Black wizards - Douglas Niles [68]
A warm glow seemed to surround the prince, visible as a faint light to the watchers. Daryth had a feeling of deep reverence, and wanted to drop to his knees. He stubbornly resisted the urge, instead staring, spellbound, as the cleric worked his healing magic.
"Chauntea," said the cleric reverently. Tristan winced and thrashed on the narrow mattress. A sudden, shocking spurt of red blood burst from his mouth to spatter the cleric, but the patriarch ignored it. Daryth's hand leaped to his sword; he feared for the prince, but the cleric held a steadying hand up, and the Calishite relaxed.
The prince groaned and twisted on the bed. His eyes opened, but the pupils rolled so far back in his head that only the whites were visible. The cleric whispered again, and the soft glow brightened and then slowly faded away.
As the cleric finally opened his eyes, Tristan's chest began to rise and fall with deep, regular breathing. Slowly, color began to creep into his face.
"He sleeps," explained the cleric. "Now, let us talk."
Daryth and Pawldo followed him into another small room. Here Trevor pulled a bottle of wine from a wooden chest and gestured them to sit at the small table.
"You are fugitives," he said finally. "But from what?"
Pawldo and Daryth exchanged quick looks, obviously surprised by the blunt question. Finally, the halfling spoke.
"The High King's ogres took the pri – uh, my friend on false charges. We helped him get away, but he was wounded during the escape."
"Ogres of the Scarlet Guard!" growled the patriarch with surprising venom. "The mercenary scum!" Seeing their startled looks, be explained.
"The guard is just another example of the blight that seems to have fallen across our land. We watched them march through Grady – that's this little town – some days past. The sight of the people huddled in their homes, shivering in terror, broke my heart. Remember, these are the troops of their own king! I ask you, what kind of king would bring such terror to his own subjects?"
"Those kings are more common than you'd like to believe," said Daryth. "Though this is the first I've heard of such a ruler in the Moonshaes. In my experience, the Ffolk have been ruled with freedoms that far exceed the norm."
"True," agreed Pontswain, coming through the door. "The road is quiet. How is the prince?"
"He will live," said the patriarch.
The lord did not respond as he moved to sit in the only vacant chair. Daryth wondered whether Pontswain considered the news good or bad.
"Why haven't the lords of Callidyrr stood up to the king?" asked the lord. "I can't imagine that we, in Corwell, would stand for such behavior."
"They have tried. Several have disappeared; others have gone to the dungeon. Those that disappear have had their lands confiscated and their holdings assigned to allies of the king. One, the former Lord Roarke, has become an outlaw in the forest, railing bitterly against his fate, but helpless to do anything about it."
"Why hasn't there been a rebellion?" pressed Pontswain.
"I don't know," shrugged the cleric. "Perhaps because they lack a strong leader. Or, more likely, because the Ffolk are frightened." The patriarch seemed to consider his statement, and his situation. He was silent for a moment.
"I am glad that I could help you, but you have powerful enemies. I can hide you here until nightfall, but then you will have to be on your way. It is not for myself that I fear, but this entire village would doubtless be destroyed were you discovered here."
"We understand," said Daryth. "And thank you for what you have done."
"But you must decide where you will go from here," the cleric reminded them. "Or do you already know?"
"To Caer Callidyrr to see the High King."
The voice drew their attention to the doorway, and they turned to see the Prince of Corwell standing there, watching them grimly.
"Tristan!" Pawldo jumped to his feet as the men looked in astonishment at the prince. He leaned against the door, his face drawn with pain. But the color had returned to his skin, and his eyes glowed with determination