Darkwell - Douglas Niles [52]
* * * * *
Four figures moved cautiously forward, leaving the scant shelter of the dead forest. They crept across a field of brown mud, toward a black circle of water. Each of them was shrouded beneath a thick fur cloak, though their arms swung easily outside the garments. Two of them carried slender swords, while the others were not visibly armed.
One of the figures gestured to another, the smallest of the band, and the latter paused. A strand of blond hair fell from the fur hood as the slender form gestured angrily. Wide brown eyes glared from the depths of the garment. At last, with obvious reluctance, it turned back to the woods and took shelter among the bleak trunks.
The trio approached the dark water, stepping between two white statues. One of them studied the stone image, the likeness of a young woman dressed in sturdy fighting garb. Then it turned back to join the two as they came to the very shore of the water.
Come closer… a little closer. Bhaal willed the strangers to advance, to touch the water. The god longed to reach forth and strike them down, but he lack the physical means to push himself beyond the surface of the water, so he must wait for the victims to come to him.
Bhaal sensed that these were ancient beings of enchantment and peace. Vibrant and very humanlike, they were nonetheless not human. Their souls were more lyrical than the rough spirituality of humanity, and the dark god sensed that they would taste very sweet.
Finally one of the figures knelt and reached forward, extending slender fingers to the water's surface.
Immediately the blue light exploded upward, hissing and crackling as it outlined the suddenly rigid body. The light sizzled through the air to strike the second, then the third figure. The silver swords blackened, and the fur burned from the hoods and cloaks of the victims.
Then the fire faded, and the three figures stood scarred and misshapen, killed but not truly dead. The shells of their bodies shuffled slowly around the rim of the well, taking up stations as Bhaal's sentries. He did not hear the fourth figure scream, nor did he see it turn and flee from the well.
The god was satisfied for now, but the frustration of waiting for the victims' approach still irritated him. The physical location of the Darkwell began to seem a closed door rather than an opened window. And as Bhaal drained more of the Earthmother's might, turning that power to his own purposes, he longed to take more of a role in his machinations.
He would have to find some way to project himself beyond this watery veil.
* * * * *
Tristan awakened with a jolt of alarm. He sprang from his bedroll, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh gleaming in his hand, and dropped into a fighting crouch as he looked around for the source of his fear. Before he came fully awake, he would have disemboweled any intruder.
But all he saw was the dim gray light of an overcast dawn and the sleepy figures of his companions, stirring in their own bedrolls. Tavish, on guard duty, leaned against a tree and regarded him with raised eyebrows.
"Jumpy this morning, sire? Indeed, you slept poorly. I've seen dancers that moved less and singers more quiet than you were in your sleep."
"Yes… jumpy," he agreed ruefully, looking at the ghastly woods and its supernatural cloak of fog. "But with good cause, it would seem. Did Daryth ever return?"
"No, sire," said the bard, growing suddenly somber. "I'm worried."
"So am I," muttered the king. A gnawing dread tugged at his subconscious. "I'll put Canthus on his trail. We'll find him. That forest is no place for a man to be alone."
"The sight of it's enough to send a shiver down my spine" agreed the bard. "Though the lonesomeness is relieved some by your rising. The last hour before dawn, now there was a time I kept a nervous eye over my shoulder!"
"It's not the hour," interjected Robyn, stepping into the clearing. She had slept several paces off. "It's the place."
"Myrloch Vale?" asked Tristan.
"Myrloch Vale now, as it has changed.