Black Wizards (20 page)

“So, how do you like this place?” she asked as Tristan watched the barmaid flounce away. He thought wistfully of Robyn and turned back to his companions.

“It was rather empty earlier, but it seems to be filling up,” observed the prince.

“Oh, it gets pretty crowded,” said Tavish with a secretive little smile.
“Especially on nights like this!”

“What’s so special about tonight?” asked Daryth.

“Music, for one thing.” She smiled, but would say no more.

A screeching sound drew their attention to the hearth, where several pipers were tuning their instruments.

“I love the airpipes!” shouted Tavish over the noise. “The audience is always ready for something different when they stop!”

Tristan observed the pipers through a thin fog as they played a fast jig, drawing several dancers, including Daryth and Tavish, to their feet. A few more songs followed, and after each Tristan noticed more and more of the patrons looking over at his table. Finally, one of them shouted “Tavish!” In moments, the room vibrated as everyone called for the bard.

“Hometown girl,” Tavish smiled at her companions’ looks of surprise. Grinning easily, she took her lute and stepped to the makeshift stage vacated by the pipers. Twanging a few soft chords, she assured herself that the instrument was tuned. With the first chord, Tristan recognized the song.

Tavish’s clear voice carried the Song of Keren to heights Tristan had never before heard. She sang almost without accompaniment, using the lute only to establish an occasional harmonic chord.

The song took him back to the war, and with it as background he remembered the summer of battle in a dramatic, almost poetic light. He saw but one image: Robyn, her black hair flying in the breeze, standing alone atop the high tower of Caer Corwell, using the staff of her mother to call upon the powers of nature itself, bringing lightning crackling into the ranks of the Bloodriders that would otherwise have slain them all.

“Hold!”

The sharp command cracked through the room like a thunderclap. All eyes turned to the doorway.

A tall man stood there, arrogantly looking about the room. He was dressed in a heavy red cloak, with gold braid decorating his shoulders. His head was protected by a steel helmet that did not cover his face. In his upraised hand he clenched a shining steel longsword.

“I arrest the Prince of Corwell in the name of the king!” he announced. “He is charged with treason against the crown!”

Pawldo raced down the street, almost forgetting to cushion his bag.

Tristan! he thought to himself. In Llewellyn! How they would celebrate, the two old friends. Of course, the prince had probably brought that Calishite along—but even Pawldo had grown to trust Daryth, so that was all right. A long year of traveling was coming to an end, and the halfling was eager to think about home and old companions.

He found The Diving Dolphin and dashed up the steps, only to bump into a massive figure. He recoiled quickly as he looked into the tusked face. An ogre!

“Closed,” muttered the monster, giving the halfling a casual shove that knocked him across the entryway. Stunned, Pawldo looked around to see a dozen ogres, all clutching weapons and standing ready to charge through the door. His gaze rested upon a familiar shape in the comer.

“Canthus?” he whispered, and the great moorhound thumped his tail in greeting. He did not raise his head from his paws, however, instead shifting his brown eyes to stare mournfully at the door to the inn.

The cleric of Chauntea slept soundly, secure in the warm embrace of his goddess. His breathing was deep and slow as the night reached its deepest hour. Finally, the goddess sensed that he was ready for her
dream.

The cleric dreamed that he awakened to find a sword on the steps of his chapel. Though unskilled in weaponry, he recognized the blade as a wondrous piece of work.

But the weapon had been damaged. Its silvery blade was tarnished, chipped, and bent. The tip had been broken off. Its smooth, leathery hilt was worn away by rot and decay.

The cleric took the weapon into his chapel, which had suddenly become a forge. Though he knew nothing of smithing, he took a hammer and fired the forge. The handle of the hammer was smooth and comfortable in his hand. He stroked the weapon across the anvil, caressing it with gentle taps of the hammer. Slowly it regained some of its former shape. The metal was straightened, and the tip gradually sharpened into a point. The hilt healed itself; the rot fell away, and the leather grew once again sturdy and thick.

And then the blade was done, and it was a glorious thing to behold. The cleric held it up to the sun, and the light of it nearly blinded him.

Patriarch Trevor awakened suddenly and sat up in bed. His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded. Elated, he sprang to the floor and knelt in reverence before a statue of his goddess. He had received a vision! He did not know what the dream meant, but he had no doubts about its nature. And so he would wait.

Tristan saw anger in the faces around him. Not anger directed at him, the alleged traitor, but toward the officer who stood at the door. Grumbles of displeasure came from many throats, and he saw men fingering their weapons.

“Mercenary scum!” cried one huge man, lunging to his feet. “How dare you speak for a king of the Ffolk?”

The captain made a slight nod to his left, and a window exploded inward. Shocked patrons turned to see a leering ogre’s face, its yellow tusks gleaming over a huge crossbow. A huge bolt punched through the chest of the standing man, knocking him over two tables as it killed him. More of the ugly ogres crowded in the door behind the officer, while others broke into the room from the kitchen. The rest of
the windows crashed inward, and at least a half-dozen of the massive crossbows were sighted on the crowd.

For a quick moment, he looked up into the heavy rafters and the shadows beyond. Escape! He pictured a quick leap, a grab of the beam, and they would be off into the darkness beyond. But then he stumbled drunkenly backward, and only Pontswain’s strong arm held him from falling to the floor. The look of utter disgust on the lord’s face burned its way into Tristan’s bowels, and he jerked away.

More of the Ffolk were rising to their feet now, and a startlingly clear vision burst through the fog in Tristan’s brain: He saw a massacre of these brave but outmatched Ffolk—a massacre for which he, at least indirectly, would be responsible. Shaking off Pontswain’s supporting arm, he forced himself to stand up straight.

“The charge is untrue!” he announced, somehow managing to keep his words from slurring. He addressed the soldier. “I will accompany you and refute it before the High King himself.”

For a moment, he thought that the patrons of the bar would still fight, but gradually the tension eased. The three visitors walked over to the sneering man. The captain’s black eyes glittered at them above his sharp, hawklike nose and neatly trimmed mustache and beard.

“I must have your weapons,” he announced, holding out his hand expectantly.

Tristan momentarily regretted his decision, but he saw again the brutal crossbows leveled at the innocent bystanders. Reluctantly, he ungirded his belt and handed it over. The Prince of Corwell would hold the Sword of Cymrych Hugh again, Tristan vowed.

The heart of Kazgoroth provided all of the strength and endurance that Hobarth needed. His path carried him up a rocky pass and through winding gorges, yet he never wavered in his course toward a place he had never seen
.

Some of this confidence came from his faith in Bhaal, for the god showed him visions of his destination. But another part of it came from the black heart, as if that stone wanted him to find the battlefield for its own reasons
.

After several days without food or drink but also without pause, he came down the center of a broad, forested valley. Before him lay a wide field with a rounded hill upon
the far side. That hill, he knew, was Freeman’s Down, and it had given its name to the battle fought here the previous, year. The huge cleric made his way to the top of the burial mound, fondling the black rock as he approached
.

He held the heart to the ground and remembered the spell that allowed him to animate the dead. As before, the knowledge of the enchantment came from his mind, but the power to enact it came from the black rock. It was a far greater power than any one cleric could hope to generate
.

Hobarth suppressed a shiver of delight as he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. The earth was rent by great cracks that ripped across the grass. The scent of moist dirt arose but was quickly extinguished by a stronger smell: the stench of dead, decayed flesh
.

In the bottom of one of the fissures, Hobarth saw movement. Skulls gaped upward at him, and bony hands clawed at the dirt, pulling whole skeletons jerkily from the earth. Bones clicked together as the creatures crawled from the soil like a swarm of insects emerging from a narrow hole. They crawled over each other, mindless of those that were dragged down or reburied. More and more of the things emerged as the fissures deepened. The skeletons lurched away from the graves to collect in loose ranks of dirty bone
.

Next came the zombies
.

The flesh on these bodies had not entirely rotted away, but hung loose in great flapping folds of carrion. Clutching the lip of the fissure with sinewy, skinless fingers, the zombies dragged themselves from their graves in answer to Hobarth’s command. Empty eye sockets gaped dully from swollen, misshapen faces. Black tongues thrust from lipless mouths, hanging stupidly from torn and rotted jaws. Like the skeletons, the zombies formed careless lines, moving off the desecrated burial mound and spreading across the field
.