The Coral Kingdom

by Douglas Niles

  “Your table is always sumptuous, and never more than now,” Robyn disagreed with a laugh.

  “Will my lady princess be attending the dance?” inquired Hanrald, blushing furiously as he spoke to Alicia. Keane and Brandon leaned forward.

  “I imagine so,” Alicia allowed, enjoying the attention as the three of them sought her pledges to dance. For a moment, she felt the light happiness she had known throughout her life, but then the memory of their purpose here came back with renewed poignancy, as if her father had perished only yesterday.

  Festive Ffolk sat at tables all around them, gathered in knots of conversation. Harps and lutes, flutes and horns, rang across the broad field, while jugglers and magicians worked through the crowd, entertaining to exclamations of delight and disbelief. It was altogether a scene of considerable commotion.

  Thus the party of strangers approached quite close to the head table before anyone there even took note of their arrival. A band of men and women, dressed as elegantly as any group of noble lords and ladies, advanced through the crowd behind a herald bearing a banner of black, white, and red. They numbered more than a dozen, though none of them were armed, and the few pieces of armor worn by the men appeared purely ceremonial in nature, as evidenced by detailed engraving and graceful but impractical shoulder epaulets.

  “Who are those people?” Robyn said, abruptly realizing that she didn’t recognize the lords or their banner.

  “I recall that tricolor symbol,” offered Randolph. “A curragh entered the harbor this morning under a sail of the same colors. I assumed they were a clan from one of the outlying islands.”

  The High Queen shook her head emphatically. “I would know if they were,” she stated. Robyn scrutinized the leading lord, an enormously fat individual with multiple chins concealed under a thin beard. He wore a blue velvet cap that flowed like a pancake out to either side of his head.

  It was a style that was new to the Moonshaes, Robyn reflected. It should have looked ridiculous, but the huge man somehow gained from it a sense of noble dignity.

  The herald dipped the tricolor banner in deference to the great bear of the Ffolk, the pennant that floated above Robyn’s table.

  “Greetings, stranger,” offered the queen, accepting the lord’s deep bow with easy grace. “Will you join our feast? There is plenty for all of your party, but first you must introduce yourselves.”

  “The High Queen’s kindness is, as legend claims, ever flowing!” the lord proclaimed with a grand sweep of his arm. “We had but hoped to find meager lodgings in your town, but this invitation overwhelms my humble self!”

  Alicia noticed that Keane, seated beside her, had stopped eating. The wizard’s eyes were fixed on the visiting lord’s face. Keane was not smiling.

  “It is the way of the Ffolk to be hospitable,” said Robyn, an edge of curtness to her voice. “Especially when they know who their guests are and from whence they come.”

  “Allow me to present my entourage. We journey here from a place that is far away, but we bear a most important message for my noble queen!”

  “And the land, sir? What place is that? And how are you called?” pressed Robyn. The edge of iron in her voice could not be ignored.

  “My name? If you insist that I have one, it shall be what you give me,” proclaimed the obese figure, his own voice growing more firm.

  “Cease your riddles, sir. If you have a message, produce it. I grow tired of your rudeness and prattling.” Robyn gestured subtly with her hand, and Keane mumbled a soft word, performing the delicate motions of a spell with his hands concealed beneath the table.

  Alicia noticed several files of men-at-arms, bearing cocked and loaded crossbows, working into position on either side of the visitors. For the first time, the princess noticed that Lord Randolph had left the table. The earl must have sensed danger earlier and summoned the company of guardsmen.

  “My message, then,” said the stranger, with another overly flourishing bow.

  One of his attending lords, a foppish fellow in a large yellow hat—this one did look ridiculous, Robyn decided—scampered to the huge man’s side, bearing a pouch of smooth leather. The courtier lifted the enclosing flap and held the opened pouch out for his master’s inspection.

  The round face split into a wide grin, creasing the short beard into the rolls of chin. A plump hand, festooned with rings, reached into the pouch, but then the fellow turned back to the queen, obviously enjoying the suspense.

  “This is more than a gift, royal lady. In fact, I return to you something which you have lost. Indeed, I presume it is something you have missed very much.”

  The hand came forth from the pouch, holding a limp, sickly pale object. Alicia couldn’t see what it was, but then the man tossed it contemptuously toward the queen. It landed on the table before her, and the princess couldn’t suppress a scream of horror.

  The thing was a human hand, bled pallid and shriveled from long immersion in brine. The ragged stump of the wrist showed the mark of a brutal wound, inflicted by tooth or jagged-bladed sword. For a moment, Alicia’s stomach heaved, but she resisted the urge to turn away. Instead, she looked at the appendage more closely, and as she did, her shock turned to horror, and then to a cold, brutal rage.

  On a finger of the hand she saw a ring, a jeweled signet that she well knew, for it bore the seal of a king, the head of a great bear. And with that recognition came the understanding that fueled her emotions.

  For she knew that this was her father’s hand.

  * * * * *

  Deirdre poked through the darkest shelves of the great library of Caer Callidyrr. The great white castle was nearly empty, with most of the court gone to Corwell for the council. She would go there, too, but her journey, on the wings of sorcery, would last mere seconds. She had no intention of arriving any earlier than necessary.

  As she did so often when her time belonged to herself, Deirdre came to this library. Driven by memories or desires—she didn’t know which—she explored the vast, dark shelves and must-covered tomes and scrolls.

  It was here, after all, that so much of her awakening knowledge had kindled itself into the flame of her current power, here where the mysterious one had come to her, infusing her with the mastery of great magic, allowing her potential to grow wildly. She hadn’t known his name, but she had called him Malawar.

  For a time, she had trusted him, learned from him—even given herself to him in in faith and affection—until in the end he had cruelly betrayed her. Now she knew the reason he had kept his identity secret. His power was centered in his name, and if she had learned it, she could have mastered him. As it was, she had barely been able to evade his own attempt to control her.

  She had only discovered his true face at the end, but ultimately she had banished the thing, driving it away from her world. Yet in her contest with this potent being, something had happened to her—some reserve within her had broken open, allowing her to draw power from him, to tap resources normally barred to human spell-casters. She had gained astounding abilities in a short period of time, but even so she felt as though she had only begun to scrape the surface of her potential.

  Every once in a while she had to wonder, with a little tremor of apprehension, whether this all had come to her free. Sooner or later, would she be called upon to pay? Angrily, as always, she brushed aside those apprehensions.

  Worries faded as she pressed through new tomes, dusty volumes that hadn’t felt the touch of human hand in decades, perhaps longer. Some compulsion drove her to seek in these shadowy niches where she had never looked before. Carrying a long taper, she poked through stiff curtains and examined heavy, dust-laden shelves.

  Finally, in one of the back alcoves, she felt a sudden thrill of discovery, though she didn’t know what she had found. Setting the candle down on a shelf, she reached forward to grasp a long, flat object, wrapped in brittle leather as protection against dust and disturbance. Slowly, breathlessly, she tore the stiff and moldy skin away, re
vealing a glimmering surface of pure reflection.

  She studied herself in the mirror, astounded by the clarity of the image staring back at her. Even here, in an alcove virtually devoid of light, she saw each detail of her white skin and her dark black hair that swept across her forehead and framed each side of her coldly beautiful face. “I am beautiful,” she observed softly. This was no mere expression of vanity, however.

  Instead, it represented the confirmation of still another weapon in her inventory of powers.

  The mirror seemed to beckon her like a bottomless well of crystal water. For a brief moment, she felt herself falling, a dizzying sensation that swirled around her even as she felt her feet firmly planted on the floor. Then she looked into the glass again, and her reflection slowly faded from view. She felt a sense of wonder, a trembling excitement that numbed her fingers as she gripped the frame tightly.

  Deirdre allowed her mind to wander beyond the walls of the castle, beyond the island of Alaron. In moments, her attention soared, and the image in the mirror shifted to match. She saw a great expanse of water, steel gray even under a pale blue sky—the Sea of Moonshae. Trees lined the horizon, then great highlands sprouted from the land, and she knew that she beheld the island of Gwynneth.

  Next pastoral Corwell appeared, and she sought the small castle where her parents had been raised. Caer Corwell looked the same as always, jutting peremptorily atop its little knoll. The mirror zoomed in, and the princess saw the field dotted with tents and tables, in the midst of some incomprehensibly boring feast.

  How amusing, Deirdre thought, quickly grasping the potential of this rare device. She could be the perfect spy. She could eavesdrop on anything, anywhere she wanted. Cautiously, as if she feared detection, she urged the picture closer, and soon she found the heavy table where her mother, her sister, and a number of their sycophants sat. They were not eating, but insead stared at an object lying on the table. Deirdre felt a secret contempt as she watched. How pitiful were their interests and concerns! Simple and small, as befitted their powers.

  But then her vision encountered the being who stood before the great table, the obese ambassador from the unknown region. Robyn spoke sharply to this fellow, but already Deirdre stared in shock, and then in growing rage. She cared not what her mother said or did, for in the clarity of the mirror, she saw who this was. He was no human ambassador from the Sword Coast or anywhere else. She recognized him with a sensation of cold terror, but it was terror mixed with fascination, even attraction, such as the moth finds in the flame.

  For this grotesque being who now stood before the queen was none other than the avatar of evil, the one Deirdre had known as Malawar.

  * * * * *

  “Foul bastard!” shouted Lord Hanrald, springing to his feet so quickly that his chair tumbled over backward. “You’ll pay for your insolence with your life!”

  Keane cursed beneath his breath. The shock of the hand’s appearance had disrupted the concentration of his spell.

  Only Robyn remained fixed in place, displaying no reaction. “Why do you bring me my husband’s hand? Tell me quickly—before you die! Did you kill him?”

  “No, esteemed matriarch!” exclaimed the plump visitor, his features contorting into a mask of indignation. “I am no murderer, nor do I come to torment you! Indeed, you should greet me with joy, for I bring you glad tidings!”

  Alicia saw the ranks of crossbowmen raise their weapons. Her mother’s hands were clenched into fists on the table before her, but Robyn’s gaze never left the hatefully pleasant face of the stranger.

  “Do you claim that my husband is alive?” she asked with deadly calm.

  “Very much so, albeit a trifle sore. After all, we needed to carry positive proof to you of his existence. He is our guest, and we shall keep him safe until such time as he can return to his home.”

  “And what is the ransom?” Robyn asked. Only her daughter heard the slight tremor in her mother’s voice. Alicia’s own heart had soared for a brief moment, until the grim reality of the situation became clear. The fat man’s visage shimmered, and slowly his human appearance melted away, as if his features were wax, heated by an intense flame. They distorted, a grotesque mask of slimy meat, to a chorus of gasps and screams from all sides. People scrambled away in horror, toppling tables and benches to the ground, while the creatures eyes dripped streaks of ichor as they blazed with infernal hatred.

  “You, the humans of the Moonshaes, must abandon the seas to us,” hissed the now featureless horror. The mouth was a mucus-streaked gap in the flowing ooze that had replaced its face. “And you must furnish slaves, five hundred in number—humans that we will take to the Coral Kingdom and put to work in our mines! Only when your ships—all of them—have been drawn onto the shores and the slaves have been delivered to our warriors will the king of Moonshae be returned to his people.”

  “This is madness!” shouted Alicia, fury overcoming self-discipline. Quickly she sprang to her feet, wishing she wore a weapon.

  “Wait.” Robyn’s hand, on her daughter’s arm, had the effect of a calming spell upon the princess. Alicia stood still, breathing deeply but slowly, as the High Queen confronted the messenger from the depths. Robyn’s demeanor accented the sudden pallor of her face with an expression that might have been etched into the surface of an icy cliff.

  “Your ghastly missive cannot be met with other than loathing,” Robyn declared, pure force running like bedrock in her voice. “Presuming for the moment that I were willing to deliver my people into certain death, the High King himself would never consent to such an exchange. But even more contemptibly, you seek to inflame with a bit of a corpse the hopes of a widow and a kingdom. You tell us that he who is dead lives, and for this you deserve worse than scorn!”

  Alicia noticed that her mother’s left hand had remained still for some time. Now the queen abruptly made a chopping motion with that hand. Immediately the crossbows of the guardsmen came up. Ladies screamed, and Ffolk dove for cover all around the commons. The princess seized a long carving knife and sprang over the table, Hanrald and Brandon diving forward to stand at her sides.

  The princess heard dual intonations and sensed that both Keane and her mother were casting spells. Alicia paused in a fighting crouch, ready to defend the pair with her blade should the hateful ambassador or his party attack.

  All of this happened in a scant few seconds, but the next split moment became a frozen image in Alicia Kendrick’s mind. She saw a wall of fire spring from the ground, sputtering upward among the visitors—her mother’s druid magic, she knew. Crossbow quarrels whistled through the air, a deadly crossfire of steel-headed death. And then Keane’s spell thundered, followed by a deluge of rocks from the sky, pounding like meteors into the pulpy earth.

  But amid the chaos of the lethal attacks, the princess saw one other thing in that split second before the murderous barrage impacted its target. The visitors, the ambassador and his entire party, had disappeared!

  “Stop! They’re gone,” announced the queen, raising a hand to the reloading crossbowmen. The flames sank back into the earth, and the meteor barrage ceased.

  “To where?” asked Prince Brandon, bashing his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We’ll be after them with the first tide!”

  “To the Coral Kingdom,” Alicia remembered. “At least, that’s where he said.…” Her voice choked in helpless fury as she remembered the words that the horrifible visitor had uttered.

  “A legendary place, the Coral Kingdom—at least, so I had always thought,” announced Tavish, the most well traveled of them all.

  “Where is it?” demanded Alicia.

  “Hundreds of miles to the south of here, somewhere across the Trackless Sea,” explained Keane when no one else answered.

  “There’s nothing for a thousand miles,” objected Alicia. “Barely a few tiny islands!”

  “You heard it was a legend. That’s because no human has been there to prove its existence. The Coral Kingdom lies a
hundred fathoms beneath the sea,” concluded Keane, grimly quiet.

  * * * * *

  Talos chortled in unholy pleasure. The stroke of good fortune that had brought Tristan Kendrick into the hands of his undersea minions was too sweet, too ironic. Also, there was the fact of the mirror. The princess had discovered it and used it. Her power and ambition burned like a fire in the glass, with an allure that drew the evil god’s interest and desire.

  Now he was nearly ready to move for mastery of the isles, but first, he would take one more precaution. In the wake of his earlier defeat, he had determined to seek an immortal partner. A pair of divine beings, coupled in the same destructive goal, would certainly allow the cause of evil to gain justly deserved vengeance. He cast about for the name of a likely ally, and he decided to approach Malar, the Beastlord. That vengeful god was known for the force of his wrath. Indeed, he had recently demolished an entire community of elves for no purpose other than his own gruesome pleasure.

  Thus he was interested when Talos proposed to him that they unite to attack the Moonshaes. But one question was paramount to the Beastlord.

  “Are there elves? I must smite the elves!”

  “Aye,” rumbled Talos. “Called the Llewyrr, they are—but they are elves.”

  As proof, Talos summoned the image of the mirror, unknown to Princess Deirdre, who slumbered nearby. The Stormbringer showed Malar an image of Synnoria, with its pristine lake and crystal city.

  “That can only be a place of elves,” grunted Malar, pleased with his discovery. As he studied the scene more intently, his pleasure turned to keen excitement. He looked closely, drawn by powerful emanations that pulled his attention stronger than any visual cue.

  “There!” he spat, focusing on one of the elves in this sylvan vale, on one particular elf who walked at the head of a group. That one bore a platinum triangle at his waist, and Malar knew he had found the answer: For centuries, elven populations had escaped him through the use of that hateful talisman. They had disappeared, untraceable and immune to his vengeance, because he didn’t know where they had gone.