Black Wizards (17 page)

Hobarth moved at a steady plod through the meadows and forests of Myrloch Vale. He was impervious to the beauty around him, interested only in drawing closer to the grove of the Great Druid. There, his god had told him, he would find the young druid. And Bhaal was never wrong.

It never occurred to the huge cleric that he would have any difficulty
removing Robyn from the care of her teacher. Hobarth had used his powers against druids before, and their feeble nature magic had proven to be no match for the aroused might of Bhaal. Indeed, when allied with the Council of Seven, the power of Bhaal had been sufficient to drive the druids from Alaron.

True, these woods seemed more eternal than the forests that still remained upon Alaron. But he shrugged off the notion that druid magic was a force to be reckoned with.

He began to sense the nearness of his destination, and with it a powerful, arcane calling. Something was in the woods to his side. It radiated a sense of cool evil that the cleric found very pleasant, even exhilarating. He stopped for a moment, looking curiously into the brush. Whatever it was, the source of the calling struck a highly responsive chord in the cleric’s breast. He was unable to ignore it.

Hobarth thrashed his way into the clump of bushes, pushing brambles and briars aside. He could tell that he neared the source of the calling, but that only made his desire to reach it stronger.

Suddenly he saw it, lying at the foot of a dead oak tree. A glistening black rock lay upon the ground. It attracted him strangely. Hobarth stepped forward and picked up the object. It felt very warm and smooth in his hand, as if it belonged there. Amused, the cleric hefted the object, tossing it from one hand to the other and back. Smiling, he turned back toward the grove and continued his march.

Hobarth was not attuned to nature and took no notice of the fact that all of the plant life within fifteen feet of the stone was withered and dead.

In another hour he arrived at the bank of a small stream. Somehow, he knew that this was the border to the Great Druid’s grove. As he stepped into the stream, intending to wade across it, a sudden blow smashed his body and knocked him back to the shore. Springing to his feet, the cleric peered around, seeking his assailant.

But he saw nothing. More slowly, he reached forward and touched the invisible barrier he had struck. It seemed to run along the shore of the stream and was solid as iron. Cursing, he considered this evidence of druidic might. He watched a small bird dart across the stream and saw that it was unaffected by the barrier. But when Hobarth reached forward, the invisible wall stopped him cold.

He chanted a short phrase, and magic suffused his body. He rose slowly from the ground and floated twenty feet up in the air, to discover that the curtain of protection extended up at least that high. He did not want to go higher, for that would have carried him above the treetops and he did not wish to be observed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was still kneeling as the body began to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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