors who have helped shape the trilogy from its inception to its final form. Pat McGilligan, Mary Kirchoff, and Bill Larson have each provided invaluable aid and criticism to the books. Jim Ward has also been a source of wonderful ideas and (brutally) honest evaluations of manuscripts.

  I owe thanks also to a team of British game designers, Graeme Morris, Phil Gallagher, and Jim Bambra. While the work we collaborated upon never came to be, some of its ingredients went on to become the Darkwalker.

  Also to Jeff Grubb and Ed Greenwood, who found a place for my islands in the Forgotten Realms and made them welcome there.

  And finally to Mike Cook and Lorraine Williams, for seeing these tales published.

  —Douglas Niles