Black Wizards (26 page)

And still the wind blew and the gray waves rolled.

“Put him in here,” said the short cleric, pushing aside a wool tapestry to reveal a small room. The only furnishing was a narrow bed, but Daryth and Pawldo were grateful for the chance to lay Tristan upon even that tiny platform. Pontswain remained outside, sword held at the ready, looking up and down the long ribbon of darkened, empty road.

The cleric ran back to the doors of his chapel and saw that the road was empty. The deepest hours of night were just beginning to yield to morning.

“Cowan!” he called. “Come here!”

Moments later, a lad of about fifteen emerged from a small alcove, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He blinked curiously at the visitors, and his eyes widened as he saw the bloodstained prince stretched, pale and deathlike, on the bed.

“See to their horses, lad!” barked the cleric. Cowan hurried from the chapel as the man turned back to them. “I am Patriarch Trevor, a cleric of Chauntea,” he said, moving quickly to Tristan’s side. The man moved with a smooth and easy grace. He took the prince’s hand in one of his while pressing the other to Tristan’s forehead.

“He is very near death. A few more miles on horseback, I’m certain, would have killed him.” The patriarch closed his eyes, still touching the prince’s wrist and face. He whispered softly, a ritual sound that lasted nearly a minute.

A warm glow seemed to surround the prince, visible as a faint light to the watchers. Daryth had a feeling of deep reverence, and wanted to drop to his knees. He stubbornly resisted the urge, instead staring, spellbound, as the cleric worked his healing magic.

“Chauntea,” said the cleric reverently. Tristan winced and thrashed on the narrow mattress. A sudden, shocking spurt of red blood burst from his mouth to spatter the cleric, but the patriarch ignored it. Daryth’s hand leaped to his sword; he feared for the prince, but the
cleric held a steadying hand up, and the Calishite relaxed.

The prince groaned and twisted on the bed. His eyes opened, but the pupils rolled so far back in his head that only the whites were visible. The cleric whispered again, and the soft glow brightened and then slowly faded away.

As the cleric finally opened his eyes, Tristan’s chest began to rise and fall with deep, regular breathing, Slowly, color began to creep into his face.

“He sleeps,” explained the cleric. “Now, let us talk.”

Daryth and Pawldo followed him into another small room. Here Trevor pulled a bottle of wine from a wooden chest and gestured them to sit at the small table.

“You are fugitives,” he said finally. “But from what?”

Pawldo and Daryth exchanged quick looks, obviously surprised by the blunt question. Finally, the halfling spoke.

“The High King’s ogres took the pri—uh, my friend on false charges. We helped him get away, but he was wounded during the escape.”

“Ogres of the Scarlet Guard!” growled the patriarch with surprising venom. “The mercenary scum!” Seeing their startled looks, he explained.

“The guard is just another example of the blight that seems to have fallen across our land. We watched them march through Grady—that’s this little town—some days past. The sight of the people huddled in their homes, shivering in terror, broke my heart. Remember, these are the troops of their own king! I ask you, what kind of king would bring such terror to his own subjects?”

“Those kings are more common than you’d like to believe,” said Daryth. “Though this is the first I’ve heard of such a ruler in the Moonshaes. In my experience, the Ffolk have been ruled with freedoms that far exceed the norm.”

“True,” agreed Pontswain, coming through the door. “The road is quiet. How is the prince?”

“He will live,” said the patriarch.

The lord did not respond as he moved to sit in the only vacant chair. Daryth wondered whether Pontswain considered the news good or bad.

“Why haven’t the lords of Callidyrr stood up to the king?” asked
the lord. “I can’t imagine that we, in Corwell, would stand for such behavior.”

“They have tried. Several have disappeared, others have gone to the dungeon. Those that disappear have had their lands confiscated and their holdings assigned to allies of the king. One, the former Lord Roarke, has become an outlaw in the forest, railing bitterly against his fate, but helpless to do anything about it.”

“Why hasn’t there been a rebellion?” pressed Pontswain.

“I don’t know,” shrugged the cleric. “Perhaps because they lack a strong leader. Or, more likely, because the Ffolk are frightened.” The patriarch seemed to consider his statement, and his situation. He was silent for a moment.

“I am glad that I could help you, but you have powerful enemies. I can hide you here until nightfall, but then you will have to be on your way. It is not for myself that I fear, but this entire village would doubtless be destroyed were you discovered here.”

“We understand,” said Daryth. “And thank you for what you have done.”

“But you must decide where you will go from here,” the cleric reminded them. “Or do you already know?”

“To Caer Callidyrr to see the High King.”

The voice drew their attention to the doorway, and they turned to see the Prince of Corwell standing there, watching them grimly.

“Tristan!” Pawldo jumped to his feet as the men looked in astonishment at the prince. He leaned against the door, his face drawn with pain. But the color had returned to his skin, and his eyes glowed with determination and anger.

“You should be asleep,” said Trevor, rising to offer the prince his chair.

“I shall be soon. But we need to plan first.”

“Are you certain you want to go to Caer Callidyrr?” asked the patriarch.

“Yes.”

“Very well. The King’s Road, the highway you took from Llewellyn, is certain to be patrolled in strength. It would mean almost certain capture for you to travel there. But there are other roads, trails really, that lead to the west of here, and then north, through Dernall Forest.
The soldiers of the king do not venture into the forest much, but the forest has its own challenges. For one thing, the trails are few and difficult to follow.”

“We have some woodcraft,” said the prince. “We’ll travel the forest roads.”

“I can give you a map and some directions. You will have to trust to your good sense for the rest of your guidance.” The cleric proceeded to sketch a spiderweb of winding trails onto a sheet of parchment. “You will be very weak for several days,” he warned Tristan. “That wound would have killed most men, I’m certain. So have a care for yourself, and rest when you need to.”

“Thank you, friar. We shall,” said the prince. “I have but one question: Why have you done all of this for us?”

“The ways of my goddess are not for mortals to understand, not even her clerics. I but do her bidding. Remember this, if you think of nothing else: Chauntea is your ally. She hopes for the success of your mission, and she will aid you as much as lies in her power.

“Now that you are here, I understand. Your mission to Caer Callidyrr—no, don’t tell me any more about it. But I understand that a king who hires monsters to protect himself from his own people cannot work for the good of those people or their land. This king is offensive to my goddess, and therefore her blessing falls upon your mission.

“May you ride like the wind and be as difficult to catch,” concluded Patriarch Trevor.

The cleric’s words seemed to have a pleasant effect. Tristan felt warmth spread through his body, and a feeling of benign goodwill descended upon him. “Thank you for everything,” he said, clasping the patriarch’s hand firmly. “You have given our mission new hope!”

“As you have done for mine, also,” said the cleric quietly.

Then they slept, and when darkness fell the men mounted their black horses and slipped into the night, the great moorhound trotting watchfully ahead.

Bhaal wallowed in the fire pits of Gehenna, luxuriating in the sensual feel of lava
fueled with fresh blood
.

The god of death, lover of all murderous acts, was in fine fettle. His devotees, and even those opposed to him, were acting in concert to provide entertainment. But even more than entertainment, each act of killing strengthened Bhaal, increasing his influence among the gods and enhancing his ability to interfere in the affairs of men
.

And so Bhaal watched the events unfolding before him. He thrilled at the sight of the dead army that was defiling Myrloch Vale. They would be his mightiest achievement when he was done, creating a legion of death that would bring the entire land beneath his baneful rule. Bhaal drooled at the thought of the young druid’s blood warming his belly as Hobarth performed the ritual sacrifice
.

He watched the events upon Alaron with less interest, but took mild note of the occasional body left in the wake of the fleeing prince. More than once he had thought that the death of the prince himself was imminent, but each time the mortals had managed to fend it off—just barely
.

But Bhaal was patient
.

he unicorn nuzzled Robyn’s shoulder affectionately. The druid said nothing, but the weight of responsibility she had borne this day seemed to grow lighter.

She leaned back and looked at the great creature, child of the goddess herself. Kamerynn’s white beard hung in a thick tuft from his jaw, and his ivory horn jutted proudly before him, more than four feet long.

His large eyes were bright and clear, and Robyn whispered a soft prayer of thanks for this miracle. Only a year earlier, the great unicorn had been blinded, his skin and eyes scalded by the power of the Beast. But his healing seemed complete, and his broad nostrils snorted as if to belittle the hurts he had suffered.

“Kamerynn, you big horse!” Newt shouted with joy as he buzzed into the oak grove and saw his old friend. He darted like an arrow to the unicorn, perching proudly on Kamerynn’s long horn.

“Thank the goddess you’re here!” he chattered. “Robyn has been having an awful time with the animals. Oh, she tries you know, but she’s still so young. Now that you’re here, I’m sure we can get all of these—”

Kamerynn turned his broad head to the rear, interrupting Newt’s explanation, and the dragon was forced to grasp the moving horn tightly to retain his perch. The bushes behind him parted very slightly, and a tiny face looked timidly at Robyn. The unicorn gestured with his horn, and the little creature stepped forward.