Black Wizards (37 page)

She struggled ferociously, scratching, kicking, even biting the thing, but nothing seemed to affect it. She twisted and pulled, groaning in desperation and anger. But the thing only squeezed tighter, until it felt as if her body was trapped in a vice.

“It’s not fair!” protested Pawldo for the twentieth time. Daryth and Tristan ignored him, slipping into the bright red cloaks that Devin had brought them only a few minutes before. “You two can’t do this without me. You’re doomed for sure!”

“Sorry, but I don’t imagine the Scarlet Guard has many officers’ uniforms in halfling size,” explained the prince. In truth, Devin had told them that all of the officers of the Guard, even those commanding the ogre brigade, were humans—despicable bullies, most of them, but human. “Besides, someone has to stay with Canthus, and help us escape!”

“Hurry!” urged Devin. “We must get to the gate by dawn! We’ll just have time to get you to the east gate. That’s where the officers congregate after a long night out on the town. They’re allowed to enter when the guard changes, just before dawn.”

“And we’re to act as though we’ve been drinking all night? checked Daryth.

“Yes. Security is very lax when it comes to the officers of the guard, at least at this hour.”

“And you have the diagram?” Devin asked Tristan.

“Yes. I’m certain we’ll get through the garrison area without running into those guard posts.”

“Once you reach the royal quarters, you’ll be on your own,” said Devin. “None of my people have been able to get in there—I should say, get out of there—with a description. Two of my men risked their lives to gain these uniforms.”

“We appreciate their sacrifice,” said the prince. “You’ve already done more than we could have hoped.”

“I’m ready,” said Daryth, standing proudly. He looked like a typically arrogant young officer of the Scarlet Guard, thought Tristan. The high hat, with its crimson plume, accented his red cloak and dark trousers. The shiny black boots, higher than his knees, looked suitable for trampling roughshod over the lives of lesser folks.

“And I,” said the prince, adjusting his tunic. The fit was almost perfect. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh swung loosely at his side.

“Be careful!” warned Pawldo, looking at them very seriously. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to rescue you this time!”

“And good luck,” said Fiona, kissing each on his cheek.

Devin scowled at his daughter and led them up the stairs and through the silent house. He stopped at the door and studied the street before waving them forward. They hurried down the steps and along the street, seeing no one.

“Around the next corner, you’ll see the gate. There’ll probably be a few officers waiting there. You don’t want to arrive too early, or you’ll have to talk to them. When the guard marches out, the gate will remain open for a few minutes, and you two should walk in with the other officers. Remember, act like you own the place!”

Tristan looked at Devin and wondered about the motivations of this apparently frightened but obviously brave man. Devin rubbed a hand through his thinning hair as he looked nervously back at the prince, eager to leave them.

“I know we’ve put you in danger,” said Tristan, “And I’m sorry. Perhaps, if we are successful, you will be able to return to the cantrev you were driven out of. Thank you.”

Devin met his gaze with a look that combined skepticism and hope. “Good luck to you,” he finally said. “May the goddess grant that you are right!” Then he turned and darted back down the street, bolting from one stretch of shadow to another like a creature of the night.

The pair stepped into the street, supporting each other and stumbling
along as if they had been drinking heavily. They turned the corner and saw a dozen or more officers in uniforms similar to theirs standing beside the road. A file of red-garbed soldiers was marching from the castle. After the column of soldiers had passed, another group, waiting on the other side of the street, marched into the castle. Then the waiting officers stepped into the street and followed the guard through the looming gate.

Genna stumbled backward as a pair of zombies crawled over the fallen crosspiece. She chopped with her sickle—once, twice, and two heads thumped onto the ground. The bodies twitched harmlessly off the stone, but four skeletons came scrambling up behind them.

Isolde stood at the next arch. Her wolves lay dead at her feet, and a circle of zombies closed around her. The druid’s stout stick rose and fell, each time smashing an attacker to earth, but bony claws reached for her legs, her thighs, her waist. Still clubbing, she fell under a sea of death, disappearing below the rotted corpses and ghastly jaws of the zombies. A dozen of them clustered around her, pressing in for a chance to bite or claw at the druid. Finally Isolde’s club fell from her bloody, lifeless hand.

Genna, still striking with the sickle, fell back from the arch. The other druids, too, were gradually driven from their posts. The light of the Moonwell felt warm upon the Great Druid’s back, but even the power of the goddess, she knew, would not stop the relentless attack. There were less than a score of druids left.

The battle could have only one outcome.

Or could it? The Great Druid turned back to a zombie that advanced, seeing that half of the thing’s face was already gone. The leering skull seemed to mock her plight, and rage powered her arms as she drove her sickle through the skull, the neck, and halfway into its chest.

No, they could not win this battle, “Goddess, our mother,” said the druid, slowly and reverently—even as she raised her sickle to smash an encroaching skeleton. “Do not let them have us.”

No longer could she see the waters of the Moonwell behind her.
But she felt the milky surface begin to pulsate with earthpower, and she could see the bright light that suddenly washed through the grove. All of the druids had been driven to the water’s edge, where they made their last stand, striving to keep the horror from the sacred water.

The waters of the Moonwell began to bubble, like a great rolling boil, and spray foamed into the air. The undead halted and then lurched away, for the first time showing fear. The waters foamed higher, and suddenly the middle of the well turned into a fountain of white water, exploding upward and outward to cascade over the druids.

As the glowing water spattered onto the undead, the monsters twisted and staggered, their mouths flapping in mute agony. But as it fell onto the druids, it had a different effect.

Genna had a last look at the cleric as he approached from the darkness and then halted fearfully at the display of the Earthmother’s power. Then the water washed over her, and she felt no more.

Finally, the bubbling and boiling abated, and the waters flowed back into the well. The undead cowered around the arches, unable to approach. Only Hobarth dared to stride forward and witness what the goddess had wrought.

He saw the druids still standing, curiously immobile, around the waters. He approached cautiously but then more boldly, finally stopping before the Great Druid. The cleric raised his fist as if to strike her, but then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. His howling cries filled the grove and sent waves of terror rolling across Myrloch Vale. But Genna could not hear him, nor could any of the others.

For the druids of Myrloch Vale had become statues of smooth, white stone.

Tristan looked around as they passed through the gatehouse, not entirely believing they had actually entered Caer Callidyrr. The high walls towered all around them, and he felt like he was in a deep, rocky gorge, not a man-made citadel. The light of the growing dawn colored the alabaster stone a rosy hue along the tops of the towers and walls,
though the courtyards and passages were still enshrouded in twilight. The column of guards who had escorted them into the castle marched across a wide courtyard to a group of long wooden buildings. Even without the map from Devin, Tristan would have identified the structures as barracks.

The returning officers, meanwhile, split into small groups and went a number of different directions. Tristan and Daryth waited until the others had moved on and then picked a direction none of the others had chosen.

They passed through a second high gate, though this one was open. Two guards snapped to attention as they passed, and Tristan felt a bit of relief to know that their disguises were good enough to fool the soldiers. He and Daryth found themselves walking down a high-ceilinged corridor, where they noted several portcullises partially lowered from the roof. The place would be easy to defend, even if a huge army managed to breach the outer wall.

“The stables are up here,” said the prince, remembering the map Devin had given them.

“And beyond that, somewhere, are the royal quarters?”

The prince nodded.

Finally they emerged from the corridor into another courtyard. The stables were unmistakable—not only were the barnlike buildings obvious across the yard, but a slight breeze carried to them the distinctive scent of the equine inhabitants.

They hurried across the courtyard and around the stables, noting that boys had already begun to tend to the horses. Dawn had lightened the sky, but the sun had not yet risen as they approached a vast, high-walled keep beyond the stables. They were nearing the center of the castle.

“Hurry, now!”

The voice came from around the corner of a large building, startling them both. There was no place to hide, so Tristan and Daryth each instinctively relied upon their disguises, marching confidently forward.

A group of a half-dozen soldiers came around the corner. They wore uniforms similar to the companions’, though they lacked the gold braid and high, plumed hats. Their officer, a young man with
dark hair and a black beard, had no such deficiencies. His uniform was identical to theirs, though his hat had a black plume instead of a red one.

“Hey! You men! You can’t come in here!” he snapped, eyeing them suspiciously. “Only the Royal—”

“Silence!” growled the prince, stepping up to the arrogant little gamecock. Tristan’s heart had leaped into his throat when the man accosted them, but he now swiftly decided to take the offensive.

“Who are you to speak thus to the captain of the Royal Inspection Corps? Answer me, man!”

“What Royal Inspection—”

“Are you deaf? I want your name, sir, and quickly!”

“B-but,” the officer struggled to recover his composure.

“Never mind, fool! But have a care who you insult in the future! We are here to inspect the king’s kitchen. There have been some serious complaints lately. Where is it? Be quick, man!”

“There,” exclaimed the officer, pointing through an archway into an adjacent courtyard. “Through the door on the left!” The fellow’s sigh of relief was almost audible as he turned to march his company away.

Tristan and Daryth passed under the arch and found themselves in a small courtyard. The stench of garbage rose overpoweringly from a pile of fruit cores, bones, rinds, and other refuse. A cloud of fat black flies buzzed into the air. Daryth threw open the door, and they both strode into the building.

They found themselves in a large entryway with several hallways branching in different directions. Daryth started down one with the prince behind him. They soon reached an open door at one end of the corridor, and here the Calishite paused, leaning against the wall out of sight.