Black Wizards (57 page)

“We’re trapped,” he said bitterly. The sea rolled to their west, and brigades of the guard stood to the north and south. To the east, the land climbed quickly away from the shore. If the men tried to flee that way, they would inevitably scatter along the rough ground and be destroyed piecemeal. And even that option was eliminated as another row of crimson uniforms appeared along the crest of the high country—the third brigade of the Scarlet Guard had completed the encirclement.

Alexei, Daryth, Pawldo, O’Roarke, and Robyn joined the prince as he groped for a plan.

“My prince, what is that?” asked Alexei, pointing toward the south. Tristan looked past the ranks of spearmen up the steeply sloping headland, to the rocky promontory he had originally seen as a bivouac. There were small figures up there, moving toward a point below them. The mercenaries, apparently, did not realize there was a group behind them.

“Who are they?” asked Robyn.

I can’t tell—but what’s that?” Astounded, Tristan watched the tiny figures pry and push at the boulders on their hilltop. Several of the huge rocks broke free, tumbling toward the backs of the king’s brigade below them. More and more of the stones were pushed off the crest, tumbling and rolling until they crashed through the line of the Scarlet Guard.

Soon a crashing landslide tore at the side of the rise as an ocean of crushing rock poured down the hill. Whoever was up there had just done them a great service, but they would need to capitalize on the opportunity.

“Charge!” he cried. “To the hilltop!”

His men voiced a ragged cheer and followed as he held the Sword of Cymrych Hugh high above his head. A thousand voices cried for the blood of the guard, and the rebels of Doncastle rushed forward like a tidal wave toward the broken crimson ranks.

The dust from the landslide had barely settled when the men of Doncastle reached the base of the hill. Many of the crimson-coated spearmen had been crushed by the rocks, and the rest had been separated into small groups in their haste to escape the slide.

These groups were easy prey for the attackers. Tristan led the way into one band of perhaps eighty spearmen. The great moorhound growled and snapped at his side, and the men of Doncastle spread behind him. He stabbed and cut and thrust his way into the thick of the enemy, ignoring a dozen painful wounds.

The pocket of spearmen quickly fell under the attack, and the prince saw his men slow the momentum of their charge. “Onward! To the top!” he cried, leaping among the boulders to begin the climb up the rocky knoll.

He paused and looked back. The ogre brigade lumbered forward, and the mercenaries to the east were streaming down to the shore. But his force had broken through the shattered brigade, climbing the hill. They would reach the top before the other guards could join the fight.

And there, grinning down at him through her bristling beard, stood the stalwart Finellen.

A thousand men of Doncastle and one hundred fifty sturdy dwarves stood upon the rocky knoll and watched the sun disappear into the Sea of Moonshae. The rise was a good place to fight—steep sides dropped to the north, east, and south, while a peninsula jutted into the sea to the west. A narrow neck of land, barely fifty feet wide and flanked by towering cliffs to either side, connected the promontory to the mainland. This would be their final redoubt. Cliffs sheltered their position from attack by sea.

Tristan’s elation had dimmed, though, as Finellen grimly pointed out that the help of the dwarves came with its own cost: The creeping mass of the duergar army was plainly visible to the south. Already, the
leading dark dwarves were probing the base of their rise—though a brief shower of arrows from the archers of Doncastle sent them scurrying back for cover.

The dark dwarves probed and retreated several times as darkness closed in. Each time they tried to force their way up the slope and were called back by their own commanders. It made sense—all of the enemy armies would attack in the morning and Cyndre would not want to allow the dwarves to attack alone—and possibly suffer a bloody repulse—before the rest of his troops were ready.

The ogre brigade had moved down from the north to camp at the base of their hill on that side, and to the east the human mercenaries of the Scarlet Guard had made camp, cutting off escape inland.

The Prince of Corwell knew that his victory over the king’s force, if it were to happen, would have to come here. But he faced the fact with grim acceptance: It was far more likely that the battle would lead to the deaths of them all.

The hard ground prevented Alexei from sleeping comfortably, as it had for the last several nights. He awakened well before dawn, chill and stiff beneath his woolen blanket, listening to the sounds of the slumbering camp.

And then he felt something else—a presence not of this camp, but near it. It settled upon him uneasily, banishing all thoughts of sleep. He arose and threw a robe over his shoulders, shivering in the pre-dawn chill. He suspected the nature of his uneasiness, but he stood still for several minutes, staring to the north until he could be certain.

Cyndre was near.

Alexei had studied and mastered the spellbooks of Annuwynn. His hands, while not as limber as they once were, had recovered sufficiently to allow him to use his magic quickly and easily. And now was the time.

A startled sentry saw Alexei disappear from sight. No one saw him reappear several miles to the north on an empty stretch of coastline. His intuition had served him well—he heard the rumbling of wagons and the tread of heavy footfalls nearby.

Invisible, the mage walked toward the column that gradually materialized out of the darkness. He stepped to the side to avoid a galloping outrider. The man did not slow down as he passed, but his horse gave a startled whinny as it caught the unseen wizard’s scent.

Alexei stopped less than a hundred feet from the road and watched the king’s army. He saw the ogres tromp past, and then the rest of the Scarlet Guard. The king’s coach rolled into sight, and he saw the green aura surrounding it. No matter—he had a different target in mind.

Finally, he saw the eight black horses and the long wagon that carried the council of sorcerers. Many times he had ridden in that wagon with his companions to serve some whim of Cyndre’s. Now, he expected, Wertam, Talraw, and Kerianow were in there. They had done nothing in particular to arouse Alexei’s anger, but that was quite unnecessary. Their deaths would anger Cyndre, and that was justification enough for the sorcerer.

“Pyrax surass Histar,” he said, pointing at the coach.

The little marble of fire floated from his fingertip, wafting casually toward the council’s wagon. He waited until the spot of light touched the door of the long coach.

“Byrassyll.”

Light shot through the darkness, casting long shadows over the members of the king’s army. Searing heat followed as the fireball expanded to engulf the coach and its horses. The fire was too hot to grant its victims more than the briefest of tormented screams.

Moments later, the coach and its occupants were nothing but ashes on the ground. Panic spread through the column as troops and outriders scurried to find the attacker.

But he was already gone.

The hand of Bhaal reached forward. Eagerly, the god nudged the players in his game. Things were progressing splendidly, and he relished the approach of his ultimate victory
.

The sahuagin swarmed from the surf at a dozen little villages along the coast of western Callidyrr. They emerged awkwardly from the rolling breakers, stumbling onto the gravelly beaches and struggling to adapt their gills to breathing air. But this they did quickly, flexing those wide organs open as they slipped among the houses and harbors
of the villages
.

They killed quickly, without emotion. Any man, woman or child they met was swiftly slashed to death by claws and razor-sharp teeth, or impaled. The younger bodies were devoured, and any items of gold or silver were plundered. Then the sahuagin returned to the sea
.

Searching, they swam along the coast and gathered with their king at a promontory along the shore
.

The undead had marched slowly toward this shore for several days, and finally they climbed the sloping bottom toward shallow water, and surf, and then air. Late in the night they joined the sahuagin at that high promontory
.

Sythissall was the first to emerge, striding boldly from the rolling waves, thrusting his chest forward and swaggering toward the one who awaited him on shore
.

The enemy, the sorcerer told him, was on top of the hill. When the sun gave them light, the sahuagin, the undead, the dark dwarves, the ogres, and the humans of the Scarlet Guard, would attack and slay them all. Cyndre said that his plan had come together quite nicely
.

And Bhaal chuckled as he heard. “His plan,” indeed!

y prince.”

Tristan woke instantly, reaching for his sword. He relaxed as he saw Robyn standing beside him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she apologized, kneeling beside him. “And then I saw
that.”
The druid pointed to the north, and Tristan saw a brilliant fire blazing in the distance. “It just exploded—like a magic spell, not like a normal fire.”