Black wizards - Douglas Niles [94]
But the illusion required fear to be effective, and the zombies knew no fear. They reached to attack the thing, and when it had no substance, they stumbled through to attack the next thing – which was Newt. The little dragon went back to tooth and claw, tearing away pieces from the arm of the leading zombie until the limb itself fell to the ground.
Yazilliclick, with his tiny dagger extended, stood beside Robyn. He shrieked with fear as a zombie approached, but then darted forward to hamstring it. Robyn cracked the thing with her staff as it twitched upon the ground.
Somehow the forces of the goddess held the army of death back from each of the arches. Robyn bled from half a dozen wounds where the claws of the undead had raked her, but still a pile of bodies grew steadily before her.
But then she saw the cleric, and she froze. His eyes glared from the darkness long before she could see the rest of him. Finally his face materialized as he stepped closer. She watched his tongue flick across his thick, drooping lips and was reminded of a snake. The look on his bloated face frightened her more than had all the ghastliness of his army.
He neared her, walking very deliberately. Robyn picked up her staff and held it crossed before her. She was terribly afraid. The cleric raised his hands and extended them, palms downward. He chanted one sharp word, a sound full of terror and violence.
The ground convulsed beneath her feet, rippling upward and throwing her to the side. Robyn's head cracked against the stone pillar, and she went down like a falling tree to stretch motionless upon the ground.
* * * * *
Kerianow observed the prince in the vast mirror. He slept soundly under the roof of the Doncastle Inn. Why, she wondered, could she not do the same thing? She rapped her plump fingers on the table before her, cursing the fate that always seemed to give her an unfair shake.
Her body, for example. It was short, fat – wholly unattractive, even to herself. And, as the newest member of the Council of Seven, she was bullied by the others – particularly by Talraw and Wertam, the two other lesser mages. As they had arranged their watches, for example, she had been given the hours from midnight until dawn.
She struggled to stay awake, wishing there was something more interesting to watch in the mirror. But Cyndre's orders had been explicit. Now that they had found the prince again, they could not afford to lose him. And so she stared at the motionless picture in the mirror.
Kerianow thought of Cyndre. How powerful he was! She remembered the way he had discovered her during her apprenticeship in Waterdeep. He had brought her to Callidyrr and taken her into his council, teaching her many of his own spells. She was no longer an apprentice: she was a sorcerer, albeit not as powerful as her master, or even Kryphon or Doric.
The master had shown great patience in teaching her, helping her to reach her potential. He had taught her that mercy was a fool's creed; it was only through might and cruelty that one could become truly powerful.
As she often did, Kerianow found herself thinking about Cyndre the man. His cool confidence excited her. His mastery – of her, of the council – warmed her. Small shivers of pleasure rippled along her spine as, lost in her musings, she let her head drop softly onto the table. With a little sigh, she fell asleep.
She awakened with a start, to see the glimmerings of dawn shining through the high, narrow windows. The mirror was blank.
"Kraalax – Heeroz," she chanted quickly. The image returned. Again she saw Doncastle, the quiet inn. But a bolt of cold panic cut to her heart as she looked at the bed.
For the Prince of Corwell was gone.
* * * * *
Seeing the boat brought back all the memories of the Lucky Duckling and the prince's fateful journey over water. The little craft might even have been made by the same boatwright; it had the same open-hulled frame, though not quite as big. The Swallow was also older