Black Wizards (4 page)

engthening shadows extended the towers of Caer Callidyrr into needlelike spires that reached ominously across the city of Callidyrr, and beyond, to the waters of Whitefish Bay. Evening brought an end to the bustle and barter of vigorous trade that characterized this, the largest city among the lands of the Ffolk. Night came with its own forms of barter—sale of the ginyak weed imported freely from Calimshan, or even in the darkest of alleys, the trading of young slaves from Amn or Tethyr.

The wizard moved among these alleys, intimately familiar with them. Eventually, after night had fallen completely, he stepped down a stairway into a low cellar, ignoring a slumbering old man who reeked of cheap wine. He pushed through a curtain that masked one wall of the cellar, and entered a wide, round room. The chamber was illuminated by great pots of hot coals that gave the place a hellishly red glow and kept it uncomfortably warm.

A huge skull sat upon an altar in the center of the room. Carved from white marble, it was perhaps four times the size of a human head. Red streaks, which could only have been fresh blood, ran from the eyes of the skull across its cheekbones in a garish caricature of tears.

A man stood before this skull, his back to the wizard. The thick robes and cowled hood of the cleric could not conceal his immense size. Slowly, the man turned.

“Praises to Bhaal,” he chanted.

“Hail the lord of death,” replied the wizard in a smooth, incongruously pleasant voice.

“Have you acted upon my prophecy yet?” inquired the huge man, stepping away from the altar with a reverent bow to the skull.

“Indeed, Hobarth,” replied the wizard. “I am certain that Razfallow and his team will eliminate them shortly.”

“There is more to be done. The woman will not be found at Caer Corwell.”

“No matter—I will send Razfallow to the farthest corner of the Realms if need be.”

“No!” Hobarth’s voice was strong, and he stepped aggressively toward the wizard. “I must get her myself. Bhaal desires her blood to feed his altar.”

“Where is she?”

“Bhaal has shown me, and only me, where she can be found. I will go after her.”

“And why should the god desire this woman’s blood to flow from his sockets?”

“Perhaps Bhaal desires the victim to be a druid. There are none closer than Gwynneth, anymore—thanks to you and your council.”

Cyndre chuckled wryly. “As I recall, you and your god had a hand in the elimination of the druids from Alaron. Now, the Ffolk of Callidyrr lack any central spiritual guidance—they are ripe to your persuasive efforts.”

“Indeed,” agreed Hobarth, with a bow to the altar.

“I wish you success. The earthpower of these druids can be vexing—though no match for your own might.”

“Mine is but the strength of Bhaal,” said the cleric.

“Of course … how thoughtless of me.” The wizard turned away so that his companion could not see the thin smile of amusement curling his lips. Clerics and their idiotic faith!

“I shall leave tomorrow … this druid will not see the rising of the next full moon.”

“It’s like they became invisible!” reported Randolph, the young captain of the castle guard company. The bearded warrior, not yet thirty, could not keep his voice from choking with frustration. “They disappeared into thin air!”

“We killed five,” said Tristan. “How many could have escaped?”

“There must have been at least two more,” insisted the guard, angrily clenching the hilt of his sword. “I found three of my men dead in the courtyard or on the wall. One had his throat cut; the other two were stabbed in the back.”

“Quite a proficient band,” Tristan muttered bitterly. “But what did they want? Why? My father never …” His voice choked, and he did not continue.

The guard said nothing. He and the prince stood quietly in the shambles of the king’s study. Together they looked out the broken window into the courtyard, watching dawn’s slow arrival.

In the next room, the king’s body lay upon his bed, respectfully placed there by Friar Nolan, the cleric of Corwell Town. King Kendrick would be given a funeral befitting a leader of the Ffolk before being laid to rest in the royal barrow.

With growing grief, Tristan tried to accept his father’s death. The knowledge did not seem to remain with him. For a time the truth would recede, and then, unexpectedly, would stab at Tristan with greater and greater force. Sometimes the pain was nearly unbearable.

“Where’s Daryth?” he finally asked, trying hard to pull himself together.

“He was leading the search,” replied Randolph.

Tristan turned to look at the door to his father’s room. The captain of the guard started wearily toward the door.

Tristan heard the door shut, and then he looked outside again. A whirlwind of thoughts assaulted him. He struggled with guilt and uncertainty. Why had his last moments with his father been angry ones? And what would happen to him, to the kingdom? Now that his father was gone, Tristan began to realize how much he had depended on him. A brooding sense of loneliness threatened to overwhelm him, and he thought wistfully of Robyn, so far away. He longed for her presence more desperately than ever. Impatiently he paced the floor, wishing Daryth would return. Finally, he flopped into a chair and
stared into the long-dead coals in the fireplace.

Practical thoughts pushed through his emotional storm. Messengers had already been dispatched to the cantrev lords of Corwell. These lords would arrive posthaste, and a council to determine the future of Corwell would convene. A new king would be selected.

The thought of the pudgy Lord Koart or the greedy Lord Pontswain sitting in his father’s place revolted Tristan. Of all the petty leaders of the lands of Corwell, the prince could think of none worthy to sit upon the royal throne—to be his lord. It’s my father’s place, he thought, just my father’s. Or maybe, now—maybe my own.…

Angrily he sprang to his feet, stalking to the window as he realized how dramatically his own feelings had changed in the last few hours.

Looking into the orange dawn, Tristan faced the truth that, hours earlier, he had argued vehemently against: He wanted, very much, to be the next king of Corwell.

Robyn gasped as she knelt beside the frail figure. An unfocused fear prevented her from touching him.

As she finally reached forward to turn the man onto his back, his eyes squinted against the sky. He gibbered something that was not even vaguely speech, and she saw that his tongue was swollen and cracked. She quickly grabbed the nearby water flask, pouring a few drops between the man’s chapped lips.

“Don’t touch him!” Newt warned. “He looks dangerous! I don’t trust him!” For the first time, Robyn noticed that the little dragon had dived for cover under a pile of leaves when the stranger arrived. Buried up to the eyeballs, he stared watchfully at the pair of humans.

“Oh, hush,” she chastised, pouring more water into the man’s gaping mouth.

He coughed and choked spasmodically, but eagerly licked the droplets from his lips, straining to raise his head for more. Robyn gently moved his head back to the grass, offering him another splash of water.

Slowly the tension seemed to drain from his body, and he closed his eyes. His breathing slowed from frantic panting to a steadier rhythm. After a moment, it seemed that he had fallen asleep. She wished she
knew how to aid him—he seemed so frail and weak. At the same time something about him frightened her.

“Who are you?” she whispered, examining the man.

His skin was cracked and dry, as if it had been exposed to extended periods of savage weather. His hair and beard were thin, but long. Branches and thorns had tangled them into mats. His fingernails were filthy and worn all the way to the skin. Did he find food by scratching at the ground for roots and grubs? Robyn wondered.

His only garment was a leather cloak that barely covered his nakedness. A crude fur belt stretched around his waist to hold the cloak. His thin brown hair and beard were long and matted with burrs.

But it was his eyes that drew her attention and frightened her. They stared fiercely one moment, then darted frantically about like a madman’s—driven by some mysterious combination of fear and pain.

Robyn noticed that the man sprawled at an odd angle, with his hips raised slightly off the ground, as if he lay upon a sharp rock. She tried, gently, to move him, and she discovered that he had a small pouch tied to his belt, concealed by his buttocks beneath the ragged cloak. It was a filthy object, barely worthy of notice. Yet she found her eyes drawn to it—compelled to look at the pouch, and frightened by that compulsion at the same time.

Carefully, she reached for it, trying to pull the pouch from beneath the man. Her strong fingers felt a hard object, like a fist-sized stone. As soon as she touched it, however, the man sat up, opening his eyes wide. Never had the woman seen such stark panic before.

The man screamed, and his voice shocked her ears. It was a piercing, monstrous sound, reminding her of some hulking reptile, ready to strike. But then he scuttled away from her like a crab, clutching the pouch to his breast. Robyn jumped up at the same time, stunned at the man’s reaction, but then she held her hands up and gestured that she would not touch the stranger’s possession. But what could this man be carrying that was of such incredible value?

“Come with me,” she said quietly. “I’ll take you to a place where you can rest and eat.”

Slowly, Robyn reached for the man’s arm, helping him stagger to his feet. He was very weak, swaying drunkenly. He certainly would have fallen if not for Robyn’s supporting arms. He weighed little, however,
and she had no difficulty holding him upright. Newt crept out of the leaves and buzzed warily behind.

Carefully she led him through the grove among the broad oak boles. They approached a vast tangle of brush beside the ring of stone arches that marked the Moonwell.

As Robyn approached the clump its thickly intertwined branches parted silently, creating a rounded arch that was slightly higher than her head—and revealing the tangle as a ring of brush, not a solid clump. Within the ring, she could see the tiny building that was the Great Druid’s cottage. With its thatched roof and vine-covered walls, it looked like it had sprouted from the ground itself.

Robyn stopped abruptly, remembering that her teacher was taking a well-deserved nap. She decided to tell Genna about the stranger after she awakened. For now, she could tend to the man herself.

“Come this way,” she said, changing course. “Through these trees.” She led him between sheltering aspens, into a shaded area of lush grasses and soft flowers. “You can rest in the bower.”

She helped the man into the meadow, leaning against a sturdy aspen to rest. A sudden growl erupted behind her, and she whirled—nearly dropping the stranger—to see a small mountain of brown fur rise from the grass. A huge creature snarled and bared its white fangs in annoyance.

The man cried out in fright and shrank against the tree trunk. His eyes nearly popped from his head at the sight of the huge bear.

“Grunt, stop it!” Robyn scolded, waving a hand at the animal. “Shame on you!”