Black Wizards (54 page)

Alexei leaped from the rampart. In mid-air, he uttered the one-word command for one of his simplest spells—a spell that would take effect immediately. Thus enchanted, he floated gently to the ground like a falling feather.

Kryphon had not waited to identify his attacker, and now Alexei saw no sign of him. Then he heard a low voice behind one of the tree trunks. As he settled to the ground, Kryphon reappeared, wrapped in a shimmering green globe of light

Kryphon’s eyes widened as he recognized Alexei, who stood facing him on the ground. “Well,
comrade,”
he said, “I am surprised to see that you are still alive!”

“And you, it would seem, have already lived too long.”

Kryphon laughed. “We shall see who has lived too long!”

Alexei suspected the nature of the globe surrounding his foe, and it worried him greatly. But it could be an illusion, and he had to make sure. He quickly raised his right hand and pointed at Kryphon’s heart.

“Magius, stryke!”

Five hissing bolts of magical energy shot in rapid succession from Alexei’s fingertip, each arrowing toward Kryphon’s grinning figure. And each sizzled into extinction as it came into contact with the green sphere.

“I am impressed in spite of myself,” acknowledged Alexei. Despite his outer calm, his mind whirled through a succession of desperate plans, discarding each as futile.

“That could not matter less to me,” sneered Kryphon. He waved a hand before him, preparing to cast a spell.

“Did you have a pleasurable dalliance with Doric?” asked Alexei, seizing upon that old ground as he groped for a plan.

“Bah! She quickly became annoying.”

“Did you send her after the druid? She failed, you know.”

Kryphon paused, surprised. “She went without my permission. She has been too frightened to return to me, since—no doubt doubly so, if she failed.

Alexei laughed. “She did not return to you because she cannot. The
druid killed her!”

Alexei hoped to provoke a strong reaction from his enemy, but he was disappointed. Kryphon shrugged and suddenly knit his brows in concentration. Carefully, he stroked his fingers through the air.

“Sheeriath, drake,”
he hissed. Alexei dove to the side at his words, and the sticky strings of web missed him by scant inches. He rolled behind a tree, still concentrating.

The globe of invulnerability protected Kryphon from Alexei’s magic. His enemy had all the advantages, stalking him while he could do little but scuttle out of the way. And how could he fight back without using his magic? Without using his magic on
Kryphon
, he reminded himself.

The murderous sorcerer crept closer—Alexei could hear the faint tread of his footfalls. He caught a glimmer of the magical screen coming around the tree and knew that his enemy was almost upon him. Overhead, one end of the shattered bridge hung limply. Kryphon stepped closer, and now Alexei saw him. Kryphon’s hands were raised in preparation for a final, killing spell.

Alexei raised a hand, weaving a spell of his own. He saw Kryphon’s confident grin—the black wizard felt quite secure behind his magical screen.

But Alexei’s spell was not cast at the mage. He pulled forth a tiny glass rod, much like the diamond one Kryphon had used to send the lightning bolt against Vaughn Burne.

“Blitzyth, Dorax zooth!”
The bolt of lightning exploded from Alexei’s finger as he pointed not at Kryphon, but straight above him. Kryphon’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stumbled over the words of his own casting as he leaned back to look upward.

In a split second he saw the section of the heavy rampart swinging over his head. He watched the bolt of lightning crackle into it, severing the few points of support still holding the wreckage to the tree. And he screamed as the mass of twisted wood plummeted through his magical screen, and his skull, and his chest.

But even his death scream was drowned by the splintering and snapping of the broken mass as it crashed heavily to earth. The pile of wreckage creaked and groaned for several seconds before settling—a suitably anonymous gravestone for Kryphon, Alexei thought. The
sudden end to the fight left him weak and trembling. He felt a little frustrated at the suddenness of Kryphon’s death—he had hoped to savor the moment more.

He leaned against a rough tree trunk, slowly dropping until he was slumped on the ground. He stayed there for several minutes, until the sounds of marching awakened him from his reverie. The empty battlements greeted his eyes, and beyond, as if to mock him, he saw a line of crimson soldiers advancing toward the gate.

Alexei stayed behind the tree and watched. The soldiers, at first glance, seemed very close—but then he realized that it was their huge size that gave this impression. For these were not humans, marching a hundred abreast toward the undefended gate of Doncastle.

This was the ogre brigade.

The troops of Doncastle made a valiant stand at the King’s Gate. One brigade of human mercenaries shattered against the pikes and swords of O’Roarke’s men. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh claimed a dozen or more mercenaries. O’Roarke rode like a maniac, directing his charger into the thick of the fighting, flailing about with a great two-handed sword. The man looked like he had been born to battle.

But then the ogres marched into the rear of the defenders. As the rest of the Scarlet Guard charged the broken position, Hugh O’Roarke led a futile counterattack. Dozens of his men fell around him, pushing their leader to safety. At the last, the bandit leader was swept along with his men routing from the fight—those few that had survived the bloody onslaught of the ogres.

The disaster developed swiftly. Within minutes of the first appearance of the monstrous troops, word spread through the ranks that the battle was lost. With no hope of victory, the men of Doncastle were reluctant to face their doom.

They fled through the abandoned streets of the city, away from the enveloping wings of the royal army. In chaos and confusion, the panic-stricken mass poured through the Druid’s Gate, into the wilds of Dernall Forest.

Tristan and his companions stood until the line collapsed around
them. It was easy to foresee the inevitable result of the attack, so Tristan again decided to keep his friends together and alive rather than staying to make an heroic but fruitless stand.

“Stay together!” he cried, holding Robyn’s hand. Daryth and Pawldo flanked the druid, while Canthus raced behind.

Hundreds of men, eyes wide with panic, pressed around them. Robyn was torn from his grasp by the force of the retreat. As he saw her black hair borne away by the mob, he panicked and reached for the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, ready to battle his way to her side, if need be.

But somehow the druid managed to stop moving, standing serenely with her eyes closed, and miraculously the fleeing soldiers avoided her, leaving her as an island in the raging river of retreat.

They started moving again, swept along by the crowd, and suddenly the prince recognized a tousled head of red hair. He pushed through a pair of bedraggled swordsmen and took Fiona’s arm.

“Let go!” she cried, and then recognized him. “What happened? I didn’t expect to see
you
running away.”

“Come on,” he said, forcing her back to his companions.

“I can take care of myself!” She waved her shortsword. “I’m staying here to stick this into the king’s heart as soon as he gets here!”

“Join us—you’ll have another chance!” Tristan said, maintaining his hold on her as they were swept along.

They passed through the Druid’s Gate as smoke was beginning to fill the air. Once outside of the city, Robyn led the way. The troops followed the pathways through the woods, but she took her companions through the thick of the forest. It seemed that she opened a path with a wave of her hand before her.

“They’ve put the city to the torch,” muttered Daryth, looking behind him. The Calishite plainly regretted their flight.

“What now?” asked Robyn. “The rebels can’t run forever. Will the king and his wizards try to slay them all?”

Tristan couldn’t meet her gaze. “I’m sure that the sorcerer will not rest until every shred of resistance is crushed from the people of Alaron!”

“And then Gwynneth, perhaps—or Moray? Tristan, we can’t let this happen!”

“What do you want me to do?” he demanded.

Robyn gestured into the forest. “You can gather that army and fight again! We’ll stand with you!”

“She’s right!” Daryth’s eyes lit. “The men of Doncastle were not slaughtered—they fled. Rally them, and you’ll have an army that can stand again!”

“You must!” cried Fiona, her eyes flashing. “My father died to bring word of that army—Doncastle died trying to stop it! You can’t let those sacrifices go in vain!”

“There are too many in the king’s legions—this force will never be able to stop them!”

“That’s not what you said at Freeman’s Down,” said Robyn, a little sharply.

“And why do you suppose the king only attacked with the Scarlet Guard?” persisted Daryth. “Could it be that his other lords are not so loyal—that a victory against the king might cause them to lose heart?”

“Perhaps even to join the rebel cause?” added the druid.

Tristan looked at his companions, and he knew they were right. He didn’t know how he could hope to rally the broken force—but he knew that he had to try.

“Very well,” he agreed quietly. “Let’s move quickly and get ahead of the troops. We’ll pick a place to rally them and see what happens.”

“A splendid battle! A marvelous fight! My, how a victory gets one’s blood pumping! Oh, say—look at the flames!” King Carrathal was quite beside himself. In one blow, it appeared that he had crushed the rebellion. He stood outside his coach at the King’s Gate, watching the sacking of Doncastle.

“Now, let’s get back to Caer Callidyrr—I simply must have a victory feast!” Still beaming, he climbed into the coach. Cyndre, who had just returned from a meeting with his council, followed.

“Sire, I fear the task is not yet done.”

“Eh, what’s that?”

“The usurper was not found among the dead. However, my man, Kryphon, was. I’m certain another of my mages also died in that city—I would certainly have found her by now if she were alive. This
prince has now cost me, personally—and he will pay! There are still potent forces of rebellion here, and we cannot rest until the spark of mutiny has been quelled for good!”

“Search again for the body of the usurper!” shrilled the king. “He must be here! Put out those fires—his body will be burned, and we’ll never find it!”

“I tell you, he lives!” hissed the mage.

“And I tell you you’re wrong!” shouted the king. He looked at the wisps of smoke rising from all quarters of Doncastle, at the bodies sprawled across the ground. His mind felt startlingly clear—and he hated what he saw.

“Let them go,” argued the king. “We have taught them a lesson. We shall return to my palace, and there I will throw a festival such as Callidyrr has never seen.”

“No, Your Majesty. We must—”

“What did you say?” King Carrathal’s nose twitched slightly. “Did you say ‘no’ to me—your lord?”

Cyndre cursed. Dark magic rose within him like the bubbling prelude to a volcanic eruption. His smooth voice cracked into a snarl.

“You are a pitiful worm! Everything you have I have given you, and now you lack the gratitude to repay me or even the sense to see the wisdom of my words!”

“I am king! You cannot speak to me that way! Now leave me—I shall give the orders to return to Callidyrr myself!”

Black magic exploded from the mage, hissing invisibly around the monarch. The color drained from the king’s face. Then he slumped in his seat, his eyes open but glazed. Dumbly, he stared into the distance. The Crown of the Isles tipped forward, sliding across his face, and then fell heavily to the floor of the coach.

“I shall give the order,” hissed the sorcerer. “And it will not be a return to your castle.”