Black wizards - Douglas Niles [26]
But now he considered using them against one of his own subjects, and this did not seem right. He knew that his people resented his employment of mercenary troops when the fighters of the Ffolk were perfectly capable warriors. Why had he let the wizard convince him to hire them?
"The people are your subjects!" argued Cyndre. His voice took on a hardened edge. "Will you let them rule the kingdom? I tell you, the guards are your best troops!"
"So you claimed," said the king, "when you persuaded me to hire them."
Cyndre lowered his head modestly. The monarch could not see the gloating light in his eyes.
"And the lords grow restless," whined the king. "They all owe fealty to me, but they don't act like it! I don't trust any of them – they would turn against me at the drop of a hat. Like that bandit O'Roarke in Dernall Forest. That rebel could serve as an example for other traitorous scum!"
"You hold his sister in your dungeon. Why do you not use her as an example? Show what will happen to those who resist your wilt?"
King Carrathal turned away. He did not like to be reminded of the way he had usurped Lord Roarke's land – nor was he completely comfortable with the idea of using the young woman as a lever to obtain his ends. "If only O'Roarke knew me," he whined. "He and his outlaws would see that I have only the best interests of the kingdom at heart!"
"Do not underestimate the extent of the problem," said Cyndre calmly. "But come, Your Highness, what of this prince? Will you do as I suggest?"
"Very well," sighed King Carrathal. "I shall declare the prince of Corwell an outlaw. The Scarlet Guard will meet him as he lands. They will arrest the usurper and bring him to me in chains."
* * * * *
Water pounded and crashed about Tristan, choking him and pressing him down. He kicked and flailed but could not find the surface. He felt his consciousness slipping away, though he struggled even more desperately to swim. He barely felt the vicelike jaws close over his arm, jerking him roughly through the sea. For a second his face broke free from the black water, and he gulped a great lungful of air. Then he became conscious of the teeth that were sinking through his flesh.
Thrashing upward, struggling for more air, the prince felt the grip on his arm slacken. But then he was grabbed by the collar and pulled backward helplessly. Miraculously, his face remained out of the water.
He felt a solid object strike him in the back, and he twisted around to catch a long section of planking. The Lucky Duckling, he thought. As he did so, the grip on his collar broke free, and he turned to find himself face-to-face with his panting moorhound. Canthus thrashed beside him, finally forcing his forelegs over the plank.
"Thanks, old dog," he choked, wrapping an arm around the broad neck. "You almost ripped my arm off, didn't you, buddy?" The presence of the hound warmed his heart, but did little for his hopes. "I fear you have only postponed the inevitable," he added, after he had recovered his breath.
"Daryth!" he shouted suddenly. Where was the hound-master? The bleak, despairing realization crept over him: his friend had drowned, along with Rodger and Pontswain. But he couldn't bring himself to believe that the man's cocky self-assurance, his casual energy, had been snuffed out. "By the goddess, no!" he cried aloud.
The feeling that he was doomed would not go away, and he had to grit his teeth and shake his head to dissuade himself from releasing the plank and sinking into oblivion.
Through the remainder of the long night, the young man and his dog bobbed, barely alive, across the heaving surface of the strait. Tristan lost consciousness once, only to awaken as Canthus dragged him back to the plank. Frightened and shivering, he nevertheless remained alert after that.
He groped to understand the death of the Lucky Duckling. Black sorcery had killed her, he felt certain,