Black wizards - Douglas Niles [24]
The prince shook his head dumbly and then watched as Rodger screamed, staring in horror at the death of his boat. The hull creaked as the center of the boat rose while the bow and stern dipped below the rolling waves. A black wall of water crushed the transom, covering Rodger as he screamed. As the water receded, Tristan saw the tiller banging loosely.
There was no sign of the sailor.
Daryth scrambled past him, and Tristan saw his companion lunging to grasp an oilskin bundle. The prince vaguely remembered that the package contained their weapons… the Sword of Cyrmrych Hugh!
The hull lurched apart, and the bundle of weaponry slipped into the black water and sank. Daryth dove after it, disappearing into the storm.
Abruptly, Tristan's muscles broke free from the paralysis that gripped him, and he ducked to the side to avoid the falling mast. He scrambled into the stern of the boat, which remained just underneath the surface. He tried to see Daryth, and heard Canthus bark, somewhere close, but the Calishite and the dog were invisible in the darkness.
Daryth suddenly popped to the surface in the wave trough, and Tristan could see that his hands were empty. Then the crest of the wave smashed against the wave trough, and the remaining piece of the Lucky Duckling disintegrated. The young prince struggled for air, thrashing desperately against the press of the thundering sea.
All he could find was an infinity of black, choking water.
* * * * *
"Kralax Heeroz Zuthar"
Short, dextrous fingers stroked the surface of a mirror. A soft luminescence seemed to flow from the glass. The wizard spoke quietly as if, by his tone, he wished to soothe a nervous cat.
But the words were the dire commands of magic.
The luminescence grew cloudy, and gradually the outline of a room appeared in the mirror. Cyndre walked slowly around the council chamber, his concentration focused entirely upon the tall mirror. One of the blood-red tapestries had been pulled back to reveal the glass. Its gold frame seemed to catch and amplify the light from within.
The wizard stared into the mirror and saw the Great Hall of Caer Corwell, as he had seen for many days in a row. The hall was vacant, save an old cook gathering dirty platters from the large tables.
"Zuthax Eli."
The picture moved, as if the viewer had passed from the hall and begun to climb the stairs inside the castle. For several minutes the image meandered from room to room, passing freely through closed doors. Caer Corwell seemed quiet, almost abandoned.
Cyndre felt a flash of annoyance, but he blinked it away. Self control, he reminded himself, was all important.
He thought of the cleric Hobarth with smug satisfaction. Blindly faithful to his violent god, that fat buffoon would sacrifice his own life if his awful master demanded it. And how pitiful were his clerical powers, mused Cyndre, when compared to the awesome might of wizardry. Such reliance upon gods, Cyndre believed without question, was the way of fools and weaklings.
The image moved from the keep to the outer wall, and here he found a pair of guards standing listlessly at their posts. One, a young man, asked the other a question. The wizard smiled slightly as he heard the words. His smile broadened as he heard the other guard reply.
He now knew all that he required: The Prince of Corwell was on his way to Callidyrr.
* * * * *
With growing interest Bhaal watched the drama unfold upon the Moonshaes. As his will focused upon the islands, he found the Heart of Kazgoroth, still clutched faithfully by its servant.
It was time, decided Bhaal, that the heart be given to one who could make better use of it. That one drew closer to it with each passing hour, and this closeness brought the god's desire to a fever pitch.
Hobarth would take the heart, would use it for the tasks it was capable of, in the hands of a powerful cleric. Hobarth would gain his tool, and Bhaal would recover the very soul of his lost minion. This thought was immensely pleasing to him.
And so Bhaal set in motion the things that