Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, stood upon a low hill just outside of Cantrev Kingsbay. He had a clear view of the bay itself and of the wide gray sea stretching to the east. Somewhere out there, he knew, the sun had risen, but a low-lying bank of clouds concealed the dawn from those on shore.

  A half-dozen fishing vessels dotted the waters of the bay, moving toward deep water. There, salmon dashed in great numbers between the islands of Gwynneth and Alaron, and these fishermen made a fair living.

  But one boat, Hobarth knew, had put to sea not to catch fish, but to deliver Tristan Kendrick dangerously close to Hobarth’s and Cyndre’s domain. Or at least attempt to deliver, the cleric gloated.

  He meditated for a long time, sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed and his body upright. Gradually, he felt the presence of his deity, and Bhaal answered the summons of his faithful follower.

  The spell he needed to cast was one of his most potent. It called for the direct might of his god, Bhaal, and allowed the cleric to control the very substances of the world around him. Bhaal eagerly powered the spell, for in fact he watched Hobarth’s mission with more than slight interest. Magic flowed through the cleric’s body and into the air.

  Slowly but mightily he marshaled clouds heavy with water vapor, coaxing them from the highlands and forcing them out to sea. The force of his magic pushed and prodded the air, and gradually a breeze flowed from the shore. The breeze would become a wind and then a storm, if the cleric could maintain his spell.

  And Hobarth knew that he could.

  Canthus settled comfortably into the bow of the Lucky Duckling, while Daryth helped Rodger trim the lone sail. Pontswain relaxed easily against the gunwale, staring at the water. He had removed his armor, wrapping it with their weapons in oilskins and storing the package in the hull.

  “Fine offshore breeze,” Rodger commented. “If it holds, we’ll cross the strait in two days.”

  Tristan had been skeptical of the old seaman’s abilities when they had first met, for Rodger must have seen at least six decades. His build was slight, and his permanently stooped shoulders enhanced his look of frailty. His face was leathery, creased by hundreds of lines, and he did not have a tooth left in his mouth. After seeing the easy confidence with which he guided the Lucky Duckling, however, the prince felt considerably reassured.

  They soon passed the mouth of Kingsbay and entered the Strait of Alaron. For a moment he looked over his shoulder at Gwynneth. As the island of his birth fell away behind them, he felt that he should feel excitement and anticipation. But instead, he wrestled with the feeling that he might never see his homeland again.

  I won’t think of that, he told himself. Or of Robyn. Or of Father. He peered resolutely over the bow. It was time to look before him again.

  He watched the keen, albeit weathered, bow of the Duckling slice through the brine and enjoyed the sight of the wake foaming out to either side. He turned to see it spreading apart like a feathery trail behind the boat and saw that Gwynneth was practically out of sight. Daryth was relaxing in the bottom of the hull, his eyes closed and his head pillowed on a coil of rope.

  “I hope the old fool can keep us on a straight course,” said Pontswain, coming over to join him.

  “Of course he can!” Tristan retorted, annoyed.

  “It must be nice to have such faith in people,” said the lord, with a sidelong glance at the prince. Shaking his head in amusement, Pontswain settled into the hull to sleep.

  Tristan continued to watch the rolling waves, but gradually the experience became less pleasant. He began to feel his stomach heave upward every time the boat climbed a wave, and then threaten to lurch into his throat as they sliced down the other side. He began to dread the crest of each wave, his discomfort growing more acute. His footing grew shaky, and the strength seemed to drain from his arms as he tried to brace himself.

  “First time at sea?” Rodger cackled the question from the back of the boat.

  Tristan could only manage a mute nod, for his jaws were tightly clenched.

  “This is nothing,” laughed the fisherman. “It get lots worse in the middle of the strait.”

  This remark pushed the prince over the brink of self control, and he hung his head over the side, sending the remains of his breakfast to the fish. At least Pontswain and Daryth are still asleep, he thought, nauseated. He clung to the side of the boat as the constant motion of the waves seemed to grow more pronounced.

  The long day seemed endless, and his condition worsened as the wind picked up. The Lucky Duckling seemed to fly from one wavetop to the next, and the prince noticed that the waves themselves were growing considerably higher than they had been at the start of the journey.

  “Best trim the sail,” grunted Rodger to Daryth as the latter arose to look around. “Sea’s getting higher’n I expected.”

  Daryth loosened a line, pulling the boom higher up the mast so that the amount of sail exposed to the wind was reduced dramatically. Tristan felt the boat slow beneath him and could sense more control returning to the fisherman. The wind still tugged fiercely at the exposed canvas, but Rodger was able to guide the little vessel carefully over the huge swells. In spite of his nausea, Tristan could not keep his eyes from the sea as it swirled around him. The waves were climbing higher than the sides of the boat. He swallowed hard, certain that soon one would smash into the hull, flood the craft, and end the journey for all of them.

  But Rodger was a skilled pilot, and the Lucky Duckling rode the waters like a carriage along a hilly path. She lurched occasionally but never faltered.

  Somehow Pontswain had managed to sleep through the growing storm. Now he awoke suddenly and stumbled to his feet to look, aghast, at the rising sea. “What kind of a sailor are you?” he shouted at Rodger. “Can’t you read a simple change in the weather?”

  Tristan wanted to object, but feared that if he unclenched his jaw he would again be overwhelmed by nausea. Daryth climbed to his feet and stepped to the lord’s side.

  “Let the man sail, you pompous fool,” he growled.

  “How dare you insult—” Pontswain’s hand reached for the sword hilt that would normally be at his belt, forgetting that he was unarmed. Daryth stepped in closer.

  “There is something unnatural about this storm, and if you weren’t so eager to blame someone, you’d recognize it yourself!”

  Pontswain seemed to pale slightly as the black eyes of the Calishite bored into his own. Finally, he turned with a shrug and looked back at the sea. Daryth settled back to rest, and Rodger sailed on as though nothing had happened.

  By late afternoon, however, Tristan sensed that even the seasoned fisherman was worried. The swells had continued to grow, and they had trimmed the sail until it was no larger than a baby’s blanket.

  “Tain’t natural,” groused the old man. “The weather failing like this. It’ll be a long night if ’n it don’t settle down some.”

  For a few minutes toward dusk, it seemed that the Lucky Duckling would live up to her name. The wind faded and the seas grew marginally calmer. But as the surrounding seas turned from a dull gray to a deep black with the onset of nightfall, the gusts of wind swept forward again, carrying the little fishing boat with them. Now the seas rolled six feet high and continued to grow.

  Canthus paced anxiously beside the prince as he darted from side to side of the boat, looking into the water for he knew not what. When the moorhound began to whimper, Tristan stopped to scratch the dog’s broad head.

  Rodger grasped the tiller firmly while Daryth raised the sail almost entirely. He left just enough for the sailor to retain steerage of the boat, but even so the little craft whipped forward recklessly.

  A huge wall of black water rolled up to the stern of the ship and thundered past, sending a torrent of spray over the transom and leaving the Duckling awash, holding more than a foot of water.

  “Bail!” cried Rodger, indicating a large bucket with a nod of his head. Tristan saw that the surging tiller nearly lifted t
he sailor off the hull with the force of the storm.

  Desperately he knelt, noticing absently that he no longer felt sick. Pontswain knelt beside him, heaving full buckets over the side. Tristan had to admit, grudgingly, that the lord worked diligently and with great strength. Of course, he no doubt realized that his own life was at stake.

  Pitching bucketfuls of water over the side, they bailed frantically, but water seemed to pour over the gunwales faster than they could scoop it out.

  Tristan filled another bucket, but suddenly gagged as a surprising stench assailed his nostrils. Gasping, he dropped the bucket and staggered backward. Maggots spilled from the container to slither about the hull.

  He struggled to voice his shock but no sound emerged. More maggots seethed from the hull of the boat, and he felt the wood grow spongy beneath his feet. The sickly white creatures, creeping from the Duckling’s very planks, seemed to fill the boat. The horrible smell of rotting flesh rose from the hull with the maggots.

  “Sorcery!” cried the prince, finding his voice.

  “What black magic is this?” growled Pontswain. The lord was not so much terrified as enraged. “You have brought this upon us!” he finished, shaking his fist at Tristan.

  The prince shook his head dumbly and then watched as Rodger screamed, staring in horror at the death of his boat. The hull creaked as the center of the boat rose while the bow and stern dipped below the rolling waves. A black wall of water crushed the transom, covering Rodger as he screamed. As the water receded, Tristan saw the tiller banging loosely.

  There was no sign of the sailor.

  Daryth scrambled past him, and Tristan saw his companion lunging to grasp an oilskin bundle. The prince vaguely remembered that the package contained their weapons … the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!

  The hull lurched apart, and the bundle of weaponry slipped into the black water and sank. Daryth dove after it, disappearing into the storm.

  Abruptly, Tristan’s muscles broke free from the paralysis that gripped him, and he ducked to the side to avoid the falling mast. He scrambled into the stern of the boat, which remained just underneath the surface. He tried to see Daryth, and heard Canthus bark, somewhere close, but the Calishite and the dog were invisible in the darkness.

  Daryth suddenly popped to the surface in the wave trough, and Tristan could see that his hands were empty. Then the crest of the wave smashed against the wreck, and the remaining piece of the Lucky Duckling disintegrated. The young prince struggled for air, thrashing desperately against the press of the thundering sea.

  All he could find was an infinity of black, choking water.

  “Kralax Heeroz Zuthar.”

  Short, dexterous fingers stroked the surface of a mirror. A soft luminescence seemed to flow from the glass. The wizard spoke quietly as if, by his tone, he wished to soothe a nervous cat.

  But the words were the dire commands of magic.

  The luminescence grew cloudy, and gradually the outline of a room appeared in the mirror. Cyndre walked slowly around the council chamber, his concentration focused entirely upon the tall mirror. One of the blood-red tapestries had been pulled back to reveal the glass. Its gold frame seemed to catch and amplify the light from within.

  The wizard stared into the mirror and saw the Great Hall of Caer Corwell, as he had seen for many days in a row. The hall was vacant, save an old cook gathering dirty platters from the large tables.

  “Zuthax Eli.”

  The picture moved, as if the viewer had passed from the hall and begun to climb the stairs inside the castle. For several minutes the image meandered from room to room, passing freely through closed doors. Caer Corwell seemed quiet, almost abandoned.

  Cyndre felt a flash of annoyance, but he blinked it away. Self control, he reminded himself, was all important.

  He thought of the cleric Hobarth with smug satisfaction. Blindly faithful to his violent god, that fat buffoon would sacrifice his own life if his awful master demanded it. And how pitiful were his clerical powers, mused Cyndre, when compared to the awesome might of wizardry. Such reliance upon gods, Cyndre believed without question, was the way of fools and weaklings.

  The image moved from the keep to the outer wall, and here he found a pair of guards standing listlessly at their posts. One, a young man, asked the other a question. The wizard smiled slightly as he heard the words. His smile broadened as he heard the other guard reply.

  He now knew all that he required: The Prince of Corwell was on his way to Callidyrr.

  With growing interest, Bhaal watched the drama unfold upon the Moonshaes. As his will focused upon the islands, he found the Heart of Kazgoroth, still clutched faithfully by its servant.

  It was time, decided Bhaal, that the heart be given to one who could make better use of it. That one drew closer to it with each passing hour, and this closeness brought the god’s desire to a fever pitch.

  Hobarth would take the heart, would use it for the tasks it was capable of, in the hands of a powerful cleric. Hobarth would gain his tool, and Bhaal would recover the very soul of his lost minion. This thought was immensely pleasing to him.

  And so Bhaal set in motion the things that would send the heart from the one who carried it to the one who would wield it. All he needed to do was take a man, already driven mad by the close throbbing of the heart, and make him irrevocably insane.

  The throbbing grew louder and deeper.

  is Highness, High King Reginald Carrathal, sovereign of Callidyrr and monarch of all the lands of the Ffolk, had a most annoying problem. To wit, a large pimple gleamed insolently from his cheek, resisting the king’s most arduous attempts to remove it.

  Pouting, His Majesty turned from the mirror, his long curls flouncing, and marched across the bedchamber. The plush carpeting sank underfoot, thwarting his attempts to stomp noisily.

  He stepped around a huge canopied bed, stalking alongside a wall that was hung in a fortune of silk curtains. In annoyance, he realized that he now stood before an even larger mirror—the one that hung above his dressing table.

  “Blast it all!” he cried, picking up a small vial of rare Calishite cologne. He hurtled the container at the mirror, smashing both, before turning to stalk across the room again.

  “Is there a problem, Your Majesty?” The smooth voice came from the wizard.

  “How dare you enter my chamber without knocking?” the king huffed, squinting angrily at Cyndre.

  “I was about to knock when I heard a disturbance. Fearing for His Majesty’s safety, I hastened to your side.…”

  The wizard’s voice, as always, soothed and comforted the king. He felt his annoyance vanish as Cyndre stepped forward. The mage’s dark robe was open, revealing a soft cotton gown embroidered with gold. His hood lay back upon his shoulders, and his blond, curly hair framed a cherubic smile in a wide, almost childlike face. His hand reached forward to pat the royal shoulder.

  “Well?” the king said. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “I fear, Your Highness, that I bring grave news. It is with reluctance that—”

  “Tell me, you fiend! Do not play games with bad news! The king nearly hopped up and down in his anxiety. He licked his lips nervously.

  Cyndre sighed, his reluctance obvious. “It seems that the usurper is on his way to Caer Callidyrr.”

  “What?” the High King squeaked. “But you promised me—”

  “You need not fear him,” said Cyndre, looking straight into the king’s eyes. He did not add “yet,” though it was on his mind. Slowly, the monarch calmed down.

  “Our first attempt to punish him for his treachery met with small success,” explained the wizard, pursing his lips. The gesture was a very strong one for Cyndre. “Nevertheless, I feel certain that we can still deal with him easily.”

  “But what should I do? You must tell me!” The king’s words tumbled out, and the wizard could tell that he was losing what little control was left him.

  “My … sources tell me that he is on h
is way even as we speak. He must land soon at one of the ports of Alaron. It would be a simple matter to arrest him as he steps ashore. All you need to do, sire, is declare him an outlaw.”

  “Yes, of course. That I shall do! Why, he is an outlaw, isn’t he? He seeks to pretend a claim to my throne. I shall have him hanged!”

  “Very good, Your Majesty. We can put a detachment in every port. He will be arrested the moment he steps ashore.”

  King Carrathal turned, a frown of worry creasing his brow. “But how do I know that my orders will be carried out? This prince is a popular hero. Can I trust the loyalty of my own men to arrest him?”

  “Is it not for just this reason that you retain the services of your brigades—troops that answer to you alone?”

  The king paled slightly but appeared to consider the idea. “Yes … I could use the guard. I pay them too much as it is—perhaps it’s time I gave them a task.” He slowly warmed to the idea. “But how do I know they’re trustworthy?”

  “The Scarlet Guard will follow your orders,” said Cyndre reassuringly. “I brought them to you expressly so that you would have soldiers you could trust implicitly.”

  “But the people won’t like it,” replied the king. “Those ogres, especially, make everyone so nervous.”

  In truth, the ogres made the king himself very nervous, which was why he had not used them yet, though he had been paying them for more than two years. At least the Northmen had not bothered Callidyrr in the interim.

  But now he considered using them against one of his own subjects, and this did not seem right. He knew that his people resented his employment of mercenary troops when the fighters of the Ffolk were perfectly capable warriors. Why had he let the wizard convince him to hire them?

  “The people are your subjects!” argued Cyndre. His voice took on a hardened edge. “Will you let them rule the kingdom? I tell you, the guards are your best troops!”

  “So you claimed,” said the king, “when you persuaded me to hire them.”