Douglas Niles - Forgotten Realms - Moonshae 02 - Black Wizard

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BLACK WIZARDS
Douglas Miles
Wbat bas gone
King Kendrick of Corwell was one of the four kings of the folk who dwelled
upon the Moonshae Islands. Corwell, along with the Kingdoms of Moray and
Snowdown, owed fealty to Callidyrr, for Callidyrr was home to the king of
Cal-lidyrr, who was the titular High King of all the Ffolk.
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, had studied some of the arts of kingship
very diligently, swordfighting and military science in particular. However, he
was less interested in the more mundane aspects of rulership, such as
economics and agriculture.
Robyn, the king's ward, had been raised as his own daughter, but her interests
lay beyond the castle. She showed a proclivity toward the woodlands and all
things natural.
In the twentieth year of the prince's life, Kazgoroth the Beast rose from its
fetid bog to threaten the kingdom of Corwell. Walking the land in a number of
guises, it recruited allies and sought its one goal: the disruption of the
Balance so crucial to the Ffolk— and the very isles themselves.
Forced into battle, Robyn found herself wielding potent druidic magic—
earthmagic that was the legacy of the mother she had never known. Tristan
fought the Beast and created an army to defeat Kazgoroth's minions. In the
process, he found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. This legendary weapon, lost for
centuries, allowed him to slay the Beast and served as a symbol of the lost
unity of his people.
At the same time, Tristan and Robyn found their relationship changing, growing
as a long-dormant love for each other awakened inside them.
But Robyn could not ignore her legacy, and so she went to study under her
aunt, Genna Moonsinger, the Great Druid of all the Moonshaes. Tristan remained
in Corwell, enjoying the accolades of victory, and swiftly growing bored.
We resume their story one year after the death of the Beast. . . .
The plane of Gehenna was a bleak and oppressive realm, hostile to mortal life.
It was a world built upon a vast, unending mountainside, sloping steeply
always, never reaching a bottom or a summit. Gouts of steam erupted from the
mountainside, and rivers of lava flowed across it, sizzling through long
cataracts, collectingin bubbling pools.
Such was the domain of Bhaal, murderous god of death.
A seething, angry god, Bhaal thrived on bloody, violent acts. He grew in
strength as his worshippers spread across the worlds, slaying in his horrible
name.
Bhaal sought vengeance.
A minion of the god had been killed nearly one mortal year ago, but an
eyeblink to the god. Kazgoroth was neither Bhaal's most powerful servant, nor
his most favored. Buthe was slain by a mortal, and the man who dared strike a
minion of Bhaal's might as well strike at the god himself.
The bloodlust of the god began as a simple hatred—a desire to see this mortal,
and those who aided the man, slain. Bhaal anticipated their deaths with grisly
pleasure.
But the man was a prince. And he was the beloved of a druid. His woman carried
her own power, and she served a goddess who was foreign—and thus, hateful—to
Bhaal.
And so Bhaal's need for vengeance evolved and grew into something far more
terrible than any plot for murder. The prince was a leader of his land, and
the druid was a caretaker of tha t land. It seemed fitting to Bhaal tha t not
only the mortals, but their land itself, should die.
The god had a powerful tool for wreaking this vengeance. Bhaal's minion,
Kazgoroth, though slain, was not entirely gone. One fragment of the Beast—its
heart—remained, clutched desperately by one of its former servants. Bhaal
BLACK WIZARDS
took careful note of the Heart of Kazgoroth. He would have a use for it soon.
Yes, he decided. The land of these mortals would become a land of death—a
nation ruled by the dead, over the dead. No living thing would mar it.
Thus was dealt the vengeance of Bhaal.
"Enter."
The assassin looked around sharply but could not see the source of the hissing
voice. Nevertheless, the stone wall before him slipped open, revealing a
corridor even blacker than the surrounding night.
Muttering a curse, the assassin entered and disappeared into inky darkness. In
his silk shirt and trousers he slipped along without a whisper, his soft
leather boots gliding silently over the smooth stone floor All around him the
sprawling vastness of Caer Callidyrr lay dark and slumbering.
The assassin walked cautiously into one of the castle's towers. He saw
blackness, a deep and unnatural gloom. Then he heard a soft snapping of
fingers, and the darkness dissipated. But it did not exactly grow light; the
effect was more a relief of blackness. Faint rays of moonlight spilled through
narrow windows high in the walls, and he could vaguely make out the council.
The Seven sat around a long, U-shaped table. They faced the assassin, their
table open before him like the jaws of some beast. Deep, cowled hoods
concealed the faces. The assassin looked up at them and clamped his teeth
together. He could scarcely repress a shudder of revulsion.
The one in the center, he knew, was Cyndre.
The master of the wizards confirmed his identity, his gentle voice belying the
terrible powers at his command.
"You were careless about that task in Moray. King Dynne-gall's daughter
survived long enough to provide a description of your men."
The assassin sniffed loudly through his broad nose. "The guards were more
numerous than you led me to expect. We had to kill several dozen of them. And
the nursemaid hid the baby in an attic—it took us hours to dig out the little
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brat. I lost two good men, and the mission was a success— the Dynnegall line
is ended—as I ended the royal line of Snowdown for you last year." The
assassin punctuated his statement with a low, inhuman growl.
"I do not expect such sloppiness, for the coin I am paying," said the great
wizard quietly. "Even your mother, the ore, could have done better."
The insult was too much. A dagger flashed from the assassin's sleeve. Faster
than the eye could follow, it flicked toward the wizard's unarmored breast.
The others gasped in surprise, flinching at the sudden attack, but Cyndre
merely raised a finger and quietly spoke a word. Instantly, only a foot from
its target, the dagger was transformed. In its place, a large bat fluttered
upward, turning to lunge at the assassin's throat.
Another dagger flashed, but this one remained in the assassin's hand. He
casually spitted the bat upon the thin blade and flicked the carcass to the
tabletop before Cyndre. He could sense Cyndre's eyes upon him, boring from the
depths of his hood.
For a moment the room remained frozen, the wizards intent upon their leader.
The assassin stood stock-still before the table. The black wizard gestured
casually, and the dead bat instantly disappeared. A smooth, amused chuckle
emerged from the dark hood, and the tension in the room slowly drained away.
"Now, Razfallow," continued the wizard, his voice as pleasant as ever, "you
will soon be free to return to Calim-shan. However, one more king upon the
Moonshaes threatens the dominance of our . . . liege.
"You will take your band to Caer Corwell. The prince of that realm is
something of a local hero, and he is a menace to our ambitions. The cleric,
Hobarth, has warned us that we must act quickly, for the prince has a beloved
who is equally dangerous.
"You are to kill them, and the king, as well. The fee will be twice your
usual—thrice if you can return the prince's sword to Caer Callidyrr. Above all
else, this prince must die."
A DRGtid of Mj/Rlocta Vale
"Let's go swimming now! Can't we, Robyn? It's so hot, and we've been working
so hard. . . ."
"You mean I've been working so hard!" said the young woman, pausing to push a
sweat-soaked strand of black hair back from her face. "All you've done is get
in the way!"
Her companion, a two-foot-long orange dragon that buzzed like a hummingbird
around her, turned his scaly snout away in momentary indignation.
"Besides, Newt," Robyn continued, "I've got to sort out this tangle of vines
before we do anything else. They seem to grow thicker every day! I don't know
how Genna tended this entire grove by herself." Once again, she pried the
vines away from the trunk with a heavy stick, grasping one and pulling it free
from the ground. She tossed the vine onto a pile of its fellows, destined for
an evening fire.
"Why do you have to sort these stupid old vines anyway?" the dragon sulked.
"Let them grow the way they want to— and let us go swimming the way we want
to."
"I've told you a hundred times, Newt. This is the sacred grove of the Great
Druid of Gwynneth, and she is training me in the ways of our order. Part of my
training is to obey her instructions and to aid in caring for the grove."
The explanation sounded a little hollow even to Robyn, who had, for nearly a
year, dutifully followed the instructions of her aunt and tutor, Genna
Moonsinger. Today was not the first time the Great Druid had rested peacefully
in the shady comfort of the cottage while her erstwhile student toiled away in
the summer heat.
Still, Robyn was a devout pupil. She paused and drew a
DOUGLAS MILES
deep breath, relaxing as she exhaled. She repeated the process as her teacher
had shown her, and soon she felt the annoyance pass away. Robyn turned again
to the thick vines that threatened to strangle the trunk of an ancient oak.
She even felt guilty about her doubts. Genna always works so hard, she
reminded herself. She certainly deserves the rest.
Robyn's job was near the periphery of the enchanted area that was the Great
Druid's grove. Near her were the tall hedges that bordered much of the grove,
and she was surrounded by massive oaks. Closer to the heart of the grove
sprawled a wondrous garden and its placid pond, and within these areas stood
Genna's simple cottage.
Behind the cottage stood the grove's dominant physical feature, and also its
spiritual heart: the Moonwell. The deep pool was surrounded by a ring of tall
stone columns covered in bright green moss. The tops of several pairs of
pillars were capped with stone crosspieces, raised by the earthpower of great
druids in ages past.
It was to learn the secrets of this earthpower that Robyn studied her craft so
diligently. She had proven, both to herself and to her teacher, that she had
the innate talent to perform druid magic. This was the legacy of the mother
she had never known. Inherited power was one thing; it was another matter to
learn the skills and discipline necessary to control that power.
Robyn pulled on a thick root, bending it away from the trunk until it snapped
free. She tossed it onto the pile and grasped another tendril with a hand that
had grown strong and calloused during her training. That vine, too, came
reluctantly away from the oak tree, but it required most of her strength to
pull against the tension of the plant.
"Well, I'll help too, if that's what it'll take to get done with this.
Here—I'll pull on this one and you grab that—"
"No!" cried Robyn, but before she could stop him, the little dragon had seized
a loose end of vine and pulled it with a strength that belied his small size.
The vines she had so carefully untangled burst free and instantly twisted back
around the tree trunk.
The springing mass of vines caught the faerie dragon in their coils, pinning
him against the tree. A short, wriggling
BLACK WIZARDS
stretch of red tail and a tiny, clawed foot stuck from the tangle of vines.
"That serves you right!" she chided him as she began to pull the vines from
the tree once again. "You should pay attention to what you're doing!"
Newt finally forced his head from the tangle and shook it quickly. "That's the
last time I try to help you," he huffed as he crawled free. Flexing his
gossamer wings, he buzzed into the air and hovered before her.
"Why don't you just use your magic on these vines and be done with the job?"
he asked, eying the tree belligerently.
"The tending of the grove is a matter for a druid's hands and heart," replied
Robyn, reciting one of her lessons. "The grove is the source of her magic, and
thus cannot be maintained with it, or the magic would lose its potency."
"I should think it would be very boring to do all these studies and silly
jobs, day after day, forever and ever. Don't you miss Tristan? And don't you
ever want to go home?"
Robyn caught her breath sharply, for the questions were painful ones. She had
come to the Vale nearly a year before and had had no contact with her previous
home. Genna insisted that such diligence was the only way Robyn could properly
develop her skills. She thought carefully before answering, more for her own
benefit than Newt's.
"I miss him very much—more, each day, it seems. And I want to be with him.
Perhaps, someday, I will be. But for now, I must learn what I can of the order
of the druids— find out for myself if I am destined to serve, as my mother did
and my aunt does, as a druid of the isles. This is something I have to do, and
if Genna tells me that the only way I will learn is by performing mundane
tasks around her grove, then so be it."
"Of course," N,ewt said nonchalantly. "Tristan's probably got plenty to do at
Caer Corwell, anyway. Festivals and hunts ... all those pretty country lasses
and barmaids. I don't imagine for a minute that a prince of the Ffolk would
waste his hot summer afternoons in a cool alehouse, of course, but just
supposing he. . . ."
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Robyn, more harshly than she intended. Newt had an
uncanny ability to aggravate her.
DOUGLAS MILES
She did miss Tristan. But, she reminded herself, she was doing the right thing
by following in the footsteps of the mother she had never known—the mother
that had left her a book and a staff as proof of her druidic legacy.
Wasn't she?
She remembered the sense of awe and wonder with which she had opened her
mother's book, only a year ago. It had been given to her by her stepfather,
King Kendrick of Corwell—Tristan's father. Through its pages, Robyn had begun
to understand the nature of the work she was capable of doing. She saw that
she had the power to serve the goddess, Earthmother, and to use druidic magic
to maintain the balance of nature in the islands that were her home.
Now she recalled the smooth ashwood staff, plain and unadorned, that had
nonetheless become her most treasured possession. Crafted by her mother's own
hands, it was both a receptacle and a tool for the earthpower of druidic
magic. Not only had it saved her life, but it had been instrumental in
rescuing the kingdom itself from the terror of the Darkwalker, Now it stayed
safely within the Great Druid's cottage, awaiting her need.
Wistfully, she wondered about her mother—as she did so often. Her Aunt Genna
had described her to Robyn in such detail that she now seemed completely
familiar. Sometimes Robyn felt as though she had indeed known her mother. As
always, a great sadness washed over her at the thought that she would never
truly know the woman who had brought her into the world.
A sudden sound—the snapping of a dry twig—cracked through her thoughts, and
Robyn froze. She knew every creature that visited the grove, and none of them
would make such a careless noise. Even Grunt, the cantankerous brown bear who
lived with them in the grove, moved his bulk silently among the plants.
The cracking was repeated, and Robyn located its source in a clump of bushes
behind her. A sharp prickle of fear ran along her spine, and she reached for
the stout stick leaning against a nearby stump. Slowly, she turned.
The bushes rustled, indicating that a large creature was moving toward her.
Suddenly, they parted to reveal the
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staggering figure of a man. At least, she thought it was a man—the shaggy,
matted hair and beard, the filthy, spindly limbs, and the dazed, sunken eyes
looked more beastly than human. The creature shuffled forward like an ape,
clad only in a tattered rag tied with a crude belt.
Hut a sound croaked from an unmistakably human throat as the figure collapsed
on the ground at her feet.
The boat's slim prow slipped through the black waters of Corwell Firth. The
boat blended perfectly into the moonless night, as did the eight cloaked
figures within. Each of them used a narrow paddle to move the craft away from
a huge galleon that sat quietly in Corwell Harbor.
The port was silent, for the hour was past midnight. No splashing disturbed
the boat's graceful movement as it glided slowly toward the overhanging
protection of a high pier. Here, six paddles were withdrawn into the boat,
while the remaining two pushed the narrow craft carefully between the pilings.
The shadowy figures lashed the boat to the pilings. One after another, they
sprang to the pier and slipped quietly onto shore.
The figures moved carefully up the street of Corwell Town, darting from
building to building with perfect stealth. The leader of the group, taller and
stockier than the rest, paused to let the others pass while he watched for any
sign of danger.
A silken black mask concealed the face of each of them, but this one pulled
his aside to peer more effectively through the darkness. While manlike, he was
not a man. A broad nose with wide, flared nostrils spread across his face, and
his teeth were gleaming and sharp. Quickly, he pulled his mask into place and
slipped after his band.
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, was a little drunk. Perhaps more than a
little, he decided, as a swelling of nausea rose within his stomach. His head
hurt, and he wanted to go to bed—all of which made this argument seem that
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much more unpleasant.
"You don't act like a prince! You don't look like a prince! You'll never be
fit to be a king of the Ffolk!" His father's harsh voice boomed behind him and
cut through Tristan's weariness. The prince whirled to face the king.
"A year ago I routed an army of Northmen from these very walls!" he growled,
resisting the urge to shout. "I fought the Beast that stood within our
courtyard. Father, I even found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!"
Tristan gestured at the mighty weapon, hanging in its place of honor above the
hearth, crossed with his father's favorite boar spear. The sword was a
treasured relic of his people and had been missing for centuries—until he and
his friends had discovered it in the depths of a firbotg lair.
"All deeds very fine and heroic—and dramatic," the king sneered. "You've
enjoyed the adulation of the ladies and the drinks of the aleman on those
merits.
"But there is more to being a king than heroism. What do you know of our
law—of the administration of this realm? Could you sit in Judgement over
shepherds who argued about a shared pasture, or fishermen who quarreled over
rights to a berth? Until you change this, you are not fit to rule. You know
the customs—you can only be granted the kingship if a majority of the lords
think you capable! I doubt they would, were the vote taken tomorrow!"
Tristan clenched his hands into fists, and for a moment he was so angry he
could scarcely keep from striking his father. He walked away in frustration,
finally flopping heavily into the largest chair in the study. Already the fog
of alcohol was dissipating.
But his father would not abandon the attack. "It's amazing that the
houndmaster even got you home," he said scornfully. "And where is Daryth now?"
"Probably in bed—but leave Daryth out of this! He's my friend, and I will not
allow you to insult him!"
"Ever since Robyn left to study with her aunt, you've been acting like a
brooding puppy one minute, and a drunken buffoon the next!"
"I love her! She's gone, and nothing seems to matter except the next time I
can see her face. By the goddess, I
BLACK WIZARDS
miss her! I don't even know if she'll ever come back—what if she decides to
spend her life in the woods, tending some MoonweU of the Vale?"
The king stalked around the chair to face his son, and the prince forced
himself to meet his father's gaze.
"And what if she does? That is her privilege—and perhaps her responsibility.
But you wouldn't know about that, would you? Responsibility has never—"
"Father, I have decided to go to Myrloch Vale and visit Robyn. I will leave as
soon as I can prepare," Tristan interrupted bluntly. He had contemplated the
idea several days earlier, but had not had the courage to tell the king. At
least, he thought, this argument had given him that fortitude.
"That is exactly what I mean! You—"
"Perhaps you're right about me," Tristan interrupted, leaning back to look at
his father. "After the adventures of last summer, the thought of spending my
days cooped up—"
Suddenly, the door to the study crashed inward with a wood-splintering slam.
Tristan saw his father's eyes focus on the door, and then the king pushed
wildly at the back of Tristan's chair.
The prince heard several "clicks" and felt some sort of missile whir past his
head before his chair crashed backward onto the floor. The wind exploded from
his lungs, and a cold shock of panic washed over him, driving the last
vestiges of alcohol from his mind.
Instantly Tristan rolled from the chair, watching a silver dagger flash over
his head from where he lay on the floor. He saw his father pluck a slender
dart from his own shoulder, then pick up a wooden chair to block the attack of
a charging black figure.
Tristan sprang to his feet in time to meet another black figure face-to-face.
The face was covered by a terrifying black mask, and the body was cloaked all
over in black silk, but Tristan's eyes focused on the gleaming dagger that
seemed to reach forward, questing for his blood. Desperately the prince looked
around for a weapon, at the same time remembering his sword hanging ten feet
away. A low table separated him from the hearth.
Tristan feinted a lunge at his attacker and then dropped
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prone to roll under the table and spring to his feet. The attacker leaped over
the table at the same time, and his dagger cut a bloody nick in the prince's
ear. Tristan drew the weapon and continued the motion through a full turn,
driving the point deep into the attacker's chest before the intruder could
strike again.
Tristan saw his father stumble backward as another black-cloaked figure burst
through the door. Behind that one were several others. The prince kicked a
chair into the path of his new attacker, slowing him enough that he could pull
the king's boar spear from its place above the mantle.
"Father!" he cried, tossing the stout weapon sideways across the room.
Tristan leaped over the chair he had toppled, certain that the figure before
him, armed with two daggers, was no match for the gleaming Sword of Cymrych
Hugh.
But one of those daggers clashed into his blade, nearly knocking it from his
hand. Only by stumbling backward did the prince prevent the weapons from
driving into his bowels. As it was, a dagger cut a burning streak across his
abdomen.
Even more frightening than the nearly fatal blow was the deep, rumbling growl
that emerged from behind the silken mask. Although the other attackers had
seemed human, the one before him was stockier and smellier than a man. The
creature attacked with savage intensity, forcing Tristan back against the
fireplace with a dazzling series of blows. Each slash and thrust was
accompanied by a bestial snarl. The prince found himself desperately wanting a
look behind the black mask, to assure himself that this creature was indeed
flesh and blood and not some demon conjured from a drunken nightmare.
Grimacing, Tristan drove his sword against the foe, struggling to gain room to
maneuver. Once again the intruder forced him off balance with lightning-fast
cuts and lunges.
The prince whirled away from the hearth, catching his breath as he saw his
father driving the boar spear into the chest of the other attacker. The king
fell on top of the enemy, and the pair lay motionless on the floor.
Tristan's attacker surprised him by suddenly dropping to
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the floor. In a flash the prince remembered the men at the door, and in the
same instant he fell prone, sensing the whirring passage of deadly missiles
over his head.
Then Tristan scrambled to his feet and sprang toward the foe. At the same
time, he heard a scream of pain from the doorway. Apparently the growling
attacker was equally startled, for his masked face turned to the door in
surprise. The prince almost caught the creature with the point of his sword,
but he looked back at the last minute and sprang to his feet with catlike
speed. Even so, the tip of Tristan's blade struck a glancing blow against the
thing's head, tearing the silken mask away in the process.
The prince stared for a second1 at the snarling face. The creature looked like
a cross between a man and a beast—his body and features were humanlike, but
his widespread maw was studded with fangs, and his close-set eyes looked
hellishly intense and bloodshot.
Another cry of pain shrieked from the doorway, accompanied now by growls. The
prince saw one of the attackers there stagger into the room, a huge hound
biting his neck in a deadly vice. He caught a glimpse of a flashing scimitar,
driving a third bowman against the the wall. Daryth!
The loyal houndmaster, skilled at combat and stealth, must have heard the
disturbance. With his blade helping, Tristan thought, the fighting odds looked
more favorable.
Daryth leaped into the room, past the great dog that was just raising his head
from the gored body. Abruptly, Daryth froze, his darkly handsome features
gaping in shock.
"Razfallow!" he finally said, his voice tight.
Tristan's foe had also paused at the sight of the houndmaster. "So, Calishite,
this is where you have run to," he snarled. You did not expect to hide from me
forever, did you?"
"I don't need to hide anymore," muttered Daryth, advancing slowly in a crouch.
"Especially from a killer of children!"
The monster chuckled, and then, before Tristan could react, he flicked one of
his daggers straight at Daryth's heart. The silver scimitar moved very
slightly, however, to knock the weapon harmlessly to the ground.
Razfallow obviously sensed that the battle was lost. Before Tristan could
react he sprang to the window, thirty
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feet above the courtyard. He turned once to stare at the prince, hate spilling
almost palpably from those crimson eyes, and then he leaped into the darkness.
"Guards!" shouted the prince, racing to the window. "Intruder in the
courtyard! Take him alive!"
Already the black figure had disappeared into the night, but the cry of alarm
was taken up throughout the castle. TUrning, Tristan saw Daryth gently
cradling the king's head. The great moorhound Canthus stood next to him,
gently nuzzling the still form. The only wound upon Tristan's father was the
little pinprick, barely bleeding, in his shoulder. Nevertheless, the
houndmaster looked at the prince with deep pain and shock in his eyes.
"The King of Corwell is dead."
Like all of the gods, Bhaal communicated his will to his worshippers via his
clerics—priests, priestesses, holy (or unholy) people. These clerics drew
their strength from their gods, and many were capable of feats of magic
rivaling those of the mightiest wizards.
As a powerful god, Bhaal numbered a great many clerics among his faithful. It
so happened that one of the most powerful of these was on the Moonshaes. This
one would serve his purpose now.
Bhaal decided, slowly, upon a scheme. It would entertain him, and it could
enhance his status among all of the gods of the Forgotten Realms. It was a
complex plan, but he had numerous willing hands to aid him.
Tb start, he would send the cleric of the Moonshaes a dream. He could regard
it as a prophecy, or a command—in any event, it would be the will of Bhaal.
The cleric, Bhaal knew, would obey.
18
The Council of
Lengthening shadows extended the towers of Caer Calli-dyrr into needlelike
spires that reached ominously across the city of Callidyrr, and beyond, to the
waters of Whitefish Bay. Evening brought an end to the bustle and barter of
vigorous trade that characterized this, the largest city among the lands of
the Ffolk. Night came with its own forms of barter—sale of the ginyak weed
imported freely from Calimshan, or even in the darkest of alleys, the trading
of young slaves from Amn or Tethyr.
The wizard moved among these alleys, intimately familiar with them.
Eventually, after night had fallen completely, he stepped down a stairway into
a low cellar, ignoring a slumbering old man who reeked of cheap wine. He
pushed through a curtain that masked one wall of the cellar, and entered a
wide, round room. The chamber was illuminated by great pots of hot coals that
gave the place a hellishly red glow and keept it uncomfortably warm.
A huge skull sat upon an altar in the center of the room. Carved from white
marble, it was perhaps four times the size of a human head. Red streaks, which
could only have been fresh blood, ran from the eyes of the skull across its
cheekbones in a garish caricature of tears.
A man stood before this skull, his back to the wizard. The thick robes and
cowled hood of the cleric could not conceal his immense size. Slowly, the man
turned.
"Praises to Bhaal" he chanted.
"Hail the lord of death," replied the wizard in a smooth, incongruously
pleasant voice.
"Have you acted upon my prophecy yet?" inquired the
19
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huge man, stepping away from the altar with a reverent bow to the skull.
"Indeed, Hobarth," replied the wizard. "I am certain that Razfallow and his
team will eliminate them shortly."
"There is more to be done. The woman will not be found at Caer Corwell."
"No matter—I will send Razfallow to the farthest corner of the Realms if need
be."
"No!" Hobarth's voice was strong, and he stepped aggressively toward the
wizard. "I must get her myself. Bhaal desires her blood to feed his altar."
"Where is she?"
"Bhaal has shown me, and only me, where she can be found. I will go after
her."
"And why should the god desire this woman's blood to flow from his sockets?"
"Perhaps Bhaal desires the victim to be a druid. There are none closer than
Gwynneth, anymore—thanks to you and your council."
Cyndre chuckled wryly. "As I recall, you and your god had a hand in the
elimination of the druids from Alaron. Now, the Ffolk of Callidyrr lack any
central spiritual guidance— they are ripe to your persuasive efforts."
"Indeed," agreed Hobarth, with a bow to the altar.
"I wish you success. The earthpower of these druids can be vexing—though no
match for your own might."
"Mine is but the strength of Bhaal," said the cleric.
"Of course ... how thoughtless of me." The wizard turned away so that his
companion could not see the thin smile of amusement curling his lips. Clerics
and their idiotic faith!
"I shall leave tomorrow .. . this druid will not see the rising of the next
full moon."
"It's like they became invisible!" reported Randolph, the young captain of the
castle guard company. The bearded warrior, not yet thirty, could not keep his
voice from choking with frustration. "They disappeared into thin air!"
"We killed five," said Tristan. "How many could have escaped?"
BLACK WIZARDS
"There must have been at least two more," insisted the guard, angrily
clenching the hilt of his sword. "I found three of my men dead in the
courtyard or on the wall. One had his throat cut; the other two were stabbed
in the back."
"Quite a proficient band" Tristan muttered bitterly. "But what did they want?
Why? My father never . . ." His voice choked, and he did not continue.
The guard said nothing. He and the prince stood quietly in the shambles of the
king's study. "together they looked out the broken window into the courtyard,
watching dawn's slow arrival.
In the next room, the king's body lay upon his bed, respectfully placed there
by Friair Nolan, the cleric of Corwell Town. King Kendrick would be given a
funeral befitting a leader of the Ffolk before being laid to rest in the royal
barrow.
With growing grief, Tristan tried to accept his father's death. The knowledge
did not seem to remain with him. For a time the truth would recede, and then,
unexpectedly, would stab at Tristan with greater and greater force. Sometimes
the pain was nearly unbearable.
"Where's Daryth?" he finally asked, trying hard to pull himself together.
"He was leading the search," replied Randolph.
Tristan turned to look at the door to his father's room. The captain of the
guard started wearily toward the door.
Tristan heard the door shut, and then he looked outside again. A whirlwind of
thoughts assaulted him. He struggled with guilt and uncertainty. Why had his
last moments with his father been angry ones? And what would happen to him, to
the kingdom? Now that his father was gone, Tristan began to realize how much
he had depended on him. A brooding sense of loneliness threatened to overwhelm
him, and he thought wistfully of Robyn, so far away. He longed for her
presence more desperately than ever. Impatiently he paced the floor, wishing
Daryth would return. Finally, he flopped into a chair and stared into the
long-dead coals in the fireplace.
Practical thoughts pushed through his emotional storm. Messengers had already
been dispatched to the cantrev
DOUGLAS NILES
lords of Corwell. These lords would arrive posthaste, and a council to
determine the future of Corwell would convene. A new king would be selected.
The thought of the pudgy Lord Koart or the greedy Lord Pontswain sitting in
his father's place revolted Tristan. Of all the petty leaders of the lands of
Corwell, the prince could think of none worthy to sit upon the royal throne—to
be his lord. It's my father's place, he thought, just my father's. Or maybe,
now—maybe my own. . . .
Angrily he sprang to his feet, stalking to the window as he realized how
dramatically his own feelings had changed in the last few hours.
Looking into the orange dawn, Tristan faced the truth that, hours earlier, he
had argued vehemently against: he wanted, very much, to be the next king of
Corwell.
Robyn gasped as she knelt beside the frail figure. An unfocused fear prevented
her from touching him.
As she finally reached forward to turn the man onto his back, his eyes
squinted against the sky. He gibbered something that was not even vaguely
speech, and she saw that his tongue was swollen and cracked. She quickly
grabbed the nearby water flask, pouring a few drops between the man's chapped
lips.
"Don't touch him!" Newt warned. "He looks dangerous! I don't trust him!" For
the first time, Robyn noticed that the little dragon had dived for cover under
a pile of leaves when the stranger arrived. Buried up to the eyeballs, he
stared watchfully at the pair of humans.
"Oh, hush," she chastised, pouring more water into the man's gaping mouth.
He coughed and choked spasmodically, but eagerly licked the droplets from his
lips, straining to raise his head for more. Robyn gently moved his head back
to the grass, offering him another splash of water.
Slowly the tension seemed to drain from his body, and he closed his eyes. His
breathing slowed from frantic panting to a steadier rhythm. After a moment, it
seemed that he had fallen asleep. She wished she knew how to aid him—he
*££*
BLACK WIZARDS
seemed so frail and weak. At the same time something about him frightened her.
"Who are you?" she whispered, examining the man.
His skin was cracked and dry, as if it had been exposed to extended periods of
savage weather. His hair and beard were thin, but long. Branches and thorns
had tangled them into mats. His fingernails were filthy and worn all the way
to the skin. Did he find food by scratching at the ground for roots and grubs?
Robyn wondered.
His only garment was a leather cloak that barely covered his nakedness. A
crude fur belt stretched around his waist to hold the cloak. His thin brown
hair and beard were long and matted with burrs.
But it was his eyes that drew her attention and frightened her. They stared
fiercely one moment, then darted frantically about like a madman's—driven by
some mysterious combination of fear and pain.
Robyn noticed that the man sprawled at an odd angle, with his hips raised
slightly off the ground, as if he lay upon a sharp rock. She tried, gently, to
move him, and she discovered that he had a small pouch tied to his belt,
concealed by his buttocks beneath the ragged cloak. It was a filthy object,
barely worthy of notice. Yet she found her eyes drawn to it—compelled to look
at the pouch, and frightened by that compulsion at the same time.
Carefully, she reached for it, trying to pull the pouch from beneath the man.
Her strong fingers felt a hard object, like a fist-size stone. As soon as she
touched it, however, the man sat up, opening his eyes wide. Never had the
woman seen such stark panic before.
The man screamed, and his voice shocked her ears. It was a piercing, monstrous
sound, reminding her of some hulking reptile, ready to strike. But then he
scuttled away from her like a crab, clutching the pouch to his breast. Robyn
jumped up at the same time, stunned at the man's reaction, but then she held
her hands up and gestured that she would not touch the stranger's possession.
But what could this man be carrying that was of such incredible value?
"Come with me" she said quietly. "I'll take you to a place where you can rest
and eat."
DOUGLAS NILES
Slowly, Robyn reached for the man's arm, helping him stagger to his feet. He
was very weak, swaying drunkenly. He certainly would have fallen if not for
Robyn's supporting arms. He weighed little, however, and she had no difficulty
holding him upright. Newt crept out of the leaves and buzzed warily behind.
Carefully she led him through the grove among the broad oak boles. They
approached a vast tangle of brush beside the ring of stone arches that marked
the Moonwell.
As Robyn approached the clump its thickly intertwined branches parted
silently, creating a rounded arch that was slightly higher than her head—and
revealing the tangle as a ring of brush, not a solid clump. Within the ring,
she could see the tiny building that was the Great Druid's cottage. With its
thatched roof and vine-covered walls, it looked like it had sprouted from the
ground itself.
摘要：

BLACKWIZARDSDouglasMilesWbatbasgoneKingKendrickofCorwellwasoneofthefourkingsofthefolkwhodwelledupontheMoonshaeIslands.Corwell,alongwiththeKingdomsofMorayandSnowdown,owedfealtytoCallidyrr,forCallidyrrwashometothekingofCal-lidyrr,whowasthetitularHighKingofalltheFfolk.TristanKendrick,PrinceofCorwell,ha...

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