Black Wizards (33 page)

“Join me, please,” called the red-bearded bandit.

Two other men were already seated with O’Roarke. He nodded at one, a clean-shaven muscular man with deeply tanned skin. “This is Annuwyn. You may not remember him, but he cast the spell that brightened your night so well the other evening!” Hugh chuckled at his joke while Tristan nodded to the magic-user. Annuwyn nodded back, a thin smile creasing his lips.

“And this is Vaughn Burne, our high cleric,” said O’Roarke, and the other man rose and bowed. Vaughn Burne was a slight, pale man with a clean-shaven pate. He wore a plain robe, and his thin face betrayed little emotion—except for his eyes. They shined with interest and energy as he waited for the men to be seated.

“The reason I asked you here,” O’Roarke said at last, “is to tell you that I would like you to stay with us in Doncastle.”

Tristan’s heart thumped in his chest, and he tried to display no emotion. Still, this was the worst thing the bandit could have said to start out their conversation.

“I need. brave men,” continued Hugh. “And such I know you are—most travelers flinch and wail when they are accosted by us. None of you betrayed any fear.

“I will offer you places within my militia. It is not large, but my men are stalwart, and they fight well. You could earn positions of command—I can use men with battle experience.

“And you would be safe here, You are outlaws, fugitives from the king’s troops. There is no place upon Alaron where you will be safer.” O’Roarke’s voice grew more strained as he saw that his guests were not eagerly jumping up to accept his offer.

“My Lord Roarke,” began Tristan, carefully choosing his words. “I’m sure I speak for my companions in saying that we are honored by your offer—by the trust you have shown. But perhaps we could offer you a better way of honoring that trust—that we could perform an even greater service for you than leading a company of your men into combat.”

Hugh O’Roarke sat impassively, waiting for the prince to continue.
Only the slight lowering of his bushy eyebrows betrayed his emotions.

“We have embarked to Caer Callidyrr upon a mission—a mission that could aid not only ourselves, but all of the Ffolk,” Tristan continued.

Hugh waved impatiently for him to go on.

“I am a prince of the Ffolk—Tristan Kendrick of Corwell.”

“You are the one who slayed the Darkwalker?” asked the lord. Tristan nodded and sensed the cleric across the table staring intently at him as he did so. Vaughn Burne then turned to his lord and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“But how did you come to be an outlaw?”

“My father, King Kendrick, was slain by assassins. The Council of Lords ruled that the High King should choose either Lord Pontswain or myself as his successor. We began our journey to Callidyrr to petition the king for this decision, but we were attacked on the way and arrested by the king’s troops as we landed at Llewellyn,

“Our mission changed, obviously, after this development. I still intend to gain an audience with the High King. He will give me a satisfactory explanation of these events—and I doubt that there is such an explanation—or he will die by my sword.”

O’Roarke’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad!” he hissed.

Tristan flushed. “I believe we can do it with your help. You know this kingdom! Help us get into Caer Callidyrr. We will do the rest. Think of the benefits. If the High King is pulled from his throne, your lands are yours again. No longer will you have to hide in the forest, waiting for the next attack!”

Hugh scowled darkly, but then startled them with a burst of laughter. “You truly are mad. I shall let you go on with your fool’s mission, but you will get no support from me. In fact, I shall keep your horses as payment for my troubles!”

At that untimely moment, several kitchen maids emerged with platters of potatoes and stew. Hugh ignored his guests as he lifted forkful after forkful of food to his lips.

Tristan inwardly cursed the man, though he did not press the topic any longer. Pitchers of mead sat upon the table, and his tongue itched for the taste of the foamy stuff. He ignored the craving and drank only sparingly.

The meal passed slowly, and in silence. They had almost cleaned their platters when a young man entered the inn and gestured to Hugh O’Roarke, He was dressed in green leather and spattered with mud, as if he had just come from a long ride. The lord rose, carrying his full mug of ale, and went to the man. The fellow said something in a low whisper. Suddenly, the bandit leader whirled and threw his mug against the wall where it shattered with a crash.

“News?” asked Tristan quietly, raising his eyebrows. For a moment, he wondered if the bandit was about to attack him, so red was his face. O’Roarke’s hands clenched at the air as he stalked back to the table.

“My sister has been executed by the High King!” he snarled. “She was a captive in his castle, and two days ago he had her put to death!”

A pall of silence descended over the room. O’Roarke’s look challenged anyone to speak, to give him a target for his anger. Pontswain looked down, strangely subdued. Tristan felt a pang of sadness for the outlaw and renewed loathing for the High King.

“But why?” asked the prince.

“Why?” Hugh cried, his voice choking with agony, “Perhaps to draw me out of Doncastle, where the Scarlet Guard can meet me on its own terms.”

Tristan began to see an opportunity in the tragedy, a chance to use the bandit lord’s grief constructively—for himself, and perhaps even for Hugh O’Roarke.

“There’s a better choice. You can help us get into Callidyrr, where I will confront this king!”

“And then what? Even supposing you made it that far, which you won’t, what can you hope to accomplish?”

“We can avenge your sister. I can gain vengeance for my father’s death. Think, man! We have to do something! We can’t stay here in the woods, hiding in your pleasant little town! Help us!”

“Are you assassins, that you will sneak into his castle and stab him as he sleeps?”

“I am not an assassin,” Tristan said. “I shall not kill him … in cold blood. The king will have a chance to defend himself against my charges. If he cannot, he will have a chance to defend himself against my blade!”

“I tell you, it is no use!” persisted O’Roarke, slumping into his chair.
The energy drained from him—he looked dejected and defeated.

“We are not without skill,” Daryth said quietly.

“No, you are not. But you were all four taken by my clumsy ambush. And you can be sure that the traps of the wizard, Cyndre, will be far more deadly!”

Tristan flushed, whether in anger or embarrassment he was not sure. Then he spoke.

“We have to try. You have lost a sister and your cantrev. I have lost my father—my king. How many more losses will it take to move you?”

Hugh was silent for a long time. Once again, his thick red eyebrows sank into a deep scowl.

“I will help you,” he said finally. “But I have a condition: One of you must remain here, as proof against a betrayal. You will come to know my most valuable agent in Callidyrr. Should harm come to him, your man will die as well.”

“That is unaccep—” Tristan began to object, certain that he had the upper hand, when Pontswain cut him off.

“I shall remain here,” said the lord.

Tristan looked at Pontswain in shock, wondering if the lord was afraid to face the High King. Or perhaps he hoped that the prince would be slain, leaving the path open for his own claim to the kingship. Still, it solved the problem. And Tristan knew that he wouldn’t miss the man’s company.

“Very well,” he agreed.

“We can disguise you,” offered O’Roarke, as if relieved to have reached a decision. “And slip you into Callidyrr on a fishing boat that is returning to harbor at the end of the day. It will be risky, but it is still our best chance.”

“Why a boat?” asked Daryth suspiciously.

“Because the walls are high, and the city gates are guarded around the clock. A boat returning to port with the same number of men aboard as left in the morning may escape inspection.”

“And once we’re in the city, what then?” asked the prince.

“I have people in the city,” said the bandit lord. “They will do whatever they can for you. My agent, Devin, may get you into the castle. If there’s a way, he’ll know it!”

“When can we get started?” Tristan asked.

“Tomorrow. We’ll take to horse at first light.”

Cawing and crying in a harsh cacophony, the birds of prey took wing. The hawks and eagles and owls exploded from their perches together, arrowing toward the stream and the as-yet-unseen enemy.

The birds rushed from the darkness against the army of the undead, dashing with beak and claw against the zombie vanguard. Flesh was torn away from the dead faces, and limbs were rent from bodies—but still the dead moved forward. Birds fell, shrieking in pain, as the claws of the undead tore at their feathered breasts or crushed their powerful wings.

And when the birds fell, the skeletons came upon them, lifting the struggling creatures and tearing them to pieces. A few of the zombies dropped, badly torn. But the fate of the flyers was much worse. Soon, the flock was decimated.

The army marched into the stream. At the far shore, sprawling in the darkness, was the grove of the Great Druid. And at its heart was the sacred pool of the Moonwell.

The vast caverns of Dwarvenhome glowed with an eerie green radiance as light spilled from the green fungi that grew on the high walls. Clinging stalactites dropped like drooling fangs over the huge council chamber, where hundreds of the short folk had gathered around a high platform. Three dwarves, looking nearly identical behind bristling beards, stood above their fellows. They heard the acclaim of their community arise from many barrel-chested comrades. The voices were strong and deep, and the chant was always the same: “Finnnnellllen! Finnnnellllen!”

One of the trio stepped forward, looking out at the vast sea of bearded faces. Her jaw jutted forward belligerently, but she apparently liked what she saw, for she nodded slowly, affirmatively.

“Dark dwarves in the Moonshaes? They’ll be there about five more days, I reckon—about as long as it’ll take my fighters to march there,
or my name’s not Finellen!”

The chant grew to a roar, and then the dwarves dispersed to gather their armor and weapons. In another hour they would assemble as an army to follow their heroic leader—the real champion of the Darkwalker war, as all the dwarves knew—through the vast caverns of the underdark. Their route would take them under land and sea; for the length of the march, they would never look upon the sun. And when they reached their destination, they would fall upon their hated enemies—the dark dwarves—with a vengeance.

The outcome would be bloody but glorious.

Slowly Robyn squeezed the wood of her staff, as always drawing strength and reassurance from her mother’s gift. She held the ashwood shaft before her and listened. Moments later, she heard a squishing, sucking noise that told her the zombies had emerged from the stream. They approached her, crossing the little meadow.

Kamerynn paced beside her. She sensed that Newt was still perched upon the unicorn’s horn, though she couldn’t see the little dragon. Neither could she see Yazilliclick, but she knew that the sprite stood beside her, ready to launch a hail of tiny missiles from his little bow.