Black wizards - Douglas Niles [147]
"Perhaps even to join the rebel cause?" added the druid.
Tristan looked at his companions, and he knew they were right. He didn't know how he could hope to rally the broken force – but he knew that he had to try.
"Very well," he agreed quietly. "Let's move quickly and get ahead of the troops. We'll pick a place to rally them and see what happens."
* * * * *
"A splendid battle! A marvelous fight! My, how a victory gets one's blood pumping! Oh, say – look at the flames!" King Carrathal was quite beside himself. In one blow, it appeared that he had crushed the rebellion. He stood outside his coach at the King's Gate, watching the sacking of Doncastle.
"Now, let's get back to Caer Callidyrr – I simply must have a victory feast!" Still beaming, he climbed into the coach. Cyndre, who had just returned from a meeting with his council, followed.
"Sire, I fear the task is not yet done."
"Eh, what's that?"
"The usurper was not found among the dead. However, my man, Kryphon, was. I'm certain another of my mages also died in that city – I would certainly have found her by now if she were alive. This prince has now cost me, personally – and he will pay! There are still potent forces of rebellion here, and we cannot rest until the spark of mutiny has been quelled for good!"
"Search again for the body of the usurper!" shrilled the king. "He must be here! Put out those fires – his body will be burned, and we'll never find ill"
"I tell you, he lives!" hissed the mage.
"And I tell you you're wrong!" shouted the king. He looked at the wisps of smoke rising from all quarters of Doncastle, at the bodies sprawled across the ground. His mind felt startlingly clear – and he hated what he saw.
"Let them go," argued the king. "We have taught them a lesson. We shall return to my palace, and there I will throw a festival such as Callidyrr has never seen."
"No, Your Majesty. We must -"
"What did you say?" King Carrathal's nose twitched slightly. "Did you say 'no' to me – your lord?"
Cyndre cursed. Dark magic rose within him like the bubbling prelude to a volcanic eruption. His smooth voice cracked into a snarl.
"You are a pitiful worm! Everything you have I have given you, and now you lack the gratitude to repay me or even the sense to see the wisdom of my words!"
"I am king! You cannot speak to me that way! Now leave me – I shall give the orders to return to Callidyrr myself."
Black magic exploded from the mage, hissing invisibly around the monarch. The color drained from the king's face. Then he slumped in his seat, his eyes open but glazed. Dumbly, he stared into the distance. The Crown of the Isles tipped forward, sliding across his face, and then fell heavily to the floor of the coach.
"I shall give the order," hissed the sorcerer. "And it will not be a return to your castle."
* * * * *
Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, ate his feasts and drank his draughts with growing impatience. Waiting for some word from his god, he amused himself by animating the bodies of the twelve druids who had fallen in the fight. Marching his undead army into ranks as separate companies, he placed the druid undead in command. Then he marched and countermarched the zombie and skeleton army across the grove of the Great Druid, trampling everything to mud.
All the trees died, dropping their withered leaves to sink into the morass. Only the Moonwell and the twenty stone statues about it retained any semblance of purity.
And then came the word of Bhaal, and Hobarth smiled at his deity's instructions. He ordered the companies of undead to collect the bodies of their fallen comrades – those zombies and skeletons that had fallen under the defenders' claws, weapons, or magic. The undead carried the bodies to the Moonwell and threw them in.
Each twice-killed zombie hit the smooth water with an oily hiss, twitching and thrashing in a froth of bubbles until it disappeared. Each skeleton