Black wizards - Douglas Niles [61]
The officer fell instantly, blood spurting from the mortal wound. Pontswain turned and stalked toward the door.
"What did you do that for?" demanded Tristan, enraged. "He wasn't going to stop us!"
"Not until we were gone. But as soon as we were out of his sight, he would have had every ogre in this town on our tails. Now, we'll have a few minutes head start."
"You took a man's life to buy us a few minutes?" The prince was still incredulous. He had killed in battle before, but his companion's action had seemed so… ruthless.
"I did!" Pontswain snapped. "And it will be worth it if we use that time to escape instead of argue!"
"He's right!" said Daryth, opening the door. "Follow me!"
The ogres still sat, bemused, as the halfling trotted into the entry hall adjacent to the great hall. Here a pair of huge doors stood shut.
"Do you have a plan?" the prince asked the halfling.
"Plan?" Pawldo snorted in amusement. "I was sure I'd be dead by now. Why would I need a plan? I did, however, take the precaution of securing and hiding six fast horses around the corner. This is the way I came in," explained the halfling, lifting the latch and pushing open one of the doors. They walked across a wide stone veranda, thankful that the moon remained hidden by clouds. An ogre sat upon the front steps, staring in rapture at his crystal. They descended and started on a path that wound through the huge formal garden, moving stealthily among tall hedges.
"There – I left Canthus at the gatehouse," said Pawldo, pointing at the large structure looming before them.
They didn't see the movement until it was too late. One moment the pathway to the gatehouse lay open before them, and the next, four black figures had materialized from the bushes to block their way. Silken cloth of darkest black covered their bodies, but Tristan nonetheless recognized the hulking form that stepped ahead of the others.
"The Prince of Corwell, and Daryth of Calimshan!" said Razfallow in a soft, cultured voice. "Rarely, perhaps never, have two deaths given me more pleasure than yours shall!"
The leader pulled his silken mask aside as the moon broke from the clouds, washing the garden in milky light. The half-ore's beastly features leered at them, but his voice continued smoothly. "And that little fellow who spied upon us – what a delightful surprise! See how nicely he waits for us, Rasper? Didn't I tell you we'd find them here?"
One of the assassins nodded agreement. The little crossbow in his hand did not waver from them, however. The weapon was identical to the one that had killed Tristan's father. Tristan saw another of the crossbows held by a second assassin. Those bows could kill two of them before they could move.
"So, Razfallow," said Daryth pleasantly. "Still whoring for the highest bidder, I see."
"Indeed," replied the half-ore. "And you could have joined me and lived to a ripe old age. You were good, back then. I would nave made you my lieutenant instead of my victim."
"Working for the likes of you is no choice," Daryth stated simply. Razfallow shrugged, uninterested. He turned to the assassin with the bow.
"Now, Rasper, who should we kill first?"
* * * * *
The strength of the goddess was centered in Myrloch Vale. Nowhere else was her power so concentrated. Nowhere else were her druids so strong and the forces of disruption so weak.
Yet even that strength was not sufficient to withstand the plague of death that marched into her most sacred realm. Each unnatural footstep – and there were thousands every minute – brought fiery pain to the soul of the goddess. Each of the undead creatures was a blasphemy against life itself, a chaotic disruption of the balance of all things.
She recoiled and suffered, for she had no power over the army of death. She withered and flinched beneath the footfalls, fearing the approach of the cleric and his evil god.
The goddess was not without allies. Her children were her staunchest