Black wizards - Douglas Niles [58]
"Let's see," said the prince, wondering if the gloves would work on his hands. He tried to pull one of them on, but it was too tight. "But what's this?" he asked as he examined the glove and noticed a tiny pouch inside.
"What's what?" asked the Calishite, taking the glove. He looked inside and pulled out a thin piece of stiff wire from the hidden pocket. "A picklock!" he announced. "I'll have you out in no time!"
Daryth knelt beside the prince and pushed the thin probe into the keyhole of Tristan's right manacle. After a minute of delicate probing, the lock snapped open. In another moment, both of the prince's hands were free.
"That's great!" said Tristan, jumping to his feet. "Now we -"
"Shhh!" Daryth hissed suddenly, holding up a hand. The faint scraping sound of metal against metal reached his ears. He looked anxiously toward the door. Nodding in agreement, Daryth pantomimed a probing gesture.
Someone was picking the lock to their cell.
* * * * *
Pawldo crouched next to the gatehouse, telling himself he was crazy. His wild plan didn't have a prayer of success. To the contrary, it virtually assured that he would be killed, no doubt squashed like a bug beneath some ogre's boot.
The prince of Corwell was a decent friend, but nowhere was it stated that friendship meant senselessly sacrificing one's life for a comrade who was probably already dead. And Tristan's no-good friend Daryth deserved whatever he got! At least, these were the arguments raging through the halfling's brain.
But it was no use. Pawldo decided that he had no choice but to go through with it. It would be the last thing he ever went through, but do it he would. He would try his plan.
He tentatively hoisted one of the Crystals of Thay, tossing the sphere up and down a few times until he had captured the right degree of jauntiness. He tried to whistle cheerily, but only after licking his lips repeatedly could he call forth a few faint notes.
Finally he was ready. He emerged from the shadows and sauntered into the street, whistling a little jig and tossing the crystal into the air as if he hadn't a care in the world. Canthus followed at his heels.
He smoothly approached the ogre standing at the gatehouse, blocking entrance to the manor grounds. The monster regarded him in surprise, blinking its wide, dull eyes. The yellowed tusks, jutting upward from its lower jaw, looked very deadly. Pawldo hoped that the look held more curiosity than belligerence. He stopped whistling as he reached the ogre.
"Hi there!" he beamed. "How'd you like to buy a crystal? It's the only one of its kind in the Moonshaes!"
* * * * *
The army of undead crawled like a living organism across the land. Needing neither food nor drink, completely tireless and insensitive to pain, the creatures trampled beds of flowers and thickets of thorns with equal impunity.
But the plants suffered from more than just the shuffling footsteps. As each of the undead stumbled forward, each blade of grass, weed, and flower stalk that lay in its path simply turned brown and shriveled. It died before the monster even reached it. The bushes and trees that the army walked past gradually dropped their leaves. Slender branches drooped lifelessly.
The zombies moved in the vanguard of the army. The dirt had been washed from them by a sudden downpour, and their rotting flesh hung in great folds of gore. Some of them carried rusty weapons. Others had no weapons except their bare hands, but even these were formidable, for most of the skin and flesh on the fingers had rotted away, leaving twisted claws of bone extended. The eyes had rotted from the sockets of most, but the lack seemed to make no difference. All of them moved with the same shuffling gait, tripping and stumbling often, but climbing to their feet to march forward. Often, they left a piece of rancid flesh clinging to a thorny branch or sharp rock.
Curiously, the zombies' hair remained in full, except for patches where the flesh had torn away. Thus, some of the mates had tufts of beard, and many women retained