Black Wizards (28 page)

“You helped us very much by removing it from the grove,” said Genna. “You are not to blame for the evil that has befallen us.”

Robyn stroked Newt’s head and long neck, surprised at his contrition.
She had never seen the faerie dragon expressing anything approaching remorse before.

“Now,” continued Genna, addressing the creatures that had gathered before her cottage. “You must all listen very carefully.” Around her were arrayed Kamerynn the unicorn, the great brown bear Grunt, and a hundred or more of the animals—the strongest and wisest from among the teeming throngs.

The Great Druid sought to calm the fears and soothe the tensions of the gathered wild creatures. She needed them to remain peaceful throughout the night, for she and Robyn would not be able to watch them. Finally she finished, and the animals drifted away to rejoin their kind.

“Now Newt, Yazilliclick,” said the Great Druid. “I must ask you to care for the grove while we’re gone. The other druids should be arriving soon; you must tell them where we have gone. Will you do this?”

The sprite nodded.

“Can’t I come along?” pleaded Newt. “You will get into—”

“We need you here,” soothed Robyn. “You must help us.”

“I will,” said the faerie dragon with a resigned sigh. He darted to Kamerynn’s horn and looked away from them.

“Now, my dear, it is time,” Genna said quietly, turning to Robyn. The two druids entered the cottage. There, Genna opened several clay jars and removed pieces of holly and mistletoe. Robyn picked up her long staff—the legacy of her mother. She handled the smooth ashwood staff reverently, grateful for the potent magic it contained. It alone provided her a weapon that might slow the unnatural army approaching through the Vale.

“Come along.” Her teacher walked outside again, with Robyn following. They crossed the now-silent grove to its heart—a sacred place where even the animals did not go. Here the Moonwell illuminated the surrounding ring of stone columns with a soft, milky glow. Here the power of the goddess was most accessible to her druids.

“Woman, you must concentrate like you never have before. You must realize that your youth and lack of experience make this even more dangerous than it must be.”

“I understand, teacher,” said Robyn solemnly

“I would not even allow you to consider this action, were it not for
our dire emergency. And I admit, the fact that you have displayed an inherent talent gives me some reassurance that you are capable of this feat.

“Now, hold your staff, and listen to me.”

Robyn planted the staff at her side, grasping it firmly in her right hand. She heard Genna whisper something—private words to the goddess.

“Remember your lessons,” intoned the Great Druid, her voice taking on the cadence of a chant. “Remember the bright eyes. Remember the long, light bones—and the feathers. Think of the beak and the claws, so hard. Concentrate!”

Robyn remembered well. She pictured the powerful bird upon her teacher’s lap, and she saw every detail of its graceful body. She didn’t feel the magic of the Earthmother wash over her or even notice the sudden change in her body, so intently was she focused within her mind.

She only noticed as she stretched to keep from falling. Driving powerful wings downward, she felt her feet lift from the ground. She looked around, and her eyes saw the Moonwell in minute detail, falling away below. Again and again she extended her wings, aware of Genna soaring beside her, but only slowly did she understand.

She was an eagle. She was flying!

Alexei endured days and nights of black silence, chained to the wall of a stone cell. Madness came closer, daily, and the mage had few weapons with which to fight for sanity.

Only hours after Alexei’s imprisonment, Cyndre and a cruel painmaster had paid a visit to the cell. The painmaster was an expert from Calimshan who had gleefully broken Alexei’s hands, taking care to shatter every bone.

For a time the agonizing pain of those wounds had served to give him focus. But gradually the bones healed, freezing the appendages into twisted claws, useless for the delicate spell-casting gestures required by Alexei’s craft. And as they healed, the pain lessened, and Alexei had only the darkness and solitude to comfort him.

Now that the pain was gone completely, he had only his hate to keep him going. And so he nurtured that hatred, caressing it in his mind, building it and storing it for the moment it could be released. He hated the king and Kryphon; he was certain that they had betrayed him. And he hated the painmaster who had broken his hands.

But most of all he hated Cyndre. The mage thought over and over of ways to destroy his former master. He relished thoughts of the sorcerer’s death, a lingering death, utilizing a variety of methods, most of them magical.

But even had he been able to use his hands, he could not have cast a spell, for Cyndre had encased his cell within a cone of silence. Neither a chip of stone falling to the floor nor a hoarse scream from a terrified throat made any noise in that awful stillness.

For a time, the mage wondered why Cyndre had kept him alive instead of slaying him outright, but then he remembered the lurid god of the cleric Hobarth and his bloodthirsty altar. Blood of high magic flowed through Alexei’s veins, and when Hobarth returned from his mission, the altar of Bhaal would welcome Alexei to its eternal night.

“Welcome, travelers!”

A tall man jumped smoothly from a tree limb into the pool of magical light. He was dressed in brown trousers and a long green shirt, and his face, through his flowing red beard, was aloof though not openly hostile. He spoke again.

“You really should take more care, you know. Traveling the ways of Dernall Forest on a night so dark!”

Tristan looked at the ring of archers surrounding them. None had moved a muscle. “Perhaps you would be good enough to provide us with an escort?” he asked.

“Ha ha!” The man gestured broadly, as if inviting his men to join the laughter, but they remained poised to shoot. “An audacious one—I like that in a man. Perhaps you’ll be allowed to hang onto a coin or two!”

Tristan felt a small measure of relief. These were bandits, and this encounter would certainly cost them money. But they were not soldiers and thus were not likely to turn them over to the king’s mercenaries.
Still, this was no ragged band. The discipline shown by the bowmen was worthy of a veteran company of warriors, and they were supported by one or more magic-users, as evidenced by the light spell. These men could be very dangerous, he was certain.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll be good enough to hand over your purses, we can conclude this little interview. Don’t be stingy, now!”

Tristan saw Pawldo scowling to his right, and he realized that the halfling was probably carrying a heavy pouch of coins. Neither the prince nor Daryth had much to lose by paying the bandits, but the halfling had no doubt assembled a tidy profit from his year-long endeavor. Then, too, Tristan remembered, he had lifted a pouch from the officer of the Scarlet Guard.

“May I inquire, sir, whose coffers are being fattened by these ill-gotten gains?” asked the prince.

“Ill-gotten?” The bandit chief looked distressed. “Sir, you wound me! Consider it a toll, if you will.… A toll for keeping these paths free of the king’s scum! Your contributions will go to the coffers of Hugh O’Roarke—that is, myself!”

The name meant nothing to Tristan.

“We are no friends of the king ourselves. We ride these forest paths expressly to avoid the scum you refer to.”

“Could it be that you are fugitives?” O’Roarke’s expression was mildly curious.

“It could. In fact, we have a small pouch of the king’s own gold that we would happily contribute to your cause in exchange for passage through your domain and perhaps information that may aid us in our mission.”

“Hey!” Pawldo hissed. “That’s mine! You can’t—”

“Be still,” growled the prince out of the side of his mouth.

“Travelers with a mission, eh? Let us have a look at this pouch, and perhaps we can talk.”

“My squire has it in his pack. Pawldo, pay the man.” Muttering curses, Pawldo drew forth the sack he had lifted from the officer’s cabinet and tossed it to O’Roarke. As he did so, Tristan realized that they had never checked to see that the pouch contained gold. But the gilded metal was clearly visible in the bright light, and even some of the archers wavered their attention as the bandit ran a glittering stream
into his hand.

“Very well,” he said, smiling broadly through his red beard. “You will enjoy our protection for a time.” He looked at their weapons and apparently liked what be saw. “It may be that there is a place for you among our band of cutthroats.”

His last remark worried Tristan more than anything else the bandit had said. The prince wondered if they would ever get the chance to leave.

The wizard turned from the mirror and stalked angrily across the council chamber. His cool detachment had vanished the moment he had learned of the events in Llewellyn. The prince had escaped!

Forcefully, Cyndre brought his emotions under control. The sorcerer knew that only through calm reflection could he hope to devise an effective plan for dealing with the young upstart. Not until the prince was out of the way would Cyndre have any opportunity to expand his own power Already, Callidyrr seemed too small—and Corwell was the logical next step in the wizard’s dream of conquest. For a second, he wondered if the prophecy of Bhaal, warning of the danger inherent in the Prince of Corwell, had meant more than he suspected Could it be that the prince was destined to defeat all of the council’s plans?

Of course not! Cyndre knew that the young man had been very lucky several times, and that the assassin Razfallow had failed him for the last time. The half-orc was marked for death, though this task must take a lower priority than the slaying of the prince. There would be time enough to deal with the assassin
.

“Kryphon.” The wizard’s command was spoken softly, and its target was sleeping soundly in a distant part of the castle. Nevertheless, within seconds Kryphon had materialized beside his master. Kryphon’s black eyebrows were raised inquiringly, and his tight, narrow face betrayed a look of interest as he waited for his master to explain the summons. The thin black beard encircling his jaw twitched nervously, and he licked his thin, almost nonexistent, lips
.

“Kryphon, our friend Razfallow has failed us again. We shall have to take matters into our own hands.”

“Yes, master,” the young mage said. He tried unsuccessfully, to conceal a thin smile of anticipation. Absently, he stroked one of the bright diamond brooches he was prone to wearing on his robe
.

“The prince escaped from the Scarlet Guard in Llewellyn, so you should start there. I shall continue to seek him in the mirror. When I find him, I will let you know where he is.”

“I should like to take Doric with me. Her powers can be a great asset in a task like this,” Kryphon said
.

“Indeed,” agreed Cyndre, although he looked carefully at his subordinate. “I sense it is more than her fire-magic that you want. Very well, Doric shall accompany you
.