Black Wizards (48 page)

“Who are you?” she whispered. Her right eye, deeply cut, was swollen shut.

“Pardon me—I seem to have the wrong room.” Concern etched his brow as he looked at her face. “Are you all right?”

He stepped into the doorway, and she shrank against her pillow in fright. “Yes—I am! Please go!”

Kryphon toyed with the idea of killing her immediately, but laughed off the notion. Even if this was a druid, she was certainly no threat in her battered state. He decided that she would serve him in another, far more satisfying way.

Then the door next to hers opened and two men stepped into the corridor. They looked pointedly at the wizard, still standing in the doorway of the woman’s room, before they went to the stairs.

“Excuse me.” Kryphon bowed to Robyn and backed out of the
room, closing the door. He cursed the men who had seen him, for he could not afford to be observed—especially if something untoward were to happen to the druid.

Yet, Kryphon thought, I can be patient. He was certain that the druid would be here for awhile.

She would keep until tomorrow.

Black-cloaked figures whirled around her, striking with needle-sharp beaks and raking claws. Robyn felt her skin split as it was torn from her body.

She felt herself dying.

And then she awakened, soaking wet, from the nightmare. At first, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then, abruptly, her door swung open. She gasped at the tall, bearded man who stood peering in at her. She was not just startled, she was afraid. For she was certain that Vaughn Burne had locked the door earlier when he had left.

The man said something; she answered, and all the while horror was building in her chest. She wanted to scream. He looked ordinary enough at first glance, but she saw something sinister in his eyes.

Then he closed the door and was gone. She sprang from the bed and turned the latch, making sure the portal was secured. Then she darted back to the security of her covers.

It took her many minutes of meditation to relax. She called upon the power of the Earthmother to soothe her, but that power was faint. Finally she was able to push the tension from her body, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She was unaware of the invisible sprite sitting upon her headboard. Yazilliclick had been delighted to see her awaken, but he did not want to disturb her. He watched over her alertly as she went back to sleep.

“Did you find her?” Doric asked.

Kryphon shrugged. “I found an old hag, barely alive, and not worth the trouble of killing. It’s the cleric we must find!”

The slender woman nodded, disappointed. Then she had a sudden thought. She sat up and examined the sorcerer’s face surreptitiously.

He had lied to her!

She knew now with certainty that Kryphon was much more interested in the druid than he was admitting. Had he killed her already, cheating Doric of that pleasure? No, she decided, he looked preoccupied, like he wanted something. Like he wanted … the druid!

The knowledge exploded within her in a wave of jealousy, and she almost drew her dagger and thrust it through Kryphon’s heart before she regained her self-control.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” asked the sorcerer.

“I feel … ill,” she replied, trying to mask her rage. She would plunge her dagger into a heart, but it would not be Kryphon’s.

“Would you like to come and lie down?” he asked.

“Can you seek the cleric without me?” she inquired coyly.

“Certainly! My purpose tonight is to learn. I will come and get you before it is time to act.”

“Very well. I will await you here.” Ignoring his look of annoyance, she squeezed his leg. It gave her a little thrill of pleasure to deceive him.

“I shall seek his chapel. Sooner or later he will have to go back there,” Kryphon said. Then he was gone.

Doric waited for several minutes, which was as long as she could bear. Then she rose and left the inn, entering the darkened street with anticipation of blood. She fingered her slender dagger and walked quickly toward the back of the Black Oak Inn.

“Lord O’Roarke would like you to join him in the dining room,” said the guard to Tristan, Daryth, and Alexei. They had slipped into Doncastle only an hour before, sending word of their arrival, and the bandit lord had wasted no time in sending for them. Their journey through the cavern network had been rough and tiring, but uneventful. Finellen’s map had been flawless, so they had made the journey in two days.

O’Roarke and Pontswain were seated together at a long table laden with meats and breads and cheeses. “Welcome,” said the red-bearded
outlaw.

Pontswain nodded coolly, his raised eyebrows revealing his surprise at their return. “The halfling?” he asked as they all sat.

Tristan told of their entry into the city and fortress, and of their capture and escape—and of Pawldo, left behind out of necessity. He introduced Alexei, explaining how he had joined them.

“A wizard from the council?” scowled the bandit. “How did you come to be in the dungeon?”

Alexei met his gaze. “My former master and I had a parting of the ways,” he said tersely. “I have vowed to do everything I can to destroy him—perhaps I might be of some use to you.”

“We would not have escaped without him.” said the prince. “He knew the secret tunnel that let us out of the castle, and his flying spell saved us in the cave when—” Tristan. paused in shock, though no one seemed to notice. His own words reverberated through his mind as he methodically raised food to his mouth.

He shall fly above the earth, even as he delves its depths!
The prophecy of Queen Allisynn came back to him, every word. Could the prophecy mean
him?
No, he reminded himself, for she said his name will be Cymrych. Still, the coincidence was a strange one, deeply disturbing. Forcing his mind back to the present, he heard O’Roarke sending a messenger to get the cleric, Vaughn Burne.

“And so, what is the word from the High King?” asked Hugh. “Other than his presumed distress at your escape.”

“He fears for his crown,” offered the prince. “In fact, he has been told that I have come here to claim it!”

“Have you?” O’Roarke asked bluntly.

“Of course not!” Tristan’s denial was a little forced.

“What are you going to do now?” asked Pontswain.

“The Ffolk cannot survive with such men as their leaders. I will end the reign of this king—kill him, if necessary!”

“I knew you were mad,” snorted Lord Pontswain.

“What choice do we have—go back to Caer Corwell and wait for the next group of assassins? Or stay here, waiting for the king to get tired of our presence and send the guard and his wizards down upon us?”

“We’ve fought them before—and we’ll drive them off again!”
snarled the outlaw lord.

“Don’t deceive yourself,” said the prince. “If a concerted attack came against this place, you would be doomed!”

“Our chances are still better than yours. Revolt against the king? With what?” O’Roarke sputtered.

“With your help,” said the prince, lowering his voice but holding his tone firm. “Pontswain, if you will return to Corwell and gather the lords, we can have an army here by early autumn. Lord Roarke, muster your men and challenge the king! I promise you, you will be joined by other lords.”

“By what right do you order my men to war?” roared the lord, leaping to his feet. “I shall not do this thing!” The prince saw an odd emotion in the lord’s face. It was not anger, nor was it betrayal. It was fear.

“Nor shall I,” said Pontswain, turning to face the prince directly. Tristan saw no fear in his eyes—just a cool sense of accomplishment as the lord thwarted the prince’s plan.

They stopped talking, then, for they were joined by a small, gray-haired man in a plain robe. The top of his head was as clean-shaven as his face.

“This is our cleric, Vaughn Burne,” explained O’Roarke to Alexei before turning to the cleric himself. “I was hoping, Patriarch, that you could help this man. He has done my friends a great service, and as you can see he has suffered greatly at the hands of our enemies.”

“I shall do my best,” said the cleric with a smile. “The power of Chauntea is mightiest for acts of healing.”

“Oh, and how fares our other guest?” asked the lord.

“She is resting. She will live. Her recuperative powers are tremendous.”

“Did you learn anything more about her?” inquired Hugh.

“As you suspected, she is a druid. Apparently she flew here all the way from Gwynneth in the shape of an eagle.”

Tristan followed the conversation with growing interest.

“I would like to meet this druid. Do you know her name?”

“She didn’t tell me—she was very weak. But even so,” smiled the cleric, “she was very beautiful. And young, with long, raven-black hair.”

Tristan leaped to his feet. “I must see her! Where is she?”

Finellen cursed the underground confines that prevented her from deploying all three of her companies. The duergar had chosen their lair well. It had three points of access, but all of these were controlled by narrow chokepoints. As yet, none of Finellen’s dwarves had been able to get inside and scout the place.

They had a rough idea of its size from the placement of the entrances, however. Finellen was certain that it didn’t contain more than three hundred duergar—and those were comfortable odds for her own three hundred fighters.

The duergar lair was a complex of central caverns surrounded by narrow tunnels. In one tunnel, a deep gorge blocked the pathway, while in the other two, steep upward climbs were necessary to enter the duergar stronghold. Finellen had one of her companies posted at each entrance.

A shiver ran down her spine as the trumpets blared the call to attack. Each of the companies roared to the attack, and she heard the clash of steel down all three caverns. She cursed the responsibility that kept her out of the fighting, waiting with several messengers at this intersection of caves, but she understood the necessity for it. It was difficult enough to control scattered formations in any battle, but in an underground conflict like this one, visual communication would be impossible. Hence, she had to wait here, listening for word of the progress or setbacks of each of her three companies so that she could send help quickly to wherever it might be needed.