Black wizards - Douglas Niles [111]
His familiarity with the lock paid off, and the door clicked open in several minutes. He crept into the room, but the man still made no move. Holding the torch before him, Daryth moved slowly forward.
Suddenly the man raised his head, and looked at the Calishite with an expression of hopeless longing. It was not Tristan – this man was older, smaller, and emaciated. His gaunt cheeks flexed as if he tried to speak, but no sound emerged. His hands, Daryth realized, were twisted claws – they had been horribly mangled.
The man blinked a few times, apparently realizing that Daryth was not a guard coming to torment him. He moved his mouth, soundlessly, again. In fact, everything about him was soundless. His chains made no noise as he rattled them. His gasps of breath were completely inaudible.
"Who are -" Daryth began, but he could hear no sound. Sorcery! The hair at the back of his neck prickled as he realized that the cell was blanketed by some kind of magical effect that eliminated all noise.
The man looked at him boldly now, and Daryth saw, behind the haggard look, a face of courage and dignity. He remembered tales of the good lords and loyal citizens that the High King had imprisoned.
Not understanding fully why he wasted his time thus, the Calishite stepped forward and began to pick the locks on the prisoner's manacles.
* * * * *
Hobarth spent the day alternating between bursts of delight and fits of frustration. The druids had been defeated! His army of death had won a grand victory! Bhaal's army of death, he reminded himself with a reverent nod of his head – Bhaal's army, but under his own command.
But they had been cheated of the pleasure of the kill. Sealed within their stony prisons, he was certain that the druids were watching, mocking him.
He examined each smooth and lifelike statue, satisfying himself that they all were solid stone. He hefted a heavy iron axe, taking the weapon from a standing zombie, and smashed it against one of the statues, trying to snap off a druid's upraised arm – but instead of the stone, the blade of his axe shattered. A stinging numbness throbbed in his hands as he dropped the useless weapon.
Yet the blow had given him a sense of satisfaction. He enjoyed striking the druid, even if she could not feel his blow.
A rumble of hunger disturbed his huge belly, and Hobarth, with almost childish glee, decided to hold a victory banquet. His table would be the stone slab that had fallen from one of the arches. His food would be the meat and wine of Bhaal himself. Dropping the axe handle, Hobarth turned to the stone and chanted a simple spell. Immediately, the surface of the slab was covered with succulent cuts of red meat, ripe fruits, and heavy bread. He threw his empty wineflask onto the slab, and uttered another incantation. Then he picked up the new flask and drank long and deep of the tart, strong liquid. A warm glow spread through his body as he tackled the feast – enough to feed four men – and finished it. Several times he created more wine, and his head buzzed pleasantly by the time he had consumed all the food.
Hobarth next looked around the scene of the battle. Bodies of his undead lay everywhere, shattered and broken so badly that they had died a second time. Those bodies were useless to him. Many hundreds had survived the fight, however, and these now stood or sat like statues of flesh and bone around the Moonwell and the broken arches, waiting for their master's next command.
Several of the druids had died during the fight, and he looked for these bodies with interest. He found one – a woman – who had been torn by the zombies. Her face and limbs were gashed to the bone, and her eyes were gaping, bloody sockets. The zombies had shown a penchant for gouging the eyes from their victims.
He lifted the Heart of Kazgoroth from its pouch and held it in his hand, staring at the body of the druid. Concentrating, he willed the might of Bhaal to enter the body. First, a leg twitched. Then the jaw stretched, flopping aimlessly. The