Black Wizards (42 page)

Then the torch clattered to the floor and the turnkey’s head—still leering—flew through the air while his body lurched and fell to the ground. Tristan saw a flash of silvery steel as Cyndre hissed in anger and turned in a catlike crouch. The light faded but did not disappear as the torch sputtered and sizzled on the wet flagstones.

A figure slashed into the room, and the prince saw the bright flash of a weapon again. The wizard screamed and fell backward as his dagger was knocked to the floor. Tristan saw that the mage clutched his right hand as blood spurted from his clenched fist.

The king shrieked in terror and darted from the door as Cyndre struggled to avoid the attacker. Tristan heard the monarch’s cries for help fade into the distance as he raced up the dungeon corridor.

The wizard, meanwhile, moved with surprising agility as he scrambled away. The prince recognized Daryth, now, as the Calishite brandished his scimitar with liquid smoothness, trying to force Cyndre into a corner. The Calishite kicked and slashed with merciless persistence, constantly forcing Cyndre to duck and twist away.

Cyndre sprang to his feet and charged Daryth suddenly, crying out as Daryth’s scimitar bit into his raised forearm. But the rush had thrown the Calishite off balance, and before Daryth could strike a lethal blow, the mage sprang through the door out of the cell. There he nearly knocked down another person—one whom Tristan had not noticed earlier.

Still hissing in rage, the wizard raced up the corridor following the path of the king.

“Quickly,” the stranger urged Daryth. “We must free him and be gone—the guard will be upon us in minutes.”

Daryth snatched the keys from the body of the headless turnkey and found the one that released Tristan’s manacles.

“Why didn’t he use his magic?” asked the prince.

“The wound,” said the stranger, turning to look at him. Even in the dim light, Tristan thought that the man looked more dead than alive. The skin of his face had shrunk tightly, giving him the visage of a skull. His hands were twisted claws. Seeing his gaze, the man held up those hands and continued.

“A magic-user needs his hands to cast spells. The scimitar did enough damage to prevent Cyndre from casting—a fact to which we owe our lives. But as soon as he visits a cleric, the damage will be repaired, and he will be after us with a vengeance.”

Tristan looked intently at the man as Daryth opened the last lock. “Your hands … Are you, too, a sorcerer?”

“I was, until my ‘master’ ”—he spat the word—“decided that I threatened his base of power.”

“You are one of the Council of Seven?” asked the prince, remembering the information O’Roarke had given him.

“Was
one of the council,” said the mage. “My name is Alexei, and I will do what I can to stop them now. They will come to regret leaving me alive.”

“Let’s go,” Daryth hissed urgently. “We can talk later!”

Tristan flexed his muscles and found that he could still move, albeit with some pain. “Where do we go?” he asked.

“Follow me!” said Alexei, hobbling from the cell. “The upper reaches of the castle are sure to be sealed off, but the wizards have secret ways through here. We might be able to slip into one of them before the guards discover us.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Daryth. “Where to?” The Calishite picked up the fading torch, which flared back into light as it was raised from the floor. He waited for Tristan to follow the wizard, and he brought up the rear.

Alexei led them away from the direction in which the king and the wizard had fled. The mage moved stiffly, and suddenly he stumbled and fell headlong.

“Come on,” encouraged the prince, lifting him under the arms. The man was no heavier than a straw dummy.

Once they heard a sound behind them. Pausing momentarily, they heard the pounding of heavy boots and the clanking of weaponry somewhere in the distance. Pursuit had begun! Urging the mage to move faster, Tristan and Daryth pressed urgently along the slippery passage.

“Slow down!” cautioned Alexei. The wizard examined the water-streaked walls of the corridor as they moved carefully along. He seemed to be searching for something and at last he held up a clawlike hand.

“Here!” he said, pointing at a blackened stretch of stone that looked no different from any other part of the tunnel walls. He reached forward and tried to twist a small outcropping of rock, cursing as his broken hands could not grasp the small and slippery surface.

“Help,” he mumbled in frustration.

Daryth stepped forward and twisted the knob of rock. Nothing happened. He tried again, maneuvering it this way and that, and suddenly they heard some kind of mechanism click within the walls.

With a slow creaking, the stone wall swung away, revealing a passage barely as high as a man, and no more than three or four feet wide. They could hear the heavy tramp of pursuing guards as they stepped through the opening and saw the secret door close behind them.

“We’ll be in Doncastle soon. You’ll be amazed, I promise you! Lord Roarke is quite ingenious—the defenses are his idea.” The bandit, who had called himself Evan, chattered away under the influence of the charm spell.

“And all who live there are outlaws?” asked Kryphon. He was annoyed with the man’s loquaciousness, but the information he provided was certainly valuable.

“All of us,” boasted Evan, as if the term “bandit” was a badge of honor. “The king and his wizards have tried, time and again, to conquer us—but we have always driven them off!”

“How do you face the magic of the king’s army?”

“We have a magic-user and a cleric of our own. We used to have the support of the druids, until the king and his wizards drove them away—or killed them!”

Kryphon smiled privately, relishing that personal triumph. The battles with the druids had been savage, but wizardry had prevailed. “I would like to meet some of these … spellcasters. Perhaps you could introduce me when we reach the city?”

Before Evan could answer, Kryphon felt a familiar pull upon his arm, accompanied by the languorous press of Doric’s body. They had been walking for several hours, and he knew that she was getting tired.

“Can’t we stop for a while?” she whispered, plaintively. “You and I can take a little rest. We’ll still get to this city before dark!”

“No!” he hissed, pulling his arm away. He realized that he was growing very tired of Doric. Her constant need for attention was becoming a burden. Sulking, she let go of his arm and walked ahead of him.

Kryphon was surprised and a little amused at how quickly his affection had cooled for the woman. He looked at her now, and he saw a gaunt scarecrow where before he had seen a desirably slender woman. In the past, he had vanquished her poutiness with physical release or by allowing her to exercise her incessant need for cruelty. Now he found her moods tiresome and annoying.

Perhaps, he mused, he could find a young woman more to his liking in Doncastle.

Alexei could scarcely believe his luck. Rescue! He chuckled inwardly at the irony of its source: the ones his former master had worked so diligently to destroy. His weariness and pain were forgotten as he shuffled along with Tristan and Daryth. His body grew numb to the efforts of their march.

But his mind whirled with possibilities.

The hatred that had sustained him in the darkness of his cell now blossomed into raging heat, fed by the fuel of opportunity. He would make Cyndre, the council, Hobarth—even the High King—pay!

And, for the time being, what better way than to aid the one whom Cyndre had branded their most dangerous foe? After a while, of course, Alexei would be capable of dealing his vengeance alone—but for now he needed allies, and fate had provided him with a ready pair.

First, Alexei decided, he would need tools to help him regain some of his lost powers. That was why he had directed the men to this secret passage and now urged them to hasten downward.

He knew where to find those tools.

The unicorn looked sad, thought Robyn, as she, Yazilliclick, and Newt made their farewells. “I wish you could come too, old friend, but without wings.…”

Kamerynn lowered his head as she stepped away. She held the runestick in her hand. It was now her only possession, since she had dropped her staff beside the arch. Yazilliclick had told her that the Moonwell was still surrounded by undead, so she dared not risk an attempt to regain it.

“Wait here for us, Kamerynn! We’ll be back soon, won’t we, Robyn? I’ll find you something nice from Alaron. And Tristan will be with us. We’ll
have
to have a party then!” Newt exclaimed, with a reproachful look at Robyn.

“Farewell again,” said the druid, clasping the unicorn’s neck. “Will you watch over Genna and the others until I return?” Stifling her tears, she turned to the two faeries.

The faerie dragon and wood sprite rose quickly into the air as Robyn held the runestick to her side and closed her eyes in concentration.
Once again she felt her body shrink and tumble forward, and she instinctively spread her wings to break her fall.

But she noticed more subtle changes this time. She felt her heartbeat accelerate. She opened her eyes, and the keen vision of the eagle was more brilliant even than before.

And she took to the sky with the dragon and the sprite. The other two were dwarfed by her massive wingspan, but they darted easily around her in flight. They headed east, toward Alaron.

Daryth led the way through the narrow tunnel. It descended sharply, often as steep as a stairway. Rubble along the floor made footing very treacherous. In places, rivulets of water trickled along the floor and walls, making the surface as slippery as ice.

“This is a path of the sorcerers,” explained Alexei. “Unknown to the guards of the castle—although it has challenges all its own!”

“Where do you come from?” asked the prince after several minutes. “You don’t look like one of the Ffolk.”

Alexei shook his head. “None of the wizards are from your islands. Cyndre recruited his council from throughout the Realms and brought us here to achieve his ambition.”

“What ambition is that? What does he want—and what power does he hold over the High King?” asked Tristan.