Black Wizards (27 page)

Robyn saw that it looked like a small man, about two feet tall, except that it had gossamer wings sprouting from each shoulder and long pointed ears. As the little creature bowed, she noticed two long things, almost like the antennae of a bug, growing from the fellow’s forehead. She knew then that this was a wood sprite. He was dressed in a green tunic and cap, and he carried a small bow and quiver in his hands and a dagger at his belt.

“Welcome to the grove,” she said, extending her hands.

“Yazilliclick!” cried Newt, diving from the horn to hover before the sprite. “You’re here too! We should have a party!” He turned to Robyn, hovering up to her eye level. “Can we have a party, Robyn? Can we have a party, please?”

“No!” Can’t you tell there’s something serious going on, Newt?” She felt genuinely angry at the dragon. He had been no help at all as she had struggled to control the animals.

Newt looked piqued for a second before zooming back to Kamerynn’s horn to watch the proceedings with interest.

“I … I must tell you of the danger,” said the sprite in a high and musical voice that sounded an odd contrast to the seriousness of the missive. Robyn understood his nervousness. Sprites were among the shyest of the creatures in the Vale. Though there were many of them in the surrounding woods, she had never seen one. She knew that it must have taken great courage to bring Yazilliclick here.

“There is terrible—t-terrible—danger abroad!” We have seen the army that defiles the vale,” said the sprite. “It is coming here!”

“An army!” gasped Robyn.

“That is not the worst of it—not the worst!” added Yazilliclick. “It is not an army of men, or llewyrr, or even firbolgs. It is an army of corpses!”

“Corpses? But how …?” Robyn was too stunned to think. Certainly the little sprite could not be telling the truth!

Yazilliclick nodded his head, his tiny antennae bouncing. He looked like he was about to start crying. “I d-don’t—don’t—know!” he wailed. “But they come this way—this way! And they are evil! Evil!”

None of them saw the great eagle dropping silently from the twilight skies until it settled to the ground beside them. The eagle’s shape shifted and suddenly Genna Moonsinger stood beside them. Even in
the dim light, Robyn saw that she was pale. She started to speak, and her voice was strained, as if she struggled to control it. She had obviously heard the sprite’s last remark.

“They draw nearer with every minute—they will be upon us in two days at the most.

“I have sent the sparrows to summon the other druids of the Vale. We will gather here as quickly as possible. Perhaps together our might will daunt this force somehow.” The druids of the Vale, several dozen in number, each tended their own sacred groves, scattered across the face of Gwynneth.

Here, at the grove of the Great Druid, they gathered occasionally for councils, but for the most they were solitary men and women, seeking little human companionship.

Genna turned to look at Yazilliclick, and her eyes softened. “Thank you, little one, for coming here. I know how hard it was for you.”

“I’ll s-stay, to help,” blurted the faerie, looking immediately as if he regretted the offer.

Next, the Great Druid raised her chin and looked her pupil squarely in the eyes. “Robyn, you must remain here awhile. I know of your concern for the king and for your prince, but you are needed here.”

Robyn sensed the command in her teacher’s words, but that command was not necessary. She knew where her duty lay, and she nodded in response. There was nothing else that she could do.

The patriarch’s map proved invaluable as the black horses carried the riders through the night. They alternated mounts frequently, allowing two of the steeds to run free while the others carried Tristan, Daryth, Pontswain, and Pawldo. Keeping the mounts fresh, they made excellent time.

The hours in the saddle wore heavily on Tristan, however, as the pain of his wound grew into a throbbing ache across his entire back. He said nothing, fearing that his companions would slow their pace, but he was nonetheless relieved as dawn approached and they began to look for a place to hide during the day.

There were few likely spots along the winding country lanes.
Alaron—at least, this portion of it—seemed devoid of wilderness, or even of large tracts of forested land. They eventually left the road, riding across several fields and crossing numerous stone fences before finding a little clump of woods in a secluded hollow. Here they dismounted, ate some of the bread and fruit that the cleric had sent with them, and prepared to rest.

Pawldo left the three men to fill his watersack in a nearby stream, and they sat quietly for a time.

“I suppose you’ve realized that our original mission no longer has much relevance,” said Pontswain, lounging.

Tristan looked at him suspiciously. He could not help but suspect the lord’s motives, but he nodded now. “Indeed, there’s not much point in petitioning approval from a man who has ordered me arrested and killed.”

“Then let’s go back to Corwell and leave this madhouse to its inmates!” said the lord. “What can you hope to accomplish here?”

“I can gain a measure of vengeance for my father’s death! I can force the king to admit his crimes against the Ffolk—perhaps even to make some of them right again!”

“You’re mad! He’s tried to have you killed already. Now you want to travel to his very stronghold and tell him you don’t like what he’s done? You don’t have a chance!”

“On the contrary, I think I have a good chance. We have avoided his pitfalls thus far. And besides, I have to try something! I cannot let my father’s death go unavenged!”

“Your foolish vengeance will get us all killed!”

“You are free to return to Corwell whenever you want. We can go on without you.” Tristan challenged. Pontswain slumped silently, scowling.

Pawldo returned with a dripping goatskin of water and passed the bag around. Silently, they drank, as the halfling flopped to the ground beside them.

“How do you propose to gain entrance into the castle?” asked Daryth as they settled into their makeshift beds.

“I don’t know,” admitted the prince. “But if there’s always a way to escape from a place, as you’ve told me, then it follows that there’s always a way to get in.”

“The opposite of escape is capture,” announced Pawldo.

“We have to get there before we worry about getting in,” observed the Calishite. “And from the looks of this country that’s far from guaranteed, especially if there are troops out looking for us.”

“On the other hand, the troops of the High King seem to be none too popular in this part of the country, if the Ffolk in The Diving Dolphin or the cleric Trevor are any indication,” said Tristan.

“Still, let’s try and stay hidden,” warned the halfling. “I don’t want to have to rescue you again!”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” said the prince. “How did you pull that off—distracting the ogres?”

Pawldo chuckled, not a little proud, He told the story of the assassins in the tree and his entry into the manor house. For once, he embellished the details only slightly.

“It was our good fortune to have a friend like you lurking in the shadows,” laughed the prince. Pawldo grinned, enjoying the praise.

“Now tell me,” asked the halfling. “What did you scoundrels do to get in trouble with the law? Were you stealing milk from a baby? Or perhaps you got enthusiastic about the young daughter of some local lord?”

“Nothing so straightforward,” said Tristan. He explained about the assassination of King Kendrick and their mission to Alaron. After a long hesitation, he described the castle of Queen Allisynn and the prophecy he had received there.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Pawldo said.

Tristan felt a moment of sorrow. It came suddenly and then passed. He realized, with a twinge of guilt, that it had been many days since he had thought of his father. But now he could feel some sense of atonement. “We did more than a little avenging in Llewellyn,” he said. “I’m certain that the men with Razfallow were the same who accompanied him to Corwell.”

“I wish that bloodthirsty devil hadn’t gotten away,” said Daryth bitterly. “But we’ve certainly trimmed down the numbers of his band.”

“It’s too bad we couldn’t have put an end to his killing,” said the prince. “But we’ll have another chance, I’m certain.”

“Especially with your subtle plan,” snapped Pontswain. He had been listening to their conversation, using a saddle to keep his head off the ground. But now he sat up.

“I didn’t ask you to come along!” retorted the prince, his anger kindled.

“No, that was my decision. And now that I’m here, I’m wondering what kind of madness you’re planning next!”

“My lord Pontswain, this is my fight—and it has become a personal matter. I neither seek nor welcome your involvement in it! If you have concerns that can be better addressed elsewhere …”

“Indeed I do, prince. I want our kingdom to prosper—to see some of the glory it had ages ago. If I am king, I think it will. Perhaps the same thing can happen under your rulership. But I haven’t seen any proof of that yet!”

Tristan flushed, instinctively reaching for his sword. Anger blazed from his eyes as he met Pontswain’s level gaze. The lord’s face was curiously unemotional.

“Oh, you wield your blade well—certainly better than I do,” continued Pontswain. “But I wonder how well you can wield your mind!”

Tristan forced down his rage, but the remark cut him deeply. In a dark corner of his mind, he realized that Pontswain was too close to the truth. What ideas did he have to offer? What kind of a plan had he assembled?

“Perhaps under the tutelage of your wisdom I’ll learn!” he snapped, trying to turn Pontswain’s sarcasm back at him, But the challenge sounded hollow, even to himself.

“On that cheerful thought, I’m going to get some rest,” said Daryth. The others, too, rolled into their blankets. Tristan was still livid. His mind coughed up numerous, sharp remarks that he regretted he had not thought of at the time. But as his anger cooled, a strange thought struck him. For the first time he saw Pontswain not just as a rival for the throne,. but as a man who truly cared for the kingdom. The knowledge was disturbing, and he took it with him to sleep.

That night they rode again, gradually turning north. They found themselves entering wilder country now, though still tame in comparison to Corwell.

The prince’s wound still hurt, but did not seem to have gotten worse during the last day. This time they found it easy to find a secluded place to spend the day, and on the following night they rode into Dernall Forest itself.

“At least we’re a bit more secure here,” remarked the prince as they trotted down a dark forest lane. Canthus, as usual, loped along before them. “We should have no trouble finding a place to hide during the day.”

All of them felt more relaxed among the thick, sheltering branches. Though the moon was half full, the canopy of leaves made the road almost black.

That changed very suddenly. Their only warning was a low growl as Canthus froze, staring into the darkness. Harsh words in a strange language barked from the night.

“Magic!” cried Pawldo in alarm, and even as he spoke the ground itself suddenly glowed with cool, bright light.

The little party halted, clearly outlined by the bright spell, and blinded from seeing anything beyond their circle.

“Do not move, strangers,” said a voice from the darkness. The voice was strong, filled with the authority of command.

Tristan’s eyes finally adjusted to the brightness enough that he could make out forms moving toward them from all sides. He saw men, armed with the largest longbows he had ever seen, in a circle around them. He counted several dozen with his first glance, and he saw that each member of his party was in the sights of a weapon.

The prince hauled back on his reins, searching for escape, but the ring of archers was solid—and very menacing. There was something frightening in the lack of emotion he detected among them, as if this was simply in a day’s work.

Yes, he realized now, they were captives once again.

“The Black Rock is gone,” said Newt miserably. Yazilliclick nodded in agreement. “Somebody must have taken it! This is all my fault!” The faerie dragon was on the verge of tears. His wings drooped miserably when he landed on the bench, returning from the mission Genna had given him.