Darkwell

by Douglas Niles

  The flock of perytons swirled overhead, strangely silent. The owlbear, Thorax, lumbered away from the well, clacking its huge beak awkwardly in the air. And the great, catlike displacer beast prowled the shore of the pond, as if waiting for a command that was not long in coming.

  And now, my children, go forth and hunt. Journey far, and slay the enemies of Bhaal!

  The homecoming was all the young king could have desired. Pontswain had indeed carried word of his coronation to the Ffolk of Corwell, and they turned out to meet the Defiant in huge numbers. Hours earlier, lookouts had spotted the vessels heading toward the harbor. Despite confusion and suspicion raised by the appearance of the longship, it was an eager crowd that moved toward the waterfront.

  The throng grew steadily until, by the time they docked, most of the town awaited them. As the Defiant pulled alongside the pier, the Ffolk erupted in a spontaneous cheer. The king felt a warm glow of gratitude and a rush of pleasure to again see his home.

  Among the well-wishers greeting them at the dock, Tristan recognized Tavish of Llewellyn, the bard of the harp who had plucked him from the sea after his boat sank on the journey to Callidyrr. He had not seen her since his arrest at the hands of the former High King’s personal guards.

  The rotund minstrel flashed him a beaming smile as he stepped ashore. She embraced him in a crushing hug, and he was surprised to see tears on her cheeks. “I came here to get help, to rescue you,” she explained, wiping her eyes, “but it seems you’ve handled things pretty well on your own.”

  Tristan heard the rumbling of the crowd to his left, and saw many of the Ffolk surge toward the dock as the longship pulled alongside. “Raiders!” “Murderers!” “Thieves!” and other invectives emerged from the angry men, and the king forced his way through the crowd to stand before the longship. He looked straight into the faces of the angry farmers and sailors before him, and slowly they backed away.

  “Hold, you men! And listen well! These men of the north are here as my guests. We have fought together and bested a monstrous foe! They will feast with us, and join our celebration—and no harm will come to them while they are in Corwell!”

  A burly farmer grumbled his discontent, and Tristan fixed him with an icy gaze until the man looked uncomfortably at the ground. One by one, the members of the mob grew silent, their anger replaced by expressions of confusion or doubt.

  “I am your king, the High King of the Ffolk,” Tristan spoke softly, and as he had hoped, the mob grew silent to hear his words. “This day marks a new beginning for us, for the Ffolk of all the isles. Let this be the sign of a new reign, as the northmen come to our town and join us at our table!”

  “Wise words! Hail to the king!” someone cried out.

  Tristan looked around in surprise, and saw the beaming face of Friar Nolan, the cleric of the new gods who had worked long and hard trying to convert the Ffolk of Corwell. Though his success had been limited, he was widely regarded as a man of great wisdom, and his healing magic had benefited many a resident of Corwell.

  “Hail to the king!” cried another man, and soon the crowd took up the chant. Several Ffolk even came forward to help lash the longship to the dock. The pudgy friar, his bald pate bobbing through the group, pushed his way to Tristan’s side.

  “Splendid words, sire! You embark upon a wise course. The gods will surely smile upon you!”

  “Some of them, anyway,” the young king replied with a grin. “And thank you for your own words—most timely remarks, good friar!”

  “Welcome home, sire!” cried another young man, pushing to his side. Tristan recognized him as Randolph, the young but very capable captain of the guard, whom he had left in charge of the castle upon his departure.

  Before the king could respond, however, he was swept away, lifted to the shoulders of his countrymen and carried on a triumphant march to Caer Corwell itself. They carried Robyn beside him, and his spirits brightened further as he saw her smiling above the tumult. Though she had been moody and depressed the last few days of the voyage, he hoped that their arrival at home—and the fact that they planned to strike out for Myrloch Vale in the morning—would improve her spirits.

  But first there would be a feast. It would be a celebration of the new king, his homecoming, and his success in the campaign on Callidyrr.

  Tristan regained his feet in the castle courtyard and led Robyn and Randolph into the Great Hall of the keep, where they finally left the crowd behind. “Where’s Pontswain?” he asked. “We must talk before the feast.”

  “I’ll send a guardsman to find him. Lord Pontswain’s tending to the last business of the food and drink. We trust you will be pleased, sire.”

  “No doubt. Now tell me, how fares life in Corwell?”

  “We have missed you, but fare well. The Ffolk have been fairly bursting with pride since news of your coronation, sire. Great effort has been expended preparing for your homecoming!”

  “And what news?”

  “The only excitement was the presence of a band of outlaws, raiding cantrevs Dynnatt and Koart. We caught and hanged them. They seemed to be northmen who did not flee with their brethren last year.”

  Randolph went on to describe the state of the kingdom, from the poor harvest and meager catches of fish to the great successes of the huntsmen in the highlands. “The food reserves for winter are adequate. It seems that a great deal of wildlife has fled south from Myrloch Vale. Hunting has never been better.”

  “And what news of the vale?” asked Robyn.

  “Puzzling, that. Shepherds say their sheep will not venture near it. The huntsmen who have climbed along the high ridge to look into the vale report vast desolation. Trees have died, and even the lake itself has lost its gleam. It is disturbing news indeed, sire, but the blight does not seem to have reached Corwell.”

  “Welcome home, my king.” Lord Pontswain burst into the hall, bowing deeply. He was a handsome man, clean-shaven, with a broad mane of elegantly curled brown hair that was the envy of many a maid. “I trust your voyage was comfortable.”

  “Indeed. Please be seated.” Pontswain had been Tristan’s chief rival for the throne of Corwell before the High Kingship had made that rivalry moot. Now he seemed to devote all of his energies to the welfare of his king. The transition had been so sudden, and so dramatic, that Tristan still didn’t quite trust him.

  “I will have to leave the kingdom in the capable hands of you both for a little while longer,” he explained. “Tomorrow morning Robyn and I journey to Myrloch Vale. This devastation is caused by an evil cleric of great power, and we shall confront and destroy him.”

  “As you wish, sire.” Randolph asked several more questions about the governance of the realm, while Pontswain sat quietly, a distant look upon his features. Shortly the two men departed, and Robyn and Tristan were left alone in the Great Hall.

  “The whole vale devastated!” she whispered, horrified. “What manner of man is this!”

  “A man who can be killed, by my sword or your spells. And he will be, I promise you!” He put his arms around her and she leaned into him, comforted by his confidence.

  “Will you join me in our celebration tonight?” he asked. “We can do nothing more until the morning. We should enjoy our homecoming.”

  She forced a smile. “You’re right. I have thought of little else than the Moonwell and the druids since our victory on Callidyrr. You deserve greater rewards than I have given you, and I’m sorry for that. Tonight we shall celebrate!”

  “And tomorrow, I promise, we’ll start for the vale.” He looked at her somberly.

  “Yes!” Robyn’s voice grew more animated. “The scrolls that Grunnarch gave me … I’ve been looking them over. I think one of them offers a real hope, a chance to return the druids to their mortal forms!”

  “You mean the statues? Bring them back to flesh?”

  “Exactly! And with the druids of the isles gathered around, mustering all of our combined power, this foul cleric must certainly be def
eated. Besides, this time we’ll have your sword on our side.”

  “But tonight,” Tristan interrupted, “we feast!”

  He kissed her and she met his lips with the full force of her own embrace. For a minute, they relished the touch, the holding of each other.

  “Tonight, as we celebrate—” Tristan began slowly, hesitantly—“may I announce to our people the naming of their queen? Will you be my wife?”

  She smiled softly and kissed him again. He realized in surprise that her cheeks were wet. Then she pulled away to look him full in the face, and the love shining from her eyes brought a fiery warmth to his heart.

  “I do want to marry you. And I shall, I hope—but I cannot make this promise now.”

  “But why not?”

  “I can’t make that commitment until we have rid the vale of its scourge. You see, I believe I am the only druid left now. I hope that, with the help of the goddess, we can free Genna and the others from their stone prisons, and then I can marry you. I will tell Genna that I cannot take her place as Great Druid.

  “But if we do not succeed, then I shall be the only hope of the continuance of my order. Tristan, I love you, but that would be a calling I could not refuse.”

  “But could we not still marry? I’m certain I could help you with—”

  She silenced him with a finger to his lips. “The Great Druid, and such I must then become, must be chaste. She cannot marry.”

  Tristan was silent, understanding her calling. The knowledge only fueled his determination to succeed. “I shall love you either way.”

  “And I you, my king!” This time their kiss was longer, lingering until the maids entered the hall to begin preparing for the feast.

  “Perhaps we should bathe,” he said with a smile, “and prepare for the feast.”

  They returned to their separate quarters, relishing the familiarity of their surroundings, and each of them dressed in linens unstained by travel for the first time in many tendays.

  Pontswain had acquitted himself well in preparing for the celebration. In anticipation of the king’s arrival, the lord had ordered pigs and a cow slaughtered, kegs of ale iced—Tristan, in defiance of local custom, enjoyed his beer cold—and a multitude of cakes and pies baked.

  Tristan quickly found himself seated at the head of a huge banquet table in the Great Hall of Caer Corwell. Also at the table sat Daryth, Robyn, Pawldo, Pontswain, Friar Nolan, Captain Dansforth, Tavish, and Randolph. Robyn sat to his right, and at his left hand sat Grunnarch the Red. A score of other tables filled the hall, each with benches and chairs for a dozen or more Ffolk.

  This, the largest room in the castle, was warmed by four great fireplaces, one on each wall, and illuminated by innumerable torches set in sconces along the walls. It felt good, Tristan decided, to dress in a fine tunic and sit at the head of such a grand table. The aromas of pork and meat puddings mixed with the smoke of the fires, causing his stomach to rumble eagerly.

  “When do we eat?” Newt demanded indignantly, suddenly popping into view on Tristan’s plate. “I’ve been waiting for hours!”

  The king laughed, even as the kitchen doors burst open and kitchen maids, carrying heaping platters of food and foaming pitchers of ale, emerged. Newt buzzed delightedly into the air and disappeared again. Yazilliclick, presumably, was resting somewhere. Sprites are notoriously nervous among crowds.

  Tristan took no notice, at the time, of the young woman in peasant garb who took the last seat at the king’s table. No one seemed to know who she was, but her appearance was stunning, and since most of the occupants of the table were male, no objection was raised. With a toss of her red hair, she sat among them. Soon Randolph laughed at some humorous remark she made, and shortly thereafter Tristan forgot about her.

  Robyn looked up suddenly, disturbed by a vague disquiet. She looked around the table uneasily, though her gaze passed by the strange woman without noticing her, as if the woman were invisible.

  Events were moving too quickly for the king to fully accept that his long voyage had finally ended. Everyone talked at once. His mug seemed to fill of its own accord whenever the level of foam dipped more than an inch below the brim. It felt wonderful to be home, and he basked in the admiration of his people as Daryth, Pawldo, and even Pontswain described their adventures.

  The crowd fell gradually silent at Pawldo’s account of the battle against the monstrous forces of High King Carrathal and the Black Wizard Cyndre. The halfling’s voice fell to a dramatic hush as he described the rage of the Earthmother, telling in vivid detail of the roaring torrent of sea that washed onto shore, carrying away not only great chunks of the island of Callidyrr but also the army of the former High King as well. Ever the showman, Pawldo paused a beat.

  “Don’t leave us hanging, fellow! What happens next?” Tavish demanded.

  “That’s the good part,” the king said, laughing. “A few hours later, a fisherman sailed from shore to our island. He wanted to know what had happened to his bay. All we could tell him was that it had gotten a lot bigger!”

  “And he brought you home to Corwell?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that simple,” interjected Pawldo again. “First we had to go to Llewellyn. The lord there had a feast for us all and summoned all the lords of Callidyrr to attend the official coronation.” He looked at Tristan with pride, as if he personally was responsible for his old friend’s ascent to the throne.

  “The celebration went on for a tenday! Of course, Pontswain took the first ship out to bring word to Corwell, but those Callidyrrians—Callidytes?—couldn’t get enough of our hero!” Tristan stole a guilty look at Robyn as Pawldo continued, and she smiled back at him.

  Newt swooped back onto Tristan’s plate, lighting among clean-picked bones, and looked around for a snack. “Here,” Tristan joked, tilting his mug toward the dragon. To his surprise, Newt stuck his muzzle into the foamy ale and slurped loudly, smacking his lips as Pawldo continued the tale.

  “Finellen and the dwarves decided to walk home, though how you walk from one island to another, I’m sure I don’t know. Then the storm hit, and we had to stay in Llewellyn even longer—not that we minded, of course. But finally Captain Dansforth and the Defiant were ready to sail. And here we are!”

  “This black wizard,” asked Grunnarch as the guests turned again to their own conversations. “Is he an aspect of the evil you spoke of?”

  “I’m certain of it.” Tristan frowned at the memory. “The Beast that corrupted your own leader, and the foul sorcery at his command both conspired to destroy the peoples of the isles.”

  “But did they serve the same master?”

  “The wizard was but a pawn, like we are,” stated Robyn bluntly. Tristan looked at her in surprise as she continued. “The true nature of the threat we face is a chaotic force of evil far greater than magic, and even greater than the Beast.”

  “How do you know?” asked the northman.

  “I have seen the corruption strike at the very soul of the land. My teacher, and the druids who fought beside her, with all the faith of the balance and the land behind them, were not enough to stop it!” Neither Robyn, nor anyone else, noticed the bright gleam in the eyes of the redheaded woman as she leaned forward to catch every word of the young druid’s explanation.

  “The power behind this evil is greater than could be wielded by any man, even a sorcerer such as Cyndre. The power is served by a cleric of incalculable evil, but even that cleric is but a pawn. There is only one answer: Our islands are threatened by one of the Dark Gods.”

  Robyn spoke softly, but all of those at the table looked furtively toward her as she spoke. All except Newt, that is, who took the opportunity to steal another, and then a third sip from Tristan’s mug. The red-haired woman licked her lips, while the others stared with expressions of apprehension or disbelief.

  Grunnarch frowned. “Why should one of the Dark Gods desire the Moonshaes when there are rich empires—Calimshan, Thay, Waterdeep—all across the Realms? What
do we have here?”

  Robyn bit her tongue, holding back an angry reply. She realized that he really did not understand. “These islands have a life of their own! Perhaps that is one reason our people make war on each other with such regularity. The Ffolk have always felt that the men of the north do not treat our land with the reverence it deserves.”

  She suddenly leaned against the table, wincing in discomfort, and Tristan took hold of her arm. Unnoticed by them all, the red-haired woman smiled and stared intently at the druid.

  “What is it?” Tristan asked. “Are you all right?”

  Quickly she shook off his hand, sat upright, and continued. “The Moonwells are the proof. Genna told me that when her grandmother was a girl, there was a Moonwell in every village of the isles. Druids by the hundreds patrolled the wild places, working the will of the goddess.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Friar Nolan. “These isles have a peculiarly sacred nature, obvious to those of us who worship the new gods, as well as to the druids. Remember, not all of these gods are of the same vein as the master of this evil. Many of these clerics, as you, regard the Moonwells as benign and sanctified places.”

  “But there are no Moonwells on Norland!” protested the Red King, and then he looked thoughtful.

  “Precisely! And as the faith of the people wanes, as more of the lands are taken from the Ffolk, the power of the goddess grows weaker.” Suddenly Robyn shook her head violently, and the color drained from her face.

  “But the enchantment of the land remains?”

  “Yes. And becomes more susceptible to corruption with each passing year, each new blow against … the Ffolk.” Robyn was trying hard not to state her points accusingly, but she was only partially succeeding. She had trouble speaking the words clearly, and an acute nausea grew within her. All the while, the strange woman stared at her, piercing the druid’s skin with those cold black eyes.

  “But the land is here, like all other lands, for the using!” argued Grunnarch.