Black Wizards (41 page)

“Of course not! I don’t know where you got such an idea!”

“This is very interesting. Of course, I do not know whether or not to believe you.…”

“Your Majesty?” said a figure from the doorway. The king whirled around in surprise as a dark-robed shape entered the cell through the open door.

“Cyndre! We will talk later! Leave me now.” The king’s voice was authoritative but a trifle shaky.

“I am afraid this cannot wait, sire. I come to you with a matter of the greatest urgency!” In the flickering torchlight, Tristan saw the wizard’s hands float through a delicate series of gestures. The king shuddered slightly and then sighed in quiet resignation.

“The usurper?” asked the wizard softly.

“He … he is …” The king seemed to have trouble collecting his thoughts.

“He is a threat, you mean,” finished the wizard. Tristan was horrified by the way the sorcerer manipulated the ruler. For the first time
the prince truly feared for his life.

“It is time that he died,” concluded Cyndre, still speaking in that musically pleasant voice.

“Very well,” replied the king quietly. He did not look at Tristan as he spoke.

The chains that held Daryth of Calimshan were no less stout, nor were their mountings in any way inferior to those binding the Prince of Corwell. But the Calishite had one advantage that the prince did not: He wore the gloves he had recovered from the treasure vault of Caer Allisynn. The guards, even after a thorough search, had not discerned the gloves, so perfectly did they match Daryth’s brown skin.

Daryth waited for several minutes after the guards had left. He heard them escort Tristan deeper into the dungeon. Some time later, he heard the guards approach again. One stuck a torch through the small iron grate in the door, illuminating the room and apparently satisfying himself that the prisoner was secure. Then they moved on.

Carefully, Daryth pulled his right hand against the tight manacle. It slipped through the rusty ring smoothly. With a gentle tug, his left hand came free as well. He drew forth one of the long wire probes concealed in the gloves, and crouched to examine the clasps binding his ankles. His nimble fingers located the tiny keyhole, even through the supple leather of the gloves. It was the work of several minutes to release the mechanism securing his right foot. The left one popped loose after another thirty seconds.

Daryth waited for a few minutes, scarcely daring to breathe. The dungeon was silent. He crept carefully across the cell, taking care in the inky blackness that he did not bump into anything or make any sudden noise.

The door was easy to find, though the lock proved more challenging than the clasps that had secured his manacles. It took him nearly ten minutes to figure out the complicated mechanism, but it finally revealed its secrets to his persistent probing and clicked free.

He inched the door open and looked into the corridor. A torch flickered somewhere in the distance, but elsewhere all was dark. The
cold stonework dripped with moisture, and the air smelled dank and heavy with mold. The Calishite slid carefully into the corridor, noting that there was no sound in either direction.

Daryth knew that Tristan had been taken to a cell farther down the corridor, to his left. The torch that flickered faintly was some distance to his right, while all was dark in the other direction. Realizing that he needed some light, he first glided silently the hundred feet to the torch, which sputtered in a rusty wall socket. He seized the flaming brand and turned back toward the depths of the dungeon.

But then he thought of their weapons—particularly the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. They had come too far with it to abandon it here, he decided. He held the torch before him and started up the corridor, determined to at least investigate the nearest guardroom.

He slipped carefully around a corner and recognized the stairs he had come down. The guardroom, where their weapons had been taken from them, was just at the top of the stairs. He sprang up the steps, three at a time, pausing below the top to observe. He cursed at the sight of an iron gate, closed across the passage. Beyond it, a guard sat dozing upon a chair—and beyond him, their weapons dangled from a hook in the wall!

Daryth carefully propped the torch against one of the steps, and removed the wire probe from his glove. Trying to work as quietly as possible, he gently prodded the mechanism. In moments, it freed with a loud click.

The man sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes widening as Daryth flung open the gate and dove into the guardroom. The Calishite’s fist caught the man’s jaw just as he opened it. His shout of alarm died in his throat and he collapsed, unconscious, against the wall.

Daryth turned toward the weapons and swiftly pulled down his scimitar. He girded the weapon to his belt, took the rest of the weapons, and locked the gate behind him.

There were only occasional doors along the walls here, he realized as he passed his own cell. As he passed each door, he held the torch to the iron grate that was set at eye level, illuminating the interior as he searched for his friend. The first four cells he examined were empty.

But the fifth held a man.

The figure was chained to the wall. His head hung low, so that
Daryth could not see his face. The man did not look like Tristan—he seemed smaller than the prince—but the Calishite could not be sure in the light.

“Tristan!” he hissed. There was no answer, nor any sign of life from the figure.

Cursing to himself, Daryth set the torch down and began to pick the lock of this cell.

His familiarity with the lock paid off, and the door clicked open in several minutes. He crept into the room, but the man still made no move. Holding the torch before him, Daryth moved slowly forward.

Suddenly the man raised his head, and looked at the Calishite with an expression of hopeless longing. It was not Tristan—this man was older, smaller, and emaciated. His gaunt cheeks flexed as if he tried to speak, but no sound emerged. His hands, Daryth realized, were twisted claws—they had been horribly mangled.

The man blinked a few times, apparently realizing that Daryth was not a guard coming to torment him. He moved his mouth, soundlessly, again. In fact, everything about him was soundless. His chains made no noise as he rattled them. His gasps of breath were complete inaudible.

“Who are—” Daryth began, but he could hear no sound. Sorcery! The hair at the back of his neck prickled as realized that the cell was blanketed by some kind of magical effect that eliminated all noise.

The man looked at him boldly now, and Daryth saw, behind the haggard look, a face of courage and dignity. He remembered tales of the good lords and loyal citizens that the High King had imprisoned.

Not understanding fully why he wasted his time thus, the Calishite stepped forward and began to pick the locks on the prisoner’s manacles.

Hobarth spent the day alternating between bursts of delight and fits of frustration. The druids had been defeated! His army of death had won a grand victory! Bhaal’s army of death, he reminded himself with a reverent nod of his head—Bhaal’s army, but under his own command
.

But they had been cheated of the pleasure of the kill. Sealed within their stony prisons, he was certain that the druids were watching, mocking him
.

He examined each smooth and lifelike statue, satisfying himself that they all were solid stone. He hefted a heavy iron axe, taking the weapon from a standing zombie, and smashed it against one of the statues, trying to snap off a druid’s upraised arm—but instead of the stone, the blade of his axe shattered. A stinging numbness throbbed in his hands as he dropped the useless weapon
.

Yet the blow had given him a sense of satisfaction. He enjoyed striking the druid, even if she could not feel his blow
.

A rumble of hunger disturbed his huge belly, and Hobarth, with almost childish glee, decided to hold a victory banquet. His table would be the stone slab that had fallen from one of the arches. His food would be the meat and wine of Bhaal himself. Dropping the axe handle, Hobarth turned to the stone and chanted a simple spell. Immediately, the surface of the slab was covered with succulent cuts of red meat, ripe fruits, and heavy bread. He threw his empty wineflask onto the slab, and uttered another incantation. Then he picked up the new flask and drank long and deep of the tart, strong liquid. A warm glow spread through his body as he tackled the feast—enough to feed four men—and finished it. Several times he created more wine, and his head buzzed pleasantly by the time he had consumed all the food

Hobarth next looked around the scene of the battle. Bodies of his undead lay everywhere, shattered and broken so badly that they had died a second time. Those bodies were useless to him. Many hundreds had survived the fight, however, and these now stood or sat like statues of flesh and bone around the Moonwell and the broken arches, waiting for their master’s next command
.

Several of the druids had died during the fight, and he looked for these bodies with interest. He found one—a woman—who had been torn by the zombies. Her face and limbs were gashed to the bone, and her eyes were gaping, bloody sockets. The zombies had shown a penchant for gouging the eyes from their victims
.

He lifted the Heart of Kazgoroth from its pouch and held it in his hand, staring at the body of the druid. Concentrating, he willed the might of Bhaal to enter the body. First, a leg twitched. Then the jaw stretched, flopping aimlessly. The cleric concentrated some more
.

The body of Isolde of Winterglen sat up slowly and climbed unsteadily to its feet
.

ristan looked from the king to the wizard to the turnkey. The High King could not meet his gaze, dropping his eyes to stare awkwardly at the floor. The grotesque turnkey leered eagerly, flecks of spittle dropping from his lips. The wizard threw back his hood and smiled coolly.

“The task is too important to leave to the headsman,” said Cyndre. “Or even to magic. I will handle this myself.”

He drew a black-hilted dagger from beneath his robe and took a step toward Tristan. The prince jerked frantically against his chains, but they were not about to give. The king turned away, while the turnkey raised his torch to shed more light on Cyndre’s intended victim.