Black Wizards (3 page)

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 Here, six paddles were withdrawn into the boat, while the remaining two pushed the narrow craft carefully between the pilings.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 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 firbolg 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 judgment 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 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 Moonwell 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 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 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 second 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 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 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 Realms. It was a complex plan, but he had numerous willing hands to aid him
.

To 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
.