Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  Frustrated, Hobarth lowered himself to the ground and stalked along the shore of the stream. He was not used to being thwarted, and rage built within him. This crude druidic protection was certainly a nuisance! He wondered if a truly stunning display of Bhaal’s power might blow it away, but he decided to postpone experimentation. Such a spell would surely call attention to himself.

  He heard voices before him. Quickly, he dropped into the underbrush and carefully moved forward, using the shadows of the woods to advance around a bend in the stream. There before him he saw his quarry.

  The druid he sought knelt beside the stream, splashing water into her face. One of the pesky little dragons common to the Moonshaes was with her, hovering about like a worried nursemaid. Elated, Hobarth considered his options, and as he did his elation faded.

  How was he to get her out of the grove when he could not enter it? He considered and discarded several simple options. He could not expect to charm the woman from the grove with magic. The druid, he sensed, would be very resistant to his spells upon the sacred ground of her teacher’s grove. And he, or rather, Bhaal, wanted her alive; her blood must come fresh to the altar of his god. Thus, he could not use a baneful spell to kill her and another to lift her body out. No, he would need to use a more subtle tactic.

  Hobarth absently stroked the black rock in his hand. His beady eyes gleamed from within their deep pouches of fat as he looked around for a suggestion.

  Then he saw the body behind the druid, and an idea slowly formed in his brain. Yes, he smiled to himself. That body will do quite nicely. Praying reverently to his god, Hobarth concentrated on the corpse in the field. The young druid’s back was to the body, as she once again knelt to splash her face. And then the sinister might of Bhaal—or was it the potent evil of the black rock?—flowed from the cleric, unnoticed by Robyn, to the still form.

  She was still kneeling as the body began to move.

  “So you want to see the big city?” said Tavish, chuckling.

  “Yes,” explained Tristan, sticking to the story he had developed. “I’ve never even seen the island of Alaron. They say it’s rather unlike Gwynneth—has more farms and people. And the city of Callidyrr, and Caer Callidyrr itself—I want to see the most splendid palace of the Ffolk.”

  For a moment Tavish almost looked sad. “They are splendid works, indeed, but there is a way of looking at the splendor of your own kingdom—the untamed forests, the rocky highlands—that makes the wonders of Callidyrr pale by comparison. I prefer the earthiness of Corwell, myself.”

  “Do you travel the Isles much?” asked Daryth.

  “Why, yes. Didn’t I tell you I’m a bard?”

  “No, you didn’t,” replied the prince. He was not surprised.

  “Indeed I am. Not that I’ve visited Corwell recently—it’s been a decade or more, I should say. I’ve spent a lot of time on Moray recently. Now there’s a sad story …”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked the prince.

  “The king and several of his loyal lords have all been murdered in the past year. No one seems to know who’s behind it; there’s no lord trying to step into the vacancy. And who would want to?”

  “Indeed,” said Pontswain. “Moray has always seemed a bleak and barren land. Nothing but sheep and tundra.” But the lord sneaked a sideways glance of alarm at Tristan. The prince felt a cold knife snake into his bowels at the news.

  “There’s a lot more to it than that,” said the bard firmly. “But now the land is without a leader, and the mystery is without an answer. It makes for lots of suspicions and arguments.”

  Tavish paused, looking them over. “The tales out of Snowdown are no better,” she continued. “The king disappeared on a hunting trip and has not been heard from since. No one’s in charge—the whole kingdom’s in an uproar.”

  Tristan digested the information with heightened interest. Moray was another of the lands of the Ffolk, nominally under the rule of the High King. And there, as on Corwell, the king had been slain by mysterious assassins, while the last king of the Ffolk—save the High King himself—was missing from Snowdown.

  “I’m on my way back home to Alaron,” continued Tavish. “Though the prospect doesn’t bring the joy it once did.”

  “Why not?”

  Tavish sighed. “There, too, are troubles. The High King seems to fret about a thousand imagined challenges to his throne. Who would imagine that such a worrier would come to wear the crown of the Isles? More than one good and true lord has been locked in the royal dungeon, his lands confiscated simply because the king imagined some cause to fear him.”

  The bard steered silently for a while as the companions ate and rested. Tristan felt strength seeping back into his weary muscles, but his mind remained agitated. Tavish’s information, coupled with the prophecy, created strong doubts in his mind about the High King. When they reached Caer Callidyrr itself, what could they say to a man who feared treachery from every quarter?

  “Land!” cried Daryth, spotting a stretch of green on the eastern horizon.

  “Take a look at Alaron, fellows!” laughed Tavish. “We’ll be lashed to the dock by nightfall!”

  The prince’s mood of foreboding vanished. “It can’t be too soon for me,” he remarked with a true sigh of relief.

  “I recommend The Diving Dolphin—fine food, good drink, and wonderful music—I’ll be there myself, you know.”

  The men laughed and promised to see the bard at the inn. By this time they were passing the breakwater, and Tristan stood in the prow, eager to get his first look at the island of Alaron. The land was green and pastoral, dotted with white farms and neat stone fences.

  The town of Llewellyn was the biggest community Tristan had ever seen. His first impression was of all-encompassing whiteness. Stone walls, plastered buildings, wooden houses—all were painted white. Tavish told him that the town was home to nearly five thousand people.

  The sense of wonder remained with him as they glided up to a smooth stone quay. Tavish sprang to the shore, pulling the vessel tightly against the stout wooden bumpers. The passengers climbed out and looked around. Trying hard not to stare, Tristan was embarrassed by his lack of traveling experience. Everything seemed so new!

  The dockside at Llewellyn consisted of a large, parklike area of grass, surrounded by a multitude of shops. Cool alehouses quickly awakened Tristan’s thirst. He saw vendors of apples, cherries, and more exotic fruits hawking their wares. Hot meat sizzled on a small grill in one place. He saw beads and baubles, crystal goblets, and steel weapons on display in a variety of small, glass-fronted shops, Narrow streets lined with two-story buildings led to the south, north, and east. Several dozen pedestrians, a few horses, and a half-dozen two-wheeled carts were in motion.

  “The Dolphin is that way,” said Tavish, pointing up the street that led away from the sea. “Go on and settle in. I’ll be there before long.”

  So saying, the bard turned back to her boat She uttered a single word—Tristan couldn’t quite hear what she said—and for a moment it looked as though she had destroyed the vessel. The keel of the boat bent double, as the bow and stern rose to meet each other. The craft, thus raised, did not sink, but instead the raised fore and aft sections folded downward again to halve the boat once more in size. Tavish now pulled the thing—it looked like a wide board, about eight feet long—from the water. It continued to fold up on the shore until it had reduced itself to a box that would have strained to hold a pair of heavy boots.

  “See you in a little while!” she called, striding purposefully toward the northern avenue.

  “There’s more to the lady than meets the eye,” mused Daryth, staring after the bard. “I’m glad we’ll see her again.”

  “Let’s find that inn and get something to drink, then,” said the prince. “I’m thirsty!”

  “I shouldn’t doubt it,” said Pontswain sarcastically, “Although a hot meal would do me good.”

  The streets of Llewellyn were crowded, at
least by Corwellian standards, but the Ffolk they passed seemed unusually quiet. There was none of the friendly banter that the prince was used to.

  The Diving Dolphin stood a short distance from the, park. The whitewashed facade was weatherbeaten and faded, and the wide steps leading up to the front door showed signs of many repairs.

  “No dogs,” grunted a huge, black-bearded man as Tristan started through the door. The fellow stood in the shadows but moved forward quickly to block the entrance.

  The prince stopped, annoyed. Daryth spoke before Tristan had a chance to rebuke the man, however.

  “He’ll wait out here for us. Down, Canthus!” The houndmaster pointed to a corner of the wide porch, and Canthus walked to it, flopping heavily onto his belly. He lay his head upon his forepaws and did not move.

  The man stepped aside, and Daryth prodded the prince through the door. Tristan turned upon his friend as soon as they had entered the huge inn.

  “What did you do that for? He had no right—”

  “Actually, it’s the custom in most places,” said the Calishite. “Corwell is the only place I’ve lived where dogs are treated as well as people.”

  Tristan felt sick. His naiveté had almost caused him to make a fool of himself! Some future king he was!

  “Don’t worry about it,” laughed Daryth. “You’ve got me along to look after you! Now, let’s get something to eat.”

  The Seven sat about their wide table again. Six black hoods rose in fascination, absorbing the words that came from the seventh—the wizard in the center of the group.

  “The assassin will be here shortly. We shall give him his task, and the last of the heroes among the Ffolk shall presently be eliminated. Then we shall be able to direct our energies to more productive tasks, such as bending the other lands to the will of our liege.” The last word, thick with irony, lay heavily in the air after he spoke.

  Alexei, seated to Cyndre’s right, sat quietly. He watched his master through narrowed eyes, thinking deeply.

  How much he hated Cyndre! How he craved the power that the master selfishly kept for himself by doling out small tastes of it to those mages who pleased him.

  He looked beyond, to Kryphon, and his hatred grew, threatening to choke him. The worm! He was certain that Kryphon tried to manipulate the master in an effort to unseat Alexei himself from his place at Cyndre’s right hand. Alexei daydreamed of a time when he would watch them both squirm, rot, and die.

  But Doric. The slender woman just beyond Kryphon would be his again—as she had once been and as she was meant to be. The thought of Kryphon’s pleasure as he gratified his lust upon the woman that was Alexei’s by right of conquest fueled the flames of jealousy into a white heat.

  The other three—Talraw, Wertam, and Karianow—were the weaklings of the council. Alexei was certain that the three mages, barely beyond their apprenticeships, would follow the strongest leader. His heart pounded at the thought of his revenge, of the pain and humiliation he would inflict upon his former master.

  “Alexei?” The soft voice called him back to reality.

  “Master?” The word almost caught in his throat.

  Cyndre turned his head slightly, fixing his assistant with a gaze of cool interest. “Alexei, you have raised many questions—about the cleric, about my judgement. Why? Do you doubt my abilities?”

  The blood drained slowly from Alexei’s face, and a knot of panic built in his stomach. No! It was too soon—he was not ready yet! He looked into Cyndre’s eyes—pools of pale blue, as harsh as the arctic sky—and he could not answer, He struggled to speak, but no words came forth.

  “Can you give me some reassurances, Alexei? Some proof of your trustworthiness?”

  He knows. The knowledge burned Alexei’s face, and he could speak no reply. The truth would doom him, and he could summon no lie to his lips.

  “Very well,” said Cyndre, his voice dripping with regret.

  The wizard gestured, and streams of colored lights rushed from his fingertips to swirl about the recalcitrant lieutenant. Alexei’s hood flew back, his stark features outlined in terror. The mage was tall and thin, but the eerie shadows from the spell gave his face a gaunt, emaciated look. His mouth opened in a soundless scream—or perhaps the noise he made was masked from the council by the filtering curtain of lights.

  Alexei’s long, thin hands clasped the arms of his chair, but already his image grew blurry. In moments he had faded from view, banished, the other wizards knew, to a lonely imprisonment in a place known only to the master.

  A few hours later, the assassin and his band dashed through the courtyards of Caer Callidyrr on galloping black steeds. Racing through the night, they thundered along the streets of the town and soon disappeared along the King’s Road. They rode to the south.

  Chauntea heard Bhaal’s challenge and saw the game of the evil god. She briefly pondered her response. The Moonshaes were a small realm, unimportant in the vast scale of her domains. Were they worth the trouble of a conflict?

  Yet the isles had shown some promise. The people there, the Ffolk, were a good people—strong and devout in their own way. It saddened her to think of them falling under the thrall of Bhaal’s evil.

  And too, the acts of the evil god needed a counter, or they would grow too powerful and arrogant for the safety of all the planes. Since Bhaal had chosen the Moonshaes for his game, and Chauntea, alone among the gods of good, had power there, should she not resist him?

  Chauntea, like Bhaal, had clerics among the Ffolk. Though perhaps not as powerful—and certainly not as deadly—as the minions of Bhaal, her clerics had skills of their own: healing, beneficial powers.

  Perhaps one of them could aid the players in this game. She selected several of her worshippers, not certain what the future would hold. Perhaps one of them might have the chance to do her bidding.

  Chauntea made her wishes known to these clerics in the guise of a dream.

  obyn took a deep breath and felt her body relax as she exhaled. She felt weak but immeasurably better than she had upon first awakening. Whatever the nature of Acorn’s black rock, it had been far mightier than her ability to protect herself. Her fingers were blistered and hot, though the damage did not look permanent. She splashed one more handful of cool water against her face.

  She stood up and stretched slowly, trying to shake off a sense of guilt over Acorn’s death. She had had no choice! Angrily, she wondered about the sudden transformation. Certainly, he had made her nervous before, but what had driven him to attack? Why, when she would have spared him, had he been driven by such bloodlust? And a deeper, even more frightening question arose within her: How had he come to learn druid magic?

  “What did you do with that thing—that rock?” she asked Newt, who buzzed worriedly at her shoulder.

  “Oh, that awful stone! I hated it, and I took it away from here. It was no good for you! I hope you’re not mad at me—I only wanted to help!” The little dragon shivered at the memory of the rock, peering hopefully at Robyn.

  “No, you did the right thing,” she said reassuringly. “Poor Newt. You worry too much, like an old nursemaid.”

  “Well, I just wanted to see you awake again! And I must say, getting rid of that nasty fellow doesn’t bother me at all. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t. I think we’re all better off with him lying dead over—ack!” Newt squealed in terror and zipped past Robyn, hovering over the stream and pointing speechlessly over her shoulder.

  Robyn spun around and thought immediately that her senses had deserted her. The stranger was dead—she knew this, for she had checked carefully. So what was this thing lurching toward her?

  The body was only ten feet away, shuffling forward with an awkward gait. The neck was still broken, for the head hung grotesquely over its shoulder. A swollen black tongue extended from its gaping mouth, and the two eyes were dull and glazed, though still open.

  But the hands clutched for her eagerly, each finger like a living snake, thirsting for her blood.
The thing took another step forward, and another, as she stood transfixed, too shocked even to scream.

  “Run!” Newt cried, Somehow, the little dragon’s warning restored her self-control and she turned and sprinted down the riverbank.

  Gasping and shaking with fear, she turned to look. It came ahead slowly, shuffling awkwardly but steadily toward her. She wanted to cry out her fear, but she bit her tongue and used her mind. How could she fight this thing that was already dead?

  “Run, Robyn!” cried Newt, buzzing in a tight circle around him. He darted forward to hover in the air between her and the animated corpse, wringing his forepaws in agitation.

  “No, Newt!” she shouted, seeing by his concentration that he was preparing to cast a spell.

  Newt’s magic, although unpredictable, had saved her from bloodthirsty enemies before, but she feared it would be of little use against this nightmare.

  Multicolored flames exploded from the ground in front of the shambling figure, quickly surrounding it in a ring of fire that covered the spectrum from bright red to deep purple. The corpse hesitated, but only for a moment, and Robyn knew that it would not be daunted by Newt’s illusion.

  The body lurched through the curtain of fire, its fingers still twitching eagerly. Robyn stumbled backward, desperately trying to think of something—anything—to stop the unnatural attack. She looked around for a stick or a rock, but the field mocked her with wildflowers.

  Sprinting again, she dashed away from the thing, stopping to gasp for breath at the edge of the forest. Tireless, it marched forward.

  Trying to slow her breathing, Robyn marshaled her faith in her goddess. She felt the body of the goddess under her feet. Carefully, she pulled a leaf of mistletoe from her waist. She let the leaf spiral lazily into the breeze as she chanted one of her most powerful spells.