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  AN ARMY OF BHAAL

  An army of zombies and ogres, guided by Bhaal, god of death and destruction, threatens the peace of the Moonshae Isles. Once again Tristan Kendrick, prince of Moonshae, struggles to earn his birthright.

  Now back in print, this is the second volume of Douglas Niles’s acclaimed Moonshae Trilogy.

  Books by Douglas Niles

  FORGOTTEN REALMS®

  The

  Moonshae Trilogy

  Darkwalker on Moonshae

  Black Wizards

  Darkwell

  DRAGONLANCE®

  The

  Icewall Trilogy

  The Messenger

  The Golden Orb

  Winterheim

  Wizards’ Conclave

  The Puppet King

  The Moonshae Trilogy • Book Two

  BLACK WIZARDS

  ©2004 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Forgotten Realms, Wizards of the Coast, their respective logos and Dragonlance are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by J.P. Targete

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004106772

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5970-9

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  v3.1

  For my mother and father

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prelude

  Chapter 1 - A Druid of Myrloch Vale

  Chapter 2 - The Council of Corwell

  Chapter 3 - Black Wizard

  Chapter 4 - Caer Allisynn

  Chapter 5 - The Dead Queen

  Chapter 6 - Alaron

  Chapter 7 - The Scarlet Guard

  Chapter 8 - The Crystals of Thay

  Chapter 9 - Fugitives

  Chapter 10 - Shapeshifter

  Chapter 11 - Doncastle

  Chapter 12 - Desecration

  Chapter 13 - Callidyrr

  Chapter 14 - Dungeon

  Chapter 15 - Alexei

  Chapter 16 - The Dwarves

  Chapter 17 - Return to Doncastle

  Chapter 18 - Skirmishes

  Chapter 19 - Wind

  Chapter 20 - Fire

  Chapter 21 - Earth and Sea

  What has gone before.…

  King Kendrick of Corwell was one of the four kings of the Ffolk who dwelled upon the Moonshae Islands. Corwell, along with the Kingdoms of Moray and Snowdown, owed fealty to Callidyrr, for Callidyrr was home to the king of Callidyrr, who was the titular High King of all the Ffolk.

  Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, had studied some of the arts of kingship very diligently, swordfighting and military science in particular. However, he was less interested in the more mundane aspects of rulership, such as economics and agriculture.

  Robyn, the king’s ward, had been raised as his own daughter, but her interests lay beyond the castle. She showed a proclivity toward the woodlands and all things natural.

  In the twentieth year of the prince’s life, Kazgoroth the Beast rose from its fetid bog to threaten the kingdom of Corwell. Walking the land in a number of guises, it recruited allies and sought its one goal: the disruption of the Balance so crucial to the Ffolk—and the very isles themselves.

  Forced into battle, Robyn found herself wielding potent druidic magic—earthmagic that was the legacy of the mother she had never known. Tristan fought the Beast and created an army to defeat Kazgoroth’s minions. In the process, he found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. This legendary weapon, lost for centuries, allowed him to slay the Beast and served as a symbol of the lost unity of his people.

  At the same time, Tristan and Robyn found their relationship changing, growing as a long-dormant love for each other awakened inside them.

  But Robyn could not ignore her legacy, and so she went to study under her aunt, Genna Moonsinger, the Great Druid of all the Moonshaes. Tristan remained in Corwell, enjoying the accolades of victory, and swiftly growing bored.

  We resume their story one year after the death of the Beast.…

  he plane of Gehenna was a bleak and oppressive realm, hostile to mortal life. It was a world built upon a vast, unending mountainside, sloping steeply always, never reaching a bottom or a summit. Gouts of steam erupted from the mountainside, and rivers of lava flowed across it, sizzling through long cataracts, collecting in bubbling pools.

  Such was the domain of Bhaal, murderous god of death.

  A seething, angry god, Bhaal thrived on bloody, violent acts. He grew in strength as his worshippers spread across the worlds, slaying in his horrible name.

  Bhaal sought vengeance.

  A minion of the god had been killed nearly one mortal year ago, but an eyeblink to the god. Kazgoroth was neither Bhaal’s most powerful servant, nor his most favored. But he was slain by a mortal, and the man who dared strike a minion of Bhaal’s might as well strike at the god himself.

  The bloodlust of the god began as a simple hatred—a desire to see this mortal, and those who aided the man, slain. Bhaal anticipated their deaths with grisly pleasure.

  But the man was a prince. And he was the beloved of a druid. His woman carried her own power, and she served a goddess who was foreign—and thus, hateful—to Bhaal.

  And so Bhaal’s need for vengeance evolved and grew into something far more terrible than any plot for murder. The prince was a leader of his land, and the druid was a caretaker of that land. It seemed fitting to Bhaal that not only the mortals, but their land itself, should die.

  The god had a powerful tool for wreaking this vengeance. Bhaal’s minion, Kazgoroth, though slain, was not entirely gone. One fragment of the Beast—its heart—remained, clutched desperately by one of its former servants. Bhaal took careful note of the Heart of Kazgoroth. He would have a use for it soon.

  Yes, he decided. The land of these mortals would become a land of death—a nation ruled by the dead, over the dead. No living thing would mar it.

  Thus was dealt the vengeance of Bhaal.

  “Enter.”

  The assassin looked around sharply but could not see the source of the hissing voice. Nevertheless, the stone wall before him slipped open, revealing a corridor even blacker than the surrounding night.

  Muttering a curse, the assassin entered and disappeared into inky darkness. In his silk shirt and trousers he slipped along without a whisper, his soft leather boots gliding silently over the smooth stone floor. All around him the sprawling vastness of Caer Callidyrr lay dark and slumbering.

  The assassin walked cautiously into one of the castle’s towers. He saw blackness, a deep and unnatural gloom. Then he heard a soft snapping of fingers, and the darkness dissipated. But it did not exactly grow light; the effect was more a relief of blackness. Faint rays of moonlight spilled through narrow windows high in the walls, and he could vaguely make out the cou
ncil.

  The Seven sat around a long, U-shaped table. They faced the assassin, their table open before him like the jaws of some beast. Deep, cowled hoods concealed the faces. The assassin looked up at them and clamped his teeth together. He could scarcely repress a shudder of revulsion.

  The one in the center, he knew, was Cyndre.

  The master of the wizards confirmed his identity, his gentle voice belying the terrible powers at his command.

  “You were careless about that task in Moray. King Dynnegall’s daughter survived long enough to provide a description of your men.”

  The assassin sniffed loudly through his broad nose. “The guards were more numerous than you led me to expect. We had to kill several dozen of them. And the nursemaid hid the baby in an attic—it took us hours to dig out the little brat. I lost two good men, and the mission was a success—the Dynnegall line is ended—as I ended the royal line of Snowdown for you last year.” The assassin punctuated his statement with a low, inhuman growl.

  “I do not expect such sloppiness, for the coin I am paying,” said the great wizard quietly. “Even your mother, the orc, could have done better.”

  The insult was too much. A dagger flashed from the assassin’s sleeve. Faster than the eye could follow, it flicked toward the wizard’s unarmored breast.

  The others gasped in surprise, flinching at the sudden attack, but Cyndre merely raised a finger and quietly spoke a word. Instantly, only a foot from its target, the dagger was transformed. In its place, a large bat fluttered upward, turning to lunge at the assassin’s throat.

  Another dagger flashed, but this one remained in the assassin’s hand. He casually spitted the bat upon the thin blade and flicked the carcass to the tabletop before Cyndre. He could sense Cyndre’s eyes upon him, boring from the depths of his hood.

  For a moment the room remained frozen, the wizards intent upon their leader. The assassin stood stock-still before the table. The black wizard gestured casually, and the dead bat instantly disappeared. A smooth, amused chuckle emerged from the dark hood, and the tension in the room slowly drained away.

  “Now, Razfallow,” continued the wizard, his voice as pleasant as ever, “you will soon be free to return to Calimshan. However, one more king upon the Moonshaes threatens the dominance of our … liege.

  “You will take your band to Caer Corwell. The prince of that realm is something of a local hero, and he is a menace to our ambitions. The cleric, Hobarth, has warned us that we must act quickly, for the prince has a beloved who is equally dangerous.

  “You are to kill them, and the king, as well. The fee will be twice your usual—thrice if you can return the prince’s sword to Caer Callidyrr. Above all else, this prince must die.”

  et’s go swimming now! Can’t we, Robyn? It’s so hot, and we’ve been working so hard.…”

  “You mean I’ve been working so hard!” said the young woman, pausing to push a sweat-soaked strand of black hair back from her face. “All you’ve done is get in the way!”

  Her companion, a two-foot-long orange dragon that buzzed like a hummingbird around her, turned his scaly snout away in momentary indignation.

  “Besides, Newt,” Robyn continued, “I’ve got to sort out this tangle of vines before we do anything else. They seem to grow thicker every day! I don’t know how Genna tended this entire grove by herself.” Once again, she pried the vines away from the trunk with a heavy stick, grasping one and pulling it free from the ground. She tossed the vine onto a pile of its fellows, destined for an evening fire.

  “Why do you have to sort these stupid old vines anyway?” the dragon sulked. “Let them grow the way they want to—and let us go swimming the way we want to.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, Newt. This is the sacred grove of the Great Druid of Gwynneth, and she is training me in the ways of our order. Part of my training is to obey her instructions and to aid in caring for the grove.”

  The explanation sounded a little hollow even to Robyn, who had, for nearly a year, dutifully followed the instructions of her aunt and tutor, Genna Moonsinger. Today was not the first time the Great Druid had rested peacefully in the shady comfort of the cottage while her erstwhile student toiled away in the summer heat.

  Still, Robyn was a devout pupil. She paused and drew a deep breath, relaxing as she exhaled. She repeated the process as her teacher had shown her, and soon she felt the annoyance pass away. Robyn turned again to the thick vines that threatened to strangle the trunk of an ancient oak. She even felt guilty about her doubts. Genna always works so hard, she reminded herself. She certainly deserves the rest.

  Robyn’s job was near the periphery of the enchanted area that was the Great Druid’s grove. Near her were the tall hedges that bordered much of the grove, and she was surrounded by massive oaks. Closer to the heart of the grove sprawled a wondrous garden and its placid pond, and within these areas stood Genna’s simple cottage.

  Behind the cottage stood the grove’s dominant physical feature, and also its spiritual heart: the Moonwell. The deep pool was surrounded by a ring of tall stone columns covered in bright green moss. The tops of several pairs of pillars were capped with stone crosspieces, raised by the earthpower of great druids in ages past.

  It was to learn the secrets of this earthpower that Robyn studied her craft so diligently. She had proven, both to herself and to her teacher, that she had the innate talent to perform druid magic. This was the legacy of the mother she had never known. Inherited power was one thing; it was another matter to learn the skills and discipline necessary to control that power.

  Robyn pulled on a thick root, bending it away from the trunk until it snapped free. She tossed it onto the pile and grasped another tendril with a hand that had grown strong and calloused during her training. That vine, too, came reluctantly away from the oak tree, but it required most of her strength to pull against the tension of the plant.

  “Well, I’ll help too, if that’s what it’ll take to get done with this. Here—I’ll pull on this one and you grab that—”

  “No!” cried Robyn, but before she could stop him, the little dragon had seized a loose end of vine and pulled it with a strength that belied his small size. The vines she had so carefully untangled burst free and instantly twisted back around the tree trunk.

  The springing mass of vines caught the faerie dragon in their coils, pinning him against the tree. A short, wriggling stretch of red tail and a tiny, clawed foot stuck from the tangle of vines.

  “That serves you right!” she chided him as she began to pull the vines from the tree once again. “You should pay attention to what you’re doing.”

  Newt finally forced his head from the tangle and shook it quickly. “That’s the last time I try to help you,” he huffed as he crawled free. Flexing his gossamer wings, he buzzed into the air and hovered before her.

  “Why don’t you just use your magic on these vines and be done with the job?” he asked, eyeing the tree belligerently.

  “The tending of the grove is a matter for a druid’s hands and heart,” replied Robyn, reciting one of her lessons. “The grove is the source of her magic, and thus cannot be maintained with it, or the magic would lose its potency.”

  “I should think it would be very boring to do all these studies and silly jobs, day after day, forever and ever. Don’t you miss Tristan? And don’t you ever want to go home?”

  Robyn caught her breath sharply, for the questions were painful ones. She had come to the Vale nearly a year before and had had no contact with her previous home. Genna insisted that such diligence was the only way Robyn could properly develop her skills. She thought carefully before answering, more for her own benefit than Newt’s.

  “I miss him very much—more, each day, it seems. And I want to be with him. Perhaps, someday, I will be. But for now, I must learn what I can of the order of the druids—find out for myself if I am destined to serve, as my mother did and my aunt does, as a druid of the isles. This is something I have to do, an
d if Genna tells me that the only way I will learn is by performing mundane tasks around her grove, then so be it.”

  “Of course,” Newt said nonchalantly. “Tristan’s probably got plenty to do at Caer Corwell, anyway. Festivals and hunts … all those pretty country lasses and barmaids. I don’t imagine for a minute that a prince of the Ffolk would waste his hot summer afternoons in a cool alehouse, of course, but just supposing he.…”

  “Oh, shut up!” exclaimed Robyn, more harshly than she intended. Newt had an uncanny ability to aggravate her.

  She did miss Tristan. But, she reminded herself, she was doing the right thing by following in the footsteps of the mother she had never known—the mother that had left her a book and a staff as proof of her druidic legacy.

  Wasn’t she?

  She remembered the sense of awe and wonder with which she had opened her mother’s book, only a year ago. It had been given to her by her stepfather, King Kendrick of Corwell—Tristan’s father. Through its pages, Robyn had begun to understand the nature of the work she was capable of doing. She saw that she had the power to serve the goddess, Earthmother, and to use druidic magic to maintain the balance of nature in the islands that were her home.

  Now she recalled the smooth ashwood staff, plain and unadorned, that had nonetheless become her most treasured possession. Crafted by her mother’s own hands, it was both a receptacle and a tool for the earthpower of druidic magic. Not only had it saved her life, but it had been instrumental in rescuing the kingdom itself from the terror of the Darkwalker. Now it stayed safely within the Great Druid’s cottage, awaiting her need.

  Wistfully, she wondered about her mother—as she did so often. Her Aunt Genna had described her to Robyn in such detail that she now seemed completely familiar. Sometimes Robyn felt as though she had indeed known her mother. As always, a great sadness washed over her at the thought that she would never truly know the woman who had brought her into the world.

  A sudden sound—the snapping of a dry twig—cracked through her thoughts, and Robyn froze. She knew every creature that visited the grove, and none of them would make such a careless noise. Even Grunt, the cantankerous brown bear who lived with them in the grove, moved his bulk silently among the plants.