Black wizards - Douglas Niles [107]
Kryphon smiled to himself as he reached the confrontation, still secure in his mantle of invisibility. This was going to be very easy. He drew a pinch of sand from his robe, allowing the grains to pass slowly between his fingers while he concentrated on a simple spell.
"Sleep, children," he said mockingly. With the casting of his spell, several things happened: he became visible to all of those gathered on the forest path, and seven of the eight bandits staggered and then slumped to the ground, breathing deeply but sound asleep.
The eighth bandit – the one who had demanded the gold – whirled toward Kryphon in shock. His shortsword quivered as he staggered backward.
"Where… where did you…?" His voice cracked and then faded.
Kryphon smiled. "Be at ease, friend," he said softly, his hands executing a series of gestures. "I mean you no harm."
The spell – the same one he had used to charm Razfallow – worked remarkably well. The bandit relaxed and lowered his sword, offering a tentative smile. "Sorry. It's just that, well, you surprised me."
"I understand," said the mage, benignly. "We are looking for some… friends. We think they might have passed this way." He described the prince's party, speaking without urgency, but his heart pounded with tension. Would this man know anything useful?
"A halfling, you say?" asked the bandit, as Kryphon described Pawldo. "Sure – they were in Doncastle just yesterday morning."
Kryphon forced his voice to remain calm. "Doncastle, eh? How can we find this place?"
The man beamed with pleasure, elated that he would be able to help his new friend. "Why, it's a few hours from here. I can take you there myself!"
Kryphon smiled, his mouth tightening into a thin line.
* * * * *
Tristan felt a strange mixture of emotions as he stood before the High King. His desire for vengeance flared within his breast, but was tempered by the knowledge that this man was his lawful liege. Yet the fellow's ridiculous appearance and the stark fear that shone blatantly from his eyes overruled the tradition. At once, the Prince of Corwell decided that this man did not deserve his respect.
"Who… who are you?" the king demanded, his voice quivering slightly. He stared at the intruder, disbelieving.
"I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell!" he declared.
"Why… er, what…"
"Did you have my father killed?" Tristan demanded. He did not draw, or even handle, his weapon, but the High King recoiled as if physically assaulted.
"No! I didn't!" His voice cracked and he pushed his chair backward, his uneaten breakfast tumbling to the floor.
"Why did I find your coin upon the killers?" Tristan took a step forward. He felt, rather than saw, Daryth's reassuring presence behind him, guarding the door.
"Don't kill me!" squealed the king. "The kingship is yours! Just let me live!"
"Kingship? Of Corwell?"
"No – the High Kingship!" For a moment the king looked puzzled. "That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Who told you that?" asked the prince.
"Why… I thought everybody knew that. That's why you came here, isn't it? To claim my throne?"
Tristan leaped around the king's table, too quickly for the monarch to evade him. He grabbed the pathetic little man by the throat and shook him. "I came here," he growled, "to punish the person responsible for my father's death." The king gasped and twisted, but could not escape.
"If that person was not you," Tristan snarled, "who was it?"
"Perhaps it is me you seek."
The voice, soft and sinuous, came from the far side of the huge dressing room. Tristan and Daryth turned in surprise to see a person, shrouded in a dark robe, standing before them. He had not been there a moment earlier.
"Who are you?" demanded the prince, retaining his grip on the king's throat.
The stranger didn't answer directly. Instead, he pulled a small gray pebble from a pocket of his robe with his left hand, while his right emerged from another pocket with a pinch of what looked like dust.
"Wissath Duthax, Hisst!" said the man, sprinkling