Black Wizards (5 page)

The bear growled again but settled to all four feet and shambled across the meadow, disappearing into the aspens on the other side.

“I’m sorry,” she explained, laying a hand upon the man’s trembling arm. “He’s very grumpy when he’s awakened suddenly. Just ignore him—he wouldn’t hurt you. Besides, the animals are forbidden to attack other creatures within the grove. You’re safe here!”

She doubted that the stranger understood her, but he seemed soothed by her tone, for he clung tightly to her arm and allowed her to lead him farther into the bower.

The bower was actually a grassy meadow, surrounded and covered by a converging tangle of trees. It was small, for they kept no animals
and only used it for those periods when some injured creature of the wild needed the grove as a haven while recovering from wounds.

She helped the man, who seemed to grow weaker with every step, to a bed of lush grasses. Lowering him gently to the ground, she offered him more water.

Gradually his trembling subsided, and finally he slept. Even in unconsciousness, however, he clutched the tattered pouch and its rocklike contents tightly to his chest.

She rose silently when his breathing became deep and even, slipping through the curtain of aspens to leave him to his rest. There she found Newt perched suspiciously upon a low branch, waiting for her.

“Now, can we go swimming?” he asked.

“They were Calishites,” reported Daryth. “At least, they learned their trade in Calimshan—at the Academy of Stealth.” The Calishite’s brown face was taut with anger, and his black eyes blazed.

“How can you be sure?” asked the prince. He shook his head, trying to clear away the grogginess of his short sleep. Suddenly, he remembered his father’s body in the next room, but he clenched his jaw to stifle any display of emotion. Inwardly, he wanted to shout his grief at the heavens, to cry aloud for vengeance. Daryth had awakened him after what seemed like scant moments of sleep, although he could now see the sun outside the window.

“Their garments, for one thing,” Daryth continued. The prince knew that his friend had studied at the Academy of Stealth, but Daryth rarely spoke of those experiences. It was not, Tristan sensed, something the houndmaster was proud of. “The assassins of the Pasha’s school always wear the finest weave of Amnish silk—this silk.” He held up a piece of cloth torn from one of the slain attackers.

“And these little crossbows are a favored weapon of the Pasha’s elite. Smeared with poison, they are absolutely deadly within fifty feet,” Daryth paused. “I’m sorry. It’s a miracle that they didn’t get you as well.”

“Then there was Razfallow.” The Calishite paused for a moment. “I studied under him when I was at the Academy. That was when I
was young—but strong and quick. The skills taught at the Academy, I thought, would see me to a life of luxury and ease. But those skills—stealthy murder, theft, betrayal—they come with their own cost.

“And Razfallow made those costs clear to me. He is one of the deadliest assassins in the Realms. Eventually, I made him angry. The most convenient solution was for me to leave Calimshan, and so I did.”

“Obviously, he remembers,” remarked the prince.

“I gave him good cause to,” muttered Daryth, but despite Tristan’s curious look he would not elaborate.

“What is he?”

“A half-orc. His mother was a full-blooded orc—it’s a sore spot with him.”

“As if a person might not notice,” muttered the prince.

“Finally, we found two guards atop the palisade slain from a single stab wound—here.” Daryth bent his head forward, gesturing with a finger at the base of his neck. “I know of no other assassins in the world who use such a tactic for surreptitious slaying.”

“The Pasha of Calimshan sent assassins to Corwell?” asked the prince. Perhaps he could find a focus for his anger.

“Probably not. Although they were trained in Calimshan, they were paid with these.” Daryth held out a pair of gold coins, stamped with the outline of a crenellated castle on one side. The prince reached for the coins and flipped them over. On the back was a familiar silhouette.

“Caer Callidyrr? They were paid with the coin of the High King?”

“So it would seem,” Daryth nodded soberly. “It was careless of one of them to carry his coin with him—perhaps he did not trust his fellows. Now he has no use for the coin, and its presence on his body tells us much.

“What is the relationship of the High King to the rulers of the Ffolk, such as your father?”

“The title High King is more an honorific than anything else. Not since Cymrych Hugh has there truly been a king that united the Ffolk under one leader. Now, he wears the Crown of the Isles to signify his authority—that was the gold crown forged for Cymrych Hugh himself—but has little real authority, except over the Kingdom of Callidyrr. In Moray, Snowdown—and here in Corwell—we pay little
attention.”

“But what does that honorific mean?”

“In name, he is the lord of the kings of Corwell, Moray, and Snowdown. The High King is in fact the King of Callidyrr—the largest kingdom of the Ffolk. Though the other kings, including my father, owe fealty to him, there is no power behind the title. The current king, Carrathal, has brought much trade to Callidyrr from the nations on the Sword Coast. He has even hired a council of mages from Waterdeep and beyond to advise him. Still, he has been no more dynamic than any of the others in providing strong leadership—or bringing the nations of the Ffolk together.”

Tristan paused. He and his father had discussed this more than once. Because the Ffolk had no single, strong leader, the Northmen had been able to conquer many of their lands—one by one. We cannot bring ourselves to unite against them, Tristan reflected—even when they bring all of their nations together against one kingdom. But he still could not follow Daryth’s argument.

“Perhaps he knew that your father had no ambitions,” conceded Daryth. “But perhaps your father was not the target of this assassin. It may be that he was simply an unfortunate victim—the real target could be one that the High King does not know to be a loyal vassal—the one most responsible for the great victory of last year.”

“Me?” Tristan was shocked.

“Of course, that is just a guess,” admitted Daryth. “But your father was no threat to the High King. Maybe you were.”

“But what could be gained by slaying me? The king has enemies by virtue of his position. Who knows how many petty cantrev lords will be arriving here to fight for my father’s position? One of them could have done this.”

“I think that is unlikely,” argued the houndmaster. “For one thing, the graduates of the Academy of Stealth do not work cheaply—I doubt whether one of the cantrev lords could have afforded them.”

“Perhaps they were hired by the High King, or at least by some wealthy individual of Callidyrr,” Tristan said. “I cannot accept the idea that I was the target.” Still, he recalled his father pushing over his chair and the dart that followed.

“Very well,” Daryth shrugged. “But have a care for your back
nonetheless.”

“I shall. The coming council of lords gives me enough cause for nervousness, in any event. The major lords of Corwell will ride here upon hearing of the news of my father’s death. After the funeral feast they will select a new king.”

“What do you plan?” asked the houndmaster.

“I plan to be the one selected.”

The sliver of a moon cast little light over the vast wilderness of Myrloch Vale. It did not penetrate the thick canopy of aspen leaves, and thus the confines of the bower remained pitch black.

The shriveled figure there twisted and sat up, breathing heavily. He had slept all afternoon and now felt strong enough to move.

With exaggerated stealth, he reached a clawlike hand into his tattered pouch, pulling forth a black rock. It was curved, with smooth surfaces. Like a stone sculpture of a heart. Some of its facets were pure, deep black, and others seemed even darker. It absorbed light and radiated a faint heat. Deep within its center, it throbbed with a deep, evil cadence that few could hear—but those that heard it heard it most profoundly. Nervously peering into the woods surrounding him, he hunched over and clasped the object to his breast.

Rabbits and squirrels shifted uneasily throughout the woods as some nameless disturbance penetrated their rest. The flowers in the garden closed their petals. In the pond, the lilies shivered and shifted away from the sinister presences, until all of the blossoms had gathered against the far shore like a nervous flock of sheep.

Suddenly, a cackle of glee passed the man’s lips, and he jumped in fright. Panicked, he jerked his head about, straining to hear if he had been detected. Carefully, he wrapped the object in its filthy pouch and lay down again upon the bed of grasses.

Within the cottage, two hundred feet away, Genna thrashed in her sleep, apparently caught in the throes of a nightmare.

And Robyn sat up suddenly, drenched with sweat—for she had just awakened from a numbing nightmare of her own. She had dreamed of the king, her stepfather, laid upon his funeral bier. Surrounding him,
descending slowly, was an unspeakably menacing black mist.

She could not return to sleep for the rest of the night.

“To Good King Kendrick. May the goddess reward him!” Lord Pontswain raised his mug, allowing foam to spill onto the broad tabletop.

The council of lords was meeting in Caer Corwell’s great hall, for the royal study was not large enough to accommodate the gathered throng. The lords represented the villages and towns of the small kingdom, from tiny highland communities to thriving fishing cantrevs. They sat drinking dark ale in toast to their deceased sovereign.

All thirty-one of Corwell’s cantrev lords had gathered at the castle to decide upon the future ruler of the kingdom. Tristan, as host, sat at the head of the table. Daryth sat to his right, while Randolph, in his role as captain of the castle guard, stood at the nearby door. Opposite Tristan, twoscore feet away, sat Friar Nolan, the cleric of the new gods who had won over some of the Ffolk of Corwell. Most of the Ffolk still held the Earthmother goddess to be the supreme deity, but as a rule her representatives, the druids, shunned human politics, and thus none were present.

Lord Galric lurched to his feet, splashing half the contents of his mug into the lap of the scowling Lord Koart, who sat beside him. As usual, Galric was drunk, and Tristan suppressed a smile—at least one of his rivals was ill-prepared to debate him.

“King Ken’rick,” shouted Galric. “A splennid ruler ’n a fine figger of a man!”

“Hear! Hear!” The chorus of agreements was followed by more slurping swallows around the table.

Tristan examined the other lords, trying to determine who was most likely to offer him a challenge. Nearby sat Lord Koart and Lord Dynnatt. Neither had acquitted himself well during the war, and Tristan hoped this fact would be enough to mark them as unfit to rule. He knew them both to be ambitious, however, and the two lords were close friends—he had to beware of a potential coalition.

Farther down the table, Lord Galric’s head was already dropping
onto his chest. Galric ruled over a highland cantrev that had amassed considerable wealth from the mining of copper, iron, and silver. In any event, the lord was now too drunk to make a case for himself.