Black Wizards (19 page)

Limply, Robyn stumbled to the bear and leaned against his broad flank, trying to draw strength from him. Her shock gradually gave way to uncomprehending terror. Finally, for the first time in many years,
she sobbed uncontrollably.

Hobarth crouched among the branches of a thick bush, ignoring the thorns that pricked him. He dared not move for fear of alerting the druid across the stream.

He had watched her battle the zombie. Although disappointed with the outcome, he had other plans. He squeezed the black rock in excitement, his eyes never leaving the woman. The stone, like the heart of evil that it was, seemed to answer his pressure with a warm caress of its own. He watched Robyn stumble weakly from the clearing, leaning against the bear, until she disappeared from his sight.

The cleric remembered his surprise as he had cast the spell to animate the corpse. Such a spell normally called for the discipline of Hobarth’s faith, coupled with the might of Bhaal. Once cast, the spell would vanish from Hobarth’s memory, until a suitable period of praying to his deity would restore it to him.

But somehow the black heart had changed that. The power to raise the corpse had arisen from the stone, not from Hobarth. The memory of the spell remained with him. He felt that he could immediately recruit another corpse from the dead—in fact, as many bodies as he could find.

Hobarth squirmed from his position in the bush, his mind alight with possibilities. Bodies—hundreds of them, raised into an army of undead! He needed bodies! The cleric was unaware of Bhaal feeding him these images. He knew only that he wanted such an army under his control.

Common sense told Hobarth to look for bodies at the site of a battlefield. He was not a historian, but he knew a little local history. A year earlier a battle had been fought not many day’s march from here.

Quickly, eagerly, the great cleric turned his steps back toward the south. He would call upon the wisdom of his god to show him the exact route, but he knew that this was the general direction to Freeman’s Down.

Genna opened her eyes and studied Robyn with a look of great tenderness and understanding that the pupil had not seen for many weeks. She rose to her feet, and the young woman saw again the sturdy muscle of the stout druid’s body. Trying to banish her lingering sense of horror, she embraced Genna in relief. The cottage door was securely bolted behind her, and Grunt sat just outside. But even the cozy fire in the stove and the lace curtains filtering the afternoon sunlight could not entirely soothe her.

“What could it have been?” she asked Genna.

“A creature animated from death—a zombie,” Genna explained. “But how it came to be here I cannot imagine.”

“I felt so helpless,” Robyn said. “My magic was useless!”

“The powers of the druid are the powers of life and growth. We have no power over death or death’s creatures.”

Genna looked warily across the grove, probing the waters of the pond and the flowers of the garden with her eyes. “Whatever the source of this abomination,” she said, “we must take great care that it does not happen again. The results could be disastrous.”

“And it’s genuine crystal from the famed glasskilns of Thay. Note the detail, the colors, and the shapes!”

The old sailor leaned in, burping discreetly, to examine the shining object. The diminutive salesman pressed his pitch. “This one has come thousands of miles by galley across the Sea of Fallen Stars, by camel across Anauroch, the Great Desert. Its passed through the hands of pirates and bandits and traders. Why, it’s certain to be the only one in the Moonshaes—perhaps along the whole Sword Coast!”

“Crystal of Thay, huh?” mumbled the sailor, intrigued in spite of himself. He looked through bleary eyes at the little fellow who held the glass ball in his hand. A halfling, he was, one of the little folk, half the size of man.

“Why’d you bring it to Llewellyn?” he asked suspiciously.

“A shrewd fellow you are, to be sure,” said the halfling with a conspiratorial wink. “To tell you the truth, I had no intention of stopping in Llewellyn, much less selling the crystal. I’ve become quite attached
to it, you know.” The halfling, his large brown eyes sliding furtively around the room, leaned in close.

“I had a little trouble up in Callidyrr. I have to get off the island in a hurry. The money’ll make that possible.”

“Who are you? Where is your home?”

“The name is Pawldo, of Lowhill,” said the halfling easily. “I hail from Corwell. Oh, it’s nothing serious that has me in a hurry to leave. It involves, if you must know, a young lady.”

The sailor chortled knowingly and went back to examining the bright crystal sphere.

“Five gold, eh?” the old sailor mumbled, turning the fascinating sphere in all directions, watching it catch the light from a nearby lantern, diffusing it into a million colors and patterns. He had just been paid, and though the price represented half a season’s salary, the object was like nothing he had ever seen before. “I’ll take it!”

“A fine deal. I’m grieved to part with it, but the crystal’s yours,” said the halfling in a voice that almost dripped with regret. The sailor fumbled across the coins and lurched unsteadily to his feet. He clutched the sphere covetously to his breast and staggered out into the street, looking to show off the object to his mates.

Pawldo counted the money, biting a slightly tarnished coin to satisfy himself that it was indeed gold, and smiled to himself. He hoisted the duffel bag he had placed under the table, careful not to jostle its contents. It contained several dozen more of the crystals, each of which he would sell as the only one of its type. He worked his way through a crowd and climbed to a stool, carefully placing a silver piece upon the bar. He would not pay with gold—the little folk had long ago learned to conceal their wealth around humans, particularly drunk and disreputable ones.

This tavern was filled with both types. The Old Sailor was an ancient establishment in one of the most run-down sections of Llewellyn. Fights and theft were common. But the halfling knew that his trail could easily be buried here, and in case two of his customers should chance to meet up after a sale, Pawldo needed quick anonymity.

He sipped at a mug of ale and looked around at the other patrons.

A pair of Northmen were engaged in an arm-wrestling contest in the center of the room, and most of the patrons had gathered around
to place bets and cheer on their favorites. Pawldo could see little of the match. The hulking forms of the humans formed an effective barrier for one of his stature. Instead, he saw the door open and a heavyset woman enter. She had a broad face and round cheeks, but she was very attractive in a large sort of way, She stepped confidently up to the group around the wrestlers, and the halfling saw that she carried a lute upon her back.

Interested now, Pawldo watched her join the onlookers. She obviously knew them, judging from the familiar tweak she gave one man. She talked for a moment and then left.

Halflings are nothing if not curious (except about magic), and Pawldo was compelled to see what the bard-lady had said. He hopped to the floor, hoisted his bag and strolled over to the sailor she had tweaked.

“Any idea where I could find some music?” he asked.

“Huh? Oh, sure, there’s a party at The Diving Dolphin tonight. Seems the Prince of Corwell’s in town, and … damn!”

The sailor’s attention jerked back to the wrestlers. One had just crushed the other’s brawny arm to the table. Muttering a stronger curse, he counted out three silver pieces and passed them to a sailor to his left before turning back. He was surprised to see no one there.

“Now where’d that little fellow go?”

“To Rodger!” Tristan solemnly raised his mug.

“Rodger!” echoed Daryth.

Pontswain ignored them, seizing another massive boar’s rib and biting greedily into the succulent meat. Red juices ran into his beard, but his hair, brushed again, had regained its elegant curl.

Moments later they slammed down the empty stoneware next to the empty pitchers. Tristan felt vaguely guilty. This was the first time he had thought of the fisherman who had given his life to carry them to Alaron. “I didn’t even find out if he had a family,” he said.

“He was a widower, his children grown,” replied Daryth. “He told us that in Kingsbay.”

Tristan felt another twinge of guilt. He had drunk so much beer
that night that he barely recalled the conversation. “I’ll see that they’re provided for,” he said, raising his head. The thought made him feel slightly better.

He looked around The Diving Dolphin. The inn was pleasantly crowded, with a steady buzz of conversation. Pretty maids bustled about replenishing pitchers, mugs, and platters. Heavy beams of dark wood crisscrossed the ceiling, and bright lanterns showed the place to be clean and well-maintained. The huge skin of a cave bear served as a rug before the vast fireplace, and the head of a leering sea monster was mounted above the hearth.

Daryth showed his companions the gloves he had found in the castle and told them how he had found their weapons in the treasure room.

“Where did you find your sword?” he asked Tristan.

The prince smiled. The rush of alcohol made his secret seem even more pleasant. He felt better than he had in days. He leaned back in his chair and lifted a booted foot to the table. “Magic,” he said smugly.

They found the beer to be a bit watery to their palates, but that hadn’t stopped them from finishing four pitchers. Actually, Tristan had had most of it. Daryth had filled his mug a few times, but Pontswain was still on his first.

“Another, gentlemen?” said a freckled barmaid. A great spray of red hair fell across her shoulders. She had a pretty face, though Tristan was barely aware of it. He was more consumed with the ample shape of her figure straining against the tightly laced stays of her bodice.

Even in his fog, though, Tristan caught Pontswain’s warning glance; the lord obviously disapproved of his consumption. That alone was enough to make him want to order more, and he was about to signal the lovely maid to bring it.

“Not for now!” announced a voice. Tavish marched up to the table, bearing a pitcher in each hand. She ignored the barmaid, smiling at Daryth as he rose to offer her a seat.