Black Wizards (46 page)

“There is work to be done!” he snarled. “Now, go!”

The woman stalked away toward a row of buildings bearing the signs of inns: The Green Meadow, The Raging Boar, and several others.

“Now, this wizard of Doncastle?” Kryphon asked Evan. “Annuwynn, you called him? Where can we find him?”

“He lives in a fine manor near here,” said the outlaw. “I shall take
you to him.”

Several minutes later, they stood before a high thorned hedge. The bushes were entwined about a fence of stout green saplings that created a sturdy and solid barrier. They could not even see through it.

“Meet us at the Raging Boar,” said the magic-user, dismissing Evan. The bandit stopped, surprised and dejected, but saw that the wizard had already turned his back. Head hanging, Evan trudged toward the inn.

The wizard and Razfallow stepped into the shelter of a small aspen grove beside Annuwynn’s abode.

“Vanyss—Dwyre,” said Kryphon, quickly fading from view. His voice repeated the phrase, for he had not moved, and Razfallow also became invisible.

The assassin looked around nervously. It disturbed him to hold his hand up and see nothing there. He fought a sickening sense of disorientation as he heard the wizard step past him and saw the branches of the hedge rustle where Kryphon examined them.

“Ariath dupius, cancyck!” chanted the mage, and the trees and thornbushes before him curled out of the way, creating an opening several feet wide. The hedge was thick, but a skilled gardener could not have opened a neater arch.

Kryphon took Razfallow’s arm. The two could not see each other, and he wished to remain in silent communication with the assassin.

They stepped through the hole in the hedge and immediately felt warm, humid air press around them. The sun now beamed with a stark intensity. Kryphon noticed a variety of plants. Palm trees bore coconuts high above their heads, and spike-leaved jungle bushes sprouted all around them. Vines hung in thick tendrils from the trees, and brilliant wildflowers blazed everywhere. He heard the chattering of many birds—all tropical varieties that were not indigenous to the Moonshaes. The man had created for himself a complete tropical habitat. Smooth stone walkways passed among the wealth of leafy plants. By following one of these, the pair was able to move in absolute silence.

In spite of himself, Kryphon was impressed. It took a great deal of power to control a climate, as this mage had obviously done. He had magically created this tropical garden in the middle of a temperate
forest.

A splash of water rose over the bushes before them, and they rounded a curve in the trail to see the wizard, Annuwynn. The mage of Doncastle was a trim, handsome man. His face was thin, but his jaw was squared and powerful, and clean-shaven. He emerged from a wide pool of water to shake himself dry upon the smooth flagstones. His body was tanned to a dark brown, and he was naked.

Annuwynn shook his long black hair and wiped the water from his face. He walked gracefully beside the pool, moving like a stalking wolf, when he suddenly turning to sit on—something. An invisible chair caught the wizard as he fell, supporting him easily.

“Glynnis!” he called. “I desire wine.”

“Coming, my lord,” responded a musical voice. Kryphon discerned the large outline of the wizard’s manor, almost concealed by the thick foliage beyond the pool.

Kryphon squeezed Razfallow’s elbow. There was no mistaking the gesture. The wizard felt Razfallow slip away, but he could hear no sign of the half-orc’s movement.

A pretty young maid, no more clothed than her lord, emerged from the building, carrying a glass that had begun to gather frost in the humid air. She approached the reclining figure of Annuwynn.

But Razfallow got there first. The wizard might have detected some sign of his enemy’s approach, but it was too late. Annuwynn’s eyes widened, but then his throat suddenly fell open. A wide red wound suddenly sprouted below his chin.

The dying wizard thrashed in his chair. The wizard’s fingers twisted desperately—but he would cast no more spells.

The serving maid screamed and dropped the glass. Annuwynn fell backward, his lifesblood spurting onto the flagstones—and onto the assassin.

Razfallow crouched and snarled as the blood marked his invisible form. He saw Glynnis’s eyes widen, and his instincts took over. With a growl, he thrust the blade into her heart.

The girl stumbled, a look of surprise growing on her face, and then she fell into the pool. The water swirled around her in a crimson pattern as a flock of brightly colored birds broke, shrieking, from the underbrush. Razfallow cleaned his blade and returned to
the mage.

They walked silently from the tropical garden. The opening in the hedge rustled and closed behind them.

And the garden slowly grew cool.

The great form lay sprawled among the wildflowers, one wing folded unnaturally over her back. As Newt dove to Robyn’s side, the bird flopped and twisted, growing in size. By the time the wood sprite settled beside her, Robyn lay as a young woman. She clutched the runestick in one hand. Yazilliclick reached tentatively forward to take the stick. He placed it in his quiver of arrows, taking care that it would not fall out.

But she was not moving. Yazilliclick moaned slightly as he saw blood running from her nose, but he realized from the slow rising and falling of her chest that she still lived.

The crows, satisfied that the threat was over, circled back to the trees around the clearing, ignoring the human, the wood sprite, and the little dragon.

“Robyn? W-wake up, please!” cried Yazilliclick, thoroughly miserable. He was in a strange land, farther than he had ever been from his home. Who would help him?

Distraught, the sprite jumped into the branches of the dead oak that had been Robyn’s intended landing place. His antennae drooped as he tried to think.

Then he saw movement in the clearing—some men were coming! They were hunters, he thought, dressed in brown leather and carrying bows. He counted six of them.

“Newt! Up here! Up here!” He called to the faerie dragon, who was sniffing about the meadow, buzzing several feet off the ground. Newt quickly flew to his side, curious.

“L-look!” whispered the wood sprite.

“It fell over here,” cried one, pointing toward the place where Robyn lay. “It was a big one. Maybe it’s not dead.”

“Don’t count on it,” said another, trudging wearily behind.

Newt and Yazilliclick remained invisible on the branch while they
waited to see what these humans would do.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the leader as he pushed through the grass to Robyn’s side. “A woman!”

“She alive?” asked the second, staring in amazement as he reached his companion’s side.

“Yeah,” said the first. “But I don’t know for how long.”

“Best get her to Doncastle. Maybe the cleric can fix her up. And Lord Roarke will probably want to know about this, too. A woman falling from the sky!”

“Coulda sworn it was an eagle,” said the first as he hoisted Robyn over his shoulders and started back toward the woods. Buzzing silently above them, the faerie creatures followed the men and the druid.

“Good luck to you,” said the prince, clasping Finellen’s gauntleted hand. They stood at the junction of several underground passages. From here, the dwarf would coordinate her attack on the duergar, and the humans would start on the underground trek to Doncastle. They were able to take the subterranean route because Finellen had given them a detailed map and had told them of a cave near the center of Dernall Forest.

The dwarf shrugged. “Won’t need too much—there can’t be more’n a couple hundred of them. Isn’t a duergar born who can stand toe to toe with a true dwarf!” Her voice grew serious. “But your task sounds a little more difficult than duergar-bashing.”

“What—you mean deposing a king?” Tristan tried to make light of his goal, but his mind had grown more clear after several long talks with Alexei. There was no other solution to his woes and the woes of his land. The king and his council of black sorcery had to be removed.

“We should have this problem tidied up in a few days,” said the dwarf awkwardly. “Maybe we’ll stop in and see how things are going.”

“Your help is always welcome,” replied Tristan. “We are going to Doncastle now, though I cannot promise for how long. But I will hope to see you again soon, my friend!”

“Now I’ve got a battle to win,” said the dwarf bluntly. “So be on with ye!” The dwarf turned away and resolutely marched toward her troops,
who were arrayed in battle formation farther down the cavern.

Daryth, Tristan, and Alexei started up the cavern on foot. The wizard already seemed healthier. Two days of freedom, even spent entirely underground, had done wonders for him. Alexei’s vitality had increased immeasurably as they had made plans to strike back at the king.

Tristan was certain that the mage, that all of them, would need every bit of their strength in the coming days.

Ysalla, high priestess of the sahuagin, did not remain in her city as the king mustered his forces. She was a cleric of Bhaal—in her own way, as devout and remorseless as Hobarth—and she was determined to carry out the commands of her god
.

Bhaal had commanded her to do something, and so she did it without question. Unlike Hobarth, she had no potent artifact of evil to aid her efforts. But also unlike Hobarth, she had many willing disciples to help her. The lesser priestesses of the sahuagin numbered in the hundreds, and these would do her bidding as she did the bidding of Bhaal
.

And so the priestesses swam from Kressilacc, yellow shapes swimming smoothly away from the city, against the crush of green bodies so steadily arriving. The Deepsong drove the priestesses to their tasks as surely as it summoned the sahuagin warriors to theirs
.

The yellow sahuagin, brilliantly ornamented with gold and silver trappings, kicked their way along the sea bottoms of the Sea of Moonshae, the straits of the isles, and even the Trackless Sea. There they sought the wrecks of ships. Far out to sea, they discovered lonely hulks; around especially treacherous points and headlands, they found vast nautical graveyards
.

Ysalla herself, accompanied by a dozen of her most faithful disciples, went to a place near Kressilacc, a place the sahuagin visited often. Here, a Northmen longship and a Calishite galleon had sunk, still entwined from their surface combat. The treasures of the wrecks had long been plundered—at least, the metal treasures
.

But now Ysalla sought a different kind of treasure. She went to the body of a Northman, frozen in death on the sea bottom. The man’s yellow beard and wild hair floated around his bloated, horrified face. His eyes, delicacies, had long ago been eaten by sahuagin young

The High Priestess cast a spell, her voice clicking and shrieking in the deep water, and the body shifted and rose. The eyelids opened over the horrid, gaping sockets, and
the booted feet clumsily sought purchase on the sandy seabed. And he stood before the priestess and waited
.

One by one, Ysalla and her priestesses called the drowned men back to a semblance of life, or at least animation. The Northmen and Calishites gathered together and followed the priestesses at a slow, drifting march toward Kressilacc
.