Black Wizards (55 page)

Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, ate his feasts and drank his draughts with growing impatience. Waiting for some word from his god, he amused himself by animating the bodies of the twelve druids who had fallen in the fight. Marching his undead army into ranks
as separate companies, he placed the druid undead in command. Then he marched and countermarched the zombie and skeleton army across the grove of the Great Druid, trampling everything to mud
.

All the trees died, dropping their withered leaves to sink into the morass. Only the Moonwell and the twenty stone statues about it retained any semblance of purity
.

And then came the word of Bhaal, and Hobarth smiled at his deity’s instructions. He ordered the companies of undead to collect the bodies of their fallen comrades—those zombies and skeletons that had fallen under the defenders’ claws, weapons, or magic. The undead carried the bodies to the Moonwell and threw them in
.

Each twice-killed zombie hit the smooth water with an oily hiss, twitching and thrashing in a froth of bubbles until it disappeared. Each skeleton burst and cracked upon immersion in the sacred waters. And slowly death spread through the Moonwell, fading the pure light of its waters, warming the cool magic of the Earthmother. With each body added, the white waters faded, to gray, and then to sludgy brown. The light died, extinguished entirely
.

And the water turned black
.

he dwarves emerged from the wide cave mouth, tramping slowly into the light of the sun. Their bodies were bent from weariness, and their grizzled heads were bowed by their defeat. Finellen was the last one to emerge. The dark dwarves hated the sun, but she knew they would not be far behind in pursuit of an ultimate victory.

And this they could earn. The dwarven captain’s heart burned with pain as she looked at her warriors. The dwarves had formed into lines, awaiting their captain—but there were less than half of the original three hundred left.

“Let’s find a place to finish it,” she said loudly enough for them all to hear. None of them had any illusions about their inevitable fate—the thousands of duergar that pursued them would not let them escape.

The cave mouth was near the sea, on the western coast of Alaron. They stood upon a rocky headland with many jutting promontories. In some places, high cliffs dropped to the wavebeaten shore. Finellen did not immediately see a place to make her stand, so she turned to the weary dwarves again.

“Let’s march!”

Turning to the north, with the sea to their left, the ragged column began to trudge along the coast.

The companions fled through the forest, following the path that Robyn created, for a day and a night before they rested. Then they collapsed in a dark grove of pines, haunted by the memories of the battle and the rout. For much of their flight, the screams of doomed and dying men had echoed through the woods behind them. They knew that the Scarlet Guard was pursuing the defeated army.

“What are we going to do?” asked Daryth, removing his boots to rub his swollen feet. Pawldo and Fiona had already dropped off to sleep, but Robyn and Tristan sat up on a cushion of needles, resting their aching legs. Canthus stood alert at the edge of the grove.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said the prince, exhaustion plain in his voice. “Our only chance is to catch as many of the survivors as possible and try to rally them. We’ll need to find a town or a crossroads and wait there.”

“We’ve made good time,” nodded the Calishite. “I’m sure we’ve outdistanced most of the men of Doncastle.”

Tristan slumped onto his back. Their whole plan seemed so tenuous that he could not dispel a sense of defeat. But the plan was all they had.

They rested for an hour before wearily climbing to their feet to resume the march. Before long they found a track in the woods and followed it to the southwest. Another track joined it, and the primitive road led them into a wide glen in the forest. Here they found a little village surrounded by pastureland. The forest continued beyond, except to the north. There, a lowland of dead trees extended as far as they could see.

“They’ve been flooded and drowned,” Robyn said sadly.

They entered the tiny hamlet. A dozen thatch-roofed cottages clustered, amid their pastures, on the bank of a winding and placid stream. Robyn led the way up the muddy track.

“Where is everybody?” wondered Pawldo. There was not a soul visible. Even the cattle were gone from the fields.

Robyn stopped and listened. Tristan could hear nothing.

“Look!” cried Fiona, pointing to the path from Dernall Forest. A file of men emerged, trudging wearily along the trail. The muddy, broken soldiers fell into the shade of the trees, collapsing in exhaustion. Steadily, the weary men of Doncastle reached the open ground and stopped to rest.

But then a figure emerged from the forest who did not stoop, who did not march bowed by defeat and exhaustion.

“Alexei!” cried the prince, running to meet the sorcerer.

“It is good to see you all—alive,” said the mage. “Many were not so fortunate.”

“O’Roarke?” asked Tristan.

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s with the main band of his army.”

“Where’s that? I thought they would gather here.”

“The king’s army pursued swiftly,” explained Alexei, shaking his head. “Most of the men were forced southward. I think Cyndre wishes to push them out of the forest, where they can be found more easily.”

“Where will they flee?” asked Robyn.

“Who knows?” responded the mage, “Southward across the plain, or west to the coast.”

“But the island is only so large,” Tristan said. “The king’s army will corner them eventually. They’ll be slaughtered like sheep! We have to bring them together again—make a stand somewhere.”

Tristan turned to the assembly of stragglers. Many of them had been following the discussion with interest, but Tristan couldn’t read their faces. Would they follow him?

“Men of Alaron!” he began. “Our cause is not lost. The goddess is with us, and the might of the king has been damaged. One of his most powerful sorcerers has joined our cause.

“Rally with me! We’ll gather the forces of Doncastle together and create a plan. We will meet and defeat this king. It is not too late!”

“Who are you, someone who wants to get us killed?” asked one man.

“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell!” he proclaimed. He saw surprise and interest in all too few faces.

“Corwell?” snorted the speaker. “By what claim would you command men of Callidyrr?”

“A claim valid for all of the Ffolk. A symbol of our past and future greatness—the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!” He drew the weapon swiftly and held it above his head. Rays of sunlight reflected from the silvery blade, flickering across the assembled men.

A few more looked interested, but most still wore expressions of skepticism or distrust. The original speaker replied for them.

“The stories are true, then—you carry the weapon of our greatest
king. But still, we have no hope of standing against the Scarlet Guard!”

“You—and I—stood against them well at the King’s Gate! It was only another man’s mistake that led to our defeat!”

He wanted to rail against the men, threaten them—but he knew that tactic would only drive them away. Yet the defeat and exhaustion on their faces signified more than words how hopeless his task really was.

“Look!” cried one of the men, leaping to his feet. They all turned to the north, and Tristan saw it too: a flash of crimson among the dead trees. More and more of the color appeared, and the prince instantly understood what was happening. A company of the Scarlet Guard had moved in an arc around the retreating humans and now moved toward Hickorydale to seal off this escape route.

“The guard! Flee for your lives!” someone screamed hysterically, and the battered survivors stared in disbelief at their approaching nemesis. Several started for the woods.

“Wait!” Robyn’s voice, strong and commanding, rang through the clearing. A gentle breeze ruffled her long hair, and she planted her hands on her hips.

“I offer you a challenge—a chance to avenge your defeat!”

“How?” demanded a burly swordsman. Dried blood was crusted on his shirt and arms.

“If I can stop the king’s mercenaries—those,” she said, pointing to the approaching red line, “will you join us?”

The swordsman laughed. “Sure.” Other men nodded, certain they couldn’t lose.

Robyn turned and strode across the pasture just north of Hickorydale, until she reached the edge of the dead wood. The troops of the guard were several hundred yards away, advancing steadily in a neat, unbroken line. They pointed their spears before them—a bristling wall of steel death.

The druid took the runestick from her beltpouch and ran her fingers across a portion of the shaft. She touched the runes reverently, holding the stick before her at arm’s length. Then she gestured broadly with it, as if marking a line along the edge of the trees.

Tristan watched her, awestruck by her poise and confidence. The group of men stared as well. The prince watched their faces and saw
looks ranging from disbelief and skepticism to blind faith and humble prayer.

Then Robyn shouted. The sound carried clearly to the men, though the word she had spoken was unintelligible. The spearmen of the Scarlet Guard hastened their pace, advancing almost within throwing range of the druid.

But they never got there.

A sheet of orange flame sprang up from the ground along the edge of the dead forest. A slight breeze carried it into the trees, and the dry wood crackled into an instant inferno. The fire quickly devoured the edge of the woods and raced northward. The flames and smoke obscured the men of the guard, but the watchers knew that no men could live in that kind of furnace. The spearmen who did not flee to the north most assuredly died in the fire.

The burly swordsman gave a cheer of triumph. “I’m a man of my word,” he said. “My sword is yours.”

“Might as well die with friends as alone,” said another. A few more rose to their feet, followed by most of the rest. Only a dozen or so remained behind. The others, nearly a hundred strong, followed the prince and his companions away from Hickorydale and Dernall Forest toward a destination none of them knew.