Red Magic (4 page)

The druid closed his eyes again. Just for a moment, he told himself, just until some of the pain goes away. He might not be in this predicament now, he mused in his agony-tinged delirium, if his childhood had been different. He might be in a warm, soft bed somewhere, resting comfortably, oblivious to Thay and gnolls.

Galvin had been born to a pair of thieves who were members of a guild in Skuld, The City of Shadows, in Mulhorand. The druid could see his parents clearly, more distinctly now than the trees a few feet away. They had lived comfortably, providing him with toys, clothes, and nearly anything else he desired. Their illicit livelihood had been quite successful until they had robbed an ambassador in the city. Then their lives had ended at the end of a rope, and Galvin, a frightened and confused child of seven, had fled into the woods to avoid the same fate.

Surviving had been difficult; he had nearly died of starvation before he learned to watch the animals and eat the same berries, roots, and nuts they consumed. He had studied the bears hunting in the stream, and he had learned to catch fish with his hands. Occasionally he would sneak into a village to steal warm bread and pastries off window ledges and clothes that were hanging out to dry. But the more he had learned about the wilderness, the fewer trips he had made into towns. Now he avoided them altogether.

The druid struggled to open his eyes, realizing he would be joining his parents in some netherworld if he didn’t get moving. He bit hard on his lower lip, drawing blood and focusing his mind on the new pain to help him stay awake. Gazing at the moon overhead, which he could barely see through the leaf-heavy branches, Galvin realized it was well past midnight.

He pushed with his legs against the trunk, trying to rise, but the pain in his shoulder kept him rooted. Despite the throbbing, which had begun to pulse down his arm, the druid knew the wound dealt by the gnoll could have been worse, perhaps resulting in his immediate death if he hadn’t assumed the form of a bear. Something happened to the druid in the transition from human to animal and back again; his fatigue lessened, and minor injuries healed. This wound, however, was too deep to be erased by the transformation. This injury also was his own fault, he reasoned, as he was certain that had he handled the situation differently, the gnoll would be alive and he wouldn’t be in such a sorry state.

Galvin tried to rise again, this time stretching up with his right arm to grab a low-hanging branch and arduously pulling himself to his feet.

The branches and ferns waved like wheat before him, and the ground seemed to shift. Galvin knew it was his mind that was moving, and he flung his arms backward to grab the trunk, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull him off his feet. Drawing in a few deep breaths of the cooling night air, he held on to the cedar until his surroundings stopped swaying. Then he resumed his course through the woods, stumbling from tree to tree.

The druid moved through the foliage, bending leaves and branches, something he could have avoided were he in better condition. The forest he had grown up in was much like this, he recalled, attempting to keep his mind occupied with all manner of things to remain conscious and improve his chances of making it through the woods. His home was a temperate timberland filled with a multitude of conifers and deciduous trees. These woods were older, however, a climax forest that had two canopies, the highest being the tops of trees more than a hundred years old, while the second consisted of smaller trees and large bushes that could thrive in the diffused light. The two canopies were so dense that little starlight filtered through, making it difficult for Galvin to find his way.

Most of this forest’s floor was covered with thick, soft moss, which in places grew partway up the trunks of the trees. Morels were also abundant. Galvin subconsciously noted the varieties of trees he paused to lean against—birch, cedar, oak, hemlock, pine. Temperate forests rarely had more than a handful of different species of trees. However, the wildlife was more diverse—badgers, deer, wild pigs, bears, squirrels. The predators consisted mainly of wolves, foxes, and occasional wild cats. He hoped none of the latter had picked up his trail of blood. The birds were quiet, indicating a predator was about, and he didn’t have the strength to defend himself. He was a wounded animal, easy prey. He ached to turn into a sparrow and fly to his destination, but he didn’t have the energy to effect another transformation.

From high above, the darkenbeast’s piercing red eyes scanned the wooded area, endeavoring to follow the man’s trail. The sorcerous creature glided at a steady speed just beneath the upper canopy of the forest, angling its ungainly, misshapen body to pass between the leafy branches, blotting out the moon overhead. The forest denizens scattered in the beast’s wake, fearful of its powerful bearing and unnatural scent. The darkenbeast paid them little heed, intent on the man, its single purpose. It peered diligently for broken branches and listened for snapping twigs and rustling leaves to indicate the passage of something large.

At last it was rewarded. Hovering, its great wings keeping it suspended above the lower canopy, the darkenbeast noticed a trace of blood fresh enough to smell. The creature pulled its leathery wings close to its body and pointed its grotesque head downward. It plummeted toward the mossy ground below, halting inches above the earth on widespread wings. At the base of a tall cedar lay a cloth drenched with blood, and clinging to a split section of bark a few feet up the trunk was a clump of blond hair.

The darkenbeast’s quarry was near.

In morbid elation, the creature rose, flying nearly parallel to the trunk of the cedar until it was high enough to gain a better vantage point. As its wings beat faster to carry it over the branches and tall bushes, the darkenbeast rolled its head back on its elongated neck and voiced a victory cry that threw the occupants of the woods into an unnerving quiet.

The creature skimmed above the lower canopy, urged on by the scent of blood and the hope of reward the man’s broken body might bring.

Galvin ambled slowly, exhausted and thankfully near his destination. Every several feet, he stretched out his right arm to steady himself against a tree. He felt weak and apprehensive. Something bothered him even more than his wound, making the short hairs rise on the back of his neck. Insects were in abundance. Droves of flies and mosquitoes were drawn to his bleeding shoulder, their soft buzzing annoying. But there were no louder night sounds, no birds, no frogs, no snapping twigs from foxes or other night-hunting creatures. He glanced nervously about as he continued his trek, stopping frequently, the quiet nagging at him. Eventually he dismissed his worrying as silly fears brought about by his loss of blood. He glanced about once more, then pushed on.

It was shortly before dawn when the woods began to thin. Gradually the ground cover turned to ferns and large, thick-leaved waxy plants and vines, and Galvin found himself at the edge of a campsite by the great marsh. He had put almost ten miles between himself and the buried gnoll. He started toward a one-man tent at the far side of the clearing, halting halfway there and whirling shakily at the sound of hoofbeats muted in the thick grass.

“You’re winded, something I thought I’d never see,” a deep voice observed. “And you’re late—also unusual for you, my two-legged friend. I swear by my mane that this mission might be worthwhile after all. It’s just barely started, and it’s already showing me a new side of you.”

The speaker measured well over seven feet tall from the hooves of his front legs to the top of his head, which was crowned with a shock of curly, ink-black hair, cropped short on the sides with a hank in the back hanging braided below his shoulders. He possessed the body of a man from the waist up, boasting a tanned, muscular, hairless chest and an angular face covered with a short, well-trimmed black beard streaked with gray. The remainder of his body resembled a war-horse, big and black and powerful, the kind only the wealthiest knights in Faerun rode. The centaur, Wynter, smiled broadly at Galvin, then pursed his lips when he saw that the druid was injured.

“What happened?” Wynter’s voice was unusually gentle for his size. The centaur moved closer to better assess Galvin’s wound, but the druid pivoted and stumbled to the far side of the camp, where he had left his belongings. Bending to rummage in a satchel, he pulled out a wine flask, uncorked it, and took a deep draft, letting the warm, red liquid run around in his mouth before answering.

“I killed the spy, Wyn.”

“Did the spy attack you? Why? How badly are you hurt?” the centaur pressed, worry etched on his handsome face.

Galvin paused to dig deeper into his satchel, keeping his back to the centaur. He valued strength and was too proud to let Wynter know his condition. Nor did he want the centaur to know he was bothered by killing the gnoll spy. Wynter was a pacifist, and the druid couldn’t admit that Wynter’s beliefs had affected his own through the years. At last his searching was successful, and he retrieved a handful of berries that appeared freshly picked. The druid scooped them into his mouth and swallowed, then knelt and made a show of rearranging the contents of his pack. He was growing weaker by the minute and was angry at himself for not realizing the severity of his injury. While he continued his ruse, he felt the special berries begin to work, lessening his discomfort. He didn’t have the right herbs in his pouch to stop the bleeding, but he would attend to that soon.

“Talk to me, Galvin.” Wynter was determined. “Tell me what happened.” The centaur was patient, accustomed to slowly extracting information from his druid friend.

“It was my fault,” Galvin said, glancing at the tent. He was relieved that their small band’s other member, a politician from Aglarond, remained asleep. There would be time enough in the morning to discuss the situation and send the council member back to Glarondar, where Aglarond’s chief officials were gathered.

“And … ?” Wynter coaxed, laying a large, callused hand on Galvin’s head.

“The spy was a gnoll. I pushed him too hard … made him mad.”

“And…?”

“And he attacked me, but not until I was able to get some information from him.”

“Are you all right?” The centaur refused to let the issue drop.

Galvin grimaced; he never lied to the centaur, who was the closest friend he would admit having. He usually just avoided Wynter’s questions when they became too personal. However, this time he knew the centaur was going to bulldog him. He relented.

“It’s a deep wound, but I’ll live,” Galvin finally replied, keeping his voice down so the council member wouldn’t hear them. “And I’ll learn not to be so careless this close to Thay.” He drew his cloak over his injured shoulder, turned to face the centaur, then felt himself growing faint. He sat quickly and crossed his legs. “I’ll get some rest, then I’ll find some healing herbs. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine. At least tell me what you learned.” The centaur’s face still showed concern, and Galvin offered him a weak smile to put him at ease.

“It seems a Red Wizard called Maligor, who is somewhere in Amruthar, wants to expand his holdings. Red Wizards are always looking for ways to become more powerful. But there’s something about this that catches my interest.”

“I remember the name Maligor,” Wynter interrupted. “He had just become a zulkir when I left Thay.” The centaur scratched his head, then indicated the tent. “Maybe the Aglarond council member is right. If a zulkir’s involved in this, maybe Aglarond is in jeopardy. Did you find out if Aglarond is Maligor’s target?”

“The gnoll didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know? Well, Galvin. Give me your best guess. What do you think is up?”

The druid leaned against his pack for support. “I’ll have to go to Thay to find out.”

“We, you mean.” Wynter shook his head and grinned, showing a row of even, white teeth. “The Red Wizards of Thay are one of your demons, my friend. I think you’re looking for an excuse to poke around inside that evil country.”

The druid started to argue, but the centaur cut him off.

“I was born there, and I have no love for the country nor the wizards’ malevolent politics.” Wynter flicked his tail for emphasis. “You’ll need me as a guide.”

“I’m going, too.” The tent flap parted. Despite the temperate climate, the young woman had a blanket pulled about her. Foolish civilized modesty, Galvin thought.

She was slight, little more than five feet tall, and slender and graceful like an elf. Yet Brenna Graycloak was a human, with earth-brown eyes, rounded cheekbones, and a nose that turned faintly upward at the end. In the moonlight, her skin looked pale, the complexion of a scholar who locked herself in libraries all day. Her dark red hair hung to her waist, blue ribbons intertwining with the curls and smelling altogether of lilacs. Galvin found her distracting and out of place.

“I need to know what’s happening in Thay,” she continued, glancing at the druid. “If there’s a Red Wizard planning war, I’m going to find out about it.”

For long minutes, Brenna lectured the Harpers, detailing her council’s responsibility to protect the people of Aglarond and her own duty to discover Thay’s current military plans. She tossed her hair back, crossed her arms beneath the blanket, and eyed them sternly.

“The council asked you to investigate all of this,” Brenna stated firmly. “I’m on the council. And you’re going to need my help.”

Galvin sighed and changed his position, pushing his pack out of the way and lying back on the grass. He propped his head up with his right arm. He had no intention of letting Brenna Graycloak accompany him and Wynter into Thay. It would be light soon, and Wynter could escort her back to Glarondar while he healed himself. Thay was no place for a dainty politician who belonged in a city.

Galvin’s thoughts drifted. He knew going into Thay might take him inside heavily populated areas, something he dreaded. He hadn’t set foot in a city for more than a year, and that had been on Harper business. It was Wynter who had gone into Glarondar several days ago to meet with the Aglarond council and bring Brenna out to talk to the druid. Galvin felt uncomfortable in cities, caged in by all the walls. There were many things that caught his eye amid the buildings—well-made clothing, fine food, excellent wine—but when he had made an attempt to purchase such things during his last foray, he had felt awkward and embarrassed. The few coins he had hadn’t even been legal tender within the boundaries of the city, and the shopkeepers had laughed at him. So the druid remained firm in the conviction that he didn’t need cities; they were dirty, crowded, and filled with unpredictable humans and demihumans. No doubt many cities in Thay would be filled with worse. As he continued to contemplate the possibilities, a drop of rain plopped on his forehead, followed a moment later by another and another. He looked up at the dawn sky, which was dotted with bleak, dark clouds. For a moment, he thought he saw a large bird. Blinking, he realized it must have been his imagination.