Black Wizards

by Douglas Niles

  “Do you think the High King is eager to hear your petition?” asked Pontswain. “He certainly has taken great pains to see that you waste no time getting to him.”

  Tristan whirled on the lord, but then halted. He didn’t know if the man was baiting him or asking an honest question. Judging by the curious, slightly amused look on the man’s face, Pontswain didn’t know either.

  “That’s not too likely,” said Daryth quietly.

  “Why?” asked the prince.

  “After an assassination attempt—two, if you count the sinking of our boat—they’re not likely to haul you all the way to Callidyrr.”

  “If they want me dead, why didn’t they kill me already?”

  “Perhaps because they didn’t dare do it in a public place,” interjected Pontswain. “Remember the mood at the inn?”

  Daryth nodded and stood, nearly tripping on the chain linking his manacles. Cursing, he pulled his hands apart and stared in shock as one of the iron rings slipped over his hand to clink to the floor.

  “How did you do that?” asked Tristan.

  “I don’t know.” Daryth was obviously mystified. He tugged on the other hand, and it, too, slipped through the tight and rusty bond. He looked at Tristan as he threw the manacles to the bed. Suddenly he laughed.

  “These gloves are from the sea castle!” he cried, holding up his hands. “I knew there was something special about them—they’re magical!” He pulled one of the gloves off and looked at it.

  “Let’s see,” said the prince, wondering if the gloves would work on his hands. He tried to pull one of them on, but it was too tight. “But what’s this?” he asked as he examined the glove and noticed a tiny pouch inside.

  “What’s what?” asked the Calishite, taking the glove. He looked inside and pulled out a thin piece of stiff wire from the hidden pocket. “A picklock!” he announced. “I’ll have you out in no time!”

  Daryth knelt beside the prince and pushed the thin probe into the keyhole of Tristan’s right manacle. After a minute of delicate probing, the lock snapped open. In another moment, both of the prince’s hands were free.

  “That’s great!” said Tristan, jumping to his feet. “Now we—”

  “Shhh!” Daryth hissed suddenly, holding up a hand. The faint scraping sound of metal against metal reached his ears. He looked anxiously toward the door. Nodding in agreement, Daryth pantomimed a probing gesture.

  Someone was picking the lock to their cell.

  Pawldo crouched next to the gatehouse, telling himself he was crazy. His wild plan didn’t have a prayer of success. To the contrary, it virtually assured that he would be killed, no doubt squashed like a bug beneath some ogre’s boot.

  The Prince of Corwell was a decent friend, but nowhere was it stated that friendship meant senselessly sacrificing one’s life for a comrade who was probably already dead. And Tristan’s no-good friend Daryth deserved whatever he got! At least, these were the arguments raging through the halfling’s brain.

  But it was no use. Pawldo decided that he had no choice but to go through with it. It would be the last thing he ever went through, but do it he would. He would try his plan.

  He tentatively hoisted one of the Crystals of Thay, tossing the sphere up and down a few times until he had captured the right degree of jauntiness. He tried to whistle cheerily, but only after licking his lips repeatedly could he call forth a few faint notes.

  Finally he was ready. He emerged from the shadows and sauntered into the street, whistling a little jig and tossing the crystal into the air as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Canthus followed at his heels.

  He smoothly approached the ogre standing at the gatehouse, blocking entrance to the manor grounds. The monster regarded him in surprise, blinking its wide, dull eyes. The yellowed tusks, jutting upward from its lower jaw, looked very deadly. Pawldo hoped that the look held more curiosity than belligerence. He stopped whistling as he reached the ogre.

  “Hi there!” he beamed. “How’d you like to buy a crystal? It’s the only one of its kind in the Moonshaes!”

  The army of undead crawled like a living organism across the land. Needing neither food nor drink, completely tireless and insensitive to pain, the creatures trampled beds of flowers and thickets of thorns with equal impunity.

  But the plants suffered from more than just the shuffling footsteps. As each of the undead stumbled forward, each blade of grass, weed, and flower stalk that lay in its path simply turned brown and shriveled. It died before the monster even reached it. The bushes and trees that the army walked past gradually dropped their leaves. Slender branches drooped lifelessly.

  The zombies moved in the vanguard of the army. The dirt had been washed from them by a sudden downpour, and their rotting flesh hung in great folds of gore. Some of them carried rusty weapons. Others had no weapons except their bare hands, but even these were formidable, for most of the skin and flesh on the fingers had rotted away, leaving twisted claws of bone extended. The eyes had rotted from the sockets of most, but the lack seemed to make no difference. All of them moved with the same shuffling gait, tripping and stumbling often, but climbing to their feet to march forward. Often, they left a piece of rancid flesh clinging to a thorny branch or sharp rock.

  Curiously, the zombies’ hair remained in full, except for patches where the flesh had torn away. Thus, some of the males had tufts of beard, and many women retained long tresses that hung in careless disarray.

  The skeletons were gradually cleaned, as a succession of rainstorms washed the dirt from their white bones. Like the zombies, some of the bare skeletons carried weapons or wore tattered bits of rusty armor. But they had no flesh to be scraped away by thorns. Empty eye sockets stared ahead as the unearthly force stumbled forward.

  The army moved without rest, for the undead suffered no fatigue, nor did they feel the need to sleep. And in Hobarth’s case, the Heart of Kazgoroth had become his sustenance.

  The army marched, and the ground beneath it blackened and died. It left a swath of death running up the valley from Freeman’s Down, across the high pass, and finally streaking down the mountain slopes, into Myrloch Vale.

  The vanguard of the army, twoscore ghastly figures that had once been Northmen, shuffled into a shallow pond. Flies buzzed around the zombies, landing and feeding greedily, but the creatures took no note. Some lumbered forward, their faces so covered with flies that they appeared to grow black, buzzing beards.

  As the undead feet slurped into the mud of the pond, the water grew stagnant and black. Thin wisps of pungent steam rose into the air with each footstep, and fish floated, belly up, to the surface. These first zombies crossed the waist-deep water and trudged through the muddy shore on the far side. They moved into a field, bright with flowers, and the petals fell like snowflakes. As more of the army crossed the field, more of it died; the force left a muddy wasteland of death in its wake.

  One zombie, who had nearly lost her leg to a Northman battle-axe, suddenly collapsed as that leg gave way beneath it. Those behind, the bodies of friends and foes alike, trudged mindlessly over the twitching corpse, trampling it into the mud until only a clasping, clenching hand could be seen above the ground.

  The animals of the vale sensed the approaching horror and fled upon hoof, paw, or wing. The army marched through a lifeless forest.

  Soon, now, Hobarth dreamed, the girl would be his.

  Tristan and Daryth stood to either side of the door. Pontswain, still manacled, sat upon a mattress facing the door. He nodded at the other two and they understood; he would try to distract whoever it was that tried to enter their cell. The faint sounds of the picklock indicated a thief of considerable skill—there was no wasted motion or clumsy probing. Or an assassin, trained at the Academy of Stealth, thought Tristan. In a moment the lock released.

  The men held their breath, tension rising as they waited to see who was breaking into their cell. With a low creak, the door began to slide open. Daryth moved like a striking snake, re
aching through the widening crack to grasp at the shirt of whoever stood outside.

  But his hand closed upon air. Stunned, he pulled the door open to reveal the intruder, but they saw no one standing in the hallway—until they looked down.

  “Pawldo! cried the prince, reaching down to clasp his friend warmly. “How did you get here?”

  “You’d never believe it if I told you,” replied the halfling in a tense whisper. He threw an anxious look over his shoulder, “Come on, now, we’ve gotta move!”

  “Just a minute!” said Daryth, passing Pawldo to look cautiously into the hall. He darted back to Pontswain and slipped the wire probe into one manacle. After a moment’s hesitation, Pawldo joined him and worked on the other.

  “Thanks,” the lord said, briskly rubbing his wrists.

  “Let’s go!” hissed Pawldo, turning to the door.

  Tristan sensed a note of panic in Pawldo’s voice. “What do you mean? What do you know?”

  “Assassins!” Pawldo whispered. “They’re here to kill you! In this building—maybe coming up the stairs right now!”

  “Wait!” cried Tristan. “I’ve got to find the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. I can’t leave without it!”

  Pawldo looked like he wanted to argue, but he finally turned with a sigh of exasperation. “All right, I’ve got an idea where they might be keeping it. They’ve got an ogre on guard outside one of the rooms downstairs.”

  “Damn!” cursed Tristan. “How are we going to get past it?”

  “That’s the least of our problems,” said Pawldo. He took the lead, his little shortsword drawn as they slipped quietly down the spiraling stairway. They circled three times to reach the ground level, where a door led to an alcove off the great hall of the manor. As Pawldo reached for the doorknob, they heard the unmistakable snort of an ogre coming from the other side of the door.

  “How are we going to fight that thing?” whispered Daryth in exasperation. “With nothing but that little pigsticker between the three of us!”

  “This little blade has stuck some pretty big pigs!” declared Pawldo. “Now, shut up and follow me!”

  Before the men could react, the halfling pushed open the door and stepped past the hulking ogre who stood outside. Tristan and Daryth were about to lunge after their friend. At the very least they could not let him die alone.

  But the ogre didn’t move. Pawldo turned after a few steps, gesturing them forward, and kept on moving. Stunned, Tristan watched the ogre for a reaction.

  The monster clutched a glass ball in his huge and hairy palms, staring intently at the object as he turned it this way and that. He did not look up as the unbelieving trio tiptoed stealthily past. Tristan looked back to see the ogre still in the thrall of the shiny sphere.

  Pawldo, meanwhile, had pushed aside the curtain screening the alcove and stepped boldly into the great hall. Here, too, were ogres—three of them. Each of the monsters sat upon the floor, legs outstretched to either side, and each stared intently at a glass bauble that seemed to be a match for the one in the alcove.

  Amazed at their good fortune, the men followed Pawldo across the hall to a wooden door. Although the halfling boldly stepped over the outstretched log of one of the ogres, the men could not bring themselves to test the limits of their good fortune further. Instead, they slipped quietly along the walls until they reached Pawldo. The halfling had already removed a wire probe from a slim leather case. He handed his sword to Daryth and knelt, carefully concentrating, as he began to pick the lock of the huge oaken door.

  “This one was guarded,” he whispered. “I’ll bet it’s where they’ve put your sword.” In a second the lock clicked free, and Daryth raised his eyebrows in admiration.

  Pawldo shrugged, unsuccessfully trying to conceal a smile of pride. With a cavalier gesture, he pushed it open.

  “You miserable oaf! I ordered you to knock—” The hawk-nosed captain shrieked as he rose. But the tirade halted as abruptly as it began when the speaker realized that the intruders were not clumsy ogres. The officer’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but not before Daryth could act.

  The Calishite sprang over Pawldo and through the door, landing in a catlike crouch halfway to the man’s desk. Pawldo’s blade quivered overhead as Daryth held the tip in his fingers, poised for throwing.

  “Stay where you are or die,” he snarled, his voice low.

  The captain appeared to consider drawing his sword, but his eyes flicked to the slim dagger. He lifted his hand from the hilt of his sword.

  Tristan ran to his side and drew the sword himself, turning it against its owner. “Where are our weapons?”

  The officer nodded to a cabinet against the wall of the room, and Pawldo hurried over to open it. He pulled out both swords and the scimitar and was about to close it when something else caught his eye. He lifted out a leather sack, hoisting it a few times to hear a satisfactory clink, before closing the cabinet and handing the Sword of Cymrych Hugh to Tristan.

  “Here,” said the halfling, handing the other swords over to Pontswain and Daryth. “Of course,” he told the Calishite, “it won’t do for throwing, but it’ll give you a better reach.”

  Daryth laughed. “I couldn’t have thrown this clunky thing either. I just had to make him think I could “He smiled at the captain as he handed the weapon back to Pawldo.

  “Check the hall,” said Pontswain, walking to the desk. The captain stood behind it, hatred burning in his eyes. The lord met his gaze squarely, stopping before the man. In a lightning-quick gesture, he drew his sword and thrust it through the man’s chest, squarely into his heart.

  The officer fell instantly, blood spurting from the mortal wound. Pontswain turned and stalked toward the door.

  “What did you do that for?” demanded Tristan, enraged. “He wasn’t going to stop us!”

  “Not until we were gone. But as soon as we were out of his sight, he would have had every ogre in this town on our tails. Now, we’ll have a few minutes’ head start.”

  “You took a man’s life to buy us a few minutes?” The prince was still incredulous. He had killed in battle before, but his companion’s action had seemed so … ruthless.

  “I did!” Pontswain snapped. “And it will be worth it if we use that time to escape instead of argue!”

  “He’s right!” said Daryth, opening the door. “Follow me!”

  The ogres still sat, bemused, as the halfling trotted into the entry hall adjacent to the great hall. Here a pair of huge doors stood shut.

  “Do you have a plan?” the prince asked the halfling.

  “Plan?” Pawldo snorted in amusement. “I was sure I’d be dead by now. Why would I need a plan? I did, however, make the precaution of securing and hiding six fast horses around the corner. This is the way I came in,” explained the halfling, lifting the latch and pushing open one of the doors. They walked across a wide stone veranda, thankful that the moon remained hidden by clouds. An ogre sat upon the front steps, staring in rapture at his crystal. They descended and started on a path that wound through the huge formal garden, moving stealthily among tall hedges.

  “There—I left Canthus at the gatehouse,” said Pawldo, pointing at the large structure looming before them.

  They didn’t see the movement until it was too late. One moment the pathway to the gatehouse lay open before them, and the next, four black figures had materialized from the bushes to block their way. Silken cloth of darkest black covered their bodies, but Tristan nonetheless recognized the hulking form that stepped ahead of the others.

  “The Prince of Corwell, and Daryth of Calimshan!” said Razfallow in a soft, cultured voice. “Rarely, perhaps never, have two deaths given me more pleasure than yours shall!”

  The leader pulled his silken mask aside as the moon broke from the clouds, washing the garden in milky light. The half-orc’s beastly features leered at them, but his voice continued smoothly. “And that little fellow who spied upon us—what a delightful surprise! See how nicely he waits for u
s, Rasper? Didn’t I tell you we’d find them here?”

  One of the assassins nodded agreement. The little crossbow in his hand did not waver from them, however. The weapon was identical to the one that had killed Tristan’s father. Tristan saw another of the crossbows held by a second assassin. Those bows could kill two of them before they could move.

  “So, Razfallow,” said Daryth pleasantly. “Still whoring for the highest bidder, I see.”

  “Indeed,” replied the half-orc. “And you could have joined me and lived to a ripe old age. You were good, back then. I would have made you my lieutenant instead of my victim.”

  “Working for the likes of you is no choice,” Daryth stated simply.

  Razfallow shrugged, uninterested. He turned to the assassin with the bow.

  “Now, Rasper, who should we kill first?”

  The strength of the goddess was centered in Myrloch Vale. Nowhere else was her power so concentrated Nowhere else were her druids so strong and the forces of disruption so weak.

  Yet even that strength was not sufficient to withstand the plague of death that marched into her most sacred realm. Each unnatural footstep—and there were thousands every minute—brought fiery pain to the soul of the goddess. Each of the undead creatures was a blasphemy against life itself, a chaotic disruption of the balance of all things.

  She recoiled and suffered, for she had no power over the army of death. She withered and flinched beneath the footfalls, fearing the approach of the cleric and his evil god.

  The goddess was not without allies. Her children were her staunchest defenders, to be called in time of direst need. But the oldest of her children, the Leviathan, had been slain by the Beast. The vast wolfpack she was capable of summoning might have been some help against the army, but the pack was spent, dispersed to a hundred dens across the Isles.