The gas seeped through the doors and windows, slinking around the deep gnomes as they sat, or slept, or worked. And where it struck, it killed.
A hundred gnomefolk were startled by the yellow, silent death, and died before they could cry a warning. The gas flowed onward, seeping through the streets, flowing from the dead to the living. One old gnome, tottering up the street, his gray beard reaching nearly to the ground, saw the horror and cried a single word: “Flee!” Then the gas crept around him, and he died upon the tiny street.
With the alarm, gnomes poured from the buildings that had yet to be struck by the killing cloud. Hundreds of the creatures fled to the fields, through the vast fungus plants, to the bridges over the placid stream. And as they crossed the bridges, males, females, and young, they were met by the poised weapons of Dai-Dak’s duergar.
Cyndre saw a group of gnomes—perhaps a hundred—break away from the rest, and flee toward a narrow cavern beyond the fungi. The sorcerer whispered a word and immediately disappeared from the promontory. In the same instant, he arrived at the mouth of the cavern—certain to be a secret escape route. He cast another spell some distance into the cavern and watched as the gnomes raced into the passage. Suddenly, they stopped, their escape blocked by a solid wall of iron that extended from the top to the bottom of the secret tunnel, and from wall to wall.
They turned as a mass to race for the entrance again, but the black wizard now stood there, waiting implacably for the gnomes’ moments of maximum terror.
“Blitzyth, Dorax zooth!”
Cyndre’s next spell sent crackling bolts of lightning sizzling into the walls and ceiling of the narrow cave. Great chunks of rock broke free, crushing the trapped gnomes. More and more stone fell, in a thunderous cloud of dust and debris, sending a cloud of dust drifting into the vast caverns where the massacre was now complete.
Cyndre smiled slightly, satisfied that his task was done. The dark dwarves had gained their food and water sources and their mining tunnels. Their senseless bloodlust had been satisfied. Indeed, the dark dwarves had gained all that they currently desired.
And the black wizard had gained the duergar themselves.
The feasting had ended and the lords had gone, except for Fergus and Pontswain. Tristan met with them, along with Daryth and Randolph, after the council. Fires burned low in the hearths, and a chorus of snores arose from various corners of the hall.
They had finalized the details of their journey—Daryth would accompany the prince and Lord Pontswain to Caer Callidyrr. There, they would each meet with the High King and plead their case for the kingship of Corwell. They agreed to abide by the king’s decision.
“Very well,” said Pontswain. “How do we get there?”
“I was hoping to accompany Lord Fergus to Kingsbay, riding the length of Corwell Road.” Tristan looked at the other lord, who watched the discussion impassively. “Can you furnish us with a boat to carry us across the Strait of Alaron?”
Fergus nodded, his handlebar mustache bouncing. “It shall be my pleasure.”
“Very well.” Tristan stood, followed by the others. “We shall leave for Kingsbay at first light.”
Daryth and Tristan went to their quarters and gathered their belongings for the journey. Daryth carried his scimitar at his waist and concealed a pair of long knives in the sleeves of his cloak. Tristan wore the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and carried a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his saddle.
They slept little that night, but dawn quickly called them from their restless beds. They went immediately to the stables, where Daryth selected his mount, a chestnut gelding, and Tristan saddled Avalon, the mighty stallion that had served him so nobly during the Darkwalker War.
Lord Fergus and his son were already prepared, and even Pontswain arrived soon afterward. The young lord was dressed in a shining suit of plate mail and rode a proud charger of midnight black. In addition to his sword, Pontswain carried a long wooden lance.
The only other member of the party was Tristan’s prized moorhound, Canthus. The great dog stood half as high as his master and weighed every bit as much. He was a keen hunter and steadfast companion who had received his training from Daryth.
Fergus waited astride a great dappled mare, standing in the courtyard at first light. His son, Sean, rode a small stallion of the same colors. The young horse skittered nervously away from Avalon as Tristan, Daryth, and Canthus emerged from the stables.
The great warhorse ignored the other stallion, moving into an easy trot as Tristan preceded the others from the castle gate. Canthus loped beside him as he gave the stallion his head. They cantered down the winding approach to the castle and turned toward the west upon Corwell Road. They would follow this, the kingdom’s one highway, across Corwell to the eastern port of Kingsbay.
For most of the first morning they rode in easy silence, slowing their mounts to a walk after a short stretch. Fergus traveled beside the prince, trailing the rest of the party. Eventually the genial lord cleared his throat awkwardly.
“You know, prince, I am reminded of tales I’ve heard of the early days of the Ffolk upon Gwynneth and the other Moonshae Islands. Gwynneth, as you and I well know, was the grandest of the isles back then—in the days before Callidyrr, I mean.” Fergus cast a glance at Tristan to be sure that he was listening. Satisfied, he continued, his great mustache bobbing up and down with each word.
“I was not actually present at Freeman’s Down last summer. I did arrive at the castle in time to witness the siege and the rout of the Northmen.
“Those were the grandest sights I’ve ever beheld! It made me proud to be a lord of the Ffolk! And I cannot help thinkin’ that it was you who brought those victories about.” Lord Fergus turned to meet Tristan’s gaze squarely.
“What I’m trying to say is that perhaps we’re seeing a bit of that old glory return to Gwynneth now. You will be our king, and your reign will be good for Gwynneth, and for all the Ffolk. And I’ll be the prouder for havin’ served you,” Fergus concluded. He cleared his throat again and looked awkwardly across the moor, away from Tristan.
For a moment Tristan said nothing, but his face burned with excitement and joy. He felt as though he had truly been born to be king of the Ffolk. Silently, he vowed to bring about a return to the days of Gwynneth’s glory.
“Your words are heartening, my lord. It will be a comfort to know that I leave the kingdom in the hands of men and women such as yourself.”
They passed through several cantrevs, but most of the land was devoted to sparse, stony pastures or small tilled fields. Small farms dotted the landscape every mile or two, but the road was empty of other travelers.
They talked little for the rest of the day. Tristan looked occasionally at Pontswain, riding beside Sean before them. The lord spoke constantly, gesturing broadly. The thought of his boasting made Tristan sick with disgust. But unwilling to let Pontswain dampen his excitement, he forced his mind to brighter thoughts.
Robyn. Where was she now? What was she doing? Did she think of him often? The familiar sense of longing returned—he missed her so! He felt guilty that he had not gone to tell her of his father’s death. After all, King Kendrick had been her stepfather, the only parent she had ever known.
But, he reminded himself, it probably would have taken weeks to find the grove of the Great Druid, if he could have found it at all. Previously that difficulty had piqued his sense of adventure. Now, his mission prevented him from taking the time for such a search. Selfishly, futilely, he wished that she had somehow sensed his anguish and come to join him.
The journey to Kingsbay was normally a four or five day ride, but a sense of urgency pushed the little party over the distance in three.
“I would provide you with accommodations in my own lodge,” explained Fergus as they rode into the fishing cantrev, “but you will find the rooms at the Silver Salmon much more comfortable. There, also, we should find Rodger.”
“Rodger?” Daryth inquired.
“H
e’s the fisherman I’ll send to Alaron with you. Very reliable fellow, and he can keep his mouth shut. With luck, you’ll be crossing the strait by tomorrow morning.”
The cleric hated the sea. He hated the thick, fishy stench of the salty air. He hated the sound of water sloshing along the hull and splashing constantly against the planks. He even hated the monotonous sight of the sea, stretching away to infinity in all directions, featureless yet full of inscrutable detail.
But most of all he hated the motion of the sea, the sickening swaying, rising and falling cadence that churned his stomach into jelly and threatened to tear his mind to pieces.
For the hundredth time he cursed the calling that had compelled him to serve upon these islands, where the only expeditious means of travel involved sailing. Not that he questioned the wishes of Bhaal, the cleric hastily reminded himself—and whoever else happened to be listening to his thoughts. If Bhaal wanted Hobarth to journey to Gwynneth and return with the fresh blood of this young druid, then the cleric would do so without hesitation.
And besides, he consoled himself, the journey was practically over. Even as he looked over the low gunwale for the thousandth time, he saw the sun setting over Corwell’s easternmost port, Kingsbay.
Finally! Hobarth thought. I will get a decent bed below me—one that does not move with every breath of wind. Perhaps, he mused further, I might even be able to charm some young barmaid into making a decent bed still nicer.
The huge cleric stroked the fleshy folds of his neck, pleasantly intrigued by the thought. His tiny eyes gleamed from between low, sinister brows and bloated cheeks. Several large warts—punishments from Bhaal for a moment when the cleric had been less than devout—marred his nose. His appearance was altogether grotesque, but this was no obstacle when it came to wooing the young ladies. A simply cast minor spell would blind the lasses to his appearance and smell, creating admiration and eagerness where previously had existed fear and revulsion.
Finally, the boat reached the dock. Hitching up his only possession, the small pouch at his belt, he stalked from the craft without a word to the simple fisherman who had carried him from Alaron. Hobarth was certain that the wretch had enjoyed watching his agony.
Kingsbay was a smaller town than most communities of Callidyrr. The many cottages were roofed with round domes of straw instead of the wooden shingles that were common across the strait. The town was well-lighted by lamps and torches, however, and numerous inns beckoned the traveler with cheerful music and the aromas of succulent roasts.
Hobarth selected one called the Silver Salmon. He planned to drink and eat before he sought a maid, but his plans vanished as he walked through the door.
Sitting by the fire, leaning casually back in his chair and talking to a pair of men, was an image he had only seen in the vision sent from Bhaal. The prophecy had been so vivid that he could not mistake the identity of the man across the room. It was the Prince of Corwell. His presence here could only mean that Cyndre’s assassins had failed.
The inn was not very crowded, so Hobarth had no difficulty finding a table near the prince. He sat with his back to Tristan and quietly ordered a mug of ale from a passing barmaid. Nursing the dark, foamy drink, the cleric strained to hear the conversation occurring five feet away.
“It’s settled then,” said one man. “We’ll sail with the dawn.”
“Aye,” grunted another, an older man. “If the weather of the past days holds, we’ll—” The rest of the phrase was drowned out by laughter from the bar as the barmaid slapped an adventurous patron to the uproarious amusement of the man’s companions.
“No need for that,” he heard the old man saying when the laughter had died down. “The Lucky Duckling’s a small boat, and it won’t take but a minute to store your gear. You can’t miss her; she’s berthed at the nearest quay.”
“Fergus, can you see to our horses until we return?”
“It will be my pleasure.”
“Very well,” said the first speaker. “I’m going to catch what sleep I can. See you in the morning.”
“Myself, as well,” said a third man. Hobarth saw from the corner of his eye that this speaker was swarthy, perhaps a Calishite. He also noticed a great dog climb to its feet and follow the two men up the stairs. Hobarth shuddered, for next to the sea, he hated dogs above all else.
He had been considering following the men to their room and finishing the task of the assassins, but the presence of the dog changed that plan. His magic would probably kill the prince before the flea-bitten creature could react, but the thought of those long fangs lusting for his flesh sent shivers up and down Hobarth’s spine.
But a new plan occurred to him even as he discarded the old one. Quickly, Hobarth drained his mug and walked from the inn, back toward the harbor. The Lucky Duckling was easy to find.
“I fear your luck has run out, Duckling,” he murmured, chuckling at his private joke. After checking to see that no one was near, he sat upon the edge of the pier and began casting a spell of decay. Within a minute, he was finished, though the boat showed no outward signs of damage.
Still, Hobarth knew as he pushed himself to his feet, the Lucky Duckling would never make it to the neighboring island of Alaron. He would assure the little boat’s doom with an additional spell in the morning.
For now, he lumbered back to the inn. He tried to remember what the barmaid had looked like.
“I shape,” grunted the man, shuffling forward to reach for the thick hedge. Robyn looked up in surprise, as this was the first intelligible statement the fellow had made in the past four days.
Grateful, she stepped backward. “Help yourself,” she offered, leaning against a tree to catch her breath.
“Keep an eye he doesn’t take your job,” warned Newt. The dragon, blue today instead of orange, was perched on the branches atop the hedge. He watched the humans dourly.
The day had been strenuous, as strenuous as all of the days since the stranger had arrived at the grove. They stood at one of the great curving walls of mistletoe that marked the far limits of Genna’s grove, perhaps five hundred yards from the cottage and the Moonwell. The hedges served as bastions against unwarranted intrusion, for their tightly woven branches bristled with sharp thorns. Mistletoe itself was a plant potent in druidic magic, and thus served doubly to protect the domain of its mistress.
But the hedges required constant care during periods of rain, and this had been a wet summer. If not tended by someone, they would choke off all access and egress to the grove. Robyn’s hands, beneath her leather gloves, were scratched and torn. Her arms were leaden with weariness, for she had been swinging a sickle all morning in an effort to drive the hedges back into their proper dimensions.
The stranger took the sickle from her, holding it as if he had used the tool all his life. Slowly but smoothly he began to slice at the overgrowth, striking it back with clean cuts.
Robyn was surprised by his apparent skill. For the first time she noticed that he was improving under her care. His bony frame had filled out slightly, and he could stand and walk without shaking. Now, he was even working.
For a minute she thought about running to tell Genna of her success, but quickly decided not to. The Great Druid had been cantankerous for the past few days, complaining of a stiffness in her bones and throbbing headaches. She had spent most of her time in bed, complaining to Robyn whenever the young druid was around.
Consequently, Robyn avoided the cottage as much as possible. This was not difficult, because the tasks she had to do would remain doubled as long as Genna was.
“His work’s not too bad—for a mushroom-head,” commented Newt in a stage whisper. He had taken to calling the stranger unflattering names, out of jealousy, Robyn suspected, for now she no longer attended entirely to the little dragon.
“Stop it,” she chided. “He seems to be growing much stronger. All he needed was a little shelter and decent food!”
“Maybe he’s strong enough to walk away from he
re,” grumbled Newt. “And it’ll be none too soon, I might add!”
“Why don’t you go take a bath in the Fens if you can’t be a little more polite?”
The stranger paused and turned to see if Robyn was watching. When he met her gaze, his face split into a wide grin, and he nodded enthusiastically before turning back to the task. For several minutes he chopped and trimmed, until the druid noticed that his strike was less sure.
“I’ll take over again,” she offered, reaching for the sickle. The stranger suddenly whirled, his face twisting into a beastly snarl as his eyes darted wildly about. He appeared to stare right through her. But then he relaxed and smiled, meeting her gaze boldly. He handed the tool over and then stood near as she continued the job.
“Stand back,” she warned. “I don’t want to hit you.”
Obediently, he stepped away, but he still stared at her like an affectionate puppy. She could feel his unwavering gaze following her every motion, and found the sensation distinctly uncomfortable.
“Good! Good!” He cackled cheerfully, watching the hedge take shape.
“Who are you, anyway?” Robyn stopped working and stared at the stranger. She had not troubled about his identity when he was not talking, but now that he spoke, she wanted a name to call him by.
“I …” The man’s voice was puzzled and unsure. Suddenly, his eyes widened in fear, and he scuttled away from her. He crouched, his body wired with tension, as if he were about to flee.
… Or attack? For a moment she felt very frightened of this stranger. And very vulnerable. With an angry shrug, she tried to ignore the feeling.
Inside, though, she was deeply disturbed by his fear. What could lie in his background that made him so frightened of companionship, of revealing his identity?
He stared at her again as she went back to work. But now his eyes followed her body less like a puppy and more like a hungry wolf. Robyn shivered involuntarily, and she clutched the sickle tightly as she turned to the mistletoe.
Black Wizards Page 5