Darkwell - Douglas Niles [109]
"I feel it, too. I don't know why, but the feeling is very strong. There's something there!"
"Should we change our course?" he asked, wondering where they could go instead.
"I don't think so. We're getting too close to the well now. We'll just have to go in with our eyes open."
And our swords loose in their scabbards, thought the king, though he said nothing out loud. The feeling of being observed, that an unknown presence lurked in the woods, grew stronger as he resumed the march. He felt terribly exposed here on the flat, open ground, but he could see no ready alternative to approaching the forest, so he led the companions on.
They moved still closer to the woods, until they had to crane their heads to look up to see the tops of the trees. Every tiny branch was now visible in sharp relief, and they could see the falling snow sifting down far back into the uncannily still forest.
"Look… behind us!" Robyn's cry of alarm whirled the king in his tracks, and his heart sank as he looked up into the sky.
"It's the deathbirds! The whole damned flock!" shouted Pavvldo, breaking into a run.
Indeed, the ghastly predators soared eerily toward them, gliding silently below the layer of clouds. The companions' concentration on the woods had proven to be a tragic mistake.
"Run! To the trees!" Tristan shouted, drawing the Sword of Cymrych Hugh in the same instant. He urged Robyn, Tavish, and Pawldo past him. Newt hovered at his shoulder and Yak spun beside him, shaking a hamlike fist at the sky as the creatures dropped into a shallow dive.
Hurry!" Tristan cried, stumbling after his companions. The trees did not offer perfect safety, but they would provide some protection against the swooping flight of the predators. He sprinted through the snow that now seemed to clutch his boots with pernicious intent, striving to drag him down. Desperately he raced on, casting a look back over his shoulder at the flying monsters.
In his heart, he knew that they wouldn't make it to the woods.
* * * * *
Once again Hobarth walked the dark passages between this world and the next, following the contours of the planar fabric that allowed him to enter in one place and emerge in a different location when he returned to the Realms.
In this particular instance, he crossed from Oman's Isle to Gwynneth, into the kingdom of Corwell, and finally to the town itself. He returned to the prime plane on the outskirts of Corwell Town, near dusk on a chilly wintery eve.
Of course, the sahuagin and the legions of the dead would take longer to make the same journey, but not too terribly much longer. And when they arrived, he would be ready.
He found a town that was friendly and warm, with pleasant fires burning in the hearths of most of the wooden cottages of the Ffolk. Several larger buildings made of stone commanded the waterfront, and the whole community was surrounded by a pitiful little wall, no more than waist high.
Hobarth found a small tavern called the Inn of the Great Boar. The place was warmed by a pleasant fire, and he went inside to rent a room. He thought it would be pleasant to sleep in an actual bed for a change, and in truth, the weariness of his travels had begun to weigh heavily on him.
Hobarth enjoyed watching the Ffolk of Corwell going about their petty tasks of barter and purchase, consumption and labor. How they would regret their foolish complacency! In a few short days, their lives would change irrevocably – for those few that survived.
He enjoyed a glass of warm ale, and then another, strolling out onto the porch of the inn as the grayness began to fade to black. He could barely make out the outline of Caer Corwell, perched so proudly and so precariously on its little knoll. The cleric smiled a secret smile as he thought of the earthquake spell Bhaal had restored to him.
Soon that ancient fortress, the original stronghold of the Ffolk, would come crashing down about them. And even as it fell, the sahuagin and the dead would emerge from the sea.
* * * * *
Chauntea, mistress of agriculture, had recoiled