Black Wizards (53 page)

n eagle, huh?” The halfling was obviously impressed with the account of Robyn’s journey to Alaron. He, Daryth, Tristan, and Robyn stood overlooking the King’s Gate of Doncastle. Below them the defenders of the city stood at their posts.

“And a wolf, once,” she added proudly. Her skin was clean and smooth again—the scrapes and burns had vanished from her face. Only the garish sear across her eye indicated the hurts she had received.

“I’ve learned a lot in the past year,” she admitted. “But I missed you all terribly.” She touched Pawldo tenderly on the cheek, and he turned away in embarrassment.

She squeezed Tristan’s hand, and for a moment he forgot everything but the fact that she was at his side again. His confidence grew; Robyn’s strength would be a great asset in the coming fight.

They would certainly need all the help they could get, he reflected, looking at the position before them. The King’s Gate was not really a gate at all. It was a wide avenue through the forest that granted access to the northeastern quarter of the city. Most of the defenses consisted of deep, muddy ditches before fences of sharpened spikes. Companies of men with long spears barred the gaps between the ditches. Above them stretched bridges that linked a number of large oak trees. Along these spans, O’Roarke had deployed his companies of archers.

In a few places, tall and solid wooden palisades stood among the ditches and ramparts. Tristan and his companions stood up on one
of these, a sturdy platform perhaps twelve feet off the ground to the left of the line at the gate. O’Roarke and Pontswain stood at the right end of the line.

“What’s that?” Robyn asked, sniffing the air. Her nose wrinkled with displeasure, but Tristan could smell nothing unusual.

“Look!” shouted Pawldo abruptly, pointing toward the center of their line.

They watched as a green mist emerged from the forest before them. It reached forward with snakelike tendrils, probing along the ground into the positions held by O’Roarke’s stalwart footmen.

The companions felt, rather than saw, the panic that infused the defenders of Doncastle. The mist looked so completely evil that no one could have doubts as to its nature—including the unfortunate soldiers in its path. Some men tried to hold their posts. The banner of the Black Bear fluttered bravely above a band of spearmen, but the smoke obscured the soldiers, and the companions watched the banner slowly fall until it, too, vanished into the evil mist.

As the magic cloud moved on, they gasped in horror. The sprawling bodies revealed were twisted torturously. The men had died in the greatest agony, their skin seared and scarred.

“By the goddess, what sorcery is this?” gasped Tristan.

“It can only be Cyndre,” muttered Daryth.

“Let’s get out of here while we still can!” urged Pawldo. “No mortal troops can stand against an attack like that!”

“Wait,” said Robyn quietly. Of all of them, she alone seemed calm in the face of the onrushing wave of death.

The companions watched as gas flowed toward the outer fringes of the line, reaching around the base of the palisade where they stood. Already, a gap a hundred yards wide had been opened in the ranks of the defense.

Robyn reached into her robe and pulled out the strangely carved stick, the runestick that Genna had made and Yazilliclick had saved for her. She held the stick in both her hands, running her fingers over the runes engraved in one end. Suddenly, she brandished the stick like a weapon, pointing toward the green tendrils that were inching their way closer up the wall.

The prince gagged as the odor of the gas reached him, and his eyes
began to water. Canthus whined and paced frantically about their broad platform. For a moment, Tristan feared that the dog would jump, but then Daryth laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Other men saw the effects of the killing cloud and were not so brave or foolish. They turned to run as the yellow tendrils of gas approached. Some held their weapons and stumbled backward, while others dropped everything and fled headlong into the town. Within minutes, the center of the line was gone—killed or routed.

The green smoke expanded to either side and climbed higher into the air. The companions saw defenders trapped in nearby trees as the mist passed around the tree bases and cut off their escape. Then it climbed slowly, inexorably, toward the men who huddled upon the surrounding platforms. Some of these archers, carrying the banner of the Red Boar, jumped to safety and fled before the gas surrounded them. Others stood their posts, seeking targets for their arrows, but died without striking back. As the mist moved on, it continued to reveal grotesque, twisted corpses in its wake.

Then the mist seemed to clear as a slight breeze moved through the treetops. Robyn turned the stick around, and the wind whirled with her. The mist fell away from their platform as the wind increased in force.

Robyn closed her eyes in concentration, holding the stick like a talisman of hope, and still the wind picked up. The mist pressed in from all sides, but the air flowed outward from their platform, keeping that area free of the killing mist.

Tristan and the others watched, spellbound, as the mist pressed in and then fell back, locked in its battle with the clean air of Robyn’s spell. The struggle seemed to last an eternity, but finally the mist began to dissipate, falling away more rapidly and then vanishing into the air.

“They’re coming,” said Daryth quietly. In the distance they could make out flashes of crimson, growing more distinct every second. The military cadence of drumbeats grew audible, and soon dozens of ranks of troops could be seen.

“The Scarlet Guard,” confirmed Pawldo.

“Come on!” shouted the prince, suddenly leaping down the ladder and running among the scattered defenders. His companions followed him from the rampart as he drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and
held it high.

“Men of Doncastle, rally to me!” Tristan cried. “The power of the goddess has broken the wizard’s spell. Fight for your town, your people!” But the battle cries of the Scarlet Guard sounded across the gate, long, ululating howls that would have shaken the morale of the stoutest defenders.

“Maybe this isn’t the place to make our stand,” suggested Daryth. “Look around.”

The prince saw that they would never assemble enough fighters to hold a position as wide as the King’s Gate—too many had died under the killing cloud, and most of the survivors had fled.

“The river! We have to try and form a line at the river!”

Then something caught Robyn’s eye. “Look! The banner of the Red Boar!”

They saw a cautious face peering from between two houses. It belonged to a frightened-looking young man who carried a long pole, from which fluttered the standard of one unit routed by the killing cloud.

“Here, man!” called Tristan, Tentatively, the fellow emerged from his hiding place. “Are there others? The rest of your unit?”

The man gestured toward the heart of the city. “All gone,” he mumbled. “They ran—I did, too!”

Tristan could think of nothing else to do. “Come with us,” he urged. “Rally them to the standard!”

Reluctantly, the man accompanied them, holding the banner high. The Red Boar symbol fluttered faintly in the air.

“Men of Doncastle, of the Red Boar!” called Tristan, waving his sword. “Rally to your standard!” He repeated the cry as they moved along the line, and slowly the routed warriors emerged from the shelter of buildings and alleys. Still, there were pathetically few.

“Now we have to keep them together while we fall back to the river. Daryth, can you—” Tristan stopped suddenly.

He heard a thundering of hooves and saw Hugh O’Roarke mounted upon his galloping charger, bearing down upon them. “What are you doing?” he cried. “Why are you not at the gates?”

“The sorcerers sent a cloud upon us—a mist that killed all who breathed it.”

O’Roarke’s face whitened in rage. He looked around frantically, desperate for inspiration. “We’ll have to hold them here! I’ll pull the garrisons from the other gates—we cannot give them entrance!”

“That will make the disaster worse!” argued the prince. “Choose good ground—and fight there! Fall back to the river—make a line! We have a chance to hold there!”

“Never!” cried Hugh O’Roarke. “We cannot give up another inch of ground without a fight!”

“If you pull the men from the other gates, you’ll have no position to hold, anyway. A second attack by the king’s army, and you’ll be taken from the rear!”

But O’Roarke was no longer listening. Tears ran down his face as he looked at the remnants of the Red Boar company. He whirled his horse to put his plan into motion. “Men of the Red Boar! Hear me! We will stop the king’s legion … here!” He brandished his sword along their line, and a ragged cheer went up from the men.

The bandit lord did not look back as he rode away. He was on his way to pull his men from every other part of the city—to try to hold a line in a place chosen by pride, not judgment.

The diamond rod identified the enemy, but it would be up to Alexei to find him. Magic would help, but he would have to search with his own eyes. Alexei was surprised by how badly he wanted to find Kryphon, to kill him. Once the man had been his friend—the two had been Cyndre’s most trusted lieutenants. Now Kryphon was at the heart of all he hated about the council that had turned him out.

Before he began his search, Alexei cast two spells upon himself—one to detect magical auras, and another that allowed him to see invisible objects. Then he walked to the King’s Gate, the northeast entrance to the city. This was where the greatest block of defenders had gathered—and where the main force of the king’s attack was expected.

Alexei walked among the defenders in total concentration. He looked into every rampart and walked slowly down every street in that quarter of the town. He saw Tristan and his companions on the high palisade. He sensed the ominous presence of the king’s army, breaking
camp somewhere in the depths of the wood.

But he did not find Kryphon.

Nor was there any sign that magic had been used upon the ramparts or barricades—or anything else. Either the mage was concealed very well, waiting until the attack began, or he was somewhere else.

Alexei hurried to the Lord’s Gate—the northwestern approach to the city. He wondered when the attack would come—would he be in time? Though the defenders were not so numerous here, he found ramparts and ditches manned by willing troops who were ready to defend their city to the death. As he walked among the barricades, rumors of a rout in the defenses at the King’s Gate begin to spread among the troops.

He watched in shock as Hugh O’Roarke himself galloped along the line of the deep ditch, shouting to all the men gathered there.

“Follow me! The King’s Gate has been breached—you must fly to the rescue!”

With a cheer for their lord, the troops at the Lord’s Gate burst from their positions. They moved at a trot, ignoring any sense of order, eager to join the fray.

A flash of movement attracted Alexei’s eyes to the entryway of a small wooden house. He saw it again—a figure moving stealthily along the shaded side of the building. He wore a black robe with a gray hood that flowed over his shoulders like a cape.

Finally the figure emerged. He walked beside an empty ditch, fondling the sharpened points of the stakes that had been hastily erected there. He threw back his head and laughed, and as the hood fell away from his tight, bearded face, Alexei recognized Kryphon.

His enemy stood at least five hundred feet away, between the trunks of two huge oaks. The trees were connected by a solid rampart, twenty feet up. Alexei fastened his eyes to that rampart as he began to cast a spell.

“Xor-thax, teray.”

In the blink of an eye, Alexei teleported to the center of the ramp, materializing in one place as he vanished from the other. As soon as he felt the hard wood of the rampart under his feet, the wizard began his next spell.

But the long beams of the bridge creaked under his sudden weight. Alexei did not stop to see if Kryphon had noticed the sound—he
ceased his casting and rolled to the side. A moment later, a blast of magical energy exploded in the middle of the rampart. Each of the ends of the bridge, no longer supported, dropped to the ground.