Black Wizards Read online

  The cracking was repeated, and Robyn located its source in a clump of bushes behind her. A sharp prickle of fear ran along her spine, and she reached for the stout stick leaning against a nearby stump. Slowly, she turned.

  The bushes rustled, indicating that a large creature was moving toward her. Suddenly, they parted to reveal the staggering figure of a man. At least, she thought it was a man—the shaggy, matted hair and beard, the filthy, spindly limbs, and the dazed, sunken eyes looked more beastly than human. The creature shuffled forward like an ape, clad only in a tattered rag tied with a crude belt.

  But a sound croaked from an unmistakably human throat as the figure collapsed on the ground at her feet.

  The boat’s slim prow slipped through the black waters of Corwell Firth. The boat blended perfectly into the moonless night, as did the eight cloaked figures within. Each of them used a narrow paddle to move the craft away from a huge galleon that sat quietly in Corwell Harbor.

  The port was silent, for the hour was past midnight. No splashing disturbed the boat’s graceful movement as it glided slowly toward the overhanging protection of a high pier. Here, six paddles were withdrawn into the boat, while the remaining two pushed the narrow craft carefully between the pilings.

  The shadowy figures lashed the boat to the pilings. One after another, they sprang to the pier and slipped quietly onto shore.

  The figures moved carefully up the street of Corwell Town, darting from building to building with perfect stealth. The leader of the group, taller and stockier than the rest, paused to let the others pass while he watched for any sign of danger.

  A silken black mask concealed the face of each of them, but this one pulled his aside to peer more effectively through the darkness. While manlike, he was not a man. A broad nose with wide, flared nostrils spread across his face, and his teeth were gleaming and sharp. Quickly, he pulled his mask into place and slipped after his band.

  Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, was a little drunk. Perhaps more than a little, he decided, as a swelling of nausea rose within his stomach. His head hurt, and he wanted to go to bed—all of which made this argument seem that much more unpleasant.

  “You don’t act like a prince! You don’t look like a prince! You’ll never be fit to be a king of the Ffolk!” His father’s harsh voice boomed behind him and cut through Tristan’s weariness. The prince whirled to face the king.

  “A year ago I routed an army of Northmen from these very walls!” he growled, resisting the urge to shout. “I fought the Beast that stood within our courtyard. Father, I even found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!”

  Tristan gestured at the mighty weapon, hanging in its place of honor above the hearth, crossed with his father’s favorite boar spear. The sword was a treasured relic of his people and had been missing for centuries—until he and his friends had discovered it in the depths of a firbolg lair.

  “All deeds very fine and heroic—and dramatic,” the king sneered. “You’ve enjoyed the adulation of the ladies and the drinks of the aleman on those merits.

  “But there is more to being a king than heroism. What do you know of our law—of the administration of this realm? Could you sit in judgment over shepherds who argued about a shared pasture, or fishermen who quarreled over rights to a berth? Until you change this, you are not fit to rule. You know the customs—you can only be granted the kingship if a majority of the lords think you capable! I doubt they would, were the vote taken tomorrow!”

  Tristan clenched his hands into fists, and for a moment he was so angry he could scarcely keep from striking his father. He walked away in frustration, finally flopping heavily into the largest chair in the study. Already the fog of alcohol was dissipating.

  But his father would not abandon the attack. “It’s amazing that the houndmaster even got you home,” he said scornfully. “And where is Daryth now?”

  “Probably in bed—but leave Daryth out of this! He’s my friend, and I will not allow you to insult him!”

  “Ever since Robyn left to study with her aunt, you’ve been acting like a brooding puppy one minute, and a drunken buffoon the next!”

  “I love her! She’s gone, and nothing seems to matter except the next time I can see her face. By the goddess, I miss her! I don’t even know if she’ll ever come back—what if she decides to spend her life in the woods, tending some Moonwell of the Vale?”

  The king stalked around the chair to face his son, and the prince forced himself to meet his father’s gaze.

  “And what if she does? That is her privilege—and perhaps her responsibility. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? Responsibility has never—”

  “Father, I have decided to go to Myrloch Vale and visit Robyn. I will leave as soon as I can prepare,” Tristan interrupted bluntly. He had contemplated the idea several days earlier, but had not had the courage to tell the king. At least, he thought, this argument had given him that fortitude.

  “That is exactly what I mean! You—”

  “Perhaps you’re right about me,” Tristan interrupted, leaning back to look at his father. “After the adventures of last summer, the thought of spending my days cooped up—”

  Suddenly, the door to the study crashed inward with a wood-splintering slam. Tristan saw his father’s eyes focus on the door, and then the king pushed wildly at the back of Tristan’s chair.

  The prince heard several “clicks” and felt some sort of missile whir past his head before his chair crashed backward onto the floor. The wind exploded from his lungs, and a cold shock of panic washed over him, driving the last vestiges of alcohol from his mind.

  Instantly Tristan rolled from the chair, watching a silver dagger flash over his head from where he lay on the floor. He saw his father pluck a slender dart from his own shoulder, then pick up a wooden chair to block the attack of a charging black figure.

  Tristan sprang to his feet in time to meet another black figure face-to-face. The face was covered by a terrifying black mask, and the body was cloaked all over in black silk, but Tristan’s eyes focused on the gleaming dagger that seemed to reach forward, questing for his blood. Desperately the prince looked around for a weapon, at the same time remembering his sword hanging ten feet away. A low table separated him from the hearth.

  Tristan feinted a lunge at his attacker and then dropped prone to roll under the table and spring to his feet. The attacker leaped over the table at the same time, and his dagger cut a bloody nick in the prince’s ear. Tristan drew the weapon and continued the motion through a full turn, driving the point deep into the attacker’s chest before the intruder could strike again.

  Tristan saw his father stumble backward as another black-cloaked figure burst through the door. Behind that one were several others. The prince kicked a chair into the path of his new attacker, slowing him enough that he could pull the king’s boar spear from its place above the mantle.

  “Father!” he cried, tossing the stout weapon sideways across the room.

  Tristan leaped over the chair he had toppled, certain that the figure before him, armed with two daggers, was no match for the gleaming Sword of Cymrych Hugh.

  But one of those daggers clashed into his blade, nearly knocking it from his hand. Only by stumbling backward did the prince prevent the weapons from driving into his bowels. As it was, a dagger cut a burning streak across his abdomen.

  Even more frightening than the nearly fatal blow was the deep, rumbling growl that emerged from behind the silken mask. Although the other attackers had seemed human, the one before him was stockier and smellier than a man. The creature attacked with savage intensity, forcing Tristan back against the fireplace with a dazzling series of blows. Each slash and thrust was accompanied by a bestial snarl. The prince found himself desperately wanting a look behind the black mask, to assure himself that this creature was indeed flesh and blood and not some demon conjured from a drunken nightmare.

  Grimacing, Tristan drove his sword against the foe, struggling to gain room to maneuv
er. Once again the intruder forced him off balance with lightning-fast cuts and lunges.

  The prince whirled away from the hearth, catching his breath as he saw his father driving the boar spear into the chest of the other attacker. The king fell on top of the enemy, and the pair lay motionless on the floor.

  Tristan’s attacker surprised him by suddenly dropping to the floor. In a flash the prince remembered the men at the door, and in the same instant he fell prone, sensing the whirring passage of deadly missiles over his head.

  Then Tristan scrambled to his feet and sprang toward the foe. At the same time, he heard a scream of pain from the doorway. Apparently the growling attacker was equally startled, for his masked face turned to the door in surprise. The prince almost caught the creature with the point of his sword, but he looked back at the last minute and sprang to his feet with catlike speed. Even so, the tip of Tristan’s blade struck a glancing blow against the thing’s head, tearing the silken mask away in the process.

  The prince stared for a second at the snarling face. The creature looked like a cross between a man and a beast—his body and features were humanlike, but his widespread maw was studded with fangs, and his close-set eyes looked hellishly intense and bloodshot.

  Another cry of pain shrieked from the doorway, accompanied now by growls. The prince saw one of the attackers there stagger into the room, a huge hound biting his neck in a deadly vice. He caught a glimpse of a flashing scimitar, driving a third bowman against the wall. Daryth!

  The loyal houndmaster, skilled at combat and stealth, must have heard the disturbance. With his blade helping, Tristan thought, the fighting odds looked more favorable.

  Daryth leaped into the room, past the great dog that was just raising his head from the gored body. Abruptly, Daryth froze, his darkly handsome features gaping in shock.

  “Razfallow!” he finally said, his voice tight.

  Tristan’s foe had also paused at the sight of the houndmaster. “So, Calishite, this is where you have run to,” he snarled. “You did not expect to hide from me forever, did you?”

  “I don’t need to hide anymore,” muttered Daryth, advancing slowly in a crouch. “Especially from a killer of children!”

  The monster chuckled, and then, before Tristan could react, he flicked one of his daggers straight at Daryth’s heart. The silver scimitar moved very slightly, however, to knock the weapon harmlessly to the ground.

  Razfallow obviously sensed that the battle was lost. Before Tristan could react he sprang to the window, thirty feet above the courtyard. He turned once to stare at the prince, hate spilling almost palpably from those crimson eyes, and then he leaped into the darkness.

  “Guards!” shouted the prince, racing to the window. “Intruder in the courtyard! Take him alive!”

  Already the black figure had disappeared into the night, but the cry of alarm was taken up throughout the castle. Turning, Tristan saw Daryth gently cradling the king’s head. The great moorhound Canthus stood next to him, gently nuzzling the still form. The only wound upon Tristan’s father was the little pinprick, barely bleeding, in his shoulder. Nevertheless, the houndmaster looked at the prince with deep pain and shock in his eyes.

  “The King of Corwell is dead.”

  Like all of the gods, Bhaal communicated his will to his worshippers via his clerics—priests, priestesses, holy (or unholy) people. These clerics drew their strength from their gods, and many were capable of feats of magic rivaling those of the mightiest wizards.

  As a powerful god, Bhaal numbered a great many clerics among his faithful. It so happened that one of the most powerful of these was on the Moonshaes. This one would serve his purpose now.

  Bhaal decided, slowly, upon a scheme. It would entertain him, and it could enhance his status among all of the gods of the Realms. It was a complex plan, but he had numerous willing hands to aid him.

  To start, he would send the cleric of the Moonshaes a dream. He could regard it as a prophecy, or a command—in any event, it would be the will of Bhaal.

  The cleric, Bhaal knew, would obey.

  engthening shadows extended the towers of Caer Callidyrr into needlelike spires that reached ominously across the city of Callidyrr, and beyond, to the waters of Whitefish Bay. Evening brought an end to the bustle and barter of vigorous trade that characterized this, the largest city among the lands of the Ffolk. Night came with its own forms of barter—sale of the ginyak weed imported freely from Calimshan, or even in the darkest of alleys, the trading of young slaves from Amn or Tethyr.

  The wizard moved among these alleys, intimately familiar with them. Eventually, after night had fallen completely, he stepped down a stairway into a low cellar, ignoring a slumbering old man who reeked of cheap wine. He pushed through a curtain that masked one wall of the cellar, and entered a wide, round room. The chamber was illuminated by great pots of hot coals that gave the place a hellishly red glow and kept it uncomfortably warm.

  A huge skull sat upon an altar in the center of the room. Carved from white marble, it was perhaps four times the size of a human head. Red streaks, which could only have been fresh blood, ran from the eyes of the skull across its cheekbones in a garish caricature of tears.

  A man stood before this skull, his back to the wizard. The thick robes and cowled hood of the cleric could not conceal his immense size. Slowly, the man turned.

  “Praises to Bhaal,” he chanted.

  “Hail the lord of death,” replied the wizard in a smooth, incongruously pleasant voice.

  “Have you acted upon my prophecy yet?” inquired the huge man, stepping away from the altar with a reverent bow to the skull.

  “Indeed, Hobarth,” replied the wizard. “I am certain that Razfallow and his team will eliminate them shortly.”

  “There is more to be done. The woman will not be found at Caer Corwell.”

  “No matter—I will send Razfallow to the farthest corner of the Realms if need be.”

  “No!” Hobarth’s voice was strong, and he stepped aggressively toward the wizard. “I must get her myself. Bhaal desires her blood to feed his altar.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Bhaal has shown me, and only me, where she can be found. I will go after her.”

  “And why should the god desire this woman’s blood to flow from his sockets?”

  “Perhaps Bhaal desires the victim to be a druid. There are none closer than Gwynneth, anymore—thanks to you and your council.”

  Cyndre chuckled wryly. “As I recall, you and your god had a hand in the elimination of the druids from Alaron. Now, the Ffolk of Callidyrr lack any central spiritual guidance—they are ripe to your persuasive efforts.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Hobarth, with a bow to the altar.

  “I wish you success. The earthpower of these druids can be vexing—though no match for your own might.”

  “Mine is but the strength of Bhaal,” said the cleric.

  “Of course … how thoughtless of me.” The wizard turned away so that his companion could not see the thin smile of amusement curling his lips. Clerics and their idiotic faith!

  “I shall leave tomorrow … this druid will not see the rising of the next full moon.”

  “It’s like they became invisible!” reported Randolph, the young captain of the castle guard company. The bearded warrior, not yet thirty, could not keep his voice from choking with frustration. “They disappeared into thin air!”

  “We killed five,” said Tristan. “How many could have escaped?”

  “There must have been at least two more,” insisted the guard, angrily clenching the hilt of his sword. “I found three of my men dead in the courtyard or on the wall. One had his throat cut; the other two were stabbed in the back.”

  “Quite a proficient band,” Tristan muttered bitterly. “But what did they want? Why? My father never …” His voice choked, and he did not continue.

  The guard said nothing. He and the prince stood quietly in the shambles of the king’s study. Togeth
er they looked out the broken window into the courtyard, watching dawn’s slow arrival.

  In the next room, the king’s body lay upon his bed, respectfully placed there by Friar Nolan, the cleric of Corwell Town. King Kendrick would be given a funeral befitting a leader of the Ffolk before being laid to rest in the royal barrow.

  With growing grief, Tristan tried to accept his father’s death. The knowledge did not seem to remain with him. For a time the truth would recede, and then, unexpectedly, would stab at Tristan with greater and greater force. Sometimes the pain was nearly unbearable.

  “Where’s Daryth?” he finally asked, trying hard to pull himself together.

  “He was leading the search,” replied Randolph.

  Tristan turned to look at the door to his father’s room. The captain of the guard started wearily toward the door.

  Tristan heard the door shut, and then he looked outside again. A whirlwind of thoughts assaulted him. He struggled with guilt and uncertainty. Why had his last moments with his father been angry ones? And what would happen to him, to the kingdom? Now that his father was gone, Tristan began to realize how much he had depended on him. A brooding sense of loneliness threatened to overwhelm him, and he thought wistfully of Robyn, so far away. He longed for her presence more desperately than ever. Impatiently he paced the floor, wishing Daryth would return. Finally, he flopped into a chair and stared into the long-dead coals in the fireplace.

  Practical thoughts pushed through his emotional storm. Messengers had already been dispatched to the cantrev lords of Corwell. These lords would arrive posthaste, and a council to determine the future of Corwell would convene. A new king would be selected.

  The thought of the pudgy Lord Koart or the greedy Lord Pontswain sitting in his father’s place revolted Tristan. Of all the petty leaders of the lands of Corwell, the prince could think of none worthy to sit upon the royal throne—to be his lord. It’s my father’s place, he thought, just my father’s. Or maybe, now—maybe my own.…