Black wizards - Douglas Niles [53]
The captain made a slight nod to his left, and a window exploded inward. Shocked patrons turned to see a leering ogre's face, its yellow tusks gleaming over a huge crossbow. A huge bolt punched through the chest of the standing man, knocking him over two tables as it killed him. More of the ugly ogres crowded in the door behind the officer, while others broke into the room from the kitchen. The rest of the windows crashed inward, and at least a half-dozen of the massive crossbows were sighted on the crowd.
For a quick moment, he looked up into the heavy rafters and the shadows beyond. Escape! He pictured a quick leap, a grab of the beam, and they would be off into the darkness beyond. But then he stumbled drunkenly backward, and only Pontswain's strong arm held him from falling to the floor. The look of utter disgust on the lord's face burned its way into Tristan's bowels, and he jerked away.
More of the Ffolk were rising to their feet now, and a startlingly clear vision burst through the fog in Tristan's brain: He saw a massacre of these brave but outmatched Ffolk – a massacre for which he, at least indirectly, would be responsible. Shaking off Pontswain's supporting arm, he forced himself to stand up straight.
"The charge is untrue!" he announced, somehow managing to keep his words from slurring. He addressed the soldier. "I will accompany you and refute it before the High King himself."
For a moment, he thought that the patrons of the bar would still fight, but gradually the tension eased. The three visitors walked over to the sneering man. The captain's black eyes glittered at them above his sharp, hawklike nose and neatly trimmed mustache and beard.
"I must have your weapons," he announced, holding out his hand expectantly.
Tristan momentarily regretted his decision, but he saw again the brutal crossbows leveled at the innocent bystanders. Reluctantly, he ungirded his belt and handed it over. The Prince of Corwell would hold the Sword of Cymrych Hugh again, Tristan vowed.
* * * * *
The heart of Kazgoroth provided all of the strength and endurance that Hobarth needed. His path carried him up a rocky pass and through winding gorges, yet he never wavered in his course toward a place he had never seen.
Some of this confidence came from his faith in Bhaal, for the god showed him visions of his destination. But another part of it came from the black heart, as if that stone wanted him to find the battlefield for its own reasons.
After several days without food or drink but also without pause, he came down the center of a broad, forested valley. Before him lay a wide field with a rounded hill upon the far side. That hill, he knew, was Freeman's Down, and it had given its name to the battle fought here the previous year. The huge cleric made his way to the top of the burial mound, fondling the black rock as he approached.
He held the heart to the ground and remembered the spell that allowed him to animate the dead. As before, the knowledge of the enchantment came from his mind, but the power to enact it came from the black rock. It was a far greater power than any one cleric could hope to generate.
Hobarth suppressed a shiver of delight as he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. The earth was rent by great cracks that ripped across the grass. The scent of moist dirt arose but was quickly extinguished by a stronger smell: the stench of dead, decayed flesh.
In the bottom of one of the fissures, Hobarth saw movement. Skulls gaped upward at him, and bony hands clawed at the dirt, pulling whole skeletons jerkily from the earth. Bones clicked together as the creatures crawled from the soil like a swarm of insects emerging from a narrow hole. They crawled over each other, mindless of those that were dragged down or reburied. More and more of the things emerged as the fissures deepened. The skeletons lurched a way from the graves to collect in loose ranks of dirty bone.
Next came the zombies.
The flesh on these bodies had not entirely rotted away, but hung loose