Black Wizards (49 page)

The sounds of battle grew faint—a good sign, as that meant the dwarves had crossed the initial barriers of defense in each tunnel. For an agonizing hour Finellen heard little, and she began to hope that the battle was won.

But then the din of clashing steel grew more distinct. Louder and louder, the noise swelled from the tunnels. Now she heard the cries of wounded, and the horrible battle noise of the duergar all around her. There was no doubt what was happening.

Her companies were being forced to retreat.

Robyn could not go back to sleep. Images of the black, sharp-beaked
birds tormented her every time she closed her eyes.

“Robyn?”

“Yazilliclick?” She looked around. “Where are you?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake,” cried the faerie, popping into sight on the footboard of the large bed. “I was so worried about you, Robyn. Those men brought you here, and I couldn’t stop them, but I hoped they’d help you. I think they did—they did.”

She held up her hand, but couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you for staying with me,” she said. “Where’s Newt?”

“F-food! He went to get us something to eat—to eat!”

“We’ll be lucky to get anything but the bones,” sighed the druid, reassured to have friends beside her in this strange place. Then she laughed as she saw the faerie dragon hovering outside the window, trying to hold his altitude and a large haunch of roast at the same time.

She crossed to the window and opened it, lifting the mutton from the dragon as he dove through the opening and collapsed on the bed. “Boy, is that cook ever a sourpuss! You wouldn’t believe the things he threw at me while I was minding my own business, getting a little supper!” The dragon stifled a laugh. “I fixed him, though—you should have seen his face when I used my spell!”

“What did you do?” asked Robyn, a little worried.

“I made it look like maggots were crawling out of all his meat. He was sure upset! It was great fun! Now, can we go home? Or find Tristan, or something.? I’m bored!”

“N-Newt! Let Robyn rest!” said Yazilliclick sternly.

“I’m afraid I do need to rest before we go,” said the druid, sitting back on the bed. “But you—i—”

Robyn gasped as a black shadow soared through the window into her room. A white face grimaced at her, and she had a horrible vision of an undead skeleton, flying here to haunt her.

But the eyes of this apparition were alive, and its red lips were parted in cruel delight. This figure, robed all in black, was a woman. And now she was diving at Robyn’s face. Robyn caught a glimpse of thin, bony hands and wild black hair as the woman flew toward her.

But most of all Robyn saw the woman’s steel dagger, extended like a claw for her heart. Desperately, she pulled a pillow from the bed and crouched beneath it as the woman fell upon her. Feathers flew as the
dagger sliced the cushion.

The young druid used the force of her attacker’s momentum to pull her past the bed, kicking her in the stomach as she sailed by. The attacker slammed into the wall as Robyn threw off the covers and sprang to her feet.

Still bearing that ghastly grin, showing her long teeth, the woman brandished her dagger. Suddenly, Newt flashed across the room, scoring a path of bloody claw marks across her cheek. Yazilliclick pulled out his silver dagger and darted into the fray. With a bestial scream of rage, the woman turned toward the faerie dragon.

“Sheeriath, drake!” she hissed, pointing. A stream of stringlike material shot from her finger, wrapping itself around the little dragon, sticking to him and burying the wood sprite as well. They were both stuck fast in the gluey net of a giant spiderweb.

A sorcerer! Hissing like an angry black cat, the woman crept toward her. She waved the dagger menacingly.

“Centius, heerith!” said Robyn softly. Instantly, the blade of the dagger glowed cherry red. With an explosive hiss of pain, the woman dropped her weapon.

“Magius, stryke!” she shrieked. An arrow of light burst from her pointing finger to strike Robyn in the breast, cutting her skin and burning into her flesh. Pain raced through the druid’s body as another, and still a third, magic missile crackled into her bleeding chest. The force of the blows smashed her against the outer wall of the room. Robyn leaned heavily against the window, while the magic-user stood with her back to the door.

Newt and Yazilliclick struggled within the bonds of the web, but they were powerless to move. Robyn felt her strength ebb as blood ran across the front of her gown. She shook her head weakly as the woman pulled a little ball of something from her robe. The smell of sulphur filled the air.

“Pyrax, surrass histar,” gloated the mage, her eyes gleaming, The tiny ball suddenly burst into flame, drifting lazily toward Robyn.

Sulphur? Fire magic! Desperately, Robyn raised her hands to her face and then dropped them the length of her body.

“Protection, Mother—” she beseeched. Before she could finish the ritual chant, orange flame exploded around her, blanketing her body
in fire. The fireball billowed from the window, illuminating the night and incinerating half the room. Doric stood in the other half, cackling as the fire—far hotter than any natural blaze—consumed the bed, the walls, and the floor. The druid could not be seen in the bright heart of the explosion.

But then the magic-user’s eyes widened as her enemy stepped from the heat. Robyn’s goddess had heard her plea for protection. She had surrounded her druid with a cool barrier, holding the forces of dark magic at bay.

Doric’s jaw fell slack as she stared in awe. The druid came closer, and the blazing rage in her eyes made even the supernatural heat of the fireball grow pale in comparison.

Robyn seized the neck of the mage with hands that were strong and callused from work in the grove. Her grip tightened, and she felt the windpipe of her enemy close beneath her powerful grasp. Robyn’s strength was much greater than this frail woman’s—for Doric’s power to terrorize and destroy came solely from her magic.

Suddenly, Robyn knew that she wanted this mage to die by magic—and carry a final lesson about the power of the goddess to her grave. Robyn had a spell for healing, and she knew that if she reversed the words of the chant, she would reverse the effect of the spell.

“Matri, terrathyl—wrack,” she growled, relaxing her grip slightly. Robyn felt the woman’s neck twist, tense, and finally snap. The sorceress fell dead.

Flames raged up the side of the Black Oak Inn as Tristan ran up to the building. Panicked patrons rushed from the doors and spilled through the windows in a race to escape.

Desperately, Tristan forced himself into the main room, pressing against the flow of humanity. He leaped the stairs four at a time and stumbled into the smoke-filled hallway.

Suddenly, one of the doors burst open and someone staggered into the hall, carrying a bundle. Her face was averted to avoid the swirling clouds of smoke, but there was no mistaking the long fall of ebony hair.

“Robyn!” Tristan gasped, stumbling forward to take her in his arms.
She looked at him in disbelief. Her face was streaked with soot and covered with bruises and scratches. Yet she had never looked so beautiful.

Tristan seized her in his arms and helped her to the stairs, noting that the bundle was in fact Newt. The dragon was tangled in a strange web, and Tristan thought he saw another tiny figure buried there as well. Robyn collapsed against him.

He helped her down the stairs and they stumbled from the inn together. She tried to drop Newt and Yazilliclick to take him in her arms, but she couldn’t get free. The prince, too, tugged at the wailing faeries, trying to dislodge the sticky mess.

“Robyn, you’re here,” Tristan said stupidly.

She smiled up at him, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Once again, he tried to pull Newt out of the way.

But finally they gave up. He took her into his arms, faeries and all, and pressed his lips to hers. She met him warmly, holding him tight as they ignored the stares of the Ffolk who had gathered to watch the fire.

The goddess saw the specter of Bhaal looming on the horizon of the world. She felt the painful trod of his footstep as his presence drew near
.

But her feelings were muted, barely there. Nearly all of her might had been expended in the effort to protect her druids—and that had been only partially successful. The druids of Myrloch Vale were not dead, but they were quite helpless. Unseeing, unfeeling, they could only remain within their stone prisons, awaiting rescue or destruction
.

The specter of Bhaal grinned, delighting in the despair of the Earthmother. From Bhaal’s point of view, things were progressing very well indeed
.

The undead army, under the command of Hobarth and aided by the heart of Kazgoroth, had accomplished everything he had hoped—and more. The Moonwell of the Vale was not only in his hands, but the druids had foolishly sacrificed themselves in the effort to protect it
.

The sahuagin, under his devout high priestess, were gathering an impressive force of destruction. The dead of the sea, raised by his faithful clerics, would be another army to throw against the Moonshae Isles. Even Cyndre, his unwitting servant upon Alaron, acted as Bhaal desired. His course, whatever its outcome, would almost certainly yield more bodies to Bhaal’s cause
.

Bhaal turned slightly and took notice of a new force. He relished killing in all of
its forms and took pleasure in the underground battle between the dwarves. Bhaal was surprised as the dark dwarves poured forth in ever-increasing numbers, until a vast horde of them charged through the underdark, threatening everything in their path
.

The dark dwarves were minions of other evil gods. Bhaal could not count his clerics among their number. But they were bloodthirsty and numerous
.

There would be a way, Bhaal suspected, that they could play into his hands
.

anthus growled a warning, and Pawldo didn’t wait to confirm the dog’s suspicions. “Down—hide!” he hissed, but Fiona had already dived into the muddy ditch. He splashed beside her and felt the moorhound settle in next to them.