Douglas Niles - Forgotten Realms - Moonshae 03 - Darkwell

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DARKWELL

by Douglas Niles

What Has Gone Before

Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, stood upon the brink of manhood when the

Beast, Kazgoroth, emerged from its fetid pool to savage the land. The

insidious monster, often disguised in the flesh of a man, engaged the help of

firbolg giants and savage northmen to attack the Ffolk of Corwell.

The prince came of age during this, the Darkwalker War. He returned a lost

artifact, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, to his people. He led them to ultimate

victory against the Beast. And he found his life's love in the person of

Robyn, a maiden who had been raised with him as the king's ward.

Also during the war, Robyn discovered her own deep powers as a druid,

harnessing the forces of the earth to work magic and miracles. She loved the

prince but faced a deeper calling after the war. She journeyed to pastoral

Myrloch Vale to study the ways of her order under the Great Druid of the

isles, Genna Moonsinger.

But there she found that the influence of Kazgoroth was not altogether

banished. An unnatural army of corpses invaded the vale, and Robyn alone of

the druids escaped. The others were imprisoned as stone statues around the

scene of their last stand, and as Robyn departed, the vale was turned into a

wasteland behind her.

His father murdered, Tristan Journeyed to the neighboring island of CaUidyrr

to confront the High King of all the Ffolk. Caught in a rebellion and finally

joined by Robyn, Tristan found himself once more victorious, receiving the

royal Crown of the Isles. He was crowned High King by the Ffolk, then prepared

to return to Corwell.

But still the evil lurked in Myrloch Vale. . . .

The goddess Earthmother wept, her wound a gaping slash across her flesh. The

cut was deep, perhaps mortal, but there was none to know her suffering.

She cried out in pain from the scar of black magic, where her body lay torn

and ripped from the assault of evil. Though the last convulsion of her power

had excised the rot, tearing it from herself and allowing the cool sea towash

the wound, still the pain continued.

The goddess cried out for her servants, her devoted druids. These human

caretakers were trapped in a prison of the mother's own invention. They stood

frozen as stone statues around the blasted scene of their final defeat. The

protection of the goddess had imprisoned them thus, saving them at least from

death. One druid, and one alone, had escaped petrification.

And the goddess wept for the Ffolk, her people. War ra v-aged their fair land

relentlessly, striking each of the four kingdoms with cruel force. Many Ffolk

died while resisting the attack ofnorthman or foul beast, but still peace

eluded them.

Now her grief manifested itself in the glowering clouds that hung low over the

isles, and the unnatural chill that sucked the summer's warmth from the land

and, though the season was but early autumn, brought a winterlike frost. Her

pain sent whirlwinds exploding from her soul, twisting funnels of violence

that tore at the land, unmindful of the hurt they caused.

Yet the land was not altogether without hope. For the first

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time in many decades, the king of the Ffolk was a true hero, as was right and

proper. And though one lone druid remained free, she was a druid of great

faith and steadily growing might.

But they were both very young, and the goddess was very old. She doubted that

she could live long enough to see them prevail.

Or fail.

THE OBSCENE

Heavy breakers assaulted the stone barrier protecting Llewellyn Harbor. They

crashed against the rocky rampart, sending clouds of spray through the air,

roaring in frustration as the eternal power of the sea dispersed against the

fundamental strength of stone.

A lone figure stood near the end of the breakwater. The man was heavily

wrapped in oilskins and ignored the salty shower that doused him each time a

fresh wave expended itself. If anything, he relished the bracing cold of the

water.

The man was young, but he was a king of many lands. He had bested creatures

foul and wizards of might, yet he felt unsure of his own strength. He held the

love of a strong woman in his heart, but still his future remained a muddled

blur before him.

Tristan Kendrick claimed as ancestors a long line of kings, but for two

centuries the Kendricks ruled only the small, sparsely populated land of

Corwell. Now, as High King of the Ffolk, King Kendrick accepted fealty also

from Moray, Snowdown, and mighty Callidyrr.

The king had recently won a war, the Darkwalker War, besting a supernatural

beast and its human allies. He had claimed as allies the graceful warriors of

the Ltewyrr and the doughty fighters of the dwarven realms. His blade, the

Sword of Cymrych Hugh, girded him as ample proof of his heroism, for he had

returned the weapon to the Ffolk after many decades of its absence.

Finally the man turned from the sea, walking slowly along the rocky barrier

toward the welcoming lights of Llewellyn

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Town. The sea had given him no answers. Nothing, it seemed, could give him the

answers. And there were so many questions.

The eagle soared slowly. Its eyes, dulled by fatigue, searched the barren

landscape below, seeking any morsel of lifesaving food.

But the bird saw nothing. No trace of animal, small or large, appeared across

the stretches of brown marsh. Even the trees of the once-vast forests now

resembled gaunt skeletons, barren of leaves and needles, surrounded by heaps

of rotting compost.

The great bird swirled, confused. It sought a glimpse of the sea, or even the

high coastal moor. But everywhere the view yielded scenes of rot and

corruption. With a sharp squawk of despair, the eagle soared off in a new

direction.

A sudden movement caught the eagle's keen eye, and it swept into a diving

circle to investigate. But it pulled up short, screeching its frustration at

the shambling figure on the ground. Though the creature smelled of carrion, it

moved. Though it moved, it was not alive.

Growing desperate now, the eagle soared away in search of something, anything,

to eat. It came upon a region of utter desolation, a place that made the past

reaches of barren land seem fertile. The predator flew north, over a stagnant

brown stream. It crossed a reach of dead, fallen timber.

Finally it came to a small pond. The water was surrounded by twenty stone

statues, remarkably lifelike human figures in various poses of battle. The

surface of the pond itself was an impenetrable black.

But what was that? The eagle saw, or imagined, motion below that flat,

lightless surface. It could have been a trout, swimming complacently in the

center of the pond. It could have been anything.

The bird tucked its wings and plummeted toward the shadow. The water rushed up

to meet it, and the true nature of the dark shape became visible. The eagle

shrieked

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and struck outward with its wings, slowing but not halting its descent. One

claw, still extended to clutch the imagined prey, touched the surface of the

black water.

A crackling hiss broke the silence, and for a moment the eagle froze, outlined

in blue light. In another instant, the bird was gone, though no ripple

disturbed the surface of the dark pond. A lone white feather, caught by an

errant breath of wind, drifted upward and fluttered forlornly to settle upon

the muddy shore of the Darkwell.

Bhaal, god of murder, relished the eagle's death. Though he still dwelt in his

fiery bier upon the distant and hostile plane of Gehenna, the minor snuffing

of life in a place unimaginably remote was power transmitted directly to his

foul essence.

Such was the power of the Darkwell. And such was the power of Bhaal.

The patron god of any who would slay another of his kind, Bhaal found

plentiful worshipers among the humans and other creatures of the many worlds.

Foremost among them were the people of the Forgotten Realms.

It was in the Realms that the eagle flew, and died, and it was in the Realms

that Bhaal's most powerful minions had been fought and bested by these humans

who called themselves the Ffolk. Now Bhaal focused his entire baneful nature

on the land claimed by these humans. Now one servant, a cleric of great power

and even greater evil, still remained to do his bidding.

Slowly Bhaal's vengeance took form. The humans who obsessed him would die, but

only after everything they loved had died before them. He himself would see to

that. No longer would he trust his revenge to the talents of his minions.

To this end, Bhaal fostered the Darkwell.

A deep laugh rumbled in his cavernous breast as he pondered the history of the

pool. Only a month before, it had been a crystalline symbol of hope and

purity, a Moonwell, sacred shrine of the goddess Earthmother. Her body was

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the earth itself, but her spirit resided primarily in pools such as

this—clear, unspoiled water blessed with the benign enchantment of the goddess

Earthmother.

This had been her most sacred well, but now the might of Bhaal, coupled with

the deadly skills of his servant, the cleric Hobarth, had desecrated and

polluted the water so that it no longer resembled its former state. Indeed,

now it was a festering sore upon the land, spreading decay like a cancer

through the rocks and clay and sand of the earth.

The former soul of the goddess now gave Bhaal a window into the world of man,

and he liked what he saw. Slowly the god of murder moved toward the Darkwell.

He knew exactly what to do.

The stag stumbled weakly against a rotten trunk. Its bedraggled flanks heaved

with the effort of breathing. Its sweeping antlers swayed toward the ground,

and the creature's dry, swollen tongue fell limply from its jaws. Unsteadily

the huge deer lumbered away from the dead tree, past many more, through the

dead forest.

Blinking in confusion and despair, the animal sought some sign of the Myrloch

Vale it had known all its life. The broad valley of sun, the brilliant leaves

of autumn, vast meadows of flowers swaying easily in the fresh breeze ... all

these things were gone.

The stag's ribs showed clearly through its torn pelt, for it had not eaten in

many days. Vet this was not the greatest of the animal's needs.

The stag had to find water. It sensed that it could live no more than a few

hours without it. The swollen tongue flopped loosely, and the wide eyes were

obscured by an unnatural glaze.

A feeble breath of wind stirred the dead wood, and with it came the smell of

water. Not clean water, to be sure—the scent was well mixed with those of rot

and decay—but it was the scent of water nonetheless. With renewed vigor, the

stag trotted toward the promising sign.

Soon the great deer came upon a black pond. The stag

DARKWELL

ignored the unnatural stillness of the water. It paid scant notice to the

twenty stone statues arrayed around the perimeter of the pool, except to

ascertain that the humanlike figures were indeed stone and not flesh. Even had

they been living huntsmen, however, it is doubtful the deer could have turned

from that compelling pond.

Bhaal watched the stag approach, willing it closer and closer. The god

remembered his flash of pleasure upon the death of the eagle, and Bhaal

relished the thought of the much larger body that approached.

The swollen tongue reached for the black surface. At the last moment, the stag

sensed the wrongness of the water. It tried to pull back, to raise its broad

antlers away from this awful thing. But it was too late.

The neck bent, pulled by a force far greater than the stag's own muscles, and

its muzzle struck the surface of the Darkwell. A crackling blaze of blue light

illuminated the stag's body, casting an intense glow across the pond for an

instant.

Then the deer was gone. As with the eagle, its body had caused no ripple to

mar the inky surface of the well. Only the skull remained, resting on the

muddy bottom in several inches of water. Its empty eye sockets stared skyward,

while overhead spread the massive rack of antlers like a ghastly tombstone.

Robyn of Gwynneth lay in the hold of the lunging ship and prayed for a word

from her goddess. The wooden timbers around her seemed to thrum softly with

the power of her prayer, but that was all she sensed. She felt lonely and

afraid, fearing for the Earthmother more than for herself.

In the darkness of the hold, she felt the touch of her spiritual mother, but

it was faint and frail. She sensed a growing void between herself and her

goddess, but she was at a loss to close it. "Mother, hold me, help me!" she

whispered, but the unfeeling planks of the hull gave no comfort, and there was

no reply. The source of her faith and her power was on the verge of

extinction, and the druid could do little to help.

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Strangely, even as the presence of the Earthmother faded, Hobyn felt her own

earthmagic growing in potency. Within the confinement of the long sea voyage,

her body grew stronger daily. Her muscles were hard and wiry. Her mind was

sharp and alert, to the point that she could hardly sleep. And she could feel

the power growing within her.

But when she prayed, or on those rare nights when she slept deeply enough to

dream, there was no word, barely the faintest image, to suggest that the

mother was near.

Robyn knew of no other druid still walking free upon any of the Moonshaes. The

most powerful of her order all stood frozen, locked in stone at the moment

they had lost their most crucial battle. Only Robyn had escaped, and she felt

pitifully inadequate for the tasks arrayed before her.

But she had no choice except to try.

The fat cleric wiped a hand through his greasy hair, anxious now to reach his

destination. For several days, he had explored the surrounding lands of

Myrloch Vale, but his journey was nearly complete.

The entirety of Myrloch Vale was now known to him. The vast valley, in the

center of the island of Gwynneth, had long been a bastion of the goddess who

had watched over these isles. Now, however, it had become a land of death, a

monumental wasteland in testament to the awesome power of the cleric's god.

And he had ventured to northern Gwynneth, beyond the vale and into the lands

of the northmen along the fir coast. These invaders had claimed the land from

the native Ffolk, establishing a number of villages and even one good-sized

town, but had nothing resembling a separate state there. Bhaal had wondered

about these humans, and so the cleric had investigated.

The southern land of Gwynneth, occupying nearly half the isle, was the kingdom

of Corwell, of the people known as the Ffolk. This land the cleric had not

visited, but that mattered little, for Corwell was already well known to the

minions of Bhaal.

DARKWELL

Now Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, returned to the Darkwell with good news for his

foul master. Decay spread rapidly across the vale. Everywhere he went, Hobarth

found death and rot, as whole forests died and placid lakes shriveled into

festering swamps.

The area around the well was particularly barren. The corpses of the many

zombies he had raised from death were gone now, as Hobarth had ordered them

into the well. Their presence, in fact, had been a prime source of the

pollution that had so effectively corrupted the Moonwell. And the decay seemed

to be spreading rapidly. Bhaal, Hobarth knew, would be pleased.

As he neared the Darkwell, he sensed a difference around him. It was not a

difference in the land, or even the air, but a subtle presence on a deeper

level. Something was here that had not been here when he left.

He saw the well before him, its slick black surface barely reflecting the

white outlines of the statues. The Darkwell had, since its creation a month

before, been a center of power for his god.

But now Hobarth sensed something mightier, more dynamic than the gate

connecting his god's world to his own. In a flash of understanding, he

understood, and as he understood he dropped to his knees.

Bhaal was here!

Hobarth shivered, a strange mixture of ecstasy and fear. He knelt, closed his

eyes, and prayed with all his heart.

"O mighty Bhaal, Reveler in Blood, master of my destiny ..." The cleric moaned

his prayer softly, wondering at the presence of his god. Was Bhaal angry? Was

he pleased? What was the purpose of this visitation?

Approach the well.

Hobarth froze for a moment as the god's command grasped his heart. He felt

cold fingers engulf his soul, only to let it free again after a glimpse of

something awesome and terrible. Numb, he stood and stepped slowly toward the

Darkwell.

The Great Druid.

Hobarth understood the command instantly and stopped

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beside the Great Druid—or rather, the statue that had been Genna Moonsinger,

the mistress of Myrtoch Vale and Great Druid of the isles. Now she stood

frozen as a white stone sculpture, lifelike in every detail. Many times had

Hobarth stood before her and cursed her defiant expression.

He saw the challenge still lurking in her eyes, and in the firm set of her

jaw. Her wrinkled skin and tightly wrapped hair might have given her a

grandmotherly look, but instead she looked more like a warrior.

The Heart.

This command brought a glimmer of defiance, for just a brief moment, to the

cleric. Hobarth kept the Heart of Kazgoroth in a pouch at his side, and he was

most reluctant to remove it for anyone or anything. The stone was black,

shaped more like a lump of coal than a heart, but it was a talisman of great

evil. In the cleric's hands, the Heart of Kazgoroth had brought death and

decay to the formerly pastoral vale.

But Hobarth overcame his reluctance instantly and hastened to obey the word of

his god. He removed the stone from its pouch and held it out before him. It

seemed to absorb the rays of the sun, already dimmed by the pale haze. In its

own shadow, the cleric reached forward to touch the heart against the cold

stone of the statue.

Bhaal must be very near, Hobarth thought, for it seemed to the cleric that the

god leered over his shoulder. Hobarth acted as if by instinct, performing a

ritual he had never seen, yet one that he knew without question or doubt. He

sensed that Bhaal was pleased, and his god's pleasure was a thrill unlike any

the cleric had ever known.

The black surface of the heart touched the white stone of Genna's breast.

Yellow smoke hissed at contact, and trickles of clear liquid ran down the

statue's stony robe. Where the stone was wet, it became a bright red, like

freshly spilled blood.

Hobarth stared into the statue's eyes, and he saw the defiance that had been

etched there begin to fade. He pressed his hand against her and was gratified

to feel the Heart of Kazgoroth sink into the stone. More smoke spewed, nearly

DARKWELL

blinding him, but he kept his gaze fastened upon the statue's eyes.

His own eyes watered. The statue grew soft, and Hobarth's hand, together with

the black stone, passed directly into the cold body. Quickly he drew forth his

hand, empty, and the surface of the statue closed behind it. He looked again

into those stone eyes.

Only it was no longer a statue, and the eyes burned with a far from stonelike

fire.

The low green mass of Corwell loomed to starboard. To port, invisible in the

gray haze of sea-miles, lay the island of Moray. And below the keel of the

sleek longship rolled the gray swells of the Strait of the Leviathan.

But Grunnarch the Red knew that the Leviathan was dead. Had not the Red King

played a role in its demise only a short year earlier? He found the memory

vaguely disquieting.

Now the ruler of the northmen stood boldly on the deck of his ship, the

Northwind, and stared into the distance. Not north, toward Norland and home,

but east, toward Corwell.

Why did that land hold such fascination for him? The Red King himself did not

know, though certainly the roots of the answer lay in the disastrous invasion

and his army's subsequent defeat. Grunnarch had been fortunate to escape with

half of his ships and men, while many of his allies had suffered worse. The

men of Oman's Isle, of the kingdom of Ironhand, had been virtually

annihilated.

Now the Northwind, accompanied by the slightly smaller longship Red/in, sailed

past that land after a long summer of raiding shores far from the Moonshaes.

In less than a week, they would be home, but even the prospective homecoming

could not lighten the Red King's brooding sense of foreboding.

True, the raiding had been highly successful. They had sailed south along the

Sword Coast, plundering the towns of Amn, and even northern Calimshan. The

Northwind rode low in the water from the weight of silver stowed along her

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keel, together with golden chalices, mirrors, fine tapestries and silks, and

all manner of things treasured in the Moon-shaes.

And there was the scroll. Grunnarch wondered why that lone treasure, scribed

in a symbology he could not read, should figure so prominently in his thoughts

about the trove.

The lord mayor of Lodi stood before him, outlined by the blazing framework of

his blockhouse. The man met his gaze without fear, but Grunnarch could see

defeat in his eyes. The Red King, his bloody axe in his hands, watched the

mayor with interest.

"I offer you our greatest treasure. In return, I ask only that you spare the

children."

Grunnarch took the ivory tube, surprised at its lightness. He had expected the

container to hold platinum, or at least gold, in quantity. Curious, he pulled

the cap off and saw that it held but four small sheets of parchment.

"Treasure?" he said menacingly. "This is worthless!"

But the mayor did not flinch. "Ttbu are wrong. You have probably never held

such worth in your hands!"

Grunnarch paused. The man's plea meant little— northmen did not slay children,

so the town's youth had never been in danger. Truly the Red King had no use

for a scroll. Vet, as he held it, he began to sense that it was indeed an

object of rare worth.

A strange feeling came over him as he examined the exterior of the scroll

case. He saw a picture of a beautiful young woman, sensual and rounded, and

yet his reaction was a wish to protect her. Other pictures—a vast field of

grain, a smooth lake, and a cozy fire in a hearth of stone—all beckoned him

with sensations of warmth and comfort.

Disquieted, he took the scrolls gruffly. He turned on his heel and ordered his

surprised crews back to their vessels, leaving Lodi almost unscathed. They

took no other plunder but instead put straight to sea under the harsh urging

of the Red King.

And so came the scrolls with him to the Moonshaes.

This season of plunder had dragged on for Grunnarch,

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for he lacked the fiery battle lust that had once made him relish the strike

of steel against steel, the striving of man against man. Now battle was merely

another tiresome task that faced him all too often.

After the raid on Lodi, the Red King had lost heart for battle altogether.

Rationalizing that the season was late, he had ordered the two ships homeward,

ignoring the surprised reactions of his crew. After two weeks upon the

Trackless Sea, they had returned once again to the Moonshaes. Now they slipped

between two kingdoms of the Ffolk, headed toward his own lands to the north.

And still that feeling of foreboding remained with him, perched upon his broad

shoulders like some unnatural apparition.

A great brown bear shuffled across the dead land, pausing to turn over a log

with his broad forepaw or to snuffle under a stump with his nose. Once again,

the spoor of even a tiny maggot or grub eluded him. Grunt huffed in

frustration, too weak to take even a halfhearted swing at the offending stump.

There was no food here.

Grunt stumbled on, sensing that to stop was to die. Long gashes covered his

shaggy flanks, now crusted with dried blood. One of the cuts lay freshly

opened, a victim of some scrape against a looming trunk.

Even in the depths of his fatigue, Grunt moved with pride and purpose. His

head held high, his posture was a challenge to any lesser creature that might

cross his path. But his footsteps were unsteady, and the great brown eyes grew

dull. There were no creatures to cross his path and behold his prideful agony.

This was land Grunt had known all of his life, yet he did not know it now. The

grove of his mistress, Genna Moon-singer, the Great Druid of the isle, now

festered and decayed. Many were the animals that had lived here, amid a lush

blanket of greenery. Now there was no creature. Now there was nothing green.

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Grunt growled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. He blinked, peering around

as if trying to clear the nightmare vision from his eyes. Then he lumbered on,

resolutely plodding across the wasteland in search of food or water.

Suddenly the bear Kited his great head and froze. His only motion was the

twitching of his broad nostrils as they searched the air. Whatever it was, a

scent excited the bear like nothing else in many days.

Grunt started forward faster now, breaking into a clumsy trot. He uttered one

coughlike grunt, then another. Before him lay the former heart of the grove.

Recendy the bear had somehow sensed that this was the center of its corruption

and had thus avoided it. But even the suspicion of the exciting spoor in the

wind was enough to compel him there.

Genna? Hope swelled within the bear's breast. Was that not his mistress,

standing there in the distance, staring at him? He sniffed at the air,

lumbering closer. The scent was that of the Great Druid, he thought, but

somehow different.

Blinking in confusion, Grunt struggled to focus his dim eyesight. He saw the

short, rounded body, recognized the gray hair pulled tightly back from the

face. He saw no smile upon that face, and the human's posture seemed stiff and

unnatural.

Yet his eyes could not be wrong. He slowed as he reached the woman and grunted

happily, leaning into her expectantly. The bear was surprised when she did not

scratch his ears. What was wrong? Grunt looked at the round, wrinkled face

curiously.

And in an instant, he recoiled in fear. Cringing low, the bear looked up at

her like a whipped puppy, puzzled and pained by the look in her eyes.

She raised her arm, pointing, and Grunt obeyed. His huge body moved toward the

black water, where once the crystalline Moonwell had reflected the blessing of

the goddess. Quivering, he approached the water.

The bear turned once to look back at his mistress, his eyes pleading. She

pointed again, and he dropped his head obediently. His muzzle touched the

surface of the Darkwell. And then his life was gone as he gave it,

unwittingly, to Bhaal.

DARKWELL

Chauntea, as a goddess, was close in spirit to the Earthmother, though far

removed in aspect. While the great mother's life lay in the earth itself, in

the hallowed ground of the Moonshaes, Chauntea's being dwelled upon the joyous

plane of Elysium, far removed from the worldof mortals.

The Earthmother's followers were the Ffolk of the Moon-shae Isles, led by

their druids. Chauntea's believers came from across the planes, and even in

the Forgotten Realms were spread among the many nations of the world. The

tenets of the Earthmother's faith held that nature was sacred, and maintaining

the balance of all things became the druidi-cal creed. Followers of Chauntea

held that the land should be farmed, that the growth provided by nature should

be harnessed for the greater good of man.

Yet even despite their differences, the goddesses both were beings of health

and growth, cherishing the plants and animals, working to protect the humans

who held to their faith.

Now Chauntea sensed the power of the Earthmother waning. She also felt the

looming presence of Bhaal. As that dark god moved into the power vacuum being

created, Chauntea also began to move. Though she lacked Bhaal's awesome might

and implacable evil, she was a being of great resource in her own right.

Now those resources would be tested.

LONG LIVE THE KING

For the first time, the wind seemed to be against them. It blustered from this

direction and that in capricious gusts. To all sides stretched the sea, a gray

mass of rolling swells, broken only by the foaming crests of the waves. The

sky matched the water, a gray blanket of cold pressing heavily from horizon to

horizon.

Overhead, the sail filled with air, spurring the ship across whitecaps and

through deep troughs. Then the wind shifted, and the sail fell limp. The

vessel slid crazily to the side, dropping between two rolling swells. A line

drew taut as the boom swung across the stern. Two sailors dropped prone, while

others hauled on a heavy rope until the sail once again billowed. The bow of

the boat swung to port, angling across the waves on a slightly altered course.

Tristan Kendrick, heir to the throne of Corwell, stood in the bow of the

Defiant and relished the cool spray against his face. It ran through his beard

and soaked his heavy wool cloak. His feet were planted in a wide stance, and

he swayed evenly with the rolling deck beneath his feet.

The ship lunged eagerly through the next swell, and the one after that. Each

wave brought him and his companions closer to Corwell Firth and the castle on

the little knoll, Caer Corwell.

Home.

Just a few short weeks ago, Tristan reflected, his first ocean voyage had

carried him across this same water. Then, he had embarked on a mission of

politics, to seek his coronation from the High King. Now he carried the crown

of that

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same king—the Crown of the Isles—and he returned in triumph to his home. He

knew he should be feeling joy and anticipation, but he could not.

He felt, rather than saw, a warm presence beside him and turned to see Robyn.

Though she had slept little and eaten less during the past week, she had never

looked so vibrant and alive. Her black hair, long and falling loosely around

her shoulders and back, glowed with an ebony sheen, and her green eyes flashed

with vitality. Her beauty increased every day, or so thought the king.

The druid joined him in the bow but avoided his eyes. He wanted to reach out,

to put his arm around her, but he feared her rebuff.

"We'll be there soon—no more than two days, three at the most." He tried to

offer encouragement, sensing her despair.

"But what will we find when we get there? What if we're too late?"

"We won't be! And whatever we find, we can best it! Ibgether, with my sword

and your faith, we can rid Gwyn-neth of any shade of evil!"

"I hope so." Robyn leaned against him and he held her, sensing the deep and

spiritual fear that haunted her. He felt a vague sense of guilt for the time

they had remained on the island of Callidyrr. He had known that she wanted to

leave immediately following the defeat of the High King. Robyn feared deeply

for the fate of her fellow druids, imprisoned as stone statues around the

scene of their final battle.

Yet he could not have left then. And she had chosen to remain with him, rather

than embark for home alone or with Lord Pontswain, who had taken the first

available ship back to Corwell.

"I'm glad you stayed with me," he said. "I can't imagine facing the kingship

without you beside me."

He thought of the many problems he had solved during his week in Callidyrr. He

had settled an old dispute on fishing rights between the cantrevs of Llewellyn

and Kythyss. He had pardoned the bandits of Dernail Forest, good men and women

who had been forced to become outlaws because of the injustices of the former

king. He had dis-

DOUGLAS NILES

banded the few remaining mercenaries of the king's private army, the Scarlet

Guard. The battles of the Ffolk, he had declared, would from now on be fought

by the Ffolk.

With his ascension to the throne had come the discovery of the vast surplus in

the High King's treasury, piles of silver coins, and some gold, which he had

been able to return to the overtaxed lords of the land. This act alone would

have done much to assure his popularity with the lords, but his wisdom and

good judgment in settling the other disputes had insured their loyalty to his

name,

"I'm glad I stayed, too," she sighed. "I know it was important to you, and to

all the isles. You will make a splendid king.

"But all the while, I could not help wondering about the druids. Are they

suffering? Are they dead? I wish I could have been both places at once. I know

I cannot rest easily until I have seen evil excised from Myrloch Vale!"

Suddenly Tristan stiffened, lifting himself to the balls of his feet to peer

in the distance. He squinted against the spray, and saw it again: a flash of

crimson against the all-encompassing gray of sea and sky.

Robyn sensed his change in mood, and she followed his gaze, staring a few

degrees to starboard of the bow. A foot shorter than the young king, she could

not see what had alarmed him.

"Northmen," he grunted, pointing. She saw the flicker of color now. It could

only be the square sail of a raiding long-ship, and it was facing them.

"Keep an eye on it. I'll inform the captain." Turning and sprinting like a

seasoned sailor down the pitching deck, the new High King of the Moonshaes

barked a warning to the laboring crewmen.

Robyn turned back to the south as the longship drew closer. She could now make

out a second sail beside the first, veering to the side. The sleek vessels

spread apart to block the Defiants path at either side. Some voice inside her

said that she should be afraid, that these were dangerous and bloodthirsty

foes. But instead she felt only a quiet anger as she faced another obstacle on

the road to rescue Genna

*28

DARKWELL

Moonsinger, the Great Druid of all the Moonshaes.

But this was an obstacle she could counter.

By the time Tristan returned to the bow, she had unlashed her staff from its

mount on the gunwale. Captain Dans-forth, the taciturn master of the Defiant,

regarded the approaching vessels through his long spying tube. The crew, two

dozen steadfast Ffolk of Callidyrr, turned as a man to regard the raiders but

maintained the course and sail of the Defiant without a hitch.

She was called the stoutest vessel, with the ablest crew, among the four

kingdoms of the Ffolk. The proof had come when they sailed into the late

stages of an autumn gale that would have kept any other vessel of the Ffolk in

port. Racing through the Sea of Moonshae around the northern tip of Gwynneth,

the Defiant had coursed through the Strait of Oman. Now they sailed south

toward Corwell itself.

These northmen were obviously returning home—it was already later than the

usual raiding season—but they would doubtless welcome one last prize before

making port for the winter.

"The standard of Norland" grunted Dansforth. "That one, to starboard, would be

the king's own vessel."

"Grunnarch the Red. I have fought him before," mused Tristan.

"So the stories say. And bested him." The captain looked at the king with just

a hint of amusement in his gray eyes. Dansforth was not yet middle-aged,

though his hair and beard had silvered until they matched his eyes. Yet he had

an enigmatic manner of speaking that reminded Tristan of an old, but very

smug, man.

"Can we aher course?" asked Robyn quickly. "Tb there?" She pointed straight

toward one of the advancing longships.

"Why?" Dansforth was mildly incredulous. "They're cutting too wide. They

underestimate our speed, I think. With a little luck, we can dash between

them."

"We wont need luck if you can get close to one of those ships." Robyn spoke

quietly, but there was a hint of great power in her voice.

"Do as she says," said Tristan.

DOUGLAS NILES

"Very well," Dansforth said with a shrug. He stepped to the steersman,

standing at the huge wheel amidships, and ordered the change in course. Then

he hurried back to the bow as the Defiant heeled over with the turn.

The trio was joined by another pair. One was Tristan's friend Daryth, the

swarthy, handsome Calishite who had become the king's chief adviser. Now he

carried his gleaming scimitar lightly in his hand, awaiting battle with a

half-smile across his dark brown face. The other was the halfling, Pawldo of

Lowhill, a middle-aged adventurer whose wrinkled face and graying hair belied

his vitality.

"What are you trying to do?" demanded Pawldo incredulously. "Let's make a run

for it!" The diminutive con man had been a friend of the Prince of Corwell's

for even longer than Daryth, and he now took it upon himself to protect the

young king from the influences of others of a similar moral caliber.

"I hope you know what you're doing," grumbled Dansforth. "My men will stand by

to repel boarders, but the crew of that one ship alone outnumbers us two to

one!"

Robyn did not turn to look at the captain. "They'll not get near enough to

throw a line."

Still skeptical, the captain turned to his crew while Daryth, Tristan, and

Pawldo stood protectively around the druid. She closed her eyes in

concentration and calmly caressed the smooth wood of her staff. The others

held their swords ready. Tristan's own blade gleamed in his hand. The

legendary Sword of Cymrych Hugh was a symbol of the ancient glory of the

Ffolk. The fact that THstan had discovered the potent blade after it had been

missing for centuries explained to a great extent why the lords of Calli-dyrr

had been so willing to extend to him the kingship.

The longships raced toward them with startling rapidity. One came head-on,

closing rapidly. The other tried to veer in from downwind, battling the gusts

to close with her intended victim. Soon they could make out ranks of

axe-wielding northmen standing along the hulls, ready to leap into the

Defiant. Others stood ready with lines and grapples, though the closing speed

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DARKWELLbyDouglasNilesWhatHasGoneBeforeTristanKendrick,PrinceofCorwell,stooduponthebrinkofmanhoodwhentheBeast,Kazgoroth,emergedfromitsfetidpooltosavagetheland.Theinsidiousmonster,oftendisguisedinthefleshofaman,engagedthehelpoffirbolggiantsandsavagenorthmentoattacktheFfolkofCorwell.Theprincecameofage...

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