Black wizards - Douglas Niles [112]
The body of Isolde of Winterglen sat up slowly and climbed unsteadily to its feet.
XV
Alexei
Tristan looked from the king to the wizard to the turnkey. The High King could not meet his gaze, dropping his eyes to stare awkwardly at the floor. The grotesque turnkey leered eagerly, flecks of spittle dropping from his lips. The wizard threw back his hood and smiled coolly.
"The task is too important to leave to the headsman," said Cyndre. "Or even to magic. I will handle this myself."
He drew a black-hilted dagger from beneath his robe and took a step toward Tristan. The prince jerked frantically against his chains, but they were not about to give. The king turned away, while the turnkey raised his torch to shed more light on Cyndre's intended victim.
Then the torch clattered to the floor, and the turnkey's head – still leering – flew through the air while his body lurched and fell to the ground. Tristan saw a flash of silvery steel as Cyndre hissed in anger and turned in a catlike crouch. The light faded but did not disappear as the torch sputtered and sizzled on the wet flagstones.
A figure slashed into the room, and the prince saw the bright flash of a weapon again. The wizard screamed and fell backward as his dagger was knocked to the floor. Tristan saw that the mage clutched his right hand as blood spurted from his clenched fist.
The king shrieked in terror and darted from the door as Cyndre struggled to avoid the attacker. Tristan heard the monarch's cries for help fade into the distance as he raced up the dungeon corridor.
The wizard, meanwhile, moved with surprising agility as he scrambled away. The prince recognized Daryth, now, as the Calishite brandished his scimitar with liquid smoothness, trying to force Cyndre into a corner. The Calishite kicked and slashed with merciless persistence, constantly forcing Cyndre to duck and twist away.
Cyndre sprang to his feet and charged Daryth suddenly, crying out as Daryth's scimitar bit into his raised forearm. But the rush had thrown the Calishite off balance, and before Daryth could strike a lethal blow, the mage sprang through the door out of the cell. There he nearly knocked down another person – one whom Tristan had not noticed earlier.
Still hissing in rage, the wizard raced up the corridor following the path of the king.
"Quickly," the stranger urged Daryth. "We must free him and be gone – the guard will be upon us in minutes."
Daryth snatched the keys from the body of the headless turnkey and found the one that released Tristan's manacles.
"Why didn't he use his magic?" asked the prince.
"The wound," said the stranger, turning to look at him. Even in the dim light, Tristan thought that the man looked more dead than alive. The skin of his face had shrunk tightly, giving him the visage of a skull. His hands were twisted claws. Seeing his gaze, the man held up those hands and continued.
"A magic-user needs his hands to cast spells. The scimitar did enough damage to prevent Cyndre from casting – a fact to which we owe our lives. But as soon as he visits a cleric, the damage will be repaired, and he will be after us with a vengeance."
Tristan looked intently at the man as Daryth opened the last lock. "Your hands… Are you, too, a sorcerer?"
"I was, until my 'master' " – he spat the word – "decided that I threatened his base of power."
"You are one of the Council of Seven?" asked the prince, remembering the information O'Roarke had given him.
"Was one of the council," said the mage. "My name is Alexei, and I will do what I can to stop them now. They will come to regret leaving me alive."
"Let's go," Daryth hissed urgently. "We can talk later!"
Tristan flexed his muscles and found that he could still move, albeit with some pain. "Where do we go?" he asked.
"Follow me!" said Alexei, hobbling from the cell. "The upper reaches of the castle are sure to be sealed off, but the wizards have secret ways through here. We might be able to slip into one of them before the guards discover us."
"Wonderful," muttered Daryth. "Where