Black Wizards (23 page)

As the undead feet slurped into the mud of the pond, the water grew stagnant and black. Thin wisps of pungent steam rose into the air with each footstep, and fish floated, belly up, to the surface. These first zombies crossed the waist-deep water and trudged through the muddy shore on the far side. They moved into a field, bright with flowers, and the petals fell like snowflakes. As more of the army crossed the field, more of it died; the force left a muddy wasteland of death in its wake.

One zombie, who had nearly lost her leg to a Northman battle-axe, suddenly collapsed as that leg gave way beneath it. Those behind, the
bodies of friends and foes alike, trudged mindlessly over the twitching corpse, trampling it into the mud until only a clasping, clenching hand could be seen above the ground.

The animals of the vale sensed the approaching horror and fled upon hoof, paw, or wing. The army marched through a lifeless forest.

Soon, now, Hobarth dreamed, the girl would be his.

Tristan and Daryth stood to either side of the door. Pontswain, still manacled, sat upon a mattress facing the door. He nodded at the other two and they understood; he would try to distract whoever it was that tried to enter their cell. The faint sounds of the picklock indicated a thief of considerable skill—there was no wasted motion or clumsy probing. Or an assassin, trained at the Academy of Stealth, thought Tristan. In a moment the lock released.

The men held their breath, tension rising as they waited to see who was breaking into their cell. With a low creak, the door began to slide open. Daryth moved like a striking snake, reaching through the widening crack to grasp at the shirt of whoever stood outside.

But his hand closed upon air. Stunned, he pulled the door open to reveal the intruder, but they saw no one standing in the hallway—until they looked down.

“Pawldo! cried the prince, reaching down to clasp his friend warmly. “How did you get here?”

“You’d never believe it if I told you,” replied the halfling in a tense whisper. He threw an anxious look over his shoulder, “Come on, now, we’ve gotta move!”

“Just a minute!” said Daryth, passing Pawldo to look cautiously into the hall. He darted back to Pontswain and slipped the wire probe into one manacle. After a moment’s hesitation, Pawldo joined him and worked on the other.

“Thanks,” the lord said, briskly rubbing his wrists.

“Let’s go!” hissed Pawldo, turning to the door.

Tristan sensed a note of panic in Pawldo’s voice. “What do you mean? What do you know?”

“Assassins!” Pawldo whispered. “They’re here to kill you! In this
building—maybe coming up the stairs right now!”

“Wait!” cried Tristan. “I’ve got to find the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. I can’t leave without it!”

Pawldo looked like he wanted to argue, but he finally turned with a sigh of exasperation. “All right, I’ve got an idea where they might be keeping it. They’ve got an ogre on guard outside one of the rooms downstairs.”

“Damn!” cursed Tristan. “How are we going to get past it?”

“That’s the least of our problems,” said Pawldo. He took the lead, his little shortsword drawn as they slipped quietly down the spiraling stairway. They circled three times to reach the ground level, where a door led to an alcove off the great hall of the manor. As Pawldo reached for the doorknob, they heard the unmistakable snort of an ogre coming from the other side of the door.

“How are we going to fight that thing?” whispered Daryth in exasperation. “With nothing but that little pigsticker between the three of us!”

“This little blade has stuck some pretty big pigs!” declared Pawldo. “Now, shut up and follow me!”

Before the men could react, the halfling pushed open the door and stepped past the hulking ogre who stood outside. Tristan and Daryth were about to lunge after their friend. At the very least they could not let him die alone.

But the ogre didn’t move. Pawldo turned after a few steps, gesturing them forward, and kept on moving. Stunned, Tristan watched the ogre for a reaction.

The monster clutched a glass ball in his huge and hairy palms, staring intently at the object as he turned it this way and that. He did not look up as the unbelieving trio tiptoed stealthily past. Tristan looked back to see the ogre still in the thrall of the shiny sphere.

Pawldo, meanwhile, had pushed aside the curtain screening the alcove and stepped boldly into the great hall. Here, too, were ogres—three of them. Each of the monsters sat upon the floor, legs outstretched to either side, and each stared intently at a glass bauble that seemed to be a match for the one in the alcove.

Amazed at their good fortune, the men followed Pawldo across the hall to a wooden door. Although the halfling boldly stepped over the
outstretched log of one of the ogres, the men could not bring themselves to test the limits of their good fortune further. Instead, they slipped quietly along the walls until they reached Pawldo. The halfling had already removed a wire probe from a slim leather case. He handed his sword to Daryth and knelt, carefully concentrating, as he began to pick the lock of the huge oaken door.

“This one was guarded,” he whispered. “I’ll bet it’s where they’ve put your sword.” In a second the lock clicked free, and Daryth raised his eyebrows in admiration.

Pawldo shrugged, unsuccessfully trying to conceal a smile of pride. With a cavalier gesture, he pushed it open.

“You miserable oaf! I ordered you to knock—” The hawk-nosed captain shrieked as he rose. But the tirade halted as abruptly as it began when the speaker realized that the intruders were not clumsy ogres. The officer’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but not before Daryth could act.

The Calishite sprang over Pawldo and through the door, landing in a catlike crouch halfway to the man’s desk. Pawldo’s blade quivered overhead as Daryth held the tip in his fingers, poised for throwing.

“Stay where you are or die,” he snarled, his voice low.

The captain appeared to consider drawing his sword, but his eyes flicked to the slim dagger. He lifted his hand from the hilt of his sword.

Tristan ran to his side and drew the sword himself, turning it against its owner. “Where are our weapons?”

The officer nodded to a cabinet against the wall of the room, and Pawldo hurried over to open it. He pulled out both swords and the scimitar and was about to close it when something else caught his eye. He lifted out a leather sack, hoisting it a few times to hear a satisfactory clink, before closing the cabinet and handing the Sword of Cymrych Hugh to Tristan.

“Here,” said the halfling, handing the other swords over to Pontswain and Daryth. “Of course,” he told the Calishite, “it won’t do for throwing, but it’ll give you a better reach.”

Daryth laughed. “I couldn’t have thrown this clunky thing either. I just had to make him think I could “He smiled at the captain as he handed the weapon back to Pawldo.

“Check the hall,” said Pontswain, walking to the desk. The captain stood behind it, hatred burning in his eyes. The lord met his gaze squarely, stopping before the man. In a lightning-quick gesture, he drew his sword and thrust it through the man’s chest, squarely into his heart.

The officer fell instantly, blood spurting from the mortal wound. Pontswain turned and stalked toward the door.

“What did you do that for?” demanded Tristan, enraged. “He wasn’t going to stop us!”

“Not until we were gone. But as soon as we were out of his sight, he would have had every ogre in this town on our tails. Now, we’ll have a few minutes’ head start.”

“You took a man’s life to buy us a few minutes?” The prince was still incredulous. He had killed in battle before, but his companion’s action had seemed so … ruthless.

“I did!” Pontswain snapped. “And it will be worth it if we use that time to escape instead of argue!”

“He’s right!” said Daryth, opening the door. “Follow me!”

The ogres still sat, bemused, as the halfling trotted into the entry hall adjacent to the great hall. Here a pair of huge doors stood shut.

“Do you have a plan?” the prince asked the halfling.

“Plan?” Pawldo snorted in amusement. “I was sure I’d be dead by now. Why would I need a plan? I did, however, make the precaution of securing and hiding six fast horses around the corner. This is the way I came in,” explained the halfling, lifting the latch and pushing open one of the doors. They walked across a wide stone veranda, thankful that the moon remained hidden by clouds. An ogre sat upon the front steps, staring in rapture at his crystal. They descended and started on a path that wound through the huge formal garden, moving stealthily among tall hedges.

“There—I left Canthus at the gatehouse,” said Pawldo, pointing at the large structure looming before them.

They didn’t see the movement until it was too late. One moment the pathway to the gatehouse lay open before them, and the next, four black figures had materialized from the bushes to block their way. Silken cloth of darkest black covered their bodies, but Tristan nonetheless recognized the hulking form that stepped ahead of the others.

“The Prince of Corwell, and Daryth of Calimshan!” said Razfallow in a soft, cultured voice. “Rarely, perhaps never, have two deaths given me more pleasure than yours shall!”

The leader pulled his silken mask aside as the moon broke from the clouds, washing the garden in milky light. The half-orc’s beastly features leered at them, but his voice continued smoothly. “And that little fellow who spied upon us—what a delightful surprise! See how nicely he waits for us, Rasper? Didn’t I tell you we’d find them here?”

One of the assassins nodded agreement. The little crossbow in his hand did not waver from them, however. The weapon was identical to the one that had killed Tristan’s father. Tristan saw another of the crossbows held by a second assassin. Those bows could kill two of them before they could move.

“So, Razfallow,” said Daryth pleasantly. “Still whoring for the highest bidder, I see.”

“Indeed,” replied the half-orc. “And you could have joined me and lived to a ripe old age. You were good, back then. I would have made you my lieutenant instead of my victim.”

“Working for the likes of you is no choice,” Daryth stated simply.

Razfallow shrugged, uninterested. He turned to the assassin with the bow.

“Now, Rasper, who should we kill first?”

The strength of the goddess was centered in Myrloch Vale. Nowhere else was her power so concentrated Nowhere else were her druids so strong and the forces of disruption so weak
.

Yet even that strength was not sufficient to withstand the plague of death that marched into her most sacred realm. Each unnatural footstep—and there were thousands every minute—brought fiery pain to the soul of the goddess. Each of the undead creatures was a blasphemy against life itself, a chaotic disruption of the balance of all things
.

She recoiled and suffered, for she had no power over the army of death. She withered and flinched beneath the footfalls, fearing the approach of the cleric and his evil god
.

The goddess was not without allies. Her children were her staunchest defenders, to be called in time of direst need. But the oldest of her children, the Leviathan, had
been slain by the Beast. The vast wolfpack she was capable of summoning might have been some help against the army, but the pack was spent, dispersed to a hundred dens across the Isles
.

There remained only one of her children—one who had suffered grievously in the war with the Beast. Yet that one she could not afford to leave to his rest
.

And so the goddess, once again, summoned Kamerynn the unicorn
.