Black Wizards (9 page)

Robyn was surprised by his apparent skill. For the first time she noticed that he was improving under her care. His bony frame had filled out slightly, and he could stand and walk without shaking. Now, he was even working.

For a minute she thought about running to tell Genna of her success, but quickly decided not to. The Great Druid had been cantankerous for the past few days, complaining of a stiffness in her bones and throbbing headaches. She had spent most of her time in bed, complaining to Robyn whenever the young druid was around.

Consequently, Robyn avoided the cottage as much as possible. This was not difficult, because the tasks she had to do would remain doubled as long as Genna was.

“His work’s not too bad—for a mushroom-head,” commented Newt in a stage whisper. He had taken to calling the stranger unflattering names, out of jealousy, Robyn suspected, for now she no longer attended entirely to the little dragon.

“Stop it,” she chided. “He seems to be growing much stronger. All he needed was a little shelter and decent food!”

“Maybe he’s strong enough to walk away from here,” grumbled Newt. “And it’ll be none too soon, I might add!”

“Why don’t you go take a bath in the Fens if you can’t be a little more polite?”

The stranger paused and turned to see if Robyn was watching. When he met her gaze, his face split into a wide grin, and he nodded enthusiastically before turning back to the task. For several minutes he chopped and trimmed, until the druid noticed that his strike was less sure.

“I’ll take over again,” she offered, reaching for the sickle. The stranger suddenly whirled, his face twisting into a beastly snarl as his
eyes darted wildly about. He appeared to stare right through her. But then he relaxed and smiled, meeting her gaze boldly. He handed the tool over and then stood near as she continued the job.

“Stand back,” she warned. “I don’t want to hit you.”

Obediently, he stepped away, but he still stared at her like an affectionate puppy. She could feel his unwavering gaze following her every motion, and found the sensation distinctly uncomfortable.

“Good! Good!” He cackled cheerfully, watching the hedge take shape.

“Who are you, anyway?” Robyn stopped working and stared at the stranger. She had not troubled about his identity when he was not talking, but now that he spoke, she wanted a name to call him by.

“I …” The man’s voice was puzzled and unsure. Suddenly, his eyes widened in fear, and he scuttled away from her. He crouched, his body wired with tension, as if he were about to flee.

 … Or attack? For a moment she felt very frightened of this stranger. And very vulnerable. With an angry shrug, she tried to ignore the feeling.

Inside, though, she was deeply disturbed by his fear. What could lie in his background that made him so frightened of companionship, of revealing his identity?

He stared at her again as she went back to work. But now his eyes followed her body less like a puppy and more like a hungry wolf. Robyn shivered involuntarily, and she clutched the sickle tightly as she turned to the mistletoe.

Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, stood upon a low hill just outside of Cantrev Kingsbay. He had a clear view of the bay itself and of the wide gray sea stretching to the east. Somewhere out there, he knew, the sun had risen, but a low-lying bank of clouds concealed the dawn from those on shore.

A half-dozen fishing vessels dotted the waters of the bay, moving toward deep water. There, salmon dashed in great numbers between the islands of Gwynneth and Alaron, and these fishermen made a fair living.

But one boat, Hobarth knew, had put to sea not to catch fish, but to deliver Tristan Kendrick dangerously close to Hobarth’s and Cyndre’s domain. Or at least attempt to deliver, the cleric gloated.

He meditated for a long time, sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed and his body upright. Gradually, he felt the presence of his deity, and Bhaal answered the summons of his faithful follower.

The spell he needed to cast was one of his most potent. It called for the direct might of his god, Bhaal, and allowed the cleric to control the very substances of the world around him. Bhaal eagerly powered the spell, for in fact he watched Hobarth’s mission with more than slight interest. Magic flowed through the cleric’s body and into the air.

Slowly but mightily he marshaled clouds heavy with water vapor, coaxing them from the highlands and forcing them out to sea. The force of his magic pushed and prodded the air, and gradually a breeze flowed from the shore. The breeze would become a wind and then a storm, if the cleric could maintain his spell.

And Hobarth knew that he could.

Canthus settled comfortably into the bow of the
Lucky Duckling
, while Daryth helped Rodger trim the lone sail. Pontswain relaxed easily against the gunwale, staring at the water. He had removed his armor, wrapping it with their weapons in oilskins and storing the package in the hull.

“Fine offshore breeze,” Rodger commented. “If it holds, we’ll cross the strait in two days.”

Tristan had been skeptical of the old seaman’s abilities when they had first met, for Rodger must have seen at least six decades. His build was slight, and his permanently stooped shoulders enhanced his look of frailty. His face was leathery, creased by hundreds of lines, and he did not have a tooth left in his mouth. After seeing the easy confidence with which he guided the
Lucky Duckling
, however, the prince felt considerably reassured.

They soon passed the mouth of Kingsbay and entered the Strait of Alaron. For a moment he looked over his shoulder at Gwynneth. As the island of his birth fell away behind them, he felt that he should feel
excitement and anticipation. But instead, he wrestled with the feeling that he might never see his homeland again.

I won’t think of that, he told himself. Or of Robyn. Or of Father. He peered resolutely over the bow. It was time to look before him again.

He watched the keen, albeit weathered, bow of the
Duckling
slice through the brine and enjoyed the sight of the wake foaming out to either side. He turned to see it spreading apart like a feathery trail behind the boat and saw that Gwynneth was practically out of sight. Daryth was relaxing in the bottom of the hull, his eyes closed and his head pillowed on a coil of rope.

“I hope the old fool can keep us on a straight course,” said Pontswain, coming over to join him.

“Of course he can!” Tristan retorted, annoyed.

“It must be nice to have such faith in people,” said the lord, with a sidelong glance at the prince. Shaking his head in amusement, Pontswain settled into the hull to sleep.

Tristan continued to watch the rolling waves, but gradually the experience became less pleasant. He began to feel his stomach heave upward every time the boat climbed a wave, and then threaten to lurch into his throat as they sliced down the other side. He began to dread the crest of each wave, his discomfort growing more acute. His footing grew shaky, and the strength seemed to drain from his arms as he tried to brace himself.

“First time at sea?” Rodger cackled the question from the back of the boat.

Tristan could only manage a mute nod, for his jaws were tightly clenched.

“This is nothing,” laughed the fisherman. “It get lots worse in the middle of the strait.”

This remark pushed the prince over the brink of self control, and he hung his head over the side, sending the remains of his breakfast to the fish. At least Pontswain and Daryth are still asleep, he thought, nauseated. He clung to the side of the boat as the constant motion of the waves seemed to grow more pronounced.

The long day seemed endless, and his condition worsened as the wind picked up. The
Lucky Duckling
seemed to fly from one wavetop to the next, and the prince noticed that the waves themselves were growing
considerably higher than they had been at the start of the journey.

“Best trim the sail,” grunted Rodger to Daryth as the latter arose to look around. “Sea’s getting higher’n I expected.”

Daryth loosened a line, pulling the boom higher up the mast so that the amount of sail exposed to the wind was reduced dramatically. Tristan felt the boat slow beneath him and could sense more control returning to the fisherman. The wind still tugged fiercely at the exposed canvas, but Rodger was able to guide the little vessel carefully over the huge swells. In spite of his nausea, Tristan could not keep his eyes from the sea as it swirled around him. The waves were climbing higher than the sides of the boat. He swallowed hard, certain that soon one would smash into the hull, flood the craft, and end the journey for all of them.

But Rodger was a skilled pilot, and the
Lucky Duckling
rode the waters like a carriage along a hilly path. She lurched occasionally but never faltered.

Somehow Pontswain had managed to sleep through the growing storm. Now he awoke suddenly and stumbled to his feet to look, aghast, at the rising sea. “What kind of a sailor are you?” he shouted at Rodger. “Can’t you read a simple change in the weather?”

Tristan wanted to object, but feared that if he unclenched his jaw he would again be overwhelmed by nausea. Daryth climbed to his feet and stepped to the lord’s side.

“Let the man sail, you pompous fool,” he growled.

“How dare you insult—” Pontswain’s hand reached for the sword hilt that would normally be at his belt, forgetting that he was unarmed. Daryth stepped in closer.

“There is something unnatural about this storm, and if you weren’t so eager to blame someone, you’d recognize it yourself!”

Pontswain seemed to pale slightly as the black eyes of the Calishite bored into his own. Finally, he turned with a shrug and looked back at the sea. Daryth settled back to rest, and Rodger sailed on as though nothing had happened.

By late afternoon, however, Tristan sensed that even the seasoned fisherman was worried. The swells had continued to grow, and they had trimmed the sail until it was no larger than a baby’s blanket.

“Tain’t natural,” groused the old man. “The weather failing like
this. It’ll be a long night if ’n it don’t settle down some.”

For a few minutes toward dusk, it seemed that the
Lucky Duckling
would live up to her name. The wind faded and the seas grew marginally calmer. But as the surrounding seas turned from a dull gray to a deep black with the onset of nightfall, the gusts of wind swept forward again, carrying the little fishing boat with them. Now the seas rolled six feet high and continued to grow.

Canthus paced anxiously beside the prince as he darted from side to side of the boat, looking into the water for he knew not what. When the moorhound began to whimper, Tristan stopped to scratch the dog’s broad head.

Rodger grasped the tiller firmly while Daryth raised the sail almost entirely. He left just enough for the sailor to retain steerage of the boat, but even so the little craft whipped forward recklessly.

A huge wall of black water rolled up to the stern of the ship and thundered past, sending a torrent of spray over the transom and leaving the
Duckling
awash, holding more than a foot of water.

“Bail!” cried Rodger, indicating a large bucket with a nod of his head. Tristan saw that the surging tiller nearly lifted the sailor off the hull with the force of the storm.

Desperately he knelt, noticing absently that he no longer felt sick. Pontswain knelt beside him, heaving full buckets over the side. Tristan had to admit, grudgingly, that the lord worked diligently and with great strength. Of course, he no doubt realized that his own life was at stake.

Pitching bucketfuls of water over the side, they bailed frantically, but water seemed to pour over the gunwales faster than they could scoop it out.

Tristan filled another bucket, but suddenly gagged as a surprising stench assailed his nostrils. Gasping, he dropped the bucket and staggered backward. Maggots spilled from the container to slither about the hull.

He struggled to voice his shock but no sound emerged. More maggots seethed from the hull of the boat, and he felt the wood grow spongy beneath his feet. The sickly white creatures, creeping from the
Duckling
’s very planks, seemed to fill the boat. The horrible smell of rotting flesh rose from the hull with the maggots.