Black wizards - Douglas Niles [133]
"Matri, terrathyl – wrack," she growled, relaxing her grip slightly. Robyn felt the woman's neck twist, tense, and finally snap. The sorceress fell dead.
Flames raged up the side of the Black Oak Inn as Tristan ran up to the building. Panicked patrons rushed from the doors and spilled through the windows in a race to escape.
Desperately, Tristan forced himself into the main room, pressing against the flow of humanity. He leaped the stairs four at a time and stumbled into the smoke-filled hallway.
Suddenly, one of the doors burst open and someone staggered into the hall, carrying a bundle. Her face was averted to avoid the swirling clouds of smoke, but there was no mistaking the long fall of ebony hair.
"Robyn!" Tristan gasped, stumbling forward to take her in his arms. She looked at him in disbelief. Her face was streaked with soot and covered with bruises and scratches. Yet she had never looked so beautiful.
Tristan seized her in his arms and helped her to the stairs, noting that the bundle was in fact Newt. The dragon was tangled in a strange web, and Tristan thought he saw another tiny figure buried there as well. Robyn collapsed against him.
He helped her down the stairs and they stumbled from the inn together. She tried to drop Newt and Yazilliclick to take him in her arms, but she couldn't get free. The prince, too, tugged at the wailing faeries, trying to dislodge the sticky mess.
"Robyn, you're here," Tristan said stupidly.
She smiled up at him, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Once again, he tried to pull Newt out of the way.
But finally they gave up. He took her into his arms, faeries and all, and pressed his lips to hers. She met him warmly, holding him tight as they ignored the stares of the Ffolk who had gathered to watch the fire.
* * * * *
The goddess saw the specter of Bhaal looming on the horizon of the world. She felt the painful trod of his footstep as his presence drew near.
But her feelings were muted, barely there. Nearly all of her might had been expended in the effort to protect her druids, and that had been only partially successful. The druids of Myrloch Vale were not dead, but they were quite helpless. Unseeing, unfeeling, they could only remain within their stone prisons, awaiting rescue or destruction.
The specter of Bhaal grinned, delighting in the despair of the Earthmother. From Bhaal's point of view, things were progressing very well indeed.
The undead army, under the command of Hobarth and aided by the heart of Kazgoroth, had accomplished everything he had hoped – and more. The Moonwell of the Vale was not only in his hands, but the druids had foolishly sacrificed themselves in the effort to protect it.
The sahuagin, under his devout high priestess, were gathering an impressive force of destruction. The dead of the sea, raised by his faithful clerics, would be another army to throw against the Moonshae Isles. Even Cyndre, his unwitting servant upon Alaron, acted as Bhaal desired. His course, whatever its outcome, would almost certainly yield more bodies to Bhaal's cause.
Bhaal turned slightly and took notice of a new force. He relished killing in all of its forms and took pleasure in the underground battle between the dwarves. Bhaal was surprised as the dark dwarves poured forth in ever-increasing numbers, until a vast horde of them charged through the underdark, threatening everything in their path.
The dark dwarves were minions of other evil gods. Bhaal could not count his clerics among their number. But they were bloodthirsty and numerous.
There would be a way, Bhaal suspected, that they could play into his hands.
XVIII
Skirmishes
Canthus growled a warning, and Pawldo didn't wait to confirm the dog's suspicions. "Down – hide!" he hissed, but Fiona had already dived into the muddy ditch. He splashed beside her and felt the moorhound settle in next to them.
Thundering hoofbeats pounded