Black Wizards (36 page)

Tristan nodded curtly. He had spent a lot of time wondering about Pontswain’s motives. The only conclusion he could reach was that the lord hoped that he would be killed, leaving him with no rival for the throne. Tristan felt a sense of loathing, but also of betrayal. The notion bothered him more than he had thought it would.

They sailed swiftly northward along the coast of Alaron. The land, to the west, was green and rolling—more fertile than Gwynneth, and always more populous. The water below them was also green, and it stretched to the east far beyond the horizon. Tristan drew a strange thrill from the knowledge that the nearest land in that direction was the Sword Coast, many days’ travel away. Pawldo and Daryth slept comfortably, for the ride had been exhausting, but Tristan stood eagerly in the bow, staring in awe at the land and sea around him. Canthus stood at his side, sensing his master’s excitement.

In a few hours they rounded the wide point that marked the entrance to Whitefish Bay. Now their course swerved to the southwest, and Tristan stared intently forward. Very gradually, their destination appeared in the distance.

Finally, he could see the vast harbor, protected by a strong, druid-raised breakwater. Beyond it was the largest city of the Ffolk, teeming with activity, commerce, and life. A white stone wall surrounded it, snaking beside the buildings and streets as they climbed the hills beyond the shore. A pall of smoke hung over the city just above the waterfront, but the sun shone unimpeded over the rest of the city.

Tristan saw proud stone buildings, and manors with columns before them. He imagined the gardens and fountains that must lie between them. But his eyes swept up even higher, past the manor houses and beyond the rambling wall of the city.

For now the prince had eyes only for the structure high on the hilltop above the city.

A lifetime of description and imagining had not prepared him for the splendor of Caer Callidyrr. The fortress sprawled across three hilltops, in itself bigger than many a town. The high stone walls, accented by lofty towers, gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun. They seemed impossibly smooth, as if they had been polished only that morning. crenellated battlements lined the top, and several tall gates
provided access through the walls. Each of these was shielded by a drawbridge and guarded by a high gatehouse.

Colorful banners streamed from the highest towers, proclaiming the lineage of the High King, while lower flags denoted the lords who had pledged allegiance to the throne. Several blood-red banners fluttered in one corner of the castle.

As the boat approached the breakwater, Tristan noticed one tower that was made of darker stone than the rest of the castle. This one was long and slender, standing alone at the far end of the castle. Though the late afternoon sun cast brilliant rays along the entire length of the fortress, this tower seemed to linger under some kind of inherent shadow. Whether its walls were not as clean as the rest of the castle, or were made from a different color stone, Tristan had no clue.

They sailed past the breakwater to enter the huge harbor. Dozens of fishing boats were returning as the day drew to a close. Several huge trading galleons and a pair of longships were anchored in the port, and the prince saw a huge shipyard to one side, where a pair of sturdy ships appeared to be nearing completion.

The docks themselves were bustling with activity. Mechanical cranes, operated by pulley, block, and tackle, dipped into the holds of the fishing boats and scooped out the catches, carrying them into numerous canneries that lined the waterfront. These fish houses took in fish by the netful, and the stench of their contents extended far into the harbor.

Even amidst all of the activity, the bright uniforms of the Scarlet Guard were plainly visible. Human officers with parchment sheets compared the names of the returning fishing craft and performed quick head counts as the boats approached the dock. Huge ogres scowled suspiciously at everyone, fingering their mighty swords.

Finally, the
Swallow
pulled alongside the dock, and the crane swiveled over to them. The captain and his crew, Tristan saw, had managed to fill the hold with a respectable catch before they had picked up the companions.

Canthus sprang onto the dock, and Tristan, Daryth, and Pawldo hurried behind him. The prince looked around—for what, he wasn’t sure, but Hugh had promised they would be met at the dock. He suddenly realized that he and his companions stood a scant twenty feet
from a leering ogre. The beast scowled and squinted at them, letting its fat, red tongue hang from between its drooping lips.

Canthus growled at the monster, and it took a step forward, its gross hand coming to rest on the hilt of its sword. Then a pretty maiden rushed up to the prince, embracing him and kissing him warmly on the lips. He flushed, but quickly returned the embrace.

“Oh, Geoff!” she said breathlessly. “I was so worried about you! I worry every day, but especially today. Mother has a hot stew on for you—oh, and I’m to tell you to bring your friends!”

The girl was perhaps sixteen years old. Her red hair framed a freckled face with bright, sparkling brown eyes. She was dressed in a red and white frock of poor but clean material.

She smiled warmly at Daryth and Pawldo, while giving the prince’s arm a pleasant squeeze. He allowed himself to be pulled along the dock, his companions quickly following. He sensed the glower of the ogre burning into his back, but he dared not look around.

The maiden steered him past several fish houses, and then pulled him through the door into one of the factories. The smell of cod was everywhere. The place was dark, and the floor was slick with oil. “Quickly!” she urged, now leading them at a run.

They passed through the building and emerged from a rotted door to find themselves in a filth-strewn alley. The young woman said nothing further, but led them down the alley, around a corner, and through a narrow street, Finally; they arrived at a ramshackle house. Here, she looked to see that the street was empty of guards, and then bounded up the steps. Pushing open the door, she pulled the companions inside.

A fire crackled in a small fireplace, but the house was otherwise dark. The girl led the fugitives through the first room and into a narrow hallway. There, she pulled aside a rug and lifted a heavy trap door. “Down here,” she pointed, indicating the steep stairway that was revealed. Canthus leaped through the secret passage, and the lass came last and pulled the door shut behind her.

They stood in a secret hideaway, hidden in the cellar of the house. The room was large, with several shadowy alcoves. Lanterns filled the air with thick smoke, and a roaring fire warmed the room.

A middle-aged man turned from a worktable as they descended. He
wiped his hands on a leather apron and frowned.

“I am Devin. This is my daughter, Fiona,” he said. His brown beard concealed his chin, and his pate was nearly bald. He gestured around him, and Tristan saw that they stood in some kind of blacksmith shop. Several narrow cots were visible in the corner.

“We only learned of your imminent arrival yesterday,” Devin explained bluntly. “Hence, we cannot offer you better accommodations.”

“What you have done for us already is more than sufficient,” replied Tristan. “How can we repay you?”

“You cannot. You can simply do what you need to do, and then leave me and my daughter in peace.” The man shrugged. “My lord Roarke has asked me to assist you in any way that I can. This I shall do.”

“All right,” he said. “Well make our plans and be gone as quickly as we can.”

The prince wondered about Devin’s loyalty to the bandit lord and the risks he was taking for them. As if reading his mind, the fellow looked him in the eye and explained. “I was Lord Roarke’s captain of the guard before the Scarlet Guard came to the cantrev. My men resisted and died to the last lad. My lord, myself, and a few others escaped—including Fiona here. The two of us came to Callidyrr, and now we serve our lord in whatever way we can. If it comes about that you can return his lands to him and remove the evil puppet that sits upon
our
throne, then my help comes willingly. But if you seek to betray or harm my lord in any way, rest assured that my vengeance will find you!”

Tristan was taken aback by the threat, but found his voice. “Rest assured that your lord’s objectives and my own are the same. By helping us, you are helping him.”

“Very well. Fiona, fetch us something to drink. Our guests will eat as soon as they have refreshed themselves. And, as for getting into the castle, there might be a way.…”

Robyn gasped for air, trying to see through a red haze. She willed her muscles to move, but they would not answer her mental commands.
Wide-eyed, feeling like a fish cast upon the shore, she watched the huge cleric lumber toward her. Those fat lips opened into a grin of pleasure, and she looked into his mouth. It was like staring at the maw of a devouring dragon.

The ground convulsed again, tossing her to the side. Again the ground heaved, and she felt pain as the dirt smashed into her face. The heaving ground had forced the wind from her lungs. Wide-eyed, she saw the huge man stalk closer to her.

“Cease!”

Genna’s command instantly stilled the quaking ground. Robyn tried to wriggle away from the advancing figure, but she moved at an agonizingly slow crawl. He was almost to the arch. In moments he would enter the circle!

“To the mother! Fall!”

Again, Genna’s sharp voice carried through the night, and now Robyn felt a deep straining in the ground beneath her—a sympathetic effort, as the land strove to work the will of the goddess. The advancing cleric paused.

Robyn could see the broad crosspieces atop many of the druidic arches, and all of those in her field of vision began to wobble. Balanced upon sturdy pillars, the heavy stones had not budged during the convulsions of the earthquake, but now they twisted and rolled.

With a thunderous crash, one of the crosspieces fell to the ground nearby, crushing a score of skeletons that had begun to advance. Then another and another crashed to the earth, crushing all of the undead beneath them, and leaving a barrier before each of the arches.

The crosspiece of the arch in front of her struck the ground with enough force to throw Robyn several feet into the air. She saw the cleric’s face twist into a snarl of frustration as he leaped backward to avoid being crushed. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips.

Newt buzzed to the ground before her, peering anxiously into her eyes.

“Robyn? Are you all right? That was awful! Did you see the look on his face? Genna showed him, though—when that rock fell, I thought he was going to be splattered all over! Are we winning yet? Get up, Robyn—we can fight some more!”

“Where is he?” she gasped, as her lungs finally filled with
oxygen. She grabbed her staff from the ground beside her and stood shakily. She leaned against the block of stone for support and looked over the top into the darkness. There was no sign of the cleric.

But he was near, she knew. Her fear forgotten, she seized her staff. She would find him and kill him. “Come on!” she cried, jumping onto the block. “We’ve got to stop him!”

“Let’s get him!” cried Newt, darting after her.

“W-wait!” stammered Yazilliclick, before he too sprang after her.

“No!” Robyn heard Genna’s voice, but the words did not register, so intent was she on pursuing the hated intruder.

She darted across the wide block and leaped to the ground on the other side. But before she landed, she bumped into a solid thing—an object she could not see, but that blocked her path like a stone wall.

Her head snapped back from an unseen blow, and the staff flew from her fingers. She slumped toward the ground, but a mighty limb picked her up.

“What’s the mat—” Newt’s question was interrupted as an unseen attack clubbed him from the air with one blow.

“Ouch! Hey!” cried Newt. He flapped his wings and sprang from the ground, but buzzed erratically to the side before flopping down again. “Come back!” he squeaked, bounding like a squirrel after an invisible stalker.

“Newt!” cried Robyn, twisting desperately. She was powerless in the grasp of … what? The thing made no noise, but grasped her around the chest and waist so firmly she could barely breathe. It felt as though she was ensnared in the coils of some massive snake.

But no snake could move as fast as she was now borne across the ground. Her captor moved smoothly and swiftly, as if it were flying just inches above the land. She was borne away from the Moonwell at a breathtaking pace. Her hands were free, and she pounded and punched her attacker.

She felt a tough and leathery skin beneath her fists—but the thing was unnaturally smooth. It seemed to have no hair, or scales, or appendages. It gave off no smell, nor did it make any sound. As she pushed at the limb imprisoning her, she felt it bend away, but then another snaked around her waist, nearly crushing her abdomen.
Wherever she attacked, her invisible captor melted away, only to instantaneously reconstruct in a new shape that held her like an iron clamp.

The alienness of the thing terrified her, and drove her to a frenzy of effort—but to no avail. And still it moved over the ground without any jolting or jerking, as if it had no feet. She kicked against the body with the tips of her toes, and, reaching upward, pounded its skin as high as she could reach. It seemed to have no end—it was certainly much larger than she was.